f^ff^ 
 
 
wt^ 
 
 University of California • Berkeley 
 
 Gift of 
 
 PROFESSOR ROBERT D. HARLAN 
 
%'6 
 
 GRAMMAR OF RHETORIC, 
 
 AND 
 (iOMPRfiHENDING 
 
 THE PRINCIPLES OF LANGUAGE AND STYLE, 
 
 tHE ELEMENTS OF TASTE AND CRITICISM ; 
 
 WiTH 
 
 RULES, 
 
 FOR THE STUDY OF COMPOSITION AND ELOQUENCE 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 APPROPRIATE EXAMPLES, 
 
 SELECTED CHIEFLY FROM 
 
 TBE BRITISH CLASSICS. 
 
 FOR THE USE OP SCHOOLS, OK PRIVATE INSTRUCTIO.M. 
 
 By ALEXANDER JAMIESON, LL. D. 
 
 FOURTH EDITION. 
 
 NEW-HAVEN : 
 
 rmXiB AND PUBLISHED BY A. H, MALTJJY A«« Ct). 
 1826. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 THIS Grammar of Rhetoric is designed to succeed, in 
 the course of education, the study of English Grammar. At 
 that period, the young student is most likely to enter with 
 vigour upon the study of a branch of education, which has 
 been deemed essential, in our public seminaries, to form the 
 mind for engaging in the active concerns of life. It is then 
 that he should be taught, that a minute and trifling study of 
 words alone, and an ostentatious and deceitful display of or- 
 nament and pomp of expression, must be exploded from his 
 compositions, if he would value substance rather than ^o\\% 
 and good sense as the foundation of all good writing. The 
 principles of sound reason, must then be employed to tame 
 ihe impetuosity of youthful feeling, and direct the attention 
 to simplicity, as essential to all true ornament. 
 
 In prosecution of this plan, the Author has, throughout 
 this work, first laid down the principles or rules of legiti- 
 mate Rhetoric ; he has then given popular illustrations o! 
 these principles or rules ; he has neKt confirmed his views 
 In the illustrations, by appropriate examples ; and, finally, 
 ,as these examples, or illustrations, furnished analyses or 
 corollaries, he has endeavoured to make them t€nd to the 
 Improvement of the student's good taste, and of true orna 
 ;!nent in composition 
 
Rhetoricians have usually introduced their pupils to a 
 knowledge of their art, bj some history of the origin and 
 progress of language. Accordingly, in this volume, the Au- 
 thor has followed a precedent, which the world has long ap- 
 proved. The FIRST BOOK treats of the origin and structure 
 of those external signs, which are used, as names, attributes, 
 or actions of objects; or to denote the various operations of 
 the mental faculties, with which it is our business to become 
 acquainted. 
 
 The SECOND BOOK treats of the principles of General 
 Grammar ; or, in other words, of the principles upon 
 which philosophical grammarians have attempted to discrim- 
 inate and classify the component parts of human speech, 
 whether spoken or written. An examination of the na- 
 ture AND CHARACTER OF THE USE WHICH GIVES LAW TO 
 
 LANGUAGE, naturally followed the " Principles of General 
 Grammar," and led to the development of the nature and 
 USE OF VERBAL CRITICISM, wUh its principal rules, or can- 
 ons, by ivhichy in all our decisions^ ive ought to be directed. 
 And in this branch of the subject, the object has been to ex- 
 ercise the understanding and natural sensibility of the pu- 
 pil, by the exhibition of what has pleased or displeased crit- 
 ics, in the perusal of the best models of literary composi- 
 tion. It is presumed, that young minds will thus begin to 
 Think and feel for themselves ; and, by the directions they 
 I eceive, acquire confidence in their own powers, of approv- 
 ing- or disapproving whatever falls under their general rea- 
 ?onino;s, in the Higher qualities of composition. True criti- 
 cism will teach the student how he may escape those errors 
 and mistakes, to which he may be exposed, either from not 
 understanding, or from misapplying, her established rules. 
 But to render her assistance most effectual, the Author has 
 dwelt very fully on the principles of Grammatical Puri- 
 ty, as it respects barbarisms, solecisms^ ideotisms, vulgar- 
 
lNTRODueTto^^ y 
 
 isms, improfriety in phrases, and as it teaches precision ot 
 expression in speech or writing. 
 
 The nature and structure of sentences, the gene- 
 ral PRINCIPLES OF PERSPICUITY, AND THE HARMONY OF PE- 
 RIODS, which are illustrated in book third, have utifolded 
 numerous errors to be avoided in the structure of sentences, 
 and the arrangement of single words. The qualities of 
 UNITY and STRENGTH, in the structure of sentences, have 
 gathered around them a series of rules, which, if applied to 
 the exercises that the pupil should be required to write, can- 
 not fail to enlighten his mind, and govern his judgment, in 
 the principles and practice of composition. It was neces- 
 sary, however, to show how much perspicuity of languagk 
 and STYLE contributed to the elegance of classical composi- 
 tions and eloquence ; and, accordingly, this matter is treat- 
 ed precisely as Dr. Campbell has treated it, in his " Philoso- 
 phy of Rhetoric." No writer has yet excelled Dr. Blair, in 
 luminous views of the " Harmony of Periods;" and these 
 views we have embodied in this Grammar. 
 
 In BOOK FOURTH, the principal " Rhetorical Figures'' are 
 treated at great length, and illustrated by copious examples, 
 without, however, encumbering the mind of the pupil with 
 catalogues from the ancient critics, of other figures, partly 
 grammatical and partly rhetorical, which would have fur- 
 nished little instruction, and less amusement. For it is, 
 perhaps, not the least task on the part of the instructors of 
 youth, to render their precepts engaging, by vivacity of im- 
 agination, and the charms of genuine ornament. This, how- 
 ever, is an inferior merit, when compared with the chaste - 
 ness and morality which should distinguish examples and 
 illustrations selected for youth. The principles of virtue 
 and honour, of delicacy and refined taste, are, it is hoped, 
 inculcated throughout these examples, with that assiduity 
 which will entitle the Author to the humble reputation of 
 
> i INTRODUCTION. 
 
 having laboured to improve, in those for whom he wrote, the 
 important liabits of a religious education. 
 
 In BOOK FIFTH, the NATURE OF TASTE, and the SOURCES 
 
 OF ITS PLEASURES, Compiled partly from Dr. Blair's Lec- 
 tures, partly from Lord Kames's Elements of Criticism, 
 and agreeably to Alison's " Essays on Taste," have been 
 set in such lights, as may enable the youthful mind to attain 
 some practical acquaintance with the productions of genius, 
 in Poetry, Sculpture, or Painting. A correct perception of 
 the excellencies of composition and eloquence, is closely 
 connected with a knowledge of the productions in the fine 
 arts. The young student, on being made acquainted with 
 the principles which regulate the sta?i(Iard of taste, so far 
 from learning to suspend the exercise of his own judgment, 
 is taught to investigate the grounds upon which those prin- 
 ciples are supported, and in comparing them with the sim- 
 ple dictates of his own mind, to form, from the various 
 sources which reading and reflection may afford him, the 
 elements of rearing for himself a Standard of taste, to 
 which, in more matured life, he may refer such productions of 
 the fine arts, or of polite literature, as fall under his obser- 
 vation. 
 
 Book sixth, appropriated to the general x:haracters of 
 style, treats, first, of the diffuse and concise styles of compo- 
 sition ; secondly, of the dry, plain, neat, elegant, and flow- 
 ing styles; thirdly, of the simple, affected, and vehement 
 tyles ; and then gives directions for forming style. Of 
 what importance the illustrations and examples of these 
 several styles must be in the composition of themes, it is 
 niperfluous here to speak. The remaining chapters of Book 
 VL are devoted to " The Conduct of a Discourse in all its 
 Parts ;^^ — to "Historical Writing,"^^ — '' Jinnals,^^ — « iUc- 
 moirs,^^ — " Biography,^^ — " Philosophical Wnting,''^"-^^ 
 "■ Dialogiie,^^ and Epistolatory Correspondence,-' 
 
rNTRODUCTIOxS. Vli 
 
 In BOOK SEVENTH, the origin and different kinds of Po- 
 etry are handled more with a view to form the pupil's taste 
 ior the study of Poetry, than to inspire him with the thirst of 
 reaping fame in the doubtful field of poetic composition. 
 Yet, to those whose genius may lead them that way, the 
 principles of poetic composition, of its several styles, and 
 of the ornaments which it admits, cannot fail to prove use 
 ful. 
 
 The conclusion of the work treats of pronunciation, or 
 delivery, as it respects, chiefly, public speaking; and here, 
 as in Book VI. and VII. the labours of the Author's pre- 
 decessors have chiefly furnished principles and illustra 
 lions. 
 
 London, August £4 > 1 8 1 8 . 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 <)F LANGUAGE AND STYLE, AS THE FOUNDATION OF ELO- 
 QUENCE. 
 
 Pajfe 
 CHAPTER I. — Of the Rise and Progress of Languag^e in the 
 
 Structure and Composition of Werds 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. — Of the Rise and Progress of Language in the 
 
 Manner of uttering and pronouncing Words 23 
 
 CHAPTER III.— Of the Progress of Language in the Style 
 
 and Character of Speech 25 
 
 CHAPTER IV.— Of the Rise and. Progress of Language, as 
 
 respects the Order and Arrangement of Words in Sentences 27 
 Conclusion 31 
 
 CHAPTER v.— Of the Origin and Progress of Writing ib, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. — A Comparison of spoken with written Lan- 
 guage ; or of Words uttered in our hearing, with Words 
 represented to the Eye * 35 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 OF THE STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE; OR THE PRINCIPLES bp 
 GENERAL GRAMMAR. 
 
 CHAPTER I.— -Of the several Parts of which Speech or Lan- 
 guage ii composed 37 
 Of Nouns 38 
 Of Number 39 
 Of Ca»e8 40 
 Of Gender ib. 
 Of Articles 41 
 
X € CONTENT/. 
 
 Of Prononns 42 
 
 Of Adjectives ib. 
 
 Of the Verb 43 
 
 Of Tenses 44 
 
 Theory of Moods 45 
 
 Auxiliaries 47 
 
 The Infinitive Mood ib. 
 
 Of the Adverb 48 
 
 Prepositions 49 
 
 Conjunctions ib. 
 
 Interjections 60 
 CHAPTER II.— The Nature and Character of the Use which 
 
 gives Law to Language " ib. 
 Language mainly a species of Fashion ib. 
 Use, or the Custom of Speaking, the sole original Standard of 
 Conversation, as far as respects the Expression; and the Cus- 
 tom of Writing the chief Standard of Style 61 
 Reputable Use *b. 
 Vulgarisms ib. 
 Authors of Reputation 62 
 National Use 63 
 The English Language, properly so called |b. 
 Professional Dialects ib. 
 National Use, as opposed to Foreign ib. 
 Present Use 64 
 CHAPTER III— The Nature and Use of verbal Criticism, with 
 its principal Rules or Canons, by which, in all our decisions, 
 we ought to be directed 65 
 Good Use 56 
 The divided Use ib. 
 Conon the First, when Use is divided as to any particular Word 
 
 or Phrase 67 
 Canon the Second. In doubtful cases, regard ought to be had, 
 
 in our decisions, to the Analogy of the Language ib. 
 
 Canon the Third, prefers what is most agreeable to the Ear ib. 
 
 Canon the Fourth, allows simplicity to determineour choice 68 
 Canon the Fifth, prefers what is most conformable to ancient 
 
 Usage ib. 
 Every thing favoured by good Use, is not on that account wor- 
 thy to be retained ib. 
 Conon the Sixth, points out such Words and Phrases as merit 
 
 degradation 69 
 Criteria, by which we may discriminate the objectionable Words 
 
 from all others 60 
 
 Canon the Seventh, points to Words that require dismission 61 
 
 Canon the Eighth, respects Words become obsolete ib. 
 Canon the Ninth, enables us to detect Solecisms and idiomatical 
 
 Phrases ib 
 Canon the Tenth, regards the suppression of a significant Term, 
 
 which haili come into good Use 63 
 
 CHAPTER IV— Of Grammatical Purity 64 
 
 Pure English Composition iVv 
 
OONTENTS. XI 
 
 "the reproach of Barbarism may be incurred in three different 
 ways : 1st, By the Use of Words entirely obsolete ; 2dly, By 
 the Use of Words entirely new, or, thirdly, By new Fornaa- 
 tions and Compositions, from simple and primitive Words in 
 
 present Use ^^ 
 
 By the Use of absolete Words ib. 
 
 The Use of new Words iuuudat*»s a Language ib. 
 
 By the use of good words new modelled ^ 
 
 The Solecism ^7 
 
 The Impropriety ^^ 
 
 Of improprieties arising from a similitude ia Sense ib. 
 
 The Idiotism 7^ 
 
 The Pleonasm ^^- 
 
 The V^ulgarism '* 
 
 Impropriety in Phrases ^^ 
 
 Precision ^"^ 
 
 Of Words reckoned Synonymous "^7 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 ^N THE NATURE AND STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES, THE GENE- 
 RAL PRINCIPLES OF PERSPICUITY, AND THE HARMONY OF 
 PERIODS. 
 
 CHAPTER I.— Of the Nature of Sentences and Periods 81 
 
 Simple Sentences S3 
 
 Complex Sentences *h. 
 
 Short Sentences 84 
 
 The full Period 85 
 ©HAPTER II.— Of the Errors to be avoided in the Structure 
 
 of Sentences, and the Arrangement of Single Words 86 
 
 The Arrangement of the Agent, the Action, and the Subject 88 
 Of the Arrangement of the other Parts of Speech, Pronouns, 
 
 Participles, Prepositions, and Conjunctions ib. 
 
 eHAPTER III,— On the Structure of Sentences 90 
 
 The distinction of Long and Short ones ib« 
 
 The Properties most essential to a perfect Sentence 91 
 
 Clearness and Precision ib. 
 
 In the Position of Adverbs 92 
 
 In Circumstances in the middle of a Sentence ib. 
 In the proper Disposition of the relative Pronouns, who, which, 
 
 what, whose ib. 
 Unity 94 
 Strength 96 
 Redundant Words, redundant Members, new Ideas, new Tiioughts 97 
 The Copulative Particle ib. 
 Disposition of the capital Word or Words 100 
 The Members of Sentences rising and growing in their Impor- 
 tance above one another 102 
 Oratorical Climax ih 
 
-\11 CON'TKNTS, 
 
 Page 
 
 CHAPTER IV.— Perspicuity 10(> 
 
 Obscurity. — The Obscure from Defect 107 
 
 From bad Arrangement ib. 
 
 The same Word used in different Senses lOS 
 
 From too artificial a Structure of the Sentence 109 
 
 Technical Terras ib. 
 
 CHAPTER v.— The double Meaning ih. 
 
 Equivocation ' ib. 
 
 CHAP'JER VI.— Ambiguity 112 
 
 In Adjectives 114 
 
 In the Use of Substantive Nouns ib. 
 
 Ambiguity in using the Conjunctions ib. 
 
 In a narticular Clause or Expression 116 
 
 • lie squinting Construction ib. 
 
 HAPTER VII.— Of the Unintelligible 116 
 
 Clie UtnntellijL'ible from Confusion of Thought ib. 
 
 The Unintelligible from Affectation of Excellence 117 
 
 CHAPTER VIlI.—The various Species of the Unintelligible 118 
 
 The Unintelligible from want of Meaning in the Writer ib. 
 
 The Puerile 119 
 
 The learned iNonsense ib. 
 
 The Profound 120 
 
 The Marvellous ib. 
 
 CHAPTER IX— Of the Harmony of Periods 121 
 
 How a melodious Structure is formed 122 
 
 The Distribution of the several Members 124 
 
 L !)c Close or Cadence of the whole Sentence 125 
 
 \ falling off at the End always injurious ib. 
 
 Vivarity and Strength of Composition promoted ; various 
 
 Measures 125 
 \ll Appearances affecting Harmony are disagreeable 127 
 i he Current of Sound adapted to the Tenor of a Discourse 128 
 CHAPTER X — Resemblance between Sound and Sense — In- 
 version 129 
 Inversion 132 
 The Inversions of Modern Languages 133 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 or FIGURES. 
 
 13t> 
 ib. 
 
 CHAPTER I.— Of the Character and Advantage of Figures 
 Figures of W^ords 
 Figures of Thought ib. 
 
 Tropes, or Figures 137 
 
 Table of Figures, which, among related Objects, extend the 
 
 Properties one to another 
 Table of Subjects expressed figuratively 
 Table of Attributes expressed fignrativcly 
 
 139 
 140 
 142 
 
 CHAPTER II.— Metaphor U;S 
 
0OKTENTS. XUl 
 
 Page 
 All Metaphor imports Comparison, and is, in that respect, a 
 
 Figure of Thought 143 
 Of all the Figures of Speech, none comes so near to painting 
 
 as Metaphor 144 
 Metaphors must be suited to the Nature of the Suhject of which 
 
 we treat ib. 
 The Choice of Objects from whence Metaphors, and other Fig- 
 ures are to be drawn. 145 
 Metaphors drawn from Objects of Resemblance, which is the 
 Foundation of the Metaphors, be clear and perspicuous, not 
 far-fetched, nor difficult to discover 146 
 In the Conduct of Metaphors, we are never to jumble meta- 
 phorical and plain Language together 147 
 ?Jever make two different Metaphors meet on one Object 148 
 Addison's Rule for examining the Propriety of Metaphors 149 
 Metaphors must not be too far pursued 160 
 CHAPTER III. — Comparisons or Similes 152 
 The Difference between Comparisons or Similes ib. 
 All Comparisons may be reduced to the following Heads 153 
 Explaining Comparisons ib. 
 Embellishing Comparisons 154 
 Comparisons employed to elevate or depress the principal Object 155 
 tiomparisons should not be instituted between Objects, the Re- 
 semblance of which is either obscure, faint, or remote 156 
 Comparisons should not be deduced from Objects which rise 
 
 much above the primary Object. 157 
 Comparison.* destitute of Dignity, transfer Insignificance to the 
 
 principal Object ib 
 Comparisons are censurable when they prompt Feelings dis- 
 cordant with the Aim of the principal Object, or when they 
 
 suggest Sentiments painful or disagreeable 15S 
 Comparisons should never be founded on Resemblances which 
 
 are too obvious and familiar, nor on those which are imaginary ib. 
 Extended Similes may be introduced with Advantage on vari- 
 ous Occasions 15J} 
 Improper Occasions on which circumstantial Similics make their 
 
 Appearance 160 
 Short Similes appear in the most passionate Scenes 161 
 CHAPTER IV.— Personification 162 
 Descriptive Personification ib. 
 Passionate Personification 164 
 The English Language possesses a singular Advantage in mark- 
 ing Personification 16G 
 A capital Error in Personification, is to deck the Figure with 
 
 fantastic and trifling Circumstances ib. 
 Personifications sliould not be introduced when the Subject of 
 
 Discussion is destitu-e of dignity 1(57 
 
 CHAPTER V.-.AIlegory 1G8 
 
 Allegory ornamental 169 
 
 Allegories communicate Instruction ib. 
 
 Allegory of a moral Species 170 
 
 The Allegory of Prodicus ib. 
 
 The Tablature of Cebes ]7j 
 
XIV CONTEXTS. 
 
 Allegories calculated both for Ornament and Instruction 171 
 Homer personifies Prayers 172 
 CHAPTER VI.— Apostrophe 174 
 Pictnresque Apostrophe ih. 
 Apostrophes class the OiTspring- of deep Agitation 175 
 \ principal Error in the Use of Apostrophe, is to deck the Ob- 
 ject addressed with affected Ornaments Jb, 
 Viiothcr frequent Error is, to extend this Figure to too great 
 
 Length ii» 
 
 Apostrophe frequently appeared in the Oratory of Antiquity 176 
 
 Apostrophe in modern Oratory ib. 
 
 CHAPTER VIl— Hyperbole 177 
 
 This Figure peculiarly graceful and pleasant 178 
 
 All Discourse and Writing admit Hyperbole ib. 
 
 f>rors in the Use of Hyperbole 179 
 i]ypcrl)oles are not properly introduced till the Mind of the 
 
 Reader is prepared to relish them 180 
 ; lyperboles- improper wh/jn they m.iy be turned against the Ar- 
 gument of the Author who uses them 181 
 ' HAPTER VIIL— Climax, or Amplification ib. 
 I'he Efft!ct of this Figure 182 
 Climax appears with Grace in the calmer Parts of Oratory ib. 
 It is consistent with moderate Agitation ib. 
 < flAPTKR IX.— The Antithesis 183 
 \ntithesis makes the irrost brilliant Appearance in tlie Delinea- 
 tion of Characters, particularly in History 184 
 r^nsticcessful Attempts have been nmd^ to acquire it 185 
 V Climax and Antithesis conjoined and carried on through sev- 
 eral Seutcnces ib, 
 CHAPTER X. — Interrogation, Repetition, Exclamation, Irony^ 
 
 and Vision 18(> 
 
 interrogation gives Life and Spirit to Di.scotirse ib. 
 
 Interrogation used to rouse and awaken the Hearers ib. 
 
 Interrogation commands with great Emphasis 187 
 
 Interrogation denotes plaintive Passion ib. 
 
 Repetition is significant of Contrast and Energy ibi 
 
 Exclamations the Efl'ect of strong Emotions of the Mind ib. 
 
 V^ision proper only in animated and warm Compositions 188 
 
 Vision in Tragedy ig^ 
 
 Irony ib^ 
 
 cTxclamations and Irony arc sometimes united 190 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 *N THE NATURE OF TASTE, AND THE SOIUCES Of ITS PLEAS^ 
 URES. 
 
 CHAPTER I.— Taste 192. 
 
 raste is possessed in different Degrees by different Men ib. 
 
 taste, an improvable Faculty, and refined by Education 193 
 
CONTEKTS.^ 
 
 Page 
 
 Exercise is the Source of Improvement in all our Faculties, in 
 our bodily, in our mental Powers, and even in our external 
 
 Senses ^^3 
 The Improvement of Taste, from the Application of Reason and 
 good Sense, to Works of Composition, and Productions of 
 
 Genius ^94 
 Delicacy and Correctness the Characters of Taste, when brought 
 
 to its most improved State 195 
 Correctness of Taste il>- 
 Delicacy and Correctness of Taste mutually imply each other ib. 
 The Diversity of Tastes which prevails among Mankind 196 
 Standard of Taste 197 
 Uniformity of Tast€ and Sentiment resulting from our Convic- 
 tion of a common Standard 199' 
 CHAPTER IL— Criticism 200 
 Transgressions of the Laws of Criticism 202- 
 CHAPTER III— Of Genius ib. 
 This Talent improved by Art and Study 203 
 A Genius for any of the fine Arts alwavs supposes Taste ib. 
 CHAPTER IV.'— The Sources of the Pleasures of Taste 204 
 The Pleasures of Imagination ib. 
 The Pleasure which arises from Sublimity or Grandeur 205 
 Of external Grandeur ib. 
 The terribly Sublime, Darkncs^t, Solitude, and Silence 206 
 The moral or sentimental Sublime 208 
 High Virtue the most natural and fertile Source of this moral 
 
 Sublimity ib. 
 
 CHAPTER v.— The SubUme in Writing 209^ 
 The sacred Scriptures afford us the highest Instances of the 
 
 Sublime 210 
 Homer greatly admired for Sublimity 21 T 
 The Works of Ossian abound with Examples of the Sublime ib. 
 Conciseness and Simplicity essential to sublime Writing 212 
 Milton an Author whose Genius led him emmcntly to the Sub- 
 lime 213 
 Strength is another necessary Requisite in sublime Writing 214 
 The Sublime depends upon a jwst Selection of Circumstances 215 
 The Faults opposite to the Sublime, are chiefly two ; first, the 
 
 Frigid ; and, secondly, the Bombast 216 
 
 CHAPTER VI.— Beauty, and other Pleasures of Taste 217 
 
 Colour, the simplest Instance of Beauty 2J8 
 
 Figure opens to us Forms of Beauty complex and diversified: ib. 
 
 Regularity a Source of Beauty ib, 
 
 Hogarth's Analysis of Beauty 219 
 
 Motion another Source of Beauty ib. 
 
 The Beauty of the Human Countenance 221 
 Beauty arising from the Perception of Means being adapted to 
 
 an End ib. 
 This Sense of Beauty, in Fitness and Design, has an extensive 
 
 Influence over many of our Ideas 222 
 
 Of Beauty, as it is applied to Writing or Discourse ib. 
 
 Novelty 223 
 
 Imitation is another Source ib; 
 
, i CONTENTS, 
 
 The Pleasures of Melody and Harmony 223 
 Wit, Humour^ and Ridicule, open a V^aiietv oi Picasures to 
 
 Taste 224 
 
 Wit ib. 
 
 Humour ib. 
 
 RidicTde ib 
 
 BOOK VI. 
 
 THE GENERAL CHARACTERS Ox- STYLfc. 
 
 H AFTER f— The Diffuse and Concise Styles 22i 
 \ diffuse Style generally abounds in long Period* 230 
 I lie Nervous and the Feeble of the same Import with the Con- 
 cise and the Diffuse il>. 
 CHAPTER H.— Of the Dry, Plain, Neat, and Flowery Style 232 
 A drv Manner ib. 
 A plain Style 233 
 A neat Style ib. 
 An elegant Style ib, 
 A florid Style 234 
 CHAPTER IH.— The Simple, Affected, and Vehement Styles 2:35 
 Simplicity of Composition ib. 
 Simplicity of Thought ib. 
 •Simplicity opposed to Ornament or Pomp of Language 236 
 iiupiicity respecting the easy and natural Manner in which our 
 Language expresses our Thoughts ib 
 • lie highe>>t Degree of this Simplicity 237 
 iinplicity in general ib. 
 Simplicity, the grc.t Beauty of Archbishop Tillotson's Manner ib. 
 Sir William Temple, another remarkable VVriter in the Stvle of 
 
 Simplicity ' 238 
 
 \ddison the most perfect Exaoiple of this Style ib 
 
 An Author may write simply, and yet not beautifully 240 
 
 Of the Vehement i\). 
 
 Lord Bolingbroke's Style 241 
 
 CHAPTER IV.— Directions tor forming Style 242 
 The Foundation of all good Style, is good Sense, accompanied 
 
 with a lively Imagination ib. 
 In order to form a good Style, the frequent Practice of Com- 
 posing indispensably necessary ib. 
 With respect to the Assistance that is to be gained from the 
 
 Writings of others 244 
 
 Danger of a servile Imitation of any Author ib. 
 Style must be adapted to the Subject, and to the Capacity of 
 
 one's Readers jb. 
 CHAPTER V — Conduct of a Discourse in all its Parts— Intro- 
 duction, Divisico. i\ajratioi». and Exj>l!cation 245 
 The Exordium, or Introduction, common to all kinds of public 
 
 Speaking 246 
 
C0NTENT9. Xyil 
 
 Page 
 
 First, to conciliate the good Will of the Hearer.s 245 
 
 Secondly, to raise the Attention of the Hearers ib. 
 
 The Introduction should be easy and natural 247 
 
 Introductions should not be planned, till after one has meditated 
 
 in his own mind the Substance of his Discourse ib. 
 
 Correctness should be carefully studied in the Expression ib. 
 
 Modesty is another Character which it must carry ib. 
 
 An Introduction should usually be carried on without Vehe- 
 mence and Passion 248 
 
 Introductions must not anticipate any material Part of the 
 
 Subject ib. 
 
 The Introduction ought to be proportioned, both in length, and 
 
 in kind, to the Discourse that is to follow ib. 
 
 The Pi-oposition or Enunciatien ib. 
 
 The Division 249 
 
 First, the several Parts into which the Subject is divided must 
 
 be really distinct from one another ib. 
 
 Secondly, in Division, we must take care to follow the Order of 
 
 Nature ib. 
 
 Thirdly, the several Members of a Division ought to exhaust 
 
 the Subject ib. 
 
 Fourthly, the Terms in which our Partitions are expressed 
 
 should be as concise as possible ib. 
 
 Fifthly, avoid an unnecessary Multiplication of Heads 250 
 
 Narration, or Explication ib. 
 
 To be clear and distinct, to be probable, and to be concise, are 
 
 the Qualities which Critics chiefly require in Narration ib. 
 
 Of the argumentative or reasoning Part of a Discourse 251 
 
 The analytic, and the synthetic Methods of Reasoning ib. 
 
 Avoid blending Arguments confusedly together, that are of a 
 
 separate Nature 252 
 
 the three great Subjects of Discussion among Mankind, are, 
 
 Truth, Duty, and Interest ib. 
 
 With regard to the different Degrees of Strength in Argu- 
 ments, the general Rule is, to advance in the way of Climax 263 
 
 Observe not to extend Arguments too far, and multiply them 
 
 too much ib. 
 
 The Pathetic, in which, if any where. Eloquence reigns 254 
 
 Consider carefully, whether the Subject admit the Pathetic, and 
 render it proper, and if it does, what Part t>f the Discourse 
 
 is the fittest for attempting it ib. 
 
 Never to set apart a Head of a Discourse in form, for raising 
 
 any Passion ib. 
 
 The Difference between showing the Hearers that they ought 
 
 to be moved, and actually moving them 255 
 
 The only effectual Method is, to be moved yourself ib. 
 
 Attention to the proper Language of the Passions ib. 
 
 Avoid interweaving any Thing of a foreign Nature with the pa- 
 thetic Part of a Discourse 256 
 
 Never attempt prolonging the Pathetic too much ib. 
 
 Concerning the Peroration, or Conclusion ib. 
 
 CHAPIER VI.— Historical Writing 257 
 
 Historical Composition comprehends Annals^ Memoirs, Lives ib. 
 
XV 111 CONTENTS. 
 
 t^gt 
 
 In order to fulfil the End of History, the Author must study to 
 trace to their Springs the Actions and Events which he re- 
 cords 268 
 
 The first Virtues of historical Narration, are Clearness, Order, 
 
 and due Connection 259 
 
 Gravity must always be maintained in the Narration ib. 
 
 The Embellishment of Orations 260 
 
 The drawing of Characters one of the most splendid, and at 
 the same time, one of the most difficult Ornaments of histori- 
 cal Composition ib. 
 
 Sound Morality should always reign in History 261 
 
 Memoirs ib. 
 
 Biography 262 
 
 Great Improvement of late Years introduced into historical 
 
 Composition ib 
 
 CHAPTER VII.— Philosophical Writing, Dialogue, and Epis- 
 tolary Correspondence 26S 
 
 Epistolary Writing 264 
 
 BOOK VII. 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 CHAPTER I.—The Origin and Progress of Poetrv 267 
 
 CHAPTER II.— Versification ' 271 
 
 Feet and Pauses the constituent Parts of Versfe 272 
 
 Of poetical Feet ib. 
 
 The Nature of the Principal Feet 273 
 
 Secondary Feet 277 
 
 Blank Verse 279 
 
 CHAPTER III.— Of Pastoral Poetry 280 
 
 Theocritus and Virgil 281 
 
 Pope's Pastorals ib. 
 
 Shenstone's Works 283 
 
 The Amynta of Tasso 283 
 
 Pastor Fido of Guarini ib. 
 
 The Gentle Shepherd of Allan Ramsay ib. 
 
 M. Gesner's Pastoral Compositions 284 
 
 CHAPTER IV.— Lyric Poetry ib. 
 
 The Odes of Pindar, Sappho, and Anacreou 285 
 The English Lyric Poets, are Dryden, Pope, Addison, Gray, 
 
 and Akenside ib. 
 
 CHAPTER v.— Didactic Poetry 286 
 
 The Essay on Man 288 
 
 Satirists ib. 
 
 CHAPTER VL— Descriptive Poetry 290 
 
 Thomson's Seasons ' ib. 
 
 Milton's Allegro 291 
 
 Penseroso ib. 
 
 Parnel's Hermit 292 
 
Cp]<fTENTS. Xix 
 
 CHAPTER VII.— Epic Poetry 2*^3 
 
 Episodes 296 
 
 The Unity of the Epic Action 297 
 
 Personages proper to the Poem 299 
 
 Poetic Characters are general and particular ib. 
 
 The Machinery of the Epic Poem 300 
 
 CHAPTER Vlll.— On Pronunciation, or Delivery 302 
 
 Distinctness of Articulation ib. 
 
 Emphasis, Pauses^ Tones, and Gestures 303 
 
 Emphatical Pauses 304 
 Tones in Pronunciation consist in the Modulation of the Voice, 
 
 and the Notes or Variations of Sound 305 
 
 Of Gesture ib 
 
M 
 
 ^* 
 
A 
 
 GRAMMAR OF RHETORIC. 
 
 OF LANGUAGE AND STYLE 
 AS THE FOUNDATION OF ELOQUENCE. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 OF THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE IN THE STRUG- 
 TURE AND COMPOSITION OF WORDS. 
 
 J 1" ANGUAGE may be defined, the art of communi- 
 ' A_J eating thought, or the ideas of the mind, by certain 
 articulate sounds, which are used as signs of those ideas, 
 
 [llustralion. Articiilate sounds are those modulations of siraple 
 voice, or of sound emitted from the thorax, which are formed by means 
 of the mouth, and its several organs, the teeth, the tongue, the lips, and 
 the palate. 
 
 2. The connexion between words and ideas is arbitrary 
 and conventional, owing to the agreement of men among 
 themselves. 
 
 Illus. Different nations have different languages, or a different set 
 of articulate sounds, which they have chosen, or framed, for commu- 
 nicating their ideas. 
 
 3. When we consider loritten language as a symbol of 
 spoken, and spoken language as a representation of our 
 ideas, and observe also how little relation subsists between 
 letters and sounds, and again between sounds and ideas, we 
 shall be satisfied that much artifice and singul^^efibrts of 
 ingenuity were at first employed in the construction of lan- 
 guage, that it might accomplish the purposes of communica- 
 tion. 
 
10 Of the Rise and Progress of Language 
 
 Corollary. As speech must have been absolutely necessary previoti>. 
 fo the formation of society, the language of the first men, would be 
 barely adequate to their present occasions ; but they would enlarge 
 and improve it as their future necessities required. 
 
 4. The cries of passion, accompanied with such motions 
 ^nd gestures, as are further expressive of passion, are the 
 only signs which nature teaches all men, and which all 
 understand. (Art, 30. and 31.) 
 
 Illus. Cries indicative of fear, and gestures expressive of peril, would 
 be used by him wlio «?ought to warn his neighbour of danger, 
 
 Carol. Those exclamations, therefore, which have obtained the name 
 ^f INTERJECTIONS, uttcred in a strong and passionate manner, were, 
 beyond doubt, in the rudest ages of the world, the first element*; or 
 bcginnings of speech. Names began to be assigned to objecr 
 more enlarged communications became necessary. 
 
 5. The invention of words arose from the imitation, as 
 nearly as it could be carried, of the nature or quality of the 
 object which was named, by the sound of the name which 
 the object or its quality received. 
 
 Illus. As a painter, who wotild represent grass, must employ a green 
 colour ; so in the beginning of spoken language, the man who gave a 
 iiamc to any thing harsli or boisterous, wouhl employ a liursh or bois- 
 tcnuis sound in the pronunciation of that name, lie could not du 
 otherwise, if he meant to excite in the hearer the idea of that thing 
 •whicli he sought to name. (See Art. IG, 17, and 18.) 
 
 Carol. The desire of men to paint, by speech, t!ic objects which they 
 fiamed, in a mannerinore or less complete, according as the vocal 
 organs had it in their power to cftect this imitation, must have been 
 t))e general motive which led men to the assignation of one name to a 
 nurticular object rather than another. (Sec the ILluslralions to ^irt. 7.) 
 
 G. Whatever objects were to be named, in wliich sound, 
 or noise, or motion, was concerned, the imitation by words 
 Mas abundantly obvious. Nothing was more natural, than, 
 by the sound of the voice, to imitate the quality of the 
 sound, or noise, or motion, which the external object made ; 
 and to form its name accordingly. 
 
 Illus. Thus, in all languages, we find words constructed upon this 
 principle. A certain bird is called the cuckoo from the sound which it 
 emits. Tlic analogy between tlie word and the thing signified is dis- 
 cernable, when one sort of wind is said to whisl/e, and another to roary 
 when a serpent is said to hiss, a fly to buzz, and falling timber to crash, 
 — when a stream is said iojlow, thunder to roar, and hail to rattle. 
 
 7. This analogy becomes more obscure in the names of 
 objects which adtlress the sight only, where neither noise 
 nor motion is concerned, and still more in the terms appro- 
 priated to moral ideas ; but even here it is not altogether 
 lost ; and throughout the radical words of all languafj;es some 
 
m the Structure mid Composition of Words, 21 
 
 ^egi^e of correspondence may be traced with the object 
 signified. 
 
 Illus. 1. The terms significant of moral and intellectual ideas, are 
 derived from the names of sensible objects to which they are conceiv- 
 ed to be analogous, 
 
 2. The most distinguishing qualities of sensible objects, pertaining 
 merely to sight, have, in a great variety of languages, certain radical 
 sounds appropriated to tli-e expression of those qualities. The organs 
 of voice assume but an obscure resemblance to such external qualities 
 as slahility and fluiditi/, hollowness and smoothness, gtnthness and vio- 
 ■h7ic€j yet are these words painted by the sound of certain letters or 
 syllables, which have some relation to those different states of visible 
 objects. 
 
 3. Words formed upon st, usually denote firmness and strength, 
 analogous to the Latin sto ; as, stand, stay, staff, stop, stout, steady^ 
 Make, stamp, stallion, stattly, he. 
 
 4. Str, in the beginningof words, intimates violent force and energy, 
 analagous to the Greek ^^cevwfxt ; as, strive, strength^ struggle, stride. 
 stress, stretch, strike^ stripe, &c. 
 
 5. Thr, implies forcible motion ; as, Ihroiv, thrust, throb, iJirough, 
 threaten, thraldom, &c. 
 
 6. Wr, denotes obliquity or distortion ; as, wry, wrest, wrestle, 
 wreath, ivring, wrong, wrangle, wrath, wrack, he. 
 
 7. Sw, indicates silent agitation, or lateral motion ; as, sway, siving^ 
 werve, sweep, swim, he. 
 
 8. SI, implies a gentle fall, or less observable motion ; as, slide, slip, 
 sly., slit, slow, slack, sling, he. 
 
 9. Sp, intimates dissipation or expansion ; as, spread, sprout, sprin- 
 kle, split, spill, spring, he. 
 
 10. Terminations in ash indicate something acting nimbly and 
 sharply ; as, cra^h, gash, rash,Jiash, lash, slash, he. 
 
 11. Ush, in the ending of words, implies sometiiing acting more ob- 
 tusely or dully ; as, crush, brush, hush, gush, blush, hc."^ 
 
 Observation. These significant j^oots have been considered as a pe- 
 culiar beauty or excellency of our native tongue, which, beyond all 
 others, expresses the nature or qualities of the objects that it names, 
 by employing sounds sharper, softer, weaker, stronger, more obscure, 
 or more stridulous, according as the idea requires wlilch is to be sug- 
 gested. 
 
 8. The immense field of language, in every nation, is, 
 however, filled up by numerous fanciful and irregular 
 methods of derivation and composition. 
 
 Coral. Words, therefore, come to deviate widely from the primitive 
 character of their roots, and frequently lose all analogy or resemblance 
 in sound to tlie thing signified. Taken generally, as we now employ 
 ibem, words may be considered as symbols, not as imitations ; as arbi- 
 rary, or instituted, not natural signs of ideas. 
 
 * I'Jie President Des Brosses has very ably examined this subject in his woifky en- 
 'I'lcd " Traite de Ja Fonriatiou Mechanique'des Langues." 
 
32 Of the Bise and Progress of Language 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OF THE RISE AND PROGHESS OF LANGUAGE IN THE MANNED 
 OF UTTERING OR PRONOUNCING WORDS. 
 
 9. A SECOND character of language, in its early state, 
 is drawn from the manner in which mankind at first pro- 
 nounced or uttered words. 
 
 Illus. 1. Interjections or passionate language being the first ele- 
 ments of speech, (Carol. Art. 4.) men would labour to communicate 
 their feelings to one another, by those expressive cries and gestures, 
 which they were taught by nature. (Jirt. 4. Illus.) 
 
 2. Language in its infancy, picturesque but barren, would be inter- 
 mixed with many exclamations and earnest gestures. Its scanty vo- 
 cabulary rendered these helps necessary for explaining the concep- 
 tions of uncultivated men. 
 
 3. Tones, rough and unmusical at first, and significant gesticulations 
 would supply the temporary absence of the tew words which mea 
 knew ; and by these supplemental methods they would endeavour to 
 make intelligible to others what they themselves understood, (Jlrt. 
 4.6. Corol.) 
 
 Carol. It may hence be assumed as a principle, that pronunciation, 
 fn the earliest languages, though learnt from the uninterrupted use of 
 gutteral sounds, was accompanied with more gesticulations than are 
 used when men become refined by civilization, arts, and sciences. 
 
 10. What had risen from necessity continued to be used 
 lor ornament, after language became more extensive and 
 copious. Wherever there was much fire and vivacity in 
 the genius of nations, the imagination was gratified with a 
 great deal of action ; and, as their ear acquired delicacy 
 and sensibility, their language would gradually attain soft- 
 ness and melody of tones in conversation, or public dis- 
 course. 
 
 Illus. Upon this principle men spoke by action. Jeremiah, in sight 
 of the people of Israel, breaks a potter's vessel — throws a book into 
 the Euphrates — puts on bonds and yokes, and carries out his house- 
 hold stufl'. The Indians of North America, also, declare their meaning, 
 and explain themselves by belts and strings of nampuin, as much as 
 by their discourse, with all its significant but flowery modes of expres- 
 sion. (Illus.. ^rt. IS.) 
 
 11. Some nations have found it easier to express differ- 
 ent ideas, by varying the tone with which they pronounced 
 the same word, than to contrive words for all their ideas. 
 
 Illus. Thus, the number of original words in the Chinese language 
 i,s not great, but, in speech, the sound of each word is varied on no 
 fewer than five different tones. The same word may therefore signify 
 five different things ; and be expressed by five different characters* 
 
in the Manntr of Pronouncing Words, 23 
 
 \iexice arises their unwieldly alphabet, or lexicon. This melody, or 
 varying the sound of each word so often, is a proof of nothing-, how- 
 ever, btit of the iine ear of that people. (Coral. Art. 13.) 
 
 12. When the harsh and dissonant cries of speech have 
 become gradually polished, ihey pass into more smooth and 
 harmonious sounds (JirL 10.) ; and hence is formed what 
 gntnimarians call the prosody of u language, 
 
 Obs, Without attending to this we shall be at a loss to understand 
 several parts of the Greek and Roman classics, which relate to public 
 speaking, and the theatrical entertainments of the ancients, (Illus. 
 Art, 13.) 
 
 13. When (he Greek and Roman languages became flow- 
 ing and harmonious, the pronunciation of both became melo- 
 dious in a very high degree. It does not, however, appear 
 that the languages of any cultivated nations have ever been 
 regulated by any musical principles. As the copiousness 
 and accuracy of speech keep pace with civilization and im- 
 provement, its melody corresponds to the refinement of the 
 public ear. (Illus, Jirt, 11.) 
 
 Illus. 1. The declamation of the Greek and Roman orators, and the 
 pronunciation of their actors upon the stage, were not indeed subject- 
 ed to a g^eometrical scale of proportion, us the notes ofm,usic are; but 
 'he melody of their periods was artfully regulated by the superior re- 
 uncmeiVt of their ear. 
 
 2. The sounds of speech and music are regulated by different scales, 
 both in point of length and elevation. In point of length, the sounds 
 of speech are only two, the one double the other ; for all words con- 
 sist of syllables either long or short, and the long syllable is invariably 
 double the length of the short one. The sounds of music being meas- 
 ured by a geometrical scale of proportion, may be extended as far as 
 the composer pleases. In respect of elevation and depre-ssion the 
 sounds of speech are subject to no rule : their distances are neither 
 equal nor great. The speaker may divide them according to his in- 
 -clinaiion, and the utmost compass of ordinary speech seldom extends 
 beyond the distance of a ^qw notes in music. It is not so with the tones' 
 of music : their distances are all determined by rule, and the elevations 
 and depressions, .though sometimes \Qry considerable, are adjusted 
 with the greatest nicety of geometrical science. 
 
 3. Aristotle considers the music of tragedy as one of its chief and 
 essential parts ; but he does not assuredly mean that the Greeks spoke 
 in recitative, or that part of the word, or part of the sentence, was ut 
 tcred in the ordinary towes of conver.^ation, while the remaining pari 
 was pronounced in tones of music. The whole of an oration, or tra- 
 gedy, might be accompanied with musical instruments ; but the lan- 
 guage of passion is inconsistent with recitative. The tones of musio 
 are not the language of passion, and the languaige of nature is the same 
 in all ages and countries. (Jlrt. 10. Illus. and also Art. II.) 
 
 4. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, in his book on composition, that 
 treats professedly on the melody of language, is at great pains to illus 
 trate bis sentiments from the compositions of Demosthenes, a«d t# 
 
 3^^ 
 
M Of the Rise and Progress of Language 
 
 point out how artfully that great or.?tor had consulted the melody of 
 his periods, by inserting in his cadences many dactyles, spondees, 
 iambics, and other agreeable metrical feet. The introduction of these 
 feet he calls — " writing rhythmical," or " melodious prose." 
 
 5. It is plain also from the oratory of Cicero, tiiat the Romans did 
 not speak in tones of music, or recitative. He informs us that Hume- 
 rus or rhythm was not employed except in the most splendid parts of 
 an oration ; and that it ought not to be long continued, lest the artifice 
 of the orator should be detected, and iiis aim to impress his hearers 
 defeated. 
 
 6. Dionysius, however, proceeds further thau Cicero, and contrasts 
 the harmonious examples extracted from Demosthenes, with speci- 
 mens adduced from the writings of Poly bins, '' the harshness of whose 
 periods," he asserts, *' is owing to the neglect of rhythm." 
 
 Carol. 1. Therefore, the melody of a languagxj is a proof of nothing 
 but of the fine ear of the peojile who use it, (Illus. ^irt. 11.) ; other 
 evidence is necessary to shew that it was spoken in what the Italians 
 call recitativo. 
 
 2. The '§w9tcyc then, of the Greeks, and the ?mmen/f of the Romans, 
 *^xprcssed nothing that is now either unintelligible or unknown, an<l 
 .ifford no evidence that tlie ancients either spoke commonly in recita- 
 cive, or intermixed notes of music with the tones of speech. 
 
 3. And, hence, the modern languages of Europe, abounding witli 
 kjng and short syllables, are susceptible of rhyl/tni, as well as the 
 Greek an<l Latin ; and the assemblages o( these long and short sylla- 
 bles, in what the ancients called /ce/, are not confined tolhe poetry of 
 cur native Isles, but are actually introduced by our best prose writers. 
 Vet no one expects to hear the plays of Shakspeare sung, and we did 
 not hear Fitt and Sheridan speak in recitative. 
 
 14. vStrong tones, and animated gestures, go always to- 
 sjether ; hence, actioi is treated by all the ancient critics, as 
 the chief qualiiy in everj^ public speaker. 
 
 illus. 1. We learn from Cicero, that it was a contest between him 
 .<tid Roscius, whether he could express a sentiment in a greater variety 
 of phrases, orP.oscius in a greater variety of intelligible and significant 
 gestures. 
 
 2. When gesture came to engross the Roman stage wholly, the fa- 
 vorite entertainment of the public was pantomime^ which was carried 
 on, as it still is, entirely by unite gesticulation. Under the reigns of 
 .Augustus and Tiberius, the people were moved and wept at it, as much 
 us at tragedies. 
 
 Corol. All speculations concerning the fixing of a living language 
 are, therefore, vain and nugatory, and when the good taste of a nation 
 has prevailed universally, writers of established reputation become iti- 
 (iatiicritic^ 
 
in the Style and Character of Speech, 25 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF THE PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE IN THE STYLE AND GHAR 
 ACTER OF SPEECH, 
 
 15. FROM what has been said in the preceding chapters^ 
 it appears that men at lirst uttered their words, and main- 
 tained conversation, in a strong and impressive manner, en- 
 forcing their imperfectly conceived ideas by cries and ges- 
 tures ; and there is abundant evidence to shew that the lan- 
 guage which they used was little else than a torrent of fig- 
 ures and metaphors, not correct indeed, but forcible and 
 picturesque, (y^rt, 19. Illus.) 
 
 Corol. Figures of speech are, therefore, not the invention of orators 
 and rhetoricians ; but the language of mankind, when they had hardly 
 any words for expressing their meaning. 
 
 16. The want of a distinct name for every individual ob- 
 ject, obliged the first speakers to use one name for many 
 objects, (^rt, 5. Illus, and Corol.) 
 
 Corol. They would, thence, express themselves by comparisons, 
 metaphors, allusions, and all those substituted forms of speech, which 
 render language figurative and picturesque. 
 
 17. As the names with which they were most conversant, 
 were those of the sensible, material objects around them, 
 names would be given to those objects long before words 
 were invented for signifying the dispositions of the mind, or 
 any sort of moral or intellectual ideas, (^^rt, 48.) 
 
 Carol. Hence, the early language of man being entirely made up of 
 words descriptive of sensible objects, it became, of necessity, extreme- 
 ly metaphorical. Every desire or passion, every act or feeling of mind, 
 to which no precise expression had been appropriated, would be paint- 
 ed by allusion to those sensible dejects which had most relation to it^ 
 and which, in some manner, could render it visible to others, (.^rt. 10.) 
 
 18. In the infancy of society, men are much under the 
 dominion of imagination and passion ; and these are the pa- 
 rents of a figurative style, of exaggeration and hyperbole. 
 (.^rt, 19. Illus, 1. and S.) 
 
 Illus. In this period of society, men live scattered and dispersed- 
 They are un.icquainted with the course of things ; they are daily meet- 
 ing with new and strange objects. Fear and surprise, wonder and 
 astonishment, are their most frequent passions. Their language par- 
 takes of this character of their agitated and expanding minds. They 
 will be prone to exaggeration and hyperbole. Where all is marvellous, 
 the imagination will riot in the luxuriance of an unbounded picturesque. 
 (Art. 10. Illus.) 
 
i^ Of the Progress of Language 
 
 Cofol. Wherever strong exclamations, tones and gestures, entc'f 
 much into conversation, the imagination is always more exercised; a 
 f,'reater efl'ort of fancy and passion is excited. Consequently, the fan- 
 cy kept awake, and rendered more sprightly by this mode of utterance, 
 operates upon style, and enlivens it with the strongest colours, and 
 the most vehement expressions of untamed passion. (Art. 15. Corol.) 
 
 19. Undoubted facts confitm these reasonings. The 
 style of all the earliest languages, among nations who are 
 in the first and rude periods of society, is found, without 
 exception, to be full of tigures; and to be hyperbolical and 
 picturesque in a high degree, (^^rt, 5. and lO.J 
 
 Illus. 1. The American Indian languages are known to be figura- 
 tive to excess. The Iroquois and illiuois carry on their treaties and 
 public transactions with bolder metaphors, and greater pomp of style, 
 than we use in our poetical productions.'' 
 
 2. \i\ the Old Testamrnt, — the best specimen of oriental style, — 
 constant allusions to sensible objects characterize the language of the 
 various writers. Thus, guilt is a spotted f^arment ; iniquity is the trea- 
 sures of darkness ; a sinlul life is a crooked path ; misery drinks the cup 
 of astonishment ; vain pursuits are seen feeding on ashes; innocence is 
 known by its white robes : wisdom is a lighted candle; and royal dig- 
 uity is purple and a crowji. 
 
 3. In the poems of Ossian, too, figures of speech abound; pictur- 
 esque descriptions are as the ** sons of song," for number; or as tluj 
 heroes' " breasts of steel," for strength of expression ; or as the 
 '• meteors of death," for the illusions ihey create in a reader's mind; 
 and all the violent expressions of passion uttered about '' the white- 
 l)o>omed love of Cormac;" or about Fingal '* of the noble deeds;" 
 liiui wlio '' tlew like lightning over the heath ;" or " slowly moved as 
 a cloud of thunder, when the sultry plain of summer is silent," whose 
 " sword is before him terrible as the streaming meteor of night — " 
 confirm the position, that this sort of style is common to all nations in 
 certain periods of society and language. A narration is condensed 
 into a few striking circumstances, which rouse and alarm: the ac- 
 count of a battle is as rapid as the wounds of a warrior, and the 
 deaths he inflicts! 
 
 20. Magnanimity and delicacy characterize strongly the 
 poetry of rude nations, who, in the use of metaphors and 
 similes, make little or no allusion to the productions of the 
 arts. (.^rL 29. Jllus,) 
 
 Illus. Magnanimity and delicacy are nearly, if not necessarily, con- 
 nected with all the strong and violent emotions of the mind ; and these 
 are the natural produce of an early, if not of a savage state of society. 
 Strong emotions constitute the chief ingredient in magnanimity ; and 
 it requires only one addition to give them the polish of delicacy. 
 
 Corol, It is not improbable, that particular circumstances may 
 prompt the latter sentiment, long before the introduction either of 
 philosophy or of the arts. Those who are acquainted with human 
 nature, and the analogy which subsists among its feelings, will there 
 
 * See Cadwallader Colden's " History of the Five Indian Nations.'" 
 
in the Arrangement of Words in Sentenois. 27 
 
 fore allow the uncommon magnanimity and delicacy of Ossian, "king 
 of songs," to be no strong objections against the antiquity of his pro- 
 ductions. 
 
 21. From what has been said, it plainly appears that the 
 style of all languages must have been originally poetical ; 
 strongly tinctured with that enthusiasm, that descriptive 
 metaphorical expression, and that magnanimity and delica- 
 cy, which distinguish poetry. (Art, 30. Illus,) 
 
 Obs, But these points will be further discussed when we come to 
 treat " of the nature and origin of poetry." 
 
 22. As language, in its progress, began to grow more co- 
 pious, it gradually lost that figurative style, which was its 
 early character. (Art, 31. and S2,) 
 
 Illus. Proper and familiar names for every object, both sensible 
 and moral, pushed out of discourse the use of circumlocutions. Style 
 became more precise, and, of course, more simple, in proportion as 
 society advanced in civilization, and reason subdued the imagination 
 of mankind. The exercise of the understanding now rarely permit- 
 ted that of the fancy ; and frequent and extensive fntercourse among 
 mankind obliged them to signify their meaning to each other by clear- 
 ness of style. In place of poets, philosophers became the instructors 
 of men : and in their reasonings on all different subjects, introduced 
 that plainer and simpler style of composition, whichj at this day, we 
 call Prose. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OF THE PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE, AS RESPECTS THE ORDER 
 AND ARRANGEMENT OF WORDS IN SENTENCES. 
 
 23. THE imagination and the understanding are the 
 powers of the mind which chiefly influence the arrange- 
 ment of words in sentences. 'J'he grammatical order is 
 dictated by the understanding; the inverted order results 
 from the prevalence of the imagination. (See the theory of 
 Arrangement, Art. 24. J 
 
 Jllus. 1. In the grammatical order of words, it is required that the 
 agent or nominative shall first make its appearance; the agent is fol- 
 lowed by the action or the verb ; and the verb is succeeded by the 
 subject or accusative, termed, in English Jrapimars, the objective 
 case, on which the action is exerted. In this logical order, an Eng- 
 lish writer, paying a compliment to a great man, would say: " It is 
 impossible for me to pass over in silence such remarkable ^lildness, 
 such singular and unheard of clemency, and such unusual moderation, 
 in the exercise of supreme power." Here we have first presented to 
 m the person who speaks, " It is irnpossib!e for me;" next, what that 
 
28 Of the Progress of Language 
 
 person is to <1o, "impossible for h'lm to pass over in silence;'^ aml^ 
 lastly, the object which moves him to do so, ^^the mildnesSy clemency ^ 
 and moderation of a man in the exercise of supreme power.'' 
 
 2. The inverted order is prompted by the imaj^ination, a keen and 
 sprightly faculty, which attaches itself strongly to its objects, and to 
 those the most that affect it most forcibly. A sentence constructed 
 according to this faculty, presents the subject or accusative, first, the 
 agent or recipient next, and the action or verb last. The order of 
 the Latin language gratifies the rapidity of the imagination ; and ac- 
 cordingly, Cicero, from whom we have translated the words in the 
 former illustration, follows the natural order : " Tantam mansuetu- 
 dinem, tam inusitatem inauditamque clementiam, tantumque in sura- 
 ma potestate rerum omnium modum, tacitus nuUo modo pr?eterire 
 possum."* The object, that which was the exciting idea in tlie speak- 
 t?r's mind, is placed first, and the sentence concludes with the speak- 
 er and his action. 
 
 3. The other parts of speech, consisting of adjectives, ad%'erbs, 
 conjunctions, and prepositions, are, in both these modes of arrange- 
 ment, intermixed with these capital parts, and are associated with 
 them respectively, according as they are necessary to restrict or ex- 
 plain them. 
 
 24, From these illustrations, the following simple and 
 natural theory results, relative to the arrangement of words 
 in sentences, unless their order be disturbed by considera- 
 tions respecting melody and cadence, of which we shall 
 hereafter take notice ; — that in all periods of society, and in 
 all countries in which men are guided more by the influ- 
 ence of imagination, than by the cool dictates of reason, 
 language adopts an inverted order or arrangement ; but that 
 inversion is diminished in proportion as imagination sub- 
 sides, and reason gains the ascendant ; and that among peo- 
 ple addicted to research and philosophical investigation, it . 
 in a great measure disappears, (^^rt, 30. Jllus.) 
 
 Obs. We have seen that the arrangement in a Latin sentence is the 
 more animated ; the English construction is more clear and distinct. 
 The Romans generally arranged their words according to the order 
 in which the ideas rose in the imagination ; we marshal them accor- 
 ding to the order in which the understanding directs those ideas to be 
 exhibited, in succession, to the view of another. 
 
 Carol. Our arrangement, therefore, appears to be the consequence 
 of greater refinement in the art of speech ; as far as clearness in com- 
 munication is understood to be the end of speech. 
 
 25. In the early periods of society, and even in the early 
 part of life, we observe the mind disposed to inversion; be- 
 cause in these times the imagination is more vivid and ac- 
 tive, and the powers of reason arc more languid and inef- 
 fectual, (^rt. 30.; 
 
 * Crat. pro Marcelh 
 
in the Jirrangement of Words in ^Sentences. 29 
 
 Illus. If a person of a warm imagination, a savage or a child, be- 
 lield an object, suppose any kind of fruit, as an acorn, which he was 
 anxious to possess, and to obtain it, he were to express himself in the 
 order prompted by the immediate feelings of his mind ; the first thing 
 that would excite his attention, and which, consequently, he would 
 first name, is the acorn ; himself, who was to enjoy the fruit, would 
 next engage his attention; and the action — that which was to gratify 
 his wishes — would finally attract his consideration. His arrangement 
 would therefore be that, which, in similar cases, is authorized by the 
 sprightly languages of Greece and Rome, " j^dheivov f^ot cfc?/' ^' Glan- 
 dem mihi praebe ;" not that which the more phlegmatic and philo- 
 sophical tongues of modern Europe would require, and which the 
 strict grammatical order of our own language demands — '' Give me 
 ihe acorn;" or '^^ Give the acorn to me." 
 
 26. Though the vivacity of the genius of the Greeks and 
 Romans, might incline them to prefer the poetical and in- 
 verted arrangement of their words, they ou ed, to the struc- 
 ture of their languages, the possibility of indulging this dis- 
 position. 
 
 Ilhis. The numerous inflections of their declinable parts of speech; 
 the correspondence, for example, between the verb and its nominative, 
 •so obviously pointed out by the terminations of the former, as to su- 
 persede, inmost cases, the necessity, and even the propriety, of using 
 the latter; the palpable relation between the adjective and the sub- 
 stantive, indicated by the invariable agreement of the former with 
 the latter, in gender, number, and case ; the various cases of their 
 substantives, which, on many occasions, supplied the place of prepo- 
 sitions ; — all contributed to leave the Greeks and Romans at liberty 
 to gratify their feelings, or to consult the melody of their periods, by 
 the arrangement of their words in sentences, without incurring the 
 risk of diminishing the perspicuity of their comi>ositions. 
 
 27. The inflections of the modern languages are few, and 
 preclude the arrangement which the tongues of antiquity 
 found so much to the gratification of the imagination and of 
 the ear. And hence the first rule of good writing or speak- 
 ing, is, to preserve perspicuity, which on no account can be 
 sacrificed to any secondary consideration. 
 
 Obs. This indispensable law demands, that the arrangement of 
 modern languages, should proceed nearly in the grammatical order ; 
 because juxta-position is almost the only means by which they can 
 intimate the mutual relation of the several words in a sentence to one 
 another. 
 
 28. All the cultivated modern languages, — the French, 
 the Italian, the Spanish, the German, and the English, — are 
 extremely circumscribed in point of inflection; but the 
 English more than any of the rest. There is not, perliaps, 
 to be found in any age, a polished language of greater sim- 
 plicity, the Hebrew itself not excepted. 
 
so Of the Progress of Language 
 
 Illus. Wc have no gonders but those of nature, the male and tlir 
 female; our sub:rtantives have no more rases than two; and only a 
 few of our pronouns have three: our adjectives have neither gender, 
 nor number, nor case; and all the inflections of our verbs, do not per- 
 haps exceed half a dozen. 
 
 Obs. In point of precision and accuracy, our own language, in the 
 hands of a writer of genius, appears to be superior to the Latin and 
 «'qual to the Greek. The great end of language is to communicate 
 thought with ease and expedition, for the improvement and happiness 
 of human life ; and, considering the importance of this commuiirca- 
 tion, the language which is least liable to equivocation, is a most val- 
 uable acquisition. For i»ie purposes of business, and the researches 
 of philosophy, our own language merits every praise; and though in- 
 ferior to the language of Greece and Rome, in works addressed to the 
 imagination and the heart, it yields to neither of them, nor to any 
 modern language, in its qualifications to do justice to the most sub- 
 lime conceptions on the capital subjects of genius. 
 
 29. The prevalence of imagination and passion in the 
 early stages of society, accounts also, satisfactorily, for the 
 poetical inversions of style, which are found in these peri- 
 ods, and, of course, for the priority of poetry to prose com- 
 positions, (^rt. 21. and 22. j 
 
 Illus. The attacliment of love, gratitude to a deliverer, or to the 
 gods, with whom the creed of infant society replenished the skies, ad- 
 miration of the works of nature, in the splendour of smnmer, or the 
 grandeur of winter, in the beauties of spring, or the abundance of au- 
 tumn, would early prompt the sentiments and language of poetry. 
 The invention of versification would quickly follow the possession of 
 poetical ideas ; and its apparent ingenuity would contribute to its 
 recommendation. Though it is a more artificial mode of expression 
 than prose, yet it is not to be doubted that it was first introduced ; and 
 the history of Homer's compositions, or the Poems ofOssian, induce a 
 belief, that it preceded - - t ^li ii.j .///. 23. Illus. l.aiidS. also 
 .irl. 33.) 
 
 50. Though poetry is the more artiticial mode of compo- 
 sition, it is not periuaps the more difficult. Composition in 
 prose could not be well executed, till writing was invent- 
 ed ; and writing is a modern invention, in comparison of 
 speaking. The appearance of good prose, is therefore pos- 
 terior to that of good poetry ; and excellence in the former, 
 is among the latest attainments of polished nations. Good 
 poetry is perfectly consistent with no high degree of pre- 
 cision of thought, or accuracy of expression. (Art. 20. Cor,) 
 
 Illus. The period most favourable for poetical exertions, is situated 
 between the decline of the general influence of the powers of imagina- 
 tion on society, and the general cultivation of the faculty of reason, by 
 science and philosophy; it is then that the poet has the best chance of 
 -possessing the greatest componnd quality of the powers of ima2:ina 
 

 Oftlie Origin and Progress of fVriting, 51 
 
 .tion and judgment he can ever attain. Such, it seems, were the ^^- 
 iods which produced Homer, Virgil, and Milton. (Art. 22. Illus.) 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 31. From what has been said in the preceding chapters, 
 a foundation has been laid for many observations, both cu- 
 rious and useful. It appears, that language was, at first, 
 barren in words, but descriptive by the sound of those 
 words ; and expressive in the manner of uttering them, by 
 the aid of significant tones and gestures. Style was figu* 
 rative and poetical; arrangement was fanciful and lively. 
 In all the successive changes which language has under- 
 gone, as the world advanced, the understanding has gained 
 ground on the fancy and imagination. The progress of 
 language in this respect, resembles the progress of age in 
 man. The imagination is most vigorous and predominant 
 in youth ; with advancing years, the imagination cools, and 
 the understanding ripens. 
 
 32. Thus language, proceeding from sterility to copious- 
 ness, hath, at the same time, proceeded from vivacity to ac- 
 curacy ; from the fire of poetical enthusiasm, to the cool- 
 ness of philosophical precision. Those characters of early 
 language, descriptive sound, vehement tones and gestures, 
 figurative style, and inverted arrangement, all hang togeth- 
 er, have a mutual relation on each other; and have all 
 gradually given place to arbitrary sounds, calm pronuncia- 
 tion, simple style, plain arrangement. Language is be- 
 come, in modern times, more correct indeed, and accurate; 
 but less striking and animated : in its ancient state, more 
 favourable to poetry and oratory; in its present, more 
 adapted to reason and philosophy. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 OF THE ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF WRITING* 
 
 o3. NEXT to speech, writing is, beyond doubt, the 
 most useful art which men possess. It is plainly an im^ 
 provement upon spoken language, and therefore must have 
 been posterior to it in order of time. 
 
 liius. At first, men thought of nothing more than communicating 
 their thoughts to one another, when present, by means of words, or 
 s<junds, which they uttered. Afterwards, they devised, by means of 
 
 4 
 
32 Of the Progress of Writing 
 
 marks or Characters, prescnteil to the eye, and which ue can ulHlli•*^ 
 this further method, when absent, of mutual communication one with 
 another 
 
 34. Written characters are of two sorts : they are either 
 signs for things , or signs for tvords, Tlie pictures, liiero- 
 j;lyphics, and symbols, empU)ye(l by the ancient nations, are 
 ^igns of thingSy and belong to the former chiss ; tlie alpha- 
 betical characters, now employed by all Europeans, are 
 signs/or words, and belong to the latter class. 
 
 Illus. Pictures were, undoubtedly, the first essay toward writing^. 
 Tmitation is natural to man , children copy or trace the likeness of 
 -onsible objects, before they can sig^nify the names of those objects 
 )y written characters. The sa%age, to intimate that his father had 
 ancjuished an enemy, would draw the figure of one man stretched 
 pon the earth, and of another standing over him with a deadly wcap- 
 •>n in his hand. When the iMexicans sent intelligence to Montezuma, 
 heir prince, of the arrival of the Spaniards in the bay of Campeachy, 
 i.'iey scratched pictures of tlie men, horses, and arlillory, that they 
 )iad seen, and conveyed these to th -r monarch. The chieftain un- 
 derstood them, and inini»'di;it4lv di^iiatiln d :in embassy to meet the 
 -panish commar.dcr. 
 
 Obs. Ilislorkul pi<>' • xtremely in^pcrfecl 
 
 ccords of important transactions. Thtv do, indeed, delineate exter- 
 nal events; but they cannot transmit tlieir memory through a long; 
 succession of ages ; ami they fail entirely to exhibit such qualities as 
 are most visible to the eye, or to convey, by description, any idea of 
 the dispositions or words of men. 
 
 35. This rude attempt towards writing, was, in process 
 of time, improved by the invention of what are called hie- 
 rogli/phical characters. These may be considered as the 
 -econd stage in the art of writing, as they represented in- 
 rellectual conceptions, or those not suirgested by any exter- 
 nal or visible objects. The analogy or rcsembhince which 
 <:uch svnibols were suppo^ed to bear to the objects, was 
 'conventional, but liable to forced and ambiguous allusions. 
 
 Illus. Thus an rye was the hieroglyphical syr^bol of kuon'l€fl;j;e ; vs. 
 '^irclCy of eiernitif. whicii has neither beginning nor end ; iu^raiihidt 
 was denominated by a viper; hnpruilence, by n Jh{ ; wisdom, by an 
 ant ; victori/, by a hawk ; a dulifnl c/ii!d, by a stork ; and a wretch — a 
 man nnircrsallij shunned — by an eel, which is not to be found in com- 
 pany with other fishes. 
 
 Carol. But these properties of objects were merely imaginary ; and 
 the conjunction, or compoimding of the characters, rendered tiiem 
 obscure, and expressed indistinctly the connections and relations of 
 the objects which they represented. IJence. this species of writing 
 could be no other than enigmatical, and confused in the hi;jhest de- 
 gree ; and must have been a very imperfect vehicle of knowleilge of 
 any kind. 
 
 ()b<!. Th*" ' to suppose that the priests ol" 
 
Of the invention of an Jilphabet, S3 
 
 iJgypt, amon^ whom hiero£:lyphical characters were first foiindj and 
 w\\<i were also the instructors of their couiitrymen, introduced and 
 «mploved them for the purpose of conccaling^ their knowledge from 
 the vulgar. The latter are little troublesome about the acquisition of 
 useful knowledge in any state of society ; and the former were too 
 enlightened not to know, that one of the principal pleasures and hon- 
 ours attending the possession of knowledge, is to instruct others. 
 
 36. As writing advanced, from pictures of visible objects, 
 to hieroglyphics, or symbols of things invisible ; from these 
 latter it advanced, among some nations, to simple arbitrai^y 
 marks, which stood for objects, but without any resemblance 
 or analogy to the objects signified. 
 
 Illus. 1. Of this nature, was the method of writing practised among 
 the Peruvians. They made use of small cords of different colors ; and 
 upon these, by means of A:7io/s of various sizes, and differently ranged, 
 they contrived signs for giving information, and communicating their 
 thoughts to one another; but this invention afforded less security 
 against frequent and gross mistakes, than the hieroglyphic archetypes 
 of abstract ideas. (Corol. Art. 85.J 
 
 2. The use of hieroglyphical characters still exists in China, where 
 they have been brought to greater perfection than in any other quar- 
 ter of the globe. But every idea is expressed by a separate character. 
 The characters, it is said, amount to upwards of 70,000. An acquaint- 
 ance with the means of communicating knowledge, is, therefore, the 
 business of a whole life, and must greatly retard the progress of all 
 science. In short, science in China is always in a state of infancy. 
 
 3. Our arithmetical figures, which we have derived from the Ara- 
 bians, are significant marks, precisely of the same nature with the 
 Chinese characters. They have no dependence on words ; but each 
 figure denotes an object; denotes the number for which it stands. 
 (Illm. 6.) 
 
 4. The Japanese, the Tonquinese, and the Coraeans, speak different 
 languages from one another, and from the inhabitants of China, but 
 use, with these last people, the same written characters; a proof that 
 the Chinese characters are like hieroglyphics, independent of lan- 
 guage. 
 
 5. In like manner the Italians, French, Spaniards, and English, 
 speak different languages, but the Arabic characters 1, 2, 3, 4, he, 
 are, on being presented to the eye, equally understood by those four 
 nations, as signs of things, not of words. Thtis, 4 may be four ships, 
 four men, four trees, four years; in short, four things. (Illus. 'S.) 
 
 37. A combination of sounds forms, in various ways, all 
 the variety of words in spoken language. These sounds 
 are few, and are continually recurring for repetition in dis- 
 course. They would lead to the invention of an alphabet 
 of syllables. A sign, or mark, for each of these syllables, 
 would form an alphabet of letters. The number of these 
 marks, or characters, would be equal to the number of sounds 
 or syllables. These sounds reduced to their simple ele- 
 :?ients of a few vowels and consonants, indicated by a par- 
 
34 The most J3ncitnt Methods of Writing. 
 
 ticular sign to each, would form what we now call left^^ 
 Some happy genius taught men how, by the combinations 
 of these letters, to put in writing all the different words, or 
 associations of sound, which were employed in speech. 
 
 Obs. Such seem to have been the introductory steps to the art of 
 writing; but the darkness of remote antiquity has concealed the great 
 inventor's name of this sublime and refined discovery, and deprived 
 him of those honours which, were it known, would stiU be paid to his 
 memory, by all the lovers of knowledge and learning. 
 
 38. The universal tradition among the ancients is, that 
 letters were first imported into Greece by Cadmus, the Phce- 
 nician, at least 3000 years ago; and from Greece dispersed 
 over the western part of the world. The alphabet of Cad- 
 mus consisted only of sixteen letters, but it comprehended 
 all the original sounds, which are said to be only thirteen. 
 The remaining lette.s were afterwards added, according as 
 signs for proper sounds were said to be wanting. 
 
 Ilhts. The Roman alphabet, which obtains with us, and with most 
 of the European nations, is, with a few variations, evidently formed 
 on that of the Greeks. And all learned men observe, that the Greek 
 characters especially, according to the manner in which they are 
 tormed m the oldest inscription?, have a remarkable conformity to 
 the Hebrew or Samaritan characters, which, it is agreed, are the same 
 with the Pha'nician for Alphabet of Cadmus. 
 
 39. The most ancient method of writing seems to have 
 been in lines running from right to left. This method is 
 still retained in the Hebrew language. 
 
 Obs. The Greeks improved upon this method, and wrote in lines 
 alternately from the right to the left, which was called Boiistrophedon ;. 
 or writing after the manner in which oxen plough the ground. About 
 the time of Solon, the Athenian legislator, the custom is said to have 
 been introduced, and which still prcvsils, of writing in lines from left 
 to right. 
 
 40. The writing of antiquity was a species of engraving. 
 Pillars, and tables of stone, were first employed for this 
 purpose, and afterwards, plates of the softer metals, such as 
 lead ; or tables of wax and skins of parcliment. A polish- 
 ed point of iron called a stilus was used to scratch letters 
 on the wax ; but the writing on parchment was performed 
 with pen and ink. (JirU 41. lllus. 1. and 2.) 
 
 Obs. 1. On the parchment were written books and records, and 
 every kind of composition which its author w ished to preserve ; on 
 the tablets of wax temporary matters of business, and epistles that 
 were not designed for the inspection of a third person's eyes. The 
 writing on parchment was the most expensive, but the most perma- 
 nent ; that on wax, the cheapest and readiest, but the least dnrabU 
 (fUus.l.Mrt. 41.) 
 
Comparison of spoken icith tvrilien Zanguagc. 35 
 
 . Our present method of writing on paper, is an invention of no 
 Jijgher antiquity than the 14th century : and the hivention of printing 
 was reserved for an obscure monk in the beginning of the 15th. Thif; 
 inventor might probably receive a hint toward this invention, from the 
 Roman practice of carving letters en boards of wood, and of employ 
 ing them to abridge the trouble of writing, by stamping names and 
 lnscrij>tions on parcliment and wax. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 A COMPARISON 
 
 OF SPOKEN WITH WRITTEN LANGUAGE : OR, 
 
 Of Words uttered in our hearing, ivith Words represented 
 to the eye. 
 
 41. THE advantages of writing above speech ^are, that 
 Writing is both a more extensive, and a more permanent 
 method of communicating our thoughts to mankind. 
 
 Illus. 1. Mart exlendvc, us it is not confined within the narrow cir- 
 cle of those who hear our words; but, by means of written characters, 
 we can send our thoughts abroad, and propagate them through the 
 world ; we can thus lift our voice, so as to speak to those to whom, 
 in our own country, we may not have access, and to men of the most 
 disfant regions of the earth. (Ohs. 1. Arf. 40.^ 
 
 2. More permanent also, as it prolongs the voice to ihe most distanJ: 
 ages ; and gives us the means of recording our sentiments to futurity, 
 aiid of perpetuating the instructive memory of past transactions 
 { Ohs. ^. Art. 40.) 
 
 8. It likewise affords this advantage to such as read, above such as 
 hear, that having the written characters before their eyes, they can 
 urrest the sense of the writer ; they can pause and resolve, and com- 
 })arc at their leisure, one passage with another; v/hereas the voice is 
 fugitive in passing; you must catch the words the moment they are 
 uttered, or you lose them for ever. 
 
 42. But although these be so great advantages of writ 
 ten language, that speech, without writing, would have- 
 been very inadequate for the instruction of mankind: yet 
 we must not forget to observe, that spoken language has a 
 great superiority over written language, in point of energy 
 and force. 
 
 Illus. 1. The voice of the living speaker makes an impression on the 
 mind, much stronger than can be made by the perusal of any writitig, 
 
 2. The tones of the voice, the looks and gestures, which accompany 
 discourse, and which no writing can convey, render speech, when it is 
 ingeniously managed, infinitely more clear, and more expressive than 
 
 4^ 
 
' '] Comparison of spoken ivith luritUn Language. 
 
 the most accurate writing. For tones, looks, and gestures, are natu- 
 lai interpreters of the mind. Tiiey remove ambiguities — tiiey enforce 
 expressions — they operate on us by means of sympathy. 
 
 3. And sympatliy is one of the most powerful instruments of per- 
 suasion. Our sympathy is always awakened more by hearing the 
 i)eaker, than by reading his works in our closet. 
 Corol. Hence, though writhig may answer the purposes of mere in- 
 struction, as the symbolical language of Algebra does the mathemat- 
 ical science — all the great and high efibrts of eloquence must be made 
 by means of spoken, not of written, language: — and thus have we 
 traced from their origin, through diiVerent stages of improvement^ 
 language ainl stvle as the foundation <»f el.onuonce. 
 
I 
 
 OF THE STRUCTURP: of LxVNGUAGE; OR 
 
 THE PRINCIPLES OF GENERAL 
 
 GRAMMAR. 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE SEVERAL PARTS OF WHICH SPEECH OR LANGUAGE IS 
 COMPOSED. 
 
 43. THE structure of language is extremely artificial ; 
 and there are few sciences in wliich a deeper, or more re- 
 fined logic is employed, than in grammar. 
 
 Obs. Without discussing the niceties of language in the several parts 
 of speech of which it is composed, we shall now take a popular, but 
 philosophical view of the chief principles, and component parts of 
 =;peech, as far as they are necessary to illustrate general grammar, and 
 to ascertain the maxims of correct taste and elegant composition. 
 
 44. The essential parts of speech are the same in all lan- 
 guages. There must ever be some words which denote the 
 names of objects, or mark the subject of discourse; other 
 words which denote the qualities of those objects, and ex- 
 press wiiat we affirm concerning them: and other words, 
 which point out their connexions and relations. 
 
 Corol. The most simple and comprehensive division of the parts of 
 speech, is, therefore, into substanllres^ allributes, and connectives. 
 
 45. The common division, or arrangement ofall the words 
 of our own language, comprises the 
 
 ARTICLE, VERB, PREPOSITION, 
 
 JNOUN, PARTICIPLE, IIN'TERJECTION, 
 
 PRONOUN, ADVERB, CONJUNCTION. 
 
 Obs. But the following paragraph will instruct us to direct our af- 
 
 tention chiefly to the noun and the verb, as a few observations will 
 
 illustrate those other parts of speech, to which our ears have been fa- 
 miliarized. 
 
 46. Every thing about which our minds can be employed 
 in thinking, everything which can be the subject of "our 
 knowledge, must relate to substances that exist, either in 
 rcaliti^, or in the imagination ; or to actions, operations, aud 
 
,8 The Principles of general GmmmaT. 
 
 mergics, which these substances produce on themselves, oi 
 i)n one another. 
 
 Carol Language communicates knowledge ; its divisions of words 
 therefore, correspond with the divisions of our knowledge ; its chiet 
 xisincss is consequent! v reduced to two heads: — 
 
 First, to exhibit names for all the substances with which wc are ac 
 luainted, thai we may be able to distinguish and recognize them, 
 vhen thev are mentioned bv ourselves. c»r others : and, 
 
 Secondly, to denote the actions, operations, and ener!;ies, which thesa 
 substanccs generate upon themselves, or on one anotlicr. 
 
 47. Names are expressed bj what grammarians call 
 Nouns ; opkrations are denoted by what they call Verbs; 
 the other parts of speech explain, modify, extend, restrict, 
 connect, or disjoin, the noun and the verb. 
 
 Corol. The two former are, therefore, the essential ingredients, oi 
 The columns of language; the latter are only occasional ingredients, 
 or appendages of these pillars of the fabric. (,2rl. 44.; 
 
 48. The fii-st process in the communication of knowledge 
 is to contrive names for all the substances about which our 
 knowledo-e is conversant, and by common consent to nn- 
 pose the ''same n:ii: ' substances, f.'?//. IT. 
 and 18.; 
 
 JUus. As substantives are the ground work of all language, a lan- 
 o-uatre is perfect in respect to them, when a name has been given td 
 overy material or immaterial substance about which the people who 
 use the language have occasion to speak or write. As their knowl- 
 edire enlarges, as they obtain more ideas of substances than they have 
 names to express, ne'w names will be imposed on these new substan- 
 ce« which will consequently tiuow into their vocabulary as many new 
 substantives, as may render their language adiMpiato to the purposes 
 of ready communication. . 
 
 Coro'l Hence, if every substance in nature required a i)articular 
 H'lme to distinguish it from all other substances ; every mineral, plant, 
 animal, andeverv part of every animal, should obtain a distinct name, 
 which would increase the substantives of a language beyond all con> 
 ptitalion. But nature has reduced her productions into classes: the 
 individuals of every class, resemble one another, in many particulars ; 
 Hid therefore it is that language hath not assigned a name to every 
 substance Even her different classes are formed with some common 
 properties ; and thus, in some particulars, the diiVerent classes resem- 
 ble oue another. Thus, the generic word plant, expresses the com- 
 mon qualities of all vegetables; animal, the common qualities of all 
 living creatures. 
 
 49. These genera are divided into what we term spe- 
 cies, and these species are again divided into inferior spe- 
 cies, or become genera to other species. 
 
 Ilhis Thus the word plant, is a general term, which indicates trees, 
 shrubs, grasses, and all vegetables which spring from a root, and bear 
 
Classification of Substantives into Genera, ^o. S9 
 
 Ranches and leaves. And under the comprehensive term animal, we 
 range men, horses, lions, sheep, and, in short, all living creatures. 
 But trees are again divided into oaks, pines, palms ; and men into 
 white, black, tawny, &c. 
 
 50. This arrangement abridges the nuraber of nouns, and 
 gives names only to classes of substances, compelling one 
 name to point out a whole class. 
 
 lllus. Thus, tree expresses a whole genus of plants ; each of the 
 words oakj pine, palm, denotes a whole species. But language stoops 
 not to give a name to every oak, and she hath left it to beings of a 
 sentient nature, to particularize each other. (Corol. Jirt. AS.) 
 
 51. To characterize individuals by names, language de- 
 arts from its ordinary analogy. 
 
 ; ///us. This necessity — a mere refinement rn the communication of 
 bought — extends to countries and cities, to all the individij^als of the 
 iiman race, and sometimes to the inferior animals. 
 } For example : Italy, Rome j Greece, Athens; Alexander, Buceph- 
 lus, are all individuals ; and the particular names which xve appro- 
 Iriate to each of them, prevents ambiguous and disagreeable circum- 
 cutions, or descriptions, to make it known. 
 
 52. We deduce, from these observations, the meaning of 
 he grammatical division of nouns into common and proper. 
 The COMMON NOUNS are, (by the illustration to Article 50) 
 
 me names of classes of individuals. The proper nouns, 
 fj the Illustration and Example of Article 51,) are all' 
 umes of individuals. 
 
 53. The noun tree denotes any individual of the whole 
 species in the singular number f and, in the plural, all the 
 individuals of the species. Alexander, on the contrary, is 
 a particular name, and is restricted to distinguish him alone. 
 
 lllus. On this principle, are all common nouns susceptible of num- 
 er, singular or plural, as they denote one, or more than one, of a 
 becies ; and hence, also, it appears plain, why proper nouns do not 
 
 ake a. plural form, except in some instances, when they express more 
 
 Hian one individual of a species, and of the same name ; as " the 
 n^elve Caesars," '' the Henries of England." 
 
 Corol. The only nouns of language are, therefore, common nouns ; 
 aroper nouns being local and occasional,, appropriated to persons and 
 
 ^aces, make no part of general communication. (Compare Jiri. 52. 
 
 \d lllus. to Art. 50. and 51.) 
 
 54. Number, which distinguishes objects as singly or 
 Collectively, must have been coeval with the very infancy 
 
 Jaf language, because there were few things which men had 
 ^wore frequent occasion to express, than the difference be- 
 tween one and many. 
 
 Obs. The distinctions of number Are signified, in most languageSj 
 
 * 
 
'iO Of Gender and Number. 
 
 by some chang^e in the terminations of the nouns, and it rarely hat 
 pens that the chang^e is extended further than to denote, whether one 
 individual, or all the individuals of the species, be understood. The 
 Greek dual is not more necessary for the purposes of communication, 
 than a triple, a quadruple, a centuple, or any other plural number^ 
 where the richness of a language would furnish it, to denote a given 
 number of individuals of the species. 
 
 55, Substantives are susceptible of other concomitant cir- 
 cumstances, besides their capacity to denote difference of 
 number. These circumstances are the variations of the ter- 
 .ninations, and are called cases. 
 
 Illus. 1. This peculiarity of substantives or nouns, is a necessary 
 i»rovision for expressing the circumstances attending them, and has 
 been accomplished in two ways, either by varying their terminations 
 or by preferring auxiliary words. The ancient languages employed 
 the former of these methods; the modern languages accomplish the 
 -ame end, by \ircfixing particles or prepoiitiojis. 
 
 2. These methods are perhaps nearly equal, in respect of perspicu- 
 ity ; but thnt of antiquity is preferable, in point of melody. Particles 
 and prepositions are mostly monosyllables, and the frequency with 
 which they must be used, impairs the modulation of language. 
 
 3. Tlie Greek language has five cases in the singular, two in the 
 uual. and four in the plural number. 
 
 4. The Latin tongue has sometimes [,,. 
 singular, and four in the plural. 
 
 6. No cases appear in the Italian, the French, and the Spanish lan- 
 guages ; and there are not more than two in the English. 
 
 56, Gender, another peculiarity of substantive nouns, 
 in the grammatical structure of language, arises out of the 
 difference of sex, discernible only in animals. It will there- 
 fore admit of two varieties, the masculine and feminine 
 genders, agreeably to the distinction of living creatures into 
 male and female. All other substantive nouns ought to be- 
 long to what grammarians call tin i^ender, which is 
 a negation of the other two. 
 
 Jllus. 1. In the structure of language, a remarkable singularity hath 
 obtamed with respect to this distribution. In most languages, men 
 have ranked a great number of inanimate objects under the distinc- 
 tions of masculine and feminine This is remarkably the case in the 
 Greek and Latin languages, which admit this capricious assignation 
 of sex to inanimate objects, from no other principle than the casual 
 structure of those languages, which refer to a certain gender, words of 
 I certain termination ; yet even termination does not always govern 
 ihis di.^tribu'.ion into masculine and feminine, but many nouns in those 
 languages are classed, where all of them ought to have been classed, 
 under the neuter gender. 
 
 2. in the French and Italian tongues, the neuter gender is wholly 
 unknown ; and all their names of inanimate objects are put upon the 
 came footing with living creatiu>'S. nod distributed, withact ^^y^/.nf.nn 
 ti2to masculine and feniiuinc 
 
CO 
 
 i 
 
 Of Articles t Pronouns and Adjectives, 41 
 
 S. in the English language, there obtains a peculiarity quite oppo- 
 site. In the English, when we use common discourse, all substantive 
 nouns, that are not names of living creatures, are neuter without ex- 
 ception. He, she, it, are the marks of the three genders ; and we al- 
 ways use it, in speaking of any object where there is no sex, or where 
 the sex is not known. In this respect, our own languag^e is pre-emi- 
 nently philosophical in the application of its genders, or of those words 
 which mark. the real distinctions of male and female. Yet the genius 
 fthe language permits us, whenever it will add beauty to our tiis- 
 course, to make the names of inanimate objects masculine or feminine 
 in a metaphorical sense ; and when we do so. we are understood to 
 uit the literal style, and to use what is termed a figure of speech. By 
 is means, we have it in our power to vary our style at pleasure. By 
 iiaking a very slight alteration, we can personify any object we choose 
 > introduce with dignity ; and by this change of manner, we give 
 arning that we are passing, from the strict and logical, to the orna- 
 inental, rhetorical style. 
 
 4. Of this advantage, not only every poet, but every good writer 
 and speaker in prose, avails himself; and it is an advantage peculiar 
 to our own tongue ; no other language possesses it. Every word in 
 other languages has one fixed gender, masculine, feminine, or neuter, 
 which cannot on any occasion be changed : stPiro for instance, in 
 Greek ; veriiis in Latin ; and la vertu in French ; are uniformly fem- 
 inine. She must always be the pronoun answering to the word, wheth- 
 er you be writing in poetry or in prose, whether you be using the style 
 of reasoning, or that of declamation; wliereas, in English, we can 
 either express ourselves with the philosophical accuracy of giving no 
 gender to things inanimate ; or, by giving them gender, and trans- 
 forming them Into persons, we adapt them to the style of poetry, and^, 
 when it is proper, we enliven prose, 
 
 5. On this general principle, we give the masculine gender to those 
 substantive nouns used figmatively, which are conspicuous for the at- 
 tributes of imparting or communicating ; which are by nature strong 
 and efficacious, either to good or evil, or which have a claim to some 
 eminence, whether laudable or not. Those again we make feminine, 
 v.'hich are conspicuous for the attributes of containing and of bring- 
 ing forth, which have more of the passive in their nature, than of the 
 active ; which are peculiarly beautiful or amiable ; or which have 
 respect to such excesses, as are rather feminine than masculine. 
 
 57. Articles are little words prefixed to substantives, 
 or to other parts of speech, used as substantives, to enlarge 
 or circumscribe their meaning. 
 
 Illiis. 1. When we survey any object wo never saw before, or speak 
 about an object with which we are not intimately acquainted, the first 
 thing which we do to distinguisli or ascertain it, is, to refer to its spe- 
 cies, or to class it with some other objects of its species, of which we 
 have some knowledge. (Jirt. 49. Illus.) 
 
 Example. We would say, a tree, a house, a horse, a man, when we 
 wished to denote any individual of these classes which we had never 
 seen before, and of which, from its appearance, we knew nothing, but 
 its species. These objects are individuals of the species called irees^ 
 horses, houses, or men ; and must therefore possess the common qual- 
 ities of their respective species, (^irt. 50, Illus.} 
 
42 Of Articles, Pronouns, and Mjedivcs. 
 
 2 But, on surveying ...e same objects a ^-"-l^:^''^^^,^"^- 
 ing our lormcr acquaintance witl, then,, -^^^"\°^" ,e same Ian- 
 ertics, «e would -« -P-- -'■ rsXef^t^^gth- to their spe- 
 
 :dnrn^:^:rr■^t>.^^;:t.;^7^r^^.^o:^rpH^ 
 
 "S f ^•r:;tr:rca.trinaer.nite, because it rerers .be ob- 
 iect to its species onlv, and denotes our conceptions of .t no further 
 
 iect lo which it ,s P^^fi^-^^l<^;^«";^;.";,^^;';; J own particular char- 
 tlenotcs our previous ac<iuaintance with it, or Us own y 
 
 Pronol.n. are the class of words most nearly related 
 
 acteristics 
 
 58. 
 
 to sui3stantive' nouns; bcinq;, as their name imports, repre- 
 sentatives, or substitutes, of nouns. 
 
 ///... /, thou, he, she, it, are pronouns, and ^Kv ^e^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 .n abridged way of nan,in. the persons - ^^^^^^^J^^^^ 
 have immediate intercourse "^ ai.cour* , 
 
 •'"c::^,.°;^t.;Vr: .t"ce, « ..b .«b.an„vo noun., subject to the satn. 
 modifications of nuinbcr, gender, and case. 
 
 Ob,. 1. As the pronouns of the first and second P"-',^"" "^.^[^ •" P^'st 
 ,ons win. are present to each other when tbey speak, then sex must 
 •u nUr and tl orelore needs not to be .narked by a mascubne or lem- 
 S . pro" '.1. Bu, as the thir.l person may be '^^^-"^^^^X^ ' 
 the distinction of gender there bccon.es necessary ' - ' "i . to'it 
 in Enslisb, the thir.l person hath all the three genders belonging to 
 
 ''%"t English, most of our gra.nn.arians hold the P<;^-»^'/™X' 
 tohave t«S cases besides the no,„inat.ve ; » Pf f ^f^", /^..f "X 
 and an accusative-/, mine, me ; Ihon, Ihme, he^c >/'«.'"' ;J^» ' ' 
 nhosc, xehom ; wt, ours, ns ; ye, ../ours, 1/oa ; thaj, tUt.rs, llitm. 
 
 59. AnjECTivES. or tern>s of quality s"^^ 'is gm«^. ^<«/e. 
 black, while, are the plainest an.! «'."'l'le«^ <' /]' ^^'/^Jj^^ 
 of words which are termed attributive. (d,t. 44. to,ol. ) 
 
 Obs 1 Tbcv are found in all languages; and, '»<•'" '.""-"I'P^s. 
 
 ■2. Between adjectives a,.d pan.c.ples there ,s no '>'f ''^ '"^^^,X 
 that the latter, along with their Pri">-^v s.gn.hcat.on e,.o.e thc^i^d^^^ 
 tional idea of li.ne. Both serve to not.fy the q..abw, or attribute., 
 and to define and illustrate the meaning ot 5»''*'"'."',"'";. „„.,„„_,.,i„„ 
 
 3 All adjectives which denote qualities susceptible ol augn.entation 
 or din^iiuufon, and almost all the qualities which are so, are suscep.i- 
 
 •"VTho^hth.. degrees of augmentation o, which a quality is suscep- 
 fibt; m' t' ahnost^nfinite, vet the fr.mers of languages have been 
 content with marking two stages only of these degices. 
 
The General Principles of Grammar. 43 
 
 5. By the former is signified that of two quantities compared, one 
 is greater than the other; by the latter is understood, that of any lar- 
 ger number of qualities than two compared, one is the greatest among 
 them. 
 
 6. The ancient languages express their degrees of comparison, chief- 
 ly by adding terminations to the adjectives ; the modern languages in- 
 cline more to signify them by auxiliary words. 
 
 60. The Verb is by far the most complex of the whole class 
 of words which are called attributive. The chief character- 
 istic of the verb is action or energy. The combination of 
 ideas which it is thence employed to express, unavoidably 
 renders it the most intricate of all the parts of speech. 
 
 Carol. Verbs, therefore, from their importance and necessity m 
 speech, must have been coeval with men's first attempts towards the 
 formation of language. (Art. 54.) 
 
 61. Of the various circumstances which must be commu- 
 nicated by the word denoting action, the chief refer to time 
 and manner. 
 
 Illus. In relating an action it is requisite to notify whether it is fin- 
 ished, is finishing, or will be finished. And it is no less important to 
 communicate also the manner in which the action has been perform- 
 ed, is performing, or will be performed. Whether the agent operated 
 with deliberation, confidence and resolution, or with embarrassment, 
 hesitation, and suspicion; whether he commanded the performance 
 of the action, or signified only his inclination that it should be per- 
 formed. 
 
 Corol. Hence arose the necessity that the verb along with the sig- 
 nification of action, should likewise express time, and that, with the 
 sio;nification of action and time, it should also denote manner. Here, 
 then, we find the origin of moods and tenses. 
 
 62. As it was necessary that the circumstances of time 
 and manner should attend the signification of action; the 
 next important step in the formation of language, was, to de- 
 termine by what means this combined communication should 
 be accomplished. 
 
 Illus. One of two methods, it seems, must have been adopted; ei 
 ther to vary the terminations of the verb, or to conjoin with it auxilia- 
 ry words, so as to convey these additional circumstances The for- 
 mer of these methods, uitli .. miKtarc of the 'aiter, in the passive form 
 of their verbs, was employed by the Greeks and Romans. The lat- 
 ter method, with a mixture of the former, in the active form of their 
 verbs, has been adopted by the English, the French, and the Italians 
 
 63. The structure of the verb was rendered still more 
 complicated, because it was found requisite that along ^\i\i 
 the signification of action, time, and manner, it should also 
 denote person and number, to adapt it for corresponding 
 with the persons and numbers of nouns and pronouns with 
 which it might be connected. 
 
.^4 The Structure of the Verb, 
 
 ment ami experience of ages. . , , ,, ,• • ■ „f 
 
 64 Experience, doubtless, proved that the d>v»sion of 
 time into present, past, and future, was not sufficient for the 
 purposes of communication. 
 
 ii, 1 TV.n flpptJn^r nature of present time made any subdivision 
 
 rc°re,:rra%\cu.enor.,,e.i^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 ,v,.3 future, but would not be long so, because the time of Us execution 
 
 "fxllfp'!^ "hen! is .he time which the framers of all language, 
 have beon'^ me ^anxious to subdivide. Most of the «c..ons vv^nch 
 ■ould be the subject of discourse or writing, must have taken place m 
 ptt 'time -and H render the accounts "f.*"?-. more consp.onous and 
 n.elligible, it must often have been requ.sUe '", '•.^^^0^ of oastCe' 
 or St lies of their execution. Hence ilic various diM>ion, oi past time, 
 am fedrfferent tenses significant of them wi.h ""-»»" ■•'"f"';f!,'^ 
 even the most imperfect, abound. Of polished languages, the least 
 . omplctc, in this respect, have three diMsions : 
 
 FiT,L a plujHTftcl /e««, by which ts signified that the »ction is fin 
 Hhed, and thai some time has intervened since it was ^°» P'^'';^ . ^ 
 S^comlly, ^perfect, which denotes that the action is finished, but that 
 vcrv little, or no time has elapsed since its completion. 
 
 Tl lly, an impcrfecl, which signifies that the action had been go- 
 in^ on but had not been completed. The language of ancient Rome 
 Dossessed only these tenses significant of past time. KocI.i.c 
 
 '^TBut the Greek language, the English, and the French, besides 
 Ihese tenses, employ another, which the Greelis called an ^or«(, ami 
 Sdeno es onlv\hat the action is completed, without distmgu.sh- 
 ;, in whTdivisio^ of past time the completion took place, or whe.h- 
 er°he execution was pluperfect, perfect, or ""P"'':^ ; „,,, „,.,,, „^. 
 5 In the usual course of speaking and writing, this state of an ac 
 ,ion freourntly occurs ; and,Wrefore a 'ensc adapted to expre. it 
 • «r «mcr.ilTr convenience and advantage. \V hen tne compicin>u ui 
 The ac iont the" lirc'cumstance of conse,ueuce to ^e conimnn.ca 
 cd the proper tense to be employed is the -^""f,, ^'^"„„^;^''" '"^ 
 'Xe hath its ambiguous amari. but the '"^"^« °f •'^<= .^°"*"' ""u'e 
 ?aables the learner'or tlie reader to discover whether it de-iotes he 
 ,orist«/^»", /«;««;, 1 loved ; or the perfect past T.=f ..«x, ; at am. . f 
 
 have loved 
 
The general Principles of Grammar. 45 
 
 65. The use of moods is to denote the manner in which 
 an action is performed, together with the dispositions and 
 leelings entertained bj the agent relative to its per for m- 
 ihce. 
 
 • Illus. \, The capital views of an action relative to manner or mood, 
 jBfer either to its actual performance, or to the power, inclination, or 
 Ibligation of the agent to perform it \ or to the authority or right 
 
 fthe agent to entreat or command the performance; or, finally, to 
 re exhibition of the action, without any consideration of the agent, 
 
 • of the sentiments that he may entertain concerning the perform- 
 nce. 
 
 t 2. These circumstances comprehend every general view of an ac- 
 pon, that human affairs can well be supposed to suggest. For, 
 • First, the agent may either possess power, inclination, or obligation, 
 i perform the action, and actually perform it. 
 Or, Secondly, he may possess power, inclination, or obligation to 
 "perform the action, and without being able to put them in execution. 
 
 Or, Thirdly, he may have a right, or authority, to entreat or 
 command the power or inclination of some other agent to perform 
 the action. 
 
 Or, Finally, the situation of the action may require only its bare ex- 
 fiibition, without any regard to the capacity, the duty, or the perform- 
 ance of the agent. 
 
 Corol. Hence, from these views, we readily discern the origin of 
 the four moods of verbs commonly employed by polished languages. 
 
 1. The indicative denotes the actual performance of the action. 
 
 2. The subjunctive expresses the power, inclination, or obligation 
 €>f the agent to perform the action, but leaves the performance to be 
 decided by circumstances not yet come into existence ; on account of 
 vj'hich it is called the conditional mood. 
 
 3. The imperative exhibits the agent as entreating or commanding 
 the performance of the action. 
 
 4. The infinitive repiaesents the action in general, without connec- 
 tion with any agent, or reference to him, or any powers or disposi- 
 tions depending upon him. 
 
 Illus. 1. I write is an indicative assertion, because it denotes an ac- 
 tion in actual performance. 
 
 2. / may write is subjunctive, because it denotes disposition or 
 capacity only, and communicates nothing with respect to perform- 
 ance. 
 
 3. / have written is indicative, because it denotes performance al- 
 ready past. 
 
 4. / might have written is subjunctive, because it communicates 
 part, capacity, inclination, or obligation, but signifies nothing about 
 performance. 
 
 5. Write thou is an imperative, because it does not necessarily infer 
 performance, and imports nothing more than that the action of writ- 
 ing should be performed. 
 
 66. Theory of moods. In the present and past tenses, 
 therefore, the indicative denotes performance; — the sub- 
 junctive, intention or disposition ; — the imperative is suscep- 
 tible of no time but the present, when it also expresses dis~ 
 
4G The Structure of the Verb. 
 
 position. But, in respect of future time, even the indicia - 
 tive cannot denote performance; and the subjunctive must 
 be destitute of this tense altogether. 
 
 Illus. 1. For, as «in action can have no real existence, till the time 
 of its execution arrive ; so languagn can express nothing concerning^ 
 it, but the present views and dispositions of the agents, who may 
 foretell performance, or promise to perform. I shall write is signifi- 
 cant only of prediction or intention, the execution of which must be 
 future ; and therefore, in the future tense, the indicative approaches 
 the nature of the subjunctive and imperative, and expresses chiefly 
 disposition. The main difference between them seems to be this, that 
 the future of the indicative, along with the signification of disposition, 
 conveys something positive or affirmative with regard to execution. 
 If the two other moods imply at all the execution of the dispositions 
 n hich they denote, they hold it forth as altogether contingent or con- 
 ditional. 
 
 2. All the sentiments which can exist, or be expressed, relative to 
 ■ nture actions, must refer either to the views of them which the agent 
 
 on:3erly entertained, or now indnlges. Of the appearances which 
 hese actions will assume when they come into existence, or of the 
 •jntiments which will be entertained concerning them, he can know 
 iothing; and, ther'^fore, these appearances and sentiments, can 
 cither be the subjects of thought nor of language. Hence, since 
 ,iast and present intentions and dispositions are the only circum- 
 tances with \\hich w«' either mv ur can be acquainted, it is evident 
 hat a mood, limited to express intt-uiiou and di»pu>Jtioii, cannot ad- 
 mit a future tense, becaust- no ideas of future intentioll^> and disposi- 
 tions exist iu the mind of man, which' it may commnnicute. 
 
 3. The tense / shnll have loved, commonly called " the future of the 
 the subjunctive,"' has no participation with the usual import of the 
 other tenses of thai mood ; for it is expressive of no sentiment that 
 
 future and conditional as to its execution, but is equally positive 
 tul affirmative with J shall /ore, tlie tense commonly called the fu- 
 me of the indicative. Tliey both signify intention relative to future 
 iction ; ami the only difference between them is, that, taking the ex- 
 cution of both to refer to some fixed point of time, the action of 
 lie former iciLl be finished, when the action of the latter will be Jin- 
 hing. 
 
 G7> Tins Tiii.oRY of the moods, tlien, gives to the indi- 
 cative seven tcn.^es, and to the subjunctive not more than 
 ibur. 
 
 Jllus. 1. Tiie iiidlcalivc will cxi»ibit ri,sr..vT timf, denoted by the 
 tenses present, and perfect present ; as, / love, I have loved — <^txia, 
 -n<^iKmdL — ar,w, amavi: past time, by the imperfect ami pluperfect ten- 
 '('s, I icas loving, I had loved — I'^ixicv^l-neixyxuv — amabam, amaverani : 
 rxuRE TIME, by the tenses styled the future of the indicative, nnd the 
 future of the subjunctive, I shall love, [ shall have loved — <;)/A>;<ra', <p7niTo/ut 
 — amnbo, amavero : and the whole of past time denoted by the Ao- 
 rist, / loved — \oi'At)(rcL. 
 
 2. The subjunctive will exhibit present time, divided into present 
 and perfect present ; as, / may love, I may have loved — (ttxZ, 7ri<piKmrt> 
 — aniem, amaverim ; and past time divided into perfect and plupe- 
 fect^ I could love, J could have loved — amarem, amavissem. 
 
The general Principles of Grahimar. 47 
 
 68. Tenses and moods, in the Greek and Latin lan- 
 aager-, are gei^erallj discriminated by different inflexions 
 " the verb; in the modern languages they are chiefly de- 
 oted by auxiliaries. 
 f II his. 1. The auxiliaries of the indicative mood ixrc, have, had, shall, 
 
 till. 
 Have and had mark time; the former denoting that the action is 
 pished just now; the latter that some interval has elapsed since it 
 as completed. 
 
 . Shall and tvill express faturit}', but with it some affection or dispo% 
 Sition of the ag-ent. Tims, in the first person, shall barely foretells, 
 or predicts performance ; as, / shall walk ; " hereafter 1 am to per- 
 form the action of talking-." fVUl implies promise or engagement ; 
 / ivill toalk ; '^ I am determined hereafter to walk." In ihe second 
 and third persons, these auxiliaries exchange their additional signifi- 
 t'ations ; and shall denotes promise or engagement ; as, thou shall 
 read : will expresses futurity ; as, he ivill run: that is to say, accord- 
 ing to promise or engagement, ^' thou shalt read ;" and '^ he v-ill here« 
 after run." 
 
 2. The auxiliaries of the i'rksent of the subjunctive arc may and 
 ca?i ; and of tiie perfect, 7night, could, ivould, should. 
 
 May and ca?i denote capacity or ability ; as, / i7iay write, I can read. 
 Might and could, express the perfect time of may and can ; and like 
 them are significant of ability or capacity ; but the execution depends 
 on circumstances which have not yet come into existence. Thus, " I 
 might sec him," and '■^ I could tell him," express that my capacity to 
 see and tell him is complete, and 1 only wait for an opportunity to 
 put it in action. 
 
 Would denotes inclination, should obligation, but the performance 
 hangs upon some incident, or power, not under the controul of the 
 agent ; as, '' 1 would read, if I had a book ;" " 1 should walk, if 1 had 
 leave." 
 
 3. The auxiliary to be, usually called a substantive verb, because ij; 
 is confined to the signification of existence only, is generally and nat- 
 urally an auxiliary of the passive form of the verb. In this case it is 
 always attended with the perfect participle of the same form ; as, " / 
 nm ioved," — *' I have betn loved, "^—^ 1 shall be loved." But added to 
 the present participle of th6 active form, and supported by the other 
 auxiliaries, there is not a mood or tense of the active form of the verb, 
 which to be may not denote ; as, <' I am loving," — '' 1 may be loving, ' 
 — " Be thou loving," — " To be loving," are expressions equivalent to, 
 1 love, I may love, love thou, to love. 
 
 69. The INFINITIVE mood requires no agent to be pre- 
 fixed or understood in the form of a nominative. The in- 
 linitive, thus disengaged from all connexion with person or 
 number, and significant of action in general, without consid- 
 eration of any agent, approaches the nature of a substantive 
 noun, and in all languages is frequently substituted in its 
 place. The infinitive farther, used as a substantive, is near- 
 ly equivalent to the present participle, employed in the 
 same manner. 
 
4 8 The Structure of the Verb. 
 
 Example. Thus, to heatj is nothing^ more than the action of hearing , 
 mid every such participle, in English, n\ny be converted into a sub- 
 stantive, by prefixin«T one of the articles, the usual characteristics ol 
 
 ubstantives. (.Irt. 61.) 
 Obs. I. The occasions on which it is requisite to express actiotv 
 without reference to any agent, are very numerous, and the ui»e of 
 the infinitive is, of course, very frequent. Its relation to the other 
 tuoods is similar to that of abstract substantives to the adjectives from 
 V. hich they are formed ; as, goodness from " good." (.Irl. 59. Obs. 2.) 
 But ^ood denotes a quality inherent in the particular substance to 
 vvliieh it is applied } and ^oodntss expresses a quality common to all 
 
 lie substantives to which it is competent to apply the adjective. 
 
 2. In like manner, the finite moods exhibit always some action, 
 yi rformed by an agent, cither specified or understood, as the uomiua- 
 
 ive to the verb. The infinitive denotes the action, without reference 
 o any particular agei«i ; but the action is practicable only by the 
 .LTcnts who may be made nominatives to the finite moods. 
 Thus, as f^oodness denotes a quality common to all objects that are 
 
 I'ood ; so to read denotes an action which can be performed by all 
 
 .gents who have learned letters. 
 
 3. The infinitive al^o, like the participle, retains so much of its verb- 
 al quality, it) denoting action, as to be susceptible of time ; and it 
 'Uoi»esses variations to express the three great divisions of past, prcs- 
 • ity and future. It seldom, however, introduces a sentence, but de- 
 
 i vnds most commonly on some verb that precedes it ; hence, the time 
 hich it assumes, is to be reckoned from that of the antecedent verb. 
 
 4. Taking, theu, the time of the antecedent verb, as a fixed point, 
 u computing the time of the infinitive, we employ the present, tiu". 
 
 j.astj or the future tense, according as the action which it denotes hap- 
 pens to be the same, of prior, or of posterior time, to that of the ante- 
 . I. dent verb ; as, '• I am happy to see him," — •' I am hai)py to have 
 cen him," — •• I am happy to be about to see him." 
 
 70. Of the adverb. The chief use of the atlverb, as its 
 name imports, is to modify the verb. The circumstances of 
 viction, expressed by tenses and moods, are all of a nature 
 too general, to be suflicient for the purposes of communica- 
 tion. It is often necessary to be much more particular in 
 :isccrtairiin<j both the lime and die manner, but particularly 
 :he place of the action. The important office of the adverb, 
 s to accomplish these ends. 
 
 Illus. 1. Though tenses display a great degree of ingenuiiv in their 
 >rmation, they rarely descend farther than to denote performan«€ in 
 r-ast, present, or future time. But we find it necessary to be often 
 aiucli more minute, and to signify whether the action vvas done yes- 
 terday, lately, long ago ; or is to be done now, immediately, instant- 
 ly ; or will be done quickly, presently, hereafter ; or will be repeated 
 oft^n, seldom, daily, once, twice, tiirice. 
 
 2. All the circnmstances communicated by moods are of a very 
 general nature. The indicative expresses performance only ; the sub- 
 mnctive and imperative denote bare intention or dispo.sition ; while^ 
 fhe infinitive scarcely descends farther than the tiamc of the action, 
 vvithoi'.t specifying its nature. 
 
Jidmrbs, Prepositions ^ and Conjunctions. 49 
 
 3: The very varied and numerous situations of society, demanded 
 the significatio^» of many circumstances of action much more particu- 
 lar ; and to express these, a large class of adverbs was devised. 
 
 These adverbs indicate quality and manner, either simply, as wisely, 
 'prudently^ cautiously; or positively , as truly, certainly, unquestionably , 
 or conting-ently, as perhaps, pr-^bahly, possibly ; or uc«:atively, as no^ 
 not, erroneously; or conjointly, as together, generally, universally ; or 
 separately, as apart, solely, solitarily. Sometimes they denote maj^ni- 
 tude, as wholly, altogether, exceedingly ; or comparison, as preferable ; 
 or passion, as angrily, lovingly, furiously, valiantly ; or merit, as learn- 
 edly, prudently, industriously. 
 
 4. The circumstances of action relative to place are imparted by 
 another copious class of adverbs. The principal views which they ex- 
 hibit are, whether the action is performed in a place, or in moving- to 
 it, through it, or from it. Of the first sort are here, there, where, witlc- 
 in, witliout ; of the second, hither, thither, and the compounds of the 
 syllable vjard, as toward, forward, backward, upward, downward ; of 
 the third, nowhere, elsewhere^ everywhere ; of the iourth, hence, ichence, 
 I hence. 
 
 5. Of the adverbs which signify time and manner, two, one from 
 each class, often attend on the same vi:rh, by an analogy similar to 
 the appearance of every verb, both in a tense and a mode, on the 
 same occasion. The adverb significant of time is generally placed 
 before the verb, and after it is placed the adverb significant of man- 
 ner. That which precG<ies circumscril>es the time expressed by the 
 tense, and that v/hich follows limits the manner expressed by the 
 mood. 
 
 6. Adverbs are susceptible of comparison, sometimes regular, as 
 i:oon, sooner, soonest ; but oftener irregiilar, as readily, more readily, 
 most readily. One adverb is frequently employed to qualify another, 
 as too confidently, very seldom. And, finally, they are often applied to 
 circumscribe adjectives, as unmercifully severe, highly criminal, super- 
 laiively excellent. 
 
 71. Prepositions are words prefixed to substantives, 
 to denote the various relations vvhicli they bear to one an- 
 other. 
 
 lllus. In English they are generally monosyllabic words, chiefly 
 employed to supply the deficiency of the inflections commonly called 
 cases. But in the VV^elsh language they undergo inflection with the 
 cases of nouns. In English they occasionally lend their aid to fur- 
 nish compounded verbs, us foretell, undervalue ; and in all case they 
 act as proportional ingredients of composition, by adding to it the 
 full import of their powers. 
 
 72. Conjunctions are used to connect single substan- 
 tives, clauses of sentences, or members of periods. 
 
 Jllus. Conjunctions are divided into various classes, copulative, dis- 
 junctive, and adversitive; but tl>eir most useful distinction relates to 
 the correspondence which they have to one another in different clau- 
 ses or members of a period ; and in the right management of which, 
 both the perspicuity and propriety of language are not a little con- 
 cerned. 
 
 Obs. We sometimes find pronouns connecting sentences as well as 
 
50 The Nature and Character of the 
 
 conjunctions ; and the latter not unfreqaently, by a violent ellipsb; 
 performing^ the substcintive office of the former j but ;n this case the 
 conjunction is usually connected with an indefinite relative, as " Lei 
 ^iich as presume," for '' Let them who presume." 
 
 7i3. Interjections indicate those impressions which so 
 suddenly and violently aftect tiie mind of the speaker or 
 writer, as to burst asunder the regular train of his 
 thoughts and expressions, and thence demand immediate 
 utterance, 
 
 Ohs. This definition demonstrates that the proper use of these words 
 must be extremely limited ; and experience proves that the incidents 
 which excite such vehement agitation are not very common. (Art. 4. 
 
 COTOl) 
 
 Illus. Interjections are sparingly used even in the glowing and ani- 
 mated languages of antiquity ; and they appear less seMom with 
 ^racc, in the more tame and phlegmatic tongues of modern times. 
 1 hey rarely occur with us but when they interrupt, not language, but 
 silence ; and there are few persons who court those seasons of liigh 
 passion when their sentiments are too violent for communication by 
 word<, and witli (Vini'Mltv p.I.mM nitornr.'V' nt ;-.t,M\nl<, l>v vi.ri.c nn(> 
 L roiir.s. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 THE NATURE AND CHARACTER OF THE USE WHICH GIVES 
 LAW TO LANGUAGE. 
 
 74. Eloquence has a particular connexion with language^ 
 as its intention is to convey our sentiments into the minds 
 of others, in order to produce upon them a determinate ef- 
 fect ; and language is the only vehicle by which this con- 
 veyance can be made. 
 
 CoroL The art of speaking, then, is not less necessary to the orator 
 than the art of thinking. Without the latter the former could not have 
 existed. Witliout the former, the latter would be ineffectual. And 
 the o" orations of the latter go on by means of words, for there is no 
 evidence that we think without language. 
 
 75, Language is mainly a species o( fashion,^ in which, 
 by the general but tacit consent of the people of a particu- 
 lar state or country, certain sounds come to be appropri- 
 ated to certain things, as their signs, and certain ways of 
 inflecting and combining those sounds come to be estab- 
 lished, as denoting the relations which subsist among the 
 rhings signified. (Chap, J, Book L and Chap, L Book If,) 
 
 lllus. ^. The philosophical view which we have taken of the chief 
 * Campbell Phil, of Rhet. b, ii. c. 1, 
 
Use which gives Law to Language. 5t 
 
 pfinciples and component parts of speech, (^rt. 48. Obs.) shew u's 
 plainly it is not the business of grammar to give law to the fashions 
 which re*rulate our speech. From its conformity to these it derives 
 its authority and value. 
 
 2. Grammar, therefore, is nothing else than a collection of general 
 observations methodically digested, and comprising all the modes pre- 
 viously and independently established, by which the significations, de- 
 rivations, and combinations of words in that language, are ascertain- 
 ed. For, these modes and fashions have no sooner obtained and be- 
 come general, than they are the laws of the language, and the gram- 
 marian's only business is, to note, collect, and methodize them. 
 
 3. But this truth concerns alike those comprehensive analogies and 
 rules, which affect whole classes of words, and every mdividual word, 
 in the inflecting or combining of which, a particular mode hath pre- 
 vailed. 
 
 Corol. Hence, every single anomaly, though departing from the rule 
 assigned to the other words of the same class, and on that account 
 called an exception^ stands on the same basis, on which the rules of 
 the tongue are founded, custom having prescribed for it a separate 
 rule. (Art. 52 and 53.> 
 
 7^, Use or the custom of speaking, is, then, the sole ori- 
 ginal standard of conversation, as far as respects the expres- 
 sion ; and the custom of writing is the chief standard of style* 
 (Art, 86. lllus.) 
 
 Corol. In c\ery grammatical- controversy, we are, consequently, ag 
 a last resort, entitled to appeal from the laws and the decisions of the 
 grammarians, to the tribunal ofuse^ as to the supreme authority. (Art. 
 79. Illus.) 
 
 Obs. 1. The conduct of our ablest grammarians proves that this or- 
 der of subordination ought never, on any account, to be reversed. 
 
 2. But if use be of such consequence in this matter, before advanc- 
 ing any farther, let us endeavour to ascertain precisely what it is, as it 
 would otherwise be erroneous to agree about the name, while we differ- 
 ed about the notion that we assigned to it. 
 
 77. Reputable use, sometimes called ^£^26rr/Z2<5e, implies, 
 not only currency but vogue, and may be defined, whatever 
 modes of speech are authorised as good by the writings of a 
 great number, if not the majority of celebrated authors : it 
 is properly reputable custom. (Art. 80. Illus. and 86. 
 Obs. 9..) 
 
 Illus. The good use of language has the approbation of those who 
 have not themselves attained it. It is the fate of those who, by reason 
 of their poverty and other circumstances, are deprived of the advanta- 
 ges of education, to hear words of which they know not the meanings 
 and consequently to produce and misapply them. An affectation ol' 
 imitating their superiors, is, then, the great source of those errors of 
 the illiterate, in respect of conversation and the application of words, 
 which are beyond their sphere. 
 
 78. Vulgarisms are those terms and phrases which, not- 
 withstanding a pretty uniform and extensive use, are con-' 
 
52 The Nature and Character of the 
 
 sidered as corrupt, and like counterfeit money, though com- 
 mon, not valued. 
 
 Illus. Their use is not reputable, because we associate with them 
 such notions of meanness as suit those orders of men among whom 
 chiefly the use is found. If we use them we do not approve them, 
 and negligence alone suffers them to creep into our conversation or 
 writing, except when they arc put into the mouths of characters whom 
 we are describing. , . • u 
 
 Corol Their currency, therefore, is without authority and without 
 weight. 
 
 79. We always take the sense of the terms and phrases 
 belonging to any elegant or mechanical art from the prac- 
 tice of those who are conversant in that art ; in like manner, 
 from the practice of those who have liad a liberal education, 
 ind are, therefore, presumed to be best acquainted with men 
 md things, we judge of the general use of language. 
 
 nius. But in what concerns words themselves, their construction 
 and application, authors of reputation are, by universal consent m 
 actual possession of that standard which is authority ; as to this tribu- 
 nal, to which all have access, when any doubt arises, the appeal is al- 
 ways made. (Cor. Art. 76.) ..,,.. • . 
 
 Corol The source, therefore, of that preference which distinguishes 
 -ood use from bad, in language, is a natural propensity of the human 
 mind to believe, that those are the best judges of the proner signs of 
 speech, and of their proper application, who understand best the things 
 which they represent. (Art. 77. and Illus.) 
 
 80. xVuTHous oi reputation have been chosen rather thau 
 ffoof/ authors, for two reasons : ., . .i . ., 
 
 First, because it is more strictly conformable to the trutb 
 of the case. Though esteem and merit usually ^o together, 
 it is solely the public esteem, and not their intrmsic merit, 
 which raises authors to this distinction, and stamps a val- 
 ne on their language. . ^ .lu 4i 
 
 Secondly, this character is more determinate than the 
 other, and therefore more extensively intelligible. Be- 
 tween two or more authors, as to the preference in pmnt ot 
 merit, different readers will differ exceedingly, who agree 
 perfectlv as to the re^^pective places which they hold in the 
 favour of the public. Persons may be found ot a taste so 
 particular, as to prefer Parnel to Milton, but none will dis- 
 pute the superiority of the latter in point of fame. 
 
 Jllm. By authors of reputation, we mean, not only in regard to 
 Ivnowledge. but as respects the talent of communicating that knowl- 
 eXr There are writers who, as concerns the first, have been deserv- 
 rdlv valued by the public, but who, on account of a supposed deficien- 
 cy in respect of the second, are considered of no authority in ^"g^^S.^^ 
 We of course suppose that their writings arc m the English tongue, m 
 
IT 
 
 i^Rne various 
 
 Use which gives Law to Language, 
 
 ne various kinds of composition, in prose and verse, serious and 
 ludicrous, grave and familiar. 
 
 81. National use presents itself in a twofold view, as it 
 stands opposed to provincial ^nd to foreign, (Art, 85. and 
 
 88.; 
 
 Illus. Every province has its peculiarities of dialect, which affect not 
 merely the pronunciation and accent, but even the inflection and com- 
 bination of words. It is thus that the idiom of one district, is distin- 
 guished, both from that of the nation, and from that of every other 
 province. The narrowness of the circle to which the currency of the 
 words and phrases of such dialects is confined, sufficiently discrimin- 
 ates them from that which, commanding a circulation incomparably 
 wider, is properly styled the language of the country. 
 
 Corol. Hence, we derive one reason, why the term use, on this sub- 
 ject, is commonly accompanied with the epithet general. (Art. 19.) 
 
 82. The English language, properly so called, is found 
 current, especially in the upper and middle ranks of life, 
 over the whole British Empire. 
 
 IlliLS. Thus, though the people of one province ridicule the idiom of 
 another province, they all vail to the English idiom, and scruple not 
 to acknowledge its superiority over their own. 
 
 84. Of all the idioms subsisting among us, that to which 
 we give the character o{ purity, is the most prevalent, though 
 the language be not universally spoken or written with or- 
 thographical and grammatical purity. 
 
 Corol. The faulty idioms do not jar more with true English than 
 they do with one another, and their diversity, therefore, subjects them 
 to the denomination of impure. 
 
 84. Professional dialects, or the cant which is sometimes 
 observed to prevail among those of the same handicraft, or 
 way of life, must be considered, with little variation, in the 
 same light with provincial dialects. (Art, 81. Illus,) 
 
 Illus. The currency of the former cannot be so exactly circumscri- 
 bed as that of the latter, whose distinction is pi rely local; but their 
 use is not on that account either more extensive or more reputable. 
 Thus : advice J in the commercial idiom, means " information," or 
 *' intelligence ;"— 7ierrow5, in open defiance of analogy, denotes, in the 
 medical sense, " having weak nerves ;"— and the word turtle^ though 
 pre-occupied time immemorial by a species of dove, is employed by 
 sailors and gluttons, to signify '*= a tortoise." 
 
 85. National use, as opposed to foreign, is too evident 
 to need illustration ; for the introduction of extraneous 
 words and idioms, from other languages and foreign nations, 
 cannot be a smaller transgression against the established 
 custom of the English tongue, than the introduction of 
 'vords and idioms peculiar to some counties or shires of 
 
54 Present V^sage of the English Language. 
 
 England, or at least somewhere current within the British 
 pale. 
 
 Obs. The only material difference between them is, that the one ia 
 more usually the error of the learned, the other of the unlearned. 
 But if, in this view, the former is entitled to greater indulgence, from 
 respect paid to learning ; in another light, it is entitled to less, from 
 its being more commonly the result of affectation. 
 
 CoroL Thus, two essential qualities of usage, in regard to language; 
 have been settled, that it be both reputable and national. 
 
 86. Present use is that which falls within the knowledge 
 or remembrance of men now living, and which, in fact, reg- 
 ulates our stjle^ (^irt, 7Q>») 
 
 Illus. 1. If present use is to bo renounced for ancient, it will be ne- 
 cessary to determine at what precise period of antiquity, we are to 
 obtain our rules of language. But one might be inclined to remove 
 the standard to the distance of a century and a half, while another 
 may, with as good reason, fix it three centuries backwards, and an- 
 other si.x. Now as the language of any one of these periods, if 
 judged by the use of any other, would, no doubt, be found entirely 
 barbarous ; either the present use must be the standard of the present 
 language, or the language does not admit of any standard ; but expe- 
 rience proves, that critics have not the power of reviving at pleasure 
 old fashioned terms, inflections, and combinations, and of making such 
 alterations on words, as will bring them nearer to what they suppose 
 to be the etymon ; and hence we infer, that there is no other dictator 
 here but use. Nor will it ever be the arbitrary rules of any man, or 
 l)ody of men whatever, that will ascertain the language ; yet words 
 iire by no means to be accounted the worse for being old, if they are 
 not obsolete ; neither is any word the better for being new. On the 
 contrary, the sovereign dominion of custom over language, evinces, 
 that some time is absolutely necessary to constitute that custom or use, 
 on which the establishment of words depends. Yet it is certain, that 
 when we are in search of precedents for any word or idiom, there are 
 certain mound^s, over which we cannot leap with safety. The author- 
 ity of Hooker or of Raleigh, how great soever their fame be, will not 
 now be admitted in support of a terra or expression, not to be found 
 tn any good writer of a later date. 
 
 2. But the boundary must not be fixed at the same date in every 
 species of composition. Poetry, which hath ever been allowed a 
 wider range than prose, enjoys, in this respect, a singular indulgence, 
 to compensate for the pj^culiar restraints which she is laid under by 
 the nuasure And this indulgence is fraught with a two-fold advan- 
 tage ; convenience to the poet, and gratification to the reader. Di- 
 versity in the style relieves the ear, whicli hath little delight from 
 sameness of metre. But still there are limits to this diversity. The 
 authority of Milton and Waller r«rmains unquestioned ; and our best 
 poets of the present day rarely venture to introduce words or phrases, 
 of which I.') example could be produced, since the times of Spencer or 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 3. And even in prose, the bounds ^e not the same for every kind of 
 composition. In matters of science, for example, the terms of which^ 
 from the nature of the snbject, arc n>>t capable of such accuracy as 
 those which belong to ordinary compositions, and are within the reach 
 
The Nature and Use of Verbal Critimm. 55 
 
 isf ordin«iry readers, there is no necessity of confining an author within 
 «. narrow circle. But in composing pieces which come under um. last 
 denomination, as history, romance, travels, moral essays, fasriiliar 
 epistles, and the like, it is safest for an author to consider those w ords 
 and idioms as obsolete, which have been disused by all good writers, 
 for a longer period than that to which the age of man extends. 
 
 Obs. 1. The expressions, recent u^e, and modern use, have been pur- 
 posely avoided, because they seem opposed to what is ancient ; and the 
 word present has been chosen, because, in respect of place, it is oppos- 
 ed to absent y and in respect of time, to past ov future, which have now 
 no existence. When, therefore, the phnxse present use occurs in this 
 volume, its proper contrary is — obsolete, not ancient. 
 
 2. Though we have acknowledged language to be a species of fash" 
 ion ovmode, as doubtless it is ;* yet being much more permanent than 
 those things to which the words fashionable and modish are applied, 
 the former phrases are not meant to convey the ideas of novelty and 
 levity, but recur to the standard already assigned, (j^rt. 77. Ilhis. and 
 80. illus.) ; the writings x)f a plurality of celebrated authors. Thus 
 have we established, as general principles, 
 
 I. That use is the sole rtiistress of language. 
 
 If. That her essentird attributes are reprdable, national, ztnd present . 
 
 III. That grammar and criticism are but her ministers; and though, 
 like other ministers, they would sometimes impose upon the peojilo, 
 the dictates of their own humour as the commands of their sovereign, 
 they are not so often successful in such attempts, as to encourage the 
 frequent repetition of them. 
 
 IV. That what has been said of the English, applies to ev«ry tongue 
 whatever ; it is founded in use or custom, 
 
 Wliose arbitrary swaj', 
 Words and the forms of language, must obey.i* 
 
 And, V. That it is not by ancient, but by present use, that the styl^ 
 of every language must be regulated. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE NATURE AND USE OF VERBAL CRITICISM, WITH ITS 
 PRINCIPAL RULES OR CANONS, BY WHICH, IN ALL OUR DT2- 
 CISIONS, WE OUGHT TO BE DIRECTED. 
 
 87. ALL the various qualities of elocution, have their 
 foundation in purity, and the great standard of purity is 
 t6se. (^rt. 76, 77. and 8 6. J 
 
 * « Pliil. of Rhet." vol. i. book ii. chap. 1. 
 
 t Usns 
 
 Q^iem pene» arUtrium est et jus et norma loqtiendi* 
 
 Hor' de 40^ Po8t» 
 
 6 
 
^)G The Nature and Use of Verbal Criticism. 
 
 06s. 1, The essential properties of use, as regarding- langiiagfe, havr 
 been considered and explained in the preceding- chapter ; and in thiv- 
 \ve purpose to establish certain canons or rules, whereby the student 
 may be enabled to detect the fallacy of that fluent and specious, but 
 ><uperricial method, of verbal criticism, which passes current for a de- 
 liberate examination, into the principles on which the structure and 
 genius of our language are built. (Illiis. 1. ,^rt. 86.) 
 
 2. Grammar and criticism, though in a ditTerent sphere, are of simi- 
 lar benefit to language, that a succinct, perspicuous, and faithful di- 
 ge>t of tiie laws of the Empire is to society, in comparison of the lab- 
 yrinths of statutes, reports, and opinions, which have emanated, 
 through a long succession of ages, from legislators, counsellors and 
 judges. (III. p. bo.) 
 
 3. The grammarian compiles the laws, which custom gives to lan- 
 guage ; the critic seasonably brings b_efore the public tribunal the 
 abuses of innovation. The one facilitates the study of our native 
 tongue, advances general use into universal, and gives at least a greater 
 stability, if not a permanency, to custom, the most mutable and ca- 
 pricious thing in nature ; the other, stigmatizing every unlicensed term, 
 and improper idiom, teaches us to suppress them, and to give greater 
 precision, and ronsetpiently more perspicuity and beauty to our style. 
 (Obs. 1. and '1. Art. 7(5. j 
 
 83. Good use, which, for brevity's sake, shall hereafter 
 iricUule reputable, national, and present use, is not alwavs 
 Liiiifonn in her decisions. 
 
 lllus. 1. Whenever a considerable number of autJioritics can be pro- 
 duced in support of two different, though resembling modes of ex- 
 pression, for the same thing, there is always a divided use, and he who 
 conforms to either side, cannot be said to speak barbarously, or to op- 
 pose the usage of the language. (Art. 80. and lllus.) 
 
 89. This DIVIDED USE hath place sometimes in single 
 words, sometimes in constructions, and sometimes in at- 
 angement. In all such case?, there is scope for choice ; 
 and it belong, without question, to the critical art, to lay 
 down the principles, by which, in all doubtful cases, our 
 choice should be directed. (Art, 7(S. Corol.) 
 
 jUus. 1. There are, indeed, some differences in single words, asisle. 
 for " island," innunt, for '• mountain," which ought still to be retained. 
 They are a kind of synonomies, and afford a little variety, without 0( 
 casioning any inconvenience. 
 
 2. In our arrangement too, it certainly Jiolds, that various mannej 
 jkuit various styles, as various styles suit various stibjects, and varion 
 sorts of composition. For this reason, miless when sohie obscurit 
 ambiguity, or inelegance, is created, no disposition of words wliich ha; 
 obtained the public approbation, ought to be altogether rejected. 
 
 8. In construction, the case is somewhat different. Purity, pcrs; 
 culty, and elegance, generally require, that in this there be the strict^ 
 uniformity. Vet differences here are not only allowable, but ev 
 convenient, when attended with correspttndent differences iu the a 
 idication. 
 
The Nature and Use of Verbal Criticism, 57 
 
 Carol. In those instances, therefore, of divided use, which give scope 
 fot option, the authorities on the opposite sides, in order to assist us in 
 assigning the preference, ought to be equal, or nearly so. When those 
 t)n one side greatly preponderate, it is in vain to oppose the prevailing^ 
 visage. Custom, when wavering, may be swayed ; but when reluctant, 
 she will not be forced. 
 
 90. Canon the first. When use is divided as to any 
 paiticukr word or phrase, and the expression used by one 
 part hath been pre-occupied, or is in any instance suscepti- 
 ble of a different signification, and the expression employed 
 by the other part never admits a difterent sense, both per- 
 spicuity and variety require, that the form of expression be 
 preferred, which, in every instance, is strictly univocal. 
 
 Examples. By consequence, meaning consequently, is preferable to 
 '^ of consequence," as this expression is often employed to denote that 
 which is momentous or important. Besides and beside, serve both as 
 prepositions and conjunctions. Custom assigns to each a separate 
 province ; and good writers humour her, by employing only the former 
 as a conjunction, and the latter as a preposition. 
 
 Obs. The improper use of adverbs for adjectives, and vice versa, of- 
 fends against precision, and the authority of present use. In those 
 verbs, also, which have for the participle passive, both the preterite 
 form, and one peculiar, the peculiar form ought to have the preference. 
 For the same reason, some are inclined to prefer that use which makes 
 ye, invariably the nominative plural of the personal pronoun tfiou, and 
 you, the accusative, when applied to an actual plurality. When used 
 for the singular number, custom hath determined that it shall he you in 
 both cases. 
 
 91. Canon the second. In doubtful cases, regard ought 
 to be had, in our decisions, to the analogy of the language. 
 
 Examples. By this canon, contemporary is preferable to " cotempo- 
 rary ;" because in words compounded with the inseparable preposi- 
 tion con, the n is retained before a consonant, but expunged before a 
 vowel, or h mate ; as, con-comilant, co-incide, co-heir. Co-partner is, 
 probably, the only exception. But in dubious cases, we are guided by 
 the rule, not by the exception. The principle of analogy prefers after- 
 wards and homewards^ to '• afterward" and "homeward;" and would 
 God, is preferable to " would to God," though both these last phrases 
 plead the autnority of custom. 
 
 92. Canon the third. When the terms or expressions 
 are, in other respects, equal, that ought to be preferred, 
 which is most agreeable to the ear. 
 
 Obs. This rule hath perhaps a greater chance of being observed than 
 any other, it having !)een, since the days of Addison, the general aim 
 of our public speakers and writers, to avoid harsh and unmnsical pe- 
 riods. Nay, a regard to sound hath, in some instances, contronied the 
 public choice, to the prejudice of both the former canons, vvhicii, one 
 would think, ought to be regarded as of more importance. 
 
 Example. Thus the term ingenuity hath obtained, in preference Co 
 
58 Tlie Nature and Use of Verbal Criticism, 
 
 *' ingeniousness," thoug-h the former cannot be deduced, analogically^, 
 iVoni ingenious ; and had, besides, been prc-occupied, and consequeni- 
 \y would bo equivocal, being a regular derivative from the term ingtn^ 
 lous, if the newer acceptation had not, before now, entirely sup- 
 jplanted the otlier. 
 
 93. Canon the tourth. In cases >vherein none of th& 
 ibregoing rules gives either side a foundation of preference, 
 a regard to simplicity, in w hich we include etymology, when 
 manifest, ou;j;ht to determine our choice. 
 
 Obs. Under the name simplicity, we coDjprehend also brevity; for 
 that expression is always the simplest, which, with equal purity and 
 perspicuity, is the briefest. 
 
 Illus. We have several active verbs, which are used indiscriminately, 
 < Ither with or without a preposition ; as accept , or accept of ; but the 
 itrnple form is preferable, 
 
 94. Canon the fifth In the few cases wherein neither 
 perspicuity nor analogy, neither sound nor simplicity, as- 
 .--ists us in fixing our choice, it is safest to prefer that man- 
 ner, which IS most conformable to ancient usage. 
 
 Obs. This rule is founded on a very plain maxim — that in language, 
 ;is in several other things, change itself, unless when it is clearly ad- 
 viintageous, is ineligible. On this principle, some writers follow the 
 jtuthority of Milton, in preferring that usage, which distinguishes yCj 
 as the nominative plural o{ thou. (Ol)S. Canon First.) 
 
 Quotations from Shakespeare, on the side of orthography, are not 
 much to bo miiidcd, because his cilitors have shamefully abused his 
 ancient orthography. 
 
 95. Every thing favoured by good use, is not on that ac- 
 count worthy to be retained, though no term, idiom, or ap- 
 plication, that is totally unsupported by her, can be admit- 
 ted to be good. 
 
 Obs. This position is necessary in order to establish rules for ascer- 
 taining both the extent of the authority claimed by custom, and the 
 rightful prerogatives of criticism. 
 
 Jllus. \. Though nothing can be good in language from which K^e 
 withholds her approbation, there may be many thinga to which she 
 gives it, that are not in all respects good, or such as are worthy to be 
 retained €ind imitated. In some instances, cusiotn may very properly 
 be checked by criticism. 
 
 2. The latter enjoys a sort of negative, though not a ccnsorian pow- 
 er of instant degradation. She hath the privilege of remonstrating, 
 and, by means of this, when used discreetly, of bringing what is bad 
 into disrepute, and so cancelling it gradually : but she hath no positive 
 right to establish any thing. 
 
 3. Her power too is like that of eloquence ; she operates on us pure- 
 ly by persuasion, depending for success on the solidity, or, at least, 
 the speciousness of her arguments ; whereas custom hath an unac- 
 countable and irresistible influence over us — an influence which iv 
 
The Nature and Use of Verbal Criticism* 59 
 
 prior to persuasion, and independent of it, nay, sometimes even in 
 oontradictiou to it. 
 
 96. Of different modes of expression, that which comes 
 to be favoured bj general practice, may be denominated 
 best, because established ; but it cannot always be said with 
 truth, that it is established, because best. 
 
 Illus. 1. Time and chance have an influence on all thing^s human, 
 and on nothing more remarkably than on language ; and the best 
 forms of speech do not always establish themselves by their own supe- 
 rior excellence ; for we often see, that of various forms, those will re- 
 commend themselves, and come into general use, which, if abstractedly 
 considered^ ar#» neither the simplest, nor the most agreeable to the ear, 
 nor the most conformable to analogy. 
 
 2. Though of any expression, which has obtained the sanction of 
 ;ood use, we cannot properly say that it is barbarous, we must admit, 
 
 sat in other respects, it may be faulty. To get rid of those gross im- 
 iioprieties, which, though unauthorised by practice, ought to be dis- 
 
 iirded, iiothing more is necessary than to disuse them. And to brino' 
 =js to disuse them, both the example and the arguments of the critic 
 have their weight. 
 
 3. The difference is obvious between the bare omission, or rather 
 he not employing of what is used, and the introduction of what is un- 
 ;iual. The former, provided what you substitute in its stead be proper, 
 
 and have the authority of custom, can never come under the observa- 
 tion, or at least the reprehension of the reader ; whereas the latter 
 shocks our ears immediately 
 
 Corol. 1. Here, therefore, lies one principal province of criticism, to 
 point out the characters of those words and idioms which deserve to 
 be disfranchised and consigned to perpetual oblivion. It is by careful- 
 ly filing off all roughnesses and inequalities, that languages, like metr 
 als, must be polished. This indeed is an effect of Taste. But when 
 criticism hath called forth to this object the attention of a people im- 
 proving in arts and sciences, there is a probability that the effect will 
 be accelerated, and that their speech will not only become richer and 
 more comprehensive, but that it will become highly refined, by acquir- 
 ing greater precision, perspicuity, and harmony. (Art. 31. and 32.J 
 
 2. It is, however, no less certain, on the other hand, that in the de- 
 clension of taste and science, language will unavoidably degenerate ; 
 and though the critical art may retard a little, it w ill never be able ul- 
 timately to prevent this degeneracy. 
 
 Obs. As no term, idiom, or application that is totally unsupported 
 by use, can be admitted to be good, the following Canons, in relation 
 to those words or expressions, which may be thought to merit degra- 
 dation from the rank which they have hitherto maintained, will enable 
 us to ascertain whether every term, idiom, and application, tliat is 
 «:ountenanced by use. is to be esteemed good, and therefore worthy to 
 be retained. 
 
 97. Canon the sixth. All words and phrases which 
 are remarkably harsh and linhannonious, and not absolutely 
 necessary, may justly be judged to merit degradation. 
 
W 77ie Nature and Use of Verbal Criticisrit 
 
 Definition. We call a word or phrase ahsolultly necessary, when, /r* 
 ihe eVeut of a dismission, we have none synonymous to supply its place, 
 or in any way to convey properly the same idea, without the aid of 
 circumlocution. 
 
 Ohs. There are, however, criteria, by which we may discriminate 
 the objectionable words from all others. 
 
 98. Criterion first A term composed of words already 
 compoiuuled, of wliich the several parts are not easily, and 
 therefore not closely united, is always heavy and drawling, 
 and withal so ill compact*id, diat it has not more vivacity 
 tlkin a periphrasis, to compensate for the defect of harmony^ 
 
 Example. Such are the words bare-faccd-ness, sliame-faced-ntssj un- 
 success-ful-nesSf dis-interest-cd-nets^ivrunL^-keaded-ness. 
 
 99. Criterion second. When a word is so formed and 
 accented, as to render it of difficult utterance to the speaker, 
 and consequently disagreeable in sound to the hearer, it 
 Hiay be judged worthy of the fate prescribed by the canon, 
 
 JrL 97.) 
 
 llliLS. This happens in two cases ; first, when the syllables which 
 nmediately follow the accented syllable, are so crowded with conso- 
 nants, as of necessity to retard the pronunciation ; as qae'slionlesSj 
 ' mc mbrancer ; — secondly^ when too many syllables follow the ac- 
 'ot.'d -vllable, a similar dissonance is found; aSj pri'marili/f per'enip- 
 
 iuu. Criterion third. When a short or unaccented syl- 
 lable is repeated, or followed by another short or unaccent- 
 ed syllable very much resemblinj^ it, the pronunciation par- 
 (•akes the appearance of stammering. 
 
 Example. This happens when we a<ld the adverbial termination to 
 s )rds endine^ in Uj ; as ko'li ly ; or when the participial termination 
 ng., is added to a noun ending in er ; iis,farrierin<i;, so Idicring. 
 
 Scholium. Beside the cases which come uiuler the foreg-oin«^ crite- 
 rion, we know of none that ong:ht to dispose us to the total disuse o4' 
 wonls really sig^nificant. A little harshness by tlie collision of conso- 
 nants, which, nevertheless, our organs find no difticulty in articulating-, 
 ,ind which do not suggest to the hearer the disagreeable idea either of 
 precipitation or of stammering, is by no means a suflicient reason for 
 die suppression of an useful term. It does not do well to introduce 
 tiard and strong sounds too frequently ; but when they are used spar- 
 iigly and properly, they have even a good efiect. Variety of sound is 
 -advantageous to a language ; and it is convenient that we should have 
 some sounds that are rough and masculine, as well as some that are 
 liquid and feminine.* 
 
 • Those lanfrua^s which are allowed to be the most susceptible of an the gjaces 
 ttf harmony, have admitted many ill souiidinic: words: such are in Greek T/TAa^^i^- 
 vt^^ 3"5t/, utt/iunmrj)' ; such are also in Latin spLssisshnus, ptrcrel/resccbantgve : aiid 
 in Italian, incrwicchkury sprr^iatrire. The first Greek i*onl his«es worse tttSn any 
 
The Nature and Use of Verbal Criticism. 61 
 
 101. Canon the seventh. When etymology plainjy 
 points to a signification different from that which the word 
 commonly bears, propriety and simplicity both require the 
 dismission of every such word, 
 
 lUus. The word plainly is used in this canon, because no regard 
 v«!hould be had to the etymology, when it is from an ancient or foreign 
 languaj^e, or from obsolete roots in our own language, or when it is 
 obscure or doubtful. The case is difTerent, when the roots either arc, 
 or strongly appear to be, English, and, in present use, clearly suggest 
 another meaning. 
 
 Example 1. Behelden implies '' obliged," or ^' indebted." As the 
 passive participle of the verb to behold, which it is analogically, it 
 conveys a sense totally different. Not that we consider the term as 
 equivocal ; for in the last acceptation, it hath long since been disused^ 
 having been supplanted by beheld. 
 
 Corol. Every word, therefore, whose formation is as analogical us 
 this, has, at least, the appearance of impropriety, when used in a sense 
 that seems naturally foreign to its radical signification. 
 
 Example 2, The verb to unloose should analogically signify *' to tie," 
 in like manner as to untie signifies " to loese." 
 
 Corol. All considerations of analogy, propriety and perspicuity, 
 unite in persuading us to repudiate the preposterous application of 
 every term which includes the impropriety of conveying a sense, the 
 reverse of that which its etymology naturally suggests, 
 
 102. Canon the eighth. When any words become 
 obsolete, or at least are never used, except as constituting 
 parts of particular phrases, it is better to dispense with their 
 service entirely, and give up the phrases. 
 
 Illus. First, because the disuse, in ordinary cases, renders the term 
 somewhat indefinite, and occasions a degree of obscurity ; secondly, 
 because the introduction of words, which never appear but with the 
 same attendants, gives an air of vulgarity and cant, to a style which 
 might otherwise be wholly unexceptionable. 
 
 Example, Dint of argument, for " strength of argument ;" — not a 
 ichit better, for " no better ;" — pro and con, for " on both sides ;" — 
 with many similar phrases, will never be used by those who observe 
 the eighth canon. 
 
 103. Canon the ninth. All those phrases which, when 
 analysed grammatically, include a solecism, (Art, 1 11. J and 
 all those to which use hath affixed a particular sense, but 
 which, when explained by the general and established rules 
 
 English word ; the last presents a dissonant recurrence of the same letter, to a de- 
 gree unexampled with us, though the mixtui-e of long and short syllables prevents 
 that difficulty of uttemnce, pointed out in the example of Criterion third. Ihe first 
 Latin word hisses in pronunciation like an adder roused from its slumbers ; the second 
 is as rough as any of those in the example of Criterion Jirst. And the two Italian 
 words, from the most musical of all languages, sound harsh and jaiTing even to Us > 
 V ho are accustomed to a dialect boisterous like our weatbw. 
 
62 The Nature and Use of Verbal Criticisra. 
 
 of language, are susceptible either of a different sense, or oi 
 no sense, ought to be discardevl altogether. 
 
 Illus. We shall distinguish this phraseology by the epithet idiomatic 
 cal ; and since it is the offsprings partly of ignorance, and partly ot' 
 affectation, it divi<les itself into several examples. 
 
 First, that which includes a solecism, is the phrase, ** I had rather 
 do such a thing," for, *• I uould rather do it." This expression is ir- 
 regular, because the auxiliary /m</ joined to the infinitive active rfo, is 
 a gross violation of the rules of conjugation ; and it is unnecessary, 
 because we can supply its place by a phrase purely English. Good 
 use cannot therefore protect it from being branded with the name of 
 a blunder. 
 
 Secondly. Phrases, which, when explained grammatically, lead to a 
 different sense from what the words in conjugation commonly bear ; 
 as, *' he sings a good song," for " he sings »rcll." A good song may 
 be ill sung, and therefore the plain mea»««<g of the words, as they stand 
 connected, is very different. So aKso, <' he plays a good fiddle," for 
 • he plays well on the fiddle," involves a solecism. 
 
 .3 fourlh improp^iefy is, a rher's emptyins; itself. But to empty, is 
 
 to exhaust," or " to evacuate." Now passing the word river, as a 
 jnetonvniy for channel, is this ever *' evacuated or exhausted .-*" when 
 it is, it ceases to be a channel, and becomes a hollow or valley. A riv- 
 er /nils into the sea, and a ship '' falls down the river," as the motion 
 is no other than a fall down a real, though gentle, declivity. 
 
 The fifth sort are those vile but common phrases, which can scarcely 
 l>e considered as conveying any sense ; as, currying favour, dancing 
 altcnduMce. 
 
 Sixth. The idiomatical use that is sometimes made of certain verbs, 
 renders their application reprehensible ; as, " he stands upon secu- 
 rity," for ^* he insists ;" — and take for '• understand ;" as, "you take 
 me," and " I take it ;" — and hold for " continue ;" as " he does not 
 hold long in one mind." 
 
 SevtJith. The worst are those, in which the words, when construed, 
 are not susceptible of any meaning ; as, '* there were seven ladies in 
 the company, evrry one prettier than another ;" which means, that 
 they were all very pretty. But one prettier, implies that there is an- 
 other less pretty IS'ow where every one is prettier, there can be none 
 less, and consequently none more pretty 
 
 Coral. Ambitiously to display nonsensical phrases of this sort, un- 
 der the ridiculous notion of a familiar and easy manner, is not to set 
 off the riches of a language, but to expose its rags. As such idioms, 
 therefore, err alike against purity, simplicity, perspicuity, and ele- 
 gance, they are entitled to no quarter from those who may deem the 
 toregoing canons of any weight in the art of composition. 
 
 Scholium. The first five of these canons are intended to suggest the 
 principles by which our choice ouglit to be directed in cases wherein 
 use itself is wavering; and the four last, to point out those further 
 improvements of construction, which verbal criticism, without exceed- 
 ing her legal powers, may assist in producing. There is a danger, 
 however, lest our improvements this way be carried too far, and 
 our mother tongue, by being too much impaired, bo impoverished, and 
 so more iujiir(^',i in copiousness and nerves, than all our refinement 
 will ever be able to compensate. , For this reason there ought, in sup- 
 
The Nature and Use of Verbal Criticism. 63 
 
 port of every sentence of proscription, to be an evident plea from the 
 principles of perspicuity, eleg^ance and harmony, 
 
 104. The foregoing reasoning furnishes a tenth canon* 
 Whatever be the opinion of some grammarians, the want of 
 etymology cannot be reckoned a sufficient ground for the 
 suppression of a significant term, which hath come into good 
 use. 
 
 Obs. It were as unreasonable to reject, on this account, the assist- 
 ance of an expressive word, that opportunely offers its service, when 
 perhaps no other word would so exactly answer our purpose, as to re- 
 fuse, in common life, the needful aid of a proper person, because he 
 could g-ive no account of his family or pedigree. 
 
 Illus. Though what is called canl, is generally, not necessarily, not 
 always withotit etymology, it is not the defect, but the baseness of the 
 use, which fixeth on it that disgraceful appellation. No absolute mon- 
 arch hath it more in his power to ennoble a person of obscure birth, 
 than it is in the power of good use to exalt words of low or dubious 
 extraction. 
 
 Examples. Fib, banter, fop, fudge, have arisen from hovels no one 
 knows how ', and Jiimsy, from the cant of a workshop. 
 
 Carol, It is never from attention to etymology, which would fre- 
 quently mislead us, but from custom, the only infallible guide in this 
 matter, that the meanings of words in present use must be learned. 
 (Art. 76. and 77.) 
 
 105. What has now been said on this topic, relates only 
 to such words as bear no distinguishable traces of the base- 
 ness of their source; the case is quite different in regard to 
 those terras, which may be said to proclaim their vile and 
 despicable origin ; and that either by associating disagree- 
 able and unsuitable ideas, or by betraying some frivolous 
 humour in their formation. 
 
 Examples. Bellytimber, thorowstitch, and dumbfound, are of the 
 former ; and transmogrify, bamboozle, helterskelter, are of the latter 
 class. Yet most of these words are to be found in " Walker's 
 Critical Pronouncing Dictionary." 
 
 Obs. These may find a place in burlesque, but ought never to show 
 themselves in any serious performance. A person of no birth, as the 
 phrase is, may be raised to the rank of nobility, and, which is more, 
 may become it ; but nothing can add dignity to tliat man, or fit him 
 for the company of gentlemen, who bears indelible marks of th<i 
 elown in his lookj gait, and whole behaviour. 
 
64 Grammatical Puritj/, 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OF GRAMMATICAL PURITY . 
 
 106. PURE English composition implies three things^: 
 v^r/. 87.; 
 
 First, that the words be English, (.^rf. S2.) 
 Secondly, that their construction, under which, in our 
 tongue, arrangement also is comprehended, be in the Eng- 
 lish idiom. (General Principles, p. 55.) 
 
 Thirdly y that the words and phrases be employed to ex- 
 press the precise meaniiiji. wiiicii custoia hath allixed to 
 them, (.^rt, 76,) 
 
 Obs. In the foregoing uvi.tiHi*Mi. vw; ii.iw fMii»^iiiait d lii.. i>.i.i.-i"; 
 '' pure Enflflish," for gravimttlical fmrUy ; and this we have done for 
 two especial reasons: Isi. Beoau.se it is the language in wnich we 
 write; and 2dly. Because the language of Britain is capable of that 
 grammatical purity, and those higher qualities of elocution, and ora« 
 torical excellence, which give grace and energy to discou>^e. 
 
 107. Since puritr implies three things, it may be violated 
 in three ditterent ways : 
 
 Firsty the words may not be English. 
 
 This fault is denominated a barbarism. 
 
 Secondly, the cns^sifrMrtion of the sentence may not be in 
 the English idiom. 
 
 This fault has gottci' ine name of snlecisjn. 
 
 Thirdly, the wonls and phrases may not be employed to 
 express the precise meaning, which custom hath affixed to 
 them. 
 
 This fault is termed an impropriety* 
 
 108. The reproach of barbarism may be incurred in 
 three ditterent ways : — 
 
 1st. By the use of words entirely obsolete: 
 2dly. By the use of words entirely new : or 
 Sdly. By new fornuttiuns and compositions, from simple 
 and primitive words in present use. 
 
 Illus. 1. By the use of obsolete words. Obsolete words are not now 
 English, though they might have been so in the days of our forefathers. 
 We cannot thereforfc introduce them. Foreign phrases have as mucli 
 
 • This distribution is agreeable to Q,iiintiHan. Ins*«t. Hb. i. cap. 5. " DepreheudS; 
 ^use barbara, quae irapropria, quae contra Ipj^m Mwndi composita." 
 
As it respects Barbaristns. 65 
 
 dalm to be introduced, as those antiquated words, without riskina: the 
 charge of affectation. Thus, Thompson, in his " Castle of Indo- 
 lence," has drag^ged from their obscurity many words which were al- 
 most wholly unknown, except in Spenser's <'Fairie Queene." 
 
 Examples. Anon, behest, fantasy, cleped, erst, uneath, whilom, tri- 
 bulalion, erewliile, whenas, peradveniure, selfsame, offend more or less 
 against Article 86. and its illustration. 
 
 2. Poets claim exemption from this rule of never using any words 
 but those which are English, particularly on account of the peculiar 
 inconveniences to which the laws of versification subject them. {U- 
 lus. 2. Mrt. 86.) 
 
 3. Besides, in treating some topics, passages of ancient story, for 
 instance, there may sometimes be found a suitableness in the intro- 
 duction of old words. 
 
 4. In certain kinds of style, when used sparingly and with judg- 
 ment, the? serve to add the venerable air of antiquity to the narrative. 
 
 6. In burlesque also they often produce a good effect. But purity 
 requires that those words only shall be employed which are of classical 
 authority ; and they who are ambitious to speak and write with ele- 
 gance, will select as their guides, in conversation and oratory, speak- 
 ers of the best elocution, and authors of the most correct taste, solid 
 matter, and refined manner, will form their patterns in writing. Clas- 
 sical authority, the standard by which our practice must be regulated., 
 is none other than the example of such speakers. and writers. {Art. 
 80. lllus.) 
 
 109. The use of new words inundates a language with a 
 numerous tribe of barbarisms. A licentious aftectation of 
 novelty rather than any necessity to avoid circumlocutions, 
 overwhelms our language with foreign words. (Art, S5,) 
 
 Examples. Kumerosily, cognition, irrefragibility, ej/luxion, are 
 from the Latin, and convey no new meanings, which had not been 
 pre-occupied by other words of established reputation. And among 
 our French imports we have dernier resort, beaux arts, belles lettres, 
 and a legion besi ♦rs, which son^e of our own writers, oth«;rvvise re- 
 spectable, have fancied so many gems, capable of adding a wonderful 
 lustre to their works. 
 
 Obs. 1. But this is a false brilliancy, which dazzles only those who 
 forget that the Greeks branded a foreign term, in any of their writers, 
 with the odious name of barbarism. Besides, the rules of pronuncia- 
 tion and orthography in French, are so different from those which ob- 
 tain in English, that the far greater part of the French words yearly 
 introduced, constitute so many anomalies witli us, which, by loading 
 the grammaticifll rules with exceptions, greatly corrupt the simplicity 
 and regularity of our tongue/ 
 
 Corol. Two considerations ought to weigh with writers, and hinder 
 them from wantonly admitting into their performances, such extrane- 
 ous productions. One is, if these foreigners be allowed to settle 
 amongst us, they vvill infallibly supplant the old inhabitants. What- 
 ever ground is given to the one, is so much taken away from the otlier. 
 No writer, thei efore, ought to foment an humour of innovation which 
 
 * See '• Pritjciiiks of English Pronunciation," prefacing 'r Walker's Dictionary.'* 
 
66 GrammcUical Puriiy, 
 
 tends to make the language of his tountry btill more changeable, nnt'! 
 consequently, to render (he style of his own writings sooner obsolete, 
 
 2. The other consideration i^, that if he should not be followed in 
 the use of those foreign words which he hath endeavoured to usher into 
 the language, if they meet not with j favouiable rer eption from the 
 public, they wiil evtrr appear as spots jn his compositions. Whether, 
 therefore, he be or he not imitated, he will himself prove a losrr in the 
 end. Moreover, as borrowing naturally cxposeth to the susjncion of 
 poverty, this poverty will much more readily, and more justly too, be 
 imputed to the writer than lo the language. 
 
 In words, as fashions, the same rule uillhold; 
 Alike fantastic, if too new or old ; 
 Be not tlie first by wliom tlie new are tried, 
 Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.* 
 
 110. By the use of good words new modelled. The third 
 species of barbar.sni, is that produced by new formations 
 and compositions from primitives in present use. 
 
 Illus. 1. Greater liberty ought to hv given on this article than on 
 the former, provided the Enalisli analogy be observed in the composi- 
 tion, nnd the new modelled wanted in the language. {Jirt. 
 104. nnd ils Illus.) 
 
 2. Never, on the plea of nece ssuy, patronise frivolous innovations ; 
 nor the collision of words which are naturally the most unfit for coa- 
 lescing, and where the analogy of the lormation exhibits only an ob- 
 .scure meaning till it be analysed. Rest assured this jargon will not 
 creep into vogue in the charter language of the present age. {Art, 77. 
 and 86.) 
 
 3. Another modern refinement is, the alteration that has been made, 
 by some late writers, on proper names, and some other words of for- 
 eign extraction, and on their derivatives, on pretence of bringing them 
 nearer, both in proniuiciation and in spelling, to the original names, as 
 they appear in the language from which those words were taken. — 
 But this hath been the custom of all nations. When the Grecians and 
 Romans introduced a foreign name into their languages, they made 
 such alterations in it, as might facili;ate the pronunciation to their 
 own people, and render it more analogous to the other wcrds of their 
 tongue. 
 
 4. Another set of barbarisms, which also ccm^s under this class, ari- 
 ses from the abbreviations of polysyllables, by lopping ofl' all the syl- 
 lables except the first, or the first and second. 
 
 Examples. Uifp for " hypochondriac," ult for '' ultimate," extra 
 for '• extraordinary." 
 
 Scholhinu The two classes of barbarisms last mentioned, compre- 
 hending new words and new formations, from words still current, 
 otVend against use, considered both as reputable and as national. — 
 (Jrl. 77. and So.) A writer who employs antiquated or novel phrase- 
 ology, must do it with design : he cannot err from inadvertence, a« he 
 may do v^ith respect to provincial or vulgar expresj^ions. He can- 
 not be habituated to antiquated or novel words and phrases. It is ha- 
 bit that renders it so difficult to avoid those which are provincial or 
 vulgar. How much soever folly or vanity may actuate the herd of 
 
 • Pope's Essay on CriticisTn. 
 
Jls it respects Solecism. 67 
 
 «^oribblers, whose greatest strug^gle is to insinuate a favorable opinion 
 <^f their erMrf//io7i, the writer of true genius and taste will notevptct to 
 wbtain reputation by such artifices He will neither discolour iii r.t.b? 
 by the faint tioge of antiquity or novelty, nor by the coarse (iauaj.^^ 
 of provinciality and vulgarity. 
 
 111. The Solecism. The transgression of any of the 
 syntactic rules is a soleeism ; and there are various ways in 
 ^vhich almost every rule may be transgressed. 
 
 * Jllus. 1. Leaving it to gi-animarians to exemplify and class the fla- 
 grant solecisms which betray ignorance in the rudiments of the lan- 
 guage ; we proceed to take notice of a ^ew less observable, which wri- 
 ters of great reputation, and even of critical skili in the language, have 
 slidden into through inatt«n<ion. 
 
 2. Solecisms are more excusable than barbarisms ; the former are 
 usually reckoned the effect of negligence- the latter of affectation. — 
 Negligence, often the consequence of a noble ardour in regard to sen- 
 timents, is, at the worst, a venial trespass, and sometimes it is not even 
 without energy ; affectation is always a deadly sin agahist the laws of 
 rhetoric. {Obs. Art. 85.; 
 
 3. Much greater indulgence, in the article of solecisms, is given to 
 the speaker than to the writer : and to the writer who proposeth to 
 persuade or move, greater allowances are made, than to him who pro- 
 poseth barely to instruct or please. The more vehemence is required 
 by the nature of the subject, the less correctness is exacted in the 
 manner of treating it. Nay, a slight deficiency in this respect is not 
 nearly so prejudicial to the scope of an oration, as a sc'rupalous accu- 
 racy, which bears in it the symptoms of study and art. 
 
 Corol. Grammatical inaccuracies ought to be avoided by a writer^ 
 for two reasons : First, because a reader will much sooner discover 
 them than a hearer, how attentive soever he may be. Secondly,, 
 as writing" implies more leisure and greater coolness than spenking, 
 defects of this kind, when discovered in the former, will be less excused 
 than they would be in the latter. 
 
 Of the various solecisms which may be committed, we have 
 
 1. A mistake of the plural number for the singular. 
 
 II. Inaccuracies in the construction and application of the degrees of 
 icomparison suggest the following rules : 
 
 111 us. 1. The comparative degree implies commonly a coinparison 
 of one thing with 07ie other thing ; the superlasive, on the contrary, al^ 
 wavs implies a comparison of one tiling with many others. The fo>- 
 mer consequently requires to be followed by the singular, the latter by 
 the plural, yet in the sentence, '■' He is wiser than we," the compara- 
 tive is rightly followed by a plural. 
 
 2. In a comparison of equality, though the ^wsiiive degree on'y is 
 used, the construction must be similar to that of the comparative, b;*t!5 
 being followed by conjunctions which govern no case. 
 
 3. The particles, as aftet the positive, and than after the compara- 
 tive, are conjunctions and not prepositions. For example, " I esteem 
 you more than they,' is correct ; and so is the sentence, •' I esteoip you 
 more than them," but in a sense quite different from the former, since 
 
6 8 Gram m atical Pu rity, 
 
 in the one case it expresses Iheir esleem for yoVj and m tinr ^nuc■^ /,<>. 
 esteem for them. 
 
 Corol. The second canon (^W. 91.^ whicli teaches us to prefer what is 
 most agreeable to analogy, leads us to decide that than is a conjunction. 
 
 4. The superlative, followed by the singular number, is an error 
 which may be corrected by substituting the comparative in room of 
 the superlative. 
 
 III. Possessive pronouns must always agree in number and person 
 with their antecedents. 
 
 IV. Mistakes in the tenses of the verbs suggest many rules. 
 
 Rule. 1. When in two connected clauses the first verb is in the pre- 
 senc or the future, the second, w hich is dependent on it, cannot be in 
 the past. 
 
 2. On the contrary, when 
 cond ought to be so too. 
 
 3. When the fust verb ii in tli< i)i cti ; jx i in t . the secoml may be iu 
 the preterimperfect. 
 
 4. In expressing abstract or universal truths, according to the idiom 
 of our language, the present tense of the verb ought always to be used ; 
 because the verb, in such cases, has no relation to time, but serves 
 merely as a copula to the two terms of the proposition.* 
 
 5. When speaking of a past event which occasions the mention of 
 some general truth, never use the same tense in enunciating the gen- 
 eral trulh, with that which had been employed in the preceding part 
 of the sentence. • 
 
 (5. The construction of two verbs, both under the regimen of the same- 
 conjunction if. requires both the verbs to be in the subjunctive muoil. 
 
 7. Never omit, in a subi-equent part of a sentence, the participle 
 which makes part of the complex tense, from an idea that the occur- 
 rence of a verl) in a former clause of thesentencewill supply thedefect. 
 
 8. Never couple words together, and assign to them a conmion r<^ 
 gimen, when use will not admit that they be construed iu the same 
 inanoer. 
 
 lUus. ** Will it be urged that the four gospels arc as old., or even ol- 
 der Uinn tradition.f" The v^ords as old and o/t/er cannot have a com- 
 mon regimen. The one requires to be followed by the coujunctiou as, 
 the other by than. 
 
 V. The connexion between the preposition and the noun or pro- 
 noun governed by it, is so intimate, that there cannot be a reference to 
 the one without theother The words to whichnre rightly construed willi 
 the passive participle, but the construction is which with the active verb. 
 
 VI. The repetition of the relative, in all sentences, makes the inser- 
 tion of the personal pronoun necessary. 
 
 Jllus. Both these rules are transgressrd in the sentence, " few tal- 
 ents to which most men are not born, or at least may not acquire,' 
 whii:h ought to run thus, *• or which at least they may not ac<(uire.'' 
 
 Corol. A part of a complex tense means nothing without the rest of 
 the tense ; therefore the rest of the tense ought always to be found in 
 the sentpuce. 
 
 VII. In tlie syntax of nouns, expressions which can only be right!, - 
 caustrued with a preposition, should never be without tlicir prop 
 legiimen. 
 
 • In lo^c the copula is the woi-d vhich unites the subject ant! predicate of a propo- 
 sition. 
 
 ; Boliub. l»hil. i:ss. IV. c. 19. 
 
Ms it respects Impropriety and Idioiism. 69 
 
 Vin. As regularity in the management of prepositions implies a pro- 
 )«f choice of these particles, their omission is a great blemish when 
 their presence is required. 
 
 The wrong choice of prepositions suggests the necessity of not using 
 as synonymous such as rarely admit the same construction, 
 
 IX. Inaccuracies in the applications of the conjunctions and ad- 
 verbs, arise from want of attention to those little things which ought 
 not to be altogether disregarded by any writer. 
 
 Carol. The words of the language constitute the materials with 
 nhich the orator must work; the rules of the language teach hira by 
 A>hat management those materials are rendered useful. But purity is 
 using rightly the words of the language by a careful observance of the 
 rules. It is, therefore, justly considered as essential to all the other 
 graces of expression. Ilence, not only perspicuity and vivacity, bufc 
 4;ven elegance and animation d'.;rive a lustre. 
 
 112. The impropriety is. the thii'd and last class of 
 faults against purity. The barbarism is an offence against 
 etijmologi/j the solecism against syntaXy the improjmety 
 against lexicography, 
 
 Obs. The impropriety, then, may be in application of single words, 
 or of phrases ; but as none but those who are grossly ignorant of our 
 tongue, can niisappl^"^ the words that have no affinity to those whose 
 place they are made to occui)y, we shall only take notice of those im- 
 proprieties, into which a writer is apt unwarily to be seduced by some 
 resemblance or proximity in sound or sense, or both. 
 
 I. By proximity of sound some are misled to use the word observa- 
 nt for ^' observance." When io cbserve signifies " to remark," the 
 
 verbal noun is observation, when it signifies '' to obey," or" to keep," 
 the verbal is obserrance. 
 
 II. Endurance for " duration." The former properly signifies *' pa- 
 tience" as applied to suffering ; the latter means '< lasting" as applied 
 to time. 
 
 III. Ceremonious and '^ ceremonial" are distinguished thus : they 
 come from the same noun ceremony, which signifies both a form of ci- 
 -iHfy, and a religious rite. The e[)ithet expressive of the first signifi- 
 
 ■ i\oi\ h ceremonious, of the second ceremoninl. 
 
 iV . When genius denotes mental abilities, its plural is '•'■ geniuses,^ 
 and not genii, a term which denotes spirits or demons, good or bad. 
 
 113. Of improprieties arising from a similitude in sense^ 
 ^\ e have, 
 
 I. Vtra<iUij,\\?,QA for " reality." In strict propriety the word is on- 
 ?y applicable to persons, and signifies not physical, but moral truth. 
 
 II. Invention, for "discovery." One discovers truth; another in- 
 vents /a/5e/tooc?5. x\. machinisl invents, an observer discovers. 
 
 III. Verdict, (oY "testimony." h. witness gives his testimony; the 
 jury give their verdict. 
 
 IV^ Risible, for *• ridiculous." The former hath an active, the lat- 
 ter a passive signification. Thus, Ave say, " man is a risible animal." 
 "• A fop is a ridiculous character." 
 
 V. The word together often supplies the place of successively. The 
 resemblance which continuity in time bears to continuity in place, is 
 ihe source of this impropriety. ^Vhen the Spectator says. " I do not 
 
70 Grammatical Puriiy, 
 
 reinfmber that I ever spoke three sentences together in my whole life/* 
 
 propiiety teat hcs his reader to substitute successively lor '^ togethiSr. ' 
 
 VI Ereriasfing for " eternity." The only proper sense of the for- 
 
 iner word is time without end ; the hater denotes time without begiic- 
 
 VIJ. .^pparcni, for " certain," " manifest," is often equivocal. By 
 jnah)iry, seeming is opposed to real ; lisibtt to cancealtd. And hence, 
 ilso, " to make aj pear," for to prurc, to evince, to .shun:, i> impr©per. 
 \ sophist may make a thing appear to be what it - at this is 
 
 ^ ory different from showing wliat it is. 
 
 114. The idiotism, or the employing of an English word 
 in a sense which it bears in some provincial dialect, in low 
 din] partial use, or which, }>erhaps t!ie corresponding word 
 K*ars in some foreign tongue, but unsupported by general 
 use in our own language, belongs to the class of improprie- 
 lies now under consideration, (.^rt. 102.J 
 
 1. Impracticable for ** impassable," when applied to roads, is an ap- 
 l)lication which suits the French, but not the Engli>ii idiom. 
 
 II. Decompound for " analyse." To decompound is ^' to compound 
 of materials already compounded :" to ftualr!^c is to resolve a com- 
 pound into its first princii»lc^ 
 
 in 7'o flrrirc for '• happ«-i isfortunes 
 
 '<(i})pen to man. 
 
 IV. To hold ^U :nio 
 or **to adopt." 
 
 Obs. Gallicisms, Latinisms, and vulgarisms, result from atVectation; 
 ocdjintry, and ignorance. {Obs. Mrt. 85.) 
 
 V. I'he Pleonasm, coupled with ambiguity, is the highest degree of 
 //omrr/ica/ expression ; as, '• the general report is, that /tc should have 
 tid ;" for, *' that he said." What a man said, Is often very different- 
 loiu what ho should have said ; hence the pleonasm of the auxiliaries, 
 
 .-.hould have," conveys also uu ftnil>i^uity 
 
 Obs. These remarks on the idiulhin,do nox extend to satiic and bur- 
 sfjue, {Obs.Jrt. 105.) in which a vulgar, or even what is callcfl a cant 
 Kpression, will sometimes be more einphatical (Ann ;iny ju-!- t ^ 
 \hatever; as in tiiese lines of Pope : 
 
 Whcdicv the charmer sinner it or saint ii 
 If folly grows i-omanlic, 1 must i»aint ii. 
 
 VI. I IK iiorivatives fhlsencss, falsity, falsehood, i ; : . ; ... , , 
 .ro often by mistake employed for one another, thou^ii in the bcit use 
 iioy are evidently distinguished. 
 
 fllus. 1. Falseness is properly used, in a moral sense, for want ol 
 > eracity, and applied only to persons : the other two arc a])plied onh 
 o things. 
 
 2. Fal.'iity denotes that quality in the abstract, which may be defined 
 ontrariety to truth, as an error arising in a demonstration fiom false 
 >remises in the proposition. 
 
 3. Falsehood is au untrue assertion. 
 
 V'll. J\'cgligence is improperly used for " nc-.jc l 1;,^ iw, 
 pliis habit, tiie latter denotes act. 
 
 Vlll. Co7isr/e?ice for *• consciousness." Tlie former dcuotci!: ; 
 ulty. the hitter a particular exertion. 
 
Tis it respects the Idiotism and Vulgarism, ,-1 
 
 1%. Sophisrn, for " sophistry." The fonmir dpnotes di fallacious ar- 
 I anient, the latter fallacious reasoning. 
 
 X. Remember, for " remind." Ave are reminded, by others: wc re- 
 member o/owr^e/re^. 
 
 XI. Plenty, for <• plentiful." The latter is an adjective, the for^ier, 
 ^ noun. The misapplication of either is a ?>ross vulgarism.^ 
 
 XIJ. Doctrines, for '< precepts." The former are credarZa, which 
 we are required to believe ; the latter, we are called ofi to obey, as 
 rules of life. 
 
 115. The VULGARISM springs from ar affectation of an 
 €asj, familiar, and careless manner of writing ; but it is an 
 error to imagine, that tlie less paiu,^ one bestows upon style, 
 it must appear the more natural, 
 
 Obs. 1. Ease is one thing^, carelessness another ; and the former is 
 most commonly the result of the greatest care. It is like ease in mo- 
 tion, which, though originalif the effect of discipline, when once it 
 hath become habitual, has a more simple and more natural appear- 
 ance, than is to be obs*»'i ved in any manner which untutored nature 
 can produce. 
 
 But ease ib writing flows from art. not chance ; 
 As those uiove easiest who have icarnt to dauce.* 
 
 116. The love o^ novelty, and a fondness for variety, are 
 the t\v<? sources whence flow those numerous inadvertencies 
 v--itli which the style of many writers is chargeable. (Art, 
 78, Itlus.) . 
 
 Illus. 1. The fonrier, whe;i excessive, tends directly to misg-uide us, 
 hy making us disdain the beaten track, for no other reason but because 
 it is the bealen track. The idea of vulgarity, in the imaginations of 
 those who are affected with this principle, is connected with every 
 thing that is conceived as customary. The genuine issue of this ex- 
 treme, is, not oidy improprieties, but even absurdities, and fustian and 
 bombast. 
 
 2. The latter, to wit, a fondness for variety, provlaceth often the 
 snnie effect, though more indirectly. It begets an immoderate dread 
 of becoming tedious, by repeating too frequently the same sound. lu 
 order to avoid this, a writer resolves, at any rate, to diversily his 
 style, let it cost what it will. But this fancied excellence usually costs 
 more than it is v.'orth ; for to it, very often, propriety and perspicuity 
 are both sacrificed. 
 
 Obs. From these illustrations, we derive the following criteria : — 
 
 Crit. I. The mind is fatigued by the frequent recurrence of the same 
 idea : tluit performance which grows dull as we advance, is charge- 
 able with an excess of uniformity. 
 
 Corol. If, therefore, there be a remarkable paucity of ideas, a diver- 
 sity of words will not answer the purpose, or give to ihe work the ap- 
 pearance of variety. 
 
 li. On the contrary, when an author is at great pains to vary his 
 iRxpressions, and for this purpos'> ever deserts the common road, he 
 V'ill. to an intelligent read* r, br.t the more expose his poverty; the mor** 
 
 * Pope's Imitations. 
 
1 Impropriety in Phrases and Precision. 
 
 he is solicitous to conceal k. You will discover this penni y, when a»v 
 author is always recurring to such words as custom hath appropriu- 
 ied to purposes different from those for which we use them. 
 
 117. Impropriety in phrases is ascertained, when the 
 expression, on being grammatically analysed, is discovered 
 to contain some inconsistency. 
 
 Jllus. 1. Such is the phrase of all others, after the superlative degree, 
 which, when int^^ipretcd by the rules of English syntax, implies rt 
 thins; different from itself; as it " celebrates the Church of Englanct 
 as the most perfect of ftU others.''* Properly, cither — " as more per- 
 fect than any other ;" — ftr, ^< as the most perfect of all churches." 
 
 2. On this principle, Miltcn falls into an impropriety iu thc?T^ 
 w ords : — 
 
 - - - Ai\am, 
 The comeliest man of nion shut ^^rn 
 His totut. The faiivst of her dave,lifcvt, Eve.t 
 
 - - - - The lovviicsl pgjr 
 That ever since in love's embraces inet4 
 
 3. The general laws of the language, whicii constitute the most vr 
 tensive and important use, may be pleaded agaiitst these expressions 
 Now it is one principal method of purifying a langT«;ige, to lay aside- 
 -uch idioms as are inconsistent with its radical princffJcs and consti- 
 tuent rules ; or as, when interpreted by such principlf^s nnd rules, ex- 
 hibit manifest nonsense. Nor does the least inconvenience i^ult from 
 lais conduct, as we can be at no loss to find expressions of our ir-oan- 
 ing altogether as natural, and entirely unexceptionable. 
 
 4. '* Than the rest o/our neighbours," is an improfwiety which may 
 be corrected by omitting the words in Itp.lics. And when Swift, in big 
 voyage to Brobdignag, says, *' I had like >« have gotten one or two 
 broken heads ;" one unavoidably asks, " how many heads be had on 
 his body .'"' That '* once or twice'' he had like to have got his head 
 broken tor his impertinence, one can easily conceive. 
 
 5. One thing may be cut into two or more ; but it is inconceivable, 
 that by rutting, two or more things should be made one. We cannot 
 iherefore speaiL of shortening discourse, *' by cutting polysyllables 
 iuto one<§." 
 
 r>. A wrong, wilfully committed, is no mistake. The words used in 
 \he following sentence, are therefore incompatible : — ^' I have not wil' 
 /tJ/^ committed the least mistakej]." 
 
 7. A pure limpid stream cannot also be foul with stains ; therefore 
 the following lines, 
 
 So the fmre limpid stream, >» hen /oi// itith stains. 
 Of rushing torrents and descendiiig rains?, 
 
 involve in them an absurdity, rather than an impropriety. 
 
 8. When an author says one thing aud means another, his fault may 
 be class«Hl with impropriety in phrases ; or it may come under the ar- 
 .ticle of perspicuity. 
 
 9 It is an incongruity in the combination of words, to speak of 
 ^'falling into a man's conversation** ;" and to "/a// into conversation 
 
 * SwilVs Apology for the Tale of a Tub. t Paradist- Lost t Il>it'. b. in 
 
 § " Voxa^e to Laputa." j! Swifts •' Remarks oa the Barrier Trearv,** 
 
 *I Addison's Cato. *• Spectator, No» 49. 
 
Intproprieiy in Phrases and Precision, 75 
 
 fijilh a man*," is little better than tlie impropriety in another dress V 
 for grammatical purity, the most essential ol ail the virtues of elocu- 
 tion, would teach another construction. 
 
 1 1 8, Precision is the last ingredient of perspiouity. 
 Precision means, that all redundant phraseology shall, with- 
 out hesitation, be expunged ; and that no more words and 
 phrases, however pure and proper, shall be employed, than 
 are necessary to convey the meaning. 
 
 JUus. The exact import of precision, may be drawn from the ety* 
 mology of the word. It comes from '^ pra^cidere," to cut off: it im- 
 ports retrenching all superfluities, and pruning- the expression so as to 
 exhibit neither more or less than an exact copy of his idea who uses it. 
 It is often ditiicult to separate the quantities of style from the qualities 
 of thought ; and it is found so in this instance ; for, in order to write 
 witii precision, though this be properly a quality of style, one most 
 possess a very considerable degree of distinctness and accuracy in i\is 
 manner of thinking. (Arl. 74. CoroL) 
 
 119. The words which a man uses to express his ideas 
 may be faulty in three respects ; they may either not ex- 
 press that idea which the author intends, but some other 
 v/hich only resembles, or is a-kin to it ; or, they may ex- 
 press that idea, but not quite fully and completely ; or, they 
 may express it, together with something more than he in- 
 tends. 
 
 lilus. 1. Precision stands opposed to all these three faults ; but chief- 
 ly to the last. In an author's writing with propriety, his bei«)g free 
 from the two former faults seems implied. The words which he uses 
 are proper ; that is, they express that idea which he intends, and they 
 express it fully ; but to be precise, signifies, that thoy express that 
 idea, ftvid no more. There is nothing in his words v.'hich introduces 
 auy forel^^v idea, any superfluous, unseasonable accessory, so as to 
 mix it confuseCtW vvidj the principal object, and thereby to render otir 
 conception of that vAiect loose and indistinct. Tiiis requires a writer 
 to have, himself, a very c\>^c,,. apprehension of the object he means to 
 represent to us ; to have laid ia^ hold of it in his mind ; and never to 
 waver in any one view he takes of u > ^ perfection to which, indeed^ 
 few writers attain. 
 
 2. The following examples possess all the ingredier-.ig now specified. 
 " Those who live in the world, and in good company, at* qaicksi<Tht- 
 ed with regard to every defect or singularity in behaviour ; the ellg^ht- 
 est irregularity in motion, in speech, or in dress, which, to a peasant, 
 would be invisible, escapes not their observation." — " The very pop- 
 ulace in Athens, were critics in pronunciation, in language, and even 
 in eloquence ; and in Rome at present, the most illiterate shop-keeper 
 is a better judge of statues and of pictures, than many persons of re- 
 fined education in Londonf." No word or phrase is wanting ; na 
 word or phrase is superfluous ; all are pure and'&.U are proper. 
 
 * Campbell's Phil, of Rhet. Vol. I Book ii. Chap.4ii. 
 t Lord Kame's iilements of Cnticism. 
 
74 Grammatical Purity 
 
 120. The use and importance of precision, may be deda- 
 ceil from the nature of the human mind. It can never view, 
 clearly and distinctly, above one object at a time. If it 
 must look at two or three together, especially objects among 
 which there is a resemblance or connexion, it finds itself 
 confused and embarrassed. It cannot clearly perceive in 
 what they agree, and in what they dift'er. 
 
 [llus. Thus, were any object, suppose some animal, to be presented 
 to mo, of whose structure 1 wanted to form a distinct notion, I would 
 desire all its trap{>ings to be taken oft', 1 would require it to be brought 
 before nie by itself, and to stand alone, that there might be nothing^ to 
 ♦listract my attention. The same is the case v.ith words. If, when 
 you would inform me of your meaning, you also tell me more than 
 what conveys it ; if you join foreii^n circumstances to th ? principal 
 object ; if, by unnecessarily varying^ the expression, you shift the 
 point of view, and make me see sometimes the object itself, and some- 
 times ajjother thino^ that is connected with it ; you thereby oblijsre 
 mc to look on several objects at once, and 1 lose sight of the principal. 
 You load the animnl you are shewing me, with so many trappings and 
 collars, and bring so many of the same species before me, somewhat 
 resembling, and yet somewhat differing, that 1 sec none of them 
 clearly.* 
 
 121. Tiiis forms what is called a loose style ; a:.;! i^ ^he 
 proper opposite to precision. It generally arises from using 
 a superfluity of wonls. Feeble writers employ n multitude 
 of words to make themselves understood, as they think, 
 more distinctly ; and they only confound the reader. 
 
 Illns. They arc sensible of not having caught the precise expression, 
 to convey %\hat they would signify ; they do not, indeed, conceive 
 their own moaning very prccisolv themselves ; and, therefore, hdp U 
 out, as they can, by this and the other word, which may, as tb^v sup- 
 ))ose, supply the delVrt, and bring you somewhat nearer 'Vi their idea : 
 thov arc always going about it and about it, l)ut j>rver just bit the 
 thing. The imago, as they set it before you, •'* always seen double ; 
 and'^no double image is distinct. VVh**" «'»n author tells me of his 
 hcros courai^c in the day of battle, the expression is precise, and I 
 understand it fullv. But if from the desire of mnltiplying words, he 
 must needs praise, his courage anrl fortitude ; at the moment he joins 
 these words to*<f thor, my idea begias to waver. He means to express 
 one qualit'' more strongly ; but he is, in truth, expressing two. Coit- 
 y.'^rrfi roslsts daHgor; fortitude supports pain. The occasion of exert- 
 ing each of these qualities is different ; and being led to think of both 
 together, when only one of them should be before me. my view is ren- 
 dered unsteady, and my conception of the objects indistinct. 
 
 Carol. Front what has been said, it appears that an author may, in 
 a qualified sense, be perspicuous, while yet he is far from being pre- 
 rise He uses proper words, and proper arrangement ; he gives you 
 »!ie idea as clear as he conceives it himself ; and so far he is perspic- 
 uous : but the i^eas are not very clear in his own mind : they are 
 
 * Blair's Lect. on Rhet. Vol. ^. 
 
as it respects Precision. 75 
 
 -loose and g-cneral ; and, therefore, cannot be expressed with precision. 
 Ail subjects do not equally require precision. It is sullicient, oij many 
 occasions, that we have u general view of the meaning- The subject, 
 perhaps, is of the known and familiar kind ; and we arc in no hazard 
 of mistaking the sense of the author, though every word which he uses 
 be not precise and exact. 
 
 122. Precision is frequently violated by the introduction 
 of {supernumerary words and phrases, (lllus. XyCind 2.j ; but 
 chiefly by the accumulation of those which are either nearly 
 synonymous, or which, though not synonymous, include the 
 signification of one another. (A.it, 123.) 
 
 Illas. 1. " I should be glad to know what intervals of life such per* 
 sons can possibly set apart for the improvement of their minds'*." The 
 adverb possibly is superfluous. It suggests no meaning not implied in 
 the auxiliary c«?i, which denotes all the power or capacity of an agent, 
 
 2. '• The pleasures of imagination are rnore preferable than those (>f 
 sense or intellectf." — '• The very slightest singularity^." More is su- 
 perfluous, when added to preferable, and very is the same when added 
 to slig/ilest. Preferable, and slightest, express every idea contained in 
 ■more preferable, and very slighlest. These redundances are derived 
 from conversation, the vulgarities and inaccuracies of which frequent- 
 ly insinuate themselves insensibly into our written language. 
 
 123. The more frequent violations of precision, those 
 indeed more difficult to be avoided and corrected, are of the 
 second class, and appear when words or phrases are intro- 
 duced, which have their meaning anticipated by the general 
 sense, or by other words of the sentence. 
 
 lUus. 1. Horace himself is not altogether unexceptionable. 
 
 *' Q.uod si me vatibus Lyricis inseres, 
 Sublimi feriam sldei*a vtvtice."" 
 
 The adjective sublivii is j-crfectly agreeable in sound, nay, necessary 
 to complete the versification, but it is superfluous in communicating- 
 the sense ; because, after acquainting us that his head would strike 
 ihe stars, the poet had no need to add, that it would be raised \cry high. 
 ,2. Addison begins the tragedy of Cato with a series of tautologies. 
 
 '• The dawn is overcast, the morning low'vs, 
 And heavily in clouds brings on the day, 
 '1 he great, the important day, big with the fate 
 Of Cato and of Rome." 
 
 in the first two lines, the same sentiment is three times repeated iu 
 different words. '' The dawn is overcast," means no more llian " the 
 morning lowers," and both these phrases denote exactly the same 
 sense with the line that follows, " and heavily in clouds brings on the 
 day." Three synonymous words appear in the third line ; " the great, 
 the important day, big with the fate." The author might as well have 
 repeated any one of these words three times, had it not been for ihp 
 sake of the measure. 
 
 3. What is farther remarkable, is, titat this o^^araple points out one 
 #f the classical sources from which Addison derived many of the splen^ 
 
 * S\vift. tAdcIisoo, I Elemems of Cntieisoa. 
 
r I) Grammatical Ptirliyy 
 
 tlid sentiments of this work. Lucan introduces the day on which the 
 battle of Phaisalia was fought, in terms, wh'ch leave no room to doubt ^ 
 tliat Addison had the description in his " minds eye," when he began 
 «he trag^edy oi Cato. 
 
 *• Se;^iiior oceaiio quam lex eterna vocabat, 
 I.uctificus Titan, nunqiiam niagis tttlitTa contra 
 Kgil equos. currunjque. polo ra])itnte. rt-torsit. 
 DeffCtiisque pati volnit, rapt;»:qiie labores 
 Lucis ; et attraxit nubes, non pahula tiamnxx; 
 Si-d n«.- Thcssalico purus luct-rct in orbe." 
 
 It was unlucky that Ad'Jison could appropriate no circumstance of 
 'his magnificent description, but the one he has selected : the dark- 
 ;iess of the morning, resulting from the quantity and thickness of the 
 ' loiids, which induced him, perhaps, to dwell on it to excess. 
 
 Obs. J. Cicero, in his orations to the people, seems to have been 
 _ uided by the opinion, that full, flowing, and copious diction, was most 
 > ongruous to the taste, and best a lapted to lead the resolutions, of a 
 poj»ular audience ; but, that it was less correct in itself, that it was un- 
 -iiiiiable to the oratory of tiie senate, and that it was still more discord- 
 :int with the style of his philosophical and critical works. 
 
 2. His great master, Demosthenes, in addressing similar audiences, 
 never had recourse to a similar expedient. He avoide<i redundances, 
 IS equivocal and feeble. He aimed only to make the deepest and most 
 ' flicient impression ; and he employed for this purpose, the plainest, 
 iie fewest, and the most emphatic words. '• ifupernumerary wordb 
 .nay swell a period, or captivate, tiie ear, but they inust diminish the 
 rlTect upon the understanding or the heart.""* (§ V.p. 70.) 
 
 /////.?. 1. In sujjport of these remarks, we shall select some passages 
 from the orations of Cicero against Cataline, addressed to tlie people. 
 
 '* Multi sa^pe honores diis immortalibus, jasti, habiti sunt, ac debili ; 
 -cd profecto justlores nunquam. Erepti enim ex crudellssimo ac mi- 
 ! errimo intentu, et erepti sine caide, sine sanguine, sine cxcrcitu, sine 
 dimicationc, me uno, togato duce et imperatore, vicisti.;.*' 
 
 The words, ** ca'de, sanguine, excrcitu, dimicatione," are not synon- 
 '. mous, yet do they virtually include the me.4.ning of one another, and 
 'herefore multiply words, without impressing or extending the mean- 
 ing, without completing or embellishing the picture. 
 
 Again. If there was no slaughter, it was unnecessary to add, that 
 )io blood was shed ; aud if there was no army, there could be neither 
 .laughter, blood, nor lighting. He might as well have subjoined many 
 '<iher puerilities ; as, " without marching, without swords, without 
 dust, without fatigue." Besides the quaintness of supj)osing' himself a 
 general " without an army," expressed in the clause, " me uno, toga- 
 to duce et imperatore," duct and imperatore are perfectly synonymous, 
 iud one of them is therefore superlluous. 
 
 2. '• Neque nos unquam, dum iile in urbe hostis fuisset, tantis peri- 
 4ndis rempublicam, tanta pace, tanto otio, tanto silentio, iiberassemus." 
 'J'he words, " otio, silentio, pa.ce," like those specified in the j)recedino 
 example, all imply the signification of one another : they swell the pe- 
 riod ; they detain the same idea in view ; but tiiey convey no additional 
 information. 
 
 3. Tillotson is among the most remarkable of English writers of re^ 
 putation, for the profuse use of synonymous teims : as, for example, 
 tjic following. 
 
as it respects Precision. 77 
 
 *' Acquiesce, and rest satisfied with." — " Upon the testimony and 
 relation of others." — " Governed and conducted,*' — " Corruption and 
 degeneracy." — " Embroiled and disordered." — " Wavering- and un- 
 settled." — '* Apprehensions and fears." — " Support n\.d bear up." — 
 *' Positive and peremptory." — *' Special and particular." 
 
 4. Kven some late authors of great eminence, will not, perhaps, be 
 admitted to be altogether exempt from reprehension. " 1 am certain 
 and confident, that the account 1 have given is true." — " Many excur- 
 sions, fortuitous and unguided, have been made." — " A word is unfa- 
 miliar by disuse, and unpleasant by unfamiliarity." 
 
 In the first of these examples, the words, " certain" and " confi- 
 deiit ;" in the second, " fortuitous" and '• unguided ;" and in the third, 
 ''disuse" and " unfamiliarity," will be held by nice critics, to be either 
 too nearly synonymous, or to include too much the meaning of one an- 
 other, to permit, with propriety, their being placed in juxta-position iu 
 the same sentence, (^rt. 113.' § VII.) 
 
 Scholia 1. It is observed by Barrow, that these accumulations of 
 words may perhaps appear, in part, to result from the deficiency of 
 language, which supplies not a pertinent word for every idea ; but they 
 are much more the offspring- of indistinct apprehension in the authors. 
 When our ideas are not clear, our expression savours of similar em- 
 barrassment. As we do not perceive completely what we intend to 
 communicate, we multiply words, concluding, most erroneous!}', that 
 the meaning- is more lully and accurately expressed, and that the 
 chance is greater of our being better understood. We do not attem{)t 
 to remove the origin of the error — the obscurity of our thoughts ; we 
 do not attend to this fact, that the deepest impression is made when no 
 more words are employed than are necessary to convey the sense, and 
 that every superfluous expression contributes to confound, not to en- 
 lighten the understanding. " Obstat quicquid non adjuvat,"* 
 
 2. But a considerable number of words, either synonymous, or near- 
 ly so, in a language, is so far from being a blemish, or a cause of dis- 
 order, that they are a source of much convenicncy, and even of some 
 pleasure. They enable us to infuse variety into style ; and to prcvojt 
 the monotony which arises from the too frequent recurrence of the 
 same sound. These changes of words, and modulation, constitute the 
 richness of a language, and the writer possesses important advantages, 
 who finds his endeavours to improve his composition, seconded by the 
 structure of the tongue which he employs. 
 
 o. Yet the number of synonymous words is not so great in any lan- 
 guage as is commonly supposed. Few people are at much pains to as- 
 certain the meaning of the words they use ; or to inquire whether the 
 sense which they affix to any word, is tlic most pertinent, or adopted 
 by the most accurate judges. Even authors frequently assign their 
 o-»vn meaning- to their words, without inquiring scrupulously, whether 
 it is the most classical, or the most proper. They generally infer, 
 that the reader's opinion will coinc;;'- with their own, or that he will 
 easily perceive the difference : gz iiiat no ambiguity shall arise. 
 
 4. For these reasons, synT>nyiiious words are supposed more numer- 
 ous than they are, and nmch more so than nicety of criticism will ad 
 mit. Authors, on one hand, are careless in the meanings which they 
 ailir to words. The critics, on the other, are too refined, in establish- 
 ing meanings, which even accurate authors neither remember nor ap- 
 
 * (\nHictlUan. 
 
78 Grammatical Purity, 
 
 ply. The i.ibours of the critic may excite attention, and diminish iin* 
 proprieties ; but they cannot expect that practice will realize, in any 
 lanji^uage, the nice distinctions, or refined raricties. which they may 
 have endeavoured to introduce. 
 
 124. The instances which are given in the following illus- 
 trations, may themselves be of use ; and thej v. ill serve to 
 shew the necessity of attending, with care and strictness, to 
 the exact import of words, if ever we would write with pro- 
 priety or precision. 
 
 Tlhis. 1. Jusferih/, strtrUjj, rigour. Austerity relates to the manner 
 ol living-; severity, of thinUing^ ; rigour, of punishing. To austerity, is 
 opposed eircminacy ; to severity, relaxation ; to ri«;our, clemency. A 
 hermit is austere in his life ; a casuist, severe in his application of re- 
 jigion or law ; a jud^c, rigorous in his sentences. 
 
 2. Cusloni. habit. Custom, respects the action ; habit, the actor. 
 By custom, we mean the frequent repetition of the same act ; by habit^ 
 the efiect which that repetition producRs on the mind or body. By the 
 custom of walking- often in the streets, one acquires a habit of idleness, 
 
 o. Surprised, nslonishcdj amaztd, ronfounded. I am surprised, with 
 what is new or unexpected ; I am astonished, at what is vast or great ; 
 } am amazed, with what is incomprehensible ; I am confounded, by 
 w hat is shocking or terrible.- 
 
 4. Dcaisly renounce, quit, hart off . Each of these words implies, 
 ' ome pursuit or object relinquished ; but from different motives. \Vc 
 
 iesist, trom the <lifficulty of accomplishing. We renoumce, ou account 
 of the disagreeableness of the object, or pursuit. We quit, for the 
 sake of some other thing which interests us more ; and we leave oiT, 
 because we are weary of the design. A politician desists from his de- 
 signs, when he finds they are impracticable ; he renounces the court, 
 
 uM'ause he has been affronted by it ; he quits ambition for study or 
 retirement ; and leaves off his attendance on the great, as he becomes 
 old and weary of it. 
 
 5. Pride^vanilr/. Pridf, makes us esteem oiusclves : vanity, makes 
 \is desire the esteem of others. It is just to i ' i ^jwift has 
 done, that a man is too proud to be vain. 
 
 0. Iluufrhliness, disdain. Haughtiness, is founded on tiie high opin- 
 io<i we entertain of ourselves ; disdain, on the low opinion we have of 
 others. 
 
 7. To dislina;uish, to separate. We distinguish, what we do not want 
 to confound with another thing ; we separate, what uo want to remove 
 from it. Objrcts are distinguished from one another, by their qualilies. 
 They are separated, by the distance ol time or place. 
 
 8. To Jcean/, tofatig}ie. The contiauance of the same thing wearie^ 
 us; labour fatigues us. I am weary with standing; I am fatigued 
 with walking. A suitor wearies us by his perseverance; fatigues us 
 by his importunity. 
 
 9. To abhor, io detest. To abhor, imports, simply, strong dislike ; 
 to detest, imports also, strong disapprobation. One abhors being in 
 debt ; he detests treacliery. 
 
as it respects Precision* 79 
 
 10. To invent, to discover. Wc invent tliiiig^s that are new ; we dis- 
 cover what was before hidden. Galileo invented the telescope j Har- 
 vey discovered the circulation of the blood. 
 
 11. Onli/y alone. Only, imports that there is no other of the same 
 kind ; alone, imports being^ accompanied by no other. An only child, 
 is one who has neither brother nor sister ; a child alone, is one who is 
 left by itself. There is a difference, therefore, in precise language, 
 betwixt these two phrases, " virtue only makes us happy ;" and, '* vir- 
 tue alone makes us happy." Virtue only makes us happy, imports, 
 that nothing else can do it. Virtue alone makes us happy, imports, 
 that virtue, by itself, or unaccompanied with other advantages, is 
 sufficient to do it. (Coral. Jlrt. 150.) 
 
 12. Entire, complete. A thii-g- is entire, by wanting none of its 
 parts ; complete, by wanting none of the appendages that belong to 
 it. A man may have an entire house to himself; and yet not have 
 one complete apartment. 
 
 13. Tranqxtillity, peace, calm. Tranquillity respects a situation free 
 from trouble, considered in itself; peace, the same situation with re- 
 spect to any causes that might interrupt it ; calm, with regard to a 
 disturbed situation going before, or following it. A good man enjoys 
 tranquillity, in himself; peace, with others; and calm, after the 
 storm. 
 
 14. A difficulty, an obstacle. A difficulty, embarrasses ; an obstacle, 
 stops us. We remove the one ; we surmount the other. Generally, 
 the first, expresses somewhat arising from the nature an<l circumstan- 
 ces of the affair ; the second, somewhat arising from a foreign cause. 
 Fhilip tound difficulty in managing the Athenians, from the nature of 
 their dispositions ; but the eloquence of Demosthenes was the greatest 
 obstacle to his designs. 
 
 15. Wisdom, prudence. Wisdom, leads us to speak and act what i» 
 most proper. Prudence, prevents our speaking or acting improperly. 
 A wise man, employs the most proper means for success; a prudent 
 man, the safest means for not being brought into danger. 
 
 \i\. Know^h, sufficient. Enough, relates to the quantity which one 
 wishes to have of any thing; sufiicicnt, relates to the use that is to be 
 made of it. Hence, enough, generally imports a greater quantity 
 than sufficie<it does. The covetous man never has enough; although 
 he has what is sufficient for nature. (§ VH. p. 70.) 
 
 17. To avow, to acknowledge, to confess. Each of these words im- 
 ports the affirmation of a fact, but in very different circumstances. To 
 avow, supposes the person to glory in it ; to acknowledge, supposes a 
 small degree of fauhiness, which the acknowledgement compensates; 
 to confess, supposes a higher degree of crime. A patriot avows his 
 opposition to a bad minister, and is applauded ; a gentleman ac- 
 knowledges his mistake, and is forgiven; a prisoner confesses the 
 crime he is accused of, and is punished. 
 
 18. To remark, to observe. We remark, in the way of attention, in 
 order to remember ; we observe, in the way of examination, in order 
 to judge. A traveller remarks the most striking objects he sees ; a 
 general observes all the motions of his enemy. (§ /. p. f>9.) 
 
 19 Equivocal^ ambiguous. An equivocal expression is one which 
 lias one s^nse op«n; and designed to be understood : another sense 
 
 8 
 
B(J Grammatical Purity, fyc, 
 
 concealed, and understood only by the person who uses it. An anr 
 biguous expression, is one which has apparently two senses, and leaves 
 us at a loss which of them to give it. An equivocal cpression, is 
 used with an intention to deceive; an ambiguous one, when it is used 
 with design, is with an intention not to give full information. An 
 honest man will never employ an equivocal expression ; a confused 
 man may often utter ambiguous ones, without any design. I ihall 
 give only one instance more. {Art. 113.) 
 
 20. With, by. Both these particles express the connexion between 
 some instrument, or means of efiecting an end, and the agent who 
 employs it; but with, expresses a more close and immediate connex- 
 ion ; by, a more remote one. We kill a man with a sword ; he dies 
 by violence. The criminal is bound with ropes by the exec :tioner. 
 
 'J'hc proper distinction in the use of these particles, is elegantly 
 marked in a passage of Dr. Robertson's History of Scotland. When 
 one of the old Scottish kings was making an inquiry into the tenure 
 by which his nobles held their lands, they started up and drew their 
 swords : *' By these," said they, *' we acquired our lands, and with 
 these we will defend them." — *' By these we acquired our lands," sig- 
 nifies the more remote n-eans of acquisition by force and martial 
 deed; and, "with these we will defend thcin," signifies the immediate 
 direct instrument, the sword, which they would emplov in their dc 
 fence. (§ VIJI. p. 10.) 
 
 Obs. These are instances of words in our language, which, 
 less writers, are apt to be employed as perfectly synonymous, and yet 
 are not so. Their significations approach, but are not precisely the 
 same. The more the distinction in the meaning of such words is 
 weighed, and attended to, the more clearly and forcibly shall we 
 speak or write.* 
 
 • The Abbe Girard's Synonymes Francoises, conlains a large colleotron of such ap- 
 parent s>noiiymt^s in the langnapi'. The Abbt s»hous, with much acciiracj. the dil- 
 iVnuce in their siu^nificaiion. Nothing: >\ould contribute more to precise and clepfant 
 vritiiic^, than attention to the force of >voi-ds.and to the several distinctions betvixt 
 'fprms accuvnitcd synonymous in our own language. 
 
ON THE NATURE AND STRUCTURE OF SEN- 
 TENCES, THE GENERAL PRINCIPLES OF 
 PERSPICUITY, AND THE HARMONY OF 
 PERIODS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OF THE NATURE OF SENTENCES AND PERIODS. 
 
 125. HITHERTO we have investigated the nature of 
 words detached and unconnected, in the same manner as 
 an architect selects and prepares the materials of an edi- 
 lice. We are now, like the same artist, to delineate the 
 plan of execution, or to point out the most proper conjunc- 
 tion and adaptation of the materials to accomplish the end 
 in view. 
 
 Obs. As the best materials for building will not form a convenient 
 and elesjant habitation, unless they are adjusted on a proper plan, so 
 ' the purest and best chosen words will not constitute a perspicuous and 
 beautiful sentence, unless they are properly arranged. But before we 
 take up this branch of the subject, it is requisite to premise some ob- 
 servations on the nature of sentences and periods, and to unfold the 
 principles which should regulate their composition, (§ IX. Co?'. p. 69.) 
 
 126. The tevm^ sentence and /?erzoc? are nearly synony- 
 mous, both denoting the quality of words or members com- 
 prehended between two full points, in writing or printing ; 
 and conveying a complete sense of themselves, independent 
 of the woL'd:i that either precede or follow them, [lllus. £. 
 c^r^ ISO and 139.) 
 
 Illus. 1. Both the sentence and the period may consist of subdivi- 
 sions, clauses, or members ; which are commonly separated from one 
 another ; these more closely connected, by commas, those more 
 slii^htly, by semicolons. 
 
 2. In every sentence or period, there must be an agent, an action, 
 and a subject on which the agent operates; that is, in the language of 
 grammarians, there must be a nominative, a verb, and an accusative ; 
 as, " Casar amavit Juliam,"" " Alexander conquered Darius ;" unless 
 the verb be of the class called intransitive, which requires no subject 
 to act upon, the action being exhausted en the agent; as, " Cicero de- 
 claiined." 
 
82 Of Sentences and Periods, 
 
 127. If tiiere be two elasses of agents, actions, and sub- 
 jects in the sentence, one class depenclinn; on the other, the 
 sentence will consist of two members, \\ liich are conunonly 
 separated from one anotiier by a oDninia. (Illus, 3. Jlrt. 
 130.a/ir/137.) 
 
 Illus. 1. " If Julius C.-rsar had employed as much policy and cnier- 
 ty as Augustus, he ini^ht have prevented the conspiracy I'ornH'd ag^ain^t 
 his life." 
 
 128. If there be three classes of agents, actions, and sub- 
 jects, the sentence will coiisist of three members, separated 
 bj semicolons. 
 
 Illus. " If Julius Caesar had employed ag much policy and cruelty 
 as Augustus ; if he had proscrihed erery suspicious person under his 
 j^overnment J he might have prevented the conspiraiv formed against 
 his life." 
 
 129. If there be four classes of agents, actions, and sub- 
 jects, the sentence will consist \A four members, separated 
 by semicolons. 
 
 Illus. " If Julius Ca-sar had employed as much cruelty and policy 
 as Augustus ; if he had proscrihctl every suspiciouM person under hi.s 
 government ; he mi^^ht have prevented the conspiracy formed against 
 his life ; and he might have lived, like that Emperor, to old age, Hat- 
 tered, oheyed, and adored by the lloman people." 
 
 Carol. llen<e it is apparent, that though the presence of an agent, 
 nn action, and a subject, be requisite to constitute a member, yet they 
 do not prohibit th<» attendance of exphinatory words, particularly of 
 adjectives or participles, which denote some quality or property of the 
 agent or the sulyect. Accordingly, in the last member of the last 
 example, " he might have lived, like that Emperor, to old age, flatter- 
 ed, obeyctl, and a<lored by the Uoman people ;" the participles ^a^- 
 icreili obfytdy ailorcil, encroac h not on the unity of the menjber, but 
 tend merely to modify or illustrate its jirincipal parts. ( Ste Illus. H. 
 Art, lly.) 
 
 130. When a sentence contains one member only, it is 
 called simple : when it contains more members than one, 
 it is called coinpkx ; when it contains three, four, or more 
 members, it generally takes the name of period, (Art. 130.) 
 
 Illus. 1. The ancient rhetoricians applied the name of period to all 
 complex sentences, consisting of two or more members, but most fre- 
 quently to those of four members. '• liabet," says Quinctilian, '• pe- 
 riodus membra minimum duo. iMedins numerus videtur quatuor, sed 
 vecipit frequenter et plnra." 
 
 2. To the p» riod, according to Cicero, were given the <li<rerent 
 names o( amhilus. circuiluSf comprtheiisln, ccntinualio, circumsrriplio, 
 which seem all to have been derived from the Greek appellation , 
 -rrt^tzJ:;. 
 
 3. To simple sentences were given the names of commata, arliculi^ 
 ilicise ; the same names by which were denoted the members of peri- 
 
Slraditre of Complex J9enfences, 85 
 
 feds ; because, perhaps, tbey coincided with them, in containin"^ an 
 agent, an action, and a subject. 
 
 131. Simple sentencfs are best aflapted to express the 
 controversial and reprehensive parts of an oration. The 
 period is adapted to the more splendid and pathetic parts, 
 particularly the introduction and the peroration. 
 
 132. A sentence is the smallest quantity of words which 
 can express one entire proposition ; that is, which can ex- 
 hibit an agent as performing some action, or which can con- 
 vey the affirmation of some truth, (lllus, 3, ^Iri, 130.) 
 
 Illus. If, for example, the verb be intransiti^^e, and be preceded by 
 its nominative, a proposition will be expressed and a sentence will be 
 formed ; because an agent will be represented as performing- an ac- 
 tion, and a complete meaning- will be communicated. " The sun ri- 
 ses ;" *' the morning lowers ;" " 1 eat, drink, walk," he. 
 
 133. But if the verb be transitive, the nominative and 
 the verb will not form a sentence, a proposition, or a com- 
 plete sense ; because a subject will be wanting on v.'hich 
 the action must be exerted. 
 
 Illus. 1. Thus the words, Cato killed, Cicero banished, exhibit in^ 
 efficient actions, and incomplete senses. They leave the mind totally 
 in suspense, till the subjects are subjoined on which the actions, killed, 
 and banished, are exerted. 
 
 2. But if we say, Cato killed himself, Cicero banished Cataline, we 
 present entire sentences, and communicate knowledge and informa- 
 tion, 
 
 o. Again, if 1 assert, " that the three angles of a triangle are enual 
 to," I exhibit an incomplete proposition, m- an imperfect affirmation, 
 till I add the words, " two right angles," which furnish an entire af- 
 iirmation, and a perfect proposition. 
 
 Coral. Hence it appears that the essence of a sentence is, to convey 
 one proposition, and one only ; that it generally contains an agent, 
 an action, and a subject, and must contain an agent, and an action. 
 This constitutes what is called the unity of a sentence. (Art. 149.) 
 
 134. In constructing complex sentences, which con- 
 sist of different classes of agents, actions, and subjects, the 
 unity will be preserved, and only one proposition, with all 
 its circumstances, will be expressed, if such sentences, how- 
 ever complex, be properly composed. To accomplish this 
 end, the different members of a simple sentence, or the dif- 
 ferent classes of agents, actions, and subjects, so depend on 
 one another, that the sense is not fully communicated, till 
 they are all properly arranged and conjoined. (JirL 133. 
 Illus. 3.) 
 
 Illus. 1. The following member, for instance, »' If virtue constitutes 
 the supreme good," conveys no complete sense, and the hearer con- 
 tinues in suspense, till it is added, « all wise men will prefer it to 
 
 8^- 
 
84 Of Senitnces and Periods. 
 
 every other acquisition ;" when the sentence, thus completed, exhibits 
 two classes of agents, actions, and subjects, but contains only one full 
 meaning, or one proposition. 
 
 2. Aj^ain, " If virtue constitutes the supreme good ; if it can com- 
 municate the most substantial comfort and support ;" still these two 
 members leave the sense imperfect, and the mind he>itates, till it is 
 added, " all wise men will prefer it to every other acquisition;" thi» 
 completes both the proposition and the mcaninfj. 
 
 3. Tiie inconclusive members may be fartiier augmented : " If vir- 
 tue constitutes the supreme good ; if it can communicate the most 
 substantial comfort and support ; if it can procure the approbation of 
 all good men in this world, and the favour of heaven liereafter ;'' still 
 the sense is incomplete, till the eflicient njember is subjoined, " all wise 
 men will prefer it to every other accpiisition ;" which produces an en- 
 tire proposition, fully satisfies the mind, and preserves the unity of the 
 period. (Corol. Art. 133.) 
 
 Corol. Frotn these observations it is apparent, that the unity of a 
 sentence is not impaired by its length, and that it will naturally be 
 longer or shorter as the leading agent or member is attended with 
 more or fewer dependent or explanatory agents, or members. No 
 more members must ever be accumuhttril, than are consistent with 
 unity and persj)icuity ; but neither should the meaning nor the cadence 
 be interrupted by a frequent recurrence of abrupt sentences of one or 
 two members. The sense is the main regulating princi|)le of the 
 length, the sound is only a secondary consideration ; if, however, the 
 former be presi-rved, thf latter m.iy be consulted, by a variety of mod- 
 ulation as great as possible. (iScholium, Art. 13vS ) 
 
 135. Short sentences impart animation antl ener;;y to 
 style. They are contrasts to periods^ tlicy are simple and 
 
 erspicuous, and the ideas which they convey are usually 
 ivcly, forcible, or di^Lcnitled. They are also employed 
 chiefly to deliver maxims of wisdom and sublime senti- 
 ments, which, 8uppoi1ed by their natural importance and 
 elevation, spurn the pomp and ornaments of language, (.^rt, 
 142.) 
 
 Obs. The intermediate fenteoces of two or tliree r. embers parti( i- 
 pate the vivaciiy of short sentences, or the force and cadence of peri- 
 ods, accort'ing as hey approach nearer to the one or the other. Their 
 business is to convey the greater part of the sentiments which occur 
 in the course of a long work, and which can be neither very lively nor 
 \Qry forcible. 
 
 136. All complex sentences are not equally connected, 
 nor are their Piembers etjually dependent on one another. 
 The members are often conjoined by a simple copulation, 
 and the relation, in respect of meaning, amounts to little 
 more than juxta-position. They coi.tain dit!erent views of 
 the same thought ; or the succeeding members explain, il- 
 lustrate, extend, or restrict the preceding. (.'Irt, 134.) 
 
 Illur. The following example will elucidate these remarks. ** Ev,tp~ 
 
 r; 
 
The Structure of complex Sentences. 85 
 
 ty one is in some measure master of the art which is generally di.stin- 
 g;iiished by the name of physiognomy, and naturally forms to himself 
 the characteror fortune of a stranger, from the features and lineaments 
 of his face."* Expunge the copulative, resume the agent every one, 
 and two complete sentences will appear ; so loose is the connection. 
 (SecArt.Vli.) 
 
 137. Sentences, also, which contain the correspondent 
 conjunctions, seldom admit more than two members. (See 
 Art. Ii37.) 
 
 Example. '• As the secrets of the Ugly Club were exposed to the 
 public, that men might see there were some noble spirits in the world, 
 w ho were not displeased with themselves upon considerations they had 
 no choice in ; so the discourse concerning idols tended to lessen the 
 value wliich people put upon themselves for personal accomplishments, 
 and gifts of naturef." The reader need not be told, that the conjunc- 
 tions here are, as and so. 
 
 138. The full period of several members possesses 
 most dignity and modulation, and conveys also the greatest 
 degree of force, by admitting the closest compression of 
 thought. The members are generally conditional, and de 
 note supposition or contrast. 
 
 Jilus. ]. By supposition is understood, that the preceding members 
 furnish a foundation, on which the conclusion is built : or that they 
 operate as a climax, by which it is raised to the highest elevation. 
 
 2. By contrast is understood, that the preceding members are oppo- 
 sed to the concluding member, which, notwithstanding, possesses such 
 energy, that the contrast takes place with irresistible elTect. 
 
 3. if, besides, such periods are properly constructed ; if the mem- 
 bers are so formed, as to swell one above another in sound, as well as 
 in sentiment ; the impression will become so exceedingly powerful, ais 
 not to escape the most inattentive observer. 
 
 Example I. Cicero supplies a beautiful period of the former species, 
 in his oration for the Manilian law. '' Quare cum et helium ita neces- 
 sarium sit, ut ncglegi non possit ; ita magnum, ut accuratissime sit 
 administrandum ; et cum si imperatorem praisicere possitis, in quo sit 
 eximia belli scientia, singularis virtus, clarissima auctoritas, egregia 
 fortuna ; dubitabitis, Quiritcs, quin hoc tantum boni, quod vobis a Uiis 
 immortalibus oblatum et datum est, in rempublicain conservandani 
 utque amplincandam conferatis." 
 
 ///^^9. The members present a striking gradation in the sentiment. 
 Tiie war is absolutely necessary, and of great magnitude ; Fompey is 
 the greatest, the bravest, the most successful general ; he must there- 
 fore be preferred, to secure the favour of the gods, and the safety of 
 the empire. An analogous elevation is discernable in the sound. The 
 members rise above one another, both in length and modulation. The 
 pleasure of the car powerfully concurs to recommend and impress the 
 sense. 
 
 Example 2. The subsequent period will supply an example of the 
 latter species. '< Though the people should riot, and project insuj;- 
 
 • Addljon. t I bid. 
 
86 Of Errors to he avoided 
 
 rection ; though the tyrant shou'xl rage, and threaten destruction ;. 
 though tlu,- huriiiune should lay open the bed of ih*- sea, and the 
 earthquake shoulu tear the globe in piece? ; though tf:e «rars should 
 fail from iheir spheres, and the frame of nature should be dissoivcil ; 
 yet, according to Horace, Virtue will protect her votaries, and the 
 good nmn will remain tranquil amid the ruins of the world." 
 
 Jlius. A similar gradation is perceptible, as in the preceding in- 
 stance. The members increase both in extent and cadence. The 
 rising series of contrasts convey inexpressible dignity and energy to 
 the conclusion. 
 
 ScUolium. The proper union of sentences, also, is a matter of con- 
 siderable importance to the efi'ect of a composition. It seems, indeed, 
 to be difficult, if not impracticable, to assign any rules relative to the 
 proper intermixture of sentences expressive of strong, or even of 
 uioderate passion, as feelings on such occasions supersede all the dic- 
 tates of the6ry, and the considerations of sound. (Illus. Art. 73.) But 
 in grave and extended compositions, where the chief aim of the author 
 is to instruct and amuse,. the practice best supported by reason and 
 experience, is, to intermix short, long, and intermediate sentences, in 
 such a manner as to introduce as great variety as possible of caden- 
 ces. Great care, however, must be taken to conceal all attention to 
 art. If it become apparent, it disgusts the reader, and generally loses 
 its eflect. The species of sentence preferred by the writer should al- 
 ways seem to be the most proper and natural he could have employ- 
 ed. Its length sliould be determined always by the .sense, ; ' 
 the puuctuation. (Illus. Corol. and Art. 14T.) 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 OF THE EUHOIIS TO BE AVOIDED IX THE STRUCTURE OF 
 SENTENCES, AND THE ARRANGEMENT OF SINGLE WORDS. 
 
 139. WE derive little light from the names, amhituSy 
 clrcviluSy comprehcnsio, circurnscriptioy eraployed by Cicero, 
 and approved by Quinctilian, as definitions of a period. — 
 These names are manifestly derived from the Greek term 
 'rrspiodos; and the Latin critics have not ventured to proceed 
 faither than their masters. (Illus. 2. Jrt. 130.) 
 
 Obs. Without having recourse to the meaning of a period, or the 
 species of dependence that subsists among its members, to explain its 
 nature, thej' have been satisfied with some indefinite speculations 
 about its length, and the artificial measure in which it ought to be 
 composed. They tell us, it should seldom exceed the length of four 
 hexameter verses, or require more time to pronounce it than is re- 
 quisite for one L;omplete respiration of a full-grov.n man.* But the 
 practice of the most perfect orators of antiquity frequently trans- 
 gresses these rules. 
 
 * Cic. Orat. chap. 66. Quinct, iib. IX. dwp. 4. 
 
in the Arrangement of PFords, 8f 
 
 140. If two or more leading thouglits or agents, which 
 nave no natural relation to one another, nor any depen- 
 dence on one another, and which concur not in pointing 
 toward any one object, are introduced into a sentence, they 
 will destroy its unity. This is a frequent and gross error 
 in the structure of sentences. 
 
 Example. " As much as the fertile mould is fitted to the tree, as 
 much as the strong and upright trunk of the oak or elm is fitted to the 
 twining branches of the vine or ivy, so much are the very leaves, 
 the seeds, and the fruits of these trees fitted to the various animals ; 
 these, again, to one another, and to the elements where they live, and 
 fo whicli they are as appendices, in a manner, fitted and joined ; as 
 either by wings for the air, fins for the water, feet for the earth, and 
 by other correspondent inward parts, of more curious frame and 
 texture."* 
 
 Illus. This long and involved period presents two agents ; trees lead 
 the first member, animals the second and the third. It should, there- 
 fore, it seems, be divided into two, or perhaps three sentences, with 
 the proper agents prefixed. In this view, the first member may 
 remain as it is, but the second and third members will assume the 
 following appearance. *' Animals, again, are fitted to one another, 
 and to the elements where they live, and to which they are as appen- 
 dices. They are adapted by wings for the air, fins for the water, feet 
 for the earth, and by other correspondent inward parts, of move 
 curious frame and textUre." 
 
 141. Errors are frequently committed in the extent of 
 periods, which are sometimes swelled to too great length ; 
 at other times formed too short or abrupt. 
 
 Obs. A long period, perfectly clear and well constructed, is always 
 beautilul and pleasant, if it be not so prolonged as to exhaust the 
 patience and attention of the reader. But it is extremely difficult to 
 compose such periods ; and, for this reason, a great many of them aie 
 ungraceful and obscure. 
 
 142. It is, perhaps, more necessary at present, to remon- 
 strate against a deviation to the opposite extrenjc. The 
 style of many of our present writers is too short and abrupt. 
 (^rt, 135.) 
 
 Tllus. An aflectation of sprightliness, or of oracular wisdom, seems 
 to have infected some of our autliors, and to have tempted them to 
 employ that laconic diction, which is very current with our neigh- 
 hours, the FixMich, and which is generally supposed most correspon- 
 dent to tiiis species of con)position. The appearance of such a style, 
 is, however, no symptom of the general corruption of the public taste 
 and ear. But wiien we recollect the progress and revolutions of 
 literature, both in Athens and Home, we cannot be too quick-sighted 
 in apprehending danger. The manner of the authors who succeeded 
 tb^- most flourishiiijr {era of the Grecian eloquence, undoubtedly dis- 
 played the strongest attachment to this mode of style ; and many of 
 
 ♦ShaftcibBrj. 
 
v^S Of Errors to be avoided 
 
 the most conspicuous writers of Rome, posterior to the Augustan age j 
 furnish examples of the same kind of composition. 
 
 143. The arrangement of the agent, the action, and 
 the SUBJECT, the chief in;^redients in all members, senten- 
 ces, and periods, is almost invariable. The agent appears 
 first, the action succeeds, and the subject, if there be one, 
 takes its station last. 
 
 lllns. If the agent or the subject be modified or illustrated by ad- 
 jectives, or the action be extended or restricted by adverbs, the 
 dependent words assume their stations in juxta-position to their prin- 
 cipals, the adjertives to their substantives, and the adverbs to their 
 verbs. The adjective is placed before its corresponilcnt substantive, 
 when it has no circumstance d**pendin{^ on it ; but it is situated after 
 its substantive when it is followed by some modification. '' A wise 
 man." " A good book." " A spacious apartment." But we say, '' A 
 man wise for himself." " A book good for amusement." '* An apart- 
 ment convenient for company." Adverbs generally follow neuter, 
 but precede active verbs. '' Caesar fought bravely." " Pompey rashly 
 engaged him at Pharsalia." Our adjectives have no ir.llexions, and 
 therefore can be arranged only on the principle of juxta-position. 
 (§//./;. 67.) 
 
 144. Though in every member of a sentence, there must 
 be an agent, an action, and a subject, unless the action be 
 intransitive; there are to be found in manj members two, 
 in some three, classes of agents, actions, and subjects, that 
 explain, restrict, or otherwise depend on the primary class, 
 by which the member is discriminated. 
 
 Example. " It is usual," says Addison,^ -' for a man who loves 
 country-sports, to preserve the game on his own grounds, and divert 
 himself on the grounds of his neighbours. My friend Sir Roger 
 generally goes two or three miles from his own house, and gets into 
 the frontiers of his estate before he beats about for a hare or a par- 
 tridge, on purpose to spare his own fields, where he is alwa3's sure of 
 finding diversion, when the worst comes to the worst." 
 
 Illiis. In the former of these sentences, there is one class only of 
 agents, actions, and subjects, *• A man who loves country-sports ;" 
 but there are no fev/er than three such classes, in the first clause of 
 the latter sentence : " Sir Roger generally goes two or three miles ; 
 he gets into ihe frontiers ot his esta;e, before he beats about for a 
 hare or a partrid;^e." These dependent classes, like dependent words, 
 adjectives, nnd adverbs, are arranged on the princi))le of juxta posi- 
 tion, a> Mcar to the primarv cl'^iss as is consistent with the intimacy oi 
 their relation. (Illii^. Jhl. 143.) 
 
 145. Of the arrctti^eriient of the other parts of speech,. 
 pronouns, parliciples, prepositions and conjunctions, no 
 directions can be given, that will not be liable to many ex- 
 ceptions. The following principles seem to include every 
 
 Spectator, No. X3I. 
 
in the Arrangement of Words, 89 
 
 RS^lvlnch can, with any confidence, be advanced on the 
 subject. 
 
 Illus. X. Pronouns have no other use in language, but to represent 
 nouas; anct, trf course, they are cdl6:imonly called to occupy the sta- 
 tions of the nouns they represent. They should, theicfore, be 
 mar:.hal'ed aj^reeably to the stations in which their principals would 
 appear. (§F/. /?. 68, and Jirt. 71.) 
 
 2. The chief office of prepositions, is, to denote the relations of 
 sub>:tantives to one another ; they are, therefore, placed generally 
 between the related objects, immediately before the one that bears 
 the relation, and as near as possible to the other, to which the relation 
 is borne. '< A man of virtue." '' Success to industry." "Genius with 
 judgment." 
 
 3. Participles, in general, assume the situation of adjectives, of the 
 nature of which they very much partal*e ; but they are also employed 
 frequently to introduce clauses dependent on preceding verbs. '• A 
 loving father." " A learned man." " He passed through life, adored 
 by his friends, and respected by all good men." (Jllns. 2. £rl. 59.) 
 
 4. Conjunctions are often introduced to connect single substantives, 
 but more commonly to conjoin clauses of sentences. From their 
 nature they require a situation between the things of which they form 
 an union. (jSrt. 72.) 
 
 5. The interjection, finally, in a grammatical sense, is totally un- 
 connected with every other word in a sentence. Its arrangement, of 
 course, is altogether arbitrary, and cannot admit of any theory. — 
 (Art. 73.) 
 
 6. If two adverbs attend upon a single verb, one significant of place 
 or time, the other of some modification of the verb, the former is 
 generally situated before the verb, the latter, more intimately connect- 
 ed with the verb, is placed immediately after it, to the exclusion even 
 of the subject, when some circumstance depends upon the subject. 
 " Caesar often reprehended severely the ingratitude of his enemies." 
 " He every where declared publicly his inclination to preserve the 
 constitution of his country." (JJrt. 70.) 
 
 7. If one auxiliary attend a verb, along with one adverb, the adverb 
 is generally placed between the auxiliary and the verb. <* Folly has 
 always exposed her author." *' Wealth may often make friends, but 
 can never produce true peace of mind." 
 
 8. If there be two auxiliaries, the adverb is commonly situated 
 between them. " He should certainly have come." "}'.>• might easily 
 have known," In passive sentences, however, the adverb is v)lace(l 
 after both the auxiliaries; as, " He will be uncommonly agitated." 
 '• I shall be completely ruined." (^^rt. 70. Ilhis. 5.) 
 
 9. If there be throe auxiliaries, when the sentence must again be 
 passive, the adverb is placed after them all. ^' I might have been ' 
 better informed." "Me might havo been completely educated in that 
 branch of science." "It should have been well authenticated." 
 
 10. If two adverbs, with two auxiliaries, attend upon the same verb, 
 the adverbs will be ii)termixed with the auxiliaries. " ! have always 
 been much embarrassed by these inconveniences." " He can never 
 be sincerely disposed to promote peace." " He might at least have 
 plainly told him." 
 
 11. In the arrangement of two or more prepositions, the relation of 
 concomitance seems to be the most intimate, and, therefore, takes th«^ 
 
90 On the Slrudurc of Sentences, 
 
 preccdoMcy of all others, <' Ho went with him to France; he camr 
 with him tVoni Home ; h«* lived with him at Naples, and fought with 
 him in J'Undcrs ; he contended with him for fame, but foui,ht with 
 him ai:;^ainst his enemies." The relation denoted by from, precedes 
 that si;;-nified by to. " He came from Home to Paris, and from Paris 
 to London." *' From a bcc^innin^^ very nnpromisinir, he rose to jjreat 
 influence and wealth.' " Society procce<ls from barbarity to refine- 
 ment, from ijrnorance to knowledge, from wealth to corruption, and 
 from corruption to ruin."' 
 
 Scholium. Thcjie prinriples arc supported by the practice of our 
 purest writers. It is our dnty, therefore, to form our style on the 
 most correct models before us, if wo wcidd avoid that fluctuatint^ and 
 unsettled imitation which is observable, when the ear is onr chief j^uide, 
 and its dictates are always variable, not seldom whimsical. In a mat- 
 ter of so much coiise(4uence, we may, it seems, follow with most con- 
 fidence the example of tne beSt writers and speakers, explained and 
 supported by the analogies of graiftmar and of f»erspicuity. (Jrt. 80.) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 O.N 11:1. hlULrn UI. OF SEXTENCES. 
 
 140. THOUGH PKUspirun Y be the general liead uiitler 
 which we are at present cohsi(lerin«i; language, we shall not 
 confine ourselves to this quality alone, in aentences, hut in- 
 «[uire also, what is requisite for their ^r«re and beauty. 
 
 Ohs. Aristotle defines a sentence to be a form of speech which hath 
 u beginning and an end wiihin itself, and is of such a length as to be 
 easily comprehended at onee/* This, however, admits of a great 
 latitude. For a sentence, or period, consists always of component 
 parts, which are called ifn memhcrs ; and as thc«e mem>>crs may be 
 either few or many, and may l)e connected in several diilerent ways, 
 the same thought, or mental proposition, may often be either brought 
 into one sentence, or split into two or three, without the material 
 breach of any rule, (,'lrt. 14\. and 142.) 
 
 147. The first variety that occurs in the consideration of 
 sentences, is, the distinction of /o/]^'- and .s/ior/ <»nt^s. The 
 precise length of sentences, as to tlie number of words, or 
 the number tif members, which may enter into them, can- 
 not be ascertained by any definite measure. At the same 
 tinte, it is obvious, tliat liiere may be an extreme on either 
 side. 
 
 lUus. Sentences, immoderately long, nnd consisting of too many 
 members, always transgress some one or other of the rules which are 
 necessary to be observed in every good sentence. In discourse.* that are 
 
 * A«|if t^'^m »{;);»" **^ Tihwrnf Kx9' 3Lvryif,Kxi /uiryiSo: rjTUfMrnf. 
 
On the Structure of Senientes, 9 1 
 
 to be spoken, regard must be had to the easiness of pronunciation, 
 which is not consistent with too long- periods. In compositious wh'nc 
 pronunciation has no place, still, however, by using long^ pi-riods loo 
 frequently, an author overloads and fatigues the reader's attention. 
 For long periods require, evidently, more attention than short ones, in 
 order to perceive clearly the connection of the several parts, and to 
 take in the whole at one view. At the same time, in too many short 
 sentences, also, there may be an excess, by which the sense is split and 
 broken, the connection of thought weakened, and the memory burden- 
 ed, bv presenting to it a long succession of minute objects. (Obs. 2. 
 Art. 148.) 
 
 Corol. According to the nature of the composition, therefore, and 
 the general character it ought to bear, the one or other may be pre- 
 dominant. But, in almost every kind of composition, the great rule 
 is to intermix them. For the attention tires of either of them when 
 too long continued : whereas, it is gratified by a proper mixture of 
 long and short periods, in which a certain sprightlines.^ is joined with 
 jnajesty of style. " Jt is not proper always to employ a contimied 
 train, and a sort of regular compass of phrases ) but style ought to be 
 often broken down into smaller members."" 
 
 148. This variety is of so great consequence, that it 
 must be studied, not only in the succession of long and 
 short sentences, but in the structure of either species of 
 these sentences. 
 
 Illus. 1. A train of sentences, constructed in the same manner, and 
 with the same number of members, wh 'ther long or short, should 
 never be allowed to succeed one another. However musical each of 
 them may be to a reader, it has a better etfect to introduce even a 
 discord, than to cloy the ear with the repetition of similar sounds : for, 
 nothing is so tiresome as perpetual uniformity. (Art. 116. Illus. 1^2. 
 Crit. I. and U) 
 
 > 149. The properties most essential to a perfect sentence, 
 seem to be the f.nir foUowing : 1. Clearness and precision. 
 £. Unity. 3. Strength. 4. Harmony. Each of these we 
 shall illustrate separately, and at some length. 
 
 Illas. The least failure in clearness and pre<;ision, which we con- 
 sider the first essential properties to a perfect sentence, the least de- 
 gree of ambiguity, which leaves the mind in any sort of suspense as to 
 the meaning, ought to be avoided with the greatest care ; nor is it so 
 easy a matter to keep always clear oi this, as one might, at first, ima- 
 gine. Precision has already been considered ; we shall here consider 
 ambiguity as it arises either f»om a wrong choice oi words, or a wrong 
 collocation of them, [n Chapter IV. this subject will be handled in its 
 most extensive significati.Ju. 
 
 Corol. Hence a capital rule in the arr.mgeraent of sentences is, that 
 the words or members mo>!t nearly related, i^hould be placed in the 
 sentence, as near to each other as possible ; so as to make their mu- 
 tual relation clearly appear. This is a rule not always observed as 
 gtrictly as it ought to be, even by good writers. It will be necessary 
 
 • " Nmi St niper utendum est pt rpetuitate, et quasi conversione vevborum ; sed 
 laepe carpenda raembris minutioiibus ovatio est." Cicero. 
 
 9 
 
92 On the Structure of Sentences. 
 
 to produce some instances, which will both shew the importance 0»'. 
 this rule, and make the application of it understood. (Art. 121.) 
 
 150. First, in the position of adverbs, whicli are used to 
 qualify the signification of something that either precedes 
 or follows them, there is often a good deal of nicety. (Jirt, 
 121. and lUus.) 
 
 lUas. " The Romans understood liberty, at least, as well as we.'**" 
 'These words are capable of two different senses, according as the em- 
 phasis, in reading them, is laid upon liberty, or upon at least. In the 
 first case, they will signify, that whatever other things we may under- 
 stand better than the Romans, liberty, at least, was one thing which 
 they understood as well as we. In the second case, they will import, 
 that liberty was uni vrstood at leajt as well by them as by us ; mean* 
 ing, that by them it was better understood. If this last^as I make no 
 doubt, was Dean Swifts own meaning, the ambiguity would have been 
 avoided, and the sense rendered independent of the manner of pro- 
 nouncing, by arranging the words thus : " the Romans understood 
 liberty, as well, at least, as we." (Art. 70. Illus. 5.) 
 
 Carol. With respect, then, to such adverbs, as, only, uholly, at leastj 
 and the rest of that tribe, which we use in common discourse, the tone 
 and emphasis with wjtjich we pronounce them, generally serve to 
 shew their reference, and to make their meaning clear ; and hence, we 
 acquire a habit of throwing th'^m in loosely in the course of a period.. 
 But, in writing, where a man speaks to the eye and not to the ear, he 
 ought to be more accurate ; and so to connect those adverbs wiih the 
 words which they qualify, as to put his meaning out of doubt upon the 
 first inspection. (Illus. il. J]rt. 124.) 
 
 151. Secondly, When a circumstance is interposed iu 
 the middle of a sentence, it sometimes requires attention 
 how to place it, so as to divest it of all ambiguity. 
 
 Illus. *■'■ Are these designs, which any man, who is born a Briton, in 
 any circumstances, in any situation, ought to be ashamed or afraid to 
 avow .'"t Here we are left at a loss, whether these M-ords, " in any 
 circumstances, in any situation,'' arc connected with " a man born in 
 Britain, in any circumstances, or j»ituaiion," or with that man'.s 
 <^< avowing his designs, in any circumstances, or situation into which 
 he may be brought .^" If the latter, as seems most probable, was in- 
 tended to be the meaning, the arrangement ought to have been con- 
 ducted thus : " Are these designs, which any man who is born a 
 Briton, ought to be ashamed or af aid to avow in any circumstances, 
 in any situation .'" But, 
 
 152. Thirdly, Still more attention is required to the pro- 
 per disposition of the relative pronouns, whoy ivhich, whaty 
 whose, and of all those particles which express the connex- 
 ion of the parts of speech with one another. As all reason- 
 ing depends upon this connexion, we cannot here be too ac- 
 curate and precise. A small error may overcloud the 
 
 * Swift*^ Project for the Advancemi nt of Rcligiofa. 
 t BoUugbx-oke's Dissert, on Parties.- 
 
The Position of Adverbs and Pronouns, 93 
 
 meaning of the whole sentence ; and even where the mean- 
 ing is intelligible, if these relative particles be out of their 
 proper place, we always find something avvkv/ard and dis* 
 jointed in the structure of the sentence. 
 
 Illus. 1. " This kind of wit was very much in vogue among our 
 countrymen, about an agre or two ago, who did not practice it for any 
 oblique reason, but purely for the sake of being witty."* We are at 
 no loss about the meaning here ; but the construction would evidently 
 be mended by disposing of the circumstance, ^* about an age or two 
 ago," la such a manner as not to separate the relative who from its 
 antecedent our counlrymen. Thus, " about an age or two ago, this 
 kind of wit was very much in vogue among our countrymen, who did 
 oot practice it lor any oblique reason, but purely for the sake of beinjr 
 wittv." -" ^ 
 
 _2. Of the lik« nature is the following inaccuracy of Dean Swift, 
 He IS recoramending to young clergymen to write their sermons fully 
 and distmctly. " Many," says he, •' act so directly contrary to this 
 wit^thod, that from a habit of saving time and paper, which they ac- 
 quired ai tU^ university, they write in so diminutive a manner," th«*. 
 they can iia.d,!-^ «--^ what they have written." He certainly does not 
 
 Ihlt ;Uv had aVQm;e«'';^'''rXr'7 -' ^^^^^ *^^ ^^- university, but 
 mar iney naa atquireu n..^ u^.* ofcavnigboth time anc. ^..,, _ i^^ . 
 
 and therefore his words ought to have run in«=, . x- ^ habit whicli 
 
 they have acquired at the university of saving time and paper, n.^-^ 
 write in so diminutive a manner." 
 
 Scholia. Several other instances might be given ; but those which 
 We have produced may be sufficient to make the rule understood. 
 
 I. Namely, that in the construction of sentences one of the first 
 things to be attended to, is, the marshalling of the words in such order 
 as shall most clearly mark the relation of the several parts of the sen- 
 tence to one another. 
 
 Particularly, that adverbs shall always be made to adhere closely to 
 the words which they are intended to qualify. 
 
 II. That, where a circumstance is thrown in, it shall never hang 
 loose in the midst of a period, but be determined by its place to one 
 or other of the members in that period. 
 
 III. And that every relative word which is used, shall instantly 
 present its antecedent to the mind of the reader, without the least 
 ©bscurity. 
 
 In these three cases j^re contained some of the most frequent occa- 
 Kions of ambiguity creeping into sentences. {But see Chapters IV, F, 
 VI, VH, and Vlll, of this book.) 
 
 153. With regard to relatives, we must farther observe, 
 that obscurity often arises from the too frequent repetition 
 of them, particularly of the pronouns i^/io, and Mey, and 
 them, and theirs, when we have occasion to refer to different 
 persons. 
 
 Illns. 1. " Men look with an evil eye upon the good that is in oth- 
 ers ; and think that their reputation obscures them, and their corn- 
 mendable qualities stand in their light ; and therefore they d** wh«t 
 
 * S^eclottr, No. 54. 
 
y4 On the Structure of Sentences. 
 
 they can to cast a cloud over them, that the bright shining of thcii- 
 ▼irtucs may not obscure them.' * 
 
 This is altogether careless.writrng . It renders style often obscure, 
 always embarrassed and inelegant. When we find these personal 
 pronouns crowding too fast upon us, we have often no method left, 
 but to throw thi' whole sentence into some other form, which may 
 avoid those frequent references to persons who have before been men- 
 tioned. 
 
 2. All languages are liable to ambiguities. Qumctdian gives us 
 some instances in the Latin, arising from faulty arrangements. A 
 mm, he tells us, ordered, by his will, to have erected for him, after 
 bis death, " Statuam auream hastam tenentem ;" upon which arose a 
 dispute at law, whether the whole statue, or the spear only, was to be 
 of gold .' 
 
 3. The same author observes, very properly, that a sentence is al- 
 ways faulty, when the collocation of the words is ambiguous, thout^h 
 the setise can be gathered If any one should say, " Chremetem au- 
 divi percussise Deineam;" this is ambiguous, both in sense and struc- 
 ture, whether Chremes or Demea gave the blow. 
 
 CoroL Hence, to have the relation of every word and member ot a 
 senton... nrulud in (he ino.t proper and cUtj^n-' —;;•-';> ^ 
 ;; .;.,ciirnu»»»-» *^-5 «*«'"ro part. 
 
 154. Unity is the second quality of a well -arranged sen- 
 tence. This is a. capital property. In cveiy compositi(»n, 
 of whatever kind, some degree of unity is required, in or- 
 der to rendei' it beautiful. Tliere must be always some 
 connecting principle among the parts. Some one object 
 must reign and be predominant. 
 
 Obs. This holds in history, in epic and dramatic poetry, and in all 
 orations. But most of all, in a single sentence, is required the strict- 
 est unity. For the very nature of a sentence implies one proposition 
 to be expressed. It may consist of parts, indeed; but these parts 
 must be so closely bound together, as to make upon the mind the im- 
 pression of one object, not of many. Now, in order to preserve this 
 unity of a sentence, the following rules hiust be observed. 
 
 155. In the first place, during the course of the sentence, 
 the scene should be changed as little as possible. We 
 should not be hurried by sudden transitions from person to 
 person, nor from subject to subject. There is commonly, 
 in every sentence, sotne person or thing, that is the govern- 
 ing woril. This should be contin^ied so, if possible, from 
 the beginning to the end of the sentence. 
 
 Illus. Should 1 express myself thus: '' After we came to anchor, 
 they put me on shore, where I was welcomed by all my friends, who 
 received me with the greatest kindness." Though the objects con- 
 tamed in this sentence, have a sufficient connection with each other. 
 
 * Tillotson, VoL I. Serni. 42» 
 
Wnity. 
 
 95 
 
 vcl, by this raanner of representing^ them, by shifting so often both the 
 jplace and the person, we, and ility, and /, and who, they appear in 
 Such a disunited view, that the sense ol" the sentence is ahnost lost. 
 The sentence is restored to its proper unity, by turning- it after the 
 following- manner: " Having- come to an anchor, I was put on shore, 
 whefe I was welcomed by all my friends, and received with the great- 
 est kindness." Writers wiio transgress this rule, for the most part 
 transgress, at the same time, 
 
 156. A second rule; never crowd into one sentence, 
 things which have so little connection, thatthey could bear 
 to be divided into two or three sentences. The violation of 
 this rule never fails to injure the style, and displease the 
 reader. Its eftect, indeed, is so disagreeable, that of the 
 two, it is the safer extreme, to err rather by too many short 
 sentences, than by one that is overloaded and embarrassed. 
 
 Illus. 1. Examples abound in our own authors. We shall produce 
 some, to justify what we have said. "Archbishop Tillotson," says 
 an Author of the History of England, " died in this year. He was 
 exceedingly beloved both by King William and Queen Mary, who 
 nominated Dr. Tennison, Bishop of Lincoln, to succeed him." Who 
 would expect the latter part of this sentence to follow, in consequence 
 of the former ^ ** He was exceedingly beloved by both King^ and 
 Queen," is the proposition of the sentence : we look for some proof 
 of this, or at least something related to it, to follow ; when we are on 
 a sudden carried off to a new proposition, <^who nominated Dr. Ten- 
 nison to succeed him." 
 
 2. The following is from Middleton's Life of Cicero : '' In this un- 
 easy state, both of his public and private life, Cicero was oppressed 
 bv a new and cruel affliction, the death of his beloved daughter Tul- 
 lia ; which happened soon after her divorce from Dolahella, whose 
 manners and humours were entirely disagreeable to her." The prin- 
 cipal object in this sentence is, the death of Tullia, which was the 
 cause of her father's affliction ; the date of it, as happening soon after 
 her divorce from Dolahella, may enter into the sentence with proprie- 
 ty; but the subjiuiction of Dolabella's character is foreign to tiie main 
 object, and totally breaks the unity and compactness of the sentence, 
 by setting a new picture before the reader. (Jirt. 149.) 
 
 3. The following sentence, from a translation of Plutarch, is still 
 worse: speaking of the Greeks under Alexander, the author says, 
 ^* Their march was through an uncultivated country, whose savage 
 inhabitants fared hardly, having no other riches than a breed of lean 
 sheep, whose llesh was rank and unsavory, by reason of their contin- 
 ual feeding upon sea-fish." Here the scene is changed upon us again 
 and again. The march of the Greeks, the description of the inhabitants 
 through whose country they travelled, the account of these people's 
 riches lying wholly in sheep, and the cause of their sheep being ill- 
 tasted food, form a jumble of objects, slightly related to each other, 
 which the reader cannot, without much difficulty, comprehend under 
 one view. {Cor. Jirt. 149.) 
 
 157. A third rule, for preserving the unity of sentences, 
 is, to avoid all parentheses in the middle of them. ft^ume 
 
 9* 
 
96 On the Structure of Sentences. 
 
 4. 
 
 occasions, they may have a spirited appearance ; as pranrp- 
 ie:(\ by a certain vivacity of thought, which cah glance liap- 
 pi!y aside, as it is going along. {Art. 1 87*) 
 
 Ohs. For the most part, their eft'ect is not always spPrited : nay, 
 sometimes it is extremely bad. They seem a sort of wheels within 
 wheels; sentences in the midst of sentences; the perplexed method of 
 disposing of some thfuiuht, which a writer wants art to introduce in 
 its proper place. It were needless to give any instances, as they oc- 
 cur so often among incorrect writers. 
 
 158. The fourth and last rule for the unity of a sentence, 
 is, to bring it always to a full and perfect close. Every 
 thing that is one, should have a beginning, a middle and an 
 end. An unfinished sentence is no sentence at all, accor- 
 ding to any grammatical rule. 
 
 Obs. But we very often meet with sentences, that are, so to speak, 
 more than finisijed. When we have arrived at what we experJed was* 
 to be the conclusion, when we are come to the word on which the 
 mind, by what went before, is naturally led to rest ; unexpectedly^ 
 «ome circiunstance appears, which ought to have been omifted, or to- 
 have been disposed of elsewhere ; but which is left lagging behind, 
 like a tail adjected to the sentence. This looks to the rhetorician's 
 cyo, as docs to the naturalist's the prodigious tail which the rude hand 
 «f early astronomy has given to the constellation Ursa Major. 
 
 159. The third quality of a correct sentence, is 
 STRENGTH. By tliis is meant such a disposition of the sev- 
 eral words and members, as shall brinj^ out the sense to the 
 !)est advantage ; as shall render the impiession which the 
 period is designed to make, most full ami complete; and 
 
 tive every word, and every member, its due weight and 
 )rce. {Example, Mrt, 173.) 
 
 Obs. The two former qualities of perspicuity and unity, are, no 
 doubt, absolutely necessnry to the production of this effect'; but more 
 is still requisite. For a sentence may be clear enough, it mav also be 
 compact enough in all its parts, or have the retpiisite unify ; and yet, 
 by some unfavourable circumstance in the structure, it may fail in 
 that strength or liveliness of impression which a more happy «rrano-e- 
 ment would have produced. 
 
 160. The first rule for promoting the strength of a sen- 
 fence, is, to divest it of 2l\\ redundant \\ovi\s. These may, 
 sometimes, be consistent with a considerable degree both of 
 clearness and unity ; but they are always enfeeblin"-. (See 
 Art.\2\.) " ^ ^ 
 
 Illus. It is a general maxim, that any words which do not add some 
 importance to the meaning of a sentence, always spoil it. They can- 
 not be superfluous, without being hurtful. All that can be easily sup- 
 pliel in the mind, is better left out in the expression. Thus: " Content 
 with delerviDg a triumph, he refused the honor of it," is better lart 
 
Sire77gtL 97 
 
 foage than to say, ''Being content with deserving- a triumph, he 
 refused the honor ofit." 
 
 Carol. One of the most useful exercises of correction, upon review- 
 ing what we ha/e written or composed, is therefore to contract that 
 round-about method of expression, and to lop off those useless ex- 
 crescences which are commonly found in a first draught. Here a 
 severe eye should be employed ; and we shall always fmd our senten- 
 ces acquire more vigour and energy when thus retrenched ; provi- 
 ded always, that we run not into the extreme ofpruniug so very close, 
 as to give a hardness and dryness to style. For here, as in all other 
 things, there is a due medium. Some regard, though not the princi- 
 pal, must be had to fulness and swelling of sound. Some leaves must 
 be left to surround and shelter the fruit. 
 
 161. As sentences should be cleared of redundant words^ 
 so also of redundant members. As every word ought to 
 present a new idea^ so every member ought to contain a 
 7ieiv thought. Opposed to this, stands the fault with which 
 we sometimes meet, of the last member of a period being 
 nothing else than the echo of the former, or the repetition 
 ofit in a dift'erent form. For example ; speaking of beauty, 
 
 lllns. Mr. Addison says, *' The very first discovery ofit, strikes the 
 mind with inward joy, and spreads delight through all its faculties^-."^ 
 And elsewhere, *' It is impossible for us to beliold the divine works 
 with coldness or indifference, or to survey so many beauties, without a 
 secret satisfaction and complacency +." In both these instances, little 
 or nothing is added by the second member of the sentence to what 
 was already expressed in the first : and though the free and flowing 
 manner of such an author as Mr. Addison, and the graceful harmony 
 of his periods, may palliate such negligences ; yet, in general, it holds, 
 that style, freed from this prolixity, appears both more strong and 
 more beautiful. The attention becomes remiss, the mind falls into 
 inaction, when words are multiplied without a corresponding multi- 
 plication of ideas. (See, Cril. 1. and 2. p. 71.) 
 
 16:2. After removing superfluities, the second rul? for 
 promoting the strength of a sentence, is, to attend particu- 
 larly to the use of copulatives, relatives, and all the particles 
 mployed for transition and connection, 
 
 Illus. These little words, hiit^ and, ivhich, ichose, ichcre, Sec. are fre- 
 quently the most important words of any ; they are the joints or hin- 
 ges upon which all sentences turn, and, of course, much, both of the 
 gracefulness and the .strength of sentences, must depend upon the 
 proper use of such particles. The varieties in using them are, indeed, 
 so numerous, that no particular system of rules can be given respect- 
 ing them Attention to th« practice of the most accurate writers, 
 joined with frequent trials of the different effects produced bv a dif- 
 ferent usage of those particles, must here direct us. (^rt. 145. ///w.<f. 
 1—11.) ^ 
 
 163. A\hat is called splitting of particles, or separating 
 
 * Spectator, No. 4i2. t IWd. No. 413'. 
 
$8 On the Structure of Sentenced, 
 
 a preposition from the noun which it governs, is always te 
 be avoided. (Jilus. II. Jirt, 145.) 
 
 Illus. '• Though virtue borrows no assistance from, yet it may ofteii 
 be accompanied by, the advamag-es of fortune." In pronouncing this 
 instance ne feel a sort of pain from the revulsion, or violent separa- 
 tion of two things, which by their nature, should be clostly united. 
 W(» are put to a stand in thought ; being obliged to rest for a little on 
 the preposition by itself, which, at the same time, carries no signifi- 
 cancy, till it is joined to its proper substantive noun. 
 
 164. Some writers needlessly multiply demonstrative 
 and relative particles, by the frequent use of such phraseol- 
 ogy as the following: 
 
 Jllus. ** There is nothing which disgusts us sooner than the empty 
 pomp of language." In introducing a subject, or laying down a pro- 
 position to which we demand particular attention, this sort of style is 
 very proper ; but in the ordinary current of discourse, it is better to 
 express ourselves more simply and shortly : '* ^iothing disgusts us 
 sooner than the empty pomp of language." 
 
 165. Other writers make a practice of omitting the rela- 
 tive, by adopting a pliraseology of a difterent kind fron"^ the 
 former. This error springs from the absurd supposition 
 that, without this omission, the meaning could not be under- 
 stood. 
 
 Illus. *' The man I love." — " The dominions we possessed, and the 
 conquests wf made " But though this elliptical style be intelligible, 
 and allowable in conversation and epistolary writing, yet in nil wri- 
 tings of a serious ordiirnified kind, it is ungraceful. There, the rela- 
 tive should always be inserted in its proper place, and the construc- 
 tion filled up : as, " The man whom I love. ' — " Tlie dominions which 
 we possessed, and the conquests which we made." 
 
 16G. With regard to the copulative particle, and, which 
 occurs so frequently in all kinds of composition, several ob- 
 servations are to be made. First, it is evident, that the un- 
 necessary repetition of this particle enfeebles style. It has 
 much the same effect as the frequent use of the vulgar 
 phrase, and so, when one is telling a story in common con- 
 versation. 
 
 Illus. 1. We shall, for one instance, take a sentence from Sir Wil- 
 liam Temple, lie is speaking of the retlnement of the French lan- 
 guage : " The acadenjy set up by Cardinal Richelieu, to amuse the 
 wits of that age and country, and to divert them from raking into 
 his politics and ministry, brought this into vogue ; and the French 
 wits have, for this last age, been wholly turned to the refinement of 
 their style and language; and, indeed, with such success, that it can 
 hardly be equalled, and runs equally through their verse and their 
 prose." Here are no fewer than eight amis in one sentence. This 
 agreeable writer too often makes his s.miences drag in this manner, 
 by a careless multiplication of copulatives. 
 
&trengtL m 
 
 '■1. It is strange that a writer so accurate as Deaw Sv.ift, should 
 nave stumbled m\ so improper an application of this particle, as he 
 has made in the following sentence : '^ There is no talent so useful to- 
 wards rising in the world, or which puts men more out of the reach 
 of fortune, than that quality generally possessed by the dullest sort of 
 people, and is, in common language, called discretion ; a species of 
 lower prudence, by the assistance of which,"* &.c. By the insertion 
 of, and is, in place of, which is, he has not only clogged the sentence^ 
 but even macle it ungrammatical. 
 
 167. But, in the next place, it is worthy of observation, 
 that though the natural use of the conjunction, and, be to 
 join objects, and thereby make their connection tiiore close } 
 yet, in fact, by dropping the conjunction, we often mark a 
 closer connection, a quicker succession of objects, than 
 Avhen it is inserted between them. 
 
 Illus. 1. Long^inu-s makes this remark; which, from many instances, 
 appears to be just : " Veni, vidi, vici,"t expresses with more spirit 
 the rapidity and quick succession of conquest, than if connecting' 
 particles had been used. 
 
 2. So, in the following description of a rout in Caesar's Commen- 
 taries, the omission of the connective particle gives great force to 
 the sentence : " Nostri, emissis pilis, gladiis rem gerunt ; repente 
 post tergum equitatus cernitur ; cohortes alia; appropinquant. Hostes 
 terga ; vertunt; fugientibus eqnites occurrunt ; fit magna caedes."t 
 Bell. Gall. lib. 7. 
 
 168. On the other hand, when we seek to prevent a 
 quick transititm from one object to another — when we are 
 making some enumeration in which we wish that the objects 
 should appear as distinct from each other as possible, and 
 that the mind should rest, for a moment, on each object by 
 itself, copulatives may be multiplied widi peculiar advan- 
 tage and grace. 
 
 flliis. As when Lord Bolingbroke says, " Such a man might fall a 
 victim 10 power; but truth, and reason, and liberty would fall with 
 him." 
 
 In the same manner, Caesar describes an engagement with the Ner- 
 vii: "His equitibus facile pulsis ac proturbatis, incredibile celeritat^ 
 ad flumen decurrerunt; ut pene uno tempore, et ad sylvas, et in 
 flumine, et jam in manibus nostris, hostes viderentur."§ Bell. Gall. 1. 2. 
 
 Here, although he is describing a quick succession of 4'vents, yet a.& 
 it is his intention to shew in how many places the enemy seemed to 
 be at one time, the copulative is very happily redoubled, in order to 
 paint more strongly the distinction of these several places. 
 
 * Essay on the Fates of Clere^ymeii. t" I came, I saw, I conquered." 
 
 t " Ouv men. after having discharged their javelins, attack with swoixl in hand ; 
 of a sudden the cavalry uuike their appearance behind; other bodits of m. n are 
 seen drav. i/ig near ; the enemies turn th<ir backs ; the horse meet them in their 
 fliiflu ; a £!,Teat slaughti r ensues." 
 
 f • Th • enemy, hoving ca-'ily beat oS" and scattt red this body o^ horse, ran down 
 with ii,ci-e(iihle celeiUy to the river, so that, almost .'?t one moment of lime, they 
 appeared to be in the WQQds,^5ud in the river, and iu the midst of our troops." 
 
lOd 0n the JSkrueture of Sentences, 
 
 Scholia. This attention to the several cases, when it is proper t« 
 omity and when to redouble the copulative^ is of considerable impor- 
 tance to all who study eloquence. For it is a remarkable particularity 
 in language, that the omission of a connecting particle should some- 
 times serve to make objects appear more closely connected : and that 
 the repetition of it should distinguish and separate them in some 
 measure from each other. Hence, the omission of it is used to denote 
 rapidity ; and the repetition of it is designed to retar<l and to aggra« 
 vate. The reason seems to be, that, in the former case, the mind is 
 supposed to be hurried through a quick succession of objects, without 
 gaining leisure to point out their conn<'ction ; it drows the copulative 
 in its hurry; and crowds the whole series together, as if the obj.dg 
 were but one. Whereas, when we enumerate, with a view to agjjra- 
 Tate, the mind is supposed to proceed with a more slow and solemn 
 pace ; it marks fully the relation of each object to that which succeeds 
 it; and by joining them together with several copulatives, makes us 
 perceive, that the objects, though connected, are yet, in themselves, 
 distinct ; that they are many, not one. Observe, for instance, in the 
 following enumeration made by the apostle Paul, u-hat additional 
 weight and distinctness are given to each particular by the rcpotr- 
 tion of a conjunction. " I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, 
 nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor 
 things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall 
 he able to separate us from the love of God."** So much with regard 
 to the use of copulatives. 
 
 169. A third rule for promoting tlte strength of a sentence, 
 is, to dispose of the capital word, or words, in that place of 
 the sentence where it or thej will make the fullest impres- 
 sion. 
 
 Ilhis. Every one must see, that there are in every sentence such 
 capital words, on which the meaning principally rests; and it is 
 equally plain, that these words should possess a conspicuous and dis- 
 tinguished place. But that place of the sentence where they will make 
 the best figure, whether the beginning or the end, or sometimes, even 
 the middle, cannot perhaps be ascertained by any precise rule. This 
 must vary with the nature of the sentence. 
 
 170. Perspicuity must ever be studied in the first place, 
 and the nature of our language allows no great liberty in 
 the choice of collocation. For the most part, with us, the 
 important words are placed in the beginning of the sentence. 
 
 Illus. ''The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full extent, 
 «re not so gross as those of sense, nor so refined as those of the under- 
 standing. "t And this, indeed, seems the most plain and natural order, 
 to place that in the front which is the chief object of the proposition 
 we are laying down. Sometimes, however, when we intend to give 
 weight to a sentence, it is of advantage to suspend the meaning for a 
 tittle, and then bring it out full at the close : " Thus," says Pope, " on 
 whatever side we contemplate Homer, what principally strikes us, is 
 kis wonderful invention. "|: 
 
 * Horn. viii. 3". 39. t Arfdjswh t Prefticc to }l6Jn^\ ^ 
 
Sirengitt. lOi 
 
 171. The Greek and Latin writers had a considerable 
 advantage above us, in this part of style. By the great 
 liberty of inversion, which their languages permitted, they 
 could choose the most advantageous situation for every 
 word ; and had it thereby in their power to give their sen- 
 tences more force. 
 
 Obs, Milton, in his prose works, and some other of our old English 
 writers, endeavour to imitate them in this. But the forced construc- 
 tions which they employed, produced obscurity ; and the genius o,f 
 our language, as it is now written and spoken, will not admit such 
 iiberties. Gordon, who followed this inverted style, in his translation 
 of Tacitus, has, sometimes, done such vi9lence to the language, as 
 even to appear ridiculous ; as in this expression : ** Into this hole 
 thrust themselves, three Roman senators." He has translated se 
 simple a phrase as, " Nullum ed tempestate helium," by, '* War at 
 that time there was none." 
 
 172. However, within certain bounds, and to a limited 
 degree, our language does admit of inversions ; and they 
 are practised with success by the best writers. 
 
 We shall just glance at one example here, as inversion will be treated 
 subsequently to harmony. (See Chapter X.) 
 
 llLus. Pope, speaking of Homer, says, *' The praise of judgment 
 Virgil has justly contested with him, but his invention remains yet 
 unrivalled." It is evident, that, in order to give the sentence its 
 due force, by contrasting properly the two capital words, "judgment 
 and invention," this is a happier arrangement than if he had followed 
 the natural order, which was, " Virgil. has justly contested with him 
 the praise of judgment, but his invention remains yet unrivalled." 
 
 Obs. Some writers practise this degree of inversion, which our 
 language bears, much more than others; Lord Shaftesbury, for in- 
 stance, much more than Mr. Addison : and to this sort of arrangement, 
 is owing, in a great measure, that appearance of strength, dignity^ 
 and varied harmony, which Lord Shaftesbury's style possesses. 
 
 173. But whether we practise inversion or not, and ia 
 whatever part of the sentence we dispose of the capital 
 words, it is always a point of great momerit, that these cap- 
 ital words shall stand clear and disentangled from any other 
 words that would clog them. 
 
 lllus. Thus, when there are any circumstances of time, place, or 
 other limitations, which the principal object of our sentence requires 
 to have connected with it, we must take especial care to dispose of 
 them, so as not to cloud that principal object, nor to bury it under a 
 load of circumstances. 
 
 Example, Lord Shaftesbury, spea^^ing of modern poets, as compar- 
 ed with the ancient, says : " If, whilst they profess oniy to please, they 
 secretly advise, and give instruction, they may now, perhaps, as well 
 as formerly, be esteemed, with justice, the best and most honourable 
 among authors." This is a well constructed sentence. It contains a 
 great many circumstances and adverbs, necessary to qualify ihc 
 pi|?aning ; only^ secretly f noiCf perhaps^ as vjellf formerly, with justice. 
 
10i2 On the Structure of Sentences. 
 
 yet. these are placed with so much art, as neither to embarrass nor 
 weaken the sentence ; while that which is the capital object in it, viz 
 '' Poets being justly esteemed the best and most honourable among 
 authors,*" convis out in the conclusion clear and detached, and 
 possesses its proper place, 
 
 174. A fourth rule for constructing sentences with pro- 
 per strength, is, to make the members of them go on rising 
 and growing in their importance above one another. 
 
 Illus. This sort of arrangement is called a climax, and is always 
 considered as a beauty in composition. From what cause it pleases, 
 is abundantly evident. In all thing>, we naturally love to ascend to 
 what is more and more beautiful, rather than to follow the retrograde 
 ord.^r. Having had once some considerable object set before us, it is, 
 with pain, we are pulled back to attend to an inferior circum^Jtance. 
 ** Care must be taken that our composition shall not fall off, and that 
 a weaker expression shall not follow one of more strength ; as if, after 
 sacrilege, we should bring in theft ; or, having mentioned a robbery, 
 we should subjoin petulance. Sentences ought always to rise aod 
 grow."* 
 
 2. Of this beauty, in the construction of sentences, the orations of 
 Cicero furnish many examples. His pompous manner naturally led 
 him to study it ; and, generally in order to render the climax perfect, 
 he makes both the sense und the sound rise together, with a very 
 magnificent swell. 
 
 3. '1 he following instance from Lord Bolingbroke, is beautiful ; 
 ''This decency, this grace, this propriety of manners to character, is 
 so essential to princes in partirular, that, whenever it is neglet ted, 
 their virtues lose a great degree of lustre, and their defects acquire 
 much aggravation. Nay, more ; by neglecting this decency and thi-s 
 grace, and for want of a sutrulent regard to appearances, even their 
 virtues may betray them into failings, their failings into vices, and 
 their vices into habits unworthy of princes, and unworthy of mcn.*'t 
 
 175. This sort of full and oratorical climax, can neither 
 be always obtained, nor ought it to be always soua;ht after. 
 Only some kinds of writing admit such sentences; and to 
 study them too frequently, especially if the subject do 
 not require much pomp, is affected and disagreeable. But 
 when sentences are approach'.no; to a cliniax, the following 
 is a general rule which we ought to study. 
 
 Illus. 1. A weaker asseruon or proposition should never come after 
 a strong«-i one ;! and when our sentence consists of tv\o members, the 
 longest .should, generally, be the concluding one. There is a two-lold 
 reason for this last direction. Periods thus divided, are pronounced 
 more easily ; and the shortest member being placed first, we carry it 
 more readily in our memory as we proceed to the second, and see the 
 connection of the two more clearly. Thus, to say, " when our pas- 
 
 * " Cftvendum est ne decrescat orotic, et fortiori subjungatur aliquid infirmius ; 
 sicut. sac rilrerio- fur; aut latruni petulans. Augeri tnim debtut seiucntix tt iniuv- 
 gt^re " Quiiictil'an. 
 
 t Idea of a Patriot King'. 
 
 t "Ne decrescat oratio, et ne fortiori wbjungatur aliquid infirmius." Quinct . 
 
Sirengtlu 103 
 
 5 ons liave forsaken us, we flatter ourselves with the belief that we 
 have forsaken them," is both more graceful aiid more clear, than to 
 begin with the longest part of the proposition, and say : " VVe flatter 
 ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken our passions, when they 
 have forsaken us." 
 
 2. In general, it is always agreeable to find a sentence rising upon 
 us, and growing in its importance to the very last word, when tliis 
 construction can be managed without affectation or unseasonable 
 pomp. *' If we rise yet higher," says Addison, \ery beautifully, " and 
 consider the fixed stars as sa many oceans of flame, that are each of 
 them attended with a different set of planets ; and still discovv r new 
 firrhaments and new lights, that are sunk farther in those unfathoma- 
 ble depths of aether ; we are lost in such a labyrinth of suns and 
 worlds, and confounded with the magnificence and immensity of na- 
 ture,'* Hence follows clearly, 
 
 176. A fifth rule for the strength of sentences ; which is, 
 to avoid concluding them with an adverb, dt, preposition, or 
 any inconsiderahle word. Such conclusions are alwaj'l? 
 enfeebling and degrading. 
 
 06^, There are sentences, indeed, where the stress and significancy 
 TjCSt chiefly upon some words of this kind. In this case they are not 
 to j?e considered as circumstances, but as the capital figures ; and 
 ought, in propriety, to have the principal place allotted them. No 
 fault, for instance, can be found with this sentence : '' In their pros- 
 perity, my friends shall never hear of me ; in their adversity, al- 
 ways."! Where nerer, and always^ being emphatical words, were to 
 be so placed, as to make a strong impression. But we speak now of 
 those inferior parts of speech, wheo introduced as circumstances, or 
 as qualifications of more important words. In such a case they 
 should always be disposed of in the least conspicuous parts of the pe- 
 riod ; and so classed with other words of greater dignity, as to be 
 kept in their proper and secondary station. 
 
 177. Agreeably to this rule, we should always avoid 
 concluding with any of those particles which mark the ca- 
 ses of nouns; as, oJ\ tOy from, with, by, 
 
 Illus^For instance, it is a great deal better to say, *• Avarice is a 
 crime of which wise men are often guilty," than to say, <' Avarice is a 
 crime which wise men are often guilty of." This last is a phraseology 
 that, with reason, all correct writers shun : for, besides the want of 
 dignity which arises from those monosyllables at the end, the imagin- 
 ation cannot avoid resting, for a little, on ti.o import of the word that 
 closes the sentence : and, as prepositions iiave no import of tlieir 
 own, but only serve to point out the relations of other words, it is dh 
 agreeable for the mind to be left pausing on a word, which does nor, 
 by itself, produce any idea, nor form any pirture in the fancy. 
 
 178. For the same reason, verbs which are used in a com- 
 
 Jjound sense, with some of the prepositions, are not heauti- 
 III conclusions of a period. Such verbs as, bring about,^ 
 
 * Spec^tor, No. 420. t Bolingbroke. 
 
 10 
 
iu4 On the Structure of Sentences, 
 
 lay hold of, come over to, clear vp, and many other oi loj; 
 kind ought to be avoided, if we can employ a simple verb, 
 which will always terminate the sentence with more 
 strength. 
 
 Obs. Though the pronoun, it. has the import of a substantive noun, 
 and indeed often forces itself upon us unavoidably, yet, when we want 
 to give dignity to a sentence, this pronoun should, if possible, be tivoid- 
 ed in the conclusion ; more especially when it is joined with sonic of 
 the prepositions, as, with it, in it, to it. 
 
 179. Besides particles and pronouns, any phrase, which 
 expresses a circumstance only, always brings up the rear of 
 a sentence with a bad grace. 
 
 Ilhis. We may judge of this, by the following sentence from Lord 
 Bolingbroke : ** Let nie therefore conclude by repeating, that division 
 has caused all the mischief we lament ; that union alone can retrieve 
 ^is ; and that a great advance towards this union was the coalition of 
 parties, so happily begun, so successfully carried on, and of late so 
 maccountably neglected ; to say no worse."* This last plirase to say 
 .0 worsts occasions a sad falling off at the end ; so much the more 
 unhappy, as the rest of the period is conducted after the manner of a 
 climax, which we expect to find growing to the last. 
 
 Obs. 1. The proper disposition of such circumstances in a sentence^ 
 is often attended with considerable trouble, in order to adjust them so, 
 that they consist equally with the perspicuity and the grace of the 
 period. Though necessary parts, they are, however, like unshapely 
 iitoncs in a building, which, to place them with the least oflence, try 
 the skill of an artist. *' Let them be inserted wherever the happiest 
 .)lace for them can be found ; as, in a structure composed of rough 
 tones, there arc always places where the most irregular and unshape- 
 ly may find some adjacent one to which it can be joined, and some 
 basis on which it may rcst."t 
 
 2. The close is always an unsuitable place for them. When the 
 sense admits their arrangement, the sooner they arc despatched, gen- 
 Mally speaking, the better ; that the more important and significant 
 words may ])ossess the last place, quite disencumbered. It is a rule 
 too, never to crowd too many circumstances together, but |g|ber to 
 iiiterperse them in dilTerent parts of the sentence, joined vith the 
 ♦-apital words on which they depend ; provided that care be taken, a? 
 was before directed, not to clog those capital words with them. 
 
 180. The last rule, which we have to offer, relating to 
 the strength of a sentence, is, that in the members of a sen- 
 tence where two things are compared or contrasted with 
 each other ; where either a resemblance or an opposition 
 is intended to be expressed ; some resemblance, in the la)i- 
 s;uage and construction, should be preserved. For, when 
 the things themselves correspond to each other, we natur- 
 
 • Letter on the State of Parties at the Accession of King George I. ^ 
 
 + " Jiingaiitur quo congrvunt maxime ; sicut in structura sa.xorum rutKum, ctl^^rr 
 :T)3n rnormitas invenit ctsi api>licari, et in quo powit iiisistcrc." C^uinctiliam 
 
Perspicuity. 105 
 
 ^iViy expect to find the words also corresponding. We are 
 disappointed when it is otherwise ; and the cojnparison, or 
 contrast, appears more imperfect. 
 
 lUus. The following passage from Pope's Preface to his Homerg 
 fully exemplifies the rule we have now given : ^^ Homer was the 
 greater genius ; Virgil the better artist ; in the one, we most admire 
 the man ; in the other, the work. Homer hurries us with a command- 
 ing imi)etu,osity ; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty. Homer 
 scatters with a generous profusion ; Virgil bestows with a careful 
 magnificence. Homer, like the Nile, pours out his riches with a sud- 
 den overflow ; Virgil, like a river in its banks, with a constant 
 
 stream. And when we look upon their machines. Homer seems 
 
 like his own Jupiter in his terrors, shaking Olympus, scattering the 
 lightnings, and firing the heavens ; Virgil, like the same power in his 
 benevolence, counselling wiih the gods, laying plans for empires, and 
 ordering his whole creation." 
 
 CoroL Periods thus constructed, when introduced with propriety^ 
 and not returning too often, have a sensible beauty. But we must 
 beware of carrying our attention to this beauty too far. It ought 
 only to be occasionally studied, when it is naturally demanded by the 
 comparison or opposition of objects. If such a construction as this 
 be aimed at in all our sentences, it leads to a disagreeable uniformity ; 
 produces a regularly returning clink in the period, which plainly dis- 
 covers affeclaiion, and tires the ear like the chime of jingling verse. ' 
 Scholia. The fundamental rule for the construction of sentence?^ 
 arfd into which all other rules might be resolved, undoubtedly is, to 
 communicate, in the clearest and most natural order, the ideas which 
 we mean to transfuse into the minds of our hearers or readers. Eve- 
 ry arrangement that does most justice to the sense, and expresses it 
 to most advantage, strikes us as beautiful. To this point have tended 
 all the rules that we have given. And, indeed, did men always think 
 clearly, and were they, at the same time, fully masters of the language 
 in which they write, there would be occasion for few rules. Their 
 sentences would then, of course, acquire all those properties of pre- 
 cision, unity, and strength, which v/e have recommended. '' For we 
 may rest assured," says Dr. Blair,* " thai, whenever we express our- 
 selves ill, there is, besides the mismanagement of language, for the 
 most part, some mistake in our manner of conceiving the subject. 
 Embarrassed, obscure, and feeble sentences, are generally, if not al- 
 ways, the result, of embarrassed, obscure, and feeble thought. Thought 
 and language act and re-act upon each other mutually. Logic and 
 rhetoric have iiere, as in many other cases, a strict connection ; and 
 ;ie that is learning to arrange his sentences with accuracy and order, 
 s learning at the same time, to think with accuracy and order ;" an 
 observation v/hich alone will justify all the care and attention whicli 
 '■'■' have 'M^stowed on this subject. 
 
 * Lectures on Biictcrio, Lect. XI& 
 
lOS Perspicuity, 
 
 CHAPTER IV, 
 
 PERSPICUITY. 
 
 181. PERSPICUTIY originally and properly signifies 
 transparency, such as may be ascribed to air, glass, water, 
 or any other medium, through which material objects are 
 viewed. From this original and proper sense, it hath beet* 
 metaphorically applied to language, this being, as it were, the 
 medium, through which we perceive the notions and senti- 
 ments of any speaker or writer. 
 
 Illus. 1. Now, in natural things, if the medium through which we 
 look at any object, be perfectly transparent, our whole attpntion Is 
 iixed on the object. If, for instance, we look through the panes of 
 criass in any window, we are scarcely sensible that there is a medium 
 N hich intervenes, and can hardly be said to perceive the medium, 
 liut if there be any flaw in the glass, if we see through it but dimly, 
 if the object be imperfectly represented, or if we know it to be mis- 
 represented, our attention is immetliately taken off the object, and 
 turned to the medium. We are then desirous to discover the cause, 
 cither of the dim and confused representation, or of the misrepresen- 
 tation of things which the medium exhibits, or that the defect in .vis- 
 ion may be supplied by judgment. 
 
 2. The case of language is precisely similar. A discourse, then, 
 excels in perspicuity, when the subject engrosses the attention of the 
 hearer, and the diction is so little minded by him, that he can scarcely 
 be said to be conscious that it is through this medium he sees into the 
 
 peaker's thoughts. 
 
 3. On the contrary, the least obscurity, ambiguity, or confusion in 
 the style, instantly removes the attention from the sentiment to the ex- 
 pression, and the hearer endeavours, by the aid of reflection, to cor- 
 rect the imperfections of the speaker's language. Whatever applica- 
 tion he nms»t give to tlic words, is, in fact, so much deducted from what 
 lie owes to the sentiments. Besides, the effort which the speaker thus 
 requires his hearer to exert in a very close attention to the language, al- 
 ways weakens the effect, which the thoughts were intended to produce 
 
 u the mind of the hearer. 
 
 4. Perspicuity is, of all qualities of style, the first and most essen- 
 .Kil. Kvery speaker does not propose to please the imagination, nor 
 < every subject susceptible of those ornaments, which conduce to this 
 > urposc. Much less is it the aim of every speech, to agitate the pas- 
 ions. There are some occasions, therefore, in which variety, and 
 many in which animation of style, are not neeesisary ; nay, there are 
 
 occasions on which the last especially would be improper. But what- 
 ever be the ultimate intention of the orator, to inform, to convince, to 
 please, to move, or to persuade, still he must speak so as to be under- 
 stood, or he speaks to no purpose. If he do not propose to convey 
 certain sentiments into the minds of his hearers, by the aid of signs- 
 intelligible to them, he may as well declaim before them in an un> 
 known tongue. This prerogative the intellect hath above all the cthe». 
 
The Ob sciite, from Defect. 107 
 
 ..cu!tk5, that, whether it be or be not immediately addressed by the 
 
 peaker, it must be regarded by him either ultimately or subordinate- 
 
 iy; ultimately, when the direct purpose of t!ie discourse is informa 
 
 tion, or conviction ; subordinately, when the end is pleasure, emotion 
 
 or persuasion. 
 
 5. Besides, in a discourse wherein either vivacity or animation is re- 
 quisite, it is not every sentence that requires, or even admits, of either 
 of these qualities ; but every sentence ought- to be perspicuous. The 
 effect of ail other qualities is lost without this. But this being to the 
 understanding, what light is to the eye, ought to be diffused over the 
 whole performance. And since perspicuity is more properly a rheto- 
 ricial than a grammatical quality, we shall point out tVie different ways 
 in which a writer may fail to produce a style which shall answer the 
 conditions of the definition we have given of perspicuity. 
 
 t>. A man may, in respect of grammatical purity, speak unexcep- 
 I'juably, and yet speak obscureltf and ambiguously; and though we 
 annot say, that a man may speak properly, and at the same time 
 speak miintelligibly ; yet this last case falls more naturally to be con* 
 sidcred as an offence against perspicuity, than as a violation of pro- 
 priety. (jJrt, il2', 117, a7id 124.) For when the meaning is not dis 
 covered, the particular impropriety cannot be pointed out. In the 
 three different ways, therefore, just now mentioned, perspicuity may 
 be violated. 
 
 182. The obscure, from defect, is the first offence agains?; 
 perspicuity, and may arise from elliptical expressions. This 
 is tlie converse of precision, (^^r/. 1 1 8.) 
 
 Illus. In Greek and Latin, the frequent suppression of the substan^ 
 tive verb, and of the possessive and personal pronouns, furnishes in- 
 stances of ellipses, which the idiom of most modern tongues, English 
 and French particularly, will seldom admit. (Illus. 2. ^rt. 119.) 
 
 183. Often, indeed, the affectation of conciseness, often 
 the rapidity of thought, natural to some writers, will give 
 rise to still more material defects in the expression. 
 
 Example. *'He is inspired with a true sense of that function, when 
 chosen from a regard to the interests of piety and virtue."* 
 
 Jinalysis. Sense, in this passage, denotes an inward feeling, or the 
 impression which some sentiment makes upon the mind. New a func- 
 tion cannot be a sentiment impressed or felt. The expression is there- 
 fore defective, and ought to have read thus : " He is inspired with a 
 true sense of the dignity, or of the importance, of that function." 
 
 Obs. Obscurities in style arise not merely from deficiency, but from 
 ;xcess of expression, and often from the bad choice of words. (.See 
 Irt. 118, 119, and 12k) 
 
 184. Bad arrrangement is another source of obscurity. 
 In this case, the construction is not sufficiently clear. One 
 often, on first hearing the sentence, imagines, from the turn 
 of it, that it ought to be construed one way, and on reiiec- 
 xi(m finds that it must be construed another way. {Art. 143^ 
 144, and 145.) 
 
 • Gaardiau, No. SS. 
 
 10* 
 
108 PeTspkidiy. 
 
 Example. "I have hopes, that when Will confronts him, And aU 
 the ladies in whost behalf he engages him, cast kind looks and wishes 
 of success at their champion, he will have some shame."* 
 
 Analysis It is impossible not to iraaa;inc, on 1. earing the first part 
 of this sentence, that Will is to confront all the ladies ; though af- 
 terwards we find it neecessary to construe this clause nith the Ibllow- 
 ing verb. This confusion is removed at once, by repeating the adverb 
 when. 
 
 " I have hopes, that when Will confronts him, and when all the la- 
 dies cast kind looks," k,c. 
 
 Corol. Bad arrailgement may be justly termed a constructire ambi- 
 guity. The words are so disposed, in point of order, as would render 
 tljein really ambiguous, if, in that construction, which the expression 
 first suggests, any meaning were cxiubitod. As this is not the case, 
 the laulty order of the words cannot properly be considered, as ren- 
 dering the sentence ambiguous, but obscure. 
 
 185. The same icord used in different senses in the same 
 sentence, is another st?urcc of obscurity. 
 
 Example. "That he should be in earnest, it is hard to conceive; 
 since any reasons of doubt, which he mifiht have in this case, would 
 have been reasons of doubt in the case of other men, who may give 
 morey but canot give more evident, signs of thought, than their fellow* 
 creatures."! 
 
 ^Snalysis This errs alike against perspicuity and elegance. The 
 frrst word, more, is an adjective, the comparative of many ; in an in- 
 stant it is an adverb, and the sign of the comparative degree. As the 
 reader is not apprised of this, the sentence must appear to him, on 
 the first glance, a flat contradiction, {^irt. 122. Illus. 1 and 2.) 
 
 Correclimi. *' Who may give more numerous, but cannot give tnore 
 evident signs:" or llius,"VVho may give more^ but cannot give clearer 
 .signs." 
 
 186. It is but seldom that the same pronoun can be 
 usetl twice, or oftener, in the same sentence, in reference to 
 dill'eront thin<j;s, without darke^iing the expression. The 
 si<»;nification of the personal, as well as of the relative pro- 
 nouns, and even of the adverbs of place and time, must be 
 determined by the thiiigs to which they relate. To use 
 them therefore, with reference t<) diflferent things, is, in ef- 
 fect, to employ the same word in different senses; which, 
 when it occurs in the same sentence, or in sentences closely 
 connected, is rarely found entirely compatible with perspi- 
 cuity. {See Art, 152. Illus,) 
 
 Example. "One may have an air nhirh proceeds from a just suffi- 
 ciency and kno wedge of the matter before him, which may naturally 
 produce some motions of his head and body, which might become the 
 bench better than the bar."| 
 
 .Analysis. The pronoun which is here thrice used in three several 
 iienses; and it must reijnire reflection to discover, that the first de- 
 
 * Spectator, No. 20. t Bolingbroke's Ph. Ess. I. Sec. 9. f GoanUan, No. tf. 
 
The Double Meaning, . 109 
 
 wotos air^ the second, sufficiency and knowledge^ and the third, motions 
 of the head and body. 
 
 187. From too artificial a structure of the sentence, ob- 
 scurity may arise. This happens when tlie structure of the 
 sentence is too much complicated, or too artificial ; or when 
 the sense is too long suspended by parentheses. (Scholia^ 
 p. 93.) 
 
 Ohs. A short parenthesis, introduced in a proper place, will not in 
 the least hurt the clearness, and may add both to the vivacity, and to 
 the energy, of the sentence. (See Art. 157.) 
 
 188. Technical terms, injudiciously introduced, is anoth- 
 er source of darkness in composition. [See Art, 84. lUus.) 
 But in treatises on the principles of any art, they are not 
 only convenient, but even necessary. In ridicule too, if 
 used sparingly, as in comedy or romance, they are allowa- 
 ble. [Ubs. KArt. 114.) 
 
 189. Long Sentences may be justly accounted liable to 
 obscurity, since it is difficult to extend them, without in- 
 volving some of the other faults before mentioned. And 
 when a long peiiod does not appear obscure, it will always 
 be remarked, that all its principal members are similar in 
 their structure, and would constitute so many distinct sen- 
 tences, if they were not limited, by their reference to some 
 common clause in the beginning or the end. {^See drt. 
 138.) 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE DOUBLE MEANING, OR EqUIVOCATION. 
 
 190. THE double meaning. Perspicuity may i>e viotn- 
 led, not only by obscurity, but also by double meaning. 
 (Art.U^.) 
 
 Illus. The fault in this case is not that the sentence conveys dark- 
 ly or imperfectly the author's meaning, hut that it conveys also some 
 other meanin»- which is not the author's. His words are susceptible 
 of more than one interpretation. When this happens, it is always 
 occasioned, either by using some expression which is equivocal ; that 
 is, which hath more meanings than the one which the author afSxes to 
 it ; or by ranging the words in such an order, that the construction is 
 rendered equivocal, or made to exhibit different senses. The former 
 we term equivocation, the latter ambiguity. (See Defin. 19. p. 79.) 
 
 191. Equivocation, When i\\t word denotes in compd- 
 
UO PerspicuiiiJ^ 
 
 sition, as in common language it generally denotes, the use 
 of an equivocal word, or phrase, or other ambiguity, with aft 
 intention to deceive, it dift'ers not essentially from a lie. 
 
 This offence falls under the reproof of the moralist, not the oensm'- 
 of the rhetorician. 
 
 192. Again, when the word denotes, as agreeably it may 
 denote, that exercise of wit which consists in the playful 
 use of any term or phrase in different senses, and which is 
 denominated p?m, it is amenable, indeed, to the tribunal of 
 criticism, but it cannot be regarded as a violation of the 
 laws of perspicuity. 
 
 It is neither with the liar nor the punster that we are concerned at 
 present. 
 
 193. The only species of equivocation that comes under 
 reprehension here, is that which takes place, when an au- 
 thor undesignedly employs an expression susceptible of a 
 sense diflerent from the sense he intends it should convey. 
 
 Obs. This fault has been illustrated iu Articles 113, 121, 122, and 
 123. 
 
 194. The equivocation may be either in a single word, 
 or in a phrase. 
 
 Illus. 1. 'Die preposition o/ denotes sometimes the relation whick 
 any affection hears to its subject ;* sometimes the relation which it 
 bears to its object. 
 
 Example. 1. Hence this expression of the Apostle has been obser- 
 ved to be equivocal : '* I am persuaded that neither death nor lifeshall 
 be able to separate us from the love o/God."t By iht love of God, 
 say interpreters, may be understood, either God's lore to m*, or our 
 love to God. 
 
 2. As the preposition o/ sometimes denotes the relation of the ef- 
 fect to the cause, sometimes that of the accident to the subject ; from 
 this duplicity of sig^nification, there will also, in certain circumstances, 
 arise a double meanin«f. ** A little after tb4i reformation o/ Luther,"; 
 is a phrase which sugf^ests as readily a change wrought on Luther as 
 a change wrought by him. But the phraseology Is intelligible when 
 we apply the term reformation to the schism which Luther produced 
 i n the Catholic Church. 
 
 Illus. 2. The CO 71 junctions shall furnish our second illustration. 
 
 Example. '* They were both more ancient among the Persians 
 tha\i Zoroaster or Zerdusht."^ 
 
 .^inali/sis. The conjunction or is here equivocal. It serves either 
 as a copulative to synonymous words, or as a disjunctive of different 
 thmgs. But Zoroaster and Zerdusht mean the same person, therefore 
 the sentence is equivocal. 
 
 Corol. 1. If the first noun follows &n article or a preposition^ or 
 
 • That is, the person whose afftction it is. t Romans viii. 38,&«. 
 
 i Swift's Mechaiiital Dpi rations. 
 
 I Boliiigbroke's Substance of Letters to M. de Pouilly. 
 
The Double Meaning. Ill 
 
 feoth ; the article, or the preposition, or both, should be repeated be- 
 fore the second, when the two nouns are intended to denote different 
 things ; and should not be repeated, when they are intended to denote 
 the same thing-. 
 
 2. If there be neither article nor preposition before the first, and if 
 it be the intention of the writer to use the particle or disjunctively, 
 let the first noun be preceded by either, which will infallibly ascertain 
 the meaning, 
 
 3. On the contrary, if, in such a dubious case, it be his design to 
 use the particle as a copulative to synonymous words, the piece will 
 rarely sustain a material injury, by omitting both the conjunction and 
 synonyma. 
 
 lilus. 3. Pronouns may also be used equivocally. 
 
 Example. " She united the great body of the people in her and their 
 common interest."* 
 
 Analysis. The word her may be either the possessive pronoun, or 
 the accusative case of the personal pronoun. A very small alteration 
 in the order totally removes the doubt. Say, *' in their and her com- 
 mon interest." The word thus connected, can only be the possessive, 
 as the author doubtless intended it should be in the passage quoted. 
 
 Jllus. 4, Substantives are sometimes used equivocally. 
 
 Example. " Your Majesty has lost all hopes of any future excises 
 by their consumption. ''f 
 
 Analysis. The word consumption has both an active sense and a pas- 
 sive. It means either the act of consuming, or the state of being con- 
 sumed. 
 
 Correction. " Your Majesty has lost all hopes of levying any future 
 excises on what they shall consume." 
 
 Jllus. 5. Adjectives also are used equivocally. 
 
 Example. " As for such animals as are mortal or noxious, we have 
 a right to destroy thera."| 
 
 Analysis. Indeed ! all men are liable to death, and all men are ani~ 
 imals, but we have no right to destroy eacli other. The word mortal, 
 thsrefore, in this sentence might be justly considered as improper; (Art. 
 117. Illus.3.) for though it sometimes means destructive, or causing 
 death, it is then almost invariably joined with some noun expressive 
 of hurt or danger. 
 
 Illus. 6. Ferbs often present a false sense more readily than t\m 
 true. 
 
 Example. " The next refuge was to say it was overlooked by one 
 man, and many passages wholly written by another. "§ 
 
 Analysis. The word overlooked sometimes signifies revised, and 
 sometimes neglected. But the participle is used here in the former 
 sense, therefore the word revised ought to have been preferred. 
 
 Illus. 7. In the next quotation the homonymous term rnay be either 
 an adjective or an adverb, and admits a different sense in each accep* 
 lation. 
 
 Example. " Not on/?/ Jesuits can equivocate."i| 
 
 Analysis. If the word only is here an adverb, the sense is ''to equiv- 
 
 ■ate is not the only thing that Jesuits can do," This interpretation, 
 hough not Dryden's meaning, suits the construction. The proper 
 •ad unequivocal meaning, though a prosaic expression of this scnscy 
 
 * Idea of a Patriot King, t Guardian, No. 52. \ Ibid, No. §?>• 
 
 ^ Sptctator, No. 19. jj Dryden's Hind and Panther. 
 
112 Jlmhigxiity. 
 
 is, " Jesuits can not only equivocate " Agrain, if the wofd onl^ is hefe 
 an adjective (and this doubtless is the author's meaning) the sense is, 
 " Jesuits are not the only persons who can equivocate." 
 
 Illas. 8 Equivocal phrases are such as, not the leasts not the small- 
 est, which may signify '' not any," as though one should say, not even 
 the least, not so much as the smallest ; and sometimes again a very great, 
 as though it were expressed in this manner, /ar/rom being the least 
 or smallest. Now since they are susceptible of two significations which 
 are not only different, but contrary,they ought to be totally laid aside. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AMBIGUITY. 
 
 i'UE double meanins^ arises, not from the use of 
 "<iiuv<)cal terms, but solely from the construction ; and is^ 
 therefore distinguished by the name (unbiguity, (^See Art* 
 1 90. and lilus, also HrL 151.) 
 
 lilns. \\\ the use of ;9ronoMn*,the reference to the antecedent should 
 be so unquestionable, that no false meaning could possibly be sugges- 
 ted by the manner of construing the words, of which a sentence may 
 be composed. 
 
 Examples. " Solomon^ the son of David, who built the temple at Je- 
 rusalem, was the richest monarch that ever reigned •ver the Jewish 
 people," and " Solomon, the son of David, who was persecuted by 
 Saul, was the richest monarch." 
 
 JJnalysis. In these two instances, the who is similarly situated ; yH 
 in the former, it relates to the person first mentioned ; in the latter, to 
 the second. And some previous knowledge of the history of those 
 kings is necessary to enable any reader to discover this relation to 
 the one or to the other. 
 
 Correction. '' Solomon, the son of David, and the builder of the 
 iemple of Jerusalem, was iho richest monarch." 
 
 Example 2. The following quotation exhibits a triple sense, arising 
 from the indeterminate use of the relative. 
 
 ' Such were the centaurs of Ixion's race, 
 H'ho a brij^ht cloud for Juno did embrace."* 
 
 .^nnfi/sis. Who embraced the cloud, the centaurs, Irion, or his race P 
 The relative ought grammatically to refer rather to the centaurs, than 
 to either of the other two, and least of all to Ixion, to whom it was 
 jutended to refer. 
 
 195. The relatives who^ vjhicli, that, whose and whom, 
 often create ambiguity, even when there can be no doubt in 
 regard to the antecedent. 
 
 Jllus. 1. These pronouns are sometimes explicative, sometimes de- 
 terminative. They are explicative when they serve merely for the 
 
 * Denbam'8 Prog;ren of Learning;^ 
 
Ambiguity, 11 j 
 
 yJustratton of the subject, by pointing out eitber some property, or 
 some circumstance belonging to it, leaving it, however, to be under- 
 stood in its full extent. 
 
 Examples. " iVlan, who is born of a woman, is of few days, and ful! 
 of trouble." " Godliness, wJiich with contentment is great gain, has 
 the promise both of the present life, and of the future." 
 
 Jinalysis. The clause, " who is born of a woman," in the first ex- 
 ample, and " which with contentment is great gain," in the second^ 
 point to certain properties in the antecedent, but do not restrain their 
 signification. For, should we omit these clauses altogether, we could 
 say with equal truth, "Man is of few days, and full of trouble," 
 *' Godliness has the promise both of the present life, and of the future." 
 
 Illus. 2. On the other hand, these pronouns are determinative, when 
 they are employed to limit the import of the antecedent. 
 
 . Examples. " The man that endureth to the end shall be saved." 
 ^^ The remorse, which issues in reformation, is true repentance." 
 
 Jinalysis. Each of the relatives here confines the signification of its 
 antecedent to such only as are possessed of the qualification mention- 
 ed. For it is not affirmed of every man that he shall be saved ; nor of 
 all remorse, that it is true repentance. 
 
 196. From the above examples, it may fairlj be collected, 
 that with us the definite article is of great use for discrimin- 
 ating the explicative sense from the determinative. In the 
 lirst case it is rarely used, in the second, it ought never to 
 be omitted, unless when something still more definitive, 
 such as a demonstrative pronoun, supplies its place. (Jirt, 
 '57. Illus.) 
 
 Example. '^ I know that all words which are signs of complex ideas^ 
 furnish matter of mistake and cavil.""* 
 
 Jinalysis. As words, the antecedent, has neither the article nor a 
 demonstrative pronoun to connect it with the subsequent relative, it 
 should seem that the clause, " which are signs of complex ideas," 
 was merely explicative, and that the subject words was to be under- 
 stood in the utmost latitude. This could not be the noble writer's 
 sense, as it would be absurd to affirm of all words, that they are signs 
 of complex ideas. 
 
 Correction. " I know that all fhe words wlijch are signs of complex 
 ideai;" or, '' I know that all those words which are signs." Either of 
 theseways makes the clause beginning with the relative serve to limit 
 the iraport of the antecedent. 
 
 197. In numberless instances we find the pronouns his 
 and ke used, in like manner, ambiguously ; and the latter 
 especially when two or more males happen to be mentioned 
 in i\\t same clause of a sentence. 
 
 Obs. In such a case, we ought always either to give another turw 
 to the expression, or to use the noun itself, and not the pronoun ; foi 
 ".vhen ihe repetition of the word is necessary, it i.s not offensive. (Ilivr. 
 •>3.p. in.andJ2ri.irj2.) 
 
 * BoJingbvoke's Djssertaiion on Parties, Lcct . X? 
 
"1 14 Ambiguity, 
 
 198. There is in adjectives especially, a great risk o; ,,,., 
 bigiiity, when they are not joined to the substantives to 
 which they belong. (Itlus. 5, p. Hi.) 
 
 Illus. 1. This hazard arises, in our lang^uage, from our adjectives 
 'laving no declension, by which case, number, and g^ender are distin- 
 iiishcd. Their rehition, therefore, is not otherwise to be ascertained 
 Jian by their place. {Illus. § //. p. 64.) 
 
 Example. " God heapeth favours on his servants ever liberal and 
 faithful." 
 
 Analysis. Is it God or his servants that are ever liberal and faith- 
 ful ? If the former, then the sentence should run thus ; <' God, ever 
 liberal and faithful, heapeth favours on his servants." If the latter, 
 then " God heapeth favours on his ever liberal and faithful servants," 
 «r *' his servants who are ever liberal and faithful." 
 
 Illus. 2. Two or more adjectives are sometimes made to refer to the 
 ^ame substantive, when, in fact, they do not belong to the same thing, 
 \>ut to different thinjrs, which, being of the same kind, arc expressed 
 oy the same generic name. 
 
 Example. " Both the ecclesiastic, and the secular powers concur- 
 red in those measures." 
 
 Analysis. Here the two adjectives, ecclesiastic and secular, relate 
 "o the same substantive powers, but do not relate to the same individ- 
 ual things ; for the powers denominated ecclesiastic are totally dif- 
 :'erent from those denominated secular. This too common idiom may 
 h^ avoided either by repeating the sabstaiitive, or by subjoining the 
 substantive to the first adjective, and prefixing the article to the se- 
 cond as well as the first. 
 
 Correciion. '' Both the ecclesiastic powers, and the seculjir concur- 
 red in those measures," or, '* Both the ecclesiastic powers, and the 
 t?€cular powers ;" but the former is perhaps preferable. 
 
 199. The construction of substantive nouns is sometimes 
 ambiguous, (Illus, 4. p, lll.j 
 
 Example 1. "You shall seldom find a dull fellow of good educa- 
 tion, but (if he happen to have any leisure upon his hands) will torn 
 his head to one of those two amusements for all fools of eminence, 
 politics or poetry."* 
 
 jlnaljjsis. The position of the words polilics or poetry makes one at 
 first imagine, that along with the terms eminence, they are affecte«f by 
 the preposition o/, and construed wi(h /00/5. The repetition of tie to 
 after eminence would have totally removed the ambiguity. 
 
 Example 2. " .V rising tomb the lofty column bor«'.'t 
 
 .'inalysis. Did ^he tomb bear the column, or the column the tomb ? 
 But this fault is frequent, in the construction of substantives, espetially 
 in verse, when both what we call the nominative case and the accusa- 
 tive are put before the verb. As in nouns those cases are not »|stin- 
 guishcd either by inflection, or prepositions, so neither can tljy be 
 .distinguished in such instances by arrangement. 
 
 200. Jlmbiguity in using the conjunctions, 
 
 Exawple. " At least my own private letters leave room for a [oliti-^ 
 
 • Spectator, No. 43. t Pope's ©dyssey, Book 12. 
 
Ambiguity, 115 
 
 tiian, well versed in matters of this nature, to suspect as mucky as a 
 penetrating friend of mine tells me." 
 
 Analysis, The particle as^ which in this sentence immediately pre- 
 cedes the wovA^a penelrating friendy makes frequently a part of these 
 compound conjunctions as much as, as well as, as far as. It will, there- 
 fore, naturally appear, at first, to belong^ to the words as much, which 
 immediately precede it. But as this is not really the case, it ought to 
 have been otherwise situated ; for it is not enough that it is separated 
 by a comma, these small distinctions in the pointing being but too fre- 
 quently overlooked, 
 
 Corrtciion. '* At least my own private letters, as a penetrating 
 friend of mine tells mo, leave room for a politician well versed in 
 inatters of this nature to suspect as much." 
 
 201. Sometimes a particular clause or expression is so 
 situated, tiiat it may be construed with different members of 
 the same sentence, and thus exhibit dijferent meanings. 
 (Jllus S.p. il2. and Art, 151.) 
 
 Example. " It has not a word but what the author religiously thinks 
 in it."* 
 
 Analysis. One would at first imagine the author's meaning to be, 
 that it iiad not a word which the author did not think to be in it. Al- 
 ter a little the place of the last two words, and supply the ellipsis, and 
 the ambiguity will be removed. 
 
 Correction. " It has not a word in it, but what the author religiously 
 thinks it should contain." 
 
 202. The squinting construction ^f another fertile source 
 of ambiguity, is, when a clause is so situated in a sentence, 
 that one is at first at a loss to know whether it ought to be 
 connected with the words which go before, or with those 
 which come after. 
 
 Example. "As it is necessary to have the head clear, as well as the 
 complexion, to be perfect in this part of learning, I rarely mingle 
 with the men, but frequent the tea tables of the ladies.":}: 
 
 Analysis. Whether, " to be perfect in this part of learning, is it ne- 
 <:essary to have the head clear as well as the complexion ;" or, '' to 
 be perfect in this part of learning, does he rarely mingle with the 
 men, but frequent the tea tables of the ladies.'*" Which ever of these 
 be sense, the words ought to have been otherwise arranged. 
 
 * Guardian. So. 4. t Construction louche^ it is called by llie French# 
 
 h Guartiian, No. 10, 
 
 !1 
 
llfif The dnintelligihlr^ 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 0F THE UNINTELLIGIBLE. 
 
 ^1} i. L'NDER the article precision, Chapfer IV. of Book 
 II., but more particularly in 7//w5. 6. .^rf. 181, it was ob- 
 served generally, that a speaker may express himself ob- 
 scurely, and so convey his meaning imperfectly to the mind 
 of the hearer. In Chapter VI. of this book, it was shewn, 
 that he may express himself ambiguously, and so along with 
 his own, convey a meaning entirely different. In this 
 Chapter, we shall shew that he may even express himself 
 Mnintelligiblyy and so convey no meaning at all. This fault 
 arises, 
 
 1st. From great confusion of thought, accompanied with 
 intricacy of expression: {Jrt. 121. lllus.) 
 
 2dly. From affectation of excellence in the dicticm : 
 3dly. From a total want of meanino;. '^^- 
 
 First, The unintelligible from confu8io?i of thoughL 
 204. Language is the meilium through which tiie senti- 
 ments of the writer are perceived by the reader. [Art, 
 181.) And though the impurity, or the grossness of the 
 medium, will render the image obscure or indistinct, yet no 
 purity in the medium will suffice for exhibiting a distinct 
 and unvarying image of a confused and unsteady object.* 
 
 Illxis. There is a sort of half- formed thoughts, which we sometime? 
 find a writer impatient to give the world, before he himself is fully 
 possessed of them. Now, if the writer himself pcreeive confusedly 
 and imperfectly the sentiments which he would communicate, it is a 
 thousand to one, the reader will not perceive them at all. 
 
 Example \. In simple sentences. Sir Richard Steele, though a man 
 ef sense and genius, was a great master in thi^ style ; speaking of 
 some of the coAee-house politicians, " I have observed," says he> 
 '* that the superiority among these, proceeds from an opinion of gal- 
 lantry and fashion."! 
 
 Analysis. This sentence, considered in itself, evidently conveys no 
 meaning. First, it is not said, whose opinion, their own, or that of 
 others; secondly, it is not said what opinion, or of what sort, favour- 
 able or unfavotfrable, true or false, but in general an opinion of gal- 
 lantry and fashion^ which contains no definite expression of any mean- 
 
 . • The distinctions in some departments of this Grammar of Rhetoric, are so nice, 
 that they diifcr not in kind, but in dipree, from one another : yet, if the internjediate 
 »tfps,by which wi have passed from one to the oth r. be removed, we shall at once 
 yerceive how necessary they wei-e to a full d-veiopment of the art. Without attend- 
 ing to this remark, they who have but suprrtlcially erlanced at this chapior. would be 
 re.idy to coasidcr it a repetition of the arliclu precisioB,yet a it totally distinct, «♦ 
 very liule sagacity may soon dz^cover. 
 t Spe«t3tor, Kq. 49. 
 
The Unintelligible. i 1 T 
 
 >vig. W iiii the joint assistance of the context, reflection aad conjec- 
 ture, we shall perhaps conclude that the author intended to say, that 
 the rank among^ these politicians, was determined by the opinion gen- 
 erally entertained of the rank in point of gallantry and fashion that 
 «ach of them had attained. 
 
 Example 2. Of a complex sentence, which conveys indeed the dull- 
 est species of the unintelligible. '' The serene aspect of these writers^ 
 joined with the great encouragement I observe is given to another, 
 •or, what is indeed to be suspected, in which he indulges himself, con- 
 firmed nie in the notion 1 have of the prevalence of ambition this 
 way."^ 
 
 Jinalysw. Was it the serene aspect of these writers that confirmed 
 hira in the notion h« had of the prevalence of ambition ? And if so, 
 >\as the prevalence of this ambition a prevalence to obtain, or to pre- 
 serve, a '* serene aspect ? or to become writers.'"' Again, was great 
 encouragement given to another man to assume a serene aspect, if he 
 ?iad none, or to preserve it if he ^lad such a thing ^ Joined to the 
 great encoi^ragement given to another, to do what.'' "In which he in- 
 dulges himself." In what.'' this encouragement, or a seiene aspect? 
 In short, the writer talks downright nonsense, for the sentence admits 
 Slot of decomposition. 
 
 205. Setondly, The nnintelligible from affectation of 
 excellence. In this there is always something figurative; 
 but the figures are remote, and things heterogeneous are 
 combined. 
 
 Example 1, In a simple sentence. The Guardian, speaking of meek- 
 ness and humility, says, "This temper of soul, keeps our understand^ 
 ing tight about ws."t 
 
 Analysis. This is an incongruous jnetapfeior. The understanding is 
 made a girdle to our other mental faculties ; for the fastening of which 
 girdle, meekness and humility serve as a buckle. 
 
 Example 2. Yet when that flood in its own depths was drown'd, 
 It left behind it false and slippery ground.^ 
 
 Analysis. The first of these lines is marvellously nonsensical. It in* 
 forms us of a prodigy never heard of before, a drowned flood ; nay, 
 which is still more extraordinary, a flood that was so excessively 
 deep, that after leaving nothing else to drown, it turned /e/o-t/e-5e, and 
 drowned itself. And doubtless, if a flood can be in danger of drown- 
 ing itself, the deeper it is, the danger must be the greater. So far, at 
 Jeast, the author talks consequentially. The first line itself has no 
 meaning ; but the author intended to say, " When the waters of the 
 deluge had subsided." 
 
 Example 3. In a complex sentence. '' If the savour of things lies 
 ^ross to honesty, if the fancy be florid, and the appetite high towards 
 *be subaltern beauties and lower order of worldly symmetries and pro- 
 portions, the conduct will infaliibly turn this latter way."§ 
 
 Analysis. Here we have lofty images and high sounding words, but 
 ivherc shall we find the sense ? The meaning, where there is a mean- 
 ing, cannot be said to be communicated and adorned by the words, 
 but is rather buried under them. The French critics call this species 
 
 * Giiavdiaji, No. 1. t Ibid, i Dryden's Panegyric on the Coronation of Charl(,e8 U/- 
 
 ♦ CJSiar4ct',ri5;Jcs, Vol. lll.^i§c. II. ?b 2» 
 
il8 T/ie Unintelligible. 
 
 of writing, or of figure, galhnatias ; the English call it bombast j anu 
 we may properly define it the sublime of nonsense. 
 
 Example 4. "But wliat can one do ? or how dispense with these 
 darker disquisitions, and moon-light voyagers, when we have to deal 
 with a sort of inoon-blind wits, who, though very acute and able in 
 their kind, may be said to renounce day-light, and extinguish, in a 
 ananner, the bright visible world, by allowing us to know nothing be- 
 side what wc can prove, by strict and formal demonstration."* 
 
 Analysis. It must be owned, that the condition of those wits is truly 
 deplorable; for though very acute and able in their kind, yet being 
 moon-light blind, they cannot see by night ; and having renounced 
 day-light, they will not see by day ; so that, for any use they have of 
 iheir eyes, they arc no better than stone blind. It is astonishing too, 
 that the reason for rendering a moon-light voyage indispensable, is, 
 that wc have moon-blind persons only for our company', the very rea- 
 son which, to our ordinary understanding, would render such a voy^ 
 ■■'XQ improper. 
 
 iita species, inquit, ast cerebrum aon habet. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 tHE %'AllIOUS SPECIES OP THE UNINTELLIGIBLE. 
 
 206. THE UNINTELLIGIBLE, jO-om ivunt of meaning in 
 the writer, proceeds from vacuity of thought. Here the 
 entence is generally simple ia its structure, and the con- 
 struction easy. 
 
 Illus. Let us contrast this with the unintelligible proceeding from 
 confusion of thought, accompanied with intricacy of expression. In 
 this last, you hesitate at certain intervals, and retrace your progress ; 
 iinding yourself at a loss in the terms, and at a loss for the meaning, you 
 then try to construe the sentence, and to ascertain the signification of 
 the words. By these means, and by the help of the context, you will 
 possibly come at last i\\ what the author would have said. In the un- 
 intelligible, {xomwant of meaning , provided words, glaringly unsuita- 
 ble, are not combined, you proceed without hesitation or doubt. You 
 never suspect, that you do not uuderstaud a sentence, the terms of 
 which are familiar to you, and of which you perceive distinctly the 
 t'rammatlc.'il order. But if, by any uii-ans, you are induced to think 
 more closely on the subject, and to pi;ruso the words a second time 
 more attentively ; you will then begin to suspect them, and at length 
 discover, that they contain nothing, but either an identical proposition, 
 which conveys no knowledge, or a proposition of that kind, of whicli 
 you cannot so much as affirm, that it is either true or false. Sometimes 
 pompous metaphors, and sonorous phrases, are mjudiciously employed 
 to add dignitv to the most trivial conceptions ; sometimes they are 
 uade the vehicles for nonsense. In madmen there is as great a varie- 
 'y of character, as in those who enjoy the use of their reason. }n lik<= 
 
 * Chara«»ensties, V«>. IIL Misc. IV. 
 
'The Leafned ISfonsense. 
 
 icinnf;! , it may be said of nonsense, that, in writing it, there is as 
 great scope for variety of style, as there is in writing sense. 
 
 207. Fii'st, the puerile, which is always produced wh^n 
 an author runs on in a species of verbosity, amusing his rea- 
 der with synoiiymous terms, and identical propositions, well 
 turned periods, and high sounding words; but at the same 
 time, using those words so indefinitely, that the reader can 
 either atHx no meaning to them at all, or he may almost affix 
 any meaning that he pleases. 
 
 Example. " Whatever renders a period sweet and pleasant, rnakes 
 it also graceful ;' a good ear is the gift of Nature, it may be much im- 
 proved, but not acquired by art ; whoever is possessed of it will 
 scarcely need dry critical precepts to enable him to judge of a true 
 rythmus, and n.elody of composition : just members, accurate propor- 
 tions, a musical symphony, magnificent figures, and that decorumy 
 vvhich is the result of all these, are unison to the human mind ; we 
 are so framed by nature, that their charm is irresistable. Hence ail 
 ages and nations have been smit with the love of the Muses.'"* 
 
 Analyds. Through the whole paragraph, the author proceeds in the 
 same careless and desultory manner, atTording at times some glim-- 
 merings of sense, and perpetually ringing the changes in a lew fa 
 vourite words and phrases. 
 
 Kxamplc 2. From harmony, from heavenly harmony. 
 
 This universal frame began ; 
 
 From harmony to harmony, 
 
 Through all the compass of the notes it ran. 
 
 The diapason closing fall in man.f 
 Jinulyfis. This is of the same signature with the former ; there is nor 
 even a glimpse of meaning through all the compass of the words ; 
 but in writings of tiiis stamp, we must accept of sound, instead of' 
 sense, being assured, at least, that if we meet with little that can in 
 form the judgment, we shall find notiiing that will ofiiud the ear. 
 
 208. The learned nonsense is another species of tlic 
 unintelligible : and scholastic theology is considered the 
 most fruitful source of this spe.cies of nonsense, unless, per- 
 jiaps, we include also antiquarian researches. The more, 
 incomprehensible the subject is, the greater scope has t'se 
 declaimer to talk plausibly, without any n|eanijig. Also 
 the deeper any speculation be buried in the darkness of re- 
 mote antiquity, the wider the field for most excellent mat- 
 ter of contemplative amazement. 
 
 Jllus. To both these styles of th^ unintelligible, the lines of the 
 bard, addressed to the patroness of sophistry, as well as duhiess, arr 
 admirably adapted, 
 
 " Explain upon a thing till all men doubt it; 
 And write about it, goddess, and about it.';!: 
 
 * GtHldes on the composition of theAncients, Sect. 1. 
 I l>)-)den's Ode for St, Cecelia's day. % Dunciatk 
 
 11* 
 
i20 The UnintelUgibi': 
 
 Example. ''• Nothing- is there to come, ami luiniiug^ pc . 
 But an eternal now does always last.'* 
 
 Analysis. What an insatiable thirst hath this bastard pl.iio>^ji>n> io< 
 absurdity and rontsadiction ! In tliese school metaphysics, a 7iow 
 thai lasts ; that is, an instant which continues during; successire in- 
 stants ; an eternal now ; an instant that is no instant, and an eternity 
 that is no eternity, is a mere fij^ment of human imagination, a rhap 
 sody of the transcendent unintelligible. 
 
 209. The third species we shall denominate the profound. 
 It is most commonly to be met with in political writings. 
 No where else, in the present day, do we find the merest 
 nothings set off with an air of solemnity, as the result of 
 very deep thouglit and sage reflection. But let us hear a 
 politician of the old school. 
 
 Example. 'Tis agreed, that in a: ,..,.,,,. 
 
 and unlimited power, which naturally and oiiginally seems to bs; 
 placed in the whole body, wherever the executive part of it lies. This 
 holds of the body natural ; for wherever we place the beginnings of 
 inotion, whether from the head, or the heart, or the animal sjiirits in 
 2^eneral, the body moves and acts by consent of all its parts. f 
 
 Analysis. The first sentence in this passage contains one of the most 
 iiackneyed maxims of the writers on politics; a maxim, however, 02 
 which it will be more difficult than is commonly imagined, to discov- 
 er, not the justness, but the sense. The illustration from the materia! 
 body, contained in the second sentence, is indeed more glaringly non^ 
 sensical. It is utterly inconceivable io affirm what it is that consti 
 futes this consent of all the parts of the body, which must be obtained 
 i»reviously to every motion. Yet the whole paragraph from which 
 V lis quotation is taken, has in it su< h a speciousness, that it is a ques- 
 tion, if even a judicious r. ad.r uUl r.i.t uw Jh.- UKt n<Mii<v;il \u- v.-ovi. 
 ble of the defect. 
 
 210. The marvellu . ..- ■... i.i,t r,>^.iC- i.i aKi-cu^^c il.u., 
 ve shall exemplify. It is the characteristic of this kind, 
 iiat it astonishes, and even confounds, by the boldness of 
 'le affirmations, v'hich always appear flatly to contradict 
 
 'iie plainest dictates of comnlon sense, a*i<l thn« to involve 
 
 A manifest absurdity. 
 
 Exainple. *' Nature in herself is unseemly, uiki ;ie uno copies he; 
 iorviloly, and without artifice, will ;ihvays produce something poor, 
 Mid of u mean taste. What is called load in colours and lights, can 
 >ily proceed from a profound knowledge in the values of colours, and 
 I om an admirable industry, which makes the painted objects appear 
 iiore true, if I may say so, than the real ones. In this sense, it may 
 '!« asserteti. that in Rubens' pieces, art is above nature, and nature on- 
 :y a copy of that great master's works.' ; 
 
 • Cowley's Davideis, Book I. 
 
 f Swift's Discourse of the Contests and Dissentions in Athens and Rome. 
 
 t * La N«Jture est ingrttc il'cl'e mcme et qui s ^ttacheroit a la copier simp'cmcnt 
 comme cMcest, et sans artifice, feroit toujours que'que chose de pauvrc et d'un tre» 
 QCtit gout. Ce que voua nommei cxagentions dam let couleurs, ct dans Icsliiml^res 
 
The lhiniellt2ibl€4 
 
 Hi- 
 
 ^inalysis. What a strang-e subversion, or inversion, if you will, of 
 ?tll the most obvious and hitherto undisputed truths ! Not satisfied 
 with aftinning the unseemliness of every production of Nature, whoni 
 this philosopher has discovered to be an arrant bungler, and the im- 
 mense superiority of human art, whose humble scholar dame Niture 
 might be proud to be accounted, be rises to asseverations, which shock 
 all our notions, and utterly defy the powers of apprehension. Paint- 
 ing is found to be the original; or rather Rubens' pictures are the 
 original, and nature is the copy ; and indeed very consequentially, the 
 former is represented as the standard by which the beauty and perfec- 
 tions of the latter are to be estimated. Nor do the qualifying phrases, 
 *' If I may say so," and^'in this sense it may be asserted," make here 
 the smallest odds. For as this sublime critic has no where hinted what 
 sense it is which he denominates "this sense," no reader will be able 
 to conjecture, what the author might have said, and not absurdly said 
 to the same effect. When the expression is strapped of the absurd 
 meaning, (.irt. 204.) there remains nothing but balderdash, an un- 
 meaning jumble of words, which at first seem to announce some great 
 discovery. 
 
 Example 2. Witness, as another specimen of the same kind, the 
 famous prostration of an heroic lover, in one of Dryden's plays : 
 "My wound is great, because it is so small." 
 
 Analysis. The nonsense of this was properly exposed, by an extem- 
 pore verse of the Duke of Bucking^ham, who, on hearing this line, ex- 
 claimed, in the house, 
 
 It would be greater, were it none at all. 
 
 Conclusion. Thus have we illustrated, as far as example can illus- 
 trate, some of the principal varieties to be remarked in unmeaning 
 sentences or nonsense ; the puerile, the learned, the profound, antX 
 the marvellous ; together with those other classes of the unintelligible, 
 arising either from confusion of thought, accompanied with intricacy 
 of expression, or from an excessive aim at excellence in the style and 
 manner. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 OF THE HARMONY OF PERIODS. 
 
 211. IN the HARMONY OF PERIODS, two tliings niaj be 
 considered. First, agreeable sound, or modulation in gene- 
 ral, without any particular expression: next,- the sound so 
 ordered, as to become expressive of the sens^^jLThe first is 
 the more common ; the second, the higher beaf 
 
 est une admirable industree que fait paroitre les objects peints plus ^^l^lsb s'i' f^ut 
 ainsi dire, que les veritables memes. C'est ainsi que les tableaux >n|HBenssont 
 plus beaux que la Nature, la quell-: semble n'etre que la opie des ouvrape^HfejB''»nd* 
 homrrc." Receuil cle divers ouvrage aur la peinturc ct Ic coloris. Par M^l^^ilCsT 
 Paris, f 775. p. ai^. 
 
rnc llarmony of renoih 
 
 i,</o. .\i,.c.,<ioiu ^jound, in general, is the propcuv oi a ,vuu tuu-^ 
 strncted sentence. This beauty of musicixl construction in prose de- 
 pends upon two things ; the choice of words, and the arrangement of 
 them. 
 
 212. Those words are most agreeable to the ear which 
 are composed of smooth and liquid sounds, where there is 
 a proper intermixture of vowels and consonants; without 
 too many harsh consonants grating upon each other; or too 
 many open vowels in succession, to cause a hiatus, or disa- 
 greeable aperture of the mouth. {Jllus, Jirt. 1 3.) 
 
 lUus. It may always be assumed as a principle, that, uJiatevei 
 sounds arc diflkult in pronunciation, are, in tlje same proportion, 
 liarsh and painful to the ear. Vowels i;ive softness ; consonants, 
 strength to the sounds of words. The music of language requires a 
 iust proportion of both; and it will be hurt, and rendered either grat- 
 iug orefleminate, by an excess of either. Long words are commonly 
 more agreeable to the ear than monosyllables. They please it by the 
 composition or succession of sounds, which they present to it; and, 
 accordingly, the most musical hinguages abound most in polysyllables. 
 Among words of any lenj'th, those are the most musical, which do not 
 run wholly either upon long or short syllables, but are composed of 
 an intermixture of them ; such as, repent, produce^ velocity, ceUritij, 
 independent, impttuosity. 
 
 213. The harmony which results from a proper arrange- 
 ment of the words and members of a period, is complex, 
 and of great nicety. For let the words themselves be evei' 
 so well chosen, let them sound ever so well, yet, if they be 
 ill disposed, the music of the sentence is utterly lost. (ISco- 
 liuniyp. 86. .^rL 138.) 
 
 Jllits. 1. In the harmonic 
 writer whatever, ancient or niodtin, t([iiais t iccro. h« iiail stiuli-.u 
 this w ith care ; and was fond, perhaps to <>xce!ift, of wliat he calls the 
 ^' p'cna ac niujierosa oratio.' W «• ihtiI onlv unm his writings to 
 lind instances that will render ili >iblc 
 
 10 every ear. 
 
 2. As an instance of a musical srntcnt o in our own language, we 
 may take the following from Milton's Treatise on Education : " \Vc 
 shall conduct you to a hill-side, laborious, intieed, at the first ascent ; 
 but else, so smooth, so groen, so full of goodly prospects, and melodi- 
 ous sounds on every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not more 
 charming." 
 
 Jiiiali/sis. Every thing in this sentence conspires to promote the har- 
 mony. T!ie words are happily chosen; full of liquids and soft sounds; 
 laborious, smooth, green, i^oodly^ melodious, charming : and these words 
 so artfully arrang'^d, that were we to "her the collocation of any one of 
 them, we should, presently , be sensible of the melody's suflering. For, 
 let us observe, how tiaely the members of the period swell one above 
 another. '• So smooth, so green," — ' so full of goodly prospects, and 
 melodioiis sounds on everv .«,icle ;" — till the ear, prepared by this grad,- 
 iial rise,^s conducted to that full close on which it rests w ith pleasure ;, 
 
 ' "-'^ tbe har^ of Urpb^us v^as uot more charming ,' 
 
 r 
 
The Harmony of Periods. 1£3 
 
 ^^14. The structure of periods, then, being susceptible of 
 of a very sensible melody, our next inquiry should be, how 
 this melodious structure is formed, what are the principles 
 of it, and by what laws is it regulated ? (^drt, 138. lllus.) 
 
 Obs. The ancient rhetoricians have entered into a very minute and 
 paj*ticular detail of this subject; more particular, indeed, than into 
 any other that regards language. 
 
 lllus. They hold, that to prose, as well as to verse, there belong cer- 
 tain numbers, less strict indeed, yet such as can be ascertained by rule. 
 They go so far as to specify the feet, as they are called, that is, the 
 succession of long and short syllables, which should enter into the dif- 
 ferent members of a sentence, and to shew what the effect of each of 
 these will be. Wherever they treat of the structure of sentences, it is 
 illways the music of them that makes the principal object. Cicero and 
 Quinctilian are full of this. The other qualities of precision, unity, 
 and strength, which we consider as of great importance, they handle 
 slightly; but when they come to the ^^ jundura et ninnerus^'' th#modu- 
 iation and harmony, there they are copious. Dyonisius. of Halicar- 
 nassus, one of the most judicious eritics of antiquity, wrote a treatise 
 on the Composition of Words in a Sentence, which is altogether con- 
 fined to their musical effect. He makes the excellency of a sentence 
 to consist in four things ; first, in the sweetness of single sounds ; se- 
 condly, in the composition of sounds ; that is, the number*^ or feet; 
 thirdly, in change, or variety of sound; and, fourthly, in sound suited 
 to the sense. On all these points, he writes with great accuracy and 
 refinement, and is very worthy of being consulted. 
 
 2. The ancient languages of Greece and Rome, were much more 
 susceptible, than our language is, of the graces and the powers of 
 melody. The quantities of their syllables were more fixed and deter- 
 mined; their words were longer and more sonorous ; their method of 
 varying the terminations of nouns aid verbs, both introduced a greater 
 variety of liquid sounds, and freed them from that multiplicity of lit- 
 tle auxiliary words which we are obliged to employ ; aiad, what is of 
 the greatest consequence, the inversions which their languages allow- 
 ed, gave them the power of placing their words in whatever order 
 was most suited to a musical arrangement. Ail these were great ad~ 
 %'antages, which they enjoyed above us, for harmony of period. 
 
 215. The doctrine of the Greek and Roman critics, on 
 this head, has misled some to imagine, that it might be 
 equally applied to our tongue ; and that our prose writing 
 might be regulated by spondees and trochees, and iambuses 
 and pseons, and other metrical feet. 
 
 Obs. 1. But, first, our words cannot be measured, or, at least, can 
 be measured very imperfectly by any feet of this kind. For, the 
 4|uantity, the length and shortness of our syllables, is far from being so 
 fixed and subjected to rule, as in the Greek and Roman tongues ; but 
 very often left arbitrary, and determined only by the emphasis and the 
 sense. 
 
 2. Next, though our prose could admit of such a metrical regula- 
 tion, yet from our plainer method of pronouncing every snecies of 
 discourse, the eft'ect would not be at all so sensiijle io the ear, nor bo 
 relished with so much pleasure, as among the Greeks aqd Eoui^iis. 
 
124 Ttit Harmony of Periods. 
 
 3. And, lastly, this whole doctrine about the measmes and tltim-^ 
 bcrs of prose, even as it has been ftehveied by ihe ancient rhetorician's 
 themselves, is, in truth, in a jjreat measure, loose and uncertain. R 
 apfiearsj indeed, that the melody of discourse was a matter of infinite- 
 ly more attention to them, than ever it bis been to the moderns. Bat 
 though they write a great deal about it, they have never been able to 
 reduce it to any rul .:, (vhich could be of real use in practice. 
 
 lUus. If we consult Cicero's Orator, where this point is discussed 
 with the most minuteness, we shall see how much these ancie-it critics 
 diflored from one another, about the feet proper for the cooclusion, 
 and other parts of a sentence ; and how much, after all, was left to 
 the judgment of the ear. Nor, indeed, is it possible to give precis? 
 rules roncerninj^ this matter, in any lan«^;iH«je ; as all prose composi- 
 tion must be allowe<l to run loose in its munbers ; and, accordin^^ as 
 the; tenor of a discourse varies, the modulation of sentences must 
 vary infinitely. 
 
 216. But thouj^h this musical a»'rano;emeMt runnot be re- 
 duced into a sysfem, every one who studies to write with 
 grace, or to pronounce in public with success, will find him- 
 self obliged to attend to it not a little. But it is his ear, 
 cultivated by attention and practice, that must chiefly direct 
 him. For any rules that can be given on this subject, are 
 very general. There are some rules, however, which may 
 be of use to form the ear lothe proper harmony of discourse. 
 
 .217. There are two things on which the music of a sen- 
 tence chiefly depends. These are, the proper distribution 
 of the several members of Ihe sentence ; and, the close or 
 cadence of the whole, (^^rt, \S4.) 
 
 218. First, the distribution of the several members. It 
 is of importance to observe, that, whatever is easy and agree- 
 able to the organs of speech, always sounds j>;rateful to the 
 car. While a ])eriod is going on, the termination of each of 
 its members forms a pause, or rest, in pronouncing; and 
 these rests should be so distributed, as to make the course of 
 the breathing easy, and, at the same time, should fall at such 
 distances, as to bear a certain musical proportion to each 
 other. (Art 144.; 
 
 Example 1. " This discourse concerning the easiness of God's com- 
 mands, does, all along, suppose and acknowledge the difticulties of 
 the first entrance upon a religious course ; except only in those per- 
 Bons who have had the happiness to be trained up to religion by the 
 easy and insensible degrees of a pious and virtuous education."** 
 
 ^inalysis Here there is no harmony ; nay, ihere is some degree of 
 Jharshness and unpleasantness: owing priucipally to this, that there is^ 
 properly, no more thau one pause or rest in the sentence, falling 
 betwixt the two members into which it is divided ; each of which is 
 >o long, as to ©ccasioB a considerable stretch of the br€«^th in pri** 
 
 • T^otsQnv 
 
The Harmony of Periods, 125 
 
 Esiamph 2. Observe, now, on the other hand, the ease with which 
 the following sentence, from Sir William Temple, glides along, and 
 the graceful intervals at which the pauses are placed. He is speak- 
 ing sarcastically of man : " But, God be thanked, his pride is greater 
 than his ignorance, and what he wants in knowledge, he supplies by 
 sufficiency. When he has looked about him, as far as he can, he con- 
 cludes, there is no more to be seen ; when he is at the end of his line, 
 he is at the bottom of the ocean ; when he has shot his best, he is sure 
 none ever did, or even can, shoot better or beyond it. His own reason 
 he holds to be the certain measure of truth ; and his own knowledge, 
 «f what is possible in nature."* 
 
 Analysis. Here every thing is, at once, easy to the breath, and 
 grateful to the ear ; and, :t is this sort of flowing measure, this regular 
 and proportional division of the members of his sentences, which 
 renders Sir William Temple's style always agreeable. We must 
 observe, at the same tii»e, that a sentence, with too many rests, and 
 these placed at intervals too apparently measured and regular, is apt 
 to gavour of aflectation. 
 
 219. The next thing to be attended to, is the close or ca- 
 dence of the whole sentence, which, as it is always the part 
 most sensible to the ear, demands the greatest care. " Let 
 there be nothing harsh or abrupt in tlic conclusion of the 
 sentence, on which the mind pauses and rests. This is the 
 most material part in the structure of discourse. Here ev- 
 ery hearer expects to be gratified ; here his applause breaks 
 forth."! 
 
 220. The only important rule that can be given here, i?3 
 that when we aim at dignity or elevation, the sound should 
 be made to grow to the last ; the longest members of the pe- 
 riod, and the fullest and most sonorous words, should be 
 reserved to the conclusion. 
 
 Example. " It fills the mind (i. e. sight) with the largest variety of 
 ideas ; converses with its objects at the greatest distance ; and con- 
 tinues the longest in action, without being tired or satiated with its 
 proper enjoyments. "t 
 
 Jiv.alysis. Every reader must be sensible of a beauty here, both in 
 the fropcr division of the members and pauses, and the manner in 
 whit h the sentence is rounded, and conducted to a full and harmoni- 
 ous close. The sight fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, 
 
 * Or tlu5 instance. He is addressing himself to Lady Essex , upon the death of 
 ker child : " I was once in hope, that what was so violent could not be long ; but, 
 whtn I observed your grief to grow stronger with age, and to increase, like a stream, 
 the farther it ran; when I saw it draw out to such unhappy consequences, and to 
 threaten no less than your child, jour lu alt h and your lif, 1 could no longer tor- 
 bear this endeavour, nor end it without begginp of you, for (iod's sake and for your 
 own, for your cinldreji and your frieiids, your countr;); and your family, that jou 
 would no longer abandon yourself to a disconsolate passion ; but that you would, at 
 length, awaken your piety, give way to your prudence, or, at least rouse the in- 
 vincible si)irit of the Percy's, that riever yet shrunk s»t any disaster." 
 
 t ** N.on igitur durum sit. ncque abruptum, quo aiiimi. velut. respirant ac reficiun* 
 tur. Hsec est sedes oratiouis j hoc auditor expeetat ; hie laus ownis declamat> 
 €lmt]t5tij)an> 
 
 t Addison, 
 
I2G The Harmony of Periods, 
 
 and it converses with them. To sentient natures, this is a pleasure ^ 
 but it converses with them at the greatest distance, and must necessa- 
 rily increase this pleasure. For what can be more agreeable than the 
 commerce of communication with distant objects ; but how is this 
 agrecableness heightened, by its being kept long in action, and that 
 too without being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyment.^ 
 
 221. The same holds in melody, that was observed to 
 take place with respect to significancj ; that a iiilling oft' at 
 the end is always injurious to the object which the speaker 
 has in view. Fur this reason, particles, pronouns, and little 
 words, are as ungracious to the ear, at the conclusion, as we 
 formerly shewed they were inconsistent with strength 6f 
 expression. {JJrt. ifG, 177, 178, and 179.) 
 
 Obs. The sense and the sound have here a mutual influence on each 
 other. That which hurts the ear, seems to mar the strength of the 
 meaning ; and that which re;illy degrades the sense, in consequence of 
 this primary cll'ect, appears also to liave a bad sound. 
 
 Example. How dis-igi^eeable is the following sentence of an author, 
 speaking of the Trinity ! " It is a mystery, which we firmly believe 
 the truth of, and humbly adore the depth of." And how easily might 
 it have been nionded by this iransposition 1 'Mt is a mystery, the 
 trtith of which wr rmiiK IxllrNc, mul th>; depth of uhi* h we huiub!'. 
 adore." 
 
 Corol: In gem 
 guai^e, requires ntluT the la^t ^\ lial,lf; <•! tlir l;i>t imt on»'. to l)0 a ^*>n'^ 
 syllable. Words which cou.sist mostly of short syllables, as contrary, 
 particular J retrospect, seldom conclude a sentence harmoniously, unless 
 a train of long syllables, before, has rendered them agreeable to the 
 ear. 
 
 222. Sentences, so constructed as to make the sound al- 
 ways swell and grow towards the end, and to rest either on 
 a long or a penult long syllable, give a discourse tlie tone of 
 tleclamation. The ear soon li|comes acquainted with the 
 melody, and is apt to be cloyeil with it. If we wouhl keep 
 up the attention of the reader or hearer, if we would pre- 
 serve vivacity and strength in our composition, we must be 
 very attentive to vary our measures. 
 
 tUus. TWs regards the distribution of the members, a«; \s 
 cadence of the period. Sentence? con.strurted in a simihn uiai.iK r,. 
 with the pauses falling at equal intervals, should never follow one 
 another. Short sentencesi should be intermixed with long and *well 
 ing ones, to lender discourse sprightly a* well as magnificent. Even 
 discords properly introduced, abrupt sounds, departure.^ liom rcgulav 
 cadence, have sometimes a good efiect. jVlonotooy is the great fault 
 into which writers are apt to fall, who are fond of harmonioius ar- 
 rangement : and to have only one tune or measure, is not much better 
 than having none at all. A very vidgar ear will enaVde a writer to 
 catch some one melody, and to form the rnn of his sentences accord- 
 n§ to it. This soon proves disgusting: - itist and correct ear is 
 
The ffartmny of Periods, i^Z 
 
 toqiiisite for varying: and diversifying the melody, and hence we sel- 
 dom meet with authors, who are remarkably happy in this respect. 
 
 223, Though attention to the music of sentences must 
 not be neglected, jet it must also be kept within proper 
 bounds: for all appearances of an author's affecting harmo- 
 ny, are disagreeable ; especially when the love of it betrays 
 him so far, as to sacrifice, in any instance, perspicuity, pre- 
 cision, or strength in sentiment, to sound. (Example 1. 
 .^rt. 206.) 
 
 lUus. 1. All unmeaning- words, introduced merely to round the 
 period, or fill up the melody, are great blemishes in writing. They 
 ?,ire childish and puerile ornaments, by which a sentence always loses 
 more in point of wciglit, than it can gain by such additions to the 
 beauty of its sound. 
 
 2. Sense has its own harmony, as well as sound ; and, where the 
 ^sense of a period is expressed with clearness, force, and dignity, the 
 
 words will almost always strike the ear agreeably ; at least, a very 
 moderate attention is all that is requisite for making the cadence of 
 such a period pleasing : and the effect of greater attention is often no 
 other, than to render composition languid and enervated. 
 
 3. After all tlie labour which Quinctilian bestows on regulating thn 
 measures of prose, he comes at last, with his usual good sense, to this 
 conclusion : '' Upon the whole, I would rather choose that composi- 
 tion should appear rough and harsh, if that be necessary, than that 
 it should be enervated and effeminate, such as we find the style of too 
 many. Some sentences, therefore, which we have studiously formed 
 mto melody, should be thrown loose, that they may not seem too much 
 laboured ; nor ought we ever to omit any proper or expressive word, 
 for the sake of smoothing a period.'"* 
 
 4. Cicero, as we have elsewhere observed, is one of the most re- 
 markable patterns of a harmonious style. His love of it, however, is 
 too visible ;' and the pomp of his numbers sometimes detracts from his 
 strength. 
 
 5. That noted close of his, esse videati'.r, which, in the oration Pro 
 Lege Manilla, occurs eleven times, exposed him to censure among his 
 contemporaries. We must observe, however, in defence of this great 
 orator, that, in his style, there is a remarkable union of harmony with 
 ease, which is always a great beauty ; and if his harmony were studi- 
 ed, that study appears to have cost him but little trouble. 
 
 6. Among our E^nglish classics, not many are distmguished for musi- 
 cal arrangement. Milton, in some of hi.^ prose works, has very finely 
 turned periods ; but the writers of his age indulged a liberty of inver- 
 .sion, which would now be reckoned contrary to purity of style : and 
 though this allowed their sentences to be more stately and .sonorous, 
 yet it gave them too much of a Latinised construction and order. 
 
 7. Of English writers, Lord Shaftesbury is, upon the whole, the 
 most correct in his numbers. As his ear was delicate, he ha^ attend- 
 ed to music in all his sentences ; and he is peculiarly happy ii» this 
 
 * ** In unlversum, si sit necesse, dnram potivls atque asperam compositionem raa- 
 iitii esse, quam eileminatam ac cnervcm, quaUs apud multos. Idt^que. vincta 
 qnaedam de industria sunt so'venda, ne laborata videantur ; nequc ulium idoneum 
 iut antitm verbum prsetcnnittamus, gratii Icnitatii." Lib. ix. c, 4, 
 
 12 
 
128 The Harmony of Periods. 
 
 respect, that he has avoided the monotony into which writef,«, v>hx> 
 study the grace of sound, are very apt to fall, and has diversified his 
 periods wi(h great variety. 
 
 8. Addison has ajso much harmony in his style ; more easy and 
 smooth, but less varied than Lord Shaftesbury. Sir William Temple 
 is, in general, very flowing and agreeable. Archbishop Tillotson is 
 often careless and langui'l ; and is much outdone by Bishop Atterbury 
 in the music of his periods. Dean Swift despised musical arrange- 
 ment altogether. Burke excels in harmonious periods. Johnson's 
 style is generally pompons, sometimes lofty, and always Latinised. 
 
 Corol. Hitherto we have considered agreeable sound, or moduhition, 
 in general. It yet remains to treat of a higher beauty of this kind ; 
 the sound adapted to the sense. The former was no more than a 
 simple accompaniment, to please the ear ; the latter supposes the pecu- 
 liar expression given to the music. We may remark two degrees of 
 it : first, the current of sound, adapted to the tenour of a discourse : 
 next, a particular resemblance effected between some object, and the 
 sounds that are employed in describing it. 
 
 224. First, the current of sound may be adapted to the 
 icnour of a discourse. Sounds have, in many respects, a cor- 
 respondence with our ideas ; partly nntural, partly the effect 
 of artificial associations. Hence it happens, that any one 
 modulation of sound continued, imprints on our style a cer- 
 tain character and expression. 
 
 Illus. Sentences constructed with the Johnsonian fulnc?<^ and swel?, 
 produce the impression of what is important, magnificent, sedate ; for 
 this is the natural tone which such a course oi sentiment assumes. — 
 But they suit no violent passion, no eager reasoning, no familiar ad- 
 dress. These always require measures brisker, easier, and often more 
 abrupt. And, therefore, to swell, or to Irt down the periods, as the 
 subject demands, is a very important rule in oratory. No one tenour 
 whatever, supposing it to produce no bad elTect from satiety, will an- 
 swer to all different compositions ; nor even to all the parts of the 
 same composition. It were as absurd to write a panegyric, and an 
 invective, in a style of the same ctadence, as to set the words of a 
 
 ndcr love-song to the air of a warlike march. 
 
 Corol. What is requisite, therefore, is, that we previously fix, in 
 ©m* mind, a just idea of the general tone of sound which suits our sub- 
 ject ; that is, which the sentiments we are to express, most naturally 
 assume, and in which they most commonly vent themselves ; whether 
 round and smooth, or stately and solemn, or brisk and quick, or in- 
 terrupted and abrupt. 
 
 225. But, besides the general correspondence of the cur- 
 rent of sound with the current of thou<j;ht, there may be a 
 more particular expression attempted, of certain objects, by 
 means of resembling sounds. This can be sometimes ac- 
 complished in prose composition; but there only in a more 
 faint degree ; nor is it there so mucii expected. In poetry, 
 chiefly, it is looked for; when attention to sound is more 
 demanded, antl where the inversions and liberties of poetic- 
 al style give us a greater command of euphony. 
 
itesemhlance hehoeen Sound and Sense, i^9 
 
 CHAPTER Xe 
 
 mKSEMBLANCE BETWEEN SOUND AND SENSE INVERSION. 
 
 226. THE soumh of words maybe employed for repre- 
 renting, chieilj, three classes of objects; Yiv^iy other sounds; 
 iec'jndiy, motion; and, thirdly, the emotions aad passions 
 
 ^four mind. 
 
 Ulus. Thou;jh tv/o motions have no coiniectioji, yet in many par- 
 liculftrs they may '>t; said to hare a resemblance. The motions of 
 a vortex ami -a v/hij Iwind are perfectly similar. All mankind Jiave 
 fell the A:ialoi,'-y between dancing and music. All qu'ck, or slow, or 
 iliiii^alt motions, tliough performed in different circumstances, and 
 t)y diiferent ag^ents, may in loose phraseology be said to resemble one 
 unother. Spoken languag.? is a. collection of successive and signin- 
 •cant sounds, uttered by the speaker } composition is a certain series 
 of those sounds, indicated by a particular sign to each, {Art. 37.) which 
 ^:an be run over by the reader; and it is obvious, that the motion of 
 the voice of the speaker or the reader may resemble most other mo- 
 tions, at least in the general properties of quickness, slowness, ease, 
 or difficulty. This is the foundation of the resemblance that takes 
 place between the sound and the sense, io the construction of lan- 
 guage. 
 
 227. Words or sentences consisting chiefly of short syl- 
 lables, and of course pronounced with rapidity, bear an anal- 
 ogy to quick motion, and may fairly be said to form a re- 
 semblance of it; as, impetuosity, precipitation. 
 
 Example Virgil describes a horse at full gallop, in the following- 
 picturesque line. 
 
 '■ Quadrupedante puti-eixi soiiitu quatit ungula campum.'* 
 Example 2, The same author paints the rapid flight of a pigeo* 
 nastening to her nest. 
 
 '* Radit iter liquidum celeres neque eommovet ahs '♦ 
 
 228. The English heroic verse affords not a proper pic- 
 ture of quick motion. It is limited to ten syllables, while 
 the hexameter may extend from thirteen to seventeen. The 
 hexameter acquires this advantage by the admission of five 
 i<<t^i of dactyles, which throw into the line a large proportion 
 of short syllables; and the preceding lines of Virgil are per- 
 tinent examples. The English heroic verse cannot aug- 
 ment the number of its syllables, and preserve its measure. 
 The only resource left to our poets in this case is, to em- 
 ploy an Alexandrine line, consisting of twelve syllables. 
 
 Illus. Pope has frequently adopted this expedient, but with little 
 success ; for of all the poetical lines we have, the Alexan<lr»ne is per- 
 haps the slovyestj as it consists generally of monosyllables, v/hich, to be 
 
130 Hestmblancehetwttn Sound and Sm$€, 
 
 understood, must be slowly pronounced. This was Pope's own Gpfw 
 lOQ ; for, he observes, in his Essay on Criticism, that 
 
 " A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 
 And like a wounded snake drags its slow length along* 
 
 Example. But Pope, notwithstanding, makes use of this verse tu 
 describe quick motion. 
 
 « Not 80 w}»en swift Camilla scours the plain, 
 
 Flie« o'er th' unbending corn and skims along the main." 
 
 Jlnalysis. It is probable, that this groat poet sacrificed, on this and 
 aome other similar occasions, a portion of his own taste to grntify the 
 public ear. He nas conscious the verse was faulty, but perhaps coa- 
 cluded, that many of his readers would take for a beauty, what was 
 really a blrmisli ; that those who could discern the error, would dis- 
 cern also the proper apology for it ; or would allow him, when he 
 could not imitate a quick motion, to approach it as n«ar is possible, 
 by substituting in its place the continuance of a slow one. 
 
 229. A word conslstin*r of long syllables, or a sentence 
 of monosjllaWes, mav resemble solemn, harsh, or difficult 
 motion, as, /oreu'arn, mankind, 
 
 Exatnple 1. Thus Pope, in his Essay on Criticism, 
 
 TVit when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 
 i lie toarse rough verse should Uke the tonent roar*" 
 
 {-..lamjac 2. Again, 
 
 " With man^ a weary step, and many a groan. 
 Up the high Lill lit- heaves a huge round iioue/^ 
 
 Jinalynis. The last line possesses uncommoki beauty ; for, besides 
 that the words are all monosyllables, which renders a pause necessary 
 after each of them in the pronunciation, the artful repetition of the as- 
 piration paints very forcibly the loss of breath under which Sisyphus 
 miglit be supposed to labour from the violent exertion of his force. 
 This circinnstance is not in the original, which also possesses extraor- 
 dinai y merit. Homer fixes his attention on the muscular exertions, 
 ;uid the motions of Sisyphus. He has, however, the advantage of his 
 translator, by the superiority his language gives him, in contrasting 
 the slow and difBcuU motion upwards, with the rapid and furious mo- 
 tion downwards.* 
 
 230. Pope employs again the Alexandrine to describe the 
 motion downward. 
 
 Ejfainple. »♦ The huge round stone resulting with a bound, 
 
 Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground." 
 
 231. Easy or smooth motion may be painted by a succes 
 $ion of soft and harmonious sounds. 
 
 * The lines in the origir*al run thus : 
 
 *' Kai iirjv "Licv^ov tts'CiSov Kparip^ d\eyi e^avra 
 Aaav 0aad^ovTa TrcAwptov ctfiipoTfprjTiv 
 Hroi 6 ficv ^aXa aKirnrdpcvog "Xtpaiv rt rrdaiv ri 
 Aauv avu) aiditrvf noTi yd^ov- aA' drc fifXXot 
 AKpov l7reo6uX\itiv, tot^ a-rro^pii^aeKe Kparagi^ 
 "Avrij tnura niiovdi KvXhhTo Aaaj aiaU'ii " 
 
Resemblance between Sound and Sense, 131 
 
 :ExanU)k: ' Soft is tlie strain when Zephyr gently blows. 
 
 And the sTuooth stream iu smoother numbers flows/' 
 
 Papers Essay on Criticism^ 
 
 232. Vlml, describing the gav and easv motion of the 
 nymph iXigle, says. 
 
 Example. " Addit se sociam, timidisque siipervelilt iKgle." Echga VI, Siknuj. 
 
 £33. Pope has been very successful in contrasting the 
 two kinds of motion last mentioned. In the first four lines 
 of the following quotation, he ridicules the affected pomp 
 and harsliness of the versification of Sir Richard Blackmore. 
 In the last four lines, he opposes to his solemnity ami harsh- 
 iiess the inanimate but smooth composition of the writers of 
 panegyrics. 
 
 «' What, like Sir Richard, rumbling:, rough and fierce, 
 Witli arms, and Georg^e, aud Brunswick, crowd my verse i 
 Rend with tremenduous sounds j^our ears asunder. 
 M'^ith gun, drum, trumpet, blundt rbuss, and thunder ? 
 1'hen all your muses softer arts display : 
 Let Carolina smooth tlie tuneful lay ; 
 Lull with Amelia's liquid name the nine. 
 And sweetly flow o'tr all the royal lint." 
 
 234. Violent or slow motions may be imitated by abrupt 
 and heavy, or harsh words and lines, as horrid, harrow^ 
 hoarse. 
 
 Example. Again, Pope: 
 
 " Loud sounds the air, redoubling strokes on strokes, 
 
 On all sides I'ound the forest hurls her oaks 
 
 Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown, 
 
 Tlien rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down." 
 *' First march the heavy mules securely slow, 
 
 O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go " Iliad XXIII. 13St 
 
 *' When AJax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
 The line too labors, and the words move slow." Essay on Criticism, 370. 
 
 '^35. Virgil, describing the efforts of the Cyclops in form- 
 ing the thunder, thus sings: 
 
 " Illi inter sese magna vi bmchia tollunt." (Gecr. 4.) 
 
 S3 6. Words may be so modulated, that their sound shall 
 be expressive of the dispositions and emotions of the mind. 
 Accordingly, a verse, or line, composed mostly of mono- 
 syllables, or of long syllables, and of course slowly pronoun- 
 ced, prompts the notion of dignity and solemnity. Pope 
 thus describes Nestor: 
 
 " Slow from his scat arose the Pylian sage."' 
 
 " Next Comus, reverend sire, went footing slow." Milton. 
 
 *' Oli sedato respondit corde Latinus." jEneid. 
 
 *' Incedit tardo moloraime subsidendo." Ibid 
 
 £37. Harsh and disagreeable sounds suggest the same 
 emotions, which arise fron) beholding any exertion perform- 
 ed imperfectly, or with difficulty : 
 
1 32 Inversioiu 
 
 — — * "When they list, their lean and flashy songs , . 
 
 Harsh grate on their scratmcl pipes oi' wretched straw." Nittoti^s LycidaY/ 
 
 238. Virgil, with much modesty, thu3 characterises hi? 
 own poetry in his Eclogues. 
 
 " Nam neque adhuc Varo videor, nee dicere Cinna 
 Digiia, scd ar^utos inter strcp<?re anser olores." 
 
 239. The frequent repetition of the letter r in the last 
 verse is very descriptive of the rudeness and harshness of 
 bad vers€S. Thus, Pope : 
 
 " Just writes to make his barrenness appear, 
 
 And strains from liard-lwund brains eigut lines a year." Letter to Arbutfmot. 
 
 240. Smooth and easy verses generate an emotion allied 
 (o joy and vivacity. It is difficult to decide whether the 
 sentiment, or the versification of the following example is 
 more sprightly. 
 
 " Bright as the sun her eyes the ga/^rs strike ; 
 
 And liki* the sun they shine on all alike. 
 
 Tet gracfful i ast", and swtftm-ss void of pride 
 
 Might hidchvi iaulis. if'belks had faults to hicU . 
 
 If to hir share some female errors fall, 
 
 Look on her face, and you'U forget them all." Rnpe oJtf*e Lock. 
 
 241. The slow and solemn sound of the subsequent verses 
 prompts an emotion similar (o melancholy. 
 
 •'In these deep solitudes and awful cells, 
 
 Where heavenly pensive conteroplatimi dwells. 
 
 And evei>rausiug melancholy reigns.*' EloUa to Abelard. 
 
 242. Inversion is a branch of ornament, and of that 
 species of it which belongs both to the sound and the sense. 
 It belongs to the sound, because by transposing the natural 
 and grammatical order of the words, arrangements may be 
 formed more agreeable to the ear than could otherwise be ob- 
 tained. It is connected with the sense, because by suspen- 
 ding the appearance of some capital word or circumstance, 
 curiosity may be excited, and artfully prolonged, till the 
 conclusion of the period discloses the mystery, and impress- 
 es the sense deeper on the mind. 
 
 Ului. 1. The object of inversion, then, Is to attain some beauty or 
 impulse (hat cannot be obtained by preserving the natural order. 
 This attamment is the same with that of grammatical perspicuity: 
 and hence arises an invariable principle, to limit the extent of inver- 
 sion ; namely, it wnvA seek no embellishment which would be bought 
 too dear ; it must admit no modulation which may produce obscurity, 
 
 2. DiiTerent kinds of composition, and dilTerent languages, admit 
 <iiflereHt deg^rees of inversion. All discourse addressed to the under- 
 Manding, set(l»>m permits much inversion. More of it is allowed in 
 works addressed to the imagination, and most of all in those produc- 
 tions which are intended to rouse and interest the passions and emo- 
 tions of the heart. The cool and philosophical construction of mod- 
 ern languages, also, renders them much less susceptible of inyersien 
 tb«n the ancient. (Art, 24—30. and 171.) 
 
Inversion. 133 
 
 243. There are several words, however, in all language?, 
 Avliich cannot easily be separated from one another, and 
 which cannot therefore admit much inversion. 
 
 Illus. 1. One substantive depending^ on another is seldom, in prose 
 at least, in any languag^e, disjoined from it. " The beauty of virtue,' 
 *• via virtutis," <' bSoi aper;;?." But in the poetry of Greece and Rome, 
 iuch words are frequently separate<l. 
 
 '^ Arma virumque cano Trojse qui primus ab oris.'' 
 
 " Mfjiiiv aei6e Oia rrriXrj'id^tu) A%(X»/os."* [lias. I. 1. 
 
 2. A preposition is seldom disjoined from its Substantive. Frot)i 
 east to west; ava s-parov ; ex sententia, (j9rt. 71.) 
 
 3. An adjective is almost always associated with its substantive in 
 fhe modern languages, and very frequently in the ancient. (Jirt. 59. 
 md Illus. 143.) 
 
 4. An adverb is generally adjoined to its verb or adjective both in 
 ancient and modern languages, because, having no inflection, juxtapo- 
 sition only can denote its relaiion. (Ai't. 145.) 
 
 Corol. These observations circumscribe the subject of inquiry within 
 certain limits, and discriminate the parts of speech, in the disposition 
 of which we have most reason to expect inversion. It appears, then, 
 tbiit they are the principal parts of sentences, the agent and the action, 
 or the nominative and the verb. (Art. 144. and 134.) 
 
 5. In the languages of Greece and Rmne, it seems perfectly arbitra- 
 ry in what part of the sentence the nominative is placed. We find it 
 in the beginning of the sentence, or separated by half, sometimes by 
 the vhole sentence, from the verb it governs, (.^rt. 143. Illus. 2, 
 .5r/.23.) 
 
 6. The verb undergoes the same variety of positions. It stands iu 
 the beginning, sometimes in the middle, but most frequently in the end 
 of the sentence. 
 
 Obs. Of all these positions examples are so numerous, that we shall 
 r.ot produce any. The variety of terminations Avhich inilection fur- 
 nishes to the ancient languages is sufficient, in all these circumstances, 
 to distinguish the relations of the agent and the action, and to preserve 
 perspicuity. 
 
 244. The inversions of modern languages are much less 
 frequent and violent, and the following are the most common 
 of which our language is susceptible. 
 
 245. A circumstance is sometimes situated before the 
 nominative. 
 
 Example. " In order," says Addison, <' to set this matter in a clear 
 iight to every reader, I shall, in the first place, observe, that a meta- 
 phor is a simile in one word." This arrangement is more agreeable, 
 and perhaps more perspicuous, than the natural one. " I sh'^U, in the 
 first place, observe, in order to set this matter in a clear light to every 
 reader, that a metaphor is a simile in one word." 
 
 ^46. {Sometimes a circumstance is inserted after thr 
 
 * See Example l. Art. 249. 
 
\M Inversion. 
 
 nominative, and before or between the auxiliary and the 
 verb, (lllus. 7. and 8. p. 89.) 
 
 Example. *•' I have formerly, with a g-oDd deal of attention, consid- 
 ered the subject upon which you command uie io communicate my 
 thoughts." This is, perhaps, not inferior to the natural order. " 1 
 liave formerly considered, with a good deal of attention, the subject 
 on which you coannand me to communicate my thoughts." 
 
 247. The nominative is placed after the verb. But this 
 inversion is restricted almost entirely to poetry, where it 
 has often a pleasing eftect ; witness the following examples 
 from the fourth Book of Paradise Lost. 
 
 *' Sweet is tlie breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
 With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, 
 When first oa this dehghiful land he spreads 
 his orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower 
 Ciiist*rinfi^ with d»w ; fragrant thetertily eartit 
 After soft showers, and sweet th« coming ou 
 Of grateful evening niild." 
 
 248. The placing of the nominative after the verb isoneaf 
 the must easy inversions of which our language is suscepti- 
 ble ; and, as it affords an agreeable variety, and is perfectly 
 consistent with perspicuity, it should not be permitted to 
 fall into disuse. It was formerly frequent in prose, and slUl 
 appears in that species of composition with dignity and 
 grace. 
 
 Example 1. ''There exists not in nature a more miserable animal; 
 tlian a bad man at war with himself." 
 
 2. '' In splendid robes appeared the queen." 
 
 3. The following quotations are found in Hume's History of Eng- 
 land. Speaking^ of Charles I. " He had formed one ol the most illus- 
 trious characters of his age, had not the extreme narrowness of his 
 ;; -nius in every thing but war sullied the lustre of his other talents.'* 
 " Had the limitations on the prerogative been in his time quite fixed, 
 his integrity h.id made him regard as sacred the boundaries of the 
 constitution." 
 
 249. Another very frequent inversion, in poetry, stations 
 the subject in the beginning of a sentence, and sometimes 
 throws in a circumstance between the subject and its verb. 
 
 Example 1. Tlie first verses in the Iliad are thus translated by Pope ■ 
 
 " Achilles' wrath, to Gi-eece the direful spring 
 Of woes unnumber'd, heavenly Goddess, sing.'' 
 
 Example 2. Parnrlise Lost opens in a similar manner: 
 
 " Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
 Of that forbidden ti-ee, whose mortal taste 
 Brought death into the world, and uU yurwoe. 
 With loss of Eden, till one greater man 
 Restore us, and regain Uit bUssfuJ seat, 
 Sing, heavenly muse I" 
 
Inversion. 135 
 
 Example 3. Thomson's Autumn commences in the following strain ; 
 
 " Croww'd viith the sickle and the vvhcaten sheaf, 
 While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, 
 Comes jovial on, the Doric reed once more 
 Well-pleas'd I tune." 
 
 Illus. This inversion, though proper and beautiful in poetry, appears 
 scarcely tolerable in prose. (See Art. 171. in the example, fron* Gor- 
 don's Translation of Tacitus.) 
 
 250. A noun preceded by a preposition very frequently 
 appears before a verb. 
 
 Example. " By these we acquired our liberties," said the Scotch no- 
 bles, laying their hands on their swords, " and with these will we de- 
 fend them."* 
 
 , Analysis. This order is much preferable in point of emphasis to the 
 natural one. How tame is the natural order ! '' We acquired our 
 liberties by these, and we v.ill defend them w ith these." (Set jSri. 124. 
 Jllus. 20. p. SO.) 
 
 Schol. 1. These inversions deviate little from the order of ideas, or 
 the grammatical order of the words ; and, though they suspend the 
 raeanin^-, they hurt not the perspicuity. This analogy between the 
 succession of ideas, and the arrangement of w ords, is one of the prin- 
 cipal beauties of modern languages, which the ancients relinquish in 
 order to attain other beauties in point of melody ; and it is perhaps 
 impossible to propose any general principle by which the preference of 
 these beauties may be decided. (Obs.Art. 27.) 
 
 2. The ancients would complain, perhaps, of the lameness and sim- 
 plicity of our arrangement, while we might reprehend the artifice and 
 obscurity of their inversion. They would reprobate our neglect cf 
 harmony, while we might expose their apparent attachment to sound 
 more than to sense. Such, at least, is the power of habit, that a period 
 of Latin or Greek, arranged in grammatical order, would excite dis- 
 gust, and a period of English in the order of Greek or Latin wouM 
 appear ridiculous or unintelligible f 
 
 * Robertson's Histoi"}' of Scotland. 
 
 t In conjuiiction with these articles on Inv(;rsion, the student sliould peruse Chap* 
 tcY IV. hook I. 
 
OF FIGURES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 K CllARACTEU AND ADVANTAGES OF FIGUIlEfc, 
 
 :i^) i . FIGURES, in general, may be described to be that 
 'anguage, wliich is prompted either by the imagination, or 
 fey the passions. (Chap, 11 L B, L) 
 
 252. Rhetoricians commonly divide them into two great 
 classes ; Figures of words, andjigures of thou g hi. 
 
 ^53. Figures ofuwrds, are commonly called tuopes. A 
 frope consists in a word's being employed to si<jnify some- 
 tliing that is different from its original and primitive mean- 
 ing ; so that if you alter the word, you destroy the figure. 
 
 lilus. Thus, in the sentences ; *' Light ariseth to the upriglit in 
 Jarknegs ;" the trope consists in " light and darkness," being not 
 ■leant litorally, but substituted for comfort and adverxity, on account of 
 -ome resemblance or analopv which lij^ht and darkness are supposed 
 
 bear to these conditions of life. (Set lUus. 2. >^rl. 19.) 
 
 254. Figures of thought, suppose the words to be used in 
 their proper and literal meaning, and the figure to consist in 
 
 1 he turn of the thought. They appear in exclamations, in- 
 ferrogalions, apostrophes, and comparisons ; where, though 
 you vary tlie words that are used, or translate them from 
 one language into another, you may, nevertheless, still pre- 
 serve the same figure in the thought, (lllus. 3. Art, 19.) 
 
 Obs. This distinction, however, is of no js^reat use ; as nothing can 
 be built upon if in jiractice : neither is it always very clear. It is of 
 little importance, whether we give to some particular mode of expres- 
 sion the name of a trope, or of a figure ; provided we remember, that 
 rtgurative language always imports some colouring of the imagination, 
 or some emotion of passion, expressed in our style : and, perhaps, 
 ''.2;ure$ of imaL!;Lnatiov, nud figures of passion, might be a more useful 
 ilistribution of the subject. But, without insisting on any artificial 
 divisions, it will be more useful, that we inquire into the advantages 
 which language derives from figures of speech. 
 
Mgures, 15^ 
 
 255. First, tropes, or figures, enrich langvage^ and 
 render it more copious. By their means, words and phrases 
 are multiplied for expressing all sorts of ideas ; for descri- 
 bing even the minutest diff'erences ; the nicest shades and 
 colours of thought ; which no language could possibly do by 
 proper words alone, without assistance from tropes. (Art. 21.) 
 
 256. Secondly, they bestow dignity upon style. The fa- 
 miliarity of common words, to which our ears are much ac- 
 customed, tends to degrade style. When we want to adapt 
 our language to the tone of an elevated subject, we should 
 be greatly at a loss, if we could not borrow assistance from 
 figures ; which, properly employed, haA^e a similar eifect on 
 language, with what is produced by the rich and splendid 
 dress of a person of rank ; to create respect, and to give an 
 air of magnificence to him who wears it. Assistance of this 
 kind is often needed in prose compositions ; but poetry 
 could not subsist without it. Hence, figures form the con- 
 stant language of poetry. (Art,2\.) 
 
 Illus. 1. To say, that '* the sun rises," is trite and common ; but it 
 becomes a mag:ni(icent ima2:e when expressed as Thompson has done : 
 
 But yonder comes tbe powerful king of day, 
 Rejoicing in the east.— — 
 
 2. To say, that " All men are subject alike to death," presents only a 
 vulgar idea ; but it rises and fills the imagination when painted thus fey- 
 Horace : 
 
 Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede, pauperum tabenias 
 Kegumque tiin-es.* 
 
 Or, 
 
 Omncs codem cogimur ; omnium , 
 
 Versatur urna, serins, ocyus, 
 Sors exitura, et nos in eternum 
 
 it xihura impositura cymbee.t 
 
 257, In the third place, figures give us the pleasure of 
 enjoying tivo objects presented together without confusion^ 
 to our view ; the principal idea, that is the subject of the 
 discourse, along with its accessory, which gives it the figu- 
 rative dress. We see one thing in another, as Aristotle ex- 
 presses it ; which is always agreeable to the mind. For 
 ther is nothing with which the fiincy is more delighted, 
 than With comparisons and resemblances of objects ; and all 
 
 * With equal pace impartial fate 
 Knocks at the palace, as the cottage gate. 
 
 t We all must tread tlie patlis of fate; 
 ij And ever shakes ilie mortal urn, 
 
 Whose iot embarks us, soon or late, 
 On Cbaron's bosit ; aU ! never to retuMi. Trdncis* 
 
t5S Figures. 
 
 tropes are fouiidctl iipoH sonic relation or analogy between 
 one thing and another. 
 
 Illus. When, for instance, in place of " youth," we say, the 
 '" morning of life ;" the fancy is immediately entertained with all the 
 resembling circumstances which presently occur between these two 
 objects. At one moment, we have before us a certain period of hu- 
 man life, and a certain time of the day, so related to each other, that 
 the fma^inatiou plays between them with pleasure, and contemplates 
 two similar objects, in one view, without embarrassment or confusion. 
 Not only so, but, 
 
 258. In the fourth place, figures are attended with this 
 farther advantage, of giving us frequently a much clearer 
 and more striking view of the principal object y than we could 
 have if it were expressed in simple terms, and divested of its 
 accessory idea. 
 
 Illiut. 1. This is, indeed, their principal advantage, in virtue of which 
 they are very properly said to illustrate a stibjecty or to throw light 
 upon it. For they exhibit the object, on which they are employed, in 
 a picturesque form ; they can render an abstract conception, in some 
 degree, an object of sense ; they surround it with such circumstances 
 as enable the mind to lay hold of it steadily, and to contemplate it fully. 
 
 Example ** Those persons," says one, " who gain the hearts of most 
 people, who are chosen as the companions of their softer hours, and 
 their reliefs from anxiety and care, are seldom persons of shining qual- 
 itie.-*, or strong virtues : it is rather the soft green of the soul on whicii 
 wc rest our ey«s, that are fatigued with beholding more glaring ob- 
 jects. *' Here, by a happy allnsion to a colour, the whole conception is 
 n one word conveyed clear and strong to the mind. 
 
 Illus. 2. By a well chosen figure, even conviction is assisted, and the 
 'mpression of a truth upon the mind made more lively and forcible 
 than it would otherwise be. 
 
 Examples. *' When we dip too deep in pleasure, we always stir a 
 -•dirtiont that renders it impure and noxious :"* " A heart boiling with 
 violent passions, will always send up infatuating furies to the head." 
 An inia'^e that presents so much congruity between a moral and a, sen- 
 sible idea, serves, like an argtmient from analogy, to enforce what the 
 author asserts, and to induce belief. 
 
 lllns. 3. Besides, whether we are endeavouring to raise sentiments of 
 pleasure or arersion, wc can always heighten the emotion by the figures 
 which we introduce ; leading the imagination to a train, either of 
 agreeable or disa^^reeabUy of exalting or debasing ideas, correspondent 
 to the imprecision which we seek to make. When we want to render 
 an object lyeauufal or jnagnijicent, we borrow images from all -the most 
 beautiful or splendid scenes of nature ; we thereby, naturally throw a 
 lustre over our object ; we enliven the reader's mind, and dispose him 
 to go along with us, in the gay and pleasing i'upre^sions which we 
 give him of the subject. This effect of figures is happily touched in 
 the following lines of Dr. Akenside, and iUustratcd by a very sublime 
 
 iigure 
 
 pp. Yaiawj;. 
 
Table of Pigures, 1 3§ 
 
 .^ m ^ ■ .— Then the inexpressive strain 
 diffuses its enchantment. Fancy dreams 
 Of sacred fountains aud ;^lysian groves, 
 And vales of bliss, the intellectual Power 
 Rends from his awful throne a wond'ring ear, 
 And smiles. Pleasures of Imagination, I. 124. 
 
 Scliolmm. What we have now explained, concerning; the ciiaracter 
 md advantages of figures, naturally leads us to reflect on the wonder- 
 ful power of language ; nor can we reflect on it without the highest 
 admiration. What a fine vehicle is it now become for all the concep- 
 tions of the human mind ; even for the most subtle and delicate work- 
 ings of the imagination ! What a pliant and flexible instrument in the 
 hand of one who can employ it skilfully ; prepared to take every form 
 which he chuses to give it ! INot content with a simple communi- 
 cation of idea's and thoughts, it paints those ideas to the eye ; it gives 
 colouring and relievo, even to the most abstract conceptions. In the 
 figures which it uses, it sets mirrors before us, where we may, a second 
 time, behold objects in their likeness. It entertains us, as with a suc- 
 cession of the most splendid pictures ; disposes, in the most artificial 
 manner, of the light and shade, for viewing every thing to the best ad- 
 vantage ; in fine, from being a rude and imperfect interpreter of men's 
 wants and necessities, it has now passed into an iastrument of the most 
 delicate and refined luxury. 
 
 259. All TROPES are founded on the relation lohich one 
 object bears to another ; in virtue of which, the name of the 
 one can be substituted instead of the name of the other ; 
 and by such a substitution, the vivacity of the idea is com- 
 monly meant to be increased. These relations, some more, 
 fsome less intimate, may all give rise to tropes. 
 
 260. To illustrate these relations, we have constructed 
 the following 
 
 Table of FigureSy which, among related objects, extend 
 
 the properties of one to another, 
 
 I. An attribute of the cause, expressed as an attribute of tlje eiTeet 
 
 To my advenVroiis song-, 
 
 That with no middle flight intends to soar. Paradire Lost* 
 
 U. An attribute of the effect, expressed as an attribute of the cause. 
 No wonder, fallen such Si pernicious height. Par. Lost. 
 
 1.11. An effect expressed as in attribute of the cause. 
 
 Jovial wine Musing midnight 
 
 Giddy drink Punting height 
 
 J^rowsy niglit Astonished thought. 
 
 And the merry hells ring round, 
 
 And ikt jocund rebecks sound. Allegro. 
 
 IV. An attribute for a subject bestowed upon one of its parts bv 
 aembers ', as, longing arms. 
 
 It was the nightingale, and not the lark, 
 That pierced xhejearful hollow of thine car.* 
 
 • Romeo anti Juliet, Act III. Scene 5, 
 13 
 
140 Table of Figures. 
 
 V. A quality of the ageat given to the instrument witli which It i>^' 
 crates. 
 
 Why peep your coward swords half out oi ilieir sUtUs ? 
 
 VI. The means or instrument conceived to be the agent 
 
 A broken rock the/o;c<r of Pirus threw. 
 
 VII. The chief circumstance conceived to bo t'.r ; ; 
 
 Whose hunger has not tasted food these three dayit. 
 
 VIII. An attribute of the agent given to the suhjcci, - 
 operates. 
 
 IUgh<Uinbvis hill. Milton. 
 
 W. A quality of one subject given to another. 
 
 When shapth sf ac:t', and weak fcfble liiutn. 
 
 Should bring thy faifu-r 1» hi* drooping chair. Shakespeare* 
 
 By art, the pMi)t through the boilinjr ikf p, 
 
 And howling ii rupest, stcer» \.WJlarU:ss ship. Iliad^ .\siii. 335. 
 
 X. A circumstance connected with a subject, expressed as a qualify 
 of the subject. 
 
 ■^Tis ours the chance offghtin^ fieWs to try. Iliad, i. 30 1. 
 
 201. The several relations upon which figures of speech 
 iire commonly founded, are epitomized in the following two 
 tables : one of suhjects expressed figuratively, and one of 
 attributes. 
 
 i. A v>otd proper to one subject, employed figurativ^ij , i.- ^ .^..v,,- 
 a resembling subject. 
 
 lUus. 1. There is no figure of spcrrh so finincnt, n.<i lliat wJjIlIi i- 
 \lorived from the rolation i ' 
 youth. (Illus. Jlrt. 257.) 
 
 Jliudysis. The life of man r<--i'Miii>ie,- a uaiura! uay, m sov<'r:il pni • 
 licukus : the mornhig is the beginning of day ; youth, the beginning 
 of life ; the morning is cheerful ; so is youth, k.c. 
 
 2. By another resemblance, a multitude of tronbUs 
 trouble ; and a bold warrior is, the thunderbolt of war. 
 
 Corol. This figure, above all others, affords pleasure to the uiind, by 
 variety of beauties. It possesses, among others, the bi-auty of a meta- 
 phor, or of a simile. A figure of speech, built upon resemblance, al- 
 ways suggests a comparison between the principal subject, and the 
 accessory. Hence, by tliis figure, every good effect of a metaphor, or 
 simile, may be produced iu a short and iively manner. 
 
 IL A word proper to the effect, employed figuratively, to express 
 the cause ; as, shadow^ for cloud; glittering toti. . Imet ; vJii 
 
 bragt or shadow, for tree. 
 
 ^Tbe^? tke dan u mirage hangs. S; ; ' ^ -* ' , 
 
 •^ Jane Short. 
 
Tabk of Figures. 14ft. 
 
 %. ■xcGund is made to sigiiify an arrow. 
 
 Vulnere non pedibus te consequar. Ovul, 
 
 Analysis. There is a peculiar force and beaut fj in this ; the word, 
 ^j'hich signifies figuratively the principal subject, denotes it to be a 
 ause, by suggesting the effect, 
 ill. A word proper to the cause, employed figuratively to express the 
 effect ; as, grief sorroiv., for fears. 
 
 Again, Ul3sses veil'd his pensive head : 
 Again, uninanu'd, a show' r of sor-roxp shed* 
 Streaming grief his faded check bedcwtd. 
 
 Blindness J for darkness. 
 
 Ccecis erramus in nadls. JCncld. n\. 200. 
 
 Analysis. Ther« is a peculiar beauty in this figure, similar to that \i\ 
 ♦he former : the figurative name denotes tlie subject to be an effect by 
 sng^gesiing its cause, 
 
 IV. Two things being intimately connected, the proper name of the 
 04ie employed figuratively to signify the other. 
 
 Illus. Day, for light. ^Xlght, for darkness ; and hencC; a mdde-y 
 ti'ght. Winter J for a storm at sea : 
 
 Interea magno misccri inuirawre pontum, 
 Emissamque Hyemein sensit Neptunus. Mr.cid^ u 128. 
 
 V. A word proper io an attribute, employed figuratively to denote 
 the subject. 
 
 Tov.th and beauty shall be laid in dust. 
 
 J\Iajesiy, for king; as in Hamlet, £ct i. Scene L 
 
 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 sometimes march ? 
 
 Analysis. The peculiar beauty of this figure arises from suggesting 
 a attribute that dnbellishes the subject, or puts it in a stronger light, 
 
 VI. A complex terra, emi-loyed figuratively to denote one of the 
 component parts ; as, f anus, for a dead body ; burial, for a grave. 
 
 VII. The name of one of the component parts, instead of the coFn- 
 |)lex term ; as, the east, for a country situated east from us. Jovis 
 vestigia servat, for imitating Jupiter in general. 
 
 Vlil. A word signifying time or place, employed figuratively to de- 
 note what is connected with it. 
 
 Jllus. Clirntj for season, or for a constitution of government : hence 
 the expression, merciful clime, feccy icinler, for snow, .seculum ftlix. 
 
 IX. A part, for the whole ; as, the -pole, for the earth ) the head, for 
 Ihe person. 
 
 Triginta mina'/ro capite tuo dcdi. Pldutus. 
 
 Analysis. The peculiar beauty of this figure consists in marking that 
 part, which makes the greatest figure. 
 
 X. The name of the conlainer, to signify what is contained. 
 
 Illus. Grove, for birds in it ; as, vocal grove. Ships for the seamen ', 
 as, agonizing skips. Mountains lor the sheep pasturing on them ; asj 
 bleating mountains. The kctUe for the water ; as, the kettle boil!". 
 
 XI The name olthc sustaiaer. io signify what is sustained. 
 
i4^ Table of Figures. 
 
 Tllus. Altar i for sacrifice ; field, for the battle fought upon it ; ai. 
 well-foii^ht /tc/rf. (§X.;). 140.) 
 
 XII. The name of the materials, to sig^nify the things made of them : 
 as, hemp, for rope ; cold steel, for a sword ; lead^ for a bullet. 
 
 XIII. The names of the Gods and Goddesses, em^ployed figuratively^ 
 to signify what they patronize. 
 
 Jllus. Jove for tiie air, Mars for war, Venus for beauty, Cupid for 
 iove, Ceres for corn, Keptunt for the sea, Vulcan for fire. 
 
 This figure bestows great elevation upon the subject : and therefore 
 *nght to be confined to the higher strains of poetry. 
 
 SECOND TABLE. 
 uittributcs expressed ffguratively, 
 
 \. When two attributes are connected, the name of the one may b( 
 iiployed figuratively, to express the other. 
 
 Jllus. Purily for virginity. These are attributes of the same person 
 or thing ; hence the expression, virgin snow, for pure snow ; virgin 
 ;old, for gold unalloyed. 
 
 H. A word signifying pr'-perly an attribute of one subject, employed 
 , aratively to express a resembling attribute of another subject. 
 llhu. 1 . Tottering state, iviperio us ocetiu, angty flood, raging tempest 
 allov) fears. 
 
 My sure divinity shall bear the shield. 
 
 And edge tliy «word to rtap the glorious field. Odyssey, xx. 61. 
 
 2. Black omen, for an omeu that portends bad fortune : as, ater odor 
 >rgil. 
 
 Obs. The peculiar beauty of this figure, arises from suggesting a 
 jinparison. 
 
 III. A word proper to the subject, employed to express one of its 
 tributes. 
 
 lUus. Miiid. for intelb^ct ; jnind, for rc:>olution. 
 
 IV. When two subjects have a resemblance by a common quality^ 
 (he name of the one subject may be employed figuratively, to denote 
 'hat quality in the other ; as, summer, for agreeable life. 
 
 V. The name of the instrument, made to signify the power of cmploy- 
 tig it. 
 
 Melpomene, eui liquidam pater 
 
 Vocem cum cithara, Utdit. 
 
 Scholium. The ample field of figurative expression, displayed i« 
 these tables, afibrds great scope for reasoning^ as wc shall find in the 
 subsequent analyses of figurative language. 
 
Metaphor^ 14S 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 METAPHOR. 
 
 •^62. METAPHOR is a figure founded entirely on the 
 resemblance which one subject bears to another. Hence, it 
 is much allied to simile, or comparison ; and is indeed no 
 other than a comparison, expressed in an abridged form. 
 (^rL 260.) 
 
 Illus, When of some ^reat minister it is said, '< that he upholds the 
 state, like a pillar which supports the weight of a whole edifice," a 
 comparison is made ; but wiien it is said of such a minister, " that he 
 is the pillar of the state/' it is now bccorae a metaphor. 
 
 Analysis. The comparison betwixt tlie minister and a pillar, is made 
 in the mind ; but is expressed without any of the words that denote 
 comparison. The comparison is only insinuated, not expressed ; the 
 one object is supposed to be so like the other, that without formally 
 drav/ing the comparison, the name of the one may be put in the place 
 of the name of the other. '* The minister is the pillar of the state." 
 This, therefore, is a more lively and animated manner of expressing^ 
 the resemblances which iinag^ination traces among objects. There is 
 nothing that delights the fancy more than tliis act of comparing things 
 together, discovering resemblances between them, and describing them 
 by their likeness. The mind thus employed, is exercised without being 
 fatigued ; and is gratified with the consciousness of its own ingenuity, 
 (Scholium, p. 139.) 
 
 263. Though all metaphor imports comparisony and, 
 therefore, is, in that respect, a figure of thought ; y^i^ as 
 the words in a metaphor are not taken litetally, but chang- 
 ed from their proper to a figurative sense, the metaphor is 
 commonly ranked among tropes or figures of words. (Ex- 
 ample. Art. 245.) But, provided tlie nature of it be well 
 understood, it signifies very little whether we call it a 
 figure or a trope. (Obs, Art. 254.) 
 
 lUm. 1. We have confined it to the expression of resemblance be- 
 tween two objects. We must reniark, however, that the word meta- 
 phor is sometimes used in a looser and more extended sense ; for the 
 application of a term in any figurative signification, whether the figure 
 be founded on resemblance, or on some other relation which two ob- 
 jects bear to one another. 
 
 Example. For instance ; when gray hairs are put for old age, as, 
 •' to bring one's gray hairs with sorrow to the grave ;" some writers 
 would call this a metaphor, though it is not properly one, but what 
 rhetoricians call a metonymy ; that is, the ^i^iici put for the cause ; 
 (§. ir. p. 139.) " gray hairs" being the effect of old age, but jiot bea^r- 
 jng any sort of resemblance to it. 
 
 13^ 
 
144 Metaphor, 
 
 264, Of all the figures of speech, none comes so'near to 
 painting as meUiphor, Its peculiar effect is to give light 
 and strength to description ; to make intellectual ideas, in 
 some sort, visible to the eye, bj giving them colour, and sub- 
 stance, and sensible qualities. In order, however, to pro- 
 duce this effect, a delicate hand is required ; for, by a very 
 little inaccuracy, we are in hazard of introducing confusion, 
 in place of promoting perspicuity. (Art, 257,) 
 
 Illus. Several rules, therefore, are necessary to be given for the 
 proper raanagemeiit of metaphor. But, before entering- on these, we 
 shall give one instance of a very beauiiful metaphor, that we may 
 shew the figuie to full advantage. Wo shall take our instance from 
 Lord Bolingbroke's Remarks on the History of England. Just at the 
 conclusion of his work, he is speaking of the behaviowr of Charles 1. 
 to his last parliament : *• In a word," says he, " about a month after 
 their meeting, he dissolved them ; and, as soon as he had dissolved 
 them, he repented ; but he repented too Fate of his rashnesiv. Well 
 might he repent, for the vessel was now full, aiui this last drop madj^ 
 the waters of bitterness overflow." — ** Here," he adds, »< we draw the 
 curtain, and put an end to our remarks." 
 
 .inalyns. Nothing could be more happily thrown off. The meta- 
 phor, we see, is continued through several expres.sions. The vtssel is 
 put for the state or temper of the nation ah eady //<//, that is, provoked 
 to the highest by former oppressions and wrongs ; this last drojiy 
 stands for the provocation recently i»eceived by the abrupt dissolution 
 of the parliament ; and the ovtrfloicingof the waters of hitteniesSj beau- 
 tifully expresses all the etfects of resentment let loos* by an exaspera-^ 
 tcfl people. 
 
 Scholia. Nothing forms a more spirited and dignified conclusion of 
 a subject, than a figure of this kind happily placed at the close. We 
 see the effect of it in this instance. The author g( ^'S otVwith a good 
 grace ; and leaves a strong and full impression of his subject on the 
 reader's mind. A metaphor has Irequently an advantage above a for- 
 mal comparison. How much would the sentin)ent here have been en- 
 feebled, if it had been expressed in the style of a regular simile, thus : 
 ^' Well might he repent ; for the sta;e of the nation, loaded witij 
 grievances and provocation, resembled a vessel that was now full, and 
 this superadded provocation, like the last drop infused, made their 
 rage and resentment, as waters of bitterness, overflow." It has infi- 
 nitely more spirit and force as it now stands, in the form of a metaphor. 
 •» Well might he repent ; for the vessel was now full ; and this last 
 drop made the waters of bitterness overflow." 
 
 S165. The first rule to be observed in the conduct of meta- 
 phors, is, tliat they be suited to the nature of the subject of 
 which we treat : neither too many^ nor too gay; nor too 
 elevated for it ; that we neither attempt to force the subject , 
 by means of them, into a degree of elevation which is not 
 congruous to it ; nor, on the other hand, allow it to sink be- 
 ^ow its proper dignity. (Art. 258. Illus. 3.) 
 
 IHus. 1. This IS a direction which belongs to all figurative language. 
 
Metaphor, 145 
 
 and should be ever kept in view. Some metaphors are allowable, nay, 
 beautiful in poetry, which it would be absurd and unnatural to employ 
 in prose ; some may be graceful in orations, which would be very im- 
 proper in historical or philosophical composition. 
 
 2. We must remember that figures are the dress of our sentiments. 
 
 3. As there is a natural congruity between dress and the character 
 or rank of the person who wears it, a violation of this cong;ruity never 
 fails to be injurious to the person ; the same holds precisely as to the 
 application of figures to sentiment. 
 
 4. The excessive or unseasonable employment of them is mere fop- 
 pery in writing. It gives a boyish air to composition ; and instead of 
 raising a subject, in fact, diminishes its dignity. For, as in life, true 
 dignity must be founded on character, not on dress and appearance, 
 so the dignity of composition must arise from sentiment and thought, 
 not from ornament. The alTectation and parade of ornament, detract 
 as much from an author, as they do from a man. (Art. 128.) 
 
 Corol. 1. Figures and metaphors, therefore, should, on no occasion, 
 be stuck on too profusely ; nor should they ever be such as refuse to 
 accord with the strain of our sentiment. 
 
 2. Nothing can be more unnatural, than for a writer to carry on a 
 strain of reasoning, in the same sort of figurative language which h« 
 would use in descriptfon. When he reasons, we look only for perspi- 
 cuity ; when he describes, we expect embellishment ; when he divides, 
 or relates, we desire plainness and simplicity. 
 
 Scholia. One of the greatest secrets in composition is, to know Miien 
 to be simple. J'his always gives a heightening to ornameat, in its 
 proper place. The right disposition of the shade makes the light and 
 colouring strike the more. '^ He is truly eloquent who can discourse 
 of humble subjects in a plain style, who can treat important ones wiih 
 dignity, and speak of things which are of a middle nature, in a tenrs- 
 periitc strain. For one who, upon no occasion, can express himself in 
 a calm, orderly, distinct manner, when he begins to be on fire before 
 his readers are prepared to kindle along with him, has the appearance 
 of raving like a madman among persons who are in their senses, or of 
 reeling like a drunkard, in the midst of sober company."^ This ad- 
 monition should be particularly attended to by young practitionrrs in 
 the art of writing, who are apt to be carried away by an undistin- 
 guishing admiration of what is showy and florid, whether in its place 
 or not.f 
 
 266. The second rule which we give, respects the choice 
 of objects, from whence metaphors, and other figures, are to 
 be drawn. 
 
 * " Is eniin est eloquens, qui et humilia subtiliter, et magna graviter. et mediocria 
 temperate, potest dicere. Nam qui nihil potest tranqiiille, nihil leniter, nihil definite, 
 distincte, potest dicere, is. cum non praeparatis auribus inflammare rem csepit, furere 
 apiid sanos, et quasi inter sobrios bacchari temulentus vidttur " Ckero, 
 
 t What pei-son of the least taste can bear the fbiloAving passage in an historian ? 
 He is giving an account of the famous act of parliament against irregular marriages 
 in England : " The bill,'' says lie, " underwent a great number of alterations and 
 amendments, which wei-e not effected without violent contest." This is plain lan- 
 guage, suited to the subject; and we naturally expect, that, he should go on in the 
 same strain, to tell us. tliat after these contests, it was carried by a great raajox-ity of 
 voices, and obtained the royal assent. But how does he express himself in finishing 
 the period ; " At length, however, it was floated through both houses on the tide of 
 a great majority, and steered into the' safe harbour of royal approbation." Nothing 
 tan be more puerile that such language. Smollett^s History of England, quoted in 
 'he Critical Review for Oct. 1761, p. 251. 
 
146 Mdaplior. 
 
 (Has. 1. The field far figurative language is very wide. Ail nature; 
 to speak in the style of figures, opens its stores to us, and admits us to 
 srather, from all sensible objects, whatever can illustrate intellectual or 
 Mior^l ideas. Not only the gay and splendid objects of sense, but the 
 \;rave, the terrifying, and even the gloomy and dismal, may, on differ- 
 ent occasions, be introduced into figures with propriety. 
 
 2. But we must beware of ever using such allusions as raise in the 
 mind disagreeable, mean, vulgar, or dirty ideas. Even when meta- 
 phors are chosen in order to vilify and degrade any object, an author 
 fchou'd study never to be nauseous in his allusions. Ijut, in subjects 
 of dignity, it is an unpardonable fault to introduce mean and vulgar 
 metaphors. 
 
 Obs. 1. In the treatise on the Art of Sinking, in Dean Swift's works, 
 there is a full and humorous collection of instances of this kind, where- 
 in autliors, instead of exalting, have contrived to degrade their sub- 
 jects by the figures which they cmplo^'cd. 
 
 2. Autijors of greater note than those which are there quoted, have 
 at times fallen into this error. Archbishop J iilotson, for instance, is 
 sometimes negligent in his choice of metaphors ; as, when speaking 
 of the day of Judgment, he describes the world, as ** cracking about 
 the sinners' ears." 
 
 3. Shakespeare, whose imngination was rich' and bold, in a much 
 reater degree than it was delicate, often tails here. 
 
 Example. The following is a gross transgression ; in his Henry V., 
 Iiaving mentioned a dung -hill, he presently raises a metaphor from the 
 steam of it ; and on a subject too, that naturally led to much nobler 
 ideas : 
 
 Ami those tliat leave their valiant bones in Fitince, 
 
 Dying; like men, thouj^h buritd in your dunghills, 
 
 I'ney shall be I'amtd ; for there the sun shnll grctt them, 
 
 Ar.d draw their honoui-s recking up to heaven. Act IV, Sicne 8. 
 
 2G7. In the third place, as metaphors should be drawn 
 from objects of some dignity, so particular care should be 
 uik^ix tlvAi ihQ r 66' cmblancCf which is i\\Q foimdation o( the 
 metaphor, be clear and perspicuous, not far-fctchedy nor 
 difficult to discover. The transgression of this rule makes, 
 what is called harsh or forced metaphors, which arc always 
 displeasing, because they puzzle the reader, and instead of 
 illustrating the thought, render it perplexed and intricate. 
 
 J'dus. With metaphors of this kind Cowley abounds. He, and some 
 •if the writers of his age, seemed to have considered it as the perfcc- 
 lon of wit, to hit upon likenesses between objects which no other pcr- 
 von could have discovered ; and, at the same time, to pursue those 
 metaphors so far, that it requires some ingenuity to follow them out, 
 and comprehend them. This makes a metaphor resemble an enigma ; 
 and is the very reverse of Cicero's rule on tliis head : •' Every metaphor 
 should be modest, so that it may carry the appearance ol having 
 been led, not of having forced itself into the place of that word whose 
 room it occupies ; that it may seem to have come thither of its own * 
 accord, and not by constraint.'* 
 
 • « Verecunda debet esse, translatio ; ut deducta esse in alicnum locum non jrriussJ* 
 atque ut voluntario iiou vi rtnisse videaiur" Dc Orutorc, hb, id. c, 53. 
 
Metaphor, 147 
 
 2. To be new, and not vulgar, is a beauty. Trite and common re- 
 semblances should indeed be avoided in our metaphors. But when 
 they are fetched from some likeness too remote, and lying too far out 
 of the road of ordinary thought, then, besides their obscurity, they 
 have also the disadvantage of appearing laboured, and, as the French 
 call it, " recherche." Metaphors, like all other ornaments, lose their 
 whole grace, when they do not seem natural and easy, 
 
 3. It is but a bad and ungraceful softening, v/hich writers sometimes 
 use for a harsh metaphor, when they palliate it with the expression, 
 ns it were. This is but an awkward parenthesis ; and metaphors^ 
 which need this apology of an as tt were, would, generally, have been 
 better omitted. (See Jirt. 166.) Metaphors, too, borrowed from any 
 of the sciences, especially such of them as belong to particular profes- 
 sions, are almost always faulty by their obscurity. (Jirt. 84. Illus.) 
 
 268. In the fourth place, it must be carefully attended to, 
 la the conduct of metaphors, never to jumble inetaphorical 
 and plain language together : never to construct a period 
 so, that part of it must be understood metaphorically, part 
 literally : tiiis always produces a most disagreeable confu- 
 sion. 
 
 Example l. Long to my joys my dearest lord is lost. 
 
 His country's buckler, and the Grecian boast ; 
 
 Now from my fond embrace by tempests toni, 
 
 Our other column of the state is borne, 
 
 Nor took a kind adieu, nor sought consent.* Odyssey IV. 962. 
 
 Analysis. Here, in one line, her son is figured as a column ; and ib 
 ihe next, he returns to be a person, to whom it belongs to take adieu, 
 and to ask consent. This is inconsistent. The poet should either 
 have kept himself to the idea of man, in the literal sense ; or if he 
 figured him by a column, be should have ascribed nothing to him but 
 i^hat belonged to it. He was not at liberty to ascribe to that column 
 the actions and properties of a man. Such unnatural mixtures render 
 the image indistinct ; leaving it to waver, in our conception, between 
 the figurative and the literal sense. 
 
 Example 2. Pope, elsewhere, addressing himself to the king, says, 
 
 To thee the world its present homage pays, 
 The harvest early, but mature the praise. 
 
 Jinalysis. This, though not so gross, is a fault, however, of the same 
 Kind. It is plain, that had not the rhyme misled him to the choice of 
 ;in improper phrase, he would have said, 
 
 The harvest early, but mature the crop : 
 
 and so would have continued the figure which he had begun. Whereas, 
 by dropping it unfinished, and by employing the literal word, praise, 
 
 * In the original, there is no allusion to a column, ?ind the metaphor is regularly 
 supported : 
 
 'H rrptv iicv -rrocriv hS^'Xov aTtij)fxtaa ^H^oXtovra 
 
 HavTOirjs apcTyjcri KCKaafiCvov ev Anvaotoi 
 
 Eff-^Aov, Ttf K^Eog ivpv koO^ 'EXXa^a koi littrov Apyoc 
 
 jSvv d* av nai&' ayantjrov avrjpciipavTo dvsWai ■■*r'-^'^v^ 
 
148 Mptahpor. 
 
 when t^e were expecting something that related to the harvest, ih^i 
 figure is broken, and the two members oi the sentence have no proper 
 correspondence with ench other : 
 
 The huTvett early, but mature the praise. 
 
 Example 3. The works of Ossian abonnd with brantiful and correct 
 metaphors : such as that on a hero . " In pewce, ^ho' art the gnle ol' 
 spring; in war, the motintrnn storm " {^\• \>\\^ ^^\^. n woman; " t;ihe 
 was covered with the light of btM as th- hcj^e of 
 
 pride." 
 
 Exception. They afford, however, one instance of iae fault wj are 
 now censuring : *' Trothal uetit forth with the streaoi of his people, 
 but they met a rock : for Fingal stood unmoved *, brrken ♦hey rolled 
 >)ack from his side : nor did they roll in safety ; the spear of the king 
 pursued their flight.' 
 
 Analysis. At the beginning, the metaphor is very beautiful. The 
 -tream, the unmoved rock, the waves rolling back broken, are expres- 
 sions employed in the proper and consistent language of figure ; but 
 n the end, when we are told, " the^ did not roll in safctv, because the 
 -^pear of the king pursued their flight," the literal meaning; is improper- 
 ly mixed with the mctaj)hor ; they are, at one and the same time, prc- 
 ^ciited to us as waves that ro//, and men that may be pursued and 
 fcowided ui(h a spear. 
 
 269. In the fifth place, never make two different meta- 
 phors 7n€et 071 one object. This is what is called mixed met- 
 aphor, and is indeed one of the grossest abuses of this figure ; 
 such as vShakespcare's expression, " to take arms against a 
 sea of troubles." This makes a most unnatural medley, 
 and confounds the imaginatitm entirely. 
 
 Hlus. Quinctilian has sufllciently guarded us against it. ** We n)ust 
 be jiaiticularly alleutive to end with the same kind of metaphor with 
 which we have begun. Some, when they begin tlie figure with a tem- 
 pest, conclude it with a conflagration ; which forms a sbamcful incon- 
 
 ii»triu:v."* 
 
 '"■»■■ The charm diisolvea apace, 
 
 And as the numung^ steal* upon the iiij^ht, 
 Meliing ihf darku. ss. so Uuir r'xsxuf; senaei 
 Begin to chase tht- ignorant fninci that manrl^^ 
 Tlieir clearer reason. Tempest, 
 
 Analysis. What an inconsistent groupe of objects is brought together 
 in this passage, which professes to describe persons recovering their 
 judgment after the enchantment, that ')eld them, was dissolved ! So 
 many ill sorted things are hce joined, that the mind can see nothing 
 clearly ; the morning sleaun^ upon the darkness, and at the same time^ 
 vielting it ; the senses of men chasing fumesj ignoraid fumes^ an^ 
 fumes that mant'e. 
 
 Example 2. So again in Romeo and Juliet : 
 
 ■ as glorious, 
 As is a winj^c^ niessenger from heaven, 
 Unto th<' white uptuiutd wondtnng eyes 
 
 • " Id imprimis est custodiendum, nt quo genere ccpperis franslationis, hoc fIniM> 
 Multi auuin cum initjum a Kiupesiate sumseruni, ineendjo aut rofna finiant ; cju% 
 «? ii)fOuseii«ieniia rerum fce^£?jn'.a." 
 
Metaphor. I ii) 
 
 Ot mortals, tbat fall back to gaze ob him, 
 %Vhtn he bestridts the lazj-paciiig clouds, 
 And sails upon the bosom of the air. 
 
 liialysu. Here, the angel is reprosentficl as, at one moment, bestride 
 ^ the clouds, and sailing upon the air ; and upon the bosom of the 
 
 ail too; which forir.s such a confused picture, that it is impossible for 
 
 any imagir.ation to comprehend it. 
 
 Example 3. More correct writers than Shakespeare sometimes fall 
 
 into this error of mixing* metaphors. 
 
 I bridle in my struggling muse i(vith pain, 
 That long^s to launch into a bolder strain.* 
 
 Jiaalysls. The muse, figured as a horse, may be bridled ; but when 
 \vc spea': o^ liunchins^^ we make it a ship ; and by no force of imag"in- 
 KtioM "in it '-'•'. supposed boih a horse and a ship at one moment ; bri- 
 dled, to hinder it fror^ launching, W^^re we to try this metaphor by 
 Addisoa's own rule : amely, to suppose iYiC figure painted, it v/ould 
 appear more g^roti-sque than any of Kogaith's subjects. That the 
 muse, from hor connexion with the vving^ed horse Pegasus, might some- 
 limes require the bridle, is not perhaps very unnatural. But were she 
 painted in an attitude in -svhich the bridle prevented her from launch- 
 ing or jumping into the sea ; or were a picture to exhibit a ship launch- 
 ed, not into the sea, bat upon a sheet of paper, or into a song, the 
 spectator would feel something of the disposition inspired by the mon- 
 ster of Horace, 
 
 Spectatiim admissi risum teneatis amici. 
 
 But the muse is a goddess. Now to bridle a goddess is no very deli 
 f;ate idea. But why must she be bridled .'* becaus^e she longs to launch ; 
 4tn act which was never hindered by a bridle. And whither will sl/e 
 launch ? into a nobler strain. She h in the fitst line a. goddess, or a 
 horse, in the second, a boat or r javelin, ("for both -may be launched) 
 and the care of the poet is to keep hi:* horse, or his boat, or his F.pear, 
 ¥rom singing. 
 
 270. Addison's rule is a good one for examinincr the pro- 
 ])ncty of metaphors, when we doubt whether or not they be 
 of the mixed kind : namely, that we should try to form a 
 picture upon them, and consider how the parts would agree^ 
 and what sort of figure the whole would present, when de- 
 lineated with a pencil, ^j this means w^e should become 
 sensible, whether inconsistent circumstances were mixed, 
 and a monstrous image thereby produced, as in all those 
 faulty instances which have been given ; or whether the ob- 
 ject was throughout presented in one natural and consistent 
 point of view. 
 
 271. As metaphors ought never to be mixed ; so in Ww. 
 sixth place, we should avoid crowding them together on the 
 same object. Supposing each of the metaphors to be pre- 
 seTved distinct, yet, if they be heaped on one another, the\ 
 
 * Addison. 
 
15G Metaphor . 
 
 produce a confusion somewhat of the same kind wun iii'- 
 mixed metaphor. 
 
 Example i. '* There is a time, when factions, by the vehemence of 
 their fermentation, stun, and disable one another*," 
 
 Analysis. Tlie noble author represents factions, first, as discordant 
 fluids, the mixture of which produces violent fermentation ; but he 
 quickly relinquishes this viesv of them, and imputes to them operations 
 and effects, consequent only on the supposition of their being^ solid 
 bodies in motion. They maim and dismember one another by forcible 
 collisions. 
 
 Exatnpfe 2. '< Those whose minds are dull and heavy do not easily 
 penetrate into the folds and intricacies of an aflair, and therefore can 
 only scum off what tl\ey find at the topf." 
 
 Analysis. That the writer had a right to represent his affair, what- 
 ever it was, either as a bale of cloth or a fluid, nobody can deny. But 
 the laws of common sense and perspicuity demanded of him to keep 
 it either the one or the other, because it could not be both at the same 
 time. It was absurd, therefore, after he had penetrated the folds of 
 it, an operation competent only on the supposition of its being some 
 pliable body, to speak of scumming off what floated on the surface, 
 which could not be performed unless it was a fluid. 
 
 272. The only otlier rule concerning metaphors, which 
 we shall add, is, that they be 7iot too Jar pursued. If the 
 resembUince on which the fi^jure is founded, be long dwelt 
 upon, and carried into all its minute circumstances, we 
 make an allegory instead of a metaphor ; we tire the reader, 
 who soon becomes weary of this play of fancy ; and we 
 render our discourse obscure. This is called straining a 
 metaphor. 
 
 Crilick 1 ' • . . : , (.wing, 
 
 in a great uic:i>«jrr, tliiii intruary and liorsfmo^iSj lu his lii;urative lan- 
 guage, which we before remarked. (Art. 207.) 
 
 2. Lord Shaftesbury is sometimes guilty of pursuing his metaphors 
 too far. Fond, to a high degree, of every decoration of style, when 
 once he had hit upon a figure (hat pleased him, he was extremely l»th 
 to part with it. 
 
 3. Dr. Young also often trespasses in the same w.iy . The mtrit, 
 however, of this writer, in figu»ative language, is gr*at, and deserve.* 
 to be remarked. No writer, ancient or modern, had a stronger ima- 
 gination than Dr. Young, or one more fertile in figures of every kind. 
 His metaphors are often new, and often natural and beautiful. But 
 his imagination wag strong and rich, rather than delicate and correct. 
 Hence, in his Night 'Ihouffhts, there prevail au obscurity, and a hard- 
 ness in his stvle. The metaphors are frequently to*» bold, and fre- 
 quently too far pursued ; the reader is dazzled rather than enlighten- 
 ed ; and kept constantly on the stretch to keep pace with the author. 
 
 4. Of all ihe English authors, none is so happy in his metaphors as 
 Addison. His imagination was neither so rich nor so strong as Dr. 
 Young's ; but far more chaste and delicate. Perspicuity, natural 
 grace, and ease, always distinguish his figures. They arc neither 
 
 ' Bolingbroke. t Swift, 
 
Metaphor. 151 
 
 harsh nor strained ; they never appear to have been studied or sought 
 after ; but seem to rise of their own accord from the subject, and con- 
 stantly embellish it. 
 
 Scholia 1. Metaphors expressed by single words may, it seems, be 
 introduced on every occasion, from the most careless effusions of con- 
 versation, to the highest and most passionate expression of tragedy ; 
 and on all these occasions they are, perhaps, the most beautiful and 
 significant language that can be employed. There is no doubt of the 
 justness of this observation with regard to any species of speaking or 
 writing, except that which denotes violent passion, concerning which 
 the practice of the most correct performers is not uniform ; some of 
 them rejecting, others admitting, the use of such fi-gures. 
 
 2. Short metaphors appear with perfect propriety in oratory, me- 
 moirs, essays, novels, but particularly in history. The historian is 
 scarcely permitted to indulge in hunting after comparisons ; he is sel- 
 dom allowed to introduce the more elevated and poetical figures of 
 apostrophe and personification ; he is not €ven at liberty to amuse 
 with metaphors extended to many circumstances of resemblance, but 
 to those expressed in single or few words, he has the most approved 
 access. Such ornaments are the proper implements of a vigorous and 
 decisive mind, which has leisure only to snatch a ray of embellishment 
 from a passing object, without turning aside from its capital pursuit. 
 The superior attention of the historian to the matter of which he treats, 
 the dignity and gravity of his style, which ought to correspond to the 
 importance of his matter, call upon him to communicate his thoughts 
 in the most correct, perspicuous, and forcible language ; and such, in 
 a serene state of the mind, is the language of short metaphor. 
 
 S. Both Shakespeare and Otway conceived short metaphors to be 
 perfectly consistent with the most violent agitations of passion. It is 
 in vain to appeal to the authority of other tragic poets. They are 
 unanimous for the use of similar metaphors in similar situations. Ma^ 
 ny of them, indeed, have so overloaded their pathetic scenes with this 
 Sarilliant ornament, that it obscures the meaning, diminishes the im^ 
 pression, and sometimes disgusts the reader. 
 
 4. But extended metaphors, which chiefly amuse the imagination by 
 a great variety of pretty and pleasant resemblances, are much more 
 circumscribed in their appearance. They are too refined to occur in 
 oonversation, or on any occasion that allows not time for recollection, 
 and for tracing similitudes which are at least so remote and unexpect'- 
 ed as to surprise and captivate. They present themselves with per- 
 fect grace, in pulpit-oratory, in political writings, in works of criticism, 
 and in essays. But their peculiar provnice is descriptive poetry, and 
 the dispassionate parts of epic. They are inconsistent with violent 
 passion, and are seldom introduced with success into tragedy. They 
 are calculated enthely to please the imagination. They interfere with 
 all the strong feelings of the heart. The mind that can either utter 
 or relish thcra may be gay and elevated, but must be composed ani 
 tranquil. Under the pressure of deep distress, they are disgusting an4 
 r^T^toierable. 
 
 14 
 
i ^'^ Comparisoih 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 COMPARISONS OR SIMILES. 
 
 2r^. COMPARISONS or similes differ chiefly from 
 metaphors in the vigour of imagination with which they 
 are conceived. In the use of metaphors, we suppose the 
 j)rimary object transformed into the resembling one. In 
 the use of comparisons we soar not so high, but content 
 ourselves with reniarking similitude merely. 
 
 Illus. 1. In all comparisons there should be found something new or 
 surprising: in order to ))lease and illustrate. There is nothing new or 
 surprising in the resemblance of the individuals oi the same species, 
 as when we say, one man, or one horse, or one oak, is like another j 
 because these individuals are formed by nature similar, and no com- 
 parison instituted between them can be suppose<l to produce any nov- 
 elty or surprise. To find, then, resemblances which are new or sur- 
 prising, and which, consequently, may produce pleasure or iliu.stration, 
 we must search for them where they are not commonly to be expect- 
 ed, between things of different species. 
 
 Example. If, for instance, 1 discover a resemblance between a man 
 and a horse in swiftness, between a man and an oak in strength, or 
 between a man and a rock in stca<liness, such resemblances, being 
 new, and generally unobserved, excite surprise and pleasure, and im- 
 prove my conceptions of the swiftness, strength, and steadiness, of the 
 man. 
 
 Corol. Hence results the first general principle concerning good 
 comparisons of resemblance ; they must be drawn from one species 
 of things to another, and never instituted between things of the same 
 species. 
 
 Illus. 2. Again, when we place a great object opposite to a little 
 one, a beautiful picture to an indifTereut one, or one shade of the same 
 colour to another ; we are surprised to find, that things which seemed 
 so much alike differ so widely. We conceive the beauties and defects 
 of the objects contrasted greater, perhaps, than they really are, at 
 least much greater than they appear when surveyed apart. 
 
 Corol. Hence is derived the second principle respecting compari- 
 sons, that contrasts must be instituted between things of the same 
 species, because no pleasure or illustration can result from finding dis- 
 similitude between things naturally different. 
 
 Ilhts. 3. As it is necessary there should be resemblance in all com- 
 parisons, it is obvious that the objects of different senses cannot furnish 
 ibundation for them. There is no resemblance between a sound and 
 jk colour, a smell, and a surface of velvet. 
 
 Corol. Comparisons, then, nmst farther take place between the ob- 
 jects of the same sense ; and, as the sight is the most lively and dis- 
 tinct of all the senses, and the ideas it communicates make the deep- 
 est Impression on the mind, the most beautiful and striking compari 
 sons are deduced from the objects of this sense. (SiC the Ex. nnd 
 Aiialym ft Art. 218.) 
 
Comparison. 153 
 
 illus. 4. But though the far greater part of comparisons result from 
 the rese«iblauce of the qualities of sensible objects alone, yet they are 
 sometimes instituted between the qualities of sensible auu intellectual 
 objects. 
 
 Example Thus, Shakespeare compares adversity to a toad, and 
 slander to the bite of a crocodile. 
 
 Scholium. In all these cases, however, the abstract or intellectual ob- 
 ject is personified, and the comparison is founded on the supposed tq- 
 semblance which the qualities of the intellectual object bear to those of 
 the sensible object, after the former also has become a sensible object. 
 
 Jllus. 5. In addition to the kinds of similes already explained, there 
 is another that frequently occurs, in which the effects only of two ob- 
 jects are compared. The same analogy takes place with regard to 
 them, which was formerly observed to appear in the resemblance of 
 the sound of words to their sense. (Jlrt. 225.) Ihe objects com- 
 pared are not perhaps similar in their qualities, at least the merit of 
 the figure does not depend on this circumstance, but upon the similar' 
 ily of (he impressions or emotions they produce in the mind. 
 
 Examples. Upon this principle, the following comparisons are suc- 
 cessfully framed. 
 
 1. " Often, like the evening sun, comes the memory of former times 
 on my soul*." 
 
 2. '< The music was like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant 
 and mournful to the soulf.'' 
 
 3. " Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul of Clessa- 
 mour|." 
 
 4. " Pleasant are the words of the song, and lovely are the tales of 
 other times. 1 hey are like the dew of the morning on the hill of roses, 
 when the sun is faint on its side, and the lake is settled and blue in the 
 valej]." 
 
 Analysis. There is no resemblance between the evening sun and the 
 memory of past joys, between sorrow and a cloud, or between the 
 vi'ords of the seng, and the dew ^f the morning ; but every person 
 must perceive, that by these objects similar impressions or emotions 
 are excited in the mind. 
 
 274. All comparisons may be reduced to the following 
 heads. I. Those which improve our conceptions of the ob^ 
 jects they are brought to illustrate, — we call explaining com- 
 parisons, IL Those which augment the pleasure of ima- 
 gination by a splendid assemblage of other adjacent and 
 agreeable objects,— we call embellishing comparisons. III. 
 And, finally, those which elevate or depress the principal 
 object, an operation often requisite in writing, but more 
 particularly in speaking, — we call comparisons of advan- 
 tage , or of disadvantage. 
 
 ^75. Allmanner of subjects admit of ca7j/t7mi;2/*'co?r?;j)«r- 
 isons. Let an author be reasoning ever so strictly, or treat- 
 ing the most abstruse point in philosophy, he may very pro 
 
 • OsiiaB. ■]' Ibid. I Ibid, 1.; Ibid, 
 
154 Gomparison* 
 
 perlj introduce a comparison, merely witii a view to Eiiett^ 
 his subject better understood. 
 
 Example. Of this nature is the following in Harris's Hermes, em- 
 ployed to explain a very abstract point, the distinction between the 
 powers of sense and imagination in the human mind. " As wax," 
 says he; '* would not be adequate to the purpose of signature, if it had 
 xiot the power to retain as well as to receive the impression, the same 
 holds of the soul with respect to sense and imagination. Sense is its 
 receptive power ; imagination its retentive. Had it sense without im- 
 agination, it would not be as wax, but as water, where, though all im- 
 pres.sions be instantly made, yet as soon as they are made they are 
 instantly lost." 
 
 IHus. In comparisons of this nature the understanding is concerned 
 much more than the fancy : and therefore the only rules to be observ- 
 ed, with respect to them, are, 1. That they be cTear ; II. Tliat they 
 be useful ; III. That they tend to render our conception of the prinei- 
 titii object more distinct ; and IV. That they do not lead our view 
 
 ide, and bewilder it with any false light. 
 
 '276. The most vigorous imagination caft scarcely be sup- 
 posed to have conceived more striking comparisons, or bet- 
 ter adapted to improve our conceptions of the principal ob- 
 ject, than the folhnving ones of Shakespeare. Describin*^ 
 'he eftectft of concealed love, he makes this happy compari- 
 ^n : 
 
 " She never told her love, 
 P.ut let concealment, like a worm in th.- bud, 
 Fred on her damask cheek. She pined in Uiought, 
 And with a green and yellou melancholy, 
 Shu sat. like patience ou a monument, 
 Smiling at grief*." 
 
 277. Embetiislmig comparisons, — those with which wt- 
 afe chierty concerned at present, as figures of speech — arc^ 
 introduced not so much with a view to inform and instruct, 
 as to adorn the subject of which we treat ; and they are 
 tliose, indeed, that most frequently occur. 
 
 lUus. Resemblance is the foundation of this figure. We must not, 
 however, take resemblance, in too strict a sense, for actual similitude 
 and likeness of appearuncc. Two objects may sometimes be very hap- 
 yily compared to one another, though they resemble each other, strict- 
 ly speaking, in nothing ; only because they agree in the effects whicli 
 thev produce upon the mind ;' because they raise a train of similar, or, 
 what may be called, concordant ideas ; so that the remembrance of 
 the one, when recalled, serves to strengthen the impression made by 
 the other. (lUus. 5. .Irt. 273.) 
 
 Example 1. To describe the nature of soft and melancholy mrsie, 
 Ossian says, *' The music of Carryl was, like the memory of joys that 
 are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul," 
 
 jinalysis. This is happy and delicate. Yet surely, no kind of music 
 has any resemblance to a feeling of the mind, such as tb€ memory <^^ 
 
 * Twirlfth Night, A<it 11. Sc 4. 
 
Comparison » lod 
 
 past joys. Had it been compared to the voice of the nightingale, or 
 the murmur of the stream, as it would have been by some ordinary 
 poet, the likeness would have been more strict ; but, by founding his 
 simile upon the effect which Carry I's music produced, Ossian, while 
 he conveys a very tender image, gives us, at the same time, a much 
 stronger impression of the nature and strain of that music : '• Like 
 the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul." 
 Example 2. Homer introduces a most charming night-scene, while 
 l)is main object is only to illustrate the slate of the Grecian camp after 
 u battle. 
 
 " The troops, exciting, sat in order rountl, 
 And beaming fires illamin'd all the g^round. 
 As when the moon, resplendent orb of night, 
 O'er heaven's pure azure shed her sacrcd liglit , 
 "When not a cloud oVreasts the solemn scene, 
 And not a breath disturbs the deep serene ; 
 Around her tlirune the vivid plaiiets roll. 
 And stars unaumber'd gild the glowing pole; 
 O'er the dark trees a yellow veixiure spread, 
 And tipt with silver ev'ry mountains head. 
 Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, 
 A flood of glory bursts from all the skies. 
 The conscious swains, rejoicing in the night. 
 Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light. 
 So many flames before proud Ilion blaze, 
 And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays I" 
 
 Jlnalysis, This simile needs no comment to display its beauties. Not 
 ©nly is the primary object, the Grecian fires, elucidated by the splendid 
 resemblance of the glowing stars, but the imagination is farther capti 
 vated by a delightful collection of connected objects, which together 
 concur to form an extensive and interesting picture. 
 
 Scholium. Such comparisons not only supply the most striking illus- 
 trations of the objects they a»x brought to illuminate, but embellish 
 also the general prospect by occasional openings into beautiful adja- 
 cent fields. They operate like episodes in a long work, which relax and 
 regale the mind, without distracting it from its capital pursuit. They 
 produce an effect similar to what happens to the traveller, from sur- 
 veying in his course unexpected and surprising- scenes of nature or of 
 art. He turns aside a moment to contemplate them, and then resumes 
 his journey with redoubled ardour and delight. 
 
 278. The third sort of coinparisons are emplojed to ele- 
 vate or depress the prindpcd object. 
 
 Example \. The following example must aggrandise our conceptionti 
 Aif the valour of Hector, howsoever great we can suppose it to havfi 
 bseu in reality. 
 
 " Girt in surrounding flames, he seems to fall 
 Like Are from Jove, and bursts upon them all ; 
 Bursts as a wave, that from the clouds impends. 
 And sweird with temptst o'er the ship descends. 
 White are the decks with foam ; the winds aloud 
 Howl oVr the masts, and ring through every shroud* 
 Pale, trembling, tired, the sailors freeze with fears, 
 And instant death in every wave appeal's. 
 So pale the Greeks the eyes of Hector meet, 
 The chief so thundei's, and so shakes the fleet." 
 
 Example 2. I'he following quotation will explain the manner in 
 which comparisons operate to depress the primary object, Milton bias 
 
 14* 
 
I5i6 Comparison, 
 
 employed a most expressive and successful figure to vilify the couragc- 
 and resistance of the fallen ang-els : 
 
 " Gabnel as a lienl 
 
 Of gt)at8, or tim'rous flock, toother thronged, 
 Drove th*^m btfore him, thunder-struck, punued 
 "With ferroi*s a)id wiilj furies, to the buuuds 
 And crystal wall of heaven." 
 
 Example 3. Shakespeare could not have devised a more cflTectual 
 - if;thod of exposinc: the character of a fop, than by contrasting him 
 with his niosi valourous hero, Hotspur. The passage supplies a per- 
 linent illustration of the nature of contrasts, and of thi:ir powers to 
 diminish or depress. Hotspur thus addresses the king about the pris- 
 oners whom he had taken,, aud whom he bad been accused of refusing* 
 to surrender : 
 
 " -' My liege, I did deny no prisoners, • 
 
 But I runeinlicr, when the tight m as done, 
 When I was dry A^ilh rage and extreme toil, 
 BreaibKsi and faint, haning upon my sword, 
 Came there a certain loitl, neat, trimly dress'd, 
 Fresh as a hiitN-.-room : ni.d hi« citiii m>w rea])'d, 
 Shav'd ' ;\ est home. 
 
 He v.; i; 
 
 And -IN ; - / i«'b he hi Id 
 
 A pounc(.t-bci.\, which i\i i 
 He gave his nose. And «.i: 
 --\n(! as tht sohli.iv 1k,p T 
 ; 'mjiiuuiierJj, 
 
 corse 
 
 \\ {\\\ Mi.'Uij holiday and l;.(i_\ u iins 
 He question 'd me.' Among'tbe rest demamled 
 My prisoners in your iiriji-sty's Ix-haif: 
 l.'all s ' l)eing gaird 
 
 Jo b< ..y. 
 
 Out ot , uci\ 
 
 Answ< Mj()\> not what ; 
 
 He s!i nt ; for it mad^ me mait, 
 
 'I'o .s( ' ir. and snu li so sweet, 
 
 And t - • •! -woman, 
 
 Of pi.. \. 
 
 Afid t tiling on earth 
 
 ^^"- ' ;_, .;....4... Lit uiH; ; 
 
 V. as a piiy, so it was, 
 iilainous salt-petre should be digg'd 
 v.. _i 111. bowels of the barinless earth, 
 \Vluch many a good tall fellow had destroyed 
 So cowardly ; and but for these vile guns, 
 He would himself have iieeu a soldier." 
 
 Oiis. Having explained the nature of comparisons, and illustratptl 
 'he purposes which they are calculated to serve, to guard the student 
 .tgainst errors, we sliall enumerate the capital mistakes committed in 
 the use of these figures ; and then conclude the chapter by some re- 
 marks on the propriety %i the occasions in which th«y may be intro- 
 duced. 
 
 279. Compxtrisons should not he instituted between objects, 
 the resemblance of which is either obscure, faint, or remote. 
 
 Example. The following simile was intended by Milton to illustrate 
 the anxiety with which Satan traversed the creation, in order to find 
 out subjects for destruction and revenge. 
 
 '•As when a vulture on Imaus bred, 
 "VVhojc suowy ridge the roving Tartar boucdi, 
 
Comparison, 3 57 
 
 Dislodging from a re^on scarce of prey, 
 
 'X o gorge the flesh of Jambs or yearling kids. 
 
 On hills where flocks are fed, flies to tlie springs 
 
 Of Ganges or Hydaspcs Indian streams, 
 
 But in his way lights on the barren plains 
 
 Of Sericana, wheie Chineses drive 
 
 With sails and wind their cany -waggons light; 
 
 So on this windy sea of land, the fiend 
 
 Walk'd up and down alone, bent on his i>rey.^ 
 
 Analysis. The objects contained in this comparison are so little 
 known, even to those who claim the character of being learned, and 
 Ihey are so totally unkno^yn to tiie greater part of readers, that it has 
 the appearance of a riddle, or a pompous parade of erudition, rather 
 than of a figure to illustrate something less conspicuous and striking 
 than itself. Many of the similes, also, which were frequent arid beau- 
 tiful among the Greeks and Romans, as those drawn from the lion, the 
 tiger, the wolf, the sphinx, the griffin, animals with the characters and 
 properties of which they were supposed to be well acquainted, arc re- 
 tained by modern poets with much impropriety. To the learned they 
 ure destitute of novelty, an essential ingredient in every good compari- 
 son ; to the unlearned, they are involved in much greater obscurity 
 fhan the subjects they are brought to illuminate. 
 
 280. Comparisons should 7wt be deduced from objects 
 which rise much above, or fall 'much below the primary ob- 
 ject ; nor should thej suggest feelings discordant with the 
 
 tone of the emotion which the object prompts. If a com- 
 parison soar too high, it throws ridicule, instead of embel- 
 lishment, on the object it is intended to adorn ; tlie latter 
 suftering from contrast, instead of being elevated by simili- 
 tude. 
 
 Example 1. The subsequent comparison is reprehensible in this 
 view. Homer paints the noise of opening the great lock of the repos- 
 itories of Ulysses, by a comparison that borders on burlesque ; 
 
 " Loud as a bull makes hill and valley ring. 
 So roai-'d the lock when it released the spring.'^ 
 
 281. If, again, a comparison be destitute of dignity, some 
 portion of its insignificance is transferred to the principal 
 object. 
 
 Example. Milton describes the surprise of the fallen angels by a 
 similitude which savours of levity. 
 
 " They hear'd. and were abashed^ and up they sprung 
 Ul>on the wing ; as when men wont to m atch 
 On duty, slecpir.g found by whom they dread. 
 Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake." 
 
 Ajialysis. Milton did not intend to ridicule the appearance of fallen 
 angels by this comparison ; if he had so intended, he would have de- 
 served applause, for every reader feels how successful he would have 
 been. 
 
 Example 2. Homer paints the equality of the contest between the 
 Greeks and Trojans, in a well-fought field; by the equilibrium of a 
 balance destined to weigh wool. 
 
15S Coniparisou* 
 
 ''^ As when two scales are charp^'d with doubtfui ioac?, 
 From side to side the trembling balance nods, 
 (While some laborious matron, just and poor. 
 With nice exactness weighs her woolly store), 
 Till pois^.'d aloft, the resting beam sns|H^iMis 
 £ach equal weight ; nor this nor that descends. 
 So stood the war ; till Hector's matchless might. 
 With fates prevailing, turn'd fhe scale of flight 
 Fierce as a whirlwind up the wall he flies. 
 And fires his host with loud repeated cries.** 
 
 Scholium. Similes like these not only degiade the principal object, 
 but they hurt it in another point of view, they disgust the imaginatir-u 
 by a reversal of that order of ideas which is the most pleasant. h\ 
 transitions from one object to another, the most agreeable succcssioa 
 is, to rise from the less to the greater. The mind inclines to extend its 
 views, and to enlarge the sphere of its gratifications. In reversing this 
 order of succession, it holds an opposite course. It is obliged to re- 
 trench its views, and to circumscribe its enjoyments ; an operation 
 manifestly unpleasant. 
 
 aS'^. But comparisons are still more censurable^ when 
 they ^vom^i feelings discordant with the aim of the princi- 
 pal oSject, or when they suggest sentiments painful or disa- 
 greeable, 
 
 Exampte. Addison, speaking of the later Greeks' poems, in the 
 shape of eggs, wings, and altars, introduces the following similitude : 
 '' '1 he poetry was to contract or dilate itself according to the mould 
 in which it was cast ; in a word, the verses were to be cramped or 
 extended to the dimensions of the frame prepared for them, and to 
 undergo the fale of those persons whom the tyrant Procrustes used io 
 lodge in his iron bed; if they were too short, he stretched them on the 
 rack ; and if they were too long^, he chopped off a part of their body, 
 till they fitted the couch he had prepared for them." 
 
 Jinalysis. The compari.son is alunnlantly perthtcnt, but the tone of 
 it is totally discordant w ith that of the subject which it is brought to 
 illustrate. The pleasantry inspired by the foolish efforts of the minor 
 poets is extinguisht^d by the horror excited at the conduct of Pro- 
 crustes. 
 
 283. It is to be observetl, in the last place, that compar- 
 isons should 7ieier be founded on resemblances ivhich are 
 too obvious andfamiliary nor on those which are imaginary, 
 
 lUus. \. To compare love to afire, violent passion to a tempest, 
 virtue to the sun, or distress to a flower dropping its head, are all sim- 
 iles, either so obvious or so trite, as long ago to have lost all power o/ 
 pleasing 
 
 Illus. 2. In comparisons founded on imaginary resemblances, the lit- 
 eral sense of the comparison bears an analogy to the metaphorical 
 sense of the primary object. Thus, cliastity is cold metaphorically, 
 and an icicle is cold naturally ; and for this whimsical reason, a chaste 
 woman is compared to an icicle. The best poets have either iwdidged 
 in such exceptionable similes, or have inadvertently adopted thenv 
 
 Examples. Thus Shakespeare, in Coriolanus : 
 
 " TJ»e noble sister of PopHcoIa, 
 
 The moon of Rent* ; chaste as an icicle 
 TTiat's curlttl by the frost from purest snow, 
 And hang^s oq Diana's temple." 
 
&omparisaH. 159 
 
 Example 2. tiovd Bolingbroke supposes a similitude between the 
 discovery of truth, from ooRiparing the accounts of different historians, 
 and the production of fire by the collision of flint and steel : " Where 
 their sincerity as to fact is doubtful, we strike out truth by a confronta' 
 tion of different accounts, as we strike out sparks of fire by the collis- 
 ion of flint and steel." 
 
 Analysis. To illustrate the futility of such comparisons, let us change 
 fhe expression o** the last example, and the shadow of resemblance 
 will vanish : ** Where historians differ in their accounts of the same 
 transaction, whether prompted by insincerity, or any other reprehen- 
 sible disposition, we discover the truth by comparing- them, and ma- 
 king them correct one another, and we generate fire by the collision of 
 flint and steel." As the act of comparing different authors can scarce- 
 ly be called collision, so different authors have no analogy with flint 
 «nd steel. The word striJcCj used figuratively in the first member of 
 the sentence, and literally in the second member, seems to have 
 prompted the author to employ this imaginary comparison. 
 
 £84. Extended similes may be introduced with advan- 
 tage on various occasions. They are consistent with ab» 
 •stract disquisition, and with perfect coolness and composure 
 of mind. Such gentle appeals to the imagination, even in 
 philosophical composition, always relieve and amuse the 
 reader, and often add illustration to pleasure. 
 
 285. There remains another species of composition, in 
 'U'hich long and circumstantial comparisons frequently ap- 
 pear ; it is that placid and feeble composition which can 
 scarcely be said to instruct, for it contains little research or 
 argument, but which has for its capital aim, to amuse the 
 imagination by a number of pretty or familiar resemblances. 
 
 Obs. Though similes are often the work of the boldest and most fer-^ 
 vid fancy, yet none of the ornaments of language are perhaps mere 
 allied to deficiency of genius and taste, both in the writer and the 
 teader. 
 
 286. Long comparisons can scarcely be admitted with 
 propriety into other productions than those we have enume- 
 rated. History, in the hands of all writers of genius, has 
 rejected them with disdain, though it admits short simili- 
 tudes restricted to the mere province of illustration. 
 
 Example. Hume thus characterises Shakespeare : " There may re- 
 main a suspicion that we over-rate the greatness of his geni'is, in the 
 same manner as bodies appear more gigantic, by their being dispro^ 
 portioned or mis-shapen." 
 
 Obs. If any one chooses to learn from experience the repugnance 
 between the spirit of history and circumstantial comparisons, be may 
 have recourse to Strada, author of the History of the Belgic War. 
 He will there find, that the too frequent use of this ornament diminishes 
 the dignity and the credibility of the performance, and communica. , 
 Cp a rdatioB of truth much of the levity and frivolity of a romance. 
 
160 (Comparison* 
 
 287. Oratory, for a similar reason, repudiates lengthened 
 similes, though it admits short ones, and abounds with other 
 figures ; particularly interrogation, metaphor, and personi- 
 fication. 
 
 Illus. Ill the more animated orations of Cicero, there is scarcely to 
 be found a single comparison of any extent. Demosthenes, still more 
 ardent, more rarely indulgei in the use of them. The minds of these 
 illustrious orators were too deeply engaged with their matter, to be at- 
 tentive to beauties calculated only to please. They aimed at the in- 
 struction aud conviction of their hearers, not to captivate their imagin- 
 ations. They would have been ashamed to appear to have spent their 
 time in ransacking nature for resemblances, however pertinent and 
 brilliant, if not absolutely necessary. The ardour and penetration of 
 their minds would not have been, perhaps, very favourable to their 
 success, had they condescended to hunt for such puerile and declama- 
 tory ornaments. 
 
 288. But of all improper occasions on which circumstan- 
 tial similes can make their appearance, the most improper, 
 are the tender scenes of tragedy ; and yet such inconsisten- 
 ces present themselves in some dramatic productions of no 
 small reputation. 
 
 Illu3. Addison was endued with much sensibility in respect of sub- 
 Urac sentiments and the i)cculiarities of manners ; but he seems to have 
 been incapable of conceiving any high degree of passion. His char- 
 aclers, accordingly, in the tragedy of Cato, display many of those 
 splendid and dignified conceptions which he had imbibed in perusing 
 tlie orator)» and poets of ancient Rome, but all savour of the Stoicism 
 of Cato ; and when they attempt to utter the language of passion, they 
 deviate into declamation, or adupt the fri-id expression of tame spec- 
 tators. The scene between Lucia and Fortius, in the third act, wiU 
 afford ample proof of the justness of these remarks. 
 
 Example i. When Fortius, from preceding behaviour and acknowl- 
 edgment on the part of Lucia, had every reason to believe he was fa- 
 Aoured with her lore, and was anticipating the satisfaction of such a 
 connection, in the most unexpected change of disposition, she informs 
 him that she had made a vow never to marry him. Never was a man 
 thrown more suddenly from the pinnacle of felicity, into the abyss of 
 despair. How does he express himself in such a critical situation .'' 
 He introduces a com])arison in the languag*? of a spectator, descrip- 
 tive of the attitude in which his agitation had placed him, without ul- 
 fering a single sentiment of passion : 
 
 " Fixt in astonish meut, I gaze upon thee, 
 I^iko ont' just blasted by a stroke from heaven, 
 >Vhc pants foi bieath, and «u.fp'n«. yt-t aiire 
 In ilrcadful looks,— a monuniimi ( ■ Vot." 
 
 Example 2. Lucia replies in the same language of description 
 
 " OL ! 'top tbose sounu*. 
 Those killing sounds , y do«t ^hou fi-own upon Jttff J 
 My bi jod Tvv.s cok', my !.• '„* mv -'ti to heave, 
 And life itjtif goes out at thy di>pieajnre.** 
 
6omparison. 161 
 
 Atialyns. One would imagine, that the author of the Rehearsal had 
 in view such unnatural composition. But we cannot help being sur- 
 prised that Addison did not profit by his remarks. " Now here she 
 must make a simile," says Mr. Bays. " Where's the necessity of 
 that.'"' replies Mr. Smith. " Because she's surprised ; that's a gene- 
 ral rule ; you must ever make a simile when you are Surprised ; 'tis 
 the new way of writing." 
 
 289. But althougfi such deliberate and highly-finished 
 comparisons are inconsistent with every violent exertion of 
 passion, y^i short similes , adapted entirely to the purpose 
 of illustration, may appear in the mo^i passionate scenes, 
 
 Illus. There is sc.ircely a tragedy in any language, in which passion 
 assumes so high a tone, and is so well supported, as in the Moor of 
 Venice ; and yet, in one of the most passionate scenes of that passion- 
 ate tragedy, no reader can hesitate about the propriety of introducing 
 two similes, besides several bold metaphors. 
 
 Example. Othello thus deliberates, in the deepest agitation, about 
 the murder of his wife, on account of her supposed infidelity ; 
 
 " It is the cause, my soul. 
 Let rae not name it to you ye 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 alabasler ; 
 Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men. 
 Put out the light, ajid then piit out thy light. 
 If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, 
 I can ag:ain thy flaming light restore, 
 Should I i-epent ; but once put out thy light. 
 Thou cunningest pattern of excelling nature^ 
 I know not where is the Promethean heat 
 That can thy light relumine. 
 When I have phick'd thy rose, 
 I cannot give it vital growth again, 
 It needs must wither.'' 
 
 Analysis. The comparisons of the skin of Desdemona to snow iir 
 point of whiteness, and to alabaster in point of smoothness, are admi- 
 rably adapted to improve our ideas of her beauty, and consequently 
 to heightea the tide of the Moor's distress, in being obliged to put to 
 death, from principles of honour, a woman he had so much reason to 
 admire. The meditation on the resemblance between her life and the 
 light of a taper is striking and melancholy ; and the comparison be- 
 tween her death and the plucking of a rose is perfectly concordant 
 with the same sentiments. 
 
 Carol. Short similes, which aid the impression by rendering our 
 conceptions more vivid and significant, are therefore consistent with 
 tl\e highest swell of passion. 
 
i 6£ Fersonification , 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PERSONIFICATION. 
 
 C>90. PERSONIFICATION, or Prosopopeia, is a figure 
 which consists in ascribing life and action to inanimate ob- 
 jects. It has its origin in the influence that imagination 
 and passion liave upon our perceptions and opinions. 
 
 Ilhij. If our perceptions and opinions were dictated and regulated 
 entirely by the understanding, nothing could appear more whimsical 
 and absurd than to confound so far one of the capital distinctions in 
 nature, as to interchange the properties of animated and inanimated 
 substances, and to ascribe sentiment and action, not only to vegeta- 
 bles, but to earth, fire, water, and every other existence most remote 
 from activity and sensibility. Strange, however, as this practice may 
 appear to reason, such is the ascendancy of imagination and passion, 
 that nothing is more frequent and meritorious with seveial sorts of 
 writers, particularly orators and poets. 
 
 Example 1. Antony, in Shakespeare, thujt addresses the dead body 
 vf Caesar : 
 
 •' O pardon roe thou bleeding pie«e of earth !'• 
 
 2. '' The sword of Gaul," says Ossian, " trcmbtts at his side, and 
 longs to glitter in his hand." 
 
 3. •* Ye tvoods and wilds ! whoie melancholy g^loom 
 Accords with my soul'i tadneit. aiid draw* forth 
 The voice of sorrow from my bursting heart." Lady Rtn^dolpfu 
 
 391. Not only the inanimate parts of nature are personi- 
 fied, but the qualities and members of the body ; even ah- 
 stract ideas have sometimes conferred upon them the same 
 important prerogative. 
 
 JUhs. Thus, hope and /ear, /ore and katredj the head, the hand«, the 
 fttly prosperity and adversity^ are often addressed as independent living 
 agents. 
 
 Scholium. Human nature is a very compounded constitution, of 
 which the several parts strongly influence one another. All mankind 
 have remarked the singular power which affection and passion assume 
 over our actions and our opinions. When we wish to believe any re^ 
 lation, or to perform any action, we seldom want reasons to persuade 
 us that our opinions are well founded, and that our conduct is right. 
 Affection, or interest, guide our notions and behaviour in the affairs of 
 life ; imagination and passion affect the sentiments that we entertain 
 in matters of taste. 
 
 292. These faculties suggest a division of pei'sonificatioa 
 into two kinds ; the first called descriptive, which is ad- 
 dressed chiefly to the imagination : the second, passionate^ 
 thfe object of which is to afford gratification to the passions 
 
Fetsonificaiion. 1S5 
 
 lilns. 1. The conception that we entertain of the former of thes^ 
 kinds, amounts not td conviction that Hie and intelligence are really 
 •communicated to the personified object ; but the conception we form 
 ■of the latter seems to amount to conviction, at least for a short time. 
 
 2. When Thomson pevsonifies the seasons, when Milton calls Shake- 
 speare /a7?c^'5 child, when the ocean is said to smile and the torrent to 
 roar, the most delicate imagination is not so far misled as to conclude 
 that tlicre is any thing real in these suppositions. They are figures 
 conjured up entirely to gratify the imagination; and for that reason, 
 examples of this sort are denominated descriptive personifications ; be- 
 cause they are concordant with the tone of vivacity suggested by de- 
 scription. (Illus. Art. 35.) 
 
 3. But, in two of the instances rdready quoted, where the persons 
 wlio personify are agitated by real passion, when Antony addresses 
 the dead body of Caesar ; and Lady Randolph converses with i\\e woods 
 and wilds; the mind is affected in a much more sensible manner, and 
 conceives for a naoment that the deception is comj^Icte. As soon as 
 passion subsides, and reflection recovers ascendancy, the delusion 
 tlisappears, and the fiction is detected. But as this momentary grati- 
 fication is highly agreeable, and even the reflection upon it is attended 
 with pleasure, it is proi)er it should be distinguished from the former 
 species of personification ; and for this reason it has been called pas- 
 sionate. 
 
 293. A^ descriptive personijication is derived from the 
 disposition of the imagination to indulge in such views of 
 I4ature and art, as tend most to gratify itself; so life and 
 motion are capital sources of pleasure, in the contemplation 
 t>f the objects with which we are surrounded. 
 
 lilus. 1. We feel a superior satisfaction in surveying the life of anl- 
 anals, than that of vegetables ; and we receive more gratification in 
 contemplating the life of vegetables, than those parts of nature which 
 are commonly deemed inanimate. We receive even higher pleasure 
 in beholding those animals of the same species, which are endowed 
 with greater degrees of life and motion. 
 
 2. In a word, in all views of nature at rest, as in landscapes ; and ia 
 all views of nature, in motion; the more numerous the objects are 
 either possessed of life, though not in motion, or possessd of life, and 
 actually in motion, the greater, in proportion, is the power of the view 
 to charm the imagination, and to r^ptivate the spectator. It is this 
 tendency of the imagination, to delight itself, not only with the con 
 teraplation of life, but of the best species of life, that of intelligence, 
 ^which induces it to extend this property as widely as possible, because, 
 by doing so, it extends the sphere of its own enjoyment. It is not 
 content, accordingly, with the contemplation of all the real life and 
 action which fall under its observation ; it makes vigorous exertions 
 to communicate these valuable qualities to many other objects to 
 which Providence has denied them; to vegetabteSj to ideas, and even 
 to matter totally inert. 
 
 294. The influence of this figure is so general and pow- 
 erful as to constitute the very essence of compositions ad- 
 dressed to the imagination. 
 
 15 
 
i G4 Personification, 
 
 Illus. Stiii> tije Seasons of Thomson, nnd the Gcorgics of Virgif, <y< 
 this sprig:htly oruament, and you \\\\\ reduce the two most beautifut 
 didactic poems the world ever saw, to drr, uninteresting^, uninstructive 
 details of natural history. You cannot open either of these perfor- 
 mances witiiout meetinor examples > I present the first that occm-red 
 to me. 
 
 Example 1. Thus the author of the Seasons : 
 
 •* Now rivid stars shiiH- out, in hri^^htenini? file»> 
 And boundlt'js itither ^lows, till tht fair inodn 
 Shows her broad visat?*^ in tht- cruusond Ka»t ;. 
 Now stooping sceni* to kiss the passint^ cloud, 
 Now o'er the pure cerulean rides sublime. 
 Kature, great parent! whose directing hand 
 Rolls rouml the seasons of the changing ye-4r, 
 How might) , how majistic. are thy work's ! 
 With wiiat a pKasani dnad they swell the soul, 
 niat sees astoniih'd, and astonish*d sings I 
 You too, ye Minds, that now begin to blow 
 With l)oi»t*rous »wtep, 1 raise my voice to yoo. 
 Where are your siores, you viewless bt hij;''^, «iy ' 
 Where your aerial magazines n's<avfd 
 Against the day of tempest perilous ?'* 
 
 2. The elei;ant Virgiiian muse thus sln^s : 
 
 * Interea Dr}adnm sylvas. saUus^jMr tefinamiir 
 Intactos. tua ^T 'i' ' .- V in'' '■--. :i. 
 
 Te sine nil ah segnes 
 
 Kunipe moras , . itheron 
 
 Taygctique canes, uouianxqut Ki>i(iaii\u-> equorum, 
 £t vox assensu neraorom ingemioata rcn>ugit/' 
 
 Anahisis. Every reader will perceive how much these jiassag'es vtc 
 enlivened by the personifications with which they nboiuKl. Every' 
 thing appears to live and act, and the imagination is charmed with a 
 succession of vivid pictures. 
 
 Obs. Essays of all kinds admit (he use of this figure, and even histo- 
 ry on some occasions. It is frequently found in oratory, particularly 
 that of the ancients ; and it is son^tinies discovered in moral discours- 
 es among the moderns. 
 
 5295. Passionate personification regults from the moment- 
 ary conviction which the violence of passion is rjualified to 
 inspire, — that the inanimate ohjects which engage its atten- 
 tion are emloived with scnnbility antl intelligence, 
 
 JHus. The passions assume the most decisive influence over our 
 opinions and actions, and, on some occasions, totally discompose and 
 perplex the mind. They puli down reason ar>d conscience from theiv 
 tlu'one, and usurp such an absolute dominion in the human frame, that 
 the waves of the sea in a storm are not more completely subject to 
 the turbulence of the winds. 
 
 2. If the passions are capable of producing these prodigious effects, 
 we will not hesitate to allow theia that sway which is requisite to ac- 
 count for passionate personification. But in whatever manner wc 
 .^hall account for the phenomenon, we cannot doubt of its reality; 
 and that all passions, when excited to extremity, possess this power, is 
 evident from the hii^h relish which we entertain for such examples, 
 wlien properly exhibited. 
 
 Examyle 1. Fear prompts this figure; Milton, speaking of the f.c^- 
 in/; of the forbidden fruit, thus sings : 
 
Fersonification, 1 65 
 
 *' Jh^iii th trembled from her entrails, as ag;ain 
 In pangs, and nature gave a second gvoan : 
 Sky lower'd, and, muttering thunder, some sad drops 
 Wept, at completing of the mortal sin." 
 
 Example 2. Grief in solitude naturally assumes a similar phiascolo- 
 v. Thus Alineria, in <he Mourning Bride : 
 
 <' O Earth ' behold I kneel upon thy bosoiii. 
 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. Re thou a mother. 
 And step between me and the curse of liim 
 Who nas, who was, but is no more a father." 
 
 3. ,Sit a chment utters itself in a similar manner. Shakespeare make,> 
 ilichard If. vent his feeling's to the following- purpose, after landing in 
 England from his expedition in Ireland : 
 
 " I weep for joy 
 ^o stand upon ray kingdom once again ; ' 
 Dear earth ; I do salute thee with niy hand. 
 Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs j 
 As a long parted mother with her child 
 Plays fojxlly, with her tears, and smil. s in meeting j 
 So weeping, smiling, greet I thee my earth." 
 
 4. Haired takes hold of the same species of expression, Satan thus 
 -. idre«ses the sun, in Paradise Lost : 
 
 " O thou ! that, with surpassing glory cl"o^vn'rf, 
 Look'st from thy sole dominion, like the god 
 Of this new woiid, at whose sight all the stars 
 Hide their diminished heads ; to thee I call, 
 But Mith no friendly voice, and add thy name, 
 
 Sun ! to teil thee how I hate thy beams, 
 That bring to ray remembraiice from what state 
 
 1 fell. How glorious once above thy sphere !" 
 
 5. Jey also delights in personification. Adam's exultation at his 
 .rst interview with Eve is beautifully painted by Milton. All nature 
 
 alive to share their happiness. 
 
 »* - - - - To the nuptial bower 
 
 I led her, blushing like the morn ; all heaven, 
 And happy constellations, on that hour 
 Shed their selectest influeiice ; the earth 
 Gave signs of gratulation, and each hill ; 
 Jojous the birth, fresh gales, and gentle airs 
 Whisper 'd it to the wtMjds, and from their wings 
 Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub 
 J)isporti>ig ! Till rhe amorous bird of night, 
 Sung spousal, and bid haste the evening star 
 On his hill-top, to light the bridal lamp." 
 
 <T.. The impatience of Adam to know his origin, is supposed to 
 fn-ompt the personification of all the objects he beheld, in order to 
 procure information. 
 
 "- - - Thou Sun, said I, 'air light i 
 And thou enlightened Earth, so fi-esh and gay ! 
 Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, v oods and plains, 
 And ye that Ii\e, aiid move, fair cnature* tell, 
 Tell, if you saw, how came I thus, how here i^ 
 
 Scholium. These examples evince, that a gruil part of the most ex- 
 pressiie language of passion is persoiiijication, and that it is peculiarly 
 aifapted to the more interesting scenes of life, where the passions are 
 
i6G Personijicailoit, 
 
 xvound up to the highest pitch. We should indeed naturahv expect 
 this consequence from the violent disorder of the mind in which it cai* 
 5e relished ; for, without ascending to that derangement wluch infers 
 lunacy and distraction, reason can scarcely offer a greater sacrifice to 
 passion, than to admit the order of nature to he reversed, and inani- 
 >nate exi>tcnce to be endowed with life and intclligencr. 
 
 Example 7. All tlie best tragedUsy all the most passionate scenes in 
 .o most finished epic poeiiu, bear ample teftimony to its truth. Wc 
 f^hall exhibit only another quotation from the most perfect play of the 
 most comph'te painter of the language of passion. King Lear, in the 
 height of his distress personifies, and rails agaui*>t the ehrments, whicli 
 ^e considers as combined with his daughters to procure his dcstructioiJ 
 
 ■■• I tax not yoTi, ye eletncnts, with iinUimTiuss, 
 I never g;ave you kiniitloms, call'd you children ; 
 You owe me no siibseription ; thtii 1ft fall 
 Your hoirible dispUasurt. Hen I stand your bi-avc -, 
 A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man .' 
 But yet I call vou s» rvile ministers. 
 That have, with two (xriiicious daughters, ioincU 
 Your high en;;riKiertd battles 'gainst a hea^ 
 So old and white as this " 
 
 296. In treating of gemler, (t^rt. 56. Jlfus. 3. and 4.) we 
 ook notice, that the Knglish language possessed a singular 
 
 advantage in marking personifications, by employing the 
 -pronouns significant of &ex. In all other cases, inanimate 
 >jects must be denominated by the neuter pronoun ; and, 
 .11 other languages, no distinction of gender can take place 
 in personifications, because the genders of their nouns arc 
 invariable. But a writer in English is left at liberty to 
 adopt either the rnale i^v female sex ; and it is of some con- 
 sequence to attend to this circumstance, because improprie- 
 ties are not uncommon. 
 
 Example. Milton has chosen unsuitable genders for the following 
 isonifications. Of Satan, he sings, 
 
 " His form 
 
 Had not lost all titr original brigbtness. 
 Nor appear 'd less than archangel ruin'U." 
 
 /bialysis. If the personifjcation of the form of Satan was fcdraissiblc. 
 *;l)ould certainly have been masculine. A female form, conjoined 
 ) the persotj of a male, seems to approach the ridiculous. (See Jinal. 
 ilx. Jilt. 297.) 
 
 297. A capital error in personification, is to deck the 
 figure with fimiastlc and trifiing circumstances. A practice 
 of this sort dissolves the potent charm which enchants and 
 deceives the reader, and either leaves him dissatisfied, or 
 excites, perhaps, his risibility. 
 
 Example. Shakespeare will furnish an example of this sort. 
 
 *• She shall be dijmifVd "wiih this high honour, 
 To War iU) lad) 's train ; lest the base earth 
 Should from her vesture chftnce to sieal a kisi, 
 
Personification, 1 67 
 
 Ami of so great a favour growing proud, 
 Disdain to root the summer smelling flower, 
 And make rough winter everlastingly." 
 
 Analysis. Here the earth, which we usually call " our mother," C^*^'- 
 i, Art. 295.) is degraded by being termed '• base," (Ex. 3. Art. 295.) 
 On the supposition that the earth is s. person, it was competent to the 
 poet to give her lips '• to steal a kiss." But then to fancy the earth 
 i^rowing proud" of this ^' favour," and disdaining '* to root the sum- 
 mer smelling flower," is a ridicule of all figurative communication ; 
 aince, as flowers would embellish her bosom, she prefers, to the pomp 
 of dress, the pleasure of a kiss. But we may surmise that the poet 
 personifies the earth as a male, since it is rather a masculine preroga- 
 tive '• to steal a kiss." Now, '' so great a favour," in place of cooling 
 , his heart, was calculated to inflame it ; therefore to imagine that the 
 effect would be " to make rough winter everlastingly," marks some- 
 thing more than a defective taste in the poet. 
 
 298. Another error, frequent in descviptly a personifica- 
 tions} consists in introducing them when the subject of dis- 
 cussion is destitute ofdighiti/, and the reader is not prepar- 
 ed to relish them. 
 
 Example. One can scarcely peruse the following quotations with 
 composure. Thomson thus personiiies and connects the bodily app^j- 
 tiles, and their gratifications. 
 
 •' 1 hen sated Hunger bids his brotlier Thirst 
 Produce the mighty bowl ; 
 Nor wanting is the brown October, drawn 
 Mature and perfect, from his dark retreat 
 Of thirty years ; and now his honest front 
 ilames in the light i-efulgent " 
 
 [' Example 2. Shakespeare, sometimes great in errors as in beautie^i 
 
 iVr oaidoes Thomson. Speaking of Antony and Cleopatra: 
 
 " The city cast 
 
 Its people out uj^on her ; and Antony, 
 Inthron'd in the market-place, did sit alone, 
 Whistling to the air, whidi but for vacancy 
 Ilad gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, 
 And made a gap in nature." 
 
 :299. So also, addressing the several parts of one's body, 
 as if thej were animated, is not congruous to the dignity of 
 passion. 
 
 Example. For this reason, we must condemn the following passage^ 
 in Pope's very beautiful poem of EU>ise^ to Abelord : 
 
 *' Dear fatal name .' rest ever unrevealed, 
 Nor pass these lips iJi holy silence sealed. 
 Hide it. my heart, within that close disguise, 
 Where, niix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies : 
 Oh I V, rite it not, my hand !— his name appear* 
 Already written :— blot it out my tears i" 
 
 Analysis. H'-'re are several different objects and parts of the body 
 personified ; and each of them in addressed or spoken to; let us con- 
 sider with what propriety. The first is, the name of Abelard : " Deair 
 
 ♦ Hier country tftUs her Eloise, Pope Elma ; I write the orthography of eitl^r. 
 15* 
 
i 68 .'ilip.gory, 
 
 fatal name ! rest ever," 6ic. To this, no reasonable objection can he 
 made. For, as the name of a person often stands for the person him- 
 self, and sug^gests the same ideas, it can bear this personification with 
 sufficient dignity. Next, Elaise speaks to lierself ; and personifies her 
 Iieart for this purpose : " Hide it, my heart, within that close," &.C. 
 \s the heart is a dis^nified part of the Iniman frame, and is often put 
 >i- thp mind or affections, this also may pass without blame. But, 
 when from her heart she passes to her hand, and tells her hand not to 
 write his name, this is forced and unnatural ; a personified hand is 
 low, and not in the style of true pnssion ; and the fig^ure becomes stiU 
 worse, when, in the last place, site exhorts her tears to blot out what 
 her hand had written. '* Oh ! write it not," kc. There is, in these 
 two lines, an air of epig:rammatic conceit, which native passion never 
 sug-»-ests ; and which is alto£;^ethcr unsuitable to the tenderness which 
 breatlies through the rest of that excellent poem. 
 
 300. In prose compositions, this figure requires to be 
 used with still greater moderation and delicacy. The same 
 liberty is not allowed to the imagination there, as in poetry. 
 The same assistances cannot be obtained for raising passion 
 to its proper hei,u;ht by the force of numbers, and the glow 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ALLEGORY. 
 
 oOl. ALLEGORY is a species of writing, in which one 
 liing is expressed, and another thing is understood. The 
 nalogy is intended to be so obvious, that the reader cannot 
 miss the application, but he is left to draw the proper con- 
 clusion for his own use. 
 
 Fllus. It is for this reason employed chiefly when a writer desires to 
 ommunicate some important inteliig^ence or advice, but is not permil- 
 od to deliver it in plain terms. It is also used for ornament, or to 
 mivey instruction so as to interest the in)agination, and flatter the un- 
 lerstanding, by giving the reader the appearance of instructing himself. 
 Example 1. A finer and more correct allegory is not to be found than 
 
 the following, in which a vineyard is made to represent God's people, 
 
 .he Jews. " Thou hast brought a vine out of f^gypt ; thou hast cast 
 L:t the hcathm, and planted it. Thou preparedst room before it, and 
 iiilst cause it to take deep root, and it filled the Innd. The hills were 
 overed with the shadow of it, and the boughs thereof were like the 
 oodly cedars. She sent out her boughs unto the sea, and her branch- 
 's unto the river. Why hasi thou then broken down her hedges, so 
 :hat all they which pass by the way do pluck her ? The boar out of 
 
 uhe wood doth waste it, and the wild beast of the field doth devour it. 
 
 Kcturn, we beseech thee, God of hosts j look down from heaven- 
 
Allegory. 169 
 
 and behold and visit t!)isvine; and the vineyard which thy right hand 
 hath phinted, and the branch that thou madest so strong for thyseltV* 
 2. Prior's Henry and Emroa contains anotlier beautitul example, in 
 which human life is the primary object, and a voyage also the ullegori-- 
 cal one. Any reader of discernment will easily trace the application. 
 Rrnma addresses Henry : 
 
 " Did I but purpose to embark with thee 
 On the smooth suriVice of a summer's st-a, 
 While gentle zephyrs play in prosp'rous gale«, 
 And fortune's favour tills the swelling sails, 
 But would forsake the ship, and make the shore. 
 When the winds whistle, and the tempests roar ? 
 No, Henry, no." 
 
 Scholium. From these examples it will appear, that allegory pm* 
 takes of the nature of metaphor and comparison in respect of resem- 
 blance^ though it is not altogether a resemblance of the same kind. In 
 allegory no supposition is made, even for a momerit, that the primary 
 object is converted into the resembling one ; as is done in tlie case of 
 metaphor. Nor is the similitude between the primary and resembling 
 object pointed out, as is performed when comparisons are employed. 
 We are left to discover the application, and to make the proper infer- 
 ence. We are satisfied with discerning the general purpose of the al- 
 legory, without inquiring with minuteness into the interpretation of 
 <:very })articular circumstance, because circumstances are sometimes 
 added, to adorn or complete the picture, without being intended to in- 
 fer any application. Allegory differs from metaphor and simile in an- 
 other point. Almojjt all the subjects of allegory are personified ; and 
 these consist sometimes of things inanimate, sometimes of abstract 
 ideas. Few metaphors or similes admit personification. 
 
 502. Aliegories may be divided into three lands ; first, 
 those calculated for ornament : secondly, those designed for 
 instruction : and thirdly, those intended both to adorn and 
 instruct. 
 
 Example. Akenside employs a beautiful allegory, of the ornamtntat 
 kind, to communicate a very familiar sentiment, that industry is ne- 
 cessary to acquire reputation in every line of life, though some men 
 are more susceptible of culture tlian others. 
 
 " . In vain, 
 
 Without fair Culture^s kind parental aid, 
 Without enlivening suns and genial showers, 
 Ai>d shelter from the blast,— n\ vain we hope 
 I'he tender plant should raise its blooming head, 
 Or yield the harvest promised in its spring. 
 Nor yet will every soil with equal stores 
 Ilepay the tiller's labour, or attend 
 His will obsequious, whether to produce 
 The olive or the laurel.^' 
 
 Jinalysis. The chief merit of this example appears to be situated en- 
 tirely in the expression. 
 
 SOS. The principal purpose of the second sort of allcgo 
 ries; is to cornmunicaie instruction, 
 
 * PsaJra Ixxx. 8— i6. 
 
Example, v^uuicu-lian informs us, (lib. 8.; that tin: ioiLj^yaii^ lopiv ^.^ 
 the Lacedaemonians, to Philip, kin^ of Macedon, demandinj!^ compU 
 ance with some unreasonable requisition, and threatening^ hostilities in 
 case of reluctance, was famous over all Greece. To the requisition of 
 Philip, the Lacedaemonians returned this laconic answer, that '* Diony 
 sius was at Corinth." 
 
 Analysis. Philip knew well the history of Dionysius, and they left 
 bim to make the application. You will understand the import of this 
 answer, when you arc informed, that Dionysius was king of Syracuse, 
 in Sicily ; that he was banished from his country and crown, on ac- 
 count of his tyranny ; and that, to procure subsistence, he had been 
 oblig-ed to submit to the humiliating^ employmeut of teaching a school 
 in Corinth. 
 
 304. Besides these specimens of allegory, the ancients 
 frequently employ a moral species^ in order to recommend 
 the principles and practice of virtue to the imagination, a^ 
 well as to the understanding. The moderns sometimes fol- 
 low them in this. 
 
 lUus. The address and knowledge of human tialure displayed by 
 Tnis contrivance merit much commendation. The authors of ancient 
 Greece, in all popular writinijfs, both political and moral, discovet 
 much attachment to alle°^orical composition. The Socratic moral*, ol 
 which Plato and Xonophon have left us so many specimen??, abound 
 with fififurative allusions to the arts and occupations of life ; and the 
 !^roater part of the arf^uments thoy contain are deduced frou) analogy. 
 All these specim«*ns have much merit ; but the writif»ors which we have 
 particularly in view, are, the beautiful AUti[ory of Prodicas, preserved 
 by Xcnophon, in his Mttnorabilia iSocraiiSy and the pleasant picture ei> 
 Unman life exhibited in the Tabulnture of Cedes. 
 
 305. The Amegoky of Prodicus proceeds upon the 
 -supposition that Hercules, before he undertook the career of 
 life, retired to deliberate, whether he should take the route 
 which conducted him to the maTisious of Pleasure, or the 
 path wliich led to the temple of Virtue. 
 
 J/his. In this critical situation, he is accosted by the goddesses of 
 tliese temples, under the allegorical names of Minerva and Venus, who 
 by turns persuatle him to accompany them to their respective abodes, 
 i he persons, the dress, the manners of the god«less'?s, arc picturesque 
 and characteristic. Pleasure addresses him first, and hastens her 
 pace to anticipate her rival. She invites him to partake all those en- 
 loyments, which the most luxurious imagination can figure ; and her 
 rival listens with patience till she enumerates the gratifications she 
 had to bestow. Virtue then accosts him ui a modest, but decisive tone 
 5ho acquaints him, that no true fame, happiness, or gratification, is to 
 be procured without great designs and good deeds ; and that merit 
 alcne cm secure the tcsr^ect and rewards both of gods and men. 
 Having explained her views, it was nece.si^a.ry she should expatiate on 
 the vanity and futility of the enjoyments promised by Pleasure j and 
 the author has admirablv preserved the delicacy of the piece, and the 
 modesty of Virtue, by inaklng Pleasure interrupt the speech of her 
 rival, and begin the aitacli. Pleasure attempts to infer, fpom the con- 
 
Mlegory. IH 
 
 fession of Virtue herself, the labour and fatig^ue which awaited her vo- 
 taries. Virtue retorts with severity and justice. She triumphs over 
 her rival, and prompts Hercules to undertake those great and merito- 
 rious achievements, which have rendered him the object of the admi- 
 ration of all ages. 
 
 306. The Tabulature of Cebes is constructed on a 
 larger scale, and leads to allusions much more particular. 
 It proceeds from the supposition, that some uncommon 
 painting, alluding to the rarity of the knowledge and prac- 
 tice of virtue, of which few people understood the meaning-, 
 had been suspended in the temple of Saturn. 
 
 Illus. 1. The painting consisted of three conopartraents ; one very 
 large, comprehending the other two. The first compartment repre- 
 sented human life, into which all men enter ; the other two compart- 
 ments denoted the division of men into good and bad, the larger con- 
 taining the bad, and the lesser.thc good. Error and ignorance appear 
 at the gate of the first compartment, and of their cup all men drink 
 some portion. Picjudices, predilections, and pleasures, next succeed 
 in the garb of harlots, to seduce ; and by them also all mankind 
 are, more or less, misled. If they are followed too far, they con- 
 duct their votaries into the larger compartment, and consign them ta 
 Extravagance, Luxury, Avarice, or Flattery, who soon commit them 
 to Sorrow, Kemorse, Funisiiment, and Despair. After wandering for 
 some time in the regions of Folly, their ruin is completed, unless, by 
 accident, they encounter the great physician Repentance, who, if they 
 are willing to submit to his directions, undertakes their cure, and finaU 
 ly conducts them to tlie small compartment, and the happy abodes of 
 Wisdom. 
 
 2. But though some men reach the regions of Wisdom by this route^ 
 it is not the most patent patli ; that path, much less frequented than it 
 ought to be, stretches up an cmiaence so stoep tliat many travellers 
 approach and survey it, but never attempt to surmount it. On this, 
 Temperance and Moderation have occupied statfons, and are ready to 
 succour every candidate who needs their assistance. Fortitude and 
 Activity soon join them, after ascending the eminence, and lead them 
 to the abodes of Wisdom and Happines. Here they meet with Pros- 
 perity, I'ranquility, Satisfaction, and Health, in the first place ; ajui 
 afterwards, with a great group of the most pleasant and happy cpm- 
 ]n\nions. Integrity, Contentment, Frieiulship, Knowledge, Wealth, 
 Dignity, Fame. They are, in a word, rendered superior to the greater 
 part of those misfortunes, which so much disturb the happiness of man- 
 lund ', and experience as much of the enjoyments of gods as is coin- 
 petent to mortal men. 
 
 Corol. Such views of human life are extremely captivating, particu- 
 larly to young minds. They array Virtue in the most charming colours. 
 They engage the imagination, and even the passions, en her side, and 
 ?'orm tiie most powerful bulwark against the encroachment of Iniquity 
 ind Folly. 
 
 307". The third sort of allegories are calculated botli for 
 ornamerU and instruction ; and of this species may be ac- 
 :9unted the allegorical personifications which are often in- 
 iroduced into epic poetry, and sometimes into tragedy. 
 
1 72 Alhgonj, 
 
 Example I. No picture can more forcibly impress the imagiiiatlon, 
 no reasoniiig can so effectually excit • Um aversion of the heart, as the 
 allegories of Sin and Death, in Pa*^ -dl ^ Lost, The poet paints, first 
 Sin, and then Death, guarding the ga^es of Hell at the fall of Ad^n^ 
 and Eve. 
 
 *' Before the gates there sat, 
 On either «ide. a formidable s!iape 
 Th J one »»t-:ut<i uoniaii to ihi' waUt, aiid fair, 
 Bur ♦-ndcd tb»j| in many a scaly fokJ 
 Volurnjitoiis and vast a ser^»ci.c arm'd 
 With moitni sti.Ji^ , aboi.-t a* r middle round 
 A cr> of ;i' <i.<iu>^. bark d 
 
 "With win fu!! loud, and mng 
 
 Ahiri<wi; ; •, • list, world creep. 
 
 If ;• . I r» » iK'is . into her womb, 
 
 A) w ; yet thtre stiJI burk and hoviTd. 
 
 V,\ • 
 
 *' The other shape. 
 If ib«p*' it w>»rht W ealled that shape had none, 
 
 Or ' ' * - . - V p^ij, J j^„f jh^ow seemed, 
 
 Vu\ : ulaf k it sto'od as night, 
 
 Fi. ! r ibU as »fell, 
 
 Anu "»lr^^.^ ii v i . iuniti I'iirt ; wbat sptined bit beati 
 The likeness ol a kwigly crown iiad on.*' 
 
 AnnJysis. These alleg^orical frg-urfs are strongly ni.n kv.t. .mu ii.;- m - 
 .embJance of their characters to the eff^'^t^; produced in life is to obvi- 
 ous to need any comnienl Thepit !ure which Virgil exhibits of Fame, 
 in the fourth yEneid, possesses similar merit, and is deduced from the 
 same principles * 
 
 Examplt 2. The subsequent picture of Slander, resembles that of 
 Fame in Virgil, and is drawn witli great vio^our of imagination, and 
 mix h allegorical merit. It is for.nd in Shakespeare's ryinliplmp 
 
 * No, \it Slander, 
 Whose edgi is sharper tliaii tK» vword whose tongue 
 Outv-noins all the wof: t ath 
 
 Ridt s oii the postiit^; v-- , 
 
 All corH.Ts of th« woihi d states, 
 
 Maids, muu-oM i nay, the vc^^crcts uf the ^ravc." 
 
 308. All the great poets have indulged in this species of 
 figure. Homcv prraonifies prayers, and converts them into 
 mniabh heingSy under the fei*;ne<l appellation of " Jove^s 
 Dat.'ghferSy^^ who are concerned for the happiness of man- 
 kind ; and recommend attachment to the worship and ser- 
 vile of the gods, as lh;# best means of recovering or preserv- 
 ing that happiness. 
 
 • But Virgil's Fame is a mixed allegorical composition, nmru vmji stand the test of 
 eriticjim in poetry; l>'caMsc,in writiiig, the allegory can easily U.'disiiiiguisht'd from 
 the historic.il pan. • No )h rson mistakes Vir^ls Fame for a real being. JVor is the 
 Tabulature of Ceb€s considered otherwiie iliau a suppo.^ed picture. But in thu 
 History of >.Tary do Med»cii, painted in some pictures, which (in icl7) I ha\-e seen, 
 dfcoruting the gaik ry of the I^otnre, a perpetual uaible of real and allegorical per- 
 sonngis. that produce a discordance of parts, and an obscurity upon the whole, is 
 befoiv the spectator's eyes. Real personaofs, Nenids and Tritons, fiction and reality, 
 are niixtd ii' the sanie group , a njonstrouscwiiporition, only outdone by Lcuis XIV's 
 eiiorniou-* cnariot. intended to rtprestnt that of the sun, surrounded with men and 
 women, representing tlte four ages of the world, the eele«tial signs, the scuspns, thy 
 hours, ^c* 
 
Memory. 175 
 
 Scholia 1. Allegory is not very common, either for the purposes of 
 ornament or instruction. An extraordinary share both of ingenuity 
 and imagination is requ ?;ite to ensure success ; and the rising genius, 
 of generous heart, and promising parts, who feels an inclination for al- 
 legorical writing, must guard against quaint ornaments, and the ex 
 tending of allusions to too great minuteness. Let him always study 
 brevity, and remember, that resemblances which have cost him much 
 time to devise, are likely to cost the reader -as much time to perceive ; 
 the consequences of which need no illustration. 
 
 2. As allegories are in a great measure the work of imagination, 
 they cannot be admitted into any species of writing much calculated to 
 interest the passions. All the arguments against long metaphors, ap- 
 ply with double force against the allegories of the secoiid and third kinds ^ 
 which seldom can be formed with sufficient brevity for their admission. 
 But the^r*^ species of allegories, which elevate and adorn a common 
 seutiment, are of general use ; and in employing them, care should 
 be taken that the phraseology be all figurative, that the attributes of 
 the primary and the secondary subject be not confounded and inter- 
 changed. 
 
 Example 1. The most correct writers are sometimes faulty it this 
 particular ; even Horace and Boileau are not unexceptionable. Hor- 
 ace, in the following example, applies two epithets to the subject of 
 the allegory, which can be applicable only to the primary subject. 
 
 " Ferus et Cupido, 
 Semper «rdantes acuens sagittas, 
 Cote cruenta." 
 
 Analysis. ^* Ardentes" is intelligible when applied to love, the prima- 
 ry subject, which, in a figurative sense, is often said to burn ; but it 
 has no meaning when applied to an arrow, which is never supposed to 
 be hot. " Cruenta," also, may be significant figuratively of the distress 
 of unsuccessful love, but nobody ever heard of a bloody whetstone. 
 No admirer of Horace would defend him. by alledging the epithet was 
 proper, because the stone made sharp the arrow which drew the blood, 
 Horace himself would have been ashamed of such a defence. 
 
 Example 2. Boileau has introduced a strange mixture of figurative 
 and literal signification in the subsequent example : 
 
 " Pmir nx)i sur cette mer, quici has nous courons 
 Je songe a mc pouvoiv u'esquif «t d'avirons 
 A regler mes desirs, a prevenir Torag^', 
 Kt sauver s'il se pent, ma raison du niiufrage." 
 
 Analysis. These lines exhibit hum^n life under the notion of a vov- 
 age at sea ; but instead of adhering to this view of the subject, the au- 
 thor changes the allegorical to th<» literal meaning, and, with abundance 
 of inconsistency, speaks of preparing a boat and oars, to regulate his 
 passions, and to save his reason from shipwreck. Reason can he ship- 
 wrecked figuratively only. The hypothesis, therefore, of a man's un- 
 derstanding taken up at sea, and sa/ed from drowning in a storm, is 
 somewhat more than ridiculous ; it is not a little absurd. (SttJinaly- 
 w>. Ea>. 3. Jlrt. 269.) 
 
"174 •.Apostrophe 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 APOSTROPHE. 
 
 309. APOSTROPHE is a turning off from the regular 
 course of the subject to address some person or thing. 
 Apostrophe, derived from the same source with personifica- 
 tion, is the joint work of imagination and passion, bi^t de- 
 mands not generally so bold an exertion of those faculties 
 as personification, (Art* 290.) 
 
 Illus. 1. It is commonly satisfied with addressing living objects that 
 
 ve ahsenl. or dead objects with which we were familiar while they 
 
 ere in life. Some of its boldest eftbrts exhaust the essence of per- 
 
 onification, and call up and address the inamimate objects of nature. 
 
 2 A well-chosen comparison, an extended metaphor, or allej^orv, 
 
 will please both the imag^ination and the passions, when gently agitated. 
 
 ■^ut iet the passions rise to violence, and the gratifications of the ima- 
 
 iuation will yield them no satisfaction. 
 
 3. On this account, ArosTRoriii:s addressed to the imagination, are 
 frequently extended to considerable lenglht and are net by being so the 
 les? agreeable : while those addressed lo the pas'tions, must all be shorty 
 o correspond to the desultory and distracted condition of the mind. 
 
 310. Our arrangement, then, of examples, will naturally 
 fall into two classes ; first, those more lengthened and pic- 
 furcsque apostrophes, in which the pleasure of the hnagina- 
 lion has chiefly been consulted : and, secondly, those ex- 
 pressive of the violence of passion, 
 
 .311. The bold and vigorous genius of Ossian delights in 
 this figure, and affords many beautiful examples {)( the first 
 species, 
 
 E.ca:7}ple. His address to the Moon, is one of the most pleasant pic- 
 tures of this sort, which, perhaps, any language can supply. It excites 
 melancholy emotion, and charms the fancy, but it aims not to rouse 
 strong passion. 
 
 ♦* Daughter of heaven, fair art thou ! the silence of thy face is 
 pleasant : thou comest forth in loveliness ; the stars attend thy blue 
 steps in the east. The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O iMoon I and 
 brighten their dark-brown sides. Who is like thee in heaven, daugh- 
 ter of the night ? The stars are ashamed in thy presence, and turn 
 asivic their sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire' irrtm thy course, 
 when the darkness of thy countenance grows ? Hast thou thy hall 
 like Ossian ? Dwollest thou in the shadow of grief ? Have thy sisters 
 fallen from heaven r' and are they who rejoiced with thee at night no 
 xx\ovo ? — Yes, they have fallen, fair light! and often dost thou retire to 
 mo'jrn. — But thou thyself shalt one night fail, and leave thy blue path 
 i.i heaven. The stars will then lift their heads ; they who rn thy pres- 
 • nce were astonished will rejoice." 
 
Apostrophe, 17 S 
 
 Analysis. The solution of the change of the moon, founded on the 
 opinion that she retired from her course to lament the loss of her sis- 
 ters, adds sympathy to the picture, and captivates the heart from the 
 resemblance between her melancholy situation and that of the poet. 
 In this example, the objects are striking, and tender, and elevated, 
 and excite correspondent emotions in the mind, but they cannot be 
 said to agitate it with passion. 
 
 3 1 2. The apostrophes of the second class are the offsprins; 
 of deep agitation; and the subsequent instances will illus- 
 trate the nature of their influence and operation. 
 
 Example. In the tragedy of Douglas, Lady Randolph thus accoonts 
 for the loss of her son : 
 
 '• That very nij»ht in which my son was bom, 
 My nurse, the only cojifidenl I had, 
 Set out v\ith him to nach her sister's house ; 
 But nurse nor infant have 1 ever seen, 
 Nor heard of Anna since that fatal hour. 
 My Hiurtler'd child ! had thy fond mother feared 
 The loss of thee, she bad loud fame defied, 
 Despised ber fatht r's rage, her fathers grief. 
 And wander'd with thee through the scorning world.*' 
 
 Jinalysis. The apostrophe of the mother to the child, as soou as it 
 was mentioned — the exaggerated supposition, that the unfortunate 
 nurse had murdered it, and made her escape to save herself — the reso- 
 lution of the mother to have run every risk, had she auspected any part 
 of the misfortune that happened— -are all the expressions of nature, and 
 of genuine passion. 
 
 313. A principal error in the use of apostrophe, is to decfz 
 th<* object addressed with affected ornaments. It is by these 
 ornanients that authors relinquish the expression of passion, 
 and substitute in its stead the language of fancj. 
 
 Example. What opinion will the reader of taste form of the follow- 
 ing quaint <and laboured address of Cleopatra to the serpent, with 
 which she was about to poison herself. It is taken from Dryden's 
 Mil for Love. 
 
 " Welcome, thou kind deceiver, 
 Thou best of thieves, who. with an easy key, 
 Dost open life, and. unperceivtd by us, 
 Ev'n steal us from ourselves, discbargine^ bo 
 Death's dreadful office, better than himself, 
 Touching our limbs lo gently into slumber, 
 That Death stands by. deceiv'd by his own imagi*. 
 And thjnHs himself but sleep,'* 
 
 Jnali/sis. Such conceits would scarcely bo endured in th«> most cool 
 descriptive poem. They cannot be supposed more improper than 
 where they are They resemble some of the obscure and forced al- 
 lusions of allegorical writers, which tlio reader has difficulty to under- 
 stand. 
 
 314. Another frequent error is, to extend this figure to 
 too great length. The language of violent passioT! is always 
 concise, and often abrupt, it passes suddenly froti^ oric ob- 
 ject to another. It often glances at a thought, starts from it, 
 
 16 
 
ITS Apostrophe. 
 
 and leaves it unfinished. The succession of ideas is irregix 
 lar, and connected bj distant and uncommon relations. 
 
 Corol. On all these accounts, nothing is more unnatural than long 
 speeches uttered by persons under the influence of strong passions. 
 Yet this error occurs in several tragic poets of no inferior reputation. 
 
 315. Apostrophe frequently appeared in the oratory of 
 antiqtii'y. Demosthenes abounds in a figure so bold, and so 
 suitable to the ardent tone of his own mind. 
 
 lUus. He often turns abruptly from the judp;es and his argument, 
 and addresses himself to his antag^onist, or the person accused. He 
 seldom, however, personifies an inanimate object. 
 
 316. Cicero also affords many examples of every species 
 of apostrophe. 
 
 tllus. 1. In hh Oration for Li^arius, he addresses Tubero, the prose- 
 cutor, with V "hemence, and paints in stron;^ colours the criminality of 
 his conduct, tlie partiality and animosity of his intentions. He per- 
 onifies and addresses the sword of Tubero, and puts him in mind of 
 )L'ing in arms against Caesar at Pharsalia, if Ligarius, whom he accu- 
 sed of treason, had borne arms against Casar in Africa/ 
 
 2. In his speech against Catiline in the Senate, one of the most ar- 
 dcni and eloquent of all his orations, he bursts forth abruptly like a 
 torrent, with an apostrophe to Catiline himself, who had the impudence 
 to enter the senate-house, while the subject of bis conspiracy was to be 
 debated. 
 
 3. Never did an oration commence in a higher tone ; and it needed 
 all the genius and fire of one of the greatest orators t9 support a cor- 
 respondent spirit in the sequel of the speech. Cicero, however, effect- 
 ed it. He was deeply interested in the suppression of a conspiracy, 
 which his office of consul, his honour as an orator, and the salety of 
 his country, demanded of him. He was in the prime of life, elated 
 with the highest fame of civil honours and oratorical ability ; all con- 
 curred to prompt this great efibrt of eloquence. 
 
 317. Apostrophe has seldom made its appearance iu 
 modern oratory, except with some French preachers, and 
 some enthusiasts of that character among ourselves. 
 
 Illiis. A French orator may address the cross of Christ, and implore 
 the patronage and intercession of St. Louis with success, on ciccount 
 of the peculiarity of the national faith of his countrymen ; but sucli 
 eloquence could expect no belter reception in this island than ridicule 
 or contempt. 
 
 3 1 8. The British Houses of Parliament are at present the 
 best theatres in the world for the display of eloquence ; but 
 manv causes concur to render its appearances there less 
 bold than it was among the ancients. 
 
 Jllus. The abstract political or commercial nature of a great part of 
 
 * " Quid enim disuictus illc tuus in acie Pharsaiia gladius agebat ? ciijus latus iltc 
 muero petebat ? c^ui seu$u» erat armorum ? q'.ta tua mens ? oculi ? luanu* ? ardor 
 antrai ? C(uii cupiebas ? quid optabas ?"' 
 
Byperhoie. I'fY 
 
 ihe subjects on which it is employed ; the ambition of modem orators 
 to reduce legislation and c mmon law to the cool principles of equity 
 and justice ] their superior attention, on that account, to facts and ar- 
 guments, than to the phraseology and figures of pathetic eloquence , 
 and finally, the insensibility, perhaps, of British constitutions, and their 
 greater indiiference, on that account, to the pleasures of imagination 
 and passion ; all co-operate to repress ti»e more passionate exhibitions 
 of oratory. 
 
 319. At Athens and Rome, the existence of the state 
 sometimes depended on an oration ; the most successful 
 speaker was sure to gain every lionour and advantage the 
 public had to bestow. 
 
 lllus. He addressed large bodies of men, who had no established 
 principles to direct their judgments, little knowledge of the theory of 
 g-overnment, little impartiality, little discernment, little experience. 
 Even the senate of Rome in later times, hardly merited a better cha- 
 racter, and the assemblies of the people deserved a much worse onft. 
 They were factious, fickle, ignorant, partial, interested, and violent. 
 They had no guides, but their appetites and passions, and the orators, 
 to manage them, were obliged to impress these guides. 
 
 CoroL Apostrophe is, on the whole, a figure too passionate to gain 
 much admittance into any species of composition, except poetry and 
 oratory. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 HYPERBOLE. 
 
 320. HYPERBOLE is also the offspring of the In/luence 
 of imagination and passion over our opinions, and its pur- 
 pose is to exalt our conceptions of an object beyond its na- 
 tural bounds. 
 
 Jllus. 1. Our passions magnifiy the qualities of objects to which they 
 ure attached, and diminish the qualities of those they disapprove or 
 dislike. We exaggerate the good qualities of our friends, and under- 
 rate those of our enemies. Wc estimate higher a possession of our 
 own, than a similar property of our neighbour. It is not insincerity 
 that actuates us, and prompts us to impose on others, while we are con- 
 scious of the error. Our attachment to every thing connected with 
 ourselves, dictates the partial judgments we form of it ; the want of 
 that attachment with respect to the things of our neighbour, or the op- 
 posite of it, aversion, with respect to the things of our enemy, make 
 our cpinions of them, in like manner, deviate from truth. 
 
 2. The purpose of hyperbole, is to f;ratify these predilections and an- 
 
 Ipalhies, which it is impossible to eradicate from the minds of the most 
 ^lightened part of mankind, and which often extinguish, in the less 
 
 iiltivated part, every spark of justice and candour.* 
 
 * " Est autem in usu vulgn quoque, et inter ineruditos. et apud rusticos ridelicit' 
 4luod iiatura est omuibus, augendi res ytl ininueadi cupiditas msita, nee quistiuai© 
 ?ero contentus est." Quinctilian. 
 
ITS Hyperbole. 
 
 321. This figure is peculiarly graceful and pleasant, whea 
 ue do not accurately perceive the Ivnits of the subject we 
 exaggerate ; because we most easily believe a thing is very 
 great, when we do not know exactly how great it is. 
 
 Itlns. Hypprbole, in such a case, resembles the beautiful deception 
 i>f the rising- luoon, when her orb appears uncommonly larg^o. because 
 seen indistinctly through all the mists and vapours of the horizon ; or 
 Ihat other deception iu the phenomena of vision, by which a small ob- 
 ject, placed in a shade, passes for a great one situated at a distance. 
 
 322. All discourse and writing admit hyperbole. Though 
 the offspring of the most violent passion, it is also consistent 
 with com|)osure of mind. It sonjetimes aff«)rds high enjoy- 
 ment to the imagination, and indulges this faculty with the 
 most magnificent exhibitions of nature and art. It shines, 
 however, with most conspicuous lustre in the higher kinds 
 of poetry and oratory. It appears chiefly in tragetly during 
 tlie first transports of passion ; and in all these cases, it may 
 be employed to diminish, as well as to magnify. 
 
 Example 1. The fear of an enemy augments the conceptions of the 
 size and prowess of their leader. Thus th»' scout in Os.-?ian, seized 
 with this propensity, delineates a dreadful picture of the enemy's chief. 
 
 " I saw their chief, tall as a rock of ice ; big spear, the blasted fir ; 
 his ihifdd, the rising mouii ; he sat ou tlie shore, like a cloud of mist 
 on the hill." 
 
 Examjilc 2. Admiration of the happiness of successful love txngge- 
 rates conceptions of the lover. Shakespeare supposes the eh-vation of 
 (he lover's mind so great as to counteract the natural laws of g^ravitjr 
 respecting his body. 
 
 <• A lorer mny betuidt* the Gouarocr. 
 I'hut idlei III the wantuii lunmier air, 
 Aiul J vt not fall— so ligtit ii vaiMty.'* 
 
 Example 3. Horror of treason and opposition prompts the most 
 ri^jhtfu! notions of ihetrHitor aiul oppressor. Cicero, on this feeling, 
 xbibits a striking view of the enormities of Antony. ** Qua^ Charyb- 
 
 ■iis tarn >ora.\ ? Charybdim <lico ? Quce si fuit, fuit animnl uuuiu. 
 
 Oceanus, medius fidius, vix videtur tot res tarn dissipatas, tarn distan- 
 
 iibu^ in h»cis positas, tarn cifo abs«»rbere potuisse." 
 
 Example 4. The irksome ftehng suggested by the sight of lean caftle 
 
 tempts us to conclude, that the parts of their bodies have no bond oi 
 
 union but the skin. Virgil accordingly says of such animals, by way 
 
 of diminution, 
 
 " y'lx o««ibu9 harem." 
 
 Example '>. Envy also diminishes its object : and upon this prmciple 
 Shakespeare introduce* Cassius vilifying the behaviour of Cicsar iu * 
 'rver. 
 
 , '' He had g ft'vtr when he was in Spain ; 
 
 And v>h»u the fit was on him, I did mark 
 
 How li.' did sliakt' ' lis true this jjod did shake ; 
 
 His c'ovvaiti Tips did <ron» th; ir colour tly ; 
 
 And that same eye ^koie bvn4 Uid a^Yw tk« wed<J > 
 
Hyperbole, 1 79 
 
 Did lose its lustre: 1 did hear him ffroan, 
 Aye, and that tongue of his, that bade the Homans 
 Mhrk him. and write liis speeches in thtir books, 
 Alas ! it cry'd — Give me soaie drink, I'itiuius, 
 As a sick girl." 
 
 Example 6. The resentment o^ W?im\e\. against the ignominious mar- 
 riag-e of his mother, makes liini lessen the. time she had remained a 
 widow : 
 
 " That it should come to this 1 
 But two months dead 1 nay, not so much, not two, 
 
 Within a month, 
 
 A little month, or ere those shoes were old. 
 With whic!) she iollow'd my poor father's body^ 
 She luarritd." 
 
 Example 7. Fame exag^^erates the person, as well as the qualities, 
 of a hero. ** The Scythians, impressed with the fame of Alexander, 
 were astonished when they found him a little man." Karnes. 
 
 S£3. In the speeches of ancient generals to their armies, 
 many beautiful instances are to be found of both kinds of 
 this figure ; exaggerations, on the one hand, of the number, 
 force, courage, and hopes, of their own troops; and, on the 
 other, diminutions of those of their enemies, in order to in- 
 spire that confidence of success which in these times was 
 one of the surest means of victory. 
 
 Examjde. Longinus mentions a dhmnntive concerning a piece of 
 ground, the property of some poor man : and Quinctilian another ol 
 Varro on the same subject. The former represents the property a* 
 *' not larger than a LiiccdajQionian letter," which consisted sometimes 
 of iivo or three words. Varro fig^ures it to be as small as a sling-'Stone ; 
 nay, he supposes it may even fail through the hole in the bottom of the 
 ,sling.* Both these examples seem to belong to ridicule. 
 
 3-24. The errors frequent in the use of hyperbole, arise 
 either from overstraining or introducing it on unsuitable oc- 
 casions. 
 
 Example 1. Dryden, in his pofein on Ihe restoration of king Charles 
 the Second, compliments that mo%rch at the expense of the sun hiai- 
 self; 
 
 " That star that at your birth shone out so bright, 
 It stained the duilwr sun's meridian light." 
 
 Example 2. Prior supposes the fire of a lady's eyes to outshine the 
 flames of Rome, when lighted up by ISero ; and the music of her lute, 
 to surpass the fabulous miracles of Amphion, in building the city of 
 Thebes. She would have rebuilt Rome faster than it could have been 
 destroyed by the fires ol N -ro : 
 
 »' To burning Rome, when frantic Nero played, 
 Viewing thy face, no more h( had surveyed 
 "llie raging tiatues. but struck with strange surprise, 
 Confessed them less than those in Anna's eyes. 
 But bad he heard thy lute, he soon had found 
 
 * " Tundum Varro Yocat. qtjem possum mittere funda ni ta^^cn «x«artitj «tiS(.c^V2i 
 i^oHda patet*'* 
 
 16* 
 
180 ITxjperbole. 
 
 His rage eluded, and his crime atoned ; 
 
 Thins like A:T»phion*s hand, had waked the sXoue. 
 
 And fioHi destruetifiH calUtl the risinjj town. 
 
 Malice to music h..d been iorc'd to yield, 
 
 Kor could he bum su fast ai 'huu cuuldit build." 
 
 Example 3. Shaiiespearo, in ma jniJyiii«T the warlike character of 
 his herors, sometimes exaggerates beyond ail boiuid<» of probahility. 
 The description of tiie river Severn hastening to the reeds, to hide his 
 head from the sight of combatants so furious as Mortimer and Glen> 
 dower, can scarcely be read with gravity. 
 
 " In tingle oppusition, hand to hantl, 
 
 He did contuund the best part of an hour. 
 
 In chaii^u^ hardimeiit with jrreat Glendower 
 
 Thn'e tiiuei they breatltM. and three tirne-j did lliey drink; 
 
 Upon a^retineni. ofsuift Severn"'* Hood ; 
 
 "Who. then alViij^hted with th4-ir blo<Kl) looks, 
 
 Han fearfully aiuoni^ the treUibhu^ reed<. 
 
 And hid hi« cri<ipM head in tbf itoilow Imiik, 
 
 iiluod-staincU with these valiant couibatants.*' 
 
 Example 4. Guarini, who perhaps excels all poets in studied extrav- 
 agance, makes a shepherd thus ad«hess his mistress : ••' If all the sticks 
 in Ihft world were njade into pens, the heavens into paper, and the sea 
 into ink, they would not furnt»b luateriuls *jfficient to describe tlie 
 least part of your perfections." 
 
 Example />. Again, the same poet says, '^ If J iiad as many tongues, 
 and as many words, as tlivMe are stars in the heavens, an<l grains of 
 sand on the s;hore, my tunijues would be tired, and my words woulil 
 l>e exhausted, before 1 coidd do justice to your immense merit.*" 
 
 Example 6. An English poet converted the circnni.t.nices of the 
 "ormer of these extravagant compliments into a satire no less cx»nr!jer- 
 Ued : 
 
 *» Could we with ink the ocean fill, 
 
 Wen" earth of purchtiu nt niuUc ; 
 Wt re every siuf^R- stick u quill, 
 
 Each man a icrib* by tnide ; 
 To write the tricks of half the « x, 
 
 ■N^'oiild drinl. ihut oc« an drj. 
 UallRMts, U'ware, look «liar|>, take c:ire ; 
 
 Hie blind eat many u Hy.'" 
 
 323. Hyperboles should never be introduced till tUc mind 
 wfthe reatltM' is prejmred fo rtliali them. The introduction 
 «f such bolt! figures abniptly, puts the reader on his ^niard, 
 and excites his reflection, which coimnonly dissipates the 
 ilelusion, and defeats the purpose of the writer. 
 
 Example. No passion ever spoke the languaore which grief is made 
 to a>sume io the following unnatural exaggeration. The figure and 
 t!ie tone of sentiment are totally discordant. King Uicliard 11. deeply 
 distressed on account of the calamities of t!ie nation, tiius addresses hifi 
 t.ousiu Aumerlo, vtho was under much afU'ction from the same ;ause : 
 " W'hy weepest thou, my tender-hearted cousin ? 
 Well make foul weatlur with despised tears ; 
 
 • *♦ Si tante linj^^iK^ Imvesse, et tante Toce, 
 
 Quant* ochil il cielo. e quante arene il mare. 
 
 Pefderian tutte il suono, e la favella. 
 
 Nt'J dir a ^ien Ic voitrc Iwdi imoi^nse." Paster Tidfi. Ad V. Scene %. 
 
Climax, or Amplificatioru ISl 
 
 ©ur sighs, and they shall lodge the corn, 
 And make u dearth in this revolting land.** 
 
 326. Hyperboles are improper, when tliej maybe turn- 
 ed against the argument of the author who uses them. 
 
 lihis. Isocratcs, it is said, had employed many years in composing a 
 panegyric on the Athenians, to assert their pretensions to precedency 
 in the management of the affairs of Greece. It was delivered at the 
 Olympic games, attended by citizens from all the states of that country ; 
 and in the beginning of it he introduced the subsequent exaggerated 
 eompliment to eloquence. 
 
 Example. " Eloquence can reverse in appearance the nature of 
 things. It can impart to illustrious deeds the air of lowliness and in- 
 significance, and exhibit inconsiderable, and even trifling actions, with 
 the dignity of magnificence and heroism. It can bestow on antiquity 
 tlie garb of novelty, and attire novelty with the respect and vencratioe 
 due to antiquity/' 
 
 Aiialysu. Longinus pertinently remarks, the author did not observe, 
 that by this unseasonal)lc encomium he was dispersing among his hear- 
 ers an antidote against the operatioB of all the arguments he had to 
 advance in behalf of his countrymen, the Athenians. Would the other 
 Greek states be persuaded to do what they disliked, by an orator wh9 
 had told them that his eloquence could reverse in appearance the na- 
 ture of things? Might they not, in doing \', hat he advised, perform 
 the very opposite of what w as right ? 
 
 V 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 t'LlMAX, OR AMPLIFICATION. 
 
 3Sr. CLIMAX, OK AMPLiFCATxoN, is nearly related t^ 
 hyperbole, and diftei^s from it chiefly in degree. The pur- 
 pose of HYPERBOLE IS to exalt our conceptions heyond the 
 truth ; of climax, to elevate oar ideas of the truth itself, by 
 a series of circumstances, ascending one above another in 
 respect of importance, and all pointing toward the same ob- 
 ject. 
 
 flbis. This figure, when properly introduced and di-played, affords 
 a very sensible pleasure. It accords with our disposition to enlarge 
 our conceptions ol any object we contemplate ; it affords a gratifica- 
 tion similar to what we receive on ascending an eminence situated in 
 Mie centre of a rich and varied Uindr;cape, where every step we pro- 
 ocd presents a grander and more extensive prospect. 
 Example. Shakespeare exhibits specimens of almost Gyery poetical 
 beauty, and is not deficient in instances of climax. 
 
 " The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaceJ, 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 Yea. all that it inhabits, shall dissolve, 
 And likfe the baseless fabric yf a vision, 
 ll^ave not a wreck behind.' 
 
18i2 (:>^imax, or Amplification, 
 
 S28. The effect of this figure is peculiarly pleasant, when 
 the gradation of the sentiment is denoted by members, 
 which rise with an analogous swell in point of sound ; and 
 in this view the following examples from Cicero have much 
 merit. 
 
 ExOmpIe. Speaking of the power of language, in the first book Dc 
 Oratore : 
 
 '* Quae vis alia potuit, aut disperses homines unum in locmn congre- 
 gare ; aut a fera agrestique vila ad hunc humanum, cultiiin, civilem- 
 que deducerc ; aut jam constitutis ciwtatibus, leges, judicia, jura de- 
 scribere " 
 
 329. Examples are sometimes found of an anti-climax, 
 that is, of a gradation downward in the sentiment ; and if 
 fhe expression also present a correspondent descent in the 
 sound, the sentence will possess uncommon merit. 
 
 Example. Horace affords a pertinent and curious instance in tlie 
 follouing line : 
 
 »* P»rturiunt montet, nascetut ridictilus mus." 
 
 Analysis. The sinking in the sentiment, from the labour of the moun- 
 tain to the birt/i of the m^use, is admirably imitated by a siiuilar ex- 
 pression of the words. The rcr6, the most dignified word both in mean- 
 ing and sound, is placed first, contrary to the common arrangement. 
 The merit of the ivords, in point of sound ^ decreases to the last, which is 
 the most diminutive in the sentence, partly on account of its being a 
 monosyllable, and almost a repetition of the l.ist syllable of the prece- 
 ding w ord, but chiefly on account of the contrast between the insignifi- 
 iince of the irord. ami the dip:nily of the situation it occupies. 
 
 330. Climax appears with grace in the calmer parts of 
 oratory, in essays, and in all compositions which address 
 tlie imagination, but attempt not much to interest the pas- 
 sions. 
 
 Illus. It is en»ployed by the orator with advantage, in impressing the 
 hearers with strong conceptions of a cause ; in procuring favour to the 
 argument he espouses ) or in exciting disapprobation of that of his 
 lutagonlst. It is also convenient in communicating sentiments that 
 've striking or sublime, but it is too artificial to express any high de- 
 • rce of passion. '1 he time and reflection necessary to arrange the sen- 
 iments according to their importance; the minute attention requisite 
 o form the expression corresponding to the elevation of the thought^ 
 iie all operations of a coojposetl frame of mind, very different front 
 hat tumultuary state which is the attendant of violent passion. 
 
 331. It is, however, consistent with moderate agitation ; 
 and accordingly Longinus takes notice of the utility of it in 
 managing a low degree of passion with address. In this 
 case, however, the artificial arrangement of the words is re- 
 linquished. The swelling passion seizes the expressions 
 most proper to denote it, and the phraseology is altogether 
 artless. The best tragedies afford examples. 
 
Antithesis, 183 
 
 Exarjlple 1. Oronooko thus nttrrs his recollection of past happiness : 
 " Can you raise the dead ? 
 Pursue and overtake the wings of time? 
 And brinx about again the hours, the days, 
 I'he years that made me happy ?" 
 
 2. Almeria, in the Mourning^ Bride, expresses a similar sentiment ih 
 u similar manner : 
 
 " How hast thou charm'd 
 I'he wildnesi of the w ares and rocks to this ? 
 That thus relenting, tht > have given ther back 
 To earth, to light and life, tp love and me." 
 
 3. Another example in the same trag:edy exhibits a beautiful picture 
 of the gradual influence of passion, in prompting the mind to believe 
 what it wishes to be true. 
 
 '' I>et me not stir nor breathe. lest I dissolve 
 That tender lovely form of painted air, 
 So like Almeria. Ha ! it sinks, it tails. 
 I'll catch it 'itv it goes, and grasp her shade ; 
 'Tis life, 'tis wai-m, 'tis she, His she herself." 
 
 Jinalysis. Tiie apparition is first painted air, and has some resem- 
 blance to Ahnoria. It descends, and appears to be seizcabie. It gels 
 Jife, aaimal life, it is " she herself." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THB ANTITHESIS. 
 
 332. AS the design of a climax is to improve our concep- 
 tions of an object, by placing it at the head of a rising series ; 
 so the business of antithp:sis is to produce a simihir eftect, 
 by placing one object in opposition to anotlier of the same 
 kind. 
 
 Illus. 1. Comparison is one of the capital operations which the un- 
 derstanding- performs upon its ideas, and is a prelude to the arrange- 
 ment of them in different classes, or the deducting from them impor- 
 tant conclusions. When we communicate our thoughts, or hear, or 
 read the thoughts of others, we receive pleasure, if similar ideas are 
 exhibited in similar expression, and dissimilar ideas in contrasted ex- 
 pression ; and in all cases of the latter kind, aniilhtsis is the most na- 
 tural and proper phraseology. Antithesis possesses ail the advantages 
 of climax or auipUiication, with which different things of the same kind 
 impress the mind when placed in juxta-position ; and it adds to these 
 the pleasures derivable ^f'roni unexpected differiuice and surprise. Pe- 
 riods constructed to denote by their arrangement these oppositions of 
 the thought, are generally the most agreeable, as well as the most per- 
 spicuous. They possess the original light derived from the natural 
 melody and propriety of the words ; and they are further illuminate*! 
 by the additional rays reflected from their contrasted members. (Arli 
 212. Ex. and Anal.) 
 
; 84 Antithesia* 
 
 2. The same rule must be observed in the use of antithesis wkicu 
 was found necessary in good comparisons resulting from contrast. 
 They must take place between tbinj^s of the same species. Sub.^trtfi' 
 Hves, atfributes, qualities, faculties eft fie same kitidy must be set in oppo- 
 sitioji. To constitute an antithesis between a man and a lion, riicue 
 and hunger, a figure and a colour, would be to form a contrast where 
 there was no opposition. But to contrast one man with another^ virtues 
 with virtues, figures with figures, is pertinent and proper^ because in 
 these cases there may be striking opposition. 
 
 Example 1. Lord Bolingbroke furnishes the following beautiful ex- 
 ample : *' If Cato may be censured, severely indeed, but justly, for 
 abandoning the cause of liberty, which he would not, however, survive; 
 what shall be say of those, who embrace it faintly, pursue it irresolute- 
 ly, grow tired of it when they have much to hope, and give it up when 
 they have nothing to fear P'' 
 
 Analysis. The capital antithesis of this sentence is instituted between 
 the zeal of Ca.to for liberiij, and the indifference of some others of her 
 patrons. Cato abandoned liberty, but he would not live without her ; 
 and even with all this merit he deserved censure. How dift'erent the 
 conduct of other politicians, who pretend attachment to her, though 
 they are never resolute to support her ; who, instead of risking incon- 
 venience or detriment, relax their eftbrts when they may hope for suc- 
 cess, and relinquish them when they have no danger to apprehend 
 But, besides the leading antithesis, there are two subordinate ones in 
 the latter member : *' Grow tired of it when they have much to hope, 
 and give it up when they have nothing to fear." The chief fault of 
 this example is the neglect of opposition io the construction of the 
 members which denote the contrast. 
 
 Example 2. This species of merit is discernable in other quotations 
 from the same author. '' He can bribe, but he cannot seduce ; he caa 
 buy, but he cannot gain ; he can lie, but he cannot deceive." 
 
 Example 3. Speaking of the materials of his Letters on Patriotigm : 
 ** The anecdotes here related were true, and the reflections made on 
 them were just, many years ago. The former would net have been 
 felated, if he who related them had not known them to be true ; nor 
 the latter have been made, if he who made them had not known them 
 to be just ; and if they were true and just then, they must be true aud 
 just now, and always." 
 
 333. Antithesis makes the most brilliant appearance in 
 the delineation of characters, particularly in history. 
 
 Illus. The historian, in the performance of this delicate part of his 
 tasi, has a good opportunity of displaying his discernment and knowl- 
 edge of human nature, and of distinguishing those nice shades by 
 which virtues and vices run into one another. It is by such colours 
 only that a character can be strongly painted, and antithesis is neces- 
 sary to denote these distinctions. 
 
 Example. Pope's character of Atticus, supposed to be Addison. di«. 
 *ated by the keenest resentment against the improper part \>hich the 
 essayist was then represented to have acted relative to the translatioijk 
 f Homer, is an exaaipk that cannot fail to attract attention. 
 
 " Should such a man. too fond to rule a)one. 
 Wear, like a Turk, no brother near his throne j 
 Vie* him with scorntui \ '^t with jtaious eyea^ 
 And hate \'m juts that caus'd himself to rise^ 
 
Antithesis. 185 
 
 ^mn with faint praise. | assent with civil leer. 
 And without sneering teach the r^st to sneer, 
 WilHng to wound, |1 and—yet afraid to strike, 
 Just hint a fault, || and—liesitate dislike ; 
 Alike resolved to blame, or to comniRnd, 
 A tiii.orous foe, I| and— a suspicious friend ; 
 threading e'en fools, 1| by flatterers besieic^, 
 • And so obliging, \\ that he ne'er obliged. 
 
 Who would not smile, if such a man there be? 
 Who would not weep, if Aiticus were be T^* 
 
 334. The beauty oi genuine anfiihesis is so considerable, 
 that we cannot wonder that many unsuccessful attempts 
 have been made to acquire it. Lord Bolingbroke, though 
 frequently happy in the use of it, is sometimes unfortunate. 
 
 Example 1. His Treatise on Patriotism contains the subsequent ex- 
 ample : 
 
 ^' Eloquence that leads mankind by the ears, gives a nobler superi- 
 ority- than power, which every dunce may use ; or than fraud, which 
 every knave may employ, to lead men by the nose." 
 
 Jinalysis. The antithesis is instituted between leading men by the 
 €ars'\^\ch is the business of eloquence^ and leading them by the nose^ 
 which is said to be the offi.ce of power or fraud. That eloquence should 
 Joad by the ears, is natural and intelligible, but where is the connec- 
 tion between fraud or power and the nose ? To make out the figure, 
 the author is obliged to have recourse to a vulgar and metaphorical 
 sense of the words " leading by the nose," in which they denote lead- 
 ing in an ignominious manner, without conviction. Deny this re- 
 source, and the antithesis vanishes, or consists merely in words. 
 
 Example % Shakespeare, in the Merchant of Venice, furnishes an- 
 other instance merely verbal : " A light wife doth make a heavy hus- 
 band." 
 
 Analysis. There is in the thought not only no opposition, but on 
 the contrary, a very close connection, that of cause and effect ; be- 
 cause it is the folly of the wife which produces the dejection of the 
 husband. Put words significant of these ideas instead of /?g^/ and 
 heavy y and the shadow of a figure vanishes — " A foolish wife afflicts a 
 good husband." 
 
 335. A climax and antithesis are sometimes conjoined 
 and carried on through several sentences. 
 
 Example. Thus Pope, in the Essay on Man : 
 
 « Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, 
 
 MEN would be ANGELS, j| ANGELS would be |!:ods; 
 Aspiring to be GODS, |1 if ANGi .LS ftll. 
 Aspiring to be ANGELS, ^ MEN rebel." 
 
 Scholium. No figure has, perhaps, been so anxiously sought, and 
 I "with so little success, as antithesis. It is much suited to impose on an 
 j unskilful reader. An author is very apt to employ it, who abounds not 
 I with tolid and important matter. Many readers consider the surprize 
 I and brilliancy it presents as certain marks of genius ; and they are in- 
 \ clincd to believe that they have been amused and instructed, because 
 i they have been made to wonder. It is not easy in an enlightened age 
 to shine in writing, by solidity and novelty of matter, and by siroplici- 
 
 * Prologue to the Satire. ^ 
 
186 Interr&gatim* 
 
 ty and elegance of manner. Much reading:, much reflection, mncli 
 practice, and much irksome criticism, must be employed before this 
 important end can be attained. Authors who possess, perhaps, some 
 feniun, seem to wigh to lake a shorter path to fame ; and to compen- 
 sate for the slightnesi of their matter, X.\\cy endeavour to dazzle by the 
 smartness of their style ; and if we may judge from the history of an- 
 cient literature, an attachment to ornaments of this sort, forms the first 
 stage toward the corruption of taste. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 INTERROGATIOX, REPETITION, EXCLAMATION, IRONY, AND 
 VISION. 
 
 33G. INTERROGATION. The unfigureil and literal 
 use of interrojKjatioTi is to ask a question ; but when m#n are 
 stron«»;ly niove<l, whatever they would afiirin or deny, with 
 great earnestness, they naturally put in the form of a ques- 
 tion. The stronj^est confidence is thereby expressed of 
 their own sentiment, by appealing to their hearers for the 
 impossibility of the contrary. 
 
 Example. Thus Balaam expressed himself to Balak. " The Lord 
 is not a man that he should lie, neither the son of man that he should 
 repent, Haih he said it r* and shall he not do it ? Hath he spoken it ? 
 and shall he not make it good ?" 
 
 337. Interrogation gives life and spirit to discourse. 
 
 ExamjiU. We have an illustration of this position in the animated, 
 introductory speech of Cicero against Catdine. '' How long will you, 
 Catiline, abuse our patience ? Do you not perceive that your designs 
 are discovered ?" 
 
 Analysis. He might have said, " You abuse our patience « long 
 while. You must be senjjible that your designs are discovered." But 
 it is easy to perceive how much this latter mode of expression falls 
 short of the force and vehemence of the former. 
 
 338. Interrogation may be used to rous^ and awaken the 
 hearers. 
 
 Example. Demosthenes, addressing hims<'If to the Athenians, asks 
 them : " Tell me, will you still u'O about, and ask one another what 
 newt f What can be more astonishing news than this, that the man of 
 Macedon makes war upon the Athenians, and disposes of the afTairs of 
 Greece? Is Philip dead ? No: but he is sick. What signifies it to 
 Tou whsth'^r he bo dead or alive ? For, if any thing happens to this 
 riiilip, you will iinniediatcly raise up another." 
 
 ,'innly.n^. All this delivered without inttrrogadoriy had b^en faint and 
 inenVctual ; but the warmth and eagcrnetis which this questioning me- 
 thod expressps, werf» calculated to awaken the Athrntaus to a senae of 
 4heir supinencssj and strike them with much greater force on the felly 
 
Repetition. Exclamation, 18r 
 
 lif disunion immediately raising up another Philip. Again, their tim- 
 plicity about the news of Philip's health is excellently exposed in the 
 question, '< Is he dead ?" And the hope of safely expressed by the per- 
 son to whom such a question was put by his neighbour, is most hu- 
 morously satirized in the answer : ^^ No ; but he is sick." 
 
 339. Interrogation sometimes commands with great em- 
 phasis. 
 
 Example. Thus Dido, enjoining the departure of^neas to be stopped 
 
 " Non arma expedient, totaque ex urbe sequentur ? 
 Deripientque rates alii, nuvalibus ?" 
 
 340. Interrogation sometimes A^noi^?> plaintive passion. 
 
 Example. Thus Almeria, in the Motirning Bride : 
 
 " Alphonso! O Alphonso ! 
 Thou too art quiet, long liast thou been at rest ! 
 Both, father and son. are now jio more. 
 Then why am I? O when shall I have rest ? 
 Why do I live to say you aiv no more ? 
 Is it of moment to tin- i>eace of heaven, 
 Tkat 1 should be afflicted thus ?" 
 
 341. Repetition seizes some emphatical word or phrase, 
 and, to mark its importance, makes it recur frecjuentlj in 
 the same sentence. It is significant of contrast and energy. 
 
 Example 1. It also marks passion, which wishes to dwell on the ob- 
 ject by which it is excited. Virgil pathetically describes the grief of 
 Orpheus for the loss of Eurydice, in the fourth Georgic : 
 
 " Te dulcis conjux, te, solo in littore secnm, 
 Te, veniente die, te, decedente «antbat." 
 
 So also Catullns, de Passere mortuo Lesbm . 
 
 '• Passer raortuus est meae Puellae, 
 Passer deliciae meae puellai. 
 Quent plus ilia oculis suis amabat." 
 
 2. Pope, to heighten compassion for the fate of an unfortunate lady, 
 reiterates tlie circumstance of her being deprived in her distress of tho 
 r|5ympathy of her friends : 
 
 ** By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closet!, 
 By oreign hands thy decent limbs composed ; 
 Bj foreign hands thy humble grave adorned, 
 By strangers honoured and by strang»-rs mourned.'^ 
 
 3. Dryden, in A4exander's Feast, supplies one of the most beantiful 
 examples of this figure. He thus paints the sad reverse of tbrtuno suf 
 /ered by Darius: 
 
 " Deserted, at his greatest need, 
 By those his former bounty fed. 
 He sung Darius, great and good, 
 
 Ba too sevtrt a fate. 
 Fallen, fallm, tallen, fallen. 
 Fallen from his high estate, aud weltering in his blood." 
 
 342. Exclamations are the effect of .strong emotions of 
 the mind ; such as surprise, admiration, joy, grief , artd the 
 like. 
 
 17 
 
183 Piston. 
 
 Illus. 1. Exclamation, like interrogation, is often prompted by ijts^ 
 pathy. Sympathy is a very powerful and extensive principle in our 
 nature, disposing us to enter into every feeling and passion, which we 
 behold expressed by others. Hence a single person coming into com- 
 pany with strong marks, either of melancholy or joy, upon his counte- 
 nance, will diffuse that passion in a moment through the whole circle. 
 Hence in a great crowd, in an tusembly of people on some public and 
 pressing emergency, pJissions are so easily caught, and so rapidly 
 spread, by that powerful contagion which the animated looks, and 
 cries, and gestures of a ruiltilude never fail to impart. 
 
 2. I shall take the liberty to give one instance, which is known to all, 
 and well calculated lo illustrate the figure now under consideration. 
 Turn with me, reader, turn thy mind back to the morniag^on which we 
 heard it announcetl that her royal highness princess Charlotte of Saxe 
 Cobourg was no more ! Have yon heard ihe news ? said every Brit- 
 on to his friend. News ? what news .' The princess Charlotte's dead I 
 Dead I the princess Charlotte dead I did ye say ^ Yes ! and her in- 
 fant son too. Good God ! both mother and son ! Such was the lan- 
 guage of our heart — such the species of interrogation, repetition, txcla- 
 tnation, which we used that doleful morn. 
 
 Scholium. Though inierroi^ntions may be introduced into close and 
 earnest reasonings, exclamatiojis only belong to strong emotions of 
 ttiind. When judiciously employed, they agitate the hearer or the 
 reader with similar passions ; but it is extremely improper, and some- 
 times ridiculous, to use them on trivial occasion?, and on mean and 
 low subjects. The unexperienced writer often attempts to elevate his 
 language, by the copious display of this figure ; but it is seldom that 
 he succeeds. He frequently renders his composition frigid to excess, 
 or absolutely ludicrous, by calling on us to enter into his transports, 
 when nothing is said or done to demand emotion. 
 
 343. Vision, another figui*e of speech, proper only in an- 
 imated and warm compositions, is produced when, instead 
 of relating something that is past, we use the present tense 
 of the verb, and describe an action or event as actually 
 passing before our eyes. 
 
 Example. Thus Cicero, in his fourth oration against Catiline^ pic- 
 tures to his mind the execution of the conspiracy : '* 1 seem to myself 
 to behold this city, the ornament of the earth, and the capital of all 
 >iations, suddenly involved in one conflagration. I see before me the 
 slaughtered heaps of citizens, lying unbuiied in the midst of their ruin- 
 od country. The furious countenance of Cethegus rises to my view, 
 '.vhile with a savage joy, he is triumphing iu your miseries."* 
 
 Scholium. This manner of description supposes a sort of enthusiasm, 
 which carries the person who describes, in some measure, out of him- 
 self ; and when well executed, must needs, by the force of sympathy, 
 impress the reader or hearer very strongly. But in order to be suc- 
 cessful, it requires an uncommonly warm imagination, and such a hap- 
 py selection of circumstances, which shall make us think that we see 
 i)cfore our eyes the scene that is described. 
 
 • " Videor enim mihi banc urbem videre, lucem orbis terrarura atque arcem omni- 
 um gentiunv subito uno incendio concidentem ; cerno animo sepulta in patriamisrros 
 atqne insepultos aspectus Cetbegi, et furor, in vestra coede bacduintis." 
 
Irony. 189 
 
 S44. Ill tragedy, vision is the language of the most vio- 
 lent pa^^sion, which conjures up spectres, and approaches to 
 insanity, 
 
 example 1. The author of Phaedra and Hyppolitus makes the for*- 
 mer address the latter in the following strain : 
 
 « Then why this strain ? Come, let us plunge together. 
 See, Hell sets wide its adamantine gates ! 
 See. through the sable gates, the black Cocytus, 
 In smoky whirls, rolls its fiery waves ! 
 How huge Megara stalks ! 
 Now, DOW, she drags me to the bar of Minos," 
 
 2. The horrors of the mind of Macbeth, after murdering the kin^ 
 and Banquo, are artfully and forcibly painted by the same figure : 
 
 *' Methought I heard a voice 
 
 Cry, sleep no more I Macbeth, doth murder sleep," 
 
 3. He is still more violently distracted, and fancies he sees the ghost 
 #f the murdered king : 
 
 '* Avaunt, and quit my sight ! 
 Let the earth hide thee ; thy bones are marrowless, 
 Thy blood is cold ; thou hast no si>eeulatioa 
 In those eyes which thou dost stare with. 
 Hence, horrible sliadow ; unreal mockery, hence.'* 
 
 345. Irony. When we express ourselves in a manner 
 contrary to our thoughts, not with a view to deceive, but tt) 
 add force to our observations, we are then said to speak 
 ironically. 
 
 Illus. Irony turns things into ridicule, in a peculiar manner ; it con- 
 sists in laughing at a man. under the disguise of appearing to praise or 
 . speak well of him. 
 
 Example. '■'■ By these methods, in a few weeks, there starts up many 
 a writer, capable of managing the profoundest and most universal sub- 
 jects. For what, though his head be empty, provided his common- 
 place book be full ? And if you will bate him but the circumstauces 
 of method, and style, and grammar, and invention ; allow him hut the 
 common privileges of transcribing from others, and digressing from 
 himself, as often as he shall see occasion, he will desire no more in- 
 gredients towards fitting up a treatise, that shall make a very comely 
 figure on a bookseller's shelf, there to be preserved neat and clean, for 
 a long eternity, adorned with the heraldry of its title, fairly described 
 on the label ; never 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."* 
 
 346. The subjects of irony, are vices and follies of all 
 kinds ; and this mode of exposing them is often more ef- 
 fectual than serious reasoning:. 
 
 Illus. The gravest persons have not disdained to use this figure on 
 proper occasions. 
 
 Example 1. Thus Elijah challenged the priests of Baal to prove the 
 
 I 
 
 ♦ Tale of a Tub, Sect. 7. 
 
i 90 Irony. 
 
 troth of their deity. ** Cry aloud, for he is a g©d : either he is taui^ 
 ing-, or he is pursuing, or he is in a journey, or peradventure he sleep- 
 eth, and must be awakened." 
 
 2. To reprove a person for his negligence one might say, ** You hare 
 taken great care indeed." 
 
 347. £xclamations and irony are sometimes united. 
 
 Example. Thus both arc united in Cicero's oration for Balbus, where 
 the orator derides his accuser, 6y saying, ** O exceJh^nt interpreter of 
 the law ! master of aniiquity ! correcter and amender of our constitu- 
 tion !" 
 
 Scholiovi. Besides these, there are several other figures, partly 
 ^ran»matical and partly rhetorical ; but as an account of them would 
 be attended with little instruction, and less amusement, we shall refer 
 tho<e who may be led farther into.this field, to the writings of the an- 
 cient critics, where they will find them explained. It only remains to 
 point out the general principW?s which should guide our practice in the 
 use of figures ; and this is a matter of greater importance, as errors in 
 this article are very common, and as young writers particularly arc 
 apt to entertain improper notions of such ornaments. 
 
 348. Remember that the first law of good writing, is to 
 attend principally and closely to the matter ; and that even 
 
 ■■\e highest ornament is of much inferior consideration. 
 
 Ilhis. Good sense, dressed in plnin language, will always gain ap- 
 probation ; though ornament may add to its impression, it can never 
 supply its place. A figurative style, without important matter, may 
 dazzle and captivate the untutored mind, and procure a temporary 
 reputation ; but reason and truth will, in time, triumph over prejudice 
 
 n<l shoM', and consign to oblivion such ill-supperted claims to fame. 
 Sunt qui neglecto rerum pondere," says Quinctilian, " et viribussen- 
 
 t ntiarum, si vcl inaniu verba in figuras depravarint, summos se judi- 
 
 ( at artifices ; ideoque uon desinunt eas nectere ; quas sine sententia 
 M rtari, tarn est ridiculum, quam qua^rere habitum gestumque sine cor- 
 
 lore." 
 
 349. Figures should never have the appearance of being 
 .inxiously sought, or of being forced into the service of a 
 MTiter. 
 
 Illus. Affectation is the bane of beauty on all occasions, but particu- 
 larly ill composition. If attention to ornament cannot be concealed, it 
 had better be relinquished. The appearance of art will injure reputa- 
 fioTi more with every reader of taste, than that reputation could be 
 promoted by the most successful use of figures. 
 
 350. As figures should not be anxiously sought, so neither 
 should they be lavishly employed. Ornaments of all sorts 
 interfere with elegance, unless applied with taste. In liter- 
 ary compositions they may serve to display a richness of 
 mind, they may impart a gaudy semblance, and may evi- 
 dence a bold imagination, but they will never strike with 
 the charms of genuine beauty. If^ on the other hand, dis- 
 cernment be discovered in the use of them, if they are mtror 
 
Irony. 
 
 t9l 
 
 duced with mofieration, and communicate real and perma- 
 nent delight, they will be sure to gain approbation. 
 
 Illus. The ornaments of writing particularly, are of a nature so re- 
 fined, that the richest imagination cannot .always supply them 5 nor 
 can the reader continue long- to relish them. They are like delicacies 
 of the palate, they sooner pall upon the taste tl)a»i ordinary food. 
 Figures too closely interspersetf, intt-rfere wi<h their own impression; 
 they exhaust the sensibility of the imagination by too frequent exer- 
 tion ; and they excite disgust by attempt! tig too nuuh to p rase. 
 
 351. An author should not attempt H;^ure.H without being 
 prompted by his imagination. He will readily disco vtr, 
 whether he has received from nature any consiJeraoie jmr- 
 tion of this lively faculty, by the relish he ent*^rtaiijb for 
 works of genius, toward the composition of which she lias 
 liberally contributed. 
 
 [llus. 1, If oratory and poetry attract his attention, and communi- 
 cate pleasure ; if he feel inferior gratification in peruising productions 
 of science, or in abstract inquiry, he ha» reason to conclude he is en- 
 dued with some share of the mental power that has adorned the pro- 
 ductions to wliich he is attached. !f he t'eel this faculty so prevalent 
 as to tin^-e insensibly the colour of his early compositions, he may 
 hope, by proper culture, to attain eminence in the use of ornament. 
 
 2^. JtJut without such favourable presages, ornament ought not to be 
 attempted. It is not admissible into maay reputable species of com- 
 position. It is rejected in the greater part of scientific disquisitions. 
 it is despised by some writers and readers ; and in every kind of com- 
 position, except poetry, good sense, and important matter, conveyed 
 in a simple and natural style, will be entitled to high praise. They 
 will obtain higher praise than can be procured by attempting orna- 
 ment without success. 
 
 Finally. Without a genius for figurative language, none should at- 
 tempt it. Imagination is a power not to be acquired ; it must be de- 
 rived from nature. Its redundances we may prune, its deviations we 
 may correct, its sphere we may enlarge : but the faculty itself we can- 
 not create ; and all efforts towards a metaphorical ornamented style, 
 if we are destitute of the genius proper for it, will prove awkward and 
 disgusting. Let us satisfy ourselves, however, by considering that, 
 without this talent, or at least with a veiy small measure of it, we may 
 both write and speak to advantage. Good sense, as has been said, 
 clear ideas, perspicuity of language, and proper arrangement of wor<ls 
 and thoughts, will always comnmnd attention. These are, indeed, the 
 foundations of all solid merit both in speaking and writing. Many 
 Subjects require nothing more: and those which admit of ornament, 
 adaiit it only as a secondary requisite. To study and to know our 
 own genius well ; to tbllovv nature ; to seek to improve, but not to 
 fo'ce it ; arc directions which cannot be too often ^iven to those who 
 liesire to excel in the liberal arts. 
 
 17* 
 
ON THE NATURE OF TASTE AND THE 
 SOURCES OF ITS PLEASURES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 3^. TASTE is that faculty or power of the human miiiJ, 
 xvliich is always appealed to in disquisitions concerning the 
 merit of discourse and writinj^ ; it is the power of receiving 
 pleasure from the beauties of nature and art. 
 
 Ilhis 1. The word taste, under this metaphorical meaning, has bor- 
 rowed its name from the feeling of that external sense by which wc 
 
 oceive and distinguish the pleasures of food. 
 2. This faculty is common, in some degree, to all men ; for the rel- 
 
 h of beauty, of one kind or other, belongs to human nature generally. 
 
 \ hatever is orderly, proportioned, grand, harmonious, new or spright- 
 ty, pleases alike, but iu diifercnt degrees, the philosopher and the peas- 
 ant, the child and the savage. Ilegular bodies, pictures, and statues, 
 develope in children the rudiments of taste ; and savages, who pride 
 themselves in their ornaments of dress, tlieir war and their death 
 ^ons:s, tiicir harangues and their orators, evince that they possess, 
 with the attributes of reason and speech, some discernment of beauty, 
 and the principles of taste, deeply founded in the human mind. 
 
 S5S. Taste is possessed in dift'erent degrees by different 
 men. Its feeble glimmerings appear in some; in' others, it 
 rises to an acute discernment, and a lively enjoyment of 
 the most refined beauties : the former have but a weak and 
 confused impression of this power, as they relish only beau- 
 ties of the coarsest kind ; the latter have a certain natural 
 and instinctive possession of this faculty, which may be im- 
 proved by art, and which discovers itself in their powers and 
 pleasures of taste. 
 
 Obs. This inequality is partly owing to the different frame of our 
 ]«atures, to nkrcr organs, and finer internal poivers, with which one-f? 
 
Tasie. 19.^ 
 
 endowed beyond another ; but still more to education, and a higher 
 culture of those talents, which belong only to the ornamental part of 
 life. 
 
 354. Taste is an improveable faculty, and, refined by 
 education, gives to civilized men an immense superiority 
 above barbarians, and, in the same nation, to those who have 
 studied the liberal arts, above the rude and untaught vulgar. 
 
 Obs. Thus, two classes of men are far removed from each other, in 
 respect to the powers and pleasures of taste ; and, for this difference, 
 no other general cause can be assigned, than culture and education. 
 
 355. Exercise is the source of improvement in all our 
 faculties, in our bodily, in our mental powers, and even in 
 our external senses. 
 
 Illus. 1. Touch becomes more exquisite in men, whose employment 
 leads them to examine the polish of bodies, than it is in others, whose 
 trade engages no such nice exertions. 
 
 2. SiGHF, in discerning the minutest objects, acquires a surprising 
 accuracy in microscopical observers, and those who are accustomed to 
 engrave on precious stones. 
 
 3. Chemists, by attending to different flavours and tastes of liquors^ 
 wonderfully improve the power of distinguishing them and tracing 
 llieir composition. 
 
 356. Placing internal taste, therefore, on the footing of a 
 simple sense, frequent exercise, and curious attention to its 
 proper objects, must, in the first instance, greatly heighten 
 its power. 
 
 Itlus. 1. Thus, nothing is more improveable than that part of taste, 
 which is called an ear for music. At first, the simplest and plainest 
 compositions only are relished. Our pleasure is extended by use and 
 practice, which teach us to relish finer melody, and by degrees enable 
 us to enter into the intricate and compound pleasures of harmony. 
 
 2. So an eye for the beauties of painting, is never acquired all at 
 once ; nor by him who prefers the Saracen's head upon a sign-post, 
 before the best tabulature of Raphael. It is gradually formed by be- 
 ing conversant among pictures, and studying the works of the best 
 masters. 
 
 3. And the man who has cultivated the beauties of regularity, order, 
 and proportion, in Architecture, will never prefer a rude Gothic tower, 
 before the finest Grecian building. 
 
 357. Precisely in the same manner, with respect to the 
 beauty of composition and discourse , attention to the most 
 approved models, study of the best authors, comparisons of 
 lower and higher degrees of the same beauties, operate to- 
 wards the refinement of taste. 
 
 Illus. The sentiment that attends a reader's first acquaintance with 
 works of genius, is obscure and confused. The several excellencies or 
 blemishes of the performance which he peruses, cannot be pointed out, 
 because he is at a loss on what to rest his judgment ; but allow him 
 
194 Tasit, 
 
 more experience of the subject, and his taste becoones more exact an.* 
 enlightened : the character of the whole work, the beauties and defects 
 of each part, are perceived, and his praise or blame is at length pro- 
 nounced firn»ly, and without hesitation. Thus, in taste, considered as 
 mere sensibility, exercise opens a great source of improvement. 
 
 358. But reason and good sense have so exteasive an in- 
 fluence on all its operations and decisions, that a thorough 
 gof)d taste may well be considered as a power compounded 
 of natural sensibility to beauty, and of improved under 
 standing. (Art, 365.) 
 
 Illus. 1. The greater part of the productions of genius, are no other 
 than imitations of nature ; representations of the characters, actions, 
 or manners of men. The pleasure we receive from such fmitations,or 
 representations, is founded on mere taste ; but to judge whether 
 they be properly executed, belongs to the understanding, which com- 
 pares the copy with the o.iginal. 
 
 2. In reading such a poem as Paradise Lost, a great part of the 
 pleasure we receive, arises from the plan or story being well conduct- 
 ed, and all the parts joined together with due connexion ; from the 
 characters, being suited to the subject, the sentiments to the characters^ 
 and th« style to tU«* sentiments. 
 
 3. We feel or enjoy by taste, as an inUrnnl stnse, the pleasure which 
 arises from a poem so conducted ; but the discovery of this conduct in 
 the poem, is owing to reason ; and our pleasure will be the greater, 
 the more that reast>n enables us to discover such propriety in the con- 
 du(t. 
 
 4. Our natural sense of beauty yields us pleasure ; but reason ghew.s 
 us why, and upon what grounds, we are pleased. Whenever, in works 
 of «a<te, any resem»)l.i.jce to nature is aimed at. whenever there is tiny 
 ref<M'ence of parts lo a whole, or of means to an end, as indeed there 
 is in almost every writing and discourse, there the understanding must 
 always have a great part lo art. 
 
 359. A SECOND, and a very considerable source of the 
 improvement of ta-jte, arises from the application of reason 
 and good sense, to works of composition, and productions of 
 genius. 
 
 fUus. Spurious beauties, such as unnatural characters, forced senti- 
 ments, and aftVcted style, may please for a little ; but tiiey please only, 
 because we have not examined or attended to th'ir opnosition to nature 
 and good sense. The illusion is dissipated, and these* t'alsf beauties 
 cr 1^1^ to please as soon as v*e are slicwn how natur<i might iiave been 
 mor-. justly imitated or represented, and how the writer might have 
 BiauRged his subject to greater advantage. 
 
 360. From these two sources then, first, the frequent ex- 
 erciae of ia.^te, and next, the application of guud sense and 
 reason to its ohjccfs, XASTJi, as a power of the mind, receives 
 its improvement. 
 
 Ohs. In its i-crffct state, it is undoubtedly tli«* result both of nature 
 and art. it supposes our natuml sense oi btauty to be rclined by ire- 
 
 ■ ^.^ 
 
Diversity of Taste. \ 95 
 
 fiaent attention to the most beautiful objects, and at the same time to 
 be guided and improved by the light of the understanding. 
 
 361. One material requisite to a just taste, besides a 
 sound head, is a good heart ; for moral beauties, in them- 
 selves superior to all others, exert an influence, either more 
 nearly, or more remotely, on a great variety of other objects 
 of taste. 
 
 Ulus. The affections, characters, and actions of men, frequently af- 
 fbrd the noblest subjects to genius. Without possessing the virtuous 
 affections, no man, where those affections, characters, or actions, are 
 concerned, can exhibit their just and touching description, nor have any 
 thorough feeling of the beauty of that description. He vrhose heart is 
 indelicate or hard, who has no admiration of what is truly noble or 
 praise-worthy, nor the proper sympathetic sense of what is soft and 
 tender, must have a very imperfect relish of the highest beauties of elo- 
 quence and poetry. 
 
 362. Delicacy and Correctness are the characters of 
 taste, when brought to its most improved state. 
 
 Ulus. 1. Delicacy of taste respects principally the perfection of that 
 natural sensibility, on which taste is founded. It implies those finer 
 organs or powers, which enable us to discover beauties that lie hid 
 from a vulgar eye. A person of delicate taste, both feels strongly, and 
 feels accurately. He sees distinctions and differences, where others 
 see none ; the most latent beauty does not escape him, and he is sensi- 
 ble of the smallest blemish. 
 
 2. Correctness of taste respects chiefly the improvement which that 
 faculty receives through its connexion with the understRnding. Coun- 
 terfeit beauties never impose on a man of correct taste, because he 
 carries in his mind that standard of good sense, which he employs in 
 judging of every thing. 
 
 363. Delicacy of taste is judged of by marks similar to 
 those which we use in judging of the delicacy of an exter- 
 nal sense. 
 
 Ulus. As the goodness of the palate is not tried by strong flavours, 
 but by a mixture of ingredients, in which, notwithstanding the confu- 
 sion, we reniCtin sensible of each ; in like manner, delicacy of interna! 
 taste appears, by a quick and lively sensibility to its finest, most com- 
 pounded, or most latent objects. 
 
 364. Correctness of taste is judged of by the estimate 
 which a man makes of the comparative merit of several 
 beauties, which he meets with, iu any work of genius. 
 
 Jllus. When he refers these to their proper classes, assigns with pro- 
 priety the principles, as far as they can be traced, whence their povver 
 of pleasing flows ; and is pleased himself in that degree, in which he 
 ought, and no more ; we say that his taste is correct. 
 
 365. Delicacy, and correctness of taste, mutually imply 
 each other. No taste can be exquisitely delicate, without 
 being correct ; nor thoroughly correct, without being defi 
 
19d Diversity of TaUt, 
 
 cate. But still a predominancy of the one or the other 
 quality in the mixture is often visible. 
 
 llUhs. 1. The power of delicacy is chiefly seen in discerning^ the true 
 merit of a work ; the power of correctness, in rejertin^ false preten- 
 sions to merit. Delicacy leans more to feelinp" ; correftness, more to 
 reason andjudg-ment. The former is more the gi»t of nature ^ the lat- 
 ter, more the product of cultur<' atjd art 
 
 2. Among the ancient critics, Longinus posspssed most de]icacy '; Ar- 
 istotle, most correctness. Among the moderns, Addiso» is -» high ex- 
 ample of delicate taste ; and hal Dean S^i^il. wiiitfni on criticism, he 
 would perhaps have atforded iho oxatriple of a correct one. Campbell, 
 Karnes, Allison, and Dugaid Sten h ■ t m • »^v:...imI,.v ..» «/.,-ri . * :..,♦! (irli- 
 cate taste. 
 
 366. The DIVERSITY of w^w..,, v,i..v,.. |. v>...i. ...nong 
 mankind, does not in every case infer a corniption of taste, 
 or oblige us to seek for some standard, m order to deter- 
 mine who are in the right. 
 
 lllui. The tastes of men may differ very considerably as to their ob- 
 ject, and yet none of them be wrung. One man relishes poetry, while 
 another takes plea.<iire in nothing but history. One prefers comedy \ 
 another tragedy. One admires the simple ; another, the ornamented 
 style. The young arc amused with gay and sprightly compositions ; 
 the elderly are more entertained with those of a graver cast. Some 
 nations delight in bold pictures of manners, and strong representations 
 of passions ; others incline to a m.>re correct and regular elegance, 
 both in description and sentiment. Though all differ, yet all pitch up- 
 on some beauty which peculiarly suits their turn of miud ; and there- 
 fore no one has a title to condemn his neighbour. 
 
 367. In questions of mere reason, there is but ont conclu- 
 Mon that can be true ; and there is some foundation for the 
 preference of one man's taste to that of another. 
 
 Illus. Truth, which is the object of reason, is ont ; beauty, which is 
 the object of taste, is manifold. Taste, therefore, admits of latitude 
 and diversity of objects, in sufficient consiktency with its goodness or 
 justness. 
 
 368. This admissible diversity of tastes, can only have 
 place where the objects of taste are different. When one 
 condemns as ugly what another admires as beautiful, there 
 is no longer diversity, but direct opposition of taste. One 
 must be right, and the other wrong. 
 
 Illus. 1, One roan prefers Virgil to Homer ; another, admires Ho- 
 mer more than Virgil ; yet there is no reason to say that their tastes 
 are contradictory. The one is more struck with the elegance and 
 tenderness of Virgil ; the other with the simplicity and fire of Homer. 
 As long as neither of them denies that both Homer and Virgil have 
 great beauties, their difference falls within the compass of that diver- 
 sity of tastes, which is both natural and allowable. (Art. 366.) 
 
 2. But if a third man should assert that Homer has no beauties; 
 whatever, and that Virgil is devoid of elegance and tandernesSj—that 
 
Standard of Taste. 197 
 
 he holds the One; to be a dull, spiritless writer, »nd the other to be a 
 ttiere copiest, that in distinction to the iEneid he won] 1 as soon peruse 
 Robinson Crusoe, or Jack the Giant Killer to the Iliad ; both the other 
 men woukl pronounce him void of all taste, or exclaim that his taste 
 Was corrupted in a miserable degree. 
 
 3. Or if eithor of the two men who disputed about the pre-eminence 
 of Virgil or (.f Homer, should evin< e the same disposition as the third 
 man shesved ; his antagonist would appeal to whatever he thought the 
 standard 6f taste to shew him that he was in the wrong. 
 
 369. A STANDARD propcrly signifies that, witich, being 
 fixed by convention, is of such undoubted authority as to be 
 the test of other things of the same kind. 
 
 Illus. 1. Thus a standard weight or measure is that which is appoint - 
 ed by law to regulate all other weights and measures. 
 
 2. Thus, also, the Court is said to be the standard of good breeding ; 
 and the Scripture, of theological truth. 
 
 370. In all cases where an imitation is intended of some 
 object that exists in nature, as in representing human char- 
 acters and actions, nature is the standard of taste, because 
 conformity to it affords a full and distinct criterion of what 
 is truly beautiful. 
 
 065. Reason hath in such cases full scope for exerting its authorityj 
 for approving or condemning ; by comparing ihe copy with the ojigin" 
 al. But there are innumerable cases in which this rale cannot be ap- 
 plied ; and conformity with nature is an expression frequently used, 
 without any distinct or determinate meaning. The standard of taste 
 must, therefore, be something which is clear and precise, without any 
 imperfection, irregularity, or disorder. 
 
 371. The general sentiments of mankind must be consid- 
 ered ih^ standard to which the ultimate appeal must ever 
 lie, in all works of taste, 
 
 Illus. If any one should maintain that sugar was bitter, and tobacco 
 sweet, no reasonings on his part could avail to prove tliis position ; 
 mankind would infallibly hold the taste of such a person to be di-teas- 
 ed, merely because it differed diametrically from the taste of the spe- 
 cies to which he belonged. In like manner, with regard to the objects 
 of sentiment or internal taste, the common feelings of men carry the 
 same authority, and become an universal standard to regulate the taste 
 of every individual. 
 
 372. There is nothing but the taste, as far as it can be 
 gathered, of human nature, of sufficient authority to be the 
 standard of the various and opposite tastes of mcH. 
 
 Illus. That which men concur the most in admiring must be reckon- 
 ed beaiitiful. His taste must be esteeiiM-d just and true which coincides 
 with the general sentiments of men. lie who, m any dispute, appeals 
 to the common sense of mankmd as the nltimate rule or standard by 
 which he will be judged, evinces a conviction of a common standard 
 to which his taste is right or rood if conformable, while that of his op- 
 ponent must be wrong or bad, if disconlorraablc. The taste of a whole 
 
198 SianJard of TasU. 
 
 people, guided by reason and virttte, must generally be exquisite arA 
 just, their intenidl seiiises unerring and sure. He who allows subniis' 
 sion to be due to the determinations of all mankind, acknowledges a 
 perfect stan<l'drd for the taste of all others. 
 
 373. But besides the approbation of the majority, there 
 are principles of reason and sound judgmtrU which can be 
 applied to matters of taste, as well as to the subjects of sci- 
 ence and |;hilosophy. 
 
 Illiis. He who admires or censures any work of genius, is always 
 ready, if his taste be improved, to assign some reasons for his decision, 
 vie rippeals to principles, and points out the grounds on which he pro- 
 er'is. Taste is, therefore, a son of compound power, in which the 
 'ight of the understanding always mingles, more or less, with the feel- 
 nigs of se:)timent. 
 
 374. The ultimate conclusions to which our reasonings 
 lead, in judging concerning works of taste, refer at last to 
 sense and perception. 
 
 ILlus. 1. Just reasonings concerning propriety of conduct in a trage- 
 dy, or an epic poem, will correct the caprice of unenlightened taste, 
 and establish principles for judging of what deserves praise. These 
 reasonings, in the last resort, appeal always to feeling. Iheir founda- 
 tion is detpty laid in whatever has been found from experience to 
 please mankind universally. 
 
 2. Upon this ground, we prefer a simple and natural, to an artificial 
 style ; a regular and well-connected story, to loose and scattered nar- 
 ratives ; a catastrophe which is tender and pathetic, to one which 
 leaves us nn moved. 
 
 Corol. It is from consulting our own imagination and heart, and 
 from attending to the feelings of others, that any principles are formed 
 which acquire authority in matters of taste. 
 
 375. AVhen \re refer to the concurring sentiments of men 
 as to the ultimate test of what is to be accounted beautiful 
 in the arts, this is alwavs to be understood of men placed in 
 :5uch situations as are favourable to the proper exertions of 
 taste. 
 
 Illus. The sentiments of mankind in polished and flourishing na- 
 tions, wh«re arts are cultivated, and manners refined, where works of 
 l^enius are subject to free discussion, and taste is improved by sci- 
 ence and philosophy, — become the principles of authority which must 
 necessarily be decisive of every controversy that can arise upon matters 
 of taste. 
 
 576. We conclude, therefore, that taste is not an arbitra- 
 ry principle, subject to the fancy of every individual, and 
 admitting no criterion by which to determine whether if be 
 true or false. Its foundation is the same in all iiuman minds. 
 It IS built upon scnhments and perceptions which belong t® 
 our nature ; and which in genera! '>perate with the same uni- 
 formity as our other intellectual principles. 
 
standard of Task. 19§ 
 
 ^hs. Whea these sentiments are perverted by ignorance and preju- 
 tlice, they are capable of being rectified by reason. Their sound and 
 natural state is uhimately determined, by comparing them with the 
 general taste of mankind. 
 
 377. In every composition, what interests the heart pleas- 
 es all ages and all nations. There is a certain string to 
 which, when properly struck, the human heart is so made as 
 to answer. 
 
 Illus. 1. Hence, the universal testimony which the most improved 
 nations of the earth have conspired, throughout a long succession of 
 ages, to give to some few works of genius ) such as the Iliad of Homer, 
 and the ^neid of Virgil. 
 
 2. Hence, the authority which such works have acquired as stand- 
 ards, in some degree, of poetical composition ; since from them we are 
 enabled to collect what the sense of mankind is, concerning those 
 beauties vvhi^h give them the highest pleasure, and which, therefore, 
 poetry ought to exhibit. 
 
 378. Uniformity of taste and sentiment resulting from 
 our conviction of a common standard, leads to two import- 
 ant final causes ; the one respecting our duty, the other, 
 our pastime or amusement. 
 
 Obs. 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 not uniformity prevail in morals : that our actions should 
 uniformly be directed to what is good and acanist what is ill, is the 
 greatest blessing of society ; and in order to uniformity in action, uni- 
 formity of opinion and sentiment is indispensable. 
 
 379. With respect to pastime in general, and the fine 
 arts in particular, the following illustrations make the final 
 cause of uniformity abundantly obvious. 
 
 Illus. 1. Uniformity of taste g^ivcs opportunity for sumptuous and 
 elegant buildings, for fine gardens, and extensive establishments which 
 please generally. 
 
 2. The reason is obvious : without uniformity of taste, there could 
 not be any suitable reward, either of profit or honour, to encourage 
 men of genius to labour in such works, and to advance them to perfec- 
 tion. 
 
 3. The same uniformity of taste is equally necessary to perfect the 
 arts of music, sculpture, and paintino^, and to support the expense 
 which they require after they are brought to perfection. 
 
 4. Nature is, in every particular, consistent with herself: we are 
 framed by nature to have a high relish for the fijie arts, which are a 
 great source of happiness, and friendly in a high degree to v!.tue : we 
 are. at the same time, framed with uniformity of taste to furnish pro- 
 per objects for that high relish ; and if uniformity did not prevail, the 
 fi ne arts would never have made any figure. 
 
 380. Another final cause no less obvious, is the separation 
 of men into different classes, by birth, ofiice, or occupation. 
 How much soever this separation might tend to relax the 
 
 18 
 
200 Criticism, 
 
 connexion that ought to subsist among the members of the 
 same state, its effects are prevented by the access of all 
 ranks of people to public spectacles and amusements. These 
 assemblages of people of one country are best enjoyed in 
 company. In this common fellowship every one partakes 
 of the same pleasures. Such meetings are, therefore, no 
 slight support to the social affections* and to uniformity of 
 taste. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 CRITICISM. 
 
 08 1. TASTE, crifidsjn, and genius, are words currentlj 
 employed, without distinct ideas annexed to them. 
 
 Definilion. True criticism is the application of taste and of good 
 1130 to the several fine arts. The ohject which it proposes is, to dis* 
 ig^uish what is beautiful and what is faulty in every performance ; 
 >m particular instances to ascend to general principles ; and so to 
 M m rules or conclusroas concerning the several kinds of beauty in 
 works of i^enius. 
 
 lllus. The rules of criticism arc not formed by any induction, a pri- 
 '>r>", as it is called ; that is, they are not formed by a train of ab- 
 tract reasoning, independent of facts and observations. Criticism is 
 Ml art founded wholly on experience; on the observations of surh 
 beauties as have come nearest to the standard which we before estab- 
 lished ; that is, of such beauties as have been found to please mankind 
 most generally. (.^/7. 371.) 
 
 2. For example; Aristotle's rules concerning the unity of action in 
 dramatic and epic composition, were not first discovered by logical 
 reasoning, and then applied to poetry ; but they were rules drawn 
 from the practice of Homer and Sophocles : they were foun<led upon 
 observing the superior pleasure which mankind received from the rela- 
 tion of an action which was one and entire, beyond what they receiv- 
 ed from the relation of scattere<l and unconnected facts. 
 
 3. Such observations taking their rise at first from feeling and ex- 
 perience, were found, on examination, to be so consonant to reason, 
 and to the principles of human aature, as to pass into established 
 rules, and to be conveniently applied for judging of the excellency of 
 any performance This is the most natural account of the origin of 
 criticism. 
 
 382. A masterly genius, it is true, will of himself, un- 
 taught, compose in such a manner as shall be agreeable t© 
 
 • On works of taste, the student may now consult Dr. Gerrard^f Essay on Taste—- 
 T)*Aleinbert''s Reflections on the use aiul abuse of Philosophy in matters which relate 
 to taste— Reflections Critiqiit;. sur la Poesie et sur la Pemture— A'flmw" Eleu»ents of 
 Criticism— /fi///jfV Essay on the Stanciard oi Taste— Intioductiou to the Essay on the 
 Sublioje and Beautiful— B/arr"* Lectures, and Allison on Taste. 
 
Grtticism. 50i 
 
 the most material rules of criticism ; for as these rules are 
 fou tided in nature, nature will often suggest them in prac- 
 tice. 
 
 Illus. It is more than probable that Homer was acquainted with no 
 systems of the art of poetry. Guided by genius alone, he composed 
 in verse a regular story, which all posterity has admired. But this is 
 no argument against the usefulness of criticism as an art. For as no 
 human genius is perfect, there is no writer but may receive assistance 
 from critical observations upon the beauties and faults of those who 
 have gone before him. No observatioiis or rules can indeed supply the 
 defect of genius, or inspire it where it is wanting. But they may of- 
 ten direct it into its proper channel ; they may correct its extrava- 
 gances, and point out to it the most just and proper imitation of na- 
 ture. Critical rules are designed chiefly to shew the faults that ought 
 to be avoided. To nature we must be indebted for the production of 
 eminent beauties. (See CoroL l.p. 59.) 
 
 383. From what has been said, we are enabled to form a 
 judgment concerning those complaints which it has long 
 been fashionable for petty authors to make against critics 
 and criticism. 
 
 Illus. 1. Critics have bv'en represented as the great abridgers of the 
 native liberty of genius ; as the imposers of unnatural shackles and 
 bonds upon writers, from whose cruel persecution they must fly to the 
 public, and implore its proiection. &uch supplicatory prefaces are not 
 €alculated to give very favourable ideas of the genius of the author. 
 For every good writer will be pleased to have his work examined by 
 the principles of sound understanding and true taste. 
 
 2. The declamations against criticism commonly proceed upon this 
 supposition, that critics are such as judge by rule, not by feeling. 
 This is so far from being true, that they who judge after this manner 
 are pedants, not critics. For all the rules of genuine criticism will be 
 found to be ultimately founded on feeling : and taste and feeling are 
 necessary to guide us in the application of these rules to every partic- 
 ular instance. 
 
 3. As there is nothing in which all sorts of persons more readily af- 
 fect to be judges, than in works of taste, there is no doubt that the 
 number of incompetent critics will always be great. But this affords 
 no more foundation for a general invective against criticism, than the 
 number of bad philosophers or reasoners affords against sound philo- 
 sophy and logic. 
 
 384. An objection more plausible may be formed against 
 criticism, from the applause that some performances have 
 received from the public, which, when accurately consider- 
 ed, are found to contradict the rules established by criti- 
 
 ^ cism. 
 
 Illus. Now, according to the principles laid down in the last chapter, 
 the public is the supreme judge to whom the last appeal mijst be made 
 in every work of taste ; as the standard of taste is founded on the 
 eentiments that are natural and common to all men. But with resi)ect 
 to this, we are to observe, that the sense of the public is often too 
 hastily judged of. The genuine public taste does not always appear 
 
rm Of Genius,. 
 
 in the first applause given upon the publicatioH of aay aew ^'(BiL. 
 There are both the great vulgar, and the small vulgar, v\ho are apt t» 
 be catched and dazzled by very superficial beauties, the admiration of 
 which in a little time passes away : and sometimes a writ.-r may ac- 
 quire great temporary reputation, merely by his compliance with the 
 passions or prejudices, with the party spirit or superstitious notions, 
 that may chance to rule for a time almost a whole nation In such 
 cases, though the public may seem to praise, true criticism may with 
 reason condemn ; and it will in progress of time gain the ascendant : 
 for the judgment of true criticism, and the voice of the public, when 
 once become unprejudiced and dispassionate, will ultimately coincide. 
 
 885. There are some works that contain gross transgres- 
 sions of the laws of criticism, which, nevertheless, have ac- 
 quired a general, and even a lasting admiration. 
 
 Illus. 1. Such are the plays of Shakspeare, which, considered as 
 dramatic poems, are irregular in the highest degree. But then they 
 have gained the public admiration, not by their being irregular, not 
 by their transgrr»ssion of the rules of art, but in spite of such trans- 
 gressions. 'J hey possess other beauties which are conformable to 
 just rules ; and the force of these beauties has been so great as to 
 overpower all censure, and to give the public a degree of satisfaction 
 tj)crior to the disgust arising from their blemishes. 
 2. Jihakspeare pleases, not by his bringing the transactions of 
 many years into one play ; not by his grotesque mixtures of tragedy 
 and comedy in one piece, nor by the strained th^ug^hts, and aflected 
 witticisms, which h»* sometimes employs. These we consider as 
 blemishes, and mpute them to the grossness of the age in which he 
 lived. But he pleases by his animated and masterly representationg 
 of characters, by the liveliness of his descriptions, the force of his 
 sentiments, and his posssessiug, beyond all writers, the natural lan- 
 guage of passion : beauties which true criticism no less teachf**; os tc 
 liice in the highest raak, than nature teaches us to feci. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 O* GENIUS. 
 
 386. TASTE and Genius are two words frequently 
 joined together; and therefore, by inaccurate thinkers,. con- 
 founded. Taste cox\^\hU'\nX\iQ power o{ judging ; genius, 
 in the poiver of executing. 
 
 Illus. 1. One may have a considerable degree of taste in poetry, elo- 
 quence, or any of the fine arts, who has little or haidly any genius for 
 composition or execution in any of these arts ; but genius cannot be 
 found without including taste also. Genius, therefore, deserves to be 
 oonsi lered as a higher power of the mind than taste. 
 
 2. Genius alwavs imports something inventive or creative; which 
 docs a*t rest in mere sensibility to beauty where it is perceived, bu,* 
 
Of Gmius. ^OS. 
 
 which can, moreover, produce new beauties, and exhibit them in sucft 
 a manner as strongly to impress the minds of others. Refined taste 
 forms a good critic j but geuius is farther necessary to form the poet, 
 or the orator. 
 
 3. Genius is a word, which, in common acceptation, extends much 
 farther than to the objects of taste. It is used to signify that taltni or 
 npliiude which we receive from nature, for excelling in any one thing 
 whatever. Thus we speak of a genius for mathematics^ as well as a 
 genius for poetry ; of a genius for war, for politics j or for any mechan- 
 ical employment. 
 
 387. This talent or aptitude for excelling in some one 
 particular, is what we receive fiom nature. By art and 
 study, no doubt, it may be greatly improved ; but by them 
 alone it cannot be acquired. 
 
 lllus. 1. As genius is a higher faculty than taste, it is ever, accord- 
 ing to the usual frugality of nature, more limited in the sphere of its 
 operations. It is not uncommon to meet with persons who have an 
 excellent taste in several of the polite arts, such as music, poetry, 
 painting, and eloquence, all together : but, to find one who is an ex- 
 cellent performer in all these arts, is much more rare ; or rather, in- 
 deed, such an one is not to be looked for. 
 
 2. A sort of universal genius, or one who is equally and indifferently 
 turned towards several different professions and arts, is not likely to 
 excel in any. Although there may be some iew exceptions, yet in 
 general it holds, that when the bent of the mind is exclusively directed 
 towards some one object, there is the fairest prospect of eminence in 
 that, whatever it be. The rays must converge to a point, in order to 
 glow intensely. This remark is the more necessary, on account of its 
 great importance to young people, in leading them to examine with 
 care, and to pursue with ardour, the current and pointing of nature 
 towards those exertions of genius in which they are most likely to 
 excel. 
 
 388. A genius for any of the fine arts, always supposes 
 taste ; it is clear, that the improvement of taste will serve 
 both to forward and to correct the operations of genius. 
 
 Illus. 1. In proportion as the taste of a poet, or orator, becomes 
 more refined with respect to the beauties of composition, it will cer- 
 tainly assist him to produce the move finished beauties in his work. 
 Genius, however, in a poet, or orator, may sometimes exist in a high- 
 er degree than taste ; that is, genius may be bold and strong, when 
 taste is neither very delicate, nor y/Gry correct. 
 
 2. This is often the case in the infancy of arts : a period when gen- 
 ius frequently exerts itself with great vigour, and executes with much 
 warmth ; while taste, which requires experience, and improves by 
 slower degrees, hath not yet attained to its full growth. 
 
 3. Homer and Shakespeare are proofs of what is here asserted. In 
 the admirable writings of those two great poets are found instances of 
 rudeness and indelicacy, which the more refined taste of later writers, 
 of far inferior genius, would have taught them to avoid. 
 
 4. As all human perfection is limited, this may very probably be the 
 !aw of our nature, that it is not given to one man to execute with vig- 
 
 18* 
 
^04 The Pleasures of Taste. 
 
 our and fire, and, at the same time, to attend to all the lesser and mof«^ 
 refined graces that belong to the exact perfection of hig work : while, 
 on the other hand, a thorough taste for those inferior graces is, for the 
 most part, accompanied with a diminution of sublimity and force. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE SOURCES OF THE PLEASURES OF TASTE. 
 
 389. HAVING now explained the nature of taste, the 
 nature and importance of criticism, and the distinction be- 
 tween taste and genius ; we are now to consider the 
 
 SOURCES OF THE PLEASURES OF TASTE. 
 
 Obs. Here opens a very extensive field ; no less than all the plea- 
 lures of the imagination, as they are commonly called, whether aflord- 
 ^(\ us by natural objects, or by the imitations and descriptions of them. 
 *iut it is not necessary to the purpose of this Grammar, that all these 
 »hould be examined fully ; the pleasure which we receive from dis- 
 course, or writing, being the main object ol them, so far as rhetoric is- 
 concerned. All that is proposed, is to give some openings into the 
 pleasures of taste in general ; and to insist more particularly upon 
 sublimity and beauty. 
 
 Ilhis. 1. It is diOicult to make a full enumeration of the several ob- 
 tects that give pleasure to taste ; it is more difficult to <lefine all those 
 which have been discovered, and to reduce them under proper classes; 
 and, when we would go farther, and investigate the efficient causes of 
 the pleasure which we receive from such objects, here, above all, we 
 find ourselves at a loss. 
 
 2. For instance ; we all learn by experience, that certain figures of 
 bodies appear to us more beautiful than others. On inquiring farther, 
 we find that the regularity of some figures, and the graceful variety of 
 f>thers, arc the foundation of the beauty which we discern in them ; but 
 when we attempt to go a step beyond this and inquire what is the 
 »jause of regularity and variety producing in our minds the sensation 
 of beauty, any reason we can assign is extremely imperfect. These 
 first principles of internal sensation, nature seems to have covered with 
 ail impenetrable veil. 
 
 3. Although the efficient cause be obscure, the final cause of those 
 'sensations lies in many cases more open : and, in entering on this sub- 
 •ect, we cannot avoid taking notice of the stroug impression which the 
 2>owers oi' taste and imagination are calculated to give us of the benig- 
 nity of our Creator. 
 
 4. By endowing us with such powers, he hath widely enlarged tho^ 
 r phere of the pleasures of human life ; a'.ul those too of a kind the 
 .tiost pure and innocent. The necessary purposes of life might have 
 •)een abundantly answered, though our senses of seeing and hearing 
 had only served to distinguish external objects, without conveying to 
 \ii any of those refined and delicate sensations of beauty and grandeur, 
 \vith which we are now so m(\«:h delighted. 
 
 •5 This additional embellishment and glory, which, for promoting our 
 
Grandeur and Sublimit^, 205 
 
 entertainment, the Author of Nature hath poured forth upon his works, 
 is one striking- testiuioay, among many others, of His benevolence and 
 g-oodness. 
 
 6. This thought, which Mr. Addison first started, Dr. Akenside, in 
 his poem on the Pleasures of the Imagination, has happily pursued, 
 
 Not content 
 
 With every food of life to nourish mail) 
 By kind allusions of the wondering sense« 
 Thou mak'st all nature, beauty to his eye, 
 Or music to his ear. - - - 
 
 390. First, then, we begin with considering the pleasure 
 xvhich arises from sublimity or grandeur. 
 
 Illus. It is not easy to describe, in words, the precise impression 
 which great and sublime objects make upon us when we behold them, 
 but every one has a conception of it. It produces a sort of internal 
 elevation and expansion ; it raises the mind much above its ordinary 
 state; and fills it with a degree of wonder and astonishment, which it 
 cannot well express. The emotion is certainly delightful ; but it is 
 altogether of the serious kind ; a degree of avvfuiness and solemnity, 
 even approaching to severity, commonly attends it when at its height; 
 very distinguishable from the more gay and brisk emotion raised by 
 beautiful objects. 
 
 391. The simplest form of external grandeur appears in 
 the vast and boundless prospects presented to us by nature ; 
 such as wide extended plains, to which the eye can see no 
 limits ; the firmament of heaven ; or the boundless expanse 
 of the ocean. All vastness produces the impression of sub- 
 limity. 
 
 lllas. It is to be remarked, however, that space, extended in length, 
 makes not so strong an impression as height or depth. Though a 
 boundless plain be a grand object, yet a high mountain, to which we 
 look up, or an awful precipice or tower, whence we look down on the 
 objects which lie below, is still more so. 
 
 2. The excessive grandeur of the firmament arises from its height, 
 joined to its boundless extent ; and that of the ocean, not from its ex- 
 tent alone, but from the perpetual motion and irresistible force of that 
 mass of waters. Wherever space is concerned, it is clear, that ampli- 
 tude or greatness of extent, in one dimension or other, is necessary to 
 grandeur. Remove all bounds from any object, and you presently 
 render it sublime. 
 
 Corol. Hence, infinite space, endless numbers, and eternal duration, 
 fill the mind with great ideas. 
 
 392. But vastness, or amplitude of extent, is not alone 
 the fiundation of all sublimity ; because many objects ap- 
 pear sublime, which have no relation to space at all. 
 
 Illiu. Such, for instance, is great loudness cf sound. The burst of 
 thunder or of cannon, the roaring of winds, the shouting of muliitudcs, 
 the sound of vast cataracts of water, are all incont«stibly grand objects. 
 In general we may observe, that great power and force exerted, always- 
 raise sublime ideas ; and perhaps tiie most copious source of these is 
 derived from this quarter. Hence the grandeur of earthquakes and* 
 
a06 Tlie Pleasures of 7 ante* 
 
 burning mountains ; of great conflagrations ; of the stortiay oceaff, 
 and overtlovving waters ) of tempests of wind ; of thunder and light* 
 ning ; and of all the uncommon violence of the elements. 
 
 2. iNothing is more sublime than mighty power and strength. A 
 9tream that runs within its banks is a beautiful object ; but when it 
 rushes down with the impetuosity and noise of a torrent, it presently 
 becomes a sublime one. From lions, and other animals of strength, 
 are drawn sublinxe comparisons in poets. A race-horse is looked up- 
 on with pleasure ; but it is th-^ war-horse, " whose neck is clothed 
 with thunder," that carries grandeur in its appearance, or our idea of 
 Ihe animal. 
 
 3. The engagement of two great armies, as it is the highest exertioa 
 of human might, combines a variety of sources of the sublime ; and has 
 accordingly been always considered as one of the most striking and 
 magnificent spectacles that can either be presented to the eye, or exhi- 
 bited to the imagination in description. 
 
 Example " Like Autumn's dark storms, pouring from two echoing 
 hills, towards 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 pol- 
 ished yew : darts rush along the sky : spears fall like sparks of flame 
 that gild the stormy face of night. 
 
 * As the noise of troubled ocean when roll the waves on high, as the 
 last peal of thundering heaven ; such is Ihe noise of battle. Though 
 Cormacs' hundred bards were there, feeble were the voice of an hun- 
 ilred bards, to send the deaths to futui^e times ; for many were the 
 deaths of the heroes, and wide poured the blood of the valiant." Fin- 
 gal. 
 
 Analysis. Never were images more awfully sublime, employed to 
 heighten the terror of a battle. 
 
 393. For the farther illustration of this subject, it is pro- 
 per to remark, that all ideas of the solemn and awful kind, 
 and even bordering on the terrible, tend greatly to assist the 
 sublime : such as darhiess, solilialey and silence. 
 
 Illiis. I, What are the scenes of nature that elevate th<? mind in the 
 highest degree, and produce the sublime sensation .^ Not the gay land- 
 scape, the tiowery field, or the flourishing city ; but the hoary moim- 
 tain, and the solitary lake ; the aged forest, and the torrent falling 
 over the rock. 
 
 2. Hence, too, night-scenes are commonly the most sublime. The 
 firmament, when filled with stars, scattered in such vatt numbers, and 
 with such magnificent profusion, strikes the imagination with a more 
 awful grandeur, than when we view it enlightened with all the splen- 
 dour of the sun. 
 
 3. The deep sound of a great bell, or the striking of a great clock, 
 are at any time grand ; but, when heard amid the silence and stillness 
 of the night, they become doubly so. 
 
 4. Darkness is very commonly applied for adding sublimity to all 
 our ideas of the Deity. " He maketh darkness his pavilion ; he dwell- 
 eth in the thick cloud." 
 
 So Milton : 
 
Qrandeur and Sublimity. 2Q7 
 
 s . . - How oft, amidst 
 
 Thick clouds and dark, does Heaven's all-ruling Site 
 
 Choose to reside, his glory unobscured, 
 
 And. with tlie majesty of darkness, round 
 
 Circles his throne. - - - Par. Lost, Book II. 263. 
 
 594. Obscurity, we are farther to remark, is not unfa- 
 vourable to the sublime. Though it render the object in- 
 distinct, the impression, however, may be great ; for as an 
 ingenious author has well observed, it is one thing to make 
 an idea clear, and another to make it aff'ecting to the ima- 
 gination ; and ihe imagination may be strongly affected, 
 and, in fact, often is so, by objects of which we have no clear 
 conception. 
 
 Illus. Thus we see, that almost all the descriptions given us of the 
 appearances of supernatural being^s, carry some sublimity, though the 
 conceptions which they afford us be confused and indistinct. Their 
 sublimity arises from the ideas, which they always convey, of superior 
 power and might, joined with an awful obscurity. 
 
 Example. We may gee this fully exemplified in the following noble 
 passage of the Book of Job : " In thoughts from the visions of the 
 night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon me, and 
 trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed 
 before my face ; the hair of my flesh stood up : it stood still ; but I 
 could not discern the form thereof; an image was before my eyes ; 
 there was silence ; and 1 heard a voice— shall mortal man be more 
 just than God .^"* 
 
 Scholium. No ideas, it is plain, are so sublime as those taken from 
 the Supreme Being ; the most unknown, but the g^reatest of all objects , 
 the infinity of whose nature, and the eternity of whose duration, join- 
 ed with the omnipotence of his power, though they surpass our con- 
 ceptions, yet exalt them to the highest. In general, all objects that 
 are greatly raised above us, or far removed from us, either in space or 
 in time, are apt to strike us as great. Our viewing them as through 
 the mist of distance or antiquity, is favourable to the impressions of 
 their sublimity. 
 
 595. As obscurity, so disorder too, is very compatible 
 with grandeur ; nay, frequently heightens it. Few things 
 that are strictly regular, and methodical, appear sublime. 
 
 Il'us. We see the limits on every side : we feel ourselvtH> confined ; 
 thet i^ 's no room for the mind's exerting any great effort. Exact pro- 
 portio'i of parts, thoujih it enters often into the beautiful, is much dis- 
 regarded in the sublime. A great mass of rocks, thrown together by 
 the hand of nature, with wildness and confusion, strike the mind with 
 more grandeur than if they had been adjusted to one another with the 
 most accurate symmetry. 
 
 Obs ^n the feeble attempts which human art can make towards pro- 
 ducing grand objects, (feeble, doubtless, in comparison with the physi- 
 cal powers of nature,) greatness of dimensions always constitutes a 
 pr'i'iple part. No pile of building can convey any idea of ssubliniity, 
 gnlefs it fee ample and lofty. There is, too, ia architwjture, what i% 
 
 * Job ir. 14, 
 
208 The Pleasures of Taste, 
 
 called greatness of manner ; which seems chiefly to arise from pfc- 
 senting the object to us in one full point of view ; so that it shall make 
 its impression whole, entire and undivided upon the mind. A Gotiuc 
 cathedral raises ideas of grandeur in our minds, by its size, its height, 
 its awful obscurity, it strensrth, its antiquity, and its durability, 
 
 396. There still remains to be mentioned one class of 
 sublime objects, which may be called the moral, or senli- 
 mental sublime ; arising from certain exerjions of the hu- 
 man mind ; from certain atfections, and actions, of our fel- 
 iow creatures. 
 
 Illi'S. These will be found to h.-^ all, or chiefly of that class, which 
 comes under the head of magnanimity, or heroism ; and they produce 
 m effect extremely similar to what is produced by th« view of grand 
 objects in nature ; Ailing the mind with admiration, and elevating it 
 above itself. 
 
 Example l.—Scmn-Si \ Ah ! Warwick. Warwick, wert tb«u as we are» 
 N II our loss agTiin. 
 
 ^iict- haili bruu(;ht a puissant pou( r ; 
 .' iht- ii»\vt. Ah! could 'at thou fly ! 
 
 ll'aruaL. \' iix iLyA 1 wuuld not Hy 
 
 Third Part of Henry WL Act T. Scene % 
 
 /.•,/.'•. Such a sentiment from a man expiring of his wounds is 
 M( *, and must tlevate the mind to the greatest height that 
 '^^i L< vUiic by a single expression. 
 
 hxample 2. Porus, taken prisoner by Alexander, after a gallant de- 
 fence, and asked, How he wished to be treated .'' aaswcred, '< Like a 
 king." 
 
 3. Ceesar chiding the pilot, who was afraid to set out with him in a 
 storm, ** Quid times .'' Csesarem vehis ;'* is anotl.er good instance of 
 this sentimental sublime. 
 
 Corol. Wherever, in some critical and high situation, we behold a 
 man uncommonly intrepid, and resting upon himself; superior to pas- 
 sion and to fear ; animated by some great principle to the contempt 
 of popular opinion, of selfish interest, of dangers, or of death ', there 
 we are struck with a sense of the sublime. (See Scholia 2. ^rt. 419.) 
 
 397. High virtue is the most natural and fertile source of 
 this moral sublimity. However, on some occasions, where 
 virtue either has no place, or is but imperfectly displayed, 
 yet if extraordinary vigour and force of mind be discovered, 
 xve are not insensible to a degree of grandeur in the charac- 
 ter ; and from the splendid conqueror, or the daring conspi- 
 rator, whom we are far from approving, we cannot withhold 
 our admiration. 
 
 Example. The sublime in natural, and the sublime in moral objects, 
 Are brought before us in one view, and compared togother, in the fol- 
 )«wiiig beautiful pas^ag^e of Akenside s Pleasures of the Imagioatioo,; 
 
 Look th«'n abroad through nature i to the range 
 OI planets, su'.is. and adainantint- spheres, 
 "Whc»iling, uii&huken. tin-ough the void inunense ; 
 And speak, O ntuii ! do* s this capacious sct'Ue^ 
 With hjilf that kindUng xuajest j, dilate 
 
'the Sublime in tVrifing^ 20^ 
 
 TW strong concepti<in, as Mhen Brutiw rose 
 Rt'iulgent, iVoin tht stroke of Casar's fate, 
 Amid the croud of patiiots : and his arm 
 Aloft extending, like f ternal Jove, 
 When gruilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud 
 On Tull) 's name, and shook his crimson steel, 
 And bade the father of liis country hail ! 
 For lo .' the tyrant prostrate on the dust ; 
 And Rome ag;ain is free. Book I. 
 
 Scholia I. We have now enumerated a variety of instances, both in 
 •inanimate objects and in human life, where the suWime appears. In 
 all these instances, the emotion raised in us is of the same kind, al- 
 though the objects that produce the emotion be of widely different kinds. 
 
 2. A question next arises, whether we are able to discover some one 
 fiindamental quality, in which all these different objects agree, and 
 which is the cause of their producing an emotion of the same nature in 
 our minds ? Various hypotheses have been formed concerning this. 
 
 3. Some have imagined that amplitude or great extent, joined with 
 simplicity, is either immediately, or remotely, the fundamental quality 
 of whatever is sublime ; but we have seen that amplitude is confined 
 to one species of sublime objects ; and cannot, without violent strain- 
 ing, be applied to them all. 
 
 4. Again, terror has been supposed the source of the sublime, and 
 that no objects have this character but such as produce impressions of 
 pain and danger. It is indeed true, that many terrible objects are 
 highly sublime ; ^nd that grandeur does not refuse an alliance with 
 the idea of danger. But then this seems to stretch the theory too far ; 
 for the sublime does not consist wholly in modes of danger, or of pain. 
 The proper sensation of sublimity appears to be distinguishable from 
 the sensation of either of these ; and, on several occasions, to be en- 
 tirely separated from them. 
 
 6. In many grand objects, there is no coincidence with terror at all ; 
 as in the magnificent prospect of wide extended plains, and ot the star- 
 ry firmament ; or in the moral dispositions and sentiments, which we 
 view with high admiration ; and in many painful and terrible objects 
 also, it is clear, there is no sort of grandeur. The amputation of a 
 limb, or the bite of a snake, are exceedingly terrible ; but are destitute 
 of all claim whatever to sublimity. 
 
 6. Mighty force or powtr^ whether accompanied with terror or not, 
 whether employed in protecting or in alarming us, has perhaps a better 
 title than any thing that has yet been mentioned, to be the fundament- 
 al quality of the sublime ; as, after the review which we have taken, 
 there does not occur any sublime object, into the idea of which, powers 
 or strength^ or force ^ does not enter, either directly, or, at least, inti- 
 mately associated with the idea, by leading our thoughts to some SES- 
 tonishing power, as concerned in the production of the object. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SUBLIME IN WRITING* 
 
 398. Having treated of grandeur or suhlimify, in esc- 
 ternal objects, the way seems now to be cleared, for treating. 
 
210 The Pleasures of Taste. 
 
 with more advantage, of the description of such objects; ©r, 
 of what is called tke sublime in writing. The foundation * 
 of the sublime in composition, must always be laid in the na- 
 ture of the object described. 
 
 Illus. 1. Unless it be such an object as, if presented to our eyes, H 
 exhibited to us in reality, would raise ideas of that elvating, that awful, 
 and magnificent kind, which we call sublime ; the description, however 
 finely drawn, is not entitled to come under this class. This excludes 
 all objects that are merely beautiful, g^ay, or elegant. 
 
 2. In the next place, the object must not only, in itself, be sublime j 
 but it must be set before us in such a light as is most proper to give 
 us a clear and full impression of it ; it niusi be described with strength, 
 with conciseness, and simplicity. This depends principally, upon the 
 lively iinprassioQ which the poet, or orator, has of the object which he 
 exhibiu ; and upon his being deeply affected, and warmed, by the 
 sublime idea which he would convey. If his own feeling be languid, 
 lie can never inspire us with any strong emotion. Instances, which 
 ar«f extremely necessary on this subject, will clearly shew the impor- 
 tance of all the requisites which we have just now mentioned. 
 
 S99. It is, generally speaking, among the most ancient 
 authors, that we are to look for the most striking instance* 
 of the sublime. The early ages of the worlcl, and the rude 
 unimproved state of society, are peculiarly favorable to the 
 strong emotions of sublimity. 
 
 Jllus. The genius of men is then ratich turned to admiration and 
 astonishment. Meeting with many objects, to them now and strange, 
 their imagination is kept glowing, and their passions are often raised 
 to the utmost. They think, and express themselves boldly, and with- 
 out restraint. In the progress* of society, the genius and manners of 
 ,noo undergo a change more favourable to accuracy, than to strength 
 or sublimity. (Su Art M and :i2.) 
 
 400. Of all writings, ancient or modern, the sacred Scrip- 
 tures afford us the highest instances of the sublime. The 
 descriptions of the Deity, in them, are wonderfully noble; 
 both from the grandeur of the object, and the manner of rep- 
 resenting it. 
 
 Example 1. What an asscrabHge, for instance, of awful and sublime 
 ideas is presented to us, in that passage of the 18th Psalm, where aa 
 appearance of the Almighty is described ? 
 
 2. '* In my distress I called upon the Lord ; he heard ray voice out of 
 his temple, and my cry came before him. Then thf earth shook and 
 trembled ; the foundations also of the hills were moved ; because he 
 was wroth. He bowed the heavens and came down, and darkness was 
 under his feet ; and he did ride upon a cherub, and did lly ; yea, he 
 he did fly upon the wings of the wind. He made da»ki)vss his secret 
 place ; hu pavilion round about him were dark waters, and thick 
 clouds oi the sky." 
 
 Jiiiali^ns. Here, agreeably to the principles established in Chapter 
 IV. (Art. 394.J ^e see with what propriety aad success the circum- 
 
The Sublime in PVnling, 2U 
 
 sVances of aaikness and terror are applied for heightening the sublime. 
 
 Example 3. So, also, the prophet Habakkuk, in a similar passage : 
 ^^ He stood and measured the earth ^ he beheld, and drove asunder 
 the nations. The everlasting mountains were scattered ; the perpet- 
 ual hills did bow ; his ways are everlasting. The mountains saw thee ; 
 and they trembled. The overflowing of the water [jassed by. The 
 deep uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands on high." 
 
 4. There is a passage in (he Psalms, which deserves to be mentioned 
 nnder this head : '' God stilleth the noise of the seas, the noise of their 
 waves, aiid the tumults of the people." 
 
 .fynalysis. The joining together two such grand objects, as the raging 
 ?f the waters, and the tumults of the people, between which there Is so 
 •auch resemblance as to form a very natural association in thf ffuicy, 
 ..lid th'. representing them both as subject, at one momijiit, to the com- 
 mand of God, produces a noble effect. 
 
 401. Homer is a poet, who, in all ages, and bj all critics, 
 lias been greatly admired for sublimity ; and he owes *nncli 
 of his grandeur to that native and uijailected simplicity, 
 which characterises his tnanner. 
 
 Illiis. His descriptions of hosts engaging; the animation, the fire, 
 and rapidity, which he throws into his battles, present to every reader 
 of the Iliad, frequent instances cf sublime writiiig. His introduction 
 of the gods^ tends often to heighten, in a high degree, iae majesty of 
 iiis warlike scenes. 
 
 Example i. Hence Longinus bestows such high and just commen- 
 dations on that passage in the loth Book of the Iliad, where Neptune, 
 when preparing to issue forth mto the engagement, is described as 
 -shakuig the mountains with his steps, and driving his chariot along tlie 
 ocean. 
 
 2. Minerva, arming herself for fight, in the 5th Book ; and Apollo, 
 in the loth, leading on the Trojans, and tlaslang terror with his a;gis 
 on the face of the Greeks ; are similar instances of great sublimity 
 added to t!ie description of battles, by the appearances of those celes- 
 tial behigs. 
 
 3. In the 20th Book, where all the gods take part in the engage- 
 ment, accordiag as they severally favour either tiie Grecians j- (he 
 Trojans, the poet's genius is signally displayed, and the descri'>.'i:>n 
 rises into the most awful magnificence. AU nftfire is repr"«(\i, ■! ?n 
 in commotion. Jupiter thunders in the heavens ; Nept'.; na 
 earth with his trident; the ships, the city, and the mo. ., , 
 the earth trembles to its centre ; Pluto starts from M^ th \.,.. , id, 
 iest the secrets of the infernal regions should l>e i:.id i pt a to the views 
 of mortals. 
 
 402. The works of Ossian abound with examples of the 
 sublime. The subjecis of which that author treats, and 
 the manner in which he writes, are particuhtrly favcuable 
 to it. 
 
 Illus. He possesses all the plain and venerable manner of the an- 
 cient times. He deals n-. no superhuous or gaudy ornaments ; bi*t throws 
 fqrth his images with a rapid conoisei < ss, which ena':;]es them to strike 
 the mind with the greatest force. Among poets of more polished 
 
 19 
 
A'^i The Pleasures of Tasie, 
 
 Klines, we arc to look for the graces of correct writing-, for just proper 
 tion of parts, and skilfully conductetl narration. In the midst oX 
 smiling scenery and pleasurable themes, the gay and the beautiful -will 
 appear, undoubtedly, to more advantage. But amidst the rude scenes 
 of nature and of society, such as Ossian describes ; amidst rocks, and 
 torrents, and whirlwinds, and battles, dwells the sublime ; and there it 
 naturally associates itself with that grave and solemn spirit, which dis- 
 n^uishes the author of Fir»gal. 
 
 -103. Conciseness and simj)licity are essential to sublime 
 writing. Simplicity is opposed to studied and profuse orna- 
 ment ; and conciseness, to superfluous expression. 
 
 Jllns. We shall now explain why a defect, either in conciseness or 
 isimplicitv, is hurtful, in a peculiar manner, to the sublime. The 
 emotion occasioned in the mind by some great or noble object, raises 
 it considerably above its ordinary pitch A sort of enthusiasm is pro- 
 ♦luced, extremely agreeable while it lasts ; but from which the mind is 
 tending every moment to fall into its ordinary situation. Now. when 
 an author has brought us, or is attempting to bring ua, into this siate, 
 if he multiplies v/ords unncce.vsarily, if he decks the sublime object 
 which he presents to us, round and round, with glittering ornaments; 
 nay, if he throws in any one decoration that sinks in the least below 
 the capital image, that moment he alters the key ; he relaxes the ten- 
 sion of the mind; the strength of the feeling is emasculated; the 
 beautiful may remain, hut the sublime is gone. 
 
 Example 1. When Julius Casar said to the pilot, who was afraid to 
 put to sea with him in a storm, "Quid times? Casarem vehis ;" {Ex- 
 atnph 3. ^rt. 396.) we are struck with the daring magnanimity of one 
 relying with such confidence on l:is cause and his fortune. These few 
 words convey every thing accessary to give us the impression full. 
 
 2. Lucan resolved to amplify and adorn the thouglit. Obs«'rve how 
 every tiine he twists it round, it departs farther from the sublime, till it 
 end at last in tumid declamation. In Rowe's translation the passage- 
 runs thus: 
 
 But Caisar still superior to distress, 
 IVarless, ami confulent of sure succt is, 
 thus to tlio pilot loud:— 'llu- seas dts])iso, 
 Anil tht vain thrtutenin^ of the noisy skies : 
 'i'hougli go<ts deny thee yon Auionian straud, 
 Yet go, I chargv you, go at n»y command. 
 Thy iR:m)rance alone caa cause ihy fears, 
 Thou know'si not nhat a freisrht thy vessel bears : 
 I hou know'st not 1 am h'j to wlioia "lis given 
 Never to want the cajt of watchful heaven. 
 Ohtdient fortune waits ni) hunibk> thrall. 
 And, always ready, cor»f-4 Ix-fore I call. 
 J.el winds, and seas.loud uars at freedom wagf, 
 And waste upon themselves their empty rage ; 
 A strong^er. miji^htier dj nion is thy friend. 
 Thou and thv bark on Caesar's fate depend. 
 Thou stand'st amazed to view tliis ctreadful scene, 
 And wonder' st what the Gods and Fortune wean; 
 But artfully their bounties thus they raise, 
 And from my dangvr arrogate new praise : 
 Amidst the fears of death the)- bid me live, 
 And still enhance what they are sure to give ''* 
 
 * Sperne minas, inquit. pelapi, ventoque furenti 
 Trade sinum : Italiam, si, coelo auctore, recusas. 
 Me, ]>ete. Sola tibi causa h%c est j usta timoris 
 
TY^e Svhlime hi fFritmg. 515 
 
 404. On account of the great importance of siiriplicity 
 and conciseness, rhyme, in English verse, if not inconsistent 
 with the sublime, is^ at least very unfavourable to it. The 
 constrained elegance of this kind of verse, and studied 
 smoothness of the sounds, answering regularly to each oth- 
 er at the end of the line, though they be quite consistent with 
 gentle emotions, yet weaken the native force of sublimity ; 
 besides, that the superfluous words which the poet is often 
 obliged to introduce in order to fill up the rhyme, tend far- 
 ther to enfeeble it. 
 
 Example, Homer's description of the nod of Jupiter, as shaking the 
 heavens, has been admired in all ages as highly sublime. Literally 
 translated, it runs thus: ''He spoke, and bending his sable brows, 
 gave the awful nod ; while he shook the celestial locks of his imrnortal 
 head, all Ol^ympus was shaken." 
 
 Pope translates it thus : 
 
 He spoke ; ami awful bends his sabk brows. 
 Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the n«d, 
 The stamp of fate, and sanction of a God. 
 Hi)2:h heaven with trtmbling the dread signal took, 
 And all Oiympus to its centre shook. 
 
 Analysis. The image is spread out, and attempted to be beautified ; 
 but it is, in truth, weakened. The third line — '' The sl^imp of fate, and 
 sanction of a God," is merely repletivg ; and introduced for no other 
 reason, but to till up the rhyme ; for it interrupts the description, and 
 clogs the image. For the same reason, out of mere compliance with 
 the rhyme, Jupiter is represented as shaking his locks before he gives 
 the nod ; — " Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod," which is 
 trifling, and without meaning. Whereas, in the original, the hair of his 
 nead shaken, is the effect of his nod, and makes a happy picturesque 
 circumstance in the description.'^ 
 
 405, The boldness, freedom, and variety of our blank 
 verse, are infinitely more fiivourable than rhyme can be to 
 all kinds of sublime poetry. The fullest proof of this is affor- 
 A&^ by Milton; an author whose genius led him eminently 
 to the sublime. The whole first and second books of Para 
 dise Lost, are continued instances of it. 
 
 Example. Take only for an example, tlic following noted descriptio;^ 
 of Satan after his fall, appearing at the head of the infernal host- 
 
 Victorem ran posse tuum t quein numina nunquam 
 Dtstituunt ; de quo male tunc Fortuna meretur 
 Cum post vota venit. Medias peiTumpe procellas 
 Tutela secure mei- Cceli iste fretique 
 Non puppis nostrse labor est. Hanc Casare pressani 
 A Huctu defendet onus ; nam proderit uud's 
 Iste ratis : Quid tanta straj^e paratur 
 Ipnoras ; quaerit pelag^i ceeliqur tumultii 
 i^iiid prsestet fortuna )nilii — Fhnrs, V. 57S. 
 
 * See Webb on the Beauties of Poetry. 
 
t The Pleasures of Tmte^ 
 
 - . - - He, above the rest, 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
 Stood like a towei- : his form had not yet l<K>t 
 AM her original bvii^htnesa. nor appeared 
 Less than archangel ruined, atid the excess 
 Of ghn y obseurtti ; as wher. the sun, ncM risen, 
 Looks through the horizontal misty air, 
 ^)horn of liis Ijeaiiis ; or, from Ijelsind the moon, 
 In dim eclipse, disastrous tuilight shetU 
 On half the nations, and ivith fear of ehange 
 Perplexes nionarchs. Darken'd so, yet shone 
 Above them all, th' archangel. - • - - 
 
 Anctli/sis. Here concur a variety of sonrccs of the sublime ; the jmn- 
 
 cipa' object eminently jjreat ; a hig^h superior nature, iallen indeed; 
 
 ,.* .„^.,:..„ -.^...u- — 'i:i.;t distres3 ; tlie grandeur of the principal ob- 
 
 iciuttng it with so noble an idea, as that of the 
 
 ' ; this picture shaded with all those images ol' 
 
 laugc and trouble, of darkness and terror, which coincide so finely 
 
 1th the sublinie emotion ; and the whole expressed in a style and 
 
 crsHication, easy, natural, and simj)le, but magnificent. 
 
 40o. Simplicity and conciseness are essential to sublwie 
 \ivrititig; (Jlrt. 403.J hwt strength is another necessary 
 equisite. Tiie strength of description arises, in a great 
 Measure, ft om a simple conciseness; but, it supposes also 
 oniething more ; namely, a proper choice of circumstances 
 ill the description, so as to exhibit the object in its full and 
 uiost striking point of view. 
 
 Illus. 1. For every object has several faces, so to speak, by which 
 I may be presented to us. accordinjj to the circumstanc 's with which 
 ' may be surroui>ded ; and it will appear eminently sublime, or not, 
 I proportion as all these circumstances are happily chosen, and of a 
 iibiime kind. Here lies the great art of the writer : and indeed, the 
 reat difljculty of sid>linie description. If ihe description be too gen- 
 ial, and divested of « ircumstuntes, the object appears in a faint light ; 
 \ makes a feeble impression, or no imprcs*;ion at all, on the reader. 
 \t tlie same time, if any (» Ivia! or irapropcr circumstances arc mingled, 
 lie whole is degraded. 
 
 2. A storm or tern; tance, is a sublime object in nature. 
 
 :>ut, to render it siiblin.ic m iyv^ ription, it is not enough, either to give 
 s mere general expressions concerning the vio!on<e of the tempest, or 
 :o describe it? common vidgar efiVcts, in overthiowinjr trees and hous- 
 es. It must be painted with such circumstances as fdl the mind with 
 ^reat and awful ideas. 
 
 Example. This is very happily done in Ibe following passage. 
 
 Ihe Father of the Gods liis glory shrouds. 
 
 Involved in temptsts. and a night of clouds : 
 
 And 'rom the nii<ldledarkijtss Hashing out, 
 
 By f IS he deals his fuiy boltsabout. 
 
 Earth fivh the motions'of htr .lugry God. -) 
 
 Her tJitraiU tn iiible,and her mountains not!, J> 
 
 And 11} ing Inasts in forests seek abod<.. J 
 
 Bc-ep horror seizes tvery human breast; 
 
 Th« ir pride is humbled, and their fears confest ; 
 
 Vhile he from high his rolling thunder throws, 
 
 Aftd fives the laou.ntaiiis v. iih repeated blow s ; 
 
The Sublime in Writing, 215 
 
 The rocks are from tiieir old foundations rent j 
 
 The winds redouble.and the rains augrntnt.* Dryden, 
 
 Jimdijsis. Eveiy circumstance in this noble description is the pro- 
 <?iiction of an iuiagiuaiion heated and astonished with the grandeur of 
 the object. 
 
 407. The sublime depends upon a just selection of cir- 
 cumstances ; and great care, in writing, that every circum- 
 stance be avoided, which, by bordering in the least upon the 
 mean, or even upon the gay or the trifling, might alter the 
 tone of the emotion. 
 
 Illns. 1. The proper sources of the sublime arc to be looked for 
 every where in nature. It is not by hunting aft«r tropes and figures, 
 and rhetorical assistances, that we can expect to produce it. No : it 
 stands clear for the most part of these laboured refinements of art. It 
 must come unsought, if it coiiies at all ; and be the natural offspring of* 
 a strong imagination. 
 
 Est Deus in nobis ; agltante'calesimus illo. 
 
 2. Wherever a great and awful object is presented in nature, or a 
 very magnanimous and exalted affection of the human mind is display- 
 ed ', thence, if you can catch the impression strongly, and exhibit it 
 warm and glowing, you may draw the sublime. These are its only 
 proper sources. In judging of any striking beauty in composition, 
 whether it is or is not to be referred to this class, we must attend to the 
 nature of the emotion which it raises ; and only if it be of that elevating, 
 solemn, and awful kind, which distinijuishes this feeling, we can pro- 
 nounce it sublime. 
 
 Sckolium. From the account which has been given of the nature of 
 the sublime, it clearly follows, that it is an emotion which can never 
 be long protracted. The mind by no force of genius, can be kept, for 
 any considerable time, so far raised above its common tone ; but will, 
 of course, relax into its ordinary situation. Neither are the abilities 
 of any human writer sufficiewt to furnish a long continuation of unin- 
 terrupted sublime ideas. The utmost we can expect, is, that this fire 
 of imagination should sometimes flash upon us like lightning from hea- 
 ven, and then disappear. In Homer and Milton, this efiulgence of 
 geni<is breaks forth more frequently, and with greater lustre than in 
 most authors. Shakespeare also rises often into the true sublime. 
 But no author whatever is sublime throughout. Some, indeed, there 
 are, who, by a strength aiid dignity in their conceptions, and a cur- 
 rent of high ideas that runs through their whole composition, preserve 
 the reader's mind always in a tone nearly allied to the sublime ; for 
 which reason they may, in a limited sense, merit the name of contin- 
 ued sublime writers ; and in this class we may justly place Demosthenes 
 and Plato. 
 
 408. As for what is called the sublime style, it is, for the 
 most part, a very bad one ; and has no relation whatever to 
 the real sublime. 
 
 * Ipse Pater, media nimborum in nocte, corusea 
 Fulraina molituv dextri ; quo maxima raotu 
 Terra tremit ; fugere fetiie ; et mortaJia corda 
 Per gentts humilis stravit pavor : ille fiagi'anti 
 Aut Atho, ant Rodopcn, aut alta Ceraunia telu 
 
 Pejicit. .— — Geoi'S'- /. 
 
 19^ 
 
; G The Pleasures of Task, 
 
 Illus. Persons are apt to imagine that magnificeiu woraS; accuiini' 
 lated epithets, and a certain swelling kind oi' expression, by rising 
 above what is usual or vulgar, contributes to the sublime ; nay, even 
 forms this style. Nothinjj can be more Jalse. In all the instances ot 
 sublime writing, which we have given, nothing of this kind appears. 
 Example. " God said let there be light, and there was light.' 
 Jinalifsis. This is striking and sublime. But put \\ into what is com- 
 monly called the sublime style : '' The sovereign Arbiter ot nature, by 
 the potent energy of a single word, commanded the light to exist ;" 
 and, a^ Boileau has well observed, the style indeed is raised, but the 
 thought is fallen. 
 
 Coral. 1. In general in all good writing, the sublime lies in the 
 thought, not in the words ; and when the thought is truly noble, it will, 
 for the most part, clothe itself in a native dignity of language. The 
 sublime, indeed, rejects mean, low, or trivial expressions ; but it is 
 equally an enemy to such as are turgid. Tbe main secret of being 
 sublime, is to say great things in few and plain words. 
 
 2. It will be found to hold, without exception, that the most sublime 
 authors are the simplest in their style ; and wherever you find a writer, 
 \\\\o affects a more than ordinary pt»mp and parade of words, and is 
 I'ways endeavouring to magnity his subjrct by epithets, there you may 
 nimediately snspect, that, feebie in sentimcut, he is studying to sup- 
 port himself by mere expression. 
 
 409. The snme unfavourable judg:ment we must pass on 
 all that laboured apparatus with which some writers intra- 
 <!tice a passage or description, which they intend shall be 
 -iiblime; calling on their itiaders to attend, invoking theiu 
 nuse, or breaking forth into general, unmeaning exclama- 
 ions, concerning the greatness, terribleness, or majesty of 
 liC object, whicii they are to describe. 
 
 Example. Addison, in his Campaign, has fallen into an error of this 
 ind, when about to describe the battle of Blenheim : 
 
 ButO! niv Mils** 1 what nwrnbei-s wilt thou finU 
 To siiiK li»c furious troops in ImtTlt' jonv'd ? 
 iVletbiiiKs I hear the drum's tuinuhuous souiiU, 
 The victor's shout«. and dying groans, conrotuid ; &c. 
 
 JJnali/sis. Introductions of th's kind, are a forced attempt in a writer 
 o si)ur up himself, and his reader, when he finils his imagination be- 
 ,in to Hag. It is like taking artificial spirits in order to supply the 
 \ant of such as are natural. By this observation, however, it is not 
 aeant to pass a general censure on Addison's Campaign, which, in 
 evoral places, is far from wanting merit ; and, in particular, ihc no- 
 id comparison of his hero to the angel who rides in. the whirlwind 
 »ud directs the storm, is a truly sublime iniHge. 
 
 410. The faults opposite to the sublime, are chiefly two ; 
 tiist, the fri iri,i ; and, secondly, the bombast, 
 
 Illus. 1. The frigid consists in degrading an object, or sentiment, 
 which is publime in itself, by our weak conception of it; or, by our 
 weak, low., and childish description of it. This betrays entire absence, 
 or at least; great poverty of genius. (Sec Art. 2U4.) 
 
i. Bombast lies iii forcing an ordinary or trivial object oiilofiis 
 iank, and endeavouring- to raise it into t'lo snbliine ; or, in attempting, 
 to exalt a sublime object beyond all natural and reasonable bounds. 
 Into this error, which is but too common, writers of genius may some- 
 times fail, by unluckily losing sight oi" the true point of tlie sublime. 
 This is also called fiistain, or rant. Shakespeare, a great but incorrect 
 i,'^finius, is not unexceptionable here, Dryden and Lee, in their trage- 
 dies, abound with it. (See Chapter VIII. Book III) 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 BEAUTY, AND OTHER PLEASURES OF TASTE. 
 
 411. BEAUTY, next to sublimity, affjrds, beyond doubt., 
 the highest pleasure to the imagination. The emotion which 
 it raises, is very distinguishable from that of sublimity. It 
 is of a calmer kind ; more gentle and soothing; it does not 
 elevate the mind so much, but produces an agreeable sereni* 
 iy» vSublimity raises a feeling too violent to be lasting: the 
 pleasure arising from beauty admits of longer continuance. 
 It extends also to a much greater variety of wljjects than 
 sublimity ; to a variety indeed so great, that the feelings 
 which beautiful objects^ produce, diii'er considerably, not in 
 degree only, but also in kind, from one anotlier. Hence, no 
 word in the lani>;uao;e is used in a more va^ue si^nilication 
 than beauty. 
 
 liliis. It is applied to almost every external object that pleases the 
 
 eye, or the ear ; to a great number of the graces of wrrting; to many 
 
 iispositions of the mind; nay, to several objects cf mere abstract sci- 
 
 nce. We talk currently of a beautiful tree, or flower; a beautiful po- 
 
 • in ; a beautiful character ; and a beautiful threorem isi mathematics. 
 
 Scholia 1. lienco we may easily perceive, \hat, amou^'r so great a 
 yarietj^ of objects, to find out som^ one quality in which they al! agrec^ 
 and which is the founflation of that agreeable sensation they ail raise, 
 must be a very diflicult, if not, more probably, a vain attempt. 
 
 2. Objects, denominated beautiful, are so different, as to please, not 
 in virtue of any one quality common to them all, but by means of sev- 
 eral different principles in human nature. The agreeable emotion 
 which they all raise, is somewhat of the same nature ; and, therefore, 
 has the common name of beauty given to it ; but it is raised by differ- 
 ent causes. 
 
 412. Hypotheses, however, have been framed by ingenious 
 Rien, for assigning the funtlamental quality of beauty in all 
 objects. In particular, iiivforniUif amidst variety^ has been 
 insisted on as this fundamental quality. This accounts, in 
 a satisfactory manner, for the beauty of many figures. 
 
a 1 8 llie Pleasures of Taste. 
 
 Jllns. But when we endeavour to apply this principle to beautifi.i 
 o!>jects of some other kind, as to colour^ for instance, or motion, wc 
 shall soon find that it ha> no place. And even in external fisfured ob- 
 jects, it does not hold that their beauty is in proportion to tlieir mix- 
 ture of variety with uniformity ; seeing many please us as hig:hly beau- 
 lifid, which have scarcely any variety ; and others, which are various 
 to a dcg-ree of intricacy. 
 
 065. I^aying systems of this kind, therefore, aside, we propose to 
 give an enumeration of several of those classes of objects in which 
 beauty most remarkably appears; and to point out, as far as the limits 
 of this work will admit, the separate principles of beauty in each of 
 Uiem. 
 
 413. Colour affords, perhaps, the simplest instance of 
 beauty, and therefore the fittest to begin with. Here, nei- 
 ther variety, tior uniformity, nor any other principle, can 
 perhaps be assigned, as the foundation of beauty. 
 
 Illus. 1. We can refer it to no other cause except the structure of 
 liic eye, which determines us to rcfeive certain modifications of the 
 rays of light with more pleasure than others. And we see according- 
 ly, that, as the organ of seusHtion varies in difTerent persons, they have 
 iieir different favourite colours. It is probable, that association of 
 leas has influence, in some cases, on the pleasure which we receive 
 liom colours. 
 
 Example. Green, for instance, may appear more beautiful, by being 
 < oniiected in our ideas with rural prospects and scenes; white, with in- 
 nocence ; blue, with the serenity of the sky. 
 
 lUus. 2. Independent of associations of this kind, all that we can 
 trther observe concerning colour.*, is, that those chosen for beauty 
 ue, generally, delicate rather than glaring. 
 
 Example. Such are those paintings with which nature hath orna- 
 iiontt^d some of her works, and which art strives in vain to imitate ; 
 - the feathers of several kinds of birds, the leaves of flowers, and the 
 ne variation of colours exhibited by the sky at the rising and setting 
 i ti?c sjui. 
 
 Corol. These present to us the highest instances of the beauty of 
 olourinsr; and have accordingly been the favourite subjects of poeti- 
 . .il description in all countries. 
 
 414. From colour we proceed to figure ^ which opens to 
 us forms of beauty more complex and diversified. 
 
 415. REGULAun Y of figure first occurs to be noticed as a 
 <ource of beauty. 
 
 Illu3. 1. By a regular figure, is meant, one which we perceive to be 
 forme*! according to some certain rule, and not^left arbitrary, or loose, 
 in the construction of its parts. 
 
 Example. Thus, a circle, a square, a triangle, or a hexagon, pleases 
 the eye, by its regularity, as a beautiful figure. 
 
 ,'Jnali/sis. We must jiot, however, conclude, that all figures please in 
 
 roportion to their regidarity ; or that regularity is the sole, or the 
 
 iiief foundation of beauty in figure. On the contrary, a certain 
 
 •-■raceful variety is found to be a much more powerful principle of 
 
 beauty; and is therefore studied a great deal more than regularity, in 
 
 all works that are designed to please the eye. 
 
Beauty. 219 
 
 fllus. 2. Regularity appears beautiful to us, chiefly, if not only, on 
 account of its sug-gesting the ideas of Jitncss^propriily, and use — qual- 
 ities which have always a greater connection with oiderly and pro- 
 portioned forms, than w'lih those which appear not constructed j.rtard- 
 ing to any certain ruh?. It is clear that Nature, who is li.idoabtedly 
 tlie most graceful artist, hath, in all her ornamental works, pursued 
 variety, with an apparent neglect of regularity. 
 
 Examples. Cabinets, made after a regular form, it) cubes, d6ors, and 
 windows, constructed in the form of parallelograms, with exact 
 proportion of parts, by being so formed, please the eye : the reason is 
 obvious ; being works of use, they are, by such figures, the better suit- 
 ed to the ends for which they were desigited. But plants, flower's, and 
 leaves, are fuil of variety and diversity. A straight canal is an insipid 
 iigure, in comparison of the meanders of rivers. Cones and pyramids 
 arc beautiful ; but trees, growing in their natural wildness, are infi- 
 nitely more beautiful than when trimmed into pyramids and cones; 
 as is the fashion, for instance, in almost all gardens and pleasure- 
 gronnds. The apartments of a house must be regular in their disposi- 
 tion, for the conveniency of its inhabitants; but a garden, which is de- 
 signed merely for beauty, is exceedingly disgusting, when it has as 
 much uniformity and order in its parts as a dwelling-house.* 
 
 416. Hogarth, in his Analysis of Beauty, has observed, 
 that figures, bounded by curve lines, are, in general, more 
 beautiful than those bounded by straight lines and angles. 
 
 Illus. He pitches upon two lines, on which, according to him, the 
 beauty of figure principally depends ; and he has illustrated and sup- 
 ported his doctrine, by a surprising number of instances. 
 
 Example 1. The one is the waving line, or n curve bending back- 
 wards and forwards, somewhat in Ihe form of the letter S. 
 
 Analytis. This he calls the line of beauty ; and shows how often it is 
 found in shells, flowers, and such other ornamental works of nature ; 
 and how common it also is in the figures designed by painters and 
 sculptors, for the purpose of decoration. 
 
 Example 2. The other line, which he calls tiie line of grace, is the 
 former waving curve, twisted round some solid body. The curling 
 worm of a common jack is one of the instances he gives ofit. Twist- 
 ed pillars, and twisteii horns, also exhibit it. 
 
 ^^nalysis. In all the instances v/hicb he mentions, varieiy plainly ap- 
 pears to be so material a principle of beauty that he seems not to err 
 much when he defines the art of drawing pleasing forms, to be the art 
 of varying well For the curve line, so nincli the favourite of paint- 
 ers, derives, according to him, its chief advantjige, front its perpetual 
 bending and variation from the stiff regularity of the straight line. 
 
 417. Motion furnishes another source of beauty, distinct 
 from figure. Motitm of itself is pleasing; and bodies in 
 motion are, " casteris paribus,^^ preferred to those in rest. It 
 is, however, only gentle motion that belongs to the beautiful ; 
 for, vvhen it is very swift, or very forcible, such as that of a 
 torrent, it partakes of the sublime, {lllus, 2. ./?/7. 392.) 
 
 * Sec Lord Karnes's Elements of Criticism, vol. ii. chap. 31 
 
^20 The Pleasures of Taste, 
 
 Example I. The motion of a bird g;\'i6ing throw^^h the au' rs e:<- 
 trcmely heaiitil'ul; the swiftness" with which lightning darts through the 
 ^icavens is magnificent and astonishing. 
 
 Ohs. And here it is proper to observe, that the sensations of sublime 
 111 ;>eauliful are not always distinguished by Tcry distant boundaries } 
 it r.re capable, m several instances, of approaching towards each 
 ■'':er. 
 
 Example 2. Thus, a smooth running stream is one of the most beau- 
 tiful objects in nature : as it swells gradually into a great river, the 
 beautiful, by degrees, is lost in the sublime. 
 
 3. A young tree is a beautiful object ; a spreading ancient oak is a 
 venerable and a grand one. 
 
 4. The ciilmness of a fine morning is beautiful ', the universal still- 
 ness of the evening is highly sublime. 
 
 Illus. But to return to the beauty of motion, it will be found to hold, 
 
 I y generally, that motion in a straight line is not so beautiful as in 
 
 II undulating waving direction ; and motion upwards is, commonly 
 
 foo, more agreeable than motion downwards. 
 
 Example 6. The easy curling motion of flame and smoke may be 
 
 instanced, as an object sing«darly agreeable; and here Mr Hogarth's 
 
 waviiiir line recurs upon us as a principle of beauty, 
 
 Corol. That artist observes, very ingeniously, that all the common 
 id necessary motions for the business of life, are performed by men 
 . straight or plain lines ; but that all the graceful and ornamental 
 
 Knoveraents are made in waving lines ; an observation not unworthy of 
 
 bemg attended to. by all who study the grace of gesture and action. 
 
 418. Thoujih colour, figure, and motion, be separate prin- 
 iples of beauty ; yet in many beautiful objects they all 
 meet, and thereby render the beauty both greater and more 
 complex. 
 
 Example 1. Thus, in flowers, trees, and animals, we are entertained 
 nt once with the delicacy of the colour, with the gracefulness of the 
 
 nre, and sometimes also with the motion of the object. 
 
 .inaliisis. Although each of these produces a separate agreeable sen- 
 ->rttion, yet they are of such o similar nature, as readily to mix and 
 blend in one general perception of beauty, which we ascribe to the 
 whole object as its cause: for beauty is always conceived by us as 
 
 mcthing residing in the object which raises the pleasant sensation ; 
 
 sort of glory which dwells upon it, and that invests it. 
 
 Example 2. Perhaps the most complete assemblage of beautiful ob- 
 jects that can any where be found, is presented by a rich natural land- 
 '^^ipe, where there is a sufficient variety of objects: fields in verdure, 
 
 altered trees and flowers, running water, and animals grazing. 
 
 .'hiali/sis. If to these be joined some of the productions (»f art which 
 suit such a scene, as a "bridge with arches over a river, smoke rising 
 from cottages in the midst of trees, and the distant view of a fine build- 
 ing seen, at the same time, wiih the rising sun; we then enjoy, in the 
 highest perfection, that gay, cheerful, and placid sensation which char- 
 acterises beauty. 
 
 Corol. To have an eye and a taste formed for catching the peculiar 
 beauties of such scenes as these, is a necessary requisite fcr all who at- 
 tempt poetical description 
 
Beauty. t3-21 
 
 419. The beauty of the human countenance is more com- 
 plex than any that we have yet considered. It includes the 
 beauty of colour, arising from the delicate shades of the com- 
 plexion; and the beauty of figure, Rvisin^ fronv the lines 
 which form the different features of the face. But the chief 
 beauty of the countenance depends upon a mj^sterious ex- 
 pression, which it conveys, of the qualities of the mind; of 
 good sense, or good humour; of sprightliless, candour, be- 
 nevolence, sensibility, or other amiable dispositions. 
 
 Jinalysis. How it comes to pass, that a certain conformation of fea- 
 tures is connected in our idea with certain moral qualities ', whether 
 we are taught by instinct, or by experience, to form this connection^, 
 and to read the mind in the countenance, belongs not to us now to in- 
 quire, nor is it indeed easy to resolve. The fact is certain, and ac- 
 knowledged, that what gives the human countenance its most distin- 
 guishing beauty, is, what is called its exy)ression ; or an image, which 
 it is conceived, to shew of internal moral dispositions. 
 
 Scholia 1. This leads us to observe, that there are certain qualities 
 of a mind, which, whether expressed in the countenance, or by words, 
 or by actions, always raise in us a feeling similar to that of beauty, 
 
 2. There are two great classes of moral qualitie.s ; one is of the high 
 and the great virtues, which require extraordinary efibrts, and turn 
 upon dangers and sufferings ; as heroism^ magnanimity, contempt of 
 pleasures, and contempt of death. These excite in the spectator an 
 emotion of sublivnity and grandeur. (Illus. Art. 396.) 
 
 3. The other class is generally of the social viirues, and such as are 
 of a softer and gentler kind; as compassion, mildness, friendship, 
 uiid generosity. These raise in the beholder a sensation of pleasure, 
 so much akin to that produced by beautiful external objects, that, 
 thoJigh of a more dignified nature, it may, without impropriety, be 
 dassed under the same head. 
 
 420. A species of beauty, distinct from any that we have 
 yet mentioned, arises from design, or art ; or, in other words, 
 from the perception of means being adapted to art end ; or 
 the parts of any thing being well nttetl to answer the design 
 of the whole. 
 
 Illus. When, in considering the structure of a tree, or a plant, we 
 observe how all the parts, the roots, the stem, the bark, and the leaves, 
 are suited to the growth and nutriment of the whole ; much more 
 when we survey all the parts and members of a living rniimal; or 
 wlien we examine any of the curious works of art; such as a clock, 
 a s^up, Oi any nice machine ; the pleasure we have in the survey 
 is wholly *t.unded on; this sense of beauty. It is altogether differ- 
 ent from the perception of beauty produced by colour, figure, variety, 
 or any of the causes formerly mentioned. 
 
 Analysis. When you look at a watch, for instance, the case of it, if 
 finely engraved, and of curious workmanship, strikes you as beautiful 
 in tiie fornser sense j bright colo':*., f-xquisito polish, figures fi'iely rais- 
 ed and turned. But when you examine the spring and the wheels, and 
 cxatoint the beauty of the internal machinery ; your pleasiite then 
 
222 TJie Pkasvres of Taste, 
 
 arises wholly from the view of that admirable art with which so manv 
 various and complicated parls are made to unite for one purpose. 
 
 421. This sense of beauty in fitness and design, has an 
 extensive influence over nkanj of oui ideas. It is the foun- 
 dation of the beauty which we discover in the proportion of 
 doors, wlndotvs, arches, pillars, and all the orders of archi- 
 tecture, 
 
 lUus. I. Let the ornaments of a building be ever so fine and eleg^ant 
 in themselves, yet if they interfere with this sense of fitness and desig-n, 
 they lose their beauty, and hurt the eye like disag:reeable objects. 
 
 2. Twisted columns, for instance, are undoubtedly ornamenta! ; but 
 as they have an appearance of weakness, thoy always displease when 
 they are made use of to support any part of a building; that is massy, 
 and that seems to require a more substantial prop. 
 
 3. We cannot look upon any work wiiatever, without being led, by 
 
 I natural association of ideas, to think of its end and desig^n, and of 
 ourse to examine tiie propriety of its parts, in relation to this desijEfn 
 
 vuul end ^Vhen their propriety is clearly discerned, the work seems 
 always to have some beauty ; but when there is a total want of pro- 
 priety, it never fails of appearing; deformed. 
 
 4. Our sense of fitness and design, therefore, is so powerful, and 
 holds ^o high a rank among our perceptions, as to regulate in a great 
 measure, our other ideas of beauty. This observation is of the utmost 
 importaace. to all who study compo.^ition. For in an epic poem, a 
 history an oration, or any work of genius, we always require, as we do 
 
 II other works, a fitness, or adjustment of means, to the end which the 
 uthor is supposed to have in view. Let his descriptions be ever so 
 !< h, or his figures ever so elegant, yet if they are out of phice, if they 
 re not proper parts of that whole, if they suit not the main design, 
 
 ilicy lose all their beauty ; nay, from beauties they are converte*! into 
 jlo.^ormitics. Such power has our sense of fitness and congruity, to 
 produce a total transformation of an object whose appearance other- 
 wis'' would have been beautiful. 
 
 422. After having mentioned so many various species of 
 beauty, it now only remains to take notice of beauty, as it 
 is applied to writi?ig or discourse ; a term commonly used 
 in a sen.se altogether loose and undetermined. For it is 
 nnplied ro all that pleases, either in style or in sentiment, 
 !iom whatever principle that pleasure flows ; and a 6eflw/t- 
 /// pnein or oration mmnr*, in common tan gua:^''. no other 
 ihan .1 good 'me, or 07%e wdl compose L 
 
 /i/w9. 1. In this 8ens»e. it is plain, the word is altogether indefinite, 
 and points at no naMici'hir species or kind of beauty. 
 
 i! There is, however, another sense, somewhat more definite, iu 
 which beautv o{ v/riting characterises a particulai- manner ; when ii 
 is used .to signify a certain grace and aii^nity, in the turn either of 
 style or sentiment, for which some authors have been peculiarh' distin- 
 guish-i^. 
 
 3. In this si-nae, it denotes a manner neither remarkably sublime, 
 nbr vehemently passionate, nor uncommonly sparkling ; but iiich as 
 
Beauty. ^23 
 
 i.a>scs in the reader nn emotion of the gentle placid kind, similar to 
 what is raised by the contemplation of beautiful objects in nature ; 
 which neither lifts the mind very high, nor agitates it very much, but 
 diffuses over the imagination an agreeable and pleasing serenity. 
 
 Scholia 1. Addison is a writer altogether of this character ; and is 
 one of the most proper and precise examples that can be given of it. 
 Fcnelon, the author of the Adventures of Telemachus, may be given 
 lis another example. Virgil too, though very capable of rising on oc- 
 casions into the sublime, yet, in his general manner, is distinguished by 
 the character of beauty and grace, rather than of sublimity. Among 
 orators, Cicero has more of the beautiful than Demosthenes, whose 
 genius led him wholly towards vehemence and strength. 
 
 2. This much it is sufficient to have said upon the subject of beauty. 
 We have traced it through a variety of forms ; because next to sub- 
 limity, it is the most copious source of the pleasures of taste ; and be- 
 cause the consideration of the different appearances, and principles of 
 beauty, tends to the improvement of taste in many subjects. 
 
 3. But it is not only by appearing under the forms of sublime or 
 beautiful, that objects delight the imagination. From several other 
 principles, also, they derive their power of giving it pleasure. 
 
 423. Novelty, for instance, has been mentioned by Ad- 
 dison, by Kames, and bj every writer on this subject. An 
 object that has no merit to recommend it, except its being 
 uncommon or new, by means of this quality alone, produces 
 in the mind a vivid and an agreeable emotion. Hence that 
 passion of, curiosity, which prevails so generally among 
 mankind. 
 
 Jllus. Objects and ideas which have been long familiar, make too 
 faint an impression to give an agreeable exercise to our faculties. 
 New and strange objects rouse the mind from its dormant state, by 
 giving it a quick and pleasing impulse. Hence, in a great measure, 
 the entertainment afforded us by fiction and romance. The emotion 
 raised by novelty is of a more lively and pungent nature tlian that 
 j)roduced by beauty ; but much shorter in its continuance. For if the 
 object have in itself no charms to liold our attention, the shining gloss 
 thrown upon it by novelty soon wears off. 
 
 424. Besides novelty, imitation is another source of 
 pleasure to taste. This gives rise to what are termed, the 
 secondary pleasures of imagination ; which form, doubt- 
 less, a very extensive class. 
 
 Illus. For all imitation affords some pleasure ; not only the imitation 
 af beautiful or great objects, by recalling the original ideas of beauty 
 or grandeur which such objects themselves exhibited ; but even ob- 
 jects whi'.h have neither beauty nor grandeur, nay, some which are 
 terrible or deformed, please us in a secondary or represented view. 
 
 425. The pleasures of we/orfi/ and harmony belong also 
 to taste. There is no agreeable sensation we receive either 
 from beauty or sublimity, but what is capable of being 
 heightened by the power of musical sound. Hence the de- 
 
 20 
 
^24 The Fleqsttres of Taste, 
 
 light of poetical numbers ; and even of the more concealed 
 and looser measures of prose. , ♦ ,^ jj. ,< 
 
 426. TVity /aimour, and ridicule, likewise open a vanety' 
 to pleasures of taste, quite distinct from any that we have" 
 jet considered. 
 
 42r. Wit is a quality of certain thoughts and cxpres 
 sions ; the term is never applied to an action, nor to a pas- 
 sion ; far less to an external object.^ 
 
 Illus. 1. WVf is a term appropriated to such thoughts and cxpre«-. 
 sions as are hidicrous, and also occasion some degree of surpriic bx; 
 their sing^ularity. 
 
 2. Wit also, in a figurative sense, expresses a tRient for inrenting 
 hidicrous thoughts or expressions : we say commonly a loift-t/ niaiiy ov". 
 a vifin of wit. Iludibras is a man of wit ; FaUtaff is a witty man r, 
 ^xvift is both, f 
 
 3. Wit) in its proper sense, as explained above, is distinguishable in- 
 to two kinds ; wit in tlie thought, and tcit in the words or expresaioiif..^ \ 
 
 4. Again : wit in tht thoug:hl, is of two kin<ls ; ludicro~us image*, an«l 
 ludicrous combinations, that have little or no natural relation. 
 
 5. Ludicrous images, which surprise by their singularity, are fabri- 
 -^atcd by the imagination ; and ludicrn}ts combinations arf such an as- 
 semblage of ideas or of things, as by distant and fanciful relations, 
 surprise, because they are unexpected. 
 
 428. Humour. Nothing just or projier is denominated 
 humour; nor any singularity of character, words, or actiona 
 that is valued or respected. 
 
 Illus. 1. When we attend to the character of an humoiHist, we find 
 ihat it arises from circumstances both risible and impro|>er, and therC' 
 V)re that it lessens the man in o.: <st<ei!i, a 'ui makcfthkn income 
 ncasurc ridiculous. ><>:•. j. : v/i , 
 
 2. A ludicrous writer is one who insists upon ludicron^ ' * t^ with 
 the jirofessed purj>ose to make his readers laugh ; a u-r umr 
 
 IS one, who, alTocting to be grave and serious, paints ; ; __.^.:t:s iu 
 such colours as to provoke mirth and laughter. 
 
 Example. Switt and Fontaine were humourists in character," and 
 their writings arc full of humour. Arbuthnot outdoes them in drollery 
 and humourous painting ; but he who should say that Addison was an 
 humourist in character, would be suspected of mistaki!-^ ' ■'■ " ' '^ ^^ 
 nuts for chcsnul horses. 
 
 4'29. HiDiciTLE. A visible object produceth an cniouuu 
 of laughter merely, a ridiculous object is improper as welbas 
 risible, and produceth a mixed emotion, which is vented by 
 a laugh of derision or scorn.t 
 
 Ohs. Durlc^qut is xgreat engine of ridicule : it is distinguishable in- 
 to the burle.stjue that excites laughter merely, and the burlesque that 
 provokes derision or ridicule. . ' 
 
 Examples. Virgil Travestie, and4h§ Lutrin, are compositions Whi<?l^ 
 
 * Karnes* Essnys. chap. 13. vol I. . , . 
 
 -f Arlst. P9eu c'h. 5. Cicero etc Oratore, 1.2. QninctUtftD, llW 6. eSp. " 
 
Beauiy. 225 
 
 <:.;.fce Glider this article. The Rape of the Lock is not strictly biir 
 lesque, but an heroic-comical poem. Addisoirs Sptdator* on the Fan 
 is extremely gay and ludicrous. 
 
 Scholium. This singular advantage u^riting and discourse possess, 
 that, in every point of view, they encompass a large and rich field, in 
 respect to the pleasures of taste*; and have power to exhibit, in great 
 perfection, not a single set of objects only, but ahnost the whole of 
 those which give pleasure to taste and imagination : whether that 
 pleasure arise from sublimity, from beauty in its different forms, from 
 design and art, from moral sentinnmt, from novelty, from harmony, 
 from wit, hnmour, and ridicule. To whichsoever of these the peculiar 
 bent of a person's taste lies, from some wriTer or other he has it al- 
 way- in his power to receive the gratification of his taste. 
 
 430. The high power which eloquence and poetry pos- 
 sess, of supplying taste and imagination with an extensive 
 circle of pleasures, they derive altogether from their having 
 a greater capacity of ihdtation and description than is pos- 
 sessed by any other art. 
 
 Illus. 1. Of all the means which human ingenuity has contrived for 
 recalling the images of real objects, and :iwakening, by representa- 
 tion, similar emotions to those which are raised by the original, none 
 is so full and extensive as that which is executed by words and writing. 
 Through the assistance of this happy invention, there is nothing, either 
 in the natural or in the moral world that cannot be represented and 
 set before the mind, in colours very strong and lively. 
 
 Corel. Hence it is usual among critical writers to speak o{ discourse. 
 as the chief of all the imitative or mimical arts ; they compare it with 
 painting and with sculpture, and in many respects prefer it justly be- 
 fore them. 
 
 Illus. 2. Imitation is performed by means of something that has a 
 natural likeness and resemblance to the thing imitated; and of conse- 
 quence is understood by all : statues and pictures, are examples of 
 likenesses. 
 
 2. Description, again, is the raising in the mind the conception of an 
 <^bject by means of some arbitrary or instituted .symbols, understood 
 only by those who agree in the institution of them ; such are words 
 hud writing. 
 
 3. Words, though copies, (Art. 432.) have no natural resemblance 
 t« the ideas or objects which they are employed to signify ; but a 
 statue or picture lias a natural likeness to the original. And therefore 
 imitation and description differ considerably in their nature from each 
 ..ther. 
 
 431. As far, indeed, as the poet introduces into his work 
 persons actually speaking ; and, by the words which he puts 
 into their mouths, represents the discourse which they might 
 be supposed to hold ; so far his art may more accurately be 
 called imitative ; and this is the case in all dramatic com- 
 position. But, in narrative or descriptive works, it can with 
 no propriety be called so. 
 
£6f The Pleasures of Taste. — Beauty: 
 
 (Has. 1. Who, for instance, would call Virgil's description of a fcm- 
 
 est, in the first iEneid, an imitation of a storm ? U we heard of the 
 
 nitation of a battle we mi^ht naturally think of some sham-fight, or 
 
 i epresentation of a battle on the stage, but could never apprehend that 
 
 it meant one of Homer's descriptions in the Iliad. 
 
 2. But imitation and description agree in their principal effect, of re- 
 ailing, by external signs, the ideas of things which they do not see. 
 'Jilt though in this they coincide, yet it should not be forgotten, that 
 he terms themselves are not synonymous ; that they import different 
 leans of efiecting the same end ; and of course make different impres- 
 -ions on the mind. 
 
 Scholium. Whether we consider poetry in particular, and discourse \n 
 ,eneral,as imitative or descriptive ; it is cvideiit, that their whole pow« 
 r in recalling the impressions of real objects, is derived from the sig- 
 ificancy, the choice and arrangement of words. Their excellency 
 '. jws altogether from these sources. Having shewn how the source 
 nay be preserved puie, we shall, in the next book, enter upon style 
 'M»! elonurnrr 'u thfir mo?t c\tenj-ivo »iirniricatien 
 

 ^KYl. 
 
 THE GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 •THE DIFFUSE AND CONCISE STYLES. 
 
 432. AVORDS being the copies of our idecfs, there must 
 always be a very intimate connection between the manner 
 in wliich we employ words, and our manner of thinking. 
 From the peculiarity of thought and expression which be- 
 longs to every writer, there is a certain character imprinted 
 on his style, which may be denominated his manner ^ com- 
 monly expressed by such general terms as strong, weak, dry^ 
 simple^ affectedy or the like. 
 
 IJlus. TJiese distinctions carry, in g-eneral, some reference to an aii- 
 tlior's manner of thinking-, hut refer chiefly to his mode of expiession. 
 They arise from the whole tenor of his languag^e ; and comprehend 
 the efTcct produced by all those parts of style which we have ahv?ady 
 considered ; tJie choice which he makes of single words ; his ariange- 
 inent of these in sentences ; the degree of h isprecision ; his embellish- 
 ment, by means of musical cadence, fl^i^ures, or other arts of speech ; 
 and, finally, the cultivation of his genius and taste. Of such general 
 characters of style, therefore, it remains now to speak, as the result of 
 those elementary parts of which we have hitherto treated. 
 
 433. That different subjects require to be treated of, in 
 different sorts of style, is a position so obvious, that it needs 
 no illustration. Every one sees that treatises of philosophy, 
 for instance, ought not to be composed in the same style 
 with orations. Every one sees also, that different parts of 
 the same composition require a variation in the style and 
 manner. In a sermon, or any harangue, as shall be shewn 
 hereafter, the application or peroration admits more orna- 
 ment, and requires more warmth, than the didactic part. 
 
 Obs. But what we mean at present to remark is, that, amidst this va- 
 riety, we still expect to find, in the compositions of anv cue man; some 
 20* 
 
;J28 The general Characters of Style. 
 
 degree of uniformity or consistency with himself in manner ; wc expect 
 to find impressed on all his writings, some predominant character of 
 style which shall be suited to his particular genius, and shall mark the 
 turn of his mind. 
 
 Example. The orations in Livy differ much in style, as they ought to 
 do, from the rest of his history. The same is the case with those in 
 Tacitus. Yet both in Livy's orations, and in those of Tacitus, we are 
 able clearly to trace the distinguishing manner of each historian ; the 
 magnificent fullness of the one, and the sententious conciseness of the 
 other. 
 
 Corol. Wherever thcie is real and native genius, it gives a determin- 
 ation to one kind of style rather than another. Where nothing of this 
 appears ; where there is no marked nor peculiar character in the com- 
 positions of any author, we are apt to infer, and not without reason^ 
 that he is a vulgar and trivial author, who writes from imitation, and 
 not from the impulse of original genius. As the most celebrated 
 painters are known by their hand, so the best and most original wri- 
 ters are known and distinguished, throughout all their works, by their 
 st^le an^ peculiar manner. This will be found to hold almost without 
 exception. 
 
 434. One of the first and most obvious distinctions of the 
 different kinds of st^le, is what arises from an author's 
 spreading out his thoughts more or less. This distinction 
 forms what are called, the diffuse and the concise styles. 
 
 Illus. 1. A concise writer compressei^ his thoughts into the fewest pos* 
 !ble words ; he seeks to employ none but such as are most expressive? 
 «' lops off, as redundant, every expression which does not add some- 
 hing material to the sense. 
 
 Oniaaient he does not reject ; he may be lively and figured ; but his 
 ornament is inten<le<l for the sake of force rather than grace. 
 
 He never gives you the same thought twice. He places it in the 
 light which appears to him the most striking ; but if you do not appre- 
 hend it well ;n that light, you need not expect to find it in any other. 
 
 His .sentences are arranged with compactness and strength, rather 
 than with cadence and harmony. The utmost precision is studied i.i 
 them ; and they are commonly designed to suggest more to the read- 
 er's imagination than they directly express. 
 
 liliiif. 2. A diffuse writer unfolds his thought fully. He places it in 
 1 variety of lights, and gives the reader every possible assistance for 
 understanding it completely. He is not very careful to express it at 
 rtrst in its full strength ; because be is to repeat the impression ; and 
 what he wants In strength he proposes to supply by copiousness. 
 
 Writers of this character generally love magnificence and amplifica- 
 tion. Their periods naturally run out into some length, and having 
 room for ornament of every kind, they admit it freely. 
 
 Scholium. Each of these manners has its peculiar advantages ; and 
 each becomes faulty when carried to the extreme. The exireme of con- 
 ciseness becomes abrupt and obscure ; it is apt also to lead into a style 
 too pointed, and bordering on the epigrammatic. The extreme of dif- 
 fuseness becomes weak and languid, and tires the reader. However, 
 to one or other of these two manners, a writer may lean according as 
 his genius prompts him : and under the general character of a concise, 
 or of a more open and diffuse style, he may possess much beauty in his 
 conopositioD 
 
Tlie Diffuse and Concise Styles. ^^9 
 
 435. For illustrations of these general characters, we can 
 onlj refer to the writers who are examples of them. It is 
 not so much from detached passages, such as we have been 
 quoting as examples in the foregoing pages of this grammar, 
 as from the current of an author's style, that we are to col- 
 lect the idea of a formed manner of writing. 
 
 Illus, 1. Two of the most remarkable examples of conciseness, car- 
 ried as far as propriety will allow, perhaps in some cases farther, are 
 Tacitus, the Historian, and the President Montesquieu in " L'Espritde 
 Loix." Aristotle, too, holds an eminent rank among didactic writers 
 for his brevity. Perhaps no writer in the world was ever so frugal of 
 his words as Aristotle ; but this frugality of expression frequently dark- 
 ens his meaning. 
 
 2. Of a beautiful and magnificent diffuseness, Cicero is, beyond 
 doubt, the most illustrious instance that can be given. Addison, alsOj^ 
 and Sir William Temple come, in some degree, under this class. 
 
 436. In judging when it is proper to lean to the concise, 
 and when to the diffuse manner, we must be directed by the 
 nature of the composition. Discourses that are to be spoken 
 require a more copious style than books that are to be read. 
 
 Illus. When the whole meaning must be caught from the mouth of 
 the speaker, without the advantage which books afford of pausing at 
 pleasure, and reviewing what appears obscure, great conciseness is al- 
 ways to be avoided. We should never presume too much on the quick- 
 ness of our hearer's understanding ; but our style ought to be suchj 
 that the bulk of men can go along with us easily, and without effort. 
 
 Corol. A flowing copious style, therefore, is required in all public 
 speakers ; guarding, at the same time, against such a degree of diffu- 
 sion as renders them languid and tiresome ; which will always prove 
 to be the case, when they inctdcate too much, and present the same 
 thought under too many different views. 
 
 437. In v/ritten compositions, a certain degree of concise- 
 ness possesses great advantages. It is more lively ; keeps 
 up attention ; makes a brisker and stronger impression ; 
 and gratifies the mind by supplying more exercise to a 
 reader's own thought A sentiment, which, expressed dif- 
 fusely, will barely be admitted to be just, will, when ex- 
 pressed consisely, be admired as spirited. Description, 
 when we want to have it vivid and animated, should be in a 
 concise strain. 
 
 Illus. ). This is different from the common opinion ; most persons 
 being ready to suppose, that upon description a writer may dwell 
 more safely than upon other topics, and that, by a full and extended 
 style, it is rendered more rich and expressive. On the contrary, a dif- 
 fuse manner generally weakens description. Any re<lundant words or 
 circumstances encumber the fancy, and make the object that we pre- 
 sent to it, appear confused a>nd indistinct, 
 
 2. Accordingly, the most masterly describers, Homer, Tacitus, 
 Milton, are almost always concise ih their descriptioas, They shew 
 
S30 The general Characters of Style. 
 
 us more of an object at oiif: glance, than a feeble diffuse writer Cfto 
 shew, by turning it round and exliibiting^ it in a variety of lights. 
 
 Corol. The strength and vivacity of description, whether in prose or 
 poetry, depend much more upon the happy choice of a few striking: 
 circumstances, than upon their mutiplicity and variety. 
 
 438. Addresses to the passions, likewise, ooght to be in 
 the concise, rather than the diffuse manner. In these it is- 
 dangerous to be diffuse, because it is very difficult to sup- 
 port proper waiinth for any length of time. When we be- 
 come prolix, we are always in hazard of cooling the reader. 
 The fancy and the feelings of the heart too, run fast ', and 
 if once we can put them in motion, they supply many par- 
 ticulars to greater advantage than an author can display 
 them. The case is diff'erent when we address ourselves to 
 the understanding: as for exam[)h' in all matters of reason- 
 ing, explication, and instruction. 
 
 Obs. lu these cases, tliat most eleganr nuioncian. Dr. Bi.nr, would 
 prefer a more free and diffuse manner. When you are to strike the 
 fancy, or to move the heart, be concise ; when you are to inform the 
 under.«tanding, which moves more slowly, and requires the assistance 
 of a guide, it is better to be full. Historical narration may be beauti- 
 ful, either in a concise or a ditTuse manner, according to the writer's 
 genius. Livy aiid HerodoCus are diffuse ; Thucy«lides and Sallust are 
 succinct ; yet all of them are agreeable. 
 
 439. A diffuse style generally abounds in long periods ; 
 and a concise writer, it is certain, w ill often employ short 
 sentences. 
 
 Ohs. But of long and short sentences, we had occasion, formerly to 
 treat, under the head of" The Construction of IVriods." (^ee Chapler 
 I. and the Harmony of Periods, Chapler IX. Book III.) 
 
 440. The non^oxis and \\\q feeble are generally held to be 
 characters of style, of the same import with the concise and 
 tlie diffuse. They do indeed very often coincide. Diffuse 
 writers have, for the most part, some degree of feebleness ; 
 and nervous writers will generally be inclined to a concise 
 mode of expression. 
 
 Illiis. 1. This, however, does not always hold ; and there are instan- 
 ces of writers, who, in the midst of a full and ample style, have niaio- 
 tained a great degree of strength. Their style may have many faults. 
 It may be unequal, incorrect, and redundant, but w)thal, for force and 
 cxpres.-iiveness, uncommonly distinguished. On every subject, they 
 win multiply words with aii overflowing copiousness ; but they ever 
 pour fortli a torrent of forcible ideas and significant expressions. 
 
 2. Indeed, the foundations of a nerTous or a weak style are laid in 
 an author'.- mannr r of thinking. If he conceives an object vigorously, 
 he will express it with energy : but if he has only an indistinct view of 
 his subject ; if his ideas be loose and wavering ; if his genius be such, 
 or, at the time of his w riling, so carelessly exerted, that be has no firm 
 
t 
 
 The Diffme and Concise Styles. 531 
 
 hold of the conception which he wouUl communicate to us, the marks 
 of all this will clearly appear in his style. Several unmeaning words 
 and loose epithets will be found in his composition ; his expressions 
 will be vague and general ; his arrangement indistinct and feeble ; we 
 shall conceive a portion of his meaning, but our conception will be faint. 
 3, Whereas a nervous writer, whether he employs an extended or a 
 concise style, gives us always a strong impression of his meaning ; 
 his mind is full of bis subject, and his words are all expressive ) every 
 phrase and Gwery figure which he uses, tends to render the picture^ 
 which he would set before us, more lively and complete. 
 
 441. Undor the head of diffuse and concise style, (Art, 
 436. and 43 T.) we have shewn that an author might lean 
 either to Ihe one or to the other, and yet be beautiful. This 
 is not the case with respect to the nervous and the feeble. 
 Every author, in every composition, ought to study to ex- 
 press himself with some strength, and in proportion as he 
 approaches to the feeble, he becomes a bad writer. 
 
 Obs. In all kinds of writing, however, the same degree of strength is 
 not demanded. But the more grave and weighty any composition is, 
 the more should a character of strength predominate in the style. 
 ' Carol. Hence, in history, philosophy, and solenni discourses, it is 
 chiefly expected. One of the most complete models of a nervous style, 
 is Demosthenes in his orations. 
 
 442. Every good quality in style, when pursued too far, 
 has an extreme, to which it becomes faulty, and this Ivolds 
 of the nervous style as well as of other styles. Too great a 
 study of strength, to.the neglect of other qualities of style, 
 is found to betray writers into a harsh manner. 
 
 IU}(s. Harshness arises from unusual \vords, from forced inversions 
 in.the construction of a sentence, and too much neglect of smoothness 
 ^)il,ease. This is reckoned the fault of some of our earliest classics 
 in (he English language; writers who, from the nerves and strength 
 which they have displayed, arc, to this day, eminent for that quality 
 in style.' But the language in their hands was exceedingly different 
 from what it is now, and was indeed entirely formed upon the idionx 
 and construction of the Latin, in the arrangement of sentences. The 
 j)i-\ssent form which the language has assumed, has, in some measure, 
 sacrificed tjie study of strength to that of perspicuity and ease. Our 
 arrangement of words has become less forcible, perhaps, but more 
 plain and natural : and this is now understood to be the genius of our 
 language. 
 
 443. The restoration of King Charles II. seems to be the 
 fera of the formation of our present style. Lord Clarendon 
 was one of the first who Kiid aside those frequent inversions 
 which prevailed among writers of the former age. After 
 him, Sir William Temple polished the language still more. 
 But Dryden is the author, who, by the number ant! reputa- 
 tion of his works, formed it more than any of his predeces- 
 sors or contemporaries, into its present state. 
 
232 The general Characters of Style, 
 
 Illus. 1. Dryden began to write at the Restoration, and confiimed 
 long an author both in poetry and prose. Me had made'the Iringnagc 
 his study ; and though he wrote hastily, and often incoriertly, though 
 his style is not free from faults, yet (hore is a richness \n t»is fiiction, a 
 copiousness, ease, and variety in his expression, which has not been 
 surpassed by any who have come after him * 
 
 2. Since his time, considerable attention has bf^en paid to purity and 
 elegance of style ; but it is elegance raJhei' t^an strength, that forms 
 the distinguishing quality of most of the good Enfirl^sh writers. Some 
 of them compose in a more manly and nervous manner than others ; 
 but, whether it be from the genius of our language, o\ from whatever 
 other ciiitsr, it apTjpai-s, that uc are far from the gtrengi\i »i several »i 
 the G. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 OF THE r: '> FLOWERY 
 
 444. HmiER'l () we have considered stvle under those 
 characters that respect its expr evasiveness of an author's 
 meaning. Let us now proceed to consider it in another 
 view, with respect to the degree of ornament employed to 
 beautifj it. Ilere, the style of different authors seems to 
 )ise, in the following gradation : a dry, a plain, a keat, 
 an ELEGANT, and a flowery manner. Of each of these in 
 its order. 
 
 445. First, a dry manner. This excludes ornament of 
 every kind. Content with being understood, it has not the 
 least aim to please, either the fancy or the ear. This is tol- 
 erable only in pure didactic wri'.inc^ ; and even there, to 
 >nake us bear it, great weiglit and solidity of matter are re- 
 quisite; and entire perspicuity of language. 
 
 lUns. 1. Aristotle is the most complete exaiuvu of u o, 
 Never, perhaps, was there any author who adhered so \-\^\i\\\ to \V< 
 frictncss of a didactic manner throughout all his writings, and con- 
 »eyed so much instruction, without the least approach to brnauicnt 
 With the most prolound genius and extensive views, ht irr'/ej, says Dr. 
 HIair, like a pare intelli'^ejice, who addressees himself soUdy to the un 
 dersian«lin;r, wiihout making any use of the channel of the imagination 
 
 2. iJut tliis is a manner which deserves not to be imitated. For, al- 
 
 * Dr. Johnson, in his life of Dryden; Cj-ives the fbllo'.ving character of hi'* prose style . .. 
 " His prefaces have not the formality of a settled style, in \v|iictt the first knlf of the 
 ^^n^l•npe beirays the other. 'Vhc t'iaus<-s are never biilancetl, nor the peri."' 
 i : every word si-enis to drop by chauce, though it thlls into its prop«.r f 
 hinp h cold or laufjuid, the whole 'f* airy, animatetl, Jind Ai;for'.»u ; \Nh.ii . 
 ;;iy ; what is great, ii splendid. I'hough aU is easy, nothiii^ is fetble ; 'i.c i-m .»; 
 t'ms careless, there is nothing harsh ; and though, siace his earlier work«,mort than 
 <:cnurry has passed, ihey have DO,tMn^ yet uneouih or obsolete.'" 
 
The dry, plight, neat, and elegant Styles, ^33 
 
 t«migh the goodness of the matter may compenaate the dryness or 
 hatshness of the Style, yet is that dryness a consider^ible defect ; as it 
 fatigues attention, and conveys our sentiments, with disadvantage, to 
 the reader or hearer. 
 
 44Q. A PLAIN STYLE riscs one degree above a dry style. 
 A writj^r of this character employs very little ornament of 
 any kind, and rests alinost entirely upon his sense. But, if 
 he is at no pains to engage us by the employment of figures, 
 inusical arrangement, or any other art of writing, he studies, 
 iitoweyer, to avoid disgusting us like a dry and a harsh wri- 
 ter. Besides perspicuity, he pursues propriety, purity, and 
 precision, in his language ; which form one degree, and no 
 inconsiderable one, of beauty. Liveliness too, and force, 
 may be consistent with a very plain style : and therefore* 
 such an author, if his^entinients be good, may be abundant- 
 ly agreeable. 
 
 Ohs, The difference between a dry and plain writer, is, that the for- 
 mer is incapable of ornament, and seems not to know what it is ; the 
 latter seeks not after it. He gives us his meaning in good languagCj 
 tHstinct and pure ; he gives himself no farther trouble about ornament ; 
 either, because he thinks it unnecessary to his subject; or because his 
 g-enius does not lead him to delight in it ; or, because it leads him to 
 despise it. 
 
 447. What is called a neat style comes next in order ; 
 and here we have arrived in the region of ornament; but 
 that ornament not of the highest or most sparkling kind. 
 
 Illus. 1. A writer of this character shews, that he does not despise 
 ♦lie beauty of language. It is an object of his attention. But his at- 
 tention is shewn in the choice of words, and in a graceful collocation 
 t^jtliem ; rather fhan in any high efforts of imagination, or eloquence. 
 
 , %. His sentences are always clean, and free from the incumbrance 
 ©{'superfluous words ; of a moderate length ; rather inclining to brev- 
 ity, than a swelling structure ; closing with propriety ; without any 
 appendages, or adjections dragging after the proper close. 
 '». His cadence is varied ; but not of the studied musical kind. 
 4. His figures, if he uses aiiy, are short and correct ', rather than 
 t)old and glowing. 
 
 ^\^^fhoHa 1. Such a style as this may be attained by a writer who has 
 .Ho.great powers of, fancy or genius ; merely by industry and careful 
 attention to the rules of writing, and it is a style always agreeable. 
 ,.^^.. It imprints e^ character of moderate elevation on our composition, 
 Afl^c^irrit^? ^ <^'^cejit degree of ornament, which is not unsuitable to 
 any subject whatever. 
 
 .3. A familiar letter, or a Hyy paper, on the dryest subject, may be 
 wVitten with neatness *, and a sermon or a philosophical treatise, in a 
 lieat style, will be read with pleasure. 
 
 448. An ELEGANT stylb: is a character expressing a high- 
 er degree of ornament than a neat one ; and, indeed, is the 
 
554 The general Characters of Style, 
 
 term usually applied to style, when possessing all the virtues 
 of ornament, without any of its excesses or defects. 
 
 Jllus. 1. From what has been formerly delivered, it will easily bt 
 understood, that complete elegance implies great perspicuity and pro-" 
 priety ; purity in the choice of words, and care and dexterity in their 
 harmonious and happy arrangement. It implies, farther, the grace 
 and beauty of imagination spread over style, as far as the subject ad- 
 mits display ; and all the illustration which fig^urative language adds, 
 when properly employed. . 
 
 2. In a word, an elegant writer is one who pleases the fancy and 
 the ear, while he informs the understanding; and who gives us his 
 ideas clothed witli all the beauty of ex])ression, but not overcharged 
 with any of its misplaced finery* 
 
 449. When tiie ornaments, applied to a style, are too rich 
 and gaudy in proportion to the subject ; when they return 
 upon us too fast, and strike us either with a dazzling lustre, 
 or a false brilliancy, this forms what is called a florid 
 r.TYLE ; a term comwioniy used to signify the excess of or- 
 nament. ' 
 
 Obs. In a youn^ composer this is very pardonable. Perhaps it \% 
 even a promi.>iu;^'^ symptom in young people^ that their style should in- 
 cline to the florid and iuxuriunt. Much uf it will be diminished by 
 years ; much will be corrected by ripening judgment ; some of it, by 
 the mere practice of composition, will be worn away. Let there be, 
 at first, only sufficient matter that ran bdar sonle pruning and lo})ping 
 off. At this time of life, let genius be bold and inveniive, and pride 
 itself in it;) efforts, though thet^e should not, nsj'ct, bt^ correct.. Uw^- 
 uriancy can easily be cured ; but for barrenness there is no remedy. t 
 
 450. But, although the Jlorid style may be allowed to 
 south, in iheir first essays, it must not receive the same in- 
 dulgence from writers of maturer years. It is to be expect- 
 ed, that judgment, as it ripens, siiould chasten imagination, 
 and reject, as juvenile, all such ornaments as are redundant, 
 unsuitable to the subject, or not conducive to its illustration. 
 
 Obs. 1. Nothing can be more contemptible than that tinsel splendour 
 rtf language, which some writers perpetually aiTect. If were w'elf, if 
 this could be ascribed to the real overflowing of a rich hnagination. 
 We should then have something to amuse us, at least, if we found little 
 to instruct us. But the worst is, that with those frothy writers, it is a 
 luxuriancy of woids, not of fancy. . 
 
 2. We iee a laboured attempt iiithiese Write r« tn vic« fo o splen- 
 dour of composition, of which llieyhiVe formed >bme 
 
 * Iti t . i t^v Ijci-ffore. we place onfy the fint-rate writers in ■ -ii 
 
 as A<i. i. Po])e Temple. BolinehiTikf. Atterbury. C;» 
 
 Blaii. .. > .lit. ;:nd a f'sv moiv: \v;lt r^ who diiffi- widi !x , r 
 
 iu Md .y ol tl'.. HU..' . ; > i r uMit-r the dt iium- 
 
 inaiion of elei^nt. ^ ',r spnu. place. 
 
 ■\- ^•I<ihum intle ('. - , > t Jut usii ipso detei*- 
 
 etcr . s't njodo un«l< ^<!.., , ,. Vu(i a lire *ta« piura, et invcni- 
 
 at vx iiiventis gnijdtat ; bi? is interim sicca et severa. Facile remc- 
 
 diiim eat ubertatit ; sterihu ., . .. untur.— C(uinctilian. 
 
*rhe simple, affededy and vehement Styles, 23.^ 
 
 loose idea j but having no strength of genius tor attaining it, they en- 
 deavour to supply the defect by poetical words, by cold exclamations^ 
 by common-place figures, and every thing that has the appearance of 
 pomp and magnificence. 
 
 3. It has escaped these writers, that sobriety in ornament is one 
 groat secret for rendering it pleasing ; and that, without a foundation 
 of good sense and solid thought, the most florid style is but a childish 
 imposition on the public. The public, however, are but too apt to be 
 so imposed on ; at least the mob of readers, who are very ready to be 
 caught, at first, with whatever is dazzling and gaudy, whether it be 
 served up in the shape of two-pennies' worth of politics, or crude and 
 infectious romances at a heavier charge. 
 
 CHAPTER 111. 
 
 THE SIMPLE, AFFECTED, AND VEHEafENT STVLES. 
 
 ;*;■■ 
 
 451. WE are now to treat of style under another charac 
 
 ter, one of great importance in writing, and which requires 
 to be accurately examined ; that of simplicity , or a natural 
 style, as distinguished from affeciatio7i. 
 
 Obs. Simplicity, applied to writing, is a term very frequently used , 
 but like many other critical terms, often used loosely and without pre- 
 cision. This has been owing cliieily to the difiercnt meanings given to 
 the word simplicity, which, therefore, it will be necessary here to dis- 
 tinguish ; and to shew in what sense it is a proper attribute of style. 
 We may remark four different acceptations in which it is taken. 
 
 452. The first is, sitnplicity of composition, as opposed to 
 too great a variety of parts. Horace's precept refers to this : 
 
 Denique sit quod vis simplex duntaxat et imum * 
 
 lllus. This is the simpUciti/ of plan in a tragedy, as distinguished 
 ft'om double plots, and crowded incidents ; the simpliciiy of the Iliad, 
 or .iEneid, in opposition to the digressions of Lucan, and the scattered 
 tales of Ariosto ; the simpliciiy of Grecian architecture, in opposition 
 to the irregular variety of the GotJiic. In this sense, simplicity is the 
 same with unity. (Jirt. 154.) 
 
 453. The second sense is, simplicity of thought, as oppos- 
 ed to refinement. Simple thoughts are what arise natural- 
 ly ; what the occasion or the subject suggest unsought; and 
 what, when once suggested, are easily apprehended by all. 
 Refinement in writing, expresses a less natural and obvious 
 train of thought, and which it requires a peculiar turn of 
 genius to pursue ; within certain bounds, very beautiful : 
 
 * " Then learn the wand'ring humour to controul* 
 Ani. keej» one equal tenor through the whole" 
 21 
 
36 The General Characters of Style. 
 
 but when carried too far, approaching to intricacy, and hurt^ 
 ing us by the appearance of being far-sought 
 
 lUus. Thus, we would naturally say, that Parnell is a poet of far 
 ^reatiT simplicity, in his turn of thought, than Cowley ; Cicero's 
 thoughts on moral subjects are natural : Seneca's, too refined and la- 
 boured, 111 these two senses of simplicity, when it is opposed, either 
 to variety of paits, or to rctincment of thought, it has no proper rela- 
 tion to style. 
 
 454. There is a third sense of simplicity, in which it has 
 respect to style ; and stands opposed to too much ornament, 
 (»r pomp of language 
 
 Jllus. When we say Lo* .., ... .i .simple, and Harvey is a florid writer ; 
 it is in this sense, that the ^^ simplex " the " /ctimc," or ^'' suhtile gtt 
 mis dicendi,'' as understood by Cicero and Quinctilian, are applicable, 
 
 2. The simple stvle, in this sense, coincides with the plain or the neat 
 style, C^r/.44G. and44'7.) and, therefore, requires no farther illustration. 
 
 455. But there is a fourth sense of simplicity, also, re- 
 specting style ; but not respecting the degree of ornament 
 employed, so much as the easy and natural manner in which 
 our language expresses our thoughts. This is quite differ- 
 ent from the former sense of tiie word just now mentioned, 
 in wliich simplicity was equivalent to plainness : whereas, 
 in this sense, it is compatible with the highest ornament. 
 
 lllus. Homer, for instance, possesses this simplicity in the greatest 
 
 .rrfection ; and yet bo writer has more oVnam»'nt and beauty. This 
 
 iiiiplicity, which is what we are now to consider, stands opposed, not 
 
 lo ornament, but to affectation of ornament, or appearance of labour 
 
 about our style ; and it is a distinguishing excellency in writing. 
 
 456. A writer of simplicity expresses himself in such a 
 iiianner, that every one thinks he could have written in the 
 same way ; Horace describes it, 
 
 ut «bi quivij 
 
 Spcret ide»i, sivilet multunj, friretraqiie laborct 
 Ausus idfin.* 
 
 Illus. 1. There are no marks of art in his expression ; it seems the 
 very language of nature ; you sec in the style, not the writer and his 
 labour, but the man in his own natural character. (Jlrt. 181. Illus.) 
 He may be rich in his expression ; he may be full of figures, and of 
 fancy ; but these ilow from him without etibrt ; and he appears t® 
 vvrite in this manner, not because he has >tudied it, but because it is the 
 manner of expression most natural to him. 
 
 2. A certain degree of negligence, also, is not inconsistent with this 
 . liaracter of style, and even not ungraceful in it ; for too minute an at- 
 tention to words is foreign to it : let this style have a certain softness 
 and ease, which shall characterise a negligence, not unpleasing in au 
 
 * •♦ From wt 11-known tales such fictions would I raise, 
 As all might hope to imitate with ease ; 
 Yet, while they strive tlie same success to f^'m. 
 Should find their labours and their hoj>e« io vain," Fnuiti*. 
 
The simple Slyle. i237 
 
 »AUVior, who appears to be more solicitous about the thought than the 
 expression*. 
 
 3. This is the great advantage of simplicity of style, that, like sim- 
 piicitv of manners, it shews us a man's sentiments and turn of mind 
 laid open without disguise. More studied and artificial manners of 
 writing, however beautiful, have always this disadvantage, that they 
 exhibit an autlior in form, like a man at court, wlure t!ie splendour 
 of dress, and the ceremoniousness of behaviour, conceal those pecu- 
 liarities which distinguish one man from another. But reading an 
 author of simplicity, is like conversing with a person of distinction at 
 home, and with case, where we find natural manners, and a rnarke*! 
 character, 
 
 457. The highest degree of this simplicity is expressed by 
 the French term nuiveie, to which we have none that fullj 
 answers in our language. It is not easy to give a precise 
 idea of the import of this word. It always expresses a dis- 
 covery of character. 
 
 Illus. 1. Perhaps the best accor.nt of it, is that given by Marraontel, 
 who explains it thu« : that sort of amialdc ingenuity, or undisguised 
 openness, which seems to give us some degree of superiority over the 
 person who shews it ; a certain infantine simplicity, which we love in 
 our hearts, but which displays some features of the character that we 
 think we could have art enough to hide ; and which, therelbre, always 
 i^ads us to smile at the person who discovers this character. 
 
 2. La Fontaine, in his Fables, may be given as a great esa.mple o- 
 «^uch naivete. This, however, is to be understood, as descriptive of a 
 parlicrdar species only of simplicity. 
 
 458. Vvith respect to simplicity, in general, we may re 
 mark, that the ancient original writers are always the most 
 eminent for it. This happens from a plain reason, that thej 
 wrote from the dictates of natural genius, and were not 
 formed upon the labours and writings of others, which is al- 
 ways in hazard of producing affectation. 
 
 Carol. Hence, among the Greek writers, we have more models of., 
 beautiful simplicity, than among the Roman. Homer, Hesiod, Anac 
 rcon, Theocritus, Herodotus, and Xenophon, are all distinguished to- 
 their simplicity. Among the Romans also, we have some writers o5 
 this charactcrj particularly Terence, Lucretius, Phajdrus, and Julij 
 f^sar. 
 
 459. Simplicity is ihe great beauty of Archbishop Tillot- 
 son's manner. Tillotson has long been admired as an elo- 
 quent writer, and a model for preaching. But his elo 
 quence, if we can call it such, has been often misunderstood. 
 For, if we include, in the idea of eloquence, vehemence and 
 strengtij, picturesque description, glowing figures, or correct 
 arrangement of sentences, in al! these parts of oratory the 
 Archbishop is exceedingly deficient. (lh\ Blair.) 
 
 * " Habf t ille, molle quiddani,et quod iiidice non ingratanmegligfrniariihctniiic^^ 
 i|fi re ma^s quam de verboiaborantis." C^eero de Orai, 
 
^38 The gmerai Charaotera of Style, 
 
 Obs. His style is always pure, indeed, and perspicuous, but careicif 
 
 '.nd remi.<s, too oftei; feeble and languid ; little beauty in the construe* 
 
 »ion of his sentences, which are frequently suffered to drag unharmo- 
 
 ionsly : seldom any attempt towards strength or sublimity. Bwt,not- 
 
 ithstanding these defects, such a constant vein of good sense and 
 
 ':}i\ runs ihrou>^h his works, such an earnest and serious manner, and 
 
 > much useful instruction conveyed in a style so pure, natural, and 
 
 iatfected, as will jusMy recommend him to high regard, as long a5 
 
 ;o English language shall remain ; not, indeed, as a model of the high- 
 
 t eloquence, but as a simple and amiable writer, whose manner is 
 
 trongly expressive of great goodness and worth. (Illus. 8. Art. 222.) 
 
 4G0. Sir William Temple is another remarkable writer in 
 he style of siMiplicity. In point of ornament and correct- 
 ' ss he rises a decree above Tillotson ; though, for correct- 
 ess, he is not in tlie hi;2;hest rank. All is easy and flowing 
 ill him ; he is exceedingly harmonious ; smoothness, and 
 what may be called amenity, are the distinguishing charac- 
 crs of his manner ; relaxing sometimes, as such a manner 
 \ ill naturally do, into a prolix and remiss style. 
 
 Ohs. No writer whatever has stamped upon his style a more lively 
 
 Impression of hi^i own character. In reading his works, we seem cn- 
 
 iged in convcrsailon with him ; wo become thoroughly acquHinted 
 
 (h him, not mereiy ns an author, but as a man ; and contract a 
 
 He may be classctl as standing in the middle, be- 
 
 implicity, and the highest degree of ornament which 
 
 .,io ^. ; . tylo admits. (.See Lx. 2. and Jinalysis, Jirt. 217.) 
 
 461. Addison is, beyond doubt, in the English language, 
 
 lie most perfect example of the highest, most correct, aiul 
 
 rnamental degree of the simple manner: and, therefore, 
 
 J) not without some faults, he is, on the whole, the 
 
 ., ; model for inntation, and the freest from considera- 
 
 defect^', which the language attbrds. 
 
 Obs. 1. Perspicuous and pure he is in the highest degree ; his prc- 
 
 ision, indeed, not very great ; yet nearly as great as the subject.*?, 
 
 N hich he treats ol*, require : the construction of his sentences easy^ 
 
 ■ reef.ble, and commonly very musical ; carrying a character of 
 
 (uoothness, more than of strength. 
 
 2. in figuralivc language, he is ricli : particularly in s'unsles and 
 metaphors \ whicli arc so employed as to render his style splendid, 
 without being gaudy. There ''s not the least affectation in his manner: 
 
 vo .';pe no marks of labour ; nothing forced or constrained ', but great 
 . egance, joined with great case and simplicity. 
 
 3. He is, in particular, distinguished by a character of modesty, and 
 , f politeness, which appears in all. bis writings. ISo aufhor has a more 
 popular and insinuating manner ; and the great regard which he every 
 where shews for virtue and religion, recommends his Spectator very 
 
 4. If he fails in any thing, it is m want of strength and precision, 
 whicli rentiers his manner, though perfectly suited to such essays as he 
 writes in the Spectator, not ahojjethcr a proper ir.o'i'^i f.,v nn>- of tUc 
 
The simjjle, afectal and vehement Styles. 2S9 
 
 higher and more elaborate kinds of composition. Though the pubhc 
 have ever done much justice to his merit, yet the nature of his merit 
 has not always been seen in its true li^ht ; for, thonc:h his poetry be 
 elei^ant, he certainly bears a higher rank among the prose writers, than 
 he is entitled to anions: the poets ; and, in prose, his humour is of a 
 much higher and more original strain, than his philosophy. The char- 
 acter of Sir Roger de Coverly discovers more genius than the critique 
 on Milton. (See Illus. 8. .W. 222. a7id Jlrl. 272. Crit. 4.) 
 
 46^3. Such authors as those, whose characters we have 
 been giving, one is never tired of reading. There is nothing 
 in their manner that strains or fatigues our thoughts ; we 
 are pleased, without being dazzled by their lustre. So pow- 
 erful is the charm of simplicity in an author of real genius, 
 that it atones for many defects, and reconciles us to many u 
 careless expression. 
 
 Corol. 1. Hence in all the most excellent authors, both in prose and 
 verse, the simple and natural manner m'ly be always remarked ; al 
 though other beauties being predominant, this forms not their peculiar 
 and distinguishing- character. 
 
 2. Thus Milton is simple in the midst of all his grandeur; and De- 
 mosthenes, in the midst of all his vehemence. (Ill us. 2. and Analysis. 
 Art. 212.) 
 
 Obs. To grave and solemn writings, simplicity of manner adds the 
 more venerable air, Accordhigly, this has often been remarked as the 
 prevailing character throughout all the sacred Scripttn-es ; and indeed 
 no other character of style was so much suited to their dignity. 
 
 463. Of authors, who, notwithstanding many excellencies, 
 have rendered titeir style much less beautiful by want of 
 simplicity, Lord Shaftsbury furnishes the most remarkable 
 example. His lordship is an authot on whom we have made 
 observations several times before, and we shall now take 
 leave of him, with giving his general character under this 
 head. 
 
 Obs. 1. Considerable merit, doubtless, he has. His language has 
 many beauties. It is firm, and supported in an uncommon degree ; it 
 i5 rich and musical. No English author has attended so much to (he 
 regular construction of his sentences, both with respect to propriety, 
 and with respect to cadence. (Illus. 7. Art. 222.) All this gives so 
 ujuch elegance and pomp to his language, that there is no wonder it 
 should have been highly admired by some. It is greatly hurt, howev- 
 er, by perpetual stiffness and alVcctation. This is its capital fault. 
 
 2. Like Dr. Johnson, his lordship can express nothing with simplici- 
 ty. Me seems to have considered it as vulgar, and beneatii the dignity 
 of a man of quality, to speak like other men. Johnson could say no- 
 thing but as a lexicographer. Lord Shaftsbury is ever in buskins ; 
 and dressed out witii magnificent elegance. Johnson is clad in the 
 leaves of his dictionary ; he lived upon it, as Boniface did upon his 
 ale. In itwtvy sentence of Lord Shaftsbury, we sec the marks of la- 
 bour and an ; nothing of that ease, which expresses a sentiment com- 
 mg natural and warm from the heart. Johnson is a perfect mechanist 
 
-40 The general Characters of ^Siyu, 
 
 ufst^yle. Iluving once studied liim, you will know his style ainoiig' »"•/ 
 
 thousand ; so exactly do the counters he presents to you, corrcsponcf 
 
 with the Roman die, whence they were turned out. Of fig^urcs and 
 
 ■rnaments of every kind, Lord Shaftshury is exceedingly tond ; somc- 
 
 imes happy in them ; but his tbndncss for them is too visible; and, 
 
 Living once laid hold of some metaphor or allusion that pleases him, 
 
 f»e knows not how to part with it. The coldness of Johnson's heart, 
 
 did not allow him to indulge at pleasure in figures and ornament. 
 
 'lis figures are always correct, but artificial and stately; and his aUe- 
 
 orics, in the Rambler, are awkwardly classical, though some of them 
 
 re not deficient in wit and elegance. His Allegory of Criticism, an 
 
 irly paper in the Rambler, is a pertinent illustration. 
 
 464. Having now said so much to recommend simplicity, 
 or the easy and natural manner of writing, and liaving 
 pointed out the defects of an opposite manner ; in order to 
 prevent njistakes on tiiis subject, it is necessary to observe, 
 that it is very possible for an author to write simply and yet 
 not beautiful! V. One rnav be free from at!ectation, and not 
 Imve merit. 
 
 Vlus. 1. Tii ;,,,..,...,. ,.,.,;.,.. ..^. -..jij,.*,* .>.i ....i.,i,. ... ^-v. c^ -.-. real 
 cuius ; to write with solidity, purity, and liveliness of imagination. 
 1 this case, the simplicity or unalVectedncss of his manner, is the 
 
 owning ornament ) it heightens every other beauty ; it is the dress 
 f nature, without which all beauties arc imperfect. 
 
 2. Rut if mere unafiectetlness were sufHcient to constitute the beauty 
 r style, weak, trifling, and dull writers might often lay claim to this 
 oauty. And, accordingly, we frequently meet with pretended critics, 
 
 ^jo extol the dullest writers, on account of what they call the " chaste 
 
 iuiplicity of their manner ;" which, in truth, is no other than the ab- 
 nce of every ornament, through the mere want of genius and imar 
 . i nation. 
 
 3. Wc must distrnguish, therefore, lietween that simplicity which 
 ^companies true genius, nn<l which is perfectly compatible with every 
 ;opcr ornament of style, and that which is no other than a careless 
 
 iiui slovenly manner. Indeed the distinction is easily made from the 
 iiert produced. The one never fails to interest the reader ; the other 
 ^ insipid and tiresome. 
 
 465. Wc proceed to mention one other manner or cTiarac- 
 ler of style different from any that has yet been spoken of; 
 and which may be distinguished by the name of the vehe- 
 nient. This always implies strength ; and is not, by any 
 uieans, inconsistent with si»nplicity ; but, in its predomin- 
 ant character, it is distinguishable from cither the stroiig or 
 the simple manner. 
 
 Illus. It has a peculiar ardour ; it is a glowing style ; the language 
 of a man, whose imagination and passions are heated, and strongly af- 
 ected by what he writes ; who is therefore negtigent of minor graces, 
 S)ut pours himself forth with the rapidity and fulness of a torrent. It 
 belongs to the higher kinds of oratory ; and, indeed, is rather expect- 
 ed from a jnan who is s-peaking, tiianr from one who is writing in his 
 
The simple, affected, and vehement Siytes, 9Ai 
 
 closet. The orations of Demosthenes furnish the full and perfect ex- 
 ample of this species of style. 
 
 466. Among English writers, the one vvlio has most of 
 this character, though mixed, indeed, with several defects, 
 is Lord Bolingbroke. His lordship was formed by nature 
 to be a factious leader ; the demagogue of a popular assem- 
 bly. Accordingly the style that runs through all his politi- 
 cal writings, is that of one declaiming with heat, rather than. 
 Avriting with deliberation. 
 
 Illus. He abounds in rhetorical ligures ; and pours himself Airth with 
 great impetuosity. He is copious to a fault ; places the same thought 
 before us in many dliVerent views j but generally with life and ardour. 
 He is bold, rather than correct; a torrent that flows strong-, but often 
 muddy. His sentences are varied as to length and shortness ; inclin- 
 ing, however, most to long- periods, sometimes including parentheses, 
 and frequently crowding- and heaping- a m.ultitude of things upon one 
 another, as naturally happei>s in t'ne warmth of speaking, in the 
 choice of his words, there is great felicity and precision. In exact 
 construction of sentences, he is much inferior to Lord Shaftsbury; but 
 greatly superior to him in life and ease. Upon the wliole, his merit, 
 as a writer, would have been very considerable, if his matter had 
 equalled his style. But whilst we find many things to commend in the 
 latter, in the former, as we before remarked, we can liardly find any 
 thing to commend, in his reasonings, for the most purl, he is flimsy 
 and false; in his political writings, factious ; in what ho calls his phi. 
 losophical ones, sophistical in the highest degree. 
 
 467. Some other characters of style, beside those which 
 we have mentioned, might be pointed out ; but it is vei y 
 diflicult to separate such general considerations of the style 
 of authors from their peculiar turn of sentiment, which it is 
 not the business of this work to criticise. 
 
 Illus. Conceited writers, for instance, discover their spirit so much 
 in their composition, that it imprints on their style a character of pert- 
 nsss ; though it is difiicult to say, whether this can be classed among 
 the attributes of style, or is rather to be ascribed entirely to the 
 thought. In whatever class we rank it, all appearances of it ought to 
 be avoided with care, as a most disgusting blemish in writing. Under 
 general heads, it is no difiicult task to classify the character of many of 
 the eminent writers in the English language. 
 
 Scholia. From what has been said on this subject, it may be infer- 
 red, that to determine among all these diflercnt manners of writing, 
 what is precisely the best, is neither easy not necessary. Style is a 
 field that admits of great latitude. Its qualities in diiTerent authors 
 may be very difterent ; and yet in tiiem all, beautiful. Room must be 
 loft here for genius ; for that particular determination which one re- 
 ceives from nature to one manner of expression more than another. 
 
 2. Some general qualities, indeed, there are of such importance, as 
 should always, in every kind of composition, be kept in view ; and 
 some defects we should always study to avoid. 
 
 3. An ostentatious, a feeble, a harsh, or an obscure style, for in- 
 stance, is always faulty: and perspicuity, strength, neatness, and 
 
i42 Directions for forming Style, 
 
 simplicity, arc beauties to be always aimed at. But as to the niixtuiV 
 of all, or the degree of predominancy of any one of these good quali- 
 ties, for forming- our peculiar distinguishing manner, no precise rules 
 can be given ; nor would it be prudent to point out any one model as 
 absolutely perfect. 
 
 4. It will be more to the purpose, that we conclude these disserta- 
 tions upon style, with a few directions concerning the proper method 
 'f attainini"!^ a good style, in general ; leaving the particular character 
 >\ that style to be either formed b^ the subject on which we write, or 
 prpropted by the bent of genius. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 DIRECTIONS FOil r STYLE. 
 
 468. THE first direction whic^i vve give fur this purpose^ 
 .s, to study char ideas on the subject concerning vvnicli jou 
 are to write or speak. This is a direction which may at first 
 appear to have small relation to style. Its relation to it, 
 
 iowevcr, is extremely close. Tlie foundation of all good 
 -tyle, is good stnt>e, accompanied with a //tc/y imagination. 
 
 Illns. 1. The style and thoupijts of a writer are so intimaicly conncct- 
 
 fi], that it is frequently hard to distinguish them. (..irl. 3i>2.) When- 
 vcr the impressions of things upon our minds are faint and indistinct, 
 1 perplexed and confused, our style in treating of such livings will in- 
 illibly be so too. Whereas, what we conceive clearly and feel strong- 
 V , we shall naturally express with clearness and with strength, (lilus. 
 
 .Jit. 4«>5.) 
 
 2. This, then, we may be asstircd. is a capital rule as to style, to 
 
 tliink closely on the subject, till we hare attained a full sind distinct 
 iew of the matter which we are to clothe in words, till we hecomo 
 arm and interested in it ; then, and not till then, shall we find ex- 
 
 )i«'S!jion begin to flow, 
 o. Grneraliy speaking, the best and most proper expressions are 
 ;ose which a clear view of the subject suggests, without much labour 
 I inquiry after them. This is Quinctilian's observation : the most 
 roper words for the most^art adhere to the thoughts which are to be 
 xpresscd by tliem, and may bo discovered as by their own light. But 
 c hunt al'ter ttiem as if they were hidden, and only to be found in a 
 orner. Hence, instead of conceiving the words to lie near the sub- 
 
 < ct, we go in quest of them to some other quarter, and endeavour to 
 
 _ive force to the expressions we have found out.* 
 
 469. In the second place, in order to form a good style, 
 mejrequent practice of composing is indispensably necessa- 
 
 • Plcrumque optima verba rtbus coharent, ct cemuntur sao luuiinet. At nos^ 
 quaerimus ilia, tanqiiam latrant seqiie subducant. Ita nunquam putauius verba esse 
 circa id do quo diet'udum est; scd ex this locis pHimus, et inventus vim affPrimu?, 
 Lub. viij. c. 1. 
 
Bit edions for forming Style, 245 
 
 liy. We have delivered many rules concerning style ; but 
 no rules will answer the end, without exercise and habit. 
 At the same time, it is not every sort of composing that will 
 improve style. 
 
 Illus. This is so far from being the case, that by frequent, careless, 
 iind hasty composition, we shall certainly acquire a very bad style ; 
 we shall have more trouble afterwards in unlearning: faults, and cor- 
 recting- negligences, than if we had not been accustomed to composi- 
 tion at all. In the beginning, therefore, we ought to write slow ly, and 
 with much care. Let the facility and speed of writing be the fruit of 
 longer practice. *' I enjoin," says Quinctilian, '* that such as are be- 
 ginning the practice of composition, vvrite slowly and with anxious de- 
 liberation. Their great object at first should be, to write as well as 
 possible ; practice will enable them to write speedily. By degrees, 
 matter will offer itself still more readily ; words will be at hand ; com- 
 position will flow ; every thing, as in the arrangement of a well-order- 
 ed family, will present itself in its proper place. The sum of the whole 
 is this : by hasty composition, we shall never acquire the art of com- 
 posing well ; by writing well, we shall come to write speedily."* 
 
 470. We must observe, however, tliat there may be an 
 extreme, in too great and anxious care about words. We 
 must not retard the course of thought, nor cool the heat of 
 imagination, by pausing too long on every word we employe 
 There is, on certain occasions, a glov/ of composition, which 
 should be kept up, if we hope to express ourselves happily, 
 though at the expense of allowing some inadvertencies to 
 pass. A more severe examination of these n)ust be left for 
 the work of correction. For, if the practice of composition 
 f)e useful, the laborious work of correcting is no less so ; it is 
 indeed absolutely necessary to our reaping any benefit from 
 the habit of composition. 
 
 Obs. 1. What we have written should be laid by for some little time- 
 till the ardour of composition be past, till \\\i\ fondness for the exjjres- 
 sions which we have used be worn oiT, and th.e expressions themselves 
 be torgotten ; and then reviewing our work with a cool and criticid eye, 
 as ifit were the performance of another, we shall discern many imper- 
 fections which at first escaped us. 
 
 2. Then is the season for pruning redundancies ; for examining the 
 arrangement of sentences ; for attending to the juncture of the parti- 
 cles connecting the whole ; and bringing style into a regular, correct. 
 and supported form, 
 
 3. This '^ labour at the beginning," must be submitted to by all v/jio 
 would communicate their thoughts with proper advantage to otliers , 
 and some practice in it will soon sharpen tlieir eye to the most noces 
 sary objects of attention, and render it a much more easy and practi 
 cable work than might at first be imagined. 
 
 * " Moram et solicitudinero, initils iir.pero. Nam primum lioc constituemlnm an 
 obtinendum est,ut quam optime scrlbamus: celeritatem dabit consuetudo. Paiilatim 
 res faeilius se ostendent, verba respondcbunt, cornpositio prostqueliir. Cuncta dcpi- 
 que ut in familia bene instituta in officio evunt. Sum ma h'*c t st ivi j cito scvibeiid*^ 
 jiou fit uc bit^scrikatur; btne scribendo, sit ut cito." I. x. o. >. 
 
2-44 Directions for formins; Style, 
 
 471. In the third place, with respect to the assistance that 
 is to be gained from the writings of others, it is obvious, that 
 we ought to render ourselves well acquainted with tlie style 
 of the best authors. This is requisite, both iu order to form 
 a just taste in style, and to supply us with a full stock of 
 words on every subject. 
 
 Ohs. 1. In reading authors with a view to style, attention should be 
 • iveu to the peculiarities of their diflerent manners ; and in th's Grara- 
 .rir we have endeavoured to sugg^cst several things that may be useful 
 \i\ this view. Dr. Blair says, no exercise will be lound more useful for 
 acqtiiring a proper style, than to translate some passage from an cmio- 
 ent English author into our own words. 
 
 2. What he means is, to take, for instance, some page of one of Ad- 
 dison's Spectators, and read it carefully over two or three times, till we 
 have got a firm hold of the thoughts contained in it ; then to lay aside 
 the book ; to attempt to write out the passage from memory, in the 
 best way we can ; and having done so, next to open the book, and com- 
 pare what we have written, with the style of the author. 
 
 3. Such an exercise will, by comparison, shew us where the defects 
 >f our style lie ; it will lead us to the proper attentions for rectifying' 
 riicm ; and among the diirerent ways in which the same thong'r.l. may be 
 expressed, it will make us percCiVC that which is the most bea-itiful. 
 
 472. In the fourth place, guard yourself, at the same time, 
 against a servile imitation of any author whatever. This is 
 ilways dangerous. It hampers genius ; it is likely to pro- 
 duce a stiff manner ; and those who are given to close imi- 
 tation, generally imitate an author's faults, as well as his 
 beauties. No man will ever become a good writer or speak- 
 er, who hr.5 nut ^./me degree of coniidence to follow his own 
 ;;cnius. 
 
 Obs. Yoti ); ware, iu particular, of adopting any author's 
 
 toted phrases, or transcribing ))a:isages from hira. Such a habit will 
 
 rove fatal to all genuine composition. Infinitely better it is to have 
 
 omething that is your own, though of moderate beauty, than to affect 
 
 1 shine in borrowed ornaments, which will, at last, betray the utter 
 
 i)averty of your genius. On these heads of composing, correcting, 
 
 1 oading, and imitating, every student of oratory should consult what 
 
 <iuinctilian has delivered in tke tenth book of his Institutions, where 
 
 '. ill bo found a variety of excellent observations and directions, that 
 
 ell deserve attention. 
 
 473. In the fifth place, it is an obvious, but material rule, 
 with respect to style, that you always study to adapt it to the 
 subject, and also to the capacity of your hearers, if you arc 
 to speak in public. Nothing merits the name of eloquent or 
 beautiful, which is not suited to the occasion, and to the per- 
 sons to whom it is addressed. It is to the last degree awk- 
 ward a«d absurd, to attempt a poetical florid style, on occa- 
 sions when it should be your business only to argue and rea 
 
Conduct of a JJiscourse in all its Parts. £4c/ 
 
 son ; or to speak with elaborate pomp of expression, before 
 persons who comprehend nothing of it, and who can only 
 stare at your unseasonable magnincence. These are defects 
 not so much in point of style, as, what is much worse, in 
 point of common sense* 
 
 Obs. When you begin to write or speak, you ought previously to fix 
 in your minds a clear conception of the end to be aimed at ; to keep 
 this Rteadily in your view, and to suit your style to it. If you do not 
 sacrifice to this great object, every ill-timed ornament that may occur 
 to your fancy, you are unpardonable ; and though children and fools 
 may admire, men of sense will laugh at you and your style. 
 
 474. In the last place carry along with you this admoni- 
 tion, that, in any case, and on any occasion, attention to 
 style must not engross you so much, as to detract from a 
 higher degree of attention to the thoughts : " to your ex- 
 pression be attentive ; but about.your matter be solicitous/'* 
 
 Obs. It is much easier to dress up trivial and common sentiments 
 with some beauty of expression, than to afford a fund of vigorous, in- 
 ji^enious, and useful thoughts. The latter requires tif-ue genius ; the 
 former may be attained by industry, with the help of very superficial 
 parts. Hence, we find so many writers frivolously rich in style, but 
 wretchedly poor in sentiment. The public ear is now so much accus- 
 tomed to a correct and ornamented style, that no writer can, w ith safe- 
 ty, neglect the study of it. But he is a contemptible one, who does not 
 look to something beyond it ; who does not lay the chief stress upon 
 his matter, and employ such ornaments of style to recommend it, as 
 are manly, not foppish. " A higher spirit ought to animate those who 
 study eloquence. They ought to consult the health and fondness of 
 the whole body, rather than bend their attention to such trifling ob- 
 jects as paring the nails, and dressing the hair. Let ornament be 
 manly and chaste, without effeminate gaiety, or artificial colouring j 
 let it shine with the glow of health and strength."! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE IN ALL ITS PARTS INniODUC- 
 
 TION, DIVISION, NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. 
 
 475. ON wiiatever subject any one intends to discourse, 
 he will most cojiimonlj beiijin v/ith some introduction, in order 
 to prepare the minds of his he'i'^^rs ; he will then state his 
 subject, and explain the facts connected with it ; he will 
 
 * " Curani verborum, rerum voloesse solicitudinem." 
 
 t *• Majore aahijo agpredienda est • lonuenlia ; quae: si toto corpore valet, ungue* 
 poVire et cajpilium conipon'.re, :':on exisuraabit ad curam suam pertinere. Ovnatws 
 etvirilia et fortis, et saitcius sit; iacc effeniinatam levitatem, et fuco ementitam cola- 
 lera amet ; saiiguiue et viribus uitcat*" ^uinctilian. 
 
246 Conduct of a Discourse in all its Paris. 
 
 employ arguments for establishing his own opinion, and 
 overthrowing that of his antagonist : he may perhaps, if 
 there be room for it, endeavour to touch the passions of his 
 audience ; and after having said all he thinks proper, he will 
 bring his discourse to a close, by some peroration or con- 
 clusion. 
 
 476. This being the natural train of speaking, the parts 
 that compose a regular formal oration, are these six : 
 
 First, the exordium, or introduction ; 
 
 Seconrlly, the statement, and the division of the subject ; 
 
 Thirdly, the narration, or explication ; 
 
 Fourthly, the reasoning, or arguments; 
 
 Fifthly, the pathetic parts ; 
 
 And, lastly, the conclusion. 
 
 477. The exordium, or introduction, is manifestly com- 
 mon to all kinds of public speaking. It is not a rhetorical 
 invention. It is founded upon nature, and suggested by 
 common sense. 
 
 fllus. When one is j^oing^ to counsel anotli. •, itpoii 
 
 bim to instruct, or to rrprove, prudence will generally direct liiin not 
 to do it abruptly, but to use some preparation ; to begin with some 
 matter that may in<-line the persons, to whom he addresses himself, to 
 judge favourably of what he is about to say ; and may dispose them 
 to such a train of thouL-lif. ;i< wiil forward and assist the purpose 
 hich he hii- ' 'he main scope of an 
 
 iitroductioii 
 
 478. First, to conciliafe the good-ivi/l oi ihc hearers; to 
 render them benevolent, or well-iiflTected, to the speaker, and 
 to the subject. 
 
 lUus. Topics foi iiii,-. pMi|»i^>r iikiv, hi i auses at the bar, be some- 
 times taken from the particular situation of the speaker himself, or of 
 his client, or from the character or behaviour of his antagonists, con- 
 trasted with his own ; on other occasions, from the nature of the sub- 
 ject, as closely connected with the interest of the hearers ; and, io 
 general, from the modesty and good intention with which the speaker 
 enters upon his subject. 
 
 479. The second end of an introduction, is, to raise the 
 litmtioi of the hf.arers ; which may be eftected, by giving 
 
 them some hints of the importance, dignity, or novelty of 
 the subject ; or some favourable view of tlie clearness and 
 precision with which we are to treat it ; and of the brevity 
 with which we are to discourse. 
 
 480. The third end is, to render the hearers docile^ or open 
 fo pcrs7iasio7i ; for which end we must begin with studying 
 
 f* remove any particular prepossessions they may have con- 
 
llie Introduction, 247 
 
 tracted against the cause, or side of the argument, which we 
 espouse. 
 
 481. As few parts of the discourse give the composer more 
 trouble, or are attended with more nicety in the execution, 
 we shall here lay down the following rules, for the proper 
 composition of this part of the subject. 
 
 482. The first rule is; that the introduction should be easy 
 and natural. The subject must always suggest it. 
 
 Ohs. It is too common a fault in introductions, that they arc taken 
 from some coiRmon-place topic, which has no particular relation to 
 the subject in hand \ by which means they stand apart, like pieces de- 
 tached from the rest of the discourses to which they are prefixed. 
 
 483. In order to render introductions natural and easy^ 
 it is a good rule, that they should not be planned, till after 
 one has meditated in his own mind the substance of his dis- 
 course. Then, and not till then, he should begin to think of 
 some proper and natural introduction. 
 
 Obs. By taking a contrary course, and labouring" in the first place 
 on an introduction, every one who is accustomed to composition, will 
 often find, tliat either he is led to lay hold of some common-place 
 Topic, or that, instead of ihe introduction being- accommodated to the 
 discourse, he is obliged to accommodate the whole discourse to tlie in- 
 troduction which he had previously written. 
 
 484. In the second place, in an introduction, correctness 
 should be carefully studied in the expression. This is re- 
 quisite, on account of the situation of the hearers. 
 
 Obs. They are then more disposed to criticise than at any other pe- 
 riod ; they are, as yet;, unoccupied with the subject or the arguments ; 
 their attention is wholly directed to the speaker's stj^le and manner. 
 Something must be done, therefore, to prepossess them in his favour ; 
 though, for the same reasons, too much art must be avoided ; for it will 
 be more easily detected at that time than afterwards ; and will dero- 
 gate from persuasion in all that follows. 
 
 485. In the third place, modesty is another character 
 which \i must carry. All appearances of modesty are fa- 
 vourable, and prepossessing. If the orator set out with an 
 air of arrogance and ostentation, the self-love and pride of 
 the hearers will be presently awakened, aiid they will listen 
 to him with a very suspicious ear throughout all his dis- 
 coui'se. 
 
 Obs. His modesty should discover itself not only in his expressions 
 at the beginningj but in his whole manner ; in his looks, in his ges- 
 tures, in the tone of his voice. Every auditory take in good parr those 
 marks of respect and awe, which are paid to them by one who address- 
 es them. Indeed the modesty of an introduction should never betray 
 any thing mean or abject. It is always of great use to an orator, that, 
 tog'^thef with modesty and deference to his hearers, he should shjvv a 
 
 22 
 
248 Conduct of a Discourse in ail its Paris, 
 
 certain sense of dignity, arising from a persuasion of the justice or ixr?- 
 portancc of the subject on which he is to speak. 
 
 486. In the fourth place, an introduction should usually 
 be carried on in the calm manner. This is seldom the place 
 for vehemence and passion. Emotions must rise as the dis- 
 course advances. The minds of the hearers must be grad- 
 ually prepared, before the speaker can venture on strong 
 and passionate sentiments. 
 
 Obs. The exceptions to this rule arc, when the subject is such, that 
 the very mention of it naturally awakens some passionate emotion ; or 
 when the unexpected presence of some person or object, in a popular 
 assembly, inflames the speaker, and makes him break forth with unu- 
 sual warmth. Either of these will justify what is called the exordium 
 ab nbruplo. 
 
 Example. Thus the appearance of Catiline in the senate renders the 
 vehement beginning- of Cicero's first oration against him vrry natural 
 aud proper : '* Quousquc tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra V* 
 And thus Bishop Atterbury, in preaching from this text, '* Blessed is 
 e, whosoever shall not be offended in me," ventures on breaking forth 
 vith this bold exordium : '* And can any man then be offended in 
 <hee, blessed Jesus r" 
 
 487. In the fifth place, it is a rule in iHtroductions, not to 
 iiiticipate any material part of the subject. 
 
 Obs. When topics, or arguments, w hich are afterwards to be cnhirg- 
 d upon, are hinted at, and, in part, brought forth in the introduction, 
 they lose the grace of novelty upon their second appearance. The im- 
 pression intended to be made by any capital thought, is always made 
 with the greatest advantage, wheu it is made entire, and in its proper 
 place. 
 
 488. In the last place, the introduction ought to be pro- 
 portioned, both in length, and in kind, to the discourse that 
 is to follow : in length, as nothing can be more absurd than 
 to erect a very great portico before a small building; and in 
 kind, as it is no less absurd to overcharge, with superb orna- 
 ments, the portico of a plain dwelling-house, or to make the 
 entrance to a monument as gay as that to an arbour. Com- 
 mon sense directs, that every part of a discourse should be 
 suited to the strain and spirit of the whule. 
 
 Scholium. These are the principal rules that relate to introductions. 
 They are adapted, in a great measure, to discourses of all kinds. \u 
 pleadings at the bar, or speeches in public Hssemblies, particular care 
 must be taken not to employ such an introduction as the adverse party 
 may lay hold of, and turn to his advantage. 
 
 489. After the introduction, what commonly comes next 
 in order, is tlie proposition^ or enunciation of the subject. 
 Concerning the proposition, it is to be observed, thai it 
 should be as cleai and distinct as possible, and expressed iii 
 few and plain words, without the least affectation. 
 
•J%e Proposition or Enuncialion of the Subject, 249 
 
 490. To this, j^enerallj succeeds the divisiony or the lay- 
 ing down the method of the discourse ; on which it is neces- 
 sary to make some observations. 
 
 0^5. We do not mean, that in ey:^vy discourse, a formal division or 
 idistribution of it into parts, is requisite. There are many occasions of 
 public speaking, when this is neither requisite, nor would be proper ; 
 when the discourse, perhaps, is to be short, or only one point is to be 
 treated of; or when the speaker does not choose to warn his hearers 
 of the method he is to follow, or of the conclusion to which he seeks to 
 bring them. Order, of one kind or other, is, indeed, essential to every 
 food discourse', that is, every thing should be so arranged, that what 
 goes before may give light and force to what follows. But this may 
 be accomplished by means of a concealed method. What we call di- 
 vision is, when the method is propounded in form to the hearers. 
 The discourse in which this sort of division most commonly take? 
 place, is a sermon. 
 
 491. In a sermon^ or pleadings or any discourse, wher^i 
 division is proper to be used, the most material rules are, 
 
 49:2. First, that the several parts into which the subject is 
 divided, be really distinct from one another ; that is, tliat no 
 ene include another, 
 
 Obs. It were a very absurd division, for instance, if one should pro- 
 pose to treat first, of the advantages of virtue, and next, of those of jus- 
 tice or temperance ; because, the first head evidently comprehends the 
 second, as a genus does <he species. He who proceeds in this methocl 
 involves his subject in disorder and indistinctness. 
 
 493. Secondly, in division, we must take care iofolloio 
 the order of nature; beginning wit^i the simplest points, such 
 as are easiest apprehended, and necessary to be first discuss- 
 ed ; and proceeding thence to those which are built upon 
 the former, and which suppose them to be known. We 
 must divide the subject into those parts into which it is most 
 easily and naturally resolved ; that it may seem to split 
 itself, and not be violently torn asunder: "Dividere," as is 
 commonly said, " non frangere.'' 
 
 494. Thirdly, the several members of a division ought to 
 exhaust the subject; otherwise, we do not make a complete 
 division ; we exhibit the subject by pieces and corners only, 
 -without giving any such plan as displays the whole. 
 
 495. Fourthly, the terms m which our partitions are ex- 
 pressed, shouUrbc as concise as possible. Avoid all circum- 
 locution here. Admit not a single word but what is neces- 
 sary. Precision is to be studied, above all thin-j's, in laying 
 down your method. "^ 
 
 Obs. It is this which chiefly makes a division appear neat and ele- 
 gant ; when the several heads are propounded in th« clearest, most 
 f ypre^sive. and, at the same time, ihe fewest words possible. This 
 
' ^0 Conduct of a Discourse in all it^ Paris. 
 
 never fails to strike the hearers agreeably ; and ig, at the same time, of 
 fjreat consequence towards making the divisions be more easily re- 
 membered. 
 
 496. Fifthly, avoid an unnecessary niultiplicatioii ol 
 heads. To split a subject into a great many minute parts, 
 bj divisions and subdivisions without end, has always a bad 
 eftect in speaking. 
 
 Obs. It may he propn : ; l^it it makes an ora- 
 
 tion appear hard and dry, and unueceiisarily fatigues the memory. In 
 a sermon, there may be from three to live or six heads, inchidinj^ sub- 
 ilivisions ; seldom should there be more. 
 
 497. The next constituent part < ; , 
 mentioned, was narration^ or expUculion. 
 
 Obs. We jmt these t vo together, both because th\ 
 tiie same rules, and because they comui: Lly answer tlie same purpose ; 
 serving to ilhistrate liie cause, or the subject of which the orator 
 ireats, bcforr ds to art^ue either on one side or other ; or to 
 
 make any a(i lerosting the passions of the hearers. 
 
 ///U5. 1. In ,.-...; ^> at ilie bar, narration is often a very important 
 
 part of the discourse, and requires to be particularly attended to. Be- 
 sides its being in no case an easy matter to relate with grace and pro- 
 priety, there i«, in narrations at the bar, a pecidinr difficulty. The 
 pleader must say ntMhing but what is true ; and, at the same time, he 
 ^ ■ * - : ' ^yingf any thing that will hurt Iiis cause. 
 
 :s which he relates, are to be the ground-work of all his 
 ling. To recount them so as to keep strictly withhi the 
 boanus oi u uth, and yet to present ihcm under the colours most fa- 
 vourahio to hi» rause \ to place, in the most striking Ught, every cir- 
 rui ' ' ii to hf«; i\<] ' • soften and weaken such 
 
 ;y in, demaii on of skill and dexterity. 
 
 ♦ ir ... . , . ;omembrr, i .. ^^ors too much art, he de- 
 
 bits liis own purpose, and creates a distrust of his sincerity. 
 
 498. To be clear and distinct, to be probabhy and to be 
 rncise, are the qualilies which ciitics chiefly require in nar- 
 
 tationj each of •- S'- '» .— i.'^. ^.>/r,..;....,i,- .k^. .., ;j,.,...^ of 
 Its importance. 
 
 [Uus. 1. .Distinr!ri's.; \;v\ong> t.^ fho wlifvlo ttain oith:- «:i>^cnurso, but 
 
 especially requi>ite in narratinn^ which ou^ht to throw light on all 
 
 " '"ilows. A fact, or n single circumstance left in obscurity, and 
 
 K'hended by th^ judge, may destroy the effect of all the argu- 
 
 id reasoning which the speaker cinjloys. If his narration be 
 
 ipn.bablc, the jjidge will not regard ii < dious and dif- 
 
 i>e, he will be tiretJ of ijt, and forget ii 
 
 2. In oriler to produce distinchiess, besm •» i.ic sumv of the general 
 rules of perspicuity which were formerly givon, narration requires par- 
 tioidar attention to ascertain clearly the jinmes, the daUs, ihe :?lucts. 
 
 ij ecery other material circumstance of the facts recounted. 
 
 3. In order to be ;;r(/6a6/e in narration, it is material toe. 
 
 ihc characters of the personj of whom we speak, and to show that nicu 
 actions proceeded from such rnolUcs as arc natural^ and likely to gain 
 belief. 
 
TliB argumeniatite or reasoning Part, 251 
 
 4. Ill order to bo as co^ncise as the subject will admit, it is nccessarf' 
 io'lhroxv out all superfluous circumstances ; the rejection of which will 
 likewise tend to make Our narration more forcible and more clear- 
 
 Obs. In sermons, where there is seldom any occasion for narration, 
 explication oi' the subject to be discoursed on, comes in the place of 
 narration at the bar, and is to be taken up much on the same tone ; 
 that i^, it must be concise, clear, and distinct ; and in a style correct 
 and eleg-ant, rather than highly adorned. To expdain the doctrine of 
 the test with propriety ; to give a full and perspicnous account of the 
 nature of that virtue or duty which forms the subject of the disconrsie, 
 is properly the didactic part of preaching- ; on the right execution di' 
 ^vhich much depends for all that comes afterwards in the way of per- 
 suasion. 
 
 499. Of the argummiative or recifionhig part of a dis- 
 coMPse, In whatever place, or on whatever subject one 
 speaks, this, beyond doubt, is of the greatest consequence. 
 For the great end for which men speak on any serious occa- 
 sion, is to convince their hearers of something being either 
 true, or right, or good ; and, by means of this conviction, to 
 influence their practice. Reason and argument make the 
 foundation of all manly and persuasive eloquence. 
 
 500. Now, with respect to arguments, three things are re- 
 quisite. 
 
 First, i\\^ invenlion of them ; 
 
 Secondly, the proper disposition and arrangement of them ; 
 And, thirdly, the expressing of them in such a style and 
 manner, as to give them their full force. 
 
 501. The first of these, invention, is, without doubt, the 
 most material, and the ground-work of the rest. 
 
 Obs. 1. But, with respect to this, it is beyond the power of art to give 
 any real assistance. Art cannot go so far, as to supply a speaker with 
 arguments on every cause, and every subject ; though it may be of 
 considerable use in assistiu!^ him to arrange and express those, wiilch 
 his knowledge of the subject has discovel-ed. For it is one thing to 
 dascover the reasons that are most proper to convince men, and an- 
 other, to manage these reasons with tlie most advantage. The latter 
 is all that to which rhetoric can pretend. 
 
 2. The assistance tliat can be given, not wiili respect to the mrc72tio7i, 
 but with respect to the dis-position ami conduct of argumenls. may be 
 reduced to the following methods. 
 
 50:2. Two different methods may be used by orators in the 
 conduct of their reasoning. The terms of art for these 
 methods are, the analytic, and the synthetic m^ihad, 
 
 Illns. The analytic is that in which the orator conceals his intention 
 concerning the point he is to prove, till he has gradually brought his 
 hearers to the designed conclusion. They are l**-:* on, 'step by step, 
 from one known truth to another, till the conclusion be stolen upo« 
 them, as the natural consequence of a chahi of propositions. 
 
 Example. When one, intending to prove the being of a God, sets cir 
 
9.54 Conduct of a Discourse in all its Paits, 
 
 a (lifTiise and spreading: method, beyond the bounds of reasonable i! 
 }iistration, is always enfeebling". It takes off greatly from that strength 
 and sharpness which should be the distinguishing character of the ar- 
 ofumcntative part of a discourse. When a speaker dwells long on a 
 favourite argument, and seeks to turn it into every possible light, it al- 
 most always happens, that, fatigued with the effort, he loses the spirit 
 with which he set out, and concludes with feebleness what he began 
 with force. There is a proper tempern* soning, as tl 
 
 other parts of a discourse. 
 
 510. After tlue attention given to the proper ariaugc- 
 nient of arguments, what is next requisite for their success, 
 is, to express them in such a style, and to deliver them in 
 -uch a manner, as shall give them full force. 
 
 oil. We now proceed to another essential part of dis- 
 course, which was mentioned as the fifth in order, that is, tlie 
 pathetic; in which, if any eloquence reigns, and 
 
 exerts its power. 
 
 512. On the head of the pathetic, the following directions 
 may be found useful. ' 
 
 513. The first is to consider carefully, whether the sub- 
 ject admit the pathetic, and render it proper; and if it does, 
 ^^ hat part of the discourse is this most proper for attempt- 
 ing it. 
 
 01^3. 1. To determine these points belongs to good sense ; for it is 
 ' vident, that there are many subjects which admit not the pathetic at 
 ill, and that even in those that are susceptible of it, nn attenipt to ex- 
 ile the passions in. the wrong place, may expose an orator to ridicule. 
 \ll that can be said in c^eneral is, that if we expect any emotion which 
 ^^ raise to have a lasting effect, we must be careful to bring over to 
 !r side, in the first place, the understanding and judgment. 
 2. The hearers must bo convinced that there are good and sufficient 
 rounds for their entering with warmth into the cause. They must be 
 ible to justity to themselves the passion which they feel ; aiu' 
 -.;tisfied that they are not carried away by mere delasion. 
 
 8, Unless their minds be brought into this state, although lliey may 
 have been heated by the orator's discourse, yet, as soon as he ceases to 
 <;peak,they will resume their ordinary tone of thought ; and the emo- 
 {'•n\ which he has raised will produce no effect. 
 
 4. Hence most writers assign the pathetic to the peroration or con- 
 Uision, as its natural place ; and, no doubt, all other things being 
 (jual, this is the impression that one would chusc to make last, leav- 
 1 ig the minds of the hearers warmed with the subject, after argument 
 md reasoning had produced their full effect : but wherever- it is intro- 
 iuced, observe, 
 
 514.. In the second place, never to set apart a head of a 
 discourse in form, for raising any passion ; never give warn- 
 ing that you are about to be pathetic ; and call upon your 
 hearers, as is sometimes done, to fiillow you in the attempt. 
 Tliis almost never fails to prove a refrigerant to passion. It 
 
The pathetic Patt ^55 
 
 puts the hearers immdiately on their guard, and disposes 
 them for criticising, much more than for being moved. 
 
 Obs. The indirect method of making an impression is likely to be 
 more successful, when you seize the critical moment that is favourable 
 to emotion, in whatever part of the discourse it occurs, and then, after 
 due preparation, throw in such circumstances, and present such glow- 
 ing- imag^es, as may kindle their passions before they are aware. This 
 can often be done more happily, in a {cv^ sentences inspired by natu- 
 ral warmth, than in a long and studied address, 
 
 515. In the third place, it is necessary to observe, that 
 there is a great difterence between showing the hearers tlvat 
 they ought to be moved, and actually moving them. 
 
 lllus. To every emotion or passion, nature has adapted a set of cor- 
 responding objects; and, without setting these before the mind, it is 
 not in the power of any orator to raise that emotion. I am warmed 
 with gratitude, I am touched witJi compassion, not when a speaker 
 shows me that these are noble dispositions, and that it i» my duty to 
 feel them ; or when he exclaims against me for my indifference and 
 coldness. All this time, he is speaking only to my reason or con- 
 science. He must describe the kindness and tenderness of my friend ; 
 he must set before me the distress suffered by the person for whcrn he 
 would interest me ; then, and not till then, my lieart begins to be 
 touched, my gratitude or my compassion begins to flow. 
 
 Scholiuiii. The foundation, therefore, of all successive execution in 
 the way of pathetic oratory is, to paint the object of that passion whicli 
 we wish to raise, in the most natural and striking manner ; to describe 
 this object with such circumstances as are likely to awaken in th^ 
 minds of others the passion which we wish to raise. Every passion is 
 most strongly excited by sensation ; as anger by the feeling of an in- 
 JHry, or the presence of the injurer. Next to the influence of sense, is 
 that of memory ; and next to meniory, is the influence of the imagina- 
 tion. Of this power, therefore, the orator must avail himself, so as to 
 strike the imagination of the hearers with circumstances which, in 
 lustre and steadiness, resemble those of sensation and rtmembrance. 
 In order to accomplish this, 
 
 516. In the foutth place, the only eflcctual method is, to 
 be liioved yourselves. Hiere are a lliousand interesting 
 ^circumstances suggested by real passion, which no art can 
 imitate, and no refinement can supply. There is obviously 
 a contagion among the passions. 
 
 Obs. The int(^rnal emotion of the speaker adds a pathos to his wordsi, 
 his looks, his gestures, and his Vvhole inanrier, which exerts a power 
 almost irresistible over those who hear him. But on this point, though 
 the most material of all, we shall n6t insist, as j,dl attempts towards 
 becoming pathetic, when we are not moved ourselves, expose us to 
 certain ridicule. 
 
 517. In the fifth place, it is necessary to attend to the 
 proper language of the passions. We should observe in 
 what manner any one expresses himself who is under the 
 
54 Conduct of a Discourse in all its Pmts. 
 
 i\ (lifTasc and spreading method, beyond the bounds of reasonable i! 
 lustration, is always enfeebling. It takes off greatly from that strength 
 and sharpness which should be the distinguishing character of the ar- 
 gumentative part of a discourse. When a speaker dwells long on a 
 favourite argument, and seeks to turn it into every possible light, it al- 
 most always happens, that, fatigued with the effort, he loses the spirit 
 ifh which he set out, and conckuirs with feebleness what he begau 
 ^ith force. There is a prop* > sre in reasoning, as there is in 
 
 t her parts of a discourse. 
 
 510. After due attention given to the proper arrange- 
 u^ent of arguments, what is next requisite for their success, 
 '-'<, to express them in such a style, and to deliver them in 
 iich a manner, as shall give them full force. 
 
 5)1. We now proceed to another essential part of dis- 
 ourse, which was mentioned as the fifth in order, that is, the 
 viHETic; in which, if any where, eloquence reigns, and 
 rxerts its power. 
 
 512. On the head of the pathetic, the foUowino- directions 
 may be found useful. 
 
 513. The first is to consider carefully, whether the sub- 
 ject admit the pathetic, and render it proper; and if it does, 
 V hat part of the discourse is the most proper for attempt- 
 ing it. 
 
 Ol^s. 1. To determine these points belongs to good sense ; for it is 
 « vident, that there are many subjects which admit not the pathetic at 
 all, and that even in those that are susceptible of it, an attempt to ex- 
 oito the passions inthc wrong place, may expose an orator to ridicule. 
 vll that can be said in general is, that if we expect any emotion which 
 ' 1' rai.se to have a lasting effect, we must be careful to bring over to 
 •r side, in tlie first place, the understanding and judgment. 
 2. The hearers must be convinced tliat (here are good and sufTicicnt 
 rounds for their entering with warmth into the cause. Thrv must be 
 able to justily to themselves the passion which they feel 
 satisfied tlmt they are not carried away by mere delasion 
 
 o. Unices their minds be brought into this slate, althoii-li tlicy may 
 have been licated by the orator's discourse, yet, as soon as he ceases to 
 'tpeakjthey will resume their ordinary tone of thought ; and the emo- 
 • n which he has raised will produce no effect. 
 
 4. Hence most writers assign the pathetic to the peroration or con- 
 i:lusiou, as its natural place ; and, no doubt, all other things being 
 equal, this is the impression that one would chuse to make last, leav- 
 ing the minds of the hearers warmed with the subject, after argument 
 and reasoning had produced their full eflect : but wherever it is intro- 
 duced, observe, 
 
 514.. In the second place, never to set apart a head of a 
 discourse in form, for raising any passion ; never give warn- 
 ing that you are about to be pathetic ; and call upon your 
 hearers, as is sometimes done, to follow you in the attempt. 
 This almost never fails to prove a refrigerant to passion. It 
 
The pathetic Patt 255 
 
 puts the hearers immdiatelj on their guard, and disposes 
 them for criticising, much more than for being moved. 
 
 Obs. The hidirect inelhcd of making an impression is likely to be 
 more successfi!l, when you seize the critical moment that is favourable 
 to emotion, in whatever part of the discourse it occurs, and then, after 
 due preparation, throw in such circumstances, and present such glow- 
 ing- images, as may Uindle their passions before they are aware. This 
 can often be done more happily, in a few sentences inspired by natu- 
 ral warmth, than in a long and studied address, 
 
 515. In the third place, it is necessary to observe, that 
 there is a great difterence between showing the hearers tlvat 
 they ought to be moved, and actually moving them. 
 
 Illus. To every emotion or passion, nature has adapted a set of cor- 
 responding objects ; and, without setting these before the mind, it is 
 not in the power of any orator to raise that emotion. I am warmed 
 with gratitude, I am touched witli compassion, not when a speaker 
 shows me that these are noble dispositions, and that it i» my duty to 
 feel them ; or when he exclaims against me for my indifference and 
 coldness. All this time, he is speaking only to my reason or con- 
 science. He must describe the kindness and tenderness of my friend 3 
 he must set before me the distress suffered by the person for whcm he 
 would interest me ) then, and not till then, my iieart begins to be 
 touched, my gratitude or my compassion begins to flow. 
 
 Scholium. The foundation, therefore, of all successive execution in 
 the way of pathetic oratory is, to paint the object of that passion which 
 we wish to raise,, in the most natural and striking manner J to describe 
 this object with such circumstances as are likely to awaken in th^ 
 minds of others the passion which we wish to raise. Every passion is 
 most strongly excited by sensation ; as anger by the feeling of an in- 
 jury, or the presence of the injurer. Next to the iniluence of sense, is 
 that of memory ; and next to memory, is the influence of the imagina- 
 tion. Of this power, therefore, the orator must avail himself, so as to 
 strike the imagination of the hearers with circumstances v.hieh, in 
 lustre and steadiness, resemble those of sensation and remembrance. 
 In order to accomplish this, 
 
 516. In the fourth place, the only effectual method is, to 
 be liioved yourselves. There ai^e a tliousand interesting 
 circumstances suggested by real passion, which no art can 
 imitate, and no refinement can supply. There is obviously 
 a contagion among the passions. 
 
 Obs. The intf^rnal emotion of the speaker adds a pathos to his words:, 
 his looks, his gestures, and his Vvhole manner, which exerts a power 
 almost irresistible over those who hear him. But on this point, thougri 
 the most material of all, we shall n6t insist, as jdl attempts towards 
 bcconjing iialhetic, when we are not moved ourselves, expose us to 
 certain ridicule. 
 
 517. In the fifth place, it is necessary to attend to the 
 proper language of the passions. We should observe in 
 what manner any one expi^esses himself who is uiider the 
 
256 €onduet of a Discourse in all its Parts* 
 
 power of a real and a strong passion ; and we shall alwavi^ 
 iind his language unuffected and simple. 
 
 Ill.fS. 1. It may be animated, indeed, with bold and strong figurcF, 
 but it t^'^l} have no ornament or finery. He is not at leisure to foUow 
 out (he play of imagination. His mind being wholly Seized by one ob- 
 ject, which lias heated it, he has no other aim, but to represent that iii 
 all its circumstances, as strongly as he feels it. 
 
 2. This must be the style of Jhc orator when he would be pathetic ; 
 and this will be his j;tyle, if he speaks from real feeling ; bold, ardent, 
 <<imple. No sort of description will then succeed, but what is written 
 '^ fcrvente calamo." If he stay till he can work up his style, and pol- 
 ish and adorn it, he will infallibly cool his own ardour ; and then he 
 will touch the heart no more. His composition will become frigid ; it 
 will bf» the language of one who describes, but who does not feel, 
 
 8. We must take notice, that there is a great difference between 
 ]»ainting to the imagination, and painting to the heart. The one may 
 be done coolly and at leisure : the oihor must always be rapid and ar- 
 dent. In the former, art and labour may be sulVered to appear ; in the 
 fatter, no effect can follow, unless it seem to be the work of nature only. 
 
 518. In the sixth place, avoid interweaving any thing of a 
 foreign imturc with the pathetic part of a discourse. 
 
 Ohs 1. Beware of all digressions, which may interrupt or turn aside 
 liie natural course of the passion, when once it begins to rise and swell. 
 
 2. iSacrificc all beauties, however bright and showy, which would 
 divert the mind from the principal object, and which would amuse the 
 imagination, rather than touch the heart. 
 
 3. Hence comparisons are always dangerous, and gtnrrallv quite 
 improper, in the midst of passion. 
 
 4. Beware even of reasoning unseasonably; or at least, of carrying 
 on a long and subtile train of reasoning, on occagions when theprinci' 
 pal aim is to excite warm emotions. 
 
 519. In the last place, never attempt prolonging the ])a- 
 lietic too much. A\ arm emotions are too violent to be last- 
 ing. Study the proper time of making a retreat ; of making 
 i transition from the passionate to the calm tone ; in such a 
 
 :nanner, however, as to descend w^ithout falling, by keeping 
 jp the same strain of sentitnent that was carried on before, 
 though now expressing it with more moderation. 
 
 Obs. Above all things, beware of straining passion too far ; of at- 
 tempting to raise it to unnatural heights. Preserve always a due re- 
 gard to what (he hearers will bear; and remember, that he who stops 
 not at the proper point ; who attempts to carry them farther, in pas- 
 sion, than they will follow him, destroys his whole design. By endeav- 
 ouring to warm them too much, he takes the most effectual method of 
 freezing them completely. 
 
 520. Concerning the peroration or conclusion, it is 
 needless to say much, because it must vary so considerably, 
 according to the strain of the preceding discourse. 
 
 0^f 1 Sometimes the wliolc pathetic part cowqs in most properly 
 
Historical Writing. 257 
 
 at the peroration. Sometimes, when the discourse has been entirely 
 argumentative, it is fit to conclude with suraming up the arguments, 
 placing them in one view, and leaving the impression of t}iem full tncl 
 strong on the mind of the audience. For the great rule of a conclusion, 
 and what nature obviously suggests, is to place that last on which we 
 choose that the strength of our cause should rest. 
 
 2. In sermons, inferences from what has been said, make a common 
 conclusion. But inferences to rise naturally should so much agree 
 with the strain of sentiment throughout the discourse, as not to break 
 the unity of the sermon. For inferences, how justly soever they may 
 be, deduced from the doctrine of the text, yet have a bad effect, if, at 
 the conclusion of a discourse, the}^ introduce some subject altogether 
 new, and turn off our attention from the main object to which the 
 preacher had directed our thoughts. They appear, in this case, like 
 excrescences jutting out from the body, and forming an unnatural ad. 
 dition to it ; they tend to enfeeble the impression which the composi- 
 tion, as a whole, is calculated to make. 
 
 Scholium. In every discourse, it is a matter of importance to hit the 
 precise tim^ of concluding, so as to bring our subject just to a point ; 
 neither ending abruptly and unexpectedly ; nor disappointing the ex- 
 pectation of the iiearers, when they look for the close ; and continuing 
 to hover round and round the conclusion, till they become heartily tired 
 of us. We should endeavour to go off with a good grac# ; not to end 
 with a languishing and drawling sentence ; but to close with dignity 
 and spirit, that we may leave the minds of the hearers warm ; and 
 dismiss them with a favourable impression of the subject and of tfee 
 speukcr. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HISTORICAL WRITING. 
 
 52 L AS it is the office of an orator to persuade, it is that 
 of an HisTouiAN to record truth for the instruction of man- 
 kind. This is the proper object and end of history, from 
 which may be deduced many of the laws relating to its com- 
 position ; ami if this object were always kept in view, it 
 would prevent many of the errors into which persons arc 
 apt to fall concerning this species of composition. 
 
 Obs. As the primary end of history is to record truth, imparliaHty, 
 Jidelliy, and accuracy are the fundamental qualities of an historian. He 
 must neither be a panegyrist nor a satirist. He must not enter into 
 faction, nor give scope to affection ; but, contemplating past events 
 and characters with a cool and dispassionate eye, must present to his 
 readers a faithful copy of human nature. 
 
 522, Historical composition is understood to comprehend 
 under it, annals, memoirs, lives. But these are its inferior 
 subordinate species, on which we shall hereafter make some 
 
J2pt? IFistorical JVriting. 
 
 reflections, when we shall have first considered what belong* 
 to a Regular work of history. Such a work is chiefly of two 
 kinds. Either the entire history of some state or kingdom 
 through its diffl'rent revolutions, such as Livy's Roman His- 
 tory ; Hume's History of England ; or the history of some 
 one great event, or some portion or period of time which may 
 be considered as making a whole by itself; such as Thucy- 
 dides's History of the Peloponnesian War, Davila's History 
 of the Civil VV'ars of France, or Clarendon's of those of 
 England ; Robertson's History of Charles V. 
 
 Ohs. 1. In the conduct and management of his subject, the first at- 
 tention requisite in an historian, is to give it as much unity as possible ; 
 that izj, his history should not consist of separate unconnected parts 
 merely, but should be bound together by some connecting principle, 
 whi'-h shall make on the iniud the impression of something that is one, 
 whole and entire. 
 
 2. In general histories, which record the afla)i*s of a whole nation or 
 empire throughout several ages, this unity will be more imperfect. 
 Yet even there, some degree of it can be preserved by a skilful writer. 
 For though the whole, taken together, be very complex, yet the great 
 constituent parts of it form so many subordinate wholes, when taken 
 by themselves ; each of which can be treated both as complete within 
 itself, and as connected with what goes before and follows. 
 
 lllut. 1. In the history of a monarch, for instance, every reign should 
 have its own unity ; a beginning, a middle, and an end, to the system 
 of atTairs ; while, at the same time, we are taught to discern how that 
 system of aflairs rose from the preceding, and how it is inserted into 
 what follows. We should be able to trace all the secret links of the 
 chain, which binds together remote and seemingly unconnected events. 
 
 2. In some kingdoms of Europe, it was the plan of many successive 
 ])rince8 to reduce the power of their nobles ; and during several reigns, 
 \v\oiX o^ the leading actions had a reference to this end. In other 
 states, the rising power of the Commons influenced, for atract of time, 
 the course and connection of public affairs. 
 
 3. Among the Romans, the leading principle was a gradual exten- 
 sion of conquest, and the attainment of universal empire. The con- 
 tinu.ll increase of tiieir power, advancing towards this end from small 
 beginnings, and by a sort of regular progressive plan, furnished to 
 Livy a happy subject for historical unity, in the midst of a great vari- 
 ety of transactions. 
 
 523. In order to fulfil the end of history, the author must 
 study to trace to their springs the actions and events which 
 he records. Two thin^^s are especially necessary for his do- 
 ing tiii successfully ; a thorough acquaintance with human 
 -nature, and political knowledge, or acquaintance with gov- 
 ernment. The former is nece^^sary to account for the con- 
 <lur,tof individuals, and to give just views of their charac- 
 ter; the latter to account f(»r the revolutions of government, 
 snld the operation of political causes on public affairs. Botli 
 
Bisiorical Writing, 259 
 
 ttiust concur, in order to form a completely instructive his- 
 torian. 
 
 524. The first requisites of historical narration, are clear- 
 ness, order, and due connection. To attain these, the histo- 
 rian must be completely master of his subject; he must see 
 the whole as at one view ; and comprehend the chain and de- 
 pendence of all its parts, that he may introduce everything 
 in its proper place ; that he may lead us smoothly along the 
 tract of affairs which are recorded, and may always give us 
 the satisfaction of seeing how one event arises out of another. 
 Without this, there can be neither pleasure nor instruction, 
 in reading history. 
 
 06.f. Much for this end wiU depend on the observance of that unity 
 in the general plan and conduct, which has already been recommend- 
 ed. Much too will depend on the proper management of transitions. 
 This forms one of the chief ornaments of this kind of writing-, and is 
 one of the most difficult in execution. Nothing tries an historian's 
 abilities more, than so to lay his train beforehand, as to make us pass 
 naturally and agreeably from one part of his subject to another ; to 
 employ no clumsy and awkward junctures ; and to contrive ways and 
 means of forming some union among transactions, which seem to be 
 most widely separated from one another. 
 
 525. In the next place, as history is a very dignified spe- 
 cies of composition, gravity must always be maintained in 
 the narration. There must be no meanness nor vulgarity 
 in the style : no quaint, nor colloquial phrases ; no affecta- 
 tion of pertness, or of wit. The smart, or the sneering man- 
 ner of telling a story, is inconsistent with the historical cha- 
 racter. 
 
 Ohs. On occasions where a light and ludicrous anecdote is proper 
 to be recorded, it is generally better to throw it into a note, than 
 to hazard becoming too familiar by introducing it into the body of the 
 work. 
 
 52Q, But an historian may possess these qualities of be- 
 ing perspicuous, distinct, and grave, and may notwithstand- 
 ing be a dull writer; in which case we shall reap little ben- 
 efit from his labours. 
 
 Obs. We shall read him without pleasure ; or, most probably, we 
 shall soon give over reading him at all. He must therefore study to 
 render his narration interesting ; which is the quality that chiefly dis- 
 tinguishes a writer of genius and eloquence. 
 
 527. Two things are especially conducive to this ; the 
 first is, a just medium in the conduct of narration, between 
 a rapid or crowded recital of facts, and a prolix detail. The 
 former embarrasses and the latter tires us. 
 
 Ohs, 1. An historian that would interest us, must know when to be 
 23 
 
iSO Historical VP'riting* 
 
 concise, and where he ought to enlarge ; passing concisely mtt 
 slight and unimportant events, bat dwelling on such as are striking anrf 
 considerable in their nature, or pregnant with consequences ; prepar- 
 ing before hand our attention to them, and bringing them forth into 
 the most full and conspicuous light. 
 
 2. The next thing he must attend to, is « proper selection of the cir- 
 cumstances belonging to those events which he chooses to relate fully. 
 General facts make a slight impression on the mind. It is by mean^ 
 of circumstances and particulars properly chosen, that a narration be- 
 comes interesting and affecting to the reader. 1 hese give life, body, 
 and colouring to the recital of facts, and enable us to behold them as 
 present, and passing before our eyes. It is this employment of cir- 
 cumstances, in narration, that is properly termed historical painting. 
 
 528. The ancients employed one embellishment of histo- 
 ry which the moderns have laid aside, namely, orations, 
 ^vhich, on weighty occasions, they put into the mouths of 
 
 -ome of their chief personages. 
 
 06.?. 1. By means of these, they diversified their history ; they con- 
 veyed both moral and political instruction ; and, by the opposite ar- 
 guments which were employed, they gave us a view of the sentiments of 
 different parties. 
 
 2. Orations may be an embellishment to history ; such might alsD 
 poetical compositicns be, when introduced under the name of some of 
 the personages mentioned in the narration, who were known to have 
 possessed poetical talents. But neither can the one nor the other find 
 a proper place in history. 
 
 3. Instead of inserting formal orations, the method adopted by later 
 writers seems better and more natural ; that of the historian, on some 
 great occasion, delivering, in his own person, the sentiments and rea- 
 sonings of the opposite parties, or the substance of what was under- 
 stood to bespoken in some public assembly ; which he may do without 
 the liberty of fiction. 
 
 529. The drawing of characters is one of the most splen- 
 did, and, at the same time, one of the most difficult orna- 
 ments of historical composition. For characters are general- 
 ly considered as professed exhibitions of fine writing ; and 
 an historian who seeks to shine in them, is frequently in 
 tlanger of carrying refinement to excess, from a desire of ap- 
 pearing very profound and penetrating. He brings together 
 so many contrasts, and subtile oppositions of qualities, that 
 we are rather dazzled with sparkling expressions, than en- 
 tertained with any clear conception of a human character. 
 
 Obs. A writer who would characterise in an instructive and master- 
 ly manner, should be simple in his style, and should avoid all quaint- 
 ness and affectation ; at the same time, not contenting himself with 
 giving us general outlines only, but descending into those peculiarities 
 which mark a character in its most strong and distinctive features. The 
 Greek historians sometimes give eulogiums, but rarely draw full and 
 professed characters. The two ancient authors who have laboured 
 liiis part of historical composition most, are Sallust and Tacituj. 
 
Memoirs. 261 
 
 550. As history is a species of writing designed for the 
 instruction of mankind, sound morality should always reign 
 in it Both in describing characters, and in relating trans- 
 actions, the author should always show himself to be on the 
 side of virtue. 
 
 Obs. 1. To deliver moral instruction in a formal manner, falls not 
 within his province ; but both as a good man, a«d as a good vk^riter, 
 we expect that he should evince sentiments of respect for virtue, and 
 an indignation at flagrant vice. 
 
 2. To appear neutral and indifferent with respect to good and bad 
 characters, and to affect a crafty and political, rather than a moral 
 lurn of thought, will, besides other bad effects, derogate greatly from 
 the weight of historical composition, and will render the strain of it 
 much more cold and uninteresting. We are always most interested 
 in the transactions which are relating, when our sympathy is awaken- 
 ed by the story, when we become engaged in the fate of the actors 
 But this effect can never be produced by a writer who is deficient in 
 sensibility and moral feeling. 
 
 531. Memoirs denote a sort of composition, in which an 
 author does not pretend to give full information of all the 
 facts respecting the period of which he writes, but only to 
 relate what he himself had access to know, or what he was 
 concerned m, or what illustrates the conduct of some person, 
 or the circumstances of some transaction, which he chooses 
 for his subject. 
 
 Obs. 1. From a writer of memoirs, therefore, is not expected the 
 same profound research, or enlarged information, as from a writer of 
 history. He is not subject to the same laws of unvarying dignity and 
 gravity. He may talk freely of himself; he may descend into the 
 most familiar anecdotes. What is chiefly required of him is, that he 
 be sprightly and interesting ; and, especially, that he inform us of 
 things that are useful and curious ; by conveying to us some sort of 
 knowledge worth the acquiring. 
 
 2. This is a species of writing very enticing to such as love to write 
 ^concerning themselves, and conceive every transaction in which they 
 had a share, to be of singular importance. There is no wonder, there- 
 fore, that a nation so sprightly as the French should, for more than 
 two centuries past, have been pouring forth a whole flood of memoirs ; 
 the greatest part of which are little better than agreeable trifles. 
 
 3. The memoirs of the Duke of Sully, in the state in which they are 
 now given to the public, have great merit, and deserve to be mention- 
 ed with particular praise. No memoirs approach more nearly to the 
 usefulness, and the dignity of a full authentic history. They have the 
 peculiar advantage, of giving us a beautiful display of two of the most 
 illustrious characters which history presents ; Sully himself, one of the 
 ablest and most incorrupt ministers, and Henry IV. one of the greatest 
 and most amiable princes of modern times. Dr Blair says, that he 
 knows few books more full of virtue and of good sense, than Sully's 
 Meiiiioirs ; few, therefore, more proper to form both the heads and the 
 hearts of such as are designed for public business, and action,- in the 
 world, 
 
26£ Biography, 
 
 532. Biography, or the writing of lives, is a ver}^ useftil 
 kind of composition ; less formal and stately than history j 
 but to the bulk of readers, perhaps, no less instructive ; as it 
 affords them the opportunity of seeing the characters and 
 tempers, the virtues and failings of eminent men fully 
 displayed ; and admits them into a more thorough and inti- 
 mate acquaintance with such persons, than history generally 
 allows. 
 
 Obs. 1. For a writer of lives may descend, with propriety, into mi- 
 luite circumstances, and familiar incidents. It is expected that he 
 should give the private, as well as the public life, of the person whose 
 actions he records ; nay, it is from private life, from familiar, domes- 
 tic, and seemingly trivial occurrences, that we often receive most light 
 into the real character. 
 
 2. In this species of writing, Plutarch has no small merit ; and to 
 him we stand indebted for much of the knowledge that we possess, con- 
 cerning several of the most eminent personages of antiquity. His 
 matter is, indeed, better than his manner ; as he cannot lay claim to 
 any peculiar beauty or elegance. His judgment too, and his accuracy, 
 have sometimes been taxed ; but whatever defects of this kind he may 
 be liable to, his Lives of Eminent Men will always be considered as a 
 valuable treasure of instruction. 
 
 3. He is remarkable for being one of the most humane of all the 
 writers of antiquity ; less dazzled than many of them are, with the 
 exploits of valour and ambition ; and fond of displaying his great 
 men to us, in the more gentle lights of retirement and private life. 
 
 533. A very great improvement has, of late years, been 
 introduced into historical composition ; namely, a more par- 
 ticular attention than was formerly given to laws, customs^ 
 commerce, religion, literature, and every oth^M- ^inhioct that 
 tends to show the spirit and genius of nation- 
 
 Obs. 1. It is now understood to be the business of an auir Historian, 
 to exhibit manners, as well as facts and events ; and, assuredly, what- 
 ever di<;plays the state and life of mankind, in difierent periods, and il- 
 lustrates the progress of the human mind, is more useful and interest- 
 ing than the detail of sieges and battles. 
 
 2. The person, to whom we arc most indebted for the introduction 
 of this improvement into history, is the celebrated M. Voltaire, whose 
 genius has shone with surprising lustre, in many different parts of lit- 
 crature. 
 
Of Philosophical Writing. 265 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 0F PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING, DIALOGUE, AND EPISTOLARY 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 534. PHILOSOPHICAL writing. As the professed ob- 
 ject of philosophy is to convey instruction, it is manifest 
 that every philosophical writer ought to study the utmost 
 perspicuity with re&pect both to single words, and the con- 
 struction of sentences. Beyond mere perspicuity, strict ac- 
 curacy and precision are required in a philosophical writer. 
 He should employ no words of uncertain meaning, no loose 
 nor indeterminate expressions ; and should avoid using 
 words which are seemingly synonymous, without carefully 
 attending to the variation which they make upon the idea." 
 
 Illus. 1. To be clear and precise then, are requisites which we have 
 a title to demand from every philosophical writer. He may possess 
 these qualities, and be at the same time a very dry writer. He should, 
 therefore, study some degree of embellishment, in order to render his 
 composition pleasing and graceful. 
 
 2. One of the most agreeable, and one of the most useful embellish 
 ments which a philosopher can employ, consists in illustrations takea 
 from historical facts, and the characters of men. All moral and politi- 
 cal subjects naturally afford scope for these ; and wherever there i» 
 room for employing them, they seldom fail of producing a happy ef- 
 fect. They diversify the composition ; they relieve the mind from the 
 fatigue of mere reasoning, and at the same time raise more full convic- 
 tion than any reasonings produce : for they take philosophy out of the 
 abstract, and give weight to speculation, by shewing its connectioa 
 with real life, and the actions of mankind. 
 
 535. Philosophical writing admits, besides, of a polished, 
 a neat, and an elegant style. It admits of metaphors, com- 
 parisons, and all the calm figures of speech, by which an au- 
 thor may convey his sense to the understanding with clear- 
 ness and force, at the same time that he entertains the ima- 
 gination. 
 
 Ohs. He must take great care, however, that all his ornaments be of 
 iht chastest kind, never partaking of the florid or the tumid ; which 
 is so unpardonable in a professed philosopher, that it is much better 
 for him to err on the side of naked simplicity, than on that of too much 
 ornament. 
 
 Illus. In English, Loeke's celebrated Treatise on Human Under- 
 standing, may be pointed out as a model, on the one hand, of the great- 
 est clearness and distinctness of philosophical style, with very little ap- 
 proach to ornament; Lord Shaftsbury's writings, on the other hand, 
 exhibit philosophy dressed up with all the ornament which it cam ad- 
 
264 Dialogue and Epistolary Writing, 
 
 mit ; perhaps with more than is perfectly suited to it : Stuart^s pfaifo' 
 sophical writings are composed with elegance and beauty. 
 
 536. DiALOGUR WRITING. Philosopliical composition, 
 when carried on in the way of dialogue and conversation, 
 sometimes assumes a form, under which it mingles more 
 with works of taste. 
 
 Ohs. Under this form the ancients have given us some of their chief 
 philosophical works ) and several of the moderns have endeavoured to 
 imitate them. 
 
 lllus. Dialogue writing may be executed in two ways, either as di- 
 rect conversation, where none but the speakers appear, which is the 
 method that Plato uses ) or as the recital oi a conversation, where the 
 author himself appears, and gives an account of what passed in dis- 
 course ; which is the method that Cicero generally follows. But tljpugh 
 those different methods make some variation in the form, yet the na- 
 ture of the composition is, in its elements, the same in both, «ind is 
 therefore subject to the same laws. 
 
 537. A dialogue in one or other of these forms, on some 
 philosophical, moral, or critical subject, when it is well con- 
 ducted, stands in a high rank among the works of taste ; but 
 is much more difficult in the execution than is commonly 
 imagined. For it requires more than merely the introduc- 
 tion of different persons speaking in succession. 
 
 lllus. 1. It ought to be a natural and spirited representation of real 
 'uversation ; exhibiting the character and manners of the several 
 leakers, and suiting to the character of each that peculiarity of 
 lought and expression, which distinguishes him from another. 
 2. A dialogue, thus conducted, gives the reader a very agreeable en- 
 tertainment ; as by means of the debate going on among the persona- 
 ges, he receives a fair and full view of both sides of the argument ; and 
 is, at the same tim©, amused with polite conversation, and with a dis- 
 play of consistent and well-supported characters. 
 
 Corol. An author, therefore, who has genius for executing such a 
 composition after this manner, lias it in his power both to instruct and 
 to please. 
 
 538. Epistolary writing possesses a kind of middle 
 place between the serious and amusing species of composi- 
 tion. Epistolary writing appears, at first view, to stretch 
 into a very wide field. For there is no subject whatever, 
 on which one may not convey his thoughts to die public, iu 
 the form of a letter. 
 
 lllus. For instance : Lord Shaftsbnry, Mr. Harris, and several other 
 writers, have chosen to give this form to philosophical treatises. But 
 this is not sufficient to class such treatises und»'r the head of epistolary 
 composition. Though ihey bear, in the title-page, " a letter to a 
 friend," after the first address, the friend disappears, and we see that 
 it is, in truth, the public with whom the author corresponds. Seneca's 
 Epistles are of this sort. There is no probability that they ever passed 
 in correspondence as real letters. They are no other than miscellane- 
 
Epislolary WriUng, 9,^5 
 
 'ttus dissertations on moral subjects ; which the author, for his conven- 
 ience, chose to put into the epistolary form. Even where one writes 
 a real letter on some formal topic, as of moral or religious consolation 
 to a person under distress, such as Sir William Temple has written to 
 the Countess of Essex on the death of her daughter, he is at liberty, on 
 such an occasion, to write wholly as a divine or as a philosopher, and 
 to assume the style and manner of either without reprehension. We 
 consider the author not as writing a letter, but as composing a dis- 
 course, suited particularly to the circumstances of some one person, 
 Russel's histories are in the form of letters. 
 
 539. Epistolaiy writing becomes a distinct species of com- 
 position, subject to the cognizance of criticism, only, or chief- 
 ly, when it is of the easy and familiar kind ; when it is con- 
 versation carried on upon paper, between two friends at a 
 distance. 
 
 Illus. 1. Such an intercourse, when well conducted, may be render- 
 ed very agreeable to readers of taste. If the subject of tlie letters be 
 important, they will be the more valuable. Even though there should 
 be nothing very considerable in the subject, yet if the spirit and turn of 
 the correspondence be agreeable ; if they be written in a sprightly 
 manner, and with native grace and ease, they may still be entertain- 
 ing ; more especially if there be any thing to interest us, in the charac- 
 ters of those who write them. 
 
 2. Hence the curiosity which the public have always evinced, con- 
 cerning the lettei-s of eminent persons. We expect in them to disco- 
 ver something of their real character. It is childish indeed to expect^ 
 that in letters we are to find the whole heart of the author unveiled. 
 Concealment and disguise take place, more or less, in all human in- 
 tercourse. 
 
 3. But still, as letters from one friend to another make the nearest 
 approach to conversation, we may expect to see more of a character 
 displayed in these than in other productions, which are designed for 
 public view. We are pleased with beholding the writer in a situation 
 which allows him to be at his ease, and to give vent occasionally to the 
 overflowings of his heart. 
 
 540. Much, therefore, of the merit, and the agreeableness 
 of epistolary writing, will depend on its introducing us into 
 some acquaintance with the writer. Tiiere, if any where, 
 we look for the man, not for the author. 
 
 Illus. 1. Its first and fundamental requisite is, to be nalural and sim- 
 'pit ; for a stiff and laboured manner is as bad in a letter, as it is in 
 conversation. This does not banish sprightliness and wit. These are 
 graceful in letters, just as they are in conversation ; when they flow 
 easily, and without being studied ; when employed so as to season, not 
 to cloy. One who, either ii? conversation or in letters, affects to shine 
 and to sparkle always, will not please long. 
 
 2. The style of letters should not be too highly polished. It ought 
 to be neat and correct, but no more. All nicety about words, betrays 
 study; and hence musical periods, and appearances of number and har- 
 mony in arrangement, should be carefully avoided in letters. 
 
 3. The best letters are commonly such as the authors have written 
 
S66 Epistolary Writing. 
 
 with most facility. What the heart or the imagination dictates, always 
 flows readily ; but where there is no subject to warm or interest these ^ 
 constraint appears ; and hence., those letters of mere compliment, con- 
 gratulation, or affected condolence, which have cost the authors mosi 
 labour in composing, and which, for that reason, they perhaps consider 
 as their master-pieces, never fail of being the most disagreeable and 
 • insipid to the readers. 
 
 4. It ought, at the same time, to be remembered, that the ease and 
 simplicity which we have recommended in epistolary correspondence, 
 are not to be understood as importing entire carelessness. In writing 
 to the most intimate friend, a certain degree of attention, both to the 
 subject and the style, is requisite and becoming. It is no more than 
 what we owe both to ourselves, and to the friend with whom we cor- 
 respond. A slovenly and negligent manner of writing, is a disobliging 
 mark of want of respect. The liberty, besides, of writing letters with 
 too careless a hand, is apt to betray us into imprudence in what we 
 write. 
 
 5. The first requisite, both in conversation and correspondence, is to 
 attend to all the proper decorums which our own character, and that 
 of others, demand. An imprudent expression in conversation may be 
 forgotten and pass away ; but when we take the pen into our hand, we 
 must remember, that, ** the word which hath been written remains.*" 
 
 Example I. In our own times, several collections of letters have is- 
 sued from (he press. Among these, Franklin's correspondence holds 
 most distinguiiihed place. 
 
 2. But of all the letters which this or any country hath produced, the 
 must finished, perhaps, are those of Lord Chesterfield. Lady Monta- 
 gu's Letters encitle her to rank among authors of a superior class. 
 
 3. The most distinguished collection of letters, however, in the Eng- 
 lish Language, is that of Pope, Dean Swift, and their friends ; partly 
 published in Pope's works, and partly in those of Dean Swift. 
 
 • '• Litem fcripta nouiet*" 
 
POETRY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF POETRV. 
 
 541. POETRY is the language of passion, or of enliven- 
 ed imagination, formed, most commonly, into regular num- 
 bers. 
 
 542. The historian, the orator, and the philosopher, ad- 
 dress themselves, for the most part, primarily to the under- 
 standing : their direct aim is to inform, to persuade, or to in- 
 struct. But the primary aim of a poet is to please, and to 
 move; and, therefore, it is to the imagination, and the pas- 
 sions, that he speaks. 
 
 Illus. 1. He may, and he ought to have it in his view, to instruct 
 and to reform ; but it is indirectly, and by pleasing and moving-, that 
 he accomplishes this end. His mind is supposed to be animated by 
 some interesting object, which fires his imagination, or engages his 
 passions ', and which, of course, communicates to his style a peculiar 
 elevation suited to his ideas ; very different from that mode of expres- 
 sion, which is natural to the mind in its calm and ordinary state. 
 
 2. Yet, though versification be, in general, the exterior distinction of 
 poetry, there are some forms of verse so loose and familiar, as to 
 be hardly distinguishable from prose ; such as the verse of Terence's 
 comedies ; and there is also a species of prose, so measured in its ca- 
 dence, and so much raised in its tone, as to approach very near to po- 
 etical numbers ; such as the Telemachus of Fenelon, and the English 
 translation of Ossian. Dr. Johnson's Rasselas is perhaps of this class 
 too. 
 
 3. The truth is, verse and prose, on some occasions, run into one 
 another, like light and shade. It is hardly possible to determine the 
 exact limit wh'?re prose ends, and poetry begins ; nor is there any oc- 
 casion for being ^'ery precise about the boundaries, as long as the na- 
 ture of each is understood. 
 
 543. The Greeks, ever fond of attributing to their own 
 nation the invention of all sciences and arts, have ascribed 
 the origin of poetry to Orpheus, Linus, and Musseus. 
 
26S Fotir^y, 
 
 Obs. There were, perhaps, such persons as these, who were th« fli st 
 ^■listinguished bards in the Grecian countries. But long bc»fore such 
 names were heard of, and among nations where they were never 
 known, poetry existed. 
 
 544. It has been often said, and the concurring voice of 
 all antiquity affirms, that poetry is older than prose. But in 
 what sense this seemingly strange paradox holds true, has 
 not always been well understood. (See Art, 30. and lllus.) 
 
 Illus. 1. There never, certainly, was any period of society in which 
 men conversed in poetical numbers. It was in very humbl'^ .ind scan- 
 ty prose, as we may easily believe, that the first tribes carried on in- 
 tercourse among themselves, relating to the tiecessities of life. But 
 from the very beginning of society, there were occasions on which 
 they met together for feasts, sacrifices, and public assemblies ; and 
 on all such occasions, it is well known, that music, song, and dance, 
 their principal entertainment. 
 
 2. It is chiefly in America, that we have had the opportunity of be- 
 ing made acquainted with men in their savage state. VVe learn from 
 the [.articular and concurring accounts of travellers, that, among all 
 «he nations of that vast continent, especially among the northern tribes, 
 with whom we have had most intercourse, music and song are, at all 
 their meetinos, carried on with an incredible degree of enthusiasm ; 
 that the chiefs of thf» tribe are those who signalize themselves most on 
 Much occasions ; that it is in songs they celebrate their religious rites ; 
 that, by these, they lament their public and private calamities, the 
 death of friends, or the loss of warriors ; express their joy on their 
 victories ; celebrate the great actions of their nation, and tlieir heroes ; 
 
 xcite each other to perform great exploits in war, or to suffer death, 
 Hid tijrincnts with unshaken constancy. (Art 19. Illiis. I.) 
 
 Corol. Here then we see the first beginnings of poetic composition, 
 
 n those rude effusions, which the enthusiasm of fancy or passion sug- 
 gested to untaught men, when roused by interesting events, and by 
 ;iieir meeting together in public assemblies. 
 
 545. Man, by nature, is both a poet, and a musician. The 
 >ame impulse which prompted the enthusiastic poetic style^ 
 prompted a certain melody, or modulation of sound, suited 
 to the emotions of joy or grief, of admiration, love, or anger. 
 There is a power in sound, which, partly from nature, part- 
 ly from habit and association, makes such pathetic impres- 
 sions on the fancy, as deliglit even the most wild barbarians. 
 
 Coral. Music and poetry, therefore, had the same rise ; they were 
 prompted by the same occasions; they were united in song ; and, as 
 long as they continued united, they tended, without doubt, mutually to 
 heighten and exalt each other's power. 
 
 546. The first poets sung their own verses: and hence 
 the beginning of what we call versification, or words arran- 
 ged in a more artful order than prose, so as to be suited to 
 some tune or melody. 
 
 Jlfus. The liberty of transposition, «r inversion, which the peetle 
 
The Origin and Progress* 269 
 
 style would naturally assume, made it easier to form the words int© 
 some sort of numbers that fell in with the music of the song. Very harsh 
 and ancouth, we may easily believe, these numbers would be at first. 
 But the pleasure was felt ; it was studied ; and versification, by degrees, 
 passed into an art. (Art. 2d. lUus.) 
 
 Carol. 1. It appears from what has been said, that the first compo- 
 sitions which were either recorded by writing or transmitted by tradi- 
 tion, could be no other than poetical compositions. No other but these, 
 could draw the attention of men in their rude uncivilized state. In- 
 deed they knew no other. 
 
 2. Cool reasoning and plain discourse had no power to attract sav- 
 age tribes, addicted only to hunting and war. There was nothing that 
 could either rouse the speaker to pour himself forth, or draw the crowd 
 to listen, but the high powers of passion, of music, and of song. This 
 vehicle, poetry, therefore, and no other, could be employed by chiefs 
 and legislators, when they meant to instruct or animate their tribes. 
 
 3. There is, likewise, a farther reason why such compositions only 
 could be transmitted to posterity ; because, before writing was invent- 
 ed, songs only could last, and be remembered. The ear gave assist- 
 ance to the memory, by the help of numbers ; fathers repeated and 
 sung them to their children ; and by this oral tradition of national bal- 
 lads, were cenveyed all the historical knowledge, and all the instruc- 
 tion, of the first ages. 
 
 547. The earliest accounts which history gives us con- 
 cerning all nations, bear testimony to these facts. In the 
 first ages of Greece, priests, philosophers, and statesmen, all 
 delivered their instructions in poetry. 
 
 Illus. Apollo, Orpheus, and Amphion, their most ancient bards, are 
 represented as the first tamers of mankind, the first founders of law 
 and civilization. Minos and Thales sung to the lyre the laws which 
 they composed* ; and till the age immediately preceding that Hero- 
 dotus, history had appeared in no other form than that of poetical tales. 
 
 548. In the same manner, among all other nations, poets 
 are the first literary characters, and songs are the first com- 
 positions, that make their appearance. {Illus, "Z, Art. 544. 
 and Art, 9.1.) 
 
 Jllus. Among the Scythian or Gothic nations, many of their kings 
 and leaders were scalders, or poets ; and it is from their runic songs, 
 that the most early writers of their history, among whom we may 
 reckon Saxo-Grammaticus, acknowledged, that they had derived their 
 chief information. Among the Celtic tribes, in Gaul, Britain, and 
 Ireland, we know, in what admiration their bards were held, and what 
 great influence they possessed over the people. They were both po- 
 et« and musicians, in each of these countries. They were always near 
 the person of the chief or sovereign ; they recorded all his great ex- 
 ploits ; they were employed as the ambassadors between contending 
 tribes, and their persons were held sacred. 
 
 549. Diversity of climate and of manner of living, hath 
 occasioned some diversity in the strain of the first poetrj 
 
270 Poetry* 
 
 of nations ; chiefly, according as those nations are of a mor«f 
 ferocious, or of a more gentle spirit ; and according as thej 
 advance faster or slower in the arts of civilization. {*drt. 31.) 
 
 Illus. 1. Thus we find all the remains of the ancient Gothic poetry 
 remarkably fierce, and breathing nothing but slaughter and blood ; 
 while the Peruvfen and the Chinese songs turned, from the earliest 
 times, upon milder subjects. The Celtic poetry, in the days of Ossian,)| 
 though chiefly of the martial kind, yet had attained a considerable 
 mixture of tenderness and refinement ; in consequence of the long 
 cultivation of poetry among the Celtae, by means of a series and suc- 
 cession of bards which had been established for ages. So Lucan in- 
 forms lis : 
 
 Vos tjuoque qui fortei animos. belloque perempto* 
 Laudibus in longuin vates diffunditis %vum 
 Plurima sccuri fudistis carinina baixii.* (L. 44.) 
 
 2. Among the Grecian states, the early poetry appears to have re- 
 ceived a philosophical cast, from what we are informed concerning 
 the subjects of Orpheus, Linus, and Musa^us, who treated of creation 
 nnd of chaos, of the generation of the world, and of the rise of things ; 
 and we know that the Greeks advanced sooner to philosophy, and 
 proceeded with a quicker pace in all the arts of refinement, than most 
 other nations. 
 
 3. The Arabians and the Persians have always been the greatest 
 poets of the East; and among them, as among other people, poetry 
 was the earliest vehicle of all their learning and instruction. f 
 
 550. During the infancy of poetry, all the different kinds 
 of it lay confused, and were mingled in the same composi- 
 tion, according as inclination, enthusiasm, or casual inci- 
 dents, directed the poet's strain. 
 
 Illus. 1. Odes and hymns of every sort, would naturally be among 
 the first compositions ; according as the bards were moved by reli- 
 gious feelings, by exultation, reseiitment, love, or any other warm 
 sentiment, to pour themselves forth in song. 
 
 2. Plaintive or elegiac poetry, would as naturally arise from la- 
 mentations over their deceased friends. 
 
 3. The recital of the achievements of their heroes, and their ances- 
 tors, gave birth to what we now call epic poetry ; and as, not content 
 with symply reciting these, they would infallibly be led, at some of 
 iheir public meetings, to represent them, by introducing difierent 
 hards speaking in the character of their heroes, and anwering each 
 other, we find in this the first outlines of tragedy, or dramatic writing. 
 
 551. None of these kinds of poetry, however, were in the 
 first ages of society properly distinguished or separated, as 
 they are now, from each other. Indeed, not only were the 
 
 • You too. ye bards, whom sacred raptures fire, 
 To chaunt your heroes to your country's lyre, 
 Who consecrate in jour iimnortal strain, 
 Brave patriot souls in righteous battle slain ; 
 Securely now the- ustful task i-enew, 
 And noblest theines in deatlilesj songs pursue. Jimcr, 
 
 t Vid. Voyagts de Chai^n, chap, de la Poe|ie des Penaiii. 
 
Versification. £71 
 
 tlifterent kinds of poetry then mixed together, but all that 
 we now call letters, or composition of any kind, was then 
 blended in one mass. 
 
 Obs. 1. When the progress of society brought on a separation of 
 the different arts and professions of civil life, it led also by degrees to 
 a separation of the different literary provinces from each other. 
 
 2. The art of writing was in process of time invented ; (Chap V. 
 Book I.) records of past transactions began to be kept ; men, occupied 
 with the subjects of policy and useful arts, wished now to be instructed 
 and informed, as well as moved. They reasoned and reflected upon 
 the affairs of life ; and were interested by what was real, not fabu- 
 lous, in past transactions. 
 
 3. The historian, therefore, now laid aside the buskins of poetry ; he 
 wrote in prose, and attempted to give a faithful and judicious relation 
 of former events. The philosopher addressed himself chiefly to the 
 understanding. The orator studied to persuade by reasoning, and re- 
 tained more or less of the ancient passionate and glowing style, accor- 
 ding as it was conducive to his purpose. (Art. 41. andA2.) 
 
 Corol. Poetry hence became a separate art, calculated chiefly to 
 please, and confined generally to such subjects as related to the ima- 
 gination and passions. Even its earliest companion, music, was in a 
 great measure divided from it. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 VERSIFICATION". 
 
 552. NATIONS, whose language and pronunciation 
 were of a musical kind, rested i\\Q\vversiJication c\\\e^y up- 
 on the quantities, that is, the length or shortness of their 
 syllables. Others, who did not make the quantities of their 
 syllables be so distinctly perceived in pronouncing them, 
 rested the melody of their verse upon the number of sylla- 
 bles which it contained, upon the proper disposition of ac- 
 cents and pauses in reciting it, and frequently upon that re- 
 turn of corresponding sounds, which we call rhyme. 
 
 Illus. 1. The former was the case with the Greeks and Romans ; 
 the latter is the case with us, and with most modern nations. 
 
 2 Among the Greeks and Romans, every syllable, or at least by 
 far the greatest number of syllables, was known to have a fixed and 
 determined quantity ; and their manner of pronouncing rendered 
 this so sensible to the ear, that a long syllable was counted precisely 
 equal in time to two short ones. 
 
 3. Upon this principle, the number of syllables contained ia their _ 
 hexameter verse, was allowed to vary. It may extend to 17; it can 
 contain, when regular, no fewer than 13 ; but the musical time was, 
 
 24 
 
^r£ Foeivy, 
 
 notwithstanding, precisely the same in every hexameter verse, and 
 was always equal to that of 12 long syllables. 
 
 4. In order to ascertain the regular time of every verse, and the 
 proper mixture and succession of long and short syllables which 
 ought to compose it,, what the grammarians call wie/ricf// /ee/, due- 
 fyles, spondees, iambuses, he. were invented. By these measures was 
 tried the accuracy of composition in every line, and whether it was so 
 constructed as to complete its proper melody. 
 
 5. It was requisite, for instance, that the hexameter verse should 
 have the quantity of its syllables so di:<posed, that it could be scanned 
 or measured by six metrical feet, which might be either dactyles or 
 spondees (as the musical time of both of these is the same,) with this 
 restriction only, that the fifth foot was regularly to be a dactyle, and 
 »he last a spondee. 
 
 Obs. The genius of our language corresponds not in this respect 
 
 to the Greek or Latin ; yet, in the sequel, it is shewn, that English 
 
 poetry has its feet, though differently formed from the ancieiiit. We 
 
 • est the melody of our verse upon the number of syllables which il 
 
 ontains, he. {AH. 552.) 
 
 Feet and Fauses are the constituent Farts of Verse. 
 We shall consider these separately. 
 
 OF POETICAL FEET. 
 
 553. A ciertain number of connected syllables forms a 
 foot. These syllables, thus connected, are called feety be- 
 cause it is by their aid that the voice, as it were, steps along 
 through the verse, in a measured pace ; and it is necessary 
 that the syllables which mark this regular movement of the 
 voice, should, in sonu^ n;ntiJUM\ hi' distinguished from the 
 others. 
 
 HIhs. 1. Tm^ (iijtiiution. wc u:k\v mh-uu, (Ulus. 1. .^r/. 552.) was 
 ;\ade among the ancient Romans, by dividing their syllables into long 
 'lui short, and ascertaining their quantity, bv an exact proportion of 
 time in sounding them ; the long being to the short, as two to one; 
 and the long syllables, being thus the more important, marked the 
 )novement. 
 
 2. in English, syllables are divided into accented and unaccented ; 
 JUus. 1. Art. 552.); and the accented syllables being as strongly 
 distinguished from the unaccented, by the peculiar stress of the voice 
 upon them, are equally capable of marking the movement, and point- 
 ing out the regular paces of the voice, as the long syllables %vere by 
 their quantity, among the Rotnans. 
 
 55-U English feet, formed by an accent on vowels, are 
 exactly of the same nature as the ancient feet, and have the 
 same just quantity in their syllables. So that, in this re- 
 spect, we have all tljat the ancients had, and something 
 which they had not. We have in fact duplicates of each 
 
Versification, 27S 
 
 foot, yet with such a difference, as to lit them for different 
 purposes, to be applied at our pleasure. 
 
 Obs. Fiom its natare, every foot has powers peculiar to itself; and 
 it is upun the knowledge aiid rigFit application of these powers, that 
 the pk^asure and effect of numbers chiefly depend. 
 
 555. All the feet used in poetry consist either of two, or 
 of three syllables ; and are reducible to eight kinds; namely, 
 four of two syllables, ai lOur of three, as follows: 
 
 DISSYLLABLE. TRISSYLLABLE. 
 
 A Trocheee ^h w A Dactyl -< u o 
 
 An Iambus o « Au Amphibrach o h< w 
 
 A Spondee ♦h -< An Anapajst o w *-« 
 
 A Pyrrhic w) o A Tribrach o o >.» 
 
 556. A Trochee has the first syllable accented, and the 
 last unaccented : as, " Hateful, pettish." 
 
 557' An Iambus has the hrst syllable unaccented, and 
 the last accented : as, " Betray, consist." 
 
 558. A Spondee has both the words or syllables accent- 
 ed : as, " The pale moon." 
 
 559. A^ Pyrrhic has both the words or syllables unaccent- 
 ed : as, "On the tall tree." 
 
 560. A Dactyl has the first syllable accented, and the two 
 latter unaccented : as, " Labourer, possible." 
 
 561. An Amphibrach has the first and last syllables un- 
 accented, and the middle one accented : as, " Delightful, 
 domestic." 
 
 562. An Anapeest has the two first syllables unaccented, 
 and the last accente'd : as, " Contravene, acquiesce." 
 
 563. A Tribrach has all its syllables unaccented: as, 
 " Numerable, conquerable." 
 
 Scholium. Some of these feet may be denominated ^?nnci/ia/ feety as 
 pieces of poetry may be wholly, or chiefly formed of any of them. 
 Such are the Iambus, Trochee, Dactyl, and Anapaest. The others may 
 he termed secondary feet ; because their chief use is to diversify the 
 Humbers, and to improve the verse. 
 
 We .shall first explain the Nature of the principal Feet, 
 
 564. Iambic verses may be divided into several species, 
 according to the number of feet or syllables of which they 
 are composed. 
 
 Example ]. The shortest form of the English Iambic consists of an 
 Jauibus, with an additional short syllable : as, 
 Disdainingj 
 Complaining, 
 Consenting, 
 Repenting. 
 
274 Poetry. 
 
 ire, but it may be me( 
 
 Ainphi 
 
 Obs. We have no poem of this measure, but it may be met with m 
 stanzas. The Iambus, with this addition, coincides with the Amphi- 
 
 brach, (^r/. 561.) 
 
 Example 2. The second form of our Iambic, is also too short to be 
 continued through any great number of lines. It consists of two lam- 
 l»tise8. 
 
 WhSt place is here ! 
 What scenes appear ! 
 To mc the rose 
 No longer glows. 
 It sometimes takes, or it may take, an additional short syllable : as, 
 Upon i mountain 
 Beside a fountain. 
 Example 3. The third form consists of three Iambuses. 
 
 o 
 
 In places far 6r near. 
 
 Or famous or obscure. 
 
 Where wholesome is the air. 
 
 Or where the mojt impure. 
 It sometimes admits of an afifiitional short syllable: as, 
 
 Oiir heart* n6 longer languish. 
 Example 4. The fourth form is made up of four Iambuses. 
 And miy it list my wcarV' a;;e. 
 Find out the peaceful hermitage. 
 Example 5. The liiili si)ecies of English Iambic, consists of five lam- 
 
 ■ 'jCS. 
 
 H5w lov*d, h6w valu*d 5nce, irails thee not. 
 To whom related, or by whom bc^ot : 
 A heap oi dust »lone remains of thee ; 
 *Ti8 all thou art aud all the proud shall be. 
 
 Bi wise t6-day, 'tis madness to d^fcr ; 
 Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; 
 Thus on, till wisdom b pushed out of life. 
 
 Obs. This is called the heroic measure. In its simplest torm it con- 
 
 :sts of five Iambuses ; but by the admission of other feet, as Trochees, 
 
 Dactyls, Anapaists, kc. it is capable of many varieties. Indeed, most 
 
 of the Kuglish common measures may be varied in the same way, as 
 
 well as by the ditierent position of their pauses. 
 
 Example 6. The sixth form of our Iambic, is commonly called the 
 Alexandrine measure. It consists of six Iambuses. 
 
 F5r thou art but 5f dust : be hunnblc and b^ wise. 
 
 The Alexandrine is sometimes introduced into heroic rhyme ; and 
 when used sparingly, and with judgment, occasions an agreeable va- 
 riety. 
 
 The seas shall waste, th2 skies in smoke decay, 
 Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away; 
 But fixM his word, his saving pcw'r remains : 
 Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns. 
 
 Example 7. The seventti aou last loiin of our iambic measure, \'- 
 'lude up of seveji Iambuses. 
 
 The Lord descended from Sbovc, and bOw*d th§ heaven* high. 
 
Versification, 275 
 
 This iras anciently written in one line ; but it is now broken into 
 two ; the first containing four feet and the second three : 
 
 W!icn al\ thy TT.ercies, my GO'l i 
 
 My rising soul surveys. 
 Transported with the view, Tn; lost 
 
 In wonder, love, and praise. 
 
 Scholium. In all these mLasurcs, the accents are to be placed on 
 even sylhiMes ; aiid every line considered by itself, is, in general, more 
 melodious, as this rule is more strictly observed. 
 
 565. Trochaic verse is of several kinds. 
 
 Example 1. The shorrest Trochaic verse in our language, consists of 
 one Trochee and a long" syllable. 
 
 Tumult cease 
 Sink to peace. 
 
 Obs. This measure is defective in dignity, and can seldom be used 
 on serious occasions. 
 
 Example 2. The second Esi<,dish form of the Trochaic consists of 
 livo feet ; and is likewise so brief, that it is rarely used lor any very 
 j<erions purpose. 
 
 On the mountain 
 By a fountain. 
 
 It sometimes contains two feet or trochees, with an additional long 
 .-syllable : as. 
 
 In the days c5f old 
 Fables plainly told. 
 
 Example 3. The third species consists o{ three trochees : as» 
 
 Wlien our hearts are mounnng : 
 
 or of three trochees, with an additional long syllable ; as. 
 
 Restless n^.ort^ils toil for nought ; 
 Bliss in vain from earth is sought; 
 Bliss, a native of the sky, 
 Never wanders. Mortals, try ; 
 There you cannot seek in vain ; 
 For to seek her is to gain. 
 
 Example 4. The fourth Trochaic species consists of /owr trochees: as, 
 
 Round lis roars the tempest louder. 
 
 This form may take an additional long- syllable, as follows : 
 
 IdlS after dinner In his chair, 
 Sat a farmer, ruddy, fat, and fair. 
 
 But this measure is very uncommon. 
 
 FjXample 5. The fifth Trochaic species is likewise uncommon. It is 
 composed oi five trochees. 
 
 All that walk on foot or ride in chariots, 
 All that dwell in palaces and garrets. 
 
 Example 6. The sixth form of the English Trochaic consists of six 
 trochees : as, 
 
 On a mountain, stretch'd beneath a hoiry willow. 
 Lay a shepherd swain, and view'd the rolling billow. 
 04). 
 
76 Poetry, 
 
 This seems to be the longest Trochaic line that our language admits, 
 Obs. In all these Trochaic measures, the accent is to be placed on 
 I he odd syllables. 
 
 566. The Dactylic verse being very uncommon, we shall 
 'jve only one example of one species of it : 
 
 From the 15w pleasures 6f this fillcn nature, 
 Rise wc to higher, &c. 
 
 567. Anapsestic verses are divided into several species. 
 
 Example 1. The shortest anapsestic verse must be a single auapsest ; 
 as, 
 
 But In vain. 
 They complain. 
 
 This measure is, however, ambiguous ; for, by laying the stress of 
 »he voice on the first and third syllables, we might make it a trochaic. 
 \nd therefore the first and simplest form of our genuine Anapaestic 
 ise, is made up of two Anapaests : as, 
 
 But hh courige 'pin fail. 
 For no arts couid avail. 
 
 This form admits of an additional short syllable. 
 
 Then ht» couiicc *pXn fail him. 
 For no arts could avail him. 
 
 Examplt 2. The second species consists of three Auapa;sts. 
 
 y8 wood*, sprSad your branches Jpacc ; 
 To your deepest recesses I fly ; 
 
 1 wouUI hide with the beasts of the chase ; 
 I wroiild vanish from every eye. 
 
 This is a very pleasing measure, and much used, both in solemn and 
 heerful subjects. 
 Example 3. The third kind of the English Anapaistic, consists of 
 
 ■jur Anapivsts. 
 
 Miy I goviirn my passions with absolute away ; 
 And grow w i&cr and better as life wears away. 
 
 This measure will admit of a short syllable at the end ; as, 
 
 On the warm ch^ck of youth, smiles 5nd rosifs ire blending. 
 
 Obs. The preceding are the different kinds of the principal feet, in 
 heir more simple forms. They are capable of numerous variations, 
 V the intermi.xture of those feet with each other ; and by the adrais- 
 -lon of the secondary feet. 
 
 568. We have observed, that English verse is composed 
 of feet formed by accent, (lllus, 2. Art, 553.) ; and that 
 M hen the accent falls on vowels, the feet are ef^iiivalent to 
 
 hose formed by quantity. (Art, 554,) 
 
 Example 1. That the student may clearly perceive this difference^ 
 ^c shall produce a sptcimen of each kind. 
 
 O'fr hfaps cf rolnj staikM the stately hJnd, 
 
Versificaiwn, ^77 
 
 Obs. Here we see tlie accent is upon the vowel in eacli second syl- 
 lable. (Art. 552 ) In the following line, we shall find the same Iam- 
 bic movement, but formed by accent on consonants, except the last 
 syllable. 
 
 Then itistling, crackling, crashing, thiinder down. 
 
 Example 2. Here the time of the short accented syllables, is com- 
 pensated by a short pause, at the end of each word to which they be- 
 long. 
 
 569. We now proceed to show the manner in which poet- 
 ry is varied and improved, by the admission of secondary 
 feet into its composition. 
 
 Marmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. 
 Obs. 1. The first foot here is a Dactyl ; the rest are Iambics. 
 O'er many S frozen, mSny a Hery Alp. 
 
 2. This line contains three Amphibrachs mixed with Iambics. 
 
 Innum2:able before th' Almighty's throne. 
 
 3. Here, in the second foot, we find a Tribrach. 
 
 See the bold youth striin up the threat'ning steep. 
 
 4. In this line, the first foot is a Trochee ; the second a genuine 
 Spondee by quantity ; the third a Spondee by accent. 
 
 5. In the following line, the first foot is a Pyrrhic, the second a 
 Spondee. 
 
 That 6n weak wings from far pursues your flight. 
 
 Scholiu77i. From the preceding view of English versification, we may- 
 see what a copious stock of materials it possesses. For we are not 
 only allowed the use of all tlie ancient poetic feet, in our heroic mea- 
 sure, but we have, as before observed, duplicates of each, agreeing in 
 movement, though dilfering in measure,* and which make different 
 impressions on the ear ; an opulence peculiar to our language, and 
 which may be the source of a boundless variety. 
 
 570. Another essential circimistance in the constitution 
 of our verse, is the cxsural pause, v/hich falls towards the 
 middle of each line. Some pause of this kind, dictated by 
 the melody, is found in the verse of most nations. 
 
 Obs. It is found, as might be shewn, rn the Latin hexameter. In 
 the French heroic verse, it is very sensible. That is a verse of twelve 
 syllables, and in every line, just after the sixth syllable, there falls reg- 
 ularly and indispensably, a csesural pause, dividing the line into two 
 equal hemistichs. 
 
 Example, Jeune et vaillant heros j| dont la haute sagesse 
 
 N'est point le fruit tardif || d'une leiite vieilJesse, 
 Qui seul sans mini stre (| a I'example des Dieux 
 Soutiens tout par toi-meme ti et vois tous par ses veux.t 
 
 • Movement and measure are thus distinguished. Movement expresses the progress- 
 ive order of sounds, whether from strong to M'^eak, from long to short, or vice vena. 
 Measure signifies tl*e proportion of time, both in sounds and pauses. Murray, 
 t Boilcau. 
 
^78 Poelry. 
 
 Analysis. In this train all the French verses proceed ; the one hali" 
 of the line always answering to the other, and the same chime return- 
 ing incessantly on the ear without iniermission or change ; which is 
 certainly a defect in the verse, and unfits it so very much for the free- 
 dom and dignity of heroic poetry. On the other hand, it is a distin- 
 guishing advantage of our English verse, that it allows the pause to be 
 varied through four difierent syllables in the line. 
 
 Scholium. The pause may fall after the 4tb, the 5th, the 6th, or the 
 7th syllable ; and according as the pause is placed after one or other 
 of these syllables, the melody of the verse is much changed, its air and 
 cadence are diversified. By this means, uncommon richness and va- 
 riety are added to English versification. 
 
 57U When the pause falls earliest, that is, after the fourth 
 .liable, the briskest melody is thereby forinctl, and the 
 lost spirited air given to the line. 
 
 Example. In the following lines of the Rape of the Lock, Mr. Pope 
 iS, with exquisite propriety, suited the construction of the verse to the 
 
 il.ject: 
 
 On her white breast ji a sparkling cross she wore, 
 
 Which Jcus might kiss [! .aiwl in^■d^^ls adore; 
 
 Her lively- looks K a s]) I' 
 
 Quick ai her fyt s || an 
 
 Favours to uotjc || to ;ii 
 
 Oft she rtjects || but nev^ r onee uMlijUs. 
 
 572. When the pause fells after the fifth syllable, dividing 
 the line into two equal portions, the melody is sensibly al- 
 tered. 'J'he verse loses that brisk and sprightly air, which 
 it had with the former pause, and becomes more smooth, gen- 
 tle, and tlowino;. 
 
 Example* Eternal sunshine || of the spotless mind, 
 
 Each prayer accepted |i and each wish resignt^. 
 
 573. When the pause proceeds to follow the sixth sylla- 
 !>le, the tenor of the music becomes solemn and grave. The 
 
 ( rse marches now with a more slow and measured pace, 
 uian in either of the two former cases. 
 
 Lxamplf. The V rath of Peleus's son || the direful spring 
 Of all the Grecian woes ]| O goddc ss sing I 
 
 .574. But the ^ave solemn cadence becomes still more 
 sensible, when the pause falls after the seventh syllable, 
 ^vhich is the nearest place to the end of the line that it can 
 occupy. 
 
 0/as. This kind of verse occurs the most seldom, but has a happy ef- 
 fect in diversifying the melody. It produces that slow Alexandrian 
 air, which is finely suited to a close ; and for this reason, such lines 
 almost never occur together, but are used in finishing the couplet. 
 
 Example. And in the smooth description || murmur still. 
 Long loved udored ideas i || all adieu. 
 
 Ohs. These examples have been taken from verses in rhyme ; be- 
 ''ause in these, our versification is subjected to the strictest law. As 
 
Blank Verse, £79 
 
 blank verse is of a freer kind, and is naturally read with less cadence 
 or tone, the pauses in it, and the effect of them, arc not always so sen- 
 sible to the ear. It is constructed, however, entirely upon the same 
 principles, with respect to the place of the pause. 
 
 575, Our BLANK VERSE possesses great advantages, and 
 is indeed a noble, bold, and disencumbered species of ver- 
 sification. The principal defect in rhyme, is the full close 
 which it forces upon the ear, at the end of every couplet. 
 Blank verse is freed from this, and allows the lines to run 
 into each other with as great liberty as the Latin hexameter 
 permits, perhaps with greater. Hence it is particularly 
 suited to subjects of dignity and force, which demand more 
 free and manly numbers than rhyme. 
 
 lllus. The constraint and strict regularity of rhyme, are unfavour- 
 able to the sublime, or to the highly pathetic strain. An epic poem, 
 or a tragedy, would be fettered and degraded by it. It is best adapted 
 to compositions of a temperate strain, where no particular vehemence 
 is required in the sentiments, nor great sublimity in the style ; such 
 as pastorals, elegies, epistles, satires, &!-c. To these it communicates- 
 that degree of elevation which is proper for them ; and without any 
 other assistance, sufficiently distinguishes the style from prose. He 
 who should write euch poems in blank verse, would render his work 
 harsh and unpleasing. In order to support a poetical style, he would 
 be obliged to affect a pomp of language, unsuitable to the subject. 
 
 Scholia 1. The present form of our English heroic rhyme in coup- 
 lets, is a modern species of versification. The measure generally used 
 in the days of Queen Elizabeth, King James, and King Charles I. was 
 the stanza of eight lines, such as Spenser employs, borrowed from the 
 Italian ; a measure very constrained and artificial. 
 
 2. Waller was the first who brought couplets into vogue ; and Dry- 
 den afterwards established the usage. Waller first smoothed our 
 verse ; Dryden perfected it. Pope's versification has a peculiar cha- 
 racter. It is flowing and smooth in the highest degree ; far more la- 
 boured and correct than that of any who went before him. He intro- 
 tluced one considerable change into heroic verse, by totally throwing 
 aside the triplets, or three lines rhyming together, in which Dryden 
 abounded. Dryden's versification, however, has very great merit ; 
 and, like all his productions, has much spirit, mixed with carelessness. 
 It is not so smooth and correct as Pope's, it is, however, more varied 
 and easy. He subjects himself less to the rule of closing the sense 
 with a couplet ; and frequently takes the liberty of making his couplets 
 run into one another, with somewhat of the freedom of blank verse. 
 If any one, after reading Pope's Rape of the Lock, or Eloisa to Abe- 
 lard, shall not admit our rhyme, with all its varieties of pauses, to car- 
 ry both elegance and sweetness of sound, his ear must be pronounced 
 to be of a very peculiar kind. 
 
280 Pastoral Poetn/, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OF PASTORAL POETRY. 
 
 576. THE object of Pastoral Poetry is to delight the im- 
 agination with descriptions of the beauties of nature, and of 
 human life spent in the iviidst of these beauties, the persons 
 possessing health, sensibility, and innocence, and undisturb- 
 ed by the anxieties and cares of business and activity. 
 
 Obs. 1. The simple recapitulalion of the principal objects of which 
 
 ich descriptions consist, communicates pleasing aud exhilarHting- 
 
 motions. Zephyrs whispering through the trees and woods ; rivulets 
 
 liding along their mossy banks ; birds chaunling their lively notes ; 
 
 liepherds playing on their rural pipes ; lambkins skipping after their 
 
 ims ; and the shepherdesses listening to the enchanting lays of 
 
 lieir amorous swains. 
 
 2. The survey of pictures of innocence and happiness cannot fail to 
 
 he agreeable, if the reader can be convinced of their reality. But, as 
 
 he finds such descriptions contimially falsified by experience, the poet 
 
 artfully lays the scenes of his pastorals in remote places and nges, 
 
 nhen, it is supposed, human lifp was less corrupted, and when shep- 
 
 rds and shepherdesses retained more refined sentiments, and more 
 
 Irvated rank, than persons of that character in modern times. If we 
 
 ^vish to survey rural felicity in perfection, we must suppose ourselves 
 
 tiansplanted into Sicily or Arcadia, where the pastoral life appeared 
 
 1 perfection, and where nature lavished all her stores to render the 
 
 iL'pherd haj)py. 
 
 577. It is not sufficient, however, that the face of nature 
 be lively and gay, the picture, to interest, must be animated 
 with sentiment. 
 
 Illus. The shepherd must discover anxiety to obtain some object of 
 iiportance to his happiness, or he must solace himself with the pos- 
 
 ssiou of it. He may signify his regret for the absence of a mistress 
 »»r a friend ; he may indulge in the hope to recover their society ; he 
 may sympathise with their misfortunes, or rejoice at their prosperity'. 
 Btit no violent feeling must be excited ; no deep distress, or pungent 
 
 rrow must appear, which would produce vexation in the mind of the 
 
 ader, because sucli a feeling would interfere with the gaiety and 
 [tleasant emotions naturally prompted by this kind of composition. 
 
 578. Attention also must be bestowed to preserve the 
 pastoral character both in sentiment and in action. 
 
 Ilhcs. The shepherds must not appear too learned or refined in their 
 notions ; neither must they display rudeness, cruelty, or indecency in 
 their manners or words. Good sense, sensibility, observation of the 
 
 f liking beauties of nature, conjoined with simplicity and iauocencej 
 
 re the qualifications they must chiefly display. 
 
Pastoral Poetry. 281 
 
 579. A similar regard must be paid to local character, and 
 national circumstances. 
 
 Illus. Tlie British swain must not offer sacrifice to Pan, nor defend 
 his flock against the lion and the wolf; he may, however, believe in 
 the existence of invisible spirits or incantations, or fortify his lambs 
 against the hound and the fox. In a word, the pastoral poet may in- 
 dulge in every supposition which may render his pictures more beau- 
 tiful, interesting, or sentimental : but he must not push his demands 
 too far, nor shock the faith of his reader ; he must not ask him to be- 
 lieve what is inconsistent or incredible. 
 
 580. Theocritus is the most early writer of pastorals. 
 His works have descended to posterity, and he has been im- 
 itated by all his successors, particularly by Virgil. 
 
 Ohs. 1. Theocritus was an inhabitant of Syracuse, in Sicily, about 
 tlie time of Alexander the Great, and he has laid the scenes of all his 
 poems in that delightful island. He paints nature, and delineates the 
 sentiments and actions of his shepherds with great address. Zs'o pas- 
 toral writer has been more happy in striking the due medium between 
 refinement and rudeness ; and the use he makes of the Doric dialect, 
 so admirably suited to the rusticity and simplicity of his characters, is 
 none of the least marks of his merit. 
 
 2. Virgil succeeds Theocritus both in time and merit. Several of 
 his pastorals are finished with good taste, simplicity, and propriety. 
 ]Vo writer excels him in painting delicate sentiment, for which this 
 kind of composition affords frequent opportunity. 
 
 Example 1. Nothing can be more simpie and natural than the fol- 
 lowing lines : 
 
 " Tityre, dum retleo, brevis est via, pasce capellas : 
 Et potum pastas age, Titjx'e ; et inter apfriidum 
 Occursare capro, cornu ferit ille, caveto." 
 
 Example 3. Again : 
 
 " Hie p^elidi fontes : hie mollia prata. Lycori t 
 
 Hie litmus; hie ipso tecum coiisumerer aevo." 
 " Parta meae veneri sunt muncra ; nanique iiotayi 
 
 Ipse loeum, a'eriw quo congessere palumbes." 
 
 Example S. The two last lines are beautifully translated and im- 
 proved by Shenstone : 
 
 " I have found out a gift for my fair, 
 I have found wh»rre she wood-p;;ieoris breed: 
 But let me tiit phuider forbear. 
 She will say 'twas a barbarous deed." 
 
 Obs. 3. Not above the half, however, of ten eclogues, which Virgi! 
 has left, can properly be said to deserve the name of pastoral. Seve- 
 ral of them, particularly the hrst and ninch, have little of that charac- 
 ter. The third, fifth, seventh, and eighth only, can be said to belong- 
 stnctly to this species of poetry ; and though even in them the senti- 
 ments are sometimes too refined, yet they are never quaint or affected. 
 
 4. Pope has imitated, and almost translated, Thegcritus and Virgil'. 
 His pasior-ilK, accordingly, have little merit, but that of the versifica- 
 tion. He has scarc*^;!/ veii-irod *o advance a single se siiment, of 
 which he had not received a hln. from the Sicilian or Roman poeL 
 The subsequent examples will illustrate this remark. 
 
252 Pcistoral Pozinj, 
 
 Example 1. Virgil, with much simplicity, expresses a beautiful sen* 
 tiiiient in the following- lines : 
 
 •' Malo me Galatea petit, lasciva puella, 
 Et fugit ad salices. et se cupit ante videri." 
 
 Example 2. Pope diminishes the effect of this thought, by adding to 
 it an air of prettiness and conceit 
 
 " The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green, 
 She runs, but hopes she does not run unseen, 
 While a kind glance at her pursuer flies, 
 How much at variance are her feet and eyes !" 
 
 Scholium. Pope wrote his pastoials when very young, which Fur- 
 nishes a good apology for their defects. 
 
 581. Among all the various poets, ancient or modern, 
 who have attempted pastorals, Shenstone is entitled to the 
 greatest prai.se. Neither Theocntus nor Virgil is, perhaps, 
 to be compared with him, in ctmibining the capital requisites 
 of this kind of writing ; for no author in this H!ie has intro- 
 duced with more success whatever is simple, tender, and 
 delicate. 
 
 Obs. Even Shenstone's own works in this line are not equally merito- 
 rious. He degenerates sometimes into fiatoess and insipidity; but no 
 language can furnish a performance of its kind superior to his pasto- 
 ral ballad, in four parts, on Absence, Hope, Solitude, and Disappoint- 
 )ncnt. No quaintness, no affectation, no false refmement, no indelica- 
 \ ; all is nature, innocence, and elegance. The whole poem de- 
 rrves high praise : as a short specimen, we shall present the follow- 
 ing lines, from the part denominated Hope. 
 
 " One would think she mi -in lil:« to w-lvr 
 To Um* Njwt'r I had I : ' 
 Not a shrub that I li< ;t 
 Kut I hasted and plan; 
 
 >h ! how sudden the jessamine strove 
 X'^'ith the lilac, to remler it gay ; 
 
 ' ' ' it calls for my love, 
 
 th« wild branches away. 
 
 ' "iJid out a irift for my fair, 
 
 and where the wood-pigeons breed; 
 ! i.u- the plunder forbear, 
 ^ ill say 'twas a liarbarous detd : 
 Tor he ui'Vr could be true, she averr'd, 
 Wlio could rob a poor bin! of its yoiuig ; 
 And I lovM her the more m hen 1 heard 
 Such tenderness fall fro.n her tongue.*' 
 
 582. The favourable reception which pastoral poetry has 
 obtained from all polished nations, and the picture it is sup- 
 posed to exhibit of the happy but fabulous times of the gold- 
 en age, have prompted some eminent authors to attempt to 
 improve it. They have retained the pastoral characters, 
 occupations, and manners, and to these have added import- 
 ance and interest, by mouldin* them into a beautiful and 
 picturesque sentimental comedy. As a farther enhance- 
 
Fasloral Podry, -16.^ 
 
 tnent of its merit, th^jhave made music contribute liberal- 
 ij to adorn it, and have introduced a number of tender cha- 
 racteristic songs, in which the shepherds and sheplierdessc? 
 signify to one another their hopes and wishes, accompanied 
 with correspondent airs of melody. 
 
 Obs, 1. Few entertainments can present an assemblage of so many 
 captivating objects, beautiful pictures of nn.ture ; tiie charms of music^, 
 which touch the heart; characters pleased, cheerful, and happy, en- 
 gaged in those simple cares and attachments, which occupy human 
 life, without fatiguing it; and which, being dictated by innocence and 
 restrained by virtue, gently agitate, without distracting (be mind. At- 
 tempts of merit of this sort have accordingly been honoured with the 
 , warmest approbation. 
 
 2. Italy furnishes two eminent specimens, which all Europe has read 
 and admired. The Amynta of Tasso, and Pastor Fido of Guarini. 
 Both display vivid pictures of nature, and of rural manners. The fables 
 are interesting, and happily conducted ; the characters are Ihrown 
 into many delicate and tender situations. Many of ;lie scenes are 
 beautiful, and wrought up with so much sensibility, that the reader 
 receives a very exquisite amusement. 
 
 583. The Gentle Shepherd, a Scottish pastoral comedj, 
 of Allan Ramsay, is admired by exeiy reader of taste and 
 genius. The author has exerted much pains to avoid the 
 reprehensible qualities of his two rivals, and every candid 
 critic must allow that he has been successful. 
 
 Obs. 1. That he might suggest an apology for the greater liberality 
 of sentiment which he has v^entuved to throw into the characters of 
 his principal shepherd and sliepherdess, he has supposed them io in- 
 herit a genius superior to their station, communicated from their pa- 
 rents, who possessed a more elevated rank, but who, from political 
 misfortunes, were obliged to permit tfceir children to be educated io 
 concealment and obscurity. 
 
 2. In every other view, his pastoral is entitled to much praise. The 
 €able is well conceived, naturally and regularly conducted. The cha- 
 racters are distinctly marked ; they are numerous, and properlv varied. 
 Their occupations, sentiments, manners, are all the most picturesquej 
 local, and characteristic, that can be supposed. Simplicity, innocence, 
 cheerfulness, rustic sports and merriment, rude prejudices, ophiions, 
 and fears, are beautifully and pertinently interspersed. The situations 
 of the principal characters are delicate and inferesting, and deeplv 
 engage the attention of the reader. The great change of fortune, and 
 the consequent happiness they enjoy from the accidental discovery of 
 their birth and opulence in the course of the action, terminate the prii 
 formance, by suggesting the most pleasing and satisfactory franje of 
 mind, the reader cotild wish to possess. The music is national, fen- 
 der, simple, afid the diction rs perfectly suited to the characteis. It m 
 finished in the true Doric taste, soft and expressive, neither too refin- 
 ed, nor too gross and unpolished. 
 
 3. Dr. Blair was the first who prejudiced the public taste against the 
 Gentle Shepherd. Barron has followed him in this, as, indeed, in al- 
 most every other thing the doctor said. But let it be observed, thai 
 
 25 
 
2S4 Lyric Poetry. 
 
 the Gentle Shepherd is a. nrflional pastoral ; the locality of I(s rnanner? 
 and language, make it such ^ thev constitute its chief in p.redients of 
 national merit ; they increase its inierest hy circuinrcnb.ng its repu- 
 ition among the people for whom it v as writ ten. '< Fail its manuer» 
 ;eeii general, its language pure English, aad its scenes Arcadian, it 
 would iiave had less characteristic beanty, b»it it nii'^ht have riierited 
 the ipplause of Europ<*.*" Indeed 1 There are hills and dales, woods 
 ar i streams, and sentient natures, in Britain ; and Arcadia could 
 boj St no more. At ail events. tl>ere is one national pastoral In the 
 world ; or, in other words, the glory of this species of poetry hath not 
 I'en wiih th«; genius of Greece. 
 
 584. Of all the moderns, M. Gessner, a poet of Switzer- 
 land, has been the most successful in his pastoral composi- 
 tions. He has introduced into his Idylls (as he entitles 
 ihem) many new ideas. His rural scenery is often striking, 
 and his descriptions are lively. 
 
 Ohs. He presents pastoral life to us, with all the embellishments of 
 which it is susceptible ; but without any excess of refinement. What 
 tbims the chief merit of this poet, is, that he writes to the heart ; and' 
 lie has enriched the subject of his Idylls witli int idents which give 
 i e to nun h tender sentiment. Scenes of douiestic felicity are beautt- 
 illy painted. The mutual affection of husbands and wives, of parents 
 iind children, of brothers and sisters, as well as of lovers, are displajr- 
 td in a pleasing and touching manner. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LYRIC POETKY. 
 
 o8j. lyric poetry, to which we now proceed, inclu- 
 ded, in ancient times, every poetical composition accompa- 
 liied with music, whether of the voice or of instilments. 
 
 Ubii. i. It was called lyric, from the lyre, with which it was com- 
 monly attended ; and it acquired the name of ode, because it was also 
 designed to b»» sung. It is a short, occasional, animated effort of genius. 
 
 2. The author may assume any tone he chooses ; he may be sub- 
 Iin>e, familiar, gay, serious, passionate, moral, tender, or witty, with 
 equal propriety, and he may even intermix several of these strains in 
 the same poem. 
 
 3. Panegyric, however, is the principal field it has occupied in all 
 a«-t5 ; for the praises of the gods, and of heroes, have furni^-hcd more 
 odes than nil other subjects put together. 
 
 Example 1. The Psalms of David were lyric productions, and were 
 sung in the celebration of the Jewish worship. 
 
 2. The Odes of Pindar were composed in praise of the gods, or he- 
 roes, or victors in the games of Greece. 
 
 3. ?ome of those of Horace are dedicated to the honour of the godi, 
 others form elegant complimentary addresses to his country, to emi- 
 nent individuals, or to friends. 
 
 • Blair. 
 
Lyric Fodry* 
 
 IStht. Modern times have not been so prolific in this species of oom 
 position, as those of antiquity ; they are not, however, destitute of 
 some very conspicuous specimens. 
 
 586. Lyric poetry is susceptible of different ornaments, 
 suitable to the nature of the subjects it treats. It admits 
 sometimes the boldest and warmest figures of imagination 
 and passion ; at other times, it delights in the playful and 
 pleasant images of fancy and feeling. Sometimes the ex- 
 pression is ardent, concise, and vehement ; at other times, 
 it is simple and diff*use ; but at all times, it must be pure, 
 picturesque, and correct. 
 
 Ohs. 1. The style should be more fmished, perhaps, than that of any 
 other species of poetry ; for the attention of the reader is neither pow- 
 erfully nor long diverted by the sentiment. He soon turns it toward 
 the expression ; and he is so scrupulous, that he will not excuse the 
 slightest impropriety. The capital characteristics of the ode, then, are 
 magnificence, or passion or ingenuity in the thought, and perfect ele- 
 gance in the style. 
 
 2. Greece has left seme conspicuous monuments of lyric composi- 
 tion, in the odes of Pindar, Sappho, and Anacreon ; the first remark 
 able for vehemence and sublimity ; tlie two last for sensibility, plea- 
 santry, and vivacity. 
 
 3. Horace is the only Roman poet of the lyric tribe whose works 
 have descended to modern times ; and, it seems, we have little reason 
 to regret the loss of the rest, for, if we may rely on the opinion of 
 Quinctilian, Horace alone merited immortality. 
 
 587. No modern poets have composed volumes of odes 
 like Pindar and Horace, but many of them have occasional- 
 ly attempted this species of composition. The chief of these 
 in English are Dryden, Pope, Addison, Gray, and Akenside. 
 
 Obs. 1. The first three are distinguished by their odes to St. Cecilia, 
 in praise of the powers of music ; the subjects of the last two are mis- 
 cellaneous. As the first three have attempted successively to adorn the 
 same theme, it affoids a good opportunity of comparing their merits. 
 
 2. Alexanders Feast, by Dryden, has gained universal fame, and it 
 seems to deserve all the reputation it has attained. It is difficult to 
 decide whether the sentiments or the composition merit the most 
 praise. The sentiments are admirably suited to the personages whom 
 they describe, and the composition is fitted with equal propriety to the 
 sentiments. The sentiments are artfully contrasted, a circumstance 
 which, added to tlreir natural excellence, displays them in the moi^^t 
 captivating light. 
 
 3. A train of grand and sublime thoughts is succeeded by a series of 
 gay and pleasant ones ; a set of outrageous and furious conceptions, is 
 contrasted with a group ol gentle and tender ones. Tiie ; oet shakes 
 the spheres with Jupiter, revels with Bacchus, raves and d4troys with 
 Ihe furies, and drops a tear with his hero over the misfortunes of Da- 
 iius. 
 
 4. Pope has attempted, in his ode in honour of St. Cecilia, the in- 
 lentress of the organ, to introduce dii|erent passions, awd to controls. 
 
Didactic Pottvy, 
 
 ih tijc senhmcnts and the versification, as had been done by Prycfei?, 
 Jij has very happily selected for his subject the fable of Orpheus and 
 rlurydicc, a story naturally tender and pathetic, of which the reverse 
 of fortune-is great, and the dificrent i>arts are strongly opposed. 
 
 5. Addison was fond of the fame of a poet, though he enjoyed not 
 t' best powers for acquiring it. He wished, it is said, \o rival Pope 
 
 - a translator of Homer ; he even wished to rival him in lyric merit, 
 it ventured to appear on the same ground which Pope and Dryden 
 !(i occupied with go much lustre; and his ode to St. Cecilia exhibit- 
 ed him in a contrast which could not fail to hurt his reputation ; for of 
 all the poetry which Addison has written, he has scarcely composed 
 liiy thing so indifferent as this ode. 
 
 6. Tho odes of Gray are entitled to high praise, though they are un- 
 inal in their merit, which is also the fate of different stanzas of the 
 
 >anie ode. His sentiments are conceived with great vigour and pro- 
 priety, and his versification is the most laboured, perhaps, in the Eng- 
 'ish language. He frequently attempts the Pindaric magnificence and 
 
 'biimity, and he never fails to appropriate some of its darkness and 
 
 -scurity. 
 
 7. Ak«*nside aims at ease, ingenuity, and elegance, and he is not un- 
 K'cesoful. His imagination is delicate and picturesque, his versifica- 
 m is smooth and melodious. He is not defective in sentiment, and 
 
 ornament l>c has a claim to high applause. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 DIDACTIC rOETRY. 
 
 j88. didactic poetry discusses some branch of useful 
 ' ience, sciiie beiielicial art, or some system of prudential or 
 Moral conduct, by which the reader may improve his know- 
 ledge, his wisdom, or his virtue ; and it recommends the 
 discussion by all the nierits of imagination, and all the 
 charms ol' poetical composition. 
 
 Uhis. 1. In executing ihe useful part of the task, it collects all the 
 'St theories and most approved practices, and arranges them, with 
 J reasons of them, in that distinct and lucid order in which they are 
 ost likely to make the deepest impression. It sometimes adds the 
 lost sagacious reflections, pleasant speculations, or important disco- 
 ' I lies, which have resulted from the research or the ingenuity of the 
 Uhor. It condescejuls also to recapitulate and expose vulgar or ir- 
 xitional principles and practices; which have derived their origin 
 from a necessity, perhaps, that no longer exists, or which remain fos- 
 tered and cherished by prejudice or by ignorance. 
 
 2. In executing the ornamental parts, it illustrates every theory and 
 practice with simplicity and vivacity ; but that the familiarity or the 
 lowliness of the topics of which it must sometimes treat, may not of- 
 r^nd t!ie nicest reader, it is extremely solicitous to add dignity to the 
 illustration by the use of ficurati^e 7\x\r\ descriptive pbraseQlo'/y U 
 
nidadlc Poetry, !2B7 
 
 idorn calls common obj« . (^ oy their proper names. It employs elo- 
 v;ited and metaphorical appcliittions, or It describes them by their 
 causes or their etTects. It bestows much attention to cnlivt^n its de- 
 scriptions and scenes, by throwing into them all the animation with 
 whicii they are any way connected. Many of tlse inanimate objects 
 are personified ; all the irrational animals are endued with character, 
 sentiment, and design ; the human actors are rendered respectable by 
 the activity and virtue of their lives, the sagacity of their judgments, 
 the utility of their occupations ; or they are held up as objects of aver- 
 sion, that the reader may learn, from their foily, absurdity or crimin- 
 ality, to avoid that conduct which has rendered them ridiculous, odious, 
 or unhappy, 
 
 3. But the great ornaments of didactic poetry are beautiful or inter- 
 estiiig episodes. To vary and adorn his subject, the author is allowed 
 iVequently to shift the scene, and to introduce any moral, philosophi- 
 i'ul, or stutinlcntal relation or discussion with which it is connected. 
 
 So other .species of poetry admits so much latitude in this article. If 
 tie episodes are properly varied in length, and if they are not very vio- 
 lently forced into his service, the author will not incur much reprehen- 
 sion, though he often depart from his principal subject, and thougli 
 the sum of the episodes, taken together, even exceed in extent the di- 
 dactic part of the poem 
 
 4. Through the whole of his poem, the author may display much 
 knowledge of the particular sul#ject he treats, and of many other use- 
 ful and ornamental sciences and arts ; much acquaintance with naUue, 
 society, manners, and the human heart. He may be grave, gay, sub- 
 lime, easy, austere, pathetic, as shall best suit his genius and his rnat- 
 t-er. Tlie versification must be always correct and melodious ; and it 
 may be elevated occasionally to a high degree of energy and dignity. 
 It is also susceptible of every ornament, addressed to tlie imagination 
 or the passions, of which the difi"erent topics or episodes admit. P^iet- 
 aphors, comparisons, personifications, apostrophes, may all be in.iden- 
 tally introduced ; and if they are pertinently applied, their appearance 
 will add grace and interest to the composition. 
 
 Sciiolla 1. When this species of poetry promises so much improve- 
 iuent and entertainment to the reader, and when the author possccses 
 so many favourable opportui^liies of displaying his knowle<\;:~^\ his 
 genius, and his taste, we will not be surprised that it has been attciript- 
 ed by poets of high fame in ditferent ages, Aratus discussed in Greek 
 the phenomena of the heavens, and Lucretius in Latin the philosophy 
 of Epicurus. Virgil has treated the whole theory and practice of ag- 
 riculture, and iVrmstrong the art of preserving health. The writers on 
 morals and manners are mostly satirical ; yet Pope has avoided satir- 
 ism in his elegant system of morals in the Essay on Man, The rapital 
 satirists, ancient and modern, are Horace, Juvenal, Pope, and Young. 
 
 2. Armstrong possessed a large portion of the genius of Virgil, and, 
 like him, has adorned the history of he*ilth, a su>»ject naturally un- 
 promising, w'Ah ail the embellishment of fine versification and elegant 
 fancy. He elevates and beautifies every precept, and he is fortunate 
 in episodes. The true spirit of poetry is conspicuous in all he writes, 
 and his compositions cannot be perused without instruction and plea- 
 sure. He appears to be one of the best didactic poets in the English 
 language, and not inferior to any ancient author in the same line, ex- 
 cept VirgH, 
 
 25* 
 
288 Didactic Podry. 
 
 3. The Essay on Man admitted fewer erabfllishments and eprsotfo 
 than the poems which we have mentioned. The author's design wa* 
 more serious than that of any other writer of his class. Instruction 
 was his main object, and no ornaments are introduced but what are 
 manifestly subservient to this end. He employs metaphors frequent- 
 ly, and sometimes comparisons, but they are never mere addresses to 
 the i^wQy of tlie reailer, they always contribute to illustrate and im- 
 press the matter. 
 
 4. This famous essay is literally a system of morals, founded on the 
 celebrated doctrine tirst broached by Plato, and afterwards explained 
 and recommended by Leibnitz and Lord Shaftsbury, that no evil is 
 admitted into the system of nature but what is inseparable from its ex- 
 istence ; and that all possible provision is made for the happiness of 
 every creature it coiitains. The author acknowledges that the gravity 
 of his subject was more adapted to a discussion in prose, than a trea- 
 tise in verse, but that he preferred the latter, because it was more 
 adapted to his genius, and was more likely to engage the attention and 
 recollection of the reader. 
 
 5. The discussion is ingcnioirs and instructive We, however, de- 
 siderate that distinct an<l lucid arrangement whk.j we discern in the 
 productions of tlie other two emiii'ent moderns. Neither has the ver« 
 .sifi( ation all the merits which shine in his other works ; it is frequent- 
 ly abrupt, if not obscure, and possesses not the melody and flow of his 
 other poetry. The abstract nature of the subject, perhaps, and his 
 sincere desire to instruct, rather than to please, may furnish an apol- 
 
 589. Satirists are a species of negative didactic poets, 
 who teach and amuse by censuring what is wrong, and ex- 
 posing what is foolish. They seldom attempt to inculcate 
 positively what is gooii, or to recommenil what is decent ; 
 they leave tiiis task to moralists and public instructor?. 
 They would be most reputable and useful writers, were 
 iliey successful in what they undertake, to banish iniquity 
 and folly from society. They are divided into two classes. 
 
 Uin^. I. One class attacks immorality and impropriety with a stern 
 ok and severe reprehension. It paints them in ail their detormity 
 
 < objects of aversion, and it fails not to inflict upon them that censure 
 " hich they drserve. ft allows few of those excuses and alleviations 
 
 liich are usually urged for the errors of men. It <lelineates them as 
 (iud as they really are. and is sometimes inclined rather to exaggerate 
 fhan to apologise. It wishes to deter mankind from vicious or foolish 
 actions or sei timents, by the odium, the misery, the disapprobation 
 • hich attend them. 
 
 2. The other class assaults vice and folly with ridicule. It exposes 
 the whims, the oddities, the absurdities, and the crimes of men, in fucb 
 a manner as to make them ashamed. But if ridicule does not succeed, 
 it relinquishes them as incorrigible. An author of this class is never 
 
 ngry, he is never even serious. When a crime should rouse the re- 
 
 ontment of the former class, and draw from them severe chastise- 
 ment, they remain unmoved, and smile at the culprit as a fool. Hor- 
 Jice altogether, and Pope in some measure, are satirists of the lattei? 
 
 ^ass ) Juvenal and Young belong to the former. 
 
Didactic Poetry: . £89 
 
 3. Horace was an epicurean in philosophy, and, according to the 
 principles of that indolent sect, seems to liuve adopted a rule of con- 
 duct, that nothing should ruffle his temper. He appears to have con- 
 sidered the vices of his countrymen as not deserving- his resentment; 
 or to have been of opinion that reprehension was not the way to re- 
 form them. He accordingly never discomposes himself when he men- 
 tions them. 
 
 4. Juvenal is a grave, severe satirist, and a stern censor of the errors 
 and follies of mankind. He never condescends to smile, or to insinu- 
 ate improprieties without reprehending them. He seems to consider 
 ceremony and politeness as quarks of insincerity, and as trifling with 
 the evil, instead of attempting a radical cure. He seldom takes no- 
 tice of folly, but, when he does, he touches her airy and volatile form 
 with a firm and rough hand. He thinks her deserving of more serious 
 treatment than to laugh at her, because she may be either the compan- 
 ion or the parent of iniquity. He displays, at the same time, much 
 good sense, much knowledge of the Vr-orld, and a great share of the 
 faculty of imagination, 
 
 6. Pope attempts to unite the good humour of Horace with the 
 gravity of Juvenal, but he leans more to the manner of the latter, than 
 to that of the former. He was naturally of a keen temper, and 
 particularly irritable by reflections which glanced either at his private 
 character or his fame. Many of his satirical writings were prompted 
 by this spirit ; and we regret that a man of his genius should have 
 wasted his time, and disturbed his repose, by retaliatiYig on critics ani- 
 mated by a degree of ignorance or folly which rendered them con- 
 temptible. 
 
 6. Young has much merit as a satirist. He is not so severe as Ju- 
 venal, though he is always in earnest, and never attempts to excite a 
 laugh. He appears as a sincere moralist, zealous to correct the vices 
 and follies of mankind, by holding up pictures to excite their reflection 
 on the impropriety of their errors. His Love of Fame displays much 
 knowledge of human nature, and no small merit in point of versifica- 
 tion. He is a satirist whom we love and respect, because we conceive 
 him to be actuated by good nature, and backward to reprehend, were 
 it possible to reform by more gentle means. He possesses neither the 
 sprightliness of Horace, nor the vehemence of Juvenal, but he is more 
 dignified than the former, and more amiable than the latter. He is 
 not so facetious and pleasant as Horace, but neither is he so sour and 
 forbidding as Juvenal. Horace seems to have consulted his own 
 amusement, and Juvenal the gratification of his spleen, as mwch as 
 the entertainment or emolument of their readers. Young writes ta 
 improve mankind, and, with the regard and affection of a parent, 
 chastises only that he may amend. Though we wish he had more 
 mirth, yet we respect him as an useful author, and a genuine friend oi' 
 virtue. 
 
'^90 Descriplive Poetry. 
 
 CHAPTER YL 
 
 DESCKIPTIVE POETIIY. 
 
 o90. DESCRIPTIVE poetry is addressed chieily to the 
 imagination, though it attempts also to convey many useful 
 impressions to the understanding and the heart. 
 
 Obs. The design of it is to exhibit beautiful pictures of nature or ait, 
 " as to coniinunicate all the informrition and pleasure which theread- 
 i" could receive from an actual survey of the oljects. Jt ijonieiimes 
 resents large collections of objects, as those which occur in one period 
 f the year, or those which readily present themselves n hen the mind is 
 in a particular frame, lively and gay, or disconsolate and dejected. 
 
 Illus. 1. Of the former kind are the Seasons of Thomson; of the 
 latter kind are the Allegro and Penseioso of Mihon. £ut the -rreatcr 
 })art of descriptive poetry is intermixed with other kinds of poetical 
 (jomposition ; and there is no kind, whether epic, dramatic,^Udactic, 
 pastoral, or lyric, that does not occasionally demand its as-sistance. 
 
 2. Though all poets attempt to describe, and all men are endowed 
 ijore or less with the power of forming pictures of what they have 
 (en or imagined, yet the faculty which produces good descrij)tion is 
 xtremely rare ; it requires an uncommon portion of vivacity and 
 igour of imagination, and a large share of judgment. The former 
 iiggests the circumstances which the picture demands, and the latter 
 elects those which arc best calculated for making the deepest impres- 
 ion. 
 
 591. In description, the great art seems to be, not to spe- 
 cify every minute particular, but to select the most striking 
 and picturestjue circumstances, which would naturally make 
 the deepest impression on the mind of the beholder. 
 
 r.xample. Tlie following quotation will best illustrate this rule. It 
 is a picture, by Thomson, of an infections distemper, which ho])pened 
 to the fleet in the memorable cxpeditiou against Carthagena. 
 
 *' You, gallant Vernon, saw 
 
 The mi-ktrablc scene. You pitying saw 
 To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arm : 
 Saw the deep-racking panp, the ghastly form, 
 The pale lip qiiiveriiig. and the beamK ss eve 
 No more w ith aitlour bright ! You hcai*d the groans 
 Of aq^onising ships from shore to shore! 
 Heard nightly plung'd amid the sullen wave 
 Thefn quent corse ; while on each other fix'd 
 In sad presage, the blank assistants seem'd 
 Silent, to ask whom fate would next demand ."' 
 
 JInalysis. It is un'.Kccsi^ary to offer any comment on this beautiful 
 description ', every readrr must feel its force. The frequent plun.'^ing' 
 of the corse in the siiMen wave during the night, is particulurly stri- 
 king, and marks strongly the havoc jf the infection. 
 
 Obs. 1. Almost the vvhcle merit of Thomson's genius consioted in 
 description. He possessed little influence over the stronger passions, 
 
Descriptive Poetr^y, ^Q 1 
 
 though some episodes in the Seasons, and scenes in his plays, discover 
 a capacity for managing a tender and moderate passion. His plays 
 are elegant and correct compositions; they contain many noble and 
 virtuous sentiments, but they are sparing of incidents, and they 
 abound with declamation. 
 
 2. Had Milton studied nature with as much attention as Thomson, 
 he would probably have excelled all poets in the liveliness and beauty 
 of his descriptions. All his works shine with the richness of his ima- 
 gination. He is uncommonly happy in the selection of the most per- 
 tinent circumstances, and in the use of the most significant figures, 
 particularly metaphors, which demonstrate the exquisite sensibility of 
 his fancy. 
 
 3. He seems, however, to have taken a general survey of nature, 
 . rather than to have attended minutely to her particular operations. 
 
 He never dwells long on a topic in description, and he rather glances 
 at it than delineates it. But no author surpasses him in selecting the 
 most prominent and picturesque ingredients of a figure which make 
 the deepest impression. He is never general or diffuse, qualities which 
 are found to be very hostile to the success of this species of writing. 
 Example 1. He thus describes the scenes of morning in the Allegro. 
 
 " To hear the lark begin his flight, 
 And singing, startle the dull ni^ht, 
 From his watch-tower in the skies, 
 Till the dappled dawn doth rise : 
 While the eock, with lively din, 
 Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
 And to the stack, or the barn-door. 
 Stately struts his dames before : 
 Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
 Chterly rouse the slumbering morn ; 
 While the ploughman near at hand 
 Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, 
 And the milk-maid singing blythe, 
 And the mower whets his scythe ; 
 And every shepherd tells his tale, 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale." 
 
 Example 2. The Penseroso presents the following account of the 
 objects of the evening. 
 
 " Oft on a plat of rising ground, 
 I hear the far-off curfew sound 
 Over some wide-watertd shore, 
 Swinging slow with sullen roar. 
 Or, if the air will not permit, 
 Some still removed place will fit, 
 Where glowing embers through the room 
 Teach light to countf rfeit a gloom, 
 Far from all resort of mirth, 
 Sa\ e the cricket on the hearth, 
 
 Or the bellman's drowsy charm, * 
 
 To bless the doors from nightly harm ; 
 Or let my lamp and midnight hour, 
 Be seen in some high lonely tow'r. 
 Sometimes let gorgeous tragedy. 
 In sceptre'd pall, come sweeping by, 
 Presenting Fhebes' or Pelop's hne, 
 Or the tale ot Troy divine." 
 
 Ohs. 4. The elegant genius of Parnell has produced some beautiful 
 examples of descriptive poetry ; and it is much to be regretted he had 
 not indulged the world with more specimens. H<j possessed a fine im- 
 agination, a most correct taste, and great knowledge of human natur<». 
 His versification is not inferior to that of Pope in melody and concise- 
 
59£ Descriptive Poetry, 
 
 ness, and is superior in simplicity and perspicuity. It teems with in 
 struction, with the genuine la.-iguage oi" the heart ', and ther-i is no 
 poctr^', perhaps, which the reader ca»i peiuse^o often with piKasure- 
 
 Examplt 1. The Hermit is an extremely beauliiul, morai. 'k^crip- 
 tive poem, fraught with imporcant instruction, coiumutiicaied in p sim- 
 ple, but dignified manner, and recommended by the most delicate ap- 
 peals to the imagination. 
 
 2: All the great epic poets exhibit eminent specimens o^dcsci-it>tive 
 poetry. Homer, Virgil, and Ossian, excel in il. The following pictur« 
 of desolation, by Ossian, is conreivei with much vigour of ' niigina- 
 tion. 
 
 *' I have seen the walls of BalcU tha, but they were t^^solatn. The 
 flames had resounded in the halls, and the voice of ihe people is heard 
 no more. Tlie stream of C'utha was removed from iis coarse by the 
 fall of the walls. The thistle .«hoak there its loiiely head ; the moss 
 whistled in the wind. The fox looked out f»oni {Xw wmdow, and the 
 rank grass of the wall waved ronml I) is head. Desolate is the dwell- 
 ing of Morna ; silence is in the house of her fathers !" 
 
 592. The chief errors committed in descriptions, are the 
 admission of unmeaning or supernumerary epithets and 
 phrases, the introduction of general terms, and the inter- 
 mixture of trivial or insignificant circumstances clothed in 
 pompous and splendid language. The Dest poets are some- 
 times faulty in all these articles. 
 
 lllus. 1, All general terms are improper In descriptions, because 
 hey suggest either no idea at all, or none that is fixt d ; while the es« 
 (Mice of picturesque description consists in prompting conceptions 
 *vhich are palpable, and of which the miud, of course, takes firm bold. 
 These can result only from objects particular and distinct. 
 
 Example. Shakspeare, to expose the absurdity of attempting a thing 
 impracticable, says, with great energy, in Henry the Fifth : " You 
 may as well go about to turn the sun into ice, by fanning in hin face 
 with a peacock's feather." 
 
 Annlyais, Had the poet made the expression general, by leaving out 
 the '•= peacock's feather," he ^vould have mutilated the picture, and de- 
 bilitated the impression. How feeble would have been «hc following 
 phraseology ? " You may as well go about to turn the sun into ice, by 
 inning in his face." lla«l he retained the *' feather," but dropt the 
 peacock," the expression would have been more picturesque : '' You 
 may as well go about to turn the sun into ice, by fanning his face with 
 a feather. ' Even this picture, however, is much inferior in beauty and 
 vivacity to the particular language the poet hath thought proper to 
 adopt : " You may as well go about to turn the sun into ice, by fan- 
 ning in his face vrith a peacock's feather." The mind grasps the im- 
 age at once, and is struck with its «prightliness and propriety, 
 
 593. Forced elevation of the expression above the tone of 
 the thought, is another error not uncom.non in description. 
 
 lllus. Homer relates, that Achilles commanded his domestics to pre- 
 pare a ve. ^el to beat water for washing the dead body of Patroclus, 
 which they accordingly performed. Nothing can be more simple than 
 I he language of the poet. Things are called by their proper names, 
 and ycry few epithets are added. Tope must improve this simple 
 
Epic Poe(ry. 293 
 
 l^^hrascology, and he has communicated to it an air of ridicule, by the 
 poiapous and figurative expression of his translation. Iliad, xviii. 406, 
 
 « A massy cauldron of stupendous frame 
 
 They brought, and placed it o'er the rising flame ; 
 Then heaji'd the lighted wood ; the flame divides 
 Beneath the vase, and climbs around its sides. 
 In its wide womb they pour the rushing stream, 
 The boiling water bubbles to the brim." 
 
 594. It often happens, that a description presents objects 
 which would be extremely disagreeable to the sight, while 
 the description itself is not only not disagreeable, but con- 
 veys high pleasure. This is a curious phenomenon, and 
 merits some attention. Two causes seem to concur in pro- 
 ducing this effect. 
 
 Illus. A poetical description resembles an historical painting, the 
 merit of which consists in communicating to the different figures the 
 same positions and appearance that they hold in nature. And al- 
 though the figures be disagreeable, yet the picture may yield much 
 pleasure, because the merit of it lies in the accuracy of the imitation. 
 The mind surveys with delight the excellence of an art which can im- 
 itate nature so completely. The purpose of the description, as well as 
 of the picture, is to impart exact ideas of the objects, though it ope- 
 rates by words instead of colours. The imitation, in both cases, is the 
 chief source of the pleasure. The pleasure of the imitation much more 
 than counterbalances the disgust arising from the inspection of the ob- 
 ject. This seems to be the first cause. Words, again, have a beauty 
 in their sound and arrangement, independent of their signification ; 
 the merit of the execution in the picture, and of the composition m 
 the description, affords delight. This seems to be tlie second cause. 
 Both causes concur to counteract the disgust excited by the object. 
 
 Scholium. These remarks point out the greatest beauty of descrip- 
 tion, which takes place when the object, the imitation, and the expres- 
 sion, all concur to augment the pleasure of the reader. Jn all other 
 cas«s, these partially oppose the effects of one another. 
 
 If, however, an object prompt horror, no excellence of imitation or 
 language can recommend its description. The picture of Sin, in Para- 
 dise Lost, though drav/n with the brightest colours, is of this clas.s. It 
 excites horror, and all Milton's eloquence cannot render it tolerable. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 EPIC POETRY. 
 
 595. EPIC and dramatic poetry are universally allowed 
 to be the most dignilied, and, at the same time, the most 
 difficult species of poetic composition. To contrive a story 
 which shall please and interest all readers, by being at once 
 entertaining, important, and instructive ; to fill it with suit- 
 
:294 JEpic Poetry. 
 
 able incidents ; to enliven it with a variety of character;?, 
 and of descriptions ; and, throughout a long work, to main- 
 tain that propriety of sentiment, and that elevation of style, 
 which the epic character requires, is unquestionably the 
 highest effort of poetical genius. Hence so very few have 
 succeeded in the attempt, that strict critics will ^hardly al- 
 low any other poems to bear the name of epic, except the 
 Iliad aiid the J!ineid. 
 
 Illus. 1. The plain account of the nature of an epic poem is, the re- 
 ital of some illustrious enterprize in a poetical form. This is an exact 
 lefinition of this subject. It comprehends several other poems, be- 
 Ades the Iliad of Homer, the iEneid of V^irg^il, a)id the Jerusalem of 
 lasso ; which are, perhaps, the three most regrilar and complete epic 
 works that ever were composed. But to exclude all poems fioiy the 
 epic class, which are not formed exactly upon the same model as these, 
 ^ the pedantry of criticism. 
 
 2. VVe can give exact definitions and descriptions of minerals, plants, 
 nd animals ; and can arrange them with precision, under the clifTer- 
 iit classes to which they belongs, because nature aflbrds a visible un- 
 aryiug standard, to which we refer them. But with regard to works 
 t taste and imagination, where nature has fixed no standard, but 
 
 caves scope for beauties o^ many different kinds, it is absurd to at- 
 tempt defining and limiting them with the same preciBion. 
 
 3. Criticism, when employed in such attempts, degenerates into 
 trifling questions about words and names only. 
 
 4. The most coinpotent judges, tlierefore, have no scruple to class 
 such poems, as Milton's Paradise Lost, Lncan's Pharsalia, Stalius's 
 rhebaid, Ossian's Fingal and Temora, Camoens' Lusiad, Voltaire's 
 llcnriade, Fenelon's Telemachus, Glover's Leonidas, and Wilkie's 
 ' pigoniad, under the same species of composition with the Iliad and 
 
 iie .'I'^neid ; though some of them approach much nearer than others 
 ) the perfection of these celebrated works. They are, undoubtedly, 
 II epic ; that is, poetical rcriials of great adventures; which is all 
 iiat is meant by this denominaiion of poetry. (Illus. 1.) 
 
 5. The end which epic poetry proposes, is to extend our ideas of 
 i 1 11 man perfection : or, in other words, to excite admiration. Now 
 this can be accomplished only by proper representations of heroic 
 ileeds, and virtuous characters. For high virtue is the object, which 
 all mankind are formed to admire ; and, therefore, epic poems are, 
 and must be, favourable to ilie cause of virtue. Valour, truth, justice, 
 fidelity, friendship, piety, magnanimity, are the objects which, in the 
 course of such compositions, are presented to our minds, under the 
 most splendid and honourable colours. 
 
 6. In behalf of virtuous personages, our affections are engaged ; in 
 their designs, and their distresses, we are interested ; the generous 
 nnd public afTections are awakened ; the mind is purified from sensual 
 
 iid mean pursuits, and accustomed to take part in great, heroic en- 
 jrprises. It is, indeed, no small testimony in honour of virtue, that 
 se' eral of the most refined and elegant entertainments of mankind, 
 such as that species of poetical composition whic!) we now consider, 
 must be grounded on moral sentiments and impressions This is a 
 testimony of such weight, that, were it in the power of sceptical phi- 
 losophers, to weaken the force of those reasonings which establish the 
 
Spic Poetry. 295 
 
 <*ssetttial distinctions between vice and virtue, the writings of epic po- 
 ^t« alone were sufficient to refute their false philosophy ; shewing, by 
 that appeal which they constantly make to the feelings of mankind in 
 favour of virtue, that the foundations of it are laid deep and strong in 
 human nature. 
 
 596. The general strain and spirit of epic composition, 
 sufficiently mark its distinction from the other kinds of 
 poetry. 
 
 Illus. 1. In pastoral writing, the reigning idea is innocence and 
 tranquillity. Compassion is the great object of tragedy ; ridicule the 
 province of comedy. The predominant character of the epic is, admi- 
 ration excited by heroic actions. 
 
 2. It is sufficiently distinguished from history, both by its poetical 
 form, and the liberty of fiction which it assumes. It is a more calm 
 composition than tragedy. It admits, nay, requires, the pathetic and 
 the violent, on particular occasions ; but the pathetic is not expected 
 to be its general character. It requires, more than any other species 
 of poetry, a grave, equal, and supported dignity. 
 
 8. It takes in a greater compass of time and action, than dramatic 
 writing admits ; and thereby allows a more full display of charact/^rs. 
 Dramatic writings display characters chiefly by means of sentiments 
 and passions ; epic poetry, chiefly by means of actions. The emo- 
 tions, therefore, which it raises, are not so violent, but they are more 
 prolonged. 
 
 Obs. These are the general characteristics of this species of compo- 
 sition. But, in order to give a more particular and critical view of it, 
 let us consider the epic poem under three heads ; first, with respect to 
 the subject, or action ; secondly, with respect to the actors, or char* 
 acters ; and, lastly, with respect to the narration of the poet. 
 
 597. The action, or subject of the epic poem, must have 
 three qualifications : it must be one^ it must be great ; 
 it must be interesting, 
 
 Illus. 1. First, it must be one action, or enterprise, which the poet 
 chooses for his subject. 
 
 Example 1. In all the great epic poems, unity of action is sufficient- 
 ly apparent. Virgil, for instance, has chosen for his subject, the es- 
 tablishment of ^neas in Italy. From the beginning to the end of the 
 poem, this object is ever in our view, and links ali the parts of it to- 
 gether with full connection. The unity of the Odyssey is of the same 
 nature ; the return and re-establishment of Ulysses in his own country. 
 The subject of Tasso is the recovery of Jerusalem from the Infidels ; 
 «hat of Milton, the expulsion of our first parents from Paradise ; and 
 both of them are unexceptionable in the unity of the story. 
 
 2. The professed subject of the Iliad, is the anger of Achilles, with 
 the consequences which it produced. The Greeks carry on many un- 
 successful engagements against the Trojans, as long as they are depri- 
 ved of the assistance of Achilles. Upon his being appeased and recon- 
 ciled to Agamemnon, victory follows, and the poem closes. 
 
 Jlnalyais. It must be owned, however, that the unity, or connecting 
 principle, is not quite so sensible to the imagination here, as in the 
 .<^heid. For, throughout manv books of the Iliad, Achilles is ouf of 
 '26 
 
296 Epic Voetry, 
 
 siglit ; he is lost in inaction ; and the fancy dwells ou no other object 
 than the success of the two armies that we see contending in war. 
 
 Illus. 2. The unity of the epic action is not to be so strictly interpret- 
 ed, as if it excluded all episodes, or subordinate actions. 
 
 3. Episodes, are certain actions, or incidents, introduced into the 
 iiarration, connected with the principal action, yet not of such import- 
 ance as to destroy the main subject of the poem, if they had been 
 omitted. 
 
 Example. Of this nature are the interview of Hector with Androma- 
 che, in the Iliad ; the story of Caucus, and that of Nisus and Euryalus, 
 in the i^neid ; the adventures of Tancred with Erminia and Clorinda, 
 in the Jerusalem ; and the prospect of his descendants exhibited to 
 Adam, in the last booki of Paradise Lost. 
 
 598. Such episodes as these, are not only permitted to 
 an epic puet ; but, provided they be properly executed, are 
 great ornaments to his work. The rules regarding them 
 are tiie following: 
 
 599. Rule first. They must be naturally introduced ; 
 ihey must have a sufficient connection with the subject of 
 lilt poem ; they must be inferior parts that belong to it ; 
 but not mere appendages stuck to it. 
 
 Whs. The episode of Oiinda and Sophronia, io the second book of 
 Tasso's Jerusalem, is faulty, by transgressin*^ this rule. It is too much 
 detached from the rest of the work; and being introduced so near 
 the opening of the poem, misleads tlie reader into an expectation, that 
 it is to be of some future consequence ; whereas it proves to be con- 
 nected with nothing that follows. In proportion as any episode is 
 
 ligluly related to the main subject, it shoidd always be the shorter. 
 
 The passion of Dido in the j¥a\q\6, and the snares of Armida in the 
 Jerusalem, wliich are expanded so fully in these poera», cannot with 
 propriety be called episodes. They are constituent parts of the work, 
 and form a considerable share of the intrigue of the poem. . 
 
 600. Rule second. Episodes ought to present to us, ob- 
 jects of a different kind, from those which go before, and 
 those which follow, in the course of the poem. For it is 
 principally for the sake of variety, that episodes are intro- 
 duced into an epic composition. In so long a work, they 
 lend to diversify the subject, and to relieve the reader, by 
 b^hifting tiie scene. In ihe midst of combats, therefore, an 
 episode of the martial kind would be out of place ; whereas, 
 liector's visit to Andromache in the Iliad, and Erminia's 
 adventure with the shepherd, in the seventh book of the .Te- 
 rusalciii, allbrds us a w^ell-judged and pleasing retreat from 
 camps and battles. 
 
 601. Rule third. As an episode is a professed embellish- 
 ment ^ it ought to be particularly elegant :i\\i\ ivell-Jinished ; 
 and, accordingly, it is, for the most part, in pieces of this 
 kind, that poets put forth their strength. The episodes of 
 
Epic Poetry. 297 
 
 Teribazus and Ariana, in Leonidas, and of the death of 
 Hercules, in the Eriigoniad, are the two greatest beauties in 
 these poems 
 
 60'2. The unity of the epic action necessarily supposes, 
 that the action be entire and corapleie / that is, as Aristotle 
 well expresses it, that it have a beginning, a middle, and an 
 end. 
 
 Illus. Either by relating the whole, in his own person, or by intro- 
 ducin<; sorae ot" his actors to relate what had passed before the open- 
 ing c.i the pot;m, the atithor must always contrive to give us full in- 
 formation of every thing that belongs to his subject ; he must not leave 
 our cariosity, in any article, ungratified ; he must bring us precisely to 
 the uccomplrshment of his plan ; and then conclude. 
 
 603. The second qualification of an epic action, is, that 
 \ih^ great ; that it have sufficient splendour and import- 
 ance, both to fix our attention, and to justify the magnificent 
 apparatus which the poet bestows upon it. 
 
 Ohs. This is so evidently requisite as not to require illustration ; and 
 mdeed,hardly any who have attempted epic poetry, have failed iji choos- 
 ing some subject sufficiently important, eHher by the nature of the ac- 
 tion, or by the fame of the personages concerned in it. 
 
 604. It contributes to the grandeur of the epic subject, 
 that it be 7iot of a modern date, nor fall within any period 
 of history with which we are intimately acquainted. 
 
 Ohs. Both Lucan and Voltaire have, in the choice of their subjects, 
 transgressed this rule, and they have, upon that account, succeeded 
 worse. Antiquity is favourable to those high and august ideas which 
 epic poetry is designed to raise. It tends to aggrandize, in our imagin- 
 ation, both persons and events ; and what is still more material, it al- 
 lows the poet the liberty of adorning his subject by means of fiction. 
 Whereas, as soon as he comes within the verge of real and authenti- 
 cated history, this liberty is abridged. 
 
 605. The third property required in the epic poem, is, 
 that it be interesting. It is not sufficient for this purpose 
 that it be great. For deeds of mere valour, how heroic 
 soever, may prove cold and tiresome. 
 
 Illus. Much will depend on the happy choice of some subject, which 
 shall, by its nature, interest the public : as when the poet selects for 
 his hero, one who is the founder, or the deliverer, or the favourite of 
 his nation ; or when he vtrites of acijievomcnts that iiavc been liigiily 
 celebrated, or have been connecteil with important consequences to 
 any public cause. Most of the great epic poems are abundantly fortu- 
 nate in this respect, and were, no doubt, as interesting to those ages 
 and countries in which they were composed, as they are to us. 
 
 606. But the chief circumstance which renders an epic 
 poem interesting, and which tends to interest, not one age 
 
-98 Epic Poetry. 
 
 or country alone, but all readers, is the skilful conduct of 
 ihe author in the management of his subject. 
 
 lllus. He must so contrive his plan, as that it shaU comprehend 
 many afiecting incidents. He must not dazzle us perpetually with 
 aliant achievements ; for all readers become tired of constant fight- 
 iig. and battles ; but he must study to touch our hearts. He may 
 )metimes be awful and august ; he must often be tender and pathet- 
 ' ; he mtist give us gentle and pleasing scenes of love, friendship, and 
 = iTection. The more an epic poem abounds with situations which awa- 
 en the feelings of humanity, the more interesting it is : and these al- 
 ways form the favourite passages of the work. No epic podts are 
 mole happy in this respect than Virgil and Tasso. 
 
 607- Much, too, depends on the characters of the heroes, 
 or rendering the poem interesting ; that they be such as 
 iiall strongly attach the readers, and make them take part 
 II the dangers which the heroes encounter. 
 
 Illui. These dangers, or obstacles, form what is called the nodus, 
 r the intrigue of the epic poem ; in the judicious conduct of which 
 onsists much of the poet's art. He must rouse our attention by a 
 prospect of the difficulties which seem to threaten disappointment to 
 the enterprise of his favourite personages ; he must make these diffi- 
 i-.ulties grow and tliicken upon us, by degrees ; till, after having kept 
 us, for some time, in n state of agitati6n and suspense, he paves the 
 uay, by a proper preparation of incidents, for the winding up of the 
 }>lot in a natural and probable manner. Jt is plain, that every tale 
 v\ Iiich is designed to engage attention, must be conducted on a plan of 
 this sort. 
 
 608. A question has been moved, Whether the nature of 
 ilie epic potMH does not require that it should always end 
 successfully ? Most critics are inclined to think, that a 
 •successful issue is the most proper ; and they appear to 
 have reason on their side. An unhappy conclusion depress- 
 es the mind, and is opposite to the elevating emotions which 
 belong io i\\\< species of poetry. 
 
 609. With regard to the time or duration of the epic ac- 
 tion, no precise boundaries can be ascertained. A consid- 
 erable extent is always allowed to it, as it does not neces- 
 sarily depenil on those violent passions which can be suppo- 
 sed to have only a short continuance. 
 
 illus. The Iliad, which is formed upon the anger of Achilles, has, 
 with propriety, the shortest duration of any of the great epic poems. 
 According to Bossu, the action lasts no longer than forty-seven days. 
 The action of the Odyssey, computed from the taking of Troy to the 
 peace of Ithaca, extends to eight years and a half; and the action of 
 the .^]neid, computed in the same way, from the taking of Troy to the 
 death of Turnus, includes about six years. But if we measure the pe- 
 riod only of the poet's own narration, or compute from the time in 
 which the hero makes his first appearance, till the conclusion, the du- 
 ration of both these last poems is brought within a much smaller com- 
 
Epic Poetry, £99 
 
 pass. The Odyssey, beginninef with Ulysses in the island of Calvpso, 
 comprehends fifty-eight days only : and the .^neid, beginning with 
 the storm, which throws jEneas upon the coast of Africa, is reckoned to 
 include, at the most, a year and some months. 
 
 Obs. Having thus treated of the epic action, or the subject of tliepoem, 
 we proceed next to make some observations on the actors or personages. 
 
 610. As it is the business of an epic poet to copy after na- 
 ture, and to form a pir.bable interesting tale, he must study 
 to give all his personages proper and well-supported charac- 
 ters, such as display the features of the human nature. 
 This is what Aristotle calls, giving manners to the poem. 
 
 Ohs. It is by no means necessary, that all his actors be morali . 
 good ; imperfect, nay, vicious characters, may find a proptr |)Jace ; 
 though the nature of epic poetry seems to require, that the prititip.ii 
 tlgures exhibited should be such as tend to raise admiration and love, 
 rather than hatred or conlcmpt. But whatever the character be wluc h 
 a poet gives to any of his actors, he must take care to preserve it uni- 
 form, and consistent with itself. Every thing which that person says, 
 or does, must be suited to tliis uniformity, and must serve to distingiiijh 
 liim from any other. 
 
 611. Poetic characters may be divided into two kirid^, 
 general and particular. 
 
 1*/. General characters are, such as wise, brave, virtuous, 
 without any farther distinction. 
 
 9,ncL Particular characters express the species of brave- 
 ry, of wisdom, of virtue, for which any one is eminent. 
 
 Illus. They exhibit the peculiar features which distinguish one indi- 
 vidual from another, which mark the difference of the same moral 
 quality in different men, accorciing as it is combined with other dispo- 
 sitions in their temper. In drawing such particular characters, the 
 genius of the poet is chiefly exerted. 
 
 Obs. In (his part. Homer has principally excelled; Tasgo has como 
 the nearest to Homer ; and Virgil has been the most deficient. 
 
 612. It has been the practice of all epic poets, to select 
 some one personage, whom they distinguish above all the 
 rest, and make the hero of the tale. This is considered as 
 essential to epic composition, and is attended with several 
 advantages. 
 
 Illus. 1. It renders the unity of the subject more sensible, when there 
 is on a principal figure, to which, as to a centre, all the rest refer. It 
 tends to interest us more in the enterprise which is carried on ; and it 
 gives the poet an opportunity of exerting his talents for adorning and 
 displaying one character, with peculiar splendour. 
 
 2. It has been asked, VVho then is the hero of Paradise Lost ? Satan, 
 it has been answered by some critics ; but Adam is undoubtedly t!ie 
 hero ; that is, the capital and most interesting figure ii. the poem. 
 
 613. Besides human actors, there are personages of an- 
 other kind, that usually occupy no small place in epic noet- 
 
300 £pic Poetry, 
 
 ry 5 namely, the gods, or supernatural beings ; forming 
 what is called the machinery of the epic poem. 
 
 Illus. 1. Almost all the French critics decide in favour of machinery, 
 as essential to the constitution of an epic poem. This decision seems 
 to be founded on the practice of Homer and Virgil. These poets very 
 properly embellished their story by the traditional tales and popular 
 rreuds of their own country ; according^ to which, all the great trans- 
 tions of the heroic times were intermixed with the fables of their dei- 
 -05. (Illus. J rt. 29.) 
 
 2. In other countries, and other ages, where there is not the like ad- 
 vantagc of current superstition, and popular credulity, epic poetry has 
 l»oen differently conducted. Lucan has composed a very spirited poem, 
 < irtainly of the epic kind, where neither gods nor supernatural beings 
 
 re at all employed. l"iic author of Leonidas has made an attempt of 
 M? same kind, not without success ; and beyond doubt, wherever a 
 'Ct gives us a regular heroic story, well connected in its parts, adorn- 
 l with characters, and supported with proper dignity and elevation, 
 lough his agents be every one of them human, he has fulfilled the chief 
 luisites of this sort of composition, and has a just title to be classed 
 ith epic writers. 
 
 3. Mankind do not consider poetical writings with a philosophical 
 e, Tiicy seek entertainment from them ; and for the bulk of rcad- 
 ■;, indeed for almost all men, the marvellous has a great charm. It 
 wtifies and fills the imagination ; and gives room for many striking 
 ul sublime descriptions. In epic poetry, in particular, where admi- 
 aion juid lofty ideas arc supposed to reign, the marvellous and super- 
 Uural find, if any where, their proper place. They both enable the 
 oot to aggrandize his subject, by means of those august and solemn 
 •jerts which religion and sui ernatural agents introduce into it ; and 
 ii'V allow him to enlarge and diversify his plan, by comprehending 
 
 ^ -thin it the realities of earth, the probabilitieg of Elysium and of Tar- 
 ;: us, men and invisible beings, and the whole circle of the universe. 
 
 G14. At the same time, in the use of this supernatural 
 machinery, it becomes a poet to be temperate and prudent* 
 le is not at liberty to invent what system of the marvel- 
 »us he pleases. It must always have some foundation in 
 t!)pular beli»if. He must avail himself in a decent manner, 
 ither of the religious faith, or the superstitious credulity of 
 he country wherein he lives, or of which he writes, so as to 
 ive an air of probability to events which are most contrary 
 
 the common course of nature. 
 
 ///lis-. Whatever machinery he employs, he must not overload us with 
 
 1 ;. nor withdraw human actions and manners too much from view, 
 ..or obscure them under a cloud of incredible fictions. His chief bu- 
 siness is to relate to mtn^ the actions and the exploits of men; by these 
 orincipally he is to interest, and touch our hearts ; and, therefore, if 
 probability be altogether banished from his work, it can never make a 
 
 U>ep or a lasting impression. Paradise Lost being altogether theolo- 
 gical, Milton's supernatural beings form not the machinery, but arc 
 the principal actors in tlie poem. 
 
 615, Allegorical personages, /rtwe, discord, love, and the 
 
£pic Poetry. o01 
 
 like, it may be safely pronounced, have been supposed to 
 form the worst machinery of any. 
 
 Illus. In description they are sometimes allowable, and may serve 
 for embellishment ; but they should never be permitted to bear any 
 share in the action of the poem. For being plain and declared fictions, 
 mere names of general ideas, to which even fancy cannotr^ttribute any 
 existence as persons, if they are introduced as mingling with human 
 actors, an intolerable confusion of shadows and realities arise, and all 
 consistency of action is utterly destroyed. (See Art. 307. and 308.) 
 
 616. In the narration of the poet, which is the la^t head 
 that remains to be considered, it is not material, whether he 
 relate the whole story in his own character, or introduce 
 some of his personages to relate any part of the action that 
 had passed before the poem opens. 
 
 Illus. Homer follows the one method in his Iliad, and the other m 
 liis Odyssey. ViVgil has, in this respect, imitated the conduct of the 
 Odyssey ; Tasso that of the Iliad. 
 
 617. In the proposition of the subject, the invocation of 
 the muse, and other ceremonies of the introduction, poets 
 may vary at their pleasure. 
 
 Illus. It is trifling to make these little formalities the object of pre- 
 cise rule, any farther, than that the subject of the work should always 
 be clearly proposed, and without affected or unsuitable pomp. For, 
 according to Horace's noted rule, no introduction should ever set out 
 too high, or promise too much, lest the author should not fulfil the ex- 
 pectations he has raised. 
 
 618. What is of most importance in the tenor of the nar- 
 ration is, that it be perspicuous^ animated, and enriched 
 with all the beauties of poetry. No sort of composition re- 
 quires more strength, dignity, and^re of imagination, than 
 the epic poem. 
 
 Illus. 1. It is the region within which we look for every thing that 
 is sublime in description, tender in sentiment, and bold and lively in ex- 
 j>i'ession ; and, therefore, thou;2:h an author's plan should be faultless, 
 and his story ever so well conducted, yet if he be feeble, or flat in 
 style, destitute of aflecling scenes, and deficient in poetical colouring, 
 he can have no success. 
 
 2. The ornaments v.hlch epic poetry admits, must all be of the grave 
 and chaste kind. INothing that is loose, ludicrous, or affected, finds 
 any place there. All the objects which it presents ought to be either 
 great, or tender, or pleasing. Descriptions of disgusting or shocking 
 objects should as much as possible be avoided ; and therefore the fa- 
 ble of the Harpies, in the third book of the iEneid, and the allegory of 
 Sin and Death, in the second book of Paradise Lost, had been better 
 omitted in these celebrated poems. 
 
 Obs. The judicious teacher is left to illustrate, from the epic poems 
 to which we have referred, the several branches of composition and 
 ornament for which \ye have furnished rules or criterra of judgment. 
 
302 Pronunciation, or Delivery, 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 GOiNCLUSION. 
 
 ON PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 
 
 619. THE great objects which every speaker will natu- 
 rally have in view in forming his delivery, are, first, to speak 
 so as to be fully and easily understood by all who hear him ; 
 and next, to speak with grace and force, so as to please and 
 to move his audience. 
 
 620. In order to be fully and easily understood, the four 
 chief requisites are, a due degree of loudness of voice ; dis- 
 tinctness; slowness; and propriety of pronunciation. 
 
 621. The first attention of every public speaker, doubt- 
 less, must be to make himself be heard by all those to whom 
 lie speaks. He must endeavour to fill with his voice tiie 
 space occupied by the assembly. 
 
 Obi. 1. This power of voice, it mny be thought, is wholly a natural 
 talent. It is so in a g;ood nieHsure \ but, however, it may receive con- 
 siderable assistance I'rom art. Much depends for this purpose on the 
 proper pitch and management of the voice. 
 
 2. Kvery man has three pitches in his voice ; the high, the middle, 
 and th(; low one. The hig^h, is that which he uses in calling aloud to 
 some one at a distance. The low is, when he approaches to a whis- 
 {)er. The middle is, that which he employs in common conversation, 
 \i\i\ which he should generally use in public discourse. 
 
 622. In the next place, to being well heard, and clearly 
 understood, distinctness of articulation contributes more, 
 perhaps, than mere loudness of sound. 
 
 Obs. The quantity of sound necessary to fill even a large space, is 
 mailer than is commonly imagined : and with distinct articulation, a 
 nan of a weak voice will make it reach farther than the strongest voice 
 t an reach without distinct articulation. 
 
 Corol. To this, therefore, every public speaker ought to pay great at- 
 tention. Me must give every sound wiiich he utters, its due propor- 
 tion, and make every syllabic, and even every letter in the word which 
 iic pronounces, be heard distinctly; without slurring, whispering, or 
 suppressing any of tlie proper sounds. 
 
 623. In the third place, in order to articulate distinctly, 
 moderation is requisite with regard to the speed of pro- 
 nouncing. Precipitancy of speech confounds all articula- 
 tion, and all meaning. 
 
 Obs. We need scarcely observe, that there may be also an extreme 
 on the onpositc side. It is obvious, that a lifeless, drawling pronun- 
 
Pronunciation, or Delivery, S05 
 
 *diation, which allows the minds of the hearers to be always outrunning^ 
 the speaker, must render every discourse insipid and fatiguing. But 
 the extreme of speaking too fast is much more common, and requires 
 the more to be guarded against, because, when it has grown up into a 
 habit, iew errors are more difficult to be corrected. 
 
 624. After these fundamental attentions to the pitch and 
 management of the voice, to distinct articulation, and to a 
 proper degree of slowness of speech, what a public speaker 
 must, in the fourth place, study, is, propriety of pronuncia- 
 tion ; or the giving to every word which he utters, that 
 sound, which the most polite usage of the language appro- 
 priates to it ; in opposition to broad, vulgar, or provincial 
 pronunciation. 
 
 Ohs. This is requisite, both for speaking intelligibly, and for speak- 
 ing with grace or beauty. Instructions concerning this article, can be 
 given by the living voice only. 
 
 ^^5, Emphasis, pauses, tones, and gestures, 
 626. By emphasis, is meant a stronger and fuller sound 
 of voice, by which we distinguish the accented syllable of 
 some word, on which we design to lay particular stress, and 
 to show how it affects the rest of the sentence. 
 
 Obs. 1. Sometimes the emphatic word must be distinguished by a 
 particular tone of voice, as well as by a stronger accent. On the right 
 management of the emphasis, depend the whole life and spirit of every 
 discourse. 
 
 2. If no emphasis be 4)laced on any words, not only is discourse 
 rendered heavy and lifeless, but the meaning left often ambiguous. If 
 the emphasis be placed wrong, we pervert and confound the meaning 
 wholly. 
 
 Example. *' Do you ride to town to day .?" is capable of no fewer 
 than four different acceptations, according as the emphasis is differ- 
 ently placed on the words. If it be pronounced thus : Do you ride to 
 town to-day ? the answer may naturally be. No ; I send my servant iu 
 my stead. If thus, Do you ride to totvn to-day .? No ; I intend to walk. 
 Do you ride /o /o?^77i to day .'' No; I ride out into the fields. Do you 
 ride to town to-day f No ; but I shall to-morrow. 
 
 Obs. 3. In like manner, in solemn discourse, the whole force and 
 beauty of an expression often depend on the accented word ; and we 
 may present to the hearers quite different views of the same sentiment, 
 by placing the emphasis differently. 
 
 Example. In the following words of our Saviour, observe in what 
 different lights the thought is placed, according as the words are pro- 
 nounced : " Judas, betrayest thou the Son of Man with a kiss ?" Be- 
 trayest thou — makes the reproach turn on the infamy of treachery. 
 Betrayest thou — makes it rest, upon Judas's connection with his Mas- 
 ter. Betrayest thou the Son of Man — rests it, upon the Son of Man's 
 personal character and eminence. Betrayest thou the Son of Man 
 with a kiss ? — turns it, upon his prostituting the signal of peace and 
 friendship^ to ^e purpose of a mark of destruction. 
 
.004 Pronunciation, or Deliver}/, 
 
 627. Next to emphasis, the pauses in speaking flemand 
 attention. These are of two kinds; first, emphcfiical paus- 
 es ; and next, such as nnark the distinctions of senac, 
 
 Illns. 1. An emphatical pause is made, after something has been 
 said of peculiar moment, and on which we want to fix the hearer's at- 
 tention. Sometimes before such a thing has been said. Tve usher it in 
 with un emphatical pause. Such pauses have the same eifTeot as a strong 
 emphasis ; and are subject to the same rules ; especially to the cau- 
 tion just now given, of not repeatin^^ them too frequently For as they 
 excite uncommi^n attention, and of course raise expectation, if the im- 
 portance of the matter be not fully answerable to such expectation, 
 they occasion disappointment and disgust. 
 
 2. But the most frequent and the principal use of pauses, ig to mark 
 the divisions of the sense, and at the same time to allow the speaker to 
 <lraw his breath ; and the proper and graceful adjustment of such 
 pauses is one of the most nice and tlifBcult articles in delivery. 
 
 628. When we are reading or reciting verse, there is a 
 peculiar difi&culty in making the pauses justly. The dif- 
 ficulty arises from the melody of verse, which dictates to 
 the ear pauses or rests of its own ; and to adjust and com- 
 pound these properly with the pauses of the sense, so as 
 neither to hurt the ear, nor oftend the understanding, is so 
 verv nice a matter, that it is no wontler we so seldom meet 
 with good readers of poetry. 
 
 lUus. 1, There are two kinds of pauses that belong to the music of 
 verse ; one is, the pause at the end of the line ; and the other, the 
 « resural pause in the middle of it. With regard to the pause at the 
 ' nd of the line ; which marks that strain or verse to be finished, rhyme 
 ; onders this always sensible, and in some measure compels us to ob- 
 crve it in our pronunciation. 
 
 2. In blank verse, where there is a greater liberty permitted of run- 
 ning the lines into one another, sometimes without any suspension in 
 the sense, it has been made a question, Whether in reading such verse 
 with propriety, any regard at all should be paid to the close of a line ? 
 
 ^. We ought, therefore, certainly to read blank verse so as to make 
 fvery line sensible to the ear. At the same time, in doing so, every 
 vppeurance of sing-song and tone must be carefully guardc<l against. 
 The close of the line, where it makes no pause iit the meaning, ought 
 o be marked, not by such a tone as is used in fini.<ihing a sentence ; 
 ■ lit without either letting the voice fall, or elevating it, it should be 
 iiarked only by such a slight suspension of sound, as may distinguish 
 the passage from one line to another without injuring the meaning. 
 
 4. The other kind of musical pause, is that which falls somewhere 
 about the middle of the verse, and divides it into two hemiiitichs ; a 
 pause, not so great as that which belongs to the close of the line, but 
 still sensible to an ordinary ear. (See Jirt. 569.) 
 
 629. The rule of proper pronunciation here is, to regard 
 only the pause which the sense forms ; and to read the line 
 accordingly. The neglect of the ceesural pause may make 
 the line sound somewliat unharmoniouily ; but the effect 
 
PrommciatiGn, or Delivery. 305 
 
 would be much worse, it the sense were sacrificed to the 
 sound. 
 
 630. Tones in pronunciation are different both from em- 
 phasis and pauses ; they consist in the tnodulaiion of the 
 voice, and the notes or variations of sound which we employ 
 in speaking. 
 
 Illus. 1. How much of the propriety, the force and grrace of dis- 
 course, must depend on these, will appear from tliis single considera- 
 tion ; that to almost every sentiment we utter, more especially to eve- 
 ry strong emotion, nature hath adapted some peculiar tone of voice ', 
 insomuch, that he who should tell another that he was \Qry angry, or 
 much grieved, in a tonn which did not suit such emotions, uistead of 
 being believed, would be laughed at. 
 
 2. Sympathy is one of the most powerful principles by which per- 
 suasive discourse works upon the mind. The speaker endeavours io 
 tran.sfuse into his hearers his own-sentiments and emotions : which he 
 can never be successful in doing, unless he utters them in such a man- 
 ner as to convince the hearers that he "feels them. The proper ex- 
 pression of tones, therefore, deserves to be attentively studied by eve- 
 ry one who would be a successful orator. 
 
 3. Follow nature ; consider how she teaches you to utter any senti- 
 ment or feeling of your heart Imagine a subject of debate started in 
 conversation among grave and wise men, and yourself bearing a share 
 in it. Think after what manner, with what tones and inflections of 
 voice, you would on such an occasion express yourself, when you were 
 most in earnest, and sought most to be listened to. These are the 
 tones which the advocate carries with him to the bar, the clergyman, 
 to the pulpit, and the patriot and demagogue, to any public assembly. 
 Let then these be the foundation of your manner of pronouncing, and 
 you will take the surest method of rendering your delivery both 
 agreeable and persuasive. 
 
 631. Of GESTURE, or what is called action in public dis- 
 course, 
 
 632. The fundamental rule as to propriety of actiony is 
 undoubtedly the same with what hath been given as to pro- 
 priety of tone. Attend to the looks and gestures, in which 
 earnestness, indignation, compassion, or any other emotion, 
 discovers itself to most advantage in the common inter- 
 course of men ; and let these be your models. 
 
 7//,..?. 1. Some of these looks and gestures are common to all men ; 
 ani there are also certain pet uliarities of manner which distinguish 
 cvt.r. individual. A public speaker must take that manner which is 
 ni'> -i natural to hiinsfif. For it is here, just as in tones. 
 
 2. li is not the b-^ino.ss of a speaker to form to himself a certain 
 sei oi' motions and vestures, which he thinks most becoming and 
 agrec^able, and t ^ practice these in public, without their having any 
 correspondence to the riianncr which i?; natural to I;?rn in private. 
 Kis j^cstures and motions ought all to • irry that kind of expressiion 
 wbicl'. nature has dictated to him ; and unless tMr, be the case, it is 
 imnoiSiblCj by means of any study, to avoid their appearing stiff and 
 forced. 
 
wj6 Pronunciation, or Delivery. 
 
 3. The study of action in public speaking, consists chiefly in guard* 
 ing agninst awkward and disagreeable motions, and in learning to per- 
 form siicli as are natural to the speaker, in the most becoming manner. 
 For thjj end it has been advised by writers on this subject, to practice 
 before a mirror, where one niJiy see and judge of his own gestures. 
 
 Scholiurji. To succeed well in delivery, nothing- is more necessary 
 than for a speaker to guard against a certain flutter of spirits, which 
 is peculiarly incident to those who begin to speak in public. He must 
 eiideavour, above all things, to be collected, and master of himself. 
 For this end, he will find nothing of more use to him, than to study to 
 become wholly engaged in his subject ; to be possessed with a sense of 
 its importance or seriousness ; to be concerned much more to peffiuade 
 than to please. He will generally please most, when pleasing is not 
 his sole nor chief aim. This is the only rational and proper method 
 >f raising one's self above that timid and bashful regard to. an audi- 
 ncc, which is so ready to disconcert a speaker, both as to what he is 
 ;u say, and as to his manner of saying it. 
 
 Finally. Guard against all afff^rtation, which is the certain ruin of 
 g^ood delivery. Let your manner, whatever it is, be your own ; nei- 
 ther imitated from another, nor assumed upon some imaginary model, 
 which is unnatural to you. Whatever is native, even though accom- 
 ;>anied with several defects, yet is likely to please ; because it has the 
 ;)pearance of coming* from the heart. Whereas a delivery, attended 
 ith several acquired graces and beauties, if it be not easy and free, 
 it ketray the marks of art and affectation, never fails to disgnst. 
 
 THE i;m). 
 
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