LfBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO
 
 ELEMENTS 
 
 CRITICISM 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY HOME OF KAMES, 
 
 OK Of THK LORDS COMMISSION EES OF JC8TICLART DC IOO1LABB. 
 
 BEVJ3KD, WITH OMISSIONS, ADDITIONS, AND A HEW ANALYSW. 
 
 BY REV. JAMES R. BOYD, 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 A. S. BARNES & BURR, 51 & 53 JOHN STREET. 
 
 OLD BY BOOKSELLERS, OUtCBALLT, TUBOCGHOCT THX EXITED STATH. 
 
 1865.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 KMi 
 
 IirntODCCTIOW 
 
 Terms defined or explained * 
 
 The Nature, Design, and Utility of the present -work - 
 
 CHAT. I. Perceptions and Ideas in a train 29 
 
 * II. Emotions and Passions * 
 
 PAST I. Causes unfolded of the Emotions and Passions : 
 Sect. 1. Difference between Emotion and Passion. Causes 
 that are the most common and the most general. 
 
 Passion considered as productive of Action 35 
 
 2. Power of Sounds to raise Emotions and Passions .... 4fi 
 8. Causes of the Emotions of Joy and Sorrow 47 
 
 4. Sympathetic Emotion of Virtue, and its cause 49 
 
 5. In many instances one Emotion ifl productive of an- 
 
 other. The same of Passions 52 
 
 6. Causes of the Passions of Fear and Anger 5'J 
 
 7. Emotions caused by Fiction 6 * 
 
 PAKT II. Emotions and Passions as pleasant and painful, agree- 
 able and disagreeable. Modification of these quali- 
 ties 71 
 
 " III. Interrupted Existence of Emotions and Passions. 
 
 Their Growth and Decay 76 
 
 " IV. Coexistent Emotions and Passions 81 
 
 " V. Influence of Passion with respect to our Perceptions, 
 
 Opinions, and Belief 9 
 
 Appendix. Methods that Nature hath afforded for computing 
 
 Time M 
 
 PART VI. Resemblance of Emotions to their Causes 100 
 
 " VII. Final Causes of the more frequent Emotions and 
 
 Passions 1( 
 
 CHAT. III. Beauty J ( 
 
 " PAKTH. Theory of the Beautiful 1] 
 
 IV. Grandeur and Sublimity 1! 
 
 V. Motion and Force ^ 
 
 VI. Novelty, and the unexpected appearance of Objecto 1! 
 
 VII. Risible Objects li 
 
 VIII. Resemblance and Dissimilitude 1 ( 
 
 IX. Uniformity and Variety ^ 
 
 Appendix. Concerning the works of Nature, chiefly with re- 
 spect to Uniformity and Variety 1( 
 
 X. Congruity and Propriety ^ 
 
 XL Dignity and Graoe l **
 
 10 INTKODUOTION. 
 
 ing, resolution, willing, consenting, which are internal actions. 
 Passions and emotions, which are internal agitations, are also attri- 
 butes. With regard to the former, I am conscious of being active ; 
 with regard to the latter, I am conscious of being passive. 
 
 *7. Again, we are conscious of internal action as in the head : of 
 passions and enactions as in the heart. 
 
 8. Many actions may be exerted internally, and many effects 
 produced of which we are unconscious : when we investigate the 
 ultimate cause of the motion of the blood, and of other internal 
 motions upon which life depends, it is the most probable opinion 
 that some internal power is the cause : and if so, we are uncon- 
 scious of the operations of that power. But consciousness being 
 implied in the very meaning of deliberating, reasoning, resolving, 
 willing, consenting, such operations cannot escape our knowledge. 
 The same is the case of passions and emotions; for no internal 
 agitation is denominated a passion or emotion, but what we are con- 
 scious of. 
 
 9. The mind is not always the same ; by turns it is cheerful, 
 melancholy, calm, peevish, &c. These differences may not impro- 
 perly be denominated tones, 
 
 10. Perception and sensation are commonly reckoned synony- 
 mous terms, signifying that internal act by which external objects 
 are made known to us. But they ought to be distinguished. 
 Perceiving is a general term for hearing, seeing, tasting, touching, 
 smelling ; and therefore perception signifies every internal act by 
 which we are made acquainted with external objects ; thus we are 
 said to perceive a certain animal, a certain color, sound, taste, 
 smell, &c. Sensation properly signifies that internal act by which 
 we are made conscious of pleasure or pain felt at the organ of 
 sense : thus we have a sensation of the pleasure arising from warmth, 
 from a fragrant smell, from a sweet taste : and of the pain arising 
 from a wound, from a fetid smell, from a disagreeable taste. In 
 perception, my attention is directed to the external object : in sen- 
 sation, it is directed to the pleasure or pain I feel. 
 
 The terms perception and sensatian are sometimes employed to 
 signify the objects of perception and sensation. Perception in that 
 sense is a general term for every external thing we perceive ; and 
 sensation a general term for every pleasure and pain felt at the organ 
 of sense. 
 
 11. Conception is different from perception. The latter includes 
 a conviction of the reality of its object ; the former does not ; for 
 I can conceive the most extravagant stories told in a romance, with- 
 out having any conviction of their reality. Conception differs aho 
 from imagination. By the power of fancy I can imagine a golden 
 mountain, or an ebony ship with sails and ropes of silk. When I 
 describe a picture of that kind to another, the idea he forms of it is 
 termed -\ conception. Imagination is active, conception is passive.
 
 nrrEODucnoH. 
 
 12. Feeling, besides denoting one of the external senses, is a 
 general term, signifying that internal act by which we are made 
 conscious of our pleasures and our pains; for it is not limited, as sensa- 
 tion is, to any one sort. Thus feeling being the genus of which sen- 
 sation is a species, their meaning is the same when applied to pleasure 
 and pain felt at the organ of sense : and accordingly we say mdit- 
 ferently, "I feel pleasure from heat, and pain from cold, or, -1 
 have a sensation of pleasure from heat, and of pain from co..d. 
 But the meaning of feeling, as is said, is much more extensive It 
 is proper to say, I feel pleasure in a sumptuous building, in love, in 
 friendship ; and pain in losing a child, in revenge, m envy: sensa- 
 tion is not properly applied to any of these. 
 
 The term feeling is frequently used in a less proper sense, t< 
 signify what we feel or are conscious of: and in that sense it is a 
 general term for all our passions and emotions, and for all our o 
 pleasures and pains. 
 
 13 That we cannot perceive an external object till an impres- 
 sion is made upon our body, is probable from reason, and is ascer- 
 tained by experience. But it is not necessary that we be made 
 sensible of the impression : in touching, in tasting, and m smelling, 
 we are sensible of the impression ; but not in seeing and hearing. 
 We know indeed from experiments, that before we perceive a visible 
 object, its image is spread upon the retina tunica ; and that before 
 we perceive a sound, an impression is made upon the drum Of toe 
 ear : but we are not conscious either of the organic image or ot the 
 organic impression ; nor are we conscious of any other operation 
 preparatory to the act of perception ; all we can say is, that we : 
 that river, or hear that trumpet,* . 
 
 14. Objects once perceived may be recalled to the mind by 
 the power of memory. When I recall an object of sight in that 
 manner, it appears to me precisely the same as in the original sur- 
 vey only less distinct. For example, having seen yesterday a 
 spreading oak growing on the brink of a river, I endeavor to recall 
 these objects to my mind. How is this operation performed? 
 I endeavor to form in my mind a picture of them, or a representative 
 anage ? Not so. I transport myself ideally to the place where I 
 saw the tree and river yesterday: upon which I have a perception 
 of these objects similar in all respects to the perception I had [when 
 i viewed them with my eyes, only less distinct. And m this r< 
 collection, I am not conscious of a picture or representative image, 
 more than^in the original survey; the perception is of the tr 
 
 * Yet a singular opinion that impressions are the only objects of per ccption 
 has been espoused fey some philosophers of no mean rank ; not attending to 
 the foregoing peculiarity in the senses of seemg.and hearing, that ye I er 
 wive objects without being conscious of an organic impression or of 
 "ration [except in cases Where the object of sight is very brilliant, or the sound
 
 12 INTEODUCTION. 
 
 river themselves, as at first. I confirm this by another experiment, 
 After attentively surveying a fine statue, I close my eyes. What 
 follows ? The same object continues, without any difference bu* 
 that it is less distinct than formerly.* This indistinct secondaiy 
 perception of an object, is termed an idea. And therefore the precise 
 
 * This experiment, which every one may reiterate till entire satisfaction be 
 obtained, is of greater importance than at first view may appear ; for it strikes 
 at the root of a celebrated doctrine, which for more than two thousand years 
 has misled many philosophers. This doctrine, as delivered by Aristotle, is in 
 substance, "That of every object of thought there must be in the mind some 
 form, phantasm, or species ; that things sensible are perceived and remem- 
 bered by means of sensible phantasms, and things intelligible by intelligible 
 phantasms ; and that these phantasms have the form of the object without the 
 matter, as the impression of a seal upon wax has the form of a seal without 
 its matter." The followers of Aristotle add, "That the sensible and intelligi- 
 ble forms of things, are sent forth from the thines themselves, and make im- 
 
 by the 
 which 
 slender 
 
 of 
 
 sensible and intelligible phantasms ; maintaining, however, the same doctrine 
 in effect, namely, That we perceive nothing external but by means of somo 
 image either in the brain or in the mind : and these images he terms ideas 
 According to these philosophers, we perceive nothing immediately but phan 
 tasras or ideas ; and from these we infer, by reasoning, the existence of ex 
 terual objects. Locke, adopting this doctrine, employs almost the whole o 
 his book about ideas. Ho holds, that we cannot perceive, remember, no) 
 imagine any thing, but by having an idea or image of it in the mind. lit 
 agrees with Des Cartes, that we can have no knowledge of things external, 
 but what we acquire by reasoning upon their ideas or images in the mind; 
 taking it for granted, that we are conscious of these ideas or images, and ot 
 nothing else. Those who talk the most intelligibly explain the doctrine thus ; 
 When I see in a mirror a man standing behind me, the immediate object of my 
 sight is his image, without which I could not see him : in like manner, when'l 
 see a tree or a house, there mus v be an image of these objects in my brain or it 
 my mind: which image is the immediate object of my perception; and bj 
 means of that image I perceive the external object. 
 One would not readily suspect any harm in this ideal system, other than the 
 
 from it death aud destruction to the whole world, levelling all down to a mere 
 chaps of ideas. Dr. Berkeley, upon authority of the philosophers named, 
 taking for granted that we cannot perceive any object but what is in the mind, 
 discovered that the reasoning emploved by Des Cartes and Locke to infer the 
 existence of external objects, is inconclusive ; and upon that discovery ventured, 
 wgainst common sense, to annihilate totally the material world. And a later 
 writer, discovering that Berkeley's arguments might with equal success be 
 Applied against immaterial beings, ventures still more boldly to reject by the 
 lump the immaterial world as well as the material ; leaving nothing in nature 
 but images or ideas floating in vacua, without affording them a single mind for 
 shelter or support. 
 
 When such wild and extravagant consequences can be drawn from the ideal 
 system, it might have been expected, that no man who is not crazy would have 
 ventured to erect such a superstructure, till he should first be certain beyond 
 aJl doubt of a solid foundation. Aud yet upon inquiry, we find the founda- 
 tion of this terrible doctrine to be no better than a shallow metaphysical argu- 
 ment, namtly, " That ao bein, can act but where it u ; aud consequently, that
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 and accurate definition of an idea, in contradistinction to an origi- 
 nal perception, is, " That perception of a real object which is raised 
 in the mind by the power of memory." Every thing we have any 
 knowledge of, whether internal or external, passions, emotions, think- 
 ing, resolving, willing, heat, cold, &c., as well as external objects, 
 may be recalled as above by the power of memory.* 
 
 it cannot avt upon any subject at a distance." This argument possesses indeed 
 one eminent advantage, that its obscurity, like that of an oracle, is apt to im- 
 pose upon the reader, who is willing to consider it aa a demonstration, because 
 he docs not clearly see the fallacy. The best way to give it a fair trial, is to 
 draw it out of its obscurity, and to state it in a clear light, as follows: JNQ 
 subject can bo perceived unless it act upon the mind, but no distarjt suoje 
 can' act upon the mind, because no being can act but where it is : and, there 
 fore, the immediate object of perception must be something united to the mind 
 BO as to be able to act upon it." Here the argument is completed in all 
 parts ; and from it is derived the supposed necessity of phantasms or ideas 
 united to the mind, as the only objects of perception. It is singularly im 
 v lucky, that this argument concludes directly against the very system ot wuic .\ 
 it is the only foundation ; for how can phantasms or ideas be raised in the mina 
 by things at a distance, if things at a distance cannot act upon the ' nind ' * 
 Bay more, that it assumes a proposition as true, without evidence, namely, mat 
 no distant subject can act upon the mind. This proposition undoubtedly re 
 quires evidence, for it is not intuitively certain. And, therefore, till the prop 
 sition bo demonstrated, every man without scruple may rely upon the convictio 
 of his senses, that he hears and sees tilings at a distance. _ 
 
 But I venture a bolder step, which is, to show that the proposition is false. 
 Admitting that no being can act but where it is, is there any thing more simple 
 or more common, than the acting upon subjects at a distance by intermediate 
 means ? This holds in fact with respect both to seeing and hearing. VV hen I 
 pee a tree, for example, rays of light are reflected from the tree to my eye, form- 
 ing a picture r.pon the retina tunica ; but the object perceived is the tree it ielt, 
 not the rr.ys of light, nor the picture. In this manner distant objects are per- 
 ceived, without any action of the object upon the mind, or of the mind upon 
 the object. Hearing is in a similar case; the air, put in motion by thunder, 
 makes' an impression upon the drum of the ear ; but this impression is not what 
 1 hear, it is the thunder itself by means of that impression. 
 
 With respect to vision in particular, we are profoundly ignorant by what means 
 and in what manner the picture on the retina tunica contributes to produce a 
 bight of the object. One thing only is clear, that as wo have no knowledge ol 
 that picture, it is as natural to conceive that it should be made the instrument 
 of discovering the external object, and not itself, as of discovering itself only, 
 and not the external object. , 
 
 Upon the chimerical consequences drawn from the ideal system, I shall uK 
 but a single reflection. Nature determines us necessarily to rely on the veni 
 city of our reuses; and upon their evidence the existence of external object* 
 is to us a mater of intuitive knowledge and absolute certainty. Vain there- 
 fore is the attempt of Dr. Berkeley and of his followers to deceive us, by a 
 metaphysical subtilty, into a disbelief of what we cannot entertain even the 
 slightest doubt. [See also Beattie's Moral Science, 104-106.J 
 
 * From this definition of an idea, the following proposition must bo evident, 
 That there can be no such thing as an innate idea. If the original perception 
 of an oWect bo not innate, which is obvious ; it is not less obvious, that 
 idea or Secondary perception of that object cannot be innate. And yet, to 
 prove this self-ovidunt proposition, Locke has bestowed a whole book ot In* 
 treatise upon Human Understanding. So necessary it is to give accurate Ueft- 
 nitions, and so preventive of dispute are definitions when accurate. Dr. 
 Borkeloy lias taken great pains to prove another proposition equally evident, 
 That there can bo no such thing as a general idea : all our original percep- 
 tions aro of particular objects, aj d our secondary perception* or idea* mMt M 
 qually so. .
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 1 5. External objects are distinguishable into simple and complex. 
 Certain sounds are so simple as not to be resolvable into parts ; and 
 so are certain tastes and smells. Objects of touch are for the most 
 part complex : they ai not only hard or soft, but also smooth or 
 rougu, hot or cold. Of all external objects, visible objects are com- 
 monly the most complex : a tree is composed of a trunk, branches, 
 leaves : it has color, figure, size. But as an action is not resolva- 
 ble into parts, a perception, being an act of sense, is always simple. 
 The color, figure, umbrage of -a spreading oak, raise not different 
 perceptions : the perception is one, that of a tree, colored, figured, 
 &c. A quality is never perceived separately from the subject; 
 nor a part from the whole. There is a mental power of abstraction, 
 of which afterward ; but the eye never abstracts, nor any other ex- 
 ternal sense. 
 
 16. Many particulars besides those mentioned enter into the per- 
 ception of visible objects, motion, rest, place, space, time, number, 
 <fec. These, all of them, denote simple ideas, and for that reason 
 admit' not of a definition. All that can be done is to point out how 
 they are acquired. The ideas of motion and of rest are familiar 
 even to a child, from seeing its nurse sometimes walking, sometimes 
 sitting: the former it is taught to call motion; the latter, rest. 
 Place enters into every perception of a visible object : the object is 
 perceived to exist, and to exist somewhere, on the right hand or on 
 the left, and where it exists is termed place. Ask a child where its 
 mother is, or in what place : it will answer readily, she is in the 
 garden. Space is connected with size or bulk : every piece of 
 matter occupies room or space in proportion to its bulk. A child 
 perceives that when its little box is filled with playthings, there is 
 no room or space for more. Space is also applied to signify the dis 
 tance of visible objects from each other; and such space accordingly 
 can be measured. Dinner comes after breakfast, and supper after 
 dinner : a child perceives an interval, and that interval it learns to 
 call time. A child sometimes is alone with its nurse ; its mother is 
 sometimes in the room ; and sometimes also its brothers and sisters 
 It perceives a difference between many and few ; and that difference 
 it is taught to call number. 
 
 17. The primary perception of a visi ble object is more complete, 
 lively, and distinct than that of any other object. And for that 
 reason, an idea, or secondary perception of a visible object, is also 
 more complete, lively, and distinct than that of any other ob- 
 ject. A fine passage in music may for a moment be recalled 
 to the mind with tolerable accuracy: but after the shortest in 
 terval, it becomes no less obscure than the ideas of the other objects 
 mentioned. 
 
 18. As the range of an individual is commonly within a narrow 
 space, it rarely happens that eveiy thing necessary to be known 
 comes under our owu perceptions. Language h an admirable ecu-
 
 IXTKODTJCTION. 
 
 trivance for supplying that deficiency ; for by language every mat n. 
 peropptions may be communicated to all: and the umo may be 
 done by painting and other imitative arts The facility ot com- 
 rnunication depends on the liveliness of the ideas; especially in lan- 
 zua*e *hich hitherto has not arrived at greater perfection than tr 
 exprU clear ideas: hence it is, that poets and orators, who are 
 extremely successful in describing objects of sight, find objects of 
 the other senses too faint and obscure for language. An idea thu 
 acquired of an object at second-hand, ought to be distinguished 
 from an idea of memory, though their resemblance has occasioned 
 the same term idea to be applied to both ; which is to be regretted, 
 because ambiguity in the signification of words is a great obs traction 
 to accuracy of conception. Thus Nature hath furnished the means 
 of multiplying ideas without end, and of providing every individual 
 with a sufficient stock to answer, not only the necessities, but even 
 the elegancies of life. , 
 
 19 Further, man is endued with a sort of creative power : 
 fabricate images of things that have no existence. The materials 
 -mploved in this operation are ideas of sight, which he can take to 
 Meces and combine into new forms at pleasure: their complexity 
 and vivacity make them fit materials. But a man hath no sue 
 power over any of his other ideas, whether of the external or internal 
 senses : he cannot, after the utmost effort, combine these into new 
 forms being too obscure for that operation. An image thus fabri- 
 cated' cannot be called a secondary perception, not being derived 
 ' from an original perception: the poverty of language, however, as 
 in the case immediately above mentioned, has occasioned the same 
 term idea to be applied to all. This singular power of febncating 
 images without any foundation in reality, is distinguished by the 
 name imagination* . , 
 
 20 As ideas are the chief materials employed in reasoning and 
 reflecting it is of consequence that their nature and differences be 
 understood. It appears now that ideas may be distinguished mlo 
 three kinds : first, Ideas derived from original perceptions properly 
 termed ideas of memory ; second, Ideas communicated by language 
 or other signs ; and third, Ideas of imagination. These ideas differ 
 from each other in many respects ; but chiefly in respect of their 
 proceeding from different causes : The first kind is derived from w 
 
 r Memory is double :-not only do I remember that I have been in the 
 presence of a certain object, but I represent to myself tins absent object as it 
 W M I have seen, felt, ani fudged ft:-the remembrance is then an image. 
 7n tliU las? else, memory has been called by some P^I*J3! 
 memory. S uch is the foundation of imagination ; but imagination is something 
 
 miml applying itself to the images furnished by memory, decomposer 
 them, chooses b P enveen their different traits and forms of them 
 Without this new power imagination would be captive m the circle o 
 Gnmn'* Lcrt, &n the JfcMri^i p. 1*5-
 
 1 6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 existences that have been objects of our senses : language is the 
 cause of the second, or any other sign that has the same power with 
 language ; and a man's imagination is to himself the cause of the 
 third. It .is scarce necessary to add, that an idea, originally of 
 imagination, being conveyed to others by language or any other 
 vehicle, becomes in their mind an idea of the second kind ; and 
 again, that an idea of this kind, being afterwards recalled to the 
 mind, beco :nes in that circumstance an idea of memory. 
 
 21. We are not so constituted as to perceive objects with indif- 
 ference : thjse with very few exceptions appear agreeable or dis- 
 agreeable ; and at the same time raise in us pleasant or painful 
 emotions. With respect to external objects in particular, we dis- 
 tinguish those which produce organic impressions, from those which 
 aftect us from a distance. When we touch a soft and smooth body, 
 we have a pleasant feeling as at the place of contact ; which feeling 
 we distinguish not, at least not accurately, from the agreeableness 
 of the body itself; and the same holds in general with regard to all 
 organic impressions. It is otherwise in hearing and seeing : a sound 
 is perceived as in itself agreeable, and raises in the hearer a pleasant 
 emotion ; an object of sight appears in itself agreeable, and raises in 
 the spectator a pleasant emotion. These are accurately distinguished : 
 the pleasant emotion is felt as within the mind ; the agreeableness 
 of the object is placed upon the object, and is perceived as one of 
 its qualities or properties. The agreeable appearance of an object 
 of sight is termed beauty ; and the disagreeable appearance of such 
 an object is termed ugliness. 
 
 22. But though beauty and ugliness, in their proper and genuine 
 signification, are confined to objects of sight, yet in a more lax and 
 figurative signification, they are applied to objects of the other senses : 
 they are sometimes applied even to abstract terms ; for it is not 
 unusual to say, a beautiful theorem, a beautiful constitution of 
 government. 
 
 23. A line composed by a single rule [or prescribed mode], is 
 perceived and said to be regular : a straight line, a parabola, an 
 hyperbola, the circumference of a circle, and of an ellipse, are all of 
 them regular lines. A figure composed by a single rule, is perceived 
 and said to be regular : a circle, a square, a hexagon, an equilateral 
 triangle, are regular figures, being composed by a single rule, that 
 determines the form of each. When the form of a line or of a 
 figure is ascertained by a single rule that leaves nothing arbitrary, 
 the line and the figure are said to be perfectly regular ; which is 
 the case of the figures now mentioned, and the case of a straight 
 line and of the circumference of a circle. A figure and a line that 
 require more than one rule for their construction, or that have any 
 of their parts left arbitrary, are not perfectly regular : a parallelo- 
 gram and a rhomb are less regular than a square ; the parallelogram 
 being subje ited to no rule w to the length of sides, other thau that
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 17 
 
 the opposite sides be equal ; the rhomb being subjected to no rule 
 as to its angles, other than that the opposite angles be equal : for 
 the same reason, the circumference of an ellipse, the form of which 
 is susceptible of much variety, is [less regular than that of a circle. 
 
 24. Regularity, properly speaking, belongs, like beauty, to objects 
 of sight; and, like beauty, it is also applied figuratively to other 
 objects : thus we say, a regular government, a regular composition 
 of music, and, regular discipline. 
 
 25. When two figures are composed of similar parts, they are 
 said to be uniform. Perfect uniformity is where the constituent 
 parts of two figures are equal : thus two cubes of the same dimen- 
 sions are perfectly uniform in all their parts. Uniformity less per- 
 feet is, where the parts mutually correspond, but without being 
 equal : the uniformity is imperfect between two squares or cubes of 
 unequal dimensions ; and still more so between a square and a par- 
 allelogram. 
 
 26. Uniformity is also applicable to the constituent parts ot the 
 same figure. The constituent parts of a square are perfectly uni- 
 form ; its sides are equal and its angles are equal. Wherein then 
 differs regularity from uniformity ? for a figure composed of unifonn 
 pails must undoubtedly be regular. Regularity is predicated of a 
 figure considered as a whole composed of uniform parts : uniformity 
 is predicated of these parts as related to each other by resemblance : 
 we sav, a square is a regular, not a uniform figure ; but with respect 
 to the" constituent parts of a square, we say not, that they are regular, 
 but that they are uniform. 
 
 27. In things destined for the same use, as legs, arms, eyes, 
 windows, spoons, we expect uniformity. Proportion ought to 
 govern parts intended for different uses : we require a certain pro- 
 portion between a leg and an arm ; in the base, the shaft, the capital 
 of a pillar; and in the length, the breadth, the height of a room : 
 some proportion is also required in different things intimately con- 
 nected, as between a dwelling-house, the garden, and the stables ; 
 but we require no proportion among things slightly connected, as 
 between the table a man writes on and the dog that follows him. 
 Proportion and uniformity never coincide ; things equal are unifonn; 
 but proportion is never applied to them : the four sides and angles 
 of a square are equal and perfectly unifonn ; but we say not that 
 they are proportional. Thus, proportion always implies inequality 
 or difference ; but then it implies it to a certain degree only : the 
 most agreeable proportion resembles a maximum in mathematics ; a 
 greater or less inequality or difference is less agreeable. 
 
 28. Order regards various particulars. First, in tracing or sur- 
 veying objects, we are directed by a sense of order : we perceive it 
 to be more orderly, that we should pass from a principle to its 
 accessories, and from a whole to its parts, than in the contrary 
 direction. Next, with respect to the position of things, a ease of
 
 18 IWTRODUCTION. 
 
 order directs us to place together things intimately connected. 
 Thirdly, in placing things that have no natural connection, that 
 order appears the most perfect, where the particulars are made to 
 bear the strongest relation to each other that position can give them. 
 Thus parallelism is the strongest relation that position can bestow 
 upon straight lines : if they be so placed as by production to inter- 
 sect, the relation is less perfect. A large body in the middle, and 
 two equal bodies of less size, one on each side, is an order that 
 produces the strongest relation the bodies are susceptible of by 
 position : the relation between the two equal bodies would be 
 stronger by juxtaposition ; but they would not both have the same 
 relation to the third. 
 
 29. The beauty or agreeableness of a visible object, is perceived 
 as one of its qualities; which holds, not only in the piimary per- 
 ception, but also in the secondaiy perception or idea : and hence 
 the pleasure that arises from the idea of a beautiful object. An idea 
 of imagination is also pleasant, though in a lower degree than an 
 idea of memory, where the objects are of the same kind ; for an 
 evident reason, that the former is more distinct and lively than the 
 latter. But this inferiority in ideas of imagination, is more than 
 compensated by their greatness and variety, which are boundless ; 
 for by the imagination, exerted without control, we can fabricate 
 ideas of finer visible objects, of more noble and heroic actions, of 
 greater wickedness, of more surprising events, than ever in fact 
 existed : and in communicating such ideas by words, painting, 
 sculpture, &c., the influence of the imagination is no less extensive 
 than great. 
 
 30. In the nature of every man, there is somewhat original, which 
 distinguishes him from others, which tends to form his character, 
 and to make him meek or fiery, candid or deceitful, resolute or 
 timorous, cheerful or morose. This original bent, termed disposition, 
 must be distinguished from a principle : the latter signifying a law 
 of human nature, makes part of the common nature of man ; the 
 former makes part of the nature of this or that man. Propensity 
 is a name common to both ; for it signifies a principle as well as a 
 disposition. 
 
 31. Affection, signifying a settled bent of mind towards a particular 
 being or thing, occupies a middle place between disposition on the 
 one hand, and passion on the other. It is clearly distinguishable 
 from disposition, which, being a branch of one's nature originally, 
 must exist before there can be an opportunity to exert it upon any 
 particular object ; whereas affection can never be original, because, 
 having a special relation to a particular object, it cannot exist till 
 the object have once at least been presented. It is no less clearly 
 distinguishable from passion, which, depending on the real or ideal 
 presence of its object, vanishes with its object : whereas affection is 
 ft lasting connection ; and like other ooanectious, subsist* even when
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 we do not think of tie person. A familiar example will clear the 
 wlnle. I have from nature a disposition to gratitude, which, through 
 want of an object, happens never to be exerted ; and which therefore 
 is unknown even to myself. Another who has the same disposition, 
 meets with a kindly office which makes him grateful to his bene- 
 factor; an intimate connection is formed between them, termed 
 affection; which, like other connections, has a permanent existence, 
 though not always in view. The affection, for the most part, lies 
 dormant, till an opportunity offer for exerting it : in that circum- 
 stance, it is converted into the passion of gratitude ; and the oppor- 
 tunity is greedily seized of testifying gratitude in the warmest manner. 
 
 32. Aversion, I think, is opposed to affection ; not to desire, as 
 it commonly is. We have an affection to one person : we have an 
 aversion to another : the former disposes us to do good to its object, 
 the latter to do ill. 
 
 33. What is a sentiment ? It is not a perception ; for a perception 
 signifies the act by which we become conscious of external objects. 
 It is not consciousness of an internal action, such as thinking, sus- 
 pending thought, inclining, resolving, willing, &c. Neither is it the 
 conception of a relation among objects ; a conception of that kind 
 being termed opinion. The term sentiment is appropriated to such 
 thoughts as are prompted by passion. 
 
 34. Attention is that state of mind which prepares one to receive 
 impressions. According to the degree of attention, objects make a 
 strong or weak impression. Attention is requisite even to the simple 
 act of seeing ; the eye can take in a considerable field at one look ; 
 but no object in the field is seen distinctly, but that singly which 
 fixes the attention : in a profound reverie that totally occupies the 
 attention, we scarce see what is directly before us. In a train of 
 perceptions, the attention being divided among various objects, no 
 particular object makes such a figure as it would do single and apart. 
 
 Hence, the stillness of night contributes to terror, there being 
 to divert the attention : 
 
 Horror ubique animos, simnl ipsa silentia terrent. ^f.neid, ii. 
 Zara. Silence and solitude are everywhere 
 
 Through all the gloomy ways and iron doors 
 
 That hither lead, nor human face nor voice 
 
 Is seen or heard. A dreadful din was wont 
 
 To grate the sense, which enter'd here from groans 
 
 And howls of slaves condemn'd, from clink of chain*, 
 
 And crash of rusty bars and creaking hinges ; 
 
 And ever and anon the sight was dash'd 
 
 "With frightful faces and the meager looka 
 
 Of grim and gbastly executioners. 
 
 Yet more this stillness terrifies my soul 
 
 Than did that scene of complicated horrors. 
 
 Mwrning Bride, Act V. So. 8. 
 
 And hence it is, that an object seen at the termination of a confined 
 view, is more agreeable than when seen in a group with the sur- 
 rounding objects :
 
 DfTBODTJCTION. 
 
 The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark 
 
 When neither is attended ; and I think, 
 
 The nightingale, if she should sin- bv day 
 
 W lien every goose is cackling, would' be thought 
 
 No better a musician than the wren. Merchant of Venice. 
 
 35. In matters of slight importance, attention is mostly directed 
 by will; and for that reason, it is our own fault if trifling object* 
 make any deep impression. Had we power equally to withhold our 
 attention from matters of importance, we might be proof against any 
 deep impression. But our power foils us here : an interesting object 
 seizes and fixes the attention beyond the possibility of control - and 
 while our attention is thus forcibly attached to one object, others 
 may solicit for admittance : but in vain, for they will not be re- 
 garded. Ihus a small misfortune is scarce felt in presence of a 
 greater : 
 
 Tn^w TI T ^^V? 4 ' tis cll > tliat this contentious storm 
 
 Invades us to the skin : so 'tis to tliee 
 
 But where the greater malady is fix'd 
 
 The lesser is scarce felt, Thou'dst shun a bear : 
 
 Oat II thy flight lay toward the roaring sea, 
 
 riiou , dst meet the bear i' th' mouth. When the mind'a free, 
 
 The body's delicate: the tempest in my mind 
 
 Doth from my senses take all feelin^ else 
 
 Save what beats there. King Lear, Act III. Sc. 5. 
 
 36. Genus, species, modification, are terms invented to distinguish 
 beings from each other. Individuals are distinguished by their 
 qualities: a number of individuals considered with respect to 
 qualities that distinguish them from others, is termed a species a 
 plurality ot species considered with respect to their distinguishing 
 qualities, is termed a genus. That quality which distinguished one 
 genus, one species, or even one individual, from another, is termed a 
 modification : thus the same particular that is termed a property or 
 yua/tty, when considered as belonging to an individual, or a class 
 of individuals, is termed a modification when considered as distin- 
 guishing the individual or the class from another : a black skin and 
 soft curled hair, are properties of a Negro : the same circumstanc-s 
 considered as marks that distinguish a Negro from a man of a dif- 
 ferent species, are denominated modifications. 
 
 37. Objects of sight, being complex, are distinguishable into the 
 teveral particulars that enter into the composition : these objects 
 are all of them colored ; and they all have length, breadth, and 
 thickness. When I behold a spreading oak, I distinguish in that 
 object, size, figure, color, and sometimes motion : in a tiowin^ river 
 I distinguish color, figure, and constant motion; a dye has* color' 
 black spots, six plain surfaces, all equal and uniform. Objects of 
 touch have all of them extension : some of them are felt rough 
 some smooth : some of them are hard, some soft,' With respect to 
 the other senses, some of their objects are simple, some complex 
 a sound, a taste, a smell, mav be so simple as not to be distinguish-
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 able into parts : others are perceived to be compounded of different 
 aounds, different tastes, and different smells. 
 
 38 The eye at one look can grasp a number of objects, as of 
 trees in a field, or men in a crowd: these objects having each a 
 separate and independent existence, are distinguishable in the mind, 
 as veil as in reality; and there is nothing more easy than to ab- 
 stract from some and to confine our contemplation to others. A 
 lar.re oak with its spreading branches fixes our attention upon itsell, 
 and abstracts us from the shrubs that surround it. In the same 
 manner, with respect to compound sounds, tastes, or smells we . 
 fix our thoughts upon any of the component parts, abstracting our 
 attention from the rest. The power of abstraction is not confined to 
 objects that are separable in reality as well as mentally; but also 
 takes place where there can be no real separation: the size, tl 
 figure, the color of a tree, are inseparably connected, and have 
 independent existence ; the same of length, breadth, and thickness, 
 and yet we can mentally confine our observations to one ot t 
 abstracting from the rest. Here abstraction takes place where then 
 cannot be a real separation. . 
 
 39 Space and time have occasioned much metaphysical jargon , 
 but after the power of abstraction is explained as above there 
 mains no difficulty about them. It is mentioned above that space 
 as well as place enter into the perception of every visible object : a 
 tree is perceived as existing in a certain place, and as occupying a 
 certain space. Now, by the power of abstraction, space may be 
 considered abstractedly from the body that occupies it ; and uence 
 the abstract term space. In the same manner, existence may be 
 considered abstractedly from any particular thing that exists ; a 
 vlu.ce may be considered abstractedly from any paiticular thing that 
 may be in it Every series or succession of things suggests tl 
 idea of time; and time maybe considered abstractedly trom any 
 series of succession. In the same manner, we acquire the abstract 
 term motion, rest, number, and a thousand other abstract terms; a 
 excellent contrivance for improving speech, as without it spec 
 would be wofully imperfect. Brute animals may haw some < 
 scure notion of these circumstances, as connected with particular 
 objects : an ox probably perceives that he takes longer time to go 
 round a long ridge in the plough, than a short one ; and he proba- 
 bly perceive! whin he is one of four m the yoke, or only one of 
 two But the power of abstraction is not bestowed on brute ani- 
 mals; because to them it would be altogether useless, as they are 
 incapable of speech. 
 
 40 This power of abstraction, is of great utility. A carpenter 
 considers a log of wood with regard to hardness, firmness, co or, 
 and texture : a philosopher, neglecting these properties, makes 
 loff undergo a chemical analysis ; and examines its taste, its ell, 
 and its component principles : the geometrician confines his reason-
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ing to the figure, the length, breadth, and thickness. In general 
 every artist abstracting from all other properties, confines hi? obser- 
 vations to those which have a more immediate connection with hia 
 profession. 
 
 41. It is observed above [14, note], that there can be no such 
 thing as a general idea ; that all our perceptions are of particular 
 objects, and that our secondary perceptions or ideas must be equally 
 so. Precisely, for the same reason, there can be no such thing as 
 an abstract idea. We cannot form an idea of a part without tak- 
 ing m the whole ; or of motion, color, figure, independent of a 
 body. No man will say that he can form any idea of beauty till 
 he think of a person endued with that quality; nor that he can form 
 an idea of weight, till he takes under consideration a bodv that is 
 weighty. And when he takes under consideration a body" endued 
 with one or other of the properties mentioned, the idea he forms is 
 not an abstract or general idea, but the idea of a particular body 
 with its properties. But though a part and the whole, a subject 
 and its attnbutes, an effect and its cause, are so intimately con- 
 nected as that an idea cannot be formed of the one independent of 
 tne other, yet we can reason upon the one abstracting from the 
 other. 
 
 This is done by words signifying the thing to which the reason- 
 ing is confined ; and such words are denominated abstract terms 
 Ihe meaning and use of an abstract term are well understood 
 though of itself, unless other particulars be taken in, it raises no 
 image nor idea in the mind. In language it serves an excellent pur- 
 pose ; by it different figures, different colors, can be compared, with- 
 out the trouble of conceiving them as belonging to any particular 
 subject ; and they contribute with words significant to raise images 
 or ideas m the mind. 
 
 42. The power of abstraction is bestowed on man for the pur- 
 pose solely of reasoning. It tends greatly to the facility as well as 
 learness of any process of reasoning, that laying aside every other 
 circumstance, we can confine our attention to the single property we 
 desire to investigate. 
 
 43. Abstract terms may be separated into three different kinds 
 all equally subservient to the reasoning faculty. Individuals ap- 
 pear to have no end ; and did we not possess the faculty of dis- 
 tributing them into classes, the mind would le lost in an endless 
 maze, and no progress be made in knowledge. It is by the faculiy 
 of abstraction that we distribute beings into genera and species : 
 finding a number of individuals connected by certain qualities com- 
 mon to all, we give a name to these individuals considered as thus 
 connected, which name, by gathering them together into one class 
 serves to express the whole of these individuals as distinct from 
 others. Thus the word animal serves to denote every beino- that 
 can move voluntarily; and the words man, horse, lion, <fec., auswei
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 similar purposes. This is the first and most common sort of ab- 
 straction ; and it is of the most extensive use, by enabling us to 
 comprehend in our reasoning whole kinds and sorts, instead of in- 
 dividuals without end. The next sort of abstract terms comprehends 
 a number of individual objects, considered as connected by some 
 occasional relation. A great number of persons collected in one 
 place, without any other relation but merely that of contiguity, are 
 denominated a crowd : in forming this term we abstract from sex, 
 from age, from condition, from dress, &c. A number of persons 
 connected by the same laws and by the same government, are 
 termed a nation; and a number of men under the same military 
 command, are termed an army. A third sort of abstraction ia, 
 where a single property or part, which may be common to many 
 individuals, is selected to be the subject of our contemplation ; for 
 example, whiteness, heat, beauty, length, roundness, head, arm. 
 
 44. Abstract terms are a h'dppy invention : it is by their means, 
 chiefly, that the particulars which make the subject of our reason- 
 ing, are brought into close union, and separated from all others 
 however naturally connected. Without the aid of such terms, the 
 mind could never be kept steady to its proper subject, but be per- 
 petually in hazard of assuming foreign circumstances, or neglecting 
 what are essential. We can, without the aid of language, com- 
 pare real objects by intuition, when these objects are present ; and 
 when absent, we can compare them in idea. But when we ad- 
 vance farther, and attempt .to make inferences and draw conclusions, 
 we always employ abstract tenns, even in thinking : it would be 
 as difficult to reason without them, as to perform operations in 
 algebra without signs; for there is scarce any reasoning without 
 some degree of" abstraction, and we cannot easily abstract without 
 using abstract terms. Hence it follows, that without language man 
 would scarce be a rational being.* 
 
 45. The same thing, in different respects, has different names. 
 With respect to certain qualities, it is termed a substance ; with 
 respect to other qualities, a body ; and with respect to qualities of 
 all sorts, a subject. It is termed a passive subject will respect to 
 an action exerted upon it ; an object with respect to a percipient : 
 a cause with respect to the effect it produces ; acd au c/ect witb 
 respect to its cause. 
 
 * fCbmpsjc Iktrron's Lectures, vol. ii. 877-8* ]
 
 TTIE NATURE, DESIGN, AND UTILITY OF THE PRESENT WORK. 
 
 46. THAT nothing external is perceived till first it makes an im- 
 pression upon the organ of sense, is an observation that holds 
 equally in every one of the external senses. But there is a differ- 
 ence as to our knowledge of that impression : in touching, tasting, 
 and smelling, we are sensible of the impression ; that, for example^ 
 which is made upon the hand by a stone, upon the palate by an 
 apricot, and upon the nostrils by a rose. It is otherwise in seeing 
 and hearing; tor I am not sensible of the impression made upon 
 my eye when I behold a tree ; nor of the impression made upon 
 my ear, when I listen to a song (13). That difference in the 
 manner of perceiving external objects, distinguished remarkably 
 hearing and seeing from the other senses; and I am ready to 
 show, that it distinguished still more remarkably the feelings of 
 the former from that of the latter ; every feeling, pleasant or pain- 
 ful, must be in the mind ; and yet, because in tasting, touching, 
 and smelling, we are sensible of the impression made upon the 
 organ, we are led to place there also the pleasant or painful feel- 
 ing caused by that impression ;* but, with respect to seeing and 
 hearing, being insensible of the organic impression, we are not 
 misled to assign a wrong place to the pleasant or painful feelings 
 caused by that impression ; and therefore we naturally place them 
 in the mind, where they really are : upon that account, they are 
 conceived to be more refined and spiritual, than what are derived 
 from tasting, touching, and smelling; for the latter feelings, seem- 
 ing to exist externally at the organ of sense, are conceived to be 
 merely corporeal. 
 
 The pleasures of the eye and the ear, being thus elevated above 
 those of the other external senses, acquire so much dignity as to 
 become a laudable entertainment. They are not, however, set on 
 a level with the purely intellectual ; being no less inferior in dig- 
 nity to intellectual pleasures, than superior to the organic or cor- 
 poreal : they indeed resemble the latter, being, like them, produced 
 by external objects ; but they also resemble the former, being, like 
 
 * After the utmost efforts, wo flnd it beyond our power to conceive the. 
 flavor of a rose to exist in the mind: we are necessarily led to conceive that 
 pleasure as existing in the nostrils along with the impression made by the rose 
 upon that organ. And the same will be Jhe result of experiment* with respect 
 to every feeling of taste, touch, and smell. Touch affords the most satisf.ictory 
 experiments. Were it not that the delusion is detected bv philosophy, no 
 person would hesitate to pronounce, that the pleasure arising from touching a 
 smooth, soft, and velvet surface, has its existence at the ends of the finge'r*, 
 without once dreaming of its existing anywhere else.^
 
 NATURE, DESIGN, ETC., OF THE 1'RESKNT WORK. 25 
 
 them, produced without any sensible organic impression. Their 
 mixed nature and middle place between organic and intellectual 
 pleasures, qualify them to associate with both. 
 
 The pleasures of the eye and the ear have ether valuable proper- 
 lies besides those of dignity and elevation : being sweet and moder- 
 ately exhilarating, they are in their tone equally distant from the 
 turbulence of passion, and the languor of indolence : and by that 
 tone are perfectly well qualified, not only to revive the spirits when 
 sunk by sensual gratification, but also to. relax them whan over- 
 strained in any violent pursuit. Here is a remedy provided for 
 many distresses ; and, to be convinced of its salutary effects, it will 
 be sufficient to run over the following particulars. Organic pleasures 
 have naturally a short duration ; when prolonged, they lose their 
 relish ; when indulged to excess, they beget satiety and disgust ; 
 and, to restore a proper tone of mind, nothing can be more happily 
 contrived than the exhilarating pleasures of the eye and ear.* On 
 the other hand, any intense exercise of intellectual powers becomes 
 painful by overstraining the mind: cessation from such exercise 
 a-ives not instant relief; it is necessary that the void be filled with 
 some amusement, gently relaxing the spirits. 
 
 47. The transition is sweet and easy, from corporeal pleasures to 
 ihe more refined pleasures of sense ; and no less so, from these to the 
 exalted pleasures of morality and religion. We stand therefore en- 
 gaged in honor, as well as interest, to second the purposes of nature, 
 by cultivating the pleasures of the eye and ear, those especially that 
 require extraordinary culture,! such as arise from poetry, painting, 
 sculpture, music, gardening, and architecture. This especially is the 
 duty of the opulent, who have leisure to improve their minds and 
 their feelings. The fine arts are contrived to give pleasure to the 
 
 * [" Now this" (says Dr. Mark Hopkins) " is precisely the use, and nil the use 
 that many make of the fine arts, and I may add, to some extent of the beauties 
 of nature too. How many wealthy sensualists are there in our cities who give 
 an appearance of elevation and refinement to their low and selfish mode of life, 
 by collecting about them specimens of the arts ! These men may bo best com- 
 pared to that amphibious animal, the frog. They come up occasionally from 
 that lower element in which they live, into a region of light and beauty; but 
 no sooner are they a little refreshed, than they plunge aguin into the mud of 
 sensual gratification. It is men like these, who, when their capacity for the 
 lower pleasures IB exhausted, drive in then carriages about the cities of the Old 
 World (perhaps we are not yet sufficiently corrupt), and set up to be virtuosi. 
 It is easy to see how such a taste must bear upon morals. "J 
 
 t A taste for natural objects is born with us in perfection ; for relishing a 
 tine countenance, a rich landscape, or a vivid color, culture is necessary. The 
 observation holds equally in natural sounds, such as the singing of birds, or the 
 murmuring of a brook. Nature here, the artificer of the object as well as of tho 
 percipient, hath accurately suited them to each other. But of a poem, a can- 
 tata, a picture, or other artificial production, a true relish is not commonly at- 
 tained, without some study and much practice. 
 
 46. "What precedes the perception of an external object Tho difference noticed with 
 regard to tho various senses. The location of pleasant or painful feelings. The rank to ba 
 assigned to the pleasures of the eve and ear. Their salutary influence. Comparison witn 
 tcgiuiic or corporeal pleasures. T lie use that proflig.ite men often make of the fln arts.
 
 26 NATURE, DESIGN, ETC., OF THE PRESENT WOKK. 
 
 eye and the ear, disregarding the inferior senses. A taste for these 
 arts is a plant that grows naturally in many soils ; but, without 
 culture, scarce to perfection in any soil : it is susceptible of much 
 refinement ; and is, by proper care, greatly improved. In this 
 respect, a taste in the fine arts goes hand in hand with the moral 
 sense, to which indeed it is nearly allied : both of them discover 
 what is right and what is wrong ; fashion, temper and education 
 have an influence to vitiate both, or to preserve them pure and 
 untainted : neither of them is arbitrary or local : being rooted in 
 human nature, and governed by principles common to all men. 
 The design of the"" present undertaking, which aspires not to 
 morality, is, to examine the sensitive branch of human nature, to 
 trace the objects that are naturally agreeable, as well as those that 
 are naturally disagreeable ; and by these means to discover, if 
 we can. what are the genuine principles of the fine arts. The 
 man who aspires to be a critic in these arts, must pierce still 
 deeper : he must acquire a clear perception of what objects are 
 lofty, what low, what proper or improper, what manly, and what 
 mean or trivial. Hence a foundation for reasoning upon the 
 taste of any individual, and for passing sentence upon it : where 
 it is conformable to principles, we can pronounce with certainty 
 that it is correct ; otherwise, that it is incorrect, and perhaps 
 whimsical. Thus the fine arts, like morals, become a rational 
 science ; and, like morals, may be cultivated to a high degree of 
 refinement.f _ 
 
 * [The followins observations of Dr. Mark Hopkins are appropriate and 
 important : " The fine arts may be made to pander directly to vice. From the 
 middle rank, which the pleasures derived from them hold, they readily associate, 
 as has been said, both with the higher and the lower. Thus music may quicken 
 the devotions of a seraph, and lend its strains to cheer the carousals of the 
 bacchanal ; and poetry, painting, and sculpture, while they have power to ele- 
 vate, and charm, and purify the mind, may be made direct stimulants to the 
 vilest and lowest passions. It is indeed from this quarter that we are to look 
 for danger from the prevalence of these arts. It was thus that they corrupted 
 the ancient cities ; and those who have seen the abominable statuary of Hereu- 
 laneum and Pompeii, do not wonder that they were buried under a sea of fire. 
 The same process of corruption through these arts, lias gone to ^fearful extent 
 on the eastern continent, and has commenced in tnis country. Clothed in t 
 garment of light, vice finds access where it otherwise could not. Under the 
 pretence of promoting the fine arts, modesty is cast aside, and indecent pic- 
 tures are exhibited, and respectable people go to see them. If I might utter a 
 word of warning to the young, it would be to beware of vice dressed in _thc 
 garments of taste. The beauties of nature are capable of no such perversion 
 All the associations connected with them tend to elevate and to purify tho 
 mind. No case can be adduced in which a taste for gardening or tor natural 
 objects has corrupted a people. While, therefore, I believe that the cultivatic 
 of' the arts, in their genuine spirit of beauty and of purity, has a tendency to 
 improve the character, it would appear that they are greatly liable to abuse, 
 and that they have been extensively abused."] . 
 
 t [Upon the subject of Taste and Genius, Cousin thus remarks: 
 
 47 The easy transition from corporeal pleasures to those of a higher order. The arts 
 which it is our interest to cultivate Value of the fine irts. A taste for these allied to 
 what ? The great liability of the fine arts to perversion and abuse. Design of the present 
 volume, Cousin's account of Taste and Genius.
 
 NATURE, DESIGN, ETC., OF THE PRESENT WORK. 27 
 
 48. Manifold are tJie advantage* of criticism, when thus studied 
 as a rational science. In the first place, a thorough acquaintance 
 with the principles of the fine arts redoubles the pleasure we derive 
 from them. To the man .vho resigns himself to feeling without in- 
 terposing any judgment, poetry, music, painting are mere pastime. 
 In the prime of lite, indeed, they are delightful, being supported by 
 the force of novelty, and i;he heat of imagination : but in time they 
 lose their relish ; and are generally neglected in the maturity of life, 
 which disposes to more serious and more important occupations. 
 To those who deal in criticism as a regular science, governed by just 
 principles, and giving scope to judgment as well as to fancy, the fine 
 arts are a favorite entertainment; and in old age maintain that rel- 
 ish which they produce in the morning of life. 
 
 In the next place (2), a philosophic inquiry into the principles of 
 the fine arts inures the reflecting mind to the most enticing sort of 
 logic : the practice of reasoning upon subjects so agreeable, tends to 
 a habit ; and a habit, strengthening the reasoning faculties, prepares 
 the mind for entering into subjects more intricate and abstract. To 
 have, in that respect, a just conception of the importance of criti- 
 cism, wo need but reflect upon the ordinary method of education ; 
 which, after some years spent in acquiring languages, hurries us, 
 without the least preparatory discipline, into the most profound phi- 
 losophy. A more effectual method to alienate the tender mind from 
 abstract science, is beyond the reach of invention ; and accordingly, 
 with respect to such speculations, our youth generally contract a 
 sort of hobgoblin terror, seldom if ever subdued. Those who apply 
 to the arts, are trained in a very different manner : they are led, 
 step by step, from the easier parts of the operation, to what are more 
 difficult ; and are not permitted to make a new motion, till they are 
 perfected in those which go before. Thus the science of criticism 
 may be considered as a middle link, connecting the different parts 
 of education into a regular chain. This science furnisheth an inviting 
 opportunity to exercise the judgment : we delight to reason upon 
 subjects that are equally pleasant and familiar; we proceed grad- 
 
 facultics enter into that complex faculty that is called taste : imagination, sen- 
 timent, reason. Besides imagination and reason, the man of taste ought to 
 possess an enlightened but ardent love of beauty: lie must take delight in 
 meeting it, must search for it, must summon it. To comprehend and demon- 
 strate that a thing is not beautiful, is an ordinary pleasure an ungrateful task ; 
 but to discern a beautiful thing, to make it evident, and make others participate 
 
 in our sentiment, is an exquisite joy, a generous ta*k 
 
 " After having spoken ot taste wliich appreciates beauty, shall we say nothing 
 of genius wliich makes it live again? Genius is nothing else than taste in 
 action, that is to say, the three powers of taste carried to their culmination, and 
 armed with a new and mysterious power, the power of execution. What essen- 
 tially distinguishes genius from taste, is the attribute of creative power. Taste 
 feels, judges, discusses, analyzes, but does not invent. Genius is, before all, 
 inventive und creative. The man of genius is not the master of the power that 
 is in him : it is bv the ardent, irresistible need of expressing what he feels, 
 that ho i a man ot' genius." Lect. vii., Applctou's Ed.]
 
 28 NATURE, DESIGN, ETC., OF THE PRESENT WORK. 
 
 ually from the simple to the more involved cases ; and in a due 
 course of discipline, custom, which improves all our faculties, bestows 
 acuteness on that of reason, sufficient to unravel all the intricacies 
 of philosophy.* 
 
 Nor (3) ought it to be overlooked, that the reasonings employed 
 on the fine arts are of the same kind with those which regulate our 
 conduct. Mathematical and metaphysical reasonings have no ten- 
 dency to improve our knowledge of man ; nor are they applicable 
 to the common affairs of life : but a just taste of the fine arts, de- 
 rived from rational principles, furnishes elegant subjects for conver- 
 sation, and prepares us for acting in the social state with dignity 
 and propriety. 
 
 The science of rational criticism (4) tends to improve the heart 
 no less than the understanding. It tends, in the first place, to 
 moderate the selfish affections : by sweetening and harmonizing the 
 temper, it is a strong antidote to the turbulence of passion, and vio- 
 tence of pursuit; it procures to a man so much mental enjoyment, 
 that in order to be occupied, he is not tempted to deliver up his 
 youth to.hunting, gaining, drinking ; nor his middle age to ambition ; 
 nor his old age to avarice. Pride and envy, two disgustful passions, 
 find in the constitution no enemy more formidable than a delicate 
 and discerning taste : the man upon whom nature and culture have 
 bestowed this blessing, delights in the virtuous dispositions and actions 
 " of others : he loves to cherish them, and to publish them to the 
 world : faults and failings, it is true, are to him no less obvious ; but 
 these he avoids, or removes out of sight, because they give him pain. 
 On the other hand, a man void of taste, upon whom even striking 
 beauties make but a faint impression, indulges piide or envy without 
 control, and loves to brood over errors and blemishes. 
 
 In the next place, (5) delicacy of taste tends no less to invigorate- 
 the social affections, than to moderate those that are selfish. _ To be 
 convinced of that tendency, we need only reflect, that delicacy of 
 taste necessarily heightens our feeling of pain and pleasure ; and ot 
 course our sympathy, which is the capital branch of every social 
 passion. Sympathy invites a communication of joys and sorrows, 
 hopes and fears : such exercise, soothing and satisfactory in itself, is 
 necessarily productive of mutual good-will and affection. 
 
 One other advantage of rational criticism is reserved to the last 
 (6) place, being of all the most important ; Avhich is, that it is a 
 great support to morality. I insist on it with entire satisfaction, that 
 no occupation attaches a man more to his duty, than that of culti- 
 vating a taste in the fine arts : a just relish of what is beautiful, 
 
 * [The rules of criticism are no more than the deductions of sound jpgio 
 concerning beauty and deformity, from the permanent principles and feelings 
 of human "nature; and without a knowledge of these rules it is not to be ex- 
 pected that any performar.ee will be so successful as to obtain any great or lasting 
 portion of the public approbation. Barrou's Lect. vol. i. p 16.]
 
 NATURE, DESIGN, KTC., OF THE PRESENT WORK. fcj 
 
 proper, elegant, and ornamental, in writing or painting, in architec- 
 ture or gardening, is a fine preparation foiwthe same just relish of 
 these qualities in character and behavi-or. To the man who has 
 acquired a tasto so acute and accomplished, every action wrong or 
 improper must be highly disgustful ; if, in any instance, the over- 
 bearing power of passion sway him from his duty, he returns to it 
 with redoubled resolution never to be swayed a second time : he has 
 now an additional motive to virtue, a conviction derived from ex- 
 perience, that happiness depends on regularity and order, and that 
 disregard to justice or propriety never fails to be punished with 
 shame and remorse.* 
 
 49. Rude ages exhibit the triumph of authority over reason. 
 Philosophers anciently were divided into sects, being Epicureans, 
 Platonists, Stoics, Pythagoreans, or Skeptics : the speculative relied 
 no farther on their own judgment but to choose a leader, whom they 
 implicitly followed. In later times, happily, reason hath obtained 
 the ascendant : men now assert their native privilege of thinking for 
 themselves, and disdain to be ranked in any sect, whatever be the 
 science. I am forced to except criticism, which, by what fatality I 
 know not, continues to be no less slavish in its principles, nor less 
 submissive to authority, than it was originally. Bossuet, a celebrated 
 French critic, gives many rules ; but can discover no better founda- 
 tion for any of them, than the practice merely of Homer and Virgil, 
 supported by the authority of Aristotle. Strange ! that in so long a 
 work, he should never once have stumbled upon the question, 
 Whether, and how far, do these rules agree with human nature. It 
 could not surely be his opinion, that these poets, however eminent 
 for genius, were entitled to give law to mankind ; and that nothing 
 now remains, but blind obedience to their arbitrary will. If in writing 
 they followed no rule, why should they be imitated ? If they studied 
 nature, and were obsequious to rational principles, why should these 
 be concealed from us ? 
 
 50. With respect to the present undertaking, it is not the author's 
 intention to compose a regular treatise upon each of the fine arts ; 
 but only, in general, to exhibit their fundamental principles, drawn 
 from human nature, the true source of criticism. The fine arts are 
 intended to entertain us, by making pleasant impressions ; and, by 
 that circumstance, are distinguished from the useful arts ; but, in 
 
 * Genius is allied to a warm and inflammable constitution ; delicacy of tasto 
 to calmness and sedateness. Hence it is common to find genius in one who is 
 a prey to every passion ; but seldom delicacy of taste. Upon a man possessed 
 of that blessing, the moral duties, no less than the fine arts, make a deep 
 impression, and counterbalance every irregular desire ; at the same time, a 
 temper calm and sedate is not easily moved, even by a strong temptation. 
 
 V ^ --.. . - . . * ' _.__ .. .-_, 
 
 48. Six advantages of n thorough acquaintance with the principles of the fine arts. 
 
 49. Whence the rules of criticism should be derived. A comparison of former kgoa wlti 
 the present on this poin'.
 
 30 NATURE, DESIGN, ETC., OF THE PRESENT WORK. 
 
 order to make pleasant impressions, we ought, as above hinted, to 
 know what objects are Naturally agreeable, and what naturally dis- 
 agreeable. That subject is here attempted, as far as necessaiy for 
 unfolding the genuine principles of the fine aits ; and the author 
 assumes no merit from his performance, but that of evincing, perhaps 
 more distinctly than hitherto has been done, that these principles, as 
 well as every just rale of criticism, are founded upon the sensitive 
 part of our nature. What the author h'ath discovered or collected 
 upon that subject, he chooses to impart in the gay and agreeable 
 form of criticism ; imagining that this form will be more relished, 
 and perhaps be no less instructive, than a regular and labored dis- 
 quisition. His plan is, to ascend gradually to principles, from facts 
 and experiments; instead of beginning with the former, handled 
 abstractedly, and descending to the latter. But, though criticism is 
 thus his only declared aim. he will not disown, that all along it has 
 been his view, to explain the Nature of Man, considered as a sensitive 
 being capable of pleasure and pain : and, though he flatters himself 
 with having made some progress in that important science, he is, 
 however, too sensible of its extent and difficulty, to undertake it 
 professedly, or to avow it as the chief purpose of the present work. 
 
 51. To censure works, not men, is the just prerogative of criticism ; 
 and accordingly all personal censure is here avoided, unless where 
 necessary to illustrate some general proposition. No praise is claimed 
 on that account ; because censuring with a view merely to find fault, 
 cannot be entertaining to any person of humanity. Writers, one 
 should imagine, ought, above all others, to be reserved on that article, 
 when they lie so open to retaliation. The author of this treatise, far 
 from being confident of meriting no censure, entertains not even the 
 slightest hope of such perfection. Amusement was at first the sole 
 Aim of his inquiries : proceeding from one particular to another, the 
 subject grew under his hand ; and he was far advanced before the 
 thought struck him, that his private meditations might be publicly 
 useful. 
 
 N. B. THE ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM, meaning the whole, is a 
 title too assuming for this work. A number of these elements or 
 principles are here unfolded : but, as the author is far from imagin- 
 ing that he has completed the list, a more humble title is proper, 
 such as may express any number of parts less than the whole. This 
 he thinks is signified by the title he has chosen, viz. ELEMENTS OF 
 CRITICISM. 
 
 50. More particular account of the plan of the present work. Desisn of the fine arts: 
 how clisliiifriiislio'l from the useful. The peculiar merit which this work claims to possess. 
 What, be-ides cri Seism, it auas at 
 
 51. The title of the work.
 
 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PERCEPTIONS AND IDEAS IN A TRAIN. 
 
 52. A MAN, while awake, is conscious of a continued train of 
 perceptions and ideas passing in his mind. It requires no activity 
 on his part to carry on the train.* At the same time, we learn 
 from daily experience, that the train of our thoughts is not regu- 
 lated by chance : and if it depend not upon will, nor upon chance, 
 by what law is it governed ? The question is of importance in the 
 science of human nature ; and I promise beforehand, that it will be 
 found of great importance in the fine arts. 
 
 53. It appears, that the relations by which things are linked to- 
 gether, have a great influence in directing the train of thought 
 Taking a view of external objects, their inherent properties are not 
 more remarkable than the various relations that connect them to- 
 gether. Cause and effect, contiguity in time or in place, high and 
 low, prior and posterior, resemblance, contrast, and a thousand other 
 relations, connect things together without end. Not a single thing 
 appears solitary and altogether devoid of connection ; the only dit- 
 ference is, that some are intimately connected, some more slightly ; 
 some near, some at a distance. 
 
 54. Experience will satisfy us of what reason makes probable, 
 that the train of our thoughts is in a great measure regulated by 
 the foregoing relations : an external object is no sooner presented 
 to us in idea, than it suggests to the mind other objects to which it 
 is related ; and in that manner is a train of thoughts composed. 
 Such is the law of succession ; which must be natural, because it 
 
 * For how should this be dono ? what idea is it that wo arc to add ? If wo 
 can specify the idea, that idea is already in the mind, and there is no occasion 
 for any act of the will. If we cnnnot specify any idea, I next demand, how can 
 a person will, or to what purpose, if there bo nothing in view ? We cannot 
 form a conception of such a thing. If this argument need coufirmntion, 1 urg 
 experience: whoever makes a trial will find, that ideas are linked together m 
 the mind, forming a connected chain; and that we have not the command of 
 ny idea independent of the chain. 
 
 62. Btaf* of tbo mind. 68. What (Kreets the train of thought T
 
 32 PERCEPTIONS AND IDKAS IN \TKAIN._ 
 
 governs all human beings. The law, however, seems not to be in- 
 violable : it sometimes happens that an idea arises in the mind, 
 without any perceived connection ; as, for example, after a profound 
 sleep. 
 
 55. T>ut, though we cannot add to the train an unconnected idea, 
 yet in a measure we can attend to some ideas, and dismiss others. 
 There are few things but what are connected with many others ; 
 and when a thing thus connected becomes a subject of thought, it 
 commonly suggests many of its connections : among these a choice is 
 afforded ; we can insist upon one, rejecting others ; and sometimes 
 we insist on what is commonly held the slighter connection. Where 
 ideas are left to their natural course, they are continued through the 
 strictest connections : the mind extends its view to a son more 
 readily than to a servant ; and more readily to a neighbor than to 
 one living at a distance. This order, as observed, may be varied by 
 will, but still within the limits of related objects ; for though, we 
 can vary the order of a natural train, we cannot dissolve the train 
 altogether, by carrying on our thoughts in a loose manner without 
 any connection. So far doth our power extend ; and that power is 
 sufficient for all useful purposes : to have more power, would 1 proba- 
 bly be hurtful, instead of being salutary. 
 
 56. Will is not the "only cause that prevents a train of thought 
 from being continued through the strictest connections : much de- 
 pends on the present tone of mind : for a subject that accords with 
 that tone is always welcome. Thus, in good spirits, a cheerful sul> 
 ject will be introduced by the slightest connection ; and one that is 
 melancholy, no less readily in low spirits : an interesting subject is 
 recalled, from time to time, by any connection indifferently, strong 
 or weak ; which is finely touched by Shakspeare, with relation to a 
 rich cargo at sea : 
 
 My wind, cooling my broth, 
 
 Would blow me to an ague, when I thought 
 
 What harm a wind too great might do at soa. 
 
 I should not see the sandy-hour glass run, 
 
 But I should think of shallows and of flats ; 
 
 And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand, 
 
 Vailing her high top lower than her ribs, 
 
 To kiss her burial. Should I go to church, 
 
 And see the holy edifice of stone, 
 
 And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks ? 
 
 Which touching but my gentle vessel's side, 
 
 Would scatter all her spices on the stream, 
 
 Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks ; 
 
 And, in a word, but even now worth this, - 
 
 And now worth nothing. Merchant of Venice, Act I. So. i. 
 
 57. Another cause clearly distinguishable from that now men- 
 tioned, hath also a considerable influence to vary the natural train of 
 
 54. Illustrate how the train of thought Is regulated by relatjons. 
 
 fi5. The power we have over our trains of thoughts. The natural conrso of ideas. 
 
 5i. Train of thought affected by the present tone of mind. Cargo at soa.
 
 PERCEPTIONS AND IDEAS IN A TRAIN. 33 
 
 ideas; which is, that, in the minds of some persons, thoughts and 
 circumstances crowd upon each other by the slightest connections. 
 I ascribe this to a bluntness in the discerning faculty ; for a person 
 who cannot accurately distinguish between a slight connection and 
 one that is more intimate, is equally affected by each : such a per- 
 son must necessarily have a great flow of ideas, because they are 
 introduced by any relation indifferently ; and the slighter relations, 
 being without number, furnish ideas without end. This doctrine is, 
 in a lively manner, illustrated by Shakspeare. 
 
 Falataff. What is the gross sum that I owe thec ? 
 
 Hostess. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and thy _money too. 
 Thou didst swear to me on a parcel gilt-goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, 
 at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when 
 the Prince broke thy head for likening him to a singing man of Windsor ; thou 
 didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make 
 me my Lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not Good wife Keech, the 
 butcher's wife, come in then, and call me Gossip Quickly ? coming in to bor- 
 row a mess of vinegar ; telling us she had a good dish of prawns ; whereby 
 thou didst desire to eat some ; whereby I told thee they were ill for a green 
 wound. And didst not thou, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be 
 no more so familiarity with such poor people, saying, that ere long they should 
 call me Madame? And didst thou not kiss me, and bid mo fetch thee thirty 
 hillings ? I put theo now to thy book-oath, deny it if thou canst? 
 
 Second Part, Henry IV. Act II. Sc. 2. 
 
 58. On the other hand, a man of accurate judgment cannot have 
 a great flow of ideas ; because the slighter relations, making no 
 figure in his mind,. have no power to introduce ideas. And hence 
 it is, that accurate judgment is not friendly to declamation or copi- 
 ous eloquence. This reasoning is confirmed by expeiience ; for it is 
 a noted observation, That a great or comprehensive memory is seldom 
 connected with a good judgment. 
 
 59. As an additional confirmation, I appeal to another noted ob- 
 servation, That wit and judgment are seldom united. Wit consists 
 chiefly in joining things by distant and fanciful relations, which 
 surprise because they are unexpected ; such relations, being of the 
 slightest kind, readily occur to those only who make every relation 
 equally welcome. Wit, upon that account, is in a good measure in- 
 compatible with solid judgment ; which, neglecting trivial relations, 
 adheres to what are substantial and permanent. Thus memory and 
 wit are often conjoined : solid judgment seldom with either. 
 
 60. Every man who attends to his own ideas, will discover order 
 as well as connection in their succession. There is implanted in the 
 breast of every man a principle of order, which governs the arrange- 
 ment of his perceptions, of his ideas, and of his actions. With re- 
 gard to perceptions, I observe that, in things of equal rank, such as 
 sheep in a fold, or trees in a wood, it must be indifferent in what 
 order they be surveyed. But, in things of unequal rank, our ten- 
 
 57. Order of ideas, in some minds, varied by tho slightest connections. Explain aJ 
 Illustrate. 
 
 5S. Accuracy of judgment not favoraMe to a flow of Ideas. 
 09. Wit and judgment, why so seldom united. 
 
 o*
 
 34r PERCEPTIONS AUD IDEAS IN A TEAIN. 
 
 dency is, to view the principal subject before we descend to its 
 accessories or oruarnentsj and the superior before the inferior or de 
 pendent ; we are equally averse to enter into a minute consideration 
 of constituent parts, till the thing be first surveyed as a whole, 
 need scarce be added, that our -ideas are governed by the same 
 principle ; and that, in thinking or reflecting upon a number of 
 objects, we naturally follow the same order as when we actually 
 survey them. 
 
 61. The principle of order is conspicuous with respect to natural 
 operations ; for it always directs our ideas in the order of nature : 
 thinking upon a body in motion, we follow its natural course ; the 
 mind falls with a heavy body, descends with a river, and ascends 
 with flame and smoke : in tracing out a family, we incline to begin 
 at the founder, and to descend gradually to his latest posterity ; on 
 the contrary, musing on a lofty oak, we begin at the trunk, and 
 mount from it to the branches : as to historical facts, we love, to 
 proceed in the order of time ; or, which conies to the same, to pro- 
 ceed along the chain of causes and effects. 
 
 62. But though in following out an historical chain, our bent is 
 to proceed orderly from causes to their effects, we find not the same 
 bent in matters of science : there we seem rather disposed to pro- 
 ceed from effects to their causes, and from particular propositions to 
 those which are more general. Why this difference in matters that 
 appear so nearly related ? I answer, The cases are similar in ap- 
 pearance only, not in reality. In an historical chain, every event is 
 particular, the effect of some former event, and the cause of others 
 that follow : in such a chain, there is nothing to bias the mind from 
 the order of nature. Widely different is science, when we endea- 
 vor to trace out causes and their effects : many experiments are 
 commonly reduced under one cause; and again, many of these 
 causes under one still more general and comprehensive : m our pro- 
 gress from particular effects to general causes, and from particular 
 propositions to the more comprehensive, we feel a gradual dilatation 
 or expansion of mind, like what is felt in an ascending series which 
 is extremely pleasing : the pleasure here exceeds what arises from 
 following the course of nature ; and it is that pleasure which regu- 
 lates our train of thought'in the case now mentioned, and in others 
 that are similar. These observations, by the way, furnish materials 
 for instituting a comparison between the synthetic and analytic 
 methods of reasoning : the synthetic method, descending regularly 
 from'principles to their consequences, is more agreeable to the strict- 
 ness of order ; but in following the opposite course in the analytic 
 method we have a sensible pleasure, like mounting upward, which is 
 not felt in the other : the analytic method is more agreeable to the 
 
 60 The principle of order governing perceptions and ideas. Things of equal and of un 
 final rank. 
 61. Instances of ideas following in the order of nature.
 
 PERCEPTIONS AND IDEAS IN A TRAIN. 85 
 
 imagination ; the other method will be preferred ly those only 
 who with rigidity adhere to order, and give no indulgence to natural 
 emotions. 
 
 63. It now appears that we are framed by nature to relish order 
 and connection. When an object is introduced by a proper con- 
 nection, we are conscious of a certain pleasure arising from that 
 circumstance. Among objects of equal rank, the pleasure is propor- 
 tioned to the degree of connection : but among unequal objects 
 where we require a certain order, the pleasure arises ch&fly from an 
 orderly arrangement ; of which one is sensible in tracing objects 
 .contrary to the course of 'nature, or contrary to our sense of order : 
 the mind proceeds with alacrity down a flowing river, and with the 
 same alacrity from a whole to its parts, or from a principal to .its 
 accessories ; but in the contrary direction, it is sensible of a sort of 
 retrograde motion, which is unpleasant. And here may be remarked 
 the great influence of order upon the mind of man ; grandeur, which 
 makes a deep impre^ion inclines us, in running over any series, to 
 proceed from small to great, rather than from great to small ; but 
 order prevails over that tendency, and affords pleasure as well as 
 facility in passing from a whole to its pails, and from a subject to 
 its ornaments, which are not felt in the opposite course. Elevation 
 touches the mind no less than grandeur doth ; and in raising the 
 mind to elevated objects, there is a sensible pleasure : the course of 
 nature, however, hath still a greater influence than elevation ; and 
 therefore, the pleasure of falling with rain, and descending gradually 
 with a river, prevails over that of mounting upward. But where 
 the course of nature is joined with elevation, the effect must be 
 delightful ; and hence the singular beauty of smoke ascending in a 
 calm morning. 
 
 64. Every work of art that is conformable to the natural course 
 of our ideas, is so far agreeable ; and every work of art that reverses 
 that course, is so far disagreeable. Hence it is required in every 
 such work, that, like an organic system, it* parts be orderly arranged 
 and mutually connected, bearing each of them a relation to the whole, 
 some more intimate, some less, according to their destination : when 
 due regard is had to these particulars, we have a sense of just com- 
 position, and so far are pleased with the performance. Homer ia 
 defective in order and connection ; and Pindar more remarkably. 
 Regularity, order, and connection are painful restraints on a bold 
 and fertile imagination; and are not patiently submitted to, but 
 after much culture and discipline. In Horace there is no fault more 
 eminent than want of connection : instances are without number. 
 Of Virgil's Georgics, though esteemed the most complete work of 
 that author, the parts are ill connected, and the transitions far from 
 
 82. Why, in matters of science, we reverse the order of nture In onr arrangement. Tb 
 40ui!ytic and synthetic modes of reasoning. 
 8X The rli*h of the mind for order and connection. Instance*.
 
 36 PERCEPTIONS AND IDEAS IN A TRAIN. 
 
 being sweet and easy. The two prefaces of Sallust look as if by 
 some 3 blunder they had been prefixed to his two histories ; they will 
 suit any other history as well, or any subject as well as history. 
 Even members of these prefaces are but loosely connected : they 
 look more like a number of maxims, or observations, than a con- 
 nected discourse. 
 
 65. An episode in a narrative poem, being in effect an accessory, 
 demands not that strict union with the principal subject, which is 
 requisite between a whole and its constituent parts : it demands, 
 however, a degree of union, such as ought to subsist between a 
 principal and accessory; and therefore wilfruot be graceful if it be. 
 loosely connected .with the principal subject. I give for an example 
 . the descent of J^neas into hell, which employs the sixth book of 
 the ^Eneid : the reader is not prepared for that important event : 
 no cause is assigned that can make it appear necessary, or even 
 natural, to suspend for so long a time the principal action in its most 
 interesting period : the poet can find no pretext for an adventure so 
 extraordinary, but the hero's longing to visit the ghost of his father, 
 recently dead : in the mean time the story is interrupted, and the 
 reader loses his ardor. Pity it is that an episode so extremely 
 beautiful, were not more happily introduced. I must observe, at the 
 same time, that full justice is done to this incident, by considering 
 it to be an episode ; for if it be a constituent part of the principal 
 action, the connection ought to be still more intimate. 
 
 60. In a natural landscape, we every day perceive a multitude of 
 objects connected by contiguity solely; which is not unpleasant, 
 because objects of sight make an impression so lively, as that a 
 relation even of the slightest land is relished. This, however, ought 
 not to be imitated in description : words are so far short of the eye 
 in liveliness of impression, that in a description connection ought to 
 be carefully studied ; for new objects introduced in description are 
 made more or less welcome in proportion to the degree of theji 
 connection with the principal subject. In the following passage, 
 different things are brought together without the slightest connec- 
 tion, if it be not what may be called verbal, i. e. taking the same 
 word in different meanings. 
 
 Surgamus : solet esse gravis cantantibus umbra. 
 
 Juniper! gravis umbra: nocent et frugibus umbrae. 
 
 Ite domum saturse, venit Hesperus, ite capellse. 
 
 Virg. Buc. x. 75. 
 
 67. The relations among objects have a considerable influence in 
 the gratification of our passions, and even in their production. But 
 that subject is reserved to be treated in the chapter of emotions and 
 passions. (Chap. ii. part i. sect. 4.) 
 
 1 The requisites, accordingly, In every work of art .Remarks upon Homer. Ptalw 
 Horace, Virjril, and Sallust 
 C5. Episodes. Example from the vEnMrt. 
 66 Rule for description.
 
 EMOTIONS AKD PASSIONS. 37 
 
 There is not, perhaps, another instance of a building so great 
 erected upon a foundation so slight in appearance, as the relations 
 of objects and their arrangement. Relations make no capital figure 
 in the mind, the bulk of them being transitory, and some extremely 
 trivial : they are, however, the links that, by uniting our perceptions 
 into one connected chain, produce connection of action, because 
 perception and action have an intimate correspondence. But it is 
 not sufficient for the conduct of life, that our actibns be linked 
 together, however intimately : it is.besides necessary that they pro- 
 ceed in a certain order ; and this is also provided for by an original 
 propensity. Thus order and connection, while they admit sufficient 
 variety, introduce a method in the management of affairs : without 
 them our conduct would be fluctuating and desultory ; and we should 
 be hurried from thought to thought, and from action to action, 
 entirely at the mercy of chance. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 68. OF all the feelings raised in us by external objects, those only 
 of the eye and the ear are honored with the name of passwn or 
 emotion; the most pleasing feelings of taste, or touch, or smell, 
 aspire not to that honor. From this observation appears the con- 
 nection of emotions and passions with the fine arts, which, as ob- 
 served in the introduction, are all of them calculated to give pleasure 
 to the eye or the ear ; never once condescending to gratify any of 
 the inferior senses. The design accordingly of this chapter is to 
 delineate that connection, with the view chiefly to ascertain what 
 poorer the fine arts have to raise emotions and passions. To those 
 who would excel in the fine arts, that branch of knowledge is in- 
 dispensable ; for without it the critic, as well as the undertaker, 
 ignorant of any rule, has nothing left but to abandon himself 
 to chance. ' Destitute of that branch of knowledge, in vain will 
 either pretend to foretell what effect his work will have upon the 
 heart. 
 
 69. Human nature is a complicated machine, and is unavoidably 
 so in order to answer its various purposes. The public indeed have 
 been entertained with many systems of human nature that flatter 
 the mind by their simplicity : according to some writers, man is 
 entirely a selfish being ; according to others, universal benevolence 
 
 67, The relations ntnong objects affect onr conduct. 
 
 6ft. Feelinsts that arc distinguished by tho name of passions. Tholr connection wiui u* 
 fine arts, Object of Uie chapter.
 
 38 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 is his duty : one founds morality upon sympathy solely, and one 
 upon utility. If any of these systems were copied from nature, the 
 present subject might be soon discussed. But the vaiiety of nature 
 is not so easily reached, and for confuting such Utopian systems 
 without the fatigue of reasoning, it appears the best method to take 
 a survey of human nature, and to set before the eye, plainly and 
 candidly, facts as they really exist. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 CAUSES UNFOLDED OF THE EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 Difference between Emotion and Passion. Causes that are the 
 most common and the most general. Passion considered as pro- 
 ductive of action. 
 
 70. IT is a fact universally admitted, that no emotion or passion 
 ever starts up in the mind without a cause : if I love a person, it is for 
 good qualities or good offices : if I have resentment against a man, 
 it must be for some injury he has done me : and I cannot pity any 
 one who is under no distress of body nor of mind. 
 
 71. The circumstances now mentioned, if they raise an emotion 
 or passion, cannot be entirely indifferent ; for if so, they could not 
 make any impression. And we find, upon examination,, that they 
 are not indifferent : looking back upon the foregoing examples, the 
 good qualities or good offices that attract my love, are antecedently 
 agreeable : if an injury did not give uneasiness, it would not occa 
 sion resentment against the author : nor would the passion of pity 
 be raised by an object in distress, if that object did not give pain. 
 
 72. What is now said about the production of emotion or passion, 
 resolves itself into a very simple proposition, That we love what is 
 agreeable, and hate what is disagreeable. And indeed it is evident, 
 that a thing must be agreeable or disagreeable, before it can be the 
 object either of love or of hatred. 
 
 73. This short hint about the causes of passion and emotion, leads 
 to a more extensive view of the subject. Such is our nature, that 
 upon perceiving certain external objects, we are instantaneously 
 
 C9. Theories of human nature. 
 
 70. Emotions or passions are not without cause. Examples. 
 
 71. Remarks on foregoing examples. 
 
 72. IVhat w i Jo-re what \v bat*.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSION3. 
 
 39 
 
 conscious of pleasure or pain: a gently-flowing river, a smooth ex- 
 tended plain, a spreading oak, a towering hill, are objects of sight 
 that raise pleasant emotions: a barren heath, a dirty marsh a 
 rotten carcass, raise painful emotions. Of the emotions thus produced, 
 we inquire for no other cause but merely the presence ot the objec' 
 
 74 The things now mentioned raise emotions by means ot their 
 properties and qualities : to the emotion raised by a large river, its 
 size; its force, and its fluency, contribute each a share : the regu- 
 larity, propriety, and convenience of a fine building, contnbut. 
 to the emotion raised by the building. 
 
 75. If external properties be agreeable, we have reason to expec 
 the same from those which are internal ; and, accordingly, power, 
 discernment, wit, mildness, sympathy, courage, benevolence, are 
 agreeable in a high degree : upon perceiving these qualities n 
 others, we instantaneously feel pleasant emotions, without the slights 
 act of reflection, or of attention to consequences. It is almost v 
 necessary to add, that certain qualities opposite to .the former, si 
 as dullness, peevishness, inhumanity, cowardice, occasic 
 manner painful emotions. 
 
 76 Sensible beings affect us remarkably by their actions. Bon 
 actions raise pleasant emotions in the spectator, without the least 
 reflection ; such as graceful motion, and genteel behavior. But as 
 intention, a capital circumstance in human actions, is not visible, it 
 requires reflection to discover their true character. I see one deliver 
 ing a purse of money to another, but I can make nothing ot that 
 action, till I learn with what intention the money is given : it i 
 given to discharge a debt, the action pleases me in a slight degree; 
 if it be a grateful return, I feel a stronger emotion ; and the pleas- 
 ant emotion rises to a great height, when it is the intention ot the 
 giver to relieve a virtuous family from want. Thus actions are 
 qualified bv intention ; but they are not qualified by the event ; ft 
 an 'action "well intended gives pleasure, whatever the event be. 
 Further, human actions are perceived to be right or wrong ; am 
 that perception qualifies the pleasure or pain that results from them. 
 " Emotions are raised in us, not only by the qualities and actions c 
 others, but also by their feelings : I cannot behold a man in disfreas, 
 without partaking of his pain ; nor in joy, without partaking ol 
 
 ^TT'The beino-s or things above described occasion emotions in 
 us, not only in the original survey, but also when recalled to the 
 memory in idea: a field laid out with taste is pleasant m the recol- 
 lection; as well as when under our eye : a generous action des 
 
 7a Emotions on perceiving certain external objects The cause of 8 uch emotions. 
 
 74 How the external objects mentioned raise emotions. 
 
 75 Internal or mental onuses of pleasant imd painful emotions. mmllfted bv In- 
 
 76 How we are nfl'ectecl by the actions of rational beings - Actlo . n ,^ 11 " ,J?Vot 
 tention, not bv event; dl*ttnfo!*ed a* rijtlit or wrong. FeeHnp 
 
 emotion.
 
 40 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 in words or cold's occasions a sensible emotion, as well as when we 
 sea it performed ; and when we reflect upon the distress of any per- 
 son, our pain is of the same kind with what we felt when eye-wit- 
 nesses. In a word, an agreeable or disagreeable object recalled to 
 the mind in idea, is the occasion of a pleasant or painful emotion, of 
 the same kind with that produced when the object was present : the 
 only difference is, that an idea being fainter than an original percep- 
 tion, the pleasure or pain produced by the former is proportionably 
 fainter than that produced by the latter. 
 
 78. Having explained the nature of an emotion, and mentioned 
 several causes by which it is produced, we proceed to an observa- 
 tion of considerable importance in the science of human nature, 
 which is, That desire follows some emotions, and not others. The 
 emotions raised by a beautiful garden, a magnificent building, or a 
 number of fine faces in a crowded assembly, is seldom accompanied 
 with desire. Other emotions are accompanied with desire : emo- 
 tions, for example, raised by human actions and qualities : a vir- 
 tuous action raiseth in every spectator a pleasant emotion, which is 
 commonly attended with desire to reward the author of the action : 
 a vicious action, on the contrary, produceth a painful emotion, at- 
 tended with desire to punish the delinquent. Even things inanimate 
 often raise emotions accompanied with desire : witness the goods of 
 fortune, which are objects of desire almost universally : and the 
 desire, when immoderate, obtains the name of avarice. The pleasant 
 emotion produced in a spectator by a capital picture in the pos- 
 session of a prince, is seldom accompanied with desire ; but if such 
 a picture be exposed to sale, desire of having or possessing is the 
 natural consequence of a strong emotion. 
 
 79. It is a truth verified by induction, that every passion is ac- 
 companied with desire ; and if an emotion be sometimes accompanied 
 with desire, sometimes not. i* comes to be a material inquiry, in 
 what respect a passion difters from an emotion. Is passion in its 
 nature or feeling distinguishable from emotion ? An internal mo- 
 tion or agitation of the mind, when it passeth away without desire, 
 is denominated an emotion : when desire follows, the motion or 
 agitation is denominated a passion. A fine face, for example, 
 raiseth in me a pleasant feeling : if that feeling vanish without pro- 
 ducing any effect, it is in proper language an emotion ; but if the 
 feeling, by reiterated views of the object, become sufficiently strong 
 to occasion desire, it loses its names of emotion, and acquires that 
 of passion. The same holds in all the other passions : the painful 
 feeling raised in a spectator by a slight injury done to a stranger, 
 being accompanied with no desire of rejenge, is termed an emotion : 
 but that injury raiseth in a stranger a stronger emotion, which, being 
 accompanied with desire of revenge, is a passion : external ex- 
 
 TT. Emotions of memory. How they differ from those of ori<dnal^icroojtion. 
 T3 Som* emotions accompanied with desire; others not Examples.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 41 
 
 pressions of distress produce in the spectator a painful feeling, which 
 being sometimes so slight as to pass away without any effect, is an 
 emotion ; but if the feeling be so strong as to prompt desire of 
 affording relief, it is a passion, and is termed pity : envy is emula- 
 tion in excess ; if the exaltation of a competitor be barely disagree- 
 able, the painful feeling is an emotion ; if it produce detsire to de- 
 press him, it is a passion. 
 
 80. To prevent mistakes, it must be observed, that desire here is 
 taken in its proper sense, namely, .that internal act, which, by influ- 
 encing the will, makes us proceed to action. Desire in a lax sense 
 respects also actions and events that depend not on us, as when I 
 desire that my friend may have a son to represent him, or that my 
 country may flourish in arts and sciences : but such internal act is 
 more properly termed a wish than a desire. 
 
 .81. Having distinguished passion from emotion, we proceed to 
 consider passion more at large, with respect especially to its power 
 of producing action. 
 
 We have daily and constant experience for. our authority, that no 
 man ever proceeds to action but by means of some antecedent desire 
 or impulse. So well established is this observation, and so deeply 
 rooted in the mind, that we can scarce imagine a different system of 
 action : even a child will say familiarly, What should make me do 
 this or that, when I have no desire to do it ? Taking it then for 
 granted, that the existence of action depends on antecedent desire, 
 it follows that where there is no desire, there can be no action. This 
 opens another shining distinction between emotions and passions. 
 The former, being without desire, are in their nature quiescent : the 
 desire included in the latter, prompts one to act in order to fulfil that 
 desire, or, in other words, to gratify the passion. 
 
 82. The cause of a passion is sufficiently explained above : it is 
 that being or thing, which, by raising desire, converts an emotion into 
 a passion. When we consider a passion with respect to its power of 
 prompting action, that same being or thing is termed its object : a 
 fine woman, for example, raises the passion of love, which is directed 
 to her as its object : a man, by injuring me, raises my resentment, 
 and becomes thereby the object of my resentment. Thus the cause 
 of a passion and its object are the same in different respects. An 
 emotion, on the other hand, being in its nature quiescent, and merely 
 a passive feeling, must have a cause ; but cannot be said, properly 
 speaking, to have an object.* 
 
 * [The cause of a passion is that which raises it ; the object is that toward* 
 whk-li it prompts us to act, or on which it inclines us to fix our attention. Th 
 
 79. Distinction between passion and emotion. How some emotions get tho name l 
 patutions. Illustrations. 
 
 80. Definition of Desire. 
 
 81 Passion as prodc.cine notion. Another distinction between emotions and passions. 
 
 83. Whether the caiute of a passion Is identical with Its object. Is tho sanio true of UM 
 cause of an emotion T Beattlc^s remarks.
 
 4:2 EMOTIONS AND 1 ASSIGNS. 
 
 83. The objects of our -passions may be distinguished into two 
 kinds, genera] and particular. A man, a house, a garden, is a par- 
 ticular object : fame, esteem, opulence, honor, are general objects, 
 because each of them comprehends many particulars. The passions 
 directed to general objects are commonly termed appetites, in con- 
 tradistinction to passions directed to particular objects, which retain 
 their proper name : thus we say an appetite for fame, for glory, for 
 conquest, for riches ; but we say the passion of friendship, of love, of 
 gratitude, of envy, of resentment. And there is a material difference 
 between appetites and passions, which makes it proper to distinguish 
 them by different names : the latter have no existence till a proper 
 object be presented ; whereas the former exist first, and then are 
 directed to an object : a passion comes after its object ; an appetite 
 goes before it, which is obvious in the appetites of hunger, thirst, and 
 animal love, and is the same in the other appetites above men- 
 tioned. 
 
 84. By an object so powerful as to make a deep impression, the 
 mind is inflamed, and hurried to action with a strong impulse. 
 Where the object is less powerful, so as not to inflame the mind, 
 nothing is felt but desire without any sensible perturbation. The 
 principle of duty affords one instance : the desire generated by an 
 object of duty, being commonly moderate, moves us to act calmly, 
 without any violent impulse ; but if the mind happen to be inflamed 
 with the importance of the object, in that case desire of doing our 
 duty becomes a warm passion. 
 
 85. The actions of brute creatures are generally directed by in- 
 stinct, meaning blind impulse or desire, without any view to conse- 
 quences. Man is framed to be governed by reason ; he commonly 
 acts with deliberation, in order to bring about some desirable end ; 
 and in that case his actions are means employed to bring about the 
 end desired : thus I give charity in order to relieve a person from 
 want ; I perform a grateful action as a duty incumbent on me ; and I 
 fight for my country in order to repel its enemies. At the same time, 
 there are human actions that are not governed by reason, nor are 
 done with any view to consequences. Infants, like brutes, are 
 mostly governed by instinct, without the least view to any end, 
 good or ill. And even aclult persons act sometimes instinctively : 
 thus one in extreme hunger snatches at food, without the slightest 
 consideration whether it be salutary : avarice prompts to accumulate 
 
 cause and the object of a passion are often, but not always, one and the snrae 
 thing. Thus present good is both the cause and the object of joy ; we rejoice 
 in it, and we rejoice on account of it. But of love or esteem, the cause is some 
 agreeable quality, and the object is some person supposed to possess that agree- 
 able quality; of resentment, in like manner, injury is the' cause, and the in- 
 jurious person the object. Beatti*.'] 
 
 83. Objects of passion, particular and general Instances. How appetite differs front 
 pass. on. Instances. 
 
 84. Influence of an object of duty.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 43 
 
 wealth, without the least view of use ; and thereby absurdly con- 
 verts means into an end : and animal love often hurries to fruition, 
 without a thought even of gratification. 
 
 86. A passion when it flames so high as to impel us to act blindly 
 without any view to consequences, good or ill, may in that state be 
 termed instinctive ; and when it is so moderate as to admit reason, 
 and to prompt actions with a view to an end, it may in that state be 
 termed deliberative. 
 
 87. With respect to actions exerted as means to an end, desire to 
 bring about the end is what determines one to exert the action ; 
 and desire considered in that view is termed a motive : thus the 
 same mental act that is termed desire with respect to an end in view, 
 is termed a motive with respect to its power of determining one to 
 act, Instinctive actions have a cause, namely, the impulse of the 
 passion ; but they cannot be said to have a motive, because they are 
 not done with any view to consequences. 
 
 We learn from experience, that the gratification of desire is 
 pleasant ; and the foresight of that pleasure becomes often an addi- 
 tional motive for acting. Thus a child eats by the mere impulse of 
 hunger : a young man thinks of the pleasure of gratification, which 
 being a motive for him to eat, fortifies the original impulse : and a 
 man farther advanced in life, hath the additional motive that it 
 will contribute to his health. 
 
 88. From these premises, it is easy to detennine with accuracy, 
 what passions and actions are selfish, what social. It is the end in 
 view that ascertains the class to which they belong : where the end 
 in view is my own good, they are selfish ; where the end in view is the 
 good of another, they are social. Hence it follows, that instinctive 
 actions, where we act blindly and merely by impulse, cannot be 
 reckoned either social or selfish : thus eating, when prompted by 
 an impulse merely of nature, is neither social nor selfish ; but add a 
 motive, that it will contribute to my pleasure or my health, and it 
 becomes in a measure selfish. On the other hand, when affection 
 moves me to exert an action to the end solely of advancing my 
 friend's happiness, without regard to my own gratification, the action 
 is justly denominated social ; and so is also the affection that is its 
 cause : if another motive be added, that gratifying the affection will 
 also contribute to my own happiness, the action becomes partly sel- 
 fish. If charity be given with the single view of relieving a person 
 from distress, the action is purely social ; but if it be partly in view 
 to enjoy the pleasure of a virtuous act, the action is so far selfish.* 
 
 * A selfish motive proceeding from R social principle, such as that men- 
 tioned, is the most respectable of all selfish motives. To enjoy the pleasure 
 
 85. Action* prompted by instinct and by reason. Actions of brutes, of Infants, of adult* 
 86 Instinctive passions. Delib iratlve passions. 
 
 ST. The same mental act termed a desire and a motive. The foresight of the gratification 
 it desire, a motive.
 
 44 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 A just action, when prompted by the principle of duty solely, ia 
 neither social nor selfish. When I perform an act of justice with a 
 view to the pleasure of gratification, the action is selfish : I pay a 
 debt for my own sake, not with a view to benefit my creditor. But 
 suppose the money has been advanced by a friend without interest, 
 purely to oblige me : in that case, together with the motive of grati- 
 fication, there arises a motive of gratitude, which respects the creditoi 
 solely, and prompts me to act in order to do him good ; and the 
 action is partly social, partly selfish. Suppose again I meet with a 
 surprising and unexpected act of generosity, that inspires me with 
 love to my benefactor, and the utmost gratitude. I burn to do him 
 good : he is the sole object of my desire ; and my own pleasure in 
 gratifying the desire, vanisheth out of sight : in this case, the action 
 I perform is purely social. Thus it happens, that when a social 
 motive becomes strong, the action is exerted with a view singly to 
 the object of the passion, and self never comes in view. 
 
 89. When this analysis of human nature is considered, not one 
 article of which can with truth be controverted, there is reason to 
 be surprised at the blindness of some philosophers, who, by dark and 
 confused notions, are led to deny all motives to action but what arise 
 from self-love. Man, for aught appears, might possibly have been 
 so framed, as to be susceptible of no passions but what have self for 
 their object : but man thus framed, would be ill fitted for society : 
 his constitution, partly selfish, partly social, fits him much better for 
 his present situation.* 
 
 90 Of self, every one hath a direct perception ; of other things 
 we have no knowledge but by means of their attributes : and hence 
 it is, that of self the perception is more lively than of any other 
 thing. Self is an agreeable object ; and for the reason now given, 
 must be more agreeable than any other object Is this sufficient to 
 account for the prevalence of self-love ?f 
 
 91. In the foregoing part of this chapter it is suggested, that some 
 circumstances make beings -or things fit objects for desire, others 
 
 of a virtuous action, one must be virtuous ; and to enjoy the pleasure of a char- 
 itable action, one must think charity laudable at least, if not a duty. It is 
 otherwise where a man gives charity merely for the sake of ostentation ; ioi 
 this he may do without having any pity or benevolence in his temper. 
 
 * As the benevolence of many human actions is beyond the possibility of 
 doubt, the argument commonly insisted on for reconciling such actions to the 
 eelfish system, is, that the only motive I can have to perform a benevolent 
 action, or an action of any kind, is the pleasure that it affords me. So much 
 then is yielded, that we are pleased when we do good to others; which is a 
 fair admission of the principle of benevolence ; for without that principle, what 
 pleasure could one have in doing good to others ? And admitting a principle 
 of benevolence, why may it not be a motive to action, as well as selnshness is, 
 or any other principle? 
 
 t [Consult Beattie's Moral Science, 236-9.] 
 
 88. Passions and actions that are selfish; social; neither. Illnstrations.-Rciuark8 M 
 charity ; on an act of justice ; on meeting with an act ot generosity. 
 89 The error of referring all actions to self-love. Its refutation. 
 
 90. The predominance of self-love accounted for.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 not This hint ought to be pursued. It is a truth ascertained by 
 universal experience, that a thiug which in our apprehension is 
 beyond reach, never is the object of desire; no man m his right 
 senses desires to walk on the clouds, or to descend to the centre ol 
 the earth: we may amuse ourselves in a revene, with build 
 castles in the air, and wishing for what can never happen ; but such 
 things never move desire. And indeed a desire to do what we are 
 sensible is beyond our power, would be altogether absurd. In the 
 next place, though the difficulty of attainment with respect to things 
 within reach otlen inflames desire, yet where the prospect of at- 
 tainment is faint, and the event extremely uncertain, the object, 
 however agreeable, seldom raiseth any strong desire : thus beauty, 
 or any other good quality, in a woman of rank, seldom raises love 
 in a man greatly her inferior. In the third place, different objects, 
 equally within reach, raise emotions in different degrees ; and when 
 desire accompanies any of these emotions, its strength, as is natural, 
 is proportioned to that of its cause. Hence the remarkable difference 
 among desires directed to beings inanimate, animate, and rational : 
 the emotion caused by a rational being is out of measure stronger 
 than any caused by an animal without reason ; and an emotion 
 raised by such an animal, is stronger than what is caused by any 
 thino- inanimate. There is a separate reason why desire of which 
 a rational being is the object, should be the strongest : our desires 
 swell by partial gratification ; and the means we have of gratifying 
 desire, by benefiting or harming a rational being, are without end : 
 desire directed to an inanimate being, susceptible neither of pleasure 
 nor pain, is not capable of a higher gratification than that of ac- 
 quiring the property. Hence it is, that though every emotion ac- 
 companied with desire, is, strictly speaking, a passion; yet, com- 
 monly, none of these are denominated passions, but where a sensible 
 being, capable of pleasure and pain, is the object. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 Power of Sounds to raise Emotions and Passions. 
 
 92. UPON a review, I find the foregoing section almost wholly 
 employed upon emotions and passions raised by objects of sight, 
 though they are also raised by objects of hearing. As this happened 
 without intention, merely because such objects are familiar above 
 others, I find it proper to add a short section upon the power of 
 sounds to raise emotions and passions. 
 
 I begin with comparing sounds and visible objects with respect to 
 their influence upon the irind. It has already been observed, that 
 
 91. What is said of things bevond our reach ; of tbinzs difficult to attain; of different 
 ttfcct* equally witliiu rea*h ? Deelres <llre-.-tc<l t being? iimniinat* animate ; rational
 
 46 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 of all external objects, rational beings, especially of our own species, 
 have the most powerful influence in raising emotions and passions ; 
 and, as speech is the most powerful of all the means by which one 
 human being can display itself to another, the objects of the eye 
 must so far yield preference to those of the ear. With respect to 
 inanimate objects of sight, sounds may be so contrived as to raise 
 both terror and mirth beyond what can be done by any such object. 
 Music has a commanding influence over the mind, especially in 
 conjunction with words. Objects of sight may indeed contribute 
 to the same end, but more faintly ; as where a love poem is re- 
 hearsed in a shady grove, or on the bank of a purling stream. But 
 sounds, which are vastly more ductile and various, readily accom- 
 pany all the social affections expressed in a poem, especially emotions 
 of love and pity. 
 
 93. Music, having at command a great variety of emotions, may, 
 like many objects of sight, be made to promote luxury and effemi- 
 nacy ; of which we have instances without number, especially in 
 vocal music. But, with respect to its pure and refined pleasures, 
 music goes hand in hand with gardening and architecture, her sister 
 arts, in humanizing and polishing the mind ; of which none can 
 doubt who have felt the charms of music. But, if authority be 
 required, the following passage from a grave historian, eminent for 
 solidity of judgment, must have the greatest weight. Polybius, 
 speaking of the people of Cynsetha, an Arcadian tribe, has the fol- 
 lowing train of reflections : " As the Arcadians have always been 
 celebrated for their piety, humanity, and hospitality, we are naturally 
 led to inquire, how it has happened that the Cynsetheans are distin- 
 guished from the other Arcadians, by savage manners, wickedness, 
 and cruelty. I can attribute this difference to no other cause, but 
 a total neglect among the people of Cynaetha, of an institution 
 established among the ancient Arcadians with a nice regard to their 
 manners and their climate : I mean the discipline and exercise of 
 that genuine and perfect music, which is useful in every state, but 
 necessary to the Arcadians; whose manners, originally rigid and 
 austere, made it of the greatest importance to incorporate this art 
 into the very essence of their government." 
 
 No one will be surprised to hear such influence attributed tc 
 music, when, witfi respect to another of the fine arts, he finds a living 
 instance of an influence no less powerful. It is unhappily indeed 
 the reverse of the former : for it has done more mischief by corrupting 
 British manners, than music ever did good in purifying those ot 
 Arcadia. 
 
 94. The licentious court of Charles IL, among its many disorders, 
 engendered a pest, the virulence of which subsists to this day. The 
 
 92. Comparative influence of sounds and of visible objects to raise e-notions and passion* 
 Influence of rational beings ; of epeech ; of music. 
 W5. Music and her fiister art*. Polybiu*' aocouut of tbs aneioat Arcadians.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 47 
 
 English comedy, copying the manners of the court, became abomi- 
 nably licentious; and continues so (1763) with very little softening. 
 It is there an established rule, to deck out the chief characters with 
 eveiy vice in fashion, however gross. But, as such characters viewed 
 in a true light would be disgustful, care is taken to disguise their 
 deformity under the embellishments of wit, sprightliness, and good 
 humor, which in mixed company makes a capital figure. It requires 
 not much thought to discover the poisonous influence of such plays. 
 A young man of figure, emancipated at last from the severity and 
 restraint of a college education, repairs' to the capital disposed to 
 every sort of excess. The playhouse becomes his favorite amuse- 
 ment ; and he is enchanted with the gayety and splendor of the chief 
 personages. The disgust which vice gives him at first, soon wears 
 off, to make way for new notions, more liberal in his opinion ; by 
 which a sovereign contempt for religion, and a declared war upon 
 the chastity of wives, maids, and widows, are converted from being 
 infamous vices to be .fashionable virtues. The infection spreads 
 gradually through all ranks, and becomes universal. How gladly 
 would I listen to any one who should undertake to prove, that what 
 I have been describing is chimerical ! But the dissoluteness of our 
 young men of birth will not suffer me to doubt of its reality. Sir 
 Harry "Wildair has completed many a rake ; and in the Suspicious 
 Husband, Hanger, the humble imitator of Sir Harry, has had no 
 slight influence in spreading that character. What woman, tinc- 
 tured with the playhouse morals, would not be the sprightly, the 
 witty, though dissolute Lady Townly, rather than the cold, the sober, 
 though virtuous Lady Grace ? How odious ought writers to be who 
 thus- employ the talents they have from their Maker most traitorously 
 against himself, by endeavoring to corrupt and disfigure his crea- 
 tures ! If the comedies of Congreve did not rack him with remorse 
 in his last moments, he must have been lost to all sense of virtue. 
 Nor will it afford any excuse to such writers, that their comedies are 
 entertaining : unless it could be maintained, that wit and sprightli- 
 ness are better suited to a vicious than a virtuous character. It 
 would grieve me to think so ; and the direct contrary is exemplified 
 in the Merry Wives of Windsor, where we are highly entertained 
 with the conduct of two ladies not more remarkable for mirth and 
 spirit than for the strictes* purity of manners. 
 
 SECTION III. + 
 Causes of the Emotion of Joy and Sorrow. 
 
 95. THIS subject was purposely reserved for a separate section, 
 because it could not, with perspicuity, be handled under the general 
 
 94 Th corrupting influone* of English cotneJy. Ho 1 *' shown
 
 4:3 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 head. An emotion accompanied with desire is termed a passion ; 
 and when the desire is fulfilled, the passion is said to be gratified. 
 Now, the gratification of every passion must be pleasant ; for noth- 
 ing can be more natural, than that the accomplishment of any 
 wish or desire should affect us with joy : I know of no exception but 
 when a man stung with remorse desires to chastise and punish him- 
 self. The joy of gratification is properly called an emotion ; be- 
 cause it makes us happy in our present situation, and is ultimate iu 
 its nature, not having a tendency to any thing beyond. On the 
 other hand, sorrow must be the result of an event contrary to what 
 we desire ; for if the accomplishment of desire produce joy, it is 
 equally natural that disappointment should produce sorrow. 
 
 An event, fortunate or unfortunate, that falls out by accident, 
 without being foreseen or thought of, and which therefore could not 
 be the object of desire, raiseth an emotion of the same kind with 
 that now mentioned ; but the cause must be different ; for there can 
 be no gratification where there is no desire. We have not, how- 
 ever, far to seek for a cause : it is involved in the nature of man, 
 that he cannot be indifferent to an event that concerns him or any 
 of his connections ; if it be fortunate, it gives him joy ; if unfortu- 
 nate, it gives him sorrow. 
 
 96. In no situation doth joy rise to a greater height, than upon 
 the removal of any violent distress of mind or body ; and in no 
 situation doth sorrow rise to a greater height, than upon the removal 
 of what makes us happy. The sensibility of our nature serves in 
 part to account for these effects. Other causes concur. One is, 
 that violent distress always raises an anxious desire to be free from 
 it ; and therefore its removal is a high gratification : nor can we be 
 possessed of any thing that makes us happy, without wishing its 
 continuance ; and therefore its removal, by crossing our wishes, must 
 create sorrow 7 . The principle of contrast is another cause : an 
 emotion of joy arising upon the removal of pain, is increased by 
 contrast when we reflect upon our former distress : an emotion of 
 sorrow, upon being deprived of any good, is increased by contrast 
 when we reflect upon our former happiness : 
 
 Jaffier. There's not a wretch that lives on common charity, 
 But's happier than me. For I have known 
 The luscious sweets of plenty : every night 
 Have slept with soft content about my head, 
 And never wak'd but to a joyful morning. 
 Yet now must fall like a full ear of corn, 
 Whose blossom 'scap'd, yet's wither'd in the ripening. 
 
 Venice Preserved, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 it hath always been reckoned difficult to account for the extreme 
 pleasure that follows a cessation of bodily pain ; as when one is'-re- 
 
 95. When an emotion is called a passion. Why gratified passion is pleasant Excep- 
 tion. Why the joy of gratification is termed an emotion. The emotion raised by M 
 accidental ovcnt, whether fortunate or unfortunate.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 iieved from the rack, or from a violent fit of the stone. What is 
 said explains this difficulty, in the easiest and simplest manner : 
 cessation of bodily pain is not of itself a pleasure, for a non-ens or 
 a negative can neither give pleasure nor pain ; but man is so framed 
 by nature as to rejoice when he is eased of pain, as well as to be 
 sorrowful when deprived of any enjoyment. This branch of our 
 constitution is chiefly the cause of the pleasure. The gratification 
 of desire comes in as an accessory cause ; and contrast joins its 
 force, by increasing the sense of our present happiness. In the case 
 of an acute pain, a peculiar circumstance contributes its part : the 
 brisk circulation of the animal spirits occasioned by acute pain con- 
 tinues after the pain is gone, and produceth a very pleasant emotion. 
 Sickness hath not that effect, because it is always attended with a 
 depression of spirits. 
 
 97. Hence it is, that the gradual diminution of acute pain, occa- 
 sions a mixed emotion, partly pleasant, partly painful : the partial 
 diminution produceth joy in proportion ; but the remaining pam 
 balanceth the joy. This mixed emotion, however, hath no long en- 
 durance ; for the joy that ariseth upon the diminution of pain soon 
 vanisheth, and leaveth in the undisturbed possession that degree of 
 pam which remains; 
 
 What is above observed about bodily pain, is equally applicable 
 to the distresses of the mind ; and accordingly it is a common arti- 
 fice, to prepare us for the reception of good news by alarming our 
 fears. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 Sympathetic Emotion of Virtue, and its cause. 
 
 98. ONE feeling there is that merits a deliberate view, for its 
 singularity as well as utility. Whether to call it an emotion or a 
 passion, seems uncertain : the former it can scarce be, because it in- 
 volves desire ; the latter it can scarce be, because it has no object 
 But this feeling, and its nature, will be best understood from ex- 
 amples. A signal act of gratitude produceth in the spectator or 
 reader, not only love or esteem for the author, but also a separate 
 feeling, being a vagu? feeling of gratitude without an object ; a 
 feeling, however, that disposes the spectator or reader to acts of 
 gratitude, more than upon an ordinary occasion. This feeling is 
 overlooked by writers upon ethics ; but a man may be convinced of 
 its reality, by attentively watching his own heart when he thinks 
 
 90. In what cases do joy and sorrow rise to the greatest height? The causes assigned. 
 Quotation from Venice f retimed. Account for the pleasure that follows a cessation or 
 bodily _pain. . 
 
 9L Emotion produced by the pradnaJ diminution of acute pain. Distresses of tn 
 tulnd. 
 
 U
 
 50 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 warmly of any signal act of gratitude : he will be conscious of the 
 feeling, as distinct from the esteem or admiration he has for the 
 grateful person. The feeling is singular in the following respect, 
 that it is accompanied with a desire to perform acts of gratitude, 
 without having any object ; though in that state, the mind, won- 
 derfully bent on an object, neglects no opportunity to vent itself: 
 any act of kindness or good-will, that would pass unregarded upon 
 another occasion, is greedily seized ; and the vague feeling is con- 
 verted into a real passion of gratitude : in such a state, favors are 
 returned double. 
 
 99. In like manner, a courageous action produceth in a spectator 
 the passion of admiration directed to the author : and besides this 
 well-known passion, a separate feeling is raised in the spectator, 
 which may be called an emotion of courage; because, while under 
 its influence, he is conscious of a boldness and intrepidity beyond 
 what is usual, and longs for proper objects upon which to exert this 
 emotion : 
 
 Spuraantemqne dari, pecora inter inertia, votis 
 Optataprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem. 
 
 JSneid, iv. 158. 
 
 Non altramente ill tauro, ove 1'irriti 
 Geloso amor con stimoli pungenti, 
 Horribilmente mugge, e co'muggiti 
 Gli spirti in se risveglia, e 1'ire ardenti : 
 E'l corno aguzza ai tronchi, a par ch' inviti 
 Con vani colpi a'la battaglia i venti. 
 
 Tasso, Canto vii. at. 55. 
 
 So full of valor tliat they smote the air 
 For breathing in their faces. 
 
 Tempest, Act IV. Sc. 4. 
 
 The -emotions raised by music, independent of words, must be all 
 of this nature : courage roused by martial music performed upon 
 instruments without a voice, cannot be directed to any object ; nor 
 can grief or pity raised by melancholy music of the same kind have 
 an object. 
 
 100, For another example, let us figure some grand and heroic 
 action, highly agreeable to the spectator : besides veneration for the 
 author, the spectator feels in himself an unusual dignity of character, 
 which disposeth him to great and noble actions ; and herein chiefly 
 consists the extreme delight every one hath in the histories of con- 
 querors and heroes. 
 
 This singular feeling, which may be termed the sympathetic emo- 
 tion of virtue, resembles, in one respect, the well-known appetites 
 that lead to the propagation and preservation of the species. The 
 appetites of'hunger, thirst, and animal love, arise in the mind before 
 they are directed to any object ; and in no case whatever is the 
 
 98. Peelings produced by contemplating a signal act of gratitude. In what does their 
 singularity consist? 
 
 99. The effect of contemplf ting a courageous action. The effect of martial and of inul- 
 ancholy music.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 51 
 
 inind more solicitous for a jrroper object, than when under the in- 
 fluence of any of these appetites. 
 
 The feeling I have endeavored to unfold, may well be termed the 
 sympathetic emotion of virtue ; for it is raised in the spectator, or 
 in a reader, by virtuous actions of every kind, and by no other sort. 
 When we contemplate a virtuous action, which fails not to prompt 
 our love for the author, our propensity at the same time to such 
 actions is so much enlivened, as to become for a time an actual 
 emotion. But no man hath a propensity to vice as such : on the 
 contrary, a wicked deed disgusts him, and makes him abhor the 
 author ; and this abhorrence is a strong antidote against vice, as 
 long as any impression remains of the wicked action. 
 
 101. In a rough road, a halt to view a fine country is refreshing ; 
 and here a delightful prospect opens upon us. It is indeed wonderful 
 to observe what incitements there are to virtue in the human frame : 
 justice is perceived to be our duty, and it is guarded by natural 
 punishments, from which the guilty never escape ; to perform noble 
 and generous actions, a warm sense of their dignity and superior 
 excellence is a most efficacious incitement. And to leave virtue in 
 no quarter unsupported, here is unfolded an admirable contrivance, 
 bv which good example commands the heart, and adds to virtue the 
 force of habit. We approve every virtuous action, and bestow our 
 affection on the author ; but if virtuous actions produced no other 
 effect upon us, good example would not have great influence : the 
 sympathetic emotion under consideration bestows upon good ex- 
 ample the utmost influence, by prompting us to imitate what we 
 admire. This singular emotion will readily find an object to exert 
 itself upon : and at any rate, it never exists without producing some 
 effect ; because virtuous emotions of that sort, are in some degree an 
 exercise of virtue : they are a mental exercise at least, if they appear 
 not externally. And every exercise of virtue, internal and external, 
 leads to habit ; for a disposition or propensity of the mind, like a 
 limb of the body, becomes stronger by exercise. Proper means, at 
 the same time, being ever at hand to raise this sympathetic emotion, 
 its frequent reiteration may, in a good measure, supply the want of 
 a more complete exercise. Thus, by proper discipline, every person 
 may acquire a settled habit of virtue : intercourse with men of worth, 
 histories of generous and disinterested actions, and frequent medita- 
 tion upon them, keep the sympathetic emotion in constant exercise, 
 which by degrees introduceth a habit, and confirms the authority of 
 virtue : with respect to education in particular, what a spacious and 
 commodious avenue to the heart of a young person is here opened ! 
 
 100. Whence the delight taken in reading the history of heroes and conquerors. R- 
 narks upon the sympathetic emotion of virtue. Has man a propensity to vice at fitch f 
 
 101. Incitements to virtue in the human frame. The effect of every cxercis* of virtu* 
 How habits of virtue may be acquired.
 
 52 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 Xn many instances one Emotion is productive of another. The saint 
 of Passions. 
 
 102. IN the first chapter it is observed, that the relations by 
 which things are connected, have a remarkable influence on the 
 train of our ideas. I here add, that they have an influence, no less 
 remarkable, in the production of emotions and passions. Beginning 
 with the former, an agreeable object makes every thing connected 
 with it appear agreeable ; for the mind gliding sweetly and easily 
 through related objects, carries along the agreeable properties it 
 meets with in its passage, a"nd bestows them on the present object, 
 which thereby appears more agreeable than when considered apart. 
 No relation is more intimate than that between a being and its 
 qualities: and accordingly, every quality in a hero, even the slightest, 
 makes a greater figure than more substantial qualities in others. The 
 propensity of carrying along agreeable properties from one object to 
 another, is sometimes so vigorous as to convert defects into properties: 
 the wry neck of Alexander was imitated by his courtiers as a real 
 beauty, without intention to flatter: Lady Percy, speaking of her 
 husband Hotspur, 
 
 By his light 
 
 Did all the chivalry of England move, 
 
 To do brave acts. He was indeed the glass, 
 
 "Wherein the noble youths did dress themselves. 
 
 He had no legs that practised not his gait : 
 
 And speaking thick, which Nature made his blemish, 
 
 Became the accents of the valiant: 
 
 For those who could speak slow and tardily, 
 
 Would turn their own perfection to abuse, 
 
 To seem like him. 
 
 Second Part, Henry IV. Act II. Sc. 6. 
 
 103. The same communication of passion obtains in the relation 
 of principal and accessory. Pride, of which self is the object, ex- 
 pands itself upon a house, a garden, servants, equipage, and every 
 accessory. A lover addresseth his fair one's glove in the following 
 
 terms: 
 
 Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine. 
 
 Veneration for relics has the same natural foundation ; and that 
 foundation, with the superstructure of superstition, has occasioned 
 much blind devotion to the most ridiculous objects to the supposed 
 milk, for example, of the Virgin Mary, or the supposed blood of St. 
 
 102. Influence of the relations of things in producing emotions and passions. The in- 
 fluence of an agreeable object on connected objects. The relation of a being and its quali- 
 ties. The propensity of carrying along agreeable properties from one object to another. 
 Thft wry n*ok of Akxan'ler. The speech of Lady Perry concerning Hotspur.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 53 
 
 Januarius * A temple is in a proper sense an accessory of the 
 deity to which it is dedicated : Diana is chaste, and not only her 
 temple, but the very icicle which hangs on it, must partake of that 
 
 property : 
 
 The noble sister of Poplicola, 
 The moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle 
 That's curdled by the frost from purest snow, 
 And hangs on Clan's temple. 
 
 Corwlanus, Act V. Sc. 8. 
 
 Thus it is, that the respect and esteem which the great, the pow 
 erful, the opulent naturally command, are in some measure com 
 municated to their dress, to their manners, and to all their connec- 
 tions : and it is this communication of properties, which, prevailing 
 even over the natural taste of beauty, helps to give currency to what 
 is called the fashion. t 
 
 104. By means of the same easiness of communication, every b; 
 quality in an enemy is spread upon all his connections. The sen- 
 tence pronounced against Ravaillac for the assassination of Henry 
 IV. of France ordains that the house in which he was born should 
 be razed to the ground, and that no other building should ever be 
 erected on that spot. Enmity will extend passion to objects still 
 less connected. The Swiss suffer no peacocks to live, because the 
 Duke of Austria, their ancient enemy, wears a peacock's tail in his 
 crest A relation more slight and transitory than that of enmity, 
 may have the same effect : thus the bearer of bad tidings becomes 
 an object of aversion : 
 
 Fellow, begone ; I cannot brook thy sight ; 
 This news hath made theo a most ugly man. 
 
 King John, Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news 
 Hath but a losing office >. and his tongue 
 Sounds ever after, as a sullen bell 
 Eemember'd tolling a departed friend. 
 
 Second Part, Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 8. 
 
 In borrowing thus properties from one object to bestow them on 
 another, it is not any object indifferently that will answer. The ob 
 iect from which properties are borrowed, must be such as to warm 
 the mind and enliven the imagination. Thus the beauty of a woman, 
 which inflames the imagination, is readily communicated to a glove, 
 as above mentioned ; but the greatest beauty a glove is susceptible 
 
 \,\j (ii4iiirvun-j, i tiuo " N, i "j ^ 
 
 the high-priest, mid Judas Iscariot I 
 
 108. The communication of passion In the relationof principa 
 Love. Veneration for relics.-A temple.-Dlana.-The fashion.
 
 54 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 of, touches the mind so little, as to be entirely dropped in passing 
 from it to the owner. In general, it may be observed, that any 
 dress upon a fine woman is becoming ; but that ornaments upon 
 one who is homely, must be elegant indeed to have any remarkable 
 effect in mending her appearance.* 
 
 105. The emotions produced as above may properly be termed 
 secondary, being occasioned either by antecedent emotions or ante- 
 cedent passions, which in that respect may be termed primary. 
 And to complete the present theory, I must add, that a secondary 
 emotion may readily swell into a passion for the accessory object, 
 provided the accessory be a proper object for desire. Thus it hap- 
 pens that one passion is often productive of another : examples are 
 without number ; the sole difficulty is a proper choice. I begin 
 with self-love, and the power it hath to generate love to children. 
 Every man, besides making part of a greater system, like a comet, a 
 planet, or satellite only, hath a less system of his own, in the centre 
 of which he represents the sun darting his fire and heat all around ; 
 especially upon his nearest connections : the connection between a 
 man and his children, fundamentally that of cause and effect, be- 
 comes, by the addition of other circumstances, the completes^ that 
 can be among individuals ; and therefore self-love, the most vigor- 
 ous of all passions, is readily expanded upon children. The second- 
 ary emotion they produce by means of their connection, is suffi- 
 ciently strong to move desire even from the beginning ; and the 
 new passion swells by degrees, till it rivals in some measure self-love, 
 the primary passion. To demonstrate the truth of this theory, I 
 urge the following argument. Remorse for betraying a friend, or 
 murdering an enemy in cold blood, makes a man even hate himself: 
 in that state, he is not conscious of affection to his children, but 
 rather of disgust or ill-will. What cause can be assigned for that 
 change, other than the hatred he has to himself, which is expanded 
 upon his children. And if so, may we not with equal reason derive 
 from self-love, some part at least of the affection a man generally 
 has to them ? 
 
 106. The affection a man bears to his blood relations, depends 
 
 * A house and gardens surrounded with pleasant fields, all m good order, 
 bestow greater lustre xipon the owner than at first wUl be imagined. The 
 beauties of the former are, by intimacy of connection, readily communicated 
 to the latter ; and if it have been done at the expense of the owner himself, we 
 naturally transfer to him whatever of design, art, or taste appears in the per- 
 formance. Should not this be a strong motive with proprietors to embellish 
 and improve, their fields ? 
 
 104 Bad qualities in an enemy diffused. Sentence against Ravaillac. The Swiss against 
 peacocks. The Hearer of bad tidings. Illustrations from Shakspeare. In borrowing 
 properties from one object to bestow them on another, not every object will answer. 1 
 
 105. Distinction between secondary and primary emotions. One passion productive of 
 notier. Self-love produces love to childern. Man compared to tie solar system. - 
 hat> d, arising from a base act, is extended to his children.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 partly :>n the same principle : self-love is also expanded upon thorn ; 
 and tie communicated passion is more or less vigorous in proportion 
 to the degree of connection. Nor doth self-love rest here : it is, by 
 the force of connection, communicated even to things inanimate ; 
 and hence the affection a man bears to his property, and to every 
 thing he calls his own. 
 
 Friendship, less vigorous than self-love, is, for that reason, less apt 
 to communicate itself to the friend's children, or other relations. 
 Instances, however, are not wanting of such communicated passion, 
 arising from friendship when it is strong. Friendship may go higher 
 in the matrimonial state than in any other condition ; and Otway, 
 in Venice Preserved, takes advantage of that circumstance : in the 
 scene where Belvidera sues to her father for pardon, she is repre- 
 sented as pleading her mother's merits, and the resemblance she 
 bore to her mother : 
 
 Priuli. My daughter ! 
 
 Beloidera. Yes, your daughter, by a mother 
 Virtuous and noble, faithful to your honor, 
 Obedient to your will, kind to your wishes, 
 Dear to your arms. By all the joys she gave you. 
 When in her blooming years she was your treasure, 
 Look kindly on me ; in my face behold 
 The lineaments of hers y' have kissed so often, 
 Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off child. 
 
 And again, 
 
 Belvidera. Lay me, I beg you, lay me 
 By the dear ashes of my tender mother : 
 She would have pitied me, had fate yet spard'd her. 
 
 Act v . Sc. 1. 
 
 This explains why any meritorious action, or any illustrious qualifi- 
 cation, in my son or my friend, is apt to make me ovor -value my 
 self: if I value rny friend's wife or son upon account of their con- 
 nection with him, it is still more natural that I should value myself 
 upon account of my connection with him. 
 
 107. Friendship, or any other social affection, may, by changing 
 the object, produce opposite effects. 
 
 Pity, by interesting us strongly for the person in distress, must of 
 consequence inflame our resentment against the author of the dis- 
 tress : for, in general, the affection we have for any man, generates 
 in us good-will to his friends, and ill-will to his enemies. Shaks- 
 peare shows great art in the funeral oration pronounced by Antony 
 over the body of Caesar. He first endeavors to excite grief in the 
 hearers, by dwelling upon the deplorable loss of so great a man : 
 this passion, interesting them strongly in Caesar's fate, could not fail 
 to produce a lively sense of the treachery and cruelty of the con- 
 
 106. The affection a man bears to blood relations, and even to thimp V 18 "'" 181 *; 
 on what?-Communicated passion arising from friendship; especially in the matrirnon 
 state. Instance from Venice Presereef. The effect upon us of any meritorious qual 
 ation in a son or friend
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 npirators; an infallible method to inflame the resentment of tLe 
 people beyond all bounds : 
 
 Antony. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now 
 
 You all do know this mantle. 1 remember 
 
 The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 
 
 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent, 
 
 That dav he overcame the Nervii 
 
 Look ! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through ; 
 
 See what a rent the envious Casca made. 
 
 Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb d, 
 
 And, a D s he pluok'd his cursed steel away, 
 
 Mark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it ! 
 
 Ae rushing out of doors, to be resolved, 
 
 If Brutus so unkindly knock'd or no : 
 
 For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar s angel. 
 
 *udge, oh you &ods 1 how dearly Caesar loved him! 
 
 This, this, was the unkindest cut of all; 
 
 For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 
 
 Ingratitude, more strong than traitor s arms. 
 
 Quite vanquish'd him ; then burst las mighty heart, 
 
 And, in his mantle muffling up his iace, 
 
 Which all the while ran olood, great Caesar tell, 
 
 Even at the base of Pompey's statue. 
 
 what a fall was there, my countrymen 1 
 
 Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 
 
 Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us. 
 
 0, now you weep ; and I perceive you feel 
 
 fcW^r^KK^gw- 
 
 Our Caesar's vesture wounded? look you here 
 
 Here is himself, marr'd as you see, bjMagan^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Had Antony endeavored to excite his audience to vengeance with- 
 out paving the way by raising their grief, his speech would not have 
 
 "foV'H^SZ'dissocial passions, produce effects directly 
 opposite to thos'e above mentioned. If I hate a man ^ children 
 hiLlations, nay his property, become to me objects of aversion . his 
 enemies, on the other hand, I am disposed to esteem. 
 
 The more slight and transitory relations are not favorable to tl 
 commutation of passion. Anger, when sudden and violent, one 
 ScTtion : for, if the person who did the injury be removed out of 
 reach Ta P^ion will vent itself against any related object, how- 
 eter slSt the relation be. Another exception makes a greater 
 feure agroup of beings or things becomes often the object of a 
 Smuntcfed passion, even where the relation of the individuals to 
 trrSpfent i?but s right. Thus, though I put no value upon * 
 6ir!Xma P n ?or living in the same town with myself; my townsmen, 
 LteveTconside V red g in a body, are preferred before other. This is 
 still more remarkable with . respect to my countrymen m gene , 
 the grandeur of the complex objects swells the passion of self-love 
 
 ;^^A 
 
 adapted to excite to vengemce.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 57 
 
 ly the relation I have to my native country; and every passion, 
 when it swells beyond its ordinary bounds, hath a peculiar tendency 
 to expand itself along related objects. In fact, instances are not 
 rare, of persons, who upon all occasions are willing to sacrifice their 
 lives and fortunes for their country. Such influence upon the mind 
 of man hath a complex object, or, more properly speaking, a general 
 term. 
 
 109. The sense of order hath influence in the communication of 
 passion. It is a common observation, that a man's affection to his 
 parents is less vigorous than to his children : the order of nature in 
 descending to children, aids the transition of the affection: the 
 ascent to a parent, contrary to that order, makes the transition more 
 difficult. Gratitude to a benefactor is readily extended to his 
 children ; but not so readily to his parents. The difference, how- 
 ever, between the natural and inverted order, is not so considerable, 
 but that it may be balanced by other circumstances. Pliny gives 
 an account of a woman of rank condemned to die for a crime ; 
 and, to avoid public shame, detained in prison to die of hunger : 
 her life being prolonged beyond expectation, it was discovered that 
 she was nourished by sucking milk from the breasts of her daughter. 
 This instance of filial piety, which aided the transition, and made 
 ascent no less easy than descent is commonly, procured a pardon to 
 the mother, and a pension to both. The story of Androcles and 
 the lion may be accounted for in the same manner : the admira- 
 tion, of which the lion was the object for his kindness and grati- 
 tude to Audrocles, produced good-will to Androcles, and a pardon 
 of his crime. 
 
 And this leads to other observations upon communicated passions. 
 I love my daughter less after she is married, and my mother less 
 after a second marriage : the marriage of my son or of my father 
 diminishes not my affection so remarkably. The same observation 
 holds with respect to friendship, gratitude, and other passions : the 
 love I bear my friend, is .but faintly extended to his married 
 daughter : the resentment I have against a man is readily extended 
 against children who make part of his family; not so readily 
 against children who are foris-f ami Hated,* especially by marriage. 
 This difference is also more remarkable in daughters than in sons. 
 These are curious facts ; and, in order to discover the cause, we 
 must examine minutely that operation of the mind by which a 
 passion is extended to a related object. In considering two things 
 as related, the mind is not stationary, but passeth and repasseth 
 from the one to the other, viewing the relation from each of them 
 
 [* Foris-f amiliated ; persons, who having received a portion of the paternal 
 estate, give up all title to a further share.] 
 
 108. Operation of hatred and other lisaocial affections. Transitory relatlcLi, n< t favor- 
 able to we communication of passion. Two exception*. 
 
 3*
 
 58 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 perhaps oftener than once ; which holds more especially in consider- 
 ing a relation between things of unequal rank, as between the cause 
 and the effect, or between a principal and an accessory : in contem- 
 platino- for example, the relation between a building and,, its orna- 
 ments" the mind is not satisfied with a single transition from the 
 former to the latter ; it must also view the relation, beginning at the 
 latter, and passing from it to the former. This vibration of the mind 
 in passing and repassing between things related, explains the facts 
 above mentioned : the mind passeth easily from the father to the 
 daughter ; but where the daughter is married, this new relation 
 attracts the mind, and obstructs, in some measure, the return from 
 the daughter to the father ; and any circumstance that obstructs 
 the mind in passing and repassing between its objects, occasions a 
 like obstruction in the communication of passion. The marriage of 
 a male obstructs less the easiness of transition, because a male i: 
 less sunk by the relation of marriage than a female. 
 
 110 The foregoing instances are of passion communicated trom 
 one object to another. But one passion may be generated by 
 another, without change of object. It in general is observable, that 
 a passion paves the way to others similar in their tone, whether 
 directed to the same or to a different object; for the mind, heated 
 by any passion, is, in that state, more susceptible of a new im- 
 pression in a similar tone, than when cool and quiescent. It is a 
 common observation, that pity generally produceth friendship for a 
 person in distress. One reason is, that pity interests us in its o 
 feet and recommends all its virtuous qualities: female beauty 
 accordingly shows best in distress ; being more apt to inspire love 
 than upon an ordinary occasion. But the chief reason is, that 
 pity, warming and melting the spectator, prepares him for the recep- 
 tion of other tender affections; and pity is readily improved into 
 love or friendship, by a certain tenderness and concern for the o 
 ject, winch is the tone of both passions. The aptitude of pity t< 
 produce love, is beautifully illustrated by Shakspeare : 
 Othello. Her father loved me ; oft invited me 
 
 Still question'd me the story of my life, 
 
 From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes, 
 
 That I had past. 
 
 I ran it through, even from my boyish days, 
 
 To th' very moment that he bade me tell it : 
 
 Of hair-breadth 'scapes in tti' imminent deadly breach ; 
 
 Of being taken by the insolent foe, 
 
 And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence,
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 09 
 
 And with it all my travel'u history. 
 
 All these to hear 
 
 Would Desdemona seriously incline ; 
 
 Bu ; still the house-affairs would draw her thence, 
 
 Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, 
 
 She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear, 
 
 Devour up my discourse : which I observing, 
 
 Took once a pliant hour, and found good means 
 
 To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, 
 
 That I would nil my pilgrimage dilate, 
 
 Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 
 
 But not distinctively. 1 did consent, 
 
 And often did beguile her of her tears, 
 
 When 1 did speak of some distressful stroke 
 
 That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, 
 
 She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : 
 
 She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange 
 
 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful 
 
 She wish'd she had not heard it : yet she wish'd 
 
 That heaven had made her such a man : she thank'd me, 
 
 And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, 
 
 I should but teach him how to tell my story, 
 
 And that would woo her. On this hint I spake ; 
 
 She loved me for the dangers I had past, 
 
 And I loved her, that she did pity them : . 
 
 This only is the witchcraft I have used. 
 
 OtAetto, Act I. Sc. 8. 
 
 In this instance it will bo observed that admiration concurred with 
 pity to produce love. 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 Causes of the Passions of Fear and Anger. 
 
 111. FEAR and anger, to answer the purposes of nature, are hap 
 pily so contrived as to operate sometimes instinctively, sometimes 
 deliberately, according to circumstances. As far as deliberate, they 
 fall in with the general system, and require no particular explanation : 
 if any object have a threatening appearance, reason suggests means 
 to avoid the danger : if a man be injured, the first thing he thinks 
 of, is what revenge he shall take, and what means he shall employ. 
 These particulars are no less obvious than natural. But, as the 
 passions of fear and anger, in their instinctive state, are less familiar 
 to us, it may be acceptable to the reader to have them accurately 
 delineated. He may also possibly be glad of an opportunity to have 
 the nature of instinctive passions more fully explained than there was 
 formerly opportunity to do. I begin with fear. 
 
 112. Self-preservation is a matter of too great importance to be 
 left entirely to the conduct of reason. Nature hath acted here with 
 her usual foresight. Fear and anger are passions that move us to 
 
 110. One passion generated by another without chance of object Pity (rives rice to 
 what ? When female beauty sh >ws to best advantage. Why ? Quotation from OMrllo. 
 lit. Fear and anpar operating InrttnoMvoly and ilollberntelv.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 act sometimes deliberately, sometimes instinctively, according^ to 
 circumstances; and by operating in the latter manner they fre- 
 quently afford security when the slower operations of deliberate 
 reason would be too late: we take nourishment commonly not by 
 the direction of reason, but by the impulse of hunger and thirst; 
 and in the same manner, we avoid danger by the impulse ot tear, 
 which often, before there is time for reflection, placeth us in safety. 
 Here we have an illustrious instance of wisdom in the formation ol 
 man for it is not within the reach of fancy to conceive any thing 
 more' artfully contrived to answer its purpose, than the instinctive 
 passion of fear, which, upon the first surmise of danger, operates 
 stantaneously. So little doth the passion, in such instances, depend 
 on reason, that it frequently operates in contradiction to it: a man 
 who is not upon his guard, cannot avoid shrinking at a blow, though 
 he knows it to be aimed in sport; nor avoid closing his eyes at the 
 approach of what mav hurt him, though conscious that he i; 
 danger. And it also operates by impelling us to act even where we 
 are conscious that our interposition can be of no service: if a pas- 
 sao-e-boat, in a brisk gale, bear much to one side, I cannot avoid 
 applying the whole force of my shoulders to set it upright: and if 
 my Lie stumble, my hands and knees are instantly at work t 
 
 prevent him from tailing. . 
 
 113 Fear provides for self-preservation by flying from harm 
 anger, by repelling it. Nothing, indeed, can ^better contnvedtc 
 repel or prevent injury, than anger or resentment : destitute of that 
 Son men, like defenceless lambs, would lie constantly open to 
 mischief* Deliberate anger caused by a voluntary injury, is 
 well known to require any explanation: if my desire be to resent 
 an affront, I must use means ; and these means must be discovered 
 by reflection: deliberation is here requisite ; and in that case 
 passion seldom exceeds just bounds. But where anger impels 
 suddenly to return a blow, even without thinking of doing mischief, 
 the passion is instinctive : and it is chiefly m such a case that i 
 rash and ungovernable, because it operates blindly, without affording 
 
 for example, on I tender part, which, ruffling the temper and un- 
 hinging the mind, is in its tone similar to anger ; and when a man 
 is thus beforehand disposed to anger, he is not nice nor scrupul< 
 about an object ; the person who gave the stroke, however accident, 
 ally is by an inflammable temper held a proper object, merely for 
 having occasioned the pain. It is still more remarkable, that a 
 
 ave courage.- 
 
 1^7^7^tinctive action of fear.-Wisdomplanttng la m 
 the principle of fear.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 61 
 
 stock or a stone by which I am hurt, becomes an object of my re- 
 sentment : I am violently excited to crush it to atoms. The pas- 
 sion, indeed, in that case, can be but a single flash; for being 
 entirely irrational, it must vanish with the first reflection. Nor is 
 that irrational effect confined to bodily pain : internal distress, when 
 excessive, may be the occasion of effects equally irrational : pertur- 
 bation of mind, occasioned by the apprehension of having lost a dear 
 friend, will, in a fiery temper, produce momentary sparks of anger 
 against that very friend, however innocent : thus Shakspeare, in the 
 
 Tempest, 
 
 Alonzo. - Sit down and rest. 
 
 . 
 
 Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it 
 No longer for my flatterer ; he is drown'd 
 Whom thus we stray to find, and the senjnocks 
 Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him po. 
 
 Act III. Sc. 8. 
 
 The final words, Well, let him go, are an expression of impatience 
 and anger at Ferdinand, whose absence greatly distressed his father, 
 dreading that he was lost in the storm. This nice operation of the 
 human mind, is by Shakspeare exhibited upon another occasion, 
 and finely painted in the tragedy of Othello : lago, by dark hints 
 and suspicious circumstances, had roused Othello's jealousy ; which, 
 however, appeared too slightly founded to be vented upon Desde- 
 mona, its proper object. The perturbation and distress of mind 
 thereby occasioned, produced a momentary resentment against lago, 
 considered as occasioning the jealousy, though innocent : 
 Oth<Mo. Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore ; 
 
 Be sure af.it; give me the ocular proof, 
 
 Or by the wrath of man's eternal soul, 
 
 Thou hadst been better have been born a dog, 
 
 Than answer my waked wrath. 
 laqo. Is't come to this ? 
 Othello. Make me see't ; or, at the least, so prove it, 
 
 That the probation bear no hinge or loop 
 
 To hnng a doubt on : or woe upon thy life ! 
 latio. My noble lord --- 
 Othello, 'if thou dost slander her, and torture me, 
 
 Never pray more ; abandon all remorse ; 
 
 On horror s head horrors accumulate ; 
 
 Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amazed ; 
 
 For nothing canst thou to damnation add 
 
 Greater than that. 
 
 Othettn, Act II. So. 8. 
 
 114. This blind and absurd effect of anger is more gayly illustra- 
 ted by Addison, in a story, the dramatis persona of which are, a 
 cardinal, and a spy retained in pay for intelligence. The cardinal 
 is represented as minuting down the particulars. The spy begins 
 with a low voice, " Such an one the advocate whispered to one of 
 his friends within my hearing, that your Envnence was a very great 
 
 113. How do fear and anger, respectively, provide for the 1 '-P' e " " <*, 
 Operations of deliberate anger; also, of instinctive anger Not P a . rtl f,' l1 ' l L '_ a j 
 Uonal about iU obj 9 cts.-Kffects of mental perturbation, Illustrated In Uw 
 
 ' '" 
 
 Vthrile.
 
 02 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 poltroon ;" and after having given his patron time to take it down, 
 adds, That another called him " a mercenary rascal in a public con- 
 versation." The- cardinal replies, " Very well," and bids him go on. 
 The spy proceeds, and loads him with reports of the same nature, 
 till the" cardinal rises in a fury, calls him an impudent scoundrel, 
 and kicks him out of the room. Spectator, No. 439. 
 
 We meet with instances every day of resentment raised by loss at 
 play, and wreaked on the cards or dice. But auger, a furious pas- 
 sion, is satisfied with a connection still slighter than that of cause 
 and effect ; of which Congreve, in the Mourning Bride, gives one 
 beautiful example : 
 
 Gonsalez. Have comfort. 
 
 Almeria. Cursed be that tongue that bids me be of comfort, 
 Cursed my own tongue that could not move his pity, 
 Cursed these weak hands that could not hold him here, 
 For lie is crone to doom Alphonso's death. 
 
 Act IV. Sc. 8. 
 
 115. I have chosen to exhibit anger in its more rare appearances, 
 for in these we can best trace its nature and extent. In the exam- 
 ples above given, it appears to be an absurd passion, and altogether 
 irrational. But we ought to consider, that it is not the intention of 
 nature to subject this passion, in every instance, to reason and reflec- 
 tion : it was given us to prevent or to repel injuries ; and, like fear, 
 it often operates blindly and instinctively, without the least view to 
 consequences : the very first apprehension of harm, sets it in motion 
 to repel injury by punishment. Were it more cool and deliberate, 
 it would lose its threatening appearance, and be insufficient to guard 
 us against violence. When such is and ought to be the nature of the 
 passion, it is not wonderful to find it exerted irregularly and capri- 
 ciously, as it sometimes is where the mischief is sudden and unfore- 
 seen. All the harm that can be done by the passion in that state 
 !s instantaneous ; for the shortest delay sets all to rights ; and cir- 
 cumstances are seldom so unlucky as to put it in the power of a 
 passionate man to do much harm in an instant. 
 
 Social passions, like the selfish, sometimes drop their character 
 and become instinctive. It is not unusual to find anger and fear 
 respecting others so excessive, as to operate blindly and impetuously, 
 precisely as where they are selfish. 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 
 Emotions caused by Fiction. 
 
 116. THE attentive reader will observe, that hitherto no fiction 
 hath been assigned as the cause of any passion or emotion : whether 
 
 114. The I lind and absurd effect of anger illustrated by Addison. Resentment on losing 
 bv p!ay. 
 
 "115. The useful purpose of tbe principle of instinctive angrer.-- Social passions *oni>tlm 
 bocouio instinrttvB.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 it he a beinz action, or quality, that moveth us, it is supposed to be 
 eaUy S g This observation shows that we have not yet com- 
 pleted our talk; because passions, as all the world know, are moved 
 t : fiction as we'll as by tJuth. In judging "^ * 
 remarkably addicted to truth and reality, one should 1 ttle dream 
 S fiction can have any effect upon him; but man's intellectual 
 faculties are not sufficiently perfect to dive far even into his own 
 4ture I shall take occasion afterwards to show, that the power of 
 fiction to generate passion is an admirable contnvance, subservient 
 fo excellen? purposed: in the mean time, we must try to unfold the 
 means that give fiction such influence over the mind. 
 
 That the objects of our external senses really exist in the way 
 and manner we perceive, is a branch of intuitive knowledge , : v .hen 
 I see a man walking, a tree growing, or -cattle grazmg I cannot 
 doubt but that these objects are really what they appea " 
 
 I be a spectator of any transaction or event, I have a conviction ot 
 the re/existence of the persons engaged, of their words and of 
 their actions. Nature determines us to rely on the veracit of .our 
 senses- for otherwise they could not in any degree answer their 
 end that of laving open things existing and passing around us. 
 
 By the powW 5 memory, a thing formerly seen may be recalled 
 tofhe mind with different degrees of accuracy We commonly are 
 satisfied with a slight recollection of the capital circumstances; and, 
 b such ^Stection, the thing is not figured as in our view, nor any 
 image formed : we retain the consciousness of our present *? 
 and barely remember that formerly we saw that thing. But with 
 respect to an interesting object or event that made , a s rong un- 
 pression, I am not satisfied with a cursory review, but r 
 upon every circumstlhce. I am anperce^y. Averted 
 spectator, and perceive every particular passing in my pre*nce, ^as 
 when I was in reality a spectator. For example, I saw Y^rda 
 Dutiful woman in teare for the loss of an only child, and was 
 Sy moved with her distress: not satisfied with a slight recol- 
 lection or bare remembrance, I ponder upon the melancholy a 
 conceiving myself to be in the place where I * *? jf c f ^JJ 
 every circumstance appears to me as at first: 1 think J see 
 woman in tears, and hear her moans. Hence at may be jus > s aid 
 that in a complete idea of memory there is no past wWJgJ 
 thing recalled to the mind with the accuracy I have been describing 
 is perceived as in our view, and consequently as existing at pre* 
 Past time makes part of an incomplete idea only : 
 reflect that some years ago I was at Oxford, and saw the first 
 afd of the Ratcliff library; and I remember that at a still greater 
 distance of time, I heard a debate in the House of Commons abo 
 standing army. 
 
 nu-To what fiction owes its power to ^"^mi-rE 
 1st in the wny and manner we perceive. -Thlnjrs r<
 
 64 EMOTIOKS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 117. Lamentable is the imperfection of language, almost in every 
 particular that falls not under external sense. I am talking of a mat- 
 ter exceedingly clear in the perception : and yet I find no small diffi- 
 culty to express it clearly in words ; for it is not accurate to talk of 
 incidents long past as passing in our sight, nor of hearing at present 
 what we really heard yesterday, or at a more distant time. And 
 yet the want of proper words to describe ideal presence, and to dis- 
 tinguish it from real presence, makes this inaccuracy unavoidable. 
 When I recall any thing to my mind in a manner so distinct as to 
 form an idea or image of it as present, I have not words to describe 
 that act, but that I perceive the thing as a spectator, and as existing 
 in my presence ; which means not that I am really a spectator, but 
 only that I conceive myself to be a spectator, and have a perception 
 of the object similar to what a real spectator hath. 
 
 As many rules of criticism depend on ideal presence, the reader, it 
 is hoped, will take some pains to form an exact notion of it, as dis- 
 tinguished on the one hand from real presence, and on the other 
 from a superficial or reflective remembrance. In contradistinction 
 to real presence, ideal presence may properly be termed a waking 
 dream ; because, like a dream, it 'vanisheth the moment we reflect 
 upon our present situation : real presence, on the contrary, vouched 
 by eyesight, commands our belief, not only during the direct per- 
 ception, but in reflecting afterwards on the object. To distinguish 
 ideal presence from reflective remembrance, I give the following 
 illustration. When I think of an event as past, without forming any 
 image, it is barely reflecting or remembering that I was an eye 
 witness ; but when I recall the event so distinctly as to form a com- 
 plete image of it, I perceive it as passing in my presence ; and this 
 perception is an act .of intuition, into whiclr reflection enters not, 
 more than into an act of sight. 
 
 Though ideal presence is thus distinguished from real presence on 
 the one side, and from reflective remembrance on the other, it is 
 however variable without any precise limits ; rising sometimes towards 
 the former, and often sinking towards the latter. In a vigorous ex- 
 ertion of memory, ideal presence is extremely distinct : thus, when 
 a man, entirely occupied with some event that made a deep im- 
 pression, forgets himself, he perceives every thing as passing before 
 him, and hath a consciousness of presence similar to that of a spec- 
 tator; with no difference but that in the former the perception of 
 presence is less firm and clear than in the latter. But such vigorous 
 exertion of memory is rare : ideal presence is oftener faint, and the 
 image so obscure as not to differ widely from reflective remem- 
 brance. 
 
 seen, recalled by memory with various degrees of exactness. Whether paist or future is 
 thought of in a very vivid memory of such objects. 
 
 117. Explain ideal presence as distinguished from real presence, and also from a super, 
 ficial or reflective remembrance. Ideal presence sometimes vergo* towards the ona or the 
 other of these
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 66 
 
 118. Hitherto of an idea of memory. I proceed to consider the 
 idea of a thing I never saw, raised in me by speech, by writing, or 
 by painting. That idea, with respect to the present sulject, is of 
 the same nature with an idea of memory, being either complete or 
 incomplete. A lively and accurate description of an important event, 
 raises in me ideas no less distinct than if I had been originally an 
 eye-witness : I am insensibly transformed into a spectator, and have 
 an impression that every incident is passing in my presence. On 
 the other hand, a slight or superficial narrative produceth but a 
 faint and incomplete idea, of which ideal presence makes no pail. 
 Past time is a circumstance that enters into this idea, as it doth into 
 an incomplete idea of memory : I believe that Scipio existed about 
 2000 years ago, and that he overcame Hannibal in the famous bat- 
 tle of Zama. When I reflect so slightly upon that memorable 
 
 perceive 
 
 tnem brandishing their swords, and cheering their Troops ; and in 
 that manner I attend them through the battle, eveiy incident of 
 which appears to be passing in my sight. 
 
 I have had occasion to observe (Part I. sect. i. of the present 
 chapter) that ideas, both of memory and of speech, produce emotions 
 of the same kind with what are produced by an immediate view of 
 the object ; only fainter, in proportion as an idea is fainter than an 
 original perception. The insight we have now got unfolds that 
 mystery : ideal presence supples the want of real presence ; and in 
 idea we perceive persons acting and suffering, precisely as in an origi- 
 nal survey : if our sympathy be engaged by the latter, it must also in 
 some degree be engaged by the former, especially if the distinctness 
 of ideal presence approach to that of real presence. Hence the 
 pleasure of a reverie, where a man, forgetting himself, is totally 
 occupied with the ideas passing in his mind, the objects of which 
 he conceives to be really existing in his presence. The power of 
 language to raise emotions, depends entirely on the raising such 
 .ively and distinct images as are here described : the reader's passions 
 are never sensibly moved, till he be thrown into a kind of reverie ; 
 in whicli state, forgetting that he is reading, he conceives every 
 incident as passing in his presence, precisely as if he were an eye- 
 witness. A general or reflective remembrance cannot warm us into 
 any emotion : it may be agreeable in some slight degree ; but its 
 ideas are too faint and obscure to raise any thing like an emotion : 
 and were they ever so lively, they pass with too much .precipitation 
 to have that effect Our emotions are never instantaneous; even 
 such as come the soonest to their height, have different periods of 
 birth and increment ; and to give opportunity for these different 
 periods, it is necessary that the cause of every emotion be present 
 to the mind a due time ; for an emotion is not carried to its height
 
 6(3 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 but bv reiterated impressions. We know that to be the case of 
 emotions arising from objects of sight; a quick succession, even of 
 the most beautiful objects, scarce making any impression ; and : 
 this hold in the succession of original perceptions, how much 
 in the succession of ideas ! 
 
 119 Though all this while I have been only describing what 
 passeth in the mind of every one, and what every one must be 
 conscious of, it was necessary to enlarge upon the subject; because, 
 however clear in the internal conception, it is far from being so 
 when described in words. Ideal presence, though of general im- 
 portance, hath scarce ever been touched by any writer ; and how- 
 ever difficult the explication, it could not be avoided in accounting 
 for the effects produced by fiction. Upon that point the reader J 
 euess has prevented me: it already must have occurred to him, that 
 if, in reading, ideal presence be the means by which our passions 
 are moved, it makes no difference whether the subject be a fable or 
 a true history: when ideal presence is complete, we perceive every 
 obiect as in our sight; and the mind, totally occupied with an in- 
 teresting event, finds no leisure for reflection. This reasoning is 
 confirmed by constant and universal experience. Let us take undei 
 consideration the meeting of Hector and Andromache, in the sixl 
 book of the Iliad, or some of the passionate scenes in King Lea 
 these pictures of human life, when we are sufficiently engaged, give 
 an impression of reality not less distinct than that given by Tacitus 
 describing the death of Otho: we never once reflect whether the 
 story be true or feigned ; reflection comes afterwards, when we have 
 the scene no longer before our eyes. This reasoning will appear in 
 a still clearer light, by opposing ideal presence to ideas raised by a 
 cursory narrative; which ideas being faint, obscure, and imperfect, 
 leave a vacuity in the mind, which solicits reflection. And accord- 
 ingly, a curt narrative of feigned incidents is never relished: any 
 slight pleasure it affords is more than counterbalanced by the disgusi 
 it inspires for want of truth. . . 
 
 To support the foregoing theory, I add what I reckon a decisive 
 argument ; which is, that even genuine history has no command 
 over our passions but by ideal presence only ; and consequently, that 
 in this respect it stands upon the same footing with fable, 
 it appears clear, that in neither can our sympathy hold firm against 
 reflection ; for if the reflection that a story is a pure fiction prevent 
 our sympathy, so will equally the reflection that the persons de- 
 scribed are no longer existing. What effect, for example, can the 
 belief of the story of Lucretia have to raise our sympathy when she 
 died above 2000 years ago, and hath at present no painful i 
 
 Are emotions instantaneous?
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 67 
 
 of the injury done her ? The effect of history, in point of instruction, 
 depends in some measure upon its veracity. But history cannot 
 reach the heart, while we indulge any reflection upon the facts : 
 such reflection, if it engage our belief, never fails at the same time 
 to poison our pleasure, by convincing us that our sympathy for those 
 who are dead and gone is absurd. And if reflection be laid aside, 
 histoiy stands upon the same footing with fable : what effect either 
 may have to raise our sympathy, depends on the vivacity of the 
 ideas they raise ; and, with respect to that circumstance, fable is 
 generally more successful than history. 
 
 120. Of all the means for making an impression of ideal presence, 
 theatrical representation is the most powerful. That words, inde- 
 pendent of action, have the same power in a less degree, every one 
 of sensibility must have felt : a good tragedy will extort tears in 
 private, though not so forcibly as upon the stage. That power belongs 
 also to painting : a good historical picture makes a deeper impres- 
 sion than words can, though not equal to that of theatrical action. 
 Painting seems to possess a middle place between reading and 
 acting : in making an impression of ideal presence, it is not less 
 superior to the former than inferior to the latter. 
 
 It must not, however, be thought that our passions can be raised 
 by painting to such a height as by words : a picture is confined to a 
 single instant of time, and cannot take in a succession of incidents : 
 its impression indeed is the deepest that can be made instantaneous- 
 ly ; but seldom is a passion raised to any height in an instant, or 
 by a single impression. It was observed above, that our passions, 
 those especially of the sympathetic kind, require a succession of 
 impressions ; and for that reason, reading and acting have greatly 
 the advantage, by reiterating impressions without end. 
 
 Upon the whole, it is by means of ideal presence that our passions 
 are excited ; and till words produce that charm, they avail nothing : 
 even real events entitled to our belief, must be conceived present 
 and passing in our sight, before they can move us. And this theory 
 serves to explain several phenomena otherwise unaccountable. A 
 misfortune happening to a stranger, makes a less impression than one 
 happening to a man we know, even where we are no way interested 
 in him : our acquaintance with this man, however slight, aids the 
 conception of his suffering in our presence. For the same reason, 
 we are little moved by any distant event ; because we have more 
 difficulty to conceive it present, than an event that happened in our 
 neighborhood. 
 
 119. How does the doctrine of Ideal presence account for the equal impress! venese of 
 fiction and true history y Reference to the Iliad, and King Lear. Ideal presence con- 
 trasted with ideas raised by a cursory narrative. When only does even real history exert 
 a command over our passions? What destroys the emotive power of history? 
 
 120. The most powerful means of making an impression of ideal presence. The next 
 most powerful. Comparative influence of' painting, reading, and actin?, in awakening 
 trong feeling. What is required even for real events, entitled to belief, to move us? 
 Misfortunes happening to strangers or to acquaintances. Events distant or near.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 121. Every one is sensible, that describing a past event as pres- 
 ent has a fine effect in language : for what other reason than that t 
 aids tS conception of ideal piesence I Take the following example : 
 
 And now with shouts the shocking armies closed, 
 
 To lances lances, shields to shields opposed ; 
 
 Host against host the shadowy legions drew, 
 
 The sounding darts, an iron tempest, flew ; _ 
 
 Victors and vanquish'd join promiscuous cries, 
 
 Triumphing shouts and dying groans arise, 
 
 With streaming blood the slippery field is dyed, 
 
 And slaughter'd heroes swell the dreadful tide. 
 
 In this passage we may observe how the writer, inflamed with the 
 ubject, insensibly advances from the past time to the present led 
 to that form of narration by conceiving every circumstance as pass- 
 ing in his own sight : which at the same time has a fine effect upoi 
 the reader, by presenting things to him as a spectator But change 
 from the past to the present requires some preparation ^ is not 
 sweet where there is no stop in the sense: witness the 
 
 passage : 
 
 Thy fate was next, O Phsestus ! doom'd to feel 
 
 The great Idomeneus' protended steel ; 
 
 Whom Borus sent (his son and only joy) 
 
 From fruitful Tarne to the fields of Troy. 
 
 The Cretan iav'lin reach'd him from alar, 
 
 And pierced his shoulder as he mounts Ins car.-lluid, v. 
 
 It is still worse to fall back to the past in the same period ; for 
 that is an anticlimax in description : 
 
 Through breaking ranks his furious course he bends, 
 
 And at the goddess his broad lance extends : 
 
 Through her bright veil the daring weapon drove, 
 
 Th' ambrosial veil, which all the graces wove . 
 
 Her snowy hand the razing steel profaned, 
 
 And the transparent skin with crimson stain d. Jiw*, v. 
 
 Again, describing the shield of Jupiter : 
 
 Here all the Terrors of grim war .appear, 
 
 Here rages Force, here tremble Flight and Fear, 
 
 Here Itorm'd Contention, and here Fury frown'^ 
 
 And the dire orb portentous Gorgon crown'd.-^^, v. 
 Nor is it pleasant to be earned backward and forward alternately 11 
 a rapid succession : 
 
 Then died Scamandrius, expert in the chace, 
 
 In woods and wilds to wound the savage race , 
 
 Diana taught him all her sylvan arts, 
 
 To bend the bow and aim unerring darts . 
 
 But vainly here Diana's arts he tries, 
 
 The fatal lance arrests him as he nies ; 
 
 From Menelaus' arm the wcnpon sent,
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 69 
 
 122 It is wonderful to observe, upon what slight foundations 
 ^ature erects some of her most solid and magnificent works. In 
 appearance at least, what can be more slight than ideal presence - 
 And yet from it is derived that extensive influence which language 
 hath over the heart; an influence which, more than any other 
 means, strengthens the bond of society, and attracts individuals from 
 their private system to perform acts of generosity and benevolence. 
 Matters of fact, it is true, and truth in general, may be inculcated 
 without taking advantage of ideal presence; but without it, tn 
 finest speaker or writer would in vain attempt to move any passi 
 our sympathy would be confined to objects that are really present; 
 and language would lose entirely its signal power of making u 
 sympathize with beings removed at the greatest distance of time as 
 well as of place. Nor is the influence of language, by means ot 
 ideal presence, confined to the heart: it reacheth also the under- 
 standing, and contributes to belief. For when events are related ID 
 a lively manner, and every circumstance appears as passing before 
 us we suffer not patiently the truth of the facfc to be questioned. 
 An historian, accordingly, who hath a genius for narration, seldom 
 fails to engage our belief. The same facts related m a manner cold 
 and indistinct, are not suffered to pass without examination : a thing 
 ill described is like an object seen at a distance, or through a mist ; 
 we doubt whether it be a reality or a fiction. Cicero says, that to 
 relate the manner in which an event passed, not only enlivens the 
 story, but makes it appear more credible. For that reason, a poet 
 who can warm and animate his reader, may employ bolder fictions 
 than ought to be ventured by an inferior genius ; the reader once 
 thoroughly engaged, is susceptible of the strongest impressions. A 
 masterly painting has the same effect : Le Brun is no small support 
 to Quintus Curtius; and among the vulgar in Italy, the belief of 
 scripture history is, perhaps, founded as much upon the authority of 
 Raphael, Michael Angelo, and other celebrated painters, as upon 
 that of the sacred writers. 
 
 123. From the foregoing theory are derived many useful rules in 
 criticism, which shall be mentioned in their proper places. One 
 specimen shall be our present entertainment. Events that surprise 
 by being unexpected, and yet are natural, enliven greatly an epic 
 poem : but in such a poem, if it pretend to copy human manners 
 and actions, no improbable incident ought to be admitted ; that is, 
 no incident contrary to the order and course of nature. A chain 
 of imagined incidents linked together according to the order of 
 nature, finds easy admittance into the mind ; and a lively narrative 
 of such incidents occasions complete images, or in other words, ideal 
 presence : but our judgment revolts against an improbable incident; 
 
 122 The advantages to a speaker or writer in making use of ideal presence. Its tnfln- 
 ,nlyon the heart, but on the understandine -The support which animated poetry 
 ctu.n, an-1 whlob a masterly painting lnd to hirtory. 
 
 cnce not 01 
 Icudi it fiction
 
 70 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 and, if \\e once begin to doubt of its reality, farewell relish, and 
 concern an unhappy effect ; for it will require more than an ordi- 
 nary effort to restore the waking dream, and to make the reader 
 conceive even the more probable incidents as passing in his presence. 
 
 I never was an admirer of machinery in an epic poem, and I now 
 find my taste justified by reason ; the foregoing argument concluding 
 still more strongly against imaginary beings, than against improbable 
 facts : fictions of that nature may amuse by their novelty and sin- 
 gularity ; but they never move the sympathetic passions, because 
 they cannot impose on the mind any perception of reality. I appeal 
 to the discerning reader, whether that observation be not applicable 
 to the machinery of Tasso and of Voltaire : such machinery is not 
 only in itself cold and uninteresting, but gives an air of fiction to 
 the whole composition. A burlesque poem, such as the Lutrin or 
 the Dispensary, may employ machinery with success; for these 
 poems, though they assume the air of history, give entertainment 
 chiefly by their pleasant and ludicrous pictures, to which machinery 
 contributes : it is not the aim of such a poem to raise our sympathy ; 
 and for that reason a strict imitation of nature is not required. A 
 poem professedly ludicrous, may employ machinery to great advan- 
 tage ; and the more extravagant the better. 
 
 124. Having assigned the means by which fiction commands our 
 passions, what only remains for accomplishing our present task is 
 to assign the final cause. I have already mentioned, that fiction, 
 by means of language, has the command of our sympathy for the 
 good of others. By the same means, our sympathy may also be 
 raised for our own g"ood. In the fourth section of the present chap- 
 ter, it is observed, that examples both of virtue and of vice raise 
 virtuous emotions ; which becoming stronger by exercise, tend to make 
 us virtuous by habit, as well as by principle. I now further observe, 
 that examples confined to real events are not so frequent as without 
 other means to produce a habit of virtue : if they be, they are not 
 recorded by historians. It therefore shows great wisdom to form us 
 in such a manner as to be susceptible of the same improvement 
 from fable that we receive from genuine history. By that contri- 
 vance, examples to improve us in virtue may be multiplied without 
 end : no other sort of discipline contributes more to make virtue 
 habitual, and no other sort is so agreeable in the application. I add 
 another final cause with thorough satisfaction; because it shows 
 that the Author of our nature is not less kindly provident for the 
 happiness of his creatures, than for the regularity of their conduct. 
 The power that fiction hath over the mind affords an endless variety 
 of refined amusements always at hand to employ a vacant hour . 
 
 123 One useful rule in criticism upon epic poetry, derived from the foregoing theory; 
 -as to the incidents to be introduced. Objections to the use of machinery In an cpio 
 poem. What is meant hare by machinery. What sort of poem uuvy employ macui'wnr 
 to ndvanlogo.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 71 
 
 such amusements are a fine resource in solitude ; and, by cheering 
 and sweetening the mind, contribute mightily to social happiness. 
 
 [To the above remarks of Lord Kames, it seems important to add, 
 that they give but a partial, and what might prove a hurtful, view 
 of an important subject. He gives no intimation that a large pro- 
 portion of novels is adapted to corrupt the sentiments of the mind 
 and the affections of the heart : he writes as if all novels were un- 
 exceptionable in their moral tendency ; but since his day, nearly a 
 century ago, it is painful to reflect what polluting streams of fiction 
 have flowed from the press. Hence Lord Kames' remarks must be 
 taken as true only within certain limits on the supposition that the 
 works of fiction are of good moral tendency. 
 
 It is (says Dr. Beattie in his Moral Science) the duty of poets, 
 and other writers of fiction, to cherish, by means of sympathy, in 
 those who read them, those affections only which invigorate the 
 mind and are favorable to virtue, as patriotism, valor, benevolence, 
 piety, and the conjugal, parental, and filial charities. Scenes of 
 exquisite distress, too long continued, enervate and overwhelm the 
 soul ; and those representations are still more blamable, which kindle 
 licentious passion, or promote indolence, affectation, or sensuality. 
 Of the multitude of novels now published, it is astonishing and most 
 provoking to consider how few are not chargeable with one or other 
 of these faults, or with them all in conjunction. 
 
 In another place he remarks further : To contract a habit of 
 reading romances is extremely dangerous. They who do so lose all 
 relish for history, philosophy, and other useful knowledge ; acquire a 
 superficial and frivolous way of thinking, and never fail to form false 
 notions of life, which come 'to be very hurtful to young people when 
 they go out into the world. I speak not rashly, but with too much 
 evidence, when I affirm, that many young persons of both sexes 
 have, by reading romances, been ruined; and that many of the 
 follies, and not a few of the crimes, now prevalent, may be traced 
 to the same source.] 
 
 PART II. 
 
 SMOTIONS^AND PASSIONS, AS PLEASANT AND PAINFUL, AGREEABLE 
 AND DISAGREEABLE. MODIFICATIONS OF THESE QUALITIES. 
 
 125. GREAT obscurity may be observed among writers with re- 
 gard to the present point : particularly no care is taken to distinguish 
 
 124 TLe flnal cause (or design) of our beiD* so constituted as to liave our pnsslons moved 
 by ttction. The good effects that may be secured by fiction. Strictures npon Lord Kaiue 
 . Dr. Beattle's olwrvitUon*.
 
 72 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 agreeable from pleasant, disagreeable from painful ; or rather these 
 terms are deemed synonymous. This is an error not at all venial 
 in the science of ethics ; as instances can and shall be given, of 
 painful passions that are agreeable, and of pleasant passions that are 
 disagreeable. These terms, it is true, are used indifferently in fa- 
 miliar conversation, and in compositions for amusement; but greater 
 accuracy is required from those who profess to explain the passions. 
 
 I shall endeavor to explain these terms by familiar examples. 
 Viewing a fine garden, I perceive it to be beautiful or agreeable ; 
 and I consider the beauty or agreeableness as belonging to the object, 
 or as one of its qualities. When I turn my attention from the 
 garden to what passes in my mind, I am conscious of a pleasant 
 emotion, of which the garden is the cause : the pleasure here is felt, 
 as a quality, not of the garden, but of the emotion produced by it. 
 I give an opposite example. A rotten carcass is disagreeable, and 
 raises in the spectator a painful emotion : the disagreeableness is a 
 quality of the object ; the pain is a quality of the emotion produced 
 by it. In a word, agreeable and disagreeable are qualities of the 
 objects we perceive ; pleasant and painful are qualities of the emo- 
 tions we feel : the former qualities are perceived as adhering to 
 objects ; the latter are felt as existing within us. 
 
 126. But a passion or emotion, besides being felt, is frequently 
 made an object of thought or reflection : we examine it; we inquire 
 into its nature, its cause, and its effects. In that view, like other 
 objects, it is either agreeable or disagreeable. Hence clearly appear 
 the different significations of the terms under consideration, as ap- 
 plied to passion ; when a passion is termed pleasant or painful, we 
 refer to the actual feeling ; when termed agreeable or 'disagreeable, 
 we refer to it as an object of thought or reflection ; a passion is 
 pleasant or painful to the person in whom it exists ;_ it is agreeable 
 or disagreeable to the person who makes it a subject of contem- 
 plation. 
 
 In the description of emotions and passions, these terms do not 
 always coincide : to make which evident, we must endeavor to as- 
 certain, first, what passions and emotions are pleasant, what painful ; 
 and next, what are agreeable, what disagreeable. With respect to 
 both, there are general rules, which, if I can trust to induction, 
 admit not a single exception. The nature of an emotion or passion, 
 as pleasant or painful, depends entirely on its cause : the emotion 
 produced by an agreeable object is invariably pleasant; and the 
 emotion produced by a disagreeable object is invariably painful. 
 (See Part vii. of this chapter.) Thus a lofty oak, a generous ac- 
 tion, a valuable discovery in art or science, are agreeable objects 
 that invariably produce pleasant emotions. A stinking puddle, a 
 
 125 Wliat distinction writers have failed to make. The meaning of agreeable and dis- 
 agreeable, pleasant and painful, illustrated by the instance of a floe garden aud of a rotUsn 
 
 MTOMS.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 73 
 
 treacherous action, an irregular, ill-contrived edifice, being disagreea- 
 ble objects, produce painful emotions. Selfish passions are pleasant^ 
 for they arise from self, an agreeable object or cause. A social pas- 
 sion directed upon an agreeable object is always pleasant ; directed 
 upon an object in distress, it is painful. (See Part vii. of this chapter.) 
 Lastly, all dissocial passions, such as envy, resentment, malice, being 
 caused by disagreeable objects, cannot fail to be painful. 
 
 127. A general rule for the agreeableness or disagreeableness of 
 emotions and passions is a more difficult enterprise : it must be 
 attempted, however. We have a sense of a common nature in every 
 species of animals, particularly in our own ; and we have a convic- 
 tion that this common nature is right, or perfect, and that individuals 
 ought to be made conformable to it. To every faculty, to every 
 passion, and to every bodily member, is assigned a proper office and 
 a due proportion : if one limb be longer than the other, or be dis- 
 proportioned to the whole, it is wrong and disagreeable : if a pas- 
 sion deviate from the common nature, by being too strong or too 
 weak, it is also wrong and disagreeable : but as tar as comformable 
 to common nature, every emotion and every passion is perceived by 
 us to be right, and as it ought to be ; and upon that account it 
 must appear agreeable. That this holds true in pleasant emotions 
 and passions, will readily be admitted : but the painful are no less 
 natural than the other ; and therefore ought not to be an exception. 
 Thus the painful emotion raised by a monstrous birth or brutal ac- 
 tion, is no less agreeable upon reflection, than the pleasant emotion 
 raised by a flowing river or a lofty dome ; and the painful passions 
 of grief and pity are agreeable, and applauded by all the world. 
 
 128. Another rule more simple and direct for ascertaining the 
 agreeableness or disagreeableness of a passion as opposed to an 
 emotion, is derived from the desire that accompanies it. If the 
 desire be to perform a right action in order to produce a good effect, 
 the passion is agreeable : if the desire be to do a wrong action in 
 order to produce an ill effect, the passion is disagreeable. Thus, 
 passions as well as actions are governed by the moral sense. Theso 
 rules by the wisdom of Providence coincide : a passion that is con- 
 formable to our common nature must tend to good ; and a passion 
 that deviates from our common nature must tend to ill. 
 
 This deduction may be carried a great way farther ; but to avoid 
 intricacy and obscurity, I make but one other step. A passion 
 which, as aforesaid, becomes an object of thought to a spectator, 
 may have the effect to produce a passion or emotion in him ; for it 
 is natural that a social being should be affected with the passions 
 
 126. Passions and emotions as objects of thought or reflection. When a passion to 
 lenned pleasant or painful, and when atrreeable or disagreeable. On what the nature of 
 in emotion as pleasant or painful depends. Illustrations. Selfish passiocs. Social pas- 
 sions. Dissocial passions. 
 
 12T. ttulc for determining the airreeableness or disncreeableness of emotion* and pj- 
 iious. Based on the sens* of a common uatur* wliicli we deem perfect or rijrht 
 
 4.
 
 74 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 of others. Passions or emotions thus generated, submit, in common 
 with others, to the general law above mentioned, namely, that an 
 agreeable object produces a pleasant emotion, and a disagreeable 
 object a painful emotion. Thus the passion of gratitude, being to a 
 spectator an agreeable object, produceth in him the pleasant passion 
 of love to the grateful person ; and malice being to a spectator a 
 disagreeable object, produceth in him the painful passion of hatred 
 to the malicious person. 
 
 129. We are now prepared for examples of pleasant passions 
 that are disagreeable, and of painful passions that are agreeable. 
 Self-love, as long as confined within just bounds, is a passion both 
 pleasant and agreeable : in excess it is disagreeable, though it con- 
 tinues to be still pleasant. Our appetites are precisely in the same 
 condition. Resentment, on the other hand, is, in every stage of the 
 passion, painful ; but it is not disagreeable unless in excess. Pity 
 is always painful, yet always agreeable. Vanity, on the contrary, is 
 always pleasant, yet always disagreeable. But however distinct 
 these qualities are, they coincide, I acknowledge, in one class of pas- 
 sions-: all vicious passions tending to the hurt of others, are equally 
 painful and disagreeable. \ 
 
 The foregoing qualities of pleasant and painful, may be sufficient 
 for ordinary subjects ; but with respect to the science of criticism, 
 it is necessary that we also be made acquainted with the several 
 modifications of these qualities, with the modifications at least that 
 make the greatest figure. Even at first view one is sensible, that 
 the pleasure or pain of one passion differs from that of another : 
 how distant the pleasure of revenge gratified from that of love ! so 
 distant, as that we cannot without reluctance admit them to be any 
 way related. That the same quality of pleasure should be so differ- 
 ently modified in different passions, will not be surprising, when we 
 reflect on the boundless variety of agreeable sounds, tastes, and 
 smells daily perceived. Our discernment reaches differences still 
 more minute, in objects even of the same sense : we have no diffi- 
 culty to distinguish different sweets, different sours, and different 
 bitters : honey is sweet, so is sugar, and yet the one never is mis- 
 taken for the. other ; our sense of smelling is sufficiently acute, to 
 listinguish varieties in sweet-smelling flowers without end. With 
 respect to passions and emotions, their differences as to pleasant and 
 painful have no limits ; though we want acuteness of feeling for the 
 more delicate modifications. There is here an analogy between our 
 internal and external senses : the latter are sufficiently acute for all 
 the useful purposes of life, and so are the former. Some pei-sons 
 indeed, Nature's favorites, have a wonderful acuteness of sense, which 
 to them unfolds many a delightful scene totally hid from vulgar 
 
 123. Another rule for ascertaining the agreeableness or disagreeableness of a pas- 
 sion. Rule for passions or emotions, generated by thinking of the passions or emotions 
 In others.- -lustancw of gratitude and malice.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PAS9ION3. 75 
 
 eyes. But if such refined pleasure be confined to a small number, 
 it is however wisely ordered that others are not sensible of the de- 
 fect ; nor detracts it from their happiness that others secretly are 
 more happy. With relation to the fine arts only, that qualification 
 seems essential ; and there it is termed delicacy of taste. 
 
 Should an author of such a taste attempt to describe all those 
 varieties in pleasant and painful emotions which he himself feels, he 
 would soon meet an invincible obstacle in the poverty of language : 
 a people must be thoroughly refined, before they invent words for 
 expressing the more delicate feelings ; and for that reason, no known 
 tongue hitherto has reached that perfection. We must therefore 
 rest satisfied with an explanation of the more obvious modifications. 
 
 130. In forming a comparison between pleasant passions of differ- 
 ent kinds, we conceive some of them to be gross, some refined. 
 Those pleasures of external sense that are felt as at the organ of 
 sense, are conceived to be corporeal or gross (see the Introduction) : 
 the pleasures of the eye and the ear are felt to be internal, and for 
 that reason are conceived to be more pure and refined. 
 
 The social affections are conceived by all to be more refined than 
 the selfish. Sympathy and humanity are universally esteemed the 
 finest temper of mind ; and for that reason, the prevalence of the 
 social affections in the progress of society is held to be a refinement 
 in our nature. A savage knows little of social affection, and there- 
 fore is not qualified to compare selfish and social pleasure ; but a 
 man, after acquiring a high relish for the latter, loses not thereby a 
 taste for the former : he is qualified to judge, and he will give pref- 
 erence to social pleasures as more sweet and refined. In fact they 
 maintain that character, not only in the direct feeling, but also when 
 we make them the subject of reflection : the social passions are far 
 more agreeable than the selfish, and rise much higher in our esteem. 
 
 131. There are differences not less remarkable among the painful 
 passions. Some are voluntary, some involuntary : the pain of the 
 gout is an example of the latter ; grief of the former, which in some 
 cases is so voluntary as to reject all consolation. One pain softens 
 the temper ; pity is an instance : one tends to render us savage 
 and cruel, which is the case of revenge. I value myself upon sym- 
 pathy : I hate and despise myself for envy. 
 
 Social affections have an advantage over the selfish, not only with 
 respect to pleasure, as above explained, but also with respect to pain. 
 The pain of an affront, the pain of want, the pain of disappointment, 
 and a thousand other selfish pains, are cruciating and tormenting, 
 
 129. Examples of pleasant passions that are disagreeable, and of painful passions that 
 are acreoable. Self-love; appetites: resentment; pity; vanity; all vicious passions. 
 Modifications of the qualities already considered. Why should the quality of pleasure 
 be so differently modified in different passions? Minute differences in objects even o( 
 the same sens*. Analogy here between our external and internal senses. What is meant 
 by delicacy of taste? 
 
 130. Pleasant passions, as gross or reflntd. Pleasures of oxtrnj sense. The social 
 affeotitfna.
 
 76 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 and tend to a habit of peevishness and discontent. Social pains 
 have a very different tendency : the pain of sympathy, for example, 
 is not only voluntary, but softens my temper, and raises me m my 
 own esteem. , , , 
 
 Refined manners and polite behavior must not be deemed alto- 
 gether artificial : men who, inured to the sweets of society cultivate 
 humanity, find an elegant pleasure in preferring others and making 
 them happy, of which the proud, the selfish, scarce have a c 
 
 ception. , c , . , 
 
 Ridicule, which chiefly arises from pride, a selfish passion, is at 
 best but a gross pleasure : a people, it is true, must have emerged 
 out of barbarity before they can have a taste for ridicule ; but it is 
 too rough an entertainment for the polished and refined, 
 discovers in Plautus a happy talent for ridicule, and a peculiar 
 delicacy of wit; but Horace, who made a figure in the court o 
 Augustus, where taste was considerably purified declares against 
 the lowness and roughness of that author's raillery. Ridicule is 
 banished France, and is losing ground in England. 
 
 Other modifications of pleasant passions will be occasionally men- 
 tioned hereafter. Particularly the modifications of high and Low 
 are to be handled in the chapter of grandeur and sublimity ; and 
 the modifications of dignified and mean, in the chapter c 
 and grace. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 INTKRRTTPTED EXISTENCE OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. THEIB 
 GROWTH AND DECAY. 
 
 132 WERE it the nature of an emotion to continue, like color 
 and figure, in its present state till varied by some operating cause, 
 the condition of man would be deplorable : it is ordered wisely, that 
 emotions should more resemble another attribute of matter, namely, 
 motion, which requires the constant exertion of an operating cause, 
 and ceases when the cause is withdrawn. An emotion may subsist 
 while its cause is present; and when its cause is removed, may 
 subsist by means of an idea, though in a fainter manner; but t 
 moment another thought breaks in and engrosses the mind, the 
 emotion is gone, and is no longer felt : if it return with its cause, 
 or an idea of its cause, it again vanisheth with them when other 
 
 181 Painful passions, M voluntary or involuntary.-4dv.nta,. of toobl affections OT 
 tb Mlfleh. Roflued saauners. BMicm*.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 77 
 
 thoughts crowd in. The reason is, that an emotion or passion is 
 connected with the perception or idea of its cause so intimately as 
 not to have any independent existence : a strong passion, it is true, 
 hath a mighty influence to detain its cause in the mind ; but not so 
 as to detain it forever, because a succession of perceptions or ideas 
 is unavoidable. Further, even while a passion subsists, it seldom 
 continues long in the same tone, but is successively vigorous and 
 faint : the vigor of a passion depends on the impression made by its 
 cause ; and a cause makes its deepest impression when, happening 
 to be the single interesting object, it attracts our whole attention : 
 its impression is slighter when our attention is divided between it 
 and other objects ; and at that time the passion is fainter in pro- 
 portion. 
 
 133. The growth and decay of passions and emotions, traced 
 through all their mazes, is a subject too extensive for an undertaking 
 like the present : I pretend only to give a cursory view of it, such as 
 may be necessary for the purposes of criticism. Some emotions are 
 produced in their utmost perfection, and have a very short endurance ; 
 which is the case of surprise, of wonder, and sometimes of terror. 
 Emotions raised by inanimate objects, trees, rivers, buildings, pic- 
 tures, arrive at perfection almost instantaneously ; and they have a 
 long endurance, a second view producing nearly the same pleasure 
 with the first. Love, hatred, and some other passions, swell gradu- 
 ally to a certain pitch, after which they decay gradually. Envy, 
 malice, pride, scarce ever decay. Some passions, such as gratitude 
 and revenge, are often exhausted by a single act of gratification : 
 other passions, such as pride, malice, envy, love, hatred, are not so 
 exhausted, but having a long continuance, demand frequent gratifi- 
 cation. And with respect to emotions which are quiescent because 
 not productive of desire, their growth and decay are easily explained : 
 an 'emotion caused by an inanimate object cannot naturally take 
 longer time to arrive at maturity, than is necessary for a leisurely 
 survey : such emotion also must continue long stationary, without 
 any sensible decay, a second or third view of the object being nearly 
 as agreeable as the first : this is the case of an emotion produced by 
 a fine prospect, an impetuous river, or a towering hill : while a man 
 remains the same, such objects ought to have the same effect upon 
 him. Familiarity, however, hath an influence here, as it hath every- 
 where : frequency of view, after short intervals especially, weans the 
 mind gradually from the object, which at last loses all relish : the 
 noblest object in the material world, a clear and serene sky, is quite 
 disregarded, unless perhaps after a course of bad weather. An 
 emotion raised by human virtues, qualities, or actions, may, by 
 reiterated views of the object, swell imperceptibly, till it become so 
 
 132. Emotions require the presence of an Derating caus*.-The same passion Tariel U 
 strength at different times. Why T
 
 78 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 vigorous as to generate desire : in that condition it must be handled 
 as a passion. 
 
 134. As to passion, I observe, first, that when nature _ requires a 
 passion to be sudden, it is commonly produced in perfection ; which 
 is the case of fear and of anger. Wonder and surprise are always 
 produced in perfection : reiterated impressions made by their cause 
 exhaust these passions instead of inflaming them. This will be ex- 
 plained in chap. vi. 
 
 In the next place, when a passion 'hath for its foundation an origi- 
 nal propensity peculiar to some men, it generally comes ^ soon to 
 maturity : the propensity, upon presenting a proper object, is imme- 
 diately enlivened into a passion ; which is the case of pride, of envy, 
 and of malice. 
 
 In the third place, the growth of love and of hatred is slow or 
 quick according to circumstances; the good qualities of^a person 
 raise in me a pleasant emotion, which, by reiterated views, is swelled 
 into a passion involving desire of that person's happiness : this de- 
 sire, bekfg freely indulged, works gradually a change internally, 
 and at last produceth in me a settled habit of affection for that 
 person now my friend. Affection thus produced operates precisely 
 like an original propensity ; for to enliven it into a passion, no more 
 is required but the real or ideal presence of the object. The habit 
 of aversion or of hatred is brought on in the same manner. And 
 here I must observe, by the way, that love and hatred signify com- 
 monly affection and aversion, not passion. The bulk of our passions 
 are indeed affection or aversion inflamed into a passion by different 
 circumstances : the affection I bear to my son is inflamed into the 
 passion of fear when he is in danger ; becomes hope when he hath 
 a prospect of good fortune ; becomes admiration when he performs 
 a laudable action ; and shame when he commits any^wronc aver- 
 sion becomes fear when there is a prospect of good fortune to my 
 enemy ; becomes hope when he is in danger ; becomes joy when 
 he is in distress ; and sorrow when a laudable action is performed 
 by him. 
 
 Fourthly, passions generally have a tendency to excess, occasioned 
 by the following means. The mind affected by any passion is not 
 in a proper state for distinct perception, nor for cool reflection : it 
 hath always a strong bias to the object of an agreeable passion, and 
 a bies no less strong against the object of a disagreeable passion. 
 The object of love, for example, however indifferent to others, is to 
 the lover's conviction a paragon ; and of hatred, is vice itself without 
 alloy. What less can such delusion operate, than to swell the pas- 
 sion beyond what it was at first? for if the seeing or conversing with 
 
 . a 
 
 138 Growth and decay of various emotions and passions. Emotions raised by Inani- 
 mate 'objects. Love, hatred, &c. Further remarks concerning emotions caused by inan- 
 imate objects. Effect of familiarity with them. Emotions raised by reiterated views ol 
 human virtues.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 79 
 
 a fine woman has had the effect to cany me from indifference to 
 love, how much stronger must her influence be, when now to my 
 conviction she is an angel! and hatred as well as other passions 
 must run the same course. Thus between a passion and its object 
 there is a natural operation, resembling action and reaction in physics : 
 a passion acting upon its object, magnifies it greatly in appearance ; 
 and this magnified object reacting upon the passion, swells an* 
 inflames it mightily. 
 
 Fifthly, the growth of some passions depends often on occasional 
 circumstances : obstacles to gratification, for example, never fail to 
 augment and inflame a passion, because a constant endeavor to re- 
 move an obstacle preserves the object of the passion ever in view, 
 which swells the passion by impressions frequently reiterated. Thus 
 the restraint of conscience, when an obstacle to love, agitates the 
 mind and inflames the passion : 
 
 Quod licet, inpratnm ost : quod non licet, acrius urit 
 Si nunqumn Danaen habuisset ahenea turris, 
 Nou esset Danae do Jove facta parens. 
 
 Odd, Amor. 1. 2. 
 
 At the same time, the mind, distressed with the obstacles, becomes 
 impatient for gratification, and consequently more desirous of it. 
 Shakspeare expresses this Observation finely : 
 
 All impediments in fancy's course, 
 Arc motives of more fancy. 
 
 We need no better example than a lover who hath many rivals. 
 Even the caprices of the one beloved have the effect to inflame love ; 
 these occasioning uncertainty of success, tend naturally to make the 
 anxious lover overvalue the happiness of fruition. 
 
 135. So much upon the growth of passions: their continuance 
 and decay come next under consideration. And, first, it is a gen- 
 eral law of nature, That things sudden in their growth are equally 
 sudden in their decay. This is commonly the case of anger. And 
 with respect to wonder and surprise, which also suddenly decay, 
 another reason concurs that their causes are of short duration : nov- 
 elty soon degenerates into familiarity ; and the unexpectedness of 
 an object is soon sunk in the pleasure that the object affords. Fear, 
 which is a passion of greater importance as tending to self-preserva- 
 tion, is often instantaneous ; and yet is of equal duration with its 
 cause : nay, it frequently subsists after the cause is removed. 
 
 In the next place, a passion founded on a peculiar propensity, 
 subsists generally forever ; which is the case of pride, envy, and 
 
 give 
 
 The 
 
 moted"iiy obstructions to gratification. Illustrations given.
 
 80 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 malice : objects are never wanting to inflame the propensity i&Lo a 
 passion. 
 
 Thirdly, it may be laid down as a general law of nature, That 
 every passion ceases upon attaining its ultimate end. To explain 
 that law, we must distinguish between a particular and a general 
 end. I call a particular end what may be accomplished by a single 
 act : a general end, on the contrary, admits acts without number; 
 because it cannot be said, that a general end is ever^fully accom- 
 plished, while the object of the passion subsists. Gratitude and re- 
 venge are examples of the first kind : the ends they aim at may be 
 accomplished by a single act ; and, when that act is performed, the 
 passions are necessarily at an end. Love and hatred are examples 
 of the other kind ; desire of doing good or doing mischief to an 
 individual, is a general end which admits acts without number, and 
 which seldom is fully accomplished : therefore these passions have 
 frequently the same duration with their objects. 
 
 Lastly, it will afford us another general view, to consider the 
 difference between an original propensity, and affection or aversion 
 produced by custom. The former adheres too close to the constitu- 
 tion ever to be eradicated ; and, for that reason, the passions to 
 which it gives birth continue during life with no remarkable dimi- 
 nution. The latter, which owe their birth and increment to time, 
 owe their decay to the same cause : affection and aversion decay 
 gradually as they grow ; and accordingly hatred as well as love are 
 extinguished by long absence. Affection decays more gradually 
 between persons, who, living together, have daily occasion_to testify 
 mutually their good-will and kindness : and, when affection is de- 
 cayed, habit supplies its place ; for it makes these persons necessary 
 to each other, by the pain of separation. (See Chapter xiv.) Affec- 
 tion to children hath a long endurance, longer perhaps than any 
 other affection : its growth keeps pace with that of its objects : they 
 display new beauties and qualifications daily, to feed and augment 
 the affection. But whenever the affection becomes stationary, _ it 
 must begin to decay ; with a slow pace, indeed, in proportion to its 
 increment. In short, man with respect to this life is a temporary 
 being: he grows, becomes stationary, decays ; and so must all hi3 
 powers and passions. 
 
 135. The continuance and decay of passions. (1.) Law concerning those of 'sadden 
 erowth an^er, &c. (2.) Concerning those founded on a peculiar propensity (A) 1 l.e 
 cessation of a passion on attaining its ultimate end. Distinguish ^ettt_een Pi^u_isr mm 
 
 irrfffct1on'or^verau!n^fodu C ced by cnstom.-Effect of absence.-A!f -ctiou between per- 
 wns living together. Affection to children.
 
 KMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 81 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 COEXISTENT EMOTIONS >W PASSIONS. 
 
 136. FOR a thorough knowledge of the hum?.n passions and 
 /motions, it is not sufficient that they be examined singly and sep- 
 arately : as a plurality of them are sometimes felt at the same 
 instant, the manner of their coexistence, and the effects thereby 
 produced, ought also to be examined. This subject is extensive ; 
 and it will be difficult to trace all the laws that govern its endless 
 variety of cases : if such an undertaking can be brought to perfec- 
 tion, it must be by degrees. The following hints may suffice for a 
 first attempt. 
 
 We begin with emotions raised by different sounds, as the sim- 
 plest case. Two sounds that mix, and, as it were, incorporate before 
 they reach the ear, are said to be concordant. That each of the two 
 sounds, even after their union, produceth an emotion of its own, must 
 be admitted ; but these emotions, like the sounds that produce 
 them, mix so intimately as to be rather one complex emotion than 
 two emotions in conjunction. Two sounds that refuse incorporation 
 or mixture, are said to be discordant ; and when heard at the same 
 instant, the emotions produced by them are unpleasant in conjunc- 
 tion, however pleasant separately. 
 
 Similar to the emotion raised by mixed sounds is the emotion 
 raised by an object of sight with its several qualities : a tree, for ex- 
 ample, with ite qualities of color, figure, size, &c., is perceived to be 
 one object ; and the emotion it produceth is rather one complex 
 emotion than different emotions combined. 
 
 With respect to coexistent emotions produced by different objects 
 of sight, it must be observed that however intimately connected such 
 objects may be, there cannot be a concordance among them like 
 what is perceived in some sounds. Different objects of sight, meaning 
 objects that can exist each of them independent of the others, never 
 mix or incorporate in the act of vision : each object is perceived 
 as its exists separately from others ; and each raiseth an emotion 
 different from that raised by the other. And the same holds in all 
 the causes of emotion or passion that can exist independent of each 
 other, sounds only excepted. 
 
 137. To explain the manner in which such emotions exist, similar 
 emotions must be distinguished from those that are dissimilar. Two 
 emotions are said to be similar, when they tend each of them to pro- 
 duce the same tone of mind : cheerful emotions, however different 
 
 186. Concordant and discordant sounds, and the emotions they raise. Emotion raised 
 by an object of sight, w.th its several cu&lMes. Coexistent emotions produced by different 
 ebjecU of sight
 
 62 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 their causes may be, are similar ; and so are those which are melan- 
 choly. Dissimilar emotions are easily explained by their opposition 
 to what are similar : pride and humility, gayety and gloominess, are 
 dissimilar emotions. 
 
 Emotions perfectly similar, readily combine and unite, so as m 
 ft manner to become one complex emotion : witness the emotions 
 produced by a number of flowers in a parterre, or of trees m a wood. 
 Emotions that are opposite or extremely dissimilar, never combine or 
 unite: the mind cannot simultaneously take on opposite tones ; it 
 cannot at the same instant be both joyful and sad, angry and satis- 
 fied, proud and humble: dissimilar emotions may succeed each 
 other with rapidity, but they cannot exist simultaneously. 
 
 Between these 'two extremes, emotions unite more or less m pro 
 portion to the degree of their resemblance, and the degree in winch 
 their causes are connected. Thus the emotions produced by a fine 
 landscape and the singing of birds, being similar in a considerable 
 degree, readily unite, though their causes are little connected. And 
 the same happens where the causes are intimately connected, though 
 the emotions themselves have little resemblance to each other ; an 
 example of which is a loved one in distress, whose beauty gives pleas- 
 ure and her distress pain: these two emotions, proceeding from 
 different views of the object, have very little resemblance to each 
 other ; and yet so intimately connected are their causes, as to force 
 them into a sort of complex emotion, partly pleasant, partly painful. 
 This clearly explains some expressions common in poetry, a sweet 
 distress, a pleasant pain. 
 
 138. It was necessary to describe with some accuracy in what 
 manner similar and dissimilar emotions coexist in the mind, in order 
 to explain their different effects, both internal and external. This 
 subject, though obscure, is capable to be set in a clear light ; and it 
 merits attention, not only for its extensive use in criticism, but tor 
 the nobler purpose of deciphering many intricacies in the actions of 
 men Bep-inning with internal effects, I discover two, clearly dis- 
 tinguishable from each other, both of them produced by pleasant 
 emotions that are similar; of which, the one may be represented by 
 addition in numbers, the other by harmony m sounds. Two pleasant 
 emotions that are similar, readily unite when they are coexistent ; 
 and the pleasure felt in the union is the sum of the two pleasures : 
 the same emotions jn succession, are far from making the same 
 figure ; because the mind, at no instant of the succession, is conscious 
 
 It is easier to conceive the manner of coexistence of similar emotions than 
 to describe it. They cannot be *aid to mix or incorporate, like concordat 
 Bounds: their union is rather of agreement or concord; and therefor 1 
 chosen the words in the text, not as sufficient to express clearly the manner ot 
 their coexistence, but only as less liable to exception than any ot 
 
 1ST. Similar emotions to ba distinguished from dissimilar. Their roepcctiv,; ten lencies. 
 If. \vbftt proportion emotion* un'te, ujoru or U*s,
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 83 
 
 ol more than a single emotion. This doctrine may aptly be illus- 
 trated by a landscape comprehending hills, valleys, plains, rivers, 
 trees, &c. : the emotions produced by these several objects, being 
 similar in a high degree, as falling in easily- and sweetly with the 
 same tone of mind, are in conjunction extremely pleasant. Thia 
 multiplied effect is felt from objects even of different senses, as where 
 a landscape is conjoined with the music of birds and odor of flowers ; 
 and results partly from the resemblance of the emotions and partly 
 from the connection of their causes: whence it follows, that the 
 effect must be the greatest where the causes are intimately connected 
 and the emotions perfectly similar. The same rule is obviously ap- 
 plicable to painful emotions that are similar and coexistent. 
 
 139. The other pleasure arising from pleasant emotions similar 
 and coexistent, cannot be better explained than by the foregoing 
 example of a landscape, where the sight, hearing, and smelling are 
 'employed : besides the accumulated pleasure above mentioned, of so 
 many different similar emotions, a pleasure of a different kind is felt 
 from the concord of these emotions. As that pleasure resembles 
 greatly the pleasure of concordant sounds, it may be termed the 
 Harmony of Emotions. This harmony is felt in the different emo- 
 tions occasioned by the visible objects ; but it is felt still more sen- 
 sibly in the emotions occasioned by the objects of different senses, 
 as where the emotions of the eye are combined with those of the 
 ear. The former pleasure comes under the rule of addition : this 
 comes under a different rule. It is directly in proportion to the 
 degree of resemblance between the emotions, and inversely in pro- 
 portion to the degree of connection -between the causes: to feel this 
 pleasure in perfection, the resemblance between the emotions cannot 
 be too strong, nor the connection between their causes too slight, 
 The former condition is self-evident ; and the reason of the latter is, 
 that the pleasure of harmony is felt from various similar emotions, 
 distinct from each other, and yet sweetly combining in the mind ; 
 which excludes causes intimately connected, for the emotions pro- 
 duced by them are forced into one complex emotion. This pleasure 
 of concord or harmony, which is the result of pleasing emotions, and 
 cannot have place with respect to those that are painful, will be 
 further illustrated, when the emotions produced by the sound of 
 words and their meaning aid taken under consideration. (Chap, 
 xviii. sect. 8.) 
 
 The pleasure of concord from conjoined emotions, is felt even 
 where the emotions are not perfectly similar. Though love be a 
 
 JSS. The effects of similar and dissimilar emotions. Two internal effects produced by 
 pleasant emotions that are similar. Illustrations. 
 
 139. Concord of similar emotions produced by objects in a landscape, especially bvpt 
 JecU of the different senses. The pleasure of this harmony, proportional to bK 
 i slight cornection between the causes of the emotions increases the pleasure fe.t 1 n 
 plcnsure of concord from conjo 1 led emotions, ven wbtn the emotions arc not pmectit
 
 84 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 pleasant passion, yet by its softness and tenderness it resembles in a 
 considerable degree the painful passion of pity or of grief ;_ and for 
 that reason, love accords better with these passions than with what 
 are gay and sprightly. 
 
 140. Next as to the effects of dissimilar emotions, which we may 
 guess will be opposite to what are above described. Dissimilar co- 
 existent emotions, as said above, never fail to distress the mind by 
 the difference of their tones ; from which situation a feeling of har- 
 mony never can proceed ; and this holds whether the' causes be 
 connected or not. But it holds more remarkably where the causes 
 are connected ; for in that case the dissimilar emotions being forced 
 into an unnatural union, produce an actual feeling of discord. _ In 
 the next place, if we would estimate the force of dissimilar emotions 
 coexistent, we must distinguish between their causes as connected 
 or unconnected : and in order to compute their force in the formei 
 case, subtraction must be used instead of addition ; which will^be 
 evident from what follows. Dissimilar emotions forced into union 
 by the connection of their causes, are felt obscurely and imperfectly ; 
 for each tends to vary the tone of mind that is suited to the other ; 
 and the mind thus distracted between two objects, is at no instant 
 in a condition to receive a deep impression from either. Dissimilai 
 emotions proceeding from unconnected causes, are in a very different 
 condition ; for as there is nothing to force them into union, they are 
 never felt but in succession ; by which means, each hath an oppor- 
 tunity to make a complete impression. 
 
 This curious theory requires to be illustrated by examples. In 
 reading the description of the -flismal waste, Book I. of Paradise 
 Lost, we are sensible of a confused feeling, arising from _ dissimilar 
 emotions forced into union, to wit, the beauty of the description, and 
 the horror of the object described : 
 
 Seest them yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild, 
 The seat of desolation, void of light, 
 Sa-ve what the glimmering of these livid flames 
 Casts pale and dreadful ? 
 
 And with respect to this and many similar passages in Paradise 
 Lost, we are sensible that the emotions, being obscured by each 
 other, make neither of them that figure they would make separately. 
 For the same reason, ascending smoke in a calm morning, which 
 inspires stillness and tranquillity, is improper in a picture full of vio- 
 lent action. A parterre, partly ornamented, partly in disorder pro- 
 duces a mixed feeling of the same sort. Two great armies in act to 
 engage, mix the dissimilar emotions of grandeur and of terrcr. 
 
 Suppose a virtuous man has drawn on himself a great misfortune 
 by a fault incident to human nature, and somewhat venial : the re- 
 morse he feels aggravates his distress, and consequently raises out 
 pity to a high pitch : we at the same time blame the man ; and the 
 indignation raised by the fault he has committed, is dissimilar *o
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 83 
 
 pity These two passions, however, proceeding from the same object, 
 are forced into a sort of union; but the indignation is so slight as 
 scarce to be felt in the mixture, with pity. Subjects of this kind aw 
 of all the fittest for tragedy ; but of that afterwards. (Chapter xxn.) 
 
 141 Opposite emotions are so dissimilar as not to admit any sort 
 of union, even where they proceed from causes the most intimately 
 connected. A succession [to an estate] opens to me by the death 
 of a worthy man, who was my friend as well as my kinsman : when 
 I think of my friend, I am grieved ; but the succession gives me joy. 
 These two causes are intimately connected ; for the succession is 
 direct consequence of my friend's death: the emotions however, 
 being opposite, do not mix ; they prevail alternately, perhaps for a 
 course of time, till grief for my friend's death be banished by the 
 pleasures of opulence. A virtuous man suffering' unjustly, is an 
 example of the same kind : I pity him, and have great indignation 
 at the author of the wrong. These emotions proceed from causes 
 nearly connected; but, being directed to different objects, they are 
 not forced into union ; their opposition preserves them distinct, and 
 accordingly they are found to prevail alternately. _ 
 
 142 I proceed to examples of dissimilar emotions arising from 
 unconnected causes. Good and bad news of equal importance ar- 
 riving at the same instant from different quarters, produce opposite 
 emotions, the discordance of which is not felt, because they are not 
 forced into union : they govern alternately, commonly in a quick 
 succession, till their force be spent : 
 
 ShylocL How now, fubal, what news from Genoa? hast thou found my 
 
 dl rSar I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her. 
 
 Shy Why there, there, there, there ! a diamond gone, cost me two thousand 
 ducafs in /rankfortl the curse never fell upon our nation till now; I never 
 fe t it tUl now f two thousand ducats in that, and other precious precious 
 ewes! I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewel* m her 
 SJjO would she were hears'd at my foot and the ducats in hei -coffin No 
 news of them; why, so! and I know not what's spent in the ' 11 ?' 
 
 then lo uporl loss! the thief gone ^ with , sc .much ; and .0 ; much 
 
 ). i CS, ouier men nine iu iutiv iw<_>, ... 
 &ny. What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck? 
 .Tub Hath an Argosie cast away, coming from Tripolis. 
 Shy. I thank God, I thank God ; is it true ? is it true t 
 Tub. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wr ecK. 
 Sky.I thank thee, good Tubal ; good news, good news, ba, ha: where, m 
 
 ughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night, fourscore duoato. 
 Shy. Thou stick'st a (lugger in me; I shall never see my gold again ; four- 
 score ducats at a sitting, fourscore ducats ! 
 
 140 The effects of dissimilar coexistent emotion", especially when the causes are con. 
 nected. The comparative force of <llsiini!.r ^^^^^SS^f^SSi 
 connected, and when from unconnected causes. I lustrated by the dtecnpticn of a 
 
 .rising from causw clmly ~ted, do not uatU
 
 86 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 1kd>. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company to Venice, 
 that swear he cannot choose but break. - 
 
 Shy. I am gkd of it ; I'll plague him, I'll torture him ; I am glad of it. 
 
 Tub. One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter for a 
 monkey. * 
 
 Shy. "Out upon her ! thou torturest me. Tubal, it waa my Turquoise : I had 
 it of Leah when 1 was a bachelor ; 1 would not have given it for a wilderness 
 of monkeys. 
 
 Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone. 
 
 Shy. Nay, that's true, that's very true ; go, fee me an officer, bespeak him 
 a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit ; for. were he out 
 of Venice, I can make what merchandise I will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me 
 at our synagogue ; go, good Tubal ; at our svnagogue, Tubal. 
 
 Merchant of Venice, Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 In the same manner, good ne\vs arriving to a man laboring under 
 distress, occasions a vibration in his mind from the one to the other. 
 If the emotions be unequal in force, the stronger after a conflict will 
 extinguish the weaker. Thus the loss of a house by fire, or of a sum 
 of money by bankruptcy, will make no figure in opposition to the 
 birth of a long-expected son, who is to inherit an opulent fortune ; 
 after some slight vibrations the mind settles in joy, and the loss is 
 forgot. 
 
 143. The foregoing observations will be found of great use in the 
 fine arts. Many practical rules are derived from them, which shall 
 afterwards be mentioned ; but for instant gratification in part the 
 reader will accept the following specimen, being an application of 
 these observations to music. It must be premised that no dis- 
 ttgreeable combination of sounds is entitled to the name of music ; 
 or all music is resolvable into melody and harmony, which imply 
 agreeableness in their very conception. Sounds may be so contrived 
 as to produce horroi and several other painful feelings, which, in a 
 tragedy or in an opera, may be introduced with advantage to ac- 
 company the representation of a dissocial or disagreeable passion. 
 But such sounds must in themselves be disagreeable, and upon that 
 account cannot be dignified with the name of music. Secondly, 
 the agreeableness of vocal music differs from that of instrumental ; 
 the former, being intended to accompany words, ought to be ex- 
 pressive of the sentiment that they convey ; but the latter, having 
 no connection with words, may be agreeable without relation to any 
 sentiment: harmony, properly so called, though delightful when in 
 pc-ffection, hath no relation to sentiment ; and we often find melody 
 without the least tincture of it. It is beyond the power of music to 
 raise a passion or a sentiment ; but it is in the power of music t< 
 raise emotions similar to what are raised by sentiments expressed in 
 words pronounced with propriety and grace ; and such music may 
 justly be termed sentimental. Thirdly, in vocal music, the intimate 
 connection of sense and sound rejects dissimilar emotions, those 
 especially that are opposite. Similar emotions produced by the 
 
 142. Examples of dissimilar emotions arising from unconnected CRUSOS. Good ami !>*? 
 news, &c. Case where the emotious are anarjual in fores.
 
 C7 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 sense and the sound, go naturally into union, and at the same time 
 Concordant or harmonious; but dissimilar -emotions forced into 
 union by these causes intimately connected, obscure each other, and 
 arc also unpleasant by discordance. . 
 
 144 These premises make it easy to determine what sort of poet - 
 cal compositions are fitted for music. In general, as music in all 
 varioT tones ought to be agreeable, it never can be concordant 
 iTany composftion in language expressing a disagreeable passion 
 SdeSng a disagreeable object: for here the emotions raised b, 
 the sin e and by the sound are not only dissimilar but opposite 
 and Tuch emotions forced into union produce always an unpleasant 
 mature. Music accordingly is a very improper companion for se - 
 timents of malice, cruelty'envy, peevishness or o any other ^a 
 passion; witness among a thousand King Johns speech in bhak 
 Ee soliciting Hubert to murder Prince Arthur, which, even in 
 STn^iSfry view, will appear incompatible with any sor t of 
 music Music is a companion no less improper for the description 
 S any disagreeable object, such as that of Polyphemus m the h,rd 
 book of ti* ^oeid, or that of Sin in the second book of Paradise 
 Lost : the horror of the object described and the pleasure of the 
 music would be highly discordant. 
 
 145 With regal-d to vocal music there is an additional reason 
 umbrt associating it with disagreeable passions. .The external 
 51ns of such pasfions are painful-the looks and gestures to the 
 ey^ and the tone of pronunciation to the ear: such tones therefore 
 can never be expressed musically, for music must be pleasant, 01 
 
 On the other hand, music associates finely with poems that tend 
 to inspire plea&ant emotions: music, for example in a cheerful tone 
 is perfectly concordant with everj- emotion in the same tone ; and 
 hence ouf taste for airs expressive of mirth and jollity. Sympa- 
 thetic joy associates finely with cheerful music ; and sympathetic 
 pain no less finclv with music that is tender and melancholy. All 
 die different emotions of .love, namely, tenderness, concern, anxiety, 
 pain of absence, hope, fear, accord delightfully with music; and 
 accordingly a person in love, even when unkindly treated, 
 Ithed o7m%c; for the tenderness of love still prevailing accord. 
 with a melancholy strain. This is finely exemplified by g 
 in the fourth act of Othello, where Desdemona callsfor a songexp.es- 
 give of her distress. Wonderful is the delicacy of that writer s taste, 
 which fails him not even in the most refined emotions of human 
 nature Melancholy music is suited to slight grief, which requires or 
 admits consolation; but deep grief, which ^ refuses all consolaHon, 
 rejects for that reason even melancholy music. ^ _ 
 
 compunion ; for what object* also?
 
 88 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS, 
 
 Where the same person is both the actor and the singer, as in an 
 opera, -there is a separate reason why music should not be associated 
 with the sentiments of any disagreeable passion, nor the description 
 of any disagreeable object ; which is, that such association is alto- 
 gether unnatural : the pain, for example, that a man feels who is 
 agitated with malice or unjust revenge, disqualifies him for relishing 
 music, or any thing that is pleasing; and therefore to represent 
 such a man, contrary to nature, expressing his sentiments in a song, 
 cannot be agreeable to any audience of taste. 
 
 146. For a different reason music is improper for accompanying 
 pleasant emotions of the more important land ; because these totally 
 engross the mind, and leave no place for music, nor for any sort of 
 amusement. In a perilous enterprise to dethrone a tyrant, music 
 would be impertinent even where hope prevails and the prospect of 
 success is great : Alexander attacking the Indian town, and mount- 
 ing the wall, had certainly no impulse to exert his prowess in 
 a song. 
 
 It is true that not the least regard is paid to these rules either in 
 the French or Italian opera ; and the attachment we have to operas 
 may at first be considered as an 'argument against the foregoing 
 doctrine. But the general taste for operas is no argument : in these 
 compositions the passions are so imperfectly expressed as to leave 
 the mind free for relishing music of any sort indifferently ; and it 
 cannot be disguised that the pleasure of an opera is derived chiefly 
 from the music, and scarce at all from the sentiments : a happy 
 concordance of the emotions raised by the song and by the music 
 is extremely rare ; and I venture to affirm that there is no example 
 of it, unless where the emotion raised by the former is agreeable as 
 well as. that raised by the latter. 
 
 147. Next in order, according to the method proposed, come ex- 
 ternal effects, which lead us to passions as the causes of external 
 effects. Two coexistent passions that have the same tendency, must 
 be similar ; they accordingly readily unite, and in conjunction have 
 double force. This is verified by experience ; from which we learn 
 that the mind receives not impulses alternately from such passions, 
 but one strong impulse from the whole in conjunction ; and indeed 
 it is not easy to conceive what should bar the union of passions that 
 have all of them the same tendency. 
 
 Two passions having opposite tendencies may proceed from the 
 same cause considered in different views. Thus a female may at 
 once be the cause both of love and of resentment ; her beauty in- 
 flames the passion of love, her cruelty or inconstancy causes reseut- 
 
 145. Additional reason in regard to vocal music ajnlnst associating it with disagreeable 
 passions. Witli what sort of poems music well associates. The various emotions tbat 
 accord with music. Desclsmona. Case of a person who is at the same time singer and 
 nctor, as in an opera. 
 
 146. "Why music U improper for accompanying pleasant emotions of the mere important 
 Wind.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 89 
 
 ment. When two such passions coexist in the same breast^ the 
 opposition of their aim prevents any sort of union, and accordingly 
 they are not felt otherwise than in succession ; the consequence ol 
 which must be, either that the passions will balance each oiher and 
 prevent external action, or that one of them will prevail and accom- 
 plish its end. Guaiini, in his Pastor Fido, describes beautifully the 
 struggle between love and resentment directed to the same object. 
 (Act?. So, 3.) 
 
 Ovid paints in lively colors the vibration of mind between two 
 opposite passions directed to the same object. Althea had two 
 brothers much beloved, who were unjustly put to death by her son 
 Meleager in a fit of passion : she was strongly impelled to revenge ; 
 but the criminal was her own son. This ought to have withheld 
 her hand ; but the story is more interesting, by the violence of the 
 struggle between resentment and maternal love. (Met. lib. 8. 1. 445.) 
 
 In cases of this kind, one circumstance always augments the fluc- 
 tuation : after balancing between two actions, a resolution to prefer 
 one of them is an inchoated gratification of the prevailing passion, 
 which moderates it in some degree ; and that circumstance tends to 
 give a superiority to the opposite* passion : another circumstance also 
 concurs, that this opposite passion has, by restraint, acquired in the 
 interim some additional force. 
 
 148. Love and jealousy connected by a common object, occupy 
 the mind alternately : when the object is considered as beautiful, 
 love prevails : when considered as possibly unfaithful, jealousy pre- 
 vails. A situation of that kind affords great scope for fluctuation of 
 passion ; which is painted to the life by several masterly hands in 
 words as well as in colors. Shakspeare handles the same subject, 
 but in a manner uncommon, and peculiar to himself. In Othello's 
 soliloquy, before putting his wife to death, love and jealousy are 
 represented, each exerting its whole force, but without any struggle. 
 Othello was naturally inflexible ; and the tenderest love could not 
 divert him from a purpose he approved as right, not even for a mo- 
 ment ; but every thing consistent with such a character is done to 
 reconcile the two opposite passions : he is resolved to put her to 
 death, but he will not shed her blood, nor so much as ruffle her skin t 
 
 Othello. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul : 
 Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars ! 
 
 It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood, 
 
 Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, 
 
 And smooth as monumental alabaster. [Lays down the twtrd. 
 
 Yet she must die ; else she'll betray more men. 
 
 Put out the light, and then Put out the light! 
 
 If I quench thec, thou flaming minister, 
 
 I can ngain thy former light restore, 
 
 Should I repent : but once put out thy light, 
 
 Thou cuuning'st pattern of excelling nature,
 
 00 EMOTIONS ASD PASSIONS. 
 
 I know not where is that Promethean heat 
 
 That can thy light relumine. [Seta down the taper. 
 
 When I have pluck'd thy rose, 
 
 I cannot give it vital growth again ; 
 
 It needs must wither. I'll smell thee on the tree : [Kiumff fur. 
 
 O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade 
 
 Justice to break her sword ! One more ; one more ; 
 
 Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, 
 
 And love thee after. One more, that's the last ; 
 
 So sweet was ne'er so fatal ! I must weep, 
 
 But they are cruel tears ! this sorrow's heavenly ; 
 
 It strikes where it doth love. Act V. Sc. 6. 
 
 PARTY. 
 
 INFLUENCE OF PASSION WITH RESPECT TO OUR PERCEPTIONS, 
 OPINIONS, AND BELIEF. 
 
 149. CONSIDERING how intimately our perceptions, passions, and 
 actions are mutually connected, it would be wonderful if they should 
 have no mutual influence. That our actions are too much influenced 
 by passion, is a known truth ; but it is not less certain, though not 
 BO well known, that passion hath also an influence upon our percep- 
 tions, opinions, and belief. For example, the opinions we form of 
 men and things, are generally directed by affection : an advice given 
 by a man of figure, hath great weight ; the same advice from one 
 in a low condition is despised or neglected ; a man of courage un- 
 derrates danger ; and to the indolent the slightest obstacle appears 
 insurmountable. 
 
 150. There is no truth more universally known, than that tran- 
 quillity and sedateness are the proper state of mind for accurate per- 
 ception and cool deliberation ; and for that reason, we never regard 
 the opinion even of the wisest man, when we discover prejudice or 
 passion behind the curtain. Passion hath such influence over us, 
 as to give a false light to all its objects. Agreeable passions pre- 
 possess the mind in favor of their objects, and disagreeable passions, 
 no less against their objects : a woman is all perfection in her lover's 
 opinion, while in the eye of a rival beauty, she is awkward and dis- 
 agreeable : when the passion of love is gone, beauty vanishes with 
 it, nothing left of that genteel motion, that sprightly conversation, 
 those numberless graces, which formerly, in the lover's opinion, 
 charmed all hearts. To a zealot every one of his own sect is a saint, 
 while the most upright of a different sect are to him children of per- 
 dition : the talent of speaking in a friend is more regarded than 
 
 148. Love and jealousy In relation to the same object Othello. 
 
 149. Influence of passion upon oar perceptions, opinions, and belief Examples.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 91 
 
 prudent conduct in any other. Nor will this surprise one acquainted 
 with the world : our opinions, the result frequently of various and 
 complicated views, are commonly so slight and wavering, as readily 
 to be susceptible of a bias from passion. 
 
 151. With that natural bias another circumstance concurs, to give 
 passion an undue influence on our opinions and belief; and that is 
 a strong tendency in our nature to justify our passions as well as our 
 actions, not to others only, but even to ourselves. That tendency is 
 peculiarly remarkable with respect to disagreeable passions: by its 
 influence, objects are magnified or lessened, circumstances supplied 
 or suppressed, every thing colored and disguised, to answer the end 
 of justification. Hence the foundation of self-deceit, where a man 
 imposes upon himself innocently, and even without suspicion of a 
 bias. 
 
 There are subordinate means that contribute to pervert the judg- 
 ment, and to make us form opinions contrary to truth ; of which I 
 shall mention two. First, it was formerly observed, that though 
 ideas seldom start up in the mind without connection, yet that ideas 
 suited to the present tone of mind are readily suggested by any 
 slight connection : the arguments for a favorite opinion are always 
 at hand, while we often search in vain for those that cross our in- 
 clination. Second, The mind taking delight in agreeable circum- 
 stances or arguments, is deeply impressed with them ; while those 
 that are disagreeable are hurried over so as scarce to make an im- 
 pression: the same argument, by being relished or not relished, 
 weighs so differently, as in truth to make conviction depend more 
 on passion than on reasoning. This observation is fully justified by 
 experience : to confine myself to a single instance ; the numberless 
 absurd religious tenets that at different times have pestered the 
 world, would be altogether unaccountable but for that irregular bias 
 of passion. 
 
 152. We proceed to a more pleasant task, which is, to illustrate 
 the foregoing observations by proper examples. Gratitude, when 
 warm, is often exerted upon the children of the benefactor ; especially 
 where he is removed out of reach by death or absence. (See part i. 
 sect. i. of the present chapter.) The passion in this case being ex- 
 erted for the sake of the benefactor, requires no peculiar excellence 
 in his children : but the practice of doing good to these children 
 produces affection for them, which never fails to advance them in 
 our esteem. By such means, strong connections of affection are 
 jften formed among individuals, upon the slight foundation now 
 mentioned. 
 
 Envy is a passion, which, being altogether unjustifiable, cannot 
 be excused but by disguising it under some plausible name. At the 
 
 150. The proper state of mind for accurate perception and just deliberation. How agree- 
 able and diMgreeable passions prepossess the mlno. Instance of a lover ; also of a zealot. 
 
 101. Tendency to justify our own passions. Influence of such a tendency. Two *ubor> 
 dinale means that serve to pervert our judgment
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 ame time, no passion is more eager than envy, to give its object a 
 disagreeable appearance : it magnifies every bad quality, and fixes 
 or the most humbling circumstances : 
 
 Cassius. I cannot tell what you and other men 
 Think of this life ; but for my single self, 
 I had as lief not be, as live to be 
 In awe of such a thing as I, myself. 
 I was born free as Caesar, so were you ; 
 We both have fed as well : and we can both 
 Endure the winter's cold as well as he. 
 For once, upon a raw and gusty day, 
 The troubled Tyber chafing with his shores, 
 Csesar says to me, Dar'st thou, Cassius, now 
 Leap in with me into this angry flood, 
 And swim to yonder point ? Upon the word, 
 Accoutred aa I was, 1 plunged in, 
 And bid him follow; so indeed he did. 
 The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it 
 With lusty sinews ; throwing it aside, 
 And stemming it with hearts of controveity. 
 But ere we could arrive the point proposed, 
 Csesar cried, Help rne, Cassius, or I sink. 
 I, as JSneas, our great ancestor, 
 Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 
 The old Anchises bear ; so from the waves of Tyber 
 Did I the tired Caesar ; and this man 
 Is now become a god, and Cassius is 
 A wretched creature, and must bend his body 
 If Cffisar carelessly but nod on him. 
 He had a fever when he was in Spain, 
 And when the fit was on him, I did mark 
 How he did shake. 'Tis true this god did shake ; 
 His coward lips did from their color fly, 
 And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world, 
 Did lose its lustre ; I did hear him groan ; 
 Aye, and that tongue of his, that bade the Eomans 
 Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 
 Alas ! it cried -- Give me some drink, Titimus, -- 
 As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 
 A man of such a feeble temper should 
 So get a start of this majestic world, 
 And bear the palm alone. Julius Gxsar, Act 1. be. . 
 
 Gloster, inflamed with resentment against his son Edgar, could 
 even force himself into a momentary conviction that they were not 
 related : 
 
 O strange fasten'd villain ! 
 
 Would*. deny his letter I-I never Mg ^ n gc . 8 . 
 
 153 When by great sensibility of heart, or other means, grief 
 becomes immoderate, the mind, in order to justify itself, is prone to 
 magnify the cause : and if the real cause admit not of being magni- 
 fied; the mind seeks a cause for its grief in imagined future events : 
 
 Busby. Madam, your Majesty is much too sad ; 
 You promised when you parted with the King, 
 To lay aside self-harming heaviness, 
 And entertain a cheerful disposition. __ 
 
 152 Operation of gratitude: often productive of affection.-Knvy, how ejciued Itt 
 ction towards its object*. Speech of Caxnu*.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 Queen. To please the King, I did ; to pleaso myself, 
 I cannot do it. Yet I know no cause 
 Why I should welcome such a guest as grief ; 
 Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest 
 As my sweet Richard : yet ogam, methmks, 
 Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune's womb, 
 Is coming tow'rd me ; and my inward soul 
 With something trembles, yet at nothing grieves, 
 More than with parting from my lord the 
 
 Resentment at first is vented on the relations of the offender, in 
 order to punish him : but as resentment, when so outrageous, is 
 contrary to conscience, the mind, to justify its passion, is disposed 
 to paint these relations in the blackest colors ; and it comes a 
 last to be convinced, that they ought to be punished for their owu 
 demerits. , , 
 
 Anger raised by an accidental stroke upon a tender part ot 
 body is sometimes vented upon the undesigning cause. But as the 
 passion in that case is absurd, and as there can be no solid gratifi- 
 cation in punishing the innocent, the mind, prone to justify as well 
 as to gratify its passion, deludes itself into a conviction ot the ac- 
 tion's being voluntary. The conviction, however, is but momentary: 
 the first reflection shows it to be erroneous; and the passion van- 
 ished almost instantaneously with the conviction. But anger, the 
 most violent of all passions, has still greater influence : it sometimes 
 forces the mind to Jyersonify a stock or a stone, if it happen to oc- 
 casion bodily pain, and even to believe it a voluntary agent, in order 
 to be a proper object of resentment. And that we have really a 
 momentary conviction of its being a voluntary agent, must^be evi- 
 dent from considering, that, without such conviction, the passion can 
 neither be justified nor gratified: the imagination can give no aid ; 
 for a stock or a stone imagined sensible, cannot be an object of 
 punishment, if the mind be conscious that it is an imagination 
 merely without any reality. Of such personification, involving a 
 conviction of reality, there is one illustrious instance. When the 
 first bridge of boats over the Hellespont was destroyed by a storm, 
 Xerxes fell into a transport of rage, so excessive, that he commanded 
 the sea to be punished with 300 stripes, and a pair of fetteis to be 
 thrown into it, enjoining the following words to be pronounced : 
 " O tliou salt and bitter water ! thy master hath condemned thee to 
 this punishment for offending him without cause ; and is resolved to 
 pass over thee in despite of thy insolence : with reason all men neg- 
 lect to sacrifice to thee, because thou art both disagreeable and 
 treacherous." (Herodotus, Book vii.) 
 
 154. Shakspeare exhibits beautiful examples of the irregular in 
 fluence of passion in making us believe things to be otherwise than 
 
 168. Immoderate grief justifies itself, how?-When entertained towards the relative* of 
 an offender, how resentment justifies iteolf. -Anger, raised by an accidental stroke, ho 
 jtt*iupt4 to bomrtifl*'!? Xrx nd tl> Hellespout
 
 94 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 tbey are. King Lear, in his distress, personifies the rain, wind, and 
 thunder ; and in order to justify his resentment, believes them to be 
 taking part with his daughters : 
 
 Lear. Bumble thy bellyfull, spit fire, spout rain 1 
 Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters. 
 I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness ; 
 I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children; 
 You owe me no subscription. Then let full 
 
 Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand, your slave ; 
 
 A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man ! 
 But yet I call you servile ministers, 
 That have with two pernicious daughters join'd 
 Your high-ensrender'd battles, 'gainst a head 
 So old and white as this. Oh ! oh ! 'tis foul ! 
 
 Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 King Richard, full of indignation against his favorite horse for car- 
 rying Bolingbroke, is led into the conviction of his being rational : 
 
 Groom. 0, how it yearn'd my heart, when I beheld 
 In London streets that coronation day, 
 When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbara 
 That horse that thou so often hast bestrid, 
 That horse that I so carefully have dress'd. 
 
 K. Rich. Eode he on Barbary ! tell me, gentle friend, 
 How went he under him ? 
 
 Groom. So proudly as he had disdain'd the ground. 
 
 K. Rich. So proud that Boliugbroke was on his back ! 
 That jade had eat bread from my royal hand. 
 This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. 
 Would be not stumble ? would he not fall down 
 (Since pride must have a fall), and break the neck 
 Of that proud man that did usurp his back ? 
 
 Richard II. Act V. Sc. 11. 
 
 Hamlet, swelled with indignation at his mother's second marriage, 
 was strongly inclined to lessen the time of her widowhood, the 
 shortness of the time being a violent circumstance against her ; 
 and he deludes himself by degrees into the opinion of an interval 
 shorter than the real one : 
 
 Hamlet. That it should come to this ! 
 
 But two months dead ! nay, not so much ; not two ; 
 
 So excellent a king, that was to this, 
 
 Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother, 
 
 That he permitted not the w ; nds of heaven 
 
 Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth ! 
 
 Must I remember why, she would hang on him, 
 
 As if increase of appetite had grown 
 
 By what it fed on ; yet, within a month, 
 
 Let me not think Frailty, thy name is Woman! 
 
 A little month ! or ere these shoes were old, 
 
 With which she follow'd my poor father's body, 
 
 Like Niobe, all tears Why she, e'en she 
 
 (O heav'n ! a beast that wants discourse of reason, 
 Would nave mourn'd longer) married with mine uncle, 
 My father's brother; but no more like my father, 
 Than I to Hercules. Within 'a month !- 
 
 Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears 
 Had left the flushing hi htr gauled eyes,
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 She married - Oh, most wicked speed, to post 
 
 With *nch dexterity to incestuous sheets ! 
 
 It is not, nor it cannot come fc good 
 
 But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue. Act I. 5c. 8. 
 
 The power of passion to falsify the computation of time is remarka- 
 ble in this instance ; because time, which hath an accurate measure, 
 is less obsequious to our desires and wishes, than objects which have 
 no precise standard of less or more. 
 
 155 Good news is greedily swallowed upon very slender evi- 
 dence : our wishes magnify the probability of the event as well as 
 the veracity of the relater ; and we believe as certain, what at I 
 is doubtful : 
 
 Quel, chc 1'huom vcde, amor li fa invisible 
 
 El 1'iuvisibil fa veder amore 
 
 Questo creduto fu, che '1 miser suole 
 
 Bar facile credenza a' quel, ^ ^ ,. St . 56 . 
 
 For the same reason, bad news gains also credit upon the slightest 
 evidence : fear, if once alarmed, has the same effect with hope, to 
 magnify every circumstance that tends to conviction. Shakspeare, 
 who shows more knowledge of human nature than any of our phi- 
 losophers, hath in his Cymbeline (Act ii. Sc. 6) represented thu bias 
 of tie mind ; for he makes the person who alone was aflected with 
 the bad news, yield to evidence that did not convince any of his com- 
 panions. And Othello (Act iii. Sc. 8) is convinced^ of his wife s in- 
 fidelity from circumstances too light to move any person I 
 interested. . 
 
 If the news interest us in so low a degree as to give place to rea- 
 son the effect will not be altogether the same : judging of the prob- 
 ability or improbability of the story, the mind settles in a rational 
 conviction either that it is true or not. But, even in that case, the 
 mind is not allowed to rest in that degree of conviction which is 
 produced by rational evidence : if the news be m any degree lavor 
 able, our belief is raised by hope to an improper height; and : 
 favorable, by fear. .. 
 
 This observation holds equally with respect to 'future events: if a 
 future event be either much wished or dreaded, the mind never tails 
 to augment the probability beyond truth. 
 
 156. That easiness of belief with respect to wonders and prodi- 
 gies, even the most absurd and ridiculous, is a strange phenomenon; 
 because nothing can be more evident than the following proposition, 
 that the more singular an event is, the more evidence is required to 
 produce belief; a familiar event daily occurring, being in itself ex- 
 tremely probable, finds ready credit, and therefore is vouched by 
 the slightest evidence; but to overcome the improbability of a 
 
 151 Examples, where passion makes us believe things to be otherwise than they ar*.- 
 ^1 Why afe a ^oT news anH bad nc- 9 received npon slight evid en *? Exan.pl* 
 Belief of ftatUTV evenrt.
 
 96 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 strange aiid rare event, contrary to the course of nature, the very 
 strongest evidence is required. *It is certain, however, that wonders 
 and prodigies are swallowed by the vulgar, upon evidence that 
 would not be sufficient to ascertain the most familiar occurrence. It 
 has been reckoned difficult to explain that irregular bias of mind ; 
 but we are now made acquainted with the influence of passion upon 
 opinion and belief: a story of ghosts or fairies, told with an air of 
 gravity and truth, raiseth an emotion of wonder, and perhaps of 
 dread ; and these emotions imposing upon a weak mind, impress 
 upon it a thorough conviction contrary to reason. 
 
 Opinion and belief are influenced by propensity as well as by 
 passion. An innate propensity is all we have to convince us, that 
 the operations of nature are uniform : influenced by that propensity, 
 we often rashly think that good or bad weather will never have an 
 end ; and in natural philosophy, writers, influenced by the same 
 propensity, stretch commonly their analogical reasonings beyond just 
 bounds. 
 
 Opinion and belief are influenced by affection as well as by pro- 
 pensity. The noted story of a fine lady and a curate viewing the 
 moon through a telescope, is a pleasant illustration : I perceive, says 
 the lady, two shadows inclining to each other ; they are certainly 
 two happy lovers. Not at all, replies the curate, they are two stee- 
 ples of a cathedral. 
 
 APPENDIX TO PART V. 
 Methods that Nature hath afforded for computing Time and Space. 
 
 157. THIS subject is introduced, because it affords several curious 
 examples of the influence of passion to bias the mind in its concep- 
 tions and opinions ; a lesson that cannot be too frequently inculcated, 
 as there is not, perhaps, another bias in human nature that hath an 
 .nfluence so universal to make us wander from truth as well as from 
 ^ustice. 
 
 The question is, What was the measure of time before artificial 
 measures were invented ; and what is the measure at present-, when 
 these are not at hand ? I speak not of months and days, which are 
 computed by the moon and sun ; but of hours, or in general of the 
 time that passes between any two occurrences when there is not ac- 
 cess to the sun. The only natural measure is the succession of our 
 thoughts ; for we always judge the time to be long or short, in pro- 
 
 156. Facility of belief with respect to wonders: how explained. Opinion and belief in- 
 fluenced by propensity; e. g. to believe the uniformity of nature's operations. Opinion 
 and belief lafluucd by affectlou. Story of tb ltdy and the uuratt.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 97 
 
 portion to the number of perceptions and ideas that have passed 
 during that interval. This measure is indeed far from being accu- 
 rate ; because in a quick and in a slow succession, it must evidently 
 produce different computations of the same time : but, however in- 
 accurate, it is the only measure by which we naturally calculate 
 time ; and that measure is applied, on all occasions, without regard 
 to any casual variation in the rate of succession. 
 
 That measure would, however, be tolerable, did it labor under no 
 other imperfection besides that mentioned : but in many instances it 
 is much more fallacious ; in order to explain which distinctly, an 
 analysis will be necessary. Time is computed at two different pe- 
 riods ; one while it is passing, another after it is past : these compu- 
 tations shall be considered separately, with the errors to which each 
 of them is liable. Beginning with computation of time while it is 
 passing, it is a common and trite observation, That to lovers absence 
 appears immeasurably long, every minute an hour, and every day a 
 year : the same computation is made in eveiy case where we long 
 for a distant event ; as where one is in expectation of good news, or 
 where a profligate heir watches for the death of an old rich miser. 
 Opposite to these are instances not fewer in number : to a criminal 
 the interval between sentence and execution appears woefully short : 
 and the same holds in every case where one dreads an approaching 
 event ; of which even a school-boy can bear witness : the hour al- 
 lowed him for play, moves, in his apprehension, with a very swift 
 pace ; before he is thoroughly engaged, the hour is gone. Among 
 the circumstances that terrify a condemned criminal, the short time 
 he has to live is one ; which time, by the influence of terror, is made 
 to appear still shorter than it is in reality. In the same manner, 
 among the distresses of an absent lover, the time of separation is a 
 capital circumstance, which for that reason is greatly magnified by 
 his anxiety and impatience : he imagines that the time of meeting 
 comes on very slow, or rather that it will never come : every minute 
 is thought of an intolerable length. Here is a fair, and, I hope, sat- 
 isfactory reason, why time is thought to be tedious when we long 
 for a future event, and not less fleet when we dread the event. The 
 reason is confirmed by other instances. Bodily pain, fixed to one 
 part, produceth a slow train of perceptions, which, according to the 
 common measure of time, ought to make it appear short : yet we 
 know, that, in such a state, time has the opposite appearance ; and 
 the reason is, that bodily pain is always attended with a degree of 
 impatience, which makes us think every minute to be an hour. The 
 same holds where the pain shifts from place to place ; but not so re- 
 markably, because such a pain is not attended with the same degree 
 
 157. The natural measure of time. Its inaccuracy. Time computed (1) when it Ispa- 
 Ing. Instance of absent lovers ; of longing for a distant event Opposite instances When 
 an approaching event is dreaded. The computntlou of time white suffering bodily pain: 
 a.so li> travelling a tivl road.
 
 98 EMOTIONS ANI PASSIONS. 
 
 of impatience. The impatience a man hath in travelling through a 
 barren country, or in a bad road, makes him think, during the jour- 
 ney, that time goes on with a very slow pace. We shall see after- 
 wards, that a very different computation is made when the journey 
 is over. 
 
 158. How ought it to stand with a person who apprehends bad 
 news ? It will probably be thought that the case of this person re- 
 sembles that of a criminal, who, terrified at his approaching execu- 
 tion, believes every hour to be but a minute : yet the computation 
 is directly opposite. Reflecting upon the difficulty, there appears 
 one capital distinguishing circumstance : the fate of the criminal is 
 determined ; in the case under consideration, the person is still in 
 suspense. Every one has felt the distress that accompanies suspense : 
 we wish to get rid of it at any rate, even at the expense of bad news. 
 This case, therefore, upon a more narrow inspection, resembles that 
 of bodily pain : the present distress, in both eases, makes the time 
 appear extremely tedious. 
 
 The reader probably will not be displeased, to have this branch ot 
 the subject illustrated, by an author who is acquainted with every 
 maze of the human heart, and who bestows ineffable grace and or- 
 nament upon every subject he handles : 
 
 Rosalinda. I pray you, what is't a-clock ? 
 
 Orlando. You should ask me, what time o' day ; there's no clock in the forest, 
 
 Ros Then there is no true lover in the forest ; else, sighing every minute, 
 
 and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of Time, as well as a clock. 
 
 Orla And why not the swift foot of Time ? Had not that been as proper ? 
 os. By no means, Sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. 
 I'll toll you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who lime gallops 
 withal, and who he stands still withal ? 
 
 Orla. I pr'ythee whom doth he trot withal ? 
 
 Ros Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her 
 marriage and the day it is solemnized : if the interim be but a se'enmgnt, 
 Time's pace is so hard, that it seems the length of seven year. 
 
 Orla. Who ambles Time withal ? 
 
 Ros With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout , 
 for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study; the other lives mem y. 
 because he feels no pain : the one lacking the burthen of lean an wasteful 
 learning ; the other kAowing no burthen of heavy tedious penury. These Time 
 ambles withal. 
 
 Orla. Who doth he gallop withal? ... 
 
 Ros. With a thief to the gallows : for, though he go as softly as foot can fall, 
 he thinks himself too soon there. 
 
 Orla. Who stays it still withal ? 
 
 Ros. With lawyers in the vacation : for they sleep between term and term, 
 and then they perceive not how Time moves As You Lite It, Act 111. be. 8. 
 
 159. The natural method of computing present time, shows how 
 far from the truth we may be led by the irregular influence of pas- 
 sion ; nor are our eyes immediately opened when the scene is past ; 
 for the deception continues while there remain any traces of the 
 passion. But looking back upon past time when the joy or distress 
 
 158. Compaction by a person who apprehends bad news. How this ease differs fro 
 that of a criminal approacliiu? tlie time aTtteeuthm.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 09 
 
 is no longer remembered, tie computation is very different : in that 
 condition we coolly and deliberately make use of the ordinary meas- 
 ure, namely, the coui-se of our perceptions. And I shall now pro- 
 ceed to the errors that this measure is subjected to. Here we must 
 distinguish between a train of perceptions and a train of ideas: 
 real objects make a strong impression, and are faithfully remembered : 
 ideas, on the contrary, however entertaining at the time, are apt to 
 escape a subsequent recollection. Hence it is, that in retrospection, 
 the time that was employed upon real objects, appears longer than 
 that employed upon ideas : the former are more accurately recol- 
 lected than the latter; and we measure the time by the number 
 that is recollected. This doctrine shall be illustrated by examples. 
 After finishing a journey through a populous country, the frequency 
 of agreeable objects distinctly recollected by the traveller, makes the 
 time spent in the journey appear to him longer than it was in reality ; 
 which is chiefly remarkable in the first journey, when eveiy object 
 is new, and makes a strong impression. On the other hand, after 
 finishing a journey through a barren country thinly peopled, the time 
 appears short, being measured by the number of objects, which were 
 few, and far from interesting. Here in both instances a computation 
 is made, directly opposite to that made during the journey. And 
 this, by the way, serves to account for what may appear singular, 
 that, in a barren country, a computed mile is always longer than 
 near the capital, where the country is rich and populous : the trav- 
 eller has no natural measure of the miles he has travelled, other than 
 the time bestowed upon the journey ; nor any natural measure of the 
 time, other than the number of his perceptions : now these, being 
 few from the paucity of objects in a waste country, lead him to com- 
 pute that the time has been short, and consequently that the miles 
 have been few : by the same method of computation, the great num- 
 ber of perceptions, from the quantity of objects in a populous coun- 
 try, make the traveller conjecture that the time has been long, and 
 the miles many. The last step of the computation is obvious : in 
 estimating the distance of one place from another, if the miles be 
 reckoned few in number, each mile must of course be long : if many 
 in number, each must be short. 
 
 160. Again, the travelling with an agreeable companion, pro- 
 duceth a short computation both of the road and of time ; especially 
 if there be few objects that demand attention, or if the objects be 
 familiar : and the case is the same of young people at a ball, or of 
 a^ joyous company over a bottle : the ideas with which they have 
 been entertained, being transitory, escape the memory : after the 
 journey and the entertainment are over, they reflect that they have 
 been much diverted, but scarce can say about what. 
 
 159. (2.) "When the time of an event has passed; how we compute. The retrospection of 
 time employed upon real objects, and upon ideas. Examples. Computation of distance 
 lid of time hi pvsintf through, a populous country; and through a barrel) ou*
 
 100 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 When one is totally occupied with any agreeable work that ad- 
 mits not many objects, time runs on without observation ; and upon 
 a subsequent recollection, must appear short, in proportion to the 
 paucity of objects. This is still more remarkable in close contem- 
 plation and in deep thinking, where the train, composed wholly of 
 ideas, proceeds with an extreme slow pace : not only are the ideas 
 few in number, but are apt to escape an after reckoning. The like 
 false reckoning of time may proceed from an opposite state of mind : 
 in a reverie, where ideas float at random without making any im- 
 pression, time goes on unheeded, and the reckoning is lost. A 
 reverie may be so profound as to prevent the recollection of any one 
 idea : that the mind was busied in a train of thinking may in gen- 
 eral be remembered ; but what was the subject, has quite escaped 
 the memory. In such a case we are altogether at a loss about the 
 time, having no data for making a computation. No cause pro- 
 duceth so false a reckoning of time as immoderate grief: the mind, 
 in that state, is violently attached to a single object, and admits not 
 a different thought : any other object breaking in, is instantly ban- 
 ished, so as scarce to give an appearance of succession. In a reverie, 
 we are uncertain of the time that is past ; but, in the example now 
 given, there is an appearance of certainty, that the time must have 
 been short, when the perceptions are so few in number. 
 
 PART VI. 
 
 THE RESEMBLANCE OF EMOTIONS TO THEIR CAUSES. 
 
 161. THAT many emotions have some resemblance to their causes 
 is a truth that can be made clear by induction ; though, as far as I 
 know, the observation has not been made by any writer. Motion, 
 in its different circumstances, is productive of feelings^ that resemble 
 it: sluggish motion, for example, causeth a languid, unpleasant 
 feeling; slow uniform motion, a feeling calm and pleasant; and 
 brisk motion, a lively feeling that rouses the spirits and promotes 
 activity. A fall of water through rocks raises in the mind a tumul- 
 tuous confused agitation, extremely similar to its cause. When force 
 is exerted with any effort, the spectator feels a similar effort, as of 
 
 160 Computation of road and time when travelling with an agreeable companion. Com- 
 .wtation of time passed at a ball ; or when occupied with any agreeable work, admitting 
 few objects ; after a process of deep thinking ; after a reverie ; false reckoning arising frc 
 
 "l. Emotions resemble their causes. Effect on the mind of various degrees of motion 
 and of force. View of a larg object; of nn elevatod one.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 101 
 
 force exerted within his mind. A large object swells in the heart : an 
 elevated object makes the spectator stand erect. 
 
 102. Sounds also produce emotions, or feelings that resemble 
 them. A sound in a low key brings down the mind such a sound 
 in a full tone hath a certain solemnity, which it communicates to 
 the feeling produced by it A sound in a high key cheers the mina. 
 by raising it : such a sound in a full tone both elevates and s*elL 
 the mind. 
 
 Again, a wall or pillar that declines from the perpendicular pro- 
 duceth a painful feeling, as of a tottering and falling within the 
 mind ; and a feeling somewhat similar is produced by a tall pillar 
 that stands so ticklish as to look like falling. A column with a 
 bae looks more firm and stable than upon the naked ground, and 
 for that reason is more agreeable; and though the cylinder is a 
 more beautiful figure, yet the cube for a base is preferred, its angles 
 being extended to a greater distance from the centre than the cir- 
 cumference of a cylinder. This excludes not a different reason, that 
 the base, the shaft, and the capital of a pillar ought, for the sake of 
 variety, to differ from each other : if the shaft be round, the base 
 and capital ought to be square. 
 
 A constrained posture, uneasy to the man himself, is disagreeable 
 to the spectator ; whence a rule in painting, that the drapery ought 
 not to adhere to the body, but hang loose, that the figures may 
 appear easy and free in their movements. The constrained posture 
 of a French dancing-master in one of Hogarth's pieces is for that 
 reason disagreeable ; and it is also ridiculous, because the constraint 
 is assumed as a grace. 
 
 163. The foregoing observation is not confined to emotions or 
 feelings raised by still life : it holds also in what are raised by the 
 qualities, actions, and passions of a sensible being. Love, inspired 
 by a fine woman, assumes her qualities : it is sublime, soft, tender, 
 severe, or gay, according to its cause. This is still more remarkable 
 in emotions raised by human actions : it hath already been re- 
 marked, that any single instance of gratitude, besides procuring 
 esteem for the author, raiseth in the spectator a vague emotion of 
 gratitude, which disposeth him to be grateful ; and I now further 
 remark, that this vague emotion hath a strong resemblance to its 
 cause, namely, the passion that produced the grateful action. Cour- 
 age exerted inspires the reader as well as the spectator with a like 
 emotion of courage ; a just action fortifies our love of justice, and a 
 generous action rouses our generosity. In short, with respect to all 
 virtuous actions, it will be found by induction, that they lead us tc 
 imitation, by inspiring emotions resembling the passions that pre- 
 162. Emotions pro'lncod by various sounds; also by a view of a wall or pillar declining 
 from a perpendicular. Column resting on a base or on the ground. Proper form of th 
 base of a column. A constrained posture disagreeable. Hence a rule In painting. 
 
 163. Emotions raised by the qualities, actions, and passions of a sensible being. Effect 
 of observing or reading of an Instance of gratitude, &c. Practical inference.
 
 102 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 duoeth these actions. And hence the advantage of choice books 
 and choice company. 
 
 164 Grief as well as joy is infectious : the emotions they raise 
 a spectator resemble them perfectly. Fear is equally infectious ; 
 and hence in an army, a few taking fright, even without_ cause, 
 spread the infection till it becomes a universal panic. Pity is simi- 
 lar D6 its cause ; a parting scene between lovers or friends produceth 
 in the spectator a sort of pity, which is tender like the distress ; the 
 anguish of remorse produceth pity of a harsh kind ; and it the 
 remorse be extreme, the pity hath a mixture of horror. Anger 1 
 think is singular ; for even where it is moderate, and causeth no 
 disgust, it disposeth not the spectator to anger in any degree. Cov- 
 etousness, cruelty, treachery, and other vicious passions, are so .tar 
 from raising any emotion similar to themselves, to incite a spectator 
 to imitation, that they have an opposite effect: they raise abhor- 
 rence, and fortify the spectator in his aversion to such actons. 
 When anger is immoderate, it cannot fail to produce the same effect. 
 
 PART VII. 
 
 FINAL CAUSES OF THE. MORE FREQUENT EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 165. IT is a law in our nature, that we never act but by the im- 
 pulse of desire ; which in other words is saying, that passion, by the 
 desire included in it, is what determines the will. Hence in the 
 conduct of life, it is of the utmost importance that our passions be 
 directed to proper objects, tend to just and rational ends, and with 
 relation to each other be duly balanced. The beauty of contrivance, 
 so conspicuous in the human frame, is not confined to the rational 
 part of our nature, but is visible over the whole. Concerning the 
 passions in particular, however irregular, headstrong, and perverse, 
 in a slight view, they may appear, I hope to demonstrate that they 
 are by nature modelled and tempered with perfect wisdom, for the 
 good of society as well as for private good. 
 
 In order to fulfil my engagement, it must be premised, that an 
 agreeable cause produceth always a pleasant emotion ; and a disa- 
 greeable cause, a painful emotion. This is a general law of nature 
 which admits not a single exception : agreeableness in the causers 
 indeed so essentially connected with pleasure in the emotion, its 
 effect, that an agreeable cause cannot be better defined, than by its 
 
 164 Kemarks on grief and joy; fear; pity; anger; covetousness ; cruelty, and oUiw 
 vicious passions.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 power of producing a pleasant emotion ; and disagreeable ness in the 
 cause has the same necessary connection with pain in the emotion 
 produced by it. 
 
 166. From this pre.iminary it appears, that in order to know for 
 what end an emution is made, pleasant or painful, wo must begin 
 with inquiring for what end its cause is made agreeable or disagree- 
 able. And, with respect to inanimate objects, considered as the 
 causes of emotions, many of them are made agreeable in order to 
 promote our happiness ; and it proves invincibly the benignity of 
 the Deity, that we are placed in the midst of objects for the most 
 part agreeable. But that is not all : the bulk of such objects being 
 of real use in life, are made agreeable in order to excite our indus- 
 try; witness a large tree, a well-dressed fallow, a rich field of grain, 
 and others that may be named without end. On the other hand, il 
 is not easy to specify a disagreeable object that is not at the same 
 time hurtful. Some things are made disagreeable, such as a rotten 
 carcass, because they are noxious ; others, a dirty marsh, for exam- 
 ple, or a barren heath, are made disagreeable, in order, as above, to 
 excite our industry. And, with respect to the few things that are 
 neither agreeable nor disagreeable, it will be made evident, thai 
 their being left indifferent is not a work of chance but of wisdom : 
 of such I shall have occasion to give several instances. 
 
 167. Because inanimate objects that are agreeable fix our atten- 
 tion, and draw us to them, they in that respect are termed attractive : 
 such objects inspire pleasant emotions, which are gratified by ad- 
 hering to the objects and enjoying them. Because disagreeable 
 objects of the same kind repel us from them, they in that respect 
 are termed repulsive; and the painful emotions raised by such 
 objects are gratified by flying from them. Thus, in general, with 
 respect to things inanimate, the tendency of every pleasant emotion 
 is to prolong the pleasure ; and the tendency of every painful emo- 
 tion is to end the pain. 
 
 168. Sensible beings, considered as objects of passion, lead into 
 a more complex theory. A sensible being that is agreeable by its 
 attributes, inspires us with a pleasant emotion accompanied with 
 desire ; and the question is, What is naturally the gratification of 
 that desire ? As man is endued with a principle of benevolence as 
 well as of selfishness, ho is prompted by his nature to desire the 
 good of every sensible being that gives him pleasure ; and the hap- 
 piness of that being is the gratification of his desire. The final cause 
 of desire so directed is illustrious : it contributes to a man's own 
 happiness, by affording him means of gratification beyond what 
 selfishness can afford ; and,^at the same time, it tends eminently to 
 
 165. What impels to action. Rule In regard to our passions. Agreeable and disagree- 
 able cause defined. 
 
 166. Inanimate objects as causes of emotions. Why the bulk of such objects arc agree- 
 able. Why some things are made disagreeable. 
 
 167. Why certain objects are termed attractive, others repulsive.
 
 104 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 advance the happiness of others. This lays open a beautiful theory 
 in the nature of man : a selfish action can orly benefit myself ; a 
 benevolent action benefits myself as much as it benefits .others. In 
 a word, benevolence may not improperly be said to be the most 
 refined selfishness ; which, by the way, ought to silence certain shal- 
 low philosophers, who, ignorant of human nature, teach a disgustful 
 doctrine that to serve others, unless with a view to our own hap- 
 piness, is weakness and folly ; as if self-love only, and not benevo- 
 lence, contributed to our happiness. With shallow thinkers, the 
 selfish system naturally prevails in theory, I do not say in practice 
 During infancy, our desires centre mostly in ourselves : every one 
 perceives intuitively the comfort of food and raiment, of a snug 
 dwelling, and of every convenience. But that the doing good to 
 others will make us happy, is not so evident ; feeding the hungry, 
 for example, or clothing the naked. This truth is seen but obscurely 
 by the gross of mankind, if at all seen : the superior pleasure that 
 accompanies the exercise of benevolence, of friendship, and of every 
 social principle, is not clearly understood till it be frequently telt. 
 To perceive the social principle in its triumphant state, a man must 
 forget himself, and turn his thoughts upon the character and con- 
 duct of his fellow-creatures : he will feel a secret charm in every 
 passion that tends to the good of others, and a secret aversion 
 against every unfeeling heart that is indifferent to the happiness and 
 distress of others. In a word, it is but too common for men to in 
 dulge selfishness in themselves ; but all men abhor it m others. 
 
 169 Next in order come sensible beings that are in distress. A 
 person' in distress, being so far a disagreeable object, must raise in a 
 spectator a painful passion ; and, were man purely a selfish being, 
 he would desire to be relieved from that pain by turning from the 
 obiect But the principle of benevolence gives an opposite direction 
 to his desire; it makes him desire to afford relief, and, by relieving 
 the person from distress, his passion is gratified. The painful pas- 
 sion thus directed, is termed sympathy; which, though painful, is 
 vet in its nature attractive. And, with respect to its final cause we 
 can b<? at no loss : it not only tends to relieve a fellow-creature from 
 distress, but in its gratification is greatly more pleasant than it 
 
 were repulsive. . 
 
 170 We in the last place, bring under consideration persons 
 hateful by vice or wickedness. Imagine a wretch who has lately 
 perpetrated some horrid crime ; he is disagreeable to every spectator 
 and consequently raiseth in every spectator a painful passion. What 
 is the natural gratification of that passion ? I must here again ob- 
 serve that supposing man to be entirely a selfish being, he won 
 
 de 
 ftcti 
 
 the pleasure that accompanies benevolent actions Svm _ athy 
 1(59. Rational beings in distress; emotions excited.-Sympatny.
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 105 
 
 be prompted by his nature to relieve himself from the pain by avert- 
 ing his eye and banishing the criminal from rrs thoughts. But 
 man is not so constituted; he is composed of many principles, 
 which, though seemingly contradictory, are perfectly concordant. 
 His actions are influenced by the principle of benevolence, as well 
 as by that of selfishness ; and, in order to answer the foregoing ques- 
 tion, I must introduce a third principle, no less remarkable in its 
 influence than either of these mentioned : it is that principle, com- 
 mon to all, which prompts us to punish those who do wrong. An 
 envious, a malicious, or a cruel action, being disagreeable, raiseth in 
 the spectator the painful emotion of resentment, which frequently 
 swells into a passion ; and the natural gratification of the desire 
 included in that passion is to punish the guilty person : I must chas- 
 tise the wretch by indignation at least, and hatred, if not more 
 severely. Here the final cause is self-evident. 
 
 171. An injury done to myself, touching me more than when 
 done to others, raises my resentment to a higher degree. The 
 desire, accordingly, included in this passion, is not satisfied with so 
 slight a punishment as indignation or hatred : it is not fully grati- 
 fied with retaliation ; and the author must by my hand suffer mis- 
 chief, as great at least as he has done to me. Neither can we be at 
 any loss about the final cause of that higher degree of resentment: 
 the whole vigor of the passion is required to secure individuals 
 from the injustice and oppression of others. 
 
 172. A wicked or disgraceful action is disagreeable, not only to 
 others, but even to the delinquent himself; and raises in both a 
 painful emotion, including a desire of punishment. The painful 
 emotion felt by the delinquent is distinguished by the name of re- 
 morse, which naturally excites him to punish himself. There 
 cannot be imagined a better contrivance to deter us from vice ; for 
 remorse itself is a severe punishment. That passion, and the desire 
 of self-punishment derived from it, are touched delicately by Terence 
 (Heautontimorumenos, Act I. Sc. 1). 
 
 Otway reaches the same sentiment : 
 
 Monvmla. Let mischiefs multiply ! let every hour 
 Of my loathed life yield me increase of horror ! 
 Oh let the suu to these unhappy eyes 
 Ne'er shine again, but be eclipsed forever ! 
 May every thing I look on seem a prodigy, 
 To fill iny soul with terror, till I quite 
 Forget 1 ever hud humanity, 
 And grow a cursor of the works of nature ! Orphan, Act IV. 
 
 173. In the cases mentioned, benevolence alone, or desire of pun 
 ishment alone, governs without a rival ; and it was necessary to 
 
 170. Persons hateful by vice. Man influenced In view of them by selfishness or by 
 onevo)ence. A third principle nctive In such cases. Its final cause. 
 
 171. Emotion excited by an injury dono to myself. The final cause. 
 
 172. A wicked action disagreeable to the delinquent as well us to other*. EmotloU 
 txcttvd ; its use. Quotation from Otway't Orphan,
 
 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 handle these cases separately, in order to elucidate a subject which 
 by writers is left in great obscurity. But neither of these principles 
 operates always without rivalship : cases may be figured, and cases 
 actually exist, where the same person is an object both of sympathy 
 and of punishment. Thus the sight of a profligate in the venereal 
 disease, overrun with blotches and sores, puts both principles in 
 motion: while his distress fixes my attention, sympathy prevails; 
 out as soon as I think of his profligacy, hatred prevails, accompanied 
 sometimes with a desire to punish. This, in general, is the _case of 
 distress occasioned by immoral actions that are not highly criminal ; 
 and if the distress and the immoral action make impressions equal 
 or nearly so, sympathy and hatred, counterbalancing each other, 
 will not suffer me either to afford relief or to inflict punishment. 
 What then will be the result ? The principle of self-love solves the 
 question : abhorring an object so loathsome, I naturally avert my eye, 
 and walk off as fast as I can, in order to be relieved from the pain. 
 174. No action, right or wrong, is indifferent even to a mere 
 spectator : if right, it inspires esteem ; disgust, if wrong. But it is 
 remarkable, that these emotions seldom are accompanied with de- 
 sire : the abilities of man are limited, and he finds sufficient em- 
 ployment in relieving the distressed, in requiting his benefactors, 
 and in punishing those who wrong him, without moving out of his 
 sphere for the benefit or chastisement of those with whom he has 
 no connection. 
 
 If the good qualities of others raise my esteem, the same quali- 
 ties in myself must produce a similar effect in a superior degree, 
 upon account of the natural partiality every man hath for himself ; 
 and this increases self-love. If these qualities be of a high rank, 
 they produce a conviction of superiority, which excites me to assume 
 some sort of government over others. Mean qualities, on the other 
 hand, produce in me a conviction of inferiority, which makes me 
 submit to others. These convictions, distributed among individuals, 
 by measure and proportion, may justly be esteemed the solid basis 
 of government ; because upon them depend the natural submission 
 of the many to the few, without which even the- mildest govern- 
 ment would be in a violent state, and have a constant tendency to 
 dissolution. 
 
 175. No other branch of the human constitution shows more 
 visibly our destination for society, nor tends more to our im- 
 provement, than appetite for fame or esteem: for as the whole 
 conveniences of life are derived from mutual aid and support 
 in society, it ought to be a capital aim to secure these convem- 
 
 178 Cases where benevolence and desire of punishment alternately operate. When 
 
 *^r e JK%^^^ 
 
 qualities in others: in mrself. In view of mean qualities in mr&clf.-The basis 
 rnineut.
 
 EMOTIQKS AND PASSIONS. 107 
 
 ences, by gaining the esteem and affection of others. Reason, in- 
 deed, dictates that lesson : but reason alone is not sufficient in a 
 matter of such importance ; and the appetite mentioned is a motive 
 more powerful than reason, to be active in gaining esteem and affec- 
 tion. That appetite, at the same time, is finely adjusted to the 
 moral branch of our constitution, by promoting all the moral vir- 
 tues ; for what means are there to attract love and esteem so effec- 
 tual as a virtuous course of life ? if a man be just and beneficent, if 
 he be temperate, modest, and prudent, he will infallibly gain the es- 
 teem and love of all who know him.* 
 
 176. Communication of passion to related objects, is an illus- 
 trious instance of the care of Providence to extend social connec- 
 tions as far as the limited nature of man can admit. That com- 
 munication is so far hurtful, as to spread the malevolent passions 
 beyond their natural bounds: but let it be remarked, that this 
 unhappy effect regards savages only, who give way to malevolent 
 passions ; for under the discipline of society, these passions being 
 subdued, are in a good measure eradicated ; and in their place 
 succeed the kindly affections, which, meeting with all encourage- 
 ment, take possession of the mind, and govern all our actions. In 
 that condition, the progress of passion along related objects, by 
 spreading the kindly affections through a multitude of individuals, 
 hath a glorious effect. 
 
 177. Nothing can be more entertaining to a rational mind, than 
 the economy of the human passions, of which I have attempted to 
 give some faint notion. It must, however, bo acknowledged, that 
 our passions, when they happen to swell beyond proper limits, take 
 on a less regular appearance : reason may proclaim our duty, but 
 the will, influenced by passion, makes gratification always welcome. 
 Hence the' power of passion, which, when in excess, cannot be re- 
 sisted but by the utmost fortitude of mind : it is bent upon gratifi- 
 cation ; and where proper objects are wanting, it clings to any 
 object at hand without distinction. Thus joy inspired by a fortunate 
 event, is diffused upon every person around by acts of benevolence ; 
 and resentment for an atrocious injury done by one out of reach, 
 seizes the first object that occurs to vent itself upon. Those who 
 believe in prophecies, even wish the accomplishment ; and a weak 
 mind is disposed voluntarily to fulfil a prophecy, in order to gratify 
 its wish. Shakspeare, whom no particle of human nature hath 
 
 * [The author presents here rather a low standard of moral virtue. Tho 
 motive assigned may have a good eftect in securing an external morality ; but 
 if moral virtues have no higher origin than a regard to human applause, they 
 are, in the view of the Divine Law, only brilliant sins ; for that requires su- 
 preme regard and love to God, as the basis of all true virtue.] 
 
 175. Tendency and uses of an appetite for fame or enteera. Criticism on the author 1 ! 
 170. Coniniuniration of pa.ion to iclated objects: In part hurtful ; in part beiie9claL
 
 108 BEAUTY. 
 
 escaped, however remote from common obser ration, describes that 
 weakness : 
 
 King Henry. Doth any name particular belong 
 Unto that lodging where I first did swoon ? 
 Warwick. 'Tis call'd Jerusalem, my noble lord. 
 King Henry. Laud be to God ! e'en there my life must end. 
 It hath been prophesied to me many years, 
 I should not die but in Jerusalem, 
 Which vainly I supposed the Holy Land. 
 But bear me to that chamber, there I'll lie: 
 In that Jerusalem shall Henry die. 
 
 Second Part, Henry IV. Act IV. So. last. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 178. HAVING discoursed in general of emotions and passions, 1 
 proceed to a more narrow inspection of such of them as serve to 
 unfold the principles of the fine arts. It is the province of a writer 
 upon ethics, to give a full enumeration of all the passions ; and of 
 each separately to assign the nature, the cause, the gratification, 
 and the effects. But a treatise of ethics is not my province : I 
 carry my view no farther than to the elements of criticism, in order 
 to show,' that the fine arts are a subject of reasoning as well as ot 
 taste. Instead of a painful and tedious examination of the several 
 passions and emotions, I purpose to confine my inquiries to such 
 attributes, relations, and circumstances, as in the fine arts are chiefly 
 employed to raise agreeable emotions. Attributes of single ob- 
 jects, as the most simple, shall take the lead ; to be followed with 
 particulars, which, depending on relations, are not found in single 
 objects. I begin with Beauty, the most noted of all the qualities 
 that belong to single objects. 
 
 179. The term beauty, in its native signification, is appropriated 
 to objects of sight : objects of the other senses may be agreeable, 
 such as the sounds of musical instruments ; the smoothness and soft- 
 ness of some surfaces; but the agreeableness denominated beauty 
 belongs to objects of sight. 
 
 Of all the objects of external sense, an object of sight is the most 
 complex : in the very simplest, color is perceived, figure and length, 
 breadth and thickness. A tree is composed of a trunk, branches, 
 and leaves; it has color, figure, size, and sometimes motion: by 
 means of each of these particulars, separately considered, it appears 
 
 177. Power of passion when expressive ; joy ; resentment The wish to accomplish 
 prophecy illustrated from Shakspeare. 
 
 178. What the ethical writer has to say of the passions. To what does Lord Kame* 
 propose to confine hie inquiries?
 
 BEAUTY. 1 09 
 
 beautiful; how much more so, when they are all united together! 
 The beauty of the human figure is extraordinary, being a composi- 
 tion of numberless beauties arising from the parts and qualities of 
 the object, various colors, various motions, figures, size, &c., all uni- 
 ted in one complex object, and striking the eye with combined force. 
 Hence it is, that beauty, a quality so remarkable in visible objects, 
 lends its name to express every thing that is eminently agreeable : 
 thus, by a figure of speech, we say a beautiful sound, a beautiful 
 thought or expression, a beautiful theorem, a beautiful event, a beau- 
 tiful discovery in art or science. But, as figurative expression is the 
 subject of a following chapter, this chapter is confined to beauty in 
 its proper signification.* 
 
 180. It is natural to suppose, that a perception so various as that 
 of beauty, comprehending sometimes many particulars, sometimes 
 few, should occasion emotions equally various ; and yet all the vari- 
 ous emotions of beauty maintain one common character, that of 
 sweetness and gayety.f 
 
 Considering, attentively, the beauty of visible objects, we discovei 
 two kinds. The first may be termed intrinsic beauty, because it i 
 
 [Cousin (in his Lectures on the Beautiful) offers some discriminating re- 
 marks upon this topic: 
 
 " Experience testifies that all agreeable things do not appear beautiful, and 
 that, among agreeable things, those which are moat so are not the most beau- 
 tiful ; a sure sign that the agreeable is not the beautiful, for if one is identical 
 with the other, they should never be separated, but should always be commen- 
 surate with each other. 
 
 "Far from this, whilst all our senses give us agreeable sensations, only two 
 have the privilege of awakening in us the idea of beauty. Does one ever say: 
 This is a beautiful taste This is a beautiful smell ? Nevertheless one should 
 ay it, if the beautiful is the agreeable. On the other hand, there are certain 
 pleasures of odor and taste, that move sensibility more than the greatest beau- 
 ties of nature and art ; and even among the perceptions of hearing and sight, 
 those are not always the most vivid that most excite in us the idea of beauty. 
 Cousin's lectures, VI.] 
 
 t [Cousin has the following just observations : " Place yonrselt before an ob- 
 ject of nature, wherein men recognize beauty, and observe what takes place 
 within you at the sight of this object. Is it not certain that at the same time 
 that you judge that it is beautiful, you also feel its beauty, that is to say, that 
 you experience at the sight of it a delightful emotion, and that you are attraetei 
 towards this object by a sentiment of sympathy and love? In other cases you 
 judge otherwise and feel an opposite sentiment. Aversion accompanies the 
 judgment of the ugly, as love accompanies the judgment of the beautiful. And 
 this sentiment is awakened not only in presence of the objects of nature : all 
 objects, whatever they may be, that we judge to be ugly or beautiful, have th 
 power to excite in us this sentiment. Vary the circumstances as much as 
 you please, place me before an admirable edifice, or before a beautiful land- 
 scape : represent to my mind the great discoveries of Descartes and Newton, 
 the exploits of the great Conde, the virtue of St. Vincent dc Paul ; elevate me 
 still higher; awaken in me the obscure and too much forgotten idea of the in- 
 finite Being ; whatever you do, as often as you give birth within me to the idea 
 of the beautiful, you give me an internal and exquisite joy, always followed by 
 a sentiment of love for the object that caused it."J 
 
 1T9. To -what class of objects is the term Beauty appropriated ? The complex structoi* 
 of objects of external sense. A tree; the human figure. To what, figuratively, Uw term 
 Bouty is applied. Cousin's remark*.
 
 110 BEAUTY. 
 
 discovered in a tangle object viewed apart without relation to any 
 other : the examples above given are of that kind. The other may 
 be termed relative beauty, being founded on the relation of objects. 
 Intrinsic beauty is an object of sense merely : to perceive, the beauty 
 of a spreading oak, or of a flowing river, no more is required bu 
 singly an act'of vision. The perception of relative beauty is accorn 
 panied with an act of understanding and reflection ; for of a fine ir 
 strument or engine, we perceive not the relative beauty, until we bv 
 made acquainted with its use and destination. In a word, intrinsic 
 beauty is ultimate ; relative beauty is that of means relating to some 
 good end or purpose. These different beauties agree in one capital 
 circumstance, that both are equally perceived as belonging to the 
 object. This is evident with respect to intrinsic beauty ; but will 
 not be so readily admitted with respect to the other : the utility of 
 the plough, for example, may make it an object of admiration or of 
 desire ; but why should utility make it appear beautiful ? A natu- 
 ral propensity mentioned (Chapter ii. part i. sect. 5) will explair 
 that doubt : the beauty of the effect, by an easy transition of ideas, 
 is transferred to the -cause, and is perceived as one of the qualities 
 of the cause. Thus a subject void of intrinsic beauty appears beau- 
 tiful from its utility : an old Gothic tower, that has no beauty in it- 
 self, appears beautiful, considered as proper to defend against an en- 
 emy ; a dwelling-house void of all regularity, is however beautiful in 
 the view of convenience ; and the want of form or symmetry in a 
 tree, will not prevent its appearing beautiful, if it be known to pro- 
 duce good fruit.* 
 
 181. When these two beauties coincide in. any object, it appears 
 delightful : every member of the human body possesses both in a 
 high degree : the fine proportions and slender make of a horse des- 
 tined for running, please every eye ; partly from symmetry, and 
 partly from utility. 
 
 The beauty of utility, being proportioned accurately to the degree 
 of utility, requires no 'illustration ; but intrinsic beauty, so complex 
 as I have said, cannot be handled distinctly without being analyzed 
 into its constituent parts. If a tree be beautiful by means of its col- . 
 
 * [Cousin, in his Lecture on The Beautiful in Objects, ignores the obvious 
 distinction which Lord Kames makes between intrinsic and relative beauty. 
 
 DeUlltllUl, W Hob IS JCHUU.IIU MM IHJO mvfJO UBUW LIVX TT j .- v*.^^- 
 
 and beautiful -is beautiful for some other reason than its utility. Observe a 
 
 rably 
 to seek of wiiat use it may be to you."] 
 
 130. The common character of all the emotions of beauty. Twofold boa t y 
 bje 
 fire
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 Ill 
 
 or its figure, its size, its motion, it is in reality possessed of so many 
 different beauties, which ought to be examined separately, in order 
 to have a clear notion of them when combined. The beauty o 
 or is too familiar to need explanation * Do not the bright and 
 cheerful colors of gold and silver contribute to preserve these metals 
 in high estimation ! The beauty of figure, arising from various cir- 
 cumstances and different views, is more complex : for example, view- 
 ing any body as a whole, the beauty of its figure anses from regu- 
 larity and simplicity; viewing the parts with relation to each other, 
 uniformity, proportion, and order contribute to its beauty, iho 
 beauty of motion deserves a chapter by itself; and another chapter 
 is destined for grandeur, being distinguishable from beauty in its 
 proper sense. Upon simplicity I must make a few cursory observa- 
 tions, such as may be of use in examining the beauty of single objects. 
 182 A multitude of objects crowding into the mind at once, d.s- 
 turb the attention, and pass without making any impression or any 
 distinct impression ; in a group, no single object makes the togur. 
 would do apart, when it occupies the whole attention For ti 
 reason, the impression made by an object that divides the attention 
 by the multiplicity of its parts, equals not that of a more simple ob- 
 ject comprehended in a single view: parts extremely complex must 
 be considered in portions successively ; and a number of impressions 
 in succession, which cannot unite because not simultaneous, never 
 touch the mind like one entire impression made as it were a 
 stroke. This justifies simplicity in works of art, as opposed 
 plicated circumstances and crowded ornaments. There is an addi- 
 tional reason for simplicity in works of dignity or elevation ; whicl 
 is, that the mind attached to beauties of a high rank, cannot descend 
 to inferior beauties. The best artists accordingly have in all ages 
 been governed by a taste for simplicity. How comes it then that 
 we find profuse decoration prevailing in works of art? 
 
 r Colors arc beautiful, first, when they convey to the mind a lively sensa- 
 tion.a* white and red; (2) when they cherish the organ of J% * f**^ 
 . (3) when they have that character which we term delicacy, and jield a i B enaa- 
 tion both lively and gentle, as pale red and l.ght blue *>*"% 
 R color depends chiefly on the agreeablcness of the ideas it come 
 mind; for the same color, which in one thing is very beautiful, may m ano 
 be very ugly. The verdure of the fields, for example, is delightful, beca se it 
 leads us to y think of fruitfulncw, fragrance , and many other pleasant things 
 but greenness in the human face would be horrible, because it would atiggcsi 
 the notion of pain, of disease, or of something unnatural. 
 
 In generaf every color is beautiful, that brings along with it the ^eable 
 idea of perfection, A health, of convenience, of intellectual or moral virtue ^ or 
 of any other sort of excellence. Negroes love their own *JZ ***$ 
 son tlmt we love ours ; because they always see it; because all ttie people 
 "01 ?e have 'and because none are without it but those who are thougU to bo 
 strangers and enemies." Seattle.] 
 
 181. Effectof the coincidence of intrinsic and relative beaut*. J* 
 beauty of utility requires no tllnstratlon.-Intrlnslc beauty must anaij * 
 wit pirt. Example ofn treo -Pr. Beattie'* remark, on color.-
 
 112 BEAUTY. 
 
 plainly is, that authors and architects, who cannot reach the higher 
 beauties, endeavor to supply want of geni as by multiplying those 
 that are inferior. 
 
 ^-188. These things premised, I proceed to examine the beauty of 
 figure as arising from the above-mentioned particulars, namely, reg- 
 ularity, uniformity, proportion, order, and simplicity. To inquire 
 why an object, by means of the particulars mentioned, appears beau- 
 tiful, would, I am afraid, be a vain attempt : it seems the most prob- 
 able opinion, that the nature of man was originally framed with a 
 relish for them, in order to answer wise and good purposes. To ex- 
 plain these purposes or final causes, though a subject of great im- 
 portance, has scarce been attempted by any writer. One thing is evi- 
 dent, that our relish for the particulars mentioned, adds much beauty 
 to the objects that surround us, which of course tends to our hap- 
 piness ; and the Author of our nature has given many signal proofs 
 that this final cause is not below his care. We may be confirmed 
 in this thought upon reflecting, that our taste for these particulars is 
 not accidental, but uniform and universal, making a branch of our 
 nature. At the same time, it ought not to be overlooked, that reg- 
 ularity, uniformity, order, and simplicity, contribute each of them to 
 readiness of apprehension ; enabling us to form more distinct images 
 of objects than can be done with the utmost attention where these 
 particulars are not found. With respect to proportion, it is in some 
 instances connected with a useful end, as in animals, where the bes 
 proportioned are the strongest and most active ; but instances are 
 still more numerous, where the proportions we relish have no con- 
 nection with utility. Writers on architecture insist much on the 
 proportions of a column, and assign different proportions to the 
 Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian ; but no architect will maintain, that 
 the most accurate proportions contribute more to use, than several 
 that are less accurate and le^s agreeable ; neither will it be main- 
 tained, that the length, breadth, and height of rooms, assigned as the 
 most beautiful proportions, tend also to make them the more com- 
 modious. With respect then to the final cause of proportion, I see 
 not more to be made of it but to rest upon the final cause first men- 
 tioned, namely, its contributing to our happiness, by increasing the 
 beauty of visible objects.* 
 
 * [Some remarks of Cousin throw considerable light on this subject: 
 ''Symmetry and order are beautiful things, and at the same time are useful 
 things, because they economize space, because objects symmetrically disposed 
 are easier to find when one wants them ; but that is not what makes for us the 
 beauty of symmetry, for we immediately seize this kind of beauty, and it is 
 often late enough before we recognize the utility that is found in it. It even 
 sometimes happens, that after having admired the beauty of an object, we aro 
 
 182. Koasons for simplicity in works of art. Additional reason for It in works of dignity 
 and elevation. Why profuse decoration prevails in works of art. 
 
 188. Why an object appears beautiful, on account of its regularity, uniformity, Ac, 
 What beneficial purposes are answered by the relish wo naturally have for these particu- 
 lars. Cousin's remarks
 
 BEAUTY. 113 
 
 184. And now with respect to the beauty of figure, as far as it 
 depends on the other circumstances mentioned ; as to which, having 
 room only for a slight specimen, I confine myself to the simplest 
 figures. A circle and a square are each of them perfectly regular, 
 being equally confined to a precise form, which admits not the 
 slightest variation ; a square, however, is less beautiful than a circle. 
 And the reason seems to be, that the attention is divided among the 
 sides and angles of a square ; whereas the circumference of a circle, 
 being a single object, makes one entire impression. And this sim- 
 plicity contributes to beauty, which may be illustrated by another 
 example : a square, though not more regular than a hexagon or 
 octagon, is more beautiful than either ; for what other reason, but 
 that a square is more simple, and the attention less divided ? This 
 reasoning will appear still more conclusive, when we consider any 
 regular polygon of very many sides ; for of this figure the mind can 
 never have any distinct perception. 
 
 A square is more regular than a parallelogram, and its parts more 
 uniform ; and for these reasons it is more beautiful. But that hplda 
 with respect to intrinsic beauty only ; for in many instances utility 
 turns the scale on the side of the parallelogram : this figure, for the 
 doors and windows of a dwelling-house, is preferred, because of util- 
 ity ; and here we find the beauty of utility prevailing over that of 
 regularity and uniformity. 
 
 A parallelogram again depends, for its beauty, on the proportion 
 of its sides : a great inequality of sides annihilates its beauty ; ap- 
 proximation towards equality hath the same effect, for proportion 
 there degenerates into imperfect uniformity, and the figure appears 
 an unsuccessful attempt towards a square ; and thus proportion con- 
 tributes to beauty. 
 
 185. An equilateral triangle yields not to a square in regularity 
 nor in uniformity of parts, and it is more simple. But an equilateral 
 
 not able to divine its use, although it may have one. The useful is, then, en- 
 tirely different from the beautiful, far from being its foundation. 
 
 " A celebrated and very ancient theory makes the beautiful consist in tl 
 perfect suitableness of means to their end. Here the beautifu is no longer t 
 useful ; it is the suitable. These two ideas must be distinguished. A"""* 
 produces excellent effects, economy of time work, &c.; it is therefore useful. 
 Ff, moreover, examining it. construct ion, I find that -h piece in it. place 
 
 to their end, I udge tSat there i, suitableness in it. We arc already a 
 ing the idea of the beautiful ; for we are no longer considering what 
 but what is proper. Now we have not yet attained the true character of beau- 
 ty there arc, in fact, objects very well adapted to their end, which we do not 
 call beautiful .... There is here always this difference between suit- 
 ablencss and utility, that an object to be beautiful has no need of being use 1, 
 but that it is not beautiful if it does not possess amUbleness, if there i i in it a 
 disagreement between the eud and the means." Lcct. V II. p. 141. Appletou a 
 Ed.] 
 
 134. Beauty of a circle and square compared. -Con parlson of a square with a bos* 
 gon, &c.
 
 114 BEAUTY. 
 
 triangle is less beautiful than a square, which must be owing to in- 
 feriority of order in the position of its parts : the sides of an equi- 
 lateral triangle incline to each other in the same angle, being the 
 most perfect order they are susceptible of ; but this order is obscure, 
 and far from being so perfect as the parallelism of the sides of a 
 square. Thus order contributes to the beauty of visible objects, no 
 less than simplicity, regularity, or proportion. 
 
 A parallelogram exceeds an equilateral triangle in the orderly 
 disposition of its parts ; but being inferior in uniformity and sim- 
 plicity, it is less beautiful. 
 
 186^ Uniformity is singular in one capital circumstance, that it is 
 apt to disgust by excess : a number of things destined for the same 
 use, such as windows, chairs, spoons, buttons, cannot be too uniform ; 
 for supposing their figure to be good, utility requires uniformity : 
 but a scrupulous uniformity of parts in a large garden or Afield, is 
 far from being agreeable. Uniformity among connected objects be- 
 longs not to the present subject ; it is handled in the chapter of 
 uniformity and variety. 
 
 In all the works of nature, simplicity makes an illustrious figure. 
 It also makes a figure in works of art : profuse ornament in paint- 
 ing, gardening, or architecture, as well as in dress or in language, 
 shows a mean or corrupted taste : 
 
 Poets, like painters, thus unskill'd to trace 
 The naked nature and the living grace, 
 With gold and jewels cover every part, 
 And Hide with ornaments their want of art. 
 
 Pope's Essay on Criticism. 
 
 187. No single property recommends a machine more than its 
 simplicity ; not solely for better answering its purpose, but by ap- 
 pearing in itself more beautiful. Simplicity in behavior and man- 
 ners has an enchanting effect, and never fails to gain our affection : 
 very different are the artificial manners of modern times. General 
 theorems, abstracting from their importance, are delightful by their 
 simplicity, and by the easiness of their application to variety of 
 cases. We take equal delight in the laws of motion, which, with 
 the greatest simplicity, are boundless in their operations. 
 
 188. A gradual progress from simplicity to complex forms and 
 profuse ornament, seems to be the fate of all the fine arts : in that 
 progress these arts resemble behavior, which, from original candor 
 and simplicity, has degenerated into artificial refinements. At pres- 
 ent, literary productions are crowded with words, epithets, figures : 
 in music, sentiment is neglected for the luxury of harmony, and for 
 difficult movement : in taste, properly so called, poignant sauces, 
 
 185. An equilateral triangle compared with a square, and with a parallelogram. 
 
 186. When uniformity disgusts, and when it pleases. Simplicity ii the WOMU of B* 
 ture. and of art. 
 
 187. Simplicity in manners in general theorems In laws of motion.
 
 BEAUTY. 115 
 
 with complicated mixtures of different savors, prevail among people 
 of condition : the French, accustomed to artificial red on a female 
 cheek, think the modest coloring of nature altogether insipid. 
 
 The same tendency is discovered in the progress of the fine arts 
 among the ancients. Some vestiges of the old Grecian buildings 
 prove them to be of the Doric order : the Ionic succeeded, and seems 
 to have been the favorite order, while architecture was in the height 
 of glory : the Corinthian came next in vogue ; and in Greece the 
 buildings of that order appear mostly to have been erected after the 
 Romans got footing there. At last caBte the Composite, with all its 
 extravagances, where simplicity is sacrificed to finery and crowded 
 ornament. 
 
 But what taste is to prevail next ? for fashion is a continual flux, 
 and taste must vary with it. After rich and profuse ornaments be- 
 come familiar, simplicity appears lifeless and insipid ; which would 
 be an insurmountable obstmction, should any person of genius and 
 taste endeavor to restore ancient simplicity. 
 
 1 89. The distinction between primary and secondary qualities in 
 matter, seems now fully established. Heat and cold, smell and taste, 
 though seeming to exist in bodies, are discovered to be affects caused 
 by these bodies in a sensitive being : color, which appears to the eye 
 as spread upon a substance, has no existence but in the mind of the 
 spectator.* Qualities of that kind, which owe their existence to the 
 percipient as much as to the object, are termed secondary qualities, 
 and are distinguished from figure, extension, solidity, which, in con- 
 tradistinction to the former, are termed primary qualities, because 
 they inhere in subjects, whether perceived or not. This distinction 
 suggests a curious inquiry, whether beauty be a primary or only a 
 secondary quality of objects ? The question is easily determined 
 with respect to the beauty of color ; for, if color be a secondary 
 quality, existing nowhere but in the mind of the spectator, its beauty 
 must exist there also. This conclusion equally holds with respect 
 to the beauty of utility, which is plainly a conception of the mind, 
 arising not from sight, but from reflecting that the thing is fitted for 
 some good end or purpose. The question is more intricate with re- 
 
 * [Dr. James Benttie takes a more just and enlarged view of this topic, iu 
 saying : " Colors inhere not in the colored body, bnt in the light that falls upon 
 't ; and a body presents to our eye that color which predominates ia the rays 
 of light reflected by it ; and different bodies reflect different sorts of rays, ac- 
 cording to the texture and consistency of their minute parts. Now the com- 
 ponent parts of bodies, and the rays of light, are not in the mind ; and there- 
 lore colors, as well as bodies, are things external ; and the word color denotes 
 always an external thing, and never a sensation in the mind." 
 
 Again, he justly remarks : " Wo perceive colors and figures by the eye ; we 
 also perceive that some colors and figures are beautiful, and others not. This 
 power of perceiving beauty, which the brutes have not, though they see as well 
 as we, I call a secondary sense."] 
 
 183. Progr IBS from simplicity to complex forms And profuse ornament, Illustrated la 
 Wts, com" ct, lUarary style, <tc. Also, among the ancients, In architecture.
 
 116 BEAUTY. 
 
 spect to the beauty of regularity ; for, if regularity be a primary 
 quality, why not also its beauty ?' That this is not a good inference, 
 will appear from considering, that beauty, in its very conception, 
 refers to a percipient; for an object is said to be beautiful, for no 
 other reason but that it appears so to a spectator : the same piece 
 of matter that to a man appears beautiful, may possibly appear 
 ugly to a being of a different species. Beauty, therefore, which for 
 its existence depends on the percipient as much as on the object per- 
 ceived, cannot be an inherent property in either. And hence it is 
 wittily observed by the poet,- that beauty is not in the person be- 
 loved, but in the lover's eye. 
 
 190. This reasoning is solid ; and the only cause of doubt or hesi- 
 tation is, that we are taught a different lesson by sense : a singular 
 determination of nature makes us perceive both beauty and color 
 as belonging to the object, and, like figure or extension, as inherent 
 properties. This mechanism is uncommon ; and when nature, to 
 fulfil her intention, prefers any singular method of operation, we 
 may be certain of some final cause that cannot be reached by ordi- 
 nary means. For the beauty of some objects we are indebted en- 
 tirely to nature ; but, with respect to the endless variety of objects 
 that owe their beauty to art and culture, the perception of beauty 
 greatly promotes industry ; being to us a strong additional incite- 
 ment to enrich our fields, and improve our manufactures. These 
 however are but slight effects, compared with the connections that 
 are formed among individuals in society by means of this singular 
 mechanism : the qualifications of the head and heart form undoubt- 
 edly the most solid and most permanent connections ; but external 
 beauty, which lies more in view, has a more extensive influence in 
 forming these connections; at any rate, it concurs in an eminent 
 degree with mental qualifications to produce social intercourse, mu- 
 tual good-will, and consequently mutual aid and support, which are 
 the life of society. 
 
 [" That which in the smallest compass exhibits the greatest variety 
 of beauty, is a fine human face. The features are of various sizes and 
 forms; the corresponding ones exactly uniform; and each has that 
 shape, size, position, and proportion, which is most convenient. 
 Here too is the greatest beauty of colors, which are blended, varied, 
 and disposed with marvellous delicacy. But the chief beauty of the 
 countenance arises from its expression, of sagacity, good-nature, 
 cheerfulness, modesty, and other moral and intellectual virtues. 
 Without such expression, no face can be truly beautiful, and with 
 it, none can be really ugly. Human beauty, therefore, at least that 
 of the face, is not merely a corporeal quality ; but derives its origin 
 
 189 Do heat and cold, smell, taste, and color, exist In material bodies? Dr. Seattle's 
 remarks on color. Secondary qualities and primary distinguished. -\V nether beauty 11 
 primary or secondary quality of bodies. What is said of beauty of color; of beauty of 
 utility of beauty of regularity. What beauty, in its very conception, refers to.
 
 BEAUTY. 117 
 
 and essential characters from the soul ; and almost any person may, 
 in some degree, acquire it^ who is at pains to improve his under- 
 standing, to repress criminal thoughts, and to cherish good affec- 
 tions; as every one must lose it, whatever features or complexion 
 there may be to boast of, who leaves the mind uncultivated, or a 
 prey to evil passions, or a slave to trifling pursuits." Seattle. 
 
 Cole, the distinguished American painter, speaks thus of beauty : 
 
 " Irving was rather disappointed in the scenes in which Scott so 
 much delighted. After all, beauty is in the mind. A scene is 
 rather an index to feelings and associations. History and poetry 
 made the barren hills of Scotland glorious to Scott : Irving remem- 
 bered the majestic forests and the rich luxuriance of his own coun- 
 try. What a beautiful exemplification of the power of poetry was 
 that remark of the old carpenter who had been a companion of 
 Burns : ' and it seemed to him that the country had grown more 
 beautiful since Burns had written his bonnie little sangs about it.' " 
 
 To the remarks made by our author on the subject of beauty, 
 the following from Cousin make a valuable addition : 
 
 " Above real beauty, is a beauty of another order ideal beauty. 
 The ideal resides neither in an individual, nor in a collection of in- 
 dividuals. Nature or experience furnishes us the occasion of con- 
 ceiving it, but it is essentially distinct. Let it once be conceived, 
 and all natural figures, though never so beautiful, are only images 
 of a superior beauty which they do not realize. Give me a beautiful 
 action, and I will imagine one still more beautiful. The Apollo 
 itself is open to criticism in more than one respect. The ideal con- 
 tinually recedes as we approach it Its last termination is in the 
 infinite, that is to say, in God ; or, to speak more correctly, the true 
 and absolute ideal is nothing else than God himself." 
 
 " God is, par excellence, the beautiful for what object satisfies 
 more all our faculties, our reason, our imagination, our heart ! He 
 offers to reason the highest idea, beyond which it has nothing more 
 to seek ; to imagination the most ravishing contemplation ; to the 
 heart a sovereign object of love. He is, then, perfectly beautiful ; 
 but is he not sublime, also, in other ways? If he extends the hori- 
 zon of thought, it is to confound it in the abyss of his greatness. If 
 the soul blooms at the spectacle of his goodness, has it not also 
 reason to be affrighted at the idea of his justice, which is not less 
 present to it ? At the same time that he is the life, the light, the 
 movement, the ineffable grace of visible and finite nature, he is also 
 called the Eternal, the Invisible, the Infinite, the Absolute Unity, 
 and the Being of beings." Lect vii. p. 151, Appleton's Ed.] 
 
 190. What lesson, on this subject, our senses tench. The ends answered by this refer- 
 ence of beauty to the object aid not to the percipient Connections formed among Indi- 
 viduals in society. Remarks on the human lace. Cole's remarks on beauty. Cousin* 
 remark* ou Ideal beauty.
 
 118 BEAUtY. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 THE THEORY OF BEAUTY. 
 (Condensed from LORD JEFFREY'S Review of Alison on Taste, 1841.) 
 
 191. THERE are some decisive objections against the notion of 
 beauty being a simple sensation, or the object of a separate and 
 peculiar faculty. 
 
 The first, is the want of agreement as to the presence and existence 
 of beauty iu particular objects, among men whose organization is 
 perfect, and who are plainly possessed of the faculty, whatever it 
 may be, by which beauty is discerned. Now no such thing happens, 
 or can be conceived to happen, in the case of any other simple sen- 
 sation, or the exercise of any other distinct faculty. Where one 
 man sees light, all men who have eyes see light also. All men 
 allow grass to be green, and sugar to be sweet. With regard to 
 beauty, however, the case is entirely different. One man sees it 
 perpetually, where to another it is quite invisible, or even where its 
 reverse seems to be conspicuous. But how can we believe that 
 beauty is the object of a peculiar sense or faculty, when persons un- 
 doubtedly possessed of the faculty, and even in an eminent degree, 
 can discover nothing of it in objects where it is distinctly felt and 
 perceived by others with the same use of the faculty ? This con- 
 sideration seems conclusive against the supposition of beauty being 
 a real property of objects, addressing itself to the power of Taste, as 
 a separate sense or faculty ; and it suggests that our sense of it is 
 the result of other more elementary feelings into which it may be 
 resolved. 
 
 192. A second objection arises from the almost infinite variety of 
 things to which the property of beauty is ascribed, and the impossi- 
 bility of imagining any one inherent quality which can belong to 
 them all, and yet at the same time possess so much unity as to pass 
 universally by the same name, and be recognized as the peculiar 
 object of a separate sense or faculty. The form of a fine tree is 
 beautiful, and the form of a fine woman, and the form of a column, 
 and a vase, and a chandelier ; yet how can it be said that the form 
 of a woman has any thing in common with that of a tree or a tem- 
 ple ? or to which of the senses, by which forms are distinguished, 
 can it appear that they have any resemblance or affinity ? 
 
 The matter, however, becomes still more inextricable when we 
 
 191. Th* flrrt objection urged against the notioii of beauty being a &iiupl fraction.
 
 BEAUTT. 1 i9 
 
 recollect that beauty does not belong merely to forms or colors, but 
 to sounds, and perhaps to the objects of other senses ; nay, that in all 
 languages and in all nations it is not supposed to reside exclusively 
 in material objects, but to belong also to sentiments and ideas, and 
 intellectual and moral existences. But if things intellectual and 
 totally segregated from matter may thus possess beauty, how can it 
 possibly be a quality of material objects ? or what sense or faculty 
 can that be whose proper office it is to intimate to us the existence 
 of some property which is common to a flower and a demonstration, 
 H valley and an eloquent discourse ? 
 
 193. If, in reply, i be said that all these objects, however various 
 and dissimilar, agree at least in being agreeable, and that this agree- 
 ableness, Avhich is the only quality they possess in common, may 
 probably be the beauty which is ascribed to them all, we answer : 
 that though the agreeableness of such objects depends plainly enough 
 upon their beauty, it by no means follows, but quite the contrary, 
 that their beauty depends upon their agreeableness, the latter being 
 the more comprehensive, or generic term, under which beauty must 
 rank as one of the species. 
 
 (1) Agreeableness, in general, cannot be the same with beauty, 
 because there are very many things in the highest degree agreeable 
 that can in no sense be called beautiful. We learn nothing of the 
 nature of beauty, therefore, by merely classing it among our pleasura- 
 ble emotions. 
 
 (2) Among all the objects that are agreeable, whether they are 
 also beautiful or not, scarcely any two are agreeable on account of 
 the same qualities, or even suggest their agreeableness to the same 
 faculty or organ. The truth is, that agreeableness is not properly a 
 quality of any object whatsoever, but the effect or result of certain 
 qualities, the nature of which, in any particular instance, we can 
 generally define pretty exactly, or of which we know at least with 
 certainly that they manifest themselves respectively to some one 
 particular sense or faculty, and to no other ; and consequently, it 
 would be just as obviously ridiculous to suppose a faculty or organ, 
 whose office it was to perceive agreeableness in general, as to sup- 
 pose that agreeableness was a distinct quality that could thus be 
 perceived. The words beauty and beautiful are universally felt to 
 mean something much more definite than agreeableness or gratifica- 
 tion in general ; and the force and clearness of our perception of that 
 something is demonstrated by the readiness with which we deter- 
 mine, in any particular instance, whether the object of a given 
 pleasurable emotion is or is not properly described as beauty. 
 
 194. In our opinion, our sense of beauty depends entirely on our 
 
 192. The second objection. "Whether beauty belong to forms or colors alone. 
 193. It Is replied that various objects of beauty are alike in one respect, that of agr*e 
 bleness, and that this may be the beauty which is ascribed to them all. Two an?wen to thit 
 itateuieut
 
 120 BEAUTY. 
 
 previous experience of simpler pleasures or emotions, and consists in 
 the suggestion of agreeable or interesting sensations with which we 
 had formerly been made familiar by the direct and intelligible 
 agency of our common sensibilities ; and that vast variety of ob- 
 jects to which we give the common name of beautiful, become 
 entitled to that appellation merely because they all possess the 
 power of recalling or reflecting those sensations of which they have 
 been the accompaniments, or with which they have been associated 
 in our imagination by any other more casual bond of connection. 
 
 According to this view of the matter, therefore, beauty is not an 
 inherent property or quality of objects at all, but the result of the 
 accidental relations in which they may stand to our experience of 
 pleasures or emotions, and does not depend on any particular con- 
 figuration of parts, proportions, or colors in external things, nor upon 
 the unity, coherence, or simplicity of intellectual creations, but 
 merely upon the associations which, in the case of every individual, 
 may enable these inherent, and otherwise indifferent qualities, to 
 suggest or recall to the mind emotions of a pleasurable or interesting 
 description. It follows, therefore, that no object is beautiful in itself, 
 or could appear so, antecedent to our experience of direct pleasures 
 or emotions ; and that, as an infinite variety of objects may thus 
 reflect interesting ideas, so all of them may acquire the title of 
 beautiful, although utterly diverse in their nature, and possessing 
 nothing in common but this accidental power of reminding us of 
 other emotions. 
 
 195. This theory serves to explain how objects which have no 
 inherent resemblance, nor indeed any one quality in common, should 
 yet be united in one common relation, and consequently acquire one 
 common name ; just as all the things that belonged to a beloved in- 
 dividual may serve to remind us of him, and thus to awake a kin- 
 dred class of emotions, though just as unlike each other as any of 
 the objects that are classed under the general name of beautiful. 
 
 We thus get rid of all the mystery of a peculiar sense or faculty 
 imagined for the express purpose of perceiving beauty, and discover 
 that the power of taste is nothing more than the habit of tracing 
 those associations by which almost all objects may be connected 
 with interesting emotions. 
 
 196. The basis of our theory is, that the beauty which we im- 
 pute to outward objects, is nothing more than the reflection of our 
 own inward emotions, and is made up entirely of certain little por- 
 tions of love, pity, or other affections which have been connected with 
 these objects, and still adhere, as it were, to them, and move us anew 
 whenever they are presented to our observation. Two things here 
 
 194. On what oar sense of beauty depends. Beauty not an inherent property of objects, 
 but the result of accidental relations. 
 
 195. What does this theory explain concerning objects that have no inherent r 
 blance ? What mystery do we thus get rid of? What thus appears to be the power of 
 las to?
 
 BEAUTY. 121 
 
 require explanation. First, what are the primary affections, by the 
 suggestion of which we think the sense of beauty is produced ? 
 and, secondly, what is the nature of the connection by which we 
 suppose that the objects we call beautiful are enabled to suggest these 
 affections ? 
 
 With regard to the first of these points all sensations that are 
 not absolutely indifferent, and are at the same time either agreeable 
 when experienced by ourselves, or attractive when contemplated 
 in others, may form the foundation of the emotions of sublimity or 
 beauty. The sum of the whole *>, that every feeling which it is 
 agreeable to experience, to recall, or to witness, may become the 
 source of beauty in external objects, when it is so connected with 
 them as that their appearance reminds us of that feeling. Our pro- 
 position is, that the emotions of sublimity or beauty are not original 
 emotions, nor produced directly by any material qualities in the ob- 
 jects that excite them, but are reflections, or images, of the more 
 radical and familiar emotions to which we have alluded ; and are 
 occasioned, not by any inherent virtue in the objects before us, but 
 by the accidents, if we may so express ourselves, by which these may' 
 have been enabled to suggest or recall to us our own past sensations 
 or sympathies. It might almost be laid down as an axiom, that, 
 except in the plain and palpable case of bodily pain or pleasure, 
 we can never be interested in any thing but the fortunes of sentient 
 beings, and that every thing partaking of the nature of mental emo- 
 tion, must have for its object the feelings, past, present, or possible, 
 of something capable of sensation. Independent, therefore, of all 
 evidence, we should have been apt to conclude, that the emotions of 
 beauty and sublimity must have for their objects the sufferings or 
 enjoyments of sentient beings. 
 
 197. Secondly, as to the connection of our feelings with external 
 objects by which they become beautiful objects are sublime or 
 beautiful, (1) when they are the natural signs and perpetual con- 
 comitants of pleasurable sensations ; or, at any rate, of some lively 
 feeling or emotion in ourselves or in some other sentient beings ; or, 
 (2) when they are the arbitrary or accidental concomitants of such 
 feelings ; or, (3) when they bear some analogy or fanciful resem- 
 blance to things with which these emotions are naturally connected. 
 
 198. The most obvious and the strongest association between in- 
 ward feelings and external objects is, where the object is necessarily 
 and universally connected with the feeling by the law of nature, so 
 that it is always presented to the senses when the feeling is impressed 
 upon the mind as the sight or sound of laughter, with the feeling 
 of gayety of weeping with distress of the sound of thunder with 
 
 136. The basis of our theory. Two thines requiring explanation. What sensation* 
 may form the foundation of emotions of sublimity and beauty! Those emotions mow 
 particularly defined. How occasioned. The axiom referred to. 
 
 HIT. Vlion objects aro sublime; when beautiful.. 
 
 e>
 
 12$ BEAUTY. 
 
 ideas of danger and power. In the last instance, it is obrious that 
 the sense of sublimity is produced, not by any quality that is per- 
 ceived by the ear, but altogether by the impression of power and 
 of danger that is necessarily made upon the mind, whenever that 
 sound is heard. The noise of a cart rattling over the stones, is often 
 mistaken for thunder ; and as long a? the mistake lasts, this very 
 vulgar and insignificant noise is actually felt to be prodigiously 
 sublime, merely because it is then associated with ideas of prodigious 
 power and undefined danger ; and the sublimity is accordingly de- 
 stroyed, the moment the association is dissolved, though the sound 
 itself, and its effect on the organ, continue exactly the same. This, 
 therefore, is an instance in which sublimity is distinctly proved to 
 consist, not in any physical quality of the object to which it is as- 
 cribed, but in its necessary connection with that vast and uncontrolled 
 Power which is the natural object of awe and veneration. 
 - 199. The most beautiful object in nature, perhaps, is the counte- 
 nance of a young and beautiful woman : and Ave are apt at first to 
 imagine, that, independent of all associations, the form and colors 
 which it displays are, in themselves, lovely and engaging; and 
 would appear charming to all beholders, with whatever other quali- 
 ties or impressions they might happen to be connected. But reflec- 
 tion will satisfy us, that what we admire is not a combination of 
 forms and colors (which could never excite any mental emotion), 
 but a collection of signs and tokens of certain mental feelings and 
 affections which are universally recognized as the proper objects of 
 love and sympathy. Among the ingredients of female beauty, we 
 should trace the signs of two different sets of qualities, neither of 
 them the object of sight, but of a far higher faculty : in the first 
 place, of youth and health ; and, in the second place, of innocence, 
 gayety, sensibility, intelligence, delicacy, or vivacity. 
 
 200. It is easy enough to understand how the sight of a picture 
 or statue should affect us nearly in the same way as the sight of the 
 original ; nor is it much more difficult to conceive, how the sight 
 of a cottage should give us something of the same feeling as the 
 sight of a peasant's family ; and the aspect of a town raise many 
 of the same ideas as the appearance of a multitude of persons. 
 Take the case of a common English landscape green meadows 
 with grazing and ruminating cattlecanals or navigable rivers 
 well-fenced, well-cultivated fields neat, clean, scattered cottages- 
 humble, antique churches, with church-yard elms and crossing hedge- 
 rows a ii se en under bright skies and in good weather : there is 
 much beauty in such a scene. But in what does the beauty consist ? 
 Not, certainly, in the mere mixture of colors and forms ; for colors 
 
 193. The most obvious association between inward feelings and external objects.-Ee- 
 marks on the sound of thunder. r nii.HHwi to 
 
 199. The most beautiful object in nature.-The signs of two different sets of qualiUf 
 
 female beauty.
 
 BEAUTY. 123 
 
 more pleasing and lines moro graceful might be spread upon a 
 board, or a painter's pallet, without engaging the eye to a second 
 glance, or raising the least emotion in the mind ; but in the picture 
 of human happiness that is presented to our imaginations and aft'ec- 
 tioiis in the visible and unequivocal signs of comfort, and cheeiful 
 and peaceful enjoyment and of that secure and successful industry 
 that insures its continuance and of the piety by which it is ex- 
 alted and of the simplicity by which it is contrasted with the guilt 
 and the fever of a city life ; in the images of health, aud temper- 
 ance, and plenty which it exhibits to every eye and in the glimpses 
 which it affords to warmer imaginations, of those primitive or 
 fabulous times when man was uncorrupted by luxury and ambition, 
 and of those humble retreats in which we still delight to imagine 
 that love and philosophy may find an unpolluted asylum. At all 
 events, however, it is human feeling that excites our sympathy, and 
 forms the true object of our emotions. It is man, and man alone, 
 that we see in the beauties of the earth which he inhabits ; or, if a . 
 more sensitive and extended sympathy connect us with the lower 
 families of animated nature, and make us rejoice with the lambs that 
 bleat on the uplands, or the cattle that repose in the valley, or even 
 with the living plants that drink the bright sun and the balmy air 
 beside them, it is still the idea of enjoyment of feelings that ani- 
 mate the existence of sentient beings that calls forth all our emo- 
 tions, and is the parent of all the beauty with which we proceed to 
 invest the inanimate creation around us. 
 
 201. Instead of this quiet and tame English landscape, let us 
 now take a Welsh or a Highland scene, and see whether its beauties 
 will admit of being explained on the same principle. Here we shall 
 have lofty mountains, and rocky and lonely recesses tufted woods 
 hung over precipices lakes intersected with castled promontories 
 ample solitudes of unploughed and untrodden valleys nameless 
 and gigantic ruins and mountain echoes repeating the scream of 
 the eagle and the roar of the cataract. This, too, is beautiful ; and, 
 to those who can interpret the language it speaks, far more beautiful 
 than the prosperous scene with which we have contrasted it. Yef^ 
 lonely as it is, it is to the recollection of man and the suggestion of 
 hiunan feelings that its beauty also is owing. The mere forms and 
 colors that compose its visible appearance, are no more capable of 
 . exciting any emotion in the mind than the forms and cojors of a 
 Turkey carpet. It is sympathy with the present or the past, or the 
 imaginary inliabitants of such a region, that alone gives it either 
 interest or beauty ; and the delight of those who behold it, will al- 
 ways be found to be in exact proportion to the force of their imagi- 
 nations, and the warmth of their social affections. The leading 
 
 200. The en otions excited by a picture, by Hgbt of cottage, of it town, of an Engliih
 
 124 BEAUTY. 
 
 impressions here are those of romantic seclusion and primeval sim- 
 plicity ; lovers sequestered in these blissful solitudes, " from towns 
 and toils remote," and rustic poets and philosophers communing 
 with nature, and at a distance from the low pursuits and selfish 
 malignity of ordinary mortals ; then there is the sublime impression 
 of the Mighty Power which piled the massive cliffs upon each other, 
 and rent the mountains asunder, and scattered their giant fragments 
 at their base ; and all the images connected with the monuments 
 of ancient magnificence and extinguished hostility the feuds, and 
 the combats, and the triumphs of its wild and primitive inhabitants, 
 contrasted with the stillness and desolation of the scenes where they 
 lie interred ; and the romantic ideas attached to their ancient tradi- 
 tions, and the peculiarities of the actual life of their descendants- 
 their wild and enthusiastic poetry their gloomy superstitions their 
 attachment to their chiefs the dangers and the hardships and en- 
 joyments of their lonely huntings and fishings their pastoral 
 sheilings on the mountains in summer and the tales and the sporta 
 that amuse the little groups that are frozen into their vast and 
 trackless valleys in winter. 
 
 202. The forms and colors that are peculiar to childhood, are not 
 necessarily or absolutely beautiful in themselves ; for, in a grown 
 person, the same forms and colors would be either ludicrous or dis- 
 gusting. It is their indestructible connection with the engaging 
 ideas of innocence of careless gayety of unsuspecting confidence ; 
 made still more tender and attractive by the recollection of help- 
 lessness, and blameless and happy ignorance of the anxious affec- 
 tion that watches over all their ways and of the hopes and fears 
 that seek to pierce futurity for those who have neither fears nor cares 
 nor anxieties for themselves. - 
 
 203. But our general theory must be very greatly confirmed by 
 considering the second class of cases, or those in which the external 
 object is not the natural and necessary, but only the occasional or 
 accidental concomitant of the emotion which it recalls. In the 
 former instances (already given), some conception of beauty seems 
 to be inseparable from the appearance of the objects ; and being 
 impressed, in some degree, upon all persons to whom they are pre- 
 sented, there is evidently room for insinuating that it is an indepen- 
 dent and intrinsic quality of their nature, and does not arise from 
 association with any thing else. In the instances, however, to which 
 we now tllude, this perception of beauty is not universal, but en- 
 tirely dependent on the opportunities which each individual has had 
 to associate ideas of emotion with the object to which it is ascribed ; 
 the same thing appearing beautiful to those who have been exposed 
 
 201. How the beauties of a "Welsh or Highland landscape are to be explained. 
 202 The forms and colors that seern beautiful in childhood. 
 
 208. Our theory confirmed by the second class of cases. What these are; bow Uey 
 differ from thow already considers!.
 
 BEAUTY. 125 
 
 to the influence of such associations, and indifferen to those who 
 have not. 
 
 204. The accidental or arbitrary relations that may thus be es- 
 tablished between natural sympathies or emotions, and external ob- 
 iects, may be either such as occur to whole classes of men, or are 
 confined to particular individuals. Among the former, those that 
 apply to different nations, or races of men, are the most important 
 and remarkable, and constitute the basis of those peculiarities by 
 which national tastes are distinguished. Take again, for example, 
 the instance of female beauty, and think what different and incon- 
 sistent standards Avould be fixed for it in the different regions of the 
 world : in Africa, in Asia, and in Europe ; in Tartary and in Greece : 
 in Lapland, Patagonia, and Circassia. If there was any thing abso- 
 lutely or intrinsically beautiful in any of the forms thus distinguished, 
 it is inconceivable that men should differ so outrageously in their 
 conceptions of it : if beauty were a real or independent quality, it 
 seems impossible that it should be distinctly and clearly felt by one 
 set of persons, where another set altogether as sensitive, could see 
 nothing but its opposite ; and if it were actually and inseparably 
 attached to certain forms, colors, or proportions, it must appear 
 utterly inexplicable that it should be felt or perceived in the most 
 opposite forms and proportions, in objects of the 'same description. 
 On the other hand, if all beauty consist in reminding us of certain 
 natural sympathies, and objects of emotion, with which they have 
 been habitually connected, it is easy to perceive how the most dif- 
 ferent forms should be felt to be equally beautiful. If female beauty, 
 for instance, consist in the visible signs and expressions of youth and 
 health, and of gentleness, vivacity, and kindness, then it will neces- 
 sarily happen, that the forms, - and colors, and proportions which 
 nature may have connected with those qualities, in the different 
 climates or regions of the world, will all appear equally beautiful to 
 those who have been accustomed to recognize them as the signs of 
 such qualities ; while they will be respectively indifferent to those 
 who have not learned to interpret them in this sense, and displeasing 
 to those whom experience has led to consider them as the signs of 
 opposite qualities. 
 
 205. The case is the same, though perhaps in a smaller degree, 
 as to the peculiarity of national taste in other particulars. The style 
 of dress and architecture in every nation, if not adopted from mere 
 want of skill, or penury of materials, always appears beautiful to the 
 natives, and somewhat monstrous and absurd to foreigners ; and 
 the general character and aspect of their landscape, in like manner, 
 if not associated with substantial evils and inconveniences, always 
 appears more beautiful and enchanting than the scenery of any 
 
 804 Accidental relations either occur to classes of men or to individuals Nation*! 
 Diversity of opinion respecting female beauty. Kemarks upon this aivorstiT
 
 126 BEACJTY. 
 
 other region. The fact is still more striking, perhaps, in the case ol 
 music; in the effects of those national airs, with which even the most 
 uncultivated imaginations have connected so many interesting recol- 
 lections ; and in the delight with which all persons of sensibility 
 catch the strains of their native melodies in strange or k distant 
 lands. It is owing chiefly to the same sort of arbitrary and national 
 association, that white is thought a gay color in Europe, where it is 
 used at weddings ; and a dismal color in China, where it is used for 
 mourning ; that we think yew-trees gloomy, because they are planted 
 in church-yards, and large masses of powdered horse-hair majestic, 
 because we see them on the heads of judges and bishops. 
 
 206. Again, our ideas of beauty are modified by the differences 
 of instruction or education. If external objects were sublime or 
 beautiful in themselves, it is plain that they would appear equally 
 so to those who were acquainted with their origin, and to those to 
 whom it was unknown. Yet it is not easy, perhaps, to calculate the 
 degree to which the notions of beauty and sublimity are now in- 
 fluenced all over Europe, by the study of classical literature ; or the 
 number of impressions of this sort which the well-educated conse- 
 quently receive, from objects that are utterly indifferent to unin- 
 structed persons of the same natural sensibility. [See Alison on 
 Taste, pp. 39-41.] 
 
 207." The influences of the same studies may be traced, indeed, 
 through almost all our impressions of beauty and especially in the 
 feelings which we receive from the contemplation of rural scenery ; 
 where the images and recollections which have been associated with 
 such objects, in the enchanting strains of the poets, are perpetually 
 recalled by their appearance, and give an interest and a beauty to 
 the prospect, of which the uninstructed cannot have the slightest 
 perception. Upon this subject, also, Mr. Alison has expressed him- 
 self with his usual warmth and elegance. After observing that in 
 childhood, the beauties of nature have scarcely any existence for 
 those who have as yet but little general sympathy with mankind, he 
 proceeds to state, that they are usually first recommended to notice 
 by the poets, to whom we are introduced in the course of education ; 
 and who, in a manner, create them for us, by the associations which 
 they enable us to form with their visible appearance. [See Alison 
 on Taste, Mills' Edition, pp. 53-4.] 
 
 208. Before leaving this branch of the subject, let us pause for a 
 moment on the familiar but very striking instance of our varying 
 and contradictory judgments, as to the beauty of the successive 
 fashions of dress that have existed within our own remembrance. 
 All persons who still continue to find amusement in society, and are 
 
 205. Peculiarities of national taste in regard to dress, architecture, mnsle, colors appro- 
 priatcd to mourning, &c. 
 
 206. Ideas of beauty modified by instruction ana education. 
 807. Contemplation of rural scenery. Influence of the pooU.
 
 BEAUTY. 127 
 
 not old enough to enjoy only the recollections of their youth, think 
 the prevailing fashions becoming and graceful, and the fashions of 
 twenty or twenty-live years old intolerably ugly and ridiculous. It 
 is plain, then, that there is, in the general case, no intrinsic beauty 
 or deformity in any of those fashions ; and that the forms, and 
 colors, and materials, that are, we may say, universally and very 
 strongly felt to be beautiful while they are in fashion, are sure to 
 lose all their beauty as soon as the fashion has passed away. 
 
 Hitherto we have spoken of the beauty of external objects only. 
 But the whole difficulty of the theory consists in its application to 
 them. If that be once adjusted, the beauty of immaterial objects 
 can occasion no perplexity. Poems and other compositions in 
 words, are beautiful in proportion as they are conversant with beau- 
 tiful objects or, as they suggest to us, in a more direct way, the 
 moral and social emotions on which the beauty of all objects de- 
 pends. Theorems and demonstrations again are beautiful, according 
 as they excite in us emotions of admiration for the genius and in- 
 tellectual power of their inventors, and images of the magnificent 
 and beneficial ends to which such discoveries may be applied ; 
 and mechanical contrivances are beautiful when they remind us of 
 similar talents and ingenuity, and at the same time impress us with 
 a more direct sense of their vast utility to mankind, and of the 
 great additional conveniences with which life is consequently adorned. 
 In all cases, therefore, there is the suggestion of some interesting 
 conception or emotion associated with a present perception, in which 
 it is apparently confounded and embodied and this, according to 
 the whole of the preceding deduction, is the distinguishing charac- 
 teristic of Beauty. 
 
 Necessary consequences of the adoption of this Theory. 
 
 (1.) We conceive that it establishes the substantial identity of the 
 Sublime, the Beautiful, and the Picturesque ; and consequently puts 
 an end to all controversy that is not purely verbal, as to the differ- 
 ence of these several qualities. Every material object that interests 
 us, without actually hurting or gratifying our bodily feelings, must 
 do so, according to this theoiy, in one and the same manner, that. 
 is, by suggesting or recalling some emotion or affection of ourselves, 
 or some other sentient being, and presenting, to our imagination at 
 least, some natural object of love, pity, admiration, or awe. Though 
 material objects have but one means of exciting emotion, the emo- 
 tions they do excite are infinite. They are mirrors that may reflect 
 all shades and all colors ; and, in point of fact, do seldom reflect the 
 same hues twice. No two interesting objects, perhaps, whether known 
 by the name of Beautiful, Sublime, or Picturesque, ever produced ex- 
 actly the same emotion in the beholder ; and no one object, it is most 
 probable, ever moved any two persons to the very same conceptions. 
 
 20& Varying Judjrments on successive fashions of dress. Remarks on Uie beauty of Im- 
 material objects. Two consequences resulting from this theory.
 
 128 BEAUTY. 
 
 (2 ) Our theory seems calculated to put an end to all the perplexing 
 questions about the Standard of Taste. If things are not beautiful 
 in themselves, bufonly as they serve to suggest interesting concep- 
 tions to the mind, then every thing which does 'in point of fact sug- 
 nest such a conception to any individual, is beautiful to that indi- 
 vidual ; and it is not only quite true that there is no room for dis 
 putino- about tastes, but that all tastes are equally just and correct, 
 in so far as each individual speaks his own emotions. What a man 
 feels distinctly to be beautiful, is beautiful to him, whatever other 
 people may think of it. All this follows clearly from the theory 
 now P in question; but it does not follow from it that all tastes .* 
 equally good, or desirable, or that there is any difficulty in describing 
 that which is really the best, and the most to be envied The on y 
 use of the faculty of Taste, is to afford an innocent delight, and * 
 assist in the cultivation of a finer morality; and that man certainly 
 will have the most delight from this faculty, who has the most nu- 
 merous and the most powerful perceptions of Beauty. But,* beauty 
 consist in the reflection of our affections and sympathies, it is plain 
 that he will always see the most beauty whose affections are ti 
 warmest and the most exercised-whose imagination is the most 
 powerful, and who has most accustomed himself to attend 
 obiects by which he is surrounded. The best taste, therefore, must be 
 that which belongs to the best affections, the most active fancy 'and 
 the most attentive habits of observation. It wi 1 follow pretty ex- 
 actly too, that all men's perceptions of beauty will be nearly in pio- 
 portion to the degree of their sensibility and social sympathies; and 
 that those who have no affections towards sentient beings wll 
 as certainly insensible to beauty in external objects as he who can- 
 not hear the sound of his friend's voice, must be deal to its echo 
 
 If however, we aspire to be creators as well as observers of Beauty, 
 and 'place any part of our happiness in ministering to the gratifica- 
 tion of othe/s-as artists, or poets, or authors of any **$-** 
 more laborious system of cultivation will be necessary. We ] 
 bTcautious to employ only such objects as are the natural signs, or 
 Reparable concomitants of emotions of which the greater part 
 of mankind are susceptible ; and our taste will then deserve to be 
 tailed bad or false, if we intrude upon the public as beauti , bjecte 
 that are not likely to be associated m common minds with any in 
 teresting impressions. As all men must have some peculiar assoda- 
 tions, aU men must have some peculiar notions of Beauty and of 
 course, to a certain extent, a taste that the public would be e 
 to consider as false or vitiated. rp 
 
 [Notwithstanding all that is here said about the Standard of r*te, 
 it is thought best, for the sake of those who may not adopt Laid 
 Jeffrey's Theory, to give, in chap, xxvi, Dr. Blair's views on that 
 sitbject being far superior to what Lord Kames had furmshed.- 
 Am. Ed.]
 
 AND SUBLIMITY. 129 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 
 
 209 NATURE hath not more remarkably distinguished us from 
 other animals by an erect posture, than by a capacious and aspiring 
 mind, attaching us to things great and elevated. The ocean the 
 skv seize the attention, and make a deep impression; robes of state 
 are made large and full, to draw respect: we admire an elephant 
 for its magnitude, notwithstanding its unwieldiness. 
 
 The elevation of an object affects us no less than its magnitude : 
 a high place is chosen for the statue of a deity or hero : a tree grow- 
 ing on the brink of a precipice looks charming when viewed from 
 the plain below: a throne is erected for the chief magistrate; and 
 a chair with a high seat for the president of a court Among all 
 nations, heaven is placed far above us, hell far below us. 
 
 In some objects, greatness and elevation concur to make a coi 
 plicated impression : the Alps and the Peake of Tenenffe are proper 
 examples ; with the following difference, that in the former greatness 
 seems to prevail, elevation in fhe latter. 
 
 210 The emotions raised by great and by elevated objects are 
 clearly distinguishable, not only in internal feeling, but even in then 
 external expressions. A great object makes the spectator endeavor 
 to enlarge his bulk; which is remarkable in plain people who give 
 way to nature without reserve; in describing a great object, they 
 naturally expand themselves by drawing in air with all their force. 
 An elevated object produces a different expression; it makes 
 spectator stretch upward and stand a-tiptoe. 
 
 Great and elevated objects considered with relation to the emo- 
 tions produced by them, are termed grand and sublime. Grandeur 
 and sublimity have a double signification ; they commonly signify 
 the quality or circumstance in objects by which the emotions o 
 grandeur and sublimity are produced ; sometimes the emoti 
 themselves. , , ,,. 
 
 [The sentiment of the Beautiful, and the sentiment of the Sublmw 
 are thus distinguished by Cousin : 
 
 " When we have before our eyes an object whose forms are per- 
 fectly determined, and the whole easy to embrace a beautifu. 
 flower a beautiful statue, an antique temple of moderate size, eacb 
 of our faculties attaches itself to this object, and rests upon it witl 
 unalloyed satisfaction. Our senses easily perceive its details : oui 
 reason seizes the happy harmony of all its parts. Should this objeci 
 
 209 How nature has distinguished us from other animate. -Th. mind affecUd by Uw 
 elevation M well a* by the magnitude of an object
 
 130 GRANDEUR AKD SUBLIMITY. 
 
 disappear, we can distinctly represent it to ourselves, so precise aud 
 fixed are its forms. The soul in this contemplation feels again a 
 sweet and tranquil joy, a sort of efflorescence. 
 
 Let us consider, on the other hand, an object with vague and in- 
 definite forms, which may nevertheless be very beautiful : the im- 
 pression which we experience is without doubt a pleasure still, but it 
 is a pleasure of a different order. This object does not call forth all 
 our powers like the first. Reason conceives it, but the senses do not 
 perceive the whole of it, and imagination does not distinctly repre- 
 sent it to itself. The senses and the imagination try in vain to 
 attain its last limits : our faculties are enlarged, are inflated, thus to 
 speak, in order to embrace it, but it escapes and surpasses them. 
 The pleasure that we feel comes from the very magnitude of the 
 object; but at the same time, this magnitude produces in us I 
 know not what melancholy sentiment, because it is disproportionate 
 to us. At the sight of the starry heavens, of the vast sea, of gigantic 
 mountains, admiration is mingled with sadness. These objects, in 
 reality finite, like the world itself, seem to us infinite, in our want of 
 power to comprehend their immensity, and, resembling what is 
 truly without bounds, they awaken in us the idea of the infinite, 
 that idea which at once elevates and confounds our intelligence." 
 Lect. vi.] 
 
 211. In handling the present subject, it is necessary that the im- 
 pression made on the mind by the magnitude of an object, abstract- 
 ing from its other qualities, should be ascertained. And becausa 
 abstraction is a mental operation of some difficulty, the safest method 
 for judging is, to- choose a plain object that is neither beautiful nor 
 deformed, if such a one can be found. The plainest that occurs is 
 a huge mass of rubbish, the ruins, perhaps, of some extensive build- 
 ing, or a large heap of stones, such as are collected together for 
 keeping in memory a battle, or other remarkable event. Such an 
 object, which in miniature would be perfectly indifferent, makes an 
 impression by its magnitude, and appears agreeable. And sup- 
 posing it so large as to fill the eye, and to prevent the attention from 
 wandering upon other objects, the impression it makes will be so 
 much the deeper. 
 
 212. But, though a plain object of that kind be agreeable, it is 
 not termed grand; it is not entitled to that character unless, to- 
 gether with its size, it be possessed of other qualities that contribute 
 to beauty, such as regularity, proportion, order, or color ; and ac- 
 cording to the number of such qualities combined with magnitude, 
 it is more or less grand. Thus, St. Peter's church at Rome, th<- 
 great Pyramid of Egypt, the Alps towering above the clouds, a great 
 
 210. Emotions raised by great and by elevated objects distinguishable. Double signlfl- 
 eat.ion of grandeur and sublimity. How the beautiful and the sublime are distinguished 
 by Cousin. 
 
 211. Impressions made on the mind by the magnitude of an object simply. Illustra- 
 tions; those of the plainest sort
 
 GRAJTOEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 131 
 
 arm of the sea, and, above all, a clear and serene sky, are grand, 
 because, besides their size, they are beautiful in an eminent degree. 
 On the other hand, an overgrown whale, having a disagreeable ap- 
 pearance, is not grand. A large building, agreeable by its regularity 
 and proportion, is grand, and yet a much larger building destitute 
 of regularity, has not the least tincture of grandeur. A single regi- 
 ment in battle array, makes a grand appearance ; which the sur- 
 rounding crowd does not, though perhaps ten for one in number. 
 And a regiment where the men are all in one livery, and the horsea 
 of one color, makes a grander appearance, and consequently strikes 
 more terror than where there is confusion of colors and of dress. 
 Thus greatness or magnitude is the circumstance that distinguishes 
 grandeur from beauty : agreeableness is the genus of which beauty 
 and grandeur are species. 
 
 213. The emotion of grandeur, duly examined, will be found an 
 additional proof of the foregoing doctrine. That this emotion is 
 pleasant in a high degree, requires no other evidence but once to 
 have seen a grand object ; and if an emotion of grandeur be pleas- 
 ant, its cause or object, as observed above, must infallibly be agreea- 
 ble in proportion. 
 
 The qualities of grandeur and beauty are not more distinct than 
 the emotions are which these qualities produce in a spectator.* 
 is observed in the chapter immediately foregoing, that all the various 
 emotions of beauty have one common character, that of sweetness 
 and gayety. The" emotion of grandeur has a different character : a 
 large object that is agreeable, occupies the whole attention, and 
 swells the heart into a vivid emotion, which though extremely 
 pleasant, is rather serious than gay. And this affords a good reason 
 for distinguishing in language these different emotions. The emo- 
 tions raised by color, by regularity, by proportion, and by order, 
 
 * {Definition of terms. GKKAT simply decimates extent; GRAND includes 
 likewise the idea of excellence and supernritv. A ffreat undertaking charac- 
 terizes only the extent of the undertaking ; a gr<i^-. undertaking bespeaks il 
 
 maYination with its immensity ; it is sublime as it elevate 
 DeySnd the surrounding and le important objects. There is some thing grand 
 in the sight of a vast army moving forward as it were by one impulse , tl 
 is something peculiarly sMimc in the sight ot huge BMna^^ngg 
 cliffs of ice shaped into various fantastic lorms. Gi-and may bo said either 
 of the works of art or nature. The Egyptian pyramids, or the ocean, an 
 grand objects : a tempestuous ocean is a ntbKme object. Grand is so 
 applied to the mind i.uWme is applied both to the thoughts and the expres- 
 sions There is a arandeur of conception in the writings of Milton ; there i 
 "- --" -t in the inspired writings, which far surpass all human t 
 
 213. What b<*Ulo macnllmto Is nectary to mnk an obfect <,rad. Kiit|.l-B 
 frndnr Is JigtlngnistwU from Itcanl/.
 
 132 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 
 
 have such a resemblance to each other, as readily to come under 
 one general term, viz., the emotion of beauty but the emotion of 
 grandeur is so different from these mentioned, as to merit a peculiar 
 name. 
 
 Though regularity, proportion, order, and color, contribute to 
 grandeur as well as to beauty, yet these qualities are not by far so 
 essential to the former as to the latter. To make out that proposi- 
 tion, some preliminaries are requisite. In the first place, the mind, 
 not being totally occupied with a small object, can give its attention 
 at the same time to every minute part ; but in a great or extensive 
 object, the mind being totally occupied with the capital and striking 
 parts, has no attention left for those that are little or indifferent. In 
 the next place, two similar objects appear not similar when viewed 
 at different distances ; the similar parts of a very large object cannot 
 be seen but at different distances; and for that reason, its regularity, 
 and the proportion of its parts, are in some measure lost to the eye; 
 neither are the irregularities of a veiy large object so conspicuous 
 as of one that is small. Hence it is, that a large object is not so 
 agreeable by its regularity, as a small object, nor so disagreeable by 
 its irregularities. 
 
 214. These considerations make it evident, that grandeur is satis- 
 fied with a less degree of regularity and of the other qualities 
 mentioned, than is requisite for beauty; which may be illustrated 
 by the following experiment. Approaching to a small conical hill, 
 we take an accurate survey of every part, and are sensible of the 
 slightest deviation from regularity and proportion. Supposing the 
 hill to be considerably enlarged, so as to make us less sensible of its 
 regularity, it will upon that account appear less beautiful. It will 
 not, however, appear less agreeable, because some slight emotion 01 
 grandeur comes in place of what is lost in beauty. And at last, 
 when the hill is enlarged to a great mountain, the small degree ot 
 beauty that is left, is sunk in its grandeur. Hence it is, that a 
 towering hill is delightful, if it have but the slightest resemblance 
 of a cone ; and a chain of mountains no less so, though deficient in 
 the accuracy of order and proportion. We require a small surface 
 to be smooth ; but in an extensive plain, considerable inequalities 
 are overlooked. In a word, regularity, proportion, order, and color 
 contribute to grandeur as well as to beauty ; but with a remarkable 
 difference, that, in passing from small to great, they are not required 
 in the same degree of perfection. This remark serves to explain 
 the extreme delight we have in viewing the face of nature, when 
 sufficiently enriched and diversified with objects. The bulk of the 
 objects in a natural landscape are beautiful, and some of them 
 grand : a flowing river, a spreading oak, a round hill, an extended 
 
 18. Emotions of grandeur and beauty distinguished. Why regularity, proportion, <fcc.. 
 are not so essential to gmndeur as to beauty. Terms great, grand-, and tublimf, dellned 
 ami Illustrated.
 
 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 133 
 
 plain, are delightful ; and even a rugged rock or tarren heath, 
 though in themselres disagreeable, contribute by contrast to the 
 beauty of the whole : joining to these the verdure of the fields, the 
 mixture of light and shade, and the sublime canopy spread over all, 
 it will not appear wonderful, that so extensive a group of splendid 
 objects should swell the heart to its utmost bounds, and raise the 
 strongest emotion of grandeur. The spectator is conscious of an 
 enthusiasm, which cannot bear confinement, nor the strictness ol 
 regularity and order : he loves to range at large ; and is so en- 
 chanted with magnificent objects, as to overlook slight beauties or 
 deformities. 
 
 215. The same observation is applicable in some measure to 
 works of art : in a small building, the slightest irregularity is dis- 
 agreeable ; but, in a magnificent palace, or a large Gothic church, 
 irregularities are less regarded ; in an epic poem we pardon many 
 negligences "that would not be permitted in a sonnet or epigram. 
 Notwithstanding such exceptions, it may be justly laid down for a 
 rule, That in works of art, order and regularity ought to be govern- 
 ing principles : and hence the observation of Longinus (chapter 
 xxx.), " In works of art we have regard to exact proportion ; in those 
 of nature, to grandeur and magnificence." 
 
 The same reflections are in a good measure applicable to sub- 
 limity ; particularly, that, like grandeur, it is a species of agreeable- 
 ness ; that a beautiful object placed high, appearing more agreeable 
 than formerly, produces in the spectator a new emotion, termed the 
 emotion of sublimity ; and that the perfection of order, regularity, 
 and proportion, is less required in objects placed high, or at a dis- 
 tance, than at hand. 
 
 216. The pleasant emotion raised by large objects, has not escaped 
 tf'e poets : 
 
 He doth bestride the narrow world 
 
 Like a Colossus ; and we petty men 
 
 Walk under his huge legs. Julius Cauar, Act I. So. 8, 
 
 Cleopatra. I dreamt there was an Emp'ror Antony : 
 Oh such another sleep, that I might see 
 But such another man I 
 
 Hiu face was as the heavens : and therein stuck 
 A sun and moon, which kept their course, and lighted 
 The little o' the earth. 
 His legs bestrid the ocean, his rear'd arm 
 Crested the world. Antony and Cleopatra, Act V. Sc. 8. 
 
 Majesty 
 
 Dies not nlono, but, like a gulf, doth draw 
 What's near it with it. It's a massy wheel 
 Fix'd on the summit of the highest "mount ; 
 
 214 
 
 Illustrated by the experiment of approaching n hill. How It Is in passing from 
 ;bt of small to that of great objects. The delight found in viewing the face of natur*, 
 
 xplained. 
 4l3 Observation* in regard to works of grt Also la regard to lubliuiity.
 
 134: GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 
 
 To whose huge spokes, ten thousand lesser things 
 
 Are mortised and adjoin'd ; which when it falls, 
 
 Each small annexment, petty consequence, 
 
 Attends the boist'rous ruin. Hamlet, Act III. Sc. 8. 
 
 The poets have also made good use of the emotion produced by the 
 elevated situation of an object : 
 
 Quod si me lyricis vatibus inseres, 
 Sublinri feriam sidera vertice. 
 
 Horat. Carm. L. I. Ode I. 
 
 Oh thou ! the earthly author of my blood, 
 Whose youthful spiritj in me regenerate, 
 Doth with a twofold vigor lift me up, 
 To reach at victory above my head. 
 
 Richard II. Act 1. Sc. 4. 
 
 Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal 
 The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne. 
 
 Richard II. Act V. Sc. 2. 
 
 Antony. Why was I raised the meteor of the world, 
 Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travell'd, 
 Till ml my fires were spent ; and then cast downward, 
 To be trod out by Caesar ? Dryden, All for Love, Act I. 
 
 The description of Paradise in the fourth book of Paradise Lost, 
 is a fine illustration of the impression made by elevated objects : 
 
 So on he fares, and to the border comes 
 
 Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, 
 
 Now nearer, crowns with her inclosure greeu, 
 
 As with a rural mound, the champain head 
 
 Of a steep wilderness ; whose hairy sides, 
 
 With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild, 
 
 Access denied ; and overhead up grew 
 
 Insuperable height of loftiest shade, 
 
 Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching pahn, 
 
 A sylvan scene ; and as the ranks ascend, 
 
 Shade above shade, a woody theatre 
 
 Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops 
 
 The verd'rous wall of Paradise up sprung; 
 
 Which to our general sire gave prospect large 
 
 Into his nether empire neighb'nng round. 
 
 And higher than that wall a circling row _ 
 
 Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit, 
 
 Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue, 
 
 Appear'd with gay enamcll'd colors mix'd. B. iv. 1. 131. 
 
 217. Though a grand object is agreeable, we must not infer that 
 a little object is disagreeable ; which would be unhappy for man, 
 considering that he is surrounded with so many objects of that kind. 
 The same holds with respect to place : a body placed high is agree- 
 able ; but the same body placed low is not by that circumstance 
 rendered disagreeable. Littleness and lowness of place are precisely 
 similar in the following particular, that they neither give pleasure 
 nor pain. And in this may visibly be discovered peculiar attention 
 in fitting the internal constitution of man to his external circum- 
 stances : were littleness and lowness of place agreeable, greatness 
 
 216. Pleasant emotions raised by large objects illustrated from th< poets; tb<* *!> 
 i*ed by high ^ yecU, especially f-?m Paradise Lo
 
 ORANDECB AND SUBLIMITY. 135 
 
 and elevation could not be so were littleness and lowness of place 
 disagreeable, they would occasion perpetual uneasiness. 
 
 The difference between great and little with respect to agreeable- 
 ness, is remarkably felt in a series, when we pass gradually from the 
 one extreme to the other. A mental progress from the capital to 
 the kingdom, from that to Europe to the whole earth to the plan- 
 etary system to the universe, is extremely pleasant; the heart 
 swells and the mind is dilated at every step. The returning in an 
 opposite direction is not positively painful, though our pleasure 
 lessens at every step till it vanish into indifference : such a progress 
 may sometimes produce pleasure of a different sort, which arises 
 from taking a narrower and narrower inspection. The same obser- 
 vation holds in a progress upward and downward. Ascent is pleas- 
 ant because it elevates us : but descent is never painful ; it is for the 
 most part pleasant from a different cause, that it is according to the 
 order of nature. The fall of a stone from any height is extremely 
 agreeable by its accelerated motion. I feel it pleasant to descend 
 from a mountain, because the descent is natural and easy. Neither 
 is looking downward painful ; on the contrary, to look down upon 
 objects makes part of the pleasure of elevation. Looking down be 
 comes then only painful when the object is so far below as to create diz- 
 ziness ; and even when that is the case we feel a sort of pleasure mixed 
 with the pain. Witness Shakspeare's description of Dover Cliffs : 
 
 -How fearful 
 
 And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low ! 
 The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, 
 Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half-way down 
 Hangs one that gathers samphire ; dreadful trado 1 
 Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. 
 The fishermen that walk upon the beach, 
 Appear like mice ; and yon tall anchoring bark 
 Duninish'd to her cock ; her cock, a buoy 
 Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge, 
 That on the unnuraber'd idle pebbles chafes, 
 Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more, 
 Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 
 Topple down headlong. King Lear, Act. IV. Sc. 6. 
 
 218. A remark is made above that the emotions of grandeur and 
 sublimity are nearly allied. And hence it is that the one term 
 is frequently put for "the other : an increasing series of numbers, for 
 example, producing an emotion similar to that of mounting up- 
 ward, is commonly termed an ascending series ; a series of numbers 
 gradually decreasing, producing an emotion similar to that of going 
 downward, is commonly termed a descending series. We talk fa- 
 miliarly of going up to the capital, and of going down to the coun- 
 try : from a lesser kingdom we talk of going up to a greater ; whence 
 the anabasis in the Greek language, when one travels from Greece 
 
 217. Comparison between great and small, high and low objects, as to agreeabjeness. 
 Progress In an advancing series from on* extreme to another, ami in reverse order, a? 
 agrcnbUness. Progress upward and <lwnwgra.--Sh:ikpar's Uescript en of t>vr Cliff*.
 
 136 GEANDETJE AND SUBLIMITY. 
 
 to Persia. We disover the same way of speaking in the language 
 even of Japan ;* and it universally proves it the offspring of a nat- 
 ural feeling. 
 
 219. The foregoing observation leads us to consider grandeur and 
 sublimity in a figurative sense, and as applicable to the fine arts. 
 Hitherto these terms have been taken in their proper sense as ap- 
 plicable to objects of sight only ; and it was of importance to bestow 
 eome pains upon that article, because, generally speaking, the fig- 
 urative sense of a word is derived from its proper sense, which holds 
 remarkably at present. Beauty, in its original signification, is con- 
 ' fined to objects of sight; but as many other objects, intellectual as 
 well as moral, raise emotions resembling -that of beauty, the resem- 
 blance of the effects prompts us to extend the term beauty to these 
 objects.f This equally accounts for the terms grandeur and sub- 
 limity taken in a figurative sense. Every emotion, from whatever 
 cause proceeding, that resembles an emotion of grandeur or eleva- 
 tion, is called by the same name : thus generosity is said to be an 
 elevated emotion, as well as great courage ; and that firmness of 
 soul, which is superior to misfortunes, obtains the peculiar name of 
 magnanimity. On the other hand, every emotion that contracts the 
 mind and fixeth it upon things trivial or of no importance, is termed 
 low, by its resemblance to an emotion produced by a little or low 
 object of sight ; thus an appetite for trifling amusements is called a 
 low taste. The same terms are applied to characters and actions : 
 we talk familiarly of an elevated genius, of a great man, and equally 
 so of littleness of mind : some actions are great and elevated, and 
 others are little and grovelling. Sentiments, and even expressions, 
 are characterized in the same manner ; an expression or sentiment 
 
 * Kempfer's History of Japan, b. v. chap. 2. 
 t [Cousin gives the following classification of the objects of beauty : 
 "Among sensible objects, colors, sounds, figures, movements, are capable 
 of producing the idea and the sentiment of the beautiful. All these beauties 
 arc arranged under that species of beauty, which, right or wrong, is caHei 
 
 P ^*If VonTtfi e world of sense, we elevate ourselves to that of mind, truth, 
 and science, we shall find there beauties more severe, but not less real. Ine 
 universal laws that govern bodies, those that govern intelligences the grea 
 principles that contain and produce long deductions, the genius that crea .tea 
 in the artist, poet, or philosopher, all these are beautiful,,as well as nature 
 herself: this is what is called intellectual beauty. 
 
 "Finally, if we consider the moral world and its laws, the idea of liberty, 
 virtue, and devotedness; here the austere justice of an Anstides, there t 
 heroism of a Leonidas, the prodigies of charity or of patriotism, we shall c 
 tainly find a Miird order of beauty that still surpasses the other two, to wit, 
 
 * NewSflet us forget to apply to all these beauties the distinct on between 
 the beautiful and the sublime. There are, then, the beautiful and the subluno 
 at once in nature, in ideas, in sentiments, in actions. What an almost in 
 variety in beauty !" Lect. vi. pp. 148-4.] 
 
 218. Emotions of grandeur and sublimity nearly ullled. Incrcwlng series of nuuilxa* 
 Urtncd ac*ndiny, Ac.
 
 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 137 
 
 that raises the mind is denominated great or elevated, and hence the 
 BUBLIME* in poetry. In such figurative terms -we lose the distinction 
 between great and elevated in their proper sense ; for the resemblance 
 is not so entire as to preserve these terms distinct in their figurative 
 application. We carry this figure still farther. Elevation in its 
 proper sense, imports superiority of place ; and lowness, inferiority of 
 place; and hence a man of superior talents, of superior rank, of in- 
 ferior parts, of inferior taste, and such like. The veneration we 
 have for our ancestors, and for the ancients in general, being similar 
 to the emotion produced by an elevated object of sight, jusfifies the 
 figurative expression of the ancients being raised above us, or pos- 
 sessing a superior place. And we may remark in passing, that as 
 words are intimately connected with ideas, many, by this form of 
 expression, are led to conceive their ancestors as really above them 
 in place, and their posterity below them : 
 
 A grandam's name is little less in love, 
 Than is the doting title of a mother : 
 They are as children but one step below. 
 
 Richard 111. Act IV. So. 5. 
 
 The notes of the gamut, proceeding regularly from the blunter or 
 grosser sounds to the more acute and piercing, produce in the hearer 
 a feeling somewhat similar to what is produced by mounting up- 
 ward ; and this gives occasion to the figurative expressions, a high 
 note, a low note. 
 
 220. Such is the resemblance in feeling between real and figura- 
 tive grandeur, that among the nations on the east coast of Africa, 
 who are directed purely by nature, the officers of state are, with re- 
 spect to rank, distinguished by the length of the batoon each carries 
 in his hand ; and in Japan, princes and great lords show their rank 
 by the length and size of their sedan-poles.f Again, it is a rule m 
 painting, that figures of a small size are proper for a grotesque piece; 
 but that an historical subject, grand and important, requires figures 
 as great as the life. The resemblance of these feelings is in reality 
 so strong, that elevation, in a figurative sense, is observed to have 
 the same effect, even externally, with real elevation. 
 
 K Henry. This day is cnll'd the feast of Crispian. 
 He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 
 "Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named. 
 And rouse him at the name of Crispian. Henry V. Act IV. HC. 8. 
 
 * Longimis gives a description of the Sublime that is not amiss, though far 
 from beino- iust in every circumstance : " That the mind is elevated by it, and 
 BO sensibly affected as to swell in transport and inward pride, na it what is only 
 heard.or read were its own invention.' 
 
 t Kempfer's History of Japan. 
 
 219. Grandeur and sublimity in a figurative sense, as applied to th fln Y^ 
 original!.,, confined to what '-Cousin's classUcation of the objects of beauty.- 
 resembling those of Rnmdeur or sublimity are called by the same n ^ e --^^^ e { 
 tlons, how called.-Characters, actions, sentiments, and expressions chaMcteme 
 tame manner. How we epeak of ancestors and of the ancients. Notes of the gamut.
 
 138 GRANDEUR AND SDBLIMITY. 
 
 The lesemMance in feeling between real and figurative grandeur, 
 is humorously illustrated by Addison in criticising upon English 
 tragedy : " The ordinary method of making a hero, is to clap a 
 huge plume of feathers upon his head, which rises so high, that there 
 is often a greater length from his chin to the top of his head, than 
 to the sole of his foot. One would believe, that we thought a great 
 man and a tall man the same thing. As these superfluous orna- 
 ments upon the head make a great man, a princess generally re- 
 ceives her grandeur from those additional incumbrances that fall into 
 her tail': I mean the broad sweeping train, that follows her in all 
 her motions, and finds constant employment for a boy, who stands 
 behind her to open and spread it to advantage." (Spectator, No. 
 42.) The Scythians, impressed with the fame of Alexander, were 
 astonished when they found him a little man. 
 
 221. A gradual progress from small to great is no less remarkable 
 in figurative than in real grandeur or elevation. Every one muet 
 have observed the delightful effect of a number of thoughts or sen- 
 timents artfully disposed like an ascending series, and making im- 
 pressions deeper and deeper : such disposition of members in a pe- 
 riod is termed a climax. 
 
 Within certain limits, grandeur and sublimity produce their 
 strongest effects, which lessen by excess as well as by defect. This 
 is remarkable in grandeur and sublimity taken in their proper sense : 
 the grandest emotion that can be raised by a visible object, is where 
 the object can be taken in at one view ; if so immense as not to be 
 comprehended but in parts, it tends rather to distract than satisfy 
 the mind :* in like manner, the strongest emotion produced by ele- 
 vation, is where the object is seen distinctly ; a greater elevation 
 lessens in appearance the object, until it vanishes out of sight with 
 its pleasant emotion. The same is equally remarkable in figurative 
 grandeur and elevation, which shall be handled together, because, 
 as observed above, they are scarce distinguishable. Sentiments may 
 be so strained as to become obscure, or to exceed the capacity of the 
 human mind : against such license of imagination, every good 
 writer will be upon his guard ; and therefore it is of greater im- 
 portance to observe, that even the true sublime may be carried be- 
 yond that pitch which produces the highest entertainment. We are 
 undoubtedly susceptible of a greater elevation than can be inspired 
 
 * It is justly observed by Addison, that perhaps a man would have been 
 more astonished with the majestic air that appeared in one of Lysippus's 
 statues of Alexander, though no bigger than the lite, than he might have been 
 with Mount Athos, had it been cut into the figure of the hero, according to 
 the proposal of Phidias, with a river in one hand, and a city in the other. 
 Spectator, No. 415. 
 
 220. How superiority of rank is expressed in Africa and Japan. Rule in painting as to 
 size of figures. Tbo resemblance in feeling between real and figurative grandeur, illuf- 
 teated by Addison.
 
 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 189 
 
 by human actions, the most heroic and magnanimous : witness what 
 we feel from Milton's description of superior beings ; yet every man 
 must be sensible of a more constant and sweet elevation, when the 
 history of his own species is the subject : he enjoys an elevation 
 equal to that of the greatest hero, of an Alexander or a CasSar, of a 
 Brutus or an Epaminondas ; he accompanies these heroes in their 
 sublimest sentiments and most hazardous exploits, with a magna- 
 nimity equal to theirs ; and finds it no stretch, to preserve the same 
 tone of mind, for hours together, without sinking. The case is not 
 the same in describing the actions or qualities of superior beings : 
 the reader's imagination cannot keep pace with that of the poet ; 
 the mind, unable to support itself in a strained elevation, falls as if 
 from a height ; and the fall is immoderate, like the elevation : where 
 that effect is not felt, it must be prevented by some obscurity in the 
 conception, which frequently attends the description of unknown 
 ot-jects. Hence the St. Francises, St. Dominies, and other tutelary 
 saints, among the Roman Catholics. A mind unable to raise itself 
 to the Supreme Being, self-existent and eternal, or to support itself 
 in a strained elevation, finds itself more at ease in using the inter- 
 cession of some saint whose piety and penances while on earth are 
 supposed to have made him a favorite in heaven. 
 
 222. A strained elevation is attended with another inconvenience, 
 that the author is apt to fall suddenly as well as the reader : because it 
 is not a little difficult to descend sweetly and easily from such ele- 
 vation to the ordinary tone of the subject. The following passage 
 is a Vvl illustration of that observation : 
 
 "V-^'-' Saepe etiam immensnm ccelo venit aermen aquarum, 
 
 Et ibedani glomerant tempestatem imbribus atris 
 ConlectsB ex alto nubcs. Knit arduus aHher, 
 Et pluvia ingenti sata laeta boumque labores 
 Diluit. Inplentur fussoa, ot cava flumina crescunt 
 
 i^,-, Cum sonitu, fervctqne frctis spirantibus sequor. 
 
 Ipse Pater, media nimborum in nocte, corrused 
 i ulmina molitur dextra. Quo maxima mot a 
 Terra tremit : fugera ferae ! et mortalia corda 
 Per gentes humilis stravit pavor. Ille flagrant! 
 Aut Atho, aut Rodopen, aut alto Cerauuia telo 
 Dejicit : ingeminant austri, et densmimus imlfr. Virg. Georg. 1.1. 
 
 In the description of a storm, to figure Jupiter throwing down huge 
 mountains with his thunderbolts, is hyperbolically sublime, if I may 
 use the expression : the tone of mind produced by that image is so 
 distant from the tone produced by a thick shower of rain, that the 
 sudden transition must; be unpleasant. 
 
 Objects of sight that are not remarkably great or high, scarce 
 raise any emotion of grandeur or of sublimity : and the same holds 
 in other objects ; for we often find the mind roused and animated, 
 
 821. Climax. Grandenr and sublimity produce their greatest effects only within certain 
 Umits. Sentiments may be strained too far. Elevation Inspired by tho actions of super 
 mi'-ian beings, compared with that inspired by our own specie*
 
 140 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 
 
 without being carried to that height. This difference may be dis- 
 cerned in many soils of music, as well as in some musical instru- 
 ments : a kettle-drum rouses, and a hautboy is animating ; but nei- 
 ther of them inspires an emotion of sublimity : revenge animates the 
 mind in a considerable degree ; but I think it never produceth an 
 emotion that can be termed grand or sublime ; and I shall have 
 occasion afterwards to observe, that no disagreeable passion ever has 
 that effect, I am willing to put this to the test, by placing before, 
 my reader a most spirited picture of revenge : it is a speech of An- 
 tony wailing over the body of Caesar : 
 
 Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood ! 
 
 Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, 
 
 (Which like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips, 
 
 To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue,) 
 
 A curse shall light upon the kind of men; 
 
 Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife, 
 
 Shall cumber all the parts of Italy; 
 
 Blood and destruction shall be so in use, 
 
 And dreadful objects so familiar, 
 
 That mothers shall but smile, when they behold 
 
 Their infants quarter' d by the hands of war. 
 
 All pity choked with custom of fell deeds, 
 
 And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, 
 
 With Ate by his side come hot from hell, 
 
 Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice, 
 
 Cry. Havoc! and let slip the dogs of war. 
 
 Julius Caesar, Act III. Sc. 4. 
 
 223. No desire is more general than to be exalted and honored: 
 and upon that account chiefly are we ambitious of power, riches, titles, 
 fame, which would suddenly lose their relish, did they not raise us 
 above others, and command" submission and deference ; and it may 
 be thought that our attachment to things grand and lofty proceeds 
 from their connection with our favorite passion. This connection 
 has undoubtedly an effect: but that the preference given to things 
 grand and lofty must have deeper root in human nature, will appear 
 from considering, that many bestow their time upon low and trifling 
 amusements, without having the least tincture of this favorite pas- 
 sion ; yet these very persons talk the same language with the rest of 
 mankind, and prefer the more elevated pleasures : they acknowledge 
 a more refined taste, and are ashamed of their own as low and grov- 
 elling. This sentiment, constant and universal, must be the work 
 of nature; and it plainly indicates an original attachment in human 
 nature to every object that elevates the mind : some men may have 
 a greater relish for an object not of the highest rank; but they are 
 conscious of the preference given by mankind in general to things 
 grand and sublime : and they are sensible that their peculiar taste 
 ought to yield to the general taste. 
 
 222 Inconvenience of a strained elevation. No disagreeable passion raises an emotion 
 
 ^^^d^ff's.^s^^ 
 
 thiugs grand and lofty.
 
 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 141 
 
 ^224. What is said above suggests a capital rule for reaching the 
 sublime in such works of art as are susceptible of it: and that is, to 
 present those pails or circumstances only which make the greatest 
 figure, keeping out of view every thing low or trivial ; for the mind, 
 elevated by an important object, cannot, without reluctance, be forced 
 down to bestow any share of its attention upon trifles. Such judi- 
 cious selection of capital circumstances, is by an eminent critic styled 
 grandeur of manner (Spectator, No. 415). In none of the fine arts is 
 there so great scope for that rule as in poetry ; which, by that means, 
 enjoys a remarkable power of bestowing upon objects and events an 
 air of grandeur : when we are spectators, every minute object presents 
 itself iu its order : but, in describing at second hand, these are laid 
 aside, and the capital objects are brought close together. A judi- 
 cious taste in thus selecting the most interesting incidents, to give 
 them a united force, accounts for a fact that may appear surprising; 
 which is, that we are more moved by a spirited narrative at second 
 hand, than by being spectators of the event itself, in all its circum- 
 stances. 
 
 Longinus exemplifies the foregoing rule by a comparison of two 
 passages (Chapter viii. of the Sublime). The first, from Aristseus, 
 is thus translated : 
 
 Ye powers, what madness ! how on ships so frail 
 (Tremendous thought !) can thoughtless mortals sail? 
 For stormy seas they quit the pleasing plain, 
 Plant woods in waves, and dwell amidst the main. 
 Far o'er the deep (a trackless path) they go, 
 And wander oceans in pursuit of woe. 
 No ease their hearts, no rest their eyes can find, 
 On heaven their looks, and on the waves their mind, 
 Sunk are their spirits, while their arms they rear, 
 And gods are wearied with their fruitless prayer. 
 
 TJh,e other, from Homer, I shall give in Pope's translation : 
 
 Burst as a wave that from the cloud impends, 
 And swell'd with tempests on the ship descends. 
 White are the decks with foam : the winds aloud 
 Howl o'er the masts, and sing through every shroud. 
 Pale, trembling, tired, the sailors freeze witn fears, 
 And instant death on every wave appears. 
 
 In the latter passage, the most striking circumstances are selected to 
 fill the mind with terror and astonishment. The former is a collec- 
 tion of minute and low circumstances, which scatter the thought, 
 and make no impression : it is at the same time full of verbal anti- 
 theses and low conceit, extremely improper in a scene of distress. 
 But this last observation belongs to another head. 
 
 The following description of a battle is remarkably sublime, by 
 collecting together in the fewest words, those circumstances which 
 make the greatest figure. 
 
 Like Autumn's dark storms pouring from two echoing hills, towards ench 
 otlior approached the heroes ; M two dark strain from nigh rocks tnt auU
 
 142 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 
 
 roar on the plain, loud, rough, and dark in battle, meet Lorh.ip and Inisfal. 
 Chief mixes his strokes with chief, and man with man : steel sounds on steel, 
 and helmets are olefi on high : blood bursts and smokes around; strings mur- 
 mur on the polished yew : darts rush along the sky : spears full like sparks of 
 flame that gild the stormy face oi' night. 
 
 As the noise of the troubled ocean when roll the waves on high, as the last 
 peal of thundering heaven, such is the noise of battle. Though Cormac's hun- 
 dred bards were there, feeble were the voice of a hundred bards to send the 
 deaths to future times ; for many were the deaths of the heroes, and wide 
 poured the blood of the valiant. r/Vw^aZ. 
 
 The following passage in the 4th book of the Iliad is a description 
 of a battle, wonderfully ardent. " When now gathered on either 
 side, the hosts plunged together in fight ; shield is harshly laid to 
 shield ; spears crash on the brazen corslets ; bossy buckler with 
 buckler meets ; ]oud tumult rages over all ; groans are mixed with 
 boasts of men ; the slain and slayer join in noise ; the earth is floating 
 round with blood. As when two rushing streams from two moun- 
 tains come roaring down, and throw together their rapid waters 
 below, they roar along the gulfy vale : the startled shepherd hears 
 the sound, as he stalks o'er the distant hills : so, as they mixed in 
 fight, from both armies clamor with loud terror arose." But such 
 general descriptions are not frequent in Homer. Even his single 
 combats are rare. The fifth book is the longest account of a battle 
 that is in the Iliad ; and yet contains nothing but a long catalogue 
 of chiefs killing chiefs, not in single combat neither, but at a distance, 
 with an arrow or a javelin ; and these chiefs named for the first time 
 and the last. The same scene is continued through a great part of 
 the sixth book. There is at the same time a minute description of 
 eveiy wound, which for accuracy may do honor to an anatomist, 
 but in an epic poem is tiresome and fatiguing. There is no relief 
 from horrid languor but the beautiful Greek language and melody 
 of Homer's versification. ^ 
 
 225. In the twenty-first book of the Odyssey, there is a passage 
 which deviates widely from the rule above laid down : it concerns 
 that part of the history of Penelope and her suitors, in which she is 
 made to declare in favor of him who should prove the most dexterous 
 in shooting with the bow of Ulysses : 
 
 Now gently winding up the fair ascent 
 By many an easy step, the matron went : 
 Then o'er the pavement glides with grace diviue, 
 (With polish'd oak the level pavements shine ;) 
 The folding gates a dazzling light display'd, 
 With pomp of various architrave o'erlay'd. 
 The bolt, obedient to the silken string, 
 Forsakes the staple as she pulls the rin: ; 
 The wards respondent to the key turn'd round ; 
 The bars fall back ; tho flying valves resound. 
 Loud as a bull makes hill and valley ring; 
 So roar'd the lock when it released the spring. 
 
 224. Eule for reaching the sublime in works of art Scope for this rule in poetry. B* 
 fast of a spirited narration. Example from Fingal ; from the Iliad. 
 293. Ytolr.ttou of the rule abors given, in tbe Oclywef.
 
 GRANDEUR AJJD SUBLIMITY. 1 J4J 
 
 She moves majestic through the wealthy room, 
 Where treasured garments cast a rich perfume; 
 There from the column where aloft it hung, 
 Keach'd, in its splendid case, the bow unstrung 
 
 226. This rule is also applicable to other fine arts. In painting 
 it is established, that the principal figure must be put in the strongest 
 light ; that the beauty of attitude consists in placing the nobler parts 
 most in view, and in suppressing the smaller parts as much as pos- 
 sible ; that the folds of the drapery must be few and large; that 
 fore-shortenings are bad, because they make the parts appear little ; 
 nnd that the muscles ought to be kept as entire as possible, without 
 being divided into small sections. Every one at present subscribes 
 to that rule as applied to gardening, in opposition to parterres split 
 into a thousand small parts in the stiffest regularity of figure. The 
 most eminent architects have governed themselves by the same rale 
 in all their works. 
 
 227. Another rule chiefly regards the sublime, though it is ap- 
 plicable to every soit of literary performance intended for amuse- 
 ment ; and that is to avoid as much as possible abstract and gen- 
 eral terms. Such terms, similar to mathematical signs, arexpntrived 
 to express our thoughts in a concise manner ; but imagw, which 
 are the life of poetry, cannot be raised in any perfection but by in- 
 troducing particular objects. General terms that comprehend a 
 number of individuals, must be excepted from that rule : our kin- 
 dred, our clan, our country, and words of the like import, though 
 they scarce raise any image, have, however, a wonderful power over 
 our passions : the greatness of the complex object overbalances the 
 obscurity of the image. (See chap, xxii.) 
 
 228. Grandeur being an extremely vivid emotion, is not readily 
 produced in perfection but by reiterated impressions. The effect of 
 a single impression can be but momentary ; and if one feel sudden- 
 ly somewhat like a swelling or exaltation of mind, the emotion 
 vanisheth as soon as felt. Single thoughts or sentiments, I know, 
 are often cited as examples of the sublime ; but their effect is far 
 inferior to that of a grand subject displayed in its capital parts. I 
 shall give a few examples, that the reader may judge for himself. 
 In the famous action of Thermopylae, where Leonidas, the Spartan 
 king, with his chosen band fighting for their country, were cut off 
 to the last man, a saying is reported of Dieneces, one of the band, 
 which, expressing cheerful and undisturbed bravery, is well entitled 
 to the first place in examples of that kind. Respecting the number 
 cf their enemies, it was observed, that the arrows shot by such a 
 multitude would intercept the light of the sun. So much the 
 better, says he, for we shall then fight in the shade. (Herodohts, 
 Book vii.) 
 
 226. Grandeur of manner illustrated in painting and gardening. 
 927. Abstract u4 gotiertl term* An exception
 
 14:4 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMTTT. 
 
 So>ne-rset. Ah ! Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are, 
 We might recover all our loss again. 
 The Queen from France hath brought a puissant power, 
 Even now we heard the news. Ah ! couldst thou fly ! 
 
 Warwick. Why, then I would not fly. 
 
 Third Part, Henry VI. Act V. So. 8 
 
 Such a sentiment from a man expiring of his wounds, is truly heroic, 
 and must elevate the mind to the greatest height that can be done 
 by a single expression : it will not suffer in a comparison with the 
 famous sentiment Qu'il mourut of Corneille : the latter is a senti- 
 ment of indignation merely, the former of firm and cheerful courage. 
 To cite in opposition many a sublime passage enriched with the 
 finest images, and dressed in the most nervous expressions, would 
 scarce be lair : I shall produce but one instance, from Shakspeare, 
 which sets a few objects before the eye without much pomp of lan- 
 guage ; it operates its effect by representing these objects in a climax, 
 raising the mind higher and higher till it feel the emotion of grandeur 
 in perfection : 
 
 The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 ^ Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, &c. 
 
 The cloud-capp'd towers produce an elevating emotion, heightened 
 by the gorgeous palaces ; and the mind is carried still higher and 
 higher by the images that follow. Successive images making thus 
 deeper and deeper impressions, must elevate more than any single 
 image can do. 
 
 229. As, on the one hand, no means directly applied have more 
 influence to raise the mind than grandeur and sublimity ; so, on the 
 other, no means indirectly applied have more influence to sink and 
 depress it ; for in a state of elevation, the artful introduction of an 
 humbling object, makes the fall great in proportion to the elevation. 
 Of this observation Shakspeare gives a beautiful example in the 
 passage last quoted : 
 
 The clond-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palace*, 
 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 
 Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
 
 And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
 
 Leave not a rack behind. Tempest, Act IV. Sc. 4. 
 
 The elevation of the mind in the former part of this beautiful pas- 
 sage, makes the fall great in proportion, when the most humbling 
 of all images is introduced, that of an utter dissolution of the earth 
 and its inhabitants. The mind, when warmed, is more susceptible 
 of impressions than in a cool state ; and a depressing or melancholy 
 object listened to, makes the strongest impression when it reaches 
 the mind in its highest state of elevation or cheerfulness. 
 
 But an humbling image is not always necessary to produce that 
 
 228. Grandeur produced by reiterated impressions. Effect f a grand subject displayed 
 to lt capital parts. Tbe saying of Dienece*. Example of climax from Sbokspeire.
 
 GRANDETJB AND SUBLIMITY. 145 
 
 effect : a remark is made above, that in describing superior beings, 
 the reader's imagination, unable to support itself in a strained eleva- 
 tion, falls often as from a height, and sinks even below its ordinary 
 tone. The following instance comes luckily in view ; for a better 
 cannot be given : u God said, Let -there be light, and there was 
 light." Longinus quotes this passage from Moses as a shining ex- 
 ample of the sublime ; and it is scarce possible, in fewer words, to 
 convey so clear an image of the infinite power of the Deity ; but 
 then it belongs to the present subject to remark that the emotion of 
 sublimity raised by this image is but momentary; and that the 
 mind, unable to support itself in an elevation so much above nature, 
 immediately sinks down into humility and veneration for a being so 
 far exalted above grovelling mortals. Every one is acquainted with 
 a dispute about that passage between two French critics (Boileau 
 and Huet), the one positively affirming it to be sublime, the other 
 as positively denying. What I have remarked shows that both of 
 them have reached the truth, but neither of them the whole truth : 
 the primary effect of the passage is undoubtedly an emotion of 
 grandeur ; which so far justifies Boileau ; but then every one must 
 be sensible, that the emotion is merely a flash which, vanishing in- 
 stantaneously, gives way to humility and veneration. That indirect 
 effect of sublimity justifies Huet, who, being a man of true piety, 
 and probably not much carried by imagination, felt the humbling 
 passion more sensibly than his antagonist did. And, laying aside 
 difference of character, Huet's opinion may, I think, be defended as 
 the more solid ; because in such images, the depressing emotions are 
 the more sensibly felt, and have the longer endurance. 
 
 230. The straining an elevated subject beyond due bounds, is a 
 vice not so frequent as to require the correction of criticism. But 
 false sublime is a rock that writers of more fire than judgment 
 commonly split on ; and, therefore, a collection of examples may be 
 of use as a beacon to future adventurers. One species of false sub- 
 lime, known by the name of bombast, is common among writers of 
 a mean genius : it is a serious endeavor, by strained description, to 
 raise a low or familiar subject above its rank ; which, instead of 
 being sublime, becomes ridiculous. I am extremely sensible how 
 prone the mind is, in some animating passions, to magnify its objects 
 beyond natural bounds ; but such hyperbolical description has its 
 limits, and, when carried beyond the impulse of the propensity, it 
 degenerates into burlesque. Take the following examples : 
 
 Sejanvt. Great and high 
 
 The world knows only two, that's Rome and I. 
 
 My roof receives me not; 'tis air I tread, 
 
 And at each step I feel my advanced bend 
 
 Knock out a star in heaven. Stjaniu, tn Jonton^ A:t V. 
 
 829. The effect of introdncinz an humbling object when the mind is In a state of elevation. 
 The render's imnpnation unable long to sustain itself in a strained elevation, fulls. Remark* 
 Mi th* jnasag-f " Let tbor* b lifht, 1 * <fr<v Dispute upon It l*f-e->u Builcau uid Uuet
 
 146 GEANDETJB AND SDBLIMnT. 
 
 A writer who has no natural elevation of mind, deviates readily 
 into bombast ; he strains above his natural powers, and the violent 
 effort carries him beyond the bounds of propriety. Boileau ex- 
 presses this happily : 
 
 L'autre a peur de ramper, il se perd dans la nue. 
 The same author, Ben Jonson, abounds in the bombast : 
 
 The mother, 
 
 Th' expulsed Apicata, finds them there ; 
 
 Whom when she saw lie spread on the degrees, 
 
 After a world of fury on herself, 
 
 Tearing her hair, defacing of her face, 
 
 Beating her breasts and womb, kneeling amazed, 
 
 Crying to heaven, then to them ; at last 
 
 Her drowned voice got up above her woes ; 
 
 And with such black and bitter execrations, 
 
 As might affright the gods, and force the sun 
 
 Kun backward to the east ; nay, make the old 
 
 Deformed chaos rise again t' overwhelm 
 
 Them (us and all the world), she fills the air, 
 
 Upbraids the heavens with their partial dooms, 
 
 Defies their tyrannous powers, and demands 
 
 What she and those poor innocents have transgress'd, 
 
 That they must suffer such a share in vengeance. 
 
 tiejanus, Act V. So. last. 
 
 I am sorry to observe that the following bombast stuff dropt from 
 11 e pen of Dryden : 
 
 To see this fleet upon the ocean move, 
 
 Angels drew wide the curtains of the skies ; 
 
 And heaven, as if there wanted lights above, 
 For tapers made two glaring comets rise. 
 
 231. Another species of false sublime is still more faulty than 
 bombast ; and that is, to force elevation by introducing imaginary 
 beings without preserving any propriety in their actions, as if it 
 were lawful to ascribe every extravagance and inconsistence to 
 beings of the poet's creation. No writers are more licentious in 
 that article than Jonson and Dryden : 
 
 Methinks I see Death and the Furies waiting 
 What we will do, and all the heaven at leisure 
 For the great spectacle. Draw then your swords : 
 And if our destiny envy our virtue 
 The honor of the day, yet let us care 
 To sell ourselves at such a price as may 
 Undo the world to buy us, and make Fate, 
 While she tempts ours, to fear her own estate. 
 
 Catiline, Act V. 
 
 -The Furies stood on hill 
 
 Circling the place, and trembled to see men 
 
 Do more than they : whilst Piety left the field, 
 
 Grieved for that side that in so bad a cause 
 
 They knew not what a crime their valor was. 
 
 The sun stood still, and was, behind the cloud 
 
 The battle made, seen sweating to drive up 
 
 His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward. 
 
 Ibid. Act V 
 
 bombast Kstuiplos from Ben Jouson ; from Dryiiwp.
 
 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. H7 
 
 An actor on the stage may be guilty of bombast as well as an 
 author in his closet ; a certain manner of acting, which is grand 
 when supported by dignity in the sentiment and force in the ex- 
 pression, .is ridiculous where the sentiment is mean, and the expres- 
 sion flat. 
 
 232. This chapter shall be closed with some observations. When 
 the sublime is carried to its due height, and circumscribed within 
 proper bounds, it enchants the mind, and raises the most delightful 
 of all emotions : the reader, engrossed by a sublime object, feels 
 himself raised as it were to a higher rank. Considering that effect, 
 it is not wonderful that the history of conquerors and heroes should 
 be universally the favorite entertainment. And this fairly accounts 
 for what I once erroneously suspected to be a wrong bias originally 
 in human nature ; which is, that the grossest acts of oppression and 
 injustice scarce blemish the character of a great conqueror : we, 
 nevertheless, warmly espouse his interest, accompany him in his 
 exploits, and are anxious for his success : the splendor and enthu- 
 siasm of the hero, transfused into the readers, elevate their minds 
 tar above the rules of justice, and render them in a great measure 
 insensible of the wrongs that are committed : 
 
 For in those days might only shall be admired, 
 
 Aud valor an heroic virtue call'd; 
 
 To overcome in battle, und subdue 
 
 Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite 
 
 Manslaughter, shall be held the highest pitch 
 
 Of human glory, and for glory done 
 
 Of triumph, to be styled great conquerors, 
 
 Patrons of mankind, gods, and sons of gods, 
 
 Destroyers rightlier call'd, and plagues of men. 
 
 Thus fame shall be achieved, renown on earth, 
 
 And what most merits fame in silence hid. Milton, B. xi. 
 
 The irregular influence of grandeur reaches also to other mat- 
 ters : however good, honest, or useful a man may be, he is not so 
 much respected as is one of a more elevated character, though of 
 less integrity ; nor do the misfortunes of the former affect us so 
 much as those of the latter. And I add, because it cannot be dis- 
 guised, that the remorse which attends breach of engagement, is in 
 a great measure proportioned to the figure, that the injured person 
 makes : the vows and protestations of lovers are an illustrious ex- 
 ample ; for these commonly are little regarded when made to 
 women of inferior rank. 
 
 281. False sublime in introducing imaginary beings. Examples from Jonson and 
 Drydon. Bombast in an actor. 
 
 232. Closing observations. Why the history of conquerors and heroes fascinates ; why 
 their crimes are palliated. Milton quoted. The irregular influence of the sentiment of 
 grandeur in other instances.
 
 MOTION AND FORCE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MOTION AND FORCE. 
 
 233. THAT motion is agreeable to the eye without relation to 
 purpose or design, may appear from the amusement it gives to in- 
 fants : juvenile exercises are relished chiefly on that account. 
 
 If a body in motion be agreeable, one will be apt to conclude 
 that at rest it must be disagreeable ; but we learn from experience, 
 that this would be a rash conclusion. Rest is one of those circum- 
 stances that are neither agreeable nor disagreeable, being viewed 
 with perfect indifferency. And happy is it for mankind to have the 
 matter so ordered : if rest were agreeable, it would disincline us to 
 motion, by which all things are performed : if it were disagreeable, 
 it would be a source of perpetual uneasiness ; for the bulk of the 
 things we see, appear to be at rest. A similar instance of designing 
 wisdom I have had occasion to explain, in opposing grandeur to 
 littleness, and elevation to lowness of place. (See chapter iv.) 
 Even in the simplest matters, the finger of God is conspicuous : 
 the happy adjustment of the internal nature of man to his external 
 circumstances, displayed in the instances here given, is indeed 
 admirable. 
 
 234. Motion is agreeable in all its varieties of quickness and 
 slowness ; but motion long continued admits some exceptions. 
 That degree of continued motion which corresponds to the natural 
 course of our perceptions is the most agreeable. The quickest mo- 
 tion is for an instant delightful ; but soon appears to be too rapid : 
 it becomes painful by forcibly accelerating the course of our per- 
 ceptions. Slow continued motion becomes disagreeable from an 
 opposite cause, that it retards the natural course of our perceptions. 
 (See chapter ix.) 
 
 There are other varieties in motion, besides quickness and slow- 
 ness, that make it more or less agreeable : regular motion is pre- 
 ferred before what is irregular ; witness the motion of the planets 
 in orbits nearly circular : the motion of the comets in orbits less 
 regular, is less agreeable. 
 
 Motion uniformly accelerated, resembling an ascending series of 
 numbers, is more agreeable than when uniformly retarded : motion 
 upward is agreeable, by tendency to elevation. What then shall 
 we say of downward motion regularly accelerat^J>y the force of 
 
 288. Motion in itself agreeable. Best, n matter of indifference. Advantage of thi 
 arrangement
 
 MOTION AND FOECK. 149 
 
 gravity, compared with upward motion regularly retarded by the 
 same force ? Which of these is the most agreeable ? This question 
 is not easily solved. 
 
 Motion in a straight line is agreeable ; but we prefer undulating 
 motion, as of waves, of a flame, of a ship under sail : such motion 
 is more free, and also more natural. Hence the beauty of a ser- 
 pentine river. 
 
 The easy and sliding motion of a fluid, from the lubricity of its 
 parts, is agreeable upon that account ; but the agreeableness chiefly 
 depends upon the following circumstance, that the motion is per- 
 ceived, not as of one body, but as of an endless number moving 
 together with order and regularity. Poets, struck with that beauty, 
 draw more images from fluids in motion than from solids. 
 
 Force is of two kinds ; one quiescent, and one exerted in motion. 
 The former, dead weight for example, must be laid aside ; for a 
 body at rest is not, by that circumstance, either agreeable or disa- 
 greeable. Moving force only is my province ; and, though it is 
 not separable from motion, yet by the power of abstraction, either 
 of them may be considered independent of the other. Both of 
 them are agreeable, because both of them include activity. It is 
 agreeable to see a thing move : to see it moved, as when it is 
 dragged or pushed along, is neither agreeable nor disagreeable, 
 more than when at rest. It is agreeable to see a thing exert force ; 
 but it makes not the thing either agreeable or disagreeable to see 
 force exerted upon it. 
 
 Though motion and force are each of them agreeable, the im 
 pressions they make are different. This difference, clearly felt, is 
 not easily described. All we can say is, that the emotion raised by 
 a moving body, resembling its cause, is felt as if the mind were 
 carried along : the emotion raised by force exerted, resembling also 
 its cause, is felt as if force were exerted within the mind. 
 
 To illustrate that difference, I give the following examples. It" 
 has been explained why smoke ascending in a calm day, suppose 
 from a cottage in a wood, is an agreeable object (chapter i.) ; so 
 remarkably agreeable, that landscape-painters introduce it upon all 
 occasions. The ascent being natural, and without effort, is pleasant 
 in a calm state of mind : it resembles a gently-flowing river, but is 
 more agreeable, because ascent is more to our taste than descent. 
 A fire-work, or a jet d'eau, rouses the mind more ; because the 
 beauty'of force visibly exerted is superadded to that of upward 
 motion. To a man reclining indolently upon a bank of flowers, 
 ascending smoke in a still morning is charming ; but a fire-work, 
 or a jet d'eau, rouses him from that supine posture, and puts him in 
 motion. 
 
 A. jet d'eau makes an impression distinguishable from that of a 
 waterfall. Downward motion being natural and without effort, 
 tends rather to quiet the mind than to rousa it : upward motion, on
 
 150 MOTION AND FORCE. 
 
 the contrary, overcoming the resistance of gravity, makes an impres- 
 sion of a great effort, and thereby rouses and enlivens the mind. 
 
 235. The public games of the Greeks and Romans, which gave 
 so much entertainment to the spectators, consisted chiefly in exerting 
 force, wrestling, leaping, throwing great stones, and such-like trials 
 of strength. When great force is exerted, the effort felt internally 
 is animating. The effort may be such as in some measure to over- 
 power the mind : thus the explosion of gunpowder, the violence of ~ 
 torrent, the weight of a mountain, and the crush of an earthquake, 
 create astonishment rather than pleasure. 
 
 No quality nor circumstance contributes more to grandeur than 
 force, especially when exerted by sensible beings. I cannot make 
 the observation more evident than by the following quotations : 
 Him the almighty power 
 
 Hurl'd headlong flaming from th' ethereal sky, 
 With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
 To bottomless perdition, there to dwell 
 In adamantine chains and penal fire, 
 Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arriiS. 
 
 Paradise last, Book i. 
 
 Now storming fury rose, 
 
 And clamor such as heard in heaven till now 
 Was never; arms on armor clashing bray'd 
 Horrible discord, and the madding wheels 
 Of brazen chariots raged ; dire was the noiao 
 Of conflict ; overhead the dismal hiss 
 Of fiery darts in flaming volleys flew, 
 ' And flying, vaulted either host with fire. 
 So under fiery cone together rush'd 
 Both battles main, with ruinous assault 
 And inextinguishable rage ; all heaven 
 Eesounded ; and had earth been then, all earth 
 Had to her centre shook. Hid. Book vi. 
 
 They ended parle, and both address'd for fight 
 Unspeakable ; for who, though with the tongue 
 Of angels, can relate, or to what things 
 Liken on earth conspicuous, that may lift 
 Human imagination to such height 
 Of godlike power? for likest gods they seem'd, 
 Stood 'they or moved, in stature, motion, arms, 
 Fit to decide the empire of great Heaven. 
 Now waved their fiery swords, and in the air 
 Made horrid circles : two broad suns their shields 
 Blazed opposite, while Expectation stood 
 In horror: from each hand with speed retired, 
 Where erst was thickest fight, th' angelic throng, 
 And left large field, unsafe within the wind 
 Of such commotion ; such as, to set forth 
 Great things by small, if Nature's concord broke, 
 Among the constellations war were sprung, 
 
 284. Motion rapid and slow. Regular and irregular. Uniformly accelerated, and uni- 
 formly retarded. In a straight line, and undulating. Fluids in motion. Force ; quiescent 
 and in motion. Motion and fo-ce make diiferent impressions on the mind. Ascent ol 
 moke from a cottage In a wood. A fire-work or jet ffeau. The latter in its effect dis- 
 tinguished from a waterfall. 
 
 285. Force exerted at Roman and Grecian games. Forces that overpower the miud. 
 Force exerted by tntolligont beings. Quotations.
 
 MOTION AND FORCE. 151 
 
 Two planets, rushing from aspect malign 
 
 Of fiercest opposhion, in mid sky 
 
 Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound. 
 
 Ibid. Bock vi. 
 
 236. We shall next consider the effect of motion and force in 
 conjunction. In contemplating the planetary system, what strikes 
 us the most, is the spherical figures of the planets, and their regular 
 motions; the conception we have of their activity and enormous 
 bulk being more obscure : the beauty accordingly of that system 
 raises a more lively emotion than its grandeur. But if we. could 
 comprehend the whole system at one view, the activity and irresistible 
 force of these immense bodies would fill us with amazement : nature 
 cannot furnish another scene so grand. 
 
 Motion and force, agreeable in themselves, are also agreeable by 
 their utility when employed as means to accomplish some beneficial 
 end. Hence the superior beauty of some machines, where force and 
 motion concur to perform the work of numberless hands. Hence 
 the beautiful motions, firm and regular, of a horse trained for war : 
 every single step is the fittest that can be for obtaining the purposed 
 end. But the grace of motion is visible chiefly in man, not only for 
 the reasons mentioned, but because every gesture is significant. The 
 power, however, of agreeable motion is not a common talent : every 
 limb of the human "fcody has an agreeable and disagreeable motion ; 
 some motions being extremely graceful, others plain and vulgar; 
 some expressing dignity, others meanness. But the pleasure here, 
 arising, not singly from the beauty of motion, but from indicating 
 character and sentiment, belongs to different chapters. (Chapters xi. 
 and xv.) 
 
 I should conclude with the final cause of the relish we have for 
 motion and force, were it not so evident as to require no explanation. 
 We are placed here in such circumstances as to make industry essen- 
 tial to our well-being; for without industry the plainest necessaries 
 of life are not obtained. When our situation, therefore, in this 
 world requires activity and a constant exertion of motion and force, 
 Providence indulgently provides for our welfare by making these 
 agreeable to us : it would be a gross imperfection in our nature to 
 make any thing disagreeable that we depend on for existence ; and 
 even indifference would slacken greatly that degree of activity which 
 is indispensable. 
 
 286. The effect of motion and force conjoined. The planetary system. Motion and 
 force also agreeable from their utility. Beauty of some machines. Motion of the war* 
 horse. Grace of inotior. in man. Not a common talent Final cause of our relish for 
 motion and force.
 
 152 NOVELTY, ETC. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 KOVE1.1T, AND THE UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE OF OBJECTS. 
 
 237. OF all the circumstances that raise emotions, not excepting 
 beauty, nor even greatness, novelty hath the most powerful influence. 
 A new object produceth instantaneously an emotion termed iconder, 
 which totally occupies the mind, and for a time excludes all other 
 objects. Conversation among the vulgar never is more interesting 
 than when it turns upon strange objects and extraordinary events. 
 Men tear themselves from their native country in search of things 
 rare and new; and novelty converts into a pleasure, the fatigues and 
 even perils of travelling. To what cause shall we ascribe these sin- 
 gular appearances ? To curiosity undoubtedly, a principle implanted 
 in human nature for a purpose extremely beneficial, that of acquiring 
 knowledge ; and the emotion of wonder, raised by new and strange 
 objects, inflames our curiosity to know more of them. This emotion 
 is different from admiration : novelty, wherever found, whether in a 
 quality or action, is the cause of wonder ; admiration is directed to 
 toe person who performs any thing wonderful. - 
 
 During infancy, every new object is probably the occasion of 
 wonder, in some degree ; because, during infancy, every object at 
 first sight is strange as well as new : but as objects are rendered 
 familiar by custom, we cease by degrees to wonder at new appear- 
 ances, if they have any resemblance to what we are acquainted with 
 for a thing must be singular as well as new, to raise our wonder. 
 To save multiplying words, I would be understood to comprehend 
 both circumstances when I hereafter talk of novelty. 
 
 238. In an ordinary train of perceptions, where one thing intro- 
 duces another, not a single object makes its appearance unexpect- 
 edly (see chap, i.) : the, mind, thus prepared for the reception of its 
 objects, admits them one after another without perturbation. But 
 when a thing breaks in unexpectedly, and without the preparation 
 of any connection, it raises an emotion, known by the name of 
 surprise. That emotion may be produced by the most familiar 
 object as when one unexpectedly meets a friend who was reported 
 to be dead ; or a man in high life lately a beggar. On the other 
 hand, a new object, however strange, will not produce the emotion, 
 if the spectator be prepared for the sight : an elephant in India will 
 not surprise a traveller who goes to see one ; and yet its novelty will 
 raise his wonder : an Indian in Lritain would be much surpnsed to 
 
 237. Emotion excited by a new object Conversation that * I"*"* 8 *" !* 
 Motive for travelling. Curiosity beneficial. Wonder and admiration disttn 
 Wonder in Infancy; m advancing years.
 
 XOVELTY, Era 153 
 
 stumble upon an elephant feeding at large in the open fields : bui 
 the creature itself, to which he was accustomed, would not raise hi* 
 wonder. 
 
 Sui-prise thus in several respects differs from wonder : unexpect- 
 edness is the cause of the former emotion ; novelty is the cause of 
 the latter. Nor differ they less in their nature and circumstances, 
 as will be explained by and by. With relation to one circumstance 
 they perfectly agree ; which is, the shortness of their duration : the 
 instantaneous production of these emotions in perfection may contri 
 bute to that effect, in conformity to a general law, That things soon 
 decay which soon come to perfection : the violence of the emotions 
 may also contribute ; for an ardent emotion, which is not susceptible 
 of increase, cannot have a long course. But their short duration is 
 occasioned chiefly by that of their causes : we are soon reconciled to 
 an object, however unexpected ; and novelty soon degenerates into 
 familiarity. 
 
 239. Whether these emotions be pleasant or painful, is not a clear 
 point. It may appear strange, that our own feelings and their capital 
 qualities should afford any matter for a doubt : but when we are 
 engrossed by any emotion, there is no place for speculation ; and 
 when sufficiently calm for speculation, it is not easy to recall the 
 emotion with accuracy. New objects are sometimes terrible, some- 
 times delightful : the terror which a tiger inspires is greatest at first, 
 and wears off gradually by familiarity : on the other hand, even 
 women will acknowledge that it is novelty which pleases the most 
 in a new fashion. It would be rash, however, to conclude that 
 wonder is in itself neither pleasant nor painful, but that it assumes 
 either quality according to circumstances. An object, it is true, that 
 hath a threatening appearance, adds to our terror by its novelty : 
 but from that experiment it doth not follow that novelty is in itself 
 disagreeable ; for it is perfectly consistent that we be delighted with 
 an object in one view, and terrified with it in another : a river in 
 flood, swelling over its banks, is a grand and delightful object ; and 
 yet it may produce no small degree of fear when we attempt to cross 
 it : courage and magnanimity are agreeable ; and yet, when we view 
 these qualities in an enemy, they serve to increase our terror. In 
 the same manner, novelty may produce two effects clearly distin- 
 guishable from each other : it may, directly and in itself, be agree- 
 able ; and it may have an opposite effect indirectly, which is, to in- 
 spire terror : for when a new object appears in any degree dangerous, 
 our ignorance of its powers and qualities affords ample scope for the 
 imagination to dress it in the most frightful colors. The first sight 
 of a lion, for example, may at the same instant produce two opposite 
 feelings, the pleasant emotion of wonder, and the painful passion 
 
 28& Emotion of surprise, how it arises. How it differ* from wonder, in IU natur* Hid 
 circumstances. 
 
 7*
 
 154: NOVELTY, ETC. 
 
 of terror : the novelty of the object produces the former directly, 
 and contributes to the latter indirectly. Thus, when the subject is 
 analyzed, we 'find that the power which novelty hath indirectly to 
 inflame terror, is perfectly consistent with its being in every circum- 
 stance agreeable. The matter may be put in the clearest light by 
 adding the following circumstances : If a lion be first seen from a 
 place of safety, the spectacle is altogether agreeable, without the 
 least mixture of terror. If, again, the first sight puts us within reach 
 of that dangerous animal, our terror may be So great as quite to ex- 
 clude any sense of novelty. But this fact proves not that wonder is 
 painful : it proves only that wonder may be excluded by a more 
 powerful passion. Every man may be made certain, from his own 
 experience, that wonder raised by a new object which is inoffensive 
 is always pleasant ; and with respect to offensive objects, it appears 
 from the foregoing deduction, that the same must hold as long as 
 the spectator can attend to, the novelty. 
 
 240.' Whether surprise be in itself pleasant or painful, is a ques- 
 tion no less intricate than the former. It is certain that surprise in- 
 flames our joy when unexpectedly we meet with an old friend, and 
 our terror when we stumble upon any thing noxious. To clear that 
 question, the first thing to be remarked is, that in some instances an 
 unexpected object overpowers the mind, so as to produce a moment- 
 ary stupefaction : where the object is dangerous, or appears so, the 
 sudden alarm it gives, without preparation, is apt totally to unhinge 
 the mind, and for a moment to suspend all its faculties, even thought 
 itself;* in which state a man is quite helpless, and, if he move at 
 all, is as like to run upon the danger as from it. Surprise carried 
 to such a height cannot be either pleasant or painful ; because the 
 mind, during such a momentary stupefaction, is in a good measure, 
 if not totally, insensible. 
 
 If we then inquire for the character of this emotion, it must be 
 where the unexpected object or event produceth less violent effects. 
 "When a man meets a friend unexpectedly, he is said to be agreeably 
 surprised ; and when he meets an enemy unexpectedly, he is said to 
 be disagreeably surprised. It appears?, then, that the sole effect of 
 surprise is to swell the emotion raised by the object. And that effect 
 can be clearly explained: a tide of connected perceptions glide 
 gently into the mind, and produce no perturbation ; but an object 
 breaking in unexpectedly, sounds an alarm, rouses the mind out of 
 its calm state, and directs its whole attention to the object, which, 
 if agreeable, becomes doubly so. Several circumstances concur to 
 produce that effect: on the one hand, the agitation of the mind, 
 
 * Hence the Latin names for surprise, torpor, awmi stupo-r. 
 
 289 New objects sometimes terrible sometimes agreeable: yet novelty not in itself 
 disagreeable. Novelty may produce t TTO effects an agreeable one directly, a disagreeable 
 one indirectly.
 
 NOVELTY, ETC. 155 
 
 and its keen attention, prepare it in the most effectual manner for 
 receiving a deep impression : on the other hand, the object, by its 
 sudden and unforeseen appearance, makes an impression, not grad- 
 ually, as expected objects do, but as at one stroke with its whole 
 force. The circumstances are precisely similar where the object is 
 in itself disagreeable.* 
 
 241. The pleasure of novelty is easily distinguished from that of 
 variety: to produce the latter, a plurality of objects is necessary; the 
 former arises from a circumstance found in a single object Again, 
 where objects, whether coexistent or in succession, are sufficiently 
 diversified, the pleasure of variety is complete, though every single 
 object of the train be familiar ; but the pleasure of novelty, directly 
 opposite to familiarity, requires no diversification. 
 
 There are different degrees of novelty, and its effects are in pro- 
 portion. The lowest degree is found in objects surveyed a second 
 time after a long interval ; and that in this case an object takes on 
 some appearance of novelty, is certain from experience : a large 
 building of many parts variously adorned, or an extensive field em- 
 bellished with trees, lakes, temples, statues, and other -ornaments, 
 will appear new oftener than once : the memory of an object so 
 complex is soon lost, of its parts at least, or of their arrangement 
 But experience teaches, that even without any decay of remembrance, 
 absence alone will give an air of novelty to a once familiar object ; 
 which is not surprising, because familiarity wears off gradually by 
 absence : thus a person with whom we have been intimate, return- 
 ing after a long interval, appears like a new acquaintance. And dis- 
 tance of place contributes to this appearance, no less than distance 
 of time : a friend, for example, after a short absence in a remote 
 country, has the same air of novelty as if he had returned after a 
 longer interval from a place near home : the mind forms a connec- 
 tion between him and the remote country, .and bestows upon him 
 
 * What Marshal Saxe terms le cxur humain is no other than fear occa- 
 sioned by surprise. It is owing to that cause that nn ambush is generally so 
 destructive: intelligence of it beforehand renders it harmless. The Marshal 
 gives from Caesar's Commentaries two examples of what he calls le cxur Jiumain. 
 At the siege of Amiens by the Gauls, Cffisar came up with his army, which did 
 not exceed 7000 men, and began to intrench himself in such harry, that the 
 Darbarians, judging him to be afraid, attacked his intrenchments with great 
 spirit. During the time they were filling up the ditch, he issued out with his 
 cohorts ; and, by attacking them unexpectedly, struck a panic that made them 
 fly with precipitation, not a single man offering to make a stand. At the siego 
 of Alesia, the Gauls ? ^finitely superior in number, attacked the Roman lines 
 of circumvallation, in order to raise the siege. Caesar ordered a body of hia 
 men to march out silently, and to attack them on the one flank, while lie with 
 another body did the same on the other flank. The surprise of being attacked, 
 when they expectedj|defence only, put the Gauls into disorder, and gave an 
 easy victory to CsesnrT 
 
 2W. Whether surprise bo pleasant or painful: (1) when It produces violent effect* 
 (2) wlien effects are less violent Why surprise has tlie effect of swelling tho euiot't* 
 raised by >lu> object
 
 156 NOVELTY, ETC. 
 
 the singularity of the objects he has seen. For the same reason, 
 when two things, equally new and singular, are presented, the spec- 
 tator balances between them ; but when told that one of them is 
 the product of a distant quarter of the world, he no longer hesi- 
 tates, but clings to it as the more singular. Hence the preference 
 given to foreign luxuries, and to foreign curiosities, which appeal- 
 rare in proportion to their original distance. 
 
 242. The next degree of novelty, mounting upward, is found in 
 objects of which we have some information at second hand ; for 
 description, though it contribute to familiarity, cannot altogether re- 
 move the appearance of novelty when the object itself is pre- 
 sented : the first sight of a lion occasions some wonder after a 
 thorough acquaintance with the correctest pictures and statues of 
 that animal. . > 
 
 A new object that bears some distant resemblance to a known 
 species, is an instance of a third degree of novelty : a strong re- 
 semblance among individuals of the same species, prevents almost 
 entirely the effect of novelty, unless distance of place or some other 
 circumstance concur ', but where the resemblance is faint, some de- 
 gree of wonder is felt, and the emotion rises in proportion to the 
 faintness of the resemblance. 
 
 The highest degree of wonder ariseth from unknown objects that 
 have no Analogy to any species we are acquainted with. Shak- 
 speare, in a simile, introduces that species of novelty : 
 
 As glorious to the sight 
 As is a winged messenger from heaven 
 Unto the white up-turned wond'ring eye 
 Of mortals, that full back to gaze on him 
 When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
 And sails upon the bosom of the air. 
 
 Romeo and Julwt. 
 
 One example of that species of novelty deserves peculiar atten- 
 tion ; and that is, when an object, altogether new, is seen by one 
 person only, and but once. These circumstances heighten re- 
 markably the emotion : the singularity of the spectator concurs 
 with the singularity of the object, to inflame wonder to its highest 
 
 pitch. . 
 
 243. In explaining the effects of novelty, the place a being oc- 
 cupies in the scale of existence, is a circumstance that must not be 
 omitted. Novelty in the individuals of a low class is perceived 
 with indifference, or with a very slight emotion : thus a pebble, how 
 ever singular in its appearance, scarce moves our wonder. The 
 emotion rises with the rank of the object ; and, other circumstances 
 
 241 Pleasure of novelty distinguished from that of variety.-Different degrees of 
 novelty and their effects. The lowest degree.-Objects surveyed a second time after a 
 
 l 242 ln ThrLt higher degree of novelty; the nest; the highest-Simile from Shak- 
 WKWO. A pecl* of novelty demanding peculiar attention.
 
 NOVELTY, ETC. 1 57 
 
 being equal, is strongest in the highest order of existence : a strange 
 insect affects us more than a strange vegetable ; and a strange quad- 
 ruped more than a strange insect. 
 
 However natural novelty may be, it is a matter of experience, 
 that those who relish it the most are careful to conceal its influence. 
 Love of novelty it is true prevails in children, in idlers, and in men 
 of shallow -understanding ; and yet, after all, why should one be 
 ashamed of indulging a natural propensity? A distinction will 
 afford a satisfactory answer. No man is ashamed of curiosity when 
 it is indulged in order to acquire knowledge. But to prefer any 
 thing merely because it is new, shows a mean taste, which one 
 ought to be ashamed of: vanity is commonly at the bottom, which 
 leads those who are deficient in taste to prefer things odd, rare, or 
 singular, in order to distinguish themselves from others. And in 
 fact, that appetite, as above mentioned, reigns chiefly among persons 
 of a mean taste, who are ignorant of refined and elegant pleasures. 
 
 244. One final cause of wonder, hinted above, is, that this emo- 
 tion is intended to stimulate our curiosity. Another, somewhat 
 different, is, to prepare the mind for receiving deep impressions of 
 new objects. An acquaintance with the various things that may 
 affect us, and with their properties, is essential to our well-being : 
 nor will a slight or superficial acquaintance be sufficient; they 
 ought to be so deeply engraved on the mind, as to be ready for 
 use upon every occasion. Now, in order to make a deep impres- 
 sion, it is wisely contrived, that things should be introduced to our 
 acquaintance with a certain pomp and solemnity productive of a 
 vivid emotion. When the impression is once fairly made, the emo- 
 tion of novelty, being no longer necessary, vanisheth almost instan- 
 taneously ; never to return, unless where the impression happens 
 to be obliterated by length of time or other means ; in which 
 case the second introduction hath nearly the same solemnity with 
 the first. 
 
 Designing wisdom is nowhere more legible than in this part of 
 *he human frame. If new objects did not affect us in a very peculiar 
 manner, their impressions would be so slight as scarce to be of any 
 ise in life: on the other hand, did objects continue to affect us 
 deeply as at first, the mind would be totally engrossed with them, 
 and have no room left either for action or reflection. 
 
 The final cause of surprise is still more evident than of novelty 
 Self-love makes us vigilantly attentive to self-preservation ; but self- 
 love, which operates by means of reason and reflection, and impel 8 
 not the mind to any particular object or from it, is a principle too 
 cool for a sudden emergency : an object breaking in unexpectedly 
 affords no time for deliberation ; and, in that case, the agitation oi 
 
 243. EmoUon of wonder ris with the rank of Its object Why and whi r raw 
 
 <-t"io8iVy-
 
 RISIBLE OBJECTS. 
 
 surprise comes in seasonaby to rouse self-love into action : surprise 
 gives the alarm ; aud, if there be any appearance of danger, our 
 whole force is instantly summoned up to shun or to prevent it. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 RISIBLE OBJECTS. 
 
 245. SUCH is the nature of man, that his powers and faculties ar 
 soon blunted by exercise. The returns of sleep, suspending all ac- 
 tivity, are not alone sufficient to preserve him in vigor; during his 
 waking hours, amusement by intervals is requisite to unbend his 
 mind from serious occupation. To that end, nature hath kindly 
 made a provision of many objects, which may be distinguished by the 
 epithet of risible, because they raise in us a peculiar emotion ex- 
 pressed externally by laughter : that emotion is pleasant ; and, being 
 also_ mirthful, it most successfully unbends the mind and recruits the 
 spirits. Imagination contributes a part by multiplying such objects 
 without end. 
 
 Ludicrous is a general term, signifying, as may appear from its 
 derivation, what is playsome, sportive, or jocular. Ludicrous, there- 
 fore, seems the genus, of which risible is a species, limited as above 
 to what makes us laugh. 
 
 246. However easy it may be, concerning any particular object, 
 to say whether it be risible or not, it seems difficult, if at all prac- 
 ticable, to establish any general character by which objects of that 
 kind may be distinguished from others. Nor is that a singular case ; 
 for, upon a review, we find the same difficulty in most of the anicles 
 already handled. There is nothing more easy, viewing a particular 
 object, than to pronounce that it is beautiful or ugly, grand or little ; 
 but were we to attempt general rules for ranging objects under dif- 
 ferent classes, according to these qualities, we should be much 
 gravelled. A separate cause increases the difficulty of distinguishing 
 risible objects by a general character : all men are not equally af- 
 fected by risible objects, nor the same man at all times ; for, in high 
 spirits, a thing will make him laugh outright, which scarce provokes 
 a smile in a grave mOod. Risible objects, however, are circumscribed 
 within certain limits which I shall suggest, without pretending to 
 accuracy. And, in the first place, I observe that no object is risible 
 but what appears slight, little, or trivial ; for we laugh at nothing 
 
 244. FinnJ earfses of wonder. Designing wisdom here shown. Final cause of surprise 
 
 245. The use of risible objects. How n-iltiplied.- Ludicrous and risible obieots distin 
 fui sited.
 
 KISIBLE OBJECTS. 
 
 159 
 
 that is of importance to our own interest or to that of others. A 
 real distress raises pity and therefore cannot be risible ; but a slight 
 or imaginary distress, which moves not pity, is risible. The adven- 
 ture of the fulling-rarHs in Don Quixote, is extremely risible ; so is 
 the scene where Sancho, in a dark night, tumbling into a pit, and, 
 attaching himself to the side by hand and foot, hangs there in terri- 
 ble dismay till the morning, when he discovers himself to be within 
 a foot of the bottom. A nose remarkably long or short, is risible ; 
 but to want it altogether, far from provoking laughter, raises horror 
 in the spectator. Secondly, With respect to works both of nature 
 and of art, none of them are risible but what are out of rule, some 
 remarkable defect or excess; a very long visage, for example, or a 
 very short one. Hence nothing just, proper, decent, beautiful, pro 
 portioned, or grand, is risible. 
 
 247 Even from this slight sketch it will readily be conjectured 
 that the emotion raised by a risible object is of a nature so singular 
 as scarce to find place while the mind is occupied with any other 
 passion or emotion; and the conjecture is verified by experience, for 
 we scarce ever find that emotion blended with any other. One 
 emotion I must except; and that is, contempt raised by certain im- 
 proprieties : every improper act inspires us with some degree of 
 contempt for the author ; and if an improper act be at the same time 
 risible to provoke laughter, of which blunders and absurdities are 
 noted instances, the two emotions of contempt and of laughter unite 
 intimately in the mind, and produce externally what is termed a 
 laugh of derision or of scorn. Hence objects that cause laughter 
 may be distinguished into two kinds ; they are either risible or ridic- 
 ulous. A risible object is mirthful only ; a ridiculous object is both 
 mirthful and contemptible. The first raises an emotion of laughter 
 that is altogether pleasant; the pleasant emotion of laughter raise 
 by the other, is blended with the painful emotion of contempt, and 
 the mixed emotion is termed the emotion of ridicule. The pain a 
 ridiculous object gives me is resented and punished by a laugh of 
 derision. A risible object, on the other hand, gives me no pain ; it is 
 altogether pleasant bv a certain sort of titillation, which is express* 
 externally by mirthful laughter. Ridicule will be more fully ex- 
 plained afterwards; the present chapter is appropriated to the < 
 
 emotion. 
 
 ' Risible objects are so common, and so well understood, that it is 
 unnecessjvry to consume paper or time upon them, 
 following examples : 
 
 Falitaff. I do ren ember him at Cement's inn, like a man made after supper 
 of a chefc-puring. When he was naked, he was for all the world like a forked 
 radish, with a head funtastieally 
 
 utri*ri>loT
 
 160 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 
 
 The foregoing is of disproportion. The following examples are 
 of slight or imaginary misfortunes : 
 
 Falstafi. Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in 't. Have I lived to be 
 carried in a basket, like a barrow of butcher's offal, and to be thrown into the 
 Thames ! Well, if I be served such another trick, I'll have my brains ta'en out 
 and butter'd and give them to a dog for a new-year's gift. The rogues slided 
 me into the river with as little remorse as they would have drown'd a bitch's 
 blind puppies, fifteen i' th' litter : and you may know by my size that I have 
 a kind of alacrity in sinking: if the bottom were as deep as hell, I should 
 down. I had been drown'd, but that the shore was shelvy and shallow ; a 
 death that I abhor; for the water swells a man ; and what a thing should I 
 have been when I had been swell'd 1 I should have been a mountain of mum- 
 my. Merry Wives of Windsor, Act III. Sc. 15. 
 
 Falgtajf. Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I have suffered to bring 
 this woman to evil for your good. Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple 
 of Ford's knaves, his hinds, were called forth by their mistress, to carry me in 
 the name of foul clothes to Datchet-lane. They took me on their shoulders, 
 met the jealous knave their master in the door, who asked them once or twice 
 what they had in their basket. I quaked for fear, lest the lunatic knave would 
 have searched it ; but Fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his hand. 
 Well, on went he for a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But mark 
 the sequel, Master Brook. I suffered the pangs of three egregious deaths ; 
 first, an intolerable fright, to be detected by a jealous rotten bell-wether; 
 next, to be compassed like a good bilbo, in the circumference of a peck, hilt to 
 point, heel to head ; and then to be stopped in, like a strong distillation, with 
 stinking clothes that fretted in their own grease. Think of that, a man of my 
 kidney ; think of that, that am as subject to heat as butter; a man of contin- 
 ual dissolution and thaw ; it was a miracle to 'scape suffocation. And in the 
 height of this bath, when I was more than half stewed in grease, like a Dutch 
 dish, to be thrown into the Thames, and cooled glowing hot, in that surge, 
 like a horse-shoe; think of that; hissing hot; think of that, Master Brook. 
 
 Merry Wives of Windsor, Act III. Sc. 17. 
 
 CHAPTER Vin. 
 
 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 
 
 248. HAVING discussed those qualities and circumstances of single 
 objects that seem peculiarly connected with criticism, we proceed, 
 according to the method proposed in the chapter of beauty, to tht 
 relations of objects, beginning with the relations of resemblance and 
 dissimilitude. 
 
 The connection that man hath with the beings around him, re- 
 quires some acquaintance with their nature, their powers, and their 
 qualities, for regulating his conduct. For acquiring a branch of 
 knowledge so essential to our well- slj ing, motives alone of reason 
 and interest are not sufficient : nature hath providently superadded 
 curiosity, a vigorous propensity, which never is at rest. This pro- 
 
 847. Emotion raised by risible objects not blended with other emotions ; except what? 
 Two kinds of objocte causing laughter. Define emotion excited by a riville object ; by a 
 Example* from Sbakspear.
 
 RESEMBLANCE ASD DISSIMILITUDE. 161 
 
 pensity attaches us to every new object (see chapter vi.) ; and in- 
 cites us to compare objects, in order to discover their differences and 
 resemblances. 
 
 Resemblance among objects of the same kind, and dissimilitude 
 among objects of different kinds, are too obvious and familiar to 
 gratify our curiosity in any degree : its gratification lies in discover- 
 ing differences among things where resemblance prevails, and re- 
 semblances where difference prevails. Thus a difference in individ- 
 uals of the same kind of plants or animals is deemed a discovery ; 
 while the many particulars in which they agree are neglected : and 
 in differen* kinds, any resemblance is greedily remarked, without at- 
 tending to the many particulars in which they differ. 
 
 249. A comparison, however, may be too far stretched. When 
 differences or resemblances are carried beyond certain bounds, they 
 appear slight and trivial ; and for that reason will not be relished 
 by a man of taste : yet such propensity is there to gratify passion, 
 curiosity in particular, that even among good writers we find many 
 comparisons too slight to afford satisfaction. Hence the frequent 
 instances among logicians of distinctions without any solid differ- 
 ence ; and hence the frequent instances among poets and orators, of 
 similes without any just resemblance. Shakspeare, with uncommon 
 humor, ridicules such disposition to simile-making, by putting in the 
 mouth of a weak man a resemblance that will illustrate the point 
 before us : 
 
 FluelJen. I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is porn : I tell you, Op- 
 tain, if you look in the maps of the orld, I warrant that you sail find, in the 
 comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look you, 
 is both alike. There is a river in Macedon, there is also moreover a river in 
 Monmouth: it is culled Wye at Monmouth, but it is out of my prains what is 
 the name of the other river : but it is all one, 'tis as like as my finders to my 
 fingers, and there is salmons in both. If you mark Alexander's life well, Harry 
 of Monmouth's life is come after it indifferent well; for there is figures in ull 
 things. Alexander, God knows, and you know, in his rages, and Iris furies, 
 and Iris wraths, and his cholars, and his moods, and his displeasures, und his 
 indignations ; and also being a little intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales 
 and his angers, look you, kill his pest friend Clytus. 
 
 (fencer. Our king is not like him in that ; he never killed any of his friends. 
 
 FLudlen. It is not well done, mark you now, to take the tales out of my 
 mouth, ere it is made and finished. 1 speak but in figures, and comparisons 
 of it : as Alexander killed his friend Clytus, beine in his ales and his cups ; BO 
 also Harry Monmouth, being in his right wits and his good judgments, turned 
 away the fat knight with the great belly doublet; ho was full of jests, and 
 gvpes, and knaveries, and nvocks : I have forgot his name. 
 " Gvwer. Sir John Falstaff. 
 
 Fludltn. That is he : I tell you there is good men porn at Monmouth. 
 
 King litnry V. Act IV. Sc. 18. 
 
 250. Instruction, no doubt, is the chief end of comparison ; but 
 that it is not the only end will be evident from considering, that a 
 
 248 What relations of objects to be considered. What provision is made for securiM 
 our acquaintance with surrounding objects?- Why does curiosity incite ns to compare ob- 
 jects? Where does curiosity prompt us to look for differences and resemblance* r 
 
 849. A comparison may be stretched too far. Example.
 
 162 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 
 
 comparison may be employed with success to put a subject in a 
 strong point of view. A lively idea is formed of a man's courage, 
 by likening it to that of a lion ; and eloquence is exalted in our im- 
 agination, by comparing it to a river overflowing its banks, and in- 
 volving all in its impetuous course. The same effect is produced by 
 contrast : a man in" prosperity becomes more sensible of his happi- 
 ness by opposing his condition to that of a person in want of bread. 
 Thus, comparison is subservient to poetry as well as to philosophy : 
 and, with respect to both, the foregoing observation holds equally, 
 that resemblance among objects of the same kind, and dissimilitude 
 among objects of different kinds, have no effect : such a comparison 
 neither tends to gratify our curiosity, nor to set the objects compared 
 in a stronger light : two apartments in a palace, similar in shape, 
 size, and furniture, make separately as good a figure as when com- 
 pared ; and the same observation is applicable to two similar copart- 
 ments in a garden : on the other hand, oppose a regular building to 
 a fall of water, or a good picture to a towering hill, or even a little 
 dog to a large horse, and the contrast will produce no effect. But 
 a resemblance between objects of different kinds, and a difference 
 between objects of the same kind, have remarkably an enlivening 
 effect. The poets, such of them as have a just taste, draw all their 
 similes from things that in the main differ widely from the principal 
 subject ; and they never attempt the contrast but where the things 
 have a common genus and a resemblance in the capital circum- 
 stances : place together a large and a small sized animal of the same 
 species, the one will appear greater, the other less, than when viewed 
 separately : when we oppose beauty to deformity, each makes a 
 greater figure by the comparison. We compare the dress of differ- 
 ent nations with curiosity, but without surprise ; because they have 
 no such resemblance in the capital parts as to please us by contrast- 
 ing the smaller parts. But a new cut of a sleeve or of a pocket en- 
 chants by its novelty, and in opposition to the former fashion, raises 
 some degree of surprise. 
 
 251. That resemblance and dissimilitude have an enlivening effect 
 upon objects of sight, is made sufficiently evident ; and that they 
 have the same effect upon objects of the other senses, is also certain. 
 N"or is that law confined to the external senses ; for characters con- 
 trasted make a greater figure by the opposition : lago, in the tragedy 
 of Othello, says, 
 
 He hath a daily beauty in his life 
 That makes me ugly. 
 
 The character of a fop, and of a rough warrior, are nowhere more 
 
 successfully contrasted than in Shakspeare : 
 
 250 The cbicf end of comparison: what other end ?--How do we convey a strong id* 
 f a man's courage : of a man's eloquence ? Resemblance among objects of the same kind, 
 tnd dissimilitude among objects of a different kind. The converse of this.
 
 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDES. 163 
 
 Hotspur. My liege, I did deny no prisoners ; 
 But I remember, when the fight was dont:, 
 When 1 was dry with rage, and extreme toil, 
 Breathless and taint, leaning upon my sword. 
 Came there a certain lord, neat trimly dress'd, 
 Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new-reap'd, 
 Stiovv'd like a stubble-land ut harvest-home. 
 He was perfumed like a milliner ; 
 And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held 
 A pouncet-box, which ever and aaon 
 He gave his nose ; and still he smiled, and talk'd : 
 And as the soldiers bare dead bodies by, 
 He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly, 
 To bring a, slovenly unhandsome corse 
 Betwixt the wind and his nobility! 
 With many holiday and lady terms 
 He question'd me : among the rest, demanded 
 My pris'ners, in your Majesty's behalf. 
 I then all smarting with my wound, being gull'd 
 To be so pestcr'd with a popinjay. 
 Out of my grief, and my impatience, 
 Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what : 
 He should, or should not ; for he made me mad, 
 To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, 
 And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman, 
 Of guns, and drums, and wounds ; (God save the mark I) 
 And telling me, the sov'reignest thing on earth 
 Was parmacity, for an inward bruise ; 
 And that it was great pity, so it was, 
 This villainous saltpetre should be digg'd 
 Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 
 Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd 
 So cowardly ; and but for these vile guns 
 
 He would himself have been a soldier. 
 
 First Part Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 4. 
 
 Passions and emotions are also inflamed by comparison. A man of 
 high rank humbles the bystanders, even to annihilate them in their 
 own opinion : Caesar, beholding the statue of Alexander, was greatly 
 mortified, that now at the age of thirty-two when Alexander died, 
 he had not performed one memorable action. 
 
 252. Our opinions also are much influenced by comparison. A 
 man whose opulence exceeds the ordinary standard, is reputed richer 
 than he is in reality ; and wisdom or weakness, if at all remarkable 
 in an individual, is generally carried beyond the truth. 
 
 The opinion a man forms of his present distress is heightened by 
 contrasting it with his former happiness. 
 
 Could I forget 
 
 What I have been, I might the better bear 
 
 What I am destined to. I'm not the first 
 
 That have been wretched : but to think how much 
 
 I have been happier. Southern. I. 
 
 The distress of a long journey makes even an indifferent inn 
 agreeable ; and in travelling, when the road is good, and the horse- 
 man well covered, a bad day may be agreeable by making him 
 sensible how snug he is. 
 
 861. Characters contrasted make a greater figure by the opposition. Eramplea. Pw- 
 Sons and einoti >ns inflamed by comparison. Gmsar beholding Alexander's tUtue.
 
 ^64 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 
 
 Tlio same effect is equally remarkable when a man opposes his 
 condition to that of others. A ship tossed about in a storm, makes 
 the spectator reflect upon his own ease and security, and puts these 
 in the strongest light. A man in grief cannot bear mirth ; it gives 
 him a more lively notion of his unhappiness, and of course makes 
 him more unhappy. Satan contemplating the beauties of the ter- 
 restrial paradise, has the following exclamation : 
 
 With what delight could I have walk'd thee round, 
 
 If I could joy in aught, sweet interchange 
 
 Of hill and valley, rivers, woods, and plains, 
 ' Now land, now sea, and shores with forest crown d, 
 
 Rocks, dens, and caves ! but I in none of these 
 
 Find place or refuge ; and the more I see 
 
 Pleasures about me, so much more I feel _ 
 
 Torment within me, as from the hateful siege 
 
 Of contraries : all good to me becomes 
 
 Bane, and in heaven much worse would be my state. 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book IX. 1. 114. 
 
 Gaunt. All places that the eye of heaven visite, 
 Are to the wise man ports and happy havens. 
 Teach thy necessity to reason thus : 
 There is no virtue like necessity. 
 Think not the King did banish thee ; 
 But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier sit, 
 Where it perceives it is but faintly borne. 
 Go say. I sent thee forth to purchase honor ; 
 And not, the King exiled thee. Or suppose, 
 Devouring pestilence hangs in our air, 
 And thou art flying to a fresher clime. 
 Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it 
 To lie that way thou gp'st, not whence thou comest. 
 Suppose the singing birds, musicians; 
 The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence-floor ; 
 The flowers, fair ladies ; and thy steps, no more 
 Than a delightful measure, or a dance. 
 For snarling Sorrow hath less power to bite 
 The man that mocks it, and sets it light. 
 
 Bol'mgbroke. Oh, who can hold a fire m hia hand, 
 By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ? 
 Or cloy the hungry edge of Appetite, 
 By bare imagination of a feast? 
 Or wallow naked in December snow, 
 By thinking on fantastic summer's heat? 
 Oh, no ! the apprehension of the good 
 Gives but the greater feeling to th|worse. ^ ^ ^ L ^ ^ 
 
 253 The appearance of danger gives sometimes pleasure, some- 
 times pain. A timorous person upon the battlements of a high 
 tower, is seized with fear, which even the consciousness of security 
 cannot dissipate. But upon one of a firm head, this situation has a 
 contrary effect; the appearance of danger heightens, by opposition 
 the consciousness of security, and consequently, the satisfaction that 
 arises from security : here the feeling resembles that above men- 
 tioned, occasioned by a ship laboring in a storm. _ 
 
 Furadise. Quotation from Richard II.
 
 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 165 
 
 The effect of magnifying or lessening objects by means of com- 
 parison is so familiar, that no philosopher has thought of searching 
 for a cause. The obscurity of the object may possibly have con- 
 tributed to their silence ; but luckily, we discover the cause to be a 
 principle unfolded above, which is the influence of passion over our 
 opinions. (Chapter ii. part v.) 
 
 254. We have had occasion to see many illustrious effects of that 
 singular power of passion ; and that the magnifying or diminishing 
 objects by means of comparison proceeds from the same cause, will 
 evidently appear by reflecting in what manner a spectator is affected 
 when a very large animal is for the first time placed beside a very 
 small one of the same species. The first thing that strikes the mind 
 is the difference between the two animals, which is so great as to 
 occasion surprise ; and this, like other emotions, magnifying its 
 object, makes us conceive the difference to be the greatest that can 
 be : we see, or seem to see, the one animal extremely little, and the 
 other extremely large. The emotion of surprise arising from any 
 unusual resemblance, serves equally to explain why at first view we 
 are apt to think such resemblance more entire than it is in reality. 
 And it must not escape observation, that the circumstances of more 
 and less, which are the proper subjects of comparison, raise a per- 
 ception so indistinct and vague as to facilitate the effect described : 
 we have no mental standard of great and little, nor of the several 
 degrees of any attribute ; and the mind thus unrestrained, is naturally 
 disposed to indulge its surprise to the utmost extent. 
 
 255. To explain the influence of comparison upon the mind, by 
 a familiar example : take a piece of paper, or of linen tolerably 
 white, and compare it with a pure white of the same kind : the 
 judgment we formed of the first object is instantly varied ; and the 
 surprise occasioned by finding it less white than was thought, pro- 
 duceth a hasty conviction that it is much less white than it is in 
 reality : withdrawing now the pure white, and putting in its place 
 a deep black, the surprise occasioned by that new circumstance car- 
 ries us to the other extreme, and makes us conceive the object first 
 mentioned to be a pure white : and thus experience compels us to 
 acknowledge that our emotions have an influence even upon our 
 eyesight. This experiment leads to a general observation, That 
 whatever is found more strange or beautiful than was expected, is 
 judged to be more strange or beautiful than it is in reality. Hence 
 a common artifice, to depreciate beforehand what we wish to make 
 a figure in the opinion of others. 
 
 256. The comparisons employed by poets and orators are of the 
 
 253. Appearance of danger. 
 
 254 The effect of magnifying or lessening objects by comparison, explained. Effect ol 
 seeing, for the first time. very large animal placed beside a very small one of the s*m 
 species. The emotion of surprise arising from any unusual resemblance. 
 
 255. Influence of comparison on the mind illustrated. General observation ; common 
 MtSflCt
 
 166 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 
 
 kind lastjncntioned ; for it is always a known object that is to be 
 magnified or lessened. The former, is effected by likem'ng it to some 
 grand object, or by contrasting it with one of an opposite character. 
 To effectuate the latter, the method must be reversed : the object 
 must be contrasted with something superior to it, or likened to 
 something inferior. The whole effect is produced upon the principal 
 object, which by that means is elevated above its rank, or depressed 
 below it. 
 
 In accounting for the effects that any unusual resemblance or 
 dissimilitude hath upon the mind, no cause has been mentioned but 
 surprise ; and to prevent confusion, it was proper to discuss that 
 cause first. But surprise is not the only cause of the effect described : 
 another concurs which operates perhaps not less powerfully, namely, 
 a principle in human nature that lies still in obscurity, not having 
 been unfolded by any writer, though its effects are extensive ; and 
 as it is not distinguished by a proper name, the reader must be satis- 
 fied with the following description. Every man who studies himself 
 or others, must be sensible of a tendency or propensity in the mind, 
 to complete every work that is begun, and to carry things to their 
 full perfection. There is little opportunity to display that propensity 
 upon natural operations, which are seldom left imperfect ; but in 
 the operations of art, it hath great scope : it impels us to persevere 
 in our own work, and to wish for the completion of what another is 
 doing : we feel a sensible pleasure when the work is brought to per- 
 fection ; and our pain is no less sensible when we are disappointed. 
 _Hence our uneasiness, when an interesting story is broke off in the 
 middle, when a piece of music ends without a close, or when a 
 building or garden is left unfinished. The same propensity operates 
 in making collections, such as the whole works good and bad of 
 any author. A certain person attempted to collect prints of all the 
 capital paintings, and succeeded except as to a tew. La Bruyere 
 remarks, that an anxious search was made for these ; not for their 
 value, but to complete the set.* 
 
 257. The final cause of the propensity is an additional proof of 
 its existence : human works are of no significancy till they be com- 
 pleted ; and reason is not always a sufficient counterbalance to 
 indolence : some pr nciple over and above is necessary, to excite 
 our industry, and to prevent our stopping short in the middle of the 
 course. 
 
 * The examples above given, are of things that can be carried to an end or 
 conclusion. But the same uneasiness is perceptible with respect to things that 
 admit not any conclusion : witness a series that has no end, commonly called 
 an infinite series. The mind moving along such a series, begins aoon to fee. 
 an uneasiness, which becomes more and more sensible, in continuing its pro- 
 gress without hope of an end. 
 
 256. How poets and orators magnify a known object ; how they depress it Surprise, 
 not the only cause of the effect which any unusual resemblance or dissimilitude has \ipou 
 Ui uilud. Another cause described, Great scopo la operations of art. Examples.
 
 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 167 
 
 "We need not lose time to describe the co-operation of the fore- 
 going propensity with surprise, in producing the effect that follows 
 any unusual resemblance or dissimilitude. Surprise first operates, 
 and carries our opinion of the resemblance or dissimilitude beyond 
 truth. The propensity we have been describing carries us still 
 farther ; for it forces upon the mind a conviction that the resem- 
 blance or dissimilitude is complete. We need no better illustration, 
 than the resemblance that is fancied in some pebbles to a tree or an 
 insect ; which resemblance, however faint in reality, is conceived to 
 be wonderfully perfect. The tendency to complete a resemblance 
 acting jointly with surprise, carries the mind sometimes so far, as 
 even to presume upon future events. In the Greek tragedy entitled 
 Phineides, those unhappy women, seeing the place where it was in- 
 tended they should be slain, cried out with anguish, " They now 
 saw their cruel destiny had condemned them to die in that place, 
 being the same where they had been exposed in their infancy." 
 (Aristotle, Poet. cap. 17.) 
 
 The propensity to advance every thing to its perfection, not only 
 co-operates with surprise to deceive the mind, but of itself is able to 
 produce that effect. Of this we see many instances where there is 
 no place for surprise ; and the first I shall give is of resemblance. 
 Unumquodque eodem modo dissolvitur quo colligatum est, is a maxim 
 in the Roman law that has no foundation in truth ; for tying and 
 loosing, building and demolishing, are acts opposite to each other, 
 and are perforaied by opposite means : but when these acts are 
 connected by their relation to the same subject, their connection 
 leads us to imagine a sort of resemblance between them, which by 
 the foregoing propensity is conceived to be as complete as possible. 
 The next instance shall be of contrast. Addison observes, " That 
 the palest features look the most agreeable in white ; that a face 
 which is overflushed *ppears to advantage in the deepest scarlet ; 
 and that a dark complexion is not a little alleviated by a black 
 hood." (Spectator, No. 265.) The foregoing propensity serves to 
 account for these appearances ; to make which evident one of the 
 cases shall suffice. A complexion, however dark, never approaches 
 to black : when these colors appear together, their opposition strikes 
 us : and the propensity we have to complete the opposition makes 
 the darkness of complexion vanish out of sight. 
 
 58. The operation of this propensity, even where there is no 
 ground for surprise, is not confined to opinion or conviction : so 
 powerful it is, as to make us sometimes proceed to action, in order 
 to complete a resemblance or dissimilitude. If this appear obscure, 
 it will be made clear by the following instances. Upon what prin- 
 ciple is the lex talionis founded, other than to make the punishment 
 
 257. Final cause of this tendency of mind. Ita co-operntion with surprise to decelr* 
 Uio mind. The same effect without the aid of surprise. Maxim of Roman law. IimUnce 
 of contrast given by Addisou.
 
 168 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 
 
 resemble the mischief? Reason dictates, that there ought to be a 
 conformity or resemblance between a crime and its punishment ; 
 and the foregoing propensity impels us to make the resemblance as 
 complete as possible. Titus Livius, under the influence of that pro- 
 pensity, accounts for a certain punishment by a resemblance between 
 it and the crime, too subtile for common apprehension. Treating of 
 Mettus Fuffetius, the Alban general, who, for treachery to the 
 Romans his allies, was sentenced to be torn in pieces by horses, ho 
 puts the following speech in the mouth of Tullus Hostilius, who 
 decreed the punishment. "Mette Fuffeti, inquit, si ipse discere 
 posses fidem ac foedera servare, vivo tibi ea disciplina a me adhibita 
 esset. Nunc, quoniam tuum insanabile ingenium est, at tu tuo 
 supplicio doce humanum genus, ea sancta credere, quse a te violata 
 sunt. Ut igitur paulo ante animum inter Fidenatem Romanamque rem 
 ancipitem gessisti, ita jam corpus passim distrahendum dabis." (Lib. 
 i. sect. 28.)* By the same influence, the sentence is often executed 
 upon the very spot where the crime was committed. In the Electro. 
 of Sophocles, Egistheus is dragged from the theatre into an inner 
 room of the supposed palace, to suffer death where he _ murdered 
 Agamemnon. Shakspeare, whose knowledge of nature _ is no less 
 profound than extensive, has not overlooked this propensity: 
 
 Otlidlo. Get me some poison, lago, this night ; I'll not expostulate with her, 
 lest her body and her beauty unprovide my mind again ; this night, lago. 
 
 logo. Do it not with poison ; strangle her in bed, even in the bed she hath 
 contaminated. 
 
 Othello. Good, good : The justice of it pleases : very good. 
 
 Othello, Act IV. Sc. 5. 
 
 Warwick. From off the gates of York fetch down the head, 
 Your father's head, which Cliiford placed there. 
 Instead whereof let his supply the room. 
 Measure for measure must be answered. 
 
 Third Part of Henry VI. Act II. Sc. 9. 
 
 Persons in their last moments are generally seized with an anxiety 
 to be buried with their relations. In the Amynta of Tasso, the lover, 
 hearing that his mistress.was torn to pieces by a wolf, expresses a 
 desire to die the same death. (Act iv. Sc. 2.) 
 
 259. Upon the subject in general I have two remarks to add. 
 The first concerns resemblance, which, when too entire, hath no 
 effect, however different in kind the things compared may be. The 
 
 * [" Mettus Fuffetius, if you were capable of learning to preserve faith, and 
 a regard to treaties, I should suffer you to live and supply you with instruc- 
 tions ; but your disposition is incurable. Let your punishment, then, teach 
 mankind to consider those things as sacred which you have dared to violate. 
 As, therefore, you lately kept your mind divided between the interests of the 
 Fidenatians and of the Komans, so shall you now have your body divided and 
 torn in pieces." Baker' 1 sLivy, B. i. sec. 28.] 
 
 258. This propensity often prompts to action ; to complete a resemblance or dissimili- 
 tude. Punishment of Mettua Fuffetius. Case of Egistheus; words of Othello; ol 
 Warwick.
 
 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE, 169 
 
 remark is applicable to works of art only ; for natural objects of 
 different kinds have scarce ever an entire resemblance. To give an 
 example in a work of art, marble is a sort of matter very different 
 from what composes an animal ; and marble cut into a human 
 figure produces great pleasure by the resemblance ; but, if a marble 
 statue be colored like a picture, the resemblance is so entire, as at a 
 distance to make the statue appear a person : we discover the mis- 
 take when we approach ; and no other emotion is raised, but sur- 
 prise occasioned by the deception. The figure still appears a real 
 person, rather than an imitation ; and we must use reflection to 
 correct the mistake. This cannot happen in a picture ; for the re- 
 semblance can never be so entire as to disguise the imitation. 
 
 The other remark relates to contrast. Emotions make the great- 
 est figure when contrasted in succession ; but the succession ought 
 neither to be rapid, nor immoderately slow : if too slow, the effect 
 of contrast becomes faint by the distance of the emotions ; and if 
 rapid, no single emotion has room to expand itself to its full size, 
 but is stifled, as it were, in the birth, by a succeeding emotion. The 
 funeral oration of the Bishop of Meaux, upon the Duchess of Or- 
 leans, is a perfect hodge-podge of cheerful and melancholy repre- 
 sentations, following each other in the quickest succession. Opposite 
 emotions are best felt in succession ; but each emotion separately 
 should be raised to its due pitch, before another be introduced. 
 
 260. What is above laid down will enable us to determine a very 
 important question concerning emotions raised by the fine arts 
 namely, Whether ought similar emotions to succeed each other, or 
 dissimilar ? The emotions raised by the fine arts are for the most 
 part too nearly related to make a figure by resemblance ; and for 
 that reason their succession ought to be regulated as much as possi- 
 ble by contrast. This holds confessedly in epic and dramatic com- 
 positions ; and the best writers, led perhaps by taste more than by 
 reasoning, have generally aimed at that beauty. It holds equally in 
 music : in the same cantata, all the variety of emotions that are 
 within the power of music may not only be indulged, but, to make 
 the greatest figure, ought to be contrasted. In gardening, there is 
 an additional reason for the rule : the emotions raised by that art 
 are at best so faint that every artifice should be employed to give 
 them their utmost vigor. A field may be laid out in grand, sweet, 
 gay, neat, wild, melancholy scenes ; and when these are viewed in 
 succession, grandeur ought to be contrasted with neatness, regularity 
 with wildness, and gayety with melancholy, so as that each emotion 
 may succeed its opposite : nay, it ia an improvement to intermix in 
 <Jie succession rude uncultivated spots as well as unbounded views, 
 which in themselves are disagreeable, but in succession heighten the 
 
 259. Remark concernine resemblance. Example. Remark concerning contrast BaU 
 for the succession of emotions tn contrast 
 
 S
 
 feeling of the agreeable objects ; and we have nature for our guide, 
 which, in her most beautiful landscapes, often intermixes rugged 
 rocks, dirty marshes, and barren stony heaths. The greatest masters 
 of music have the same view in their yompositions : the second part 
 of an Italian song seldom conveys any sentiment ; and, by its harsh- 
 ness, seems purposely contrived to give a greater relish for the inter- 
 esting parts of the composition. 
 
 261. A small garden comprehended under a single view, affords 
 little opportunity for that embellishment. Dissimilar emotions re- 
 quire different tones of mind, and therefore in conjunction can never 
 be pleasant (see chapter ii. part iv.) : gayety and sweetness may be 
 combined, or wildness and gloominess, but a composition of gayety 
 and gloominess is distasteful. The rude uncultivated compartment 
 of furze and broom in Richmond garden hath a good effect in the 
 succession of objects ; but a spot of that nature would be insufferable 
 in the midst of a polished parterre or flower-pot. A garden, there- 
 fore, if not of great extent, admits not dissimilar emotions ; and in 
 ornamenting a small garden, the safest course is to confine it to a 
 single expression. For the same reason a landscape ought also to 
 be confined to a single expression ; and accordingly it is a rule in 
 painting that, if the subject be gay, every figure ought to contribute 
 to that emotion. 
 
 It follows from the foregoing train of reasoning that a garden near 
 a great city ought to have an air of solitude. The solitariness again 
 of a waste country ought to be contrasted in forming a garden ; no 
 temples, no obscure walks ; but jets d'eau, cascades, objects active, 
 gay, and splendid. Nay, such a garden should in some measure 
 avoid imitating nature by taking on an extraordinary appearance of 
 regularity and art, to show the busy hand of man, which, in a waste 
 country, has a fine effect by contrast. 
 
 262. It may be gathered from what is said above (chapter ii. 
 part iv.), that wit and ridicule make not an agreeable mixture with 
 grandeur. Dissimilar emotions have a fine effect in a slow suc- 
 cession ; but in a rapid succession, which approaches to coexistence, 
 they will not be relished : in the midst of- a labored and elevated 
 description of a battle, Virgil introduces a ludicrous image, which is 
 certainly out of its place. (jEneid, vii. 298.) 
 
 It would, however, be too austere to banish altogether ludicrous 
 images from an epic poem. In its more familiar tones a ludicrous 
 scene many be introduced without impropriety. This is done by 
 Virgil in a foot-race (jfin. lib. v.) ; the circumstances of which, not 
 excepting the ludicrous part, are copied from Homer. {Iliad, 
 Book xxiii. 1. 789.) After a fit of merriment AVC are, it is true, the 
 
 260 Oneht similar or dissimilar emotions (raised by the fine arts) to succeed each other f 
 Succession by contrast sought by epic and dramatic writers ; by composers ot music , 
 bv irardeners. Kalian songs. ,, _ 
 
 261. Emotions proper to be excited in embellishing a larsre compared w,th * small p* 
 
 en. A garden in a city; in a solitary rsriot. '
 
 UNIFORMITY ASP VARIETY. 171 
 
 lis dispc>sed to the serious and sublime ; but then a ludicrous scene, 
 by unbending the mind from severe application to more interesting 
 subjects, may prevent fatigue and preserve our relish entire. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETT. 
 
 263. THE necessary succession of perceptions may be examined 
 in two different views ; one with respect to order and connection, 
 and one with respect to uniformity and variety. In the first view it 
 is handled above (chapter i.), and I now proceed to the second. 
 The world we inhabit is replete with things no less remarkable for 
 thoir variety than for their number ; these, unfolded by the wonder- 
 ful mechanism of external sense, furnish the mind with many per- 
 ceptions, which, joined with ideas of memory, of imagination, and of 
 reflection, form a complete train that has not a gap or interval. 
 This train of perceptions and ideas depends very little on will. The 
 mind, as has been observed (Locke, Book ii. chap. 1 4), is so consti- 
 tuted " that it can by no effort break off the succession of its ideas, 
 nor keep its attention long fixed upon the same object :" we can ar- 
 rest a perception in its course ; we can shorten its natural duration 
 to make room for another ; we can vary the succession by change 
 of place or of amusement ; and we can in some measure prevent 
 variety by frequently recalling the same object after short intervals ; 
 but still there must be a succession and a change from one percep- 
 tion to another. By artificial means the succession may be retarded 
 or accelerated, may be rendered more various or more uniform, but 
 in one shape or another is unavoidable. 
 
 264. The train, even when left to its ordinary course, is not alwayo 
 unifonn in its motion ; there are natural causes that accelerate or 
 retard it considerably. The first I shall mention is a peculiar con- 
 stitution of mind. One man is distinguished from another by no 
 circumstance more remarkably than his train of perceptions : to a 
 cold languid temper belongs a slow course of perceptions, which oc- 
 casions a dullness of apprehension and sluggishness in action ; to a 
 warm temper, on the contrary, belongs a quick course of percep- 
 tions, which occasions quickness of apprehension and activity in 
 business. The Asiatic nations, the Chinese especially, are observed 
 
 262. Wit and ridicule with respect to grandeur. Remarks on Virgil. 
 
 263. How the necessary succession of perceptions may be examined. How onr train of 
 perceptions and Ideas Is acquired. Whether it depends on the will ; and how lar. &v 
 
 change of id* as unaroidable.
 
 172 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 
 
 to be more cool and deliberate than the Europeans : may not tho 
 reason be that heat enervates by exhausting the spirits ? and that a 
 certain degree of cold, as in the middle regions of Etrrope, bracing 
 the fibres, rouseth the 'mind, and produceth a brisk circulation of 
 thought, accompanied with vigor in action ? In youth is observable 
 a quicker succession of perceptions than in old age ; and hence, in 
 youth, a remarkable avidity for variety of amusements, which in 
 riper years give place to more uniform and more sedate occupation. 
 This qualifies men of middle age for business, where activity is re- 
 quired, but with a greater proportion of uniformity than variety. 
 In old age, a slow and languid succession makes variety unnecessary ; 
 and for that reason the aged, in all their motions, are generally gov- 
 erned by an habitual uniformity. Whatever be the cause, we may 
 venture to pronounce that heat, in the imagination and temper, is 
 always connected with a brisk flow of perceptions. 
 
 265. The natural rate of succession depends also in some degree 
 upon the particular perceptions that compose the train. An agree- 
 able object, taking a strong hold of the mind, occasions a slower suc- 
 cession than when the objects are indifferent : grandeur and novelty 
 fix the attention for a considerable time, excluding all other ideas ; 
 and the mind thus occupied is sensible of no vacuity. Some emo- 
 tions, by hurrying the mind from object to object, accelerate the 
 succession. "Where the train is composed of connected perceptions 
 or ideas, the succession is quick ; for it is ordered by nature that the 
 mind goes easily and sweetly along connected objects. (See chap- 
 ter i.) On the other hand, the succession must be slow where the 
 train is composed of unconnected perceptions or ideas, which find 
 not ready access to the mind ; and that an unconnected object is 
 not admitted without a struggle, appears from the unsettled state of 
 the mind for some moments after such an object is presented, waver- 
 ing between it and the former train : during that short period one 
 or other of the former objects will intrude, perhaps oftener than 
 once, till the attention be fixed entirely upon the new object. The 
 same observations are applicable to ideas suggested by language : 
 the mind can bear a quick succession of related ideas ; but an un- 
 related idea, for which the mind is not prepared, takes time to make 
 an impression ; and therefore a train composed of such ideas ought 
 to proceed with a slow pace. Hence an epic poem, a play, or 
 any story connected in all its parts, may be perused in a shorter 
 time than a book of maxims or apothegms, of which a quick suc- 
 cession creates both confusion and fatigue. 
 
 266. Such latitude hath nature indulged in the rate of succession ; 
 what latitude it indulges with respect to uniformity, we proceed to 
 
 264. Natural causes that accelerate or retard the train. (1) A peculiar constitution of 
 mind. (2) Effect of climate. (3) Period of life. 
 
 265 Natural rate of succession depends on the particular perceptions that compo* 
 the train. Op tho dogree of connection between th idea* Hence an epic poem, A*., con 
 \e read mow rapidly than a book it maxims.
 
 UNIFORM!! X J^ND VAKIETY. 178 
 
 examine. The uniformity or variety of a train, so far as composed 
 of perceptions, depends on the particular objects that surround the 
 percipient at the time. The present occupation must also have an 
 influence, for one is sometimes engaged in a multiplicity of affairs, 
 sometimes altogether vacant. A natural train of ideas of memory 
 is more circumscribed, each object being, by some connection, linked 
 to what precedes and to what follows it : these connections, which 
 are many, and of different kinds, afford scope for a sufficient degree 
 of variety, and at the same time pi-event that degree which is un- 
 pleasant by excess. Temper and constitution also have an influence 
 here, as well as upon the rate of succession : a man of a calm and 
 sedate temper, admits not willingly any idea but what is regularly 
 introduced by a proper connection ; one of a roving disposition em- 
 braces with avidity every new idea, however slender its relation be 
 to those that preceded it. Neither must we overlook the nature of 
 the perceptions that compose the train ; for their influence is no less 
 with respect to uniformity and variety, than with respect to the rate 
 of succession. The mind engrossed by any passion, love or hatred, 
 hope or fear, broods over its object, and can bear no interruption ; 
 and in such a 'state, the train of perceptions must not only be slow, 
 but extremely uniform. Anger newly inflamed eagerly grasps its 
 object, and leaves not a cranny in the mind for another thought but 
 of revenge. In the character of Hotspur, that state of mind is 
 represented to the life ; a picture remarkable for likeness v vl' as 
 for high coloring : 
 
 Worcester. Peace, cousin, say no more. 
 And now I will unclasp a secret book, 
 And to your quick conceiving discontents 
 I'll rend you mutter, deep and dangerous ; 
 As full of peril and adventurous spirit 
 As to o'erwalk a current roaring loud, 
 On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. 
 
 Jiutspur. If he fall in, good night. Or sink or swim 
 Send danger from the east into the west, 
 So honor cross it from the north to south ; 
 And let them grapple. Oh 1 the blood more stirs 
 To rouse a lion than to start a hare. 
 
 Worcester. Those same noble Scots, 
 That are your prisoners 
 
 Hotspur. I'll keep them all ; 
 By heaven he shall not have a Scot of them : 
 N"o ; if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not; 
 I'll keep them, by this hand. 
 Worcester. You start away, 
 And lend no ear unto my purpose : 
 Those pris'ners you shall keep. 
 
 Hutxpur. I will, that's flat: 
 He said lie would not ransom Mortimer: 
 Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer: 
 But I will find him when ho lies asleep, 
 And in his ear I'll holla Mortimer ! 
 Nay, 1 will have a starling taught to speak 
 
 SCC. Uniformity or variety of a train of perceptions depends on wkut?
 
 Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him, 
 To keep his anger still in motion. 
 
 Worcester, Hear you, cousin, a word. 
 
 Hotspur. All studies here I solemnly defy, 
 Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke : 
 And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales 
 (But that 1 think his father loves him not, 
 And would bo glad he met with some mischance), 
 I'd have him poison'd with a pot of ale. 
 
 Worcester. Farewell, my kinsman, I will talk to you 
 When you are better temper'd to attend. 
 
 King Henry IV. Act I. So. 4. 
 
 267. Having viewed a train of perceptions as directed by nature, 
 and the variations it is susceptible of from different necessary causes, 
 we proceed to examine bow far it is subjected to will ; for that this 
 faculty hath some influence, is observed above. And first, the rate 
 of succession may be retarded by insisting upon one object, and 
 propelled by dismissing another before its time. But such voluntary 
 mutations in the natural course of succession, have limits that can- 
 not be extended by the most painful efforts : which will appear from 
 considering, that the mind circumscribed in its capacity, cannot, at 
 the same instant, admit many perceptions ; and when replete, that 
 it hath not place for new perceptions, till others are removed ; con- 
 sequently, that a voluntary change of perceptions cannot be instan- 
 taneous, as the time it requires sets bounds to the velocity of succes- 
 sion. On the other hand, the power we have to arrest a flying per- 
 ception is equally limited ; and the reason is, that the longer we 
 detain any perception, the more difficulty we find in the operation; 
 till, the difficulty becoming insurmountable, we are forced to quit 
 our hold, and to permit the train to take its usual course. 
 
 The power we have over this train, as to uniformity and variety, 
 is in some cases very great, in others very little. A train composed 
 of perceptions of external objects, depends entirely on the place we 
 occupy, and admits not more nor less variety but by change of place. 
 A train composed of ideas of memory is still less under our power, 
 because we cannot at will call up any idea that is not connected 
 with the train. (See chapter i.) But a train of ideas suggested by 
 reading may be varied at will, provided we have books at hand. 
 
 268. The power that nature hath given us over our train of per- 
 ceptions, may be greatly strengthened by proper discipline, and by 
 an early application to business : witness some mathematicians, who 
 go far beyond common nature in slowness and uniformity ; and still 
 more, persons devoted to religious exercises, who pass whole days in 
 contemplation, and impose upon themselves long and severe penan- 
 ces. With respect to celerity and variety, it is not easily conceived 
 what length a habit of activity in affairs will carry some men. Let 
 a stranger, or let any person to whom the sight is not familiar, at- 
 tend the Chancellor of Great Britain through the labors but of one 
 
 26T. How far the train of percephons Is subjected to will Various trains, and th 
 power we have over them.
 
 UNIFORMITY, AND VARIETY. 175 
 
 day, during a session of parliament : how great will be his aston- 
 ishment ! what multiplicity of law business, what deep thinking, 
 and what elaborate application to matters of government 1 The 
 train of perceptions must in that great man be accelerated far be- 
 yond the ordinary course of nature, yet no confusion or hurry, but 
 in every article the greatest order and accuracy. Such is the force 
 of habit. How happy is man, to have the command of a principle 
 of action that can elevate him so far above the ordinary condition of 
 humanity !* 
 
 2C9. We are now ripe for considering a train of perceptions, with 
 respect to pleasure and pain ; and to that speculation peculiar atten- 
 tion must be given, because it serves to explain the effects that uni- 
 formity and variety have upon the mind. A man, when his percep- 
 tions flow in their natural course, feels himself free, light, and easy, 
 especially after any forcible acceleration or retardation. On the 
 other hand, the accelerating or retarding the natural course, excites 
 a pain, which, though scarcely felt in small removes, becomes con- 
 siderable towards the extremes. Aversion to fix on a single object 
 for a long time, or to take in a multiplicity of objects in a short 
 time, is remarkable in children, and equally so in men unaccustomed 
 to business : a man^ languishes when the succession is very slow ; 
 and, if he grow not impatient, is apt to fall asleep : during a rapid 
 succession, he hath a feeling as if his head were turning round ; he 
 is fatigued, and his pain resembles that of weariness after bodily 
 labor. 
 
 But a moderate course will not satisfy the mind, unless the per- 
 ceptions be also diversified : number without variety is not sufficient 
 to constitute an agreeable train. In comparing a few objects, uni- 
 formity is pleasant ; but the frequent reiteration of uniform objects 
 becomes unpleasant : one tires of a scene that is not diversified ; and 
 soon feels a sort of unnatural restraint when confined within a nar- 
 row range, whether occasioned by a retarded succession, or by too 
 great uniformity. An excess in variety is, on the other hand, fa- 
 tiguing ; which is felt even in a train of related perceptions, much 
 more of unrelated perceptions, which gain not admittance without 
 effort : the effort, it is true, is scarce perceptible in a single instance ; 
 but by frequent reiteration it becomes exceedingly painful. What- 
 ever be the cause, the fact is certain, that a man never finds himself 
 more at ease than when his perceptions succeed each other with a 
 certain degree, not only of velocity, but also of variety. The pleas- 
 ure that arises from a train of connected ideas, is remarkable in a 
 reverie ; especially where the imagination interposeth, and is active 
 in coining new ideas, which is done with wonderful facility : one 
 must be sensible that the serenity and ease of the mind, in that 
 
 * This chapter was composed in the year 1758. 
 868. The train varied by discipline and attention to businosa. Illustration*
 
 176 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 
 
 state, makes a great part of the enjoyment. The case is different 
 where external objects enter into the train ; for these, making their 
 appearance without order and without connection, save that of con- 
 tiguity, form a train of perceptions that may be extremely uniform 
 or extremely diversified ; which, for opposite reasons, are both of 
 them painful. 
 
 270. To alter, by an act of will, that degree of variety which na- 
 ture requires, is not less painful than to alter that degree of velocity 
 which it requires. Contemplation, when the mind is long attached 
 to one subject, becomes painful by restraining the free range of per- 
 ception : curiosity, and the prospect of useful discoveries, may fortify 
 one to bear that pain ; but it is deeply felt by the bulk of mankind, 
 and produceth in them aversion to all abstract sciences. In any 
 profession or calling, a train of operation that is simple and reiterated 
 without intromission, makes the operator languish, and lose vigor : 
 he complains neither of too great labor, nor of too little action ; but 
 regrets the want of variety, and the being obliged to do the same 
 thing over and over: where the operation is sufficiently varied, the 
 mind retains its vigor, and is pleased with its condition. Actions 
 again create uneasiness when excessive in number or variety, though 
 in every other respect pleasant : thus a throng of business in law, in 
 physic, or in traffic, distresses and distracts the 'mind, unless where 
 a habit of application is acquired by long and constant exercise : 
 the excessive variety is the distressing circumstance ; and the mind 
 suffers grievously by being kept constantly upon the stretch. 
 
 271. With relation to involuntary causes disturbing that degree 
 of variety which nature requires, a slight pain affecting one part of 
 the body without variation, becomes, by its constancy and long du- 
 ration, almost insupportable : the patient, sensible that the pain is 
 not increased in degree, complains of its constancy more than of its 
 severity, of its engrossing his whole thoughts, and admitting no other 
 object. A shifting pain is more tolerable, because change of place 
 contributes to variety; and an intermitting pain, suffering other 
 objects to intervene, still more so. Again, any single color or sound, 
 often returning, becomes unpleasant; as may be observed in viewing 
 a train of similar apartments in a great house painted with the same 
 color and in hearing the prolonged tollings of a bell. Color and 
 sou'hd varied within certain limits, though without any order are 
 pleasant ; witness the various colors of plants and flowers in a field, 
 and the various notes of birds in a thicket: increase the number of 
 variety, and the feeling becomes mpleasant; thus a great variety of 
 colors, crowded upon a small canvas, or in quick succession, create
 
 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 177 
 
 an uneasy fei-ling, which is prevented by putting the colors at a 
 greater distance from each other, either of place or of time. A 
 number of voices in a crowded assembly, a.number of animals col- 
 lected in a market, produce an unpleasant feeling; though a few of 
 them together, or all of them in a moderate succession, would be 
 pleasant. And because of the same excess in variety, a number of 
 pains felt in different parts of the body, at the same instant or in a 
 rapid succession, are an exquisite torture. 
 
 272. It is occasionally observed above, that persons of a phleg- 
 matic temperament, having a sluggish train of perceptions, are in- 
 disposed to action ; and that activity constantly accompanies a brisk 
 flow of perceptions. To ascertain that fact, a man need not go 
 abroad for experiments : reflecting on things passing in his own 
 mind, he will find that a brisk circulation of thought constantly 
 prompts him to action ; and that he is averse to action when his 
 perceptions languish in their course. But as a man by nature is 
 formed for action, and must be active in order to be happy, nature 
 hath kindly provided against indolence, by annexing pleasure to a 
 moderate course of perceptions, and by making any remarkable re- 
 tardation painful. A slow course of perceptions is attended with 
 another bad effect : man, in a few capital cases, is governed by pro- 
 pensity or instinct; but in matters that admit deliberation and 
 choice, reason is assigned him for a guide : now, as reasoning re- 
 quires often a great compass of ideas, their succession ought to be 
 so quick as readily to furnish every motive that may be necessary 
 for mature deliberation ; in a languid succession, motives will often 
 occur after action is commenced, when it is too late to retreat. 
 
 273. Nature hath guarded man, her favorite, against a succession 
 too rapid, no less carefully than against one too slow : both are 
 equally painful, though the pain is not the same in both. Many 
 are the good effects of that contrivance. In the first place, as the 
 exertion of bodily faculties is by certain painful sensations confined 
 within proper limits, Nature is equally provident with respect to the 
 nobler faculties of the mind : the pain of an accelerated coui-se of 
 perceptions is Nature's admonition to relax our pace, and to admit 
 a more gentle exertion of thought Another valuable purpose is 
 discovered upon reflecting in what manner objects are imprinted -on 
 the mind : to give the memory firm hold of an external object, time 
 is required, even where attention is the greatest ; and a moderate 
 degree of attention, which is the common case, must be continued 
 still longer to produce the same (.-fleet : a rapid suc-cession, accord- 
 ingly, must prevent objects from making an impression so deep as 
 to be of real service in life; and Nature, for the sake of memory, 
 
 271. Involuntary causes disturbing that decree of variety which nature requires. Slight 
 but unvarying pain ; a shifting pain. Any single color or souml often returning. Color 
 n<l sound varied within certain limits. 
 
 272. A sluggish train indisposes to actlou -What provision is um.lr n^ninst IndoJenoo. 
 Dud effect of a alon- course of perception*. In matter* th.it rcqulr* deliberation *id choio* 
 
 8*
 
 178 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 
 
 has, by a painful feeling, guarded against a rapid succession. But 
 a still more valuable purpose is answered by the contrivance : as, on 
 the one hand, a sluggish course of perceptions indisposeth to action ; 
 so, on the other, a course too rapid impels to rash and precipitant 
 action : /"prudent conduct is the child of deliberation and clear con- 
 ception, for which there is no place in a rapid course of thought. 
 Nature therefore, taking measures for prudent conduct, has guarded 
 us effectually from precipitancy of thought by making it painful. 
 
 274. Nature not only provides against a succession too slow or 
 too quick, but makes the middle course extremely pleasant. Nor is 
 that course confined within narrow bounds: every man can naturally, 
 without pain, accelerate or retard in some degree the rate of his 
 perceptions. And he can do it in a still greater degree by the force 
 of habit : a habit of contemplation annihilates the pain of a retarded 
 course of perceptions ; and a busy life, after long practice, makes 
 acceleration pleasant. 
 
 Concerning the final cause of our taste for variety, it will be con- 
 sidered, that human affairs, complex by variety as well as number, 
 require the distributing our attention and activity in measure and 
 proportion. Nature therefore, to secure a just distribution corre- 
 sponding to the variety of human affairs, has made too great unifor- 
 mity or too great variety in the course of perceptions, equally un- 
 pleasant : and, indeed, were we addicted to either extreme, our 
 internal constitution would be ill suited to our external circumstan- 
 ces. At the same time, where great uniformity of operation is 
 required, as in several manufactures, or great variety, as in law or 
 physic, Nature, attentive to all our wants, hath also provided for these 
 cases, by implanting in the breast of every person an efficacious 
 principle that leads to habit : an obstinate perseverance in the same 
 occupation, relieves from the pain of excessive uniformity ; and the 
 like perseverance in a quick circulation of different occupations, re- 
 lieves from the pain of excessive variety. And thus we come to 
 take delight in several occupations, that by nature, without habit, 
 are not a little disgustful. 
 
 275. A middle rate also in the train of perceptions between uni- 
 formity and variety, is no less pleasant than between quickness and 
 slowness. The mind of man, so framed, is wonderfully adapted to 
 the course of human affaire, which are continually changing, but 
 not without connection : it is equally adapted to the acquisition of 
 knowledge, which results chiefly from discovering resemblances 
 among differing objects, and differences among resembling objects : 
 such occupation, even abstracting from the knowledge we acquire, 
 
 278. We are guarded against a succession too rapid. Good effects of this to body and 
 
 "aM A moderate rate of succession agreeable; yet the rat* may without pain be varied 
 bv force of habit Final cause of oar taste for variety. Where praat uniforroUr or p n*t 
 wity of action i required, what provision 1 inado for oar comfort.
 
 UNIFOBM1TT AND VABTETY. 179 
 
 is in itself delightful, by preserving a middle rate between too great 
 uniformity and too great variety. 
 
 We are now arrived at the chief purpose of the present chapter ; 
 which is to consider uniformity and variety with relation to the fine 
 arts, in order to discover, if we can, when it is that the one ought to 
 prevail, and when the other. And the knowledge we have obtained 
 will even at first view suggest a general observation, That in every 
 work of art it must be agreeable to find that degree of variety 
 which corresponds to the natural course of our perceptions ; and 
 that an excess in variety or in uniformity must be disagreeable, by 
 varying that natural course. For that reason, works of art admit 
 more or less variety according to the nature of the subject : in a 
 picture of an interesting event that strongly attaches the spectator 
 to a single object, the mind relisheth not a multiplicity of figures 
 nor of ornaments : a picture representing a gay subject, admits 
 great variety of figures and ornaments ; because these are agreeable 
 to the mind in a cheerful tone. The same observation is applicable 
 to poetry and to music. 
 
 27G. It must at the same time be remarked, that one can bear a 
 greater variety of natural objects, than of objects in a picture ; and 
 a greater variety in a picture, than in a description. A real object 
 presented to view, makes an impression more readily than when rep- 
 resented in colors, and much more readily than when represented 
 in words. Hence it is that the profuse variety of objects in some 
 natural landscapes neither breeds confusion nor fatigue ; and for the 
 same reason, there is place for greater variety of ornament in a pic- 
 ture than in a poem. A picture, however, like a building, ought to 
 be so simple as to be comprehended in one view. 
 
 From these general observations, I proceed to particulars. In 
 works exposed continually to public view, variety ought to be 
 studied. It is a rule accordingly in sculpture, to contrast the differ- 
 ent limbs of a statue, in order to give it all the variety possible. 
 In a landscape representing animals, those especially of the same 
 kind, contrast ought to prevail : to draw one sleeping, another awake; 
 one sitting, another in motion ; one moving towards the spectator, 
 another from him, is the life of such a performance. 
 
 277. In every sort of writing intended for amusement, variety is 
 necessary in proportion to the length of the work Want of variety 
 is sensibly felt in Davila's history of the civil wars of France : the 
 events are indeed important and various ; but the reader languishes 
 by a tiresome monotony of character, every person engaged being 
 figured a consummate politician, governed by interest only. It w 
 
 275. A train between uniformity and variety, agreeable; adapted to the course of hu- 
 man affairs, and acquisition of knowledge. What degree of variety Is agreeable in every 
 work of art. 
 
 27<5. We can bear a greater variety of natural objects than In a picture, or description. 
 In works exposed always to public view, var'ty should b itudied. Rule la sculpture; 
 In painting animals on a landscape.
 
 180 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 
 
 hard to say, whether Ovid disgusts more by too great variety, or too 
 great uniformity : his stories are all of the same kind, concluding 
 invariably with the transformation of one being into another ; and 
 so far he is tiresome by excess in uniformity : he is not less fatiguing 
 by excess in variety, hurrying his reader incessantly from story to 
 story. Ariosto is still more fatiguing than Ovid, by exceeding the 
 just bounds of variety : not satisfied, like Ovid, with a succession in 
 his stories, he distracts the reader, by jumbling together a multitude 
 of them without any connection. Nor is the Orlando Furioso less 
 tiresome by its uniformity than the Metamorphoses, though in a 
 different manner : after a story is brought to a crisis, the reader, 
 intent on the catastrophe, is suddenly snatched a\vay to a new 
 stoiy, which makes no impression so long as the mind is occupied 
 with the former. 
 
 APPENDIX TO CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Concerning the Works of Nature, chiefly with respect to Uniformity 
 and Variety. 
 
 278. IN things of Nature's workmanship, whether we regard 
 their internal or external structure, beauty and design are equal}? 
 conspicuous. We shall begin with the outside of nature, as whal 
 first presents itself. 
 
 The figure of an organic body is generally regular. The trunk 
 of a tree, its branches, and their ramifications, are nearly round, and 
 form a series regularly decreasing from the trunk to the smallest 
 fibre : uniformity is nowhere more remarkable than in the leaves, 
 which, in the same species, have all the same color, size, and shape ; 
 the seeds and fruits are all regular figures, approaching, for the most 
 part, to the globular form. Hence a plant, especially of the larger 
 kind, with its trunk, branches, foliage, and fruit, is a charming 
 object. 
 
 In an animal, the trunk, which is much larger than the other 
 parts; occupies a chief place ; its shape, like that of the stem of 
 plants, is nearly round, a figure which of all is the most agreeable : 
 its two sides are precisely similar ; several of the under parts go ofi 
 in pairs, and the two individuals of each pair are accurately uni- 
 form ; the single parts are placed in the middle ; the limbs, bearing 
 a certain proportion to the trunk, serve to support it, and to give it 
 a proper elevation : upon one extremity are disposed the neck and 
 head, in the direction of the trunk : the head being the chief part, 
 
 277. In writing -work, how far variety is necessary. Remarks on Davila, Ovid, tii 
 Orlando Pnrloco.
 
 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 18l 
 
 possesses, with great propriety, the chief place. Hence, the beauty 
 of the whole figure is the result of many equal and proportional 
 parts orderly disposed ; and the smallest variation in number, equality, 
 proportion, or order, never fails to produce a perception of deformity. 
 
 279. Nature in no particular seems more profuse of ornament 
 than in the beautiful coloring of her works. The flowers of plants, 
 the furs of beasts, and the feathers of birds, vie with each other in 
 the beauty of their colors, which in lustre as well as in hannony are 
 beyond the power of imitation. Of all natural appearances, the 
 coloring of the human face is the most exquisite ; it is the strongest 
 instance of the ineffable art of nature, in adapting and proportioning 
 its colors to the magnitude, figure, and position of the parts. In a 
 word, color seems to live in nature only, and to languish under the 
 finest touches of art. 
 
 When we examine the internal structure of a plant or animal, a 
 wonderful subtilty of mechanism is displayed. Man, in his me- 
 chanical operations, is confined to the surface of bodies ; but the 
 operations of nature are exerted through the whole substance, so as 
 to reach even the elementary parts. Thus the body of an animal, 
 and of a plant, are composed of certain great vessels; these of 
 smaller ; and these again of still smaller, without end, as far as we 
 can discover. This power of diffusing mechanism through the most 
 intimate parts, is peculiar to nature, and distinguishes her operations 
 most remarkably from every work of art. Such texture continued 
 from the grosser parts to the- most minute, preserves all along the 
 strictest regularity: the fibres of plants are a bundle of cylindric 
 canals, lying in the same direction, and parallel, or nearly parallel 
 to each other : in some instances, a most accurate arrangement ol 
 parts is discovered, as in onions, formed of concentric coats one 
 within another, to the very centre. An animal body is still more 
 admirable in the disposition of its internal parts, and in their order 
 and symmetry ; there is not a bone, a muscle, a blood-vessel, a 
 nerve, that hath not one corresponding to it on the opposite side ; 
 and the same order is carried through the most minute parts : the 
 lungs are composed of two parts, which are disposed upon the sides 
 of the thorax ; and the kidneys, in a lower situation, have a position 
 no less orderly : as to the parts that are single, the heart is advan- 
 tageously situated near the middle ; the liver, stomach, and spleen, 
 are disposed in the upper region of the abdomen, about the same 
 height : the bladder is placed in the middle of the body, as well as 
 the intestinal canal, which fills the whole cavity with its convolutions. 
 
 280. The mechanical power of nature, not confined to small 
 bodies, reacheth equally those of the greatest size ; witness the bodies 
 
 2T8. The figure of organic bodies. The trunk of a tree. Its branches, &c. In an animal, 
 the trunk, &e. In what the beauty of the whole figure consists. 
 
 279. Coloring of nature; of plants. &c. Subtile or minute mechanism of plants and ani- 
 mals In tholr interior structure. Fibres of plant*. In animal*, correspondence and nappy 
 arrangement of part*.
 
 182 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 
 
 that compose (be solar system, which, however large, are weighed, 
 measured, and subjected to certain laws, with the utmost accuracy. 
 Their places round the sun, with their distances, are determined by 
 ft precise rule, corresponding to their quantity of matter. The 
 superior dignity of the central body, in respect to its bulk and lucid 
 appearance, is suited to the place it occupies. The globular figure 
 of these bodies is not only in itself beautiful, but is above all others 
 fitted for regular motion. Each planet revolves about its own axis 
 in a given time ; and each moves round the sun in an orbit nearly 
 circular, and in a time proportioned to its distance. Their velocities, 
 directed by an established law, are perpetually changing by regular 
 accelerations and retardations. In fine, the great variety of regular 
 appearances, joined with the beauty of the system itself, cannot fail 
 to produce the highest delight in every one who is sensible of design, 
 power, or beauty. 
 
 281. Nature hatu a wonderful power of connecting systems with 
 each other, and of propagating that connection through all her 
 works. Thus the constituent parts of a plant, the roots, the stem, 
 the branches, the leaves, the fruit, are really different systems, united 
 by a mutual dependence on each other: in an animal, the lym- 
 phatic and lacteal ducts, the blood-vessels and nerves, the muscles 
 and glands, the bones and cartilages, the membranes and bowels, 
 wiili the other organs, form distinct systems, which are united into 
 one whole. There are at the same time, other connections less inti- 
 mate: every plant is joined to the earth by its roots: it requires 
 rain and dews to furnish it with juices ; and it requires heat to pre- 
 serve these juices in fluidity and motion : every animal, by its gravity, 
 is connected with the earth, with the element in which it breathes, 
 and with the sun, by deriving from it cherishing and enlivening 
 heat : the earth furnisheth aliment to plants, these to animals, and 
 these again to other animals, in a long train of dependence : that 
 the earth is part of a greater system comprehending many bodies 
 mutually attracting each other, and gravitating all towards one 
 common centre, is now thoroughly explored. Such a regular and 
 uniform series of connections, propagated through so great a number 
 of beings, and through such wide spaces, is wonderful; and our 
 wonder must increase, when we observe these connections propa- 
 gated from the minutest atoms to bodies of the most enormous size, 
 and so widely diffused as that we can neither perceive their begin- 
 ning nor their end. That these connections are not confined within 
 _pur own planetary system, is certain : they ;ire diffused over spaces 
 still more remote, where new bodies and systems rise without end. 
 All space is filled with the works of God, which arc conducted by 
 one plan, to answer unerringly one great end. 
 
 250. The solar system. Its variety and regularity. 
 
 251. Systems wonderfully connected with each other: the constituent parts of plants, 
 o of animals. Other lesa intimate connections. Some not conftni-d to our own [>la:!Urj
 
 UNIFORMITY AND VA.EIETY. 
 
 282. But the most wonderful connection of all, though not the 
 most conspicuous, is that of our internal frame with the works of 
 nature : man is obviously fitted for contemplating these works, because 
 in this contemplation he has great delight. The works of nature are 
 remarkable in their uniformity no less than in their variety ; and the 
 mind of man is fitted to receive pleasure equally from both. Unifor- 
 mity and variety are interwoven in the works of nature with surpris- 
 ing art: variety, however great, is never without some degree of uni- 
 formity ; nor the greatest uniformity without some degree of variety : 
 there is great variety in the same plant, by the different appearances 
 of its stem, branches, leaves, blossoms, trait, size, and color ; and 
 yet, when we trace that variety through different plants, especially 
 of the same kind, there is discovered a surprising uniformity: 
 again, where nature seems to have intended the most exact uniform- 
 ity, as among individuals of the same kind, there still appears a 
 diversity, which serves readily to distinguish one individual from 
 another. It is indeed admirable, that the human visage, in which 
 uniformity is so prevalent, should yet be so marked, as to leave no 
 room, among millions, for mistaking one person for another ; these 
 marks, though clearly perceived, are generally so delicate, that 
 words cannot be found to describe them. A correspondence so per- 
 fect between the human mind and the works of nature, is extremely 
 remarkable. The opposition between variety and uniformity is so 
 great that one would not readily imagine they could both be relished 
 by the same palate : at least not in the same object, nor at the 
 same time : it is however true, that the pleasures they afford, being 
 happily adjusted to each other, and readily mixing in intimate 
 union, are frequently produced by the same individual object Nay, 
 further, in the objects that touch us the most, uniformity and variety 
 are constantly combined : witness natural, objects, where this com- 
 bination is always found in perfection. "Hence it is, that natural 
 objects readily form themselves into groups, and are agreeable in 
 whatever manner combined : a wood with its trees, shrubs, and 
 herbs, is agreeable : the music of birds, the lowing of cattle, and 
 the murmuring of a brook, are in conjunction delightful ; though 
 they stiike the ear without modulation or harmony. In short, noth 
 ing can be more happily accommodated to the inward constitution 
 of man, than that mixture of uniformity with variety, which the 
 eye discovers in natural objects; and, accordingly, the mind is never 
 more highly gratified than in contemplating a natural landscape. 
 
 2S2. The wonderful connection of our Internal frame with the works of nature. These 
 afford pleasure to man from mingling uniformity with variety. For it stance, in plants 
 In individuals of the same kind. The human face Variety and umlonnity relisl 
 the same time and in the same otyect. Natural objects form themselves Into grou[>s. 
 Natural landscape il ilightfuL
 
 184 CONGKUITY AND PEOPKIETT. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY. 
 
 283. MAN is superior to the brute, not more by his rational facul- 
 ties, than by his senses. With respect to external senses, brutes 
 probably yield not to men ; and they may also have some obscure 
 perception of beauty : but the more delicate senses of regularity, 
 order, uniformity, and congruity, being connected with morality and 
 religion, are reserved to dignify the chief of the terrestrial creation. 
 Upon that account, no discipline is more suitable to man, nor more 
 congruous to the dignity of his nature, than that which refines his 
 taste, and leads him to distinguish, in every subject, what is regular, 
 what is orderly, what is suitable, and what is fit and proper. ( Cicero 
 de Officiis, 1. i.) 
 
 It is clear from the very conception of the terms congruity and 
 propriety, that they are not applicable to any single object : they 
 imply a plurality, and obviously signify a particular relation between 
 different objects. Thus we say currently, that a decent garb is 
 suitable or proper for a judge, modest behavior for a young woman, 
 and a lofty style for an epic poem : and, on the other hand, that it 
 is unsuitable or incongruous to see a little woman sunk in an over- 
 grown farthingale, a coat richly embroidered covering coarse and 
 dirty linen, a mean subject in an elevated style, an elevated subject 
 in a mean style, a first minister darning his wife's stocking, or a 
 reverend prelate in lawn sleeves dancing a hornpipe. 
 
 284. The perception we have of this relation, which seems pe- 
 culiar to man, cannot proceed from any other cause, but from a 
 sense of congruity or propriety ; for, supposing us destitute of that 
 sense, the terms would be to us unintelligible.* 
 
 * From many things that pass current in the world without being generally 
 condemned, one at first view would imagine, that the sense of congruity or 
 propriety hath scarce any foundation in nature, and that it is rather an artifi- 
 cial refinement of those who affect to distinguish themselves from others. The 
 fulsome panegyrics bestowed upon the great and opulent, in epistles dedicatory 
 and other such compositions, would incline us to think so. Did there prevail 
 in the world, it will be said, or did nature suggest, a taste of what is suitable, 
 decent, or proper, would any good writer deal in such compositions, or any miin 
 of sense receive them without disgust ? Can it be supposed that Louis XIV. 
 of France was endued by nature with any sense of propriety, when, in a dra- 
 matic performance purposely composed for his entertainment, he suffered 
 himself, publicly and in his presence, to be styled the greatest king ever the 
 earth produced? These, it is true, are strong facts; but luckily they do not 
 proVe the sense of propriety to be artificial : they only prove, that the sense 
 of propriety is at limes overpowered by pride and vanity; which is no singu- 
 lar case, for that sometimes is the fate even of the sense or justice. 
 
 288. Points In which man is superior to the brute. Discipline suitable for man. Terms 
 eangnrity and propriety, not applicable to a single object Instances of wh*t Is proptr ; 
 vf what i ineonyntout.
 
 OONGEU1TY AND PROPRIETY. 185 
 
 It is a matter of experience, that congruity or propriety, wherever 
 perceived, is agreeable ; and that incongruity or impropriety where- 
 ever perceived, is disagreeable. The only difficulty is, to ascertain 
 what are the particular objects that in conjunction suggest these 
 relations ; for there are many objects that do not : the sea, for ex- 
 ample, viewed in conjunction with a picture, or a man viewed in 
 conjunction with a mountain, suggest not either congruity or incon- 
 gruity. It seems natural to inter, what will be found true by in- 
 duction, that we never perceive congruity nor incongruity but 
 among things that are connected by some relation ; such as a man 
 and his actions, a principle and its accessories, a subject and its or- 
 naments. We are indeed so framed by nature, as, among things 
 so connected, to require a certain suitableness or correspondence, 
 termed congruity or propriety ; and to be displeased when we find 
 the opposite relation of incongruity or impropriety* 
 
 285. If things connected be the subject of congruity, it is reason- 
 able beforehand to expect a degree of congruity proportioned to the 
 degree of the connection. And, upon examination, we find our ex- 
 pectation to be well founded : where the relation is intimate, as 
 between a cause and its effect, a whole and its parts, we require the 
 strictest congruity ; but where the relation is slight or accidental, as 
 among things jumbled together, we require little or no congruity : 
 the strictest propriety is required in behavior and manner of living; 
 because a man is connected with these by the relation of cause and 
 efiect. The relation between an edifice and the ground it stands 
 upon is of the most intimate kind, and therefore the situation of a 
 great house ought to be lofty: its relation to neighboring hills, 
 rivers, plains, being that of the propinquity only, demands but a 
 small share of congruity. Among members of the same club, the 
 congruity ought to be considerable, as well as among things placed 
 for show in the same niche : among passengers in a stage-coach we 
 require very little cougruity ; and less still at a public spectacle. 
 
 * In the chapter of beauty, qnnlitied are distinguished into primary and 
 secondary : and to clear some obscurity that may appear in the text, it is 
 proper to be observed, that the same distinction is applicable to relations. 
 Kesemblance, equality, uniformity, proximity, are relations that depend not 
 on us, but exist equally, whether perceived or not ; and upon that account 
 may justly be termed primary relations. But there are other relations, that 
 only appear such to us, and that have not any external existence like primary 
 relation? ; which is the case of congrnity, incongruity, propriety, impropriety ; 
 these may be properly termed secondary relations, llius it appear.-*, troin what 
 is said in the text, that the secondary relations mentioned arise from objects 
 connected by some primary relation. Property is an example of a secondary 
 relation, as it exists nowhere but in the mind. I purchase u field or a horse: 
 the covenant makes the primary relation ; and thu secondary relation built on 
 it, is property. 
 
 284. The sense of coneruity a constituent of our nature. Objecilons answered. Con- 
 Kruity and propriety, agreeable, &c.-Arnong what thln? only congruity or incongruity 
 fa prclved. Primary and secondary relations.
 
 186 CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY. 
 
 Congruity is so nearly allied to beauty as commonly to be held a 
 species of it ; and yet they differ so essentially as never to coincide 
 beauty, like color, is placed upon a single subject ; congruity upon 
 a plurality. Further, a thing beautiful in itself may, with relation 
 to other things, produce the strongest sense of incongruity. 
 
 286. Congruity and propriety are commonly reckoned synony- 
 mous terms; and hitherto in opening the subject they have been 
 used indifferently ; but they are distinguishable, and the precise 
 meaning of each must be ascertained. Congruity is the genus of 
 which propriety is a species ; for we call nothing propriety but that 
 congruity or suitableness which ought to subsist between sensible 
 beings and their thoughts, words, and actions. 
 
 In order to give a full view of these secondary relations, I shall 
 trace them through some of the most considerable primary relations. 
 The relation of a part to the whole, being extremely intimate, de- 
 mands the utmost degree of congruity : even the slightest deviation 
 is disgustful ; witness the Lutrin, a burlesque poem, which is closed 
 with a serious and warm panegyric on Lamoignon, one of the king's 
 judges : 
 
 : : Amphora ccepit 
 
 lustitui ; currente rota, cur urceus exit ? 
 
 287. Examples of congiuity and incongruity are furnished in 
 plenty by the relation between a subject and its ornaments. A litr 
 erary performance, intended merely for amusement, is susceptible of 
 much ornament, as well as a music-room or a playhouse ; for in 
 gayety the mind hath a peculiar relish for show and decoration. 
 The most gorgeous apparel, however improper in tragedy, is not 
 unsuitable to opera-actors : the truth is, an opera, in its present form, 
 is a mighty fine thing; but, as it deviates from nature in its capital 
 circumstances, we look not for nature nor propriety in those which 
 are accessory. On the other, hand, a serious and important subject 
 admits not much ornament^* nor a subject that of itself is extremely 
 beautiful ; and a subject that fills the mind with its loftiness and 
 grandeur, appears best in a dress altogether plain. 
 
 To a person of a mean appearance, gorgeous apparel is unsuit- 
 able ; which, besides the incongruity, shows by contrast the meanness 
 of appearance in the strongest light Sweetness of look and manner 
 requires simplicity of dress joined with the greatest elegance. A 
 stately and majestic air requires sumptuous apparel, which ought 
 
 * Contrary to this rule, the introduction to the third volume of the 0/ujr- 
 acterisf-ics, is a continued chain of metaphors : these in such profusion are too 
 florid for the subject ; and have besides the bad etfect of removing our attention 
 from the principal subject, to fix it upon splendid trifles. 
 
 '285. Congruity is expected in what degree? Instances. Congruity nearly allied to 
 beauty. 
 
 2S6. Congruity and propriety distinguishable. Gelation of a part to the whole demand* 
 eongruity.
 
 CONGRDITY ANL> PROPRIETY. 
 
 not to be gaudy, nor crowded with little ornaments. A woman of 
 consummate beauty can bear to be highly adorned, and yet shows 
 best in a plain dress, 
 
 i For loveliness 
 
 Needn not the foreign aid of ornament, 
 But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most. 
 
 Thomson 1 * Autumn. 
 
 28$. Congruity regulates not only the quantity of ornament, but 
 also the kind. The decorations of a dancing-room ought all of them 
 to be gay. No picture is proper for a church but what has religion 
 for its subject. Every ornament upon a shield should relate to war ; 
 and Virgil, with great judgment, confines the carvings upon the 
 shield of JEneas to the military history of the Romans : that beauty 
 is overlooked by Homer, for the bulk of the sculpture upon the 
 <*hield of Achilles is of the arts of peace in general, and of joy and 
 festivity in particular: the author of Telemachus betrays the same 
 inattention in describing the shield of that young hero. 
 
 In judging of propriety with regard to ornaments, we must at- 
 tend, not only to the nature of the subject that is to be adorned, but 
 also to the circumstances in which it is placed : the ornaments that 
 are proper for a ball will appear not altogether so decent at public 
 worship; and the same person ought 'to dress differently for a mar- 
 riage-feast and for a funeral. 
 
 289. Nothing is more intimately related to a man than his senti- 
 ments, words, and actions ; and therefore we require here the strictest 
 conformity. When we find what we thus require, we have a lively 
 sense of propriety ; when we find the contrary, our sense of impro- 
 priety is no less lively. Hence the universal distaste of affectation, 
 which consists in making a show of greater delicacy and refinement 
 than is suited either to the character or circumstances of the persop. 
 Nothing in epic or dramatic compositions is more disgustfi i than 
 impropriety of manners. In Corueille's tragedy of Cinna, ^Emilia, 
 a favorite of Augustus, receives daily marks of his affection, and is 
 loaded with benefits; yet all the while is laying plots to assassinate 
 her benefactor, directed by no other motive "than to 'avenge her 
 father's death (see Act I. Sc. 2). Revenge against a benefactor, 
 founded solely upon filial piety, cannot be directed by any prin- 
 ciple but that of justice, and therefore never can suggest unlaw- 
 ful means ; yet the crime here attempted, a treacherous murder, 
 is what even a miscreant will scarce attempt against his bitterest 
 enemy. 
 
 257. Instances of conpruity and incongruity in a subject and Its ornaments. Dress re- 
 quiro.l f>r different classes. 
 
 258. Conp-uiiy resrultttes not only the quantity of ornament, but the kind : In a dancing- 
 room, dke.aiwunttRHM are to be considered in judging of propriety. 
 
 J I c Iose rolalil<n <f ">an to liis sentiments, words, and actions. Affectation, what, 
 na why detested. In epic or dramatic composition, what is most disgusting ! Kemarta 
 on the tragedy of Cinna.
 
 188 CONGRUITY AND PKOPKIKTY. 
 
 290. What is said might be thought sufficient to explain the re- 
 lations of congruity and propriety ; and yet the subjeU is not ex- 
 hausted ; on the contrary, the prospect enlarges upon us when we 
 take under view the effects these relations produce in the mind 
 Congruity and propriety, wherever perceived, appear agreeable ; and 
 every agreeable object produceth in the mind a pleasant emotion: 
 incono-ruity and impropriety, on the other hand, are disagreeable, 
 and of Bourse produce painful emotions. These emotions, whether 
 pleasant or painful, sometimes vanish without any consequence ; but 
 more frequently occasion other emotions, to which I proceed. 
 
 When any slight incongruity is perceived in an accidental com- 
 bination of persons or things, as of passengers in a stage-coach, or 
 of individuals dining at an ordinary ; the painful emotion of incon- 
 gruity, after a momentary existence, vanisheth without producing 
 any effect. But this is not the case of propriety and impropriety : 
 voluntary acts, whether words or deeds, are imputed to the author : 
 when proper, we reward him with our esteem ; when improper, we 
 punish him with our contempt. Let us suppose, for example, a gen- 
 erous action suited to the character of the author, which raises in 
 him and in every spectator the pleasant emotion of propriety : this 
 emotion generates in the author both self-esteem and joy; the ior- 
 mer when he considers his relation to the action, and the latter when 
 he considers the good opinion that others will entertain of him : 
 the same emotion of propriety produceth in the spectators esteem 
 for the author of the action ; and when they think of themselves it 
 also produceth by contrast an emotion of humility. To discover the 
 effects of an unsuitable action, we must invert each of these circum- 
 stances : the painful emotion of impropriety generates m the author 
 of the action both humility and shame ; the former when he con- 
 siders his relation to the action, and the latter when he considers 
 what others will think of him : the same emotion of impropriety 
 produceth in the spectators contempt for the author of the action ; 
 and it also produceth, by contrast when they think of themselves, 
 an emotion of self-esteem. Here, then, are many different emotions, 
 derived from the same action considered in different views by differ- 
 ent pei-sons ; a machine provided with many springs, and not a little 
 complicated. Propriety of action, it would seem, is a favorite of 
 Nature or of the Author of Nature, when such care and solicitude 
 is bestowed on it. It is not left to our own choice ; but, like justice, 
 is required at our hands : and, like justice, is enforced by natural 
 rewards and punishments ; a man cannot, with impunity, do any 
 thing unbecoming or improper ; he suffers the chastisement of con- 
 tempt inflicted by others, and of shame inflicted by himself. An 
 
 forced. 

 
 CONGRTJITY AND PROPRIETY. 189 
 
 apparatus so complicated, and so singular, ought to rouse our atten- 
 tion : for nature doth nothing in vain ; and we may conclude with 
 certainty, that this curious branch of the human constitution is in- 
 tended for some valuable purpose. 
 
 291. A gross impropriety is punished with contempt and indig- 
 nation, vrhich are vented against the offender by external expressions ; 
 nor is even the slightest impropriety suffered to pass without some 
 degree of contempt. But there are improprieties of the slighter 
 kind, that provoke laughter ; of which we have examples without 
 end in the blunders and absurdities of our own species : such im- 
 proprieties receive a different punishment, as will appear by what 
 follows. The emotions of contempt and of laughter occasioned by 
 an impropriety of that kind, uniting intimately in the mind of the 
 spectator, are expressed externally by a peculiar sort of laugh, 
 termed a laugh of derision or scorn. (See chapter vii.) An im 
 propriety that thus moves not only contempt but laughter, is distin- 
 guished by the epithet of ridiculous ; and a laugh of derision 01 
 scorn is the punishment provided for it by nature. Nor ought it to 
 escape observation, that we are so fond of inflicting that punishment, 
 as sometimes to exert it even against creatures of an inferior species ; 
 witness a turkey-cock swelling with pride, and strutting with dis- 
 played feathers, which in a gay mood is apt to provoke a laugh of 
 derision. 
 
 We must not expect that these different improprieties are sepa- 
 rated by distinct boundaries ; for of improprieties, from the slightest 
 to the most gross, from the most risible to the most serious, there 
 are degrees without end. Hence it is, that in viewing some unbe- 
 coming actions, too risible for anger, and too serious for derision, the 
 spectator feels a sort of mixed emotion, partaking both of derision 
 and of anger ; which accounts for an expression, common with respect 
 to the impropriety of some actions. Thus we know not whether to 
 laugh or be angry. 
 
 292. It cannot fail to be observed, that in the case of a risible 
 impropriety, which is always slight, the contempt we have for the 
 offender is extremely faint, though derision, its gratification, is ex- 
 tremely pleasant. This disproportion between a passion and its 
 gratification, may seem not conformable to the analogy of nature. 
 In looking about for a solution, I reflect upon what is laid down 
 above, that an improper action not only moves our contempt for the 
 author, but also, by means of contrast, swells the good opinion we 
 have of ourselves. This contributes, more than any other particular, 
 to the pleasure we have in ridiculing follies and absurdities ; and 
 accordingly, it is well known that those who have the greatest share 
 of vanity are the most prone to laugh at others. Vanity, which is 
 a vivid passion, pleasant in itself, and not less so in its gratification, 
 
 291. How * groes impropriety is punished ; how that of a slighter kind. Diirrca of
 
 CONGRtffTY AND PROPRIETY. 
 
 would singly be sufficient to account for the pleasure of ridicule, 
 without borrowing any aid from contempt. Hence appears the 
 reason of a noted observation, That we are the most disposed to 
 ridicule the blunders and absurdities of others, when we are in high 
 spirits; for in high spirits, self-conceit displays itself with more than 
 ordinary vigor. 
 
 293. Having with wary steps traced an intricate road, not with- 
 out danger of wandering, Avhat remains to complete our journey, is 
 to account for the final cause of congruity and propriety, which 
 makes so great a figure in the human constitution. One final cause, 
 regarding congruity, is pretty obvious, that the sense of congruity, 
 as'oue principle of the fine arts, contributes in a_ remarkable degree 
 to our entertainment, which is the final cause assigned above for our 
 sense of proportion (see chapter iii.), and need not be enlarged 
 upon here. Congruity, indeed, with respect to quantity, coincides 
 with proportion ; when the parts of a building are nicely adjusted 
 to each other, it may be said indifferently, that it is agreeable by 
 the congruity of its parts, or by the proportion of its parts. But 
 propriety, which regards voluntary agents only, can never be the 
 same with proportion : a very long nose is disproportioned, but can- 
 not be termed improper. In some instances, it is true, impropriety 
 coincides with disproportion in the same subject, but never in the 
 same respect. I give for an example a very little man buckled to a 
 long toledo: considering the man and the sword with respect ^to 
 size, we perceive a disproportion : considering the sword as the choice 
 of the man, we perceive an impropriety. 
 
 294. The sense of impropriety with respect to mistakes, blunders, 
 and absurdities, is evidently calculated for the good of mankind. 
 In the spectators it is productive of mirth and laughter, excellent 
 recreation in an interval from business. But this is a trifle com- 
 pared to what follows. It is painful to be the subject of ridicule ; 
 and to punish with ridicule the man who is guilty of an absurdity, 
 tends to put him more on his guard in time coming. _ It is well 
 ordered, that even the most innocent blunder is not committed with 
 impunity ; because, were errors licensed where they do no hurt, in- 
 attention would grow into habit, and be the occasion of much hurt. 
 
 The final cause of propriety as to moral duties, is of all the most 
 illustrious. To have a just notion of it, the moral duties that respect 
 others must be distinguished from those that respect ourselves. _ Fi- 
 delity, gratitude, and abstinence from injury, are examples of the 
 first sort ; temperance, modesty, firmness of mind, are examples of 
 the other : the former are made duties by the sense of justice ; the 
 latter by the sense of propriety. Here is a final cause of the sense 
 of propriety that will rouse our attention. It is undoubtedly the 
 
 3k fe'c^'S^^ 
 
 OT; propriety uevtr. InSlauoo. Instance of lmi>roprity coinciding witfc disproportion.
 
 CONGRUITT AND FROttHElT. J9J 
 
 interest of every man to suit his behavior to the dignity of his 
 nature, and to the station allotted him by Providence : for such ra- 
 tional conduct contributes in every respect to happiness, by pre- 
 serving health, by procuring plenty, by gaining the esteem of others, 
 and, which of all is the greatest blessing, by gaining a justly founded 
 self-esteem. But in a matter so essential to our well-being, even 
 self-interest is not relied on : the powerful authority of duty is super- 
 added to the motive of interest. The God of Nature, in all things 
 essential to our happiness, hath observed one uniform method : to 
 keep us steady in our conduct, he hath fortified us with natural laws 
 and principles, preventive of many aberrations, which would daily 
 happen were we totally surrendered to so fallible a guide as is hu- 
 man reason. Propriety cannot rightly be considered in another 
 light than as the natural law that regulates our conduct with respect 
 to ourselves ; as justice is the natural law that regulates our conduct 
 with respect to others. I call propriety a law, no less than justice ; 
 because both are equally rules of conduct that ought to be obeyed : 
 propriety includes that obligation ; for to say an action is proper, is 
 in other words to say, that it ought to be performed ; and to say it 
 is improper, is in other words to say, that it ought to be forborne. 
 It is that very character of ought and should which makes justice a 
 law to us ; and the same character is applicable to propriety, though 
 perhaps more faintly than to justice ; but the difference is in degree 
 only, not in kind ; and we ought, without hesitation and reluctance, 
 to submit equally to the government of both. 
 
 295. But I have more to urge upon that head. To the sense of pro- 
 priety as well as of justice, are annexed the sanctions of rewards and pun- 
 ishments ; which evidently prove the one to be a law as well as the other. 
 The satisfaction a man hath in doing his duty, joined to the esteem 
 and good-will of others, is the reward that belongs to both equally. 
 The punishments also, though not the same, are nearly allied ; and 
 differ in degree more than in quality. Disobedience to the law of 
 justice is punished with remorse ; disobedience to the law of pro- 
 priety, with shame, which is remorse in a lower degree. Every 
 transgression of the law of justice raises indignation in the beholder ; 
 and so doth every flagrant transgression of the law of propriety. 
 Slighter improprieties receive a milder punishment: they are always 
 rebuked with some degree of contempt, and frequently with derision. 
 In general, it is true, that the rewards and punishments annexed to 
 the sense of propriety are slighter in degree than those annexed to 
 the sense of justice ; which is wisely ordered, because duty to others 
 is still more essential to society than duty to ourselves : society, in- 
 
 294. Sense of Impropriety with respect to blunders, Ac., beneficial. Final cause of pro. 
 prietyas to moral duties; those that respect others and ourselves distinguished. Th 
 conduct which self-interest prompts. What motive is added to self-interest. Propriety 
 and justice, natural laws of conduct. 
 
 295. Sanctions of rewards and ptint.shinonU. appended to proprety and justice. Tbif 
 kind* and degree*
 
 192 DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 deed, could cot subsist a moment, were individuals not protected 
 from the headstrong and turbulent passions of their neighbors. 
 
 296. The final cause now unfolded of the sense of propriety, must, 
 to every discerning eye, appear delightful ; and yet this is but a 
 partial view ; for that sense reaches another illustrious end, which is, 
 in conjunction with the sense of justice, to enforce the performance 
 of social duties. In fact, the sanctions visibly contrived to compel a 
 man to be just to himself, are equally serviceable to compel him to 
 be just to others ; which will be evident from a single reflection, 
 that an action, by being unjust, ceases not to be improper : an action 
 never appears more eminently improper, than when it is unjust : it 
 is obviously becoming and suitable to human nature, that each man 
 do his duty to others ; and, accordingly, every transgression of duty 
 to others, is at the same time a transgression of duty to one's self. 
 This is a plain truth without exaggeration ; and it opens a new and 
 enchanting view in the moral landscape, the prospect being greatly 
 enriched by the multiplication of agreeable objects. It appears now, 
 that nothing is overlooked, nothing left undone, that can possibly 
 contribute to the enforcing social duty ; for to all the sanctions that 
 belong to it singly, are superadded the sanctions of self-duty. A 
 familiar example shall suffice for illustration. An act of ingratitude, 
 considered in itself, is to the author disagreeable, as well as to every 
 spectator : considered by the author with relation to himself, it raises 
 self-contempt: considered by him with relation ,to the world, it 
 makes him ashamed : considered by others, it raises their contempt 
 and indignation against the author. These feelings are all of them 
 occasioned by the impropriety of the action. When the action is 
 considered as unjust, it occasions another set of feelings : in the 
 author it produces remorse, and a dread of merited punishment ; 
 and in others, the benefactor chiefly, indignation and hatred directed 
 to the ungrateful person. Thus shame and remorse united in the 
 ungrateful person, and indignation united with hatred in the hearts 
 of others, are the punishments provided by nature for injustice. 
 Stupid and insensible must he be, who, in a contrivance so exquisite, 
 perceives not the benevolent hand of our Creator. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 297. THE terms dignity and meanness are applied to man in point 
 of character, sentiment, and behavior : we say, for example, of one 
 
 296. Sense of propriety and of justice enforces social duties. Duty to others it. also salt- 
 dnty. Evamplo; an <
 
 DIGNITY AND GBACE. 193 
 
 man, that he hath natural dignity in his air and manner ; of another, 
 that he makes a mean figure : we perceive dignity in very action 
 and sentiment of some persons ; meanness and vulgarity in the ac- 
 tions and sentiments of others. With respect to the fine arts, some 
 performances are said to be manly, and suitable to the dignity of 
 human nature ; others are termed low, mean, trivial. Such expres- 
 sions are common, though they have not always a precise meaning. 
 With respect to the art of criticism, it must be a real acquisition to 
 ascertain what these terms truly import ; which possibly may enable 
 us to rank every performance in the fine arts according to its dignity. 
 Inquiring first to what subjects the terms dignity and meanness 
 are appropriated, we soon discover, that they are not applicable to 
 any thing inanimate : the most magnificent palace that ever was 
 built may be lofty, may be grand, but it has no relation to dignity : 
 the most diminutive shrub may be little, but it is not mean. These 
 terms must belong to sensitive beings, probably to man only ; which 
 will be evident when we advance in the inquiry. 
 
 298. Human actions appear in many different lights : in them- 
 selves they appear grand r little ; with respect to the author, they 
 appear proper or improper ; with respect to those affected by them, 
 just or unjust; and I now add, that they are also distinguished by 
 dignity and meanness. If any one incline to think, that, with re- 
 spect to human actions, dignity coincides with grandeur, and mean- 
 ness with littleness, the difference will be evident upon reflecting, 
 that an action may be grand without being virtuous, and little with- 
 out being faulty ; but that we never attribute dignity to any action 
 but what is virtuous, nor meanness to any but what is faulty. Every 
 action of dignity creates respect and esteem for the author ; and a 
 mean action draws upon him contempt. A man is admired for a 
 grand action, but frequently is neither loved nor esteemed for it : 
 neither is a man always contemned for a low or little action. The 
 action of Ca3sar passing the Rubicon was grand ; but there was no 
 dignity in it, considering that his purpose was to enslave his coun- 
 try : Caesar, in a march, taking opportunity of a rivulet to quench 
 his thirst, did a low action, but the action was not mean. 
 
 299. As it appears to me, dignity and meanness are founded on 
 a natural principle not hitherto mentioned. Man is endowed with 
 a SENSE of the worth and excellence of his nature : he deems it more 
 perfect than that of the other beings around him ; and he perceives 
 that the perfection of his nature consists in virtue, particularly in 
 virtues of the highest rank. To express that sense, the term dignity 
 is appropriated. Further, to behave with dignity and to refrain from 
 all mean actions, is felt to be not a virtue only, but a duty : it is a 
 
 297. In what respects the terms dignity and meanness are applied to man ; nd to the 
 One arts. Not applicable to inanimate things. 
 
 298. Different lijrhts in which human actions may b viewed. The dignity of an notion 
 ot coincident with grandeur. Otesar.
 
 194: DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 duty every man owes to himself. By acting in that manner, b at- 
 tracts love and esteem : by acting meanly, or below himself, lie is 
 disapproved and contemned. 
 
 According to the description here given of dignity and meanness, 
 they appear to be a species of propriety and impropriety. Many 
 actions may be proper or improper, to which dignity or meanness 
 cannot be applied : to eat when one is hungry, is proper, but there 
 is no dignity in that action : revenge fairly taken, if against law, is 
 improper, but not mean. But every action of dignity is also proper, 
 and every mean action is also improper. 
 
 300. This sense of the dignity of human nature reaches even our 
 pleasures and amusements: if they enlarge the mind by raising 
 grand or elevated emotions, or if they humanize the mind by exer- ' 
 cising our sympathy, they are approved as suited to the dignity of 
 our nature ; if they contract the mind by fixing it on trivial objects, 
 they are contemned as not suited to the dignity of our nature. 
 Hence, in general, every occupation, whether of use or amusement, 
 that corresponds to the dignity of man, is termed manly ; and every 
 occupation below his nature, is termed childish. 
 
 To those who study human nature, there is a point which has al- 
 ways appeared intricate : How comes it that generosity and courage 
 are more esteemed, and bestow more dignity, than good-nature, or 
 even justice ; though the latter contribute more than the former to 
 private as well as to public happiness ? This question, bluntly pro- 
 posed, might puzzle a cunning philosopher ; but, by means of the 
 foregoing observations, will easily be solved. Human virtues, like 
 other objects, obtain a rank in our estimation, not from their utility, 
 which is a subject of reflection, but from the direct impression they 
 make on us. Justice and good-nature are a sort of negative virtues, 
 that scarce make any impression but when they are transgressed : 
 courage and generosity, on the contrary, producing elevated emo- 
 tions, enliven greatly the sense of a man's dignity, both in himself 
 and in others ; and for that reason, courage and generosity are in 
 higher regard than the other virtues mentioned : we describe them 
 as grand and elevated, as of greater dignity, and more praiseworthy. 
 
 301. This leads us to examine more directly emotions and pas- 
 sions with respect to the present subject ; and it will not be difficult 
 to form a scale of them, beginning with the meanest, and ascending 
 gradually to those of the highest rank and dignity. Pleasure felt at 
 the organ of sense, named corporeal pleasure, is perceived to be low ; 
 and, when indulged to excess, is perceived also to be mean : for that 
 reason, persons of any delicacy dissemble the pleasure they take in 
 eating and drinking. The pleasures of the eye and ear, having no 
 
 299. Dignity and meanness founded on a certain natural principle. Dignity and mean- 
 ness are a species of propriety and impropriety. 
 
 300. Pleasures and amusements, when dignified and manly. How it happens that gen- 
 erosity and courage are more esteemed and bestow more dignity than good-nature, or even 
 Justice.
 
 DIGNITY AND GRACE. 105 
 
 organic feeling (see the Introduction), and being free from any sense 
 of meanness, are indulged without any shame : they even rise to a 
 certain degree of dignity when their objects are grand or elevated. 
 The same is the case of the sympathetic passions :*" a virtuous person 
 behaving with fortitude and dignity under cruel misfortunes, makes 
 a capital figure ; and the sympathizing spectator feels in himself the 
 same dignity. Sympathetic distress at the same time never is mean : 
 ou the contrary, it is agreeable to the nature of a social being, and 
 has general approbation. The rank that love possesses in the scale, 
 depends in a great measure on its object : it possesses a low place 
 when founded on external properties merely ; and is mean when be 
 stowed on a person of inferior rank without any extraordinary quali- 
 fication : but when founded on the more elevated internal properties, 
 it assumes a considerable degree of dignity. The same is the case 
 of friendship. When gratitude is warm, it animates the mind ; but 
 it scarce rises to dignity. Joy bestows dignity when it proceeds 
 from an elevated cause. 
 
 302. If I can depend upon induction, dignity is not a property 
 of any disagreeable passion : one is slight, another severe ; one de- 
 presses the mind, another animates it ; but there is no elevation, far 
 less dignity, in any of them. Revenge in particular, though it in- 
 flame and swell the mind, is not accompanied with dignity, nor even 
 with elevation : it is not, however, felt as mean or grovelling, unless 
 when it takes indirect measures for gratification. Shame and re- 
 morse, though they sink the spirits, are not mean. Pride, a disagree- 
 able passion, bestows no dignity in the eye of a spectator. Vanity 
 always appears mean; and extremely so where founded, as com- 
 monly happens, on trivial qualifications. 
 
 303. I proceed to the pleasures of the understanding, which pos- 
 sess a high rank in point of dignity. Of this every one will be sen- 
 sible, when he considers the important truths that have been laid 
 open by science ; such as general theorems, and the general laws 
 that govern the material and moral worlds. The pleasures of the 
 understanding are suited to man as a rational and contemplative be- 
 ing; and they tend not a little to ennoble his nature: even to the 
 Deity he stretcheth his contemplations, which, in the discovery of 
 infinite power, wisdom, and benevolence, afford delight of the most 
 exalted kind. Hence it appears that the fine arts, studied as a ra- 
 tional science, afford entertainment of great dignity ; superior far to 
 what they afford as a subject of taste merely. 
 
 But contemplation, however in itself valuable, is chiefly respected 
 as subservient to action ; for man is intended to be more an active 
 than a contemplative being. He accordingly shows more dignity in 
 action than in contemplation: generosity, magnanimity, heroism, 
 
 801. Scale of emotions and passions with respect tc dimity 
 t02. Dignity does not belong to any disagreeable passion.
 
 196 DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 raise his character to the highest pitch/ ; these best express the dig- 
 nity of his nature, and advance him nearer to divinity than any other 
 of his attributes. 
 
 304. By every production that shows art and contrivance, our 
 cuiiosity is excited upon two points: first, how it was made ; and 
 next, to what end. Of the two, the latter is the more important in- 
 quiry, because the means are ever subordinate to the end ; and, in 
 fact, our curiosity is always more inflamed by the final than by the 
 efficient cause, This preference is nowhere more visible than in 
 contemplating the works of nature : if in the efficient cause wisdom 
 and power be displayed, wisdom is no less conspicuous in the final 
 cause ; and from it only can we infer benevolence, which, of all the 
 divine attributes, is to man the most important. 
 
 305. Having endeavored to assign the efficient cause of dignity 
 and meanness, by unfolding the principle on which they are founded, 
 we proceed to explain the final cause of the dignity or meanness be- 
 stowed upon the several particulars above mentioned, beginning with 
 corporeal pleasures. These, as far as usual, are, like justice, fenced 
 with sufficient sanctions to prevent their being neglected : hunger 
 and thirst are painful sensations ; and we are incited to animal love 
 by a vigorous propensity : were corporeal pleasures dignified over 
 and above with a place in a high class, they would infallibly disturb 
 the balance of the mind by outweighing the social affections. This 
 is a satisfactory final cause for refusing to these pleasures any degree 
 of dignity ; and the final cause is no less evident of their meanness 
 when they are indulged to excess.. The more refined pleasures of 
 external sense, conveyed by the eye and the ear from natural objects 
 and from the fine arts, deserve a high place in our esteem, because 
 of their singular and extensive utility : in some cases they rise to a 
 considerable dignity, and the very lowest pleasures of the kind are 
 never esteemed mean or grovelling. The pleasure arising from wit, 
 humor, ridicule, or from what is simply ludicrous, is useful, by re- 
 laxing the mind after the fatigue of more manly occupation ; but 
 the mind, when it surrenders itself to pleasure of that kind, loses its 
 vigor, and sinks gradually into sloth.* The place this pleasure 
 occupies in point of dignity, is adjusted to these views ; to make it 
 useful as a relaxation, it is not branded with meanness ; to prevent 
 its usurpation, it is removed from that place but a single degree : no 
 man values himself for that pleasure, even during gratification ; and 
 
 * Nequo enim ita generati a natura sumus, ut ad ludum et jpcum facti esse 
 videamur, sed ad severitatem pptius et ad qusedam studia graviora atque ma- 
 jora. Ludo autem et joco, uti illis quidem licet, sed sicut somno et quietibuB 
 caeteris, turn cum gravibus seriisque rebus satisfecerimus. Cicero de ojfic. lib. 1- 
 
 803. The pleasures of the understanding. Man shows more dignity in action than U 
 tontemplntion. 
 
 804. 1'inal and effictent causes.
 
 DIGNITY AND ORACK. 197 
 
 if it have engrossed more of his time than is requisite for relaxation, 
 he looks back with some degree of shame. 
 
 300. In point of dignity, the social emotions rise above the selfish, 
 and much above those of the eye and ear : man is by his nature a 
 social being, and to qualify him for society it is wisely contrived 
 that he should value himself more for being social than selfish. 
 
 The excellency of man is chiefly discernible in the great im- 
 provements he is susceptible of in society ; these, by perseverance, 
 may be carried on progressively above any assignable limits ; and, 
 even abstracting from revelation, there is great probability that the 
 progress begun here will be corr/pleted in some future state. Now, 
 as all valuable improvements proceed from the exercise of our 
 rational faculties, the Author of our nature, in order to excite us to a 
 due sense of these faculties, hath assigned a high rank to the pleas- 
 ures of the understanding : tlu'ir utility, with respect to this life as 
 well as a future, entitles them to that rank. 
 
 But as action is the aim of all our improvements, virtuous actions 
 justly possess the highest of all the ranks. These, we find, are by 
 nature distributed into different classes, and the first in point of dig- 
 nity assigned to actions that appear not the first in point of use : 
 generosity, for example, in the sense of mankind, is more respected 
 than justice, though the latter is undoubtedly more essential to 
 society ; and magnanimity, heroism, undaunted courage, rise still 
 higher in our esteem. One would readily think that the moral 
 virtues should be esteemed according to their importance. Nature 
 has here deviated from her ordinary path, and great wisdom is shown 
 in the deviation : the efficient cause is explained above, and the 
 final cause explained in the Essays of Morality and Natural Re- 
 ligion. (Part I. Essay ii. chapter iv.) 
 
 307. We proceed to analyze grace, which, being in a good meas- 
 ure an uncultivated field, requires more than ordinary labor. 
 
 Graceful is an attribute : grace and gracefulness express that attrf- 
 bute in the form of a noun. 
 
 That this attribute is agreeable, no one doubts. 
 
 As grace is displayed externally, it must be an object of one or 
 other of our five senses. That it is an object of sight, every person 
 of taste can bear witness ; and that it is confined to that sense, ap- 
 pears from induction ; for it is not an object of smell, nor of taste, 
 nor of touch. Is it an object of hearing ? Some music, indeed, 13 
 termed graceful ; but that expression is metaphorical, as when we 
 say of oilier music that it is beautiful : the latter metaphor, at the 
 same time, is more sweet and easy, which shows how little applica- 
 
 30". Final cause of the meanness of corporeal pleasures; especially when Indulged to 
 excess. PloMSiircs of the eye and ear, how to be regarded. Those from wit, humor, tfec., 
 when nre they dignified? 
 
 8<>0. Why the social emotions rise in onr estimtition shove the selfish. \Vliy a high 
 rank is assigned to the pleasures of the understanding. The rauk which virtuous action! 
 occupy.
 
 198 ' D13NITT AND GRACE. 
 
 ble to music or to sound the former is when taken in its proper 
 sense. 
 
 That it is an attribute of man, is beyond dispute. But of what 
 other beings is it also an attribute ? We perceive at first sight that 
 nothing inanimate is entitled to that epithet. What animal, then, 
 besides man, is entitled ? Surely not an elephant, nor even a lion. A 
 horse may have a delicate shape with a lofty mien, and all his mo- 
 tions may be exquisite ; but he is never said to be graceful. Beauty 
 and grandeur are common to man with some other beings ; but dig- 
 nity is not applied to any being inferior to man ; and, upon the 
 strictest examination, the same appears to hold in grace. 
 
 308. Confining then grace to man, the next inquiry is whether, 
 like beauty, it makes a constant appearance, or in some circum- 
 stances only. Does a person display this attribute at rest as well as 
 in motion, asleep as when awake ? It is undoubtedly connected 
 with motion ; for when the most graceful person is at rest, neither 
 moving nor speaking, we lose sight of that quality as much as of 
 color in the dark. Grace then is an agreeable attribute, inseparable 
 from motion as opposed to rest, and as comprehending speech, looks, 
 gestures, and locomotion. 
 
 As some motions are homely, the opposite to graceful, the next 
 inquiry is, with what motions is this attribute connected ? No man 
 appears graceful in a mask; and, therefore, laying aside the ex- 
 pressions of the countenance, the other motions may be genteel, 
 may be elegant, but of themselves never are graceful. A motion 
 adjusted in the most perfect manner to answer its end, is elegant ; 
 but still somewhat more is required to complete our idea of grace 
 or gracefulness. 
 
 What this unknown more may be, is the nice point. One thing 
 is clear from what is said, that this more must arise from the ex- 
 pression of the countenance : and from what expressions so naturally 
 'as from those which indicate mental qualities, such as sweetness, 
 benevolence, elevation, dignity ? This promises to be a fair analysis, 
 because of all objects, mental qualities affect us the most ; and the 
 impression made by graceful appearance upon every spectator of 
 taste, is too deep for any cause purely corporeal. 
 
 309. The next step is, to examine what are the mental qualities, 
 that, in conjunction with elegance of motion, produce a graceful 
 appearance. Sweetness, cheerfulness, affability, are not separately 
 sufficient, nor even in conjunction. As it appears to me, dignity 
 alone, with elegant motion, may produce a graceful appearance ; but 
 still more graceful with the aid of other qualities, those especially 
 that are the most exalted. 
 
 But this is not all. The most exalted virtues may be the lot of a 
 
 807. Grace an object of sight. Applicable only to man. 
 
 808. Grace inseparable from motion. Definition given. Not all motions are eracefiil 
 Those )f the countenance indicating mental qualities.
 
 RIDICULE. 109 
 
 person whose countenance has little expression : such a person can- 
 not be graceful. Therefore, to produce this appearance, we must 
 add another circumstance, namely, an expressive countenance, dis- 
 playing to every spectator of taste, with life and energy, every thing 
 that passes in the mind. 
 
 Collecting these circumstances together, grace may be defined, 
 that agreeable appearance which arises from elegance of motion, and 
 from a countenance expressive of dignity. Expressions of other 
 mental qualities are not essential to that appearance, but they height- 
 en it greatly. 
 
 Of all external objects, a graceful person is the most agreeable. 
 
 Dancing affords great opportunity for displaying grace, and ha- 
 ranguing still more. 
 
 I conclude with the following reflection : That in vain will a per- 
 son attempt to be graceful, who is deficient in amiable qualities. A 
 man, it is true, may form an idea of qualities he is destitute of; and, 
 by means of that idea, may endeavor to express those qualities by 
 looks and gestures ; but such studied expression will be too faint and 
 obscure to be graceful. " 
 
 CHAPTER XH. 
 
 RIDICULE. 
 
 310. To define ridicule has puzzled and vexed every critic. The 
 definition given by Aristotle is obscure and imperfect. (Poet. cap. v.) 
 Cicero handles it at great length (L. ii. De Oratore), but without 
 giving any satisfaction : he wanders in the dark, and misses the 
 distinction between risible and ridiculous. Quintilian is sensible 
 of the distinction,* but has not attempted to explain it. Luck- 
 ily this subject lies no longer in obscurity : a risible object pro- 
 duceth an emotion of laughter merely (see chapter vii.) : a ridicu- 
 lous object is improper as well as risible, and produceth a mixed 
 emotion, which is vented by a laugh of derision or scorn. (See 
 chapter x.) 
 
 Having, therefore, happily unravelled the knotty part, I proceed 
 to other particulars. 
 
 Burlesque, though a great engine of ridicule, is not confined to 
 
 * Ideoque nnceps ejus rei ratio est, quod a derisu non procul abest risa?. 
 Lib. VI. cap. iii. sect. 1. 
 
 809. What mental qualities, joined with elegance of motion, produco * cnwefUl spi-iar 
 %ncc. Grac Jeflncd. Concluding reflection.
 
 200 RIDICULE. 
 
 that subject ; for it is clearly distinguishable into burlesque that 
 excites laughter merely, and burlesque that provokes derision or rid- 
 icule. A grave subject in which there is no impropriety, may be 
 brought down by a certain coloring so as to be risible ; which is the 
 case of Virgil Travestie, and also the case of the Secchia Rapita : 
 the authors laugh first, in order to make their readers laugh. The 
 Lutrin is a burlesque poem of the other sort, laying hold of a low 
 and trifling incident, to expose the luxury, indolence, and contentious 
 spirit of a set of monks. Boileau, the author, gives a ridiculous 
 air to the subject by dressing it in the heroic style, and affecting to 
 consider it as of the utmost dignity and importance. In a compo- 
 sition of this kind, no image professedly ludicrous ought to find 
 quarter, because such images destroy the contrast ; and, accord- 
 ingly, the author shows always the grave face, and never once betrays 
 a smile. 
 
 311. Though the burlesque that aims at ridicule produces its 
 effect by elevating the style far above the subject, yet it has limits 
 beyond which the elevation ought not to be carried : the poet, con- 
 sulting the imagination of his readers, ought to confine himself to 
 such images as are lively, and readily apprehended : a strained ele- 
 vation, soaring above an ordinary reach of fancy, makes not a pleasant 
 impression : the reader, fatigued with being always upon the stretch, 
 is soon disgusted ; and if he persevere, becomes thoughtless and in 
 different. Further, a fiction gives no pleasure unless it be painted 
 in colors so lively as to produce some perception of reality ; whicl 
 never can be done effectually where the images are formed witl 
 Jabor or difficulty. For these reasons, I cannot avoid condemning 
 the Batrachomuomachia, said to be the composition of Homer : it 
 is beyond the power of imagination to form a clear and lively image 
 of frogs and mice, acting with the dignity of the highest of our 
 species ; nor can we form a conception of the reality of such an 
 action, in any manner so distinct as to interest our affections even in 
 the slightest degree. 
 
 The Rape of the Lock is of a character clearly distinguishable 
 from those now mentioned : it is not properly a burlesque perform- 
 ance, but what may rather be termed a heroi-comical poem : it 
 treats a gay and familiar subject with pleasantry, and with a mod- 
 erate degree of dignity ; the author puts not on a mask like Boileau, 
 nor professes to make us laugh like Tassoni. The Rape of the Lock 
 is a genteel species of writing, less strained than those mentioned ; 
 and is pleasant or ludicrous without having ridicule for its chief aini ; 
 giving way, however, to ridicule where it arises naturally from a 
 particular character, such as that of Sir Plume. Addison's Spccta- 
 
 810. A risible distinguished from a ridiculous object Burlesque of two kinds. Ex- 
 
 811. Of the burlesquo that alms at ridicule, its appropriate style. Rape of tht Lids 
 criticised.
 
 Brmctn.E. 201 
 
 tor *apon the exercise of the fan (No. 102), is extremely gay and lu- 
 dicrous, resembling in its subject the Rape of the Lock. 
 
 312. Humor belongs to the present chapter, because it is connect- 
 ed with ridicule. Congreve defines humor to be "a singular and 
 unavoidable manner of doing or saying any thing, peculiar and 
 natural to one man only, by which his speech and actions are dis- 
 tinguished from those of other men." Weie this definition just, a 
 majestic and commanding air, which is a singular property, is hu- 
 mor ; as also a natural flow of correct and commanding eloquence, 
 which is no less singular. Nothing just or proper is denominated 
 humor ; nor any singularity of character, words, or actions, that is 
 valued or respected. When we attend to the character of a humor- 
 ist, we find that it arises from circumstances both risible and im- 
 proper, and therefore that it lessens the man in our esteem, and 
 makes him in some measure ridiculous. [Wordsworth gives the 
 following representation of a true English ploughboy : 
 
 His joints are stiff; 
 
 Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees 
 Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear, 
 Fellows to those which lustily upheld 
 The wooden stools, for everlasting use, 
 On which our fathers sate. And mark his brow 1 
 Under whose shaggy canopy are set 
 Two eyes, not dim, but of a healthy stare ; 
 Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange ; 
 Proclaiming boldly that they never drew 
 A look or motion of intelligence 
 From infant conning of the Christ-cross row, 
 Or puzzling through a primer, line by line, 
 Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last. Efcurtlon. 
 
 There is, says Prof. Wilson, in the above lines, a kind of forcible 
 humor which may remind the reader of Cowper's manner in the 
 Task. The versification is good, and gives so much point to the 
 thoughts, that it should seem as if custom, rather than necessity, 
 had caused all satires, from Donne to Churchill, to be written in 
 rhyme.] 
 
 Humor in writing is very different from humor in character. 
 When an author insists upon ludicrous subjects with a professed 
 purpose to make his readers laugh, he may be styled a ludicrous 
 writer; but is scarce entitled to be styled a writer of humor. This 
 quality belongs to an author, who, affecting to be grave and serious, 
 paints his objects in such colors as to provoke mirth and laughter. 
 A writer that is really a humorist in character, does this without 
 design : if not, he must affect the character in order to succeed. 
 Swift and Fontaine were humorists in character, and their writings 
 are full of humor. Addison was not a humorist in character ; and 
 yet in his prose writings a most delicate and refined humor prevails. 
 Arbuthnot exceeds them all in drollery and humorous painting; 
 which shows a great genius, because, if I am not jnisiuformed, he 
 had nothing of that peculiarity in his chara-iter. 
 
 P
 
 202 RIDICULE. 
 
 There remains to show by examples the manner of treating sub 
 jects, so as to give them a ridiculous appearance. 
 
 II ne dit jamais, je vous donno, mais, je vous prete le bon jour. Mbliere. 
 
 Orleans. I know him to be valiant. 
 
 Constable. I was told that by one that knows him better than you. 
 Orleans. What's he ? 
 
 Constable. Marry, he told me so himself; and he said he car'd not who 
 fcnew it. Henry V. Shakspeare. 
 
 He never broke any man's head but his own, and that was against a post 
 when he was drunk. Hid. 
 
 Millament. Sententious Mirabell ! Pr'ythee don't look with that violent and 
 flexible wise face, like Solomon at the dividing of the child, in an old tapestry 
 hanging. . Way O f the World. 
 
 A true critic, in the perusal of a book, is like a dog at a feast, whose thoughts 
 and stomach are wholly set upon what the guests fling away, and consequently 
 is apt to snarl most when there are the fewest bones. Tale of a, Tub. 
 
 313. In the following instances, the ridicule arises from absurd 
 conceptions in the persons introduced : 
 
 Valentine. Your blessing, Sir. 
 
 Sir Sampson. You've had it already, Sir ; I think I sent it you to-day in a 
 bill for four thousand pound ; a great deal of money, Brother Foresight. 
 
 Foresight. Ay indeed, Sir Sampson, a great deal of money for a young man ; 
 I wonder what can he do with it. Love for Love, Act II. Sc. 7. 
 
 Millament. I nauseate walking ; 'tis a country-diversion ; I loathe the country, 
 and every thing that relates to it. 
 
 Sir Wilful. Indeed ! hah ! look ye, look ye, you do ? nay, 'tis like you 
 
 m &y here are choice of pastimes here in town, as plays and the like ; that 
 
 must be confess'd indeed. 
 
 Millament. Ah I'etourdie ! I hate the town too. 
 
 Sir Wilful. Dear heart, that's much hah ! that you should hate 'em 
 
 both ! hah ! 'tis like you may; there are some can't relish the town, and others 
 
 can't away with the country 'tis like you may be one of these, Cousine. 
 
 Way of the Worli, Act IV. Sc. 4. 
 
 Lord Froth. I assure you, Sir Paul, I laugh at nobody's jests but my own, or 
 a lady's : I assure you, Sir Paul. 
 
 Brisk. How? how, my lord? what, affront my wit? Let me perish, do I 
 never say any thing worthy to be laugh'd at ? 
 
 Lord Froth. foy, don't misapprehend me, I don't say so, for I often smile 
 at your conceptions. But there is nothing more unbecoming a man of quality 
 than to laugh ; 'tis such a vulgar expression of the passion I everybody can 
 laugh. Then especially to laugh at the jest of an inferior person, or when 
 anybody else of the same quality does not laugh with one ; ridiculous ! To 
 be pleas'd with what pleases the crowd ! Now, when I laugh I always laugh 
 alone. Double Dealer, Act I.'Sc. 4. 
 
 So sharp-sighted is pride in blemishes, and so willing to be grati- 
 fied, that it takes up with the very slightest improprieties ; such as 
 a blunder by a foreigner in speaking our language, especially if the 
 blunder can bear a sense that reflects on the speaker : 
 
 Quickly. The young man is an honest man. 
 
 Caius. What shall de honest man do in my closet ? dere is no honest man 
 dat shall come in my closet. Merry Wives of Windsor. 
 
 312. Humor (in character) defined. A ludicrous writer distinguished from aw Her of 
 butnor. Swift, For^ine, Addison, Arbuthnof, Example*.
 
 RIDICULE. 203 
 
 Love speeches are fiuely ridiculed in the following passage : 
 
 Quoth ho, My faith as adamantine, 
 
 As chains of destiny, I'll maintain ; 
 
 True as Apollo ever spoke, 
 
 Or oracle from heart of oak ; 
 
 And if you'll give my flame but vent, 
 
 Now in close hugger mugger pent, 
 
 And shine upon me but benignly, 
 
 With that one and that other pigsney, 
 
 The sun and day shall sooner part, 
 
 Thau love, or you, shake off my heart; 
 
 The sun that shall no more dispense 
 
 His own but your bright influence : 
 
 I'll carve your name on barks of trees, 
 
 With true love-knots, and flourishes; 
 
 That shall inftfse eternal spring, 
 
 And everlasting flourishing : 
 
 Drink ev'ry letter on't in stum. 
 
 And make it brisk champaign become. 
 
 Where'er you tread, your foot shall set 
 
 The primrose and the violet ; 
 
 All spices, perfumes, and sweet powders, 
 
 Shall borrow from your breath their odora 
 
 Nature her charter shall renew, 
 
 And take all lives of things from you ; 
 
 The world depend upon your eye, 
 
 And when you frown upon it, die. 
 
 Only our loves shall still survive, 
 
 New worlds and natures to outlive ; 
 
 And, like to herald's moons, remain 
 
 All crescents, without change or wane. 
 
 Jfudibras, Part II. canto 1. 
 
 3 1 4. Irony turns things into ridicule in a peculiar manner ; it 
 consists in laughing at a man under disguise of appealing to praise 
 or speak well of him. Swift affords us many illustrious examples 
 of that species of ridicule. Take the following : 
 
 By these methods, in a few weeks, there starts up many a writer, capable of 
 managing the profoundest and most universal subjects. For what though his 
 head bo empty, provided his common-place book be full 1 And if you will 
 bate him but the circumstances of method, and style, and grammar, and inven- 
 tion ; allow him but the common privileges of transcribing from others, and 
 digressing from himself, as often as he sliull see occasion ; he will desire no 
 more ingredients towards fitting up a trcntise 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 inscribed on a label; 
 never to be thumbed or greased by students, nor bound to everlasting chains of 
 darkness in a library ; but when the fullness of time is come, shall happily under- 
 go the trial of purgatory, in order to ascend the sky. Tale of a Tub, sect. vii. 
 
 I cannot but congratulate our age on this peculiar felicity, that though wo 
 have indeed made great progress in all other branches of luxury, wo are not 
 yet debauched with any high rtlish in poetry, but are in this one taste less met 
 than our ancestors. 
 
 If the reverend clergy showed more concern than others, I charitably impnto 
 it to their great charge of souls : and what confirmed me in this opinion wa.*, 
 that the degrees of apprehension and terror could be distinguished to be great- 
 er or less, according to their ranks and degrees in the church.* 
 
 * A true and faithful narrative of what passed in London, during the gen- 
 eral consternation of all ranks and degrees of mankind. 
 
 SIS. Quotations.- 3H. I*ony. ExatnpU* from Swift.
 
 204 RIDICULE. 
 
 315. A parody must be distinguished from every species of ridi- 
 cule : it enlivens a gay subject by imitating some important incident 
 that is serious : it is ludicrous, and may be risible ; but ridicule is 
 not a necessary ingredient. Take the following examples, the first 
 of which refers to an expression of Moses : 
 
 The skilful nymph reviews her force with care : 
 
 Let spades be trumps ! she said, and trumps they were. 
 
 Rape of the Lock, Canto iii. 45. 
 
 The next is in imitation of Achilles' oath in Homer : 
 
 But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear, 
 
 (Which never more shall join its parted hair, 
 
 Which never more its honors shall renew, 
 
 Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew), 
 
 That while my nostrils draw the vital air, 
 
 This hand which won it, shall forever wear. 
 
 He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread 
 
 The long-contended honors of her head.' Ibid. Canto iv. If 3. 
 
 The following imitates the history of Agamemnon's sceptre in 
 Homer : 
 
 Now meet thy fate, incensed Belinda cried, 
 And drew a deadly bodkin from her side, 
 (The same, his ancient personage to deck, 
 Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck. 
 In three seal rings : which after, melted down,' 
 Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown : 
 Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, 
 The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew: 
 Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs, 
 Which long she wore and now Belinda wears'/. 
 
 Ibid. Canto v. 87. 
 
 Though ridicule, as observed above, is no necessary ingredient in 
 a parody, yet there is no opposition between them : ridicule may 
 be successfully employed in a parody ; and a parody may be em- 
 ployed to promote ridicule. 
 
 The interposition of the gods, in the manner of Homer and Vir- 
 gil, ought to be confined to ludicrous subjects, which are much en- 
 livened by such interposition handled in the form of a parody ; wit- 
 ness the Cave of Spleen, Rape of the Loch, canto iv. ; the goddess 
 of Discord, Lutrin, canto i.; and the goddess of Indolence, canto ii. 
 
 ["The secret of parody lies merely in transposing or applying at 
 a venture to any thing, or to the lowest objects, that which is ap- 
 plicable only to certain given things, or to the highest matters. 
 'From the sublime to the ridiculous there is but a step.' The 
 slightest want of unity of impression destroys the sublime ; the de- . 
 tection of the smallest incongruity is an infallible ground to rest tho 
 ludicrous upon. But in serious poetry, which aims at riveting our 
 affections, every blow must tell home. The missing a single time is 
 fatal, and undoes the spell. We see how difficult it is to sustain a 
 ontinued flight of impressive sentiment : how easy it must be then 
 .o travesty or burlesque it, to flounder into nonsense, and be witty 
 by playing the fool. It is a common mistake, however, to suppose
 
 RIDICULE. 205 
 
 that parodies degrade, or imply a stigma on the subject ; on the 
 contrary, they in general imply something serious or sacred in the 
 originals. Without this they would be good for nothing; for the 
 immediate contrast would be wanting, and with this they are sure tP 
 tell. The best parodies are, accordingly, the best and most strikinp 
 things reversed. Witness the common travesties of Homer and 
 Virgil." Hazlitt, Lect. L] 
 
 316. Those who have a talent for ridicule, which is seldom united 
 with a taste for delicate and refined beauties, are quick-sighted in 
 improprieties ; and these they eagerly grasp in order to gratify their 
 favorite propensity. Persons galled are provoked to maintain, that 
 ridicule is improper for grave subjects. Subjects renlly grave are 
 by no means tit for. ridicule : but then it is urged against them, that 
 when it is called in question whether a certain subject be really 
 grave, ridicule is the only means of determining the controversx 
 Hence a celebrated question, Whether ridicule be or be not a test 01 
 truth ? I give this question a place here, because it tends to illus- 
 trate the nature of ridicule. 
 
 The question stated in accurate terms is, Whether the sense of 
 ridicule be the proper test for distinguishing ridiculous objects, from 
 what are not so. Taking it for granted, that ridicule is not a sub- 
 ject of reasoning, but of sense or taste (see chap. x. 'compared with 
 chap, vii.), I proceed thus. No person doubts but that our sense of 
 beauty is the true test of what is beautiful ; and our sense of gran- 
 deur, of what is great or sublime. Is it more doubtful whether 
 our sense of ridicule be the true test of what is ridiculous ? It is 
 not only the true test, but indeed the only test ; for this subject 
 comes not, more than beauty or grandeur, under the province of 
 reason. If any subject, by the influence of fashion or custom, have 
 acquired a degree of veneration to which naturally it is not entitled, 
 what are the proper means for wiping off the artificial coloring, and 
 displaying the subject in its true light? A man of true taste sees 
 the subject without disguise ; but if he hesitate, let him apply the 
 test of ridicule, which separates it from its artificial connections, 
 and exposes it naked with all its native improprieties. 
 
 317. But it is urged, that the gravest and most serious matters 
 may be set in a ridiculous light. Hardly so ; for where an object 
 is neither risible nor improper, it lies not open in any quarter to an 
 attack from ridicule. But supposing the fact, I foresee not any 
 harmful consequence. By the same sort of reasoning, a talent for 
 wit ought to be condemned, because it may be employed to bur- 
 lesque a great or lofty subject. Such irregular use made of a talent 
 for wit or ridicule, cannot long impose upon mankind : it cannot 
 stand the test of correct and delicate taste; and truth will at las! 
 
 315. A parody. Example from the Rape of th Lock. Remarks of Haxlltt 
 
 816. Whether ridicule Is a test of truth. Question stated in i erwt term* Tht 
 
 tlior'a argument
 
 20*1 RIDICULE. 
 
 prevail even with the vulgar. To condemn a talent for ridicule be- 
 cause it may be perverted to wrong purposes, is not a little ridiculous: 
 could one forbear to smile, if a talent for reasoning were condemned 
 because it also may be perverted ? and yet the conclusion in the 
 latter case, would be not less just than in the former : perhaps more 
 just ; for no talent is more frequently perverted than that of reason. 
 We had best leave nature to her own operations : the most valu- 
 able talents may be abused, and so may that of ridicule ; let us bring 
 it under proper culture if we can, without endeavoring to pluck it up 
 by the root. Were we destitute of this test of truth, I know not 
 what might be the consequences : I see not what rule would be left 
 us to prevent splendid trifles passing for matters of importance, and 
 show and form for substance, and superstition or enthusiasm for pure 
 religion. 
 
 318. [While there is much truth in the statements above made 
 conceming Ridicule, there is also much and dangerous error. 
 
 As Dr. Blair observes : " Many vices might be more successfully 
 exploded by employing ridicule against them, than by serious attacks 
 and arguments. At the same time it must be confessed, that ridicule 
 is an instrument of such a nature, that when managed by unskilful 
 or improper hands, there is hazard of its doing mischief, instead of 
 good, to society. For ridicule is far from being, as some have 
 maintained it to be, a test of truth. On the contrary, it is apt to 
 mislead and seduce, by the colors which it throws upon its objects ; 
 and it is often more difficult to judge whether these colors be natural 
 and proper, than it is to distinguish between simple trath and error. 
 Licentious writers, therefore, of the comic class, have too often had 
 it in their power to cast a ridicule upon characters and objects which 
 did not deserve it." 
 
 319. Lord Shaftesbury advocated the same false doctrine as Lord 
 Kames ; but Dr. Leland has clearly exposed his error, in the follow- 
 ing remarks : " The best and wisest men in all ages have always 
 recommended a calm attention and sobriety of mind, a cool and 
 impartial examination and inquiry, as the properest disposition for 
 finding out truth, and judging concerning it. But according to his 
 lordship's representation of the case, those that apply themselves to 
 the searching out of truth, or judging what is really true, serious, 
 and excellent, must endeavor to put themselves in a merry hximor, 
 to raise up a gayety of spirit, and seek whether in the object they are 
 examining they cannot find out something that may be justly laughed 
 at. And it is great odds that a man who is thus disposed will find 
 out something fit, as he imagines, to excite his mirth, in the most 
 serious and important subject in the world. Such a temper is so 
 far from being a help to a fair and unprejudiced inquiry, that it is 
 
 817. Objection stated and replied to. Is ridicule to be abandoned? Importance ol a 
 fcilt-nt for 'ridicule. 
 SIS. Remark on Kames' doctrine concerning ridicule. Dr. Blmrs observations.
 
 wrr. 207 
 
 one of the greatest hindrances to it. A strong turn to ridicule has 
 a tendency to disqualify a man for cool and sedate reflection, and to 
 render him impatient of the pains that are necessary to a rational 
 and deliberate search." * * * * 
 
 320. Dr. Leland proceeds to say: "Our noble author, indeed, 
 frequently observes that truth cannot be hurt by ridicule, since, when 
 the ridicule is wrong placed, it will not hold. It will readily be 
 allowed that truth and honesty cannot be the subject of just ridi- 
 cule ; but then this supposes that ridicule itself must be brought to 
 the test of cool reason ; and accordingly his lordship acknowledges, 
 that it is in reality a serious study to temper and regulate that 
 humor. And thus, after all, we are to return to gravity and serious 
 reason, as the ultimate test and criterion of ridicule, and of every 
 thing else. But though the most excellent things cannot be justly 
 ridiculed, and ridicule, when thus applied, will, in the judgment of 
 thinking men, render him that uses it ridiculous; yet there are 
 many persons on whom it will have a different effect The ridicule 
 will be apt to create prejudices in their minds, and to inspire them 
 with a contempt, or at least a disregard of things, which, when rep- 
 resented in a proper light, appear to be of the greatest worth and 
 
 importance Weak and unstable minds have been driven into 
 
 atheism, profaneness, and vice, by the force of ridicule, and have 
 been made ashamed of that which they ought to esteem their 
 glory."] 
 
 CHAPTER Xin. 
 
 WIT. 
 
 321. Wrr is a quality of certain thoughts and expressions: the 
 term is never applied to an action nor a passion, and as little to an 
 external object. 
 
 However difficult it may be, in many instances, to distinguish a 
 witty thought or expression from one that is not so, yet, in general, 
 it may be laid down that the term wit is appropriated to such 
 thoughts and expressions as are ludicrous, and also occasion some 
 legree of surprise by their singularity. Wit, also, in a figurative 
 sense, expresses a talent for inventing ludicrous thoughts or expres- 
 sions : we say commonly a witty man, or a man of teit, 
 
 319. Dr. Leland's strictures upon ghaftosbnry. The method of searcblnr out troth 
 uraestfd by the wisest men. Lord Shaftesbnry's proposed method. OI>j*c 
 method. Effect of ft strong turn for ridicule. 
 
 820. Remarks on the statement that truth cannot be hurt by ridicule. R*M>n 
 f t te*t of what? Bad effect of ridlcnilnjr snored thtnp.
 
 208 wrr. 
 
 Wit in its proper sense, as explained above, is distinguishable into 
 two kinds : wit in the thought, and wit in the words or expression. 
 Again, wit in the thought is of two kinds : ludicrous images, and 
 ludicrous combinations of things that have little or no natural 
 relation. 
 
 Ludicrous images that occasion surprise by their singularity, as 
 having little or no foundation in nature, are fabricated by the 
 imagination : and the imagination is well qualified for the office ; 
 being of all our faculties the most active, and the least under re- 
 straint. Take the following example : 
 
 Shylock. You knew (none so well, none so well as you) of my daughter's 
 flight. 
 
 tfalino. That's certain: I for my part knew the tailor that made the wings 
 she flew withal. Merchant of Venice, Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 The image here is undoubtedly witty. It is ludicrous : and it must 
 occasion surprise; for having no natural foundation, it is altogether 
 unexpected. 
 
 [According to Hazlitt, " the ludicrous is where there is a contra- 
 diction between the object and our expectations, heightened by some 
 deformity or inconvenience, that is, by its being contrary to what is 
 customary or desirable ; as the ridiculous, which is the highest de- 
 gree of the laughable, is that which is contrary not only to custom, 
 but to sense and reason, or is a voluntary departure from what we 
 have a right to expect from those who are conscious of absurdity 
 and propriety in words, looks, and actions."] 
 
 322. The other branch, of wit in the thought, is that only which 
 is taken notice of by Addison, following Locke, who defines it " to 
 lie in the assemblage of ideas; and putting those together, with 
 quickness and variety, wherein can be found any resemblance or 
 congruity, thereby to make up pleasant pictures and agreeable 
 visions in the fancy." (B. ::. ch. xi. sect. 2.) It may be defined 
 more concisely, and perhaps more accurately, " A junction of things 
 by distant and fanciful relations, which surprise because they are 
 unexpected." (See chapter i.) The following is a proper example : 
 
 We grant, although he had much wit, 
 
 He was very shy of using it, 
 
 As being loth to wear it out; 
 
 And, therefore, bore it not about, 
 
 Unless on holidays, or so, 
 
 As men their best apparel do. Hudibrcu, Canto i. 
 
 Wit is of all the most elegant recreation : the image enters tte 
 mind with gayety, and gives a sudden flash, which is extremely 
 pleasant. Wit thereby gently elevates without straining, raises 
 mirth without dissoluteness, and relaxes while it entertains. 
 
 SZi. To wt the term wit Is appropriated. In a figurative sense, to what applied. 
 Two kind* of wit In the proper sense. Two kinds of wit in thougat. The ourc o 
 '.ndlQroiu images. Hazlitt's account of the ludicruu*.
 
 WIT. 209 
 
 [Wit and humor compared. "Humor is describing the ludi- 
 crous as it is in itself; wit is the exposing it, by comparing or con- 
 trasting it with something else. Humor is the growth of nature and 
 accident; wit is the product of art and fancy. Humor, as it is 
 shown in books, is an imitation of the natural or acquired absur- 
 dities of mankind, or of the ludicrous in accident, situation, and 
 character ; wit is the illustrating and heightening the sense of that 
 absurdity by some sudden and unexpected likeness or opposition of 
 one thing to another, which sets oft' the quality we laugh at or de- 
 spise in a still more contemptible or striking point of view. 'Wit, at 
 distinffiiished from poetry, is the imagination or fancy inverted, and 
 so applied to given objects as to make the little look less, the mean 
 more light and worthless ; or to divert our admiration or wean our 
 affections from that which is lofty and impressive, instead of pro- 
 ducing a more intense admiration and exalted passion, as poetry 
 does. Wit hovers round the borders of the light and trifling, 
 whether in matters of pleasure or pain ; for as soon as it describes tho 
 serious seriously, it ceases to be wit, and passes into a different form. 
 The favorite- employment of wit is to add littleness to littleness, and 
 heap contempt on insignificance by all the arts of petty and inces- 
 sant warfare ; or if it ever affects to aggrandize and use the lan- 
 guage of hyperbole, it is only to betray into derision by a fatal com- 
 parison, as in the mock-heroic ; or if it treats of serious passion, it 
 must do so as to lower the tone of intense and high-wrought senti- 
 ment by the introduction of burlesque and familiar circumstances." 
 Hazlitt.} 
 
 323. Wit in the expression, commonly. called a play of wordt, 
 being a bastard sort of wit, is reserved for the last place. I proceed 
 to examples of wit in the thought ; and first of ludicrous imnges. 
 
 Falstaff, speaking of his taking Sir John Coleville of the Dale : 
 
 Here he is, and here I yield him ; and I beseech your Grace, let it be book'd 
 with the rest of this day's deeds : or, by the Lord, I will have it in a particular 
 ballad else, with mine own picture on the top of it, Coleville kissing tny foot : 
 to the which course if 1 be enforced, if you do not all show like gilt twopence* 
 to me ; and I, in the clear sky of fume, o'ershine you as much as the full moon 
 doth the cinders of the element, which show like pin's-heads to her : believe 
 not the word of the 'Noble. Therefore let me have right, and let desert mount. 
 -Stcond Part Henry IV. Act IV. Sc. 6. 
 
 I knew, when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the nr- 
 ties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an if; as, If you said o, 
 then I said so ; and they shook hands, and swore brothers. Your i/'a the only 
 peacemaker ; much virtue in if. Shakspeare. 
 
 An I have forgotten what tho inside of a church is made of, I am a pepper- 
 corn, a brewer's horse: The inside of a church! Company, villatoos com- 
 pany, hath been the spoil of me. Ib. 
 
 The wnr hath introduced abundance of polysyllables, which will never be 
 able to live many more campaigns. Speculations, operations, preliminaries, 
 
 822. Definitions of ths other branch, of wit in the thoucht Example from Hudlbm. 
 Wit, as a recreation. Wit, distinguished from humor, and from jooti-y.
 
 210 WIT. 
 
 ambassadors, palisadoes, communication, circurnvallatior., battalions, as nu 
 merous as they are, if they attack us too frequently in our coftee-houses, wo 
 ehall certainly put them to flight, and cut off the rear. TaOer, No. 330. 
 
 Speaking of Discord : 
 
 She never went abroad but she brought home such a bundle of monstrous 
 lies as would have amazed any mortal but such as knew her : of a whale that 
 had swallowed a fleet of ships ; of the lions being let out of the Tower to 
 destroy the Protestant religion ; of the Pope's being seen in a brandy-shop 
 at Wa'pping, &c. History of John Hull, part i. ch. xvi. 
 
 324. The other branch, of wit in the thought, namely, ludicrous 
 eombinations and oppositions, may be traced through various rami- 
 fications. And, first, fanciful causes assigned that have uo natural 
 relation to effects produced : 
 
 Lancast. Fare you well, Falstaff; I, in my condition, shall better speak of 
 you than you deserve. [Exit. 
 
 Falstaff. I would you had but the wit; 'twere better than your dukedom. 
 Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me ; nor a 
 man cannot make him laugh ; but that's no "marvel, he drinks no wine. 
 There's never any of these demure boys come to any proof; for thin drink 
 doth so overcool their blood, and making many fish-meals, that they fall into 
 a kind of male green-sickness ; and then, when they marry, they get wenches. 
 They are generally fools and cowards ; which some of us should be top, but 
 for inflammation. A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it : it 
 ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the foolish, dull, and crudy 
 vapors which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nim- 
 ble, fiery, and delectable shapes ; which delivered o'er to the voice, the tongue, 
 which i's the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your ex- 
 cellent sherris is, the warming of the blood ; which, before cold and settled, left 
 the liver white and pale ; which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice : 
 but the sherris warms it, and makes it course from the inwards to the parts ex- 
 treme ; it illuminateth the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the 
 rest of this little kingdom, rnaji, to arm ; and then the vital commoners and 
 inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart, who, great and 
 puff' d up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage : and thus valor comes 
 of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets 
 it a-work ; and learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack com- 
 mences it, and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is 
 valiant ; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like 
 lean, sterile, and bare land, manured, husbanded, and till'd, with excellent 
 endeavor of drinking good and good store of fertile sherris, that he is be- 
 oome very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand sons, the first human princi- 
 ple I would teach them, should be to forswear thin potations, and to addict 
 themselves to sack. Second Part Henry IV. Act IV. So. 7. 
 
 The trenchant blade Toledo trusty, 
 For want of fighting was grown rusty, 
 And ate into itself, for lack 
 Of somebody to hue and hack. 
 The peaceful scabbard where it dwelt, 
 The rancor of its edge had felt: 
 For of the lower end two handful 
 It had devour'd, 'twas so manful ; 
 And so much scorn'd to lurk in case, 
 As if it durst not show its face. Hudibras', Canto i 
 
 Speaking of Physicians : 
 Le bon de cette profession est, qu'il y a parmi les morts une honnetete", ana 
 
 023. Examples of ludicrous linages.
 
 211 
 
 discretion la plus grande du monde ; jamaia on n'cn voit so phundro du raM*. 
 em qui la tud. Le medecin malgre lai. 
 
 325. To account for effects by such fantastical causes, being 
 highly ludicrous, is quite improper in any serious composition. 
 Therefore the following passage from Cowley, in his poem on the 
 death of Sir Henry Wooton, is in a bad taste : 
 
 He did the utmost bounds of knowledge find, 
 He found them not BO large as was his rnind. 
 But, like the brave Pellaean youth, did moan, 
 Because that art had no more worlds than one. 
 And when he saw that he through all had past, 
 He dyed, lest he should idle grow at last. 
 
 Fanciful reasoning : 
 
 FaUtaff. Imbowell'd ! if thou imbowel me to-day, I'll give yon leave to 
 
 powder me, and eat me to-morrow ! . 'Sblood *twas time to counterfeit, or that 
 hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit ! I lie, I am nc 
 counterfeit ; to die is to be a counterfeit ; for he is but the counterfeit of a mas. 
 who hath not the life of a man ; but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby 
 livetn, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect imago of life indeed. 
 First Part Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 10. 
 
 Jessica. I shall be saved by my husband ; he hath made me a Christian. 
 
 Launcelot. Truly the more to "blame he ; we were Christians enough before, 
 e'en as many as could well live by one another: this making of Christians will 
 raise the price of hogs ; if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall i.ot have a 
 rasher on the coals for money. Merchant of Venice, Act III. Sc. 6. 
 
 In western clime there is a town, 
 
 To those that dwell therein well known ; 
 
 Therefore there needs no more be said here, 
 
 We unto them refer our reader : 
 
 For brevity is very -good 
 
 When we are, or are not understood. 
 
 Hudibras, Canto i. 
 
 326. L'idicrous junction of small things with great, as of equal 
 importance : 
 
 This day black omens threat the brightest fair 
 
 That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care : 
 
 Some dire disaster, or by force or slight ; 
 
 But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night: 
 
 Whether the nymph shall break Dianas law; 
 
 Or some frail china jar receive a flaw ; 
 
 Or stain her honor, or her new brocade ; 
 
 Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; 
 
 Or lose her neart, or necklace, at a ball ; 
 
 Or whether Heaven has doom'd that Shock must fall. 
 
 liapeoflht Lock, Canto ii. 101. 
 
 One speaks the glory of the British queon, 
 And one describes a charming Indian screen. 
 
 Ibid. Cnnto iii. 18. 
 
 824. Firut class of ludicrous combinations and oppositions. Example* of fcnciful 
 uelsned. 
 
 325. Asw^rnlng effects to fantastical causes improper In a serious composition. 
 f Cowleys bad tosto. Examples of fanciful reasoning.
 
 212 WIT. 
 
 / 
 
 Then flash'd the living lightt- ng from her eyes, 
 And screams of horror rend tt' affrighted skies. 
 Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, 
 "When husbands, or when lapdogs, breathe their last; 
 Or when rich china vessels fallen from high, 
 In glittering dust and painted fragments lie ! 
 
 Ibid. Canto m. 155. 
 
 327. Joining things that in appearance are opposite. As, for 
 example, where Sir Roger de Coverly, in the Spectator, speaking of 
 his widow, 
 
 That he would have given her a coal-pit to have kept her in clean linen ; and 
 that her finger should have sparkled with one hundred of his richest acres. 
 
 Premises that promise much and perform nothing. Cicero upon 
 that article says, 
 
 Sed scitis esse notissimum ridiculi genus, cum aliud expectamus, aliud dici- 
 tur : hie nobismetipsis noster error risum movet. De Oratore, 1. 11. cap. 6,3. 
 
 Beatrice. With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough 
 
 in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world, if he cou 
 her good-will. Much Ado about Nothing, Act II. Sc. 1. 
 
 Beatrice. I have a good eye, uncle, I can see a church by daylight. Ibid. 
 
 Le medicin que Ton m'indique 
 Sait le Latin, le Grec, 1'Hebreu, 
 Les belles lettre?, la physique, 
 La chimie et la botanique. 
 Chacun lui donne son aveu : 
 II auroit aussi ma pratique ; 
 Mais je veux vivre encore un peu. 
 
 [Example (adduced by Hazlitt) of lowering tfte tone of high- 
 wrought sentiment by introducing burlesque and familiar circum- 
 stances. Butler, in his " Hudibras," compares the change of night 
 into day to the change of color in a boiled lobster : 
 
 The sun had long since, in the lap 
 Of Thetis, taken out his nap; 
 And like a lobster boil'd, the morn 
 From black to red began to turn, 
 "When Hudibras, &c. 
 
 'Wit, or ludicrous invention, produces its effect oftenest by comparv 
 son but not always. It frequently effects its purposes by unexpected 
 and subtile distinctions. A happy instance of the kind of wit which 
 consists in sudden retorts, in turns upon an idea, and diverting t 
 train of your adversary's argument abruptly and adroitly into some 
 other channel, may be seen in the sarcastic reply of Porson, who 
 hearing some one observe, that " certain modern poets would be read 
 and admired when Homer and Virgil were forgotten," made answer 
 " And not till then !" 
 
 Voltaire's saying, in answer to a stranger who was observing how 
 tall his trees grew" that they had nothing else to do," was a qua 
 
 89. Ludicrous junction of small things with great as of equal imports*.
 
 213 
 
 mixture of wit and humor, making it out as if they really led a lazy, 
 laborious life ; but there was here neither allusion nor metaphor. 
 The same principle of nice distinction must be allowed to prevail in 
 those lines of " Hudibras," where he is professing to expound the 
 dreams of judicial astrology : 
 
 There's but a twinkling of a star 
 
 Betwixt a man of peace and war, 
 
 A thief and justice, fool and knave, 
 
 A huffing officer nnd a slave, 
 
 A crafty lawyer and pickpocket ; 
 
 A great philosopher and a blockhead ; 
 
 A formal preacher and a player; 
 
 A learned physician and man-slayer. 
 
 Hazlitt, Lect I.] 
 
 328. Having discussed wit in the thought, we proceed to what is 
 rerbal only, commonly called a play of words. This sort of wit de- 
 pends, for the most part, upon choosing a word that hath different sig- 
 nifications : by that artifice hocus-pocus tricks are played in language, 
 and thoughts plain and simple take on a very different appearance. 
 Play is necessary for man, in order to refresh him after labor ; and, 
 accordingly, man loves play, even so much as to relish a play of 
 words : and it is happy for Us, that words can be employed, not only 
 for useful purposes, but also for our amusement This amusement, 
 though humble and low, unbends the mind ; and b relished by some 
 at all times, and by all at some times.* 
 
 It is remarkable, that this low species of wit has among all nations 
 been a favorite entertainment, in a certain stage of their progress 
 towards refinement of taste and manners, and has gradually gone 
 into disrepute. As soon as a language is formed into a system, and 
 the meaning of words is ascertained with tolerable accuracy, oppor- 
 tunity is afforded for expressions that, by the double meaning of 
 some words, give a familiar thought the appearance of being new ; 
 and the penetration of the reader or hearer is gratified in detecting 
 the true sense disguised under the double meaning. That this sort 
 of wit was in England deemed a reputable amusement, during the 
 reigus of Elizabeth 'and James I., is vouched by the works of Shak- 
 speare, and even by the writings of grave divines. But it cannot 
 have any long endurance : for as language ripens, and the meaning 
 
 * [Hazlitt observes : " Man is the only animal that laughs and weeps ; for 
 ne is the only animal that is struck with "the difference between wlnit things 
 are, and what they ought to be. We weep at what thwarts or exceed* our 
 desires in serious matters; we laugh at what only disappoints our expect-ilion* 
 in trifles. We shed tears from sympathy with real and necessary ditr; i M 
 we burst into laughter from want of sympathy with that which is unreasonable 
 and unnecessary, the absurdity of which provokes our spleen or mirth, rmlher 
 than any serious reflections on it."] 
 
 827. Joining things that in appearance are opposite. Example. Preml55 lh.it P"*"** 
 much anil perform nothing. Introducing burlesque circumstances. UDCijwcUU ana u- 
 tile distinctions. 
 
 W8. Play of words : IU nature and advantage. When in rcpuU.
 
 21-i WIT. 
 
 of words is more and more ascertained, words held to be synony- 
 mous diminish daily ; and when those that remain have been more 
 than once employed, the pleasure vanisheth with the novelty. 
 
 329. I proceed to examples, which, as in the former case, shall be 
 distributed into different classes. 
 
 A seeming resemblance from the double meaning of a word : 
 
 Beneath this stone mv wife doth lie ; 
 She's now at rest, and so am I. 
 
 A seeming contrast from the same cause, termed a verbal anti 
 thesis, which hath no despicable effect in ludicrous subjects : 
 
 Whilst Iris his cosmetic wash would try 
 To make her bloom revive, and lovers die, 
 Some ask for charms, and others philters choose, 
 To gain Corinna, and their quartans lose. 
 
 Dispensary, Canto ii. 
 
 And how frail nymphs, oft by abortion, aim 
 
 To lose a substance, to preserve a name. Ibid. Canto iii. 
 
 While nymphs take treats, or assignations give. 
 
 Rape of the Lock, 
 
 Other seeming connections from the same cause : 
 
 Will you employ your conquering sword, 
 
 To break a fiddle, and your word ? Hudibrcu, Canto ii. 
 
 To whom the knight with comely grace 
 
 Put off his hat to put his case. Ibid. Part III. Canto ilL 
 
 Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom 
 Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home ; 
 Here thou, great Anna ! whom three realms obey, 
 Dost sometimes counsel take and sometimes tea. 
 
 Rape of the Lock, Canto iii. 1. 5 
 
 O'er their quietus where fat judges dose, 
 And lull their cough and conscience to repose. 
 
 Dispensary, Canto i. 
 
 Speaking of Prince Eugene : 
 
 This general is a great taker of snuff as web 1 as of towns. 
 
 Pope, Key to the Loci;. 
 
 Exul mentisque domusqne. Metamorphosis, 1. ix. 409. 
 A seeming opposition from the same cause : 
 
 Hie quiescit qui nunquam quievit. 
 
 Again, 
 
 So like the chances are of love and war, 
 
 That they alone in this distinguish'd are ; 
 
 In love the victors from the vanquish'd fly, 
 
 They fly that wound, and they pursue that die. Waller. 
 
 What new-found witchcraft was in thee, 
 With thine own cold to kindle me ? 
 Strange art; like him that should devise 
 To make a burning-glass of ice. Cowley. 
 
 330. Wit of this kind is unsuitable in a serious poem ; witness 
 the following line in Pope's Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate 
 lady: 
 
 329. Examples of seeming 'oeemblaneo; seeming contrast ; seeming connections ; f com- 
 ing opposition.
 
 WIT. 215 
 
 Cold is that breast which warm'd the world ocfore. 
 This sort of writing is finely burlesqued by Swift : 
 Her hands the softest ever felt, 
 Though cold would burn, though dry would inelt. 
 
 Strep/urn and Ohio*, 
 
 Taking a word in a different sense from what is meant, comes 
 under wit, because it occasions some slight degree of surprise : 
 
 Beatrice. I may sit in a corner, and cry Heigh ho ! for a husband. 
 
 Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. 
 
 Beatrice. I would rather have one of your father's getting. Hath your grac 
 ne'er a brother like you ? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could 
 come by them. Muck Ado about Xothiny, Act II. 8c. 6. 
 
 Falsta-p. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about. 
 Pistol. Two yards and more. 
 
 Falsta.jp. No quips, now, Pistol ; indeed I ana in the waist two yards about ; 
 hut I am now about no waste ; I am about thrift. 
 
 Merry Wive* of Windoor, Act I. Sc. 7. 
 
 331. An assertion that bears a double meaning, one right, one 
 wrong, but so introduced as to direct us to the wrong meaning, is a 
 species of bastard wit, which is distinguished from all others by the 
 name pun. For example : 
 
 Paris. Sweet Helen, I must woo you, 
 
 To help unarm our Hector: his stubborn buckles. 
 With these your white enchanting fingers touch'd, 
 Shall more obey, than to the edge of steel, 
 Or force of Greenish sinews ; you shall do more 
 Than all the island kings, disarm great Hector. 
 
 Troilui and Crewida, Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 The pun is in the close. The word disarm has a double meaning: 
 it signifies to take off a man's armor, and also to subdue him in 
 fight. We are directed to the latter sense by the context; but, 
 with regard to Helen, the word holds only true in the former sense. 
 I go on with other examples : 
 
 Chief Justice. "Well ! the truth is, Sir John, you live in great infamy. 
 Falstaff. He that buckles him in my belt, cannot live in less. 
 Chief Justice. Your means are very slender, and your waste is great. 
 Falstaff. I would it were otherwise : I would my means were greater, and 
 my waist slenderer. Second Part Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 Gelid. I pray you bear with me, T can go no further. 
 Clown. For my part, I hnd'rather bear with you than bear you ; yet I 
 bear no cross if I did bear you ; for 1 think you have no money in vour puree. 
 
 At You Like It, Act II. Sc. 4. 
 
 He that imposes an oath makes it,^ 
 Not he that for convenience takes it ; 
 Then how can any man be said 
 To break an oath he never made I 
 
 Hudibras, Part II. Canto n. 
 
 [The greatest' single production of wit, in England, is Butler's 
 " Hudibras." It contains specimens of every variety of drollery and 
 satire, and those specimens crowded together in almost every page. 
 Butler is equally in the hands of the learned and the vulgar, fo 
 
 880. Wit of this kind, where unsutUble.-Taklng a word In * different o*e !*" wl* 
 la meant.
 
 216 
 
 sense is generally as solid as the images are amusing and grotesque. 
 Though bis subject was local and temporary, his fame was not cir- 
 cumscribed within his own age. He was admired by Charles II., 
 
 and has been rewarded by posterity He in general ridicules 
 
 not persons, but things ; not a party, but their principles, which may 
 belong, as time and occasion serve, to one set of solemn pretenders 
 or another. He has exhausted the moods and figures of satire and 
 sophistry. It would be possible to deduce the different forms of syl- 
 logism in Aristotle, from the different violations or mock imitations 
 of them in Butler. He makes you laugh or smile, by comparing the 
 high to the low : 
 
 No Indian prince has to his palace 
 
 More followers than a thief to the gallows. 
 
 Or, by pretending to raise the low to the lofty : 
 
 And in his nose, like Indian king. 
 He (Bruin) wore for ornament a ring. 
 
 He succeeds equally in the familiarity of his illustrations : 
 
 Whose noise whets valor sharp, like beer 
 By thunder turned to vinegar. 
 
 Or, their incredible extravagance, by comparing things that are alike 
 or not alike : 
 
 Keplete with strange hermetic powder, 
 
 That wounds nine miles point-blank would solder. 
 
 He surprises equally by his coincidences or contradictions, by 
 spinning out a long-winded flimsy excuse, or by turning short upon 
 you with the point-blank truth. His rhymes are as witty as his 
 reasons, equally remote from what common custom would suggest : 
 
 That deals in destiny's dark counsels, 
 And sage opinions of the moon sells. 
 
 He startles you sometimes by an empty sound like a blow upon a 
 
 drum-head : 
 
 The mighty Totipotimoy 
 Sent to our elders an envoy. 
 
 Sometimes, also, by a pun upon one word : 
 
 For Hebrew roots, although they ar<* found 
 To flourish most in barren ground. 
 
 Sometimes, by splitting another in two at the end of a verse, with 
 the same alertness and power over the odd and unaccountable, in 
 the combinations of sounds as of images : 
 
 Those wholesale critics, that in coffee- 
 Houses cry down all philosophy. 
 
 There are as many shrewd aphorisms in his works, clenched by 
 as many quaint and individual allusions, as perhaps in any author 
 whatever. He makes none but palpable hits, that may be said to 
 give one's understanding a rap on the knuckles :
 
 WIT. 217 
 
 This we among ourselves may speak, 
 But to the wicked or the weak, 
 We must be cautious to declare 
 Perfection-truths, such as these are. 
 
 He is, indeed, sometimes too prolific, and spins his antithetical sen- 
 tences out, one after another, till the reader, not the author, is wearied 
 
 The vulgarity and meanness of sentiment which Butler complains 
 of in the Presbyterians, seems at last, from long familiarity and 
 close contemplation, to have tainted his own mind. Their worst 
 vices appear to have taken root in his imagination. He has, indeed, 
 carried his private grudge too far into his general speculations. He 
 even makes out the rebels to be cowards, and well beaten, which 
 does not accord with the history of the times. In an excess of zeal 
 for Church and State, he is too much disposed to treat religion as a 
 cheat, and liberty as a farce. 
 
 There are (in " Hudibras") occasional indications of poetical fancy, 
 and an eye for natural beauty ; but these are kept under, or soon 
 discarded, judiciously enough, but it should seem, not fo'r lack of 
 power, for they are certainly as masterly as they are rare. Such is the 
 description of the moon going down in the early morning, which is 
 as pure, original, and picturesque as possible : 
 
 The queen of night, whose large command 
 
 Rules all the sea and half the land, 
 
 And over moist and crazy brains 
 
 In high spring-tides at midnight reign?, 
 
 'Was now declining to the west, 
 
 To go to bed and take her rest. 
 
 Butler is sometimes scholastic, but he makes his learning tell to 
 good account ; and for the purposes of burlesque, nothing can be 
 better fitted than the scholastic style." ffazliit, Lect. III.] 
 
 332. Though playing with words is a mark of a mind at ease, 
 and disposed to any sort of amusement, we must not thence con- 
 clude that playing with words is always ludicrous. Words are so 
 intimately connected with thought, that if the subject be really 
 grave, it will not appear ludicrous even iu that fantastic dress. I 
 am, however, far from recommending it in any serious performance : 
 on the contrary, the discordance between the thought and expression 
 must be disagreeable : witness the following specimen : 
 
 He hath abandoned his physicians, madam, under whose practices he hath 
 persecuted time with hope : and finds no other advantage ia the process, but 
 only the losing of hope by time. 
 
 All's Well Oiat End* WtU, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 2T. Henry. my poor kingdotn. sick with civil blows ! 
 When that my care could not withhold thy riots, 
 What wilt thou do when riot is thy care f 
 
 Second Part K. Henry IV. 
 
 881. Deflne the pun. Examples. Butler's Hudibnu. It* pecuUmrltkt.- Specimen* ef 
 wlt.~Faults. 
 
 10
 
 218 WIT. 
 
 If any one shall observe, that there is a third species of wit, dif- 
 ferent from those mentioned, consisting in sounds merely, I am will- 
 ing to give it place. And indeed it 'must be admitted, that many 
 of Hudibras's double rhymes come under the definition of wit given 
 in the beginning of this chapter ; they are ludicrous, and their sin- 
 gularity occasions some degree of surprise. Swift is no less success- 
 ful than Butler in this sort of wit ; witness the following instances : 
 Goddess Boddice. Pliny Nicolina. Iscariots Chariots. Mi- 
 tre Nitre. Dragon Su/ragan. 
 
 A repartee may happen to be witty ; but it cannot be considered 
 as a species of wit, because there are many repartees extremely 
 smart, and yet extremely serious. I give the following example : 
 A certain petulant Greek, objecting to Anacharsis that he was a 
 Scythian True, says Anacharsis, my country disgraces me, but you 
 disgrace your country. This fine turn gives surprise, but it is far 
 from being ludicrous. 
 
 [Lastly/ there is a wit of sense and observation, which consists in 
 the acute illustration of good sense and practical wisdom, by _ means 
 of some far-fetched conceit or quaint imagery. Thus the lines in 
 Pope 
 
 'Tis with oar judgments as our watches ; none 
 Go just alike, yet each believes his own 
 
 are witty rather than poetical, because the truth they convey is a 
 mere dry observation on human life, without elevation or enthusi- 
 asm, and the illustration of it is of that quaint and familiar kind 
 that is merely curious and fanciful. Covvley is an instance of the 
 same kind in almost all his writings. Many of the jests and witti- 
 cisms in the best comedies are moral aphorisms and rules for the 
 conduct of life, sparkling witfi wit and fancy in the mode of ex- 
 pression. The ancient philosophers also abounded in the same kind 
 of wit, in telling home truths ia the most unexpected manner. ^ In 
 this sense jEsop was the greatest wit and moralist that ever lived. 
 Ape and slave, he looked askance at human nature, and beheld its 
 weaknesses and errors transferred to another species. Vice and 
 virtue were to him as plain as any objects of sense. He saw in 
 man a talking, absurd, obstinate, proud, angry animal, and clothed 
 these abstractions with wings, or a beak, or tail, or claws, or long 
 ears, as they appeared embodied in these hieroglyphics in the brute 
 creation. His moral philosophy is natural history. He makes an 
 ass bray wisdom, and a frog croak humanity. The store of moral 
 truth, and the fund of invention in exhibiting it in eternal forms, 
 palpable, and intelligible, and delightful to children and grown per- 
 sons, and to all ages and nations, are almost miraculous. The m- 
 
 882 Playing with words not alwavs ludicrous. Wit, consisting: in sounds. Kepartee. 
 ho last kind of wit described.-WitticiscDS of the best comediea.-Remarks on 
 
 Th< 
 
 Fable?.
 
 CUSTOM AND II ABIT. 219 
 
 mention of a fable is to me tho most enviable exertion of human 
 genius : it is the discovering a truth to which there is no clue, and 
 which, when once found out, can never be forgotten. I would rather 
 have been the author of '^Esop's Fables,' than of ' Euclid's Ele- 
 ments.' " ffazlitt, Lect T.J 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 CUSTOM AND HABIT. 
 
 333. VIEWING man as under the influence of novelty, would on* 
 suspect that custom also should influence him ? and yet our nature 
 is equally susceptible of each ; not only in different objects, but fre- 
 quently in the same. When an object is new, it is enchanting ; 
 familiarity renders it indifferent ; and custom, after a longer famili- 
 arity, makes it again disagreeable. Human nature, diversified with 
 many and various springs of action, is wonderfully, and, indulging 
 the expression, intricately constructed. 
 
 Custom respects the action, habit the agent. By custom we 
 mean a frequent reiteration of the same act; and by habit, the effect 
 that custom has on the agent. This effect may be either active, 
 witness the dexterity produced by custom in performing certain ex- 
 ercises ; or passive, as when a thing makes an impression on us 
 different from what it did originally. The latter only, as relative to 
 the sensitive part of our nature, comes under the present under- 
 taking. 
 
 334. This subject is intricate : some pleasures are fortified by 
 custom ; and yet custom begets familiarity, and consequently indif- 
 ference :* in many instances, satiety and disgust are the conse- 
 quences of reiteration ; again, though custom blunts the edge of dis- 
 tress and of pain, yet the want of any thing to which we have been 
 long accustomed, is a sort of torture. A clue toguide us through 
 all the intricacies of this labyrinth, would be an acceptable present. 
 
 Whatever be the cause, it is certain that we are much influenced 
 by custom : it hath an effect upon our pleasures, upon our acticus, 
 
 * If all the year were playing holidays, 
 To sport would be as tedious as to work ; 
 But when they seldom come, they wish'd for come, 
 And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. 
 
 First Part Htnry IV. Act I. Sc. 8. 
 
 838. Influence of novelty and custom. Cxstom and bablt distinguished. AcUr u 
 Mtsstve effect* of habit
 
 220 CUSTOM AND HABIT. 
 
 and even upon our thoughts aud sentiments. Habit makes no 
 figure dining the vivacity of youth : in middle age it gains ground ; 
 and in old age governs without control. In that period of life, 
 generally speaking, W3 eat at a certain hour, take exercise at a cer- 
 tain hour, go to rest at a certain hour, all by the direction of habit; 
 nay, a particular seat, table, bed, comes to be essential ; and a habit 
 in any of these cannot be controlled without uneasiness. 
 
 335. Any slight ormoderate pleasure frequently reiterated for a 
 long t?me, forms a peculiar connection between us and the thing 
 that causes the pleasure. This connection, termed habit, has the 
 effect to awaken our desire or appetite for that thing when it returns 
 not as usual. During the course of enjoyment, the pleasure rises 
 insensibly higher and higher till a habit be established ; at which 
 time the pleasure is at its height. It continues not however sta- 
 tionary : the same customary reiteration which carried it to its height, 
 brings it down again by insensible degrees, even lower than it was 
 at first ; but of that circumstance afterward. What at present we 
 have in view, is to prove by experiments, that those things which at 
 first are but moderately agreeable, are the aptest to become habitual. 
 Spirituous liquors, at first scarce agreeable, readily produce an ha- 
 bitual appetite : and custom prevails so far, as even to make us 
 fond of things originally disagreeable, such as coffee, asafcetida, and 
 tobacco; which is pleasantly illustrated by Congreve. (The Way 
 of the World, Act I. Sc. 3.) 
 
 A walk upon the quarter-deck, though intolerably confined, be- 
 comes however so agreeable by custom, that a sailor in his walk on 
 shore, confines himself commonly within the same bounds. I knew 
 a man who had relinquished the sea for a country life : in the corner 
 of his garden he reared an artificial mount with a level summit, re- 
 sembling most accurately a quarter-deck, not only in shape but in 
 size ; and here he generally walked. In Minorca, Governor Kane 
 made an excellent road the whole length of the island ; and yet the 
 inhabitants adhered to the old road, though not only longer but ex- 
 tremely bad.* Play or gaming, at first barely amusing by the 
 occupation it affords, becomes in time extremely agreeable ; and is 
 frequently prosecuted with avidity, as if it were the chief business 
 of life. The same observation is applicable to the pleasures of the 
 internal senses, those of knowledge and virtue in particular : chil- 
 dren have scarce any sense of these pleasures ; and men very little 
 who are in the state of nature without culture : our taste for virtue 
 
 * Custom is second nature. Formerly, the merchants of Bristol had no 
 place for meeting but the street, open to every variety of weather. An ex- 
 change was erected for them with convenient piazzas. But so riveted were 
 they to their accustomed place, that in order to dislodge them, the magis- 
 trates were forced to break up the pavement, and to render the place a heap 
 of rough stones. 
 
 884. Effect of custom nj>or. our pleasures, ifec. HeWt in youth, middle ge, old age.
 
 CUSTOM AND HABIT. 221 
 
 and knowledge improves slowly ; but is capable of growing stronger 
 than any other appetite in human nature. 
 
 336. To introduce an active habit, frequency of acts is not suffi- 
 cient without length of time : the quickest succession of acts in a 
 short time, is not sufficient ; nor a slow succession in the longest 
 time. The effect must be produced by a moderate soft action, and 
 a long series of easy touches, removed fom each other by short in- 
 tervals. Nor are these sufficient without regularity in the time, 
 place, and other circumstances of the- action : the more uniform 
 any operation is, the sooner it becomes habitual. And this holds 
 equally in a passive habit ; variety in any remarkable degree, pre- 
 vents the effect : thus any particular food will scarce ever become 
 habitual, where the manner of dressing is varied. The circumstan- 
 ces then requisite to augment a moderate pleasure, and at the long 
 run to form a habit, are weak uniform acts, reiterated during a 
 long course of time without any considerable interruption : every 
 agreeable cause that operates in this manner, will grow habitual. 
 "337. Affection and aversion, as distinguished from passion on the 
 one hand, and on the other from original disposition, are in reality 
 habits respecting particular objects, acquired in the manner above 
 set forth. The pleasure of social intercourse with any person mst 
 originally be faint, and frequently reiterated, in order to establish 
 the habit of affection. Mection thus generated, whether it be 
 friendship or love, seldom swells into any tumultuous or vigorous 
 passion ; but is, however, the strongest cement that can bind together 
 two individuals of the human species. In like manner, a slight de- 
 gree of disgust often reiterated with regularity, grows into the habit 
 of aversion, which commonly subsists for life. 
 
 Objects of taste that are delicious, far from tending to become 
 habitual, are apt, by indulgence, to produce satiety and disgust : no 
 man contracts a habit of sugar, honey, or sweetmeats, as he doth of 
 tobacco : 
 
 Dulcia lion ferimus : succo renovamur amaro. 
 
 Ovid, Art. Amand. 1. iii. 
 
 Insipido d quel dolce, che condito 
 Non d di qualche amor a. e tosto satia. 
 
 Aminta. dt Tatto. 
 
 These violent delights have violent ends, 
 And in their triumph die. The sweetest honey 
 Is loathsome in its own delieiousncss, 
 And iji the tnste confounds the appetite ; 
 Therefore love mod'rately, long love doth eo; 
 Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. 
 
 Jtomeo and Julift, Act II. oc. 5. 
 
 833. Desire awakened by habit-Effect of habit on our pi easures.-Thlngs ; 
 oome habitual. Instances.- Walk upon a quarter-deck.-Governor Kunes 
 Exchange at Bristol, &c. . ... , 
 
 836. flow an active habit must be Introduced ; now a passive habit
 
 222 CUSTOM AND HABIT. 
 
 The same observation holds with respect to all objects, that being 
 extremely agreeable, raise violent passions : such passions are in- 
 coYnpatible with a habit of any sort ; and in particular they never 
 produce affection or aversion. A man who is surprised with an 
 unexpected favor, burns for an opportunity to exert his gratitude, 
 without having any affection for his benefactor : neither does desire 
 of vengeance for an atrocions injury involve aversion. 
 / 338. It is perhaps not easy to say why moderate pleasures gather 
 strength by custom ; but two causes concur to prevent that effect in 
 the more intense pleasures. These, by an original law in our nature, 
 increase quickly to their full growth, and decay with no less pre- 
 cipitation (see chap. ii. part iii.) ; and custom is too slow in its opera- 
 tion to overcome that law. The other cause is no less powerful : 
 exquisite pleasure is extremely fatiguing; occasioning, as a naturalist 
 would say, great expense of animal spirits ;* and of such the mind 
 cannot bear so frequent gratification, as to superinduce a habit : ii 
 the thing that raises the pleasure return before the mind have re- 
 covered its tone and relish, disgust ensues instead of pleasure. 
 
 A habit never fails to admonish us of the wonted time of gratifica- 
 tion, by raising a pain for want of the object, and a desire to have it. 
 The pain of want is always first felt ; the desire naturally follows : 
 and upon presenting the object, both vanish instantaneously. Thus 
 a man accustomed to tobacco, feels, at the end of the usual interval, 
 a confused pain of want ; which at first points at nothing in par- 
 ticular, though it soon settles upon its accustomed object : and the 
 same may be observed in persons addicted to drinking, who are 
 often in an uneasy restless state before they think of the bottle. In 
 pleasures indulged regularly, and at equal intervals, the appetite, 
 remarkably obsequious to custom, returns regularly with the usual 
 time of gratification ; not sooner, even though the object be pre- 
 sented. This pain of want arising from habit, seems directly oppo- 
 site to that of satiety ;" and it must appear singular, that frequency 
 of gratification should produce effects so opposite, as are the pains 
 of excess and of want. 
 
 339. The appetites that respect the preservation of our species, 
 are attended with a pain of want similar to that occasioned by habit : 
 hunger and thirst are uneasy sensations of want, which always pre- 
 cede the desire of eating or drinking. The natural appetites differ 
 from habit in the following particular : they have an undetermined 
 direction towards all objects of gratification in general ; whereas an 
 
 * Lady Easy, upon her husband's reformation, expresses to her friend the 
 following sentiment: " Be satisfied : Sir Charles has made me happy, even to 
 it pain of joy." 
 
 837. How affection or aversion is formed into K habit What is said of delicious objects 
 of taste; what of agreeable objects that rai.se violent passions. 
 
 883. Two causes preventing intense pleasures from gaining strength by custom. A. habit 
 admonishes of what ? Regular return of appetite.
 
 CUSTOM AND HABIT. 223 
 
 habitual appetite is direted to a particular object. The habitual 
 relish for a particular dish is far from being the same with a vague 
 appetite for food. That difference notwithstanding, it is still "re- 
 markable that nature hath enforced the gratification of certain nat- 
 ural appetites essential to the species, by a pain of the same sort 
 with that which habit produceth.* 
 
 340. The pain of habit is less under our power than any other 
 pain that arises from want of gratification ; hunger and thirst are 
 more easily endured, especially at first, than an unusual intermission 
 of any habitual pleasure : persons are often heard declaring they 
 would forego sleep or food, rather than tobacco. We must, not, 
 however, conclude that the gratification of an habitual appetite 
 affords the same delight with the gratification of one that is natural ; 
 far from it ; the pain of want only is greater. 
 
 The slow and reiterated acts that produce a habit, strengthen the 
 mind to enjoy the habitual pleasure in greater quantity and more 
 frequency than originally ; and by that means a habit of intemperate 
 gratification is often formed : after unbounded acts of intemperance, 
 the habitual relish is soon restored, and the pain for want of enjoy- 
 ment returns with fresh vigor. 
 
 341. The causes of the present emotions hitherto in view are 
 either an individual, such as a companion, a certain dwelling-place, 
 i certain amusement, or a particular species, such as coffee, mutton, 
 or any other food. But habit is not confined to such. A constant 
 train of trifling diversions, may form such a habit in the mind, that 
 .t cannot be easy a moment without amusement: a variety in the 
 objects prevents a habit as to any one in particular ; but as the 
 train is uniform with respect to amusement, the habit is formed ac- 
 cordingly; and that sort of habit may be denominated a generic 
 habit, in opposition to the former, which is a sjjccijtc habit. A habit 
 of a town life, of country sports, of solitude, of reading, or of busi- 
 ness, where sufficiently varied, are instances of generic habits. Every 
 specific habit hath a mixture of the generic ; for the habit of any 
 one sort of food makes the taste agreeable, and we are fond of that 
 taste wherever found. Thus a man, deprived of an habitual object, 
 takes up with what most resembles it : deprived of tobacco, any 
 bitter herb will do, rather than want : a habit of punch, makes wine 
 a good resource : accustomed to the sweet society and comforts of 
 matrimony, the man, unhappily deprived of his beloved object, in- 
 clines the sooner to a second. In general, when we are deprived of 
 an habitual object, we are fond of its qualities in any other object. 
 
 342. The reasons are assigned above, why the causes of intense 
 pleasure become not readily habitual ; but now we discover that 
 
 3:. The natural appetites attend* 1 with the pain of want. How they differ from habit 
 
 840. The pain of habit How a habit of intemperate gratification U formed. 
 
 841. Difference between a generic wid a specinc habit Instance* Kvery poci3c bM* 
 {*rtakes of the generic. Th effect of being deprived of an habitual c.f.jecJ.
 
 224 CUSTOM AND HABIT. 
 
 these reasons conclude only against specific habits. In the case of 
 a weak pleasure, a habit is formed by frequency and uniformity of 
 reiteration, which, in the case of an intense pleasure, produceth 
 satiety and di^ust. But it is remarkable, that satiety and disgust 
 have no effect, except as to that thing singly which occasions them : 
 a surfeit of honey produceth not' a loathing of sugar ; and intem- 
 perance with one woman produceth no disrelish of the same pleasure 
 with others. Hence it is easy to account for a generic habit in any 
 intense pleasure : the delight we had in the gratification of the ap- 
 petite inflames the imagination, and makes us, with avidity, search 
 for the same gratification in whatever other subject it can be found. 
 And thus uniform frequency in gratifying the same passion upon 
 different objects, produceth at length a generic habit. In this manner, 
 one acquires an habitual delight in high and poignant sauces, rich 
 dress, fine equipages, crowds of company, and in whatever is com- 
 monly termed pleasure. There concurs, at the same time, to intro- 
 duce this habit, a peculiarity observed above, that reiteration of acts 
 enlarges the capacity of the mind to admit a more plentiful grati- 
 fication than originally, with regard to frequency as well as quantity. 
 
 343. Hence it appears, that though a specific habit cannot be 
 formed but upon a moderate pleasure, a generic habit may be formed 
 upon any sort of pleasure, moderate or immoderate, that hath variety 
 of objects. The only difference is, that a weak pleasure runs natu- 
 rally into a specific habit ; whereas an intense pleasure is altogether 
 averse to such a habit. In a word, it is only in singular cases that 
 a moderate pleasure produces a generic habit ; but an intense pleas- 
 ure cannot produce any other habit. 
 
 The appetites that respect the preservation of the species, are 
 formed into habit in a peculiar manner : the time as well as meas- 
 ure of their gratification are much under the power of custom, which, 
 by introducing a change upon the body, occasions a proportional 
 change in the appetites. Thus, if the body be gradually formed to 
 a certain quantity of food at stated times, the appetite is regulated 
 accordingly ; and the appetite is again changed, when a different 
 habit of body is introduced by a different practice. Here it would 
 seem, that the change is not made upon the mind, which is com- 
 monly the case in passive habits, but upon the body. 
 
 When rich food is brought down by ingredients of a plainer taste, 
 the composition is susceptible of a specific habit. Thus the sweet 
 taste of sugar, rendered less poignant in a mixture, may, in course 
 of time, produce a specific habit for such mixture. As moderate 
 pleasures, by becoming more intense, tend to generic habits ; so in- 
 tense pleasures, by becoming more moderate, tend to specific habits. 
 
 842. "Weak pleasures produce a habit : intense pleasures produce satiety and disgust. 
 How far this satiety extends. How a generic habit in any intense pleasure is accounted 
 for. Reiteration of acts attended with what effect? 
 
 843. Specific habit peculiar to a moderate pleasure : get eric, to any sort of pleasure, 
 he appetites under the power of custom. Instance of foo I, as to time, quantity, quality. 
 
 Th
 
 CUSTOM AND HABIT. 225 
 
 844. One effect of custom, different from any that have been ex- 
 plained, must not be omitted, because it makes a great figure in hu- 
 man nature: Though custom augments moderate pleasures, and 
 lessens those that are intense, it has a different, effeej with respect to 
 pain ; for it bluuts the edge of every sort of -pain and distress, faint 
 or acute. Uninterrupted misery, therefore, is attended with one good 
 effect : if its torments be incessant, custom hardens us to bear them. 
 
 The changes made in forming habits are curious. Moderate 
 pleasures are augmented gradually by reitera ion, till they become 
 habitual ; and then are at their height : but Jiey are not long sta- 
 tionary ; for from that point they gradually d icay, till they vanish 
 altogether. The pain occasioned by want oi gratification, runs a 
 different course : it increases uniformly ; and at lasf. becomes ex- 
 treme, when the pleasure of gratification is redvced to nothing: 
 
 , it so falls out, 
 
 That what we have we prize not to the worth, 
 
 While we enjoy it; but being laek'd and lost, 
 
 Why then we rack the value ; then we find 
 
 The virtue that possession would not show us 
 
 Whilst it was ours. Much Ado about Nothing, Act IV. So. 2. 
 
 The effect of custom with relation to specific habit, is displayed 
 through all its varieties in the use of tobacco. The taste of that 
 plant is at first extremely unpleasant : our disgust lessens gradually 
 till it vanishes altogether ; at which period the taste is neither agree- 
 able nor disagreeable : continuing the use of the plant, we begin to 
 relish it ; and our relish improves by use, till it arrives at perfection : 
 from that period it gradually decays while the habit is in a state of 
 increment, and consequently the pain of want. The result is, that 
 when the habit has acquired its greatest vigor, the relish is gone ; 
 and accordingly we often smoke and take snuff habitually, without 
 so much as being conscious of the operation. We must except grat- 
 ification after the pain of want ; the pleasure of which gratification 
 is the greatest when the habit is the most vigorous : it is of the same 
 kind with the pleasure one feels upon being delivered from the rack. 
 This pleasure, however, is but occasionally the effect of habit ; and, 
 however exquisite, is avoided as much as possible because of the pain 
 that precedes it. 
 
 345. With regard to the pain of want, I can discover no differ- 
 ence between a generic and a specific habit. But these habits differ 
 widely with respect to the positive pleasure. I have had occasion to 
 observe, that the pleasure of a specific habit decays gradually till it 
 turns imperceptible : the pleasure of a generic habit, on the con- 
 trary, being supported by variety of gratification, suffers little or no 
 decay after it comes to its height. However it may be with other 
 generic habits, the observation, I am certain, holds with respect to 
 
 844. Effect of custom with respe f . to pain. Changes mwle In forming nblu. EffMt l 
 
 eunr/m in the nw of tobscoo. 
 
 10*
 
 220 CUSTOM AND HABIT. 
 
 the pleasures of virtue and of knowledge : the pleasure of doing 
 good has an unbounded scope, and may be so variously gratified, 
 that it can never decay ; science is equally unbounded ; our appe- 
 tite for knowledge having an ample range of gratification, where 
 discoveries are recommended by novelty, by variety, by utility, or 
 by all of them. 
 
 In this intricate inquiry I have endeavored, but without success, 
 to discover by what particular means it is that custom hath in- 
 fluence upon us ; and now nothing seems left but to hold our nature 
 to be so framed as to be susceptible of such influence. And sup- 
 posing it purposely so frame .1, it will not be difficult to find out 
 several important final causes. That the power of custom is a happy 
 contrivance for our good, cannot have escaped any one who reflects 
 that business is our province, and pleasure our relaxation only. 
 Now satiety is necessary to check exquisite pleasure, which otherwise 
 would engross the mind, and unqualify us for business. On the 
 other hand, as business is sometimes painful, and is never pleasant 
 beyond moderation, the habitual increase of moderate pleasure and 
 the conversion of pain into pleasure, are admirably contrived for 
 disappointing the malice of Fortune, and for reconciling us to what- 
 ever course of life may be our lot : 
 
 How use doth breed a habit in a man ! 
 This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, 
 I better brook than flourishing peopled towns. 
 Here I can sit alone, unseen of any, 
 And to the nightingale's complaining notes 
 Tune my distresses, and record my woes. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act V. Sc. 4. 
 
 As the foregoing distinction between intense and moderate holds 
 in pleasure only, every degree of pain being softened by time, cus- 
 tom is a catholicon for pain and distress of every sort ; and of that 
 regulation the final cause requires no illustration. 
 
 346. Another final cause of custom will be highly relished by 
 every person of humanity, and yet has in a great measure been over- 
 looked ; which is, that custom hath a greater influence than any 
 other known cause to put the 'rich and the poor upon a level : weak 
 pleasures, the share of the latter, become fortunately stronger by 
 custom ; while voluptuous pleasures, the share of the former, are 
 continually losing ground by satiety. Men of fortune, who possess 
 palaces, sumptuous gardens, rich fields, enjoy them less than passen- 
 gers do. The goods of Fortune are not. unequally distributed : the 
 opulent possess what others enjoy. 
 
 And indeed, if it be the effect of habit to produce the pain of want 
 in a high degree, while there is little pleasure in enjoyment, a volup- 
 tuous life is of all the least to be envied. Those who are habituated 
 to high feeling, easy vehicles, rich furniture, a crowd of valets, much 
 
 345. The pleasure of a specific habit, compare 1 with that of a generic one. Final ctts 
 if the power of custom.
 
 CUSTOM AND HABIT. 227 
 
 deference and flattery, enjoy but a small share of happiness, while 
 they arc exposed to manifold distresses. To such a man. enslaved 
 by ease and luxury, even the petty inconvenience in travelling, of a 
 rough road, bad weather, or homely fare, are serious evils : he loses 
 his tone of mind, turns peevish, and would wreak his resentment 
 even upon the common accidents of lite. Better far to use the goods 
 of Fortune with moderation : a man who by temperance and ac- 
 tivity hath acquired a hardy constitution, is, on the one hand, 
 guarded against external accidents ; and, on the other, is provided 
 with great variety of enjoyment ever at command. 
 
 347. I shall close this chapter with an article more delicate than 
 abstruse, namely, what authority custom ought to have over our 
 taste in the fine artvS. One particular is certain, that we cheerfully 
 abandon to the authority of custom things that nature hath left in- 
 different. It is custom, not nature, that hath established a difference 
 between the right hand and the left, so as to make it awkward and 
 disagreeable to use the left where the right is commonly used. The 
 various colors, though they affect us differently, are all of them 
 agreeable in their purity; but custom has regulated that matter in 
 another manner : a black skin upon a human being is to us disagree- 
 able, and a white skin probably no less so to a negro. Thus things, 
 originally indifferent, become agreeable or disagreeable by the force 
 of custom. Nor will this be surprising after the discover)' made above, 
 that the original agreeableness or disagreeableness of an object is, by 
 the influence of custom, often converted into the opposite quality. 
 
 Proceeding to matters of taste, where there is naturally a prefer- 
 ence of one thing before another, it is certain, in the first place, that 
 our faint and more delicate feelings are readily susceptible of a bias 
 from custom ; and therefore that it is no proof of a defective taste to 
 find these in some measure influenced by custom : dress and the 
 modes of external behavior are regulated by custom in every coun- 
 try : the deep red or vermilion with which the ladies in France 
 cover their cheeks, appears to them beautiful in spite of nature ; and 
 strangers cannot altogether be justified in condemning that pracli 
 considering the lawful authority of custom, or of the/asAion,as it is 
 called. It is told of the people who inhabit the skirts of the Alps 
 facing the north, that the swelling they have universally in the n 
 is to them agreeable. So far has custom power to change the nati 
 of things, and to -make an object originally disagreeable take 
 opposite appearance.* ^ 
 
 * [Perhaps a BWW^MtUfeotory account of this matter will be found in the 
 following observations from the pen of Dr. Mark Hopkins: 
 
 Association is the sole foundation of the value which we put ^upon om 
 articles, and of the beauty which wo find in others. Jhus, a. 
 
 naUjM 
 *Cec: of
 
 228 CUSTOM AND HABIT. 
 
 348. But, as to every particular that can be denominated proper 
 or improper, right or wrong, custom has little authority, and ought 
 to have none. The principle of duty takes naturally place of every 
 other ; and it argues a shameful weakness or degeneracy of mind to 
 find it in any case so far subdued as to submit to custom. 
 
 These few hints may enable us to judge in some measure of for- 
 eign manners, whether exhibited by foreign writers or our own. A 
 comparison between the ancients and the moderns was some time 
 ago a favorite subject : those who declared for ancient manners 
 thought it sufficient that these manners were supported by custom : 
 .heir antagonists, on the other hand, refusing submission to custom 
 as a standard of taste, condemned ancient manners as in several in- 
 stances irrational. In that controversy, an appeal being made to 
 different principles, without the slightest attempt to establish a com- 
 mon standard, the dispute could have no end. The hintu above 
 given tend to establish a standard for judging how far the authority 
 of custom ought to be held lawful ; and, for the sake of illustration, 
 we shall apply that standard in a few instances. 
 
 349. Human sacrifices, the most dismal effect of blind and grov- 
 elling superstition, wore gradually out of use by the prevalence of 
 reason and humanity. In the days of Sophocles and Euripides, 
 traces of that practice were still recent ; and the Athenians, through 
 the prevalence of custom, could without disgust suffer human sacri- 
 fices to be represented in their theatre, of which the Iphigenia of 
 Euripides is a proof. But a human sacrifice, being altogether incon- 
 sistent with modern manners as producing horror instead of pity, 
 cannot with any propriety be introduced upon a modern stage. I 
 must therefore condemn the Iphigenia of Racine, which, instead of 
 the tender and sympathetic passions, substitutes disgust and horror. 
 Another objection occurs against every fable that deviates so remark- 
 ably from improved notions and sentiments; which is, that" if it 
 should even command our belief by the authority of histoiy, it ap- 
 peal's too fictitious and unnatural to produce a perception of reality 
 (see chapter ii. part i. sec. 7) : a human sacrifice is so unnatural, 
 and to us so improbable, that few will be affected with the represen- 
 tation of it more than with a fairy- tale. 
 
 valueless in itself, may, from associations connected with it, have a value 
 which money cannot measure; and articles of dress, which would otherwise he 
 to us indifferent or odious, become beautiful by their association with those 
 persons whom we have been accustomed to consider as models of elegance. 
 It is indeed astonishing what an effect this principle will have upon our feel- 
 ings ; and from looking too exclusively at facts connected with it, some have 
 been led to doubt whether there is any such thing as a permanent principle of 
 taste. It would really seem that, within the bounds of comfort and decency, 
 both of which are often outraged by fashion, one mode of dress may come to 
 be as becoming as another."] 
 
 348. Authority of cnstom in matters of right and wrong. Of ancient manners as com- 
 pared with modern. How far custom ought to justify certain manners. 
 
 849. Human sacrifices represented before the Athenians. The Iphigenia of Euripidee 
 *ad that of Racine.
 
 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS 229 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 350. So intimately connected are the soul and body, that every 
 agitation in the former produceth a visible effect upon the latter. 
 There is, at the same time, a wonderful uniformity in that operation ; 
 each class of emotions and passions being invariably attended with 
 an external appearance peculiar to itself. These external appear- 
 ances or signs may not improperly be considered as a natural lan- 
 guage, expressing to all beholders emotions and passions as they 
 arise in the heart. Hope, fear, joy, grief, are displayed externally : 
 the character of a man can be read in his face : and beauty, which 
 makes so deep an impression, is known to result, not so much from 
 regular features, or a fine complexion, as from good-nature, good 
 sense, sprightliness, sweetness, or other mental quality, expressed 
 upon the countenance. Though perfect skill in that language be 
 rare, yet what is generally known is sufficient for the ordinary pur- 
 poses of life. But by what means we come to understand the 
 language, is a point of some intricacy : it cannot be by sight merely ; 
 for upon the most attentive inspection of the human face, all that 
 can be discerned, are figure, color, and motion, which, singly 01 
 combined, never can represent a passion, nor a sentiment : the ex- 
 ternal sign is indeed visible ; but to understand its meaning w 
 must be able to connect it with the passion that causes it, an opera- 
 tion far beyond the reach of eyesight. Where, then, is the instruc- 
 tor to be found that can unveil this secret connection ? If we apply 
 to experience, it is yielded, that from long and diligent observation, 
 we may gather, in some measure, in what manner those we are. ac- 
 quainted with express their passions externally ; but with respect to 
 strangers, we are left in the dark ; and yet we are not puzzled about 
 the meaning of these external expressions in a stranger, more than 
 in a bosom-companion. Further, had we no other means but ex- 
 perience for understanding the external signs of passion, we could 
 not expect any degree of skill in the bulk of individuals : yet mat- 
 ters are so much better ordered, that the external expressions of 
 passions form a language understood by all, by the young as well as 
 the old, by the ignorant as well as the "learned : I talk of the plain 
 
 * Omnis enim motus animi, Buum quemdaru a natura habet %-ultum et sonnm 
 et gestum.- Cicero, 1. \\\..De Oratore. 
 
 350. Effect of the mind upon the body. Natural lngupe of rss1on- Wb.it beauty 
 results from. How w oome to nndertnd tht natural lan^as* *
 
 230 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 and legible characters of that language ; for undoubtedly we are 
 much indebted to experience iu deciphering the dark and more 
 delicate expressions.*' 
 
 -.351. The external signs of passion are o f two kinds, voluntary 
 and involuntary. The voluntary signs are also of two kinds : 
 some are arbitrary, some natural. Words are obviously voluntary 
 signs : and they are also arbitrary ; excepting a few simple sounds 
 expressive of certain internal emotions, which sounds being the 
 same in all languages, must be the work of nature : thus the un- 
 premeditated tones of admiration are the same in all men ; as also 
 of compassion, resentment, and despair. Dramatic writers ought to 
 be well acquainted with this natural language of passion : the chief 
 talent of such a writer is a ready command of the expressions that 
 nature dictates to every person, when any vivid emotion struggles 
 for utterance ; and the chief talent of a fine reader is a ready com- 
 mand of tones suited to these expressions. 
 
 352. The other kind of voluntary signs comprehends certain atti- 
 tudes or gestures that naturally accompany certain emotions with a 
 surprising uniformity : excessive joy is expressed by leaping, dan- 
 cing, or some elevation of the body ; excessive grief, by sinking or 
 depressing it ; and prostration and kneeling have been employed by 
 all nations, and in all ages, to signify profound veneration. Another 
 circumstance, still more than uniformity, demonstrates these gestures 
 to be natural, viz. their remarkable conformity or resemblance to 
 the passions that produce them. (See chapter ii. part vi.) Joy, 
 which is a cheerful elevation of mind, is expressed by an elevation 
 of body : pride, magnanimity, courage, and the whole tribe of ele- 
 vating passions, are expressed by external gestures that are the same 
 as to the circumstance of elevation, however distinguishable iw 
 other respects ; and hence an erect posture is a sign or expression 
 of dignity : 
 
 Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall, 
 Godlike erect, with native honor clad, 
 In naked majesty, seem'd lords of all. Paradise Lost, Book iv. 
 
 * [Well has Cousin remarked: "Instead of a statue, observe a real and 
 living man. Kegard that man who, solicited by the strongest motives to sacri- 
 fice duty to fortune, triumphs over interest, after a heroic struggle, and sacri- 
 fices fortune to virtue. Kegard him at the moment when he is about to take 
 this magnanimous resolution ; his face will appear to me beautiful, because it 
 expresses the beauty of his soul. Perhaps, under all other circumstances, the 
 face of the man is common, even trivial ; here, illustrated by the soul which 
 it manifests, it is ennobled and takes an imposing character of beauty. So, the 
 natural face of Socrates contrasts strongly with the type of Grecian beauty ; 
 but look at him on his death-bed, at the moment of drinking the hemlock, 
 conversing.with his disciples on the immortality of the soul, and his face will 
 appear to yoa sublime." Lect. vii. p. 147.] 
 
 851. External sicns of -jassion twofold. The voluntary, of two kinds; arbitrary and 
 natural. The chief talent of dramatic writers and of ftne reader. 5 . 
 '352. Natural attitu'>s aac' gestures. Their conformity to the passions producing tuem.
 
 EXTEKNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 231 
 
 Grief, on the other hand, as well as respect, which depress the mind, 
 cannot, for that reason, be expressed more significantly than by a 
 similar depression of the body ; and hence, to be cast down, is a 
 common phrase, signifying to be grieved or dispirited.* 
 
 35U. One would not imagine, who has not given peculiar atten- 
 ,ion, that the body should be susceptible of such variety of attitude 
 and motion as readily to accompany every different emotion with a 
 corresponding expression. Humility, for example, is expressed nat- 
 urally by hanging the head ; arrogance, by its elevation ; and lan- 
 guor or despondence by reclining it to one side. The expressions of 
 the hands are manifold : by different attitudes and motions, they 
 express desire, hope, fear ; they assist us in promising, in inviting. 
 in keeping one at a distance : they are made instruments of threat- 
 ening, or supplication, of praise, and of horror ; they are employed 
 in approving, in refusing, in questioning; in showing our joy, our 
 sorrow, our doubts, our regret, our admiration. These expressions, 
 so obedient to passion, are extremely difficult to be imitated in a 
 calm state : the ancients, sensible of the advantage as well as dif- 
 ficulty of having these expressions at command, bestowed much time 
 and care in collecting them from observation, and in digesting them 
 into a practical art, which was taught in their schools as au im- 
 portant branch of education. Certain sounds are by nature allotted 
 to each passion for expressing it externally. The actor who has 
 these sounds at command to captivate the ear, is mighty ; if he have 
 also proper gestures at command to captivate the eye, he is irre- 
 sistible. 
 
 354. The foregoing sfgns, though in a strict sense voluntary, can- 
 not, however, be restrained but with the utmost difficulty when 
 prompted by passion. We scarce need a stronger proof than the 
 gestures of a keen player at bowls : observe only how he writhes his 
 body, in order to restore a stray bowl to the right track. It is one 
 article of good-breeding to suppress, as much as possible, these ex- 
 ternal signs of passion, that we may not in company appear too 
 warm, or too interested. The same observation holds in speech : a 
 passion, it is true, when in extreme, is silent (see chap, xvii.) ; but 
 when less violent it must be vented in words, which have a peculiar 
 force not to be equalled in a sedate composition. The ease and se- 
 curity we have in a confidant, may encourage us to Uilk of ourselves 
 and of our feelings ; but the cause is more general ; for it operates 
 
 * Instead of a complimental speech in addressim? a superior the Chin** 
 deliver the compliment in writing, the smallncss of the letters bem propor 
 tioned to the degree of respect; and the highest compliment , to make t 
 letters so small as not to be legible. Here is a clear evidence ot a men 
 neetion between respect and littleness : a man humbles hume 
 superior, and endeavors to contract himself and his handwriting w 
 smallest bounds. _ _ ___ . _ 
 
 868. The great variety of attitude and gesture of which the body to WMC*pttbl foe * 
 pressiug emotion. What the head and th hands may eipres*.
 
 232 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 when we are alone as well as in company. Passion is the cause ; 
 for in many instances it is no slight gratification to vent a passion 
 externally by words as well as by gestures. Some passions, when at 
 a certain height, impel us so strongly to vent them in words, that 
 we speak with an audible voice even when there is none to listen. 
 It is that circumstance in passion which justifies soliloquies ; and it 
 is that circumstance which proves them to be natural. The mind 
 sometimes favors this impulse of passion, by bestowing a temporary 
 sensibility upon any object at hand, in order to make it a confidant. 
 Thus in the Winter's Tale (Act III. Sc. 6), Antigonus addresses 
 himself to an infant whom he was ordered to expose : 
 
 Come, poor babe, 
 
 I have heard, but not believed, that spirits of the dead 
 
 May walk again : if such things be, thy mother 
 
 Appear'd to me last night ; for ne'er was dream 
 
 So like a waking. 
 
 355. The involuntary signs, which are all of them natural, are 
 either peculiar to one passion, or common to many. Every vivid 
 passion hath an external expression peculiar to itself, not excepting 
 pleasant passions ; witness admiration and mirth. The pleasant 
 emotions that are less vivid have one common expression ; from 
 which we may gather the strength of the emotion, but scarce the 
 kind : we perceive a cheerful or contented look ; and we can make 
 no more of it. Painful passions, being all of them violent, are dis- 
 tinguishable from each other by their external expressions; thus 
 fear, shame, anger, anxiety, dejection, despair, have each of them 
 peculiar expressions, which are apprehended without the least con- 
 fusion : some painful passions produce violent effects upon the body, 
 trembling, for example, starting, and swooning ; but these effects, 
 depending in a good measure upon singularity of constitution, are 
 not uniform in all men. 
 
 356. The involuntary signs, such of them as are displayed upon 
 the countenance, are of two kinds : some are temporary, making 
 their appearance with the emotions that produce them, and vanishing 
 with these emotions ; others, being formed gradually by some vio- 
 lent passion often recurring, become permanent signs of that passion, 
 and serve to denote the disposition or temper. The face of an infant 
 indicates no particular disposition, because it cannot be marked with 
 any character, to which time is necessary : even the temporary signs 
 are extremely awkward, being the first rude essays of Nature to 
 discover internal feelings ; thus the shrieking of a new-born infant, 
 without tears or sobbings, is plainly an attempt to weep ; and some 
 of these temporary signs, as smiling and frowning, cannot be ob- 
 served for some months after birth. Permanent signs, formed in 
 
 854. The foregoing signs difficult to restrain when prompted by passlon.What good- 
 breeding requires. Passion prone to vent Itself in words and gestures; even to irratiou*! 
 bjects. Soliloquy. 
 
 :VW. Ttx involuntary >'icn\ either peculiar to one passion, or common to many.
 
 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 233 
 
 youth while the body is soft and flexible, are preserved entire by the 
 firmness and solidity that the body acquires, and are never obliterated 
 even by a change of temper. Such signs are not produced after 
 the fibres become rigid ; some violent cases excepted, such as re- 
 iterated fits of the gout or stone through a course of time : but these 
 signs are not so obstinate as what are produced in youth ; for when 
 the cause is removed, they gradually wear away, and at last vanish. 
 
 357. The natural signs of emotions, voluntary and involuntary', 
 being nearly the same in all men, form a universal language, which 
 no distance of place, no difference of tribe, no diversity of tongue, 
 can darken or render doubtful : even education, though of mighty 
 influence, hath not power to vary or sophisticate, far less to destroy, 
 their signification. This is a wise appointment of Providence ; for 
 if these signs were like words, arbitrary and variable, the thoughts 
 and volitions of strangeis would 1x3 entirely hid from us ; which 
 would prove a great, or rather invincible, obstruction to the forina- 
 
 % tion of societies ; but as matters are ordered, the external appear- 
 ances of joy, grief, anger, fear, shame, and of the other passions, 
 forming a universal language, open a direct avenue to the heart. 
 As the arbitrary signs vary in every country, there could be no 
 communication of thoughts among different nations, were it not foi 
 the natural signs, in which all agree : and as the discovering pas- 
 sions instantly at their birth is essential to our well-being, and often 
 necessary for self-preservation, the Author of our nature, attentive to 
 our wants, hath provided a passage to the heart, which never can 
 be obstructed while eyesight remains. 
 
 358. In an inquiry concerning the external signs of passion, ac- 
 tions must not be overlooked : for though singly they afford no 
 clear light, they are, upon the whole, the best interpreters of the 
 heart. By observing a man's conduct for a course of time, we dis- 
 cover unerringly the various passions that move him to action, what 
 he loves and what he hates. In our younger years, every single ac- 
 tion is a mark, not at all ambiguous of the temper; for in childhood 
 there is little or no disguise : the subject becomes more intricate in 
 advanced age ; but even there, dissimulation is seldom carried on 
 for any length of time. And thus the conduct of life is the most 
 perfect expression of the internal disposition. It merits not indeed 
 the title of a universal language ; because it is not thoroughly un- 
 derstood but by those of penetrating genius or extensive observa- 
 tion : it is a language, however, which every one can decipher in 
 some measure, and which, joined with the other external signs, 
 affords sufficient means for the direction of our conduct with regard 
 to others : if we commit any mistake when such light is afforded, 
 
 866. Signs, temporary or permanent. Temporary signs In Infancy. Permanent t\ga 
 formed in youth. 
 86T. Tho natural signc forin a nnlvcrs-u language. A wise ^ yolntnwnt of P
 
 234 EXTERNAL SIGNri OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 it cat. never be the effect of unavoidable ignorance, but of rashnes 
 or inadvertence. 
 
 359. Reflecting on the various expressions of our emotions, we 
 recognize the anxious care of Nature to discover men to each other, 
 Strong emotions, as above hiqied, beget an impatience to express 
 them externally by speech and other voluntary signs, which cannot 
 be suppressed without a painful effort : thus a sudden fit of passion 
 is a common excuse for indecent behavior or opprobrious language. 
 A.S to involuntary signs, these are altogether unavoidable : no voli- 
 tion or effort can prevent the shaking of the limbs or a pale vis- 
 age, in a fit of terror : the blood flies to the face upon a sudden 
 emotion of shame, in spite of all opposition : 
 
 Vergogria, clie'n altrui stampo natura, 
 Non si puo' rinegar : che se t-u' tenti 
 Di cacciarla dal cor, fugge nel volto. 
 
 Pastor Fido, Act II. Sc. 5. 
 
 Emotions, indeed, properly so called, which are quiescent, pro- 
 duce no remarkable signs externally. Nor is it necessary that the 
 more deliberate passions should, because the operation of such pas- 
 sions is neither sudden nor violent : these, however, remain not 
 altogether in obscurity ; for being more frequent than violent pas- 
 sion, the bulk of our actions are directed by them. Actions, there- 
 fore, display, with sufficient evidence, the more deliberate passions ; 
 and complete the admirable system of external signs, by which we 
 become skilful in human nature. 
 
 360. What comes next in order is, to examine the effects produced 
 upon a spectator by external signs of passion. None of these signs 
 are beheld with indifference ; they are productive of various emo- 
 tions, tending all of them to ends wise and good. This curious 
 subject makes a capital branch of human nature : it is peculiarly 
 useful to writers who deal in the pathetic ; and to history-painters it 
 is indispensable. 
 
 It is mentioned above, that each passion, or class of passions, 
 hath its peculiar signs ; and, with respect to the present subject, it 
 must be added, that these invariably make certain impressions on a 
 spectator : the external signs of joy, for example, produce a cheerful 
 emotion ; the external signs of grief produce pity ; and the exter- 
 nal signs of rage produce a sort of terror even in. those who are not 
 aimed at. 
 
 361. Secondly, it is natural to think, that pleasant passions should 
 express themselves externally by signs that to a spectator appear 
 agreeable, and painful passions by signs that to him appear dis- 
 
 858. Action, the best interpreter of the heart ; especially in our earlier years. Tha 
 language of action in more advanced years not easily understood. 
 
 859. The care of nature to discover men to each other. Quiescent emotions produce 
 110 remarkable external sign. The m >re deliberate passions, how expressed. 
 
 860. Effects produced upon a spectator by external signs of passion ; by those of 
 Joy, &c.
 
 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. i>3fi 
 
 agreeable. This conjecture, which Nature suggests, is confirmed by 
 experience. Pride possibly may be thought an exception, the ex- 
 ternal signs of which are disagreeable, though it le commonly 
 reckoned a pleasant passion ; but pride is not an exception, U-inir ii, 
 reality a mixed passion, partly pleasant, partly painful ; fur when a 
 proud man confines his thoughts to himself, and to his own dignity 
 or importance, the passion is pleasant, and its external signs agreea- 
 ble ; but as pride chiefly consists m undervaluing or contemnimr 
 others, it is so far painful, and its external signs disagreeable. 
 
 Thirdly, it is laid down above, that an agreeable object produceth 
 always a pleasant emotion, and a disagreeable object one that is 
 painful. (See chapter ii. part vii.) According to this law, the 
 external signs of a pleasant passion, being agreeable, must produce 
 in the spectator a^ pleasant emotion; and the external signs of a 
 painful passion, being disagreeable, must produce in him a paiufu! 
 emotion. 
 
 362. Fourthly, in the present chapter it is observed, that pleasant 
 passions are, for the most part, expressed externally in one uniform 
 manner ; but that all the painful passions are distinguishable from 
 each other by their external expressions. The emotions accordingly 
 raised in a spectator by external signs of pleasant passions, have 
 little variety : these emotions are pleasant or cheerful, and we have 
 not words to reach a more particular description. But the external 
 signs of painful passions produce in the spectator emotions of differ- 
 ent kinds : the emotions, for example, raised by external signs of 
 grief, of remorse, of anger, of envy, of malice, are clearly distin- 
 guishable from each other. 
 
 363. Fifthly, external signs of painful passions are some of them 
 attractive, some repulsive. Of every painful passion that is also 
 disagreeable,* the external signs are repulsive, repelling the specta- 
 tor from the object ; and the passion raised by such external signs 
 may be also considered as repulsive. Painful passions that are 
 agreeable produce an opposite effect: their external signs are attrac- 
 tive, drawing the spectator to them, and producing in him benevo- 
 lence to the person upon whom these signs appear ; witness distress 
 painted on the countenance, which instantaneously inspires the spec- 
 tator with pity, and impels 'him to afford relief. And the passion 
 raised by such external signs may also bo considered as attractive. 
 The cause of this difference among the painful passions raised by 
 their external signs may be readily gathered from what is laid down, 
 chapter ii. part vii, 
 
 * See passions explained as agreeable, chapter ii. part ii. 
 
 861. Signs of pleasant passions, apreeable to a spectator, Ac. Pride, no exc*pUon.--Aa 
 agreeable object produces n pleasant emotion, Ac. 
 
 862. Emotions raised by external sigus of pleasant passions have little vritjr ; not w bj 
 BtoM of painful passions. 
 
 863. External signs of painfi passions either attractive or repuUiv*.
 
 236 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMO110NS &.ND PASSIONS. 
 
 364. It is now time to look back to the question proposed iu the 
 beginning, How we come to understand external signs, so as to refer 
 each sign to its proper passion ? We have seen that this branch of 
 knowledge cannot be derived originally from sight, nor from ex- 
 perience. Is it then implanted in us by nature ? The following 
 considerations will incline us to answer the question in the affirma- 
 tive. In the first place, the external signs of passion must be nat- 
 ural ; for they are invariably the same in every country, and among 
 the different tribes of men : pride, for example, is always expressed 
 by an erect posture, reverence by prostration, and sorrow by a de- 
 jected look. Secondly, we are not even indebted to experience for 
 the knowledge that these expressions are natural and universal ; for 
 we are so framed as to have an innate conviction of the fact : let a 
 man change his habitation to the other side of the globe, he will, 
 from the accustomed signs, infer the passion of fear among his new 
 neighbors with as little hesitation as he did at home. But why, 
 after all, involve ourselves in preliminary observations, when the 
 doubt may be directly solved as follows ? That, if the meaning of 
 external signs be not derived to us from sight, nor from experience, 
 there is no remaining source whence it can be derived but from 
 nature. 
 
 365. We may then venture to pronounce, with some degree of 
 assurance, that man is provided by nature with a sense or faculty 
 that lays open to him every passion by means of its external ex- 
 pressions. And we cannot entertain any reasonable doubt of this, 
 when we reflect that the meaning of external signs is not hid even 
 from infants : an infant is remarkably affected with the passions of 
 its nurse expressed in her countenance ; a smile cheers it, a frown 
 makes it afraid : but fear cannot be without apprehending danger ; 
 and what danger can the infant apprehend, unless it be sensible that 
 its nurse is angry ? We must, therefore, admit that a child can 
 read anger in its nurse's face ; of which it must be sensible intui- 
 tively, for it has no other means of knowledge. I do not affirm that 
 these particulars are clearly apprehended by the child, for to pro- 
 duce clear and distinct perceptions, reflection and experience are 
 requisite ; but that even an infant, when afraid, must have some 
 notion of its betng in danger, is evident. 
 
 That we should be conscious intuitively of a passion from its ex- 
 ternal expressions, is conformable to the analogy of nature : the 
 knowledge of that language is of too great importance to be left 
 upon experience ; because a foundation so uncertain and precarious 
 would prove a great obstacle to the formation of societies. Wisely, 
 therefore, is it ordered, and agreeably to the system of Providence, 
 that we should have nature for 6*ur instructor. 
 
 864 How we refer each sign to its proper passion. Considerations which show thnt 
 this knowledge is implanted by nature. 
 865. Infants affected by external signs. Argument from analogy.
 
 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 237 
 
 866. Manifold and admirable are the purposes to which the ex- 
 ternal signs of passion are made subservient by the Author of our 
 nature : those occasionally mentioned above make but a part. 
 Several final causes remain to be unfolded ; and to that task I pro- 
 ceed with alacrity. In the first place, the signs of internal agitation 
 displayed externally to every spectator, tend to fix the signification 
 of many words. The only effectual means to ascertain the meaning 
 of any doubtful word, is an appeal to the thing it represents ; and 
 hence the ambiguity of words expressive of things that are not ob- 
 jects of external sense, for in that case an appeal is~denied. Passion, 
 strictly speaking, is not an object of external sense, but its external 
 signs are ; and by means of these signs passions may be appealed to 
 with tolerable accuracy : thus the words that denote our passions, 
 next to those that denote external objects, have the most distinct 
 meaning. Words signifying internal action and the more delicate 
 feelings, are less distinct. This defect with regard to internal action 
 is what chiefly occasions the intricacy of logic : the terms of that 
 science are far from being sufficiently ascertained, even after much 
 care and labor bestowed by Locke ; to whom, however, the world is 
 greatly indebted for removing a mountain of rubbish, and moulding 
 the subject into a rational and correct form. The same defect is re- 
 markable in criticism, which has for its object the more delicate 
 feelings ; the terms that denote these feelings being not more dis- 
 tinct than those of logic. To reduce the science of criticism to any 
 regular form, has never once been attempted : however rich the ore 
 may be, no critical chemist has been found to analyze its constituent 
 parts, and to distinguish each by its own name. 
 
 367. In the second place, society among individuals is greatly 
 promoted by that universal language. Looks and gestures give 
 direct access to the heart, and lead us to select, with tolerable ac- 
 curacy, the persons who are worthy of our confidence. It is sur- 
 prising how quickly, and for the most part how correctly, we judge 
 of character from external appearance. 
 
 Thirdly, After social intercourse is commenced, these external 
 signs, which diffuse through a whole assembly the feelings of each 
 individual, contribute above all other means to improve the social 
 affections. Language, no doubt, is the most comprehensive vehicle 
 for communicating emotious : but in expedition, as well as in power 
 of conviction, it falls short of the signs under consideration ; the in- 
 voluntary signs especially, which are incapable of deceit. Where 
 the countenance, the tones, the gestures, the actions, join with the 
 words in communicating emotions, these united have a force irresist- 
 ible : thus* all the pleasant emotions of the human heart, with all the 
 social and virtuous affections, are, by means of these external signs, 
 'not only perceived but felt By this admirable contrivance, conver- 
 
 866. TurposM to which th external slpi* of passion r* rat<1t ubrvknt
 
 238 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 
 
 sation becomes that lively and animating amusement without which 
 life would at best be insipid ; one joyful countenance spreads cheer- 
 fulness instantaneously through a multitude of spectators. 
 
 368. Fourthly, Dissocial passions, being hurtful by prompting 
 violence and mischief, are noted by the most conspicuous external 
 signs, in order to put us upon our guard : thus anger and revenge, 
 especially when sudden, display themselves on the countenance in 
 legible characters.* The external signs again of every passion that 
 threatens danger raise in us the passion of fear ; which, frequently 
 operating without reason or reflection, moves us by a sudden impulse 
 to avoid the impending danger. (See chapter ii. part i. sec. 6.) 
 
 369. In the fifth place, These external signs are remarkably sub- 
 servient to morality. A painful passion, being accompanied with 
 disagreeable external signs, must produce in every spectator a pain- 
 ful emotion ; but then, if the passion be social, the emotion it pro- 
 duces is attractive, and connects the spectator with the person who 
 suffers. Dissocial passions only are productive of repulsive emotions, 
 involving the spectator's aversion, and frequently his indignation. 
 This beautiful contrivance makes us cling to the virtuous, and abhor 
 the Avicked. 
 
 370. Sixthly, Of all the external signs of passion, those of afflic- 
 tion or distress are the most illustrious with respect to a final cause. 
 They are illustrious by the singularity of their contrivance, and also 
 by inspiring sympathy, a passion to which human society is indebted 
 for its greatest blessing, that of providing relief for the distressed. 
 A subject so interesting deserves a leisurely and attentive examina- 
 tion. The conformity of the nature of man to his external circum- 
 stances is in every particular wonderful; his nature makes him prone 
 to society ; and society is necessary to his well-being, because in a 
 solitary state he is a helpless being, destitute of support, and in his 
 manifold distresses destitute of relief: but mutual support, the shining 
 attribute of society, is of too great moment to be left dependent upon 
 
 * Kough and blunt manners are allied to anger by au internal feeling, as well 
 as by external expressions resembling in a faint degree those of anger ; there- 
 fore such manners are easily heightened into anger, and savages for that 
 reason are prone to anger. Thus rough and blunt manners are unhappy in 
 two respects : first, they are readily converted into anger ; and next, the change 
 oeing imperceptible because of the similitude of their external signs, the per- 
 son against whom the anger is directed is not put upon his guard. It is for 
 these reasons a great object in society to correct such manners, and to bring 
 on a habit of sweetness and calmness. This temper has two opposite good 
 effects. First, it is not easily provoked to wrath. Next, the interval being 
 great between it and real anger, a person of that temper who receives an 
 affront has many changes to go through before his anger be inflamed : these 
 changes have each of them their external sign ; and the offending party is 
 put upon his guard, to retire, or to endeavor a^reconciliation. 
 
 367. Society among individuals thus promoted. The social affections improved ; not 
 only by language, but signs. What enlivens conversation. 
 
 368. Signs of dissocial passions put us on our guard. Rough and blunt manners unhappy 
 In two respects. Opposite good effects of a swret temper. 
 
 C$9. External signs promote morality.
 
 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS ANT> PASSIONS. 239 
 
 cool reason ; it is ordered more wisely, and with greater conformity 
 to the analogy of nature, that it should be enforced even instinclivt-ly 
 by the passion of sympathy. Here sympathy makes a capital figure, 
 and contributes, more than any other means, to make life easy and 
 comfortable. But, however essential the sympathy of others mav be 
 to our well-being, one beforehand would not readily conceive "how 
 it could be raised by external signs of distress : for considering the 
 analogy of nature, if these signs be agreeable, they must give birth 
 to a pleasant emotion leading every beholder to be pleased with 
 human woes ; if disagreeable, as they undoubtedly are, ought they 
 not naturally to repel the spectator from them, in order to be re- 
 lieved from pain ? Such would be the reasoning beforehand ; and 
 such would be the effect were man purely a selfish being. But the 
 benevolence of our nature gives a very different direction to the 
 painful passion of sympathy, and to the desire involved in it : in- 
 stead of avoiding distress, we fly to it in order to afford relief; and 
 our sympathy cannot be otherwise gratified but by giving all the 
 succor in our power. (See chap. ii. part vii.) Thus external signs 
 of distress, though disagreeable, are attractive ; and the sympathy 
 they inspire is a powerful cause, impelling us to afford relief even to 
 a stranger, as if he were our friend or relation.* 
 
 371. The effects produced in all beholders by external signs of 
 passion, tend so visibly to advance the social state, that I must in- 
 dulge my heart with a more narrow inspection of tin's admirable 
 branch of the human constitution. These external signs, being all of. 
 them resolvable into color, figure, and motion, should not naturally 
 make any deep impression on a spectator; and supposing them 
 qualified for making deep impressions, we have seen above that the 
 effects they produce are not such as might be expected. We can- 
 not therefore account otherwise for the operation of these external 
 signs, but by ascribing it to the original constitution of human na- 
 ture : to improve the social state by making us instinctively rejoice 
 
 * It is apoted observation, that the deepest tragedies are tho most crowded ; 
 which in a slight view will be thought an unaccountable bins iu human nature. 
 Love of novelty, desire of occupation, beauty of action, make us fond of the- 
 atrical representations ; and, when once engaged, wo must follow the story to 
 the conclusion, whatever distress it may create. But we generally become wise 
 by experience ; and when we foresee what pain we shall sutFer during tho course 
 of the representation, is it not surprising that persons of reflection do not avoid 
 
 cplainedby a single observation. That sympathy, though painful, is attractive, 
 id attaches us to an object in distress, tho opposition of self-love notwitl 
 
 and 
 
 standing, which slioiild prompt us to fly from it! 'And by this curious incchan 
 ism it is, that persons of any degree of sensibility are attracted by affliction btuJ 
 more than by joy. 
 
 8TO. Final cause of external signs of distress. Nature of man conformed to his dream 
 stances. Sympathy. Why distress docs not rci>cl Why ilio <lepeM tr^ltf
 
 240 SENTIMENTS. 
 
 with the glad of heart, weep with the mourner, and shun those who 
 threaten danger, is a contrivance no less illustrious for its wisdom 
 than for its benevolence. 
 
 372. I add a reflection, with which I shall conclude. The ex- 
 ternal signs of passion are a strong indication that man, by his very 
 constitution, is framed to be open and sincere. A child, in all things 
 obedient to the impulse of nature, hides none of its emotions : the 
 savage and clown, who have no guide but pure nature, expose their 
 hearts to view, by giving way to all the natural signs. And even 
 when men learn to dissemble their sentiments, and when behavior 
 degenerates into art, there still remain checks that keep dissimula- 
 tion within bounds, and prevent a great part of its mischievous 
 effects : the total suppression of the voluntary signs during any vivid 
 passion, begets the utmost uneasiness, which cannot be endured for 
 any considerable time : this operation becomes indeed less painful 
 by habit ; but, luckily, the involuntary signs cannot, by any effort, 
 be suppressed, nor even dissembled. An absolute hypocrisy, by 
 which the character is concealed, and a fictitious one assumed, is 
 made impracticable ; and nature has thereby prevented much harm 
 to society. We may pronounce, therefore, that Nature, herself sin- 
 cere and candid, intends that mankind should preserve the same 
 character, by cultivating simplicity and truth, and banishing every 
 sort of dissimulation that tends to mischief. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 SENTIMENTS. 
 
 373. EVERT thought prompted by passion, is termed a sentiment 
 (see Introd. sec. 33). To have a general notion of the different pas- 
 sions, will not alone enable an artist to make a just representation 
 of any passion : he ought, over and above, to know the various ap- 
 pearances of the same passion in different persons. Passions receive 
 a tincture from every peculiarity of character ; and for that reason it 
 rarely happens that a passion, in the different circumstances of feel- 
 ing, of sentiment, and of expression, is precise^ the same in any two 
 persons. Hence the following rule concerning dramatic and epic 
 compositions : that a passion be adjusted to the character, the senti- 
 ments to the passion, and the language to the sentiments. If nature 
 be not faithfully copied in each of these, a defect in execution is per- 
 
 371. The operation of external signs of emotion, attributable to the original constitution 
 of human nature. Wisdom and benevolence of the contrivance. 
 
 372. Concluding reflection ; what the external signs of passion indicate. Illustrated in 
 the child ; the savage ; and even in men that have learned to dissemble their eontiraents.
 
 SENTIMENTS 241 
 
 ceived : there may appear some resemblance ; but the picture, upon 
 the whole, will be insipid, through want of grace and delicacy. A 
 painter, in order to represent the various attitudes of the body, ought 
 to be intimately acquainted with muscular motion : no less intimate- 
 ly acquainted with emotions and characters ought a writer to be, in 
 order to represent the various attitudes of the mind. A general no- 
 tion of the passions, in their grosser differences of strong and weak, 
 elevated and humble, severe and gay, is far from being sufficient : 
 pictures formed so superficially have iittle resemblance, and no ex- 
 pression; yet it will appear by and by, that in many instances our 
 artists are deficient even- in that superficial knowledge. 
 
 In handling the present subject, it would be endless to trace even 
 the ordinary passions through their nice and minute differences. 
 Mine shall be an humbler task ; which is, to select from the besl 
 writers instances of faulty sentiments, after paving the way by son* 
 general observations. 
 
 374. To talk in the language of music, each passion hath a cer- 
 tain tone, to which every sentiment proceeding from it ought to be 
 tuned with the greatest accuracy ; which is no easy work, especially 
 where such harmony ought to be supported during the course of a 
 long theatrical representation. In order to reach such delicacy of 
 execution, it is necessary that a writer assume the precise character 
 and passion of the personage represented ; which requires an un- 
 common genius. But it is the only difficulty ; for the writer, who, 
 annihilating himself, can thus become another person, need be in no 
 pain about the sentiments that belong to the assumed character: 
 these will flow without the least study, or even preconception ; and 
 will frequently be as delightfully new to himself as to his reader. 
 But if a lively picture even of a single emotion require an effort of 
 genius, how much greater the effort to compose a passionate dialogue 
 with as many different tones of passion as there are speakers ! With 
 what ductility of feeling must that writer be endowed, who ap- 
 proaches perfection in such a work : when it is necessary to assume 
 different and even opposite characters and passions, in the quickest 
 succession ! Yet this work, difficult as it is, yields to that of com- 
 posing a dialogue in genteel comedy, exhibiting characters without 
 passion. The reason is, that the different tones of character are more 
 delicate and less in sight, than those of passion ; and accordingly, 
 many writers, who have no genius for drawing characters, make a shift 
 to represent tolerably well an ordinary passion in its simple move- 
 ments. But of all works of this kind, what is truly the most diffi- 
 cult, is a characteristical dialogue upon any philosophical subject : 
 to interweave characters with reasoning, by suiting to the character 
 
 8T8. Define tentimcnt. How passions are modified. Kule for dramatic and *f>lo com- 
 positions 
 
 874. Sentiment to be adapted to each passion. The writer must assume the <*arel 
 nd passion of the pcrw/* represented Difficulty of composing dUlogu*. Tor** ki 
 coinparc<L
 
 242 SENTIMENTS. 
 
 of each speaker a peculiarity, not only of thought, but of expression, 
 requires the perfection of genius, taste, and judgment. 
 
 375. How nice dialogue-writing is, will be evident, even without 
 reasoning, from the miserable compositions of that kind found with- 
 out number in all languages. The art of mimicking any singularity 
 in gesture or in voice, is a rare talent, though directed by sight and 
 hearing, the acutest and most lively of our external senses: how 
 much more rare must the talent be, of imitating characters and in- 
 ternal emotions, tracing all their different tints, and representing 
 them in a lively manner by natural sentiments properly expressed ! 
 The truth is, such execution is too delicate for an ordinary genius : 
 and for that reason, the bulk of writers, instead of expressing a pas- 
 sion as one does who leels it, content themselves with describing it 
 in the language of a spectator. To awake passion by an internal 
 effort merely, without any external cause, requires great sensibility : 
 and yet that operation is necessary, no less to the writer than to the 
 actor ; because none but those who actually feel a passion, can rep- 
 resent it to the life. The writer's part is the more complicated : he 
 must add composition to passion ; and must, in the quickest succes- 
 sion, adopt every different character. But a very humble flight of 
 imagination, may serve to convert a writer into a spectator ; so as 
 to figure, in some obscure manner, an action as passing in his sight 
 and hearing. In that figured situation, being led naturally to write 
 like a spectator, he entertains his readers with his own reflections, 
 with cool description, and florid declamation ; instead of making 
 them eye-witnesses, as it were, to a real event, and to every move- 
 ment of genuine passion.* Thus most, of our plays appear to be 
 cast in the same mould ; personages without character, the mere 
 outlines of passion, a tiresome monotony, and a pompous declama- 
 tory style.f 
 
 376. This descriptive manner of representing passion, is a very 
 cold entertainment : our sympathy is not raised by description ; we 
 must first be lulled into a dream of reality, and every thing must 
 appear as passing in our sight (see chap. ii. part i. sect. 7). Un- 
 
 * In ihe^Eneid, the hero is made to describe himself in the following words : 
 ^umpius jEneas,fama super athera notus. Virgil could never have been guilty 
 of an impropriety so gross, had he assumed the personage of his hero, instead 
 of uttering the sentiments of a spectator. Nor would Xenophon have made 
 the following speech for Cyrus the younger, to his Grecian auxiliaries, whom 
 he was leading against his brother Artaxerxes : " I have chosen you, Greeks ! 
 my auxiliaries, not to enlarge my army, for I have Barbarians without number; 
 but because y)u surpass all the Barbarians in valor and military discipline." 
 This sentiment is Xenophon's, for surely Cyrus did not reckon his countrymen 
 Barbarians. 
 
 t " Chez Racine tout est sentiment ; il a su faire parler chacun pour sm, et 
 o'est en cela qu'il est vraiment unique parini les auteurs dramatiques de sa na- 
 tion." Rousseau. . 
 
 875. Rare talent required In Imitating characters and Infernal emotions. Most wrlten 
 merely describe passion. More easy to write as a spectator than to feol the passion de- 
 fa-ibed. Remarks on Virgil and Xenophon.
 
 SENTIMENTS. 
 
 happy is the player of genius who acts a capital part in what may 
 be termed a descriptive tragedy; after assuming the very passion 
 that is to be represented, how is he cramped in action, when he 
 must utter, not the sentiments of the passion he feels, but a cold de- 
 scription in the language of a bystander ! It is that imperfection, 
 I am persuaded, in the bulk of our plays, which confines our stage 
 almost entirely to Shakspeare, notwithstanding his many irregulari- 
 ties. In our late English tragedies, we sometimes find sentiments 
 tolerably well adapted to a plain passion : but we must not, in any 
 of them, expect a sentiment expressive of character ; and, upon that 
 very account, our late performances of the dramatic kind are for the 
 most part intolerably insipid. 
 
 377. Looking back upon what is said, I am in some apprehen- 
 sion of not being perfectly understood ; for it is not easy to avoid 
 obscurity in handling a matter so complicated ; but I promise to set 
 it in the clearest light, by adding example to precept. The first ex- 
 amples shall, be of sentiments that appear the legitimate offspring 
 of passion ; to which shall be opposed what are descriptive only, 
 and illegitimate : and in making this comparison, I boirow my in- 
 stances from Shakspeare and Corneille, who for genius in dramatic 
 composition stand uppermost in the rolls of fame. 
 
 Shakspeare shall furnish the first example, being of sentiments dic- 
 tated by a violent and perturbed passion : 
 
 Lear. Filial ingratitude ! 
 
 Is it not, as if this mouth should tear this hand 
 For lilting food to't? But I'll punish home ; 
 
 No, I'll weep no more. In such a night, 
 
 To shut me out ! Pour on, I will endure. 
 
 In such a night ns this ! O Regan, Goneril, 
 Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all 
 O ! that way madness lies ; let me slum that ; 
 No more ofthat. 
 
 Kent. Good, my lord, enter here. 
 
 Lear. Pr'ythee, go in thyself, seek thine own case, 
 This tempest will not give me leave to ponder 
 On things would hurt me more : but I'll go in ; 
 
 In, boy, go first. You houseless poverty 
 
 Nay, get thee in ; I'll pray, and then I'll sleep 
 Poor naked wretches, wheresoc'er you arc, 
 That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! 
 How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, 
 Your loop'd and window'd ruggedncss defend yon 
 
 From seasons such as these ? O 1 have ta'en 
 
 Too little care of this ! Take physic, Pomp ; 
 Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, 
 That thou mny'st shake the superflux to them, 
 And show the heavens more just. 
 
 King Lear, Act III. So. & 
 
 I give another example of the same kind, expressing sentiment! 
 arising from remorse and despair : 
 
 8T8. Defects of the descriptive manner of representing pia*ioD.
 
 SENTIMENTS. 
 
 Othello. I. ) ! I have a weapon : 
 A better never did itself sustain 
 Upon a soldier's thigh. I've seen the day, 
 That with this little arm, and this good sword, 
 I've made my way through more impediment 
 Than twenty times your stop. But, oh vain boast I 
 \Vho can control his fate ? 'tis not so now. 
 Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon'd ; 
 Here is my journey's end, here is my butt, 
 The very sea-mark of my utmost sail. 
 Do you go back dismay'd ? 'tis a lost fear. 
 Man but a rush against Othello's breast, 
 And he retires. Where should Othello go? 
 Now how dost thou look cow? Oh ill-starr'd wench 
 Pale as thy smock ! When we shall meet at compt, 
 This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, 
 And fiends will snatch at it. "Cold, cold, my girl ; 
 Ev'n like thy chastity. O cursed slave ! , 
 
 Whip me, ye devils, 
 
 From the possession of this heavenly sight ; 
 Blow me about in winds, roast me in sulphur, 
 
 Wash me in steep down gulfs of liquid fire 
 
 Oh, Desdemona ! Desdemona ! dead ! dead ! oh ! ph ! 
 
 Otlietto, Act V. Sc. 9. 
 
 The sentiments here displayed flow so naturally from the passions 
 represented, that we cannot conceive any imitation more perfect. 
 
 378. With regard to the French author, truth obliges me to ac- 
 knowledge, that he describes in the style of a spectator, instead of 
 expressing passion like one who feels it; which naturally betrays him 
 into a tiresome monotony, and a pompous declamatory style.* It 
 is scarce necessary to give examples, for he never varies from that 
 tone. I shall, however, take two passages at a venture, in order to 
 be confronted with those transcribed above. In the tragedy of 
 Cinna, ^Emilia, after the conspiracy was discovered, having nothing 
 in view but racks and death to herself and her lover, receives a par- 
 don from Augustus, attended with the brightest circumstances of 
 
 * This criticism reaches the French dramatic writers in general, with very 
 few exceptions : their tragedies, excepting those of Kacine, are mostly, if not 
 totally, descriptive. Corneille led the way ; and later writers, imitating his 
 manner, have accustomed the French ear to a style, formal, pompous, de- 
 clamatory, which suits not with any passion. Hence, to burlesque a French 
 tragedy, "is not more difficult than to burlesque a stiff s'olemn fop. The facility 
 of the operation has in Paris introduced a singular amusement, which is, to 
 burlesque the more successful tragedies in a sort of farce, called a parody. La 
 Motte, who himself appears to have been sorely galled by some of these pro- 
 ductions, acknowledges, that no more is necessary to give them currency but 
 barely to vary the dramatis personal, and instead of kings and heroes, queens 
 and princesses, to substitute tinkers and tailors, milkmaids and seamstresses. 
 The declamatory style, so different from the genuine expression of passion, 
 passes in some measure unobserved, when great personages are the speakers : 
 but in the mouths of the vulgar the impropriety with regard to the speaker as 
 well as to the passion represented, is so remarkable as to become ridiculous. 
 A tragedy, where every passion is made to speak in its natural tone, is not lia- 
 ble to be thus burlesqued : the same passion is by all men expressed nearly in 
 the same manner ; and, therefore, the genuine expressions of a passion cannot 
 be ridiculous in the mouth of any man who is susceptible of the passion. 
 
 877. Exunple of MflUments dictated by passior : by remorse and depir.
 
 BEXTIMKNTB. 245 
 
 magnanimity and tenderness. This is a Incky situation foi repre- 
 senting the passions of surprise and gratitude in their different 
 stages, which seem naturally to be what follow. These passion*, 
 raised at once to the utmost pitch, and being at first too big for 
 utterance, must, for some moments, be expressed by violent gestures 
 only : as soon as there is vent for words, the tiret expressions are 
 broken and interrupted : at last we ought to expect a tide of in- 
 termingled sentiments, occasioned by the fluctuation of the mind 
 between the two passions. ./Emilia is made to behave in a very 
 different manner : with extreme coolness she describes her own 
 situation, as if she were merely a spectator, or rather the poet takes 
 the fask off her hands. (Act V. Sc. 3.) 
 
 In the tragedy of Serlorius, the queen, surprised with the news that 
 her lover was assassinated, instead of venting any passion, degener- 
 ates into a cool spectator, and undertakes to instruct the bystanders 
 how a queen ought to behave on such an occasion. (Act V. Sc. 3.) 
 
 379. So much in general upon the genuine sentiments of passion. 
 I proceed to particular observations. And, first, passions seldom 
 continue uniform any considerable time : they generally fluctuate, 
 swelling and subsiding by turns, often in a quick succession (see 
 chapter ii. part iii.) ; and the same sentiments cannot be just unless 
 they correspond to such fluctuation. Accordingly, climax never 
 show's better than in expressing a swelling passion : the following 
 passages jnny suffice for an illustration : 
 
 Oroonoko. Can vou raise the dead ? 
 
 Pursue and overtake tiie wings of time ? 
 
 And bring about again the hours, the days, 
 
 The years that made me happy ? Oroonoko, Act II. Sc. 2. 
 
 Almeina. How hast thou charm'd 
 
 The wildness of the waves and rocka to this ? 
 That thus relenting they have given thee back 
 To earth, to light and life, to love and me ? 
 
 Mourning JSridt, Act I. Sc. 7. 
 
 I would not be the villain that thou think'st 
 For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp. 
 And the rich earth to boot. Macbtth, Act IV. So. 4. 
 
 The following passage expresses finely the progress of conviction : 
 
 Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve 
 
 That tender, lovely form of painted air, 
 
 So like Altneria. Hft ! it sinks, it falls ; 
 
 I'll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade. 
 
 'Tis life ! 'tis warm ! 'tis she ! 'tis she herself! 
 
 It is Almeria, 'tis, :t is ray wife ! Ifourmng nd*, Act II. 5c.. 
 
 In the progress of thought, our resolutions become more vigorous 
 as well as our passions : 
 
 878. Peculiarities of Cornell!*. Frencli tragedies easily burlesqued. How thb Udoo* 
 Remarks on the trnsredles of Cinna and &K0TUM. .-iiln 
 
 8T9. Passions seldom uniform for a long time. Climax, expressive of-* w 
 
 Examples.
 
 246 SENTIMENTS. 
 
 If evci I do j leld or give consent, 
 
 By an action, word, or thought, to wed 
 
 Another lord ; may then just heaven shower down, &c. 
 
 Ibid. Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 380. And this leads to a second observation. That the different 
 stages of a passion, and its different directions, from birth to extinc- 
 tion, must be carefully represented in their order ; because otherwise 
 the sentiments, by being misplaced, will appear forced and unnat- 
 ural. Resentment, for example, when provoked by an atrocious 
 injury, discharges itself first upon the author : sentiments therefore 
 of revenge come always first, and must in some measure be ex- 
 hausted before the person injured thinks of grieving for himself. In 
 the Cid of Corneille, Don Diegue, having been affronted in a cruel 
 manner, expresses scarce any sentiment of revenge, but is totally 
 occupied in contemplating the low situation to which he is reduced 
 by the affront : 
 
 rage ! 6 desespoir! 6 vieillesse enuemie ! 
 N'ai-je done tant vecu que pour cette infamie? 
 Et ne suis-je blanchi dans lea trauvaux guerriers, 
 Que pour voir en un jour fl6trir tant de lauriers ? 
 Mon oras, qu'avec respect toute 1'Espagne admire, 
 Mon bras, qui tant de fois a suave cet empire, 
 Tant do fois affermi le trone de son Koi, 
 Trahit done ma querelle, et ne fait rien pour moi I 
 O cruel souvenir de ma gloire passee ! 
 (Euvre de tant de jours en un jour efface'e I 
 Nouvelle dignite futale ii mon bonheur ! 
 Precipice clove" d'ou tombe mon honneur ! 
 Faut-il de votre eclat voir triompher le Comte. 
 Et mourir sans vengeance, ou vivre dans la honte! 
 
 Le Cid, Act I. Sc. 7. 
 
 These sentiments are certainly not the first that are suggested by 
 the passion of resentment. As the first movements of resentment 
 are always directed to its object, the very same is the case of grief. 
 Yet with relation to the sudden and severe distemper that seized 
 Alexander bathing in the river Cydnus, Quintus Curtius describes 
 the first emotions of the army as directed to themselves, lamenting 
 that they were left without a leader, far from home, and had scarce 
 any hopes of returning in safety : their king's distress, Avhich must 
 naturally have been their first concern, occupies them but in the 
 second place, according to that author. In the Aminta of Tasso, 
 Sylvia, upon a report of her lover's death, which she believed cer- 
 tain, instead of bemoaning the loss of her beloved, turns her thoughts 
 upon herself, and wonders her heart does not break : 
 
 Ohimc, ben son di sasso, 
 
 Poi che questa novella non m'uccide. Act IV. Sc. 2. 
 
 381. A person sometimes is agitated at once by different passions ; 
 and the mind, in that case, vibrating like a pendulum, vents itself 
 
 380. The different stages of a passion to be represented In order. For Instance, resent- 
 ment. The Cid of Corneille. liesentineiit first directed to its object; so with griet 
 Description of Alexander's death, by Q. Curtius, faulty. Sylvia, &c.
 
 SENTIMENTS. 
 
 in sentimei.ts that partake of the same vibration. This I give as a 
 third observation : 
 
 Queen. Would I had ne'er trod this English earth, 
 Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it ! 
 Y's've angels' faces, but heaven known your hearts. 
 What shall become of me now ? wretched lady ! 
 I am the most unhappy woman living. 
 
 Alas 1 poor wenches, where are now your fortunes ? [2b htr tcomtn. 
 Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity, 
 No friends, no hope ! no kindred ween for me ! 
 Almost no grave allow'd inc. Henry VIII. Act III. So. 1. 
 
 Othetto. Oh devil, devil ! 
 
 If that the earth could teem with woman's tears, 
 Each drop she fulls would prove a crocodile. 
 Out of my sight! 
 
 J)esdemona. I will not stay t ! offend you. [Going. 
 
 Ludovico. Truly, an obedient lady : 
 I do beseech your lordship, cull her back. 
 
 Ofh. Mistress 
 
 JDes. My lord. 
 
 Oth. What would you with her, sir ? 
 
 Lud. Who, I, my lord ? 
 
 Oth. Aye ; you did wish that I would make her turn : 
 Sir, she can turn and turn, and yet go on ; 
 And turn again. And she can weep, sir, weep : 
 And she's obedient : as you say, obedient ; 
 Very obedient proceed you in your tears- 
 Concerning this, sir oh well painted passion ! 
 I am commanded home get you away, 
 I'll send for you anon sir, I obey the mandate, 
 
 And will return to Venice. Hence, avaunt ! [Exit VMdemona. 
 
 Othttlo, Act IV. bo. d. 
 
 Emilia. Oh, my good lord, I would speak a word with you. 
 
 Othello. Yes, 'tis Emilia By and by She's dead. 
 'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio'a death : 
 The noise was high Ha ! i>o more moving ? 
 Still as the grave. Shall s)^ come in I were t good ? 
 I think she stirs again N> What's the best* 
 If she come in, she'll sur. speak to my wife ; 
 My wife ! my wife ! WUt wife ? I have no wife ? 
 Oh, insupportable! Oh. beavy hour! Othello, Act IV. Sc. 7. 
 
 3*2. A fourth observati'O is, That nature, which gave us passions, 
 and made them extremely beneficial when moderate, intended un- 
 doubtedly that they should be subjected to the government of reasoi 
 and conscience. (See chap. ii. part vii.) It is therefore again* 
 order of nature, that passion in any case should take the lei 
 contradiction to reason and conscience : such a state of 
 sort of anarchy, which every one is ashamed of, and endeavors to 
 hide or dissemble. Even love, however laudalie, is attended wit 
 a conscious shame when it becomes immoderate: it is covere 
 the world, and disclosed only to the beloved object : 
 
 Et quo Pamour souvent do rornors combattu, 
 Paroisse uue foiblcssc, et non une vcrtn. 
 
 Jjoileau, Lart Pott. Cham. Ui. i. i 
 
 881 The mind. .tftnted t on<* by different pwnloM.-//> VIl
 
 248 SENTIMENTS. 
 
 Oh, they love least that let men know their love. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act I. Sc. 8. 
 
 Hence a capital rule in the representation of immoderate passions, 
 that they ought to be hid or dissembled as much as possible. And 
 this holds in an especial manner with respect to criminal passions : 
 one never counsels the commission of a crime in plain terms : guilt 
 must not appear in its native colors, even in thought ; the proposal 
 must be made by hints, and by representing the action in some fa- 
 vorable light. Of the propriety of sentiment upon such an occasion, 
 Shakspeare, in the Tempest, has given us a beautiful example, in a 
 speech by the usurping Duke of Milan, advising Sebastian to murder 
 his brother, the King of Naples : 
 
 Antonio. What might, 
 
 Worthy Sebastian 0, what might no more. 
 
 And yet, methinks, I see it in thy face, 
 
 What thou shouldst be : th' occasion speaks thee, and 
 
 My strong imagination sees a crown 
 
 Dropping upon thy head. Act II. Sc. 1. 
 
 There never was drawn a more complete picture of this kind, than 
 that of King John soliciting Hubert to murder the young Prince 
 Arthur : 
 
 K. John. Come hither, Hubert. my gentle Hubert, 
 
 We owe thee much ; within this wall of flesh 
 
 There is a soul counts thee her creditor, 
 
 And with advantage means to pay thy love. 
 
 And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath 
 
 Lives in this bosom, dearly cherish'd. 
 
 Give me thy hand, I had a thing to say 
 
 But I will fit it with some better time. 
 
 By Heaven, Hubert, I'm almost ashamed 
 
 To say what good respect I have of thee. 
 
 H-alcrt. I am much bounden to your majesty. 
 K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet- 
 But thou shalt have and creep time ne'er so slow, 
 
 Yet it shall come for me to do thee good. 
 
 I had a thing to say but let it go ; 
 
 The sun is in the heaven : and the proud day, 
 
 Attended with the pleasures of the world, 
 
 Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds, 
 
 To give me audience. If the midnight bell 
 
 Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth 
 
 Sound one in the drowsy race of night; 
 
 If this same were a church-yard where we stand, 
 
 And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs ; 
 
 Or if that surly spirit Melancholy 
 
 Had baked thy blood, and made it heavy-thick, 
 
 Which else runs tickling up and down the veins, 
 
 Making that idiot Laughter keep men's eyes. 
 
 And strain their cheeks to idle merriment, 
 
 (A passion hateful to my purposes ;) 
 
 Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, 
 
 Hear me without thine ears, and make reply 
 
 Without a tongue, using conceit alone, 
 
 Without eyes,' ears, and harmful sounds of words; 
 
 Then, in despite of broad-eyed watchful day, 
 
 I would into thy bosom pour iny thoughts. 
 
 But ah, I will not Yet I love thee well ; 
 
 And by my troth, I think thou lovest me welt
 
 SENTIMENTS. 249 
 
 Hubert. So well, that what you bid me undertake, 
 Though that my death were adjunct to my act, 
 By heaven I'd do it. 
 
 K. John. Do not I know thou would?t? 
 Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eyo 
 On yon young boy. I tell thee what, my friend : 
 He is a very serpent in my. way, 
 And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread, 
 He^lies before me. Dost thou understand me ? 
 Thou art his keeper. King John, Act III. 8c. 5. 
 
 ^ 383. As things are best illustrated by their contraries, I proceed 
 to faulty sentiments, disdaining to be indebted for examples to any 
 but the most approved authors. The first class shall consist of sen- 
 timents that accord not with the passion ; or, in other words, senti- 
 ments that the passion docs not naturally suggest. In the second 
 class shall be ranged sentiments that may belong to an ordinary 
 passion, but unsuitable to it as tinctured by a singular character. 
 Thoughts that properly are not sentiments, but rather descriptions, 
 make a third. Sentiments that belong to the passion represented, 
 but are faulty as being introduced too early or too late, make a 
 fourth. Vicious sentiments exposed in their native dress, instead of 
 being concealed or disguised, make a fifth. And in the last class 
 shall be collected sentiments suited to no character or passion, and 
 therefore unnatural. 
 
 384. The first class contains faulty sentiments of various kinds, 
 which I shall endeavor to distinguish from each other ; beginning with 
 sentiments that are faulty by being above the tone of the passion : 
 
 Othello. O my soul's joy ! 
 
 If after every tempest come such calms, 
 
 May the winds blow till they have waken'd death 1 
 
 And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas 
 
 Olympus high, and duck again as low 
 
 As hell's from heaven. Olhtllo, Act II. Sc. 6. 
 
 This sentiment may be suggested by violent and inflamed passion, 
 but is not suited to the calm satisfaction that one feels upon escaping 
 danger. 
 
 Pliilaster. Place me, some god, upon a pyramid 
 Higher than hills of earth, and '.end a voice 
 Loud as your thunder to me, that frojn thence 
 I may discourse to nil the under-world 
 The worth that dwells in him. . 
 
 Philasttr of Beaumont and FUtchtr, Act IV. 
 
 385. Second. Sentiments below the tone of the passion. Ptolemy, 
 by putting Pompey to death, having incurred the displeasure of 
 Caesar, was in the utmost dread of being dethroned : in that agitating 
 situation, Corneille makes him utter a speech full of cool reflection, 
 that is in no degree expressive of the passion : 
 
 8S2. Passion should be subjected to reason and conscience. The frcllnjr that attend* tb 
 Immoderate Indulgence of passion. Bate for representing lmmol*rt . p*lons. Example* 
 from the Tern-pent, .fee. 
 
 883. Faulty sentiments : those that do not accord with the |wsion, Ac. 
 
 foU. BdBttmtata above the tout of the passion. Othtlio, &. 
 
 11*
 
 250 SENTIMENTS. 
 
 All ! si je t'avois crt, je n'aurois pas de maitre, 
 Je scrois dans le trone ou le Ciel m'a fait naitre ; 
 Mais c'est une imprudence assez commune aux rois, 
 D'econter trop d'avis, et se tromper aux choix. 
 Le Destin les aveugle au bord du precipice, 
 Ou si quelque lumiere en leur ame se glisse, 
 Cette fausse clarte dont il les eblouit, 
 Le plonsre dans une gouffre, et puis s'cvanouit. 
 
 La Morte de Pvmpee, Act IV. So. 1. 
 
 In Les Freres ennemis 'of Racine, the second act is opened with a 
 love-scene : Hemon talks to his mistress of the torments of absence, 
 of the lustre of her eyes, that he ought to die nowhere but at her 
 feet, and that one moment of absence is a thousand years. Antigone, 
 on her part, acts the coquette : pretends she must be gone to wait 
 on her mother and brother, and cannot stay to listen to his courtship. 
 This is odious French gallantry, below the dignity of the pastion 
 of love : it would be excusable in painting modern French manr 
 ners ; and is insufferable where the ancients are brought upon the 
 stage. 
 
 386. Third. Sentiments that agree not with the tone of the 
 passion ; as where a pleasant sentiment is grafted upon a painful 
 passion, or the contrary. la the following instances the sentiments 
 are too gay for a serious passion : 
 
 No happier task these faded eyes pursue ; 
 To read and weep is all they now can do. 
 
 El&isa to Abelard, 1. 47. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid, 
 
 Some banish' <1 lover, or some captive maid ; 
 
 They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, 
 
 Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires ; 
 
 The virgin's wish without her fears impart, 
 
 Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart ; 
 
 Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, 
 
 And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole. 
 
 Eloisa to Abelard, 1. 61. 
 
 These thoughts are pretty : they suit Pope, but not Eloisa. 
 
 Satan, enraged by a threatening of the angel Gabriel, answera 
 
 thus : 
 
 Then when I am thy captive, talk of chains, 
 
 Proud limitary cherub ; but ere then, 
 
 Far heavier load thyself expect to feel 
 
 From my prevailing arm, though Heaven's King 
 
 Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy compeers, 
 
 Used to the yoke, draw'st his triumphant wheels 
 
 In progress through the road of heaven star-paved. 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book iv. 
 
 The concluding epithet forms a grand and delightful image, whiJi 
 cannot be the genuine offspring of rage. 
 
 885. Sentiments below the tone of the passion Ptolemy's speech. 
 336. Sentiments that agree not with the tome of the passion, as to gayety or srlou 
 aea*. SMs to Abelard, &c.
 
 SENTIMENTS. 251 
 
 387. Fourth. Sentiments too artificial for a serious passion. 1 
 give for the first example a speech of Percy expiring : 
 
 Harry, thou Jinst robb'd me of my growth ; 
 
 1 better brook the loss of brittle life, 
 
 Than those proud titles thou hast won of mo ; 
 
 They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my flesh 
 
 But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool : 
 
 And time, that takes survey of all the world, 
 
 Must have a stop. First Part of Henry IV. Act V. Sc. 9. 
 
 The sentiments of the Mourning Bride are, for the most part, 
 no less delicate than just copies of nature : in the following excep- 
 tion the picture is beautiful, but too artful to be suggested by severe 
 grief : 
 
 Almeria. no ! Timo gives increase to my afflictions. 
 
 The circling hours, that gather all the woes 
 
 Which are diffused through the revolving year, 
 
 Come heavy laden with th' oppressive weight 
 
 To me ; with me, successively they leave 
 
 The sighs, the tears, the groans, the restless cares. 
 
 And all the damps of grief, that did retard their flight ; 
 
 They shake their downy wings, and scatter all 
 
 The dire collected dews on my poor head ; 
 
 They fly with joy and swiftness from me. Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 In the same play, Almeria seeing a dead body, which she took to 
 be Alphonso's, expresses sentiments strained and artificial, which 
 nature suggests not to any person upon such an occasion : 
 
 Had they or hearts or eyes, that did this deed ? 
 
 Could eyes endure to guide such cruel hands ? 
 
 Are not my eyes guilty alike with theirs, 
 
 That thus can gaze, and yet not turn to stone ? 
 
 I do not weep ! The springs of tears are dried, 
 
 And of a sudden I am calm, as if 
 
 All things were well ; and yet my husband's murder'd ! 
 
 Yes, yes, I know to mourn : I'll sluice this heart, 
 
 The source of woe, and let the torrent loose. Act V. So. . ; 
 
 Lady Trueman. How could you be so cruel to defer giving me that joy which 
 you knew I must receive from your presence ? You have robbed my life of 
 some hours of happiness that ought to have been in it. Drummtr, Act V. 
 
 Pope's Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady, expresses 
 delicately the most tender concern and sorrow that one can feel for 
 the deplorable fate of a pet-son of worth. Such a poem, deeply 
 serious and pathetic, rejects with disdain all fiction. Upon that 
 account, the following passage deserves no quarter ; for it is not tho 
 language of the heart, but of the imagination indulging its flights at 
 ease, and by that means is eminently discordant with the subject. 
 It would be* still more severe censure, if it should be ascribed to 
 imitation, copying indiscreetly what has been said by others : 
 
 What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, 
 Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face ? 
 What though no sacred earth allow thee room, 
 Nor hallowM dirge be rnutter'd o'er thv tomb ? 
 Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'ra be dreat, 
 And the gran turf li lightly on thy br*t
 
 252 SENTIMENTS. 
 
 There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 
 There the first roses of the year shall blow : 
 While angels, with their silver wings, o'ershada. 
 The ground, now sacred by thy relics made. 
 
 388. Fifth. Fanciful or fiuical sentiments. Sentimciit* ihat de- 
 generate into point or conceit, however they may amu^e in an idle 
 hour, can never be the offspring of any serious or important pas- 
 sion. In the Jerusalem of Tasso, Tancred, after a single combat, 
 spent with fatigue and loss of blood, falls into a swoon ; in which 
 situation, understood to be dead, he is discovered by Erminia, who 
 was in love with him to distraction. A more happy situation can- 
 not be imagined, to raise grief in an instant to its height ; and yet, 
 in venting her sorrow, she descends most abominably into antithesis 
 and conceit even of the lowest kind. (Canto xix. stan. 105.) Armi- 
 da's lamentation respecting her lover Binaldo, is in the same vicious 
 taste. (Canto xx. stan. 124, 125, and 126.) 
 
 Queen. Give me no helf> in lamentation, 
 I am not barren to bring forth complaints : 
 All springs reduce their" currents to mine eyes, 
 That I, being govern'd by the wat'ry moon, 
 May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world, 
 Ah, for my husband, for my dear Lord Edward. 
 
 King Richard III. Act II. Sc, 2. 
 
 Jam Shore. Let me be branded for the public scorn, 
 Turn'd forth, and driven to wander like a vagabond, 
 Be friendless and forsaken, seek my bread 
 Upon the barren wild, and desolate waste ; 
 Feed on my sigJis and drink my falling tears, 
 Ere I consent to teach my lips injustice, 
 ^ Or wrong the orphan who has none to save him. 
 
 Jane Shore, Act IV. 
 
 Give me your drops, ye soft-descending rains ; 
 Give me your streams, ye never-ceasing springs, 
 That my sad eyes may still supply my duty, 
 V And feed an everlasting flood of sorrow. Jane Shore, Act V. 
 
 Jane Shore utters her last breath in a witty conceit : 
 
 Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace 
 
 'Tis very dark, and I have lost you now 
 
 Was there not something I would have bequeath'd you if 
 
 But I have nothing left me to bestow, 
 
 Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh mercy, Heaven ! [Dies. 
 
 /Vet V 
 
 Gilford to Lady Jane Gray, when both were condemned to die : 
 
 Thou stand'st unmoved ; 
 Calm temper sits upon thy beauteous brow : 
 Thy eyes, that flow'd so fast for Edward's loss, 
 Gaze unconceru'd upon the ruin round thee, 
 As if thou hadst resolved to brave thy fate, 
 And triumph in the midst of desolation. 
 Ha ! see, it swells, the liquid crystal rises, 
 It starts in spite of thee but I will catch it, 
 Nor let the earth be wet with dew so rich. 
 
 Lady Jane Gray, Act IV. near the end. 
 
 86T. Sentimnt8 too artificial for a serious passion. Spjwh ot Prcy, &.
 
 SENTIMENTS. 253 
 
 The concluding sentiment is altogether finical, unsuitable to the 
 importance of the occasion, and even to the dignity of the passion 
 of love. 
 
 389. Corneille, in his Examen of the Old, answering an objection, 
 That his sentiments are sometimes too much refined for persons in 
 deep distress, observes, that if poets did not indulge sentiments more 
 ingenious or refined than are prompted by passion, their perform- 
 ances would often be low, and extreme grief would never suggest 
 but exclamations merely. This is, in plain language, to assert that 
 forced thoughts are more agreeable than those that are natural, and 
 ought to be preferred. 
 
 390. The second class is of sentiments that may belong to an 
 ordinaiy passion, but are not perfectly concordant with it, as tine 
 tured by a singular character. 
 
 In the last act of that excellent comedy, The Careless Husbar-f, 
 Lady Easy, upon Sir Charles's reformation, is made to express more 
 violent and turbulent sentiments of joy than are consistent with the 
 mildness of her character : 
 
 lady Easy. O the soft treasure 1 the clear reward of long-desiring lo- 
 Thus ! thus to have you mine, is something more than happiness ; Ua dc 
 life, and madness of abounding joy. 
 
 If the sentiments of a passion ought to be suited to a peculiar char- 
 acter, it is still more necessary that actions be suited to the character. 
 In the fifth act of the Drummer, Addison makes his gardener n 
 even below the character of an ignorant, credulous rustic : he give* 
 him the behavior of a gaping idiot. 
 
 391. The following instances are descriptions rather than sentJ 
 ments, which compose a third class. 
 
 Of this descriptive manner of painting the passions, there is 
 Hippolytus of Euripides (Act V.) an illustrious instance, namely, 
 the speech of Theseus, upon hearing of his son's dismal exit. 
 Racine's tragedy of Esther, the queen, hearing of the decree is 
 against her people, instead of expressing sentiments suitable to the 
 occasion, turns her attention upon herself, and descnbes with a. 
 racy her own situation : 
 
 Juste Ciel ! tout mon sang dans mcs vcines se g lttc *^ ct j 
 
 A man stabbed to the heart in a combat with his enemy, ex 
 
 presses himself thus : 
 
 So, now I am at rest : - 
 
 I feel death rising higher still, and higher, 
 
 Within my bosom ; every breath I retell 
 
 Shuts up my life within a shorter compasi ^ _ 
 
 3S8. Fancnsentne.- . tortw 
 
 8S9. Corneille's answer to the objection that bb n-ntl ments ?" to 1 j 
 
 890. Sentiments not concordant with an ordinary passion. -/.ady t. 
 
 be suited to the character. vmnl from Dryda; 
 
 891. Instances of descriptions rather than wntim.nts. 
 ParadiM Lo*t
 
 254 
 
 SENTIMENTS. 
 
 And like the vanishing sound of bells, grows less 
 And less each pulse, till it be lost in air. Drydtn. 
 
 An example is given above of remorse and despair expressed by 
 genuine and natural sentiments. In the fourth book of Paradise 
 Lost, Satan is made to express his remorse and despair in sentiments 
 which, though beautiful, are not altogether natural : they are rather 
 the sentiments of a spectator, than of a person who actually is tor- 
 mented with these passions. 
 
 392. The fourth class is of sentiments introduced too early or too 
 late. 
 
 Some examples mentioned above belong to this class. Add 
 the following from Venice Preserved (Act V.), at the close of the 
 scene between Belvidera and her father Priuli. The account given 
 by Belvidera of the danger she was in, and of her husband's threat- 
 ening to murder her, ought naturally to have alarmed her relenting 
 father, and to have made him express the most perturbed senti- 
 ments. Instead of which he dissolves into tenderness and love for 
 his daughter, as if he had already delivered her from danger, ar.d as 
 if there were a perfect tranquillity : 
 
 Canst thon forgive rne all my follies past 1 
 I'll henceforth be indeed a father ; never, 
 Never more thus expose, but cherish thee, 
 Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life, 
 Dear as those eyes that weep in fondness o'er thae : 
 Peace to thy heart. 
 
 393. Immoral sentiments exposed in their native colors, insteai 
 of being concealed or disguised, compose the fifth class. 
 
 The Lady Macbeth, projecting the death of the king, has the fol- 
 lowing soliloquy : 
 
 The raven himself is hoarse 
 
 That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 
 
 Under my battlements. Come, all you spirits 
 
 That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, 
 
 And fill me from the crown to th' toe, top-full 
 
 Of direst cruelty ; make thick my blood, 
 
 Stop up th' access and passage to remorse, 
 
 That no compunctious visitirigs of nature 
 
 Shake my fell purpose. Macbe'\ Act I. So. 7. 
 
 This speech is not natural. A treacherous murder was never 
 perpetrated even by the most hardened miscreant, without com- 
 punction : and that the lady here must have been in horrible agita- 
 tion, appears from her invoking the infernal spirits to fill her with 
 crtielty, and to stop up all avenues to remorse. But in that state of 
 mind, it is a never-failing artifice of self-deceit, to draw the thickest 
 veil over the wicked action, and to extenuate it by all the circum- 
 stances that imagination can suggest ; and if the crime cannot bear 
 disguise, the next attempt is to thrust it out of mind altogether, and 
 to rush on to action without thought. This last was the husband's 
 method : 
 
 892. Sentiments Introduced unseasonably. Vtnic* 
 S
 
 SENTIMENTS. 255 
 
 Strange tnings I have in head, that will to hand ; 
 
 Which must be acted ere they must be scann'd. Act III. Sc. 5. 
 
 The lady follows neither of these courses, but in a deliberate manner 
 endeavors to fortify her heart iu the commission of an execrable crime, 
 without even attempting to color it. This I think is not natural : I 
 hope there is no such wretch to be found as is hero represented. 
 
 In Congreve's Double-dealer, Maskwell, instead of disguising or 
 coloring his crimes, values himself upon them in a soliloquy : 
 
 Cynthia, let thy beauty gild my crimes; and whatsoever I commit of 
 treachery or deceit, shall be imputed to me as a merit. - Treachery ! what 
 treachery ? Love cancels all the bonds of friendship, and sets men right upon 
 their first foundations. 
 
 In French plays, love, instead of being hid or disguised, is treated 
 as a serious concern, and of greater importance than fortune, family, or 
 dignity. I suspect the reason to be, that, in the capital of France, love, 
 by the easiness of intercourse, has dwindled down from a real passion 
 to be a connection that is regulated entirely by the mode or fashion. 
 394. The last class comprehends sentiments that are unnatural, 
 as being suited to m> character or passion. These may be sub- 
 divided into three branches : first, sentiments unsuitable to the con- 
 stitution of man, and to the laws of his nature ; second, inconsistent 
 sentiments; third, sentiments that are pure rant and extravagance. 
 
 When the fable is of human affairs, every event, every incident, 
 and every circumstance, ought to be natural, otherwise the imitation 
 is imperfect. But an imperfect imitation is a venial fault, compared 
 with that of running cross to nature. In the Hijjpolytus of Euripides 
 (Act IV. Sc. 5), Hippolytus, wishing for another self in his own 
 situation, "How much," says he, "should I be touched with his 
 misfortune !" as if it were natural to grieve more for the misfortunes 
 of another than for one's own. 
 
 Osmyn. Yet I behold her yet and now no more. 
 Turn your lights inward, eyes, and view my thought 
 So shall yon still behold her 'twill not be. 
 O impotence of sight ! mechanic sense 
 Which to exterior objects owest thy faculty, 
 Not seeing of election, but necessity. 
 Thus do our eye?, as do all common mirrors, 
 Successively reflect succeeding images. 
 Nor what they would, but must ; a star or toad; 
 Just as the hand of chance administers!. 
 
 Mourning Brut*, Act II. DC. 8. 
 
 No man in his senses, ever thought of applying his eyes to discover 
 what parses in his mind ; far less of blaming his eyes for not , wwng I 
 thought or idea. In Moliere's L'Avare (Act IV. Sc. 7), Harpagon 
 being robbed of his money, seizes himself by the arm, mistakin 
 for that of the robber. And again he expresses himself as 1 
 
 89S Immoral sentiments exposed instead of being concealed. -Lady Macboth'f .ollloqoy. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 mnn.
 
 250 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 
 
 Je veux aller querir la justice, et fairo donner la question i toute ma maison : 
 4 eervantes, a valets, a flls, a fille, et a moi aussi. 
 
 395. Of the second branch the following are examples. 
 
 Now bid me run, 
 
 And I will strive with things impossible, 
 
 Yea, get the better of them. Julius Ccesar, Act II. Sc. 8. 
 
 Vos mains seule sont droit do vaincre un invincible. 
 
 Le Cid, Act V. Sc. last. 
 
 Que son nom soit beni. Que son nom soit chante, 
 Que 1'on celebre aes ouvrages 
 Au de lii de 1'eternite. Esther, Act V. Sc. last. 
 
 Me miserable I which way shall I fly 
 Infinite wrath and infinite despair ? 
 Which way I fly is hell : myself am hell; 
 And in the lowest deep, a lower deep 
 Still threatening to devour me, opens wide ; 
 To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book IV. 
 
 396. Of the third branch, take the following samples, which are 
 pure rant. Coriolanus, speaking to his mother 
 
 What is this ? 
 
 Your knees to me ? to your corrected son ? 
 
 Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach 
 
 Fillip the stars : then let the mutinous winds 
 
 Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun : 
 
 Murd'ring impossibility, to make 
 
 What cannot be, slight work. Coriolanus, Act V. So. 8. 
 
 Ccesar. Danger knows full well, 
 
 That Caesar is more dangerous than he. 
 We were two lions litter'd in one day, 
 And I the elder and more terrible. 
 
 Julius Caisar, Act II. Sc. 4. 
 
 Almanzor. I'll hold it fast 
 
 As life : and when life's gone, I'll hold this last, 
 And if thou tak'st it after I am slain, 
 I'll send my ghost to fetch it back again. 
 
 Conquest of Granada, Part II. Act 8. 
 
 So much upon sentiments; the language proper for expressing 
 them, comes next in order. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 
 
 397. AMONG the particulars that compose the social part of our 
 nature, a propensity to communicate our opinions, our emotions, and 
 every thing that affects us, is remarkable. Bad fortune and injustice 
 affect us greatly ; and of these we are so prone to complain, that il 
 we have no friend or acquaintance to take part in our sufferings, 
 
 895. Examples of inconsistent sentiments. 
 
 396. Examples ofsntiiuents that are pare rant
 
 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 257 
 
 we sometimes utter our complaints aloud, even where there are non 
 to listen. 
 
 But this propensity operates not in every state of mind. A man 
 immoderately grieved, seeks to afflict himself, rejecting all consola- 
 tion : immoderate grief accordingly is mute : complaining is strug- 
 gling for consolation. 
 
 It is the wretch's comfort still to have 
 
 Sortie small reserve of near and inward woe, 
 
 Some unsuspected hoard of inward grief, 
 
 Which they unseen may wail, and weep, and mourn, 
 
 And glutton-like alone devour. Mouming Bride, Act I. 8c. 1. 
 
 When grief subsides, it then, and no sooner, finds a tongue : wo 
 complain, because complaining is an effort to disburden the mind of 
 its distress.* 
 
 398. Surprise and terror are silent passions for a different reason : 
 they agitate the mind so violently as for a time to suspend the ex- 
 ercise of its faculties, and among others the faculty of speech. 
 
 Love and revenge, when immoderate, are not Thore loquacious 
 than immoderate grief. But when these passions become moderate, 
 they set the tongue free, and, like moderate grief, become loquacious : 
 moderate love, when unsuccessful, is vented in complaints ; when 
 successful, is full of joy expressed by words and gestures. 
 
 As no passion hath any long uninterrupted existence (see chap, 
 ii. part iii.), nor beats away with an equal pulse, the language sug- 
 gested by passion is not only unequal, but frequently interrupted : 
 and even during an uninterrupted n't of passion, we only express in 
 words the more capital sentiments. In familiar conversation, one 
 who vents every single thought is justly branded with the character 
 of loquacity ; because sensible people express no thoughts but what 
 make some figure : in the same manner, we are only disposed to 
 express the strongest pulses of passion, especially when it returns 
 with impetuosity after interruption. 
 
 * This observation is finely illustrated by a story which Herodotus records, 
 b. ^iii. Cambyses, when he conquered Egypt, made Psaminenitus, the kin, 
 prisoner ; and 'or trying: his constancy, ordered his daughter to be dressed in 
 the habit of a siuve, and to be employed in bringing water from the river ; his 
 son also was led to execution with a halter about his neck. The Egyptians 
 vented their sorrow in tears and lamentations 5 Psammenitus only, with a 
 downcast eye, remained silent. Afterwards meeting one of his companions, a 
 man advanced in years, who, being plundered of all, was begging alms, ha 
 wept bitterly, calling him by his name. Cambyscs, struck with wonder, de- 
 manded an answer to the following question : " Psaminenitus, thy master, 
 Cambyses, is desirous to know why, after thou hadst seen thy daughter so 
 ignominiously treated, and thy son led to execution, without exclaiming or 
 weeping, thou shouldst be so highly concerned for a poor man, no wny related 
 to thee I" Psammenitus returned "the following answer : "Son of Cynw, the 
 calamities of my family are too great to leave me the power of weeping ; but 
 the misfortunes of a companion, reduced in his old age to wont of bread, is a 
 fit subject for lamentation." 
 
 89T. Man's propensity to communicate opinions and emotions Xot in every Ut of 
 mind. Illustrate. Wiiy we utter complaints. Story from Herodotus. < ^ 
 
 898. Surprise and terror, silent passions ; why ? Love and revenge, when sitait Tfc 
 Uuguage suggested by passion. Loquacity.
 
 258 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 
 
 399. I had occasion to observe (chap, xvi.), that the sentiments 
 ought to be tuned to the passion, and the language to both. Ele- 
 vated sentiments require elevated language : tender sentiments ought 
 to be clothed in words that are soft and flowing : when the mind is 
 depressed with any passion, the sentiments must be expressed in 
 words that are humble, not low. Words being intimately con- 
 nected with the ideas they represent, the greatest harmony is re- 
 quired between them : to express, for example, an humble sentiment 
 in high sounding words, is disagreeable by a discordant mixture of 
 feelings ; and the discord is not less when elevated sentiments are 
 dressed in low words : 
 
 Versibus exponi tragicis res comica non vult. 
 
 Indignatur item privatis ac prope socco 
 
 Dignis carininibus uarrari coena ThyesUe. Horace, Ars Poet. 1. 89. 
 
 This, however, excludes not figurative expression, which, within 
 moderate bounds, communicates to the sentiment an agreeable ele- 
 vation. We arf sensible of an effect directly opposite, where figura- 
 tive expression is indulged beyond a just measure : the opposition 
 between the expression and the sentiment, makes the discord appear 
 greater than it is in reality. (See chap, viii.) 
 
 400. At the same time, figures are not equally the language of 
 every passion : pleasant emotions, which elevate or swell the mind, 
 vent themselves in strong epithets and figurative expression *, but 
 humbling and dispiriting passions affect to speak plain : 
 
 Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri. 
 
 Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque ; 
 
 Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba, 
 
 Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela. Horace, Ars Poet. 1. 95. 
 
 Figurative expression, being the work of an enlivened imagination, 
 cannot be the language of anguish or distress. Otway, sensible of 
 this, has painted a scene of distress in colors finely adapted to the 
 subject : there is scarce a figure in it, except a short and natural 
 simile with which the speech is introduced. Belvidera talking to 
 her father of her husband : 
 
 Think you saw what pass'd at our last parting; 
 
 Think you beheld him like a raging lion, 
 
 Pacing the earth, and tearing up his steps, 
 
 Fate in his eyes, and roaring with the pain 
 
 Of burning fury; think you saw his one hand 
 
 Fix'd on my throat, while the extended other 
 
 Grasp'd a keen threat'ning dagger ; oh, 'twas thus 
 
 We last embraced, when, trembling with revenge, 
 
 He dragg'd me to the ground, and at my bosom 
 
 Presented horrid death : cried out, My friends ! 
 
 Where are my friends ? swore, wept, raged, threaten'd, loved ; 
 
 For he yet loved, and that dear love preserved me 
 
 To this last trial of a father's pity. 
 
 899. The sentiments should be suited to the passion, and the langaagt to both. The CM 
 of figurative expression.
 
 LA.XQUAOK OF PASSION. 2.M) 
 
 I fear not death, but cannot bear a thought 
 
 That that dear hand should do the unfriendly office ; 
 
 If I was ever then your care, now hear me ; 
 
 Fly to the senate, save the promised lives 
 
 Of his dear friends, ere mine be made the sacrifice. 
 
 Venice Prutrved, Act V. 
 
 411. To preserve the aforesaid resemblance between words and 
 their meaning, ttie sentiments of active and hurrying passions ought 
 to be dressed in words where syllables prevail that are pronounced 
 short or fast ; for these make an impression of hurry and precipita- 
 tion. Emotions, on the other hand, that rest upon their objects, are 
 best expressed by words where syllables prevail that are pronounced 
 long or slow. A person affected with melancholy has a languid and 
 slow train of perceptions : the expression best suited to that state of 
 mind, is where words, not only of long but of many syllables, abound 
 in the composition ; and for that reason notliing can be finer than 
 the following passage : 
 
 In those deep solitudes, and awful cells, 
 
 Where heavenly pensive Contemplation dwells^ 
 
 And ever-musing melancholy reigns. Pope, Llo'ua to Abelard. 
 
 To preserve the same resemblance, another circumstance is requisite, 
 that the language, like the emotion, be rough or smooth, broken or 
 uniform. Calm and sweet emotions are best expressed by words 
 that glide softly : surprise, fear, and other turbulent passions, require 
 an expression both rough and broken. 
 
 It cannot have escaped any diligent inquirer iuto nature, that, in 
 the hurry of passion, one generally expresses that thing first which is 
 .most at heart ; which is beautifully done in the following passage : 
 
 Me, me ; adsnm qui feci : in me convertite ferrum, 
 Kutuli, mea fraus omnis. jiwid, ix. 427. 
 
 4U2. Passion has also the effect of redoubling words, the better to 
 make them express the strong conception of the mind. This is finely 
 imitated in the following examples : 
 
 -Thou sun, said I, fair light ! 
 
 And thou enlighten'd earth, so fresh and gay ! 
 Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains ! 
 And ye that live, and move, fair creatures ! tell, 
 Tell if ye saw, how came I thus, how here. 
 
 Paraditt Lett, Book viii. 27. 
 
 Both have sinn'd ! but thou 
 
 Against God only ; I, 'gainst God and theo : 
 And to the place" of judgment will return. 
 There with my cries importune heaven, that all 
 The sentence, from thy head removed, may light 
 On me, sole cause to thee of all this woe ; 
 Me ! me ! only just object of his ire. 
 
 Paradite Lori, Book x. SO. 
 
 400. Figures not equally the language of every passion. Not the language of anguish. 
 Oticay. 
 
 401. Class of words adapted to sentiments of hurrying passions: to pa*sloMtbat I 
 llieir objects ; to melancholy. Language should resemble the emotion, a* rough or uuooUi, 
 AM, What we express first In the hurry of passion.
 
 260 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 
 
 Shakspeare is superior to all other writers ir delineating passion. 
 It is difficult to say in what part he most excels, whether in moulding 
 eveiy passion to peculiarity of character, in discovering the senti- 
 ments that proceed from various tones of passion, or in expressing 
 properly every different sentiment : he disgusts not his reader with 
 general declamation and unmeaning words, too common in other 
 writers ; his sentiments are adjusted to the peculiar character and 
 circumstances of the speaker ; and the propriety is no less perfect 
 between his sentiments and his diction.* That this is no exaggera- 
 tion, will be evident to every one of taste, upon comparing Shak- 
 speare with other writers in similar passages. If upon any occasion 
 he fall below himself, it is in those scenes where passion enters not : 
 by endeavoring in that case to raise his dialogue above the style of 
 ordinary conversation, he sometimes deviates into intricate thought 
 and obscure expression :* sometimes, to throw his language out of 
 the familiar, he employs rhyme. But may it not in some measure 
 excuse Shakspeare, I shall not say his works, that he had no pattern, 
 in his own or in any living language, of dialogue fitted for the the- 
 atre ? At the same time it ought not to escape observation, that 
 the stream clears in its progress, and that in his later plays he has 
 attained to purity and perfection of dialogue : an observation that, 
 with greater certainty than tradition, will direct us to arrange his 
 plays in the order of time. This ought to be considered by those who 
 rigidly exaggerate every blemish of the finest genius for the drama 
 ever the world enjoyed : they ought also for their own sake to con- 
 sider, that it is easier to discover his blemishes, which lie generally 
 at the surface, than his beauties, which cannot be truly relished 
 but by those who dive deep into human nature. One thing must- 
 be evident to the meanest capacity, that wherever passion is to be 
 displayed, Nature shows itself mighty in him, and is conspicuous 
 by the most delicate propriety of sentiment and expression.! 
 
 * Of this take the' following specimen : 
 
 They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase 
 Soil our ambition ; and, indeed it takes 
 From our achievements, though perform'd at height, 
 The pith and marrow of pur attribute. 
 So, oft it chances in particular men, 
 That for some vicious mole of nature in them, 
 As, in their birth (wherein they are not guilty, 
 Since nature cannot choose his origin), 
 By the o'ergrowth of some complexion 
 Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason 
 Or by some habit that too much o'er-leavens 
 The form of plausive manners ; that these men 
 Carrying, 1 say$ the stamp of one defect 
 (Being Xiiture's livery, or Fortune's scar), 
 Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace, 
 As infinite as man may undergo, 
 Shall in the general censure take corruption 
 For that particular fault, Ifumltt, Act I. Sc. 7. 
 
 t The critics seem not perfectly to comprehend the genius of Shakspear*. 
 His plays are defective in the mechanical part; which is less the work of gciun*
 
 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 261 
 
 [It would please us to introduce here nearly all of HazlitCs obser- 
 vation* ipon Shakspeare; but we have space only for the following : 
 
 "The striking peculiarity of Shakspeare's mind was its power of 
 communication with all other minds so that it contained a uni- 
 verse of thought and feeling within itself, and had no one peculiar 
 
 bias, or exclusive excellence more than another He not only had 
 
 in himself the germs of every faculty and feeling, but he could 
 follow them by anticipation, intuitively, into all their conceivable 
 ramifications, through every change of fortune or conflict of passion, 
 or turn of thought. He ' had a mind reflecting ages past,' and pres- 
 ent : all the people that ever lived are there. He turned the globe 
 round for his amusement, and surveyed the generations of men, and 
 the individuals as they passed, with their different concerns, passions, 
 follies, vices, virtues, actions, and motives as well those that they 
 knew, as those which they did not know or acknowledge to them- 
 selves He had only to think of any thing in order to become 
 
 that thing with all the circumstances belonging to it In reading 
 
 this author, you do not merely learn what his characters say ; you 
 
 see their persons A word, an epithet paints a whole scene, or 
 
 throws us back whole years in the history of the person represented." 
 
 " That which, perhaps, more than any thing else distinguishes the 
 dramatic productions of Shakspeare from all others, is this wonder- 
 ful truth ami individuality of conception. Each of his characters 
 is as much itself, and as absolutely independent of the rest, as well 
 as of the author, as if they were living persons, not fictions of the 
 mind. The poet may be said, for the time, to identify himself with 
 the character he wishes to represent, and to pass from one to an- 
 other, like the same soul successively animating different bodies. 
 His plays alone are properly expressions of the passions, not descrip- 
 tions of them. His characters are real beings of flesh and blood ; 
 they speak like men, not like authors." 
 
 " The passion in Shakspeare is of the same nature as his delinea- 
 tion of character. It is not some one habitual feeling or sentiment, 
 praying upon itself, growing out of itself: it is passion modified by 
 passion, by all the other feelings to which the individual is liable, 
 and to which others are liable with him ; subject to all the fluctu- 
 ations of caprice and accident ; calling into play all the resources 
 of the understanding, and all the energies of the will ; irritated by 
 obstacles, or yielding to them ; rising from small beginnings to its 
 
 than of experience, and is not otherwise brought to perfection but bv diligently 
 observing the errors of former compositions. Shakspeure excels all the ancients 
 and moderns in knowledge of human nature, and in unfolding even the most 
 obscure and refined emotions. This is a rare faculty, which maKo him surpass 
 all other writers in the comic as well as tragic vein. 
 
 402. Passion redoubles words. Paradise Lott. Sbakspearo excels in delineating pa> 
 MOD. Sometimes fails in scenes where passion enters not Apologies for him. In wuat 
 lie excels all the ancients and moderns. HazliU's observation*.
 
 2()2 LANGtTAGK OF PASSION. 
 
 utmost height ; now drunk with hope, now stung to madness, noil 
 sunk in despair, now blown to air with a breath, now raging like a 
 torrent."] 
 
 403. I return to my subject. That perfect harmony which ought 
 tb subsist among all the constituent parts of a dialogue, is a beauty 
 tio less rare than conspicuous : sis to expression in particular, were 
 I to give instances, where, in one or other of the respects above 
 mentioned, it corresponds not precisely to the characters, passions, 
 and sentiments, I might from different authors collect volume^ 
 Following therefore the method laid down in the chapter of senti- 
 ments, I shall confine my quotations to the grosser errors, which 
 every writer ought to avoid. 
 
 And, first, of passion expressed in words flowing in an equal 
 oOurse without interruption. 
 
 In the chapter above cited, Corneille is censured for the impro- 
 priety of his sentiments ; and here, for the sake of truth, I am 
 obliged to attack him a second time. Were I to give instances 
 from that author of the fault under consideration, I might transcribe 
 whole tragedies ; for he is no less faulty in this particular, than in 
 passing upon us his own thoughts as a spectator, instead of the 
 genuine sentiments of passion. Nor would a comparison between 
 him and Shakspeare, upon the present article, redound more to his 
 honor, than the former upon the sentiments. 
 
 . If, in general, the language of violent, passion ought to be broken 
 and interrupted, soliloquies ought to be so in a peculiar manner : 
 language is intended by nature for society ; and a man when alone, 
 though he always clothes his thoughts in words, seldom gives his 
 words utterance, unless when prompted by some strong emotion ; 
 and even then by starts and intervals only. (Chapter xv.) Shak- 
 speare's soliloquies may justly be established as a model ; for it is 
 not easy to conceive any model more perfect : of his, many incom- 
 parable soliloquies, I confine myself to the two following, l*-ui dif 
 ferent in their manner : 
 
 Hanikt. Oh, that this too solid flesh would inelt, 
 Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ! 
 Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd 
 His canon 'gainst self-slaughter ! God ! God ! 
 How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable 
 Seem to me all the uses of this world ! 
 Fie on't ! fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, 
 That grows to seed : things rank and gross in nature 
 
 Possess it merely. That it should como to this 1 
 
 But two months dead ! nay, not BO much; not two; 
 So excellent a king, that was, to this, 
 Hyperion to a satyr : so loving to my mother, 
 That ho permitted not the winds of heaven 
 Visit her face too roughly. Heave-n and earth ! 
 Must I remember why, she would hang on him, 
 As if increase of appetite had grown 
 
 By what it fed on : yet, within a month 
 
 Let me not think Frailty, thy nunrt i Woman t
 
 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 263 
 
 A little monti. ! or ere those shoes were old, 
 With which she followed my poor father's body 
 
 Like Niobo, all tears Why she, even she 
 
 (O heaven ! a. beast that wants discourse of reason, 
 Would have monrn'd longer) married with mine ancle, 
 My father's brother; but no more like my father 
 Than I to Hercules. Within a month ! 
 Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears 
 Had left the flushing in her gaulcd eyes, 
 
 She married Oh, most wicked speed, to post 
 
 With such dexterity to incestuous sheets ! 
 
 It is not, nor it cannot come to good. 
 
 But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue. 
 
 Ifamlft, Act I. Sc. 8. 
 
 Ford. Hum! ha! is this a vision? is this a dream? do I sleep? Mr. Ford, 
 wake ; awake, Mr. Ford ; there's a hole made in your best coat, Mr. Ford ! 
 this 'tis to be married ! this 'tis to have linen and buck-baskets ! Well, 1 v.ill 
 proclaim myself what I arn ; I will now take the lecher ; he is at my house ; h 
 cannot 'scape me : 'tis impossible he should ; he cannot creep into a halfpenny 
 purse, nor into a pepper-box. Bat lest the devil that guides him should aid 
 him, I will search impossible places, though what I am I cannot avoid, yet to 
 be what I would not, shall not make me tame. 
 
 Merry Wives of Windsor, Act III. Sc. last. 
 
 404. These soliloquies are accurate and bold copies of nature : in 
 a passionate soliloquy one begins with thinking aloud; and the 
 strongest feelings only are expressed ; as the speaker warms, he be- 
 gins to imagine one listening, and gradually slides into a connected 
 discourse. 
 
 How far distant are soliloquies generally from these models ? So 
 far, indeed, as to give disgust instead of pleasure. The first scene of 
 Iphigenia in Tauris discovers that princess, in a soliloquy, gravely 
 reporting to herself her own history. There is the same impropriety 
 in the first scene of Alcestes, and in the other introductions of Eu- 
 ripides, almost without exception. Nothing can be more ridiculous: 
 it puts one in mind of a most curious device in Gothic paintings, 
 that of making every figure explain itself by a written label issuing 
 from its mouth. 
 
 Corneille is not more happy in his soliloquies than in his dia- 
 logues. Take for a specimen the first scene of Cinna. 
 
 Racine also is extremely faulty in the same respect. His solilo- 
 quies are regular harangues, a chain completed iri every link, with- 
 out interruption or interval. 
 
 Soliloquies upon lively or interesting subjects, but without any 
 turbulence of passion, may be carried on in a continued chain of 
 thought. If, for example, the nature and sprightliuess of the subject 
 prompt a man to speak his thoughts in the form of a dialogue, the 
 expression must be carried on without break or interruption, as in a 
 dialogue between two persons; which justifies Falstatf's soliloquy 
 upon honor : 
 
 408. Perfect harmony In parts of a dlslofme a rare beauty. Errors o l> avoided ; 
 i-irrds flooring too equably. Soliloquies. flbnksreareV, tnoiW. 
 
 fint.
 
 264 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 
 
 What need I be so forward -with Death, that calls not on me ? Well, 'tis no 
 matter, Honor pricks me on. But how if Honor prick me ofl', when I come on ? 
 how then? Can Honor set a leg? No: or an arm? No: or take away the 
 grief of a wound? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery then ? No. What is 
 honor? a word.' What is that word honor? Air: a trim reckoning. Who 
 hath it ? He that died a Wednesday. Doth he feel it ? No. Doth he hear it ? 
 No. Is it insensible then! Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the liv- 
 ing? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none of it ; hon- 
 or is a mere scutcheon ; and so ends my catechism. 
 
 First Part of Henry IV. Act V. Sc. 2. 
 
 And even without dialogue, a continued discourse may be justified, 
 where a man reasons in a soliloquy upon an important subject ; for 
 if in such a case it be at all excusable to think aloud, it is necessary 
 that the reasoning be carried on in a chain ; which justifies that ad- 
 mirable soliloquy in Hamlet upon life and immortality, being a se- 
 rene meditation upon the most interesting of all subjects. And the 
 same consideration will justify the soliloquy which introduces the 
 5th act of Addison's Cato. 
 
 405. The next class of the grosser errors which all writers ought 
 to avoid, shall be of language elevated above the tone of the senti- 
 riwnt ; of which take the following instances : 
 
 Zara. Swift as occasion, I 
 Myself will % ; and earlier than the morn 
 Wake tliee to freedom. Now 'tis late ; and yet 
 Some news few minutes past arrived, which seem'd 
 
 To shake the temper of the King Who knows 
 
 What racking cares disease a monarch's bed? 
 
 Or love, that late at night still lights his lamp, 
 
 And strikes his rays through dusk, and folded lids, 
 
 Forbidding rest, may stretch his eyes awake, 
 
 And force their balls abroad at this dead hour. 
 
 I'll try. Mourning ride, Act III. Sc. 4. 
 
 The language here is undoubtedly too pompous and labored for da- 
 scribing so simple a circumstance as absence of sleep. 
 
 400. Language too artificial or too figurative for the gravity, dig- 
 nity, or importance of the occasion, may be put in a third class. 
 
 Chimene demanding justice against Rodrigue who killed her fa- 
 ther, instead of a plain and pathetic expostulation, makes a speech 
 stuffed with the most artificial flowers of rhetoric : 
 
 Sire, mon pe~re est mort, mes yeux out vu son sang 
 Couler a gros bouillons de son genereux flanc: 
 Ce sang qui tant de fois garantit vos murailles, 
 Ce sang qui taut de fois vous gagna des batailles, . 
 Ce sang qui, tout sorti, fume encore de courroux 
 De se voir repandu pour d'autres que pour vous, 
 Qu'au milieu des hasards n'osait verser la guerre, 
 Eodrigue en votre cour vient d'en couvrir la terre. 
 J'ai cpuru sur le lieu sans force, et sans couleur : 
 Je 1'ai trouve" sans vie. Excusez ma douleur, 
 Sire ; la voix me manque a ce recit funestc, 
 Mes pleurs et mes soupirs vous diront mieux le reste. 
 
 404. Properties of a natural soliloquy. Authors that fail in this. Soliloquies without 
 turbulence of passion how constructed. Falstaff. Hamlet. 
 
 405. Error of language elevated above the tone of the sentiment Mourning SHde,
 
 LANGUAGE CF PASSIOK. 265 
 
 Nothing can be contrived in language more averse to the tone of 
 the passion than this florid speech : I should imagine it more apt to 
 provoke laughter than to inspire concern or pity. 
 
 407. In a fourth class shall be given specimens of language too 
 light or airy for a severe passion. 
 
 Imagery and figurative expression are discordant, in the highest 
 degree, with the agony of a mother who is deprived of two hopeful 
 sons by a brutal murder. Therefore the following passage is un- 
 doubtedly in a bad taste : 
 
 Queen.. Ah, my poor princes ! ah, my tender babes ! 
 My unblown flowers, new appearing sweets ! 
 If yet your gentle souls fly in the air, 
 And be not fixt in doom perpetual, 
 Hover about me with. your airy wings, 
 And hear your mother's lamentation. Richard III. Act IV. 
 
 Again: 
 
 K. Philip. You are as fond of grief as of your child. 
 
 Constance. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, 
 Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, 
 Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
 Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 
 Stuffs out his vacant garment with his form ; 
 Then have I reason to be fond of grief. 
 
 King John, Act III. Sc. 6. 
 
 408. A thought that turns upon the expression instead of the 
 subject, commonly called a, play of words, being low and childish, is 
 unworthy of any composition, whether gay or serious, that pretends 
 to any degree of elevation : thoughts of this kind make a fifth class. 
 
 To die is to be banish'd from myself: 
 And Sylvia is myself: banish'd from her, 
 Is self from self; a deadly banishment! 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act III. Sc. 8. 
 
 Countess. I pray thee, lady, have a better cheer : 
 If thou engrossest all the griefe as thine, 
 Thou robb'st me of a moiety. 
 
 AWs frell that Ends Well, Act III. Sc. 8. 
 
 K. Henry. my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows ! 
 When that my care could not withhold thy riot, 
 What wilt thon do when riot is thy care ? 
 Oh, thou wilt be a wilderness again. 
 Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants. 
 
 Second fart Henry IV. Act IV. Sc. 4. | 
 
 Cruda Amarilla, die col norne ancora 
 D'amar, ahi lasso, amaramente insegni. 
 
 Paitor Fido, Act I. So. 1 
 
 Antony, speaking of Julius Caesar : 
 
 O world 1 thon wast the forest of this hart : 
 
 And this, indeed, world, the heart of thee. 
 
 How like a deer, stricken by many princes, 
 
 Dost thou hero lie 1 Julius Casar, Act III. Sc. 8. 
 
 406. Language too artificial or figurative for the occasion. 
 
 OT. Too light or airy for a severe passion. Riofiard III. King Job*.
 
 266 LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 
 
 Playing thus with the sound of words, whieh is still worse than a 
 pun, is the meanest of all conceits. But Shakspeare, when he de- 
 scends to a play of words, is not always in the wrong ; for it is done 
 sometimes to denote a peculiar character, as in the following passage : 
 
 K. Philip. What say'st thou, boy ? look in the lady's face. 
 
 Leiois. 1 do, my lord, and in her eye I find 
 A wonder, or a vrond'ronB miracle ; 
 The shadow of myself form'd in her eye ; 
 Which, being but the shadow of your son, 
 Becomes a sun, and makes your son a shadow. 
 I do protest, I never loved myself 
 Till now infixed I beheld myself 
 Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye. 
 
 Faulconbridge. Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye ! 
 Ilang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her orow ! 
 And quartered in her heart ! he doth espy 
 Himself Love's traitor : this is pity now ; 
 That hang'd, and drawn, and quarter'd, there should be 
 In such a love so vile a lout as he. King John, Act II. Sc. 5. 
 
 409. A jingle of words is the lowest species of that low wit : 
 which is scarce sufferable in any case, and least of all in an heroic 
 poem ; and yet Milton, in some instances, has descended to that 
 
 puerility : 
 
 And brought into the world a world of woe. 
 
 begirt th' Almighty throne 
 
 Beseeching or besieging 
 
 Which tempted our attempt 
 
 At one slight bound high-overleap'd all bound. 
 
 With a shout 
 
 Loud as from number without numbers. 
 
 One should think it unnecessary to enter a caveat against an ex 
 pression that has no meaning, or no distinct meaning ; and yet 
 somewhat of that kind may be found even among good writers. 
 Such make a sixth class. 
 
 Cleopatra. Now, what news, my Charmion ? 
 Will he be kind I and will he not forsake me ? 
 Am I to live or die ? nay, do I live I 
 Or am I dead ? for when he gave his answer, 
 Fate took the word, and then I lived or died. 
 
 Dryden, AUfor Love, Act II. 
 
 If she be coy, and scorn my noble fire, 
 
 If her chill heart I cannot move ; 
 
 Why, I'll enjoy the very love, 
 And make a mistress of my own desire. 
 
 Cowley, poem inscnbed The tiequtst. 
 
 His whole poem, inscribed My Picture, is a jargon of the same kind. 
 
 'Tis he, they cry, by whom 
 
 Not men, but war itself is overcome. Indian Queen. 
 
 Such empty expressions are finely ridiculed in the Rehearsal : 
 
 Was't not unjust to ravish hence her breath, 
 
 And in life's stead to leave us naught but death. Act IV . be. 1. 
 
 408. Play of words. Examples from Shakspeare. When justifiable. 
 
 409. Jingle of words. Instance from Milton. Expressions that Imvo no distinct mi* 
 Ing to be voided.
 
 BEAUTT OF LANGUAGE. 267 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 410. OP all the fine arts, painting only and sculpture are in their 
 nature imitative.* An ornamented field is not a copy or imitation 
 
 * [This remark of onr author requires some qualification. A masterly view 
 of the case is presented in the Third Discourse of Sir Joshua Reynolds, from 
 which the following extracts are taken. Ed. 
 
 " Nature herself is not to be too closely copied. There are excellencies in 
 the art of painting beyond what is commonly called the imitation of nature. . 
 . . . A mere copier of nature can never produce any thing great; can never 
 raise and enlarge the conceptions, or warm the heart of the spectator. 
 
 ' The principle now laid down, that the perfection of this art does not con- 
 sist in mere imitation, is far from being new or singular. It is, indeed, sup- 
 ported by the general opinion of the enlightened part of mankind. The 
 poets, orators, and rhetoricians of antiquity are continually enforcing this 
 position, that all the arts receive their perfection from an ideal beautv, su- 
 perior to what is to be found in individual nature." 
 
 'J All the objects which are exhibited to our view by nature, upon close ex- 
 amination will be found to have their blemishes and defect*. The most beau- 
 tiful forms have something about them like weakness, minuteness, or imper- 
 fection. But it is not every eye that perceives these blemishes. It must bo 
 an eve long used to the contemplation and comparison of these forms ; and 
 which, by a long habit of observing what any set of otg'ects of the same kind 
 have in common, has acquired the power of discerning what each wants in 
 particular. This long laborious comparison should bo the first study of the 
 painter who aims at the "great stylo" (the leau ideal of the French). By this 
 means he acquires a just idea of beautiful forms; he corrects nature bv her- 
 self, her imperfect state by her more perfect. His eve being enabled to distin- 
 guish the accidental deficiencies, excrescences, and deformities of things from 
 their general figures, he makes out an abstract idea of their forms more per- 
 fect than any one original ; and, what may seem a paradox, lie learns to detiyn 
 naturally by drawing his figures unlike to any one object. This idea of the per- 
 fect state of nature, which the artist calls the Ideal Beauty, is the great leading 
 principle by which works of genius are conducted. By this Phidias acquired 
 Iiis fame." 
 
 " Thiu it is from a reiterated experience and a close comparison of the objccta 
 in nature, that an artist becomes possessed of the idea of that central form, 
 if I may so express it, from which every deviation is deformity. But the in- 
 vestigation of this form, I grant, is painful, and I know but of one method of 
 shortening the road ; that is by a careful study of the works of the ancient 
 sculptors ; who, being indefatigable in the school of nature, have left model* 
 of that perfect form oehind them which an artist would prefer as supremely 
 beautiful, who had spent his whole life in that single contemplation." Work*, 
 vol. i. discourse iii. 
 
 Upon statuary, the same critical writer, in a similar strain, remarks : 
 " Jn strict propriety, the Grecian statues only excel nature by bringing to- 
 gether such an assemblage of beautiful parts as nature was never known to 
 bestow on one object : 
 
 For earth-born graces sparingly impart 
 Tbe symmetry supreme of perfect art 
 
 It must be remembered that the component parts of the most perfect otntne 
 never can excel nature, that we can form no idea of beauty beyon i her works ; 
 we can only make this rare assemblage an assemblage *o rare that if we are o
 
 268 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 of nature, but nature itself embellished. Architecture is productive 
 of originals, and copies not from nature. Sound and motion may in 
 some measure be imitated by music ; but for the most part music, 
 like architecture, is productive of originals. Language copies not 
 from nature more than music or architecture ; unless where, like 
 music, it is imitative of sound or motion. Thus, in the description 
 cf particular sounds, language sometimes furnisheth words, which, 
 besides their customary power of exciting ideas, resemble by their 
 softness or harshness the sounds described ; and there are words 
 which, by the celerity or slowness of pronunciation, have some re- 
 semblance to the motion they signify. The imitative power of words 
 goes one step farther : the loftiness of some words makes them proper 
 symbols of lofty ideas ; a rough subject is imitated by harsh-sound- 
 ing words; and words of many syllables, pronounced slow and 
 smooth, are expressive of grief and melancholy. Words have a 
 separate effect on the mind, abstracting from their signification and' 
 from their imitative power: they are more or less agreeable to the 
 ear by the fulness, sweetness, faintness, or roughness of their tones. 
 
 411. These are but faint beauties, being known to those only 
 who have more than ordinary acuteness of perception. Language 
 possesseth a beauty superior greatly in degree, of which we are emi- 
 nently sensible when a thought is communicated with perspicuity 
 and sprightliness. This beauty of language, arising from its. power 
 of expressing thought, is apt to be confounded with the beauty of 
 the thought itself : the beauty of thought, transferred to the expres- 
 sion, makes it appear more beautiful.* But these beauties, if we 
 wish to think accurately, must be distinguished from each other. 
 They are in reality so distinct that we sometimes are conscious of 
 the highest pleasure language can afford, when the subject expressed 
 is disagreeable : a thing that is loathsome, or a scene of horror to 
 make one's hair stand on end, may be described in a manner so 
 lively as that the disagreeableness of the subject shall not even ob- 
 scure the agreeableness of the description. The causes of the origi- 
 nal beauty of language, considered as significant, which t* a branch 
 
 give the name of Monster to what is uncommon, we might, in the words of the 
 Duke of Buckingham, call it 
 
 A. faultless Monster which the world ne'er saw." 
 
 Sir J. Reynolds' Works, vol. ii. p. 811.] 
 
 * Chapter ii. part i. sec. 5. Demetrius Phalereus (of Elocution, sec. 75) makes 
 the same observation. We are apt, says that author, to confound the language 
 with the subject ; and if the latter be nervous, we judge the same of the former. 
 But they arc clearly distinguishable ; and it is not uncommon to find subjects 
 of great dignity dressed in mean language. Theopompus is celebrated for the 
 force of his diction, but erroneously ; his subject indeed has great force, but 
 his style very little. 
 
 410. The fine arts that are Imitative. Sir Joshua Reynold's observations on this point 
 The author's remarks on eardning, architecture, language, music. Imitative power of 
 vorde, AgreoableneM to the ear.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGK. 269 
 
 of the present subject, will be explained in their order. I shall only 
 at present observe that this beauty is the beauty of means fitted to an 
 end, that of communicating thought ; and hence it evidently appears, 
 that of several expressions all conveying the same thought, the most 
 beautiful, in the sense now mentioned, is that which in the most 
 perfect manner answers its end. 
 
 The several beauties of language above mentioned, being of dif- 
 ferent kinds, ought to be handled separately. I shall begin with 
 those beauties of language that arise from sounu ; after which will 
 follow the beauties of language considered as significant ; this order 
 appears natural, for the sound of a word is attended to before we 
 consider its signification. In a third section come those singular 
 beauties of language that are derived from a resemblance between 
 sound and signification. The beauties of verse are handled in the 
 last section ; for though the foregoing beauties are found in verse as 
 well as in prose, yet verse has many peculiar beauties, which, for th 
 sake of connection, must be brought under one view ; and versifica- 
 tion, at any rate, is a subject of so great importance as to deserve a 
 place by itself. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 Beauty of Language with respect to Sound. 
 
 412. THIS subject requires the following order : The sounds of the 
 different letters come first ; next, these sounds as united in syllables ; 
 third, syllables united in words ; fourth, words united in a period ; 
 and, in the last place, periods united in a discourse. 
 
 With respect to the first article, every vowel is sounded with a 
 single expiration of air from the windpipe through the cavity of the 
 mouth. By varying this cavity, the different vowels are sounded ; 
 for the air in passing through cavities differing in size, produceth 
 various sounds, some high or sharp, some low or flat : a small cavity 
 occasions a high sound, a large cavity a low sound. The five vow- 
 els accordingly, pronounced with the same extension of the wind- 
 pipe, but with different Openings of the mouth, form a regular series 
 of sounds, descending from high to low, in the following order, t, #, 
 a, o, u* Each of these sounds is agreeable to the ear ; and if it be 
 required which of them is the most agreeable, it is perhaps safest to 
 hold that those vowels which are the farthest removed from the ex- 
 
 * In tins scale of sounds, the letter inust be pronounced w in the word 
 interest, and as in other words beginnin? with the syllable in ; the letter as in 
 persuasion ; the letter a as in bat ; and the letter u as in numlxr. 
 
 411. A. superior beauty of language; apt to bfi confounded with what? Remark 
 Demetrius Phalereus. Beauty of language and of thought to bo distinguished. TU MY 
 era! boauties of language that are to be handled.
 
 270 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 tremes will be tie most relished. This is all I have to remark upon 
 the first article : for consonants being letters that of themselves have 
 no sound, serve only in conjunction with vowels to form articulate 
 sounds ; and as every articulate sound makes a syllable, consonants 
 come naturally under the second article, to which we proceed. 
 
 A consonant is pronounced with a less cavity than any vowel ; 
 and consequently every syllable into which a consonant enters, must 
 have more than one sound, though pronounced with one expiration 
 of air, or with one breath, as commonly expressed; for however 
 readily two sounds may unite, yet where they differ in tone, both of 
 them must be heard if neither of them be suppressed. For the same 
 reason, every syllable must be composed of as many sounds as there 
 &te letters, supposing every letter to be distinctly pronounced. 
 
 413. We next inquire how far syllables are agreeable to the ear. 
 Few tongues are so polished as entirely to have rejected sounds that 
 are pronounced with difficulty ; and it is a noted observation, That 
 such sounds are to the ear harsh and disagreeable. But with respect 
 to agreeable sounds, it appears that a double sound is always more 
 agreeable than a single sound : every one who has an ear must be 
 sensible that the diphthong oi or ai is more agreeable than any of 
 these vowels pronounced singly : the same holds where a consonant 
 enters into iti& double sound ; the syllable le has a more agreeable 
 sound than the vowel e, or than any other vowel. 
 
 Having discussed syllables, we proceed to words ; which make 
 the third article. Monosyllables belong to the former head ; poly- 
 syllables open a different scene. In a cursory view, one would im- 
 agine, that the agreeableness or disagreeableuess of a word with 
 respect to its sound, should depend upon the agreeableness or dis- 
 agreeableness of its component syllables, which is true in part, but 
 not entirely ; for we must also take under consideration the effect 
 of syllables in succession. In the first place, syllables in immediate 
 succession, pronounced each of them with the same or nearly the 
 same aperture of the mouth, produce a succession of weak and feeble 
 sounds ; witness the French words dit-il, pathetique : on the other 
 hand, a "syllable of the greatest aperture succeeding one of the small- 
 est, on the contrary, makes a succession which, because of its re- 
 markable disagreeableness, is distinguished by a proper name, hiatus. 
 The most agreeable succession is, where the cavity is increased and 
 diminished alternately within moderate limits. Examples, alterna- 
 tive, longevity, pusillanimous. Secondly, words consisting wholly 
 of syllables pronounced slow, or of syllables pronounced quick, com- 
 monly called long and short syllables, have little melody in them : 
 witness the words petitioner, fruiterer, dizziness: on the other hand, 
 the intermixture of long and short syllables is remarkably agreeable ; 
 for example, degree, repent, wonderful, altitude, rapidity, independent, 
 
 412. The order of the subject. The vowel (nunda. How pronounced. The consonant 
 ound.
 
 BKAUTY OF LANGUAGE. i*Tl 
 
 impetuosity* The cause will be explained afterwards, in treating 
 of versification. 
 
 Distinguishable from the beauties above mentioned, there is a 
 beauty of some words which arises from their signification : when 
 the emotion raised by the length or shortness, the roughness or 
 smoothness of the sound, resembles in any degree what is raised by 
 the sense, we feel a very remarkable pleasure. But this subject 
 belongs to the third section. 
 
 414. The foregoing observations afford a standard to every nation, 
 for estimating, pretty accurately, the comparative merit of the words 
 that enter into their own language ; but they are not equally useful 
 in comparing the words of different languages, which will thus 
 appear. Different nations judge differently of the harshness or 
 smoothness of articulate sounds ; a sound, for example, harsh and 
 disagreeable to an Italian, may be abundantly smooth to a northern 
 ear; here every nation must judge for itself; nor can there be any 
 solid ground for a preference, when there is no common standard to 
 which we can appeal. The case is precisely the same as in be- 
 havior and manners ; plain-dealing and sincerity, liberty in words 
 and actions, form the character of one people ; politeness, reserve, 
 and a total disguise of every sentiment that can give offence, form 
 the character of another people : to each the manners of the other 
 are disagreeable. An effeminate mind cannot bear the least of that 
 roughness and severity which is generally esteemed manly, when 
 exerted upon proper occasions ; neither can an effeminate ear bear 
 the harshness of certain words, that are deemed nervous and sounding 
 by those accustomed to a rougher tone of speech. -Must we then 
 relinquish all thoughts of comparing languages in point of rough- 
 ness and smoothness, as a fruitless inquiry ? Not altogether ; for 
 we may proceed a certain length, though without hope of an ulti- 
 mate decision. A language pronounced with difficulty even by 
 natives, must yield to a smoother language; and supposing two 
 languages pronounced with equal facility by natives, the rougher 
 language, in my judgment, ought to be preferred, provided it be 
 also stored with a competent share of more mellow sounds, which 
 will be evident from attending to the different effects that articulate 
 sound hath on the mind. A smooth gliding sound is agreeable, by 
 calming the mind and lulling it to rest : a rough, bold sound, on 
 the contrary, animates the mind; the effect perceived in pronouncing, 
 is communicated to the hoard's, who feel in their own minds a sum- 
 
 * Italian words, like those of Latin and Greek, have this property almost 
 universally : English and French words are generally deficient. In the f 
 the long pliable is removed from the end, as far as the sound will permit; and 
 in the latter, the last syllable is generally long. For example, benutor, in 
 lish ; Senator, in Latin; and Seuateur in French. 
 
 418. How far syllables are agreeable to the ear.-The agreeableness of words not d 
 *nt on that of the component syllables-Effect of syllables in successlon.-N rt 
 accessions.
 
 272 BEAUTY OP LANGUAGE. 
 
 lar effort, rousing their attention, and disposing them to action. I 
 add another consideration : the agreeableness of contrast in the 
 rougher language, for which the great variety of sounds gives ample 
 opportunity, must, even in an effeminate ear, prevail over the more 
 uniform sounds of the smoother language.* This appears all that 
 can be safely determined upon the present point. 
 
 That the English tongue, originally harsh, is at present much 
 softened by dropping in the pronunciation many redundant conso- 
 nants, is undoubtedly true : that it is not capable of being further 
 mellowed without suffering in its force and energy, will scarce be 
 thought by any one who possesses an ear ; and yet such in Britain 
 is the propensity for dispatch, that overlooking the majesty of words 
 composed of many syllables aptly connected, the prevailing taste is 
 to shorten words; even at the expense of making them disagreeable 
 to the ear, and harsh in the pronunciation. 
 
 [" There is little reason to doubt that the guttural sounds formerly 
 made a part of the most approved pronunciation of English, The 
 analogy, in this respect, of the German, Swedish, Danish, and Saxon, 
 the prevalence of these sounds in some of the provinces of England, 
 and their general use in the Lowland part of Scotland, which cer- 
 tainly derived its language from England, concur to support this 
 opinion. The expulsion of the guttural sounds from the polite pro- 
 nunciation of English, whilst they are retained in all the other 
 tongues of Saxon original, cannot be accounted for so plausibly as 
 from the superior refinement of the English ear, to that of the other 
 nations wha employ languages descended from the same source. 
 Barren's Lect. vol. i. p. 35."] 
 
 415. The article next in order, is the music of words as united in 
 a period. We may assume as a maxim, which will hold in the 
 composition of language as well as of other subjects, That a strong 
 impulse succeeding a weak, makes double impression on the mind : 
 and that a weak impulse succeeding a strong, makes scarce any im- 
 pression. 
 
 After establishing this maxim, we can be at no loss about its ap- 
 plication to the subject in hand. The following rule is laid down 
 by Diomedes. " In verbis observandum est, ne a majoribus ad mi- 
 nora descendat oratio ; melius enim dicftur, Vir est optimus, quam 
 Vir optimus est." This rule is also applicable to entire members of 
 a period, which, according to our author's expression, ought not, 
 more than single words, to proceed from the greater to the less, but 
 from the less to the greater. ' In arranging the members of a period, 
 
 * That the Italian tongue is too smooth, seems probable, from considering 
 that in versification, vowels are frequently suppressed, in order to produce a 
 rougher and bolder tone. 
 
 414. A national standard for comparative merit of words that compose a language. 
 Advantage of smooth sounds; of rough sounds. The Eng.Hsh language lesa rough than 
 formerly.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. . 273 
 
 no writer equals Cicero : the beauty of the following examples, out 
 of many, will not suffer me to slur them over by a reference : 
 
 Quicum quffistor fueram, 
 Quicum me sors cousuetudoqueinajorum, 
 Quicum me dcorum hominutnque judicium conjunxerat. 
 Again: 
 
 Habet honorem quctn petimus. 
 Habet sperr. qtiain praepositam nobis habemus, 
 Habet existimationem, milto sudore, labore, vigiliisque, collectam. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Eripite nos ex iniseriis, 
 
 Eripite nos ex faucibus eorum, 
 
 Quorum crudelitas nostro sanguine non potest expleri. 
 
 L>e Oratore, 1. i. sect. 52. 
 
 This order of words or members gradually increasing in length, may, 
 as far as concerns the pleasure of sound, be denominated a climax 
 in sound. 
 
 416. The last article is the music of periods as united in a dis- 
 course ; which shall be dispatched in a very few words. By no oth- 
 er human means is it possible to present to the mind such a number 
 of objects, and in so swift a succession, as by speaking or writing ; 
 and for that reason, variety ought more to be studied in these, than 
 in any other sort of composition. Hence a rule for arranging the 
 members of different periods with relation to each other, That to 
 avoid a tedious uniformity of sound and cadence, the arrangement, 
 the cadence, and the length of the members, ought to be diversified 
 as much as possible : and if the members of different periods be suf- 
 ficiently diversified, the periods themselves will be equally so. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 Beauty of Language with respect to Signification. 
 
 417. IT is well said by a noted writer (Scott's Christian Life), 
 u That by means of speech we can divert our sorrows, mingle our 
 mirth, impart our secrets, communicate our counsels, and make mu- 
 tual compacts and agreements to supply and assist each other." 
 Considering speech as contributing to so many good purposes, words 
 that convey clear and distinct ideas, must bo one of its capital beau- 
 ties. 
 
 In every period, two things are to be regarded : first, the words 
 of which it is composed ; next the arrangement of these words : the 
 former resembling the stones that compose a building, and the latter 
 resembling the order in which they are placed. Hence the beauties 
 of language, with respect to signification, may not improperly be 
 
 415. Music of words In a period. Maxim concerning strong or weak impulxw inccwd- 
 Ing each other. Arrangement of the members of a period. Climax In MBM 
 41tt. Rule for arranging member* of different period* in dltceurM. 
 
 12*
 
 274 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 distinguished into two kinds : first, the beauties that anse from a 
 right choice of words or materials for constructing the period ; and 
 aext, the beauties that arise from a due arrangement of these words 
 or materials. I begin with rules that direct us to a light choice of 
 words, and then proceed to rules that concern their arrangement. 
 
 418. And with respect to the former, communication of thought 
 being the chief end of language, it is a rule, That perspicuity ought 
 not to be sacrificed to any other beauty whatever : if it should be 
 doubted whether perspicuity be a positive beauty, it cannot be 
 doubted that the want of it is the greatest defect. Nothing there- 
 fore in language ought more to be studied, than to prevent all ob- 
 scurity in the expression ; for to have no meaning, is but one de- 
 gree worse than to have a meaning that is not understood. Want 
 of perspicuity from a wrong arrangement, belongs to the next branch. 
 I shall here give a few examples where the obscurity arises from a 
 wrong choice of words ; and as this defect is too common in the or- 
 dinary herd of writers to make examples from them necessary, I 
 confine myself to the most celebrated authors. 
 
 Livy speaking of a rout after a battle, 
 
 Multique in ruina Majore quam fuga oppress! obtruncatique. 
 
 L. iv. sect. 46. 
 
 This author is frequently obscure, by expressing but part of his 
 thought, leaving it to be completed by his reader. His description 
 oi the sea-fight (1. xxviii. cap. 30) is extremely perplexed. 
 
 Undo tibi reditum certo suUemine Parcse 
 
 Rupere. Horace, epod. xiii. 22. 
 
 Qui perssepe cava tcstudinc flevit amorem, 
 
 Non elaboratum ad pedem. Horace, epod. xiv. 11. 
 
 Me fabulosffi Vulture in Appnlo, 
 Altricis extra limen Apulia?, 
 
 Ludo, fatigatumque somrto, 
 
 Fronde nova puerum palumbes 
 
 Texere. Horace, Carm. 1. iii. ode 4. 
 
 419. There may be a defect in perspicuity proceeding even from 
 the slightest ambiguity in construction ; as where the period com- 
 mences with a member conceived to be in the nominative case, 
 which afterwards is found to be in the accusative. Example : "Some 
 emotions more peculiarly connected with the fine arts. I propose to 
 handle in separate chapters."* Better thus: "Some emotions more 
 peculiarly connected with the fine arts are proposed to be handled 
 in separate chapters." 
 
 L add another error against perspicuity ; which I mention the 
 
 * Elements of Criticism, vol. i. p. 43, first edition. 
 
 417 Purposes answered by speech. One of the capital beauties of speech. In every pe- 
 riod, two things to be regarded. Beauties of language with respect to signification: two 
 kinds. 
 
 4ta Eulfl In regard to perspicuity.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 275 
 
 rather because with some writers it passes for a beauty. It is the 
 giving different names to the same object, mentioned 'oftener than 
 once in the same period. Example : speaking of the English ad- 
 venturers who first attempted the conquest of Ireland, " and instead 
 of reclaiming the natives from their uncultivated manners, they were 
 gradually assimilated to the ancient inhabitants, and degenerated 
 from the customs of their own nation." From this mode of expres- 
 sion, one would think the author meant to distinguish the ancient 
 inhabitants from the natives ; and we cannot discover otherwise than 
 from the sense, that these are only different names given to the same 
 object for the sake of variety. But perspicuity ought never to be 
 sacrificed to any other beauty, which leads me to think that the 
 passage may be improved as follows : " and degenerating from the 
 customs of their own nation, they were gradually assimilated to the 
 natives, instead of reclaiming them from their uncultivated manners." 
 
 420. The next rule in order, because next in importance, is, That 
 the language ought to correspond to the subject : heroic actions or 
 sentiments require elevated language ; tender sentiments ought to 
 be expressed in words soft and flowing, and plain language void of 
 ornament is adapted to subjects grave and didactic. Language 
 may be considered as the dress of thought ; and where the one is 
 not suited to the other, wo are sensible of incongruity, in the same 
 manner as where a judge is dressed like a fop, or a peasant like a 
 man of quality. Where the impression made by the words resembles 
 the impression made by the thought, the similar emotions mix sweetly 
 in the mind, and double the pleasure (chapter ii. part iv.) ; but where 
 the impressions made by the thought and the words are dissimilar, 
 the unnatural union they are forced into is disagreeable. 
 
 421. This concordance between the thought and the words has 
 been observed by every critic, and is so well understood as not to 
 require any illustration. But there is a concordance of a peculiar 
 kind, that 'has scarcely been touched in works of criticism, though 
 it contributes to neatness of composition. It is what follows. In a 
 thought of any extent, we commonly find some parts intimately united, 
 some slightly, some disjointed, and some directly opposed to each 
 
 ! . , ?r*~ * ; , . ] 1,. .,,'.,,... 4 !...,,. ^.i,l A *n*t*tsb4istna itiiif n t*vi in t n*'* 
 
 may 
 
 familiar example. When we have occasion to mention the intimate 
 connection that the soul hath with the body, the expression ought 
 to be, the soul and body; because the particle the, relative to both, 
 makes a connection in the expression, resembling in some degree 
 the connection in the thought ; but when the soul is distinguished 
 
 419. Ambiguity In construction. Example. Anotl er error g*lnt perspicuity. Ex 
 
 "^'Nest rule for latgnago. The dress of thonght-Tmprowlon ml. by Ih* word* *nd 
 the thought
 
 276 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 from the body, it is better to say the soul and the body ; because 
 the disjunction in the words resembles the disjunction in the 
 thought. 
 
 422. Two members of a thought connected by their relation to 
 the same action, will naturally be expressed by two members of the 
 period governed by the same verb : in which case these members, 
 in order to improve their connection, ought to be constructed in the 
 same manner. This beauty is so common among good writers, as 
 to have been little attended to ; but the neglect of it is remarkably 
 disagreeable. For example, " He did not mention Leonora, nor that 
 her father was dead." Better thus : " He did not mention Leonora, 
 nor her father's death." 
 
 Where two ideas are so connected as to require but a copulative, 
 it is pleasant to find a connection in the words that express these 
 ideas, were it even so slight as where both begin with the same 
 letter : 
 
 The peacock, in all his pride, does not display half the color that appears in 
 the garments of a British lady, when she is either dressed for a ball or a birth- 
 day. Spectator, No. 265. 
 
 Had not my dog of a steward run away as he did, without making up hi 
 accounts, I had still been immersed in sin and sea-coal. Ibid. No. 530. 
 
 My life's companion, and my bosom-friend, 
 One faith, one fame, one fate shall both attend. 
 
 Dryden, Translation of ^Eneid. 
 
 There is sensibly a defect in neatness when uniformity in this case 
 is totally neglected; witness the following example, where the con- 
 struction of two members connected by a copulative is unnecessarily 
 varied. 
 
 For it is confidently reported, that two young gentlemen of real hopes, bright 
 wit, and profound judgment, who, upon a thorough examination of causes and 
 effects, and by the mere force of natural abilities, without the least tincture of 
 learning, have made a discovery that there was no God, and generously com- 
 municating their thoughts for the good of the public, were some time ago, by 
 an unparalleled severity, and upon I know not what obsolete law, broke for 
 blasphemy. (Swift.) [Better thus :] having made a discovery that there was 
 no God, and having generously communicated their thoughts for the good of 
 the public, were some time ago, &c. 
 
 He had been guilty of a fault, for which his master would have put him to 
 death, had he not found an opportunity to escape out of his hands, and JUd 
 into the deserts of Numidia. ' Guardian, No. 189. 
 
 If all the ends of the Devolution are already obtained, it is not only imper- 
 tinent to argue for obtaining any of them, but factious designs might be imputed, 
 and the name of incendiary be applied with some color, perhaps, to any one 
 who should persist in pressing this point. 
 
 Dissertation upon Pat ties, Dedication. 
 
 421. A peculiar concordance of word and thought. Example. 
 
 422. Two members of a thought relating to the same action. Example. Connected 
 Ideas, expressed by words Tomowhat related to each other. Two members connected by 
 
 copulative. Example*.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 277 
 
 423. Next as to examples of disjunction and opposition in the 
 parts of the thought, imitated in tho expression ; an imitation that 
 JS distinguished by the name of antithesis. 
 
 Speaking of Coriolanus soliciting the people to be made consul : 
 With a proud heart lie wore his humble weeds. Coriolanut. 
 
 Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, than that Csar wcro 
 lead, to hvo all freemen ? j u i iut Qwar 
 
 He hath cool'd my friends and heated mine enemies. Shaktpeare. 
 An artificial connection among the words, is undoubtedly a beauty 
 when it represents any peculiar connection among the constituent 
 parts of the thought ; but where there is no such connection, it is 
 a positive deformity, as above observed, because it makes a discord- 
 ance between the thought and expression. For the same reason 
 we ought also to avoid eveiy artificial opposition of words where 
 there is none in the thought. This last, termed verbal antithesis, is 
 studied by low writers, because of a certain degree of liveliness in 
 it. They do not consider how incongruous it is, in a grave compo- 
 sition, to cheat the reader, and to make him expect a contrast in the 
 thought, which upon examination is not found there. 
 
 A light wife doth make a heavy husband. 
 
 Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Here is a studied opposition in the words, not only without any op- 
 position in the sense, but even where there is a very intimate con- 
 nection, that of cause and effect ; for it is the levity of the wife that 
 torments, the husband. 
 
 - Will maintain 
 
 Upon his bad life to make all this good. 
 
 King Richard II. Act I. Sc. 8. 
 
 Lucetta. What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here? 
 Julia. If thon respect them, best to take them up. 
 Lucetta. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act I. Sc. 8. 
 
 424. A fault directly opposite to that last mentioned, is to con 
 join artificially words that express ideas opposed to each other. 
 This is a fault too gross to be in common practice ; and yet writers 
 are guilty of it in some degree, when they conjoin by a copulative 
 things transacted at different periods of time. Hence a want ol 
 neatness in the following expression : 
 
 The nobility too, whom tho king had no moans of retaining by suitable offi- 
 ces and preferments, had been seized with the general discontent, and unwarily 
 threw themselves into the scale which began already too much to preponderate 
 
 History of Great Britain, vol. i. p. 25 1 ?. 
 
 In periods of this kind, it appeal's more neat to express the past time 
 by the participle passive, thus : 
 
 428. Examples of disjunction and opposition in the par* of the thought VrU' 
 tntlthesis where there it none in thought Example
 
 278 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 The nobility having been seized with the general discontent, unwarily threw 
 themselves, &c. (or) The nobility, who had been seized, &c., unwarily throw 
 themselves, &c. 
 
 It is unpleasant to find even a negative and affirmative proposi- 
 tion connected by a copulative : 
 
 If it appear not plain, and prove untrue, 
 
 Deadly divorce step between me and yovi.Shalc-speare. 
 
 In mirth and drollery it may have a good effect to connect ver- 
 bally things that are opposite to each other in the thought. Ex- 
 ample : Heniy IV., of France, introducing the Mareschal Biron to 
 some of his friends, " Here, gentlemen," says he, " is the Mareschal 
 Biron, whom I freely present both to my friends and enemies." 
 
 425. This rule of studying uniformity between the thought and 
 expression, may be extended to the construction of sentences or 
 periods. A sentence or period ought to express one entire thought 
 or mental proposition ; and different thoughts ought to be separated 
 in the expression by placing them in different sentences or periods. 
 It is therefore offending against neatness, to crowd into one period 
 entire thoughts requiring more than one ; which is joining in lan- 
 guage things that are separated, in reality. Of errors against this 
 rule take the following examples : 
 
 Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant ; also our bed is green. 
 
 Burnet, in the History of his own Times, giving Lord Sunderland's 
 character, says, 
 
 His own notions were always good ; but he was a man of great expense. 
 
 I have seen a woman's face break out in heats, as she has been talking against 
 i great lord, whom she had never seen in her life; and indeed never knew a 
 party-woman that kept her beauty for a twelvemonth. Spectator, No. 57. 
 
 Lord Bolingbroke, speaking of Strada : 
 
 I single him out among the moderns, because he had the foolish presumption 
 to Censure Tacitus, and to write history himself; and your lordship will forgive 
 this short excursion in honor of a favorite writer. 
 
 Letters on History, vol. i. Let. v. 
 
 To crowd in a single member of a period different subjects, is still 
 worse than to crowd them into one period. 
 
 426. From conjunctions and distinctions in general, we proceed 
 V> comparisons, which make one species of them, beginning with 
 oiniles. And here, also, the intimate connection that words have 
 with their meaning, requires that in describing two resembling ob- 
 ects, a resemblance in the two members of the period ought to be 
 studied. To illustrate the rule in this case, I shall give various ex- 
 tmples of deviations from it; beginning with resemblances expressed 
 n words that have no resemblance. 
 
 424. Conjoining artificially words that express opposite ideas. Example Negative ad 
 tffirmative propositions. 
 
 425. Rule for the distribution of thought. Violations of this rule.
 
 BKAUTY OK LANftUAGR. 279 
 
 I have observed of late, the style of some great ministtrt very much to exceed 
 lhat of any other productions. Letter tv the Lord High, Treasurer. Swift. 
 
 This, instead of studying the resemblance of words in a period that 
 expresses a comparison, is going out of one's road to avoid it. In- 
 stead of productions, which resemble not ministers great or small, 
 the proper word is writers or authors. 
 
 If men of eminence are exposed to censure on the one hand, they are as much 
 .iable to flattery on the other. If they receive reproaches which are not due 
 to them, they fikewise receive praises which they do not deserve. Spectator. 
 
 Here the subject plainly demands uniformity in expression instead 
 of variety ; and therefore it is submitted, whether the period would 
 not do better in the following manner : 
 
 If men of eminence be exposed to censure on the one hand, they are as much 
 exposed to flattery on the other. If they receive reproaches that ore not due, 
 they likewise receive praises that are not due. 
 
 I cannot but fancy, however, that this imitation, -which passes so currently 
 with other judgment*, must at some time or other have stuck a little with your 
 lordship. (Shaftesbury.) [Better thus :] I cannot but fancy, however, that this 
 imitation, which passes so currently with others, must at some time or other 
 have stuck a little with your lordship. 
 
 They wisely prefer the generous efforts of good-will and affection to the re- 
 luctant compliances of such as obey by force. 
 
 Remarks on the History of England, letter v. Bohngbroke. 
 
 Speaking of Shakspeare : 
 
 There may remain a suspicion that we overrate the greatness of his genius, 
 xn the same manner as bodies appear more gigantic on account of their being 
 disproportioned and misshapen. History of G. Britain, vol. i. p. 188. 
 
 This is studying variety in a period where the beauty lies in uni- 
 formity. Better thus : 
 
 There may remain a suspicion that we overrate the greatness of his genius, 
 in the same manner as we overrate the greatness of bodies that are dispropor- 
 tioned and misshapen. 
 
 427. Next as to the length of the members that signify the re- 
 sembling objects. To produce a resemblance between such mem- 
 bers, they ought not only to be constructed in the same manner, 
 but as nearly as possible be equal in length. By neglecting this 
 circumstance, the following example is defective in neatness : 
 
 As the performance of all other religious duties will not avail :n the sight of 
 God, without charity; so neither will the discharge of nil other mtniBtenal d 
 avail in the sight of men, without a faithful discharge of this principal duty. 
 
 Dissertation upon Parties, Dedication. 
 
 In the following passage are accumulated all the errors that a 
 period expressing a resemblance can well admit : 
 
 Ministers are answerable for everything done to the prejudice of the eonsti- 
 tntion, in the same proportion as the preservation of the const.l 
 purity and vigor, or the perverting and weakening it, arc of greater onsequene-4 
 to the nation, than any ether instances of good or bad government. 
 
 Dissertation upon Parties, Dedicate*. 
 
 426. Bute for describing re*mbliny objects. Examples evttjonii. v.unnlM. 
 
 427. Kule tor the letgth of the memUrs tht signify resembling ohj*ct* I
 
 280 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 428. Next of a comparison where things are opposed to each 
 other. And here it must be obvious, that if resemblance ought to 
 be studied in the words which express two resembling objects, there 
 is equal reason for studying opposition in the words which express 
 contrasted objects. This rule will be best illustrated by examples of 
 deviations from it : 
 
 A friend exaggerates a man's virtues, an enemy inflames his crimes. 
 
 Spectator, No. 399. 
 
 Here the opposition in the thought is neglected in the words, which 
 at first view seem to import, that the friend and the enemy are 
 employed in different matters, without any relation to each other, 
 whether of resemblance or of opposition, and therefore the contrast 
 or opposition will be better marked by expressing the thought as 
 follows : 
 
 A friend exaggerates a man's virtues, an enemy his crimes. 
 
 The following are examples of the same kind : 
 
 The wise man is happy when he gains his own approbation ; the fool when 
 he recommends himselt to the applause of those about him. Ibid. No. 73. 
 
 Better : 
 
 The wise man is happy when he gains his own approbation ; the fool when 
 he gains that of others. 
 
 429. We proceed to a rule of a different kind. During the course 
 of a period, the scene ought to be continued without variation : the 
 changing from person to person, from subject to subject, or from 
 person to subject, within the bounds of a single period, distracts the 
 mind, and affords no time for a solid impression. I illustrate this 
 rule by giving examples of deviations from it 
 
 Hook, in his Roman history, speaking of Eumenes, who had been 
 beat to the ground with a stone, says, 
 
 After a short time lie came to himself; and the next day (hey put him on 
 board his ship, which, conveyed him first to Corinth, and thence to the island 
 of ^Egina. 
 
 I give another example of a period which is unpleasant, even by 
 a very slight deviation from the rule : 
 
 That sort of instruction, which is acquired by inculcating an important 
 moral truth, &c. 
 
 This expression includes two persons, one acquiring and one incul- 
 cating ; and the scene is changed without necessity. To avoid this 
 blemish, the thought may be expressed thus : 
 That sort of instruction which is afforded by inculcating, &a 
 
 The bad effect of such change of person is remarkable -a the follow- 
 ing passage : 
 
 The Britons, daily harassed by cruel inroads from the Picts, were forced to 
 aall in the Saxons for their defence, who consequently reduced the greatest 
 
 428. Comparison where thing* are opposed.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 281 
 
 part of the island to taeir own power, drove the Britons into the mot remote 
 and mountainous parts, and the rest of the country, in customs, rcliirion and 
 language, became wholly Saxon. Letter to the Lord Hi,j\ Tretuvrer. 'Switl. 
 
 430. The present head, which relates to the choice of materials, 
 shall be closed with a rule concerning the use of copulatives. Lon- 
 ginus observes, that it animates a period to drop the copulatives ; 
 and he gives the following example from Xenophon : 
 
 Closing their shields together, they were pushed, they fought, they slew 
 they were slain. Treatise of the Sublime, cap. xvi. ' 
 
 The reason I take to be what follows. A continued sound, if not 
 loud, tends to lay us asleep : an interrupted sound rouses and ani- 
 mates by its repeated impulses. Thus feet composed of syllables, 
 being pronounced with a sensible interval between each, make more 
 lively impressions than can be made by a continued sound. A peri- 
 od of which the members are connected by copulatives, produceth an 
 effect upon the mind approaching to that of a continued sound ; and 
 therefore the suppressing of copulatives must animate a description. 
 It produces a different effect akin to that mentioned : the members 
 of a period connected by proper copulatives, glide smoothly and 
 gently along ; and are a proof of sedateness and leisure in the speak- 
 er : on the other hand, one in the hurry of passion, neglecting cop- 
 ulatives and other particles, expresses the principal image only ; and 
 for that reason, hurry or quick action is best expressed without cop- 
 ulatives : 
 
 Veni, vidi, vici. 
 
 -Ite: 
 
 Ferte citi flammas, date vela, impellite remos. ^Eneid, iv. 598. 
 
 Qnis globus, civis, caligine volvitur atra? 
 Ferte citi ferrum, dete tela, scandite muros. 
 Hostis adest, eja. jEneid, ix. 87. 
 
 431. It follows that a plurality of copulatives in the same period 
 ought to be avoided ; for if the laying aside copulatives gives force 
 and liveliness, a redundancy of them must render the period languid. 
 I appeal to the following instance, though there are but two copula- 
 tives : 
 
 Upon looking over the letters of my female correspondents, I find several 
 from women complaining of jealous husbands ; and at the same time protest- 
 ing their own innocence, and desiring my advice upon this occasion. 
 
 Spectator, No. 170. 
 
 I except the case where the words are intended to express the 
 coldness of the speaker; for there the redundancy of copulatives is 
 a beauty. 
 
 Dining one day at an alderman's in the city, Peter observed him expatiating 
 after the manner of his brethren, in the praises of a sirloin of beef. " Beef," 
 said the sage magistrate, " is the king of meat : Beef comprehends in it th 
 quintessence of partridge, and quail, and venison, and pheasant, and plumb- 
 pudding, and custard." lale of a Tub, sect. 4. 
 
 429. In a period the scene should not vary. 
 
 480. Eule for use of copulatives. Remark of Loogtnu,
 
 282 BEACTT OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 And the author shows great delicacy of taste by varying the ex- 
 pression in the mouth of Peter, who is represented more animated : 
 
 "Bread," says he, " dear brothers, is the staff of life, in which bread is con- 
 tained, inclusive, the quintessence of beef, mutton, veal, venison, partridges, 
 plum-pudding, and custard." 
 
 Another case must also be excepted : copulatives have a good ef- 
 fect where the intention is to give an impression of a great multi- 
 tude consisting of many divisions ; for example, " The army was 
 composed of Grecians, and Carians, and Lycians, and Pamphylians, 
 and Phrygians." The reason is, that a leisurely survey, which is 
 expressed by the copulatives, makes the parts appear more numerous 
 than they would do by a hasty survey : in the latter case the army 
 appears in one group ; in the former, we take as it were an accurate 
 survey of each nation and of each division. (See Demetrius Pha- 
 lereus, Of Elocution, sect. 63.) 
 
 432. We proceed to the second kind of beauty ; which consists 
 in a due arrangement of words or materials. This branch of the 
 subject is no less nice than extensive ; and I despair of setting it in 
 a clear light, except to those who are well acquainted with the gen- 
 eral principles that govern the structure or composition of language. 
 
 In a thought, generally speaking, there is at least one capital ob- 
 ject considered as acting or as suffering. This object is expressed 
 by a substantive noun ; its action is expressed by an active verb ; 
 and the thing affected by the action is expressed by another sub- 
 stantive noun : its suffering or passive state is expressed by a passive 
 verb ; and the thing that acts upon it, by a substantive noun. Be- 
 sides these, which are the capital parts of a sentence or period, there 
 are generally under-parts ; each of the substantives, as well as the 
 verb, may be qualified : time, place, purpose, motive, means, instru- 
 ment, and a thousand other circumstances, may be necessary to com- 
 plete the thought. And in what manner these several parts are 
 connected in the expression, will appear from what follows. 
 
 In a complete thought or mental proposition, all the meml>ers and 
 parts are mutually related, some slightly, some intimately. To put 
 such a thought in words, it is not sufficient that the component ideas 
 be clearly expressed ; it is also necessary that all the relations con- 
 tained in the thought be expressed according to their different de- 
 grees of intimacy. To annex a certain meaning to a certain sound 
 or word, requires no art : the great nicety in all languages is, to ex- 
 press the various relations that connect the parts of the thought 
 Could we suppose ttiis branch of language to be still a secret, it 
 would puzzle, I am apt to think, the acutest grammarian to invent 
 an expeditious method : and yet, by the guidance merely of nature, 
 the rude and illiterate have been led to a method so perfect, as to 
 
 431. Redundancy of copulatives in the same period. Cases where it is proper. 
 489. Due arrangement of words. The capital and nnder-parts of a sentence. Membcre 
 nd parts of a complete thonfcht mutually related. The great nicety in all langujyires.
 
 BKAl!TY OF LANGUAGE. 2S3 
 
 ppear not susceptible of auy improvement; and the next step in 
 
 our progress shall be to explain that method. 
 
 433. Words that import a relation must be distinguished from 
 such as do not. Substantives commonly imply no relation such 
 as animal, man, tree, river. Adjectives, verbs, and adverbs 'imply 
 a relation ; the adjective good must relate to some being possessed 
 of that quality ; the verb write is applied to some person who writes 
 and the adverbs moderately, diligently, have plainly a reference to 
 some action which they modify. When a relative word is intro- 
 duced, it must be signified by the expression to what word it relates 
 without which the sense is not complete. For answering that pur- 
 pose, I observe in Gi'eek and Latin two .different methods. Adjec- 
 tives are declined as well as substantives ; and declensions serve to 
 ascertain their connection : If the word that expresses the subject be 
 for example, in the nominative case, so also must the word be that 
 expresses its quality ; example, vir bonus. Again, verbs are related, 
 on the one hand to the agent, and on the other to the subject upon 
 which the action is exerted ; and a contrivance similar to that now 
 mentioned, serves to express the double relation : the nominative 
 case is appropriated to the agent, the accusative to the passive sub- 
 ject ; and the verb is put in the first, second, or third person to inti- 
 mate the connection with the word that signifies the agent : exam- 
 ples, Ego amo Tulliam ; tu amas Semproniam ; Brutus amat 
 Portiam. The other method is by juxtaposition, which is necessary 
 with respect to such words only as are not declined ; adverbs, for 
 example, articles, prepositions, and conjunctions. In the English 
 language there are few declensions, and therefore juxtaposition is 
 our chief resource : adjectives accompany their substantives ; an ad- 
 verb accompanies the word it qualifies ; and the verb occupies the 
 middle place between the active and passive subjects to which it 
 relates. 
 
 434. It must be obvious that those terms which have nothing 
 relative in their signification, cannot be connected in so easy a man- 
 ner. When two substantives happen to be connected, as cause and 
 effect, as principal and accessory, or in any other manner, such con- 
 nection cannot be expressed by contiguity solely ; for words must 
 often in a period be placed together which are not thus related : 
 the relation between substantives, therefore, cannot otherwise be 
 expressed but by particles denoting the relation. Latin indeed and 
 Greek, by their declensions, go a certain length to express such 
 relations without the aid of particles. The relation of property, for 
 example, between Csesar and his horse, is expressed by putting the 
 latter in the nominative case, the former in the genitive : equus 
 Omtait ; the same is also expressed in English without the aid of 
 a particle, Ccesar's horse. But in other instances, declensions not 
 
 483. Words implying elation. Two methods of Indicating relation.
 
 284 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 being used in the English language, relations of this kind are com- 
 monly expressed by prepositions. Examples : That wine came from 
 Cyprus. He is going to Paris. The sun is below the horizon. 
 
 This form of connecting by prepositions is not confined to sub- 
 stantives. Qualities, attributes, manner of existing or acting, and 
 all other circumstances may in the same manner be connected -with 
 the substances to which they relate. This is done artificially by 
 converting the circumstance into a substantive ; in which condition 
 it is qualified to be connected with the principal subject by a prepo- 
 sition in the manner above described. For example, the adjective 
 wise being converted into the substantive wisdom, gives opportunity 
 for the expression " a man of wisdom," instead of the more simple 
 expression a wise man ; this variety in the expression enriches lan- 
 guage. I observe, besides, that the using a preposition in this case 
 is not always a matter of choice ; it is indispensable with respect to 
 every circumstance that cannot be expressed by a single adjective or 
 adverb. 
 
 435. To pave the way for the rules of arrangement, one other 
 preliminary is necessary ; which is, to explain the difference between 
 a natural style and that where transposition or inversion prevail* 
 There are, it is true, no precise boundaries between them, for they 
 run into each other like the shades of different colors. No person, 
 however, is at a loss to distinguish them in their extremes ; and k is 
 necessary to make the distinction, because though some of the rules 
 I shall have occasion to mention are common to both, yet each has 
 rules peculiar to itself. In a natural style, relative words are by 
 juxtaposition connected with those to which they relate, going before 
 or after according to the peculiar genius of the language. Again, a 
 circumstance connected by a preposition follows naturally the word 
 with which it is connected. But this arrangement may be varied 
 when a different order is more beautiful : a circumstance may be 
 placed before the word with which it is connected by a preposition ; 
 and may be interjected even between a relative word and that to 
 which it relates. When such liberties are frequently taken, the 
 style becomes inverted or transposed.* 
 
 * [The imagination and the understanding are the powers of the mind that 
 chiefly influence the arrangement of words in sentences. The grammatical 
 order is dictated by the understanding; the inverted order results from tho 
 prevalence of the imagination. In the grammatical order of words it is require 
 that the agent or nominative shall first make its appearance : the agent , is suc- 
 ceeded by the action, or the verb; and the verb is followed by the .object , o- 
 accusative, on which the action is exerted. The other parts of speech, consist- 
 ing of adjectives, &c., are intermixed with these capital parts, and are _ass 
 dated with them respectively, according as they are necessary to resti 
 
 " X| ?he inverted order is prompted by the imagination, a keen and sprightly 
 434. The relation between substantives, how expressed Qualities and attributes, Ac, 
 
 ^SSK ^^^S^^S^^- Th. inverted stjte d the n* 
 ral explained in the Note.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 285 
 
 436. But as the liberty of inversion is a capital point in the pres- 
 ent subject, it will be necessary to examine it more narrowly, and in 
 particular to trace the several degrees in which an inverted style 
 recedes more and more from that which is natural. And first, aa 
 to the placing a circumstance before the word with which it is con- 
 nected, I observe that it is the easiest of all inversion, even so easy 
 as to be consistent with a style that is properly termed natural ; 
 witness the following examples : 
 
 In the hincerity of my heart, I profess, &c. 
 
 Bv our own ill management we are brought to so low an ebb of wealth and 
 credit, that, &c. 
 
 On Thursday morning there was little or nothing transacted in Change- 
 alley. 
 
 At St. Bride's church in Fleet-street, Mr. Woolston (who writ against th 
 miracles of our Saviour), in the utmost terrors of conscience, made a public 
 recantation. 
 
 The interjecting a circumstance between a relative word and that 
 to which it relates, is more properly termed inversion ; because, by 
 a disjunction of words intimately connected, it recedes farther from 
 a natural style. 
 
 The degree of inversion depends greatly on the order in which 
 the related words are placed : when a substantive occupies the first 
 place, the idea .it suggests must subsist in the mind at least for a 
 moment, independent of the relative words afterwards introduced ; 
 and that moment may without difficulty be prolonged by interjecting 
 a circumstance between the substantive and its connections. This 
 liberty, therefore, however frequent, will scarce alone be sufficient to 
 denominate a style inverted. The case is very different, where the 
 word that occupies the first place denotes a quality or an action : 
 for as these cannot be conceived without a subject, they cannot 
 without great violence be separated from the subject that follows ; 
 and for that reason, every such separation, by means of an interjected 
 circumstance, belongs to an inverted style. 
 
 To illustrate this doctrine, examples are necessary ; and I shall 
 
 faculty, which attaches itself strongly to its objects, and to those the most that 
 affect it most forcibly. A sentence constructed according to the order dictated 
 by this faculty, presents the object or accusative first, the agent or recipient 
 next, and the action or verb last. The other parts of speech are interwoven, as 
 in the former case, with these capitd words with which they are naturally con- 
 nected. The reason of this arrangement is, that the imagination attaches itself 
 principally to the object, in an inferior degree to the subject or recipient, least 
 of all to the action; and they are accordingly disposed agreeably to these de- 
 grees of attachment. 
 
 In the early periods of society, and even in the early part of life, we observe 
 the mind disposed to inversion, because in these tiuios the imagination is more 
 vivid and active, and the powers of reason aro more languid and ineffectual 
 Barren's Lect. 8.] 
 
 48. Several degrees of departure from a natural stvle ; In the pUcIn* of clrcunuUne* 
 On what the degree of inversion depands. Eri.-.ple.
 
 2S6 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 begin with those where the word first introduced does not imply a 
 relation. 
 
 N or Eve to iterate 
 
 Her former trespass fear'd. 
 
 -Hunger and thirst at once, 
 
 Powerful persuaders, quicken'd at the scent 
 Of that alluring fruit, urged me so keen. 
 
 Moon that now meet'st the orient sun, now fllest 
 With the flx'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies, 
 And ye five other wand'ring fires that move 
 In mystic dance not without song, resound 
 His praise. 
 
 In the following examples, where the word first introduced im- 
 ports a relation, the disjunction will be found more violent : 
 
 Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
 Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
 Brought death into the world, and all our woe, 
 With loss of Eden, till one greater man 
 Kestore us, and regain the blissful seat, 
 Sing, heavenly muse. 
 
 -Upon the firm opacous globe 
 
 Of this round world, whose first convex divides 
 The luminous inferior orbs inclosed 
 From chaos and th' inroad of darkness old, 
 Satan alighted walks. 
 
 On a sudden open fly 
 
 With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, 
 Th' infernal doors. 
 
 Wherein remain'd, 
 
 For what could else? to our almighty foe 
 Clear victory, to our part loss and rout. 
 
 -Forth rush'd, with whirlwind sound, 
 
 The chariot of paternal Deity. 
 
 43*7. Language would have no great power, were it confined to 
 the natural order of ideas. I shall soon have opportunity to make 
 it evident, that by inversion a thousand beauties may be compassed, 
 which must be relinquished in a natural arrangement. In the mean 
 time, it ought not to escape observation, that the mind of man is 
 happily so constituted as to relish inversion, though in one respect 
 unnatural ; and to relish it so much, as in many cases to admit a 
 separation between words the most intimately connected. It can 
 scarce be said that inversion has any limits ; though I may venture 
 to pronounce, that the disjunction of articles, conjunctions, or prepo- 
 sitions, from the words to which they belong, has very seldom a 
 good effect. The following example with relation to a preposition, 
 is perhaps as tolerable as any of the kind : 
 
 Ho would neither separate from, nor act against them. 
 
 487. Effect of inversion upon language Effect of separating articles, conjunction?, sod 
 prepositions, from the words to which they belong.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 287 
 
 438. I give notice to the reader, that I am now ready to enter 
 on the rules of arrangement : beginning with a natural style, and 
 proceeding gradually to what is the most inverted. And in the ar- 
 rangement of a period, as well as in a right choice of words, the first 
 and great object being perspicuity, the rule above laid down, that 
 perspicuity ought not to be sacrificed to any other beauty, hold* 
 equally in both. Ambiguities occasioned by a wrong arrangement 
 are of two sorts; one where the arrangement leads to a wrong sense, 
 and one where the sense is left doubtful. The first, being more cul- 
 pable, shall take the lead, beginning with examples of words put in 
 a wrong place. 
 
 How much the imagination of such a presence must exalt a genius, we may 
 observe merely from the influence which an ordinary presence has over men. 
 
 Characteristics, vol. 5. p. 7. 
 
 This arrangement leads to a wrong sense : the adverb merely seems 
 by its position to affect the preceding word ; whereas it is intended 
 to affect the following words, an ordinary presence; and therefore 
 the arrangement ought to be thus : 
 
 How much the imagination of such a presence must exalt a genius, we may 
 observe from the influence which an ordinary presence merely has over men. 
 [Or better] which even an ordinary presence has over men. 
 
 The time of the election of a poet-laureat being now at hand, it may be proper 
 to give some account of the rites and ceremonies anciently used at that solem- 
 nity, and only discontinued through the neglect and degeneracy of later times. 
 
 Guardian. 
 
 The term only is intended to qualify the noun degeneracy, and not 
 the participle discontinued ; and therefore the arrangement ought 
 to be as follows : 
 
 -and discontinued through the neglect and degeneracy only of 
 
 Jater times. 
 
 Sixtus the Fourth was, if I mistake not, a great collector of books at least. 
 Letters on History, vol. i. Lect. 6. Bolingbroke. 
 
 The expression here leads evidently to a wrong sense ; the adverb 
 at least, ought not to be connected with the substantive books, buf 
 with collector, thus : 
 
 Sixtus the Fourth was a great collector at least of books. 
 
 Speaking of Louis XIV. 
 
 If he was not the greatest king, he was the best actor of majesty t least 
 that ever filled a throne. Ibid. Letter vii. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 If he was not the greatest king, he was at least the best actor of majesty, fco 
 This arrangement removes the wrong sense occasioned by the juxtar 
 position of majesty and at least. 
 
 488. Tw sorts of Mnbiguitr from a wrong MTnnBtnDt Flrt, of wowh.
 
 288 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 439. The following examples are of a wrong arrangement of 
 members : 
 
 I have confined myself to those methods for the advancement of piety, which 
 are in the power of a prince limited like our* by a strict execution of the laws. 
 A Project for ih Advancement of .Religion. Swift. 
 
 The structure of this period leads to a meaning which is not the 
 author's, viz. power limited by a strict execution of the laws. That 
 wrong sense is removed by the following arrangement : 
 
 I have confined myself to those methods for the advancement of piety, which, 
 by a strict execution of the laws, are in the power of a prince limited like ours. 
 
 This morning, when one of Lady Lizard's daughters was looking over some 
 hoods and ribands brought by her tirewoman, with great care and diligence, 
 I employed no less in examining the box which contained them. 
 
 Guardian,, No. 4. 
 
 The wrong sense occasioned by this arrangement, may be easily pre- 
 vented by varying it thus : 
 
 This morning when, with great care and diligence, one of Lady Lizard's 
 daughters was looking over some hoods and ribands, &c. 
 
 A great stone that I happened to find after a long search by the seashore, 
 served me for an anchor. Gulliver's Travels, part i. chap. viii. 
 
 One would think that the search was confined to the seashore ; but 
 as the meaning is, that the great stone was found by the seashore, 
 the period ought to be arranged thus : 
 
 A great stone, that, after a long search, I happened to find by the seashore, 
 served me for an anchor. 
 
 440. Next of a wrong arrangement where the sense is left doubt- 
 ful ; beginning, as in the former sort, with examples of wrong ar 
 rangement of words in a member. 
 
 These forms of conversation by degrees multiplied and grew troublesome 
 
 Spectator, No. 119. 
 
 Here it is left doubtful whether the modification by degrees relates 
 to the preceding member or to what follows : it should be, 
 These forms of conversation multiplied by degrees. 
 
 Nor docs this false modesty expose us only to such actions as are indiscreet 
 but very often to such as are highly criminal. Spectator, No. 458. 
 
 The ambiguity is removed by the following arrangement : 
 
 Nor does this false modesty expose us to such actions only as are indis- 
 creet, &c. 
 
 The empire of Blefuscu is an island situated to tho northeast side of Lilliput, 
 from whence it is parted only by a channel of 800 yards wide. G-uttiter't 
 Travels, part i. chap. v. 
 
 The ambiguity may be removed thus : 
 
 from whence it is parted by a channel of 800 yards wide only. 
 
 489. Of * wrong arrangement of members.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 280 
 
 In the following examples the sense is left doubtful by wrong 
 arrangement of members : 
 
 The minister who grows less by his elevation, like a tittle tlatue placed on 
 mighty pedestal, will always have his jealousy strong about him. Dissertation 
 upon Parties. Dedication. Boliugbroke. 
 
 Here, as far as can be gathered from the arrangement, it is doubt- 
 ful whether the object, introduced by way of simile, relates to what 
 goes before or to what follows : the ambiguity is removed by the 
 following arrangement : 
 
 The minister, who, like a little statue placed on a mighty pedestal, grows IBM 
 by his elevation, will always, '&c. 
 
 Since this is too much to ask of freemen, nay of slaves, if his expectation bt 
 not answered, shall he form a lasting division upon such transient motives ? 
 Ibid. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 Since this is too much to ask of freemen, nay of slaves, shall he, if hia ex 
 pectations be not answered, form, &c. 
 
 Speaking of the superstitious practice of locking up the room where 
 a person of distinction dies : 
 
 The knight, seeing his habitation reduced to so small a compass, and him- 
 self in a manner shut out of his own house, upon the death of his mother, 
 ordered all the apartments to be flung open, and exorcised by his chaplain. 
 Spectator, No. 110. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 The knight, seeing his habitation reduced to so small a compass, and him 
 self in a manner shut out of his own house, ordered, upon the death of his 
 mother, all the apartments to be flung open. 
 
 Speaking of some indecencies in conversation : 
 
 As it is impossible for such an irrational way of conversation to last long 
 among a people that make any profession of religion, or show of modesty, 
 if the country gentlemen get into it, they will certainly be left in the lurch. 
 Spectator, No. 119. 
 
 The ambiguity vanishes in the following arrangement : 
 
 the country gentlemen, if they get into it, will certainly be left 
 
 in the lurch. 
 
 Speaking of a discovery in natural philosophy, that color is not 
 a quality of matter : 
 
 As this is n truth which has been proved incontestably by many modern phi- 
 losophers, and is indeed one of the finest speculations in that science, if tin 
 English reader would see (he notion explained at large, he may find it in the eighth 
 chapter in the second book of Mr. Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding. 
 Spectator, No. 413. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 As this is a truth, <fec., the English reader, if he would see the notion ex- 
 plained at large, may find it, &c. 
 
 A woman seldom asks advii-a before he has bvuglit her wcddia^-olothc*.
 
 290 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 When she has made her ovrn choice, for form's sake, sho sends a conge cTeUrt 
 to her friends. Ibid. No. 475. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 she sends, for form's sake, a conge jfelire to her friends. 
 
 And since it is necessary that there should be a perpetual intercourse of buy- 
 ing and selling, and dealing upon credit, where fraud is permitted or connivedat, 
 Of hath no law to punish it, the honest dealer is always undone, and the knave 
 gets the advantage. Gulliver's Travel?, part i. chap. vi. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 And since it is necessary that there should be a perpetual intercourse of 
 buying and selling, and dealing upon credit, the honest dealer, where fraud i 
 permitted or connived at, or hath no law to punish it, is always undone, and 
 the knave gets the advantage. 
 
 441. From these examples, the following observation will occur, 
 that a circumstance ought never to be placed between two capital 
 members of a period ; for by such situation it must always be 
 doubtful, as far as we gather from the arrangement, to which of the 
 two members it belongs : where it is inteijected, as it ought to be, 
 between parts of the member to which it#belongs, the ambiguity is 
 removed, and the capital members are kept distinct, which is a great 
 beauty in composition. In general, to preserve members distinct 
 that signify things distinguished in the thought, the best method is, 
 to place first in the consequent member, some word that cannot 
 connect with what precedes it. 
 
 If it shall be thought, that the objections here are too scrupulous, 
 and that the defect of perspicuity is easily supplied by accurate 
 punctuation ; the answer is, That punctuation may remove an ambi- 
 guity, but will never produce that peculiar beauty which is per- 
 ceived when the sense comes out clearly and distinctly by means of 
 a happy arrangement. 
 
 442. A rule deservedly occupying the second place, is, That 
 words expressing things connected in the thought, ought to be 
 placed as near together as possible. This rule is derived immediately 
 from human nature, prone in every instance to place together things 
 in any manner connected (see chapter i.) : where things are arranged 
 according to their connections, we have a sense of order : other- 
 wise we have a sense of disorder, as of things placed by chance : 
 and we naturally place words in the same order in which we would 
 place the things they signify. The bad effect of a violent separa- 
 tion of words or members thus intimately connected will appear 
 from the following examples : 
 
 For the English are naturally fanciful, and very often disposed, by that 
 gloominess and melancholy of temper which is so frequent in our nation, to 
 many wild notions and visions, to which others are not so liable. 
 
 Spectator, No. 419. 
 
 440. "Where thus the sense Is left doubtful. Examples. 
 
 41. Where a capital circumstance should not be placed. The best inethotl.
 
 BEAOTY OF LANGUAGE. 291 
 
 Here the verb or assertion is, by a pretty long circumstance, vio- 
 lently separated from the subject to which it refers : this makes a 
 harsh arrangement ; the less excusable that the fault is easily pre- 
 vented by placing the circumstances before the verb, after the fol- 
 lowing manner : 
 
 For the English are naturally fanciful, and, by that gloominess and melan- 
 choly of temper which m so frequent in our nation, are often disposed to many 
 wild notions, &c. 
 
 For as no mortal author, in the ordinary fate and vicissitude of things knows 
 to what use his works may, some time or other, be applied, &c. 
 
 Spectator, No. 85. 
 Better thus : 
 
 For as, in the ordinary fate and vicissitude of things, no mortal author known 
 to what use, some time or other, his works may be applied, &c. 
 
 From whence we may date likewise the rivalship of the house of France, for 
 we may reckon that of Valois and that of Bourbon as one upon this occasion, 
 and the house of Austria that continues at this day, and has oft cost so much 
 blood and so much treasure in the course of it. 
 
 Letters on, History, vol. i. let. vi. Bollngbrake. 
 
 It cannot be impertinent or ridiculous, therefore, in such a country, whatever 
 it might be in the Abbot of St. Real's, which was Savoy, I think ; or in Peru, 
 under the Incas, where Garcilasso de la Vega says it was lawful for none but 
 the nobility to study for men of all degrees to instruct themselves, in those 
 affairs wherein they may be actors, or judges of those who act, or controllers of 
 those that judge. Ibid. let. v. 
 
 If Scipio, who was naturally given to women, for which anecdote we have, if 
 I mistake not, the authority of Polybius. as well as some verses of Nevius, 
 preserved by Anlus Gellius, had been educated bv Olympias at the court of 
 Philip, it is improbable that he would have restored the beautiful Spaniard. 
 
 Ibid. let. Hi. 
 
 If any one have a curiosity for more specimens of this kind, they 
 will be found without number in the works of the same author. 
 
 443. A pronoun, which saves the naming a person or thing a 
 second time, ought to be placed as near as possible to the name of 
 that person or thing. This is a branch of the foregoing rule ; and 
 with the reason there given another concurs, viz., That if other ideas 
 intervene, it is difficult to recall the person or thing by reference : 
 
 If I had leave to print the Latin letters transmitted to me from foreign parts, 
 they would fill a volume, and be a full defence against all that Mr. Partridge or 
 his accomplices of the Portugal inquisition, will oe ever able to object; who, by 
 the way, are the only enemies my predictions have ever met with at home or 
 abroad. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 ; and be a full defence against all that can bo objected by Mr. 
 
 Partridge, or his accomplices of the Portugal inquisition : who, by the way. 
 are, &c. 
 
 _ There being a round million of creatures in human figure, throughout this 
 kingdom, whose whole subsistence, &c. A Modett Proposal, itc. Swift. 
 
 442. Second rale ; relating to words expressing things connected in tboogUt TUo U*i* 
 uf Uils rule. Examples of a violation of Oils rule.
 
 292 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 Better: 
 
 There being throughout this kingdom a round million of creatures in hmnan 
 figure, whose whole subsistence, &c. 
 
 Tom is a lively impudent clown, and has wit enough to have made him a 
 pleasant companion, had it been polished and rectified by good manners. 
 
 Guardian, No. 162. 
 
 The arrangement here leads to a wrong sense, as if the ground were 
 taken up, not the paper. Better thus : 
 
 It is the custom of the Mahometans, if they see upon the ground an/ printed 
 or written paper, to take it up, &c. 
 
 444. The following rule depends on the communication of emo- 
 tions to related objects, a principle in human nature that hath an 
 extensive operation; and we find this operation even where the 
 objects are not otherwise related than by juxtaposition of the words 
 that express them. Hence, to elevate or depress an object, one 
 method is, to join it in the expression with another that is naturally 
 high or low : witness the following speech of Eumenes to the Roman 
 Senate : 
 
 Causam veniendi sibi Eomam fuisse, prater cupiditatem visendi deos homi- 
 nesque, quorum beneficio in ea fortuna esset, supra quain ne optare quidem 
 auderet, etiam ut coram moneret senatum ut Persei conatus obviam iret. 
 
 Hvy, 1. xiii. cap. xi. 
 
 To join the Romans with the gods in the same enunciation, is an 
 artful stroke of flattery, because it tacitly puts them on a level. On 
 the other hand, the degrading or vilifying an object, is done success 
 fully by ranking it with one that is really low : 
 
 I hope to have this entertainment in a readiness for the next winter ; and 
 doubt not but it will please more than the opera or puppet-show. 
 
 Spectator, No. 28. 
 
 Manifold have been the judgments which Heaven from time to time, for 
 the chastisement of a sinful people, has inflicted upon whole nations. For 
 when the degeneracy becomes common, 'tis but just the punishment should be 
 general. Of this kind, in our own unfortunate country, was that destructive 
 pestilence, whose mortality was so fatal as to sweep away, if Sir William Petty 
 may be believed, five millions of Christian souls, besides women and Jews. 
 God" 1 * Revenge against Punning. Arbuthnot. 
 
 Such also was that dreadful conflagration ensuing in this famous metropolis 
 of London, which consumed, according to the computation of Sir Samuel 
 Moreland, 100,000 houses, not to mention churches and stables. Ibid. 
 
 But on condition it might pass into a law, I would gladly exempt both law- 
 yers of all ages, subaltern ana field-officers, young heirs, dancing-masters, pick 
 pockets, and players. An infallible Sclieme to pay the Public Debt. Swift. 
 
 443. The proper place for the pronoun. 
 
 444. Rule depending on the communication of emotious to related objects. How to 
 itovatc or depress an object.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 293 
 
 Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, 
 Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all. 
 
 Rapt of the Lock. 
 
 445. Circumstances in a period resemble small stones in a build- 
 ing, employed to fill up vacuities among those of a larger size. In 
 the arrangement of a period, such underparts crowded together make 
 a poor figure, and never are graceful but when interspersed among 
 the capital parts. I illustrate this rule by the following example : 
 
 It is likewise urged that there are, by computation, in this kingdom, above 
 10,000 parsons, whose revenues, added to those of my lords the bislops, 
 would suffice to maintain, &c. 
 
 Argument against abolishing Christianity. Swift. 
 
 Here two circumstances, viz., by computation, and in this kingdom, 
 are crowded together unnecessarily : they make a better appearance 
 separated in the following manner : 
 
 It is likewise urged that in this kingdom there are, by computation, above 
 10,000 parsons, &c. 
 
 If there be room for a choice, the sooner a circumstance is intro- 
 duced the better ; because circumstances are proper for that cool- 
 ness of mind with which we begin a period as well as a volume : in 
 the progress, the mind warms, and has a greater relish for matters 
 of importance. When a circumstance is placed at the beginning of 
 the period, or near the beginning, the transition from it to the prin- 
 cipal subject is agreeable : it is like ascending or going upward. 
 On the other hand, to place it late in the period has a bad effect ; 
 for after being engaged in the principal subject, one is with reluc- 
 tance brought down to give attention to. a circumstance. Hence 
 evidently the preference of the following arrangement, 
 
 Whether in any country a choice altogether unexceptionable has been made. 
 BGeins doubtful. 
 
 Before this other, 
 
 Whether a choice altogether unexceptionable has in any country been 
 made, &c. 
 
 For this reason the following period is exceptionable in point of 
 arrangement : 
 
 I have considered formerly, with a good deal of attention, the subject upon 
 which you command me to communicate my thoughts to you. Bolinybrokt on 
 tke Study of History, Letter I. 
 
 Which, with a slight alteration, may be improved thus : 
 I have formerly, with a good deal of attention, considered the subject, Ac. 
 Swift, speaking of a virtuous and learned education : 
 
 And although they may be, and too often are drawn, by the temptations o 
 youth, and the opportunities of a large fortune, into some irregularities, 
 they come forward into the great world; it is ever with reluctance und 
 punction of mind, because their bias to virtue still continues. 
 No. 9.
 
 294 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 Better : 
 
 And although, when they come forward into the great world, they may be, and 
 too often, &c. 
 
 The bad effect of placing a circumstance last or late in a period, 
 will appear from the following examples : 
 
 Let us endeavor to establish to ourselves an interest in him who holds the 
 reins of the whole creation in his hand. Spectator, No. 12. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 Let us endeavor to establish to ourselves an interest in him, who, in his hand, 
 holds the reins of the whole creation. 
 
 Virgil, who has cast the whole system of Platonic philosophy, so far as it re- 
 lates to the soul of man, into beautiful allegories, in the sixth book ofhis^Eneid, 
 gives us the punishment, &c. Spectator, No. 90. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 Virgil, who, in the sixth book of his ^Eneid, has cast, &c. 
 
 And Philip the Fourth was obliged at last to conclude a peace on terms i- 
 pugnant to his inclination, to that of his people, to the interest of Spain, and 
 to that of all Europe, in the Pyrenean treaty. Letters on History, vol. i. let. vi. 
 Eolingbrobe. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 And at last in the Pyrenean treatv, Philip the Fourth was obliged to con 
 elude a peace, &c. 
 
 r> 446. In arranging a period, it is of importance to determine in 
 what part of it a word makes the greatest figure ; whether at the 
 beginning, during the course, or at the close. The breaking silence 
 rouses the attention, and prepares for a deep impression at the be- 
 ginning : the beginning, however, must yield to the close ; which 
 being succeeded by a pause, affords time for a word to make its 
 deepest impression. Hence the following rule, That to give the 
 utmost force to a period, it ought if possible to be closed with that 
 word which makes the greatest figure. The opportunity of a pause 
 should not be thrown away upon accessories, but reserved for the 
 principal object, in order that it may make a full impression ; which 
 is an additional reason against closing a period with a circumstance. 
 There are however periods that admit not such a structure ; and in 
 that case, the Capital word ought, if possible, to be placed in the 
 front, vhich next to the close .is the most advantageous for making 
 an impression. Hence, in directing our discourse to a man of figure, 
 we ought to begin with his name ; and one will be sensible of a 
 degradation, when this rule is neglected, as it frequently is for tho 
 sake of verse. I give the following examples : 
 
 445. Circumstances, how to be disposed of. Example. The best plan for them. Trwi 
 a'Oon from it to the principal subject, agreeable. Example.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 295 
 
 Integer vitte, scelerisque puma, 
 Non eget Mauri jaculis, ueque arcu, 
 Nee venenatis gravida sagittis, 
 
 Fusee, pharetra. floral. Carm. 1. i. ode 22. 
 
 Je crains Dieu, cher Abner, et n'ai point d'autre crainte. 
 
 In these examples, the name of the person addressed to, makes a 
 mean figure, being like a circumstance slipt into a corner. That 
 this criticism is well founded, we need no further proof than Addi- 
 son's translation of the last example : 
 
 Abner ! I fear my God, and I fear none but him. 
 
 Guardian, No. 117. 
 
 O father, what intends thy hand, she cried, 
 Against thy only son ? What fury, O son, 
 Possesses thee to bend that mortal dart 
 Against thy father's head I 
 
 Paradise Lost, book ii. 1. 727. 
 
 Eveiy one must be sensible of a dignity in the invocation at the 
 beginning, which is not attained by that in the middle. I mean 
 not, however, to censure this passage : on the contrary, it appear?, 
 beautiful, by distinguishing the respect that is due to a father fron 
 that which is due to a son. 
 
 447. The substance of what is said in this and the foregoing sec- 
 tion, upon the method of arranging words in a period, so as to make 
 the deepest impression with respect to sound as well as signification, 
 is comprehended in the following observation : That order of words 
 in a period will always be the most agreeable, where, without ob- 
 scuring the sense, the most important images, the most sonorous 
 words, and the longest members, bring up the rear. 
 
 Hitherto of arranging single words, single members, and single 
 circumstances. But the enumeration of many particulars in the 
 same period is often necessary ; and the question is, In what order 
 they should be placed ? It does not seem easy, at first view, to 
 bring a subject apparently so loose under any general rule ; but 
 luckily, reflecting upon what is said in the first chapter about order, 
 we find rules laid down to our hand, which leave us no task but 
 that of applying them to the present question. And, first, with 
 respect to the enumerating particulars of equal rank, it is laid down 
 in the place quoted, that as there is no cause for preferring any one 
 before the rest, it is indifferent to the mind in what order they be 
 viewed. And it is only necessary to be added here, that for the sanu 
 reason, it is indifferent in what order they be named. 2dly, If a 
 number of objects of the same kind, differing only in si/A are to be 
 ranged along a straight line, the most agreeable order to the eye is 
 that of an increasing scries. In sun-eying a number of such ob- 
 
 446. How to give the utmost force to a period. The second best place ft* th WfM 
 rord. How to begin di*eonr?e to a person of consequence. -
 
 29> BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 jects, beginning at the least, and proceeding to greater and greater, 
 the mind swells gradually with the successive objects, and in its pro- 
 gress has a very sensible pleasure. Precisely for the same reason, 
 words expressive of such objects ought to be placed in the same 
 order. The beauty of this figure, which may be termed a climax 
 in sense, has escaped Lord Bolingbroke in the first member of the 
 following period : 
 
 Let but one great, brave, disinterested, active man arise, and he will be re- 
 ceived, followed, and almost adored. 
 
 The following arrangement has sensibly a better effect : 
 Let but one brave, great, active, disinterested man arise, &c. 
 
 Whether the same rule ought to be followed in enumerating men 
 of different ranks, seems doubtful : on the one hand, a number of 
 persons presented to the eye in form of an increasing series, is un- 
 doubtedly the most agreeable order : on the other hand, in every 
 list of names, we set the person of the greatest dignity at the top, 
 and descend gradually through his inferiors. Where the purpose is 
 to honor the persons named according to their rank, the latter order 
 ought to be followed ; but every one who regards himself only, or 
 his reader, will choose the former order. 3dly, As the sense of order di- 
 rects the eye to descend from the principal to its greatest accessory, and 
 from the whole to its greatest part, and in the same order through all 
 the parts and accessories till we arrive at the minutest ; the same order 
 ought to be followed in the enumeration of such particulars. 
 
 448. When force and liveliness of expression are demanded, the 
 rule is, to suspend the thought as long as possible, and to bring it 
 out full and entire at the close ; which cannot be done but by in- 
 verting the natural arrangement. By introducing a word or member 
 before its time, curiosity is raised about what is to follow ; and it is 
 agreeable to have our curiosity gratified at the close of the period 
 the pleasure we feel resembles that of seeing a stroke exerted upon 
 a body by the whole collected force of the agent. On the other 
 hand, where a period is so constructed as to admit more than one 
 complete close in the sense, the curiosity of the reader is exhausted 
 at the first close, and what follows appears languid or superfluous : 
 his disappointment contributes also to that appearance, when he 
 finds, contrary to expectation, that the period is not yet finished. 
 Cicero, and after him Quintilian. recommend the verb to the last 
 place. This method evidently tends to suspend the sense till the 
 close of the period ; for without the verb the sense cannot be com- 
 plete ; and when the verb happens to be the capital word, which it 
 frequently is, it ought at any rate to be the last, according to an- 
 
 447 The best order of words In a period. Rule for enumerating particulars of equal 
 rank In a period. 3d, "Where they differ in size. Order when enumerating men ol 
 different ranks. 3d, What the sense qf order direct*, 
 operation.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 297 
 
 other rule, above laid down. I proceed as usual to illustrate this 
 rule by examples. The following period is placed in its natural order. 
 
 Were instruction an essential circumstance in epic poetry, I doubt whether 
 a single instance could be given of this species of composition, iu any language. 
 
 The period thus arranged admits a full close upon the word compo- 
 sition ; after which it goes on languidly, and closes without force. 
 This blemish will be' avoided by the following arrangement : 
 
 Were instruction an essential circumstance in epic poetry, I doubt whether, 
 in any language, a single instance could be given ot this species of composition. 
 
 Some of our most eminent divines have made use of this Platonic notion, 
 as far as it regards the subsistence of our passions after death, with great beauty 
 and strength of reason. Spectator, No. 90. 
 
 Better thus : 
 
 Some of our most eminent divines have, with great beauty and strength of 
 reason, made use of this Platonic notion, &c. 
 
 Men of the best sense have been touched more or less with these groundless 
 horrors and presages of futurity, upon surveying the most indifferent works 
 of nature. Ibid. No. 505. 
 
 Better, 
 
 Upon surveying the most indifferent works of nature, men of the best 
 sense, &c. 
 
 She soon informed him of the place ho was in, which, notwithstanding all 
 its horrors, appeared to him more sweet than the bower of Mahomet, in the 
 company of his Balsora. Guardian, No. 167. 
 
 Better, 
 
 She soon, &c., appeared to him, in the company of his Balsora, more 
 sweet, &c. 
 
 The emperor was so intent on the establishment of his absolute power in 
 Hungary, that he exposed the empire doubly to desolation and ruin fur the 
 sake of it. Letters on History, vol. i. let. vii. Bolingbroke. 
 
 Better, 
 
 that for the sake of it he exposed the empire doubly to desolation ano 
 
 ruin. 
 
 None of the rules for the composition of periods are more liab.b 
 to be abused, than those last mentioned ; witness many Latin writers, 
 among the moderns especially, whose style, by inversions too violent, 
 is rendered harsh and obscure. Suspension of the thought till the 
 close of the period, ought never to be preferred before perspicuity. 
 Neither ought such suspension to be attempted in a long period ; 
 because in that case the mind is bewildered amidst a profusion of 
 words : a traveller, while he is puzzled about the road, relishes not 
 the finest prospect : 
 
 448. Rule, when force and liveliness of expression are demanded. Pisnd rntg of COB 
 structing a period with more than one complete close In the sense. Example*. 
 the suspension of thought to the cloe of a period should Dot be attempted, 
 
 13*
 
 298 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 All the rich presents which Astyages had given him at parting, keeping 
 only some Median horses, in order to propagate the breed of them in Persia, 
 he distributed among his friends whom he left at the court of Eebatana. 
 
 Travels of Oyrus, Book i. 
 
 449. The foregoing rules concern the arrangement of a single 
 period : I add one rule more concerning the distribution of a dis- 
 course into different periods. A short period is lively and familiar : 
 a long period, requiring more attention, makes an impression grave 
 and solemn. In general, a writer ought to study a mixture of long 
 and short periods, which prevent an irksome uniformity, and enter- 
 tain the mind with a variety of impressions. In particular, long 
 periods ought to be avoided till the reader's attention be thoroughly 
 engaged ; and therefore a discourse, especially of the familiar kind, 
 ought never to be introduced with a long period. For that reason the 
 commencement of a letter to a very young lady on her marriage is 
 faulty : 
 
 Madam, the hurry and impertinence of receiving and paying visits on ac- 
 count of your marriage, being now over, you are beginning to enter into a 
 course of life, where you will want much advice to divert you from falling into 
 many errors, fopperies, and follies, to which your sex is subject. Swift. 
 
 See another example still more faulty, in the commencement of 
 Cicero's oration, Pro Archia Poeta. 
 
 450. Before proceeding farther, it may be proper to review the 
 rules laid down in this and the preceding section, in order to make 
 some general observations. That order of the words and members 
 of a period is justly termed natural, which corresponds to the natural 
 order of the ideas that compose the thought. The tendency of many 
 of the foregoing rules is to substitute an artificial arrangement in 
 order to catch some beauty either of sound or meaning for which 
 there is no place in the natural order. But seldom it happens, that 
 in the same period there is place for a plurality of these rules : if 
 one beauty can be retained, another must be relinquished ; and the 
 only question is, Which ought to be preferred? This question can- 
 not be resolved by any general rule : if the natural order be not 
 relished, a few trials will discover that artificial order which has the 
 best effect; and this exercise, supported by a good taste, will in 
 time make the choice easy. All that can be said in general is, that 
 in making a choice, sound ought to yield to signification. 
 
 The transposing words and members out of their natural order, 
 so remarkable in the learned languages, has been the subject of 
 much speculation.* It is agreed on all hands, that such transposi- 
 
 * [The very great difference of the genius of the ancient and modern lan- 
 guages in this respect lias been thus illustrated by Prof. Barren, Lcct. III.: 
 
 "Suppose an English historian were to address his readers, in the introduc- 
 tion ot a work from which he expected high literary fame, in the following 
 style : ' All men who themselves wish to exceed the inferior animals, by ev- 
 ery effort to endeavor ought,' he would find himself disappointed ; as few read- 
 
 449. Rule for the distribution of discourse into different periods. Long and short period*
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 299 
 
 sion or inversion bestows upon a period a very sensible degree of 
 force and elevation ; and yet writers seem to be at a loss how to ac- 
 count for this effect. Cerceau ascribes so much power to inversion, 
 as to make it the characteristic of French verse, and the single cir- 
 cumstance which in that language distinguishes verse from prose : 
 and yet he pretends not to say, that it hath any other effect but to 
 raise surprise ; he must mean curiosity, which is done by suspend- 
 ing the thought during the period, and bringing it out entire at the 
 close. This indeed is one effect of inversion ; but neither its sole 
 effect, nor even that which is the most remarkable, as is made evi 
 dent above. But waiving censure, which is not an agreeable task, 1 
 enter into the matter ; and begin with observing, that if conformity 
 between words and their meaning be agreeable, it must of course be 
 agreeable to find the same order or arrangement in both. Hence 
 the beauty of a plain or natural style, where the order of the words 
 corresponds precisely to the order of the ideas. Nor is this the sin- 
 gle beauty of a natural style : it is also agreeable by its simplicity 
 and perspicuity. This observation throws light upon the subject 
 for if a natural style be in itself agreeable, a transposed style cannot 
 be so; and therefore its agreeableness must arise from admitting 
 some positive beauty that is excluded in a natural style. To be 
 confirmed in this opinion, we need but reflect upon some of the fore- 
 going rules, which make it evident, that language by means of in- 
 version, is susceptible of many beauties that are totally excluded in 
 a natural arrangement. From these premises it clearly follows, that 
 inversion ought not to be indulged, unless in order to reach some 
 beauty superior to those of a natural style. It may with great cer- 
 tainty be pronounced, that every inversion which is not governed by 
 this rule, will appear harsh and strained, and be disrelished by every 
 one of taste. Hence the beauty of inversion when happily conduct- 
 ed ; the beauty, not of an end, but of means, as furnishing opportu- 
 nity for numberless ornaments that find no place in a natural style : 
 hence the force, the elevation, the. harmony, the cadence, of some 
 compositions : hence the manifold beauties of the Greek and Roman 
 tongues, of which living languages afford but faint imitations. 
 
 ["If we attend to the history of our own language," says Prof. 
 Ban-on, " we may discover a strong disposition in some of our prose 
 
 rs, I believe, unless to indulge a little mirth, would be induced to proceed 
 further than the firat sentence ; vet a Roman historian could express these 
 ideas in that very arrangement with full energy and propriety : Omi 
 mines, qui sese student prsestare cseteris animaubus, summii op niti decct. 
 
 " Little less surprising and uncouth would be the following exordium on a 
 similar occasion : ^Whether I shah" execute a work of merit, if, from the b 
 ing of the city, the affairs of tho people of Rome I shall relate, neitl: 
 ciently know I, nor if I knew declare durst I.' The reader perhaps won 
 suspect such language to be a literal translation of tho first f 
 \nost finished historical production of antiquity, which runs thus in the 
 diction of Livy : ' Facturusne sum op^r8e pretium si a primordio urbm, rw po- 
 puli Romam perseripserim ; nee sntis scio, nee, si scirem, did
 
 300 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 writers, to accommodate its arrangement to that of the languages of 
 Greece and Rome. But, in executing the design, they disfigured 
 our language in every respect. They Latinized our words and oui 
 terminations. They introduce! inversions so violent, as to render 
 the sense often obscure, in some cases unintelligible ; and they ex- 
 tended their periods to a length which extinguished every spark of 
 patience in the reader. Hobbes, Clarendon, and even Milton in his 
 prose writings, afford numberless instances of this bad taste ; and it 
 is remarkable, that it prevailed chiefly during the latter part of the 
 seventeenth century. In the beginning of that century, and in the 
 end of the preceding one, during the reigns of Queen Elizabeth and 
 James I., the purity of the English language, and a correct taste in 
 writing it, were perhaps farther advanced, both in England and Scot- 
 land, than in the succeeding period. The works of Shakspeare 
 Hooker, Melvil, and the translation of the Bible, have scarcely beet 
 equalled for good style, by any productions of the seventeenth cen- 
 tury ; and, in point of grammatical correctness, have not yet been 
 often surpassed. The fanaticism and violence of the civil wars cor- 
 rupted the taste, and the imitation of Latin composition in theologi- 
 cal controversy, seems to have disfigured the language of England." 
 Lect. III.]* 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 Beauty of Language from a Resemblance between Sound and Sig- 
 nification. 
 
 451. A RESEMBLANCE between the sound of certain words and 
 their signification, is a beauty that has escaped no critical writer, 
 and yet is not handled with accuracy by any of them. They havo 
 probably been of opinion, that a beauty so obvious to the feeling 
 requires no explanation. This is an error ; and to avoid it, I shall 
 give examples of the various resemblances between sound and sig- 
 nification, accompanied with an endeavor to explain why such re- 
 semblances are beautiful. I begin with examples where the resem- 
 blance between the sound and signification is the most entire ; and 
 next examples where the resemblance is less and less so. 
 
 There being frequently a strong resemblance of one sound to an- 
 other, it will not be surprising to find an articulate sound resembling 
 
 _* [In connection with the above, may be read with great advantage, the first 
 of chap. xxii. on the Philosophy of Style.] 
 
 450. The order of words and members that may be called natural. Eule for choice be- 
 iwcen it and an artificial order. Transposition In the learned languages. Illustration 
 Whence the beauty of a natural style. Whence, then, the agrebleness of a transposed 
 style. When, only such a style should be used. Style of the latter part of the seventeenth 
 eontnry.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 301 
 
 one that is not articulate : thus the sound of a bowstring is imitated 
 by the words that express it : 
 
 The string let flv, 
 
 Twanged short and sharp, like the slirill swallow's cry. 
 
 Odyssey, xxi. 449. 
 
 The sound of felling trees in a wood : 
 
 Load sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes, 
 On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks 
 Headlong. Deep echoing groau the thickets brown, 
 Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down. 
 
 Iluid, xxiii. 144. 
 
 But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 
 "The lioarse rough verse should like the torrent roar. 
 
 Pope's Essay on Criticism, 869. 
 
 Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms, 
 
 And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms ; 
 
 When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves, 
 
 The rough rock roars ; tumultuous boil the waves. Pope. 
 
 No person can be at a loss about the cause of this beauty : it is 
 obviously that of imitation. 
 
 452. That there is any other natural resemblance of sound to sig- 
 nification, must not be taken for granted. There is no resemblance 
 of sound to motion, nor of sound to sentiment. We are however 
 apt to be deceived by artful pronunciation ; the same passage may 
 be pronounced in many different tones, elevated or humble, sweet 
 or harsh, brisk or melancholy, so as to accord with the thought or 
 sentiment ; such concord must be distinguished from that concord 
 between sound and sense, which is perceived in some expressions in- 
 dependent of artful pronunciation : the latter is the poet's work ; the 
 former must be attributed to the reader. Another thing contributes 
 still more to the deceit : in language, sound and sense being inti- 
 mately connected, the properties of the one are readily communica- 
 ted to the other ; for example, the quality of grandeur, of sweetness, 
 or of melancholy, though belonging to the thought solely, is trans- 
 ferred to the words, which by that means resemble in appearance 
 the thought that is expressed by them (see chap. ii. part i. sec. 5). 
 
 [" Wordsworth has not only presented the hues of nature to the 
 eye, but has also imitated her harmonics to the ear. Of this I witi 
 adduce an instance : 
 
 Astounded in tke mountain gap 
 By peals of thunder, clap on clap, 
 Ana many a terror-striking flash. 
 And somewhere, as it_ seem*, a crash 
 Among the rocks ; with weight of rain, 
 And sullen motions, long and slow, 
 That to a dreary distance go 
 Till breaking in upon the dying strain, 
 A rending o'er his head begins the fray again. Wagontr. 
 
 4M. Resemblances between sound and signification. Its beauty. Articular toua r 
 wtobling ore that is Dot so. The canst of tbis beauty.
 
 302 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 Surely the four lines marked by the italic character would alouo 
 be sufficient to decide the question, whether such a grace as imita- 
 tive harmony really exists. I own that it is difficult to determine 
 Uow much of the effect upon the mind depends upon the meaning 
 associated with the words; but let it be remembered, that words 
 desiguative of sound have naturally derived their birth from an at 
 tempt, in the infancy of language, actually to imitate the sounds 01 
 which they are symbolical. After God's own language the Hebrew 
 and the affluent Greek, there is probably no tongue so rich in 
 imitative harmonies as our own. Let any person with a true ear, 
 observe the difference between the two words moio and rain. The 
 hushing sound of the sibilant, in the first, followed by the soft liquid 
 and by the round full vowel, is not less indicative of the still descent 
 of snow, than the harsher liquid and vowel, in the second, are of the 
 falling shower. I fear that I shall be considered fanciful, yet I can- 
 not help remarking that the letter R, the sound of which, when 
 lengthened out, is so expressive of the murmur of streams and brooks, 
 is generally to be found in words relating to the element of water, 
 and in such combinations as, either single or reduplicated, suit pre- 
 cisely its different modifications. The words "long" and "slow" 
 are, if pronounced in a natural manner, actually of a longer time 
 than the words short and quick. There is a drag upon the nasal ^V 
 and O\ there is a protracted effect in the vowel followed by a 
 double vowel in the first two words, not to be found in the two last." 
 Prof. Wilson.] 
 
 -453. Resembling causes may produce effects that have no resem- 
 blance ; and causes that have no resemblance may produce resem- 
 bling effects. A magnificent building, for example, resembles not 
 in any degree an heroic action : and yet the emotions they produce, 
 are concordant, and bear a resemblance to each other. We are still 
 more sensible of this resemblance in a song, when the music is prop- 
 erly adapted to the sentiment : there is no resemblance between 
 thought and sound ; but there is the strongest resemblance between 
 the emotion raised by music tender and pathetic, and that raised by 
 the complaint of an unsuccessful lover. Applying this observation 
 to the present subject, it appears that, in some instances, the sound 
 even of a single word makes an impression resembling that which is 
 made by the thing it signifies : witness the word running, composed 
 of two short syllables ; and more remarkably the words rapidity, 
 impetuosity, 2)recipitation. Brutal manners produce in the specta- 
 tor an emotion not unlike what is produced by a harsh and rough 
 sound ; and hence the beauty of the figurative expression rugged 
 manners. Again, the word little, beir>g pronounced with a very 
 small aperture of the month, has a weak and faint sound, which 
 
 452. Concord betwen words and thought, sometimes due to pronunciation. Sound and 
 tense being connected, the properties of the one are "endily attributed to the other
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 303 
 
 makes an impression resembling that made by a diminutive object. 
 This resemblance of effect is still more remarkable where * number 
 of words are connected in a period : words pronounced in succession 
 make often a strong impression ; and when this impression happens 
 to accord with that made by the sense, we are sensible of a complex 
 emotion, peculiarly pleasant; one proceeding from the sentiment, 
 and one from the melody or sound of the words. But the chief 
 pleasure proceeds from having these two concordant emotions com- 
 bined in perfect harmony, and carried on in the mind to ;i full close 
 (see chap. ii. part iv.). Except in the single case where sound is 
 described, all the examples given by critics of sense being imitated 
 in sound, resolve into a resemblance of effects : emotions raised by 
 sound and signification may have a resemblance ; but sound itself 
 cannot have a resemblance to any thing but sound.* 
 ^454. Proceeding now to particulars, and beginning with those 
 cases where the emotions have the strongest resemblance, I observe, 
 first, That by a number of syllables in succession, an emotion is 
 sometimes raised extremely similar to that raised by successive mo- 
 tion ; which may be evident even to those who are defective in 
 taste, from the following" fact, that the term movement in all lan- 
 guages is equally applied to both. In this manner successive mo- 
 tion, such as walking, running, galloping, can be imitated by a suc- 
 cession of long or short syllables, or by a due mixture of both. For 
 example, slow motion may be justly imitated in a verse where long 
 syllables prevail ; especially when aided by a slow pronunciation : 
 
 llli inter sese magnd vi brachia tollunt. Georg. iv. 174. 
 On the other hand, swift motion is imitated by a succession of 
 short syllables : 
 
 Quadrur>edante putrem sonitu quatit ungula cnmpum. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Radit iter liquiduni, ccleres neque commovet alas. 
 
 Thirdly, A line composed of monosyllables, makes an impression, 
 by the frequency of its pauses, similar to what is made by laborious 
 interrupted motion : 
 
 With many a weary step and many a groan, 
 
 Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone. Odyuty, xi. <. 
 
 First march the heavy mules securely slow; 
 
 O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go. 
 
 Iliad, xxhi. 13d. 
 
 Fourthly, the impression made by rough sounds in succession, re- 
 sembles that made by rough or tumultuous motion : on the other 
 
 * [See an excellent chapter on the Poetry of Language in Mrs. HIU's " Po- 
 
 etry of Life."] 
 
 453. Resembling causes and their eflects.-Non-resembl1ng causes. E**n>plj = 
 ing and an heroic action produce concordant emotions. A fone, ami 
 Example: Keseinblonce of effects from words connoted in a period. I.ma 
 pies of sense imitated in sound.
 
 304 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 hand, the impression of smooth sounds resembles that of gentle mo- 
 tion. The following is an example of both : 
 
 Two craggy rocks projecting from the main. 
 
 The roaring wind's tempestuous rage restrain ; 
 
 Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide, 
 
 And ships secure without the halsers ride. Odyssey, iii. 118. 
 
 Another example of the latter : 
 
 Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, 
 
 And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows. 
 
 Essay on Orit. 366. 
 
 Fifthly, Prolonged motion is expressed in an Alexandrine line. 
 The first example shall be of slow motion prolonged : 
 
 A needless Alexandrine eiids the song ; 
 
 That like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 
 
 Ibid. 356. 
 The next example is of forcible motion prolonged : 
 
 The waves behind impel the waves before, 
 Wide-rolling, foaming high, and tumbling to the shore. 
 
 Iliad, xiii. 1004. 
 
 The last shall be of rapid motion prolonged : 
 
 Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, 
 
 Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. 
 
 Essay on Grit. 878. 
 
 Again, speaking of a rock torn from the brow of a mountain : 
 
 Still gath'ring force, it smokes, and urged amain, 
 Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain. 
 
 Iliad, xiii. 197. 
 
 Sixthly, A period consisting mostly of long syllables, that is, of 
 syllables pronounced slow, produceth an emotion resembling faintly 
 that which is produced by gravity and solemnity. Hence the beauty 
 of the following verse : 
 
 Olli sedato respondit corde Latinus. 
 It resembles equally an object that is insipid and uninteresting. 
 
 Tsedet quotidiauarum harum formarum. 
 
 Terence, Eunuchus, Act ii. Sc. 8. 
 
 Seventhly, A slow succession of ideas is a circumstance that be- 
 longs equally to settled melancholy, and to a period composed of 
 polysyllables pronounced slow ; and hence by similarity of emotions, 
 the latter is imitative of the former : 
 
 In those deep solitudes, and awful cells, 
 
 Where heavenly pensive Contemplation dwells, 
 
 And ever-musing Melancholy reigns. Pope, Elosia to AbeJard. 
 
 Eighthly, A long syllable made short, or a short syllable made 
 long, raises, by the difficulty of pronouncing contrary to custom, a 
 feeling similar to that of har-1 labor : 
 
 When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
 The line too labors, and the words move slow. 
 
 Essay on Orii. 870.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 30J 
 
 Ninthly, Harsh or rough words pronounced with difficulty, eiciU 
 a feeling similar to that which proceeds from the labor of thought 
 to a dull writer : 
 
 Just writes to make his barrenness appear, 
 
 Aud strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year. 
 
 Pope's Efistlt to Dr, ArbutJtnot, I. 181. 
 
 455. I shall close with one example more, which of all make* 
 the finest figure. In the first section mention is made of a climax 
 in sound ; and in the second, of a climax in sense. It belongs to 
 the present subject to observe that when these coincide in the same 
 passage, the concordance of sound and sense is delightful : the 
 reader is conscious not only of pleasure from the two climaxes sepa- 
 rately, but of an additional pleasure from their concordance, and from 
 finding the sense so justly imitated by the sound. In this respect 
 no periods are more perfect than those borrowed from Cicero in the 
 first section. 
 
 The concord between sense and sound is no less agreeable in what 
 may be termed an anticlimax, where the progress is from great to 
 little ; for this has the effect to make diminutive objects appear still 
 more diminutive. Horace affords a striking example : 
 
 Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus. 
 
 ^ The arrangement here is singularly artful : the first place is occu- 
 pied by the verb, which is the capital word by its sense as well as 
 sound ; the close is reserved for the word that is the meanest in 
 sense as well as in sound. And it must not be overlooked that the 
 resembling sounds of the two last syllables give a ludicrous air to 
 the whole. 
 
 I have had occasion to observe, that to complete the resemblance 
 between sound and sense, artful pronunciation contributes not a 
 little. Pronunciation, therefore, may be considered as a branch of 
 the present subject ; and with some observations upon it the section 
 shall be concluded. 
 
 In order to give a just idea of pronunciation, it must be distin- 
 guished from singing. The latter is carried on by notes, requiring 
 each of them a different aperture of the windpipe : the notes prop- 
 erly belonging to the former, are expressed by different apertures of 
 the mouth, without varying the aperture of the windpipe. This, 
 however, doth not hinder pronunciation to borrow from singing, as 
 o6e sometimes is naturally led to do in expressing a vehement 
 passion. 
 
 In reading, as in singing, there is a key-note : above this note the 
 voice is frequently elevated, to make the sound correspond to the 
 
 464. Emotions raised by n succession of syllables. Successive motion ImiUted. Slow 
 motion. Swift motion. Laborious interrupted motion. Bough or tumultuous tnotk 
 Prolonged motion. Gravity and solemnity. Melancholy. Feeling of hard labor. I 
 of thought imitated.
 
 306 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 elevation of the subject : but the mind in an elevated state is dis- 
 posed to action ; therefore, in order to a rest, it must be brought 
 down to the key-note. Hence the term cadence. 
 
 The only general rule that can be given for directing the pronun- 
 ciation is, To sound the words in such a manner as to imitate the 
 things they signify. In pronouncing words signifying what is ele- 
 vated, the voice ought to be raised above its ordinary tone ; and 
 words signifying dejection of mind, ought to be pronounced in a low 
 note. To imitate a stern <md impetuous passion, the words ought 
 to be pronounced rough and load ; a sweet and kindly passion, on the 
 contrary, ought to be imitated by a soft and melodious tone of voice. 
 In Dry den's ode of Alexander's feast, the line FaFn, faFn, faVn, 
 faFn, represents a gradual sinking of the mind ; and therefore is pro- 
 nounced with a falling voice by every one of taste, without instruc- 
 tion. In general, words that make the greatest figure ought to -be 
 marked with a peculiar emphasis. Another circumstance contributes 
 to the resemblance between sense and sound, which is slow or quick 
 pronunciation : for though the length or shortness of the syllables 
 with relation to each other, be in prose ascertained in some measure, 
 and in verse accurately ; yet, taking a whole line or period together, 
 it may be pronounced slow or fast A period, accordingly, ought to 
 be pronounced slow when it expresses what is solemn or deliberate ; 
 and ought to be pronounced quick when it expresses what is brisk, 
 lively, or impetuous. 
 
 In this chapter I have mentioned none of the beauties of language 
 but what arise from words taken in their proper sense. Beauties 
 that depend on the metaphorical and figurative power of words, are 
 reserved to be treated chapter xx. 
 
 [It seems desirable here to introduce some fine thoughts and il- 
 lustrations from Hazlitt, upon topics treated in this chapter. Ed. 
 
 456. Poetiy, in its matter and form, is natural imagery or feeling 
 combined with passion and fancy. In its mode of conveyance it 
 combines the ordinary use of language with musical expression. 
 There is a question of long standing in what the essence of poetry 
 consists ; or what it is that determines why one set of ideas should 
 be expressed in prose, another in verse. Milton has told us his idea 
 of poetry in a single line : 
 
 Thoughts that voluntary move 
 Harmonious numbers. 
 
 As there are certain sounds that excite certain movements, and 
 the song and dance go together, so there are, no doubt, certain 
 thoughts that lead to certain tones of voice, or modulations of sound, 
 and change " the words of Mercury into the songs of Apollo." 
 There is a striking instance of this adaptation of the movement of 
 
 455. Coincidence of climax of sound and of sense in a passage. Effect of anticlimax. 
 Pronunciation; distinguished from singing. General rule for pronunciation. Illustrations 
 How It contributes to a rp.-emlilaneo ht\voon sound and sense.
 
 liRAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 307 
 
 Hand aud rhythm to the subject, in Spends description of the 
 Satyrs accompanying Una to the cave of Sylvamw : 
 
 So from the ground she fearless doth arise 
 Arid wulketh forth without suspect of cr'ime. 
 
 They, all as glad as birds of joyous prime, 
 
 Thence lead her forth about the dancing round 
 
 Shouting and singing all a shepherd's rhyme 
 And with green branches strewing all the ground 
 
 Do worship her as aueen with olive garland crown'd' 
 
 Th.f 11 *l wn / tlici / men-y pipes they sound, 
 I hat all the woods and doubled echoes ring; 
 
 And with their horned feet do wear the ground 
 Leaping like wanton kids in pleasant spriiur 
 
 w* towards old Sylvnnus they her bring, 
 \\ ho with the noise awaked, cometh out? 
 
 Faery Queen, b. i. c. vu 
 
 On the contrary, there is nothing either musical or natural in the 
 ordinary construction of language. It is a thing altogether arbitrary 
 and conventional. Neither in the sounds themselves* which are the 
 voluntary signs of certain ideas, nor in their grammatical amuse- 
 ments in common speech, is there any principle of natural imitation 
 or correspondence to the individual ideas, or to the tone of feelin* 
 with which they are conveyed to others. The jerks, the breaks the 
 inequalities, and harshnesses of prose, are fatal to the How of a 
 poetical imagination, as a jolting road or stumbling horse disturbs the 
 reverie of an absent man. But poetry makes these odds all even 
 t is the music of language answering to the music of the mind 
 untying, as it were, " the secret soul of harmony." Wherever any 
 object takes such a hold of the mind, by which it seeks to prolong 
 and repeat the emotion, to bring all other objects into accord with 
 it, and to give the same movement of harmony, sustained and con- 
 tinuous, or gradually varied according to the occasion, to the sounds 
 that express it this is poetry. There is a deep connection between 
 music and deep-rooted passion. In ordinary speech we arrive at a 
 certain harmony by the modulations of the voice : in poetry the 
 same thing is done systematically by a regular collocation of syl- 
 lables. Lect. i.] 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 Versification. 
 
 457. THE music of verse, though handled by every grammarian, 
 merits more attention than it has been honored with. It is a sub- 
 ject intimately connected with human nature; and to explain it 
 thoroughly, several nice and delicate feelings must be employed. 
 But before entering upon it, we must see what verse is, or, in other . 
 
 456. Poetry In its matter and form. In its mode of conveyance. Milton dot of poetry 
 -ine ordinary construction of language. Illustration ofpoctrv.
 
 308 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 words, by what mark it is distinguished from prose ; a point not so 
 easy as may at first be apprehended. It is true, that the construc- 
 tion of verse is governed by precise rules ; whereas prose is more 
 loose, and scarce subjected to any rules. But are the many who 
 have no rules, left without means to make the distinction ? and even 
 with respect to the learned, must they apply the rule before they 
 can with certainty pronounce whether the composition be prose or 
 verse ? This will hardly be maintained ; and therefore instead of 
 rules, the ear must be appealed to as the proper judge. But by 
 what mark does the ear distinguish verse from prose ? The proper 
 and satisfactory answer is, That these make different impressions 
 upon every one who hath an ear. This advances us one step in 
 our inquiry. 
 
 [" Poetry," remarks Sir Joshua Reynolds, " addresses itself to the 
 same faculties and the same dispositions as painting, though by dif- 
 ferent means. The object of both is to accommodate itself to all the 
 natural propensities and inclinations of the mind. The very ex- 
 istence of poetry depends on the license it assumes of deviating from 
 actual nature, in order to gratify natural propensities by other means, 
 which are found by experience full as capable of affording such 
 gratification. It sets out with a language in the highest degree 
 artificial, a construction of measured words, such as never is, and 
 never was, used by man. Let this measure be what it may, whether 
 hexameter or any other metre used in Latin or Greek or rhyme, 
 or blank verse, varied with pauses and accents, in modem languages, 
 they are all equally removed from nature, and equally a violation 
 of common speech. When this artificial mode has been established 
 as the vehicle of sentiment, there is another principle in the human 
 mind to which the work must be referred, which still renders it 
 more artificial, carries it still further from common nature, and de- 
 viates only to render it more perfect. That principle is the sense of 
 congruity, coherence, and consistency, Avhich is a real existing prin- 
 ciple in man, and it must be gratified. Therefore, having once 
 adopted a style and a measure not found in common discourse, it is 
 required that the sentiments also should be in the same proportion 
 elevated above common nature, from the necessity of there being an 
 agreement of the parts among themselves, that one uniform whole 
 may be produced. 
 
 To correspond, therefore, with this general system of deviation 
 from nature, the manner in which poetry is offered to the ear, the 
 tone in which it is recited, should lo as far removed from the tone 
 of conversation, as the words of which that poetry is composed, &c. 
 Works, vol. ii. Discourse xiii.] 
 
 Taking it then for granted, that verse and prose make upon the 
 
 457 Verse as distinguished from prose. The ear discriminates. Ren arks of Sir Josbua 
 Reynolds. How a musical impression is produced by language. The names given to a 
 period producing such Impression.
 
 BEAUTY OK LANGUAGE. 309 
 
 eai differeul impressions, nothing remains but to explain this dif- 
 ference, and to assign its cause. To this end, I call to my aid an 
 observation made above upon the sound of words, that they are 
 more agreeable to the ear when composed of long and short syl- 
 lables, than when all the syllables are of the same sort : a continued 
 sound in the same tone, makes not a musical impression : the same 
 note successively renewed by intervals is more agreeable, but still 
 makes not a musical impression. To produce that impression, va- 
 riety is necessary as well as number : the successive sounds or syl- 
 lables must be some of them long, some of them short ; and if also 
 high and low, the music is the more perfect The musical impres- 
 sion made by a period consisting of long and short syllables arranged 
 in a certain order, is what the Greeks call rhythmux, the Latins nu- 
 merus, and we melody or measure. Cicero justly observes, that in 
 one continued sound there is no melody : " Numerus in continua- 
 tione nullus est." 
 
 ^58. It will probably occur, that melody, if it depend on long 
 and short syllables combined in a sentence, may be found in prose 
 as well as in verse ; considering especially, that in both, particular 
 words are accented or pronounced in a higher tone than the rest ; 
 and therefore that verse cannot be distinguished from prose by 
 melody merely. The observation is just; and it follows that the 
 distinction between them, since it depends not singly on melody, 
 must arise from the difference of the melody, which is precisely the 
 case ; though that difference cannot with' any accuracy be explained 
 in words ; all that can be said is, that verse is more musical than 
 prose, and its melody more perfect The difference between verse 
 ami prose resembles the difference in music, properly so called, be- 
 tween the song and the recitative; and the resemblance is not the 
 less complete, that these differences, like the shades of colors, ap- 
 proximate sovndimes so nearly as scarce to be discernible : the 
 melody of a recitative approaches sometimes to that of a song; 
 which, on the other hand, degenerates sometimes to that of a reci- 
 tative. Nothing is more distinguishable from prose, than the bulk 
 of Virgil's Hexameters : many of those composed by Horace are 
 very little removed from prose : Sapphic verse has a very sensible 
 melody : that, on the other hand, of an Iambic, is extremely faint* 
 
 This more perfect melody of articulate sounds, is what distinguish- 
 eth verse from prose. Vei-se is subjected to certain inflexible laws ; 
 the number ami variety of the component syllables being ascertained, 
 
 * Music, properly so colled, is analyzed into melody and harmony. A suc- 
 cession of sounds so as to be agreeable to the car constitutes melody*: harmony 
 arises from co-existing sounds. Vcrs>e therefore can only roach melody, and 
 not harmony. 
 
 458. Verse not to be distinguished from proae by the melody alone ; but from the differ- 
 ence of the melody. Compared to song and recitative. Verne, subjected to certain law* 
 Verse requires peculiar gej 'us. The use and office of prose. Note on Washington Irrln^'f 
 proso.
 
 310 BKAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 and 5u some measure the order of succession. Such restraint makes 
 it a matter of difficulty to compose in verse ; a difficulty that is not 
 to be surmounted but by a peculiar genius. Useful lessons con- 
 veyed to us in verse, are agreeable by the union of music with in- 
 struction : but are we for .that reason to reject knowledge offered in 
 a plainer dress ? That would be ridiculous ; for knowledge is of 
 intrinsic merit, independent of the means of acquisition ; and there 
 are many, not less capable than willing to instruct us, who have no 
 genius for verse. Hence the use of prose ; which, for the reason 
 now given, is not confined to precise rules. There belongs to it a 
 certain melody of an inferior kind, which ought to be the aim of 
 every writer ; but for succeeding in it, practice is necessary more 
 than genius. Nor do we rigidly insist for melodious prose : pro- 
 vided the work convey instruction, its chief end, we are little so- 
 licitous about its dress.* 
 
 459. Having ascertained the nature and limits of our subject, I 
 proceed to the laws by which it is regulated. These would be end- 
 less, were verse of all different kinds to be taken under consideration. 
 I propose therefore to confine the inquiry to Latin or Greek Hex- 
 ameter, and to French and English Heroic verse ; which perhaps 
 may carry me farther than the reader will choose to follow. The 
 observations I shall have occasion to make, will at any rate be suf- 
 ficient for a specimen ; and these, with proper variations, may easily 
 be transferred to the composition of other sorts of verse. 
 
 Before I enter upon particulars, it must be premised in general, that 
 
 * [Prose and Poetry: A writer in the N. A. Review, speaking of the style of 
 Washington Irving, remarks that " its attraction lies in the charm of finished 
 elegance, which it never loses. The most harmonious and poetical words are 
 carefully selected. Every period is measured and harmonized with nice pre- 
 cision. The length of the sentences is judiciously varied ; and the tout ensemble 
 produces on the car an effect very little, if at all inferior to that of the finest 
 versification. Indeed such prose, while it is from the nature of the topics sub- 
 stantially poetry, does not appear to us, when viewed merely as a form of lan- 
 guage, to differ essentially from verse. The distinction between verse and 
 prose evidently does not lie in rhyme, taking the word in its modern sense, or 
 in any particular species of rhythm, as it was understood by the ancients. 
 Rhyme, however pleasing to accustomed ears, is, we fear, but too evidently a 
 remnant of the false taste of a barbarous age ; and of rhythm there are a thou- 
 sand varieties in the poetry of every cultivated language, which agree in nothing 
 but that they are all harmonious arrangements of words. If then we mean by 
 -Jiythm or verse merely the form of poetry, and not any particular measure or 
 <et of measures to which we are accustomed, it seems to imply nothing but 
 Aucli a disposition of words and sentences as shall strike the ear with a regular 
 melodious flow : and elegant prose, like that of Mr. Irving for instance, conies 
 clearly within the definition. Nor are we quite sure that this delicate species 
 of rhythm ought to be regarded as inferior in beautj to the more artificial ones. 
 The latter, which are obvious, and, as it were, coarse methods of arrangement, 
 are perhaps natural to the ruder periods of language, and are absolutely neces- 
 sary in poems intended for music ; but for every othar purpose, it would seem 
 that the most perfect melody is that which is most completely unfettered, and 
 in which the traces of art are best concealed. There ia something more ex- 
 quisitely sweet in the natural strains of the JSolian harp, as they swell and fall 
 upon the ear, under the inspiration of a gentle breeze, on a fine moonlight 
 evening, than ia tha measured flow of any artificial uausic."J
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 311 
 
 to verse of every kind, five things are of importance. 1st, The num- 
 ber of syllables that compose a verse Hue. 2d, The different Icugtha 
 of syllables, i. e. the difference of time taken in pronouncing. 3d, 
 The arrangement of these syllables combined in words. 4th, The 
 pauses or stops in pronouncing. 5th, The pronouncing syllables in 
 a high or low tone. The three first mentioned are obviously essential 
 to verse : if any of them be wanting, there cannot be that higher 
 degree of melody which distingiiisheth verse from prose. To give a 
 just notion of the fourth, it must be observed, that pauses are neces- 
 sary for three different purposes : one to separate periods and mem- 
 bers of the same period, according to the sense ; another, to improve 
 the melody of verse ; and the last, to afford opportunity for drawing 
 breath in reading. A pause of the first kind is variable, being long 
 or short, frequent or less frequent, as the sense requires. A pause of 
 the second kind, being determined by the melody, is in no degree 
 arbitrary. The last sort is in a measure arbitrary, depending on the 
 reader's command of breath. But as one cannot read with grace, 
 unless, for drawing breath, opportunity be taken of a pause in the 
 sense or in the melody, this pause ought never to be distinguished 
 from the others ; and for that reason shall be laid aside. With 
 . respect then to the pauses of sense and of melody, it may be af- 
 firmed without hesitation, that their coincidence in verse is a capital 
 beauty; but as it cannot be expected, in a long work especially, that 
 every line should be so perfect, we shall afterwards have occasion to 
 see that the pause necessaiy for the sense must often, in some de- 
 gree, be sacrificed to the verse-pause, and the latter somttimes to 
 the former. 
 
 460. The pronouncing syllables in a high or low tone, contribute* 
 also to melody. In reading, whether verse or prose, a certain tone 
 is assumed, which may be called ike key-note ; and in that tone the 
 bulk of the words are sounded. Sometimes to humor the sense, and 
 sometimes the melody, a particular syllable is sounded in a higher 
 tone ; and this is termed accenting a syllable, or gracing it with an 
 accent. Opposed to the accent, is the cadence, which I have not 
 mentioned as one of the requisites of verse, because it is entirely 
 regulated by the sense, and hath no peculiar relation to verse. The 
 cadence is a falling of the voice below the key-note at the close of 
 every period ; and so little is it essential to verse, that in correct 
 reading the final syllable of every line is accented, that syllable only 
 excepted which closes the period, where the sense requires a cadence. 
 The reader may be satisfied of this by experiments ; and for that 
 purpose I recommend to him the Rape of the Lock, which, in point 
 of versification, is the most complete performance in the English 
 language. 
 
 Though the five requisites above mentioned enter the composition 
 
 459. Five things important to versa of every kind. Piu"*es have thr purpouB. POM* 
 of sense and melody, when coincident, arc boautiftJ.
 
 312 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 of every species of verse, they are however governed by different 
 rules, peculiar to each species. Upon quantity only, one general 
 observation may be premised, because it is applicable to every 
 species of verse, That syllables, with respect to the time taken in 
 pronouncing, are long or short ; two short syllables with respect to 
 time, being precisely equal to a long one. These two lengths are 
 essential to verse of all kinds ; and to no verse, as far as I know, is 
 a greater variety of time necessary in pronouncing syllables. The 
 voice indeed is frequently made to rest longer than usual upon a 
 word that bears an important signification; but this is done to 
 humor the sense, and is ndt necessary for melody. A thing not 
 more necessary for melody occurs with respect to accenting, similar 
 to that now mentioned : A word signifying any thing humble, low, 
 or dejected, is naturally in prose, as well as in verse, pronounced in 
 a tone below the key-note. 
 
 461. We are now sufficiently prepared for particulars: beginning 
 with Latin or Greek Hexameter, which are the same. What I have 
 to observe upon this species of verse, will come under the four fol- 
 lowing heads : number, arrangement, pause, and accent ; for as tc 
 quantity, what is observed above may suffice. 
 
 Hexameter lines, as to time, are all of the same length ; being 
 equivalent to the time taken in pronouncing twelve long syllables or 
 twenty-four short. An Hexameter line may consist of seventeen 
 syllables ; and when regular and not Spondiac, it never has fewer 
 than thirteen : whence it follows, that where the syllables are many, 
 the plurality must be short ; where few, the plurality must be long. 
 
 This line is susceptible of much variety as to the succession of 
 long and short syllables. It is however subjected to laws that con- 
 fine its variety within certain limits; and for ascertaining these 
 limits, grammarians have invented a rule by Dactyles and Spondees, 
 which they denominate feet. One at first view is led to think, that 
 these feet are also intended to regulate the pronunciation, which is 
 far from being the case ; for were one to pronounce according to 
 these feet, the melody of an Hexameter line would be destroyed, or 
 at best be much inferior to what it is when properly pronounced. 
 These feet must be confined to regulate the arrangement, for they 
 serve no other purpose. They are withal so artificial and complex, 
 that I am tempted to substitute in their stead other rules more 
 simple and of more easy application : for example, the following. 
 1st, The line must always commence with a long syllable, and close 
 with two long preceded by two short. 2d, More than two short can 
 never be found together, nor fewer than two. And 3d, Two long 
 syllables which have been preceded by two short, cannot also be 
 followed by two short. These few rules fulfil all the conditions d 
 
 460. The tones of pronunciation. Accent Cadence. Quantity. "When a low tone i 
 used.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 313 
 
 *n Hexameter line, with relation to order or arrangement To these 
 greater relish, as it regulates more affirmatively the construction of 
 every part. That I may put this rule into words with perspicuity, 
 I take a hint from the twelve long syllables that compose an Hex- 
 ameter line, to divide it into twelve equal parts or portions, being 
 each of them one long syllable or two short. A portion being thus 
 defined, I proceed to the rule. The 1st, 3d, 5th, 7tS, 9th, 1 1th, and 
 12th portions, must each of them be one long syllable ; the 10th 
 must always be two short syllables ; the 2d, 4th, 7th, and 8th, may 
 either be one long or two short. Or to express the thing still more 
 curtly, The 2d, 4th, 6th, and 8th portions may be one long syllable 
 or two short; the 10th must be two short syllables; all the rest 
 must consist each of one long syllable. This fulfils all the condi- 
 tions of an Hexameter line, and comprehends all the combinations 
 of Dactyles and Spondees that this line admits. 
 X 462. Next in order comes the pause. At the end of every Hex- 
 ameter line, every one must be sensible of a complete close, or full 
 pause ; the cause of which follows. The two long syllables pre- 
 ceded by two short, which always close an Hexameter line, are a 
 fine preparation for a pause : for long syllables, or syllables pro- 
 nounced slow, resembling a slow and languid motion, tending to rest, 
 naturally incline the mind to rest, or to pause ; and to this ingijna- 
 tion the two preceding short syllables contribute, which, by contrast, 
 make the slow pronunciation of the final syllables the more con- 
 spicuous. ^Besides this complete close or full pause at the end, others 
 are also requisite for the sake of melody, of which I discover two 
 clearly, and perhaps there may be more. The longest and most 
 remarkable, succeeds the 5th portion; the other, which being shorter 
 and more faint, may be called the semi-pause, succeeds the 8th por- 
 tion. So striking is the pause first mentioned, as to be distinguished 
 even by the rudest ear : the monkish rhymes are evidently built 
 upon it; in which by an invariable rule, the final word always 
 chimes with that which immediately precedes the said pause. 
 
 The difference of time in the pause and semi-pause, occasions 
 another difference no less remarkable, that it is lawful to divide a 
 word by a semi-pause, but never by a pause, the bad effect of which 
 is sensibly felt hi the following examples : 
 
 Effusus labor, atjque immitis rupta Tyrannl 
 
 Again: 
 
 *fc* Observans nido imlplnms detraxit ; 
 
 Again: 
 
 Loricam.quam De|moloo detraxerat ipee 
 
 arrangement. ' - 1 " " of V 1I *>l.-IHctyI and Sport**. 
 
 14
 
 314: BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 The dividing a word by a semi-pause has not the same bad effect : 
 
 Jamque pedem referens J casus ejvaserat omnes. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Qualis populea | mcerens Philo[mela sub umbra 
 
 Again : 
 
 Ludere quo vellem 1 calaino pcr|misit agresti. 
 
 Lines, however, where words are left entire, without being divided 
 even by a semi-pause, run by that means much the more sweetly : 
 
 Nee gemere aerea jj cessabit | turtnr ab ulmo. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Quadrupedante putrem 5 sonitu quatit | ungula campurn. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Eurydicen toto \ refcrcbant | fiumine ripse. 
 
 The reason of these observations will be evident upon the slightest 
 reflection. Between things so intimately connected in reading 
 aloud, as are sense and sound, every degree of discord is unpleasant : 
 and for that reason it is a matter of importance to make the musical 
 pauses coincide as much as possible with those of sense ; which is 
 requisite, more especially, with respect to the pause, a deviation 
 from the rule being less remarkable in a semi-pause. Considering 
 the matter as to melody solely, it is indifferent whether the pauses 
 be at the end of words or in the middle ; but when we carry the 
 sense along, it is disagreeable to find a word split into- two by a 
 pause, as if there were really two words : and though the disagreea- 
 bleness here be connected with the sense only, it is by an easy tran- 
 sition of perceptions transferred to the sound ; by which means we 
 conceive a line to be harsh and grating to the ear, when in reality 
 it is only so to the understanding.. (See chapter ii. part i. sec. 5.) 
 -+ 463. To the rule that fixes the pause after the fifth portion there 
 is one exception, and no more : If the syllable succeeding the 5th 
 portion be short, the pause is sometimes postponed to it 
 
 Pupillis quos dura | prcmit custodia matrum 
 
 Again: 
 
 In terras oppressa | gravi sub religiono 
 
 Again : 
 
 Et quorum pars magna J fui ; quis talia fando 
 
 This contributes to diversify the melody ; and where the words are 
 smooth and liquid, is not. ungracefol ; as in the following examples : 
 
 Formosam resonare I doces Amaryllida sylvas 
 Again: 
 
 Agrico!n, vjuiVtia insa | procul discordibus arinis 
 
 The reason for it.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 315 
 
 If this pause, placed as aforesaid after the short syllable, happen 
 also to divide a word, the melody by these circumstances is totally 
 annihilated. Witness the following line of Ennius, which is plain 
 prose : 
 
 Rom mceuia terrujit impiger | Hannibal annis 
 
 Hitherto the arrangement of the long and short syllables of an 
 Hexameter line and its different pauses, have been considered with 
 respect to melody ; but to have a just notion of Hexameter verse, 
 these particulars must also be considered with respect to sense. There 
 is not perhaps in any other sort of verse, such latitude in the long 
 and short syllables ; a circumstance that contributes greatly to that 
 richness of melody which is remarkable in Hexameter verse, and 
 which made Aristotle pronounce that an epic poem in any other 
 verse would not succeed. (Poet. cap. 25.) One defect, however, 
 must not be dissembled, that the same means which contribute to 
 the richness of the melody, render it less fit than several other sorts 
 for a narrative poem. There cannot be a more artful contrivance, 
 as above observed, than to close an Hexameter line with two long 
 syllables preceded by two short; but unhappily this construction 
 proves a great embarrassment to the sense. Virgil, the chief of poets 
 for versification, is forced often to end a line without any close in the 
 sense, and as often to close the sense during the running of a line ; 
 though a close in the melody during the movement of the thought, 
 or a close in the thought during the movement of the melody, can- 
 not be agreeable. 
 
 464. The accent, to which we proceed, is no less essential than 
 the other circumstances above handled. By a good ear it will be 
 discerned that in every line there is one syllable distinguishable 
 from the rest by a capital accent : that syllable, being the 7th por- 
 tion, is invariably long. 
 
 Nee bene promeritis | capittir nco | tangitur ira. 
 
 Again* 
 
 Non sibi sed to* \ genittim so | credere mumlo. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Qualw spelunca j subit6 com|mota columba. 
 
 In these examples the accent is laid upon the last syllable of a 
 word; which is favorable to the melody in the following reafcc^ 
 that the pause, which for the sake of reading distinctly must follow 
 every word, gives opportunity to prolong the accent. And for that 
 reason, a line thus accented has a more spirited air than when the 
 accent is placed on any other syllable. Compare the foregoing linea 
 with the following : 
 
 Alba neque Assyrio I fucAtur | Una veneno. 
 
 Again: 
 
 Panditur interea | domus Amnipc |tentis Olympl. 
 
 M& Exception to rute given tar p*u ttier th fl/Ui portluo.
 
 316 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Olli sedato I respondit | corde Latinus. 
 
 In lines where the pause comes after the short syllable succeeding 
 the fifth portion, the accent is displaced and rendered less sensible : 
 it seems to split into two, and to be laid partly on the 5th portion, 
 and partly on the 7th, its usual place ; as in 
 
 Nuda-genu nodoque j sinus coljlecta fluentes 
 Again : 
 
 Formosam ransonare { doc6s Amar|yllida sylvas 
 
 Besides this capital accent, slighter accents are laid upon other 
 portions ; particularly upon the 4th, unless where it consists of two 
 thort syllables ; upon the 9th, which is always a long syllable ; and 
 flpon the llth, where the line concludes with a monosyllable. Such 
 eonclusion, by the by, impairs the melody, and for that reason is not 
 to be indulged, unless where it is expressive of the sense. The fol- 
 /owing lines are marked with all the accents : 
 
 Ludere quaa vSllem calarao permisit agresti. 
 
 Et duraa qu6rcus sudabunt roscida mella. 
 A.gain : 
 
 Parturiunt m6ntes, nascfitur ridiculus mus. 
 
 465. Beflecting upon the melody of Hexameter verse, we find 
 that order or arrangement doth not constitute the whole of it ; for 
 when we compare different lines, equally regular as to the succession 
 of long and short syllables, the melody is found in very different de- 
 grees of perfection ; which is not occasioned by any particular com- 
 bination of Dactyles and Spondees, or of long and short syllables, 
 because we find lines where Dactyles prevail, and lines where 
 Spondees prevail, equally melodious. Of the former take the fol- 
 lowing instance : 
 
 JSncadum genetrix hominum divumque voluptas. 
 
 Of the latter : 
 
 Molli paulatim flavescet campus arista. 
 
 What can be more different as to melody than the two following 
 lines, which, however, as to the succession of long and short sylla- 
 bles, are constructed precisely in the same manner ? 
 
 Spend. Dact. Spend. Spond. Duct. Spond. 
 
 Ad talos stolit dimissa et circumdata palla. Hor. 
 
 Spond. Dact. Spond. Spond. Dact. Spond. 
 
 Placatumque nitet diffuse lumine ccelum. Lucr. 
 
 In the former, the pause falls in the middle of a word, which is a 
 great blemish, and the accent is disturbed by a harsh elision of the 
 
 464. The capital accnt The slighter accents,
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 317 
 
 vowel a upon the particle eL In the latter, the pauses and the ac- 
 cent are all of them distinct and full : there is no elision ; and the 
 words are more liquid and sounding. In these particulars consist* 
 the beauty of an Hexameter line with respect to melody : and by 
 neglecting these, many lines in the Satires and Epistles of Horace 
 are less agreeable than plain prose ; for they are neither the one nor 
 the other in perfection. To draw melody from these lines, they 
 must be pronounced without relation to the sense : it must not be 
 regarded that words are divided by pauses, nor that harsh elisions 
 are multiplied. To add to the account, prosaic low-sounding words 
 are introduced ; and, which is still worse, accents are laid on them. 
 Of such faulty lines take the following instances : 
 
 Candida rectaque sit, mutida hactenus sit nequo longa. 
 Jupiter exclamat simul akjue audirit ; at in so 
 Custodes, lectica, ciniflones, parasitoe 
 Optimus, est modulator, ut Alfenus Vafer omni 
 Nuno illud tantum quaeram, meritone tibi sit. 
 
 466. Next in order comes English Heroic verse, which shall be 
 examined under the whole five heads, of number, quantity, arrange- 
 ment, pause, and accent. This verse is of two kinds ; one named 
 rhyme or metre, and one blank verse. In the former the lines are 
 connected two and two by similarity of sound in the final syllables ; 
 and two lines so connected are termed a couplet : similarity of sound 
 being avoided in the latter, couplets are banished. These two sorts 
 must be handled separately, because there are many peculiarities in 
 each. Beginning with rhyme or metre, the first article shall be 
 discussed in a few words. Every line consists of ten syllables, five 
 short and five long ; from which there are but two exceptions, both 
 of them rare. The first is where each line of a couplet is made 
 eleven syllables, by an additional syllable at the end : 
 
 There heroes' wits are kept in pond'rous vases, 
 And beaus' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. 
 The piece, you think, is incorrect? Why, take it; 
 I'm all submission ; what you'd have it, make it. 
 
 This license is sufferable in a single couplet ; but if frequent would 
 give disgust. 
 
 The other exception concerns the second line of a couplet, which 
 is sometimes stretched out to twelve syllables, termed an Alexan- 
 drine line : 
 
 A needless Alexandrine ends the sonjr, 
 
 That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.. 
 
 It doth extremely well when employed to close a period with a cer- 
 tain pomp and solemnity, where the subject makes that tone proper. 
 
 r h ^^^ 
 
 number of syllables. Two exoepticr A
 
 318 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 467. With regard to quantity, it is unnecessary to mention a second 
 time, that the quantities employed in verse are but two, the one 
 double of the other ; that every syllable is reducible to one or other 
 of these standards; and that a syllable 'of the larger quantity is 
 termed long, and of the lesser quantity short. It belongs more to 
 the present article to examine what peculiarities there may be in the 
 English language as to long and short syllables. Every language 
 has syllables that may be pronounced long or short at pleasure ; but 
 the English above all abounds in syllables of that kind : in words 
 of three or more syllables, the quantity for the most part is invaria- 
 ble : the exceptions are more frequent in dissyllables ; but as to 
 monosyllables, they may, without many exceptions, be pronounced 
 either long or short ; nor is the ear hurt by a liberty that is rendered 
 familiar by custom. This shows that the melody of English verse 
 must depend less upon quantity than upon other circumstances : in 
 which it differs widely from Latin verse, where every syllable having 
 but one sound, strikes the ear uniformly with its' accustomed im- 
 pression ; and a reader must be delighted to find a number of such 
 syllables disposed so artfully as to be highly melodious. Syllables 
 vaiiable in quantity cannot possess this power ; for though custom 
 may render familiar both a long and a short pronunciation of the 
 sarno word, yet the mind, wavering between the two sounds, can- 
 not be so much affected as where every syllable has one fixed 
 sound. What I have further to say upon quantity, will come more 
 properly under the following head or arrangement. 
 
 468. And with respect to arrangement, which may be brought 
 within a narrow compass, the English Heroic line is commonly 
 Iambic, the first syllable short, the second long, and so on alter- 
 nately through the whole line. One exception there is, pretty fre- 
 quent, of lines commencing with a Trochseus, i. e., a long and a short 
 syllable ; but this affects not the order of the following syllables, 
 which go on alternately as usual, one short and one long. The fol- 
 lowing couplet affords an example of each kind : 
 
 Some In the fields of purest ether play, 
 and bask and whltSn In the blaze 5f day. 
 
 It is a great imperfection in English verse, that it excludes the 
 bulk of polysyllables, which are the most sounding words in our 
 language ; for very few of them have such alternation of long and 
 short syllables as to correspond to either of the arrangements men- 
 tioned. English verse accordingly is almost totally reduced to 
 dissyllables and monosyllables: magnanimity, is a sounding word 
 totally excluded : impetuosity is still a finer word, by the resem- 
 blance of the sound and sense ; and yet a negative is put upon it, 
 as well as upon numberless words of the same kind. Polysyllables 
 
 46T. Quantity. Peculiarities as to the pronunciation of long and short syllables. Melody 
 or English verse not dependent on quantity. Differs from Latin verse herein.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 319 
 
 composed of syllables long and short alternately, make a good 
 figure in verse : for example, observance, opponent, ostensive, pin- 
 daric, productive, prolific, and such others of three syllables. Imi- 
 tation, imperfection, misdemeanor, mitigation, moderation, observator, 
 ornamental, regulator, and others similar, of four syllables, beginning 
 with two short syllables, the third long, and the fourth short, may 
 find a place in a line commencing with a Trochaeus. I know not 
 if there be any of five syllables. One I know of six, viz^ misin- 
 terpretation: but words so composed are not frequent in our 
 language. 
 
 469.-4Qne would not imagine, without trial, how uncouth false 
 quantity appears in verse ; not less than a provincial tone or idiom. 
 The article the is one of the few monosyllables that is invariably 
 short : observe how harsh it makes a line where it must be pro- 
 nounced long : 
 
 This nymph t5 the destruction 6f mankind. 
 Again, 
 
 Th' advent'rous baron the bright locks admired. 
 
 Let it be pronounced short, and it reduces the melody almost to 
 nothing : better so however than false quantity. In the following 
 examples we perceive the same defect : 
 
 And old impertinence I expel by new 
 
 With varying vanities | from every part 
 
 Love in these labyrinths | his slaves detains 
 
 New stratagems j the radiant lock to gain 
 
 Her eyes half languishing) half drown' d in tears 
 
 Eoar'd from the handkerchief \ that caused his pain 
 
 Passions like elements j though born to fight. 
 
 The great variety of melody conspicuous in English verse, arises 
 chiefly from the pauses and accents ; which are of greater .impor- 
 tance than is commonly thought. There is a degree of intricacy in 
 this branch of our subject, and it will be difficult to give a distinct 
 view of it ; but it is too late to think of difficulties after we are en- 
 gaged. The pause, which paves the way to the accent, offers itself 
 first to our examination ; and from a very short trial, the following 
 facts will be verified. 1st, A line admits but one capital pause. 
 2d, In different lines, we find this pause after the fourth syllable, 
 after the fifth, after the sixth, and after the seventh. These fi 
 places of the pause lay a solid foundation for dindmff Lnglis 
 Heroic lines into four kinds ; and I warn the reader beforehand, th 
 unless he attend to this distinction, he cannot have any just noti< 
 of the richness and variety of English versification. Each kind < 
 order hath a melody peculiar to itself, readily distinguish 
 
 408. Arrangement; commonly Iambic. On* fpHon.~An lmp*rfo<*l<w in 
 Terpo with rosptct to polysyllable*.
 
 320 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 good ear ; and I am not without hopes to make the cause of this 
 peculiarity sufficiently evident. It must be observed, at the same 
 time, that the pause cannot be made indifferently at any of the 
 places mentioned ; it is the sense that regulates the pause, as will be 
 seen afterwards ; and consequently, it is the sense that determines 
 of what order every line must be : there can be but one capital 
 musical pause in a line ; and that pause ought to coincide, if possi- 
 ble, with a pause in the sense, in order that the sound may accord 
 with the sense. 
 
 What is said shall be illustrated by examples of each sort or 
 order. And first of the pause after the fourth syllable : 
 
 Back through the paths | of pleasing sense I ran. 
 Again, 
 
 Profuse of bliss f and pregnant with delight. 
 
 After the 5th : 
 
 So when an angel J by divine command, 
 With rising tempests 5 shakes a guilty land. 
 
 After the 6th : 
 
 Speed the soft intercourse 5 from soul to soul. 
 Again, 
 
 Then from his closing eyes J thy form shall part. 
 After the 7th : 
 
 And taught the doubtful battle ] where to rage. 
 Again, 
 
 And in the smooth description J murmur still. 
 
 470. Besides the capital pause now mentioned, inferior pauses 
 will be discovered by a nice ear. Of these there are commonly two 
 in each line : one before the capital pause, and one after it. The 
 former comes invariably after the first long syllable, whether the line 
 begin with a long syllable or a short. The other in its variety imi- 
 tates the capital pause : in some lines it comes after the 6th syllable, 
 in some after the 7th, and in some after the 8th. Of these semi- 
 pauses take the following examples : 
 
 1st and 8th : 
 
 Led | through a sad J variety | of woe. 
 1st and 7th : 
 
 Still | on thy breast 1 enamor'd | let me lie. 
 2d and 8th : 
 
 From storms ] a shelter J and from heat | a shade. 
 2d and 6th : 
 
 Let wealth | let honor | wait | the wedded dame. 
 
 469. False quantity uncouth. Variety of melody owing to pauses and accents. Hcnr 
 many capital pauses in a line ? Places of that pause ? How many kinds of English heroic 
 lines ? What regulates the place of the pause ? Examples.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 321 
 
 2d and 7th : 
 
 Above 1 all pain | all passion | and al pride. 
 
 Even from these few examples it appears, that the place of the 
 last semi-pause, like that of the full pause, is directed in a good 
 measure by the sense. Its proper place with respect to the melody 
 is after the eighth syllable, so as to finish the line with an Iambus 
 distinctly pronounced, which, by a long syllable after a short, is a 
 preparation for rest : sometimes it comes after the 6th, and some- 
 times after the 7th syllable, in order to avoid a pause in the middle 
 of a word, or between two words intimately connected ; and so far 
 melody is justly sacrificed to sense. 
 
 In discoursing of Hexameter verse, it was laid down as a rule, 
 That a full pause ought never to divide a word : such license devi- 
 ates too far from the coincidence that ought to be between the pauses 
 of sense and of melody. The same rule must obtain in an English 
 line ; and we shall support reason by experiments : 
 
 A noble superfluity it craves 
 Abhor, a perpejtuity should stand 
 
 Are these lines distinguishable from prose ? Scarcely, I think. 
 
 The same rule is not applicable to a semi-pause, which, being short 
 and faint> is not sensibly disagreeable when it divides a word : 
 
 Relent|less walls | whose darksome round contains 
 For her | white virgins [hymejneals sing 
 In these | deep solitudes J and aw|ful cells. 
 
 It must however be acknowledged, that the melody here suffers in 
 some degree : a word ought to be pronounced without any rest be- 
 tween its component syllables : a semi-pause that bends to this rule 
 is scarce perceived. 
 
 471. The capital pause is so essential to the melody, that one 
 cannot be too nice in the choice of its place, in order to have it cleai 
 and distinct. It cannot be in better company than with a pause in 
 the sense ; and if the sense require but a comma after the fourth, 
 fifth, sixth, or seventh syllable, it is sufficient for the musical pause. 
 But to make such coincidence essential, would cramp versification 
 too much ; and we have experience for our authority, that there may 
 be a pause in the melody where the sense requires none. We must 
 not however imagine, that a musical pause may conie after any 
 word indifferently : some words, like syllables of the same word, aro 
 so intimately connected, as not to bear a separation even by a pause. 
 The separating, for example, a substantive from its article, would be 
 harsh and unpleasant: witness the following line, which cannot be 
 pronounced with a pause as marked, 
 
 If Delia smile, the } flowers begin to spring; 
 
 470. Inferior pauses, their number. Bale tn regard to a fall JMUM. Exuupfafc 
 14*
 
 322 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 But ought to be pronounced in the following manner : 
 
 If Delia smile, | the flowers begin to spring. 
 
 If then it be not a matter of indifference where to make the pause, 
 there ought to be rules for determining what words may be separa- 
 ted by a pause, and what are incapable of separation. I shall en- 
 deavor to ascertain these rules ; not chiefly for their utility, but in 
 order to unfold some latent piinciples, that tend to regulate our taste 
 even where we are scarce sensible of them ; and to that end, the 
 method that appears the most promising, is to run over the verbal 
 relations, beginning with the most intimate. The first that presents 
 itself is that of adjective and substantive, being the relation of sub- 
 ject and quality, the most intimate of all ; and with respect to such 
 intimate companions, the question is, whether they can bear to be 
 separated by a pause. What occurs is, that a quality cannot exist 
 independent of a subject ; nor are they separate even in imagination, 
 because they make parts of the same idea : and for that reason, with 
 respect to melody as well as sense, it must be disagreeable to bestow 
 upon the adjective a sort of independent existence, by interjecting a 
 pause between it and its substantive. I cannot, therefore, approve 
 the following lines, nor any of the sort ; for to my taste they are 
 harsh and unpleasant : 
 
 Of thousand bright | inhabitants of air 
 
 The sprites of fiery | termagants inflame 
 
 The rest, his many-color' d J robe conceal'd 
 
 The same, his ancient j personage to deck 
 
 Even here, where frozen J Chastity retires 
 
 I sit, with sad | civility, I read 
 
 Back to my native j moderation slide 
 
 Or shall we ev'ry J decency confound 
 
 Time was, a sober | Englishman would knock 
 
 And place, on good J security, his gold 
 
 Taste, that eternal j wanderer, which flies 
 
 But ere the tenth j revolving day was run 
 
 First let the just [j equivalent be paid 
 
 Go, threat thy earth-born | myrmidons ; but here 
 
 Haste to the fierce I Achilles' tent, he cries 
 
 All but the ever-wakeful f eyes of Jove 
 
 Your own resistless { eloquence employ. 
 
 Considering this matter superficially, one might be apt to imagine 
 that it must be the same, whether the adjective go first, which is the 
 natural order, or the substantive, which is indulged by the laws of 
 inversion. But we soon discover this to be a mistake : color, for 
 example, cannot be conceived independent of the surface colored ; 
 but a tree may be conceived, as growing in a certain spot, as of a 
 certain kind, and as spreading its extended branches all around, 
 without ever thinking of its color. In a word, a subject may bfi 
 considered with some of its qualities independent of others : though
 
 BKADTV OF LANGUAGE. . 323 
 
 we cannot form an imago of any single quality independent of the 
 subject Thus, then, though an adjective named first tx inseparable 
 from the substantive, the proposition does not reciprocate : an image 
 can be formed of the substantive independent of the adjective ; and 
 for that reason, they may be separated by a pause, where the sub- 
 stantive takes the lead : 
 
 For thee the fates | severely kind ordain 
 
 And cursed with hearts | unknowing how to yield. 
 
 472. The verb and adverb are precisely in the same condition 
 with the substantive and adjective. An adverb which modifies the 
 action expressed by the verb, is not separable from the verb even in 
 imagination ; and therefore I must also give up the following lines : 
 
 And which it much j becomes you to forget 
 'Tis one thing madly | to disperse my store. 
 
 But an action may be conceived with some of its modifications, 
 leaving out others ; precisely as a subject may be conceived with 
 some of its qualities, leaving out others : and therefore, when by in- 
 version the verb is first introduced, it has no bad effect to interject 
 a pause between it and the adverb that follows. This may be done 
 at the close of a line, where the pause is at least as full as that is 
 which divides the line : 
 
 While yet he spoke, the prince advancing drew 
 Nigh to the lodge, &c. 
 / 
 
 473. The agent and its action come next, expressed in grammar 
 by the active substantive and its verb. Between these, placed in 
 their natural order, there is no difficulty of interjecting a pause : an 
 active being is not always in motion ; and therefore it is easily sep- 
 arable in idea from its action : when in a sentence the substantive 
 takes the lead, we know not that action is to follow ; and as rest 
 must precede the commencement of motion, this interval is a proper 
 opportunity for a pause. 
 
 But when by inversion the verb is placed first, is it lawful to sep- 
 arate it by a pause from the active substantive ? I answer, No ; be- 
 cause an action is not an idea separable from the agent, more than 
 a quality from the subject to which it belongs. Two lines of the 
 first rate for beauty, have always appeared to me exceptionable, 
 upon account of the pause thus interjected between the verb and the 
 consequent substantive ; and I have now discovered a reason to sup- 
 port my taste : 
 
 In these deep solitudes and awful cells, 
 
 Where heavenly pensive | Contemplation dwells, 
 
 And ever musing | Melancholy reigns. 
 
 4T1. Choice of place for the capital pause. Examples. Rulei for determining what 
 words may or may not be separated by a pause. Question respectinf a<JecT 
 stantire in their natural or inverted order. 
 
 4T2. Respecting a pam between T*rb and Mvrb.
 
 3&4 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 The point of the greatest delicacy regards the active verb and the 
 passive substantive placed in their natural order. The best poets 
 scruple not to separate by a pause an active verb from the thing 
 upon which it is exerted. Such pauses in a long work may be in- 
 dulged ; but taken singly, they certainly are not agreeable ; and I 
 appeal to the following examples : 
 
 The peer now spreads ] the glitt'ring forsex -wide 
 
 As ever sullied ] the fair face of light 
 
 Repair d to search J the gloomy cave of Spleen 
 
 Nothing, to make J Philosophy thy friend 
 
 Should chance to make 1 the well-dress'd rabble stare 
 
 Or cross to plunder 1 provinces, the main 
 
 These madmen ever hurt j the church or state 
 
 How shall we fill | a library with wit 
 
 What better teach \ a foreigner the tongue 
 
 Sure, I if spare 5 the minister, no rules 
 
 Of honor bind me, not to maul his tools. 
 
 On the other hand, when the passive substantive is by inversion 
 first named, there is no difficulty of interjecting a pause between it 
 and the verb, more than when the active substantive is first named. 
 The same reason holds in both, that though a verb cannot be sep- 
 arated in idea from the substantive which governs it, and scarcely 
 from the substantive it governs, yet a substantive may always be 
 conceived independent of the verb : when the passive substantive is 
 introduced before the verb, we know not that an action is to be 
 exerted upon it ; therefore we may rest till the action commen* es. 
 For the sake of illustration, take the following examples : 
 
 Shrines ! where their vigils ] pale-eyed virgins keep 
 Soon as thy letters ] trembling I unclose 
 No happier task J these faded eyes pursue. 
 
 474. What is said about the pause, leads to a general observation, 
 That the natural order of placing the active substantive and its 
 verb, is more friendly to a pause than the inverted order ; but that in 
 all the other connections, inversion affords a far better opportunity 
 for a pause. And hence one great advantage of blank verse over 
 rhyme ; its privilege of inversion giving it a much greater choice of 
 pauses lhan can be had in the natural order of arrangement 
 
 We now proceed to the slighter connections, which shall be dis- 
 cussed in one general article. Words connected by conjunctions and 
 prepositions admit freely a pause between them, which will be clear 
 from the following instances : 
 
 Assume what sexes [ and what shape they please 
 The light militia | of the lower sky 
 
 4T8. Panse between the agent and 1U action. Wi. en the verb Is placed first The active 
 rerb and Its objective substantiva.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 325 
 
 Connecting particles were invented to unite in a period two sub- 
 Btantives, signifying things occasionally united in the thought, but 
 which have no natural union : and between two things not only 
 separable in idea, but really distinct, the mind, for the sake of mel- 
 ody, cheerfully admits by a pause a momentary disjunction of their 
 occasional union. 
 
 475. One capital branch of the subject is still upon hand, to 
 which I am directed by what is just now said. It concerns those 
 parts of speech which singly represent no idea, and which become 
 not significant till they be joined to other words. I mean conjuno 
 tions, prepositions, articles, and such like accessories, passing under 
 the name of particles. Upon these the question occurs, Whether 
 they can be separated by a pause from the words that make them 
 significant ? whether, for example, in the following lines, the sep- 
 aration of the accessory preposition from the principal substantive be 
 according to rule ? 
 
 The goddess with I a discontented air 
 
 And heighten'd by \ the diamond's circling rays 
 
 When victims at | yon altar's foot we lay 
 
 So take it in | the very words of Creech 
 
 An ensign of | the delegates of Jove 
 
 To ages o'er J his native realm he reign'd 
 
 While angels with \ their silver wings o'erehade. 
 
 Or the separation of the conjunction from the word that is connected 
 by it with the antecedent word : 
 
 Talthybius and | Eurybates the good. 
 
 It will be obvious at the first glance, that the foregoing reasoning 
 upon objects naturally connected, is not applicable to words which 
 of themselves are mere ciphers; we must therefore have recourse 
 to some other principle by solving the present question. These par- 
 ticles out of their place are totally insignificant : to give them a 
 meaning, they must be joined to certain words ; and the necessity 
 of this junction, together with custom, forms an artificial connection 
 that has a strong influence upon the mind : it cannot bear even a 
 momentary separation, which destroys the sense, and is at the same 
 time contradictory to practice. Another circumstance tends still 
 more to make this separation disagreeable in lines of the first and 
 third order, that it bars the accent, which will be explained after- 
 wards in treating of the accent 
 
 476. Hitherto upon that pause only which divides the Hne. We 
 proceed to the pause that concludes the line ; and the question is, 
 Whether the same rules be applicable to both ? This must be an- 
 
 474 Advantage of blank verse over rhyme as to pauses. Word* connected by conjunc- 
 tions and prepositions. 
 4T5. Particles; whether separable by a pause from the wordi that to**.* tm j- 
 
 niflcant
 
 326 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 swered by making a distinction. In the first line of a couplet, the 
 concluding pause differs little, if at all, from the pause that divides 
 the line ; and for that reason the rules are applicable to both equally. 
 The concluding pause of the couplet is in a different condition ; it 
 resembles greatly the concluding pause in an Hexameter line. Both 
 of them, indeed, are so remarkable that they never can be graceful, 
 unless where they accompany a pause in the sense. Hence it 
 'bllows that a couplet ought always to be finished with some 
 lose in the sense ; if not a point, at least a comma. The truth is, 
 *.hat this rule is seldom transgressed. In Pope's works, I find very 
 . fow deviations from the rule. Take the following instances : 
 
 Nothing is foreign : parts relate to whole ; 
 One all-extending, all-preserving soul 
 Connects each being 
 
 Anotner : 
 
 To draw fresh colors from the vernal flow'rs, 
 To steal from rainbows ere they drop in show'rs 
 A brighter wash 
 
 4*i 7. I add, with respect to pauses in general, that supposing the 
 connection to be so slender as to admit a pause, it follows not that 
 a pause may in every such case be admitted. There is one rule 
 to which every other ought to bend, That the sense must never be 
 wounded or obscured by the music ; and upon that account I con- 
 demn the following lines : 
 
 Ulysses, first J in public cares, she found 
 And, 
 
 Who rising, high J th' imperial sceptro raised. 
 
 With respect to inversion, it appears, both from reason and ex- 
 periments, that many words which cannot bear a separation in their 
 natural order, admit a pause when inverted. And it may be added 
 that when two words or two members of a sentence, in their natural 
 order, can be separated by a pause, such separation can never be 
 amiss in an inverted order. An inverted period, which deviates 
 from the natural train of ideas, requires to be marked in some 
 measure even by pauses in the sense, that the parts may be distinctly 
 known. Take the following examples : 
 
 As with cold lips l'I kiss'd the sacred veil 
 With other beauties 1 charm my partial eyes 
 Full in ray view J set all the bright abode 
 With words like these J the troops Ulysses ruled 
 Back to th' assembly roll 1 the thronging train 
 Not for their grief | the Grecian host I blame. 
 
 476. The pause that concludes the line. Distinction to be made in the first and second 
 lines of a conplet. How a couplet should be finished. 
 
 477. One rule respecting pauses in general. Remarks as to words in the inverted orav*. 
 What un inverted period require
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 327 
 
 The same where the separation is made at the close of the first liue 
 of the couplet : 
 
 For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease 
 Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. 
 
 The pause is tolerable even at the close of the couplet, for the 
 reason just now suggested, that inverted members require some 
 slight pause in the sense : 
 
 'Twas where the plane-tree spreads its shades around : 
 The altars heaved ; and from the crumbling ground 
 A mighty dragon shot. 
 
 478. Abstracting at present from the peculiarity of melody arising 
 from the different pauses, it cannot fail to be observed in general, 
 that they introduce into our verse no slight degree of variety. A 
 number of uniform lines having all the same pause, are extremely 
 fatiguing ; which is remarkable in French versification. This im- 
 perfection will be discerned by a fine ear even in the shortest suc- 
 cession, and becomes intolerable in a long poem. Pope excels in 
 the variety of his melody ; which, if different kinds can be com- 
 pared, is indeed no less perfect than that of Virgil. 
 
 From what is last said, there ought to be one exception. Uni- 
 formity in the members of a thought demands equal uniformity in 
 the verbal members which express that thought. When therefore 
 resembling objects or things are expressed in a plurality of verse- 
 lines, these lines in their structure ought to be as uniform as possible ; 
 and the pauses in particular ought all of them to have the sama 
 place. Take the following examples : 
 
 By foreign hands 1 thy dying eyes were closed ; 
 By foreign hands j thy decent limbs composed ; 
 By foreign hands j thy humble grave adorn'd. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Bright as the sun f her eyes the gazers strike ; 
 And, like the sun, 8 they shine on all alike. 
 
 Speaking of Nature, or the God of Nature : 
 
 Warms in the sun J refreshes in the breeze, 
 Glows in the stars | and blossoms in the trees ; 
 Lives through all life | extends through all extent, 
 Spreads undivided j operates unspent. 
 
 479. Pauses will detain us longer than was foreseen : for the 
 subject is not yet exhausted. It is laid down above, that English 
 Heroic verse admits no more but four capital pauses ; and that the 
 capital pause of every line is determined by the sense to be after the 
 fourth, the fifth, the sixth, or the seventh syllable. That this doc- 
 trine holds true as far as melody alone is concerned, will bo testified 
 
 478. Advantages to verse of the different pauses.-Fnlt of F ^ nch . T 
 what Pope nd Virgil excel. Uniformity in the merobw of thought
 
 328 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 by every good ear. At the same time, I admit, that this rule may 
 be varied where the sense or expression requires a variation, and 
 that so far the melody may justly be sacrificed. Examples ac- 
 cordingly are not unfrequent, in Milton especially, of the capita] 
 pause being after the first, the second, or the third syllable. And 
 that this license may be taken, even gracefully, when it adds vigor 
 to the expression, will be clear from the following example. Pope, 
 in his translation of Homer, describes a rock broke off from a moun- 
 tain, and hurling to the plain, in the following words : 
 
 From steep to steep the rolling ruin bounds ; 
 At every shock the crackling wood resounds ; 
 Still gathering force, it smokes ; and urged amain, 
 Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain : 
 There stops. I So Hector. Their whole force he proved, 
 Resistless when he raged ; and when he stopp'd, unmoved. 
 
 In the penult line, the proper place of the musical pause is at the 
 end of the fifth syllable ; but it enlivens the expression by its coin- 
 cidence with that of the sense at the end of the second syllable : the 
 stopping short of the usual pause in the melody, aids the impression 
 that is made by the description of the stone's stopping short ; and 
 what is lost to the melody by this artifice, is more than compensated 
 by the force that is added to the description. Milton makes a 
 happy use of this license : witness the following examples from his 
 Paradise Lost : 
 
 -Thus with the year 
 
 Seasons return, but not to me returns 
 
 Day 1 or the sweet approach of even or morn. 
 
 Celestial voices to the midnight air 
 Sole | or responsive each to other's note. 
 
 And over them triumphant Death his dart 
 Shook j but delay'd to strike. 
 
 And wild uproar 
 
 Stood ruled { stood vast infinitude confined. 
 
 And hard'ning in his strength 
 
 Glories 1 for never since created man 
 Met such embodied force. 
 
 From his slack hand the garland wreath'd for Eve 
 Down dropp'd J and all the faded roses shed. 
 
 Of unessential night, receives him next, 
 Wide gaping | an <l .with utter loss of being, 
 Threatens him, &c. 
 
 Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 
 
 Torments him J round he throws his baleful eyes, &c. 
 
 If we consider the foregoing passages with respect to melody 
 singly, the pauses are undoubtedly out of their proper place ; but 
 
 479. Rulo for location of pauses may be varied when the sense or expression n>qulr*i 
 variation. Examples.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 329 
 
 being united with those of the sense, they enforce the expression, 
 and enliven it greatly ; for, as has been more than once observed, 
 the beauty of expression is communicated to the sound, which by a 
 natural deception, makes even the melody appear more perfect than 
 if the musical pauses were regular. 
 
 480. To explain the rules of accenting, two general observations 
 must be premised. The first is, That accents have a double effect : 
 they contribute to the melody, by giving it air and spirit : they 
 contribute no less to the sense, by distinguishing important words 
 from others.* These two effects never can be separated, without 
 impairing the concord that ought to subsist between the thought 
 and the melody : an accent, for example, placed on a low word, has 
 the effect to burlesque it, by giving it an unnatural elevation ; and 
 the injury thus done to the sense does not rest there, for it seems 
 also to injure the melody. Let us only reflect what a ridiculous 
 figure a particle must make with an accent or emphasis upon it. 
 particle that of itself has no meaning, and that serves only, lik 
 cement, to unite words significant. The other general observatiot. 
 is, That a word of whatever number of syllables, is not accented 
 upon more than one of them. The reason is, that the object is set 
 in its best light by a single accent, so as to make more than one 
 unnecessary for the sense ; and if another be added, it must be for 
 the sound merely ; which would be a transgression of the foregoing 
 rule, by separating a musical accent from that which is requisite for 
 the sense. 
 
 481. Keeping in view the foregoing observations, the doctrine of 
 accenting English Heroic verse is extremely simple. In the first 
 place, accenting is confined to the long syllables ; for a short sylla- 
 ble is not capable of an accent In the next place, as the melody 
 is enriched in proportion to the number of accents, every word thai 
 has a long syllable may be accented : unless the sense interpose, 
 which rejects the accenting a word that makes no figure by its sig- 
 nification. According to this rule, a line may admit five accents, 
 a case by no means rare. 
 
 But supposing every long syllable to be accented, there is, in ev- 
 ery line, one accent that makes a greater figure than the rest, being 
 that which precedes the capital pause. It is distinguished into two 
 kinds ; one that is immediately before the pause, and one that is di- 
 vided from the pause by a short syllable. The former belongs to 
 lines of the first and third order ; the latter to those of the second 
 and fourth. Examples of the first kind : 
 
 Smooth,flow the wftves | the zephyrs gently ply, 
 Belinda smiled | and all the world was gay. 
 
 * An accent considered with respect to sense U termed empTuuit. 
 
 480. Double effects of accent Should not be separated. Th number of accent*! q\- 
 libles in a word.
 
 580 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 He raised his azure wand | and thus begun. 
 Examples of the other kind : 
 
 There lay three garters f half a pair of gloves, 
 And all the trophies I of his former loves. 
 
 Our humble province ] is to tend the fair, 
 Not a less pleasing j though less glorious care. 
 
 And hew triumphant arches J to the ground. 
 
 These accents make different impressions on the mind, which will 
 be the subject of a following speculation. In the mean time, it may 
 be safely pronounced a capital defect in the composition of verse, to 
 put a low word, incapable of an accent, in the place where this ac- 
 cent should be : this bars the accent altogether ; than which I know 
 no fault more subversive of the melody, if it be not the barring of a 
 pause altogether. I may add affirmatively, that no single circum- 
 stance contributes more to the energy of verse, than to put an im- 
 portant word where the accent should be, a Avord that merits a pe- 
 culiar emphasis. To show the bad effect of excluding the capital 
 accent, I refer the reader to some instances given above (page 325), 
 where particles are separated by a pause from the capital words that 
 make them significant ; and which particles ought, for the sake of 
 melody, to be accented, were they capable of an accent. Add to 
 these the following instances from the Essay on Criticism : 
 
 Of leaving what | is natural and fit line 448. 
 
 Not yet purged off, 8 of spleen and sour disdained 1. 528. 
 
 No pardon vile [ obscenity should find 1. 531. 
 
 When love was all \ an easy monarch's care I. 537. 
 
 For 'tis but half J a judge's task to know 3. 562. 
 
 'Tis not enough, | taste, judgment, learning, join 1. 563. 
 
 That only makes | superior sense beloved 1. 578. 
 
 Whose right it is, J uncensurcd, to be dull 1. 590. 
 
 'Tis best, sometimes, j your censure to restrain. 1. 597. 
 
 When this fault is at the end of a line that closes a couplet, it 
 leaves not the slightest trace of melody : 
 
 But of this frame, the bearings and the ties, 
 The strong connections, nice dependencies. 
 
 In a line expressive of what is humble or dejected, it improves 
 the resemblance between the sound and sense to exclude the capital 
 accent. This, to my taste, is a beauty in the following lines : 
 
 In th6se deep s61itudes J and awful cells 
 The poor inhabitant j beholds in vain. 
 
 To conclude this article, the accents are not, like the syllables, 
 confined to a certain number : some lines have no fewer than five, 
 and there are lines that admit not above one. This variety, as we 
 have seen, depends entirely on the different powers of the component 
 words : particles, even where they are long by position, cannot be 
 accented; and polysyllables, whatever space they occnpy, admit but
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 331 
 
 one accent Polysyllables have another defect, that they generally 
 exclude the full pause. It is shown above, that few pdysyllabli 
 can find place m the construction of English verse: and "here are 
 reasons for excluding them, could they find place. 
 
 482. After what is said, will it be thought refining too much to 
 suggest, that the different orders (Art. 470) arc qualified for dif- 
 ferent purposes, and that a poet of genius will naturally be led to 
 make a choice accordingly ? I cannot think this altogether chimeri- 
 cal. As it appears to me, the first order is proper for a sentiment 
 that is bold, lively, or impetuous ; the third order is proper for what 
 is grave, solemn, or lofty ; the second for what is tender, delicate, 
 or melancholy, and in general for all the sympathetic emotions; 
 and the last for subjects of the same kind, when tempered with any 
 degree of solemnity. I do not contend, that any one order is fitted 
 for no other task than that assigned it ; for at that rate, no sort of 
 melody would be left for accompanying thoughts that have nothing 
 peculiar in them. I only venture to suggest, and I do it with diffi- 
 dence, that each of the orders is peculiarly adapted to certain sub- 
 jects, and better qualified than the others for expressing them. The 
 best way to judge is by experiment ; and to avoid the imputation 
 of a partial search, I shall confine my instances to a single poem, 
 beginning with the 
 
 First order. 
 
 On her white breast, a sparkling cross she wore, 
 
 Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. 
 
 Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, 
 
 Quick as her eyes, arid as unfix'd as those : 
 
 Favors to none, to all she smiles extends; 
 
 Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
 
 Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, . 
 
 And like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
 
 Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, 
 
 Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide; 
 
 If to her share some female errors fall, 
 
 Look on her face and you'll forget them all. Rap* of the Loci: 
 
 In accounting for the remarkable liveliness of this passage, it will 
 be acknowledged by every one who has an ear, that the melody 
 must come in for a share. The lines, all of them, are of the first 
 order ; a very unusual circumstance in the author of this poem, so 
 eminent for variety in his versification. Who can doubt, that he 
 has been led by delicacy of taste to employ the first order prefer- 
 ably to the others ? 
 
 Second order. 
 
 Our humble province is to tend the fair, 
 Not a less pleasing, though less glorious car ; 
 
 431. The doctrine of accenting English heroic verse. The nntnber of accent* line may 
 admit, and on what syllables. The accent that makes the greatest fl^uro. Two kinds of 
 this accent Examples. A capital defect in the composition of vnc. What (rive* tottff 
 to verse. Cad effect of excluding the capital accent One exoeption.--Aents allowiM* 
 in a line.
 
 332 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 To save the powder from too rude a gale, 
 
 Nor let th' iinprison'd essences exhale ; 
 
 To draw fresh colors from the vernal flowers: 
 
 To steal from rainbows, ere they drop their showers, <Sc. 
 
 Oh, thoughtless mortals ! ever blind to fate, 
 Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. 
 Sudden, these honors shall be snatch'd away, 
 And cursed forever this victorious day. 
 
 Third order. 
 
 To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note, _ 
 We trust th' important charge, the petticoat. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Oh say what stranger cause y_et unexplored, 
 Could make a gentle belle reject a lord ! 
 
 A plurality of lines of the fourth order, would not have a good 
 effect in succession; because, by a remarkable tendency to rest, their 
 proper office is to close a period. The reader, therefore, must be 
 satisfied with instances where this order is mixed with others. 
 
 Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are cast, 
 When husbands, or when lapdogs, breathe their last. 
 
 Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, 
 And hew triumphal arches to the ground. 
 
 She sees, and trembles at th 1 approaching ill, 
 Just iu the jaws of ruin, and codille. 
 
 With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, 
 He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case. 
 
 And this suggests another experiment, which is, to set the differ- 
 ent orders mot directly in opposition, by giving examples where 
 they are mixed in the same passage. 
 First and second orders. 
 
 Sol through white curtains shot a tim'rons ray, 
 And ope'cl those eyes that must eclipse the day. 
 
 ^ W Not youthful kings in battle seized alive, 
 
 Not scornful virgins who their charms survive. 
 Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss, 
 Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss, 
 Not tyrants fierce that unrepentmg die, 
 Not Cvnthia when her mantua's pinn d awry, 
 E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, 
 As thou, sad virgin ! for thy ravish'd hair. 
 
 First and third. 
 
 Think what an equipage thou hast in air, _ 
 And view with scorn two pages and a cli 
 
 Ag!UJ1 '' Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around 
 Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound 
 Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives way, 
 And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day .
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 333 
 
 Second and third. 
 
 Sunk in Thalestris' arms, the nymph he found, 
 Her eyes dejected, and her hair'unbound. 
 Again: 
 
 On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head 
 Which, with a sigh she raised ; and thus ahe said. 
 
 Musing on the foregoing subject, I begin to doubt whether all 
 this while I have been in a reverie, and whether the scene before 
 me, full of objects new and singular, be not mere fairy-land. Is 
 there any truth in the appearance, or is it wholly a work of imagi- 
 nation ? We cannot doubt of its reality, and we may with assur- 
 ance pronounce that great is the merit of English Heroic verse ; for 
 though uniformity prevails in the arrangement, in the equality of 
 the lines, and in the resemblance of the final sounds, variety is still 
 more conspicuous in the pauses and in the accents, which are diversi- 
 fied in a surprising manner. Of the beauty that results from a due 
 mixture of uniformity and variety (see chapter ix.), many instances 
 have already occurred, but none more illustrious than English versi- 
 fication ; however rude it may be in the simplicity of its arrange- 
 ment, it is highly melodious by its pauses and accents, so as already 
 to rival the most perfect species known in Greece or Rome ; and 
 it is no disagreeable prospect to find it susceptible of still greater 
 refinement. 
 
 483. We proceed to blank verse, which has so many circum- 
 stances in common with rhyme, that its peculiarities may be brought 
 within a narrow compass. With respect to form, it differs from 
 rhyme in rejecting the jingle of similar sounds, which purifies it 
 from a childish pleasure. But this improvement is a trifle compared 
 with what follows. Our verse is extremely cramped by rhyme ; and 
 the peculiar advantage of blank verse is, that it is at liberty to at- 
 tend the imagination in its boldest flights. Rhyme necessarily 
 divides verse into couplets ; each couplet makes a complete musical 
 period, the parts of which are divided by pauses, and the whole 
 summed up by a full close at the end : the melody begins anew with 
 the next couplet, and in this manner a composition in rhyme pro- 
 ceeds couplet after couplet. I have often had occasion to mention 
 the correspondence and concord that ought to subsist between sound 
 and sense ; from which it is a plain inference, that if a couplet be a 
 complete period with regard to melody, it ought regularly to be the 
 same with regard to sense. As it is extremely difficult to support 
 such strictness of composition, licenses are indulged, as. explained 
 above ; which, however, must be used with discretion, so as to pre- 
 serve some degree of concord between the sense and the music: 
 there ought never to be a full close in the sense, but at the end of a 
 couplet ; and there ought always to be some pause in the sense at the 
 
 482. To what sentiments the various orders of English rent are adapted. E*mni|l> 
 The uniformity and the variety of English vers* The beiiuy of du mliture of UM*
 
 334 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 end of every couplet : the same period as to sense may be extended 
 through several couplets ; but each couplet ought to contain a dis- 
 tinct member, distinguished by a pause in the sense as well as in the 
 sound ; and the whole ought to be closed with a complete cadence.* 
 Rules such as these, must confine rhyme within very narrow bounds : 
 a thought of any extent cannot be reduced within its compass : the 
 sense must be curtailed and broken into parts, to make it square 
 with the curtness of the melody ; and besides, short periods afford 
 no latitude for inversion. 
 
 484. I have examined this point with the stricter accuracy, in 
 order to give a just notion of blank verse, and to show that a slight 
 difference in form may produce a great difference in substance. 
 Blank verse has the same pauses and accents with rhyme, and a 
 pause at the end of every line, like what concludes the first line of 
 a couplet. In a word, the rules of melody in blank verse are the 
 same that obtain with respect to the first line of a couplet ; but being 
 disengaged from rhyme, or from couplets, there is access to make 
 eveiy line run into another, precisely as to make the first line of a 
 couplet run into the second. There must be a musical pause at the 
 end of every line ; but this pause is so slight as not to require a 
 pause in the sense ; and accordingly the sense may be carried on with 
 or without pauses, till a period of the utmost extent be completed by 
 a full close both in the sense and the sound : there is no restraint, 
 other than that this full close be at the end of a line ; and this re- 
 straint is necessary in order to preserve a coincidence between sense 
 and sound, which ought to be aimed at in general, and is indispen- 
 sable in the case of a full close, because it has a striking effect. 
 Hence the fitness of blank verse for inversion, and consequent! v the 
 lustre of its pauses and accents ; for which, as observed above, there 
 is greater scope in inversion than when words run in their natural 
 order. 
 
 In the second section of this chapter it is shown that nothing con- 
 tributes more than inversion to the force and elevation of language ; 
 the couplets of rhyme confine inversion within narrow limits ; nor 
 would the elevation of inversion, were there access for it in rhyme, 
 readily accord with the humbler tone of that sort of verse. It is uni- 
 versally agreed that the loftiness of Milton's style supports admirably 
 the sublimity of his subject ; and it is not less certain that the lofti- 
 ness of his style arises chiefly from inversion. Shakspeare deals little 
 
 * This rule is quite neglected in French versification. Even Boileau makes 
 no difficulty to close one subject with the first line of a couplet, and to begin a 
 new subject with the second. Such license, however sanctified by practice, is 
 unpleasant by the discordance between the pauses of the sense and of the 
 melody. 
 
 j|*j How blank verse differs from rhyme, and surpasses It 
 
 484 -,Th rutes of melod 7 to blank verse. Fitucse for inversion. Milton and Soak- 
 ipM' etyla.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 335 
 
 in inversion ; but his blank verse being a sort of measured prose, is 
 perfectly well adapted to the stage, where labored inversion is highly 
 improper, because in dialogue it never can be natural. 
 
 485. Hitherto I have considered that superior power of expression 
 which verse acquires by laying aside rhyme. But this is not the 
 only ground for preferring blank verse : it has another preferable 
 quality not less signal, and that is a more extensive and more com- 
 plete melody. Its music is not, like that of rhyme, confined to a 
 single couplet ; but takes in a great compass, so as in some measure 
 to rival music properly so called. The interval between its cadences 
 may be long or short at pleasure ; and, by that means, its meMv, 
 with respect both to richness and variety, is superior far to that of 
 rhyme, and superior even to that of the Greek and Latin Hexameter. 
 Of this observation no person can doubt who is acquainted with the 
 Paradise Lost; in which work there are indeed many careless 
 lines, but at every turn the richest melody as well as the sublimcst 
 sentiments are conspicuous. Take the following specimen : 
 
 Now Morn her rosy steps in th' eastern clime 
 Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl ; 
 When Adam waked, so custom'd, for his sleep 
 Was ae"ry light, from pure digestion bred 
 And temp'ratc vapors bland, which th' only sound 
 Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan, 
 ,. . Lightly dispersed, and the shrill matin song 
 
 Of birds on every bough ; so much the more 
 His wonder was to find unwaken'd Eve, 
 With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek, 
 As through unquiet rest ; he on his side 
 Leaning half-raised, with looks of cordial love 
 Hung over her enamor'd, and beheld 
 Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, 
 Shot lorth peculiar graces ; then with voice 
 Mild, as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes, 
 Her hand soft touching, whisper'd thus : Awak, 
 My fairest, my espoused, my latest found, 
 Heaven's last best gift, my ever-new delight, 
 Awake ; the morning shines, and the fresh field 
 Calls us : wo lose the prime, to mark how spring 
 Our tended plants, how blows the citron grove, 
 What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed, 
 How nature paints her colors, and how the'bce 
 Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet. Book V. 1. 1. 
 
 Comparing Latin Hexameter with English Heroic rhyme, the for- 
 mer has obviously the advantage in the following particulars. It 
 is greatly preferable as to arrangement, by the latitude it admits in 
 placing the long and short syllables. Secondly, the length of an 
 Hexameter line hath a majestic air : ours, by its shortness, is indeed 
 more brisk and lively, but much less fitted for the sublime. And, 
 thirdly, the long high-sounding words that Hexameter admits, add 
 rhyme poss'e-sses- a : mte&,, Vi r rix.^ojnpensate these advantages, Englwh 
 and of accents. Th>se two sorts of ve* e stand indeed pretty-mucTS 
 ui opposition : in Hexameter, great variety of aiTangenient, not* io
 
 336 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 She pauses nor accents; in English rhyme, great variety in the 
 pauses and accents, very little in the arrangement. 
 
 486. In blank verse are united, in a good measure, the several 
 properties of Latin Hexameter and English rhyme ; and it possesses 
 besides many signal properties of its own. It is not confined, like 
 Hexameter, by a full close at the end of every line ; nor, like rhyme, 
 by a full close at the end of every couplet. Its construction, which 
 admits the lines to run into each other, gives it a still greater ma- 
 jesty than arises from the length of an Hexameter line. By the 
 same means it admits inversion even beyond the Latin or Greek 
 Hexameter ; for these suffer some confinement by the regular closes 
 at the end of every line. In its music it is illustrious above all : the 
 melody of Hexameter verse is circumscribed to a line ; and of Eng- 
 lish rhyme to a couplet : the melody of blank verse is under no con- 
 finement, but enjoys the utmost privilege of which melody of verse 
 is susceptible, which is to run hand in hand with the sense. In a 
 word, blank verse is superior to Hexameter in many articles, and 
 inferior to it in none, save in the freedom of arrangement, and in the 
 use of long words. 
 
 48Y. In French Heroic verse, there are found, on the contraiy, all 
 the detects of Latin Hexameter and the English rhyme, without the 
 beauties of either : subjected to the bondage of rhyme, and to the 
 full close at the end of every couplet, it is also extremely fatiguing 
 by uniformity in its pauses and accents : the line invariably is divi- 
 ded by the pause into two equal parts, and the accent is invariably 
 placed before the pause : 
 
 Jeune et vaillant herds J dont la haute sagesse 
 N'est point la fruit tardif [j d'une lente vieillesse. 
 
 Here every circumstance contributes to a tiresome uniformity: a 
 constant return of the same pause and of the same accent, as well as 
 an equal division of every line ; which fatigue the ear without inter- 
 mission or change. I cannot set this matter in a better light, than 
 by presenting to the reader a French translation of the following 
 passage of Milton : 
 
 Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall, 
 Godlike erect, with native honor clad, 
 In naked majesty, seem'd lords of all, 
 And worthy seem'd ; for in their looks divine, 
 The image of their glorious Maker, shone 
 Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure ; 
 Severe, but in true filial freedom placed ; 
 Whence true authority in men ; though both 
 Not equal, as their sex not equal seem'd ; 
 For contemplation he and valor form'd, 
 For softness she and sweet attractive grace ; 
 He for God only, she for God in him. 
 
 in Hexameter compared with English heroic rhyme; compared with blank 
 verse! Peculiar advantages ol the latter
 
 BEACTY OF LANGUAGE. 337 
 
 Were tlie pauses of the sense and sound in this passage but a little 
 better assorted, nothing in verse could be more melodious. In gen- 
 eral, the great defect in Milton's versification, in other respects ad- 
 mirable, is the want of coincidence between tho pauses of the sense 
 and sound. 
 
 The translation is in the following words : 
 
 Ces lieux delicieux, ce paradis chormont, 
 
 Revolt de deux objcts son plus bel ornement; 
 
 Leur port majestucux, et lour demarche altic're, 
 
 Semble leur mdriter sur la nature entidro 
 
 Ce droit de commander quo Dieu leur a donne, 
 
 Sur leur auguste front de gloire couronnc. 
 
 Du souverain du ciel brille la ressemblance ; 
 
 Dana leurs simples regards delate 1'innoeence, 
 
 L'adorable candour, 1'aimable verite", 
 
 La raison, la sagesse, et la severite, 
 
 Qu'adoucit la prudence, et cot air de droituro 
 
 Du visage des rois respectable parure. 
 
 Ces deux objets divins n'out pas les rnemes traita, 
 
 Us paraissent formes, quoique tous deux parMts : 
 
 L'un pour la majeste", la force, et la noblesse ; 
 
 L'autre pour la douceur, la grace, et la teudresse ; 
 
 Celui-ci pour Dieu soul, 1'autre pour I'homme encor. 
 
 Here the sense is fairly translated, the words are of equal power, 
 and yet how inferior the melody ! 
 
 488. Many attempts have been made to introduce Hexameter 
 verse into the living languages, but without success. The English 
 language, I am inclined to think, is not susceptible of this melody : 
 and my reasons are these. First, the polysyllables in Latin and 
 Greek are finely diversified by long and short syllables, a circum- 
 stance that qualifies them for the melody of Hexameter Terse : ours 
 are extremely ill qualified for that service, because they superabound 
 in short syllables. Secondly, the bulk of our monosyllables are ar- 
 bjtrary with regard to length, which is an unlucky circumstance in 
 Hexameter : for although custom, as observed above, may render 
 familiar a long or a short pronunciation of the same word, yet the 
 mind wavering between the two sounds, cannot be so much affected 
 with either, as with a word that hath always the same sound ; and 
 for that reason, arbitrary sounds are ill fitted for a melody which is 
 chiefly supported by quantity. In Latin and Greek Hexameter, in- 
 variable sounds direct and ascertain the melody. English Hexam- 
 eter would be destitute of melody, unless by artful pronunciation ; 
 because of necessity the bulk of its sounds must be arbitrary. The 
 pronunciation is easy in a simple movement of alternate long and 
 short syllables ; but would be perplexing and unpleasant in the di- 
 versified movement of Hexameter verse. 
 
 489. Rhyme makes so great a figure in modern poetry as to 
 deserve a solemn trial. I have for that reason reserved it to be ex- 
 
 4ST. Defects of French heroic verse. Defect In Milton's verslflcntion. 
 488. Attempts to Introduce Hexameter verse into the living languages. 
 lacguage unsuiud to it.
 
 338 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 amined with deliberation ; in order to discover, if I can, its peculiai 
 beauties, and its degree of merit. The first view of {his subject leads 
 naturally to the following reflection : " That rhyme having no rela- 
 tion to sentiment, nor any effect upon the ear other than a mere jin- 
 gle, ought to be banished all compositions of any dignity, as afford- 
 ing but a trifling and childish pleasure." It will also be observed, 
 " That a jingle of words hath in some measure a ludicrous effect ; 
 witness the double rhymes of Jfudibras, which contribute no small 
 share to its drollery : that in a serious work this ludicrous effect 
 would be equally remarkable, were it not obscured by the prevailing 
 gravity of the subject : that having however a constant tendency to 
 give a ludicrous air to the composition, more than ordinaiy fire is 
 requisite to support the dignity of the sentiments against such an 
 undermining antagonist." 
 
 These arguments are specious, and have, undoubtedly, some weight. 
 Yet, on the other hand, it ought to be considered that in modem 
 tongues rhyme has become universal among men as well as chil- 
 dren ; and "that it cannot have such a currency without some foun- 
 dation in human nature. In fact, it has been successfully employed 
 by poets of genius, in their serious and grave compositions, as well 
 as in those which are more light and aiiy. Here in weighing au- 
 thority against argument, the scales seem to be upon a level ; and 
 therefore, to come at any thing decisive, we must pierce a little 
 deeper. 
 
 Music has great power over the soul ; and may successfully be 
 employed to inflame or soothe passions, if not actually to raise them. 
 A single sound, however sweet, is not music ; but a single sound re- 
 peated after intervals, may have the effect to rouse attention, and to 
 keep the hearer awake : and a variety of similar sounds, succeeding 
 each other after regular intervals, must have a still stronger effect. 
 This consideration is applicable to rhyme, which connects two verse- 
 lines by making them close with two words similar in sound. And 
 considering attentively the musical effect of a couplet, we find, that 
 it rouses the mind, and produceth.an emotion moderately gay with- 
 out dignity or elevation : like the murmuring of a brook gliding 
 through pebbles, it calms the mind when perturbed, and gently 
 rlises it when sunk. These effects are scarce perceived when the. 
 whole poem is in rhyme ; but are extremely remarkable by contrast, 
 in the couplets that close the several acts of our later tragedies : the 
 tone of the mind is sensibly varied by them, from anguish, distress, 
 or melancholy, to some degree of ease and alacrity. The speech of 
 Alicia, at the close of the fourth act of Jane Shore, puts the matter 
 beyond doubt : in a scene of deep distress, the rhymes which finish 
 the act, produce a certain gayety and cheerfulness, far from accord 
 ing with the tone of the passion : 
 
 Alicia. Forever! Oh Forever! 
 Ob ! who can bear to be a wretch forever I
 
 BKAUTT OF LANGUAGE. 339 
 
 My rival too ! his last thoughts hung on her: 
 And, * he ported, left a blessing for her: 
 Shall she bo ble.ss'd, and I be cursed, forever ! 
 No ; since her fatal beauty was the cause 
 Of all my suff 'rings, let her share mv pains; 
 Let her, like mo of every joy forlorn", 
 Devote the hour when such a wretch was born ! 
 lake me to deserts and to darkness run, 
 Abhor the day, and curse the golden sun ; 
 Cast every good and every hope behind ; 
 Detest the works of nature, loathe mankind : 
 Like me with cries distracted fill the air, ) 
 Tear her poor bosom, and her frantic hair, > 
 And prove the torments of the last despair. J 
 
 490. Having described, the best way I can, the impression that 
 rhyme makes on the mind ; I proceed to examine whether there be 
 any subjects to which rhyme is peculiarly adapted, and for what 
 subjects it is improper. Grand and lofty subjects, which have a 
 powerful influence, claim precedence in this inquiry. In the chapter 
 of Grandeur and Sublimity it is established, that a grand or sublime 
 object inspires a warm enthusiastic emotion disdaining strict regu- 
 larity and order : which emotion is very different from that inspired 
 by the moderately enlivening music of rhyme. Supposing then an 
 elevated subject to be expressed in rhyme, what must be the effect ? 
 The intimate union of the music with the subject produces an in- 
 timate union of their emotions ; one inspired by the subject, which 
 tends to elevate and expand tho mind ; and one inspired by the 
 music, which, confining the mind within the narrow limits of 
 regular cadence and similar sound, tends to prevent all elevation 
 above its own pitch. Emotions so little concordant cannot in union 
 have a happy effect. 
 
 But it is scarce necessary to reason upon a case that never did, 
 and probably never will happen, viz., an important subject clothed 
 in rhyme, and yet supported in its utmost elevation. A happy 
 thought or warm expression, may at times give a sudden bound up- 
 ward ; but it requires a genius greater than has hitherto existed, to 
 support a poem of any length in a tone elevated much above that 
 of the melody. Tasso and Ariosto ought not to be made exceptions, 
 and still less Voltaire. And after all, where the poet has the dead 
 weight of rhyme constantly to struggle with, how can we expect a 
 uniform elevation in a high pitch ; when such elevation, with all 
 the support it can receive from language, requires the utmost effort 
 of the human genius 1 
 
 491. But now, admitting rhyme to be an unfit dress for grand 
 and lofty images ; it has one advantage, however, which is, to raise 
 a low subject to its own degree of elevation. Addison (Spectator, 
 No. 285) observes, "That rhyme, without any other assistance, 
 throws the language off from prose, and very often makes an ia- 
 
 489. Objections to rhyme. The answer. Tb music of rbytnei Exaoipl*. 
 
 490. enbjctt to which rbytn* to peculiarly tdipted. * '*r w*
 
 340 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 different phrase pass unregarded ; but where the verse is not built 
 upon rhyme, there, pomp of sound, and energy of expression are 
 indispensably necessary to support the style, and keep it from falling 
 into the flatness of prose." This effect of rhyme is remarkable in 
 French verse ; which, being simple, and little qualified for inversion, 
 readily sinks down to prose where not artificially supported : rhyme 
 is therefore indispensable in French tragedy, and may be proper 
 even in French comedy. Voltaire assigns that very reason for ad- 
 hering to rhyme in these compositions. He indeed candidly owns, 
 that, even with the support of rhyme, the tragedies of his country 
 are little better than conversation-pieces ; which seems to infer, that 
 the French language is weak, and an improper dress for any grand 
 subject. Voltaire was sensible of the imperfection ; and yet Voltaire 
 attempted an epic poem in that language. 
 
 492. The cheering and enlivening power of rhyme, is still more 
 remarkable in poems of short lines, where the rhymes return upon 
 the ear in a quick succession ; for which reason rhyme is perfectly 
 well adapted to gay, light, and airy subjects. Witness the fol- 
 lowing : 
 
 O the pleasing, pleasing anguish, 
 When we love and when we languish I 
 
 Wishes rising, 
 
 Thoughts surprising, 
 
 Pleasure courting, 
 
 Charms transporting, 
 
 Fancy viewing, 
 
 Joys ensuing, 
 the pleasing, pleasing anguish ! 
 
 oaamond, Act I. Sc. 2. 
 
 For that reason, such frequent rhymes are very improper for any se- 
 vere or serious passion: the dissonance between the subject and the 
 melody is very sensibly felt. Witness the following : 
 
 Now under hanging mountains, 
 Beside the fall of fountains, 
 Or where Hebrus wanders, 
 Rolling in meanders, 
 
 All alone, 
 
 Unheard, unknown, 
 
 He makes his moan, 
 
 And calls her ghost, 
 Forever, ever, ever lost ; 
 
 Now with furies surrounded, 
 
 Despairing, confounded, 
 
 He trembles, he glows, . 
 
 Amidst Rodope's snows. Pope, Ode for Music, 1. 97. 
 
 Rhyme is not less unfit for anguish or deep distress, than for 
 subjects elevated and lofty ; and for that reason has been long disused 
 in the English and Italian tragedy. In a work where the subject 
 is serious though not elevated, rhyme has not a good effect ; be- 
 cause the airiness of the melody agrees not with the gravity of the 
 
 401. One advantage of rhyme. Adilisou's remark. Effect of rhyme in French Tew*.
 
 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 341 
 
 subject : the Essay on Man, which treats a subject great and im- 
 portant, would make a bettep figure in blank verse. Sportive love, 
 mirth, gayety, humor, and ridicule, are the province of rhyme. The' 
 boundaries assigned it by nature, were extended in barbarous and 
 illiterate ages ; and in its usurpations it has long been protected by 
 custom ; but taste in the fine arts, as well as in morals, improves 
 daily, and makes a progress towards perfection, slow indeed but 
 uniform ; and there is no reason to doubt, that rhyme, in Britain, 
 will in time be forced to abandon its unjust conquest, and to confine 
 itself within its natural limits. 
 
 Having said what occurred upon rhyme, I close the section with 
 a general observation, That the melody of verse so powerfully en- 
 chants the mind as to draw a veil over very gross faults and im- 
 perfections. 
 
 A LIST OF THE DIFFERENT FEET, AND OF THEIR NAMES. 
 
 1. PYRRHIOHIUS, consists of two short syllables, examples : Dent, given, cannot, 
 
 hillock, running. 
 
 2. SPONDECS, consists of two long syllables : omnes, possess, forewarn, mankind, 
 
 sometime. 
 8. IAMBUS, composed of a short and a long : pios, intent, degree, appear, content, 
 
 repent, demand, report, suspect, affront, event. 
 4. TnocH^Eus, or CHOREUS, a long and short : fervat, whereby, after, legal, 
 
 measure, burden-, holy, lofty. 
 
 6. TRIBRACUYS, three short : melius, property. 
 
 6. MoLoasus, three long : delectant. 
 
 7. ANAP.SSTCS, two short and a long : animos. condescend, apprehend, overheard, 
 
 acquiesce, immature, overcharge, serenade, opportune. 
 
 8. DACTYLCS, a long and two short : carmina, evident, excellence, estimate, wi- 
 
 derful, altitude, burdened, minister, tenement. 
 
 9. BACCHIUS, a short and two long : dolores. 
 
 10. HYPPOBACCHIUS, or ANTIBACCHIUS, two long and a short: pelluntur. 
 
 11. CRETICUS, or AMPHIMACEK, a short syllable between two long : intUo, after- 
 
 noon. 
 
 12. AMPHIBRACHYS, a long syllable between two short: honore, contider, im- 
 
 prudent, procedure, attended, propoted, respondent, concurrente, apprtnuet, 
 respective, revenue. 
 18. PROCKLEUSMATICCS, four short syllables : hominibus, necessary. 
 
 14. DHPONDECS, four long syllables : injinitis. 
 
 15. DIIAMBCS, composed of two Iambi : severitas. 
 
 16. DrrROCH-fitrs, of two Trochsei: permanere, procurator. 
 
 17. IONICUS, two short syllables and two long : properabant. 
 
 18. Another foot passes under the same name, composed of two long syllbl 
 
 and two short : calcaribus, possessory. 
 
 19. CHORIAMBUS, two short syllables between two long : nobilitat. 
 
 20. AXTISPASTCS, two long syllables between two short : Alexander. 
 
 492. Power of rhyme In poems of short lines. Frequent rhymes wbw nn*nltbU. 
 Essay on Man. Subjects that form the province- of rhyme. List of Fet.
 
 34:2 COMPARISONS. 
 
 21. PJBON 1st, one long syllable and three short : temporibus, ordinary, inven- 
 
 tory^ temperament. 
 
 22. PJSOX 2d, the second syllable long, and the other three short : rapidity, 
 
 solemnity, minority, considered, imprudently, extravagant, respectfully, ac- 
 cordingly. 
 
 23. P.EON Sd, the third syllable long and the other three short : animatvt, in- 
 
 dependent, condescendence, sacerdotal, reimbursement, manufacture. 
 
 24. P^EON 4th, the last syllable long and the other three short : celeritas. 
 
 25. EPITBITUS 1st, the first syllable short and the other three long : voluptates. 
 
 26. EPITBITUS 2d, the second syllable short and the other three long : panitentes. 
 
 27. EpiTBrrca 3d, the third syllable short, and the other three long : discordias. 
 
 28. EpiTBrrus 4th, the last syllable short, and the other three long : fortunatus. 
 
 29. A word of five syllables composed of a Pyrrhichius and Dactylus : min- 
 
 isterial. 
 
 80. A word of five syllables composed of a Trochaeus and Dactylus : singularity. 
 
 81. A word of five syllables composed of a Dactylus and Trocheeus : precipita 
 
 tion, examination. 
 
 82. A word of five syllables, the second only long : significancy. 
 
 83. A word of six syllables composed of two Dactyles : impetuosity. 
 
 84. A word of six syllables composed of a Tribrachys and D.actylse : pusilla- 
 
 nimity. 
 
 N. B. Every word may be considered as a prose foot, because 
 every word is distinguished by a pause ; and every foot in verse 
 may be considered 'as a verse word, composed of syllables pro- 
 nounced at once without a pause. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 COMPARISONS. 
 
 [HAZLITT has some observations on the subject of poetry that will 
 serve as an introduction to the present chapter. Ed. 
 
 493. Poetry is strictly the language of the imagination ; and the 
 imagination is that faculty which represents objects, not as they are 
 in themselves, but as they are moulded by other thoughts and feel- 
 ings, into an infinite variety of shapes and combinations of power. 
 This language is not the less true to nature because it is false in 
 point of fact ; but so much the more true and natural, if it conveys 
 the impression which the object under the influence of passion makes 
 on the mind. Let an object, for instance, be presented to the senses 
 in a state of agitation or fear, and the imagination will distort or 
 magnify the object, and convert it into the likeness of whatever is 
 most proper to encourage the fear. " Our eyes are made the fools of 
 the other faculties." This is the universal law of the imagination. 
 
 We compare a man of gigantic stature to a tower, not that he is
 
 COMPARISONS. 343 
 
 any thing like so large, but because the excess of his size beyond 
 what we are accustomed to expect, or the usual size of things of the 
 same class, produces by contrast a greater feeling of magnitude and 
 of ponderous strength than another object of ten times the same 
 dimensions. The intensity of the feeling makes up for the dispro- 
 portion of the objects. Things are equal to the imagination which 
 nave the power of affecting the mind with an equal degree of terror, 
 admiration, delight, or love. 
 
 Poetry is only the highest eloquence of passion, the most vivid 
 form of expression that can be given to our conception of any thing, 
 whether pleasurable or painful, mean or dignified, delightful or dis- 
 tressing. It is the perfect coincidence of the image and the words 
 with the feeling we have, and of which we cannot get rid in any 
 other way that gives an instant " satisfaction to the thought," This 
 is equally the origiu of wit and fancy, of comedy and tragedy, of 
 the sublime and pathetic. Lect. i.] 
 
 Comparisons, as observed above (chapter viii.), serve two pur- 
 poses ; when addressed to the understanding, their purpose is to in- 
 struct ; when to the heart, their purpose is to please. Various means 
 contribute to the latter : first, the suggesting some unusual resem- 
 blance or contrast ; second, the setting an object in the strongest 
 light ; third, the associating an object with others, that are agree- 
 able ; fourth, the elevating an object ; and fifth, the depressing it 
 And that comparisons may give pleasure by these various means, 
 appears from what is said in the chapter above cited ; and will be 
 made still more evident by examples, which shall be given after 
 premising some general observations. 
 
 Objects of different senses cannot be compared together ; for such 
 objects, being entirely separated from each other, have no circum- 
 stance in common to admit either resemblance or contrast. Objects 
 of hearing may be compared together, as also of taste, of smell, and 
 of touch ; but the chief fund of comparison are objects of sight ; be- 
 cause, in writing or speaking, things can only be compared iu idea, 
 and the ideas of sight are more distinct and lively than those of any 
 other sense. 
 
 494. When a nation emerging out of barbarity begins to think of 
 the fine arts, the beauties of language cannot long lie concealed ; 
 and when discovered, they are generally, by the force of novelty, 
 
 , 
 
 gradually out of repute; and now, by the improvement of taMc 
 none but correct metaphors and similes are admitted into any polii 
 composition. To illustrate this observation, a specimen shall 
 
 493. Hazlitfs remarks on poetry.-Purposes answe 
 tlie, give pleasure -Ol.jectothftt cannot be coni*WHl toirelher.-
 
 344 COMPARISONS. 
 
 given afterwards of such metaphors as I have been describing ; will 
 respect to similes, take the following specimen : 
 
 Behold, thou art fair, my love ; thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear 
 from Mount Gilead : thy teeth are like a flock of sheep from the washing, every 
 one bearing twins : thy lips are like a thread of scarlet ; thy neck like the tower 
 of David built for an armory, whereon hang a thousand shields of mighty men ; 
 thy two breasts like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies ; 
 thy eves like the fish-pools in Heshbon, by the gate of Bath-rabbim ; thy nose 
 like the tower of Lebanon, looking towards Damascus. Song of Solomon. 
 
 Thou art like snow on the heath ; thy hair like the mist of Cromla, when it 
 curls on the rocks, and shines to the beam of the west; thy breasts are like 
 two smooth rocks seen from Branno of the streams, thy arms like two white 
 pillars in the hall of the mighty Fiugal. Fingal. 
 
 495. It has no good effect to compare things by way of simile 
 that are of the same kind ; nor to compare by contrast things of 
 different kinds. The reason is given in the chapter quoted above ; 
 and the reason shall be illustrated by examples. The first is a com- 
 parison built upon a resemblance so obvious as to make little or no 
 impression. 
 
 This just rebuke inflamed the Lycian crew, 
 
 They join, they thicken, and the assault renew ; 
 
 Unmoved th' embodied Greeks their fury dare, 
 
 And fix'd support the weight of all the war; 
 
 Nor could the Greeks repel the Lycian powers, 
 
 Nor the bold Lycians force the Grecian towers. 
 
 As on the confines of adjoining grounds, 
 
 Two stubborn swains with blows dispute their bounds ; 
 
 They tug, they sweat ; but neither gain, nor yield, 
 
 One foot, one inch, of the contended field ; 
 
 Thus obstinate to death, they fight, they fall ; 
 
 Nor these can keep, nor those can win the wall. Iliad, xii. 605. 
 
 Another, from Milton, lies open to the same objection. Speaking 
 of the fallen angels searching for mines of gold, 
 
 A numerous brigade hasteu'd ; as when bands 
 Of pioneers with spade and pick-axe arm'd, 
 Forerun the royal camp to trench a field 
 Or cast a rampart. 
 
 The next shall be of things contrasted that are of different kinds. 
 
 * Queen. What, is my Eichard both in shape and mind. 
 
 Transform'd and weak-? Hath Bolingbroke deposed 
 Thine intellect? Hath he been in thy heart ! 
 The lion thrusteth forth his paw, 
 And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage 
 To be o'erpowored ; and wilt thou, pupil-like, 
 Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod, 
 And fawn on rage with base humility ? ,,,,.. TT c , 
 
 Bwhard II. Act V. be. 1. 
 
 This comparison has scarce any force ; a man and a lion are of dif- 
 ferent species, and therefore are proper subjects for a simile ; but 
 there is no such resemblance between them in general, as to pre- 
 494 The early poems of every nation. 
 495. What things should not be compared by way of simile and contrast
 
 CC VIPARIfeONS. 345 
 
 ducc any strong effect by contrasting particular attributes or cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 496. A third general observation is, That abstract terms can never 
 be the subject of comparison, otherwise than by being personified. 
 Shakspeare compares adversity to a toad, and slander to the bite of 
 a crocodile ; but in such comparisons these abstract terms must be 
 imagined sensible beings. 
 
 To have a just notion of comparisons, they must be distinguished 
 into two kinds ; one common and familiar, as where a man is com- 
 pared to a lion in courage, or to a horse in speed ; the other more 
 distant and refined, where two things that have in themselves no 
 resemblance or opposition, are compared with respect to their effects. 
 There is no resemblance between a flower-pot and a cheerful song ; 
 and yet they may be compared with respect to their effects, the 
 emotions they produce being similar. There is as little resemblance 
 between fraternal concord and precious ointment ; and yet observe 
 how successfully they are compared with respect to the impressions 
 they make : 
 
 Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in 
 unity It is like the precious ointment upon the head, that ran down upon 
 Aaron's beard, and descended to the skirts of his garment. Ptalm 133. 
 
 For illustrating this sort of comparison, I add some more ex- 
 amples : 
 
 Delightful is thy presence, Fingal ! it is like thp sun on Cromla, when the 
 hunter mourns his absence for a season, and sees him between the clouds. 
 
 Did not Ossian hear a vf ice ? or is it the sound of days that are no more f 
 Often, like the evening sun, comes the memory of former times on my soul. 
 
 His countenance is settled from war; and is calm as the evening beam, that 
 from the cloud of the west looks on Crona's silent vale. 
 
 Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul of Clessammor. 
 
 The music was like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful 
 to the soul. 
 
 Pleasant are the words of the song, said Cuchullin, and lovely are the tales 
 of other times. They are like the calm dew of the morning on the hill of roc*, 
 when the sun is faint on its side, and the lake is settled aud blue m the vale. 
 
 These quotations are from the poems of Ossian, who abounds with 
 comparisons of this delicate kind, and appears singularly happy iu 
 them. 
 
 497. I proceed to illustrate by particular instances the < 
 means by which comparisons, whether of the one sort or the other, 
 can afford pleasure ; and, in the order above established, I begin 
 with such instances as are agreeable, by suggesting soino un isual 
 resemblance or contrast : 
 
 Sweet are the uses of adversity, 
 Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
 Wears yet a precious jewel in h tag. 
 
 406. Abstract terms Two kinds of comparisons. How a flower-pot ftn.l cbrftl KM* 
 nay be compared. Other example*.
 
 COMPARISONS. 
 
 Gardiner. Bolingbroke hath seized the wasteful king. 
 vV hat pity is't that he had not so trimm'd 
 And dress'd his land, as we this garden dress, 
 And wound the bark, the skin of our frujt-trees; 
 Lest, being over proud with sap and -blood, 
 With too much riches it confound itself. 
 Had he done so to great and growing men, 
 They might have lived to bear, and he to taste 
 Their fruits of duty. All superfluous branches 
 We lop away, that bearing boughs may Jive ; 
 Had he done so, himself had borne the crown, 
 Which waste and idle hours have quite thrown down. 
 
 Richard II. Act II. Sc. 7. 
 See, how the Morning opes her golden gates, 
 And takes her farewell of the glorious Sun ; 
 How well resembles it the prime of youth, 
 Trimm'd like a younker prancing to his love ! 
 
 Second Part Henry IV. Act II. Sc. 1. 
 
 Brutus. Cassius, you are voked with a lamb, 
 That carries anger as the flint bears fire ; 
 Who much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
 And straight is cold again. Julius Ccesar, Act IV. Sc. 8. 
 
 Thus they_ their doubtful consultations dark 
 Ended, rej'oicing in their matchless chief; 
 As when from mountain-tops, the dusky clouds 
 Ascending, while the north-wind sleeps, o'erspread 
 Heaven's cheerful face, the low'ring element 
 Scowls o'er the darken'd landscape, snow and shower; 
 If chance the radiant sun with farewell sweet 
 Extends his evening beam, the fields revive, 
 The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds 
 Attest their joy, that hill and valley rings. 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book ii. 
 
 As the bright stars and milky w*ay, 
 
 Show'd by the night are hid'by day ; 
 
 So we in that accomplished mind, 
 
 Help'd by the night, new graces find, 
 
 Which by the splendor of her view, 
 
 Dazzled before, we never kne\v. Watter. 
 
 The last exertion of courage compared to the blaze of a lamp 
 before extinguishing, Tasso Gicrusalem, Canto xix. st. xxii. 
 
 None of the foregoing similes, as they appear to me, tend to il- 
 lustrate the principal subject ; and therefore the pleasure they afford 
 must arise from suggesting resemblances that are not obvious ; I 
 mean the chief pleasure ; for undoubtedly a beautiful subject intro- 
 duced to form the simile affords a separate pleasure, which is felt in 
 ihe similes mentioned, particularly in that cited from Milton. 
 
 498. The next effect of a comparison in the order mentioned, 
 is to place an object in a strong point of view ; which effect is re- 
 markable in the following similes : 
 
 As when two scales are charged with doubtful loads, 
 Ironi side to side the trembling balance nods, 
 QV hUst some laborious matron, just and poor, 
 With nice exactness, weighs her woolly store), 
 
 497. Comparisons aflvr.l pleasure by sugtroetlon.
 
 COMPARISONS. 347 
 
 Till poised aloft the resting beam suspends 
 
 Each equal weight : nor this nor that descend* ; 
 
 So stood the war, till Hector's matchless mi^ht, 
 
 With fates prevailing, turn'd the scale of fight, 
 
 Fierce as a whirlwind up the wall he flies, 
 
 And fires his host with loud repeated cries. Iliad, b. xiii. 581. 
 
 Lucetta. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire, 
 But qualify the fire's extreme rage, 
 Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. 
 
 Julia. The more thon damrn'st it up, the more it burns ; 
 The current that with gentle murmur glides, 
 Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage ; 
 But when his fair course is not hindered, 
 
 He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones, 
 
 Giving a gentle kiss to every sed| 
 He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ; 
 
 And so by many winding nooks he strays 
 With willing sport to the wild ocean. . 
 Then let me go, and hinder not my course : 
 I'll be as patient as a gentle stream, 
 And make a pastime of each weary step, 
 Till the last step have brought me to my love; 
 And there I'll rest, as, after much turmoil, 
 A blessed soul doth in Elysium. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act II. Sc. 10. 
 
 - She never told her love 
 
 But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, 
 
 Feed on her damask cheek ; she pined in thought 
 
 And with a green and yellow melancholy, 
 
 She sat like Patience oil a monument, 
 
 Smiling at grief. Twelfth- Night, Act II. Sc. 
 
 Y&rk. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke, 
 Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, 
 Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know, 
 "With slow but stately pace kept on his course : 
 While all tongues cried, God save thee, Bolingbroke. 
 
 Dutchess. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while 1 
 
 York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men, 
 After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, 
 Are idly bent on him who enters next, 
 Thinking his prattle to bo tedious : 
 Even BO, or with much more contempt, men's eyes 
 Did scowl on Richard: no man cried, God save him 1 
 No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home ; 
 But dust was thrown upon his sacred head: 
 Which with such gentle sorrow ho shook off, 
 His face still combating with tears and smiles, 
 The badges of his griet and patience ; 
 That had not God, for some strong purpose, stej 
 The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, 
 And barbarism itself have pitied him. 
 
 Northumberland. How doth my son and brother! 
 Thou tremblest, and the whiteness in thy cneet 
 IB apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. 
 Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, 
 So dull, so dead in look, BO woe-be-onfc 
 Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night, 
 And would have told him, half his Troy was burn d ; 
 But Priam found the fire, ere he his tonpne : 
 And I my Percy's death, jg m Art I. 8c. H
 
 34:8 COMPARISONS. 
 
 Why, then I do but dream on sov'reignty, 
 
 Like one that stands upon a promontory, 
 
 And spies a far-off shore where he would tread. 
 
 Wishing his foot were equal with his eye, 
 
 And chides the sea that sunders him from thence, 
 
 Saying, he'll lave it dry to have his way : 
 
 So do I wish, the crown being so far oft, 
 
 And so I chide the means that keep me from it, 
 
 And so (I say) I'll cut tne causes off, 
 
 Flatt'ring my mind with things impos; : ble. 
 
 Third Fart Henry VI. Act III. Sc. 8. 
 
 Out, out, brief candle ! 
 
 Ltfe's but a walking shadow, a poor player, 
 
 That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
 
 And then is heard no more. Macbeth, Act V. So. 5. 
 
 thou Goddess, 
 
 Thou divine Nature ! how thyself thou blazon'sl 
 
 In these two princely boys ! they are as gentle 
 
 As zeyhyrs blowing below the violet, 
 
 Not wagging his sweet head ; and yet as rough, 
 
 (Their royal blood inchafed) as the rudest wind, 
 
 That by the top doth take the mountain pine, 
 
 And make him stoop to the vale. Cymbeline, Act IV. Sc. 4. 
 
 Why did not I pass away in secret, like the flower of the rock that lifts iu 
 fair head unseen, and strows its withered leaves on the blast ? Flngal. 
 
 There is a joy in grief when peace dwells with the sorrowful. But they are 
 wasted with mourning, daughter of Toscar, and their days are few. The> 
 fall away like the flower on which the sun looks in his strength, after th 
 mildew has passed over it, and its head is heavy with the drops of ni^ht 
 Flngal. 
 
 The sight obtained of the city of Jerusalem by the Christian army, 
 compared to that of land discovered after a long voyage, Tasso's 
 Gierusalem, canto iii. st. 4. The fury of Rinaldo subsiding when 
 not opposed, to that of wind or water when it has a free passage, 
 canto xx. st. 58. 
 
 499. As words convey but a faint and obscure notion of great 
 numbers, a poet, to give a lively notion of the object he describes 
 with regard to number, does well to compare it to what is familiar 
 and commonly known. Thus Homer (book ii. 1. Ill) compares 
 the Grecian army in point of number to a swarm of bees : in an- 
 other passage (book ii. 1. 551) he compares it to that profusion of 
 leaves and flowers which appear in the spring, or of insects in a 
 summer's evening : and Milton, 
 
 -As when the potent rod 
 
 Of Amram'si son, in Egypt's evil day, 
 
 Waved round the coast, up call'd a pitchy cloud 
 
 Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind, 
 
 *hat o'er the realm of impious Pharao hung 
 
 f-ike night, and darken'd all the land of Nile: 
 
 Mo numberless were those bad angels seen, 
 
 Hovering on wing under the cope of hell, 
 
 TVixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires. Paradise Lost; 
 
 B.L 
 
 498 Second good effect of a comparison. Example*.
 
 COMPARISONS. 349 
 
 Such comparisons have, by some writers, been condemned for the 
 lowness of the images introduced ; but surely without reason ; for, 
 with regard to numbers, they put the principal subject in a strong 
 light 
 
 The foregoing comparisons operate by resemblance : others have 
 the same effect by contrast 
 
 Tori. I om the last of noble Edward's sons, 
 Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first: 
 In war, was never lion raged more fierce : 
 In peace, was never gentle lamb more mild, 
 Than was that young and princely gentleman. 
 His face thou hast, for even so look'd he, 
 Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours. 
 But when he frown'd it was against the French, 
 And not against his friend. His noble hand 
 Did win what he did spend ; and spent not that 
 Which his triumphant father's hand had won. 
 His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood, 
 But bloody with the enemies of his kin. 
 Oh, Richard ! York is too far gone with grief, 
 Or else he never would compare between. 
 
 Richard II. Act II. 8c. 8. 
 
 500. Milton has a peculiar talent in embellishing the principal 
 subject by associating it with others that are agreeable ; which if 
 the third end of a comparison. Similes of this kind have, besides 
 a separate effect : they diversify the narration by new images thai 
 are not strictly necessary to the comparison : they are short epi- 
 sodes, which, without drawing us from the principal subject, afford 
 great delight by their beauty and variety : 
 
 He scarce had ceased, when the superior fiend 
 
 Was moving toward the shore ; his pond'rous shield 
 
 Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, 
 
 Behind him cast; the broad circumference 
 
 Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb 
 
 Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views 
 
 At evening from the top of Fesol, 
 
 Or in Valdarno, to- descry new lands, 
 
 Rivers, or mountains, in'hcr spotty globe. Milton, b. L 
 
 -Thus far these, beyond 
 
 Compare of mortal prowess, yet observed 
 
 Their dread commander. He, above the rest 
 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
 
 Stood like a tower ; his form had yet not loet 
 
 All her original brightness, nor appear'd 
 
 Less than archangel ruin'd and th' excess 
 
 Of glory obscured : as when the sun uow-rin 
 
 Looks through tho horizontal misty air 
 
 Shorn of his beams ; or from behind the moon 
 
 In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
 
 On half the nations, and with tear of change 
 
 Perplexes monarchs. Jfi&m, b. L 
 
 As when a vulture on Tmaus bred, 
 
 Whose snowy ridge the roving Tartar bounds, 
 
 499. How the UHI of ft great Dauber I* best conveyed.
 
 3.50 COMPARISONS. 
 
 Dislodging from a region scarce of prey 
 
 To gorge the flesh of lambs, or yeanling kids, 
 
 On hills where flocks are fed, fly towards the spring* 
 
 Of Ganges or Hydaspes, Indian streams, 
 
 But in his way lights on the barren plains 
 
 Of Sericana, where Chineses drive 
 
 With sails and wind their cany wagons light : 
 
 So on this windy sea of land, the fiend 
 
 Walk'd up and down alone, bent on his prey. Milton, b. i. 
 
 Yet higher than their tops 
 
 The verdurous wall of Paradise up sprung: 
 
 Which to our general sire gave prospect large 
 
 Into this nether empire neighboring round. 
 
 And higher than that wall, a circling row 
 
 Of goodliest trees loaden with fairest fruit, 
 
 Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue, 
 
 Appear'd, with gay enamell'd colors mix'd, 
 
 On which the sun more glad impress'd his beams 
 
 Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow, 
 
 When God had shower'd the earth ; so lovely seem'd 
 
 That landscape : and of pure now purer air 
 
 Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
 
 Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 
 
 All sadness but despair ; now gentle gales 
 
 Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense 
 
 Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole 
 
 Those balmy spoils. As when to them who sail 
 
 Beyond the'Cape of Hope, and now are past 
 
 Mo'zambic, off at sea norths-east winds blow 
 
 Sabean odor from the spidy shore 
 
 Of Araby the blest ; with such delay 
 
 Well pleased, they slack their course, and many a league, 
 
 Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles. 
 
 Milton, b. iv. 
 
 With regard to similes of this kind, it will readily occur to the 
 reader that when a resembling subject is once properly introduced 
 in a simile, the mind is transitorily amused with the new object, and 
 is not dissatisfied with the slight interruption. Thus, in fine 
 weather, the momentary excursions of a traveller for agreeable pros- 
 pects or elegant buildings, cheer his mind, relieve him from the 
 languor of uniformity, and without much lengthening his journey, 
 in reality, shorten it greatly in appearance. 
 
 501. Next of comparisons that aggrandize or elevate. These 
 affect us more than any other sort : the reason of which may bo 
 gathered from the chapter of Grandeur and Sublimity ; and, without 
 reasoning, will be -evident from the following instances: 
 
 As when a flame the winding valley fills, 
 And runs on crackling shrubs between the hills, 
 Then o'er the stubble, up the mountain flies, 
 Fires the high woods, and blazes to the skies, 
 This way and that, the spreading torrent roars; 
 So sweeps the hero through the wasted shores. 
 Around him wide, immense destruction pours, 
 And earth is deluged with the sanguine showers. 
 
 Iliad, xx. 569. 
 
 600. How Milton often embellishes tbc principal subject. The separate effect of tncfc 
 injfles.
 
 COMPARISON'*. 851 
 
 Thio gh blood, through death, Achilles still proceed* 
 
 O'er slaughter'd heroes, and o'er rolling steed*. 
 
 As when avenging flames with furv driven 
 
 On guilty_ towns exert the wrath of Heaven, 
 
 The pale inhabitants, some fall, some fly, 
 
 And the red vapors purple all the sky : 
 
 So raged Achilles ; Death and dire dismay, 
 
 And toils, and terrors, flll'd the dreadful day. Iliad, rxi. 805. 
 
 Methinks, King Richard and myself should meet 
 With no less terror than the elements 
 Of fire and water, when their thundering shock, 
 At meeting, tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven. 
 
 Richard II. Act III. Sc. 5. 
 
 As n>heth a foamy stream from the dark shady steep of Cromla, when thun- 
 der is rolling above, and dark brown night rests on the hill : so fierce, so vast, 
 BO terrible, rush forward the sons of Erin. The chief, like a whale of Ocean 
 followed by all its billows, pours valor forth as a stream, rolling its might along 
 the shore. Fingal, b. i. 
 
 As roll a thousand waves to a rock, so Swaran's host came on ; as meet* a 
 rock a thousand waves, so Inisfail met Swaran. Ibid. 
 
 I beg peculiar attention to the following simile for a reason that shall 
 be mentioned : 
 
 Thus breathing death, in terrible array. 
 
 The close compacted legions urged their way ; 
 
 Fierce they drove on, impatient to destroy ; 
 
 Troy charged the first, and Hector first of Troy. 
 
 As from some mountain's craggy forehead torn, 
 
 A rock's round fragment flies with fury borne, 
 
 (Which from the stubborn stone a torrent rends) 
 
 Precipitate the pond'rous mass descends; 
 
 From steep to steep the rolling ruin bounds ; 
 
 At every shock the crackling wood resounda ! 
 
 Still gath'ring force, it smokes ; and, urged amain. 
 
 Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain : 
 
 There stops So Hector. Their whole force he proved ; 
 
 Resistless when he raged : and when he stopt, unmoved. 
 
 Iliad, xliii. 187. 
 
 The image of a falling rock is certainly not elevating (see chap- 
 ter iv.), and yet undoubtedly the foregoing simile fires and swells 
 the mind : it is grand, therefore, if not sublime. And the following 
 simile will afford additional evidence that there is a real, though nice 
 distinction between these two feelings : 
 
 So saying, a noble stroke he lifted high 
 
 Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fell 
 
 On the proud crest of Satan, that no sight. 
 
 Nor motion of swift thought, less could hia shield 
 
 Such ruin intercept. Ten paces huge 
 
 He back recoil'd ; the tenth on bended knee 
 
 His massy spear upstaid ; as if on earth 
 
 Winds jmder ground or waters forcing way, 
 
 Sidelong had push'd a mountain from his aent 
 
 Half-sunk with all his pines. MMon, b. vl 
 
 602. A comparison by contrast may contribute to grandeur or 
 
 601. Comparisons that gfraodlt*.
 
 352 COMPARISONS. 
 
 elevation, no less than by resemblance ; of -which the following 
 comparison of Lucan is a remarkable instance . 
 
 Victrix causa diis placuit, sed victa Catoni. 
 
 Considering that the heathen deities possessed a rank but one degree 
 above that of mankind, I think it would not be easy, by a single 
 expression, to exalt more one of the human species than is done in 
 this comparison. I arn sensible, at the same time, that such a com- 
 parison among Christians, who entertain more exalted notions of the 
 Deity, would justly be reckoned extravagant and absurd. 
 
 The last article mentioned, is that of lessening or depressing a ha- 
 ted or disagreeable object ; which is effectually done by resembling 
 it to any thing low or despicable. Thus Milton, in his description 
 of the rout of the rebel angels, happily expresses their terror and dis- 
 may in the following simile : 
 
 -As a herd 
 
 Of goats or timorous flock together throng'd, 
 Drove them before him thunderstruck, pursued 
 With terrors and with furies to the bounds 
 And crystal wall of heaven, which opening wide, 
 Koll'd inward, and a spacious gap disclosed 
 Into the wasteful deep: the monstrous sight 
 Struck them with horror backward, but far worse 
 Urged them behind ; headlong themselves they threw 
 Down from the verge of heaven. Milton, b. vi. 
 
 In the same view, Homer, I think, may be justified in comparing tho 
 shouts of the Trojans in battle to the noise of cranes (beginning of 
 book iii.), and to the bleating of a flock of sheep (book iv. 1. 498) : 
 it is no objection that these are low images ; for it was his intention 
 to lessen the Trojans by opposing their noisy march to the silent 
 and manly march of the Greeks. Addison (Guardian, No. 153), 
 describing the figure that men make in the sight of a superior being, 
 takes opportunity to mortify their pride by comparing them to a 
 swarm of pismires. 
 
 A comparison that has none of the good effects mentioned in this 
 discourse, but is built upon common and trifling circumstances, 
 makes a mighty silly figure : 
 
 Non sum uescius, grandia consilia a multis plerumque causis, ecu magna 
 navigia a plurimis remis, impelli. Strada, de bello Bdgico. 
 
 503. By this time, I imagine the different purposes of comparison, 
 and the various impressions it makes on the mind, are sufficiently 
 illustrated by proper examples. This was an easy task. It is more 
 difficult to lay down rules about the propriety or impropriety of 
 comparisons ; in what circumstances they may be introduced, and 
 in what circumstances they are out of place. It is evident, that a 
 comparison is not proper on every occasion : a man when cool and 
 
 502. Comparison by contrast for the purpose of elevation. How a hated object Is d* 
 Miltou'a rout cf tbe rebel angele. Instances from Homer and Addison.
 
 COMPARISONS. 353 
 
 sedate, is not disposed to poetical flights, nor to sacrifice truth and 
 reality to imaginary beauties : far less is he so disposed when op- 
 pressed with care, or interested in some important transaction that 
 engrosses him totally. On the other hand, a man, when elevated or 
 animated by passion, is disposed to elevate or animate all his ob- 
 jects : he avoids familiar names, exalts objects by circumlocution and 
 metaphor, and gives even life and voluntary action to inanimate 
 beings. In this heat of mind, the highest poetical flights are in- 
 dulged, and the boldest similes and metaphors relished.* But with- 
 out soaring so high, the mind is frequently in a tone to relish chaste 
 and moderate ornament ; such as comparisons that set the principal 
 object in a strong point of view, or that embellish and diversify the 
 narration. In general, when by any animating passion, whether 
 pleasant or painful, an impulse is given to the imagination ; we are 
 in that condition disposed to every sort of figurative expression, and 
 in particular to comparisons. This in a great measure is evident 
 from the comparisons already mentioned ; and shall be further illus- 
 trated by other instances. Love, for example, in its infancy, rousing 
 the imagination, prompts the heart to display itself in figurative lan- 
 guage, and in similes : 
 
 Troilus. Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love, 
 What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we ? 
 Her bed is, India ; there she lies, a pearl : 
 Between our Ilium, and where she resides, 
 Let it be call'd the wild and wandering flood ; 
 Ourself the merchant; and the sailing Pandar 
 Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark. 
 
 Truilvt and Cressida, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Come, gentle Night; come, loving black-brow'd Night! 
 
 Give me my Romeo ; and when he shall die, 
 
 Take him, and cut him out in little stars, 
 
 And he will make the face of heaven so fine, 
 
 That all the world shall be in love with Night, 
 
 And pay no worship to the garish Sun. 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, Act III. So. 4. 
 
 The dread of a misfortune, however imminent, involving always 
 some doubt and uncertainty, agitates the mind, and excites the 
 imagination : 
 
 Woluy. Nay. then, farewell : 
 
 I've touch'd the highest point ol all my greatni, 
 
 And from that full meridian of my glory 
 
 I haste now to my setting. I shall Fall, 
 
 Like a bright exhalation in the evening, 
 
 And no man see me more. Henry VOL Act III. bo. 4. 
 
 504. But it will be a better illustration of the present head, to 
 
 * It is accordingly observed by Longinus, in his Treatise on the Sublime, 
 that the proper fane for metaphor, i when the passions are so iwe 
 nurry on like a torrent. 
 
 608. When proper to introduce comprison. General ?
 
 COMPARISONS. 
 
 give examples where comparisons are improperly introduced. I have 
 had already occasion to observe, that similes are not the language 
 of a man in his ordinary state of mind, dispatching his daily and 
 usual work. For that reason, the following speech of a gardener to 
 his servants, is extremely improper : 
 
 Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricots, 
 Which, like unruly children, make their sire 
 Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight : 
 Give some supportanee to the bending twigs. 
 Go thou ; and like an executioner, 
 Cut off the heads of two fast-growing sprays, 
 That look too lofty in our commonwealth ; 
 All must be even in our government. 
 
 liickard II. Act III. So. 7. 
 
 The fertility of Shakspeare's vein betrays him frequently into this 
 error. There is the same impropriety in another simile of his: 
 
 Hero. Good Margaret, run thee into the parlor ; 
 There shall thou find my cousin Beatrice; 
 Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursula 
 Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse 
 Is all of her : say that thou overheard'at us ; 
 And bid her steal into the pleached bower, 
 Where honeysuckles, ripeird by the sun, 
 Forbid the sun to enter ; like to favorites, 
 Made proud by princes that advance their pride 
 Against that power that bredait. 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing, Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 Rooted grief, deep anguish, terror, remorse, despair, and all the se- 
 vere dispiriting passions, are declared enemies, perhaps not to figu- 
 rative language in general, but undoubtedly to the pomp and solem- 
 nity of comparison. Upon that account, the simile pronounced by 
 young Rutland, under a terror of death from an inveterate enemy, 
 and praying mercy, is unnatural : 
 
 So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch 
 That trembles under his devouring paws, 
 And so he walks insulting o'er his prey, 
 And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder. 
 Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, 
 And not with such a cruel threat'ning look. 
 
 Third Part of Henry VI. Act I. Sc. 5. 
 
 A man spent and dispirited after losing a battle, is not disposed to 
 heighten or illustrate his discourse by similes : 
 
 York. With this we charged again; but out, alas! 
 We bodged again ; as I have seen a swan 
 With bootless labor swim against the tide, 
 And spend her strength with over-matching waves. 
 Ah ! hark, the fatal followers do pursue ; 
 And I am faint and cannot fly their fury, 
 The sands are nutnber'd that make up inv life ; 
 Here must I stay, and here my life must "end. 
 
 Third Part Henry VI. Act I. Sc. 6. 
 
 604 Examples where simile? we Improperly introduced Relation to the 
 passions.
 
 COMPARISON'S. 355 
 
 Far less is a man disposed to similes who is not only defeated in a 
 pitched battle, but lies at the point of death mortally wounded : 
 
 Warwick. My mangled body shows 
 
 My blood, my want of strength ; my sick heart Low 
 That I must yield my body to the earth, 
 And, by my lull, the conquest to my foe. 
 Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, 
 Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle ; 
 Under whose shade the ramping lion slept, 
 Whose top branch over-pecr'd Jove's spreading tree, 
 And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind. 
 
 Third Part Henry VI. Act V. Sc. 3. 
 
 Queen Kitherine, deserted by the king, and in the deepest affliction 
 on her divorce, could not be disposed to any sallies of imagination : 
 and for that reason, the following simile, however beautiful in th* 
 mouth of a spectator, is scarce proper in her own : 
 
 I am the most unhappy woman living, 
 Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity, 
 No friends, no hope ! no kindred weep for me ! 
 Almost no grave allow'd me ! like the lily, 
 That once was mistress of the field, and nourish'd, 
 I'll hang my head and perish. 
 
 King Henry VIII. Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 Similes thus unseasonably introduced, are finely ridiculed in the 
 Rehearsal : 
 
 Bayes. Now here she must make a simile. 
 Smith. Where's the necessity of that, Mr. Bayes? 
 
 Bayes. Because she's surprised ; that's a general rule ; you must ever make 
 a simile when you are surprised ; 'tis a new way of writing. 
 
 505. A comparison is not always faultless even where it is pro- 
 perly introduced. I have endeavored above to give a general view 
 of the different ends to which a comparison may contribute : a com- 
 parison, like other human productions, may fall short of iu aim ; of 
 which defect instances are not rare even among good writers ; and 
 to complete the present subject, it will be necessary to make some 
 observations upon such faulty comparisons. I begin with observing, 
 that nothing can be more erroneous than to institute a comparison 
 too faint : a distant resemblance or contrast fatigues the mind with 
 its obscurity, instead of amusing it ; and tends not to fulfil any one 
 end of a comparison. The following similes seem to labor under 
 this defect : 
 
 Albus ut obscuro dcterget nubila ccolo 
 
 Saepo Notus, neque parturit imbres 
 
 Perpetuos: sic tu sapiens flniro memento 
 
 Tristitiam, vitoeque labores. Horat. (Jarm, 1. L ode 7. 
 
 K. Jtich. Give ine the crown. Here, cousin, seize the crown, 
 Here, on this side, my hand ; on that side, thine. 
 Now is this golden crown like a deep well, 
 That owes two buckets, filling one another ; 
 The emptier ever dancing in the air, 
 The other down, unseen and full of water : 
 
 005. Comparisons falling short of their tlm.
 
 856 COMPARISONS. 
 
 That bucket down, and full of tears, am I, 
 Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high. 
 
 Richard II. Act IV. Be. o. 
 
 K. John. Oh ! cousin, thou art come to set mine eye ; 
 The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burnt: 
 And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail, 
 Are turned to one thread, one little hair ; 
 My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, 
 Which holds but till thy news be uttered. 
 
 King John, Act V. Sc. 10. 
 
 York. My uncles both are slain in rescuing me : 
 And all my followers to the eager foe 
 Turn back, and fly like ships before the wind, 
 Or lambs pursued by hunger-starved wolves. 
 
 Third Part Henry VI. Act I. Sc, 6. 
 
 The latter of the two similes is good ; the former, by its faintness of 
 resemblance, has no effect but to load the narration -with a useless 
 image. 
 
 506. The next error I shall mention is a capital one. In an epic 
 poem, or in a poem upon any elevated subject, a writer ought^ to 
 avoid raising a simile on a low image, which never fails to bring 
 down the principal subject. In general, it is a rule. That a grand 
 object ought never to be resembled to one that is diminutive, how- 
 ever delicate the resemblance may be ; for it is the peculiar char- 
 acter of a grand object to fix the attention, and swell the mind ; in 
 which state, to contract it to a minute object, is unpleasant. The 
 resembling an object to one that is greater, has, on the contrary, a 
 good effect, by raising or swelling the mind ; for one passes with 
 satisfaction from a small to a great object ; but cannot be drawn 
 down, without reluctance, from great to small Hence the following 
 similes are faulty : 
 
 Meanwhile the troops beneath Patroclus' care, 
 
 Invade the Trojans and commence the war. 
 
 As wasps, provoked by children in their play, 
 
 Pour from their mansions by the broad highway, 
 
 In swarms the guiltless traveller engage, 
 
 "Whet all their stings, and call forth all their rage ; 
 
 All rise in arms, and with a general cry 
 
 Assert their waxen domes, and buzzing progeny 
 
 Thus from the tents the fervent legion swarms, 
 
 So loud their clamor and BO keen their arms. Iliad, xvi. 812. 
 
 So burns the vengeful hornet (soul all o'er) 
 
 Repulsed in vain, and thirsty still of gore ; 
 
 (Bold son of air and heat) on angry wings _ 
 
 Untamed, untired he turns, attacks and stmgs. 
 
 Fired with like ardor, fierce Atrides flew, 
 
 And sent his soul with every lance he threw. Iliad, xvu. 642. 
 
 507. An error, opposite to the former, is the introducing a re- 
 sembling image, so elevated or great as to bear no proportion to the 
 principal subject. Their remarkable disparity, seizing the mmd, 
 never fails to depress the principal subject by contrast, instead of 
 
 ~60. A simile on a low imaga The effect of resembling an object to one that is greater.
 
 COMPARISONS. 357 
 
 raising it by resemblance : and if the disparity be very great, the 
 simile degenerates into burlesque ; nothing being more ridiculous 
 than to force an object out of its proper rank in nature, by equalling 
 it with one greatly superior or greatly inferior. This will be evident 
 from the following comparisons : 
 
 Fervet opus, rcdolentque thymo fragrantia mella. 
 Ac veluti lentis Cyclopes fulmina massis 
 Cum properant . alii taurinis follibus auras 
 Accipmnt, redduntque : alii stridentia tingunt 
 JEra lacu ; gemit impositis incudibus ..Etna; 
 llli inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt 
 In numerum; versantque tenaci forcipe ferrnm. 
 Non aliter (si parva licet componere mugnis) 
 Cecropias innatus apes amor urgct habendi, 
 Munere quamque suo. Grandaevis oppida curse, 
 Et munire favos, et Daedaia fingere tecta. 
 At fessse multa referunt se nocte minores, 
 Crura thymo plena : pascuntur et arbuta passim, 
 Et glancas salices, casiamque crocumquo rubcntcm, 
 Et pinguem tiliam, et ferrugineos hyacinthos, 
 Omuibus una quies operum, labor omnibus unus. 
 
 Gtorgic, iv. 169. 
 
 A writer of delicacy will avoid drawing his comparisons from any 
 image that is nauseous, ugly, or remarkably disagreeable ; for how- 
 ever strong the resemblance may be, more will be lost than gained 
 by such comparison. Therefore I cannot help condemning, though 
 with some reluctance, the following simile, or rather metaphor: 
 
 O thou fond many ! with what loud applause 
 Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Boliugbroke, 
 Before he was what thou wouldst have him be ? 
 And now being trimm'd up in thine own desires, 
 Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him, 
 That thou provok'st thyself to cast him up: 
 And so, thou common "dog, did'st thou disgorge 
 Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard, 
 An.l now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up, 
 And howl'st to find it. 
 
 Second Part Henry IV. Act I. So. 0. 
 
 508. The strongest objection that can lie against a comparison is, 
 that it consists in words only, not in sense. Such false coin, or 
 bastard wit, does extremely well in burlesque ; but it is far below 
 the dignity of the epic, or of any serious composition : 
 
 The noble sister of Poplicola, 
 
 The moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle 
 
 That's curled bv the frost from purest snow, 
 
 And hangs on Dian's temple. Cbrwtonw, Act V . be. 3. 
 
 There is evidently no resemblance between an icicle and a wo 
 man, chaste or unchaste ; but chastity is cold in a metaphorical 
 sense, and an icicle is cold in a proper sense : and this verbal re- 
 semblance, in the hurry and glow of composing, has been thought 
 
 COT. An im&g too lv*ted for th principal subject. Dtar**W ttn
 
 Galathsea thymo mihi dulcior Ilyblsc. 
 
 Bucol. vii. 37, 
 
 358 COMPARISONS. 
 
 a sufficient foundation for the simile. Such phantom similes are 
 mere witticisms, which ought to have no quarter, except where 
 purposely introduced to provoke laughter. Lucian, in his disserta- 
 tion upon history, talkir-g of a certain author, makes the following 
 comparison, which is verbal merely : 
 
 This author's descriptions are so cold that they surpass the Caspian snow, 
 and all the ice of the north. 
 
 Virgil has not escaped this puerility : 
 Galathsea thymo 
 
 Ego Sardois videar tibi amarior herbis. 
 
 Ibid. 41. 
 
 Gallo, cujus amor tantum mihi crescit in horas, 
 
 Quantum vere novo viridis se subjicit alnus. Bucol. x. 87. 
 
 Nor Tasso, in his Aininta : 
 
 Picciola e' 1' ape, e fa col picciol morso 
 
 Pur gravi, e pur moleste le ferite 
 
 Maj qual cosa epiii picciola d' amore, 
 
 Se in ogni breve spatio entra, e s' asconde 
 
 In ogni breve spatio ? hor, sotto a 1' ombra 
 
 De le palpebre,Tior tra minuti rivi 
 
 D'un biondo crine, hor dentro le pozzette 
 
 Che forma un dolce riso in bella guancia; " 
 
 E pur fa tanto grandi, e si mortah, 
 
 E cosi immedicabili le piaghe. Act II. Sc. 1. 
 
 Nor Boileau, the chastest of all writers, and that even in his Art of 
 Poetry: 
 
 Ainsi tel autrefois, qu'on vit avec Faret 
 
 Charbonner de ses vcrs les murs cl'un cabaret, 
 
 S'en va mal a propos d'une voix insolente, 
 
 Chanter du peuple Hebreu la fuite triomphaute, 
 
 Et poursuivant Moi'se au travers des deserts, 
 
 Court avec Pharaon se noyer dans les mers. Chant. 1. 1. 2L 
 
 Mais allons voir le Vrai, jusqu'en sa source me 1 me. 
 Un de>ot aux yeux creux, ct d'abstinence bleme, 
 S'il n'a point le cosur juste, est afFreux devant Dieu, 
 L'Evangile au Chretien ne dit, en aucun lieu, 
 Sois deVot: elle dit, Sois doux, simple, dquitable: 
 Car d'un devot souvcnt au Chretien veritable 
 La distance est deux fois plus longue, a mon avis, 
 Que du Pole Antarctique au Detroit do Davis. 
 
 Boileau, Satire xi. 
 
 - But for their spirits and souls 
 
 This word rebellion had froze them up 
 
 As fish are in a pond. Second Part Henry IV. Act I. So. 8. 
 
 Queen. The pretty vaulting sea refused to drown me ; 
 Knowing, that thou wouldst have me drown'd on shore ; 
 With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness. 
 
 Second Part Henry IV. Act III. Sc. 6. 
 
 Here there ia no manner of resemblance but in the word drown ; 
 for there is no real resemblance between being drowned at sea, and 
 dying of grief at land. But perhaps this sort of tinsel wit may
 
 COMPARISONS. 359 
 
 have a propriety in it, when used to express an affected, not a real 
 passion, which was the Queen's case. 
 
 Pope has several similes of the same stamp. I shall transcribe 
 one or two from the Essay on Man, the greatest and most instruc- 
 tive of alLhis performances : 
 
 And hence one master passion in the breast, 
 
 Like Aaron's serpent, swallows pp the rest. Epitl. ii. 1. 181. 
 
 And again, talking of this same ruling or master'passion : 
 
 Nature its mother, Habit is its nurse ; 
 
 Wit, spirit, faculties, but make it worse ; 
 
 Reason itself but Drives it edge and power ; 
 
 As heaven's bless'd beam turns vinegar more sour. Ibid. 1. 45. 
 
 Lord Bolingbroke, speaking of historians : 
 
 Where their sincerity as to fact is doubtful, we strike out truth by th con- 
 frontation of different accounts ; as we strike out sparks of fire by the col- 
 lision of flints and steel. 
 
 Let us vaiy the phrase a very little, and there will not remain a 
 shadow of resemblance. Thus : 
 
 We discover truth by the confrontation of different accounts ; as we strike out 
 sparks of firo by the collision of flints and steol. 
 
 Racine makes Orestes say to Hermoino : 
 
 Que les Scythes sont moins cruel qu' Hennoine. 
 Similes of this kind put one in mind of a ludicrous French song : 
 
 Je croyois Janneton 
 Aussi douce que belle : 
 Je croyois Janneton 
 Plus douce qu'un mouton ; 
 
 Helas ! Hdlas ! 
 
 Elle est cent fois, rnillo fob, pins cruelle 
 Que n'est le tigre aux bois. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Helas ! 1'amour m'a pris, 
 .. Coramo le chat fait la souris. 
 
 Where the subject is burlesque or ludicrous, such similes are fu 
 from being improper. Horace says pleasantly, 
 
 Quanquam tu levior cortice. L. Hi. ode 9. 
 And Shakspeare, 
 
 In breaking oaths he's stronger than Hercules. 
 
 509. And this leads me to observe, that besides the foregoing 
 comparisons, which are all serious, there is a species, the end ana 
 purpose of which is to excite gayety or mirth. Take the following 
 examples : 
 
 608. Coinr* 1 ^ 011 lu
 
 360 COMPARISONS. 
 
 Falstaff, speaking to his page : 
 
 I do here walk before thce like a sow that hath overwhelmed all her fittef 
 but one. Second Part Henry VI. Act I. Sc. 4. 
 
 I think he is not a pick-purso, nor a horse-stealer ; but for his verity in love, 
 I do think him as concave as a covered goblet, or a worm-eaten nut. 
 
 As You Like It, Act III. Sc. 10. 
 
 This sword a dagger had his pago, 
 
 That was but little for his age ; 
 
 And therefore waited on him so, 
 
 As dwarfs upon knights-errant do. Hadlbras, canto i. 
 
 Description of Hubibras's horse : 
 
 He was well stay'd, and in his gait 
 
 Preserved a grave majestic state. 
 
 At spur or switch no more he skipt, 
 
 Or mended pace than Spaniard whipt: 
 
 And yet so faery, he would bound 
 
 As if he grieved to touch the ground: 
 
 That Caesar's horse, who, as fame goes, 
 
 Had corns upon his feet and toes, 
 
 Was not by half so tender hooft, 
 
 Nor trod upon the ground so soft. 
 
 And as that beast would kneel and stoop, 
 
 (Some write) to take his rider up ; 
 
 So Hudibras his ('tis well known) 
 
 Would often do to set him down. Canto i. 
 
 The sun had long since in the lap 
 
 Of Thetis taken out his nap ; 
 
 And, like a lobster boil'd, the morn 
 
 From black to red began to turn. Part II. canto ii. 
 
 Books, like men their authors, have but one way of coming into the world , 
 but there are ten thousand to go out of it, and return no more. 
 
 Tale of a Tub. 
 
 And in this the world mav perceive the difference between the integrity of a 
 generous author, and that of a common friend. The latter is observed to ad- 
 Bere close in prosperity ; but, on the decline of fortune, to drop suddenly off: 
 whereas the generous author, just on the contrary, finds his hero on tho 
 dunghill, from thence by gradual steps raises him to a throne, and then im- 
 mediately withdraws, expecting not so much as thanks for his pains. 
 
 Tale of a Tub. 
 
 The most accomplished way of using books at present is, to serve them as 
 some do lords, learn their titles, and then brag of their acquaintance. 
 
 Tale of a Tub. 
 
 Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen, 
 With throngs promiscuous strow the level green. 
 Thus when dispersed a routed army runs, 
 Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, 
 With like confusion, different nations fly. 
 Of various habit, and of various dye, 
 The pierced battalions disunited, fall 
 In heaps on heaps ; one fate o'erwhelms them all. 
 
 Rape of the Lock, canto iii. 
 
 He does not consider that sincerity in love is as much out of fashion as sweet 
 snuff ; nobody takes it now. Careless Husband. 
 
 509. Mirthful comparisons.
 
 FIGURES, 3fll 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 FIQURES. 
 
 THE endless variety of expressions brought under the head of 
 tropes and figures by ancient critics and grammarians, makes it evi- 
 dent that they had no precise criterion for distinguishing tropes and 
 figures from plain language. It was accordingly my opinion that 
 little could be made of them in the way of rational criticism ; till 
 discovering, by a sort of accident, that "many of them depend on 
 principles formerly explained, I gladly embrace the opportunity to 
 show the influence of these principles where it would be the least 
 expected. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 Personification. 
 
 610. THE bestowing sensibility and voluntary motion upon things 
 inanimate, is so bold a figure as to require, one should imagine, 
 very peculiar circumstances for operating the delusion ; and yet, in 
 the language of poetry, we find variety of expressions, which, though 
 commonly reduced to that figure, are used without ceremony, or 
 any sort of preparation; as, for example, thirsty ground, hungry 
 church-yard, furious dart, angry ocean. These epithets, in their 
 proper meaning, are attributes of sensible beings : what is their 
 meaning when applied to things inanimate ? do they make us con- 
 ceive the ground, the church-yard, the dart, the ocean, to be endued 
 with animal functions ? This is a curious inquiry ; and whether so 
 or not, it cannot be declined in handling the present subject. 
 
 The mind, agitated by certain passions, is prone to bestow sensi- 
 bility upon things inanimate. This is an additional instance of the 
 influence of passion upon our opinions and belief. (Chapter ii. part v.) 
 I give examples. Antony, mourning over the body of Caesar mur- 
 dered in the senate-house, vents his passion in the following words ; 
 
 Antony. pardon me, thou blecdine piece of earth, 
 That I am meek and gentle with these butchers. 
 Thou art the ruins of the noblest man 
 That ever lived in the tide of time. Julivt Catar, Act III. Sc. 4. 
 
 Here Antony must have been impressed with a notion that the body 
 of Ciesar was listening to him, without which the speech would bi 
 foolish and absurd. Nor will it appear strange, considering what i 
 said in the chapter above cited, that passion should have such power
 
 362 FIGURES. 
 
 over the mind of man. In another example of the same kind, the 
 earth, as a common mother, is animated to give refuge against a 
 father's unkindness : 
 
 Almeria. Earth, behold, I kneel upon thy bosom, 
 And bend my flowing eyes to stream upon 
 Thy face, imploring thee that thou wilt yield 1 
 Open thy bowels of compassion, take 
 Into thy womb the last and most forlorn 
 Of all thy race. Hear me, thou common parent ; 
 
 1 have no parent else. Be thou a mother, 
 
 And step between me and the curse of him 
 Who was who was, but is no more a father ; 
 But brands my innocence with horrid crimes ; 
 And for the tender names of child and daughter, 
 Now calls me murderer and parricide. 
 
 Mourning Ende, Act IV. So. 7. 
 
 Plaintive passions are extremely solicitous for vent ; and a solilo- 
 quy commonly answers the purpose ; but when such passion becomes 
 excessive, it cannot be gratified but by sympathy from others ; and 
 if denied that consolation in a natural way, it will convert even 
 things inanimate into sympathizing beings. Thus Philoctetes com- 
 plains to the rocks and promontories of the isle of Lemnos (Phi- 
 \octetes of Sophocles, Act iv. Sc. 2) ; and Alcestes dying, invokes 
 the sun, the light of day, the clouds, the earth, her husbands 
 palace, &c. (Alcestes of Euripides, Act ii. Sc. 1.) Moschus, lament- 
 ing the death of Bion, conceives that the birds, the fountains, the 
 trees, lament with him. The shepherd, who in Virgil bewails the 
 death of Daphnis, expresseth himself thus : 
 
 Daphni, tuum Pcenos etiam ingemuisse leones 
 
 Interitum, montesque feri sylvseque loquuntur. Ldogue v. 27. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Ilium etiam lauri, ilium etiam flevere mynca. 
 
 Pinifer ilium etiam sola sub rupe jacentem 
 
 Manalus, et gelidi fleverunt saxa Lycsei. Eclogue x. 18. 
 
 511. That such personification is derived from nature, will not 
 admit the least remaining doubt, after finding it in poems of the 
 darkest ages and remotest countries. No figure is more frequent in 
 Ossian's works ; for example : 
 
 The battle is over, said the king, and I behold the blood of ray friends. SaA 
 is the heath of Lena, and mournful the oaks of Cromla. 
 
 Again : 
 
 The sword of Gaul trembles at his side, and longs to glitter in his hand. 
 King Richard having got intelligence of Bolingbroke's invasion, 
 says, upon landing in England from his Irish expedition, in a mix- 
 ture of joy and resentment,
 
 FIGURES. 368 
 
 -I weep for joy 
 
 To stand upon my kingdom once again. - 
 
 Dear earth. 1 do salute tlico with my hand 
 
 Though rebels wound thee with their horse*' hoofs. 
 
 As a long-parted mother with her chnd 
 
 Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting: 
 
 60 weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth. 
 
 And do thee favor with my royal hands. 
 
 Feed not thy sovereign's toe, my gentle earth, 
 
 Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense: 
 
 But let thy spiders that suck up thy vonom, 
 
 And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way ; 
 
 Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet. 
 
 Which with usurping steps do trample thee. 
 
 Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies ; 
 
 And, when they from thy bosom pluck a flower, 
 
 Guard it, I pr'ythee. with a lurking adder; 
 
 Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch 
 
 Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies. 
 
 Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords ; 
 
 This earth shall have a feeling ; and these ntone* 
 
 Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king 
 
 Shall falter under foul rebellious arms. 
 
 KicJiard II. Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 After a long voyage it was customary among the ancients to sa- 
 lute the natal soil. A long voyage being of old a greater enterprise 
 than at present, the safe return to one's country after much fatigue 
 and danger, was a delightful circumstance ; and it was natural to 
 give the natal soil a temporary life, in order to sympathize with the 
 traveller. See an example, Agamemnon of Eschylus, Act III. in the 
 beginning. Regret for leaving a place one has been accustomed to, 
 has the same eftect (Philoctetes of Sophocles, at the close). 
 
 Terror produceth the same effect ; it is communicated in thought 
 to every thing around, even to things inanimate. Speaking of Poly- 
 phemus : 
 
 Clamorem immensutn tollit, quo pontus et omnes 
 
 Intremucre undae, penitusque exterrita tell us 
 
 Italiae. ^'ntid, iii. 672. 
 
 -As when old Ocean roars, 
 
 - *r n ucil uni i n_vmi ll/uio. 
 
 And heaves huge surges to the trembling shores. 
 
 Iliad, il. 349. 
 
 Go, view the settling sea. The stormy wind is laid ; bat ihe billows itiU 
 tremble on the deep, and seem to fear the blast. 
 
 Racine, in the tragedy of Phedra, describing the sea-monster that 
 destroyed Hippolytus, conceives the sea itself to be struck with ter- 
 ror as well as the spectators : 
 
 Le flot qui I'apporU recule epouvauto. 
 
 A man also naturally communicates his joy to all objects around, 
 animate or inanimate : 
 
 -As when to them who sail 
 
 Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now arc past 
 Mozambic, off at sea northeast winds blow 
 Sabean odor from the spicy shore 
 Of Araby tho bleat ; with rcich dly
 
 364 FIGURES. 
 
 Well pleased, they slack their course, and many a league, 
 Cheer d with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles. 
 
 Paradise Lost, b. iv. 
 
 512. 1 have been profuse of examples, to show what power many 
 passions have to animate their objects. In all the foregoing exam- 
 ples, the personification, if I mistake not, is so complete as to afford 
 conviction, momentary indeed, of life and intelligence. But it is ev- 
 ident, from numberless instances, that personification is not always 
 so complete : it is a common figure in descriptive poetry, understood 
 to be the language of the writer, and not of the persons he describes : 
 m this case it seldom or never comes up to conviction, even momen- 
 .ary, of life and intelligence. I give the following examples : 
 
 First in his east the glorious lamp was seen 
 
 (Regent of day, and all th' horizon round 
 
 Invested with bright rays) ; jocund to run 
 
 His longitude through heaven's high road : the gray 
 
 Dawn and the Pleiades before him danced, 
 
 Shedding sweet influence. Less bright the moon, 
 
 But opposite, in levell'd west was set 
 
 His mirror, with full face borrowing Tier light 
 
 From Mm ; for other light she needed none. 
 
 Paradise Lost, b. vii. 1. 870.* 
 
 Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day 
 Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops. 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, Act III. Sc. 7 
 
 But look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, 
 Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill. 
 
 Hamlet, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 It /way, I presume, be taken for granted, that in the foregoing in- 
 sviaces, the personification, either with the poet or his reader, 
 amounts not to a conviction of intelligence : that the sun, the moon, 
 the day, the morn, are not here understood to be sensible beings. 
 What then is the nature of this personification ? I think it must be 
 referred to the imagination : the inanimate object is imagined to be 
 a sensible being, but without any conviction, even for a moment, 
 that it really is so. Ideas or fictions of imagination have power to 
 raise emotions m the mind ; and when any thing inanimate is, in 
 imagination, supposed to be a sensible being, it makes by that 
 means a greater figure than when an idea is formed of it according 
 to truth. This sort of personification, however, is far inferior to the 
 other in elevation. Thus personification is of two kinds. The first, 
 being more noble, may be termed passionate personification ; the 
 other, more humble, descriptive personification ; because seldom or 
 never is personification in a description carried to conviction. 
 
 * The chastity of the English language, which in common usage distinguishes 
 by genders no words but what signify beings male and female, gives thus a 
 fine opportunity for the prosopopcjia; a beauty unknown in other languages, 
 where every word is masculine or feminine. 
 
 511. i*roof of this figure being natural. Examples from Ottian; from Richard //.-' 
 Terror *Sujniunicatos itself Examples. Sodocsjoy.
 
 FIOUKES. 865 
 
 The imagination is so lively and active, that its images are raised 
 with very Tittle effort ; and this justifies the frequent use of descrip- 
 tive personification. This figure abounds in Milton's Allegro and 
 Penseroso. 
 
 Abstract and general terms, as well as particular objects, are oAen 
 necessary in poetry. Such terms, however, are not well adapted to 
 poetry, because they suggest not any image : I can readily form an 
 image of Alexander or Achilles in wrath ; but I cannot form an im- 
 age of wrath in the abstract, or of wrath independent of a person. 
 Upon that account, in works addressed to the imagination, abstract 
 terms are frequently personified ; but such personification rests upon 
 imagination merely, not upon conviction : 
 
 Sed mihi vel Tellus optem prius ima dehiscat ; 
 Vel Pater omnipotens adigat me fulmine ad umbras, 
 Pallentes umbras Erebi, noctemque profundam, 
 Ante pudor quam to violo, aut tua jura resolvo. 
 
 , iv. 24. 
 
 Thus, to explain the effects of slander, it is imagined to be a volun 
 tary agent: 
 
 --- No, 'tis Slander; 
 
 Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose tongue 
 
 Outvenoms all the worms of Nile: whose breath 
 
 Eidcs on the posting winds, and doth belie 
 
 All corners of the world, kings, queens, and states, 
 
 Maids, matrons ; nay, the secrets of the grave 
 
 This viperous Slander enters. Cymbeline, Act III. Sc. 4. 
 
 A* also human passions; take the following example : 
 
 -For Pleasure and Revenge 
 
 Have ears more deaf than adders, to the voice 
 
 Of any true decision. Trottus and Crestida, Act II. Sc. 4. 
 
 Virgil explains fame and its effects by a still greater variety of ao- 
 tion (jfineid, iv. 173). And Shakspeare personifies death and iu 
 operations in a manner singularly fanciful : 
 
 -Within the hollow crown 
 
 That rounds the mortal temples of a king, 
 
 Keeps Death his court ; and there the antic site, 
 
 Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp ; 
 
 Allowing him a breath, a little scene 
 
 To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks, 
 
 Infusing him with self and vain conceit. 
 
 As if tins flesh, which walls about our life, 
 
 Were brass impregnable ; and humor'd thu, 
 
 Comes at the last, and with a little pin 
 
 Bores through his castle walls, and farewell king. 
 
 Jtichard II. Act III. Sc. 4. 
 
 Not less successfully is life and action given even to sleep : 
 
 King Htnry. How many thousands of my poorest ubjoto 
 Are at this hour asleep ! O gentle 5/*y. 
 Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thec, 
 That thou no more wilt weigh inv eyelids down, 
 And steep my senses in forgetf illness f 
 WLy rathei Sleep, Host thou in smoky crib*,
 
 866 FIGURES. 
 
 Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, 
 
 Aid hush' a with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, 
 
 Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, 
 
 Under the canopies of costly s*ate, 
 
 And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody? 
 
 Oh thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile 
 
 In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch, 
 
 A watch-case to a common 'larum-bell ? 
 
 Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast 
 
 Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains 
 
 In cradle of the rude imperious surge, 
 
 And in the visitation of the winds, 
 
 Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 
 
 Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them 
 
 With deafening clamors in the slippery shrouds, 
 
 That, with the'hurly, death itself awakes, 
 
 Canst thou, partial Sleep, give thy repose 
 
 To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ; 
 
 And in the calmest and the stillest night, 
 
 With all the appliances and means to boot, 
 
 Deny it to a king? Then, happy low ! lie down ; 
 
 Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 
 
 Second Part Henry IV. Act III, So. 1. 
 
 I shall add one example more, to show that descriptive personifica- 
 tion may be used with propriety, even where the purpose of the dis- 
 course is instruction merely : 
 
 Oh ! let the steps of youth be cautious, 
 
 How they advance into a dangerous world ; 
 
 Our duty only can conduct us safe. 
 
 Our passions are seducers : but of all, 
 
 The strongest Love. He first approaches us 
 
 In childish play, wantoning in our walks : 
 
 If heedlessly we wander after him, . 
 
 As he will pick out all the dancing-way, 
 
 We're lost, and hardly to return again. 
 
 We should take warning : he is painted blind, 
 
 To show us, if we fondly follow him, 
 
 The precipices we may i'all into. 
 
 Therefore let Virtue take him by the hand : 
 
 Directed so, he leads to certain joy. Southern. 
 
 513. Hitherto success has attended our steps: but whether we 
 shall complete our progress with equal success, seems doubtful ; for 
 when we look back to the expressions mentioned in the beginning, 
 thirsty ground, furious dart, and such like, it seems no less difficult 
 than at first, to say whether there be in them any sort of personifi- 
 cation. Such expressions evidently raise not the slightest conviction 
 of sensibility : nor do I think they amount to descriptive personifica- 
 tion ; because, in them, we do not even figure the ground or the 
 dart to be animated. If so, they cannot at all come under the pres- 
 ent subject. To show which, I shall endeavor to trace the effect 
 that such expressions have in the mind. Doth not the expression 
 angry ocean, for example, tacitly compare the ocean in a storm to a 
 
 612. How passionate differ from descriptive personification. Abstract and general 
 terms not adapted to poetry How they may be advantageously used in p letrv. Ks*tn- 
 plea.
 
 FIOURL3. 867 
 
 man 5 a wrath? By this tacit comparison, the ocean is elevated 
 above its rank in nature ; and yet personification is excluded, be- 
 cause, by the very nature of comparison, the things compared are 
 kept distinct, and the native appearance of each is preserved. It 
 will be shown afterwards, that expressions of this kind belong to an- 
 other figure, which I term a figure of speech, and which employs 
 the seventh section of the present chapter. 
 
 Though thus in general we can distinguish descriptive personifi- 
 cation from what is merely a figure of speech, it is, however, often 
 difficult to say, with respect to some expressions, whether they are 
 of one kind or of the other. Take the following instances : 
 
 The moon shines bright: in such a night as this, 
 When the sweet wind did geutly kiss the trees, 
 And they did make no noise ; in such a night, 
 Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan wall, 
 And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, 
 Where Cressid lay that night. 
 
 Merchant of Venict, Act V. So. 1. 
 
 -I have seen 
 
 Th' ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam, 
 To be exalted with the threat'ning clouds. 
 
 Julius CVwar, Act I. Sc. 8. 
 
 With respect to these and numberless other examples of the same 
 kind, it must depend upon the reader, whether they be examples of 
 personification, or of a figure of speech merely : a sprightly imagi- 
 nation will advance them to the former class ; with a plain reader 
 they will remain in the latter. 
 
 514. Having thus at large explained the present figure, its differ- 
 ent kinds, and the principles upon which it is founded ; what comes 
 next in order, is, to show in what cases it may be introduced with 
 propriety, when it is suitable, when unsuitable. I begin with ob- 
 serving, that passionate personification is not promoted by every 
 passion indifferently. All dispiriting passions are averse to it ; and 
 remorse, in particular, is too serious and Severe to be gratified with 
 a phantom of the mind. I cannot therefore approve the following 
 speech of Enobarbus, who had deserted his master Antony : 
 
 Be witness to mo, O thou blessed moon, 
 When men revolted shall upon record 
 Bear hateful memory, poor Euobarbus did 
 Before thy face repent - - - 
 Oh sovereign Mistress of true melancholy, 
 The poisonous damp of night dispungo upon me, 
 That life, a very rebel to my will, 
 May hang no longer on me. 
 
 Antony and CUopatra, Act IV. So. 7. 
 
 If this can be justified, it must be upon the heathen system of the- 
 ology, which converted into deities the sun, moon, and stars. 
 
 513. Certain expressions that do not quite amount to des ^ 
 
 they are clled.-8ouietime difficntt to distinguish between descriptive per. 
 ami figure* of speech.
 
 FIGURK8. 
 
 fhe He'observltion is applicable to the folkmmg passage 
 
 * 
 
 Tell them the lamentable tall ot me, _ 
 
 And send the hearera weeping to their beds. 
 
 Tor wh?? the senseless brands will sympathize 
 
 The heavy accent of thy moving tongue, 
 
 And in compassion weep tt OUt ^ rd //. Act V. Sc. 2. 
 
 ?jril5ttHS worse to make it to b. conee,ved as ns, D g 
 
 in rebellion against self : 
 
 Cleopatra. Haste, barejny^rn,and_ro S e the serpent s fury. 
 
 wSt^SJu compire with Cesar to betray me, 
 
 As thou wert none of nun.f I'll "**g*jj| >|r ^, Act V. 
 
 the subject, deviates into burlesque :
 
 FIGURES. 
 
 pestas, classem irapetu disjecit, prastoriam hauait ; quasi non vecturam am pi in* 
 Caesarera, Caesarisque fortunatn. Dec. I. 1. l. 
 
 Neither do I approve, in Shakspeare, the speech of King John, 
 gravely exhorting the citizens of Angiers" to a surrender ; though a 
 tragic writer has much greater latitude than an historian. Take the 
 following specimen : 
 
 The cannons have their bowels full of wrath ; 
 
 And ready mounted are they to spit forth 
 
 Their iron indignation 'gainst your walls. Act II. Sc. 8. 
 
 Secondly, If extraordinary marks of respect to a person of low 
 rank be ridiculous, no less so is the personification of a low subject. 
 This rule chiefly regards descriptive personification ; for a subject 
 can hardly be low that is the cause of a violent passion ; in that cir 
 cumstance, at least, it must be of importance. But to assign any 
 rule other than taste merely, for avoiding things below even descrip"- 
 tive personification, will, I am afraid, be a hard task. A poet of 
 superior genius, possessing the power of inflaming the mind, may 
 take liberties that would be too bold in others. Homer appears not 
 extravagant in animating his darts and arrows ; nor Thomson in 
 animating the seasons, the winds, the rains, the dews ; he even ven- 
 tures to animate the diamond, and doth it with propriety : 
 
 -That polish'd bright, 
 
 And all its native lustre let abroad, 
 
 Dares, as it sparkles on the fair one's breast, 
 
 With vain ambition emulate her eyes. 
 
 But there are things familiar and base, to which personification can 
 not descend. In a composed state of mind, to animate a lump of 
 matter even in the most rapid flight of fancy, degenerates into bur- 
 lesque : 
 
 How now ! What noise ! that spirit's ppssess'd with haste, 
 That wounds th' unresisting postern with these strokes. 
 
 Shakspeare, Measure for Measure, Act IV. Sc. I 
 
 Or from the shore 
 
 The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath, 
 And sing their wild notes to the list'ning u 
 
 Tnonuon, Spring, 1. 88. 
 
 Speaking of a man's hand cut off in battle : 
 
 Te decisa sunm, Laride, dextera qusorit : 
 Semianimesque micant digiti: ferrumque retractnnt. 
 
 x. C95. 
 
 The personification here of a hand is insufferable, especially in a 
 plain narration ; not to mention that such a trivial incident is too 
 minutely described. 
 
 The same observation is applicable to abstract tertns, which ought 
 not to be animated unless they have some natural dignity. Thom- 
 son, in this article, is licentious ; witness the following iastances out 
 of many : 
 
 16*
 
 870 FIGURES. 
 
 O vale of bliss ! softly swelling bill* ! 
 
 On which the power of cultivation lies, 
 
 And joys to see the wonders of his toil.- Summer, 1. 1485. 
 
 Then sated Hunger bids his brother 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 
 Flames in the light refulgent. Autumn, 1. 516. 
 
 516. Thirdly, It is not sufficient to avoid improper subjects : some 
 preparation is necessary in order to rouse the mind ; for the im- 
 agination refuses its aid, till it be warmed at least, if not inflamed. 
 Yet Thomson, without the least ceremony or preparation, introduceth 
 eash season as a sensible being : 
 
 From brightening fields of ether fair disclosed, 
 
 Child of the sun, refulgent Summer comes, 
 
 In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's depth. 
 
 He comes attended by the sultry" hours, 
 
 And ever fanning breezes, on his way ; 
 
 While from his ardent look, the turning Spring 
 
 Averts her blushful face, and earth and skies 
 
 AH smiling to his hot dominion leaves. Summer, 1. 1. 
 
 See Winter comes, to rule the varied yeaf, 
 Sullen and sad with all his rising train, 
 Vapors, and clouds, and storms. Winter, 1. 1. 
 
 This has ^violently the air of writing mechanically without taste. It 
 is not natural that the imagination of a writer should be so much 
 heated at the very commencement ; and, at any rate, he cannot ex- 
 pect such ductility in his readers. But if this practice can be justi- 
 fied by authority, Thomson has one of no mean note : Vida begins 
 his first eclogue in the following words : 
 
 Dicite, vos Musse, et juvenum incmorate querclas ; 
 
 JDicite ; nam motas ipsas ad carmina cautes 
 
 Et requiesse suos perhibent vaga iiumina cursus. 
 
 Even Shakspeare is not always careful to prepare the mind for this 
 bold figure. Take the following instance : 
 
 Upon these taxations, 
 
 The clothiers ah", not able to maintain 
 
 The many to them 'longing, have put off 
 
 The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers ; who, 
 
 Unfit for other life, compell'd by hunger, 
 
 And lack of other means, in desp'rate manner 
 
 Daring th' event to th' teeth, are all in uproar, 
 
 And Danger serves among them. Henry VIU. Act I. Sc. 4. 
 
 Fourthly, Descriptive personification, still more than what is 
 passionate, ought to be kept within the bounds of moderation. A 
 reader warmed with a beautiful subject, can imagine, "even without 
 passion, the winds, for example, to be animated ; but still the winds 
 
 616. How descriptive personification should be used. Degrees of it. Personification 
 of a low subject Things too familiar and base to be personified.
 
 FIGURES. 371 
 
 are the subject ; and any action ascribed to them beyond or con- 
 trary to their usual operation, appearing unnatural, seldom fails to 
 banish the illusion altogether : the reader's imagination, too far 
 strained, refuses its aid ; and the description becomes obscure, in- 
 stead of being more lively and striking. In this view the following 
 passage describing Cleopatra on shipboard, appears to me excep- 
 tionable : 
 
 The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne. 
 Burnt on the water : tho poop was beaten gold, 
 Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that 
 The winds were love-sick with 'em. 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra, Act II. Sc. 8. 
 
 The winds in their impetuous course have so much the appearance 
 of fury, that it is easy to figure them wreaking their resentment 
 against their enemies, by destroying houses, ships, &c.; but to figure 
 them love-sick, has no resemblance to them in any circumstance. In 
 another passage, where Cleopatra is also the subject, the personifi- 
 cation of the air is carried beyond all bounds : 
 
 The city cast 
 
 Its people out upon her ; and Antony 
 Inthron'd i' th' market place, did sit alone, 
 "Whistling to th' air, which but for vacancy, 
 Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, 
 And made a gap in nature. 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra, Act II. Bo. . 
 
 The following personification of the earth or soil is not less wild : 
 
 She shall be dignified with this high honor, 
 To bear mylady's train ; lest tho base earth 
 Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss ; 
 
 And of so great a favor growing proud, 
 Disdain to root the sumtner-swefliug flower, 
 And make rough winter everlastingly. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act II. Sc. 7. 
 
 Shakspeare, far from approving such intemperance of imagination, 
 puts this speech in the mouth of a ranting lover. Neither can I 
 relish what follows : 
 
 Omnia quse, Phcebo quondam meditante, beatus 
 
 Audit Eurotas, jussitque ediscere hmros, 
 
 llle canit. riryil, Buc. vi. 83. 
 
 The cheerfulness singly of a pastoral song, will scarce support per- 
 Bonification in the lowest degree. But admitting, that a river gently 
 flowing may be imagined a sensible being listening to n song, I 
 cannot enter into the conceit of the river's ordenng his laurefc to 
 learn the song : here all resemblance to any thing real is quite lost. 
 This however is copied literally by one of our greatest pot 
 indeed, before maturity of taste or judgment : 
 
 Thames heard the numbers as he flow'd along, 
 And bade his willows learn tho moving w
 
 372 FIGURES. 
 
 This author, in riper years, is guilty of a much greater deviation 
 from the rule. - Dulness may be imagined a deity or idol, to be 
 worshipped by bad writers ; but then some sort of disguise is re- 
 quisite, some bastard virtue must be bestowed, to make such wor- 
 ship in some degree excusable. Yet in the Dunciad, Dulness, with- 
 out the least disguise, is made the object of worship. The mind 
 rejects such a fiction as unnatural ; for dulness is a defect, of which 
 even the dullest mortal is ashamed : 
 
 Then he : Great tamer of all human art ! 
 
 First in my care, and ever at my heart ; 
 
 Dulness ! whose good old cause I yet defend, 
 
 With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end, 
 
 E'er since Sir Fopling's periwig was praise. 
 
 To the last honors of the Bull and Bays 1 
 
 thou ! of bus'ness the directing soul ! 
 
 To this our head, like bias to the bowl, 
 
 Which as more pond'rous, made its aim more true, 
 
 Obliquely waddling to the mark in view : 
 
 O ! ever gracious to perplex'd mankind. 
 
 Still spread a healing mist before the mind : 
 
 And, lest we err by Wit's wild dancing light, 
 
 Secure us kindly in our native night. 
 
 Or, if to wit a coxcomb make pretence, 
 
 Guard the sure barrier between that and sense ', 
 
 Or quite unravel all the reasoning thread, 
 
 And hanof some curious cobweb in its stead ! 
 
 As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly, 
 
 And pond'rous slugs cut swiftly through the sky; 
 
 As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe, 
 
 The wheels above urged by the load below : 
 
 Me Emptiness and Dulness could inspire, 
 
 And were my elasticity, and fire. B. i. 163. 
 
 517. Fifthly, The enthusiasm of passion may have the effect to 
 prolong passionate personification ; but descriptive personification 
 cannot be dispatched in too few words : a circumstantiate descrip- 
 tion dissolves the charm, and makes the attempt to personify ap- 
 pear ridiculous. Homer succeeds in animating his darts and arrows ; 
 but such personification spun out in a French translation, is mere 
 burlesque : 
 
 Et la fle'che en furie, avide de son sang, 
 Part, vole a lui, 1'atteint, et lui perce lo flano. 
 
 Horace says happily, 
 
 Post equitem sedet atra Cura. 
 
 Observe how this thought degenerates by being diviaed, like th 
 former, into a number of minute parts : 
 
 Un fou rempli d'erreurs, que le trouble accompagne 
 Et rnalade a la ville ainsi qu'a la campagne, 
 En vain monte a cheval pour tromper son ennui, 
 La Chagrin monte en croupe, et galope avec lui. 
 
 516. Preparation necessary. Criticism on Thomson. Limits to pel sonlflcation. -Faulty 
 oxamples from Shakspeare nnd Pope.
 
 FIOUREi. 373 
 
 A poet, in a short and lively expression, may animate his muse, his 
 genius, and even his verse ; but to animate his verse, and to address 
 s whole epistle to it, as Boileau doth (Epistle x.), is insupportable. 
 The following passage is not less faulty : 
 
 Her futo is whisper'd by the gentle breeze, 
 And told in sighs to all the trembling trees ; 
 The trembling trees, in every plain and wood, 
 Her fate remurmur to the silver flood ; 
 The silver flood, so lately calm, appears 
 Swell'd with new passion, and o'erflows with tears 
 The winds, and trees, and floods, her death deplore, 
 Daphne, our grief! our glory ! now no more. 
 
 Popt's Pattoraii, Sv. 61. 
 
 Let grief or love have the power to animate the winds, the trees, the 
 floods, provided the figure be dispatched in a single expression ; 
 even in that case, the figure seldom has a good effect ; because grief 
 or love of the pastoral kind, are causes rather too faint for so violent 
 an effect as imagining the winds, trees, or floods, to be sensible 
 beings. But when this figure is deliberately spread out, with groat 
 regularity and accuracy, through many lines, the reader, instead of 
 relishing it, is struck with its ridiculous appearance. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 Apostrophe. 
 
 518. THIS figure and the former are derived from the same prin 
 ciple. If, to humor a plaintive passion, we can bestow a momentary 
 sensibility upon an inanimate object, it is not more difficult to be- 
 stow a momentary presence upon a sensible being who is absent : 
 
 Strike the harp in praise of Bragela, whom I left in the isle of mist, th 
 spouse of my love. Dost thou raise thy fair face from the rock to find the sails 
 of Cuohullin? The sea is rolling far distant, and it* white foam shall deceive 
 thee for my sails. Retire, for it is night, my love, aud the dark winds sigh in 
 thy hair. Retire to the hall of my feasts, and think of the times that are pst ; 
 for I will not return till the storm of war is gone. Connal, speak of wars 
 and arms, and send her from my mind ; for lovely with her raven hair is the 
 white-bosomM daughter of Sorglan. Fingal, b. i. 
 
 Speaking of Fingal absent : 
 
 Happy are thy people, O Fingal ; thine arm shall flglit their battles. Thou 
 art the first in their dangers ; the wisest in the days of their peace ; thou spmk- 
 est, and thy thousands obey; and armies tremble at the sound of thy tied. 
 Happy are thy people, Fingal. 
 
 This figure is sometimes joined with the former : tilings inanimate, 
 to qualify them for listening to a passionate expostulation, are not 
 only personified, but also conceived to be present : 
 
 51T. Dwcrlptir* pronlftotlon ihald U lUrt.
 
 374: FIGURES 
 
 Et si fata Deura, si mems non Iseva fuisset, 
 Impulerat ferro Argolieas fcedare latebras ; 
 Trojaque nunc stares, Priamique arx alta mantra. 
 
 ^Mld, ii. 54. 
 
 Helena. Poor lord, is't I 
 
 That chase thee from thy country, and expose 
 
 Those tender limbs of thine to the event 
 
 Of non-sparing war? And is it I 
 
 That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou 
 
 Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark 
 
 Of smoky muskets ? you lead-en messengers, 
 
 That ride upon the violent speed of fire. 
 
 Fly with false aim ; pierce the still moving air 
 
 That sings with piercing ; do not touch my lord. 
 
 AWs Well that Entfs Wett, Act III. Sc. 4. 
 
 And let them lift ten thousand swords, said Nathos, with a smile ; the sons 
 of car-borne Usnoth will never tremble in danger. Why dost thou roll with 
 all thy foam, thou roaring sea of Dllin ? why do ye rustle on your dark wings, 
 ye whistling tempests of the sky ? Do ye think, ye storms, that ye keep Natfios 
 on the coast ? No ; his soul detains him, children of the night ! Althos, bring 
 my father's arms, &c. FingaL. 
 
 Whither hast thou fled, wind, said the king of Morven ! Dost thou rustle 
 in the chambers of the south, and pursue the shower in other lands? Why 
 comest not thou to my sails, to the blue face of my seas ? The foe is in the land 
 of Morven, and the king is absent. Fingal. 
 
 Hast thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-haired son of the sky ! The 
 west hath opened its gates; the bed of thy repose is there. The wave^ gather 
 to behold thy beauty; they lift their trembling heads ; they see thee lovely in 
 thy sleep, but they shrink'away with fear. Best in thy shadowy cave, Sun I 
 and let thy return be in joy. F'mgal. 
 
 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, Moon ! and brighten their dark-brown sides. 
 Who is like thee 'in heaven, daughter of the night ! The stars are ashamed 
 in thy presence, and turn aside their sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou re- 
 tire from thy course, when the darkness of thy countenance grows? Hast thou 
 thy hall like Ossian? Dwellest thou in the shadow of grief? Have thy sisters 
 fallen from heaven ? and are they who rejoiced with thee at night no more ? 
 Yes, they have fallen, fair light ; and often dost thou retire to mourn. But 
 thou thyself shalt one night fail; and leave thy blue path in heaven. The 
 stars will then lift their heads ; they, who in thy presence were ashamed, wil' 
 rejoice. Fingal. 
 
 This figure, like all others, requires an agitation of inind. In 
 plain narrative, as, for example, in giving the genealogy of a family, 
 it has no good effect : 
 
 Fauno Picus pater : isque parentem 
 
 Te, Saturne, refert ; tu sanguinis ultimus auctor. ^Eneid, vii. 48. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 Hyperbole". 
 
 519. IN this figure, by which an object is magnified or diminished 
 beyond truth, we have a'uother effect of the foregoing principle. An 
 
 618. Define apostrophe. With what other fijiiro Is it often joined ? The state of mind 
 tt rocjnirea.
 
 FIGURES. 875 
 
 object of an uncommon size, either very great of its kind or very 
 little, strikes us with surprise ; and this emotion produces a mo- 
 mentary conviction that the object is greater or less than it is in 
 reality "(see chapter viii.). The same effect, precisely, attends figura- 
 tive grandeur or littleness; and hence the hyperbole, which ex- 
 presses that momentary conviction. A writer, taking advantage of 
 this natural delusion, warms his description greatly by the hyper- 
 bole; and the reader, even in his coolest moments, relishes th* 
 figure, being sensible that it is the operation of nature upon s 
 glowing fancy. 
 
 It cannot have escaped observation, that a writer is commonly 
 more successful in magnifying by an hyperbole than in diminishing. 
 The reason is, that a minute object contracts the mind, and fetters 
 the power of imagination ; but that the mind, dilated and inflamed 
 with a grand object, moulds objects for its gratification with great 
 facility. Longinus, with respect to diminishing hyperbole, quotes 
 the following ludicrous thought from a comic poet : " He was owner 
 of a bit of ground no larger than a Lacedemonian letter." (Chapter 
 xxxi. of his Treatise on the Sublime.) But, for the reason now 
 given, the hyperbole has by far the greater force in magnifying ob- 
 jects ; of which take the following examples : 
 
 For all the land which thou seest. to thee will I (five it, and to thy seed 
 forever. And I will make thy seed as the dust of the earth ; so that if a 
 man can number the dust of the earth, then shall thy seed also b num- 
 bered. Genesis, xiii. 15, 16. 
 
 Ilia vel intactse segetis per summa volaret 
 
 Gramma : nee teneras cursu lasisset aristas. ^Enttd, vu. 808. 
 
 Atqne imo barathri ter gurgite vastoa 
 
 Sorbet in abruptuin fluctus, rursusque sub auras 
 Erigit alternos, et sidera verberat unda. Ibid. iii. 421. 
 
 -Horrificis jnxta tonat ^Etna ruinis, 
 
 Interdumque atram prorumpit ad sethera nubem, 
 
 Turbine fumantem piceo et candente favilla : 
 
 Attollitque globos flammarum, et sidera larabit Ibvd. in. 671. 
 
 Speaking of Polyphemus : 
 
 Ipse ardnus, ajtaque pulsat 
 
 Sidera. ^ " L 19 ' 
 
 \Vhen he speaks, 
 
 The air, a charter'd libertine, U still. Henry K. Act I 
 
 Now shield with shield, with helmet helmet dosed, 
 
 To armor armor, lance to lance opposed. 
 
 Host against host with shadowy squadrons drew, 
 
 The sounding darts in iron tempests flew. 
 
 Victors and vanquish'd join promiscuous cries, 
 
 And shrilling shout* and dying groans aru* : 
 
 With streaming blood the slippery fields are dyed. 
 
 And slaughter' d heroes swell the dreadful tide. Jhad, iv 
 
 619. Define hyp*rbo!. Why It is ! to magnify than to dlmtoUh by 
 
 The figure, natnrwl.
 
 376 
 
 FIGURES. 
 
 on 
 
 520. Having examined the nature of this figure, and the principle 
 which it is erected, I proceed, as in the first section, to the rules 
 by which it ought to be governed. And, in the first place, it is a 
 capital fault to introduce an hyperbole in the description of any thing 
 ordinary or familiar ; for in such a case it is altogether unnatural, 
 being destitute of surprise, its only foundation. Take the following 
 instance, where the subject is extremely familiar, viz., swimming to 
 gain the shore after a shipwreck : 
 
 I saw him beat the surges under him, 
 
 And ride upon their backs ; he trode the water, 
 
 Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 
 
 The surge most swoln that met him : his bold head 
 
 'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd 
 
 Himself with his good arms, in lusty strokes, 
 
 To th' shore, that o'er his wave-borne basis bow'd, 
 
 As stooping to relieve him. Tempest, Act II. Sc. 1. 
 
 In the next place, it may be gathered from what is said, that an 
 hyperbole can never suit the tone of any dispiriting passion : sorrow 
 in particular will never prompt such a figure ; for which reason the 
 following hyperboles must be condemned as unnatural : 
 
 K. Rich. Aumerle, thou weep'st, my tender-hearted cousin ! 
 We'll make foul weather with despised tears : 
 Our sighs, and they, shall lodge the summer-corn, 
 And make a dearth in this revolting land. Richard IL Act III. Sc. . 
 
 Draw them to Tiber's bank, and weep your tears 
 
 Into the channel, till the lowest stream 
 
 Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. Julim Caesar, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 Thirdly, A writer, if he wish to succeed, ought always to have 
 the reader in his eye : he ought in particular never to venture a bold 
 thought or expression till the reader be warned and prepared. For 
 that reason an hyperbole in the beginning of a work can never be in 
 its place. Example : 
 
 Jam pauca aratro jugera regi 
 
 Moles relinquent. Eorat. Carm. 1. i. ode 15. 
 
 521. The nicest point of all is to ascertain the natural limits 
 of an hyperbole, beyond which being overstrained, it hath a bad 
 effect. Longinus, in the above-cited chapter, with great propriety 
 of thought enters a caveat against an hyperbole of this kind : he 
 compares it to a bow-string, which relaxes by overstraining, and pro- 
 duceth an effect directly opposite to what is intended. To ascertain 
 any precise boundary would be difficult, if not impracticable. Mine 
 shall be an humbler task, which is, to give a specimen of what I 
 reckon overstrained hyperbole ; and I shall be brief upon them, be- 
 cause examples are to be found everywhere : no fault is more com- 
 mon among writers of inferior rank, and instances are found even 
 
 620. Capital fault The passion that i unsuitod to hyperbole. When bold thought of 
 nay tw rentarea
 
 FIGURES. 377 
 
 among classical writers : witness the following hyperbole, too bold 
 even for a Hotspur. 
 
 Hotspur talking of Mortimer : 
 
 In single opposition hand to hand, 
 
 He did confound the best part of an honr 
 
 In changing hardiment with great Glendowcr. 
 
 Three times they breathed, and three times did they drink, 
 
 Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood, 
 
 Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, 
 
 Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds, 
 
 And hid his crisp'd head in the hollow bank, 
 
 Blood-stained with these valiant combatant*. 
 
 First Part Henry IV. Act I. 8c. 4. 
 
 Speaking of Henry V. : 
 
 England ne'er had a kin? until his time : 
 
 Virtue he had deserving to command ; 
 
 His bran dish' d sword did blind men with his beams: 
 
 His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings ; 
 
 His sparkling eyes, replete with awful fire, 
 
 More dazzled, and drove back his enemies, 
 
 Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their face*. 
 
 What should I say ? his deeds exceed all speech ; 
 
 He never lifted up his hand, but conquer'd. 
 
 First Part Htnry VI. Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 Lastly, An hyperbole, after it is introduced with all advantages, 
 ought to be comprehended within the fewest words possible : as it 
 cannot be relished but in the hurry and swelling of the mind, a 
 leisurely view dissolves the charm, and discovers the description to 
 be extravagant at least, and perhaps also ridiculous. This fault is 
 palpable in a sonnet which passeth for one of the most complete in 
 the French language. Phillis, in a long and florid description, is 
 made as far to outshine the sun as he outshines the stars : 
 
 Le silence re"gnoit snr la terre ct sur 1'onde, 
 L'air devenoit serein et 1'Olympe vermeil, 
 Et 1'amonreux Zephir affranchi du sommeil, 
 Eessuscitoit les flcurs d'une haleine feconde, 
 L'Aurore ddployoit 1'or de sa tressc blonde, 
 Et semoit de ruois le chemin du soleil ; 
 Enfln ce Dien yenoit au plus grand appareil 
 Qu'il soit jamais verm pour ^clairer le inondc. 
 
 Quand la jeune Phillis au visage riant, 
 Sortant de son palais plus clair quo ronent. 
 Fit voir une lumiere et plus vive et plus belle 
 Sacre" flambeau du jour, n'en soyez point jaloux. 
 Vous parties alors aussi pen devant clle, 
 Quo les feux de la nuit avoient fait devant vous. 
 
 There is in Chaucer a thought expressed in a single line, which 
 gives more lustre to a young^beauty than the whole of this rnuch- 
 labored poem : 
 
 Up rose the sun, and up rose Emolie. 
 
 621. The natnrtl limits of hyperbole. In wlut word* to b eo*Ty*.
 
 878 FIGURES. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 The Means or Instrument conceived to be the Agent. 
 
 522. WHEN we survey a number of connected objects, that which 
 makes the greatest figure employs chiefly our attention ; and the 
 emotion it raises, if lively, prompts us even to exceed nature in the 
 conception we form of it. Take the following examples : 
 
 For Neleus' son Alcides' rage had slain. 
 A broken rock the force of Pirus threw. 
 
 In these instances, the rage of Hercules and the force of Pirus being 
 the capital circumstances, are so far exalted as to be conceived the 
 agents that produce the effects. 
 
 In the following instances, hunger being the chief circumstance in 
 the description, is itself imagined to be the patient : 
 
 Whose hunger has not tasted food these three days. Jane Shore. 
 
 As when the force 
 
 Of subterranean wind transports a hill. Paradise Lost. 
 
 As when the potent rod 
 
 Of Amram's son, in Egypt's evil day 
 
 Waved round the coast, upcall'd a pitchy cloud 
 
 Of locusts. Paradise Lett. 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 A Figure which, among Related Objects, extends the Properties of 
 one to another. 
 
 523. THIS figure is not dignified with a proper name, because it 
 has been overlooked by writers. It merits, however, a place in this 
 work ; and must be distinguished from those formerly handled, as 
 depending on a different principle. Giddy brink, jovial wine, daring 
 wound, are examples of this figure. Here are adjectives that cannot 
 be made to signify any quality of the substantives to which they are 
 joined : a brink, for example, cannot be termed giddy in a sense, 
 either proper or figurative, that can signify any of its qualities or 
 attributes. When we examine attentively the expression, we dis- 
 cover that a brink is termed giddy from producing that effect in 
 those who stand on it. In the same manner a wound is said to be 
 
 622. In surveying connected objects, what gains chief attention ? How tuo capital clr- 
 cams tan ces are sometimes e-c*ltod. Examples.
 
 FIGDRKS. 379 
 
 danng, not with respect to itself, but with respect to tlie boldnej* of 
 the person who inflicts it ; and wine is said to be jovial, as inspiring 
 mirth and jollity. Thus the attributes of one subject are extended 
 to another with which it is connected ; and the expression of such a 
 thought must be considered as a figure, because the attribute is not 
 applicable to the subject in any proper sense. 
 
 How are we to account for this figure, which we see lies in the 
 thought, and to what principle shall we refer it ? Have poet* a 
 privilege to alter the nature of things, and at pleasure to bestow at- 
 tributes upon a subject to which they do not belong? We have 
 had often occasion to inculcate that the mind passeth easily and 
 sweetly along a train of connected objects ; and where the objects 
 are intimately connected, that it is disposed to carry along the good 
 and bad properties of one to another, especially when it is in any 
 degree inflamed with these properties. (See chapter ii. part i. sec. 5.) 
 From this principle is derived the figure under consideration. Lan- 
 guage, invented for the communication of thought, would be imper- 
 fect if it were not expressive even of the slighter propensities and 
 more delicate feelings : but language cannot remain so imperfect 
 among a people who have received any polish ; because language is 
 regulated by Internal feeling, and is gradually improved to express 
 whatever passes in the mind. Thus, for example, when a sword in 
 the hand of a coward is termed a coward sword, the expression is 
 significative of an internal operation ; for the mind, in passing from 
 the agent to its instrument, is disposed to extend to the latter the 
 properties of the former. Governed by the same principle, we say 
 listening fear, by extending the attribute listening of the man who 
 listens to the passion with which he is moved. In the expression 
 bold deed, or audax facinus, we extend to the effect what properly 
 belongs to the cause. But not to waste time by making a com- 
 mentary upon every expression of this kind, the best way to give a 
 complete view of the subject, is to exhibit arable of the different 
 relations that may give occasion to this figure. And in viewing the 
 table, it will be observed that the figure can never have any grace 
 but where the relations are of the most intimate kind. 
 
 1. An attribute of the cause expressed as an attribute of the 
 effect 
 
 Audax facinus. 
 
 Of yonder fleet a bold discovery make. 
 
 An impious mortal gave the daring wound. 
 
 To my advtnturoKg song, 
 
 That with no middle flight intends to soar. Paradi* Loit. 
 
 2. An attribute of the effect expressed as an attribute of the 
 <*ause. 
 
 Quos periisso ambos misera ccnsebam in mari. 
 
 Ho wonder, fallen such a pernicuwt height Paradut lo*.
 
 380 FIGURES. 
 
 3. An effect expressed as an attribute of tae cause. 
 
 Jovial wine, Giddy brink, Drowsy night, Musiug midnight, Painting height, 
 Astonish'd thought, Mournful gloom. 
 
 Casting a dim religious light. Mlton, Camus. 
 
 And the merry bells ring round, 
 
 And the jocund rebecks sound. Milton, Allegro. 
 
 4. An attribute of a subject bestowed upon one of its parts or 
 
 members. 
 
 Longing arms. 
 
 It was the nightingale, and not the lark, 
 
 That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear. 
 
 Romeo and, Juliet, Act III. So. 7. 
 
 Oh, lay by 
 
 Those most ungentle locks and angry weapons ; 
 Unless you mean my griefs and killing fears 
 Should stretch me out at your relentless feet. 
 
 Fair Penitent, Act III. 
 
 And ready now 
 
 To stoop with wearied wing and willing feet, 
 On the We outside of this world. 
 
 Paradise Lost, b. iii. 
 
 5. A quality of the agent given to the instrument with which it 
 operates. 
 
 Why peep your coward swords half out their shells 1 
 
 6. An attribute of the agent given to the subject upon which it 
 operates. 
 
 High-climbing hill. Milton. 
 
 7. A quality of one subject given to another. 
 
 Icci, beatis nunc Arabum in%'ides 
 
 Gazis. Herat. Oarm. 1. 1. ode 29. . 
 
 "When sapless age, and weak unable limbs, 
 Should bring thy father to his drooping chair. Shakspear*. 
 
 By art, the pilot through the boiling deep 
 And howling tempest, steers the fearless ship. 
 
 Iliad, jnuii. 885. 
 
 Then, nothing loth, th' euamor'd fair he led, 
 
 And sunk transported on the conscious bed. Odyssey, via. 337. 
 
 A stupid moment motionless she stood. Summer, 1. 1836. 
 
 8. A circumstance connected with a subject, expressed as a 
 quality cf the subject. 
 
 Breezy summit. 
 
 'Tis ours the chance of fighting fields to try. Iliad, i. 801. 
 
 Oh ! had I died before that well-fvvglit wall. Odyssey, v. 395. 
 
 528 The expressioi s giddy IrinJc, jovial wine, daring wound, explained. How this 
 ajSre is to be accounted for Table cf the different relations that may gu-e occaitm to 
 this figure.
 
 FIGURES. 881 
 
 524. From this table it appears that the adorning & cause with 
 fcti attribute of the effect, is not so agreeable as tho opposite expres- 
 sion. The progress from cause to effect is natural and easy : the 
 opposite progress resembles retrograde motion (see chapter i.) ; and, 
 therefore, panting height, astonished thought, are strained and un- 
 couth expressions, which a writer of taste will avoid. 
 
 It is not less strained to apply to a subject in its present state, an 
 epithet that may belong to it in some future state : 
 
 Submersasqvt obrue puppes. ^Eneid, I. 73 
 
 And mighty ruins fall. Iliad, v. 41 1. 
 
 Impious sons their manyled fathers wound. 
 
 Another rule regards this figure, that the property of one subject 
 ought not to be bestowed upon another with which that property is 
 incongruous : 
 
 King Jtich. How daro thy joints forget 
 
 To pay their awful duty to our presence ? 
 
 Jtichard II. Act III. So. . 
 
 -The connection between an awful superior and his submissive de- 
 pendent is so intimate, that an attribute may readily be transferred 
 from the one to the other ; but awfulness cannot be so transferred, 
 because it is inconsistent with submission. 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 Metaphor and Allegory. 
 
 525. A METAPHOR differs from a simile in form only, not in sub- 
 stance : in a simile, the two subjects are kept distinct in the expres- 
 sion, as well as in the thought ; in a metaphor, the two subject* are 
 kept distinct in the thought only, not in the expression. A hero 
 resembles a lion, aud, upon that resemblance, many similes have 
 been raised by Homer and other poets. But instead of resembling 
 a lion, let us take the aid of the imagination, and feign or figure the 
 hero to be a lion : by that variation the simile is converted into a 
 metaphor ; which is earned on by describing all the qualities of a 
 lion that resemble those of the hero. The fundamental pleasure 
 here, that of resemblance, belongs to the thought. An addi 
 pleasure arises from the expression : the poet, by figuring his hero 
 to be a lion, goes on to describe the lion m appearance, but in re 
 ality the hero ; and his description is peculiarly beautiful, by c 
 pressing the virtues and qualities of the hero in new terms, which, 
 properly speaking, belong not to him but to the lion, 
 better be understood by examples. A family connecte 
 
 C24. Inference* from th bor t*bJ
 
 382 
 
 FIGUEK8. 
 
 common parent, resembles a tree, the trunk and branches of which 
 are connected with a common root : but let us suppose that a 
 family is figured, not barely to be like a tree, but to be a tree ; and 
 then the simile will be converted into a metaphor, in the following 
 manner : 
 
 Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one, 
 Were seven fair branches, springing from one root : 
 Some of these brandies by the dest nies cut : 
 But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Glo'ster, 
 One nourishing branch of his most royal root, 
 Is hack'd down, and his summer-leaves all faded, 
 By Envy's hand and Murder's bloody axe. 
 
 Richard II. Act I. So. 8. 
 Figuring human life to be a voyage at sea : 
 
 There is a tide in the affairs of men, 
 
 Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune 
 
 Omitted, all the voyage of their life 
 
 Is bound in shallows and in miseries. 
 
 On Buch a full sea are we now afloat, 
 
 And we must take the current while it serves, 
 
 Or lose our ventures. Julius Ccesar, Act IV. So. 5. 
 
 Figuring glory and honor to be a garland of flowers : 
 
 Hotspur. Would to heaven, 
 
 Thy name in arms were now as great as mine ! 
 
 Pr, Henry. I'll make it greater, ere I part from thee, 
 And all the budding honors on thy crest, 
 I'll crop, to make a garland for my head. 
 
 First Part Henry IV. Act V. Sc. 9. 
 
 Figuring a man who hath acquired great reputation and honor to 
 be a tree full of fruit : 
 
 Oh, boys, this story 
 
 The world may read in me : my body's mark'd 
 
 With Eoman swords ; and my report was once 
 
 First with the best of note. Cymbeline loved me ; 
 
 And when a soldier was the theme, my name 
 
 Was not far off: then was I as a tree, 
 
 Whose boughs did bend with fruit. But in one night, 
 
 A storm or robbery, call it what you will, 
 
 Shook down my mellow hangings, nay my leaves ; 
 
 And left me bare to weather. Cymbeline, Act III. Sc. 8. 
 
 Blessed be thy soul, thou king of shells, said Swaran of the dark-brown 
 shield. In peace thou art the gale of spring; in war, the mountain-storm. 
 Take now my hand in friendship, thou noble king of Morven. Finyal. 
 
 Thou dwellest in the soul of Melvina, son of mighty Ossian. My sighs arise 
 with the beam of the east ; my tears descend with the drops of night. I was 
 a lovely tree in thy presence, Oscar, with all my branches round me : but thy 
 death came like a blast from the desert, and laid my green head low: the 
 spring returned with its showers, but no leaf of mine arose. Ibid. 
 
 526. I am aware that the term metaphor has been used in a more 
 extensive sense than I give it ; but I thought it of consequence, in a 
 disquisition of some intricacy, to confine the term to its proper sense, 
 
 B. Illustrate the difference between metspbor tnd rtmll*.
 
 FIGURES. 388 
 
 and to separate from it things that are distinguished by different 
 names. An allegory differs from a metaphor, and what I would 
 choose to call a figure of speech, differs from both. I proceed to 
 explain these differences. A metaphor is defined above to be an 
 act of the imagination, figuring one thing to be another. An alle- 
 gory requires no such operation, nor is one thing figured to be an- 
 other : it consists in choosing a subject having properties or circum- 
 stances resembling those of the principal subject ; and the former in 
 described in such a manner as to represent the latter : the subject 
 . thus represented is kept out of view ; we are left to discover it by 
 reflection ; and we are pleased with the discover}*, because it is out 
 own work. Quintilian (L. viii. cap. vi. sec. 2) gives the following 
 instance of an allegory : 
 
 navis, referent in uiare te novi 
 
 Fluctus. quid agis ? fortiter occupa portum. 
 
 Horat. lib. i. ode 14. 
 
 and explains it elegantly in the following words : " Tot usque ille 
 Horatii locus, quo navim pro republica, fluctuum tempestates pro 
 bellis civilibus, portum pro pace, atque concordia dicit." 
 
 A finer or more correct allegory is not to be found than the fol- 
 lowing, in which a vineyard is made to represent God's own people, 
 the Jews : 
 
 Thou hast brought a vino out of Egypt ; thou hast en.it out the heathen, and 
 planted it. Thou didst cause it to take deep root, and it filled the land. The 
 hills were covered with its shadow, and the boughs thereof were like the goo 
 ly cedars. Why hast thou then broken down her hedges, so that all which 
 pass do pluck her? The boar out of the wood doth waste it, and the wil 
 beast doth devour it. Return, we beseech thee, God of hosts ; lo 
 from heaven, and behold and visit this vine, and the vineyard thy right hand 
 hath planted, and the branch thou madest strong for thyself. Ptalm Ixxx. 
 
 In a word, an allegory is in every respect similar to a hiero- 
 glyphical painting, excepting only that words are used instead of 
 colors. Their effects are precisely the same : a hieroglyphic raise 
 two images in the mind ; one seen, which represents one not seen 
 an allegoiy does the same : the representative subject is described ; 
 and resemblance leads us to apply the description to tho subject rep- 
 resented. In a figure of speech, there is no fiction of the imagina- 
 tion employed, as in a metaphor, nor a representative subject intro- 
 duced, as in an allegory. This figure, as its name implies, regardi 
 the expression only, not the thought; and it may be definefcthi 
 using a word in a sense different from what is proper to it. Thus 
 youth, or the beginning of life, is expressed figuratively by roormn? 
 of life : morning is the beginning of the day ; and m that view it is 
 employed to signify the beginning of any other series, hi uy t 
 
 the progress of which is reckoned by days. 
 
 526. Metaphor and allegory distinguished. Ewmples.-To whit u allor7 *<*>*' 
 Distinguish metaphor aiid allegory from a flpur of *i*ec6.
 
 FIGURES. 
 
 884 
 
 527. Figures of speech are reserved for a separate section ; but 
 metaphor and allegory are so much connected, that they must be 
 handled together ; the rules particularly for distinguishing the good 
 from the bad, are common to both. We shall therefore proceed to 
 these rules, after adding some examples to illustrate the nature of an 
 allegory : 
 
 Queen. Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss 
 But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. 
 What though the mast be now thrown overboard 
 The cable broke ? the holding anchor lost, 
 And half our sailors swallow'd in the flood; 
 Yet lives our pilot still. Is 't meet that he 
 Should leave the helm, and, like a fearful lad, 
 With tearful eyes, add water to the sea, 
 And give more strength to that which hath too much ; 
 While in his moan the ship splits on the rock, 
 Which industry and courage might have saved ? 
 Ah, what a shame ! ah, what a fault were this ! 
 
 Third Part Henry VI. Act V. Sc. 5. 
 
 Oropnoko. Ha ! thou hast roused 
 The lion in his den ; he stalks abroad, 
 And the wide forest trembles at his roar. 
 I find the danger now. Oroonoko, Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 My well-beloved hath a vineyard in a very fruitful hill. Ho fenced it, gath- 
 ered out the stones thereof, planted it with the choicest vines, built a tower in 
 the midst of it, and also made a wine-press therein : he looked that it should 
 bring forth grapes, and it brought forth wild grapes. And now, inhabitants 
 of Jerusalem, and men of Judah, judge, I pray you, betwixt me and my vine- 
 ?T Wbat could have ben done more to my vineyard, that I have not done ? 
 Wherefore, when I looked that it should bring forth grapes, brought it forth 
 wild grapes? And now go to; I will tell you what I will do to my vineyard: 
 I will take away the hedge thereof, and it shall be eaten up ; and break down 
 the wall thereof, and it shall be trodden down. And I will lay it waste : it 
 Bhall not be pruned nor digged, but there shall come up briers and thorns : I 
 will also command the clouds that they rain no rain upon it. For the vineyard 
 of the Lord of hosts is the house of Israel, and the men of Judah his pleasant 
 " lftn * Isaiah, v. 1. 
 
 The rules that govern metaphors and allegories are of two kinds : 
 the construction of these figures comes under the first kind ; the 
 propriety or impropriety of introduction comes under the other. I 
 begin with rules of the first kind; some of which coincide with 
 those already given for similes ; some are peculiar to metaphors and 
 allegories. 
 
 And, in th,j first place, it has been observed, that a simile cannot 
 be agreeable where the resemblance is either too strong or too faint. 
 This holds equally in metaphor and allegory ; and the reason is the 
 same in all. In the following instances, the resemblance is too faint 
 to be agreeable : 
 
 He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause 
 
 Within the belt of rule. Hacbefh, Act V. Sc. 2. 
 
 There is no resemblance between a distempered cause and any body 
 that can be confined within a belt
 
 FIGURES. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Steep me in poverty to the very lips. Otlullo, Act IV. Sc. 9. 
 
 Poverty here must be conceived a fluid, which it resembles not in 
 any manner. 
 
 Speaking to Bohugbroke banished for six years : 
 
 The sullen passage of thy weary steps 
 Esteem a foil, wherein thou art to set 
 
 The precious jewel of thy homo-return. Richard II. Act I. Sc. . 
 Again : 
 
 Here's a letter, lady. 
 
 And every word in" it a gaping wound 
 
 Issuing life-blood. Merchant of Venice, Act III. Sc. 8. 
 
 Tantse molis erat Romanam condere gentem. jnid, i. 37. 
 
 The following Aetaphor is strained beyond all endurance , Timur- 
 bec, known to us by the name of Tamerlane the Great, writes to 
 Bajazet, emperor of the Ottomans, in the following terms : 
 
 Where is the monarch who dares resist us ? where is the potentate who doth 
 not glory in being numbered among our attendants ? AB lor thee, descended 
 from a Turcoman sailor, since the vessel of thy unbounded ambition hath been 
 wreck'd in the gulf of thy self-love, it would bo proper, that thou shouldst take 
 in the sails of tny_ temerity, and cast the anchor ot repentance in the port of 
 sincerity and justice, which is the port of safety; lest the tempest of our ven- 
 geance make thee perish in the sea of the punishment thou deserves!. 
 
 Such strained figures, as observed above (chapter xix., Comparisons), 
 are not unfrequent in the first dawn of refinement ; the mind in a 
 new enjoyment knows no bounds, and is generally carried to i TCOM, 
 till taste and experience discover the proper limits. 
 
 Secondly, Whatever resemblance subjects may have, it is wrong 
 to put one for another, where they bear no. mutual proportion; 
 upon comparing a very high to a very low subject, the simile takes 
 on an air of burlesque ; and the same will be the effect where the 
 one is imagined to be the other, as in a metaphor; or made to 
 represent the other, as in an allegory. 
 
 Thirdly, These figures, a metaphor especially, ought not to be 
 crowded with many minute circumstances ; for in that case it is 
 scarcely possible to avoid obscurity. A metaphor above all ought 
 to be short : it is difficult for any time to support a lively imago of 
 a thing being what we know it is not ; and for that reason, a meta- 
 phor drawn out to any length, instead of illustrating or enlivening the 
 principal subject, becomes disagreeable by over-straining the mind. 
 Here Cowley is extremely licentious ; take the following instance : 
 
 Great and wise conqueror, who where'er 
 Thou com'st. doth fortify, and settle thero ! 
 Who canst defend as well as get, 
 And never haJst one quarter beat up yet; 
 
 527. Examples of Allegory. Two kinds of rales of ni*Uphor and allegory, lit A* t 
 degree of resemblance. 20. As tc proiH>rti-<n. 8J. As to circumstances. 
 
 i
 
 386 FIGURES. 
 
 Now thou art in, thou ne'er wilt part 
 
 With one inch of my vanquish'd heart: 
 For since thou took'st it by assault from me, 
 'Tis garrison' d so strong with thoughts of thee, 
 
 It fears no beauteous enemy. 
 
 For the same reason, however agreeable long allegories may at first 
 be by their novelty, they never afford any lasting pleasure ; witness 
 the Fairy Queen, which with great power of expression, variety ol 
 images, and melody of versification, is scarce ever read a second time. 
 528 In the fourth place, the comparison earned on in a simile, 
 being in a metaphor sunk by imagining the principal subject to be 
 that very thing which it only resembles; an opportunity is furnished 
 to describe it in terms taken strictly or literally with respect to its 
 imagined nature. This suggests another rule, that in constructing 
 a metaphor, the writer ought to make use of such w^'ds only as are 
 applicable literally to the imagined nature of his subject: figurative 
 Words ought carefully to be avoided ; for such complicated figures, 
 instead of setting the principal subject in a strong light involve it m 
 a cloud : and it is well if the reader, without rejecting by the lump, 
 endeavor patiently to gather the plain meaning regard 
 
 figures : 
 
 A stubborn and unconquerable flame 
 
 Creeps in his veins, and drinks the streams of life. 
 
 Lady Jane Gray, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 Copied from Ovid, 
 
 Sorbent avidte praecordia flammse. Metamorph. lib. ix. 172. 
 Let us analyze this expression. That a fever may be imagined a 
 flame, I admit ; though more than one step is necessary to come at 
 the resemblance : a fever, by heating the body, resembles fire ; and 
 it is no stretch to imagine a fever to be a fire : again, by a figure c 
 speech, flame may be put for fire, because they are commonly con- 
 joined and therefore a fever may be termed a flame. But now 
 admitting a fever to be a flame, its effects ought to be explained 
 words that agree literally to a flame. This rule is not observed 
 here ; for a flame drinks figuratively only, not properly. 
 King Henry to his son, Prince Henry : 
 
 Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts, 
 
 Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart 
 
 To stab at half an hour ^JJ^ /F . Act IV . Sc . n . 
 
 Such faulty metaphors are pleasantly ridiculed in the Rehearsal : 
 
 Pliysitian. Sir, to conclude, the place you fill has more ^&'E'& 
 the talents of a wary pilot; and all these threatening storm %^hlike im- 
 pregnate clouds, ho/er o'er our heads, will, when they once ^e grasped but by 
 the eye of reason, melt into fruitful showers of blessings on the people. 
 
 Bayes. Pray mark that allegory. Is not that good ? , . 
 
 Johnson. Yes, that grasping of a storm with the eye is admirable^ 
 
 Act II. Sc.1. 
 
 62S. Tlae 
 
 sort >f words to be employed in coustructing a metaphor
 
 FIGURES. 387 
 
 529. Fifthly, The jumbling different metaphors in the same sen- 
 tence, beginning with one metaphor and ending with another, com- 
 monly called a mixed metaphor, ought never to be indulged. Quin- 
 tilian bears testimony against it in the bitterest terms ; " Nam id 
 quoque in primis est custodiendum, ut quo ex genere coeperis trans- 
 lationis, hoc desinas. Multi enim, cum initium a tempestate surnpse- 
 runt, iucendio aut ruina finiunt : qua; est inconsequentia rerum 
 fcedissima." L. viii. cap. vi. sect. 2. ' 
 
 K. Henry, Will you again unknit 
 
 This churlish knot of all a"bhorred war, 
 And move in that obedient orb again, 
 Where you did give a fair and natural light ? 
 
 First Part Henry F/.'Act V. Sc. 1. 
 
 Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 
 
 The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
 
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
 
 And by opposing, end them. Hamlet, Act III. Sc. 2. 
 
 In the sixth place, It is unpleasant to join different metaphors in 
 the same period, even where they are preserved distinct ; for when 
 the subject is imagined to be first one thing and then another, in the 
 same period without interval, the mind is distracted by the rapid 
 transition ; and when the imagination is put on such hard duty, its 
 images are too faint to produce any good effect : 
 
 At regina gravl jamdudum saucia cnra, 
 
 Vulnus alit venis, et caeco carpitur igni. ^fneid, iv. 1. 
 
 Est mollis flamma medullas 
 
 Interea, et taciturn vivit sub pectore vulnus. ^EntiJ, iv. 68. 
 
 Motum ex Metcllo consule civicum, 
 Bellique causas, et vitia, et modos, 
 Ludutnfjne fortunro, gravcsque 
 Principum arnicitias, et anna 
 Nondum cxpiatis uncta cruoribua, 
 Periculosae plenum opus aleas, 
 Tractas, ot incedis per ignea 
 Subpositos cineri doloso. Horat. Carm. 1. ii. ode 1. 
 
 530. In the last place, It is still worse to jumble together meta- 
 phorical and natural expression, so as that the period must be un- 
 derstood in part metaphorically, in part literally ; for the imagina- 
 tion cannot follow with sufficient ease changes so sudden and 
 unprepared : a metaphor begun and not carried on hath no beauty ; 
 and instead of light there is nothing but obscurity and confusion. 
 Instances of such incorrect composition are without number. I 
 shall, for a specimen, select a few from different authors. 
 
 529. ThejumbHnz of different metaphors in sentence. TUe Joining of dlftrrnt m*U- 
 pbors, though distinct, in the lauie period.
 
 388 FIGURES. 
 
 Speaking of Britain, 
 
 This precious stono set in the sea, 
 Which serves it in the office of a wall, 
 Or as a moat defensive to a house 
 Against the envy of less happier lands. 
 
 Richard II. Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 In the firsi line Britain is figured to be a precious stone : in the fol- 
 lowing lines, Britain, divested of her metaphorical dress, is presented 
 to the reader in her natural appearance. 
 
 These growing feathers, pluck' d from Csssar's wing, 
 Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, 
 "Who else would soar above the view of men, 
 And keep us all in servile fearfulness. 
 
 Julias Ccesar, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 The following is a miserable jumble of expressions, arising from an 
 unsteady view of the subject, between its figurative and natural 
 appearance : 
 
 But now from gathering clouds destruction pours, 
 Which ruins with mad ruge our haloyon hours : 
 Mists from black jealousies the tempest forms, 
 Whilst late divisions reinforce the storm. 
 
 Dispensary, canto iii. 
 
 To thee, the world its present homage pays, 
 The harvest early, but mature the praise. 
 
 Pope's Imitation of Horace, b. ii. 
 
 Dryden, in his dedication of the translation of Juvenal, says. 
 
 When thus, as I may say, before the use of the loadstone, or knowledge of 
 the compass, I was sailing in a vast ocean, without other help than the pole- 
 Btar of the ancients, and the rules of the French stage among the moderns, &c. 
 
 [Upon this sentence Prof. Barren remarks : Every reader must 
 feel the incoherence of the transition from the figurative expression 
 in " the polar star of the ancients," to the literal phraseology, " the 
 rules of the French stage among the moderns," and the inconsis- 
 tency of pretending to navigate the ocean by the laws of the 
 theatre. 
 
 The author of the Rehearsal has, with much poignancy, ridi- 
 culed such incongruous figures : " ' Sir, to conclude, the place you 
 fill has more than amply exacted the talents of a wary pilot ; and 
 all these threatening storms, which, like impregnate clouds, hang 
 over our heads, will, when they are once grasped by the eye of 
 reason, melt into fruitful showers of blessings on the people.' ' Pray 
 mark that allegory. Is not that good ?' says Mr. Bayes. ' Yes,' 
 replies Mr. Johnson, ' that grasping of a storm by the eye is admira- 
 ble.' "Earrorfs Lect.] 
 
 This fault of jumbling the figure and plain expression into one 
 confused mass, is not less common in allegory than in metaphor. 
 Take the following examples : 
 
 lieu ! quoties fidem, 
 
 Mutatosque Deos flobit, et uspera 
 Nigris aequonv ventis
 
 FIGURES. 389 
 
 Emirabitur insolens, 
 Qui mine to fruitur credulns aurea: 
 Qui semper vacuam, nctnpcr amabilem 
 
 Sperat, nescius aurte 
 
 Fallacis. Jlorat. Carm. \. i. hie 1. 
 
 Pour moi yur cette mer, qu'ici has nons courons, 
 Jo sonpe a me pourvoir d'eaquif et d'nvirons, 
 A regler mes desire, a prdvenir Torage, 
 Et sauver, s'il se pent, ma Ruison du naufrnpc. 
 
 u, Epltro v. 
 
 [" There is a time," observes Lord Bolingbroke, " when factions, 
 by the vehemence of their fermentation, stun and disable one an- 
 other." The author represents factious, first, as discordant fluids, 
 the mixture of which produces violent fermentation ; but he quickly 
 relinquishes this view 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 forci- 
 ble collisions. 
 
 " Those whose minds are dull and heavy," according to Swift, 
 " do not easily penetrate into the folds and intricacies of an affair, 
 and therefore can only scum off what they find at the top." That 
 the writer had a right to represent his affair, whatever it was, cither 
 as a bale of cloth or a fluid, ncbody 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 plia- 
 ble solid body, to speak of scumming off what floated on the sur- 
 faclf which could not be performed unless it was a fluid. Barron, 
 Lect. 17.] 
 
 531. A few words more upon allegory. Nothing gives greater 
 pleasure than this figure, when the representative subject bears 
 a strong analogy, in all its circumstances, to that which is re- 
 presented : but the choice is seldom so lucky ; the analogy being 
 generally so faint and obscure, as to puzzle and not please. An 
 allegory is still more difficult in painting than in poetry : the former 
 can >liow no resemblance but what appears to the eye ; the latter 
 hath many other resources for showing the resemblance. And 
 therefore, with respect to what the Abbe du Bos (Reflections tur la 
 Poesie, vol. i. sect. 24) terms mixed allegorical compositions, those 
 may do in poetry ; because, in writing, the allegory can easily be 
 distinguished from the historical part : no person, for example, mis- 
 takes Virgil's Fame for a real being. But siu h a mixture i 
 picture is intolerable; because in a picture the objects must appear 
 all of the same kind, wholly real or wholly emblematical. 
 
 In an allegory, as well as" in a metaphor, terms ought to be clu 
 
 580. The jumbling of metaphorical and natural t.Tpwwlon. Example tnm *>U*trk 
 
 and Swift
 
 390 FIFURES. 
 
 that properly and literally are applicable to the representative sub- 
 ject ; nor ought any circumstance to be added that is not proper to 
 the representative subject, however justly it may be applicable pro- 
 perly or figuratively to the principal. The following allegory is 
 therefore faulty : 
 
 Ferus et Cupido, 
 Semper ardentes acuens sagittas 
 
 Cote cruenta. Horat. 1. ii. ode 8. 
 
 For though blood may suggest the cruelty of love, it is an improper 
 or immaterial circumstance in the representative subject : water, not 
 blood, is proper for a whetstone. 
 
 532. We proceed to the next head, which is, to examine in what 
 circumstance these figures are proper, in what improper. This in- 
 quiry is not altogether superseded by what is said to be the same 
 subject in the chapter of Comparisons ; because upon trial it will be 
 found that a short metaphor or allegory may be proper, where a 
 simile, drawn out to a greater length, and in its nature more solemn, 
 would scarce be relished. 
 
 And first, a metaphor, like a simile, is excluded from common 
 conversation, and from the description of ordinary incidents. 
 
 Second, in expressing any severe passion that wholly occupies the 
 mind, metaphor is improper. For which reason the following speech 
 of Macbeth is faulty : 
 
 Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more ! 
 
 Macbeth doth murder sleep ; the innocent sleep ; 
 
 Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of Care, 
 
 The birth of each day's life, sore Labor's bath, 
 
 Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course, <Q 
 
 Chief nourisher in Life's feast. Act II. Sc. 3. 
 
 The following example of deep despair, besides the highly figurative 
 style, hath more the air of raving than of sense : 
 
 Callsta. It is the voice of thunder, or my father? 
 Madness ! Confusion ! let the storm come on, 
 Let the tumultuous roar drive all upon me, 
 Dash my devoted bark ; ye surges, break it ; 
 'Tis for my ruin that the 'tempest rises, 
 When I am lost, sunk to the bottom low, 
 Peace shall return, and all be calm again. Fair Penitent, Act IV. 
 
 The metaphor I next introduce is sweet and lively, but it suits not 
 a fiery temper inflamed with passion : parables are not the language 
 of wrath venting itself without restraint. 
 
 Ohamont. You took her up a little tender flower, 
 Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost 
 Had nipp'd ; and with a careful loving hand, 
 Transplanted her into your own fair garden, 
 Where the sun always shines: there^long she flourish'd, 
 
 681. When allegory gives great pleasure. More difficult in painting than in poetry. 
 Choice of terms in allegory. Circumstancea 
 632 When those figures are proper and when improper
 
 FIGURES. 891 
 
 Grew sweet to sense and lovely to the eyo, 
 
 Till at the last a cruel spoiler came, 
 
 Cropt this fair rose, and rifled all ita sweetness, 
 
 Then oast it like a loathsome weed away. Orphan, Act IV. 
 
 The following speech, full of imagery, is not natural in grief and 
 dejection of mind : 
 
 O my son ! from the blind dotage 
 
 Of a father's fondness these ills arose. 
 For thce I've been ambitious, base, and bloody 
 For-thee I've plunged into the sea of sin ; 
 Stemming the tide with only one weak hand, 
 While t'other bore the crown (to wreathe thy brow), 
 Whose weight has sunk me ere I reach'd the shore. , 
 
 Mourning Jiridf, Act V. Sc. ft 
 
 533. There is an enchanting picture of deep distress in Macbeth 
 (Act IV. Sc. 6), where Macduff is represented lamenting his wife 
 and children, inhumanly murdered by the tyrant Stung to the 
 heart with the news, he questions the messenger over and over ; not 
 that he doubted the fact, but that his heart revolted against so cruel 
 a misfortune. After struggling some time with his grief, he turns 
 from his wife and children to their savage butcher ; and then gives 
 vent to his resentment, but still with manliness and dignity : 
 
 0, 1 could phiy the woman with mine eyes, 
 
 And braggart with my tongue. But, gentle Heaven ! 
 
 Cut short all intermission ; front to front 
 
 Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; 
 
 Within rny sword's length set him. If he 'scape, 
 
 Then Heaven forgive him too. 
 
 The whole scene is a delicious picture of nuunan nature. One ex- 
 pression only seems doubtful ; in examining the messenger, Macduff 
 expresses himself thus : 
 
 He hath no children all my pretty ones ! 
 Did you Bay all ? what, all ? Oh, hell-kite, all I 
 What! all my pretty little chickens and their dam, 
 At one fell swoop ! 
 
 Metaphorical expression, I am sensible, may sometimes be used with 
 grace, where a regular simile would be intolerable ; but then 
 situations so severe and dispiriting, as not to admit even the slight, 
 metaphor. It requires great delicacy of taste to determine with fii 
 ness, whether the present case IK? of that kind : I incline to thirfl 
 is; and yet I would not willingly alter a single word of this ad- 
 mirable scene. 
 
 But metaphorical language is proper when a man st 
 bear with dignity or decency a misfortune however great; 
 gle agitates and animates the mind ; 
 
 Wolsey. Farewell, a long farewell, to all mv gretnes ! 
 This is the state of man ; to-day he puU fo: 
 
 638. Picture of distress from Jfoci (^-Instances vrher* meUphorioU xf<***
 
 392 FIGURES. 
 
 The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, 
 
 And bears his blushing honors thick upon him ; 
 
 The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 
 
 And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
 
 His greatness is a ripening, nips his root, 
 
 And then he falls as I do. Henry VIII. Act III. So. 6. 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 Figure of Speech. 
 
 534. IN the section immediately foregoing, a figure of speech is 
 defined, " The using a word in a sense different from what is proper 
 to it ;" and the new or uncommon sense of the word is termed the 
 figurative sense. The figurative sense must have a relation to that 
 which is proper ; and the more intimate the relation is, the figure is 
 the more happy. How ornamental this figure is to language, will 
 not be readily imagined by any one who hath not given peculiar 
 attention ; and therefore I shall endeavor to unfold its capital beauties 
 and advantages. In the first place, a Avord used figuratively or in a 
 new sense, suggests at the same time the sense it commonly bears ; 
 and thus it has the effect to present two objects ; one signified by 
 the figurative sense, which may be termed, the principal object ; and 
 one signified by the proper sense, which may be termed accessory : 
 the principal makes a part of the thought ; the accessory is merely 
 ornamental. In this respect, a figure of speech is precisely similar 
 to concordant sounds in music, which, without contributing to the 
 melody, make it harmonious. I explain myself by examples. 
 Youth, by a figure of speech, is termed the morning of life This 
 expression signifies youth, the principal object, which enters into the 
 thought ; it suggests, at the same time, the proper sense of morning, 
 and this accessory object, being in itself beautiful, and connected by 
 resemblance to the principal object, is not a little ornamental. Im- 
 perious ocean is an example of a different kind, where an attribute is 
 expressed figuratively : together with stormy, the figurative meaning 
 of the epithet imperious, there is suggested its proper meaning, viz., 
 the stern authority of a despotic prince ; and these two are strongly 
 connected by resemblance. 
 
 535. In the next place, this figure possesses a signal power of 
 aggrandizing an object, by the following means : Words which 
 have no original beauty but what arises from their sound, acquire an 
 adventitious beauty from their meaning : a word signifying any thing 
 that is agreeable, becomes by that means agreeable ; for the agreea- 
 bleness of the object is communicated to its name. (See chapter ii. 
 part i. sec. 5.) This acquired beauty, by the force of custom, ad- 
 
 584. The figurative sense. To what It mnst bear a close relation. Two objects pre- 
 K'utcd Examples. Youth, the morning of life.
 
 tIGURKS. 393 
 
 heres to the word even when used figuratively ; and the beauty 
 received from the thing it properly signifies, is communicated to the 
 thing which it is made to signify figuratively. Consider the fore- 
 going expression, imperious ocean, how much more elevated it ia 
 than stormy ocean. 
 
 Thirdly, This figure ha/h a happy effect by preventing the famili- 
 arity of proper names. The familiarity of a proper name is com- 
 municated to the thing it signifies by means of their intimate con- 
 nection ; and the thing is therefore brought down in our feeling. 
 This bad effect is prevented by using a figurative word instead of 
 one that is proper ; as, for example, when we express the sky by 
 terming it the blue vault of heaven ; for though no work of art can 
 compare with the sky in grandeur, the expression however is rel- 
 ished, because it prevents the object from being brought down by 
 the familiarity of its proper name. 
 
 Lastly, By this figure language is enriched, and rendered more 
 copious ; in which respect, were there no other, a figure of speech 
 is a happy invention. This property is finely touched by Vida : 
 
 Quinetiam agricolas ca fnndi nota voluptas 
 Exercet, dum lacta ae^es, duin trudcre jrenimas 
 Incipinnt vites, sitientiaque setheris inibrem 
 Prata bibunt, ridentque satis snr?entibni agri. 
 Hanc vulgo speciem propriffi penuria vocis 
 Intulit, indictisque urgens in rebus egestas. 
 Quippe ubi ee vera ostcndebant nomina nusquam, 
 Fas erat hinc atquc hinc trunaferre simillima veri*. 
 
 Poet. lib. iii. 1. 0. 
 
 The beauties I have mentioned belong to every figure of speech. 
 Several other beauties, peculiar to one or other sort, I shall have 
 occasion to remark afterwards. 
 
 536. Not only subjects, but qualities, actions, effects, may be ex- 
 pressed figuratively. Thus as to subject, the gates of breath for the 
 lips, the watery kingdom for the ocean. As to qualities, ferct for 
 stormy, in the expression Fierce winter : Altus for profundus ; 
 Altus puteus, Altum mare : Breathing for perspiring ; Brcathiny 
 plants. Again, as to actions, The sea rages; Time will melt her frozen 
 thoughts ;"Time kills grief. 'An effect is put for the cmise, ;w lux 
 for the sun ; and a cause for the effect, as bourn Inbores for corn. 
 The relation of resemblance is one plentiful source of figures of 
 speech, and nothing is more common than to apply to one object 
 the name of another that resembles it in any respect ; height, size, 
 and worldly greatness, resemble not each other ; but the emotions 
 they produce resemble each other, and, prompted by this resem- 
 blance, we naturally express worldly greatness by height or * 
 one feels a certain uneasiness in seeing a great depth ; nnd I 
 depth is made to express any thing disagreeable by excess, w 
 
 68ft. By what means tliis flgnro aggrandizes n object How tb!i figure ha* happy 
 effect Its influence on lnguag. 

 
 394 FIGURES. 
 
 of grief, depth of despair. Again, height of place, and time long 
 past, produce similar feelings, and hence the expression, Ut altius 
 repetam : distance in past time, producing a strong feeling, is put for 
 any strong feeling, Nihil mihi antiquius nosira amicitia : shortness 
 with relation to space, for shortness with relation to time, Brevis esse 
 laboro, obscurus fio : suffering a punishment resembles paying a 
 debt ; hence pcndere pocnas. In the same manner, light may be 
 put for glory, sunshine for prosperity, and weight for importance. 
 
 537. Many words, originally figurative, having by long and con- 
 stant use lost their figurative power, are degraded to the inferior rank 
 of proper terms. Thus the words that express the operations of the 
 mind, haye in all languages beeu originally figurative : the reason 
 holds in all, that when these operations came first under consideration, 
 there was no other way of describing them but by what they resem- 
 bled : it was not practicable to give them proper names, as may be 
 done to objects that can be ascertained by sight and touch. A soft 
 nature, jarring tempera, weight of wpe, pompous phrase, beget com- 
 passion, assuage grief, break a vow, bend the eye downward, shower 
 down curses, drowned in teal's, wrapt in joy, warmed with eloquence, 
 loaded with spoils, and a thousand other expressions of the like 
 nature, have lost their figurative sense. Some terms there are that 
 cannot be said to be either altogether figurative or altogether proper : 
 originally figurative, they are tending to simplicity, without having 
 lost altogether their figurative power. Virgil's Regina saucia cura, 
 is perhaps one of these expressions : with ordinary readers, saucia 
 will be considered as expressing simply the effect of grief; but one 
 of a lively imagination will exalt the phrase into a figure. 
 
 ["There is," says Dr. Mark Hopkins, " a natural correspondence 
 between every state of the mind and some aspect, or movement, or 
 voice of animate or inanimate nature. How extensive and minute 
 this correspondence is, will perhaps be best seen if we observe how 
 that part of human language originates which is employed to ex- 
 press the affections of the mind. It is a received doctrine among 
 men learned in this department, that all words of this description 
 had first a meaning purely physicaj, and that this meaning was 
 afterwards transferred to express some affection of the mind analo- 
 gous to the physical condition or act. Whether this is strictly and 
 universally true or not, it certainly is true that the great mass of 
 words of this description are thus formed ; and if so, then it will 
 follow, that for every mental state, act, or affection, which we win 
 express in words, there must be some analogous state, act, or affec- 
 tion in the physical world. Who then can sufficiently admire that 
 adjustment and correlation of parts by which mind and matter 
 almost seem to be a part of one organization ******* 
 
 636. What, besides subjects, may be expressed figuratively. Examples. Whea the nam 
 of one object may bo applied t<- another.
 
 KIGUKKH. 395 
 
 "Perhaps one reason (for this correspondence) is to be found in 
 what has already been referred to the necessity of this for the for- 
 mation of language. I would not limit the resources of God but 
 constituted as the human faculties now are, it would seem ueceiaif 
 if they were to be fully developed, that words originally applicable 
 to natural objects should be capable of being transferred RO asto ex- 
 press the whole range of thought and emotion, and this would be 
 impossible without the correspondence of which I have spoken. As 
 it is, we speak of the light of knowledge, and the darkness of igno- 
 rance, and the sunshine of joy, and the night of grief, and the 
 storms of passion, and the devious paths of error, and the pitfalls of 
 vice ; and we scarcely reflect that we are speaking in figures, or that 
 the flowers of rhetoric, not less than the flowers of the field, have 
 their origin in a material soil. Constituted as man now is, we do 
 not see how he could have been furnished with the symbols of 
 thought^ the materials of language, in any other way."] 
 
 For epitomizing this subject, and at the same time for giving a 
 clear view of it, I cannot think of a better method than to present to 
 the reader a list of the several relations upon which figures of speech 
 are commonly founded. This list I divide into two tables : one of 
 subjects expressed figuratively, and one of attributes. 
 
 FIRST TABLE. 
 Subjects expressed figuratively. 
 
 538. 1. A word proper to one subject employed figuratively to 
 express a resembling subject. 
 
 There is no figure of speech so frequent as what is derived from 
 the relation of resemblance. Youth, for example, is signified figura- 
 tively by the morning of life. The life of a man resembles a natural 
 day in several particulars ; the morning is the beginning of day, 
 youth the beginning of life ; the morning is cheerful, so is youth, A*o. 
 By another resemblance, a bold warrior is U-nned the thundtrbolt 
 of war ; a multitude of troubles, a sea of troubles. 
 
 This figure, above all others, affords pleasure to the mind by 
 variety of beauties. Besides the beauties above mentioned, common 
 to. all sorts, it possesses in particular the beauty of a metaphor or of 
 a simile : a figure of speech built upon resemblance, suggest* always 
 a comparison between the principal subject and the accessor}* ; 
 whereby every good effect of a metaphor or simile, may, in a very 
 short and lively manner, be produced by this figure of speech. 
 
 2. A word proper to the effect employed figuratively to exprea* 
 the cause. 
 
 687. Word* thtt b:\ve lost their fljnrmttrp !*>* Etmpt.
 
 396 FIGURES. 
 
 Lux for the sun. Shadow for cloud. A helmet is signified by 
 the expression glittering terror. A tree by shadow or umbrage. 
 Hence the expression : 
 
 Nee habet Pclion umbras. Ovid. 
 
 Where the dun umbrage hangs. Spring, 1. 1028. 
 A wound is made to signify an arrow : 
 
 Vulnere non pedibns te consequar. Ovid. 
 
 There is a peculiar force and beauty in this figure : the word 
 which signifies figuratively the principal subject, denotes it to be a 
 cause by suggesting the effect. 
 
 3. A word proper to the cause, employed figuratively to express 
 the effect. 
 
 Boumque labores, for corn. Sorrow or grief, for tears. 
 
 Again, Ulysses veil'd his pensive head ; 
 Again, unmann'd, a shower of sorrow shed. 
 
 Streaming Grief his faded cheek bedew'd. 
 Blindness for darkness : 
 
 Csecis erramus in undis. ^Kneid, iii. 200. 
 
 There is a peculiar energy in this figure, similar to that in the 
 former : the figurative name denotes the subject to be an effect, by 
 suggesting its cause. 
 
 4. Two things being intimately connected, the proper name of the 
 one employed figuratively to signify the other. 
 
 Day for light. Night for darkness : and hence, A sudden night. 
 Winter for a storm at sea : 
 
 Interea magno misceri murmure ponturn, 
 Emissarnque Hyemem sensit Neptunus. ^Eneid, i. 128. 
 
 This last figure would be too bold for a British writer, as a storm 
 at sea is not inseparably connected with winter in this climate. 
 
 5. A word proper to an attribute, employed figuratively to denote 
 the subject. 
 
 Youth and beauty for those who are young and beautiful : 
 
 Youth and beauty shall be laid in dust. 
 Majesty for the King : 
 
 What art thou, that nsurp'st this time of night, 
 
 Together with that fair and warlike form, 
 
 In which the Majesty of buried Denmark 
 
 Did sometimes march ? Hamlet, Act I. So. 1. 
 
 -Or have ye chosen this place 
 
 After the toils of battle to repose 
 
 Your wearied virtue. Paradise Lost. 
 
 Verdure for a green field. Summer, 1. 801.
 
 FIGURES. 397 
 
 Speaking of cranes : 
 
 The pigmy nations, wounds and death they bring, 
 And all tho tear descends ujon the wing. Iliad, iii. 10. 
 
 Cool age advances venerably wise. Iliad, iii. 148. 
 
 The peculiar beauty of this figure arises from suggesting an attri- 
 bute that embellishes the subject, or puts it in a stronger light. 
 
 6. A complex term employed figuratively to denote one of the 
 component parts. 
 
 Funus for a dead body. Burial for a grave. 
 
 7. The name of one of the component parts instead of the com- 
 plex term. 
 
 Tceda for a marriage. The East for a country situated east from 
 us. Jovis vestigia servat, for imitating Jupiter in general. 
 
 8. A word signifying time or place, employed figuratively to de- 
 note what is connected with it. 
 
 Clime for a nation, or for a constitution of government ; hnce 
 the expression Merciful clime, fleecy winter for snow, Seculum 
 felix. 
 
 9. A part for the whole. 
 
 The Pole for the earth. The head for the person : 
 
 Triginta minas pro cupite tuo dedi. Plautut. 
 
 Tergum for the man : 
 
 Fugiens tergum. Orid. 
 
 Vultus for the man : 
 
 Jam fulgor armornm fugaces 
 
 Terret equos, equitumque vultu?. Horat. 
 
 Quis desiderio sit pudor nut modus 
 
 Tain chari capitis t Horat, 
 
 Dumque virent genua t Horat. 
 
 Thy growing virtues justified my cares, 
 
 And promised comfort to my silver hairs. Iliad, ix. 616. 
 
 Forthwith from tho pool he rears 
 
 His mighty stature. Faradi* Latt, 
 
 The silent heart with grief assails. ParntU, 
 
 The peculiar beauty of this figure consists in marking that part 
 which makes the greatest figure. 
 
 10. The name of the container, employed figuratively to signify 
 what is contained. 
 
 Grove for the birds in it, Vocal grove. Ships for the seamen, 
 Agonizing ships. Mountains for the sheep pasturing upon them. 
 Bleating mountains. Zacynthus, Ithaca, <fec., for the inhabitants. 
 Ex mcestis domibus, Livy. 
 
 11. The name of tho sustainer, employed figuratively to signify 
 what is sustained.
 
 398 FIGURES. 
 
 Altar for the sacrifice, field for the battle fought upon it, Well- 
 fought field. 
 
 12. The name of the materials, employed figuratively to signify 
 the things made of them. 
 
 ferrum for gladius. 
 
 13. The names of the heathen deities, employed figuratively to 
 signify what they patronize. 
 
 Jove for the air, Mars for war, Venus for beauty, Cupid for love, 
 Ceres for corn, Neptune for the sea, Vulcan for fire. 
 
 The figure bestows great elevation upon the subject ; and there- 
 fore ought to be confined to the higher strains of poetiy. 
 
 SECOND TABLE. 
 
 Attributes expressed figuratively. 
 
 539. When two attributes are connected, the name of the one 
 may be employed figuratively to express the other. 
 
 1. Purity and virginity are attributes of the same person: hence the 
 expression, Virgin snow, for pure snow. 
 
 2. A word signifying properly an attribute of one subject, em- 
 ployed figuratively to express a resembling attribute of another 
 subject 
 
 Tottering state. Imperious ocean. Angry flood. Raging tem- 
 pest. Shallow fears. 
 
 My sure divinity shall bear the shield, 
 
 And edge thy sword to reap the glorious field. 
 
 Odyssey, xx. 61. 
 
 Black omen, for an omen that portends bad fortune. 
 Ater odor. Virgil, 
 
 The peculiar beauty of this figure arises from suggesting a com- 
 parison. 
 
 3. A word proper to the subject, employed to express one of its 
 attributes. 
 
 Mens for intellectus. Mens for a resolution : 
 
 Istam, oro, exuc rnentem. 
 
 4. When two subjects have a resemblance by a common quality, 
 the name of the one subject may be employed figuratively to de- 
 note that quality in the other, 
 
 Summer life for agreeable life. 
 
 633. The several relations on which figures of speech are founded. First Table Suh 
 Jccta expressed figuratively. 
 589. Second table. Attribute* expressed flgnrntively.
 
 FIGURES. 390 
 
 5. The name of the instrument made to signify the power of em- 
 
 ploying it. 
 
 -- Melpomene, cui liquidam pater 
 Vocem cum citkera, dedit. 
 
 540. The ample field of figurative expression displayed in these 
 tables, affords great scope for reasoning. Several of the observa- 
 tions relating to metaphor, are applicable to figures of speech : these 
 I shall slightly retouch, with some additions peculiarly adapted to 
 the present subject. 
 
 In the first place, as the figure under consideration is built upon 
 relation, we find from experience, and it must be obvious from 
 reason, that the beauty of the figure depends on the intimacy ot 
 the relation between the figurative and proper sense of the word. 
 A slight resemblance, in particular, will never make this figure 
 agreeable \ the expression, for example, Drink down a secret, for 
 listening to a secret with attention, is harsh and uncouth, because 
 there is scarce any resemblance between listening and drinking. 
 The expression weighty crack, used by Ben Jonson for loud crack, 
 is worse if possible : a loud sound has not the slightest resemblance 
 to a piece of matter that is weighty. The following expression of 
 Lucretius is not less faulty : " Et lepido qua sunt fucata sonore." 
 (i. 645.) 
 
 - - - Sed magis 
 Pugnas et exactps tyrannos 
 Densum humeris bibtt auro vulgus. 
 
 Ilorat. Girm. 1. 11. ode 13. 
 
 Phemius ! let acts of gods and heroes old, 
 
 What ancient bards in hall and bower have told, 
 
 Attemper'd to the lyre, your voice employ, 
 
 Such the pleased ear will drink with silent joy.Odytity, \. 485. 
 
 Strepitumque exterritus hauslt. ^Sneid, vi. 559. 
 
 "Write, my Queen, 
 
 - , , 
 
 And with mine eyes I'll drink the word* you send. 
 
 Act I. Sc. 2. 
 
 As thus the effulgence tremulous I drink. Summtr, 1. 
 Neque audit cnrnia habemis. Georg. i. 51 
 
 prince ! (Lycaon'u valiant son replied), 
 
 As thine the steeds, be thine the task to guide. 
 
 The horses, practised to their lord's command, 
 
 Shall hear the rein, and answer to thy hand. llMd, v. 
 
 The following figures of speech seem altogether wild and extrava- 
 gant, figurative and proper meaning having no connect 
 ever. Moving softness, Freshness breathes, breathing prosix-ct, 
 Flowing spring, Dewy light, Lucid coolness, and many o 
 this false coin, may be found in Thomson's Seasons. 
 
 f0f all late writers of merit who have indulged in rei 
 unmeaning metiphora, Thomson, in hi? Seasons, w per
 
 400 FIGURES. 
 
 exposed to reprehension. His desire to ejevate and recommend a 
 subject which had little in it to interest the understanding or the 
 passions, ana which depended almost entirely on the imagination, 
 and the influence of picturesque description (the powers of which 
 were in some measure untried and unknown), seems to have prompted 
 him to call into his service every poetical embellishment of which he 
 could with any propriety lay hold. He scruples not to personify on 
 the most trivial occasions ; but what is much more exceptionable, to 
 these ideal personages he affixes many ideal attributes, which have 
 little relation or resemblance to any thing that exists in nature. He 
 enfeebles his diction by overloading it with epithets, and he ob- 
 structs the impression by the variety or tautology of his metaphors. 
 What conception can arise, or what impulse can result, from the 
 following combinations ? ' Lone quiet,' ' pining grove,' ' pale 
 dreary,' ' solid gloom,' and a thousand more of the same species ? 
 Such figures, however, abound chiefly in the first editions of the 
 Seasons ; many of them were afterwards improved or expunged. 
 It is to be regretted, that the author or his friends had not been 
 still more industrious to coirect or suppress them. They are the 
 chief blemishes of a poem, in other respects one of the most beauti- 
 ful of its kind which any age has produced." Barron, Lect. 17.] 
 
 Secondly, The proper sense of the word ought to bear some pro- 
 portion to the figurative sense, and not soar much above it, nor sink 
 much below it. 
 
 541. Thirdly, In a figure of speech, every circumstance ought to 
 be avoided that agrees with the proper sense only, not the figurative 
 sense ; for it is the latter that expresses the thought, and the former 
 serves for no other purpose but to make harmony : 
 
 Zacynthus green with ever-shady groves, 
 
 And Ithaca, presumptuous boast their loves ; 
 
 Obtruding on my choice a second lord, 
 
 They press the Hyinenean rite abhorr'd. Odytsey, six. 152. 
 
 Zacynthus here standing figuratively for the inhabitants, the descrip- 
 tion of the island is quite out of place ; it puzzles the reader, by 
 making him doubt whether the word ought to be taken iu its proper 
 or figurative sense. 
 
 Write, my Queen, 
 
 And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send, 
 
 Though ink be made of gall. Cymbfline, Act I. Sc. 2. 
 
 The disgust one has to drink ink in reality, is not to the purpose 
 where the subject is drinking ink figuratively. 
 
 In th fourth place, To draw consequences from a figure of speech, 
 as if the word were to be understood literally, :s a gross absurdity, 
 for it is confounding truth with fiction. 
 
 640. On what the beauty of figure of speech depends. Examples of too slight resem- 
 blance, and of no resemblance between the figurative and proper sense of the word. 
 Bamra'g criticism on Thomson. The proportion of the proper to the figurative sense.
 
 FIGURES. 401 
 
 Be Moubray's sins so heavy in his bosom. 
 That they may break his foaming coursers back, 
 And throw the rider headlong in the lists, 
 A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford. 
 
 Richard II. Act I. Sc. 8. 
 
 Sin may be imagined heavy iu a figurative sense ; but weight in a 
 proper sense belongs to the accessory only; ar.d therefore to describe 
 the effects of weight, is to desert the principal subject, and to convert 
 the accessory into a principal : 
 
 Cromwell. How docs vour Grace ? 
 
 Wolsey. Why, well, 
 
 Never so truly happy, my pood Cromwell. 
 I know myself now, and I feel within me 
 A peace above all earthly dignities, 
 A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, 
 I humbly thank his Grace ; and from these shoulders, 
 These ruined pillars, out of pity taken 
 A load would sink a navy, too much honor. 
 
 Iknry VIII. Act III. Sc. 8. 
 
 Ulysses speaking of Hector : 
 
 I wonder now how yonder city stands, 
 When we have hero the base un<l pillar by us. 
 
 Troilui and (trtitida, Act IV. Sc. 9. 
 
 OOteUo. No ; my heart is turn'd to stone : I strike it, and it hurt* my hand. 
 
 Othello, Act IV. Sc. 6. 
 
 Not less, even in this despicable now, 
 
 Than when my name flll'd Atric with affrights, 
 
 And froze your hearts beneath your torrid zone. 
 
 Don Sebastian, King of Portugal, Act I. 
 
 How long a space, since first I loved, it is 
 
 To look into a glass I fear, 
 And am surprised witli wonder when I miss 
 
 Gray hairs and wrinkles there. Coxley, vol. i. p. 8*. 
 
 I chose the flourishing'st tree in all the park, 
 
 With freshest boughs and fairest head ; 
 I cut my love into his gentle bark, 
 
 And in three days behold 'tis dead: 
 My very written flames so violent be, 
 They've burnt and wither'd up the tree. 
 
 Coiclty, vol. i. p. 1M. 
 
 Such a play of words is pleasant in a ludicrous poem. 
 
 Almeria. Alphonso, Alphonso ! 
 Devouring seas have wash'd thcc from my sight, 
 No time shall rase thee from my memory 
 No, I will live to bo thy monument : 
 The cruel ocean is no more thy tomb ; 
 But in my heart thou art intcrr'd. 
 
 Mourning Bride, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 This would be very right, if there were any im-onsistence in being 
 interred in one place really, and in another place figuratively. 
 
 In me tota ruens Venus 
 Cyprum deseruit. Horat. Girm. \. i. ^ 
 
 641. Circumstances to be avoided.-Tbe drawing of conswjnenc** from t fljuro of p* 
 Examples.
 
 402 FIGURES. 
 
 542. From considering that a word used in a figurative sense 
 suggests at the same time its proper meaning, we discover a fifth 
 rule, That we ought not to employ a word in a figurative sense, the 
 proper sense of which is inconsistent or incongruous with the sub- 
 ject ; for every inconsistency, and even incongruity, though in the 
 expression only and not real, is unpleasant : 
 
 - Interea genitor Tyberini ad fluminis unclam 
 
 Vulnera siccabat lymphis ^Eneid, x. 833. 
 
 Tres adeo incertos cseca caligine soles 
 
 Erramus pclago, totidein sine sidere nootes. ^Eneld, iii. 203. 
 
 The foregoing rule may be extended to form a sixth, That no 
 epithet ought to be given to the figurative sense of a word that 
 agrees not also with its proper sense : 
 
 Dicat Opuntite 
 
 Frater Megillos, quo beatus 
 
 Vulnere. Ilorat. Carm. lib. i. ode 27. 
 
 Parcus deorum cultor, et infrequens, 
 Insanientis dum sapientias 
 Consultus erro. Ilorat. Carm. lib. i. ode 84. 
 
 543. Seventhly, The crowding into one period or thought differ- 
 ent figures of speech, is not less faulty than crowding metaphors in 
 that manner ; the mind is distracted in the quick transition from 
 one image to another, and is puzzled instead of being pleased : 
 
 I am of ladies most deject and wretched, 
 
 That suck'd the honey of his music-vows. Hamlet. 
 
 My bleeding bosom sickens at the sound. Odyssey, i. 439. 
 
 Eighthly, If crowding figures be bad, it is still woi-se to graft one 
 figure upon another : for instance, 
 
 While his keen falchion drinks the warriors' lives. Iliad, xi. 211. 
 
 A falchion drinking the warrior's blood is a figure built upon resem- 
 blance, which is passable. But then in the expression, lives is again 
 put for blood ; and by thus grafting one figure upon another, the 
 expression is rendered obscure and unpleasant. 
 
 544. Ninthly, Intricate and involved figures that can scarce be 
 analyzed, or reduced to plain language, are least of aH tolerable : 
 
 Votis incendimus aras. ^Eneid, iii. 279. 
 
 Onerantque canistris 
 
 Dona laboratse Cereris. ^neid, viii. 180. 
 
 Vulcan to the Cyclopes : 
 
 Arma acri-facienda viro : nunc viribus usus, 
 Nunc manibtis rapidis, omni nunc arte magistra : 
 J'rcecipitate moras. ^Eneid, viii. 441. 
 
 642. "What word should not be employed in a figurative sense. What epithet should 
 not be given to the figurative sense of a word. 
 
 543. The crowding of different figures of speech into one period or thought Tbe "rift- 
 Ing of one figure on another.
 
 Fioriu-s. 403 
 
 Beriberis Vario t'ortia. et Hostium 
 
 Victor, Mffiouii carminis alite. ILrat. O, rm , M. i. ode . 
 
 Else shall our fates be numbered with the dead. Iliad v. 294. 
 Commntual death the fate of war confounds. 
 
 Iliad, via. 85, and xi. 117. 
 Rolling convulsive on the floor, is seen 
 The piteous object of a prostrate queen. Ibid. iv. 952. 
 
 The mingling tcinpeat waves its gloom. Autumn, 887. 
 
 A sober calm fleeces unbounded ether. Ibid. 738. 
 
 The distant waterfall swells in the breeze. Winter, 733. 
 
 545. In the tenth place, When a subject is introduced by it 
 proper name, it is absurd to attribute to it the properties of a differ- 
 ent subject to which the word is sometimes applied in a figurative 
 sense : 
 
 Hear me, oh Neptune ! thon whose arms are hurl'd 
 
 From shore to shore, and gird the solid world. Odyttey, i.x. 617. 
 
 Neptune is here introduced personally, and not figuratively, for 
 the ocean : the description, therefore, which is only applicable to 
 the latter, is altogether improper. 
 
 It is not sufficient that a figure of speech be regularly constructed, 
 and be free from blemish : it requires taste to discern when it is 
 proper, when improper ; and taste, I suspect, is our only guide. 
 One however may gather from reflection and experience, that orna- 
 ments and graces suit not any of the dispiriting passions, nor are 
 proper for expressing any thing grave and important In familiar 
 conversation, they are in some measure ridiculous. Prospero, in the 
 Tempest, speaking to his daughter Miranda, says, 
 
 The fringed curtains of thine eyes advance, 
 And say what thou soest 'yond. 
 
 No exception can be taken to the justness of the figure ; and cir 
 cumstances may be imagined to make it proper; but it is certainly 
 not proper in familiar conversation. 
 
 In the last place, Though figures of speech have a charming ef- 
 fect when accurately constructed and properly introduced, they ought 
 nowever to be scattered with a sparing hand ; nothing is more lus- 
 cious, and nothing consequently more satiating, than redundant or- 
 naments of any kind. 
 
 544. Intricate and involved figures. 
 
 545. When a subject la introduced ty it* proper name, what It It absurd to attribute to 
 < ? V'hen a figure of speech is not to be used. To what extent to be tued.
 
 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 
 
 546. THE first rule is, That in history, the reflections oatht to b 
 chaste and solid ; for while the mind is intent upon trutu, it is little 
 iisposed to the operations of the imagination. Strada's Bel hi- 
 tory is full of poetical images, which discording with the subject 
 are unpleasant; and they have a still worse effect, by giving an air 
 Of fiction to a genuine history. Such flowers ought to be scattered 
 with a sparing hand, even in epic poetry ; and at no rate are they 
 proper, till the reader be warmed, and by an enlivened imagination 
 be prepared to relish them ; in that state of mind they are agreea- 
 ble ; but while we are sedate and attentive to an historical chain of 
 facts, we reject with disdain every fiction. 
 
 547. Second, Vida, following Horace, recommends a modest 
 commencement of an epic poem ; giving for a reason, that the wri- 
 ter ought to husband his fire. This reason has weight ; but what 
 is said above suggests a reason still more weighty : bold thoughts 
 and figures are never relished till the mind be heated and thorough- 
 ly engaged, which is not the reader's case at the commencement 
 Homer introduces not a single simile in the first book of the Iliad' 
 nor m the first book of the Odyssey. On the other hand, Shak- 
 speare begins one of his plays with a sentiment too bold for the 
 most heated imagination : 
 
 Bedford. Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night ! 
 Comets, importing change of times and states, 
 Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, 
 And with them scourge the bad revolting stars, 
 That have consented unto Henry's death ! 
 Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long ! 
 England ne'er lost a king of so much worth. 
 
 First Part Henry VI. 
 
 A third reason ought to have no less influence than either of the 
 former, That a man, who, upon his first appearance, strains to make 
 a figure, is too ostentatious to be relished. Hence the first sentences 
 of a work ought to be short, natural, and simple. Cicero, in his 
 oration pro Archia poeta, errs against this rule : his reader is out of 
 breath at the very first period ; which seems never to end. Burnet 
 begins the History of his Own Times with a period long and in- 
 tricate. 
 
 548. A third rule or observation is, That where the subject is in- 
 tended for entertainment solely, not for instruction, a thing ought to 
 be described as it appears, not as it is in reality. In running, for 
 
 646. Rale for reflections in history. 
 
 647. How nn epic poexn sh uld be comiiu need.
 
 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 405 
 
 example, the impulse upon the ground is proportioned in some de- 
 gree to the celerity of motion : though in appearance it is otherwise ; 
 for a person in swift motion seems to skim the ground, and scarcely 
 to touch it. Vii'gil, with great taste, describes quick running ac- 
 cording to appearance ; and raises an image far more lively than bj 
 adhering scrupulously to truth : 
 
 Hos super advenit Volsca de gente Camilla, 
 Agmen agens equitum et florentes oere catcrvas, 
 Bellatrix : non ilia colo calathisve Minerva 
 Foemineas assueta manus ; sod praelia virgo 
 Dura pati, cursuque peduin praevertero ventos. 
 Ilia vel intactie segetis per sum ma voluret 
 Grarnina; nee teneras cursu laesisset aristas ; 
 Vel mare per medium, fluctu suspensa tumenti, 
 Ferret iter ; celeres nee tingeret sequore plantaa. 
 
 , vli. 808. 
 
 This example is copied by the author of Telemachus : 
 
 Lea Brutiens sont legeres a la course comme les cerfs, et comme lea claims. 
 On croirait quo 1'herbe m6me la plus tendre n'est point foulee soualeunt pieda; 
 a peine laisseut-ils dans le sable quelques traces de leurs pus. Lit. x. 
 
 549. Fourth, In narration as well as in description, objects ought 
 to be painted so accurately as to form in the mind of the reader dis- 
 tinct and lively images. Every useless circumstance ought indeed 
 to be suppressed, because every such circumstance loads the narra- 
 tion ; but if a circumstance be necessary, however slight, it cannot 
 be described too minutely. The force of language consists in raising 
 complete images (chap. ii. part i. sec. 7) ; which have the eftect to 
 transport the reader as by magic into the very place of the import- 
 ant action, and to convert him as it were into a spectator, beholding 
 every thing that passes. The narrative in an epic poem ought to 
 rival a picture in the liveliness and accuracy of its representations: 
 no circumstance must be omitted that tends to make a complete 
 image ; because an imperfect image, as well as any other imperfect 
 conception, is cold and uninteresting. I shall illustrate this rule by 
 several examples, giving the first place to a beautiful passage from 
 
 Virgil : 
 
 Qualis popultd moerens Philomela sub umbri 
 
 Amissos queritur foetus, quos durus orator 
 
 Observans nido vnplumts detraxit. Gtorg. lib. v. 1. 611. 
 
 The poplar, ploughman, and unfledged young, though not essential 
 in- the description, tend to make a complete image, and upon that 
 account are an embellishment. 
 Again : 
 
 Hie viridem .(Eneas frondenti x t&* tneUrp 
 Constituit, signum uautis. sfntid, v 129. 
 
 Horace, addressing to Fortune : 
 
 613. Where the subject la itrtanded for entertainment lolcly, bow ongbt a thing ta 
 described?
 
 4(6 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 
 
 Tc pauper ambit sollicita prece 
 Runs colonus : te dominam sequoris, 
 
 Quicumque Bythinft lacessit 
 
 Carpathium pelagus carina. Carm. lib. i. odo 35. 
 
 Shakspeare says (Henry V. Act iv. sc. 4), " You may as well g( 
 about to turn the sun to ice by fanning in his face with a peacock's 
 feather." The peacock's feather, not to mention the beauty of the 
 object, completes the image : an accurate image cannot be formed 
 of that fanciful operation, without conceiving a particular feather ; 
 and one is at a loss when this is neglected in the description. 
 Again, " the rogues slighted me into the river with as little remorse, 
 as they would have drowned a bitch's blind puppies, fifteen i' the 
 litter." (Merry Wives of Windsor, Act iii. Sc. 15.) 
 
 Old Lady. You would not be a queen ? 
 Anne. No, not for all the riches under heaven. 
 
 Old Lady. 'Tis strange : a threepence bow'd would hire me, old as I am, to 
 queen it. Henry VIII. Act II. Sc. 5. 
 
 In the following passage, the action, with all its material circum- 
 stances, is represented so much to the life, that it would scarce ap- 
 pear more distinct to a real spectator; .and it is the manner of 
 description that contributes greatly to the sublimity of the passage * 
 
 He spake ; and to confirm his words, out flew 
 
 Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thigh 
 
 Of mighty cherubim ; the sudden blaze 
 
 Far round illumined hell ; highly they raged 
 
 Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms 
 
 Clash'd on their sounding shields the din of war, 
 
 Hurling defiance toward the vault of heaven. Milton, b. i. 
 
 A passage I am to cite from Shakspeare, falls not much short of tfrat 
 now mentioned in particularity of description : 
 
 you hard hearts ! you cruel men of Koine ! 
 
 Knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft 
 
 Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, 
 
 To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, 
 
 Your Lufonts in your arms ; and there have sat 
 
 The live-long day with patient expectation 
 
 To see great Pompey pass the streets of Kome ; 
 
 And when you saw his chariot but appear, 
 
 Have you not made an universal shout, 
 
 That Tyber trembled underneath his banks, 
 
 To hear the replication of your sounds, 
 
 Made in his concave shores ? Julius C&sar, Act I. Sc. 1. 
 
 The following passage is scarce inferior to either of those men- 
 tioned : 
 
 _Far before the rest the son of Ossian comes ; bright in the smiles of youth, 
 fair as the first beams of the sun. His long hair waves on his back : his dark 
 brow is half beneath his helmet. The sword hangs loose on the hero's side ; 
 and his spear glitters as he moves. I fled from his terrible eye, King of high 
 Temora. Fingal, 
 
 The Henriade of Voltaire errs greatly against the foregoing rule :
 
 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 407 
 
 every incident is touched in a summary way, without ever descend 
 ing to circumstances. This manner is good in a general history, 
 the purpose of which is to record important transactions ; but in a 
 fable it is cold and uninteresting; because it is impracticable to 
 form distinct images of persons or things represented in a manner 
 so superficial. 
 
 It is observed abo\e, that every useless circumstance ought to be 
 suppressed. The crowding such circumstances, is, on the one hand, 
 no less to be avoided, than the conciseness for which Voltaire is 
 blamed, on the other. In the JEneid (lib. iv. 1. 632), Barce, the 
 nurse of Sichasus, whom we never hear of before nor after, is in- 
 troduced for a purpose not more important than to call Anna to her 
 sister Dido : and that it might not be thought unjust in Dido, eveu 
 in this trivial circumstance, to prefer her husband's nurse before her 
 own, the poet takes care to inform his reader, that Dido's nurse was 
 dead. To this I must oppose a beautiful passage in the same book, 
 where, after Dido's last speech, the poet, without detaining his 
 readers by describing the manner of her death, hastens to the lamen- 
 tation of her attendants : 
 
 Dixerat: atqne illam media inter talia ferro 
 Collapsam aspiciunt comites, eusemque cruoro 
 Spnmantem, sparsasquo mnnus. It clamor ad alta 
 Atria, concussam bacchntur fama per urbem; 
 Lamentis gemituque et foemineo ululatn 
 Tecta fremunt, resonat magnis plangoribus aether. 
 
 Lib. iv. I. 6C3 
 
 550. As an appendix to the foregoing rule, I add the following 
 observation, That to make a sudden and strong impression, some 
 single circumstance happily selected, has more power than the most 
 labored description. Macbeth, mentioning to his lady some voices 
 he heard while he was murdering the king, says, 
 
 There's. one did laugh in 'B sleep, and one cried Murder! 
 They waked each other ; and I stood and heard them ; 
 But they did say their prayers, and address them 
 Again to sleep. 
 
 Lady. There arc two lodged together. 
 
 Macbeth. One cried, God bless us ! and Amen the other; 
 As they had seen mo with these hangman's hands. 
 Listening their fear, I could not say Amen, 
 When they did say, God bless us. 
 
 Lady. Consider it not so deeply. 
 
 Macbeth. But wherefore could not I pronounce Ame 
 I had most need of blessing, and Amen 
 Stuck in my throat. 
 
 Lady. These deeds must not be tr 
 After these ways ; so, it will make us mod. 
 
 Macbeth. Methought I heard a voice cry, Swep no more 
 Macbeth doth murder sleep, &c. 
 
 lupjiressod,
 
 ^08 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 
 
 Describing Prince Henry : 
 
 I saw young Harry -with his beaver on, 
 
 His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly artn'd, 
 
 Kise from the ground like feather'd Mercury ; 
 
 And vaulted with such ease into his seat, 
 
 As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds, 
 
 To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, 
 
 And witch the world with noble horsemanship. 
 
 First Part Henry VI. Act IV. Sc. 2. 
 
 King Henry. Lord Cardinal, if thou think'st on Heaven's bliss, 
 Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. 
 He dies, and makes no sign. Second Part Henry VI. Act III. Sc. 10. 
 
 The same author, speaking ludicrously of an army debilitated with 
 diseases, says, 
 
 Half of them dare not shake the snow from off their cassocks, lest they shake 
 f heinselves to pieces. 
 
 I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The flame had 
 resounded in the halls ; and the voice of the people is heard no more. The 
 stream of Olutha was removed from its place by the fall of the walls. The 
 thistle shook there its lonely head ; the moss wtiistled to the wind. The fox 
 looked out from the windows; and the rank grass of the wall waved round his 
 head. Desolate is the dwelling of Morna : silence is in the house of her fathers. 
 
 Fingal. 
 
 551. To draw a character is the master-stroke of description. In 
 this Tacitus excels : his portraits are natural and lively, not a feature 
 wanting or misplaced. Shakspeare, however, exceeds Tacitus in 
 liveliness, some characteristical circumstance being generally invent- 
 ed or laid hold of, which paints more to the life than many words. 
 The following instance will explain my meaning, and at the same 
 time prove my observation to be just : 
 
 "Why should a man whose blood is warm within, 
 
 Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster ? 
 
 Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice, 
 
 By being peevish ? I tell thee what, Antonio, 
 
 (1 love thee, and it is my love that speaks), 
 
 There are a sort of men, whose visages 
 
 Do cream and mantle like a standing pond ; 
 
 And do a wilful stillness entertain, 
 
 With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion 
 
 Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit ; 
 
 As who should say, I am Sir Oracle, 
 
 And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark ! 
 
 O my Antonio, I do know of those, 
 
 That therefore only are reputed wise, 
 
 For saying nothing. Merchanlof Venice, Act I. Sc. 2. 
 
 Again : 
 
 Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice 
 his reasons are two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you shall seek 
 all day ere you find them, and when you have them they are not worth the 
 search. Ibid. 
 
 In the following passage a character is completed by a single stroke. 
 
 6CO. Well-selected circumstances. Examples.
 
 NAKRATION AND DESCRIPTIC N. 409 
 
 thatlhav 8pent ' ndto 
 Silence. We shall all fellow, cousin. 
 Shallow. Certain, 'tis certain, very sure, very sure ; Death fas the 
 
 Jbrd kirY 6 ^ t0 : *" Bha11 diC - H W * g d y ke of *M 
 
 Slender. Truly, cousin, I was not there. 
 
 Shattow. Death is certain. la old Z>oue of your town livintr vet ? 
 
 Silence. Dead, sir. 
 
 fe0M. Dead! see, see; he drew a good bow: and dead. Ue shot a fin* 
 hoot. Hove a score of ewes now ? 
 
 Silence. Thereafter &a they be. A score of good ewes may be worth i*n 
 pounds. 
 
 Shallovi. And ia old D#le dead ? Second Part Henry IV. Act III. Sc. 3. 
 
 DescriMag a jealous husband : 
 
 Neilh'-r press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but ho hath an abstract for 
 ,be rer-iembjanoe of such places, and goes to them by his note. There is no 
 nidirc you in the house. Merry Wives of Windsor, Act I. So. 3. 
 
 Corgreve has an mineable stroke of this kind in his comedy of 
 Low for Love : 
 
 lien Legend. Well, fotl'2/, and how do all at home? how does brother Dick 
 a7tl brother Val ? 
 
 Sir Sampson. Dick : body o' me, Dick has been dc:;d these two year*. I 
 wit you word when you were at Leghorn. 
 
 Sen. Mess, that's true ; marry, I had forgot. Dick's dead, as you sav. 
 . , Act II I. Sc. . 
 
 i'alstaff speaking of ancient Pistol : 
 
 He's no swaggerer, hostess: a tame cheater i' faith; vou may stroke him an 
 gently as a puppy-greyhound ; he will not swagger with a Barbary he,u, if her 
 teathers turn back in any show of resistance. 
 
 Second Part Henry IV. Act II. Sc. 9. 
 
 Ossian, among his other excellencies, is eminently successful in 
 drawing characters ; and he never fails to delight his reader with 
 the beautiful attitudes of his heroes. Take the following instance : 
 
 O Oscar ! bend the strong in arm ; but spare the feeble hand. B thou a 
 stream of many tides against the foes of thy people ; but like the gale that 
 moves the grass to those who ask thine aid. So Tremor lived ; such Trathal 
 was ; and such has Fingal been. My arm was the support of the injured ; and 
 the weak rested behind the lightning of my steel. 
 
 We heard the voice of joy on the coast, and we thought that the miphtr 
 Cathmore came. Cathmore the friend of strangers, the brother of red-haired 
 Cairbar. But their souls were not the same; for the light of heaven was in 
 the bosom of Cathmore. His towers rose on the banks of At ha: seven paths 
 led to hia halla : seven chiefs stood on these paths, and called the trnger to 
 the feast. But Cathmore dwelt in the wood to avoid the voice of praise. 
 
 Dermid and Oscar were one ; they reaped the battle together. Their friend- 
 ship was strong as their steel : and death walked between them to the field. 
 They rush on the foe like two rocks falling from the brow of Ardvcn. Their 
 swords are stained with the blood of the valiant ; warriors faint at their name. 
 Who ia equal to Oscar but Dermid ? who to Dermid but Oscar I 
 
 Son of Comhal, replied the chief, the strength of Morni's arm has failed ; I 
 attempt to draw the sword of my youth, but it remains in it* place ; I throw 
 the spear, but it falls short of the mark : and I feel the weight of my shield. 
 
 M '. The master-stroke of description ? Who ct-l In It 
 l.c
 
 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 
 
 o52. Some writers, through heat of imagination, fall into con- 
 tradiction ; some are guilty of downright absurdities ; and some 
 even rave like madmen. Against such capital errors one cannot be 
 more effectually warned than by collecting instances ; and the first* 
 shall be of a contradiction, the most venial of all. Virgil speaking 
 ot .Neptune, 
 
 Interea magno misceri murmure pontum, 
 
 Emissarnque hyemem sensit Neptunus, et imis 
 
 Stagna retusa vadis : graviter commotus, et alto 
 
 Prospiciens, summa placid um caput cxtulit unda. ^Eneid i. 128. 
 
 Again : 
 
 When first young Maro, in his boundless mind. 
 A work t' outlast immortal Rome design'd. 
 
 Essay on Criticism, 1. 180. 
 The following examples are of absurdities.: 
 
 Alii pulsis e tormento catenis discerpti sectique, dimidiate corpore pugnabanl 
 Bibi superstores, ac perompta partis uhoTes.-Stracla, Dec. iL 1. 2. 
 
 II pover huomo, che non sen' era accorto. 
 Andava combattendo, ed era morto. Berni. 
 
 He fled ; but flying, left his life behind. lliad,*xi. 438. 
 
 Full through his neck the weighty falchion sped ; 
 Along the pavement roll'd the muttering head. 
 
 Odyssey, xxii. 365. 
 
 The last article is of raving like one mad. Cleopatra speaking to 
 the aspic : 
 
 Welcome, thou kind deceiver, 
 
 Ihou best of thieves ; who, with an easy key 
 
 Dost open life, and, uuperceived by us, 
 
 Even steal us from ourselves ; discharging BO 
 
 Death's dreadful office, better than himself: 
 
 Touching our limbs so gently into slumber, 
 
 That Death stands by, deceived by his own vnaffe 
 
 And thinks himself but sleep. Dryden, AllfotLovt, Act V. 
 
 Reasons that are common and known to every ono, ought to be 
 taken for granted ^ to express them is childish, and interrupts the 
 narration. 
 
 553. Having discussed what observations occurred upon the 
 thoughts or things expressed, I proceed to what more peculiarly con- 
 cern the language or verbal dress. The language proper for ex- 
 pressing passion being handled in a former chapter, several observa- 
 tions there made are applicable to the present subject ; particularly. 
 That as words are intimately connected with the ideas they represent' 
 
 552 Some capital errors stated and exemplified.
 
 NARRATION A XT) nKsTRirriOX. 411 
 
 the emotions raised by the sound and by the sense ought to be con- 
 cordant. An elevated subject requires an elevated stvle; what is 
 familiar ought to be familiarly expressed ; a subject that is serious 
 and important, ought to be clothed in plaio nervous language a 
 description, on the other hand, addressed to the imagination, is sus- 
 ceptible of the highest ornaments thp* sounding wcrds and figurative 
 expression can bestow upon it. 
 
 I shall give a few examples of the foregoing rules. A poet of 
 any genius is not apt to dress a high subject in low words ; and vet 
 blemishes of that kind are found even in classical works. Horace, 
 observing that men are satisfied with themselves, but seldom with 
 their condition, introduces Jupiter indulging to each his own choice : 
 
 Jam faciam qnod vultis ; eris tu, qni modo miles. 
 Mercator : tu, cpnsultus modo, rusticus ; hine vos 
 Vos hinc mutatis disccdite partibus: eia, 
 Quid stati3 ? noliiit : atqui licet esse beatis. 
 Quid causse est, merito quin illis, Jupiter amfxu 
 Iratus bvccas infletf neqtie se fore posthac 
 Tarn facilem dicat, votis ut prabeat aurem ? 
 
 Sat. lib. i. &tt. i. L 1. 
 
 Jupiter in wrath puffing up both cheeks, is a low and even ludicrous 
 expression, far from suitable to the gravity and importance of the 
 subject : every one must feel the discordance. The following coup- 
 let, sinking far below the subject, is no less ludicrous : 
 
 Not one looks backward, onward still he goes, 
 Yet ne'er looks forward farther than his nose. 
 
 Essay on Man, Ep. IV. 228. 
 
 554. On the other hand, to raise the expression above the tone of 
 the subject, is a fault than which none is more common. Take the 
 following instances : 
 
 Asftttrug. Ce mortel, qut montra tnnt do zelo pour moi, Vit-il encore f 
 Anaph..- -- 11 voit 1'astro qui vous eclaro. Esther, Act II. Sc. 8. 
 
 No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day, 
 But the great camion to the clouds shall tell ; " 
 And the king's rowso the heavens shall bruit again, 
 Bespeaking earthly thunder. Jfamltt, Act I. 8c. i. 
 
 -In the inner room 
 
 I spy a winking lamp, that weakly strikes 
 The ambient air, scarce kindling "into light. 
 
 Southern, FaU of Capua, Act III. 
 
 Montesquieu, in a didactic work, L'esprit des Loix, gives too great 
 indulgence to imagination ; the tone of his language swells frequently 
 above his subject. I give an example : 
 
 M. le Comte do Boulainvilliers et M. I'AbW Dnbos ont fait chacnn nn 
 BYBteuie, dont 1'un semble etre une conjuration contro le tiers-etat, ct l'utr 
 nne conjuration centre la noblesse. Lorsque le Soleil donna i Phiton son 
 char & conduire, il Ini dit, Si vons monies trop haut, vous brulerez la demeur* 
 
 B68. Suggestions as tu tbe verbal drcM of thought A hlgb snbj*t la low wot jt
 
 412 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 
 
 celeste ; si vous descendez trop has, vous r6duirez en cendres la terre : r.'allts 
 point trop a droite, vous toniberiez dans la constellation du serpent: n'allea 
 point trop a gauche, vous iriez dans celle de 1'autel : tenez-vous entre les deux. 
 
 L. xxx. ch. 10. 
 
 ^ . 
 
 The following passage, intended, one would imagine, as a recipe to 
 boil water, is altogether burlesque by the labored elevation of the 
 
 diction : 
 
 A massy caldron of stupendous frame 
 
 They brought, and placed it o'er the rising flame : 
 
 Then heap the lighted wood ; the flame divides 
 
 Beneath the vase, and climbs around the sides ; 
 
 In its wide womb they pour the rushing stream ; 
 
 The boiling water bubbles to the brim. Iliad, xviii. 405. 
 
 In a passage at the beginning of the 4th book of Telemachus, one 
 feels a sudden bound upward without preparation, which accord* 
 not with the subject : 
 
 Calypso, qul avoit ete' jusqu'a ce moment immobile et transportee de plaisir 
 en ecoutant les aventures de Telemaque, 1'interrompit pour mi faire pendre 
 quelque repos. II est terns, lui dit-elle, qui vous alliez gouter la douceur du 
 sommeil apres tant dc travaux. Vous n'avezrien a craindrc ici ; tout vous est 
 favorable. Abandonnez vous done a la joie. Goutez la paix, et tous les autres 
 dons des dieux dont vous allez etre comble. Demain, quand VAurore avec ses 
 doigts de roses entr 'oitvrira les portes dories de V Orient, et que les Chevaux du 
 Soleil sort-ons de Vonde amere repandront lesflammes de jour, pour cliasser devant 
 eux toutes les etoiles du, ciel, nous reprendrons, mon cher Telemaque, 1'histoire 
 de vos malheurs. 
 
 This obviously is copied from a similar passage in the ^Eneid, which 
 ought not to have been copied, because it lies open to the same cen- 
 sure ; but the force of authority is great : 
 
 At regina gravi jamdudum saucia cura 
 
 Vulnus alii venis, et casco carpitur igni. 
 
 Multa viri virtus animo, multusque'recursat 
 
 Gentis honos : haerent inflxi pectore vultus, 
 
 Verbaque ; nee placidam membris dat cura quietem. 
 
 Postera PAcebealustrabat lampade terras, 
 
 Ilamentemque Aurora, polo dimoverat umbram; 
 
 Cum sic unanimein alloquitur male sana sororem. Lib. iv. 1. 
 
 555. The language of Homer is suited to his subject, no less ac 
 curately than the actions and sentiments of his heroes are to their 
 characters. Virgil, in that particular, falls short of perfection ; his 
 language is stately throughout; and though he descends at times to 
 the simplest branches of cookery, roasting and boiling for example, 
 yet he never relaxes a moment from the high tone (see ^Eneid, lib. 
 i. 188-219). In adjusting his language to his subject, no writer 
 equals Swift. 
 
 Jt is proper to be observed upon this head, that writers of inferior 
 rank are continually upon the stretch to enliven and enforce their 
 subject by exaggeration and superlatives. This unluckily has an 
 effect contrary to what is intended ; the reader, disgusted with lan- 
 guage that swells above the subject, is led by contrast to think more 
 meanly of the subject than it may possibly deserve. A man of 
 
 054. Exprwsion above tbe tone of the subject Example*.
 
 NARRATION AND DKSCRIPTION. 413 
 
 prudence, besides, will be no less careful to husband his strength in 
 writing than in walking : a writer too liberal of superlatives, ex- 
 hausts his whole stock upon ordinary incidents, and reserves no 
 share to express, with greater energy, matters of importance. 
 
 Many writers of that kind abound so in epithets, as if poetry con- 
 sisted entirely in high-sounding words. Take the following instance : 
 
 When black-brow'd Night her dusky mantle spread, 
 
 And wrapp'd in solemn gloom the sable sky : 
 When soothing Sleep her opiate dews had shed, 
 
 And seal'd in silken slumber every eye ; 
 My wakeful thoughts admit no balmy rest, 
 
 Nor the sweet bliss of soft oblivion share; 
 But watchful woe distracts my aching breast, 
 
 My heart the subject of corroding care ; 
 From haunts of men with wandering steps and slow 
 
 I solitary steal, and soothe my pensive woe. 
 
 Here every substantive is faithfully attended by some tumid epithet ; 
 like young master, who cannot walk abroad without having a lac'd 
 livery-man at his heels. Thus in reading without taste, an emphasis 
 is laid on every word ; and in singing without taste, every note is 
 graced. Such redundancy of epithets, instead of pleasing, produces 
 satiety and disgust. 
 
 556. The power of language to imitate thought, is not confined 
 to the capital circumstances above mentioned ; it reacheth even the 
 slighter modifications. Slow action, for example, is imitated by 
 words pronounced slow ; labor or toil, by words harsh or rough in 
 their sound. But this subject has been already handled (chaptei 
 xviii. sect iii.) 
 
 In dialogue-writing, the condition of the speaker is chiefly to be 
 regarded in framing the expression. The sentinel in Hamlet, inter- 
 rogated with relation to the ghost, whether his Avatch had been 
 quiet, answers with great propriety for a man in his station, " Not a 
 mouse stirring." 
 
 I proceed to a second remark, no less important than the former. 
 No pereon of reflection but must be sensible that an incident makes 
 a stronger impression on an eye-witness, than when heard at second 
 hand. Writers of genius, sensible that the eye is the best avenue 
 to the heart, represent every thing as passing in our sight ; and, 
 from readers or hearers, transform us as it were into spectators : a 
 skilful writer conceals himself, and presents his personages; in a 
 word, every thing becomes dramatic as much as possible. Tlutarch, 
 de gloria Athenioisium, observes that Thucydides makes his reader 
 a s]>ectator, and inspires him with the same passions as if he were 
 an eye-witness ; and the same observation is applicable to our coun- 
 
 555. Remarks on the language of Homer, Virgil, Swift How Inferior writer. ndTor 
 to enliven their subject 
 
 556. The power of lansmage to imitate thought, even In the ^tr imv _.- 
 Rule for dialogue-writing. The eye being Uie best arena, to th. tuxrt. bow 
 genius avail themselves of this principle.
 
 4:14 NARRATION AND DESCKIFIION. 
 
 toyman Swift. From this happy talent arises that energy of style 
 which is peculiar to him : he cannot always avoid narration ; but 
 the pencil is his choice, by which he bestows life and coloring upon 
 his object. Pope is richer in ornament, but possesseth not in the 
 same degree the talent of drawing from the life. A translation of 
 the sixth satire of Horace, begun by the former and finished by the 
 latter, affords the fairest opportunity for a comparison. Pope ob- 
 nously imitates the picturesque manner of his friend ; yet every one 
 of taste must be sensible, that the imitation, though fine, falls short 
 of the original. In other instances, where Pope writes in his own 
 style, the difference of manner is still more conspicuous. 
 
 557. Abstract or general terms have no good effect in any com- 
 position for amusement ; because it is only of particular objects that 
 images can be formed (see chapter iv.). Shakspeare's style in that 
 respect is excellent : every article in his descriptions is particular, as 
 in nature ; and if accidentally a vague expression slip in, the blem- 
 ish is discernible by the bluntness of its impression. Take the fol- 
 lowing example : Falstaff, excusing himself for running away at a 
 robbery, saysj 
 
 I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters ; was it 
 for me to kill the heir-apparent ? should I turn upon the true prince ? Why, 
 thow knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules ; but beware instinct, the lion will 
 not touch the true prince : instinct is a great matter. I was a coward on in- 
 stinct ; I shall think the better of inyself.and thee, during my life ; I for a vio- 
 lent lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you 
 have the money. Hostess, clap to the doors, watch to-night, pray to-morrow. 
 Gallants, ladp, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of fellowship come to you ! 
 What ! shall we be merry ? shall we have a play extempore? 
 
 First Fart Henry IV. Act II. Sc. 9. 
 
 The sentence I object to is, instinct is a great matter, which makes 
 but a poor figure compared with the liveliness of the rest of the 
 speech. It was one of Homer's advantages that he wrote before 
 general terms were multiplied : the superior genius of Shakspeare 
 displays itself in avoiding them after they were multiplied. Addison 
 describes the family of Sir Roger de Coverly in the following words : 
 
 You would take his valet-de-chambre for his brother, his butler is gray- 
 headed, his groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen, and liis 
 coachman has the looks of a privy-counsellor. Spectator, No. 106. 
 
 The description of the groom is less lively than that of the others ; 
 plainly because the expression being vague and general, tends not 
 to form any image. " Dives opum variarum" (Georg, ii. 468) is an 
 expression still more vague ; and so are the following : 
 
 -Maecenas, mcarum 
 
 Grande decus, columerique rerun. Ilorat. Carm. lib. ii. ode 17. 
 
 et fide Teia 
 Dices laborantes in uno 
 Penelopen, vif 2amque Circen. Iliad, lib. i. ode 17. 
 
 66T. On the use of abstract or general terms. Shakspeare's style.
 
 NARRATION ANTJ DESCRIPTION. 41.1 
 
 Ridiculum ncri 
 
 Fortius ct melius maguas pleruinqne ttcat re*. 
 
 Horat. Salir. lib. i. aat. 10. 
 
 558. In the fine arts it is a rule to put the capital objects in the 
 strongest point of view ; and even to present them oftener than once, 
 where it can be done. In history-painting, the principal figure is 
 placed in the front, and in the best light: an equestrian statue is 
 placed in the centre of streets, that it may be seen from many places 
 at once. In no composition is there greater opportunity for this rule 
 than in writing : 
 
 -Sequitur pulchcrrimua Astur, 
 
 Astur equo fidens et versicoloribus artnis. ^EntiJ, x. 130. 
 
 -Full many a lady 
 
 I've eyed with best regard, and many a time 
 
 Th' harmony of their tongues hath into bondage 
 
 Brought my too diligent ear ; for several virtues 
 
 Have I liked several women, never anv 
 
 "With so full soul, but some defect in ficr 
 
 Did quarrel with the noblest grace she own'd, 
 
 And put it to the foil. But you, O you, 
 
 So perfect, and so peerless, are created 
 
 Of every creature's best. The Teniptst, Acl III. 80. 1. 
 
 Orlando. Whatc'er vou are 
 
 That in this desert inaccessible, 
 
 Under the shade of melancholy boughs, 
 
 Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time : 
 
 If ever you have look'd on better days; 
 
 If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church ; 
 
 If ever sat at any good_ man's feast; 
 
 If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear, 
 
 And know wnat 'tis to pity and bo pitied ; 
 
 Let gentleness my strong enforcement be, 
 
 In the which hope I blush and hide my sword. At You Lib Jt 
 
 With thee conversing I forget all time ; 
 All seasons and their change, all please alike. 
 Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
 With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun 
 When first on this delightful land ho spreads 
 His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, 
 Glist'ning with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth 
 After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on 
 Of grateful evening mild, the silent night 
 With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, 
 And these the gems of heaven, her starry train. 
 But neither breath of morn, when she ascend* 
 With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun 
 On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower, 
 Glist'ning with dew, nor fragrance after showers. 
 Nor grateful evening mild, nor silent night, 
 With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon 
 Or glittering star-light, without thco is sweet. 
 
 Paradut Loit, b. v. 1. M. 
 
 What mean ye, that ye use this proverb, The fathers have eaten war Pj 
 and the children's teeth are set on edge ? As 1 hve, wiith the L 
 shall not have occasion to use this proverb in Israel. If i man k 
 ments to deal truly, be is just, ho shall surely live, Ac. 
 
 633. Rule of the fine arU respecting capital
 
 416 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 
 
 559. The repetitions in Homer, which are frequent, have leen 
 the occasion of much criticism. Suppose we were at a loss about 
 the reason, might not taste be sufficient to justify them ? At the 
 same time we are at no loss about the reason : they evidently make 
 the narration dramatic, and have an air of truth, by making things 
 appear as passing in our sight. But such repetitions are unpardon- 
 able in a didactic poem. In one of Hesiod's poems of that kind, a 
 long passage occurs twice in the same chapter. 
 
 A concise comprehensive style is a great ornament in narration ; 
 and a superfluity of unnecessary words, no less than of circumstances, 
 a great nuisance. A judicious selection of the striking circumstances 
 clothed in a nervous style, is delightful. In this style, Tacitus ex- 
 cels all writers, ancient and modern ; instances are numberless : take 
 the following specimen : 
 
 Crcbra hinc prselia. et ssepius in rnodum latrocinii : per saltus, perpaludes; 
 ut cuique-fors aut virtus ; temere, proviso, ob iram, ob prsedam, jussa, et ah- 
 quando ignaris ducibus. Annal, lib. xii. sect. 39. 
 
 After Tacitus, Ossian in that respect justly merits the place of 
 distinction. One cannot go wrong for examples in any part of the 
 book ; and at the first opening the following instance meets the eye : 
 
 Nathos clothed his limbs in shining steel. The stride of the chief is lovely : 
 the ioy of his eye terrible. The wind rustles in his hair. Darthula is silent at 
 his side : her look is fixed on the chief. Striving to hide the rising sigh, two 
 tears swell in her eye. 
 
 I add one other instance, which, besides the property under con- 
 sideration, raises delicately our most tender sympathy : 
 
 Son of Fingal ! dost thou not beb.old the darkness of Crothar's hall of shells ? 
 Mv soul was not dark at the feast, when my people lived. I rejoiced in _the 
 presence of strangers, when my son shone in the hall. But, Ossian, he is a 
 beam that is departed, and left no streak of light behind. He is fallen son of 
 
 Fino'al, in the battles of his father. Kothmar, the chief of grassy Tromlo, 
 
 heard that my eyes had failed ; he heard that my arms were fixed in the hall, 
 and the pride of his soul arose. He came towards Croma: my people fell be- 
 fore him! I took mv arms in the hall, but what could sightless Crothar do i 
 My steps were unequal ; my grief was great, I wished for the days that were 
 past- days ! wherein I fought and won in the field of blood. My son returned 
 from the chase : the fair-haired Fovar-gormo. He had not lifted his sword in 
 battle, for his arm was young. But the soul of the youth was great ; the fare 
 of valor burnt in his eye. He saw the disordered steps of his father, and his 
 sigh arose. King of Croma, he said, is it because thou hast no son? is it lor 
 the weakness of Fovar-gormo's arm that thy sighs arise ; I begin, my iatlicr 
 -o feel the strength of my arm; I have drawn the sword of my youth and 
 ,ave bent the bow. Let me meet this Kothmar, with the youths of Croma ; 
 ict me meet him, O my father, for I feel my burning soul. 
 
 And thou shaft meet him, I said, son of the sightless Crothar ! But let oth- 
 ers advance before thee, that I may hear the tread of thy feet at thy return : 
 
 for my eyes behold thee not, fair-haired Fovar-gormo! He went; he met 
 
 the foe ; he fell. The foe advances towards Croma. He who slew my son la 
 near, with all his pointed spears. 
 
 560. If a concise or nervous style be a beauty, tautology must be 
 
 V>9. Repetitions. Concise style in narration. Tacitus. Ossian.
 
 NARKAT1ON AND DKSCRliTION. 417 
 
 a blemish ; and yet writers, fettered by verse, are not sufficiently 
 careful to avoid this slovenly practice : they may be pitied, but they 
 cannot be justified. Take for a specimen the following instances. 
 from the best poet, for versification at least, that England has to 
 boast of: 
 
 High on his helm celestial lightnings piny, 
 
 His beamy shield emits a living ray, 
 
 Th' unwcary blaze incessant streams supplies, 
 
 Like the red star that fires th' autumnal skies. Iliad, v. 5. 
 
 Strength and omnipotence invest thy throne. Iliad, viii. 578. 
 
 So silent fountains, fron; a rock's tall head, 
 
 In sable streams soft trickling waters shed. Iliad, ix. 19. 
 
 His clanging armor rung. Iliad, xii. 94. 
 Fear on their cheek, and horror in their eye. Iliad, xv. 4. 
 The blaze of armor flash'd against the day. Iliad, xvii. 788. 
 As when the piercing blasts of Boreas blow. Iliad, xix. 880. 
 
 And like the moon, the broad refulgent shield 
 Blazed with long rays, and gleam'd athwart the field. 
 
 Iliad, xix. 402. 
 
 No could our swiftness o'er the winds prevail, 
 
 Or beat the pinions of the western gale, 
 
 All were in vain - - Iliad, xix. 460. 
 
 The humid sweat from every pore descends. 
 
 Iliad, xxiii. 829. 
 
 Redundant epithets, such as humid in the last citation, are by 
 Quintilian disallowed to orators ; but indulged to poets, because his 
 favorite poets, in a few instances, are reduced to such epithets for 
 the sake of versification ; for instance, Praia canis albicant pntinti 
 of Horace, and Uquidos fontes of Virgil. 
 
 As an apology for such careless expressions, it may well suffice, 
 that Pope, in submitting to be a translator, acts below his genius. 
 In a translation, it is hard to require the same spirit or accuracy, 
 that is cheerfully bestowed on an original work. And to support 
 the reputation of that author, I shall give some instances from V*r- 
 gil and Horace, more faulty by redundancy than any of those abo- 
 mentioned : 
 
 Saepe etiam immcnsum coelo venit agmcn aquanim, 
 Et jFredam glomenint tempestatcm imbribus atris 
 Collectaj ex alto nubes ; ruit arduns ether, 
 Et pluvia inzenti sata Itcta. boumque laboroa 
 Diluit. 
 
 Postquam altum tenuere rates, nee jam amplius ull 
 Apparent terne; coelum undique et uudiuue pontus: 
 Turn mihi cceruleus supra eaput astitit imber, 
 Noctein hyememque ferens ; et inhorruit utula tenebn*. 
 
 ^Kntk-l, in. 1 
 
 193. 
 
 Hitic tibi copia 
 
 Manabit ad plenum benigno 
 Rurin honorum opulenU cornu. 
 
 J/orat. Cttrm. lib. i. od 17. 
 
 18*
 
 418 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 
 
 Viclere fessos vomerem inversum bovea 
 Collo traheutes ianguido. Horat. epod. ii. 68. 
 
 Here I can luckily apply Horace's rule against himself: 
 
 Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se 
 Impediat verbis lassas onerantibus aures. 
 
 Satir. lib. i. sat. x. 9. 
 
 561. I close this chapter with a curious inquiry. An object, 
 however ugly to the sight, is far from being so when represented 
 by colors or by words. What is the cause of this difference ; 
 With respect to painting, the cause is obvious: a good picture, 
 whatever the subject be, is agreeable by the pleasure we take in 
 imitation ; and this pleasure overbalancing the disagreeableness of 
 the subject, makes the picture upon the whole agreeable. W T ith 
 respect to the description of an ugly object, the cause follows. To 
 connect individuals in the social state, no particular contributes more 
 than language, by the power it possesses of an expeditious commu- 
 nication of thought and a lively representation of transactions. But 
 nature hath not been satisfied to recommend language by its utility 
 merely : independent of utility, it is made susceptible of many beau- 
 ties, which are directly felt, without any intervening reflection (see 
 chap, xviii.). And this unfolds the mystery ; for the pleasure of 
 language is so great, as in a lively description to overbalance the 
 disagreeableness of the image raised by it (see chap. ii. part iv.). 
 This, however, is no encouragement to choose a disagreeable sub- 
 ject ; for the pleasure is incomparably greater where the subject and 
 the description are both of them agreeable. 
 
 The following description is upon the whole agreeable, though 
 the subject described is in itself dismal : 
 
 Nine times the space that measures day and night 
 
 To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 
 
 Lay vanquish'd, rolling in the fiery gulf. 
 
 Confounded though immortal ! but his doom 
 
 Keserved him to more wrath ; for now the thought 
 
 Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 
 
 Torments him ; round he throws his baleful eyes, 
 
 That witness'd huge affliction and dismay, 
 
 Mix'd with obdurate pride and steadfast hate ; 
 
 At once as far as angels ken he views 
 
 The dismal situation, waste and wild ; 
 
 A dungeon horrible, on all sides round 
 
 As one great furnace flamed : yet from those flames 
 
 No light, but rather darkness visible 
 
 Served only to discover sights of woe, 
 
 Kegions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace 
 
 And rest can never dwell, hope never comes 
 
 That comes to all ; but torture without end 
 
 Still urges, and fiery deluge, fed 
 
 With ever- burning sulphur unconsumed ! 
 
 Such place eternnfjustice hath prepared 
 
 For those rebellious. Paradise Lost, book i. 1. 50. 
 
 660. Tautology. Redundant epithets.
 
 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 419 
 
 An unmanly depression of spirits in time of danger is not an agree- 
 able sight ; and yet a fine description or representation of it will be 
 relished : 
 
 A". Richard. What must the kin? do now f mnt be submit! 
 
 The king shall do it ; must lie be deposed? 
 
 The king shall be contented ; must he lose 
 
 The name of king? i' God's name let it go: 
 
 I'll give my jewels for a set of beads ; 
 
 My gorgeous palace for a hermitage ; 
 
 My gay apparel, for an almsman's gown ; 
 
 My figured goblets, for a dish of wood ; 
 
 My sceptre, for a palmer's walking-staff; 
 
 My subjects, for a pair of carved saints ; 
 
 And my large kingdom for a little grave ; 
 
 A little, little grave ; an obscure grave. 
 
 Or, I'll be buried in the king's highway ; 
 
 Some way of common trend, where subjects' feet 
 
 May hourly trample on their sovereign's head ; 
 
 For on my' heart they tread now, whilst I live; 
 
 And buried once, why not upon my head ? 
 
 Richard II. Act III. So. 6. 
 
 Objects that strike terror in a spectator, have in poetry and paint- 
 ing a fine effect. The picture by raising a slight emotion of terror, 
 agitates the mind ; and in that condition every beauty makes a deep 
 impression. May not contrast heighten the pleasure, by opposing 
 our present security to the danger of encountering the object repre- 
 sented? 
 
 -The other shape, 
 
 if shape it might be call'd, that shape had none 
 
 JistinguishabTe in member, joint, or limb ; 
 
 Or substance might be call'd that shadow seera'd, 
 
 For each seetn'd either ; black it stood as night, 
 
 Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell, 
 
 And shook a dreadful dart. Paradise Lori, b. 11. L . 
 
 -- Now storming fury rose, 
 
 And clamor such as heard in heaven till now 
 
 Was never; arms on armor clashing bray'd 
 
 Horrible discord, and the madding wheels 
 
 Of brazen chariots raged ; dire was the noise 
 
 Of conflict; overhead the dismal hi*s 
 
 Of flery darts in flaming volleys flew, 
 
 And flVing vaulted either host with lire. 
 
 So under fiery cope together rush'd 
 
 Both battles main, with ruinous assault 
 
 And inextinguishable rage ; all heaven 
 
 Resounded ; and had earth been then, all earth 
 
 Had to her centre shook. Paraduu Lot*, b. vl. 1. SOT. 
 
 (f/iost. -- But that I am forbid 
 To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 
 I could a tale unfold, whoso lightest word 
 Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, 
 Make thy two eyes, like stare, start from their sphere*, 
 Thy knotty and combined locks to part, 
 And each particular hair to stand on end, 
 Like quills upon the fretful porcupine : 
 But this eternal blazon must not be 
 To ears of flesh and blood. I/amM, Act I. So. 8. 
 
 Ml 
 
 . An ugly objc< reprc? 'ted In colors or words. Fhwmpl.-.-TwTlM.
 
 420 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 
 
 G-ratiano. Poor Desdetnona ! I'm glad thy fa.her's dead; 
 Thy match was mortal to him ; and pure grief 
 Shore his old thread in twain. Did he live now, 
 This sight would make him do a desperate turn : 
 Yea, curse his better angel from his side, 
 And fall to reprobation. Othello, Act V. Sc. 8. 
 
 562. Objects of horror must be expected from the foregoing 
 theory ; for no description, however lively, is sufficient to over 
 balance the disgust raised even by the idea of such objects. Every 
 thing horrible ought therefore to be avoided in a description. Nor 
 is this a severe law : the poet will avoid such scenes for his own 
 sake, as well as for that of his reader ; and to vary his descriptions, 
 nature affords plenty of objects that disgust us in some degree with- 
 out raising horror. I am obliged therefore to condemn the picture 
 of Sin in the second book of Paradise Lost, though a masterly per- 
 formance : the original would be a horrid spectacle ; and the horroi 
 is not much softened in the copy : 
 
 -Pensive here I sat 
 
 Alone ; but long I sat not, till my Womb, 
 
 Pregnant by thee, and now excessive grown, 
 
 Prodigious motion felt and rueful throes. 
 
 At last this odious offspring whom thon seest, 
 
 Thine own begotten, breaking violent way, 
 
 Tore through my entrails, that with fear and pain 
 
 Distorted, all my nether shape thus grew 
 
 Transform'd ; but he my inbred enemy 
 
 Forth issued, brandishing his fatal dart, 
 
 Made to destroy ; I fled, and cried out Death ; 
 
 Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sigh'd 
 
 From all her caves, and back resounded Death. 
 
 I fled ; but he pursued (though more, it seems, 
 
 Inflamed with lust than rage), and swifter far, 
 
 Me overtook, his mother all dismay'd, 
 
 And in embraces forcible and foul 
 
 Ingend'ring with me, of that rape begot 
 
 These yelling monsters, that with ceaseless cry 
 
 Surround me, as thou saw'st, hourly conceived 
 
 And hourly born, with sorrow infinite 
 
 To me ; for when they list, into the womb 
 
 That bred them they return, and howl and gnaw 
 
 My bowels, their repast ; then bursting forth, 
 
 Afresh with conscious terrors vex me round, 
 
 That rest or intermission none I find. 
 
 Before mine eyes in opposition sits 
 
 Grim Death, my son and foe, who sets them on, 
 
 And ine his parent would full soon devour 
 
 For want of other prey, but that he knows. 
 
 His end with mine involved ; and knows that I 
 
 Should prove a bitter morsel, and his bane, 
 
 Whenever that shall be. Book ii. 1. 777. 
 
 lago's character in the tragedy of Othello, is insufferably monstrous 
 and satanical : not even Shakspeare's masterly hand can make the 
 pteture agreeable. 
 
 Though the objects introduced in the following scene is not 
 
 MS. Objects of horror. Examples,
 
 PHILOSOPHY OK STYLE. 421 
 
 altogether so horrible as Sin is in Milton's description; yet with 
 every person of delicacy, disgust will be the prevailing emotion : 
 
 Strophades Graio slant nomine dictse 
 
 Insulse lonio in magnp : qnas dira Ccljeno, 
 HarpyiKque colunt aliae : Phineia postquam 
 Clausa domus, monsiisque metu liquere priorea. 
 Tristius baud illia monstrum, nee savior ulla 
 Pestis et ira Detim Stygiis sese extulit undia. 
 Vireinei volucrum vultus, foedissima ventris 
 Proluvies, uncseque manus, et pallida semper 
 Ora fame, &c. jEnrid, lib. iii. 210. 
 
 See also ^Eneid, lib. iii. 613. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 
 [From the Westminster Review (1852), somewhat abridged and modified ] 
 
 563. DR. LATHAM, condemning the incessant drill in English 
 Grammar, rightly observes that " gross vulgarity is a fault to be 
 prevented ; but the proper preventive is to be got from habit, not 
 from rules." So it must be acknowledged that excellence in com- 
 position is more dependent upon practice and natural talent, than 
 upon a mere acquaintance with rhetorical rules. He who daily 
 reads and hears, with close attention, well-framed sentences, will 
 naturally more or less be prompted to frame well his own sentences*. 
 Some practical advantage, however, cannot fail to be derived from 
 a familiarity with the principles of style, and from an habitual en- 
 deavor to conform to them in one's own practice. 
 
 The maxims contained in works on rhetoric and composition, are 
 not so well apprehended nor so much respected, as they would be 
 if they had been arranged under some one grand principle from 
 which they may fairly be deduced. We are told, for example, that 
 " brevity is the soul of wit" that every needless part of a sentence 
 " interrupts the description and clogs the imago" that u long sen- 
 tences fatigue the reader's attention" that " to give the utmost forco 
 to a period, it ought, if possible, to be closed with the word that 
 makes the greatest figure" that " parentheses should be avoided" 
 that " Saxon words should be used in preference to those of Latin 
 origin." We have certain styles condemned as verbose or involved. 
 Admitting these maxims to be just, they lose much of their intrin- 
 sic force and influence from their isolated position, and from the want 
 of scientific deduction from some fundamental principle. 
 
 668. Dr. Latham's observation. Excellence In competition dependent on wbalf Fl 
 |n works on rhetoric.
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 
 
 FIRST DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT. 
 
 CAUSES OF FORCE IN LANGUAGE WHICH DEPEND UPON ECONOMY 
 OF THE MENTAL ENERGIES. 
 
 564. In seeking for the law which underlies these common max- 
 ims of rhetoric, we may see shadowed forth in many" of them 
 the importance of economizing the reader's or hearer's attention. 
 To present ideas in such a form that they may be apprehended with 
 the least possible effort, is the aim of most of the rules above 
 quoted. When we condemn writing that is wordy, or confused, or 
 intricate ; when we praise one style as easy, and condemn another 
 as fatiguing, we consciously or unconsciously assume this as the 
 proper aim or standard in writing or speaking. Regarding lan- 
 guage as an apparatus of symbols for the conveyance of thought, 
 it is proper to say, as with reference to any mechanical apparatus, 
 that the more simple and the better arranged its parts, the greater 
 will be the effect produced. In either case, whatever force is ab- 
 sorbed by the machine is deducted from the result. A reader or 
 listener has at each moment but a limited amount of mental power 
 available. To recognize and interpret the symbols presented tc 
 him requires part of this power : to arrange and combine the im- 
 ages suggested requires another part ; and only that part which 
 remains can be used for the realization of the thought conveyed. 
 Hence the more time and attention it requires to receive and un- 
 derstand each sentence, the less time and attention can be given to 
 the contained idea, and the less vividly will that idea be conceived. 
 
 That language is in some measure a hindrance to thought while 
 one of the most valuable instruments of thought, is apparent Avhen 
 we notice the comparatively greater force with which some thoughts 
 are conveyed by simple signs and gestures. To say " Leave the 
 room" is less expressive than to point to the door. Placing a 
 finger upon the lips is more forcible than whispering, "Do not speak." 
 A beck of the hand is better than " Come here." No phrase can 
 convey the idea of surprise so vividly as opening the eyes and rais- 
 ing the eyebrows. A shrug of the shoulders would lose much by 
 translation into words. 
 
 565. Again, it may be remarked that when oral language is em- 
 ployed, the strongest effects are produced by interjections, which 
 condense entire sentences into syllables ; and, in other cases, where 
 custom allows us to express thoughts by single words, as in Beware, 
 Fudge, much force would be lost by expanding them into specific 
 
 564. The law which underlies the prominent maxims of rhetoric The aim of most of 
 those maxims. The demands upon the mental power of the reader or listener. Lansnag^ 
 In some Measure, a hindrance to fhotijrht.
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 423 
 
 verbal propositions. Hence, carrying out the metapho- that lan- 
 guage is the vehicle of thought, there seems reason to lluuk that 
 in all cases the friction and inertia of the vehicle deduct from its 
 efficiency ; and that in composition the chief, if not the sole thing 
 to be done, is to reduce this friction and inertia to the smallest possi- 
 ble amount. Let us then inquire whether economy of the hearer's 
 or reader's attention is not the secret of effort, alike in the choice 
 and collocation of words ; in the best arrangement of clauses in a 
 sentence ; in the proper order of its principal and subordinate propo- 
 sitions ; in the judicious use of simile, metaphor, and other figures of 
 speech ; and in even the rhythmical sequence of syllables. 
 
 I. THE CHOICE OF WORDS. 
 
 566. (1) The superior forcibleness of Saxon English, or rather 
 non-Latin English, first claims our attention. The several special 
 reasons assignable for this may all be reduced to the general reason 
 economy. The most important of them is early association. A 
 child's vocabulary is almost wholly Saxon. He says, / have, not / 
 possess ; I wish, not / desire : he does not reflect, he thinks ; he 
 does not beg for amusement, but for play ; ho calls things nice or 
 nasty, not pleasant or disagreeable. The synonyms which he 
 learns in after years never become so closely, so organically con- 
 nected with the ideas signified, as do these original words used in 
 childhood ; and hence the association remains less powerful. But 
 in what does a powerful association between a word and an idea 
 differ from a weak one ? Simply in the greater rapidity and ease 
 of comprehension, until, from its having been a conscious effort to 
 realize their meanings, their meanings ultimately come without any 
 effort at all ; and if we consider that the same process must have 
 gone on with the words of our mother tongue from childhood up- 
 ward, we shall clearly see that the earliest-learnt and oftenest-used 
 words, will, other things being equal, call up images with le.-* loss of 
 t ; me and energy than their later-learned synonyms. 
 
 567. (2) The comparative brevity of Saxon English is another 
 feature that brings it under the same generalization. If it be an ad- 
 vantage to express an idea in the smallest number of words, then 
 will it be an advantage to express it in the smallest number of sylla- 
 bles. If circuitous phrases and needless expletives distract the 
 attention and diminish the strength of the impression produced, then 
 do surplus articulations do so. A certain effort, though commonly 
 an inappreciable one, must be required to recognize every vowel and 
 
 565. Interjections. Single words. The chief thing to be done In eompUUon.-In wnl 
 respects economy of attention is to be practised. 
 
 506. Superior fordblenees of Saxon English. Flrt reason. In wht powwfUl MK 
 tton between a word and Jt* Idea diftVrs from a we> one.
 
 424: PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 
 
 consonant. If, as we commonly find, the mind soon becomes 
 fatigued when we listen to an indistinct or fa>removed speaker, or 
 when we read a badly-written manuscript; and if, as we cannot 
 doubt, the fatigue is a cumulative result of the attention req Aired to 
 catch successive syllables, it obviously follows that attention is in 
 such cases absorbed by each syllable. And if this be true when the 
 syllables are difficult of recognition, it will also be true, though in a 
 less degree, when the recognition of them is easy. Hence, the short- 
 ness of Saxon words becomes a reason for their greater force, as 
 involving a saving of the articulations to be received. 
 
 568. (3) Again, that frequent cause of strength in Saxon and 
 other primitive words their imitative character renders it a mat- 
 ter of economy to use them. Both those directly imitative, aa 
 splash, bang, whiz, roar, &c., and those analogically imitative, as 
 rough, smooth, keen, blunt, thin, hard, crag, &c., by presenting to 
 the perceptions symbols having direct resemblance to the things to 
 be imagined, or some kinship to them, save part of the effort needed 
 to call up the intended ideas, and leave more attention to the ideas 
 themselves. 
 
 569. (4) It contributes to economy of the hearer's or reader's 
 mental energy to use specific rather than generic words. That con- 
 crete terms produce more vivid impressions than abstract ones, and 
 should, when possible, be used instead, is a current maxim of com- 
 position. As Dr. Campbell says, the more general the terms are, 
 the picture is the fainter; the more special they are, the brighter. 
 "Ve should avoid such a sentence as, 
 
 In proportion as the manners, customs, and amusements of a nation 
 
 are cruel and barbarous, the regulations of their penal code will be severe. 
 
 And in place of it we should write : 
 
 In proportion as men delight in battles, tourneys, bull-fights, and 
 
 combats of gladiators, will they punish by hanging, beheading, burning, and 
 the rack. 
 
 This superiority of specific expressions is clearly due to a saving of 
 the effort required to translate words into thoughts. As we do not 
 think in generals but in particulars; as, whenever any class of 
 things is referred to, we represent it to ourselves by calling to mind 
 individual members of it, it follows that when an abstract word is 
 used, the hearer or reader has to choose, from among his stock of 
 images, one or more by which he may figure to himself the genus 
 mentioned. In doing this some delay must arise, some force te ex- 
 pended ; and if, by employing a specific term, an appropriate image 
 can be at once suggested, an economy is achieved, and a more vivid 
 impression produced. 
 
 567. Brevity of 8axon English : how this contributes to effect 
 56S. Effect of the imitative character of primitive words. 
 
 669. Economy in using specific words. Dr. Campbell's remark. Whj ipecfflo ex 
 presslons economize effort.
 
 PHILOSOPHY OP STYLE. 425 
 
 II. COLLOCATION OF WORDS IN A 8ENTENCK. 
 
 570. Turning now from the choice of words to their sequence, we 
 shall find the same general principle hold good. We have, a priori, 
 reason for believing that there is usually some one order of words in 
 a sentence more effective than every other, and that this order ia the 
 one which presents the elements of the proposition in the succession 
 in which they may be most readily put together. As, in a narra- 
 tive, the events should be stated in such order that the mind may 
 not have to go backwards and forwards in order rightly to connect 
 them ; as in a group of sentences, the arrangement adopted should 
 be such that each of them may be understood as it comes, without 
 waiting for subsequent ones ; so in every sentence the sequence of 
 words should be that which suggests the component parts of the 
 thought conveyed, in the order most convenient for building up that 
 thought. To enforce this truth, and to prepare the way for appli- 
 cations of it, we must (1) briefly inquire into the mental process by 
 which the meaning of a series of words is apprehended. 
 
 We cannot more simply do this than by considering the proper 
 collocation of the substantive and adjective. Is it better to place the 
 adjective before the substantive, or the substantive before the adjec- 
 tive ? Ought we to say with the French, un cheval noir (a horse 
 black) ; or to say as we do, a black horse ? Probably most persons 
 of culture would decide that one is as good as the other. There is, 
 however, a philosophical ground for deciding in favor of the English 
 arrangement. If " a horse black" be the form used, immediately OB 
 the utterance of the word " horse" there arises, or tends to anse, m 
 .the mind a picture answering to that word ; and as there has been 
 nothing to indicate what kind of horse, any image of a horse sug- 
 gests itself. Very likely, however, the image will be that of a brown 
 horse, brown horses being equally or more familiar. The result is, 
 that when the word "black" is added, a check is given to the 
 process of thought. Either the picture of a brown hon-e already 
 present in the imagination has to be suppressed, and the picture oi 
 a black one summoned in its place ; or else, if the picture ot a brown 
 horse be yet unformed, the tendency to form it has to tx stopped. 
 Whichever be the case, a certain amount of hindrance result*, 
 if, on the other hand, " a black horse" be the expression used, no 
 such mistake can be made. The word black," indicating an al 
 Btract quality, arouses no definite idea. It simply prepares the mn 
 for conceiving of some object of that color ; and the attention 
 upended until that object is known. If then, by the precedi'iice 
 the adjective, the idea is conveyed without the possibility o ror, 
 whereas the precedence of the substantive is liable to produce a mis 
 conception, it follows that the one gives the mind less t, thap 
 
 the other, knd is therefore more forcible. The right fonriRUoD of
 
 4:26 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 
 
 picture will always be facilitated by presenting its elements in the 
 order in which they are wanted. 
 
 571. What is here said respecting the succession of the adjective 
 and substantive, is obviously applicable, by change of terms, to the 
 adverb and verb. And, without further explanation, it will be at 
 once perceived, that in the use of prepositions and other particles, 
 most languages spontaneously conform, with more or less complete- 
 ness, to this law. 
 
 (2) On applying a like analysis to the larger divisions of a sen- 
 tence, we find not only that the same principle holds good, but that 
 there is great advantage in regarding it. In the arrangement of 
 predicate and subject, for example, we are at once shown that as the 
 predicate determines the aspect under which the subject is to be 
 conceived, it should be placed first ; and the striking effect produced 
 by so placing it becomes comprehensible. 
 
 Take the often-quoted contrast between " Great is Diana of the 
 Ephesians," and " Diana of the Ephesiaus is great." When the first 
 arrangement is used, the utterance of the word " great" arouses those 
 vague associations of an impressive nature with which it has been 
 habitually connected ; the imagination is prepared to clothe with 
 high attributes whatever follows; and when .the words "Diana of 
 the Ephesians" are heard, all the appropriate imagery which can, 
 on the instant, be summoned, is used in the formation of the pic- 
 ture: the mind being thus led directly, without error, to the intend- 
 ed impression. When, on the contrary, the reverse order is followed, 
 the idea, " Diana of the Ephesians," is conceived in any ordinary 
 way, with no special reference to greatness ; and when the words 
 " is great" are added, the conception has to be entirely remodelled ; 
 whence arises a manifest loss of mental energy, and a corresponding 
 diminution of effect. 
 
 The following verse from Coleridge's " Ancient Mariner," though 
 somewhat irregular in structure, weft illustrates the same truth : 
 
 Alone, alone, all alone, 
 
 Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 
 And never saint took pity on 
 
 My sou) in agony. 
 
 Of course the principle equally applies when the predicate is a verb 
 or a participle : and as effect is gained by placing first all words in- 
 dicating quality, conduct, or condition of the subject, it follows that 
 the copula should have precedence. It is true, that the general 
 habit of ^our language resists this arrangement of predicate, copula, 
 and subject ; but we may readily find instances of the additional 
 force gained by conforming to it. Thus, in the. line from "Julius 
 'Caesar," 
 
 670. The order of words in a sentence which seems a priori to be more effective than 
 another. Process by which the meaning of a series of words is apprehended. Collocatiou 
 of suhit'iiitire and adjective. French and Eng"sh arrangement Why the latter is pr* 
 
 fared.
 
 Mm.OSOPFIY OF STTLK. 427 
 
 Then lurtt this mighty heart, 
 
 priority is given to a word embodying both predicate and copula. 
 
 In a passage contained in "The Battle of Flodden Field," the like 
 order is systematically employed with great effect : 
 
 The Border slogan rent the sky ! 
 A Home! a Gordon ! was the cry ; 
 
 Loud were the clanging blows ; 
 Advanced, -forced back, now four, tuna high, 
 
 The pennon sunk and rose ; 
 As bends the bark's mast in the gnle, 
 When rent are rigging, shrouds, ana sail. 
 
 It waver'd 'mid the foes. 
 
 572. (3) Pursuing the principle yet further, it is obvious that 
 for producing the greatest effect, not only should the main divisions 
 of a sentence observe this order, but the" subdivisions of a sentence 
 should be similarly arranged. In nearly all cases the predicate is 
 accompanied by some limit or qualification called its complement : 
 commonly, also, the circumstances of the subject, ichichform its com- 
 plement, have to be specified ; and as these qualifications and cir 
 cumstances must determine the mode in which the ideas they belong 
 to shall be conceived, precedence should be given to them. Lord 
 Kames notices the fact, that this order is preferable ; though with- 
 out giving the reason. He says, " When a circumstance is placed 
 at the beginning of a period, or near the beginning, the transition 
 from it to the principal subject is agreeable ; is like ascending or 
 going upward." A sentence arranged in illustration of this may be 
 desirable. Perhaps the following will serve : 
 
 -Whatever it may be in theory, it is clear that in practice the French 
 
 idea of liberty is the right of every man to be master of the rest. 
 
 In this case, were the first two clauses up to the word " practice" 
 inclusive, which qualify the subject, to be placed at the end instead 
 of the beginning, much of the force would be lost ; as thus : 
 
 The French idea of liberty is the right of every man to bo master of 
 
 the rest ; in practice at least, if not in theory. 
 
 The effect of giving priority to the complement of the predicate, 
 as well as the predicate itself, is finely displayed in the opening of 
 " Hyperion :" 
 
 Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 
 Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, 
 Far from tne fiery noon antl eee^t one ttar, 
 Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone. 
 
 Here it will be observed, not only that the predicate "sat" pre 
 cedes the subject. " Saturn,'' and that the three lines in italics con- 
 stituting the complement of the predicate come before it, but that* 
 
 671. Law for other parts of speech. Arrangement of predicate and subject Example : 
 " Great Is Diana," ic. Other examples. 
 
 5T2. Subdivisions of A sentence. Complement of tha predicate. Clrcnmtm*. Kl- 
 mjile from " llyperion."
 
 49ft 
 
 PHILOSOPHY OP STYLE 
 
 . 
 
 >ions shall at any moment be the fewest in number, 
 '" ^ 1 " nd 8nbordinat Propositions in the same sentence, fc
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 429 
 
 and shall also be of the shortest duration. The following is an in- 
 stance of defective combination : 
 
 A rearrangement of this, in accordance with the principle indi- 
 cated above, will be found to increase the effect Thus : 
 
 Though probably true, a modern newspaper statement quoted in a 
 
 book as testimony, would 'be laughed at; but the letter of a court-gossip, if 
 written some centuries ago, is thought good historical evidence. 
 
 By making this change some of the suspensions are avoided, and 
 others shortened ; whilst there is less liability to produce premature 
 conceptions. The passage quoted below from "Paradise Lost," 
 affords a fine instance of sentences well arranged, alike in the priority 
 of the subordinate members, in the avoidance of long and numerous 
 suspensions, and in the correspondence between the order of the clauset 
 ond the sequence of the phenomena described, which, by the way, is 
 a further prerequisite to easy comprehension, and therefore to effect : 
 
 As when a prowling wolf, 
 
 Whom hunger drives to seek new haunt for prey, 
 Watching where shepherds pen their flocks at eve 
 In hurdled cotes amid the field secure, 
 Leaps o'er the fence with ease into the fold: 
 Or as a thief bent to unheard the cash 
 Of some rich burgher, whose substantial doors, 
 Cross-barr'd and bolted fast, fear no assault, 
 In at the window climbs, or o'er the tiles : 
 So clomb the first grand thief into God's fold ; 
 So since into Ids church lewd hirelings climb. 
 
 575.' (7) The habitual use of sentences in which all or most of 
 the descriptive and limiting elements precede those described and 
 limited, give rise to what is called the inverted style ; a title which 
 is, however, by no means confined to this structure, but is often used 
 where the order of the words is simply unusual. A more appropri- 
 ate title would be the direct style, as contrasted with the other or 
 indirect style : the peculiarity of the one being that it conveys each 
 thought into the mind step by step, with little liability to error; and 
 of the other, that it gets the right thought conceived by a a 
 approximations. . 
 
 (8) The superiority of the direct over the indirect foi 
 fence, implied by the several conclusions that have been drawn, m 
 not however, be affirmed without limitation. Though up to a cer- 
 tain point it is well for all the qualifying clauses of a peiro 
 precede those qualified, yet, as carrying forward each qua ug 
 clause costs some mental effort, it follows that when the nuiube 
 them and the time they are carried become great, we i 
 
 674 Words to be brought most closely tog ether-Re** for JuiUpof |tloo.-Kmp 
 of defeetire arrangement Extmple of Rood *rrns*nint.
 
 430 
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 
 
 beyond which more is lost than gained. Other things equal, the 
 arrangement should be such that no concrete image shall be suggested 
 until the materials out of which it is to be made have been pre- 
 sented. And yet, as lately pointed out, other things equal, the fewer 
 the materials .to be held at once, and the shorter the distance they' 
 have to be borne, the better. Hence, in some cases, it becomes a 
 question whether most mental effort will be entailed by the many 
 and long suspensions, or by the correction of successive misconcep- 
 tions. 
 
 576. This question may sometimes be decided by considering the 
 capacity of the persons addressed. A greater grasp of mind is re- 
 quired for the ready comprehension of thoughts expressed in the 
 direct manner, when the sentences are in any wise intricate. To 
 recollect a number of preliminaries stated in elucidation of a coming 
 image, and to apply them all to the formation of it when suggested, 
 demands a ^considerable power of concentration, and a tolerably vig- 
 orous imagination. To one possessing these, the direct method will 
 mostly seem the best, whilst to one deficient in them it will seem 
 the worst. Just as it may cost a strong man less effort to carry a 
 hundred-weight from place to place at once, than by a stone at a 
 time; so^to an active mind it may be easier to bear along all the 
 qualifications of an idea, and at once rightly form it when named, 
 than to first imperfectly conceive such an idea, and then carry back 
 to it one by one the details and limitations afterwards mentioned. 
 Whilst, conversely, as for a boy the only possible mode of transferring 
 a hundred-weight, is that of taking it in portions ; so for a weak 
 mind, the only possible mode of forming a compound perception 
 may be that of building it up by carrying separately its several 
 parts. 
 
 That the indirect method the method of conveying the meaning 
 by a series of approximations fa best fitted for the uncultivated, 
 may indeed be inferred from their habitual use of it. The form of 
 expression adopted by the savage, as in " Water, give me," is the 
 simplest type of the approximative arrangement. In pleonasms, 
 which are comparatively prevalent among the uneducated, the same 
 essential structure is seen ; as, for instance, in " The men, they were 
 there." Again, the old possessive case, " The king, his crown," con- 
 forms to the like order of thought. Moreover, the fact that the indi- 
 rect mode is called the natural one, implies that it is the one spon- 
 taneously employed by the common people that is, the one easiest 
 for undisciplined minds. 
 
 Before dismissing this branch of our subject, it should be remarked 
 that even when addressing the most vigorous intellects, the direct 
 style is unfit for communicating thoughts of a complex or abstract 
 
 6T5. Inverted style described. A more appropriate title for this style. The proper Hirl- 
 Utiou to the direct style. Rule where qualifying clause* are numerous.
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 431 
 
 character. So long as the mind has not much to do, it may be well 
 to grasp all the preparatory clauses of a sentence, and to use them 
 effectively ; but if some subtilty in the argument absorb the atten- 
 tion if every faculty be strained in endeavoring to catch the 
 speaker's or writer's drift, it may happen that the mind, unable to 
 carry on both processes at once, will break down, and allow all it* 
 ideas to lapse into confusion. 
 
 III. THE LAW OF EFFECT IN USING FIGURES OF SPEECH. 
 
 577. Turning now to consider Figures of Speech, we may equally 
 discern the same law of effect. Underlying all the rules that may 
 be given for the choice and right use of them, we shall find the 
 same fundamental requirement economy of attention. It is indeed 
 chiefly because of their great ability to subserve this requirement, 
 that figures of speech are employed. To bring the mind more easily 
 to the desired conception, is in many cases solely, and in all cases 
 mainly, their object. 
 
 (1) Let us begin with the figure called SYNECDOCHE. The ad- 
 vantage sometimes gained by putting a part for the whole is due to 
 the more convenient, or more accurate, presentation of the idea thus 
 secured. If, instead of saying " a fleet of ten ships," we say " a fleet 
 of ten *a?7," the picture of a group of vessels at sea is more readily 
 suggested ; and is so because the sails constitute the most conspicu- 
 ous part of vessels so circumstanced ; whereas the word ships would 
 more likely remind us of vessels in dock. 
 
 Again, to-say " All hands to the pumps !" is better than to say 
 "All men to the pumps!" as it suggests the men in the specia 
 attitude intended, and so saves effort. Bringing "ffray hairs with 
 SOITOW to the grave," is another expression the effect of which has 
 the same cause. 
 
 578. (2) The occasional increase of force produced by METONYMY 
 may be similarly accounted for. 
 
 ' The low morality of the bar" is a phrase both briefer and i 
 significant than the literal one it stands for. A belief in the ultimate 
 supremacy of intelligence over brute force, is conveyed in a mon 
 concrete, and therefore more realizable form, if we substitute the pen 
 and the sword for the two abstract tenns. To say " 
 drinking!" is less effective than to say " Beware the b 
 so, clearly because it calls up a less specific image. 
 
 (3) The SIMILE, though in many cases employed chiefly wit 
 view to ornament, yet whenever it increases the force of a pas 
 does so by being an economy. Here is an in 
 
 HA *u><i For whom the Indirect method l b** 
 
 5T6. Reference to the capacity of those aunr ,,,-hLs the direct rtrU to 
 
 _.. , mjii " 1~ *n thla mMnrl. r iff \Mial I 
 
 fitted. Title 
 
 $ Bsaesressssssi
 
 4:82 
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 
 
 n ~T The dluMon that great men and great events came oftenar in early 
 tmies than now, is partly due to historical perspective. As in a range of equi- 
 distant columns, the furthest off look the closest, so the conspicuous obiecte of 
 tbe past seem more thickly clustered the more remote they are. 
 
 To construct, by a process of literal explanation, the thought thus 
 conveyed, would take many sentences ; and the first elements of the 
 picture would become faint whilst the imagination was busy in 
 adding the others. But by the help of a comparison all effort is 
 saved ; the picture is instantly realized, and its full effect produced. 
 579. Of the position of the Simile* it needs only to remark, that 
 what has been said respecting the order of the adjective and sub- 
 stantive, predicate and subject, principal and subordinate proposi- 
 tions, &c., is applicable here. As whatever qualifies should precede 
 whatever is qualified, force will generally be gained by placing the 
 simde upon the object to which it is applied. That this arrangement 
 is the best, may be seen in the following passage from the " Lady of 
 the Lake :" 
 
 As wreath of snow on mountain breast. 
 
 Slides from the rock that gave it rest 
 
 Poor Ellen glided from her stay, 
 
 And at the monarch's feet she 'lay. 
 
 inverting these couplets will be found to diminish the effect con- 
 siderably. There are cases, however, even where the simile is a 
 simple one, in which it may with advantage be placed last as in 
 these lines from Alexander Smith's " Life's Drama." 
 
 I see the future stretch 
 All dark and barren as a rainy sea. 
 
 The reason for this seems to be, that so abstract an idea as that 
 attaching to the word "future," does not present itself to the mind 
 m any definite form, and hence the subsequent arrival at the simile 
 entails no reconstruction of the thought. 
 
 Nor are such the only cases in which this order is the most for- 
 cible. As the advantage of putting the simile before the object 
 depends on its being carried forward in the mind to assist in forming 
 an image of the object, it must happen that if, from length or con> 
 plexity, it cannot so be carried forward, the advantage is not gained 
 Jbe annexed sonnet, by Coleridge, is defective from this cause : 
 
 As when a child on some long winter's night 
 Affrighted, clinging to its grandam's knees, 
 With eager wondering and perturbed delight 
 Listens strange tales of fearful dark decrees, 
 Mutter'd to wretch by necromantic spell ; 
 
 * Properly, the term " simile" is applicable only to the entire figure, inclusive 
 ? -* gS com ? & d and the comparison "drawn between them. But la 
 ahernS7 t f f f th ?, illu ?f r f, tive membe ' > of the figure, there seems n^ 
 alternative but to emp oy "simile" to express this also. The context will in 
 each case show in which sense the word is used. 
 
 . itl0n f "^ Si " lile ' *"* re8S n given ' Esam P l0 from Scott; from Smith;
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF 6TTLE. 433 
 
 Or of those hags who at the witching time 
 Of murky midnight, ride the air sublime, 
 And mingle foul embrace with fiends of hell ; 
 Cold horror drinks its blood 1 Anon the tear 
 More gentle starts, to hear the beldame tell 
 Of pretty babes, that loved each other dear, 
 Murder'd by cruel uncle's mandate fell : 
 Ev'n such the shivering joys thy tones impart, 
 Ev'n so, thou, Siddons, meltest my sad heart. 
 
 Here, from the lapse of time and accumulation of circumstances, 
 the first part of the comparison becomes more or less dim before its 
 application is reached, and requires re-reading. Had the main idea 
 been first mentioned, less effort would have been required to attain 
 it, and to modify the conception of it in conformity with the com- 
 parison, and refer back to the recollection of its successive feature* 
 for help in forming the final image. 
 
 580. (4) The superiority of the METAPHOR to the Simile is as- 
 cribed by Dr. Whately to the fact that " all men are more gratified 
 at catching the resemblance for themselves than in having it pointed 
 out to them." But after what has been said, the great economy it 
 achieves will seem the more probable cause. If, drawing an analogy 
 between mental and physical phenomena, we say, 
 
 As, in passing through the crystal, beams of whito light are decom- 
 posed into the colors of the rainbow; so in traversing the soul of the poet, the 
 colorless rays of truth are transformed into brightly-tinted poetry ; 
 
 it is clear that in receiving the double set of words expressing the 
 two portions of the comparison, and in carrying the one portion to 
 the other, a considerable amount of attention is absorbed. Most of 
 this is saved, however, by putting the comparison in a metaphorical 
 form, thus : 
 
 The whito light of truth, in traversing the many-sided transparent soul 
 
 of the poet, is refracted into iris-hued poetry. 
 
 How much is conveyed in a few words by the help of the Meta- 
 phor, and how vivid the effect consequently produced, may be abun- 
 dantly exemplified. From a " Life Drama" may be quoted the phrase. 
 
 I spear'd him with a jest, 
 
 as a fine instance among the many which that poem contains. 
 
 A passage in the " Prometheus Unbound" of Shelley, displays the 
 power of the Metaphor to great advantage : 
 
 Methought among the lawns together, 
 
 We wander'd underneath the young gray dawn, 
 
 And multitudes of dense whito fleecy clonds 
 
 Were wandering in thick flocks along the imuntains, 
 
 Sktphtrdtd by the slow unwilling wind. 
 
 630 
 Ezai 
 to fi 
 
 10. Superiority of metaphor to simile: rasons given. Exmp1* conwmloj Truth, 
 idple from "Life Drama." Example from Shelley. When ui:pbor ebouM fKe |>Uo
 
 434 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 
 
 This last expression is remarkable for the distinotne&s with which 
 realizes the features of the scene ; bringing the mind, as it were, 
 a bound to the desired conception. 
 
 But a limit is put to the advantageous use of the Metaphor, by th 
 condition it must be sufficiently simple to be understood from a hint. 
 Evidently, if there be any obscurity in the meaning or application 
 of it, no economy of attention will be gained, but rather the reverse. 
 Hence, when the comparison is complex, it is usual to have recourse 
 to the Simile. 
 
 581. (5) There is, however, a species of figure sometimes classed 
 under ALLEGORY, but which might perhaps be better called Com- 
 pound Metaphor, that enables us to retain the brevity of the meta- 
 phorical form even where the analogy is intricate. This is done by 
 indicating the application of the figure at the outset, and then leaving 
 the mind to continue the parallel itself. Emerson has employed it 
 with great effect in the first of his " Lectures on the Times :" 
 
 The main interest which any aspects of the times can have for us, is the 
 great spirit which gazes through them, the light which they can shed on the 
 wonderful questions, What we are ? and whither do we tend ? We do not 
 wish to be deceived. Here we drift, like white sail across the wide ocean, now 
 bright on the wave, now darkling in the trough of the sea : but from what port 
 did we sail ? who knows ? or to what port are we bound ? who knows ? There 
 is no one to tell us but such poor weather-tossed mariners as ourselves, whom . 
 we speak as we pass, or who have hoisted some signal, or floated to us some 
 letter in a bottle from afar. But what know they more than we ? They also 
 found themselves on this wondrous sea. No : from the older sailors nothing. 
 Over all their speaking-trumpets the gray sea and the loud winds answer 
 Not in us ; not in Time. 
 
 582. (6) The division of the simile from the metaphor is by nc 
 means a definite one. Between the one extreme in which the two 
 elements of -the comparison are detailed at full length and the anal- 
 ogy pointed out, and the other extreme in which the comparison 
 is implied instead of stated, come intermediate forms, in which the 
 comparison is partly stated and partly implied. For instance : 
 
 Astonished at the performances of the English plough, the Hindoos 
 
 paint it, sat it up and worship it ; thus turning a tool into an idol : linguists do 
 the same with language. 
 
 There is an evident advantage in leaving the reader or hearer to 
 complete the figure. And generally those intermediate forms are 
 good in proportion as they do this, provided the mode of completing 
 it be obvious. 
 
 583. (7) Passing over much that may be said of like purport 
 upon hyperbole, personification, apostrophe, &c~, we close our re- 
 marks upon construction by a TYPICAL EXAMPLE. 
 
 The general principle that has been enunciated is, that the force 
 of all verbal forms and arrangements is great in proportion as the 
 
 681, Advantage and nature of the compound metipbcir. Example from Einersou. 
 ftSii. Simile atid metaphor not ahvays distinct. Example.
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 435 
 
 time and mental effort they demand from the recipient is small. 
 The special applications of this general principle have been several 
 times illustrated ; and it has been shown that the relative goodness 
 of any two modes of expressing an idea may be determined bv ob- 
 serving which requires the shortest process of thought for its "com- 
 prehension. But though conformity in particular points has been 
 exemplified, no cases of complete conformity have yet been quoted. 
 It is, indeed, difficult to find them ; for the English idiom scarcely 
 permits the order which theory dictates. A few, however, occur in 
 Ossian. Here is one : 
 
 As antumn's dark storms pour from two echoing hills, BO towards each 
 other approached the heroes. As two dark streams from high rocks meet, 
 and mix, and roar on the plain ; loud, rough, and dark in battle meet Lochlin 
 andlutiisfu.il. * * * * As the troubled noise of the ocean when rolls the waves 
 on high ; as the last peal of the thunder of heaven ; such is the noise of the 
 battle. 
 
 Except in the position of the verb in the first two similes, the 
 theoretically -best arrangement is fully carried out in each of these 
 sentences. The simile comes before the qualified imaye, the adjec- 
 tives before the substantives, the predicate and copula before (he sub- 
 ject, and their respective complements before them. That the passage 
 is more or less open to the charge of being bombastic proves nothing; 
 or rather proves our case. For what is bombast but a force of ex- 
 pression too great for the magnitude of the ideas embodied ? All 
 that may rightly be inferred is, that only in very rare cases, and 
 then only to produce a climax, should all the conditioas of effective 
 expression be fulfilled. 
 
 FV. CHOICE AND ARRANGEMENT OF THE MINOR IMAGES OUT OF WHICH 
 PARTICULAR THOUGHTS ARE BUILT. 
 
 584. Passing on to a more complex application of the doctrine 
 with which we set out, it must now be remarked, that not only in 
 the structure of sentences and the use of figures of speech, may econ- 
 omy of the recipient's mental energy bo assigned as the cause of 
 force, but that in the choice and arrangement of the minor imagtt, 
 out of which some large thought is to be built, we may trace the 
 same condition of effect. 
 
 To select from the sentiment, scene, or event described, those typi- 
 cal elements which carry many others along with them, and to by 
 saying a few things but suggesting many, to abridge the description. 
 is the secret of producing a vivid impression. Thus if we say, Real 
 nobility is "not transferable;" besides the one idea expreae^ 
 
 58a Force of verbal forms and arrangements Is in proportion to wnt-1 -.-.:: 
 goodness of two modes of expressing an Ido*, how determined. Enrnpto W 
 
 Objection to thi. lunatic?. Inference.
 
 4-36 
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 
 
 sever.il are implied ; and as these can be thought much sooner than 
 they can be put in words, there is gain in omitting them. How the 
 mind may be led to construct a complete picture by the presentation 
 of a few parts, an extract from Tennyson's " Mariana" will well 
 show : 
 
 All day within the dreamy house, 
 The door upon the hinges? creak'd 
 The fly sung i' the pane ; the mouse 
 Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, 
 Or from the crevice peer'd about. 
 
 The several circumstances here specified bring with them hosts of 
 appropriate associations. Our attention is rarely drawn by the buz- 
 zing of a fly in the window, save when every thing is still. Whilst 
 the inmates are moving about the house, mice usually keep silence ; 
 and it is only when extreme quietness reigns that they peep from 
 their retreats. Hence, each of the facts mentioned, presupposing 
 numerous others, calls up these Avith more or less distinctness, and 
 revives the feeling of dull solitude with which they are connected in 
 our experience. Were all these facts detailed instead of suggested, 
 the attention would be so frittered away that little impression ot 
 dreariness would be produced. And here, without further explana- 
 tion, it will be seen that, be the nature of the sentiment conveyed 
 what it may, this skilful selection of a few particulars which imply 
 the rest, is the key to success. In the choice of component ideas, as 
 in the choice of expressions, THE AIM MUST BE TO CONVEY THE 
 
 GREATEST QUANTITY OF THOUGHTS WITH THE SMALLEST QUANTITY OF 
 WORDS. 
 
 V. SUPPLEMENTARY CAUSES OF FORCE IN EXPRESSION. 
 
 585. Before inquiring whether the law of effect, thus far traced, 
 will account for the superiority of poetry to prose, it will be needful 
 to notice some supplementary causes of force in expression that have 
 not yet been mentioned. These are not, properly speaking, addi- 
 tional causes, but rather secondary ones, originating from those 
 already specified reflex manifestations of them. 
 
 In the first place, then, we may remark that mental excitement 
 spontaneouslrj prompts the use of those forms of speech which ftave 
 been pointed out as the most effective. " Out with him !" " Away 
 with him !" are the natural utterances of angry citizens at a disturbed 
 meeting. A voyager, describing a terrible storm he had witnessed, 
 would rise to some such climax as, " Crack went the ropes, and down 
 went the mast." Astonishment may be heard expressed in the 
 phrase, " Never was there such a sight !" All which sentences are, 
 it will be observed, constructed after the direct type. 
 
 KM. Solec.tioD of topical otnculs. Exsmplu from Tennyson. Remarks ou it
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 437 
 
 Again, every one will recogn.ze the fact thor recited person* are 
 given to figures of speech. The vituperation or (be vulgar abounds 
 with thorn ; often, indeed, consists of little else. u Beast," " brute," 
 "gallows-rogue," "cut-throat villain," these and otherlikc metaphors, 
 or metaphorical epithets, at once call to mind a street quarrel. 
 
 58C. Further, it may be remarked that extreme brevity is one of 
 the characteristics of passionate language. The sentences are generally 
 incomplete, the particles are omitted, and frequently important 
 words are left to be gathered from the context. Great admiration 
 does not vent itself in a precise proposition, as, " It is beautiful," but 
 in a simple exclamation, " Beautiful !" He who, when reading a 
 lawyer's letter, should say " Vile rascal !" would be thought angry ; 
 whilst " He is a vile rascal" would imply comparative coolness. 
 Thus we see that, alike in the order of the words, in the frequent 
 use of figures, and in. extreme conciseness, the natural utterances of 
 excitement conform to the theoretical conditions of forcible ex-l 
 pression. 
 
 Here, then, the higher forms of speech acquire a secondary 
 thought from association. Having, in actual life, habitually formed 
 them in connection with vivid mental impressions ; and having been 
 accustomed to meet with them in the most poweiful writing ; they 
 come to have in themselves a species of force. The emotions that 
 have from time to time been produced by the strong thoughts 
 wrapped up in these forms, are partially aroused by the forms them- 
 selves. They create a certain degree of animation ; they induce a 
 preparatory sympathy ; and when the striking ideas looked for are 
 reached, they are the more vividly realized. , 
 
 VI. WHY POETRY IS ESPECIALLY IMPRESSIVE. 
 
 587. (1) The continuous use of those modes of expression that 
 are alike forcible in themselves, and forcible from their associations, 
 produces the peculiarly impressive species of composition which we 
 call poetry. Poetry, we shall find, habitually adopts those symbol* 
 of thought, and those methods of using them, which instinct and 
 analysis agree in choosing as most effective, and becomes poetry by 
 virtue of doing this. 
 
 On turning back to the various specimens that have been quoted, 
 it will be seen that the direct or inverted form of sentence predomi- 
 nates in them, and that to a degree quite inadmissible in prose. 
 And not only in the frequency, but in what is termed the violence 
 of the inversions will this distinction be remarked. 
 
 6S5. How arc the most effective forms of speech prompted. Example. Kind of IK u*f 
 nsed by excited persons. Example, . . . 
 
 5SC. Characteristic of passionate language. Example.- -Jtrenr-u
 
 43 & PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 
 
 In the abundant use of figures, again, we may recognize the same 
 truth. Metaphors, similes, hyperboles, and personifications, are the 
 poet's colors, which he has liberty to employ almost without limit. 
 We characterize as " poetical" the prose which repeats these appli- 
 ances of language with any frequency; and condemn it -as "over- 
 florid" or "affected" long before they occur with the profusion 
 allowed in verse. 
 
 Further, let it be remarked that in brevity the other requisite of 
 forcible expression which theory points out, and emotion sponta- 
 neously fulfils poetical phraseology similarly differs from ordinary 
 phraseology. Imperfect periods are frequent, elisions are perpetual, 
 and many of the minor words which would be deemed essential in 
 prose are dispensed with. 
 
 588. Thus poetry, regarded as a vehicle of thought, is. especially 
 ^impressive because it obeys all the laws of effective speech, and partly 
 ^because in so doing it imitates the natural utterances of excitement. 
 Whilst the matter embodied is idealized emotion; the vehicle is the 
 idealized language of emotion. As the musical composer catches 
 the cadences in which our feelings of joy and sympathy, grief and 
 despair vent themselves, and out of these germs evolves melodies 
 suggesting higher phases of these feelings; so the poet develops 
 from the typical expressions in which men utter passion and senti- 
 ment, those choice forms of verbal combination in which concen 
 trated passion and sentiment may be fitly presented. 
 
 (2) There is one peculiarity of poetry conducing much to its 
 effect the peculiarity which is indeed usually thought to be its 
 characteristic on* still remaining to be considered : we mean its 
 rhythmical structure. This, unexpected as it may be, will be found 
 to come under the same generalization with the others. Like each 
 of them, it is an idealization of the natural language of emotion, 
 which is known to be more or less metrical if the emotion be not vio- 
 lent ; and like each of them, it is an economy of the reader's or 
 hearer's attention. 
 
 In the peculiar tone and manner we adopt in uttering versified 
 language, may be discerned its relationship to the feelings ; and the 
 pleasure which its measured movement gives us is ascribable to the 
 comparative ease with which words metrically arranged can be rec- 
 ognized. This last position will scarcely be at once admitted ; but 
 a little explanation will show its reasonableness. For if, as we have 
 seen, there is an expenditure of mental energy in the mere act of 
 listening to verbal articulations, or in that silent repetition of them 
 which goes on in reading if the perceptive faculties must be in 
 active exercise to identify every syllable then any mode of com- 
 bining words so as to present a regular recurrence of certain traits 
 
 587. Characteristic of poetry. What fori". of sentence predominates. Use of figr res. 
 Brevity.
 
 PHILOSOPHY OK STYLE. 43U 
 
 which the mind can anticipate, will dimini h that strain upon the 
 attention required by the cold irregularity of prose. 
 
 589. In the same mariner that .the body, in receiving n series of 
 varying concussions, must keep the muscles ready to meet the most 
 violent of them, as not knowing when such may come ; so the 
 mind, in receiving unarranged articulations, must keep its perception 
 active enough to recognize the least easily caught sounds. And as, 
 if the concussions recur in a definite order, the body may husband 
 its forces by adjusting the resistance needful for each concussion ; 
 BO, if the syllables be rhythmically arranged, the mind may economize 
 its energies by anticipating the attention required for each syllable. 
 Far fetched as this idea will perhaps be thought, a little introspec- 
 tion will countenance it. 
 
 That we do take advantage of the metrical language to adjust 
 our perceptive faculties to the force of the expected articulations, ia 
 jlear from the fact that we are balked by halting versification. 
 Much as at the bottom of a flight of stairs, a step more or less tkan 
 we counted upon gives us a shock, so, too, does a misplaced accent 
 or a supernumerary syllable. In the one case we know that there is 
 an erroneous pre-adjustment ; and we can scarcely doubt that there 
 is one in the other. But if we habitually pre-adjust our perceptions 
 to the measured movement of verse, the physical analog}' lately 
 given renders it probable that by so doing we economize attention ; 
 and hence that metrical language is more effective than prose, 
 simply because it enables us to do this. 
 
 Were there space, it might be worth while to inquire whether the 
 pleasure we take in rhyme, and also that which wo take in euphony, 
 are not partly ascribable to the same general cause. 
 
 SECOND DIVISOX OF THE SUBJECT. 
 
 CAUSES OF FOHCE IN LANGUAGE WHIC1I UEPENl) I PQS ECOXOMV Of 
 MENTAL SENSIBILITIES. 
 
 590. A few paragraphs only can be devoted to a second division 
 of our subject that here presents itself. To pursue in detail the laws 
 of effect, as seen in the larger features of composition, would exceed 
 both our limits and our purpose. But we may fitly indicate some 
 further aspect of the general principle, and hint a few of its wider 
 applications. 
 
 Thus far, then, we have considered only those causes of force in 
 
 588. Why poetry Is especially Impressive. Poet compared with Ui mii*ical com- 
 poser. Rhythmical stwture, result of the law of economy. Plotsure ol 
 movement traced to what? Explanation of this. 
 
 680. Poetry more easily apprehended than prose. IilnstrfcU>d b 
 Ing concussions ; bj halting verslfloation : descent of flight ol
 
 440 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 
 
 language which depend upon economy of the mental energies : we 
 have now briefly to glance at those whica depend upon economy of 
 mental sensibilities. Indefensible though this division may be as a 
 psychological one, it will yet serve roughly to indicate the remain- 
 ing field of investigation. It will suggest, that besides considering 
 the extent to which any faculty or group of faculties is tasked in re- 
 ceiving a form of words, and realizing its contained idea, we have to 
 consider the state in which this faculty or group of faculties is left ; 
 and how the reception of subsequent sentences and images will be 
 influenced by that state. 
 
 (1) "Without going at length into so wide a topic as the exercise 
 of faculties and its reactive eifects, it will be sufficient here to call to 
 mind that every faculty (when in a state of normal activity) is most 
 capable at the outset ; and that the change in its condition, ivhkh 
 ends in what we term exhaustion, begins simultaneously with its ex- 
 ercise. This generalization, with which we are all familiar in our 
 bodily experiences, and which our daily language recognizes as true 
 of the mind as a whole, is equally true of each mental power, from 
 the simplest of the senses to the most complex of the sentiments. 
 
 If we hold a flower to the nose for a long time, we become insen- 
 sible to its scent. We say of a very brilliant flash of lightning that 
 it blinds us ; which means that our eyes have for a time lost their 
 ability to appreciate light. After eating a quantity of honey, we 
 are apt to think that our tea is without sugar. The phrase " a de#f- 
 ening roar" implies that men find a very loud sound temporarily in- 
 capacitates them for hearing faint ones. Now the truth which we 
 at once recognize in these, its extreme manifestations, may be tracfed 
 throughout ; and it may be shown that alike in the reflective facul- 
 ties, in the imagination, in the perceptions of the beautiful, the ludi- 
 crous, the sublime, in the sentiments, the instincts, in all the mental 
 powers, however we may classify them action exhausts ; and that in 
 proportion as the action is violent, the subsequent prostration is great. 
 
 591. (2) Equally, throughout the whole nature, may be traced 
 theglaAY that exercised faculties are ever tending to resume their ori- 
 gineU^mate. Not only after continued rest do they regain their full 
 power ; not only do brief cessations rjartially invigorate them ; but 
 even whilst they are in action, the resulting exhaustion is ever being 
 neutralized. The two processes of waste and repair go on together. 
 Hence, with faculties habitually exercised, as the senses in all, or the 
 muscles in a laborer, it happens that, during moderate activity, the 
 repair is so nearly equal to the waste, that the diminution of power 
 is scarcely appreciable ; and it is only when the activity has been 
 long continued, or has been very violent, that the repair becomes so 
 far in arrear of the waste as to produce a perceptible prostration. In 
 all cases, however, when by the action of a faculty, waste ha's been 
 
 590. Second Division of the subject When enoh faculty is most vigorous. 1 
 4rcise Flower held to the noso. Flash of lightning. Eating honey. 
 
 Effect of ex-
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 441 
 
 incurred, some lapse of time must take place before full effiiiency 
 can be re-acquired ; and this time must be long in propoition as the 
 waste has been great. 
 
 592. Keeping in mind ihese general truths, we shall be in a con- 
 dition to understand certa. n causes of effect in composition now to 
 be considered. Every perception received, and every conception re- 
 alized, entailing some amount of waste or, as Liebig would say, 
 some changes of matter in the brain and the efficiency of the fac- 
 ulties subject to this waste being thereby temporarily, though often 
 but momentarily, diminished the resulting partial inability must 
 affect the acts of perception and conception that immediately suc- 
 ceed. And hence we may expect that the vividness with whirh 
 images are realized will, in many cases, depend on the order of their 
 presentation, even when one order is as convenient to the under- 
 standing as the other. 
 
 We shall find sundry facts which alike illustrate this and arc ex- 
 plained by it. Climax is one of them. The marked effect obtained 
 by placing last the most striking of any series of images, and the 
 weakness often the ludicrous weakness produced by reversing 
 this arrangement, depends on the general lav: indicated. As imme- 
 diately after looking at the sun we cannot perceive the light of a tire, 
 whilst by looking at the fire first and the sun afterwards we can per- 
 ceive both; so after receiving a brijliant, or weighty, or terrible 
 thought, we cannot appreciate a less brilliant, less weighty, or less 
 terrible one, whilst, by reversing the order, we can appreciate each. 
 
 593. In Antithesis, again, we may recognize the same general 
 truth. The opposition of two thoughts that are the reverse of each 
 other in some prominent trait insures an impressive effect ; and does 
 this by giving a momentary relaxation to the faculties addressed. 
 If, after a series of images of an ordinary character, appealing in a 
 moderate degree to the sentiment of reverence, or approbation, or 
 beauty, the mind has presented to it a very insignificant, a very un- 
 worthy, or a very ugly image the faculty of reverence, or approba- 
 tion, or beauty, as the case may be, having for the time no^Mr o 
 do, tends to resume its full power; and will immediately aftj^-'ds 
 appreciate a vast, admirable, or beautiful image better than it would 
 otherwise do. Improbable as these momentary variations in suscejv- 
 tibility will seem to many, we cannot doubt their occurrence when 
 we contemplate the analogous variations in the susceptibility of the 
 senses. Referring once more to phenomena of vision, every one 
 knows that a patch of black on a white ground looks blacker, and a 
 patch of white on a black ground looks whiter than elsewhere. As 
 the blackness and the whiteness must really be the sumo, tho only 
 
 691. Tendency of exercised fcaltles.-Waste and repair IUiu(rfM. 
 592. The process of perception and conception attend*! with re 
 
 X a83. n Kffct of autlthtals explained. Reference to ph.T.-i.i'aa of vUton.
 
 442 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 
 
 assignable cause for this is a difference in their action upon us, de- 
 pendent on the different states of our faculties. It is simply a visual 
 antithesis. 
 
 594. (3) But this extension of the general principle of economy 
 this further condition of effect in composition, that the power ol 
 the faculties must be continuously .husbanded includes much more 
 than has yet been hinted. It implies not only that certain arrange- 
 ments and certain juxtapositions of connected ideas are best ; but 
 that some modes of dividing and presenting the subject will be more 
 effective than others ; and that, too, irrespective of its local cohesion. 
 It shows why we must progress from the less interesting to the morf 
 interesting ; and why not only the composition as a whole, but ea^h 
 of its successive portions, should tend towards a climax. At the 
 same time it forbids long continuity of the same species of thought, 
 en- repeated production of the same effects. It warns us against the 
 error committed both by Pope in his poems and by Bacon in his 
 essays the error, namely, of constantly employing the most effec- 
 tive forms of expression ; and it points out, that as the easiest posture 
 by and by becomes fatiguing, and is with pleasure exchanged for 
 one less easy; so the most perfectly constructed sentences will soon 
 weary, and relief will be given by using those of an inferior kind. 
 
 595. Further, it involves that not only should we avoid generally 
 combining our words in one manner, however good, or working out 
 our figures and illustrations in one way, however telling, but we 
 should avoid any thing like uniform adherence, even to the wider 
 conditions of effect. We should not make every section of our sub- 
 ject progress in interest ; we should not always rise to a climax. As 
 we saw that, in single sentences, it is but rarely allowable to fulfil 
 all the conditions of strength, so in the larger portions of composi- 
 tion we must not often conform entirely to "the law indicated. We 
 must subordinate the component effects to the total effect. 
 
 (4) In deciding how practically to carry out the principles of ar- 
 tistic composition, v>u may deiive help by bearing in mind a fact al- 
 r^Maointed out the fitness of certain verbal arrangements for 
 ceMNv kinds of thought. The constant variety in the mode of pre- 
 senting ideas which the theory demands, will in a great degree re- 
 sult from a skilful adaptation of the form to the matter. We saw 
 how the direct or inverted sentence is spontaneously used by excited 
 people ; and how their language is also characterized by figures ot 
 speech and extreme brevity. Hence these may with ad-vantage pre- 
 dominate in emotional passages, and may increase as the emotion 
 rises. 
 
 596. On the other, hand, for complex, ideas the indirect sentence 
 
 594. Mode* of dividing and presenting a subject Tend to climax. Continuity of same 
 species of thought Krror of Pope and Bacon. 
 
 695. Uniformity of a certs' i kind forbidden. The fitne?s of certain v<?rt;nl arrnngeniente 
 tor cartiiin kinds of thousrht.
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 443 
 
 cems the best vehicle. In conversation, the excitement produced 
 by the near approach to a desired conclusion will ofieu show iUell* 
 in a series of short, sharp sentences ; whilst, in impressing a view al- 
 ready enunciated, we generally make our periods voluminous by pi- 
 ling thought upon thought. These natural modes of proceduie may 
 serve as guides in writing. Keen observation and skilful analy&u 
 would, in like manner, detect many other peculiarities of expression 
 produced by other attitudes of mind ; and by pacing due attention 
 to all such traits, a writer possessed of sufficient versatility might 
 make some approach to a completely organized work. 
 
 (5) This species of composition^ which the law of effect points 
 out as the peifect one, is the one which high genius tends naturally 
 to produce. As we found that the kinds of sentence which are the- 
 oretically best are those generally employed by superior minds, and 
 by inferior minds when excitement has raised them ; so we shall find 
 that the ideal form for a poem, essay, or fiction, is that which the 
 ideal writer would evolve spontaneously. One in whom the powers 
 of expression fully responded to the state of mind would unconscious- 
 ly use that variety in the mode of presenting his thoughts which Art 
 iemands. 
 
 597. This constant employment of one species of phraseology, 
 which all have now to strive agaiRst, implies an undeveloped faculty 
 of language. To have a specific style is to be poor in speech. If we 
 glance back at the past, and remember that men had once only nouns 
 and verbs to convey their ideas with, and that from then to now the 
 growth has been towards a greater number of implements of thought, 
 and consequently towards a greater complexity and variety in their 
 combinations, we may infer that we are now, in our use of sentences, 
 much what the primitive man was in his use of words, and that a 
 continuance of the process that has hitherto gone on must produce 
 increasing heterogeneity in our modes of expression. As now in a 
 fine nature the play of the features, tho tones of the voice and its ca- 
 dences, vary in harmony with every thought uttered ; so in one pos- 
 sessed of a fully developed power of peech, the mould in which each 
 combination of words is cast will similarly \;;'V with, and tfrappro- 
 priate to, the sentiment. 
 
 598. That a perfectly endowed man must unconsciously ttritt ti 
 alt styles, we may infer from considering how nil styles originate. 
 Why is Addison diffuse, Johnson pompous, Goldsmith simple 
 Why is one author abrupt, another rhythmical, another conci* 
 Evidently in each case the habitual mode of utterance roust dpei 
 upon the habitual balance of the nature. The predominant feehnp 
 have bv use trained the intellect to represent them. 
 
 long, though unconscious, discipline has made it do this cffi 
 
 390. The proper vehicle for complex Ideai-VaiylnK trnetun .of or KOMICM ta ro. 
 
 Tonshticn The kind of comp< sition which genius tend* to pro 
 CUT. A i>erifl<- styV.ThP ft 'apfstlnn t
 
 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 
 
 a pable 
 
 of expression under o b a 
 speech be fully developed lowevL w 
 to convey the emotions be comnl^' 
 Appear. The p2 t ^? n 5 
 in the Junius fram^of mind .vhl 
 like fomiliar speech and u 
 ^en in a Ca?ly] e an mood 
 i-ogular; here lis L^ e 
 
 tunes his sentences wflrESLl J 
 rical ! for a while the i will ' 
 
 again, g^eat varLy"^ m 
 spending to his state of feelm, thre will 
 
 the 
 
 ^ USUal mod 
 t ^ P Wm of 
 f the iutellect 
 of st ? le " 
 
 M ^^ when 
 Lamb felt ' wil1 us a 
 h ^ e 1 ru ^ ed l n 8 of CarJvle, 
 
 be plal^ ^ anV f^ 1 ^' 
 ' and there ornate ? 
 
 ther times 
 
 then, 
 
 ulties, it will { 
 products, both 
 parts 
 like 
 
 . 
 
 Dot a senes 
 
 CHAPTER XXin. 
 
 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION 
 
 ^ distinguishes it so c,ear, v fro m 
 
 other distinguishing mark % l^f, h U -, ht "necessary to search for any 
 distinguish an epic poem by some pSdkr marf 1 ^ 0r haS J been bestowe d to 
 composuion in verse, intended to &rmVh ' B ? ssuet defines it to be A 
 jmclcr the allegories 'of an important, on '"Tr r f by ju^.ctbns disguised 

 
 EPIC AND DKAMATIC COMPOSITION. 445 
 
 This difference regarding form only, may be thought slight ; but 
 :he effects it occasions are by no means so ; for what we ace makes 
 ft deeper impression than what we learn frora others. A narrative 
 poem is a story told by another : facts and incidents passing upon 
 the stage, come under our own observation ; and are. besides much 
 enlivened by action and gesture, expressive of many sentiments be- 
 yond the reach of words. 
 
 A dramatic composition has another property, independent alto- 
 gether of action ; which is, that it makes a deeper impression than 
 narration : in the former, persons express their own sentiments ; in 
 the latter, sentiments are related at second hand. For that reason, 
 Aristotle, the father of critics, lays it down as a rule, That in an epic 
 poem, the author ought to take every opportunity of introducing his 
 actors, and of confining the narrative part withiu the narrowest 
 bounds. (Poet, chapter xxv. sec. vi.) Homer understood perfectly 
 - the advantage of this method ; and Ms two poems abound in dia- 
 logue. Lucan runs to the opposite extreme, even so far as to stuff 
 his Pharsalia with cold and languid reflections ; the merit of which 
 he assumes to himself, and deigns not to share with his actor*. 
 Nothing can be more injudiciously timed than a chain of such 
 reflections, which suspend the battle of Pharsalia after the leaders 
 had made their speeches, and the two annies are ready to engage 
 (Lib. vii. from line 385 to line 4CO.) 
 
 600. Aristotle, regarding the fable only, divides tragedy into simple 
 and complex ; but it is of greater moment, with respect to dramatic 
 as well as epic poetry, to found a distinction upon the different ends 
 attained by such compositions. A poem, whether dramatic or epic, 
 that has nothing in view but to move the passions and to exhibit 
 pictures of virtue and vice, may be distinguished by the name of 
 pathetic ; but where a story is purposely contrived to illustrate some 
 moral truth, by showing that disorderly passions naturally lead to 
 external misfortunes, such composition may be denominated moral* 
 
 tairc reckons verse so essential, as for that Kinjrle reason to exclude the ad- 
 ventures of Telemachus. See his Essay upon Epic Poetry. Other*, affected 
 with substance more than with form, hesitate not to pronounce that poem to 
 be epic. It is not a little diverting to sec so many profound critics hunting 
 for what is not: they take for grunted, without the least foundation, that there 
 must be some precise criterion to distinguish epic poetry from every other 
 species of writing. Literary compositions run into each other precisely like 
 colors : in their strong tints" they re easily distinguished ; but are susceptible 
 of so much variety, and of so many different forms, that we never can say where 
 one spec'es ends and another begins. As to the general taste, there U little 
 reason to doubt that ti work where heroic actions are related in an elevated 
 style, will, without further requisite, be deemed an epic poem. 
 
 * The same distinction is applicable to that sort ot fable which is Mid 
 the invention of ^Esop. A moral, it is true, is by nil critio* oonnideroi 
 essential to such a fable. But nothing is more common than to be h 
 by authority; tor of the numerous collections 1 have seen, tli 
 
 699. Trasredy and epic poetry compared. The dialoju* of ih* form**. An tt>* f "" 
 iflned. ^Comparative effcU of dramatic < uijUln a';d of an pif
 
 446 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 
 
 Besides making a deeper impression than can be done by cool 
 reasoning, a moral poem does not fall short of reasoning in affording 
 conviction : the natural connection of vice with misery, and of virtue 
 with happiness, may be illustrated by stating a fact as well as by 
 urging an argument. Let us assume, for example, the following 
 moral truths : that discord among the chiefs renders ineffectual all 
 common measures ; and that the consequences of a slightly-founded 
 quarrel, fostered by pride and arrogance, are no less fatal than those 
 of the grossest injury : these truths may be inculcated by the quarrel 
 between Agamemnon and Achilles at the siege of Troy. If facts 
 or circumstances be wanting, such as tend to rouse the turbulent 
 passions, they must be invented : but no accidental nor unaccount- 
 able event ought to be admitted ; for the necessary or probable con- 
 nection between vice and misery is not learned from any events but 
 what are naturally occasioned by the. characters and passions of the 
 persons represented, acting^in such and such circumstances. A 
 real event of which we see not the cause, may afford a lesson 
 upon the presumption that what hath happened may again hap- 
 pen ; but this cannot be inferred from a story that is 'known to be 
 a fiction. 
 
 601. Many are the good effects of such compositions. A pathetic 
 composition, whether epic or dramatic, tends to a habit of virtue, by 
 exciting us to do what is right, and restraining us from what i's 
 wrong. (See chapter ii. part i. sec. 4.) Its frequent pictures of 
 human woes produce, besides, two effects extremely salutary : they 
 improve our sympathy, and fortify us to bear our own misfortunes. 
 A moral composition obviously produces the same good effects, 
 because by being moral it ceaseth not to be pathetic : it enjoys 
 besides an excellence peculiar to itself; for it not only improves the 
 heart, as above mentioned, but instructs the head by the moral it 
 contains. I cannot imagine any entertainment more suited to a 
 rational being than a work thus happily illustrating some moral 
 truth ; where a number of persons of different characters are en- 
 gaged in an important action, some retarding, others promoting the 
 great catastrophe ; and where thei-e is dignity of style as well a> 
 of matter. A work of that kind has our sympathy at command ; 
 and can put in motion the whole train of the social affections : our 
 curiosity in some scenes is excited, in others gratified ; and our 
 delight is consummated at the close, upon finding, from the charac- 
 ters and situations exhibited at the commencement, that every inci- 
 
 elearly inculcate a moral, make a very small part. In many fables, indeed, 
 proper pictures of virtue and vice are exhibited ; but the bulk of these collco 
 tions convey no instruction, nor afford any amusement beyond what a child 
 receives in reading an ordinary story. 
 
 600. Aristotle's division of trapvuy A better division of dramatic * well as of epfc 
 pot-try. Illustration.
 
 EPIC AND EltAMATIC COMPOSITION. 447 
 
 dent down to the final catastrophe i* natural, and that the wholo in 
 conjunction make a regular chain of causes and effects. 
 
 Considering that an epic and a dramatic poem are the same in 
 substance, and have the same aim or end, one will readily imagine, 
 that subjects proper for the one must be equally proper for the 
 other. But considering their difference as to form, there will ta 
 found reason to correct that conjecture at least in some degree. 
 Many subjects may indeed be treated with equal advantage in either 
 form ; but the subjects are still more numerous for which they are 
 not equally qualified ; and there are subjects proper for the one, and 
 not for the other. To give some slight notion of the difference, as 
 there is no room here for enlarging upon every article, I observe, 
 that dialogue is better qualified for expressing sentiments, and nar- 
 rative for displaying facts. Heroism, magnanimity, undaunted 
 courage, and other elevated virtues, figure best in action : tender 
 passion, and the whole tribe of sympathetic affections figure best in 
 sentiment. It clearly follows, that tender passions are more pe- 
 culiarly the province of tragedy, grand and heroic actions of epic 
 poetry. 
 
 602. In this chapter of Emotions and Passions* it is occasionally 
 shown, that the subject best fitted for tragedy is where a man has 
 himself been the cause of his misfortune ; not so as to be deeply 
 guilty, nor altogether innocent : the misfortune must be occasioned 
 by a'fault incident to human nature, and therefore in some degree 
 venial. Such misfortunes call forth the social affections, and warmly 
 interest the spectator. An accidental misfortune, if not extremely 
 singular, doth not greatly move our pity : the person who suffers, 
 being innocent, is freed from the greatest of all torments, that an- 
 guish of mind which is occasioned by remorse : an atrocious crimi- 
 nal, on the other hand, who brings misfortunes upon himself, excites 
 little pity, for a different reason : his remoise, it is true, aggravates 
 his distress, and swells the first emotions of pity ; but these are im- 
 mediately blunted by our hatred of him as a criminal. Misfortunes 
 that are not innocent, nor highly criminal, partake the advantage <rf 
 each extreme : they are attended with remorse to embitter the dis- 
 tress, which raises our pity to a height ; and the slight indignation 
 we have at a venial fault, detracts not sensibly from our pity. The 
 happiest of all subjects accordingly for raising pity, is where a man 
 of integrity falls into a great misfortune by doing an action that is 
 innocent, but which, by some singular means, is conceived by him 
 to be criminal : his remorse aggravates his distress ; and our coi 
 passion, unrestrained by indignation, knows no bounds. Pity comes 
 thus to be the ruling passion of a pathetic tragedy ; and by proper 
 
 * [Consult Spalding's English Literature, pp. 251-4.] 
 tOl. Good effects o' epic and dramatic cooiporfdoo* 3nbJ*ct sultd to wk
 
 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 
 
 representation, may be raised to a height scarce exceeded by any 
 thing felt in real life. A moral tragedy takes in a larger field ; as 
 it not only exercises our pity, but raises another passion, which, 
 though selfish, deserves to be cherished equally with the social affec- 
 tion. The passion I have in view is fear or terror ; for when a mis- 
 fortune is the natural consequence of some wrong bias in the temper, 
 every spectator who is conscious of such a bias in himself, takes the 
 alarm, and dreads his falling into the same misfortune : and by the 
 emotion of fear or terror, frequently reiterated in a variety of moral 
 tragedies, the spectators are put upon their guard against the disor- 
 ders of passion. 
 
 [There is no principle relative to human nature better established 
 than this, that we can be deeply concerned for the fate of no man, 
 whose character does not in some measure resemble our own, or 
 concerning whose conduct we may not reasonably conclude that'we 
 might have acted the same part, had we been surrounded with the 
 same circumstances and motives. This principle points out the 
 most proper characters for tragedy. They should be possessed of 
 high virtues, to interest the spectators in their happiness ; but they 
 should be exhibited as liable to errors and indiscretions, arising from 
 the weakness of human nature, the violence of passion, or the in- 
 temperate pursuit of objects commendable and useful. The mis- 
 fortunes of such poisons properly painted, and artfully heightened, 
 take hold of the mind with irresistible effect. They engage every 
 sympathetic feeling of the soul, and they make us tremble, lest, by 
 our indiscretion in similar indulgence of our passions, we should 
 throw ourselves into similar distress. Barren, Lect. 56.] 
 
 603. I had an early opportunity to unfold a curious doctrine, 
 That fable operates on our passions, by representing its events as 
 passing in our sight, and by deluding us into a conviction of reality. 
 (Chapter ii. part i. sect, vii.) Hence, in epic and dramatic composi- 
 tions, every circumstance ought to be employed that may promote 
 the delusion ; such as the borrowing from history some noted event, 
 with the addition of circumstances that may answer the author's 
 purpose ; the principal facts are known to be' true ; and we are dis- 
 posed to extend our belief to every circumstance. But in choosing 
 a subject that makes a figure in history, greater precaution is neces- 
 sary than where the whole is a fiction. In the latter case there is 
 full scope for invention : the author is under no restraint other than 
 that the characters and incidents be just copies of nature. But 
 where the story is founded on truth, no circumstances must be added 
 but such as connect naturally with what are known to be true ; 
 history may be supplied, but must not be contradicted : further, the 
 subject chosen must be distant in time, or at least in place ; for the 
 familiarity of recent persons and events ought to be avoided. Fa- 
 
 602. Th subjest best fitted for tragedy.
 
 EPIO AND DRAMATIC COMPC6ITIOK. 449 
 
 miliarity ought more especially to be avoided in an epic poem, the 
 peculiar character of which is dignity and elevation; modern man- 
 ners make no figure in such a poem.* 
 
 After Voltaire, no writer, it is probable, will think of rearing an 
 epic poem upon a recent event in the history of his own country. 
 But an event of that kind is perhaps not altogether unqualified for 
 ragedy ; it was admitted in Greece, and Shakspeare has employed 
 it successfully in several of his pieces. One advantage it possesses 
 above fiction, that of more readily engaging our belief, which tend* 
 above any other circumstance to raise our sympathy. The scene of 
 comedy is generally laid at home ; familiarity is no objection ; and 
 we are peculiarly sensible of the ridicule of our own manners. 
 
 604. After a proper subject is chosen, the dividing it into part* 
 requires some art. The conclusion of a book in an epic poem, or of 
 an act in a play, cannot be altogether arbitrary ; nor be intended 
 for so slight a purpose as to make the parts of equal length. The 
 supposed pause at the end of every book, and the real pause at the 
 end of every act, ought always to coincide with some pause in the 
 action. In this respect, a dramatic or epic poem ought to resemble 
 a sentence or period in language, divided into members that are 
 distinguished from each other by proper pauses ; or it ought to re- 
 semble a piece of music, having a full close at the end, preceded by 
 imperfect closes that contribute to the melody. Every act in a 
 dramatic poem ought therefore to close with some incident that 
 makes a pause in the action ; for otherwise there can be no pretext 
 for interrupting the representation ; it would be absurd to break off 
 in the very heat of action ; against which every one would exclaim : 
 the absurdity still remains where the action relents, if it be not ac- 
 tually suspended for some time. This rule is also applicable to an 
 epic poem ; though in it a deviation from the rule is less remark- 
 able ; because it is in the reader's power to hide the absurdity, by 
 proceeding instantly to another book. The first book of Paradist 
 Lout ends without any close, perfect or imperfect ; it breaks off ab- 
 ruptly where Satan, seated on his throne, is prepared to harangue 
 the convocated hosts of the fallen angels; and the second book 
 begins with the speech. Milton seems to have copied the ^Entid, 
 of which the two first books are divided much in the same manner 
 Neither is there any proper pause at the end of the fifth book of the 
 There is 110 proper pause at the end of the seventh book 
 
 * I would not from this observation bo thought to undervalue modern man 
 ners. The^lnghnoss and impetuosity of undent manners, may be belt* 
 for an epic poem, without being better fitted for society. But without n-prt 
 to that circumstance, it is the familiarity of modem manners that unuiiw 
 them for the lofty subject. The dignity of our present manners will 
 understood in future Ages, when they are no longer fnmilmr. 
 
 608. How fable operates upon our passions. ClrcnmsUncw tbt ar to b "'' 
 
 Precaution requisite in choosing an historical sub]**. An plc po*m fw 
 vents.- -Subject for comedy.
 
 450 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 
 
 of Piradise Lost, nor at the end of the eleventh. In the flicul, 
 little attention is given to this rule. 
 
 This branch of the subject shall be closed with a general rule, 
 That action being the fundamental part of every composition, whether 
 epic or dramatic, the sentiments and tone of language ought to be 
 . subservient to the action, so as to appear natural, nd proper for 
 the occasion. The application of this rule to our modern plays, 
 would reduce the bulk of them to a skeleton. 
 
 605. After carrying on together epic and dramatic compositions, 
 I shall mention circumstances peculiar to each, beginning with the 
 epic kind. In a theatrical entertainment, which employs both the 
 eye and the ear, it would be a gross absurdity to introduce upon 
 the stage superior beings in a visible shape. There is no place for 
 such objection in a epic poem ; and Boileau, with many other critics, 
 declares strongly for that sort of machinery in an epic poem. Bui 
 waving authority, which is apt to impose upon the judgment r let us 
 draw what light we can from reason. I begin with a preliminary 
 remark, That this matter is but indistinctly handled by critics; the 
 poetical privilege of animating insensible objects for enlivening a 
 description, is very different from what is termed machinery, wher<> 
 deities, angels, devils, or other supernatural powers, are introduced 
 as real personages, mixing in the action, and contributing to tht 
 catastrophe ; and yet these are constantly jumbled together in tbt 
 reasoning. The former is founded on a natural principle (chaptei 
 xx. sect, i.) ; but can the latter claim the same authority ? Far from 
 it : nothing is more unnatural. Its effects, at the same time, are 
 deplorable. First, it gives an air of fiction to the whole ; and pre- 
 vents that impression of reality which is requisite to interest our 
 affections, and to move our passions (see chapter ii. part i. sect, vii.) 
 This of itself is sufficient to explode machinery, whatever entertain- 
 ment it may afford to readers of a fantastic taste or irregular imagi- 
 nation. And, next, were it possible, by disguising the fiction, to 
 delude us into a notion of reality, which I think can hardly be, an 
 insuperable objection would still remain, that the aim or end of an 
 epic poem can never be attained in any perfection, where machinery 
 is introduced ; for an evident reason, that virtuous emotions cannot 
 be raised successfully, but by the actions of those who are endued 
 with passions and affections like our own, that is, by human actions; 
 and as for moral instruction, it is clear that none can be drawn from 
 beings who act not upon the same principles with us. A fable in 
 .<3i)sop's manner is no objection to this reasoning: his^>ns, bull^ 
 and goats, are truly men in disguise ; they act and feel in every 
 respect as human beings ; and the moral we draw is founded on 
 that supposition. Homer, it is true, introduces the gods into his 
 fable ; but the religion of his country authorized that liberty ; it 
 
 604. The parts of a. subject Th > close of an act in a dramatic poem. Also of a book in 
 a Epic. Paradisj Lost The .1 eid. General rale for sentiments and tone of language
 
 EPIC ANL LIRA MATH; cosiicisrnox. 451 
 
 being an article in the Giecian creed, that the gods often interpose 
 visibly and bodily in human affairs. I must, however, observe that 
 Homer's deities do no honor to his poems: fictions that tran-giv 
 the bounds of nature, seldom have a good effect; they may inflame 
 the imagination for a moment, but will not be relished by any 
 pei-son of a correct taste. They may be of some use to the'lower 
 rank of writers, but an author of genius has much finer materiHU 
 of Nature's production, for elevating his subject, and making it in- 
 teresting. 
 
 606. I have tried serious reasonings upon this subject ; Imt ridi- 
 cule, I suppose, will be found a more successful weapon, which 
 Addison has applied in an elegant manner : "Whereas the time of 
 a general peace is, in all appearance, drawing near; being informed 
 that there are several ingenious persons who intend to show their 
 talents on so happy an occasion, and being willing, as much as in 
 me lies, to prevent that effusion of nonsense, which we have good 
 cause to apprehend ; I do hereby strictly require even- person who 
 shall write on this subject, to remember "that he is a Christian, and 
 not to sacrifice his catechism to his poetry. In order to it, I do ex- 
 pect of him, in the first place, to make his own poem, without de- 
 pending upon Phoebus for any part of it, or calling out for aid upon 
 any of the muses by name. I do likewise positively forbid the 
 sanding of Mercury with any particular message or dispatch re- 
 lating to the peace ; and shall by no means sutler Minerva to take 
 upon her the shape of any plenipotentiary concerned in this great 
 work. I do further declare, that I shall not allow the destinies to 
 have had a hand in the deaths of the several thousands who have 
 been slain in the late war ; being of opinion that all such deaths 
 may be well accounted for by the Christian system of powder and 
 ball. I do therefore strictly forbid the fates to cut the thread of 
 man's life upon any pretence whatsoever, unless it bo for the sake of 
 the rhyme. And whereas I have good reason to fear that Neptune 
 will have a great deal of business on his hands in several jwma 
 which we may now suppose are upon the anvil, I do also prohibit 
 his appearance, unless it be done in metaphor, simile, or any very 
 short allusion ; and that even here he may not bo permitted to 
 enter, bnt with great caution and circumspection. I desire that th* 
 same rule may be extended to his whole fraternity of heathen H!; 
 it being my design to condemn even* poem to the flames in which 
 Jupiter thunders, or exercises any other act of authority which does 
 not belong .to him. In short, I expect that no pagan agent shall be 
 introduced, or any fact related which a man cannot give credit to 
 with a good conscience. Provided always, that nothing herein con- 
 tained shall extend, or be construed to extend, to several of the 
 female poets in this nation, who shall still be left in full poawMtoo of 
 
 605. The Introduction upon the staje of superior belnp In visible than*. Kffrt of lv 
 troducinp such mactdntry in an epic poem. .<Esop' ftible*. Hoin*r' dcltirt.
 
 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 
 
 their gods and goddesses, in the same manner as if this paper had 
 never been written." (Spectator, No. 523.) 
 
 The marvellous is indeed so much promoted by machinery, that 
 it is not wonderful to find it embraced by the plurality of writers, 
 and perhaps of readers. If indulged at all, it is generally indulged 
 to excess. Homer introduceth his deities with 110 greater ceremony 
 than as mortals ; and Virgil has still less moderation : a pilot spent 
 with watching cannot fall asleep and drop into the sea by natural 
 means : one bed cannot receive the two lovers, ^Eneas and Dido, 
 without the immediate interposition of superior powers. The ridicu- 
 lous in such fictions, must appear even through the thickest veil of 
 gravity and solemnity. 
 
 607. Angels and devils serve equally with, heathen deities as 
 materials for figurative language ; perhaps better among Christians, 
 because we believe in them, and not in heathen deities. But every 
 one is sensible, as well as Boileau, that the invisible powers in our 
 creed make a much worse figure as actors in a modern poem, than 
 the invisible powers in the heathen creed did in ancient poems ; the 
 cause of which is not far to seek. The heathen deities, in the 
 opinion of their votaries, were beings elevated one step only above 
 mankind, subject to the same passions and directed by the same 
 motives ; therefore not altogether improper to mix with men in an 
 impouant action. In our creed, superior beings are placed at such 
 a mighty distance from us, and are of a nature so different, that 
 with no propriety can we appear with them upon the same stage ; 
 man, a creature much inferior, loses all dignity in the comparison. 
 
 There can be no doubt, that an historical poem admits the em- 
 bellishment of allegory, as well as of metaphor, simile, or other 
 figure. Moral truth, in particular, is finely illustrated in the alle- 
 gorical manner ; it amuses the fancy to find abstract terms, by a sort 
 of magic, metamorphosed into active beings ; and it is highly pleas- 
 ing to discover a general proposition in a pictured event. But 
 allegorical beings should be confined within their own sphere, and 
 nev,er be admitted to mix in the principal action, nor to co-operate 
 in retarding or advancing the catastrophe. This would have a still 
 worse effect than invisible powers ; and I am ready to assign the 
 reason. The impression of real existence, essential to an epic poem, 
 is inconsistent with that figurative existence which is essential to an 
 allegory (see chapter xx. sect, vi.) ; and therefore no means can more 
 effectually prevent the impression of reality, than to introduce alle- 
 gorical beings co-operating with those whom we conceive to be 
 really existing. The allegory of Sin and Death in the Paradise 
 Lost, is, I presume, not generally relished, though it is not entirely 
 of the same nature with what I have been condemning : in a work 
 
 606. Addison's ridicule of machinery. Excess of it in Homer and Virgil. 
 
 607. The figure which angels and devils would make v actors in a modern poem, com- 
 pared with the heathen deities in ancient poems. Alleg iry in historical poems.
 
 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 458 
 
 comprehending the achievements of superior being*, there i> more 
 room for fancy than where it is confined to human actions. 
 
 608. What is the true notion of an episode? or how is it to be 
 distinguished from the principal action ? Every incident that pro- 
 motes or retards the catastrophe, must be part of the principal no- 
 tion. This clears the nature of an episode ; which may be defined, 
 "An incident connected with the principal action, but contributing 
 neither to advance nor to retard it." The descent of ^Eneas into 
 hell doth not advance nor retard the catastrophe, and therefore is an 
 episode. The .story of Nisus and Euryalus, producing an altera- 
 tion in the affairs of the contending parties, is a part of the princi- 
 pal action. The family scene in the sixth book of the Iliad is of 
 the same nature ; for by Hector's retiring from the field of battle to 
 visit his wife, the Grecians had opportunity to breathe, and even to 
 turn upon the Trojans. The unavoidable effect of episode, accord- 
 ing to this definition, must be, to break the unity of action ; and 
 therefore it ought never to be indulged unless to unbend the mind 
 after the fatigue of a long narration. An episode, when such is 
 its purpose, requires the following conditions : it ought to be well 
 connected with the principal action ; it ought to be lively and in- 
 teresting ; it ought to be short ; and a time ought to be chosen 
 when the principal action relents.* 
 
 In the following beautiful episode, which closes the second book 
 of Fingal, all these conditions are united : 
 
 Comal was a son of Albion, the chief of a hundred hills. His deer drank of ft 
 thousand streams, and a thousand rocks replied to the voice of his dogs. Hi* 
 face was the mildness of youth ; but his hand the death of heroes. One WM 
 his love, and fair was she! the daughter of mighty Conloch. Site appeared 
 like a sunbeam among women, and her hair was like the wing of the raven. 
 Her soul was fixed on Comal, and she was his companion in the chose. Often 
 met their eyes of love, and happy were their words in secret. But Gonnal 
 loved the maid, the chief of gloomy Ardven. He watched her lone steps on 
 the heath, the foe of unhappy Comal. 
 
 One day tired of the ohane, when the mist had concealed their friends, Comal 
 and the daughter of Conloch met in the cave of Bonan. It was the wonted 
 haunt of Comal. Its sides were hung with his arms: a hundred shields of 
 thongs were there, a hundred helms of sounding steel. Rest here, said he, my 
 love, Galvina, thou light of the cave of Konun ; a deer appear* on Mora's brow; 
 I go, but soon will return. I fear, said she, dark Gorinul my fo : 1 will real 
 here ; but soon return, my !ove. 
 
 He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of Conloch, to try his lore, 
 clothed her white side witli his armor, and strode from the cave of Italian. 
 Thinking her his foe, his heart beat high, and his color changed. He drew 
 the bow : the arrow flew ; Galvina full in blood. He ran to the cuvo with ha*ty 
 steps and called the daughter of Conloch. Where art thou, my love I but DO 
 answer. He marked, at length, her heaving heart beating airain.t the mor- 
 tal arrow. Conloch'a daughter, is it thou ! He sunk upon her breast. 
 
 The haiters found the hapless pair. Many and silent were his uteps round 
 the dark Iwelling of his love. The fleet of the ocean came : ho fought, and th 
 
 * Homer's description of the shield of Achilles i* properly introduced at a 
 time when the action relents, and the render can bear an in term pi ion. Bat 
 the anther of Telemachus describes the shield of that young liero in Uj bl 
 of bnttl, a very improper time for an interruption.
 
 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 
 
 strangers fell. He searched for 'death over the field ; but who could kill the 
 mighty Comal? Throwing away his shield, an arrow found his manlv breast. 
 lie sleeps with his Galvina ; their green tombs are seen by the mariner, when 
 ho bounds on the waves of the north. 
 
 609. Next, upon the peculiarities of a dramatic poem. And the 
 first I shall ^mention is a double plot ; one of which must resemble 
 an episode in an epic poem ; for it would distract the spectator 
 instead of entertaining him, if he were forced to attend, at the same 
 time, to two capital plots equally interesting. And even supposing 
 it an under-plot like an episode, it seldom hath a good effect in 
 tragedy, of which simplicity is a chief property ; f<5r an interesting 
 subject that engages our affections, occupies our whole attention*, 
 and leaves no room for any separate concern. Variety is more tol- 
 erable in comedy, which pretends only to amuse, without totally oc- 
 cupying^ the mind. But even there, to make a double-plot agreeable, 
 is no slight effort of art : the under-plot ought not to vary greatly 
 in its tone from the principal ; for discordant emotions are unpleasant 
 when jumbled together ; which, by the way, is an insuperable ob- 
 jection to tragi-comedy. Upon that account the Provoked Husband 
 deserves censure : all the scenes that bring the family of the Wrong- 
 heads into action, being ludicrous and farcical, are in a very different 
 tone from the principal scenes, displaying severe and bitter expostu- 
 lations between Lord Townley and his lady. The same objection 
 touches not the double-plot of the Careless Husband ; the different 
 subjects being sweetly connected, and having only so much variety 
 as to resemble shades of colors harmoniously mixed. But this is 
 not all. The under-plot ought to be connected with that which is 
 principal, so much at least as to employ the same persons : the 
 under-plot ought to occupy the intervals or pauses of the principal 
 action ; and both ought to be concluded together. This is the case 
 of the Merry Wives of Windsor. 
 
 Violent action ought never to be represented on the stage. While 
 the dialogue goes on, a thousand particulars concur to delude us 
 into an impression of reality ; genuine sentiments, passionate lan- 
 guage, and persuasive gesture : the spectator once engaged, is 
 willing to be deceived, loses sight of himself, and without scruple 
 enjoys the spectacle as a reality. From this absent state he is 
 roused by violent action : he awakes as from a pleasing dream, and, 
 gathering his senses about him, finds all to be a fiction. Horace 
 delivers the same rule, and founds it upon the same reason : 
 
 Ne pueros coraurpopulo Medea tmcidet; 
 Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus ; 
 Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem : 
 Quodcumque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. 
 
 The French critics join with Horace in excluding blood from the 
 
 08. Episode, how designated from the principal action. Example. Effect of an ol- 
 Kxl*: when to be Indulged ; couditions.
 
 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 455 
 
 urge 
 
 stage ; but, overlooking the most substantial objection, ' Vy 
 only that it is barbarous and shocking to a polite audience. 
 
 610. A few words upon the dialogue; which ought to be *> 
 conducted as to be a true representation of nature. I talk not here 
 of the sentiments, nor of the language ; for these come under differ 
 ent heads: I talk of what properly belongs to dialogue-writing- 
 where eveiy single speech, short or long, ought to arise from what 
 is said by the former speaker, and furnish matter for what come* 
 after, till the end of the scene. In this view, all the speeches, from 
 6rst to last, represent so many links of one continued chain. No 
 author, ancient or modern, possesses the art of dialogue equal to 
 Shakspeare. Dryden, in that particular, may justly be placed as his 
 opposite : he frequently introduces three or four persons speaking 
 upon the same subject, each throwing out his own notions separate- 
 ly, without regarding what is said by the rest : take for an example 
 the first scene of Aurenzebe. Sometimes he makes a number club 
 in relating an event, not to a stranger, supposed ignorant of it, but 
 to one another, for the sake merely of speaking: of which notable 
 soil of dialogue, we have a specimen in the first scene of the first 
 part of the Conquest of Granada. In the second part of the same 
 tragedy, scene second, the King, Abenamar, and Zulema, make their 
 separate observations, like so many soliloquies, upon the fluctuating 
 temper of the mob. A dialogue so uncouth, puts one in mind of 
 two shepherds in a pastoral, excited by a prize to pronounce verse* 
 alternately, each in praise of his own m'istress. 
 
 This manner of dialogue-writing, besides an unnatural air, has an- 
 other bad effect : it stays the course of the action, because it i not 
 productive of any consequence. In Congreve's comedies, the action 
 is often suspended to make way for a play of wit 
 
 No fault is more common among writers, than to prolong a 
 speech after the impatience of the person to whom it is addressed 
 ought to prompt him or her to break iu. Consider only how the 
 impatient actor is to behave iu the mean time. To express his im- 
 patience in violent action without interrupting, would be unnatural ; 
 and yet to dissemble his impatience, by appearing cool where he 
 ought to be highly inflamed, would be no less so. 
 
 Rhyme-being unnatural and disgustful in dialogue, is happily 
 banished from our theatre : the only wonder is that it ever found 
 admittance, especially among a people accustomed to the more 
 manly freedom of Shakspeare's dialogue. By banishing rhyme, we 
 have gained so much as never once to dream of any further im- 
 provement. And yet, however suitable blank verse may be to ele- 
 vated characters and warm passions, it must appear improper and 
 affected in the mouths of the lower sort. Why then should it be * 
 rule, That every scene in tragedy must be in blank verse I Shmk- 
 
 609. Double-plot in a dramatic j>oem ; In a coiuody. Ku!* for tt uudw-ploc YWlM 
 action on tb stage. ^
 
 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 
 
 cptare, with great judgment, has followed a different rale ; which is, 
 to mtermix prose with verse, and only to employ the latter where it 
 is i-equired by the importance or dignity of the subject. Familiar 
 thoughts and ordinary facts ought to'be expressed in plain language: 
 to hear, for example, a footman deliver a simple message in blank 
 verse, must appear ridiculous to every one who is not biased by cus- 
 tom. In short, that variety of characters and of situations, which 
 is the life of a play, requires not only a suitable variety in the senti- 
 ments, but also in the diction. 
 
 [Upon the conduct of the dialogue, Lord Jeffrey thus contrasts 
 4 he modern with the old English drama : 
 
 " On the modern stage, every scene is visibly studied and digested 
 beforehand ; and every thing from beginning to end, whether it be 
 description, or argument, or vituperation, is very obviously and os- 
 tentatiously set forth in the most advantageous light, and with all 
 the decorations of the most elaborate rhetoric. Now, for mere rhet- 
 oric and tine composition, this is very right ; but for an imitation of 
 nature, it is not quite so well " . . 
 
 " On the old English stage, however, the discussions always ap- 
 pear to be casual, and the argument quite artless and disorderly. 
 The persons of the drama, in short, are made to speak like men and 
 women who meet without preparation in real life. Their reasonings 
 are perpetually broken by passion, or left imperfect for want of skill. 
 They constantly wander from the point in hand, in the most un- 
 businesslike manner in the world ; and after hitting upon a topic 
 that would afford to a judicious playwright room for a magnificent 
 seesaw of pompous declamation, they have generally the awkward- 
 ness to let it slip, as if perfectly unconscious of its value ; and uni- 
 formly leave the scene Avithout exhausting the controversy, or stating 
 half the plausible things for themselves that any ordinary advisers 
 might have suggested after a few weeks' reflection. As specimens 
 of eloquent argumentation, we must admit the signal inferiority of 
 our native favorites ; but as true copies of nature as vehicles of 
 passion, and representations of character, we confess we are tempted 
 to give them the preference. When a dramatist brings his chief 
 characters on the stage, we readily admit that he must give them 
 something to say, and that this something must be interesting and 
 characteristic ; but he should recollect also, that they are supposed 
 to come there without having anticipated all they were to hear, or 
 meditated on all they were to deliver ; and that it cannot be char- 
 acteristic therefore, because it must be glaringly unnatural, that they 
 should proceed regularly through every possible view of the subject, 
 and exhaust, in set order, the whole magazine of reflections that can 
 be brought to bear upon their situation. 
 
 " It would not be fair, however, to leave this view of the matter, 
 without observing, that this unsteadiness and irregularity of dialogue, 
 which gives such an air of nature to our older plays, "is frequently
 
 THE THREE UNITIES. 457 
 
 earned to a raost blamable excess ; and that, independent of their 
 passion for verbal quibbles, there is an irregularity, and a capricious 
 uncertainty in the taste and judgment of these good old writers, 
 which excites at once our amusement and our compassion. If it be 
 true that no other man has ever written so finely as Sbakapeaiv has 
 done in his happier passages, it is no less true that there is not a 
 scribbler now alive who could possibly write worse than he has 
 sometimes written, who could, on occasion, devise more contemp- 
 tible ideas, or misplace them so abominably, by the side of such in- 
 comparable excellence." fieview of Ford.] 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE THREE UNITIES. 
 
 611. MAN acts with deliberation, will, and choice: he aims at 
 some end glory, for example, or riches, or conquest, the procuring 
 happiness to individuals, or to his country in general : he propose! 
 means, and lays plans to attain the end purposed. Hero are a num- 
 ber of facts or incidents leading to the end in view, the whole com- 
 posing one chain by the relation of cause and effect In running 
 over a series of such facts or incidents, we cannot rest upon any one ; 
 because they are presented to us as means only, leading to some 
 end ; but we rest with satisfaction upon the end or ultimate event ; 
 because there the purpose or aim of the chief person or persons is 
 accomplished. This indicates the beginning, the middle, and the 
 end, of what Aristotle calls an entire action. (Poet. cap. vi. See also 
 cap. vii.) The story naturally begins with describing those circum- 
 stances which move the principal person to form a plan, in order to 
 compass some desired event : the prosecution of that plan and the 
 obstructions, carry the reader into the heat of action : the middle is 
 properly where the action is the most involved; and the end is 
 where the event is brought about, and the plan accomplished. 
 
 A plan thus happily accomplished after many obstructions, affords 
 wonderful delight to the reader ; to produce which, a principle men- 
 tioned above (chap, viii.) mainly contributes, the same that disposes 
 the mind to complete every work commenced, and in general to 
 carry every thing to a conclusion. 
 
 I have given the foregoing example of a plan crowned with suc- 
 cess, because it affords the clearest conception of a beginning, a mid- 
 
 10. Hules for the dialogue. Shaksppare. Dryden. CongrtT*. Rhyw.--InttBilrtiw 
 f blank verse and prose. Lord Jeffrey's comparison of the modern and the old kiiflM* 
 
 drama.
 
 THE THKEE UNITIES. 
 
 die, and an end, in which consists unity of action ; and indeed stnct- 
 er unity cannot be imagined than in that case. But an action may 
 have unity, or a beginning, middle, and end, without so intimate a 
 relation of parts ; as where the catastrophe is different from what is 
 intended or desired, which frequently happens in our best tragedies. 
 In the ^Eneid, the hero, after many obstructions, makes his plan ef 
 fectual. The Iliad is formed upon a different model : it begins with 
 the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon ; goes on to describe 
 the several effects_ produced by that cause ; and ends in a reconcilia- 
 tion. Here is unity of action, no doubt, a beginning, a middle, and 
 an end ; but inferior to that of the ^Endd, which will thus appear. 
 The mind hath a propensity to go forward in the chain of history : 
 it keeps always in view the expected event ; and when the incidents 
 or under parts are connected by their relation to the event, the mind 
 runs sweetly and easily along them. This pleasure we have in the 
 ^Eneid. It is not altogether so pleasant, as in the Iliad, to connect 
 effects by their common cause ; for such connection forces the mind 
 to a continual retrospect : looking back is like walking backward. 
 
 Homer's plan is still more defective, upon another account, That 
 the events described are but imperfectly connected with the wrath 
 of Achilles, their cause : his wrath did not exert itself in action ; 
 and the misfortunes of his countrymen were but negatively the 
 effects of his wrath, by depriving them of his assistance. 
 
 612. If unity of action be a capital beauty in a fable imitative of 
 human affairs, a plurality of unconnected fables must be a capital 
 deformity. For the sake of variety, we indulge an under-plot that 
 is connected with the principal: but too unconnected events are 
 extremely unpleasant, even where the same actors are engaged in 
 both. Ariosto is quite licentious in that particular : be carries on at 
 the same time a plurality of unconnected stories. His only excuse 
 is,_that his plan is perfectly well adjusted to his subject ; for every 
 thing in the Orlando Furioso is wild and extravagant. 
 
 Though to state facts in the order of time is natural, yet that order 
 may be varied for the sake of conspicuous beauties. (See chapter i.) 
 If, for example, a noted stoiy, cold and simple in its first movements, 
 be made the subject of an epic poem, the reader may be hurried 
 into the heat of action, reserving the preliminaries for a conversation- 
 piece, if thought necessary ; and that method, at the same time, 
 hath a peculiar beauty from being dramatic. (See chapter xxi.) 
 But a privilege that deviates from nature ought to be sparingly in- 
 dulged ; and yet romance-writers make no difficulty of presenting 
 to the reader, without the least preparation, unknown persons en- 
 gaged in some arduous adventure equally unknown. In Cassandra, 
 two personages, who afterwards are discovered to be heroes of the 
 
 eil. Remarks on human action. The beginning, middle, and end of a story. A plsi 
 srowned with success, agreeable An action inay^havc unltv thou"b the ctastrophe di> 
 fer (tout what I* Int&KleH. Th* ^EneM. The ffia>l.
 
 TI?K TTIRF.K rXlTTTW. 459 
 
 fable, start up completely armed upon the banks of the Euphrates, 
 and engage in a single combat.* 
 
 A play analyzed, is a chain of connected facts, of which each 
 scene makes a link. Each scene, accordingly, ought to produce 
 some incident relative to the catastrophe or ultimate event, by ad- 
 vancing or retarding it. A scene thai-produceth no incident, and 
 for that reason may be termed barren, ought not to be indulged, 
 because it breaks the unity of action ; a barren scene can never be 
 entitled to a place, because the chain is complete without it. 
 
 Upon the whole, it appears that all the facts in an historical fable 
 ought to have a mutual connection, by their common relation to the 
 grand event or catastrophe. And this relation, in which the unity 
 of action consists, is equally essential to epic and dramatic composi- 
 tions.' 
 
 6 1 3. How far the unities of time and of place are essential, is a 
 question of greater intricacy. These unities were strictly observed 
 in the Greek and Roman theatres ; and they are inculcated by the 
 French and English critics as essential to every dramatic composi- 
 tion. They are also acknowledged by our best poets, though in 
 practice they make frequent deviation, which they pretend not to 
 justify, against the practice of the Greeks and Romans, and against 
 the solemn decision of their own countrymen. But in the course of 
 this inquiry it will be made evident that in this article we arc under 
 no necessity to copy the ancients ; and that our critics are guilty of a 
 mistake in admitting no greater latitude of place and time than was 
 admitted in Greece and Rome.f 
 
 All authors agree that tragedy in Greece was derived from the 
 hymns in praise of Bacchus, which were sung in parts by a chorus. 
 Thespis, to relieve the singe re, and for the sake of variety, introduced 
 one actor, whose province it was to explain historically the subject 
 of the song, and who occasionally represented one or other person- 
 age. ^Eschylus, introducing a second actor, formed the dialogue, 
 
 * I am sensible that a commencement of this sort is much rcli*hed by 
 readers disposed to the marvellous. Their curiosity is raised, and they are 
 much tickled in its gratification. But curiosity is nt on end with the flnt 
 reading, because the personages are no longer unknown ; and therefore at the 
 second reading, a commencement so artificial loses 'ts power, even over lh 
 vulgar. A writer of genins prefers lasting beauties. 
 
 t [By unity of action is meant that aH the incidents of the poet shall point 
 to one great catastrophe. By the vnitUt of time and place is understood that 
 the actual performance of the action may pass nearly during tho time, and 
 within the place of tho representation. Without unity of action it is itnposil>l 
 to excite and agitate tho passions ; and without the unities of time and plac 
 it i impossible to preserve probability, and to penmade the spectators tint th 
 action is not imaginary. But with all these unities properiv combined, th 
 illusion will be complete, and the passions will b* as effectually rou*<l by the 
 feigned events as if they wore real. Barroii, Loot, W.] 
 
 612. Capital deformity in a fcbl. Ordw In wfcjob (feet* may bo 
 ttule ft>T oab Men*. Uotty of action dcfln*d
 
 4-60 THE THREE UNITIES. 
 
 by which the performance became dramatic ; and the actors were 
 multiplied when the subject repFcsented made it necessary. But 
 still the chorus, whicJ gave a beginning to tragedy, was considered 
 as an essential part. The first scene generally unfolds the pre- 
 liminary circumstances that lead to the grand event ; and this scene 
 is by Aristotle termed the prologue. In the second scene, where 
 the action properly begins, the chorus is introduced, which, as 
 originally, continues upon the stage during the whole performance : 
 the chorus frequently makes one in the dialogue ; and when the 
 dialogue happens to be suspended, the chorus, during the interval, 
 is employed in singing. Sophocles adheres to this plan religiously, 
 Euripides is not altogether so correct. In some of his pieces it be- 
 comes necessary to remove the chorus for a little time. But when 
 that unusual step is risked, matters are so ordered as not to interrupt 
 the representation : the chorus never leave the stage of their own 
 accord, but at the command of some principal personage, who con- 
 stantly waits their return. 
 
 Thus the Grecian drama is a continued representation without 
 interruption; a circumstance that merits attention. A continued 
 representation with a pause, affords not opportunity to vary the place 
 of action, nor to prolong the time of the action beyond that of the . 
 representation. A real or feigned action that is brought to a con- 
 clusion after considerable intervals of time and frequent changes of 
 place, cannot accurately be copied in a representation that admits 
 110 latitude in either. Hence it is that the unities of place and of 
 time were, or ought to have been, strictly observed in the Greek 
 tragedies ; which is made necessary by the very constitution of their 
 drama, for it is absurd to compose a tragedy that cannot be justly 
 represented. 
 
 614. Modern critics, who for our drama pretend to establish rules 
 founded on the practice of the Greeks, are guilty of an egregious 
 blunder. The unities of place and of time were in Greece, as we 
 see, a matter of necessity, not of choice; and I am now ready to 
 show that if we submit to such fetters, it must be from choice, riot- 
 necessity. This will be evident upon taking a view of the constitu- 
 tion of our drama, which differs widely from that of Greece ; 
 whether more or less perfect, is a different point, to be handled 
 afterwards.* By dropping the chorus, opportunity is afforded to 
 divide the representation by intervals of time, during which the stage 
 is evacuated and the spectacle suspended. This qualifies our drama 
 for subjects spread through a wide space both of time and of place : 
 the time supposed to pass during the suspension of the represents- 
 
 * [For an interesting history of the mediaeval and modern drama, see Shaw's 
 English Literature, pp. 97-110.] 
 
 613. The unities of time aa<l place ; are tboy essential ? GreeUo tragedy described, lif 
 
 ICTCtJCtV
 
 THE THRKE UNITIES. 401 
 
 hon is not measured by the time of the suspension : and any place 
 may be supposed when the representation is renewed, with as much 
 facility as when it commenced : by which means many subjects can 
 DC justly represented in our theatres that were excluded from those 
 of ancient Greece. This doctiine may be illustrated by comparing 
 a modern play to a set of historical pictures: let us suppose them 
 five in number, and the resemblance will be complete. Each of the 
 pictures resembles an act in one of our plays : there must neces- 
 sarily be the strictest unity of place and of time in each picture ; and 
 the same necessity requires these two unities during each act of a 
 play, because during an act there is no interruption in the spectacle. 
 Now, when we view in succession a number of such historical pic- 
 tures, let it be, for example, the history of Alexander by Le limn, 
 we have no difficulty to conceive that months or years have passed 
 between the events exhibited in two different pictures, though the 
 interruption is imperceptible in passing our eye from the one to the 
 other; and we have as little difficulty to conceive a change of 
 place, however great. In which view there is truly no difference 
 between five acts of a modern play, and five such pictures. Where 
 the representation is suspended, we can with the greatest facility 
 suppose any length of time or any change of place : the spectator, it 
 is true, ma'y be conscious that the real time and place are not the 
 same with what are employed in the representation ; but this is a 
 work of reflection ; and by "the same reflection he may also be con- 
 scious that Garrick is not King Lear, that the play-house is not 
 Dover Cliffs, nor the noise he hears thunder and lightning. In a 
 word, after an interruption of the representation, it is no more diffi- 
 cult for a spectator to imagine a new place, or a different time, than 
 at the commencement of the play to imagine himself at Rome, or 
 in a period of time two thousand years back. And indeed, it is 
 abundantly ridiculous that a critic, who is willing to hold candle- 
 light for sunshine, and some painted canvasses for a palace or a 
 prison, should be so scrupulous about admitting any latitude of place 
 or of time in the fable, beyond what is necessary in the represen- 
 tation. 
 
 615. There are, I acknowledge, some effects of great latrt 
 time that ought never to be indulged in a composition for the them 
 nothing can be more absurd than at the close to exhibit i 
 person who appears a child at the beginning: the mind reject*, M 
 contrary to all probability, such latitude of time as is requisite f 
 a change so remarkable. The greatest change from p ace to place 
 hath not altogether the same bad effect. In the bulk of 
 affairs place is not material ; and the mind, when occupied wit! 
 interesting event, is little regardful of minute circumstances: 
 may be varied at will, because they scarce make any unprc 
 
 ~ 
 
 614. Blunder of modern critic-How th.~En f Itth drama differ. (TOO tb. Q~** In- 
 ference. A modern play compared to set of historical piet
 
 THE THREE UNITIES. 
 
 But though I have taken arms to rescue modern poets from the 
 despotism of modem critics, I would not be understood to justity 
 liberty without any reserve. An unbounded license with relation 
 to place and time, is faulty, for a reason that seems to have been 
 overlooked, which is, that it seldom fails to break the unity of action 
 In the ordinary course of human affaire, single events, such as are C 
 to be represented on the stage, are confined to a narrow spot and 
 commonly employ no great extent of time: we accordingly seldom 
 find strict unity of action in a dramatic composition, where any re- 
 markable latitude is indulged in these particulars. I say further, 
 that a composition which employs but one place, and requires not a 
 greater length of time than is necessary for the representation is sc 
 much the more perfect ; because the confining an event within a 
 narrow bounds, contributes to the unity of action; and also prevents 
 that labor, however slight, which the mind must undergo in inwgm- 
 incr frequent changes of place and many intervals of time. But st 
 I must insist, that such limitation of place and time as was necessary 
 in the Grecian drama, is no rule to us ; and therefore, that though 
 such limitation adds one beauty more to the composition it is at 
 best but a refinement, which may justly give place to a thousand 
 beauties more substantial. And I may add, that it is extremely 
 difficult, I was about to say impracticable, to contract within U 
 Grecian limits, any fable so fruitful of incidents in number and va- 
 riety as to give full scope to the fluctuation of passion. 
 
 616 [It would be amusing to make a digest of the irrational laws 
 
 which bad critics have framed for the government ot poets. 
 
 in celebrity and in absurdity stand the dramatic unities of place and 
 
 time. No human being has ever been able to find any thing that 
 
 could, even by courtesy, be called an argument for these unities, 
 
 except that they have been deduced from the general practice ot he 
 
 Greeks. It requires no very profound examination to discover that 
 
 the Greek dramas, often admirable as compositions, are as exhibi- 
 
 tions of human character and of human life, far inferior to the Enghsn 
 
 plays of the age of Elizabeth. Every scholar knows that the dra- 
 
 matic part of the Athenian tragedies was at first subordinate to the 
 
 lyrical part. It would, therefore, be little less than a miracle if the 
 
 laws of the Athenian stage had been found to suit plays in which 
 
 there was no chorus. All the great master-pieces of the dramatic 
 
 art have been composed in direct violation of the unities, and could 
 
 never have been composed if the unities had not been violated. It 
 
 is clear, for example, that such a character as that ot Hamlet couk 
 
 never have been developed within the limits to which AInen con- 
 
 fined himself. Yet such was the reverence of Jiterary men d 
 
 the last century for these unities, that Johnson, who, much to I 
 
 honor, took the opposite side, was, as he says, "frighted 
 
 615. Great latitude of time not admissible in a play.
 
 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 468 
 
 temerity ;" and "afraid to stand against the authorities which might 
 tt produced against him." Macaulay, 
 
 Lord JEFFREY, upon the same subject, has made the following 
 observations : " When the modems tie themselves down to write 
 tragedies of the same length, and on the same simple plan, in other 
 respects, with those of Sophocles and ^Esehylus, we shall not object 
 to their adhering to the unities ; for there can, in that case, be no 
 sufficient inducement for violating them. But in the mean time, 
 we hold that English dramatic poetry soars above the unities, ju.t 
 as the imagination does. The only pretence for insisting on thorn 
 is, that we suppose the stage itself to be, actually and really, the 
 very spot on which a given action is performed ; and, if so, thin 
 space cannot be removed to another. But the supposition is mani- 
 festly quite contrary to truth and experience. The stage is con- 
 sidered merely as a place in which any given action ad libitum may 
 be performed ; and accordingly may be shifted, and is so in imagi- 
 nation, as often as the action requires it." British Essayist*, vol. 
 vi. p. 820. 
 
 On this subject, consult also Sir Joshua Reynolds' Works, voL 
 ii. 13th discourse Ed.] 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 617. THE books we have upon architecture and upon embellish- 
 ing ground, abound in practical instruction, necessary for a me- 
 chanic ; but in vain should we rummage them for rational principles 
 to improve our taste. In a general system, it might be thought 
 sufficient to have unfolded the principles that govern these and other 
 fine arts, leaving the application to the reader ; but as I would neg- 
 lect no opportunity of showing the extensive influence of these prin- 
 ciples, the purpose of the present chapter is to apply them t 
 gardening and architecture ; but without intending any regular plan 
 of these favorite arts, which would be unsuitable not only to the 
 nature of this work, but to the experience of its author. 
 
 Gardening was at first a useful art : in the garden of Alcinoua, 
 described by Homer, we find nothing done for pleasure merely 
 But gardening is now improved into a fine art ; i.nd when w 
 of a garden without any epithet, a pleasnre-garden, by way o 
 
 616. Mscnnlnv-8 remarks on the Grecian drtnw: upon tli m*tr-plK^ of U* MM 
 drm*. Iobn:-on. Lord Jeffrey'* remarks on the unitm
 
 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 eminence, is_ understood. The garden of Alcinous, in modern lan- 
 guage, was but a kitchen-garden. Architecture has run the same 
 course : it continued many ages a useful art merely, without as- 
 piring to be classed with the fine arts. Architecture, therefore, and 
 gardening, being useful arts as well as fine arts, afford two different 
 views. The reader, however, will not here expect rules for improv- 
 ing any work of art in point of utility ; it being no part of my plan 
 to treat of any useful art as such : but there is a beauty in utility ; 
 and in discoursing of beauty, that of utility must not be neglected! 
 This leads us to consider gardens and buildings in different views : 
 they may be destined for use solely, for beauty solely, or for both! 
 Such variety of destination bestows upon these arts a great com- 
 mand of beauties, complex no less than various. Hence the diffi- 
 culty of forming an accurate taste in gardening and architecture ; 
 and hence that difference, and wavering of taste in these arts, greater 
 than in any art that has but a single destination. 
 
 618. Architecture and gardening cannot otherwise entertain the 
 mind, but by raising certain agreeable emotions or feelings ; with 
 which we must begin, as the true foundation of all the rules of criti- 
 cism that govern these arts. Poetry, as to its power of raising 
 emotions, possesses justly the first place among the fine arts ; for 
 scarce any one emotion of human nature is beyond its reach. 
 Painting and sculpture are more circumscribed, having the com- 
 mand of no emotions but of what are raised by sight : they are 
 peculiarly successful in expressing painful passions, which are dis- 
 played _ by external signs extremely legible. (See chapter xv.) 
 Gardening, besides the emotions of beauty from regularity, order, 
 proportion, color, and utility, can raise emotions of grandeur, of 
 sweetness, of gayety, of melancholy, of wildness, and even of sur- 
 prise or wonder.* In architecture, the beauties of regularity, order, 
 
 *["_It cannot be denied that the tasteful improvement of a country resi- 
 dence is both one of the most agreeable and the most natural recreations that 
 can occupy a cultivated mind. With all the interest, and to many, all the 
 excitement of the more seductive amusements of society, it lias the incalcula- 
 ble advantage of fostering only the purest feelings, #nd (unlike many other 
 occupations of business men) refining instead of hardening the heart. 
 " The great German poet, Goethe, says- 
 Happy the man who hath escaped the town, 
 Him did an angel bless when ho was born. 
 
 " With us, country life is a leading object of nearly all men's desires. The 
 wealthiest merchant looks upon his country-seat as the best ultimatum of his 
 laborious days in the counting-house. The most indefatigable statesman 
 dates, in his retirement, from his 'Ashland,' or his 'Lindenwold.' Webster 
 has his ' Marshfield,' where his scientific agriculture is no less admirable than 
 his profound eloquence in the Senate. Taylor's well-ordered plantation is 
 not less significant of the man, than the battle of Buena Vista. Washington 
 Irving's cottage, on the Hudson, is even more poetical than any chapter in his 
 
 617. Gardening as an art. The garden of Alcinons. Gardening and buildings con- 
 Bdered under two views.
 
 GARDENING ANt ARCinTKCTURK. 
 
 And proportion, are still more conspicuous than in gardonii; but 
 
 as to the beauty ot color, architecture is far inferior. Grandeur can 
 
 e expressed m a building, perhaps more successfully than in a 
 
 garden ; but as to the other emotions above mentioned/architecture 
 
 itherto has not been brought to the perfection of expressing them 
 
 distinctly lo balance that defect, architecture can display the 
 
 beauty ot utility m the highest perfection. 
 
 Gardening indeed possesses one advantage, never to be equalled 
 m the other art: in various scenes, it can raise successively all the 
 drfierent emotions above mentioned. But to produce that delicious 
 effect, the garden must be extensive, so as to admit a slow succes- 
 won i ; for a small garden, comprehended at one view, ought to be 
 confined to one expression (see chapter viii.) : it may be gay, it mav 
 be sweet, it may be gloomy; but an attempt to mix the'se would 
 create a jumble of emotions not a little unpleasant. For the same 
 reason, a building, even the most magnificent, is necessarily confined 
 to one expression. 
 
 619. In gardening, as well as in architecture, simplicity ought to 
 be a ruling principle. Profuse ornament hath no better effect than 
 to confound the eye, and to prevent the object from making an im- 
 pression as one entire whole. An artist destitute of genius for 
 capital beauties, is naturally prompted to supply the defeetby crowd- 
 ing his plan w'ith slight embellishments : hence in a garden, trium- 
 phal arches, Chinese houses, temples, obelisks, cascades, fountains, 
 without end ; and in a building, pillars, vases, statues, and a pro- 
 fusion of carved work. Thus some women defective in taste, are 
 apt to overcharge every part of their dress with ornament. Super- 
 fluity of decoration hath another bad effect ; it gives the object a 
 diminutive look : an island in a wide extended lake makes it appear 
 larger ; but an artificial lake, which is always little, apj>ears still 
 less by making an island on it. 
 
 In forming plans for embellishing a field, an artist without ta.sij 
 employs straight lines, circles, squares ; because these look best upon 
 paper. He perceives not, that to humor and adorn nature, is the 
 perfection of his art; and that nature, neglecting regularity, dis- 
 tributes her objects in great variety with a bold hand. A large field 
 
 Sketch Book ; and Cole, the greatest of our landscape painters, had his rural 
 nome under the very shadow of the Caukills. 
 
 "This is well. In the United Suites, nature and domestic 1Kb are letter 
 than society and the manners of towns. Hence all ocnsible men jrl.idlT es- 
 cape, curlier or later, and partially or wholly, from the turmoil of the cltic. 
 Hence the dignity and value of country life is cverv day augmenting. And 
 hence the enjoyment of landscape or ornamental tfardemriir which, when in 
 pure taste, may properly be ciilleil it mnrt rtjint<l kind i>f rmlurt in every JUT 
 becoming more and more widely diffused." D<cning' Rural K*+iy, lii'.l 
 
 618. How they entertain the mind. Poetry, printing, sculpture, gwflwteMpi 
 Uctur* eomi* red, . to power of rai*in g emotion*. 
 
 20*
 
 466 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 laid out with strict regularity, is stiff and artificial.* Nature, in- 
 deed, in organized bodies comprehended under one view, studies 
 regularity, which, for the same reason, ought to be studied in archi- 
 tecture : but in large objects, which cannot otherwise be surveyed 
 but in parts and by succession, regularity and uniformity would be 
 useless properties, because they cannot be discovered by the eye.f 
 Nature therefore, in her large works, neglects these properties ; and 
 in copying nature, the artist ought to neglect them. 
 
 620. Having thus far carried on a comparison between gardening 
 and architecturej rules peculiar to each come next in order, begin- 
 ning with gardening. The simplest plan of a garden, is that of a 
 spot embellished with a number of natural objects, trees, walks, pol- 
 ished parterres, flowers, streams, &c. One more complex compre- 
 hends statues and buildings, that nature and art may be mutually 
 ornamental. A third, approaching -nearer perfection, is of objects 
 assembled together in order to produce not only an emotion of 
 beauty, but also some other particular emotion, grandeur, for ex- 
 ample, gayety, or any other above mentioned. The completest plan 
 of a garden is an improvement upon the third, requiring the several 
 parts to be so arranged as to inspire all the different emotions that 
 can be raised by gardening. In this plan, the arrangement is an 
 important circumstance ; for it has been shown, that some emotions 
 figure best in conjunction, and that others ought always to appear in 
 succession, and never in conjunction. It is mentioned (chapter viii.), 
 that when the most opposite emotions, suck as gloominess and 
 gayety, stillness and activity, follow each other in succession, the 
 pleasure, on the whole, will be the greatest ; but that such emotions 
 ought not to be united, because they produce an unpleasant mixture. 
 (Chapter ii. part iv.) For this reason, a ruin affording a sort of 
 melancholy pleasure, ought not to be seen from a flower-parterre 
 which is gay and cheerful. But to pass from an exhilarating object 
 to a ruin, has a fine effect; for each of the emotions is the more 
 sensibly felt by being contrasted with the other. Similar emotions, 
 on the other hand, such as gayety and sweetness, stillness and 
 gloominess, motion and grandeur, ought to be raised together; for 
 their effects upon the rnind are greatly heightened by their con- 
 junction. 
 
 621. Regularity is required in that part of a garden which is ad- 
 
 * In France and Italy, a garden i. disposed like the human body, alleys, like 
 legs and arms, answering each other ; the great walk in the middle representing 
 the trunk cf the body. Thus an artist void of taste carries eelf along into every 
 operation. 
 
 t A square field appears not such to the eye when viewed from any part of 
 it ; and the centre is the only place where a circular field preserves in appear- 
 ance its regular figure. 
 
 019. Remarks of Mr. Downing. A peculiar advantage of gardening. Simplicity In g'l> 
 den Ing and architecture. Embellishment of afield. 
 820. Plans for a garden.
 
 GARDKNINO AND ARCHITECTURE. 407 
 
 jaoent to the dwelling-house ; because an immediate accessory outfit 
 :o partake the regularity of the principal object; but in proportion 
 to the distance from the house considered as the centre, regularity 
 ought less and leas to be studied ; for in an extensive plan, it bath a 
 fane effect to lead the mind insensibly from regularity to a bold 
 variety. Such arrangement tends to make an impression of wandeur 
 and grandeur ought to be studied as much as possible, even in a 
 more confined plan, by avoiding a multiplicity of small parte. (See 
 chapter iv.) A small garden, on the other hand, which admit* not 
 grandeur, ought to be strictly regular. 
 
 Milton, describing the gardeu of Eden, prefers justly grandeur 
 before regularity : 
 
 Flowers worthy of paradise, which not nice art 
 
 In beds and curious knot*, but Nature boon 
 
 1'our'd forth profuse on hill, and dule, and plain: 
 
 both where the morning sun first warmly stnoto 
 
 The open field, and where the unpiercedshado 
 
 Imbrown'd the noon-tide bowers. Paraditt Lott, b. iv. 
 
 A hill covered with trees, appears more beautiful as well as more 
 lofty than when naked. To distribute trees in a plain requires more 
 art : near the dwelling-house thev ought to be scattered so distant 
 from each other, as not to break the unity of the field ; and even at 
 the greatest distance of distinct vision, they ought never to be so 
 crowded as to hide any beautiful object. 
 
 In the manner of planting a wood or thicket, much art may be 
 displayed. A common centre of walks, termed a star, from whence 
 are seen remarkable objects, appears too artificial, and consequently 
 too stiff' and formal, to be agreeable : the crowding withal so many 
 objects together, lessens the pleasure that would be felt in a slower 
 succession. 
 
 622. By a judicious distribution of trees, other beauties may be 
 produced. A landscape so rich as to engross the whole attention, 
 and so limited as sweetly to bo comprehended under a single view, 
 has a much finer effect than the most extensive landscape that re- 
 quires a wandering of the eye through successive scenes. This 
 observation suggests a capital rule in laying out a field ; which ia, 
 never at any one station to admit a larger prospect than can easily 
 be taken in at once. A field so happily situated as to command a 
 great extent of prospect, is a delightful subject for applying this 
 rule : let the prospect be split into proper parts by means of tree*, 
 studying at the same time to introduce all the variety possible. 
 
 As gardening is not an inventive art, but au imitation of nature, 
 or rather nature itself ornamented, it follows necessarily that every 
 thing unnatural ought to be rejected with disdain. Statues of wild 
 beasts vomiting water, a common ornament in gardens, prevail io 
 those of Versailles. Is that ornament in a good taste ? A jet (/You, 
 
 621. ID whit part of r garden refu'mjr U most to to ttuJU-1 JimnfoKBl f tiM*
 
 46S GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 distsuise. A liteless siauu. i d wolves are 
 
 endured without much togu^; both e,e * s & .__ 
 
 put in violent action each J-ta**F , vholo j. converted 
 
 turns .hfeltfc to e ene '. beautiful in 
 
 of Pliny, who seems to be a |^*J Td has sup- 
 
 3= i air. ^ffisSS f ^ ^ ^ 
 
 for the same reason, no less cWcish.t whims i ca l ought to 
 
 TJHoa, a Spanish writer, describing the city 
 re is finel ornamented "In the 
 
 , 
 quare is finely ornamented "In the g^Jg^g,^ is a bronze statue of 
 
 except just BO far iw nf^'^^^hen he has endeavored to work in her 
 of man'8 want of taste or ),el ps him ^ n u f instruct i n, and in such fca- 
 own spirit. But the he ds and ^J/^]^, ersified country, must the best 
 tures of our richest and m V P 1 ?omes always be derived. And yet it 
 hints for the embellishment of rura ho ^^ onr flnest pleasure-ground 
 rwtanyi^onome^^flf^to^w^ ^^ gy 
 
 scenery to resemble. ^Te f* h f ft w i. 8 fL^^ in a choicer manner, by rejecting 
 of nature, and to recompose ^ e Catena is m which shonld char . 
 
 any thing foreign to the spirit ^fggj.fg^ residence-a landscape in 
 acterize the landscape of the ^^,^1 , ,, atur e is preserved-all her mos 
 which all that is graceful and beaut, m nan P t ftdded roflnen eni 
 perfect forms and most harmpnious mLs mu u ^.^ . 
 
 bSL^iiSS^ ofSdoi^ th^h and freshness of its intnns* 
 Character." Downing^ Rural ssays, iv.J __ _ ___ , 
 
 Capital rule > to prospcct.-Thlug* unnatural- Vemlll*
 
 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 489 
 
 ceit, like that of composing verse in the shape of an axo or an egg: 
 the walks and hedges may be agreeable; but in the form of a lauy- 
 rinth they serve to no end but to puzzle : a riddle is a conceit not so 
 mean, because the solution is proof of sagacity, which affords no 
 aid in tracing a labyrinth. 
 
 The gardens of Versailles, executed with boundless expense by the 
 best artists of that age, are a lasting monument of a taste the most 
 depraved : the faults above mentioned, instead of being avoided, are 
 chosen as beauties, and multiplied without end. Nature, it would 
 seem, was deemed too v.ulgar to be imitated in the works of A mag- 
 nificent monarch ; and for that reason preference was given to things 
 unnatural, which probably were mistaken for supernatural. I have 
 often amused myself with a fanciful resemblance between these gar- 
 dens and the Arabian tales : each of them is a performance intended 
 for the amusement of a great king : in the sixteen gardens of Ver- 
 sailles there is no unity of design, more than in the thousand and 
 one Arabian tales : and, lastly, they are equally unnatural ; groves 
 of jets d'eau, statues of animals conversing in the manner of ^Espp. 
 water issuing out of the mouths of wild beasts, give an impression 
 of fairy-land and witchcraft, no less than diamond-palaces, invisible 
 rings, spells, and incantations. 
 
 624. A straight road is the most agreeable, because it shortens 
 the journey. But in an embellished field, a straight walk has an 
 air of formality and confinement ; and at any rate is less agreeable 
 than a winding or waving walk; for in surveying the beauties of an 
 ornamented field, we love to roam from place to place at freedom. 
 Winding walks have another advantage ; at every step they open 
 new views. In short, the walks in a pleasure-ground ought not to 
 have any appearance of a road ; my intention is not to make a jour- 
 ney, but to feast my eye on the beauties of art and nature. This 
 rule excludes not openings directing the eye to distant object*. 
 
 Avoid a straight avenue directed upon a dwelling-house : better 
 far an oblique approach m a waving line, with single trees and other 
 scattered objects interposed. 
 
 There are not many fountains in a good taste. Statues of anima, 
 vomiting water, which prevail everywhere, stand condemned as un- 
 natural. In many Roman fountains, statues of fishes are employee 
 to support a large basin of water. This unnatural conceit is n< 
 accountable, unless from the connection that water hath with ti 
 fish that swim in it ; which by the way shows the influence o 
 the slighter relations. The best design for a fountain I have mot wit 
 is what follows. In an artificial rock, rugged and abrupt, tli 
 cavity out of sight at the top: the water, conveyed to it by n pip 
 pours or tnckles"down the broken parts of the rook, and i 
 
 623. Faint imitations of natureMr. Downing reowrU-Tblnp triUl MM! whimt- 
 
 cal. Versailles 
 024 Walks in garden.-FoonUlos.
 
 470 
 
 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 into a basin at the foot: it is so contrived as to make the water fail 
 in sheets or in rills at pleasure. 
 
 625. Hitherto a garden has been treated as a work intended 
 solely for pleasure, ^or, in other words, for giving impressions of in- 
 trinsic beauty. What comes next in order is the beauty of a gar- 
 den destined for use, termed relative beauty; and this branch shall 
 be dispatched in a few words. In gardening, luckily, relative beautv 
 need never stand in opposition to intrinsic beauty : all the ground 
 that can be requisite for use, makes but a small proportion of an 
 ornamented field, and may be put in any corner without obstructing 
 the disposition of the capital pails. At the same time, a kitchen- 
 garden or an orchard is susceptible of intrinsic beauty ; and may be 
 so artfully disposed among the other parts, as by variety and con- 
 trast to contribute to the beauty of the whole. 
 
 In a hot country it is a capital object to have what may be 
 termed a summer-garden ; that is, a spot of ground disposed by art 
 and by nature to exclude the sun, but to give free access to the air. 
 In a cold country, the capital object should be a winter-garden, open 
 to the sun, sheltered from wind, dry under foot, and taking on the 
 appearance of summer by variety of evergreens.* 
 
 626. Gardening being in China brought to greater perfection 
 than in any other known country, we shall close our present subject 
 with a slight view of Chinese gardens, which are found entirely ob- 
 sequious ^to^the principles that govern every one of the fine arts. In 
 general, it is an indispensable law there, never to deviate from na- 
 ture : but in order to produce that degree of variety which is pleas- 
 ing, every method consistent with nature is put in practice. Nature 
 is strictly imitated in the banks of their artificial lakes and rivers ; 
 which sometimes are bare and gravelly, sometimes covered with 
 wood quite to the brink of the water. To flat spots adorned with 
 flowers and shrubs, are opposed others steep and rocky. We see 
 meadows covered with cattle; rice-grounds that run into lakes; 
 groves into which enter navigable creeks and rivulets : these gener- 
 
 * A correspondent, whose name I hitherto have concealed, that I might not 
 be thought vain, nnd which I can no longer conceal (Mrs. Montagu), writes to 
 me as follows : " In life we generally lay our account with prosperity, nnd sel- 
 dom, very seldom, prepare for adversity. We carry that propensity even into 
 the structure of our gardens : we cultivate the eay ornaments of summer, rel- 
 ishing no plants but what flourish by mild "dews and gracious sunshine : 
 we banish from our thoughts ghastly winter, when the benign influences of 
 the sun, cheering us no more, are doubly regretted by yielding to the piercing 
 north wind and nipping frost. Sage is the gardener, in the metaphorical na 
 well as literal sense, who procures a friendly shelter to protect us from December 
 stoi^ns, and cultivates the plants that adorn and enliven that dreary season. 
 He is no philosopher who cannot retire into the Stoic's walk when the gardens 
 of Epicurus arc out of bloom : he is too much a philosopher who will rigidly 
 proscribe the flowers and aromatics of summer, to sit constantly under the 
 cypress-shade/' 
 
 62,V Relative beauty of a garden. Sumniei and winter
 
 GARDENING AND ARCHmXJTURK. 471 
 
 tOy conduct to some interesting object, a magnificent building, ter- 
 ra- .es cut in a mountain, a cascade, a grotto } an artificial rock. 
 Th'-ir artificial rivers are generally serpentine ; sometimes narrow, 
 noisy, and rapid ; sometimes deep, broad, and slow : and to make 
 the *ceno still more active, mills and other moving machines are 
 often erected. In the lakes ane interspersed islands; some barren, 
 surrounded with rocks and shoals : others enriched with even' thing 
 that art f.nd nature can furnish. Even in their cascades they avoid 
 regularity, as forcing nature out of its course : the waters are seen 
 bursting *irom the caverns and windings of the artificial rocks, here 
 a roaring cataract, there many gentle falls ; and the stream often 
 impeded oy trees and stones, that seem brought down by the vio- 
 lence of the current. Straight lines are sometimes indulged, in or- 
 der to ku.p in view some interesting object at a distance. 
 
 Sensiliu of the influence of contrast, the Chinese artists deal in 
 sudden Uunsitions, and in opposing to each other forms, colors, and 
 shades. The eye is conducted from limited to extensive views, and 
 from lakes. and rivers to plains, hills, and woods : to dark and gloomy 
 colors, aie opposed the more brilliant : the different masses of light 
 and shade .ire disposed in such a manner, as to render the composi- 
 tion distinct in its parts, and striking on the whole. In plantations, 
 the trees i.re artfully mixed according to their shape and color; 
 those of spvoading branches with the pyramidal, and the light green 
 with the dv,sp green. They even introduce decayed trees, some 
 erect, and seine half out of the ground.* In order to heighten con- 
 trast, much bolder strokes are risked: they sometimes introduce 
 rough rocks., dark caverns, trees ill formed, and seemingly rent by 
 tempests, or blasted by lightning; a building in ruins, or half con- 
 sumed by file. But to relieve the mind from the harshness of such 
 objects, the sweetest and most beautiful scenes always succeed. 
 
 627. The Chinese study to give play to the imagination : they 
 hide the termination of their lakes; and commonly interrupt 
 view of a cascade by trees, through which are seen obscurely the 
 waters as they fall. " The imagination once roused, is disposed to 
 magnify eveiy object. 
 
 Nothing is more studied in Chinese gardens than to raise won< 
 or surprise. In scenes calculated for that end, every thing appear 
 like fairy-land ; a torrent, for example, conveyed under groun 
 zles a stranger by its uncommon sound to guess what it inav ^ b 
 and to multiply such uncommon sounds, the rocks and buildings 
 are contrived with cavities and interstices. Sometimes one 
 insensibly into a dark cavern, terminating unexpectedly m a land 
 
 * Taste has suggested to Kent the same artifice. A dcweJlr 
 properly, contributes to contrast ; and o in peuH.re or M 
 produces a sort of pity grounded on an imaginary per 
 
 ttt Cb!nm garden* > wssponJonw wltfc ntu.
 
 ' GARDENING AND A RCHITECTURE. 
 
 scape enriched with all that nature affords the most delicious. At 
 other times, beautiful walks insensibly conduct to a rough unculti- 
 vated field, where bushes, briers, and stones interrupt the passage : 
 looking about for an outlet, some rich prospect unexpectedly opens 
 to view. Another artifice is, to obscure some capital part by trees, 
 or other interposed objects : our curiosity is raised to know what 
 lies beyond ; and after a few steps, we are greatly surprised with 
 some scene totally different from what was expected. 
 
 628. These cursory observations upon gardening, shall be closed 
 vyith some reflections that must touch every reader. Rough uncul- 
 tivated ground, dismal to the eye, inspires' peevishness and discon- 
 tent : may not this be one cause of the harsh manners of savages ? 
 A field richly ornamented, containing beautiful objects of various 
 kinds, displays in full lustre the goodness of the Deity, and the am 
 pie provision he has made for our happiness. Ought not the spec- 
 tator to be filled with gratitude to his Maker, and with benevolence 
 to his fellow-creatures ? Other fine arts may be perverted to excite 
 irregular, and even vicious emotions : but gardening, which inspires 
 the purest and most refined pleasures, cannot fail to promote every 
 good affection. The gayety and harmony of mind it produceth, in- 
 clining the spectator to communicate his satisfaction to others, and 
 to make them happy as he is himself, tend naturally to establish in 
 him a habit of humanity and benevolence.* 
 
 It is not easy to suppress a degree of enthusiasm when we reflect 
 on the advantages of gardening with respect to virtuous education. 
 In the beginning of lite the deepest impressions are made ; and it is 
 a^sad truth, that the young student, familiarized to the dirtiness and 
 disorder of many colleges pent within narrow bounds in populous 
 cities, is rendered in a measure insensible to the elegant beauties of 
 art and nature. Is there no man of fortune sufficiently patriotic to 
 think of reforming this evil ? It seems to me far from an exaggera- 
 tion^ that good professors are not more essential to a college, than a 
 spacious garden, sweetly ornamented, but without any thing glaring 
 or fantastic, so as upon the whole to inspire our youth with a taste 
 no less for simplicity than for elegance. In that respect, the univer- 
 sity of Oxford may justly be deemed a model. 
 
 629. Having finished what occurred on gardening, I proceed to 
 rules and observations that more peculiarly concern architecture. 
 Architecture, being a useful as well as a fine art, leads us to distin- 
 guish buildings and parts of buildings into three kinds, namely, what 
 
 * The- manufactures of silk, flax, and cotton, in their present advance to- 
 wards perfection, may be held as inferior branches of the fine arts: because 
 their productions in dress and in furniture inspire, like them, gay and kindly 
 emotions favorable to morality. 
 
 627. The Chinese gardens give play to the imagination. Artifices for raising wonda 
 god surprise. 
 
 628. Advantage* of gtmUnlng.
 
 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 478 
 
 are intended for utility solely, what for ornament solely, and what 
 for both. Buildings intended for utility solely, such "as detached 
 offices, ought in every part to correspond precisely to that intention- 
 the slightest deviation from the end in view will bj every person ol 
 taste be thought a blemish. In general it is the perfection of every 
 work of art, that it fulfils the purpose for which it is intended ; and 
 every other beauty, in opposition, is improper. But in things in- 
 tended for ornament, such as pillars, obelisks, triumpl al arches, 
 beauty ought alone to be regarded. A heathen temple must be 
 considered as merely ornamental; for being dedicated to some dei- 
 ty, and not intended for habitation, it is susceptible of any figure 
 and any embellishment that fancy can suggest and beauty admit. 
 The great difficulty of contrivance, respects buildings that are in- 
 tended to be useful as well as ornamental. These ends, employing 
 different and often opposite means, are seldom united in perfection : 
 and the only practicable method in such buildings is, to favor orna- 
 ment less or more according to the character of the building: in 
 palaces and other edifices sufficiently extensive to* admit a variety of 
 useful contrivance, regularity justly takes the lead : but in dwelling- 
 houses that are too small for -variety of contrivance, utility ought to 
 prevail, neglecting regularity as far as it stands in opposition to con- 
 venience.* 
 
 Intrinsic and relative beauty being founded on different principles, 
 must be handled separately. I begin with relative beauty, as of the 
 greater importance. 
 
 630. The proportions of a door are determined by the use to 
 which it is destined. The door of a dwelling-house, which ought 
 to correspond to the human size, is confined to seven or eight feet in 
 height, and three or four in breadth. The proportions proper for 
 the door of a barn or coach-house, are widely different. Another 
 consideration enters. To study intrinsic beauty in a coach-house or 
 barn, intended merely for use, is obviously improper. But a dwelling- 
 house may admit ornaments ; and the principal door of a palace 
 demands all the grandeur that is consistent with the foregoing 
 proportions dictated by utility: it ought to be elevated, and ap- 
 proached by steps; and it may be adorned with pillars supporting 
 an architrave, or in any other beautiful manner. The door of a 
 church ought to be wide, in order to afford an easy passage for t 
 multitude : the width, at the same time, regulates the height, as will 
 appear by and by. The size of windows ought to be proportioned 
 
 * A building must bo large to produce nnv sensible emotion of regularity, 
 proportion, or beauty ; which is nn additional reason for minding convenieno 
 only in a dwelling-house of small sizo. 
 
 629. Buildings and parts of buildings dlstlnjnilhe<Untothrcoklnds.-Boliainnlnt^ 
 for uee solely. Tilings li tended for orntmcnt. Kul* for bi 
 u well as ornamental.
 
 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 for if the 
 
 
 foigettiDg even those parts that are purposely contrived for a r' Td 
 
 
 -WthS fo and o,^ ^^S^S^J-StS 
 
 rp, 
 
 3 sense of congruity dictates the 
 ng have an expression corresponding 
 
 esssiSgaSJSSaSig 
 
 rtion, consult Alison on Taste, pp. 095.323.5 

 
 
 
 OABDKMLNG A*D AHCHJTECTDRR. 475 
 
 qu,res a pohshed field for such building; and b3ta4?32iS 
 ot coymty, the spectator is sensible of the plensure of concordance, 
 from the similanty of the emotions produced by the two obj*t 
 The old Gotbc form of building seems well suited to the roughV 
 
 great exampfe from other countries-this dangerous rock 
 
 lSi l ^r^ ]m V^ ^'P'i^P'o , '^P i mind 
 
 tor i" . ^ US n" llk , ten 'Pl, churches, or cathedral*. Let them I*, charac- 
 
 ir t X WSf^Ti ^ Dd m re than this ' alw y lct thcir '"^ "i 
 of purpose be luirly avowed; let the cotUwo be a ootWc; the fitrni-boiui 
 
 ftnn h OIlsc . the villa a villa; and the nmniion a man.iT itnot M,en, P To 
 
 ?,-?! H-i ng "'T your , farm nftcr thc f " 8llion of ' thc town-hooM, o-; ,'r 
 iiieiul, the city merdiaut; do not attempt toirive Uic motlest little cotuj tit 
 ambition, air of the oraato villa. Be assured that there is, if vou willTc.rch 
 lor it, a peculiar I.eauty that belongs to euch of the^e classes of buil.liiiin. that 
 of H,, te , ! H an< ? " dor 'V< t almost magically; while, if it borrow, the onmment. 
 the other, it is only .leb^ed and falsified in character and expression. Th 
 most expensive and elaborate structure, overlaid with co.-tlv oninmcnU trill 
 lU to gu-e a ray of pleasure to the mind of real ta.te, if it in not rpmpn.-'tr to 
 Uie purpose 1 1 view, or the means or position of its occupant."]
 
 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 cultivated regions where it was invented : '.he only mistake was the 
 transferring this form to the fine plains of France and Italy, better 
 fitted for buildings in the Grecian taste ; but by refining upon the 
 Gothic form, every thing possible has been done to reconcile it 
 to its new situation. The profuse variety of wild and grand objects 
 about Inverary, demanded a house in the Gothic form ; and every 
 one must approve the taste of the proprietor, in adjusting so finely 
 the appearance of his house to that of the country where it is placed. 
 
 633. Next of ornaments, which contribute to give buildings a 
 peculiar expression. It has been doubted whether a building can 
 regularly admit any ornament but what is useful, or at least has that 
 appearance. But considering the different purposes of architecture, 
 a fine as well as a useful art, there is no good reason why ornaments 
 may not be added to please the eye without any relation to use. 
 This liberty is allowed in poetry, painting, and gardening, and why 
 not in architecture considered as a fine art ? A private dwelling- 
 house, it is true, and other edifices where use is the chief aim, 
 admit not regularly any ornament but what has the appearance, at 
 least, of use ; but temples, triumphal arches, and other buildings in- 
 tended chiefly or solely for show, admit every sort of ornament. 
 
 A thing intended merely as an ornament, may be of any figure 
 and of any kind that fancy can suggest ; if it please the spectator, 
 the artist gains his end. Statues, vases, sculpture upon stone, 
 whether basso or alto relievo, are beautiful ornaments relished in all 
 civilized countries. The placing such ornaments so as to produce 
 the best effect, is the only nicety. A statue in perfection is an en- 
 chanting work ; and we naturally require that it should be seen in 
 every direction, and at different distances ; for which reason, statues 
 employed as ornaments are proper to adorn the great staircase that 
 leads to the principal door of a palace, or to occupy the void be- 
 tween pillars. 
 
 634. One at first view will naturally take it for granted, that in 
 the ornaments under consideration beauty is indispensable. It goes 
 a great way undoubtedly ; but, upon trial, we find many things es- 
 teemed as highly ornamental that have little or no beauty. There 
 are various circumstances, besides beauty, that tend to make an 
 agreeable impression. For instance, the reverence we have for the 
 ancients is a fruitful source of ornaments. Ainalthea's horn has 
 always been a favorite ornament, because of its connection with a 
 lady who was honored with the care of Jupiter in his infancy. A 
 fat old fellow and a goat are surely not graceful forms ; and yet 
 Selinus and his companions are everywhere fashionable ornaments. 
 What else but our fondness for antiquity can make the horrid form 
 of a sphinx so much as endurable ? Original destination is another 
 
 632. "Whether situation should regulate the form of the edifice. 
 
 683. Ornaments; whether any but what are useful may be admitted. Tho form of ant 
 thing intended merely for ornament The placing of such ornaments. Stat ie&
 
 3ABDENI2TO AND ABCHITECTrEE. 477 
 
 circumstance that has influence to add dignity to thinga in them- 
 selves abundantly trivial. Triumphal arches, pyramids obelisk*, .re 
 beautiful forms ; but the nobleness of their original destination has 
 greatly enhanced the pleasure we take in them. Long robes appear 
 noble, not singly for their flowing lines, but for their being the habit 
 of magistrates. These examples may be thought sufficient for a 
 specimen : a diligent inquiry into human nature will discover other 
 influencing principles; and hence it is, that of all subjects, ornamenU 
 admit the greatest variety in point of taste. 
 
 635. And this leads to ornaments having relation to use. Orna- 
 ments of that kind are governed by a different principle, which is, 
 that they ought to be of a form suited to their real or apparent 
 destination. This rule is applicable as well to ornaments that make 
 a component part of the subject, as to ornaments that are only ac- 
 cessory. An eagle's paw is an ornament improper for the foot'of 
 chair or table : because it gives it the appearance of weakness, in- 
 consistent with its destination of bearing weight Blind windows 
 are sometimes introduced to preserve the appearance of regularity : 
 in which case the deceit ought carefully to be concealed : if visible, 
 it marks the irregularity in the clearest manner, signifying, that real 
 windows ought to have been there, could they have been made con- 
 sistent with the internal structure. A pilaster is another example 
 of the same sort of ornament ; and the greatest error against its 
 seeming destination of a support, is to sink it so far into the wall as 
 to make it lose that seeming. A composition representing leaves and 
 branches, with birds perching upon them, has been long in fashion 
 for a candlestick ; but none of these particulars is in any degree 
 suited to that destination. 
 
 A large marble basin supported by fishes, is a conceit much 
 relished in fountains. This is an example of accessory ornaments in 
 a bad taste : for fishes here are unsuitable to their apparent desti- 
 nation. No less so are the supports of a coach, carved in the figure 
 of Dolphins or Tritons ; for what have these marine beings to do on 
 dry land ? and what support can they be to a coach ? 
 
 636. With respect now to the pans of a column, a bare uniform 
 cylinder without a capital appears naked; and without a base, ap- 
 pears too ticklishly placed to stand firm;* it ought therefore to 
 have some finishing at the top and at the bottom. Hence the three 
 chief parts of a column, the shaft, the base, and the capital. Nature 
 
 * A column without a base is disagreeable, because it joctus in tottering 
 condition ; yet a tree without a base is agreeable ; ami the rcaoon i, that 
 know it to b"e firmly rooted. This observation show* how much t**t is influ- 
 enced by reflection. 
 
 634. Things ornamental that hare little or no beauty. Bvr*ae for lit* 
 scarce of ornaments. Illustrations. 
 
 635. Ornaments for n*e. Rule for tlicfr form Violation* of pood tad* la Ufc S 
 titular.
 
 478 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTUltE- 
 
 undoubtedly requires proportion among these parts, but it admits 
 variety of proportion. 
 
 We find three orders of columns among the Greeks, the Doric, 
 the Ionic, and the Corinthian, distinguished from each other by 
 their destination as well as by their ornaments. It has been warmly 
 disputed, whether any new order can be added to these ; some hold 
 the affirmative, and give for instances the Tuscan and Composite ; 
 others deny, and maintain that these properly are not distinct orders, 
 but only the original orders with some slight variations. Among 
 writers who do not agree upon any standard for distinguishing the 
 different orders from each other, the dispute can never have an end. 
 What occurs to me on this subject is what follows. 
 
 637. The only circumstances that can serve to distinguish one 
 order from another, are the form of the column, and its destination. 
 To make the first a distinguishing mark, without regard to the other, 
 would multiply these orders without end; for a color is not more 
 susceptible of different shades, than a column is of different forms. 
 Destination is more limited, as it leads to distinguish columns into 
 three kinds or orders : one plain and strong, for the purpose of sup- 
 porting plain and massy buildings ; one delicate and graceful, for 
 supporting buildings of that character ; and between these, one for 
 supporting buildings of a middle character. 
 
 To illustrate this doctrine, I make the following observation. If 
 we regard destination only, the Tuscan is of the same order with the 
 Doric, and the Composite with the Corinthian : but if we regard 
 form merely, they are of different orders. 
 
 638. The ornaments of these three orders ought to be so contrived 
 as to make them look like what they are intended for. Plain and 
 rustic ornaments would be not a little discordant with the elegance 
 of the Corinthian order; and ornaments sweet and delicate no less 
 so with the strength of the Doric. The Corinthian order has been 
 the favorite of two thousand years, and yet I cannot force myself to 
 relish its capital. The invention of this florid capital is ascribed to 
 the sculptor Callimachus, who took a hint from the plant Acanthus, 
 growing round a basket placed accidentally upon it; and in fact the 
 capital under consideration represents pretty accurately a basket so 
 ornamented. This object, or its imitation in stone, placed upon a 
 pillar, may look well ; but to make it the capital of a pillar intended 
 to support a building, must give the pillar an appearance inconsistent 
 with its destination. 
 
 639. With respect to buildings of every sort, one rule, dictated by 
 utility, is, that they be firm and stable. Another rule, dictated by 
 beauty, is, that they also appear so ; for what appears tottering and 
 in hazard of tumbling, produceth in the spectator the painful emo- 
 
 636. Chief parts of a column. Three orders of columns. 
 
 637. Circumstances that distinguish one order from another. 
 C3a Th cruament* of tbe three orders Toe Oorintbiaa ofdf.
 
 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTTBE. 479 
 
 3 f , fe . ar ;, instead f the P 1 *** 01 en "*i<>n of beauty; .ml, accord- 
 
 mgly, it is the great care or the artist, that every part of his edifice 
 appear to be well supported. Procopius, describing the church of 
 bt. Sophia, iu Constantinople, one of the wonders of the world men- 
 tions with app ause a part of the fabric placed above the east front 
 in form of a half-moon, so contrived as to inspire both fear nd 
 admiration; for though, says he, it is perfectly well supported vet 
 it is suspended in such a manner as if it were 'to tumble down the 
 next moment. This conceit is a sort of false wit in architecture 
 which men were fond of in the infancy of the fine arts. A turret 
 jutting out from an angle in the uppermost story of a Gothic tower 
 is a witticism of the same kind. 
 
 640. To succeed in allegorical or emblematical ornaments is no 
 slight effort of genius ; for it is extremely difficult to dispose them 
 so in a building as to produce any good effect. The mixing them 
 with realities, makes a miserable jumble of truth and fiction. (See 
 chap. xx. sect, v.) But this is not all, nor the chief point ; every em- 
 blem ought to be rejected that is not clearly expressive of its meaning ; 
 for if it be in any degree obscure, it puzzles, and doth not please. 
 
 The statue of Moses striking a rock from which water actually 
 issues, is in a false taste ; for it is mixing reality with representation. 
 Moses himself may bring water out of the rock, but this miracle is 
 too much for his statue. The same objection lies against the cascade 
 where the statue of a water-god pours out of his urn real water. 
 
 641. It is observed above of gardening, that it contributes to rec- 
 titude of manners, by inspiring gayety and benevolence. I add an- 
 other observation, That both gardening and architecture contribute 
 to the same end, by inspiring a taste for neatness and elegance. In 
 Scotland, the regularity and polish even of a turnpike-road hns some 
 influence of this kind upon the low people in the neighborhood. 
 They become fond of regularity and neatness ; which is displayed, 
 first upon their yards and little iuclosures, and next within-doors. 
 A taste for regularity and neatness, thus acquired, is extended by 
 degrees to dress, and even to behavior and manners. 
 
 [In concluding this chapter, another brief extract will be given 
 from Downing's Rural Essays. Ed. 
 
 " Two grand errors are the fertile causes of all the failures in the 
 rural improvements of the United States at the present moment. 
 The first error lies in supposing that good taste is a natural gift 
 which springs heaven-bora into perfect existence, needing no culti- 
 vation or improvement The second is in supposing that taste alone 
 is sufficient to the production of extensive or complete works iu ar- 
 chitecture or landscape-gardening. 
 
 "Now, although that delicacy ot* organisation, usually called taste, 
 is a natural gift, which can no more be acquired than hearing can 
 
 689. Rules for buildings of overy sort The chur -b of 51 
 $4a Allegorical oren
 
 480 STANDARD OF TASTE. 
 
 be by a deaf man, yet, in most persons, this sensibility to the Beau- 
 tiful may be cultivated and ripened into good taste by the study and 
 comparison of beautiful productions in nature and art. 
 
 " This is precisely what we wish to insist upon, to all persons about 
 to commence rural establishments, who have not a cultivated or just 
 taste ; but only sensibility, or what they would call a natural taste. 
 .... The study of the best productions in the fipe arts is not more 
 necessary to the success of the young painter and sculptor than that 
 of buildings and grounds to the amateur or professional improver 
 who desires to improve a country residence well and tastefully. In 
 both cases comparison, discrimination, the use of the reasoning fac- 
 ulty, educate the natural delicacy of perception into taste, more or 
 less just and perfect, and enable it not only to arrive at Beauty, but 
 to select the most beautiful for the end in view. 
 
 " There are at the present moment, without going abroad, oppor- 
 tunities of cultivating a taste in landscape gardening, quite sufficient 
 to enable any one of natural sensibility to the Beautiful, combined 
 with good reasoning powers, to arrive at that point which may be 
 considered good taste. . . . The study of books on taste is by no 
 means to be neglected by the novice in rural embellishment ; but 
 the practical illustrations of different styles and principles, to be 
 found in the best cottage and villa residences, are far more convincing 
 and instructive to most minds, than lessons taught in any other mode 
 whatever. .... 
 
 " We think, also, there can scarcely be a question that an exami- 
 nation of the best examples of taste in rural improvement at home, 
 is far more instructive to an American, than an inspection of the 
 finest country places in Europe ; and this, chiefly, because a really 
 successful example at home is based upon republican modes of lite 
 enjoyment and expenditure, which are almost the reverse of those 
 of an aristocratic government. ... No more should be attempted 
 than can be done well, and in perfect harmony with our habits, 
 mode of life, and domestic institutions." Rural Essays, iii.] 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 STANDARD OF TASTE. 
 
 [The following chapter Is taken from one of Dr. Blair's Lectures, being far superior to th 
 one of Lord Kames, here omitted] 
 
 642. IT must be acknowledged, that no principle of the human 
 mind is, in its operations, more fluctuating and capricious than 
 
 641. How gardening and architecture contribute to rectitude of manners. -Scotland. 
 Two wrors. How taste may be improved. Opportunities offered.
 
 STANDARD OF TASTK. 4gj 
 
 Asiatics at no time relished any thiW but what . lim 
 
 to remote instances, how very different is the taste of wtry whch 
 orevailsm Great Britain now, fixmi what prevailed th?Sfc2 
 ago than the reign of King Charles II., which the authom t<K 
 
 SK^tSJ an A W aa *f : When th ' m 8 was in * but an 
 
 affected brilliancy ot wit; when the simple majesty of Wilton w 
 
 CowWr 4 /^ 86 ^ almost entire 'y SdJmTwC 
 Cowteys labored and unnatural conceits were admired as the very 
 
 quintessence of genius ; Waller's gay sprightliness was mistaken Sr 
 the tender spirit of love poetry; and such writers as Suckling and 
 fcthendge were held m esteem for dramatic composition ? 
 
 Ibe question is, whafconclusion we are to tonn from such in- 
 etences as these ? Is there any thing that can be called a stand**! 
 ot taste, by appealing to which we may distinguish between a cood 
 and a bad taste ? Or, is there in truth no such distinction ! and are 
 we to hold that, according to the proverb, there is no disputing of 
 tastes; but that whatever pleases is right, for the reason that it doe 
 please ihis is the question, and a very nice and subtle one it is, 
 which we are now to discuss. 
 
 643. I begin by observing, that if there be no such thing as any 
 standard of taste, this consequence must immediately follow that all 
 tastes are equally good ; a position, which, though it may pass un- 
 noticed m slight matters, and when we speak of the lesser difference 
 among the tastes of men, yet when wo apply it to the extreme*, 
 presently shows its absurdity. For is there any one who will 
 seriously maintain that the taste of a Hottentot or a Laplander is as 
 delicate and as correct as that of a Longinus or an Addison I or, that 
 he can bo charged with no defect or incapacity who thinks a com- 
 mon news-writer as excellent an historian as Tacitus ? As it would 
 be held downright extravagance to talk in this manner, we are ld 
 
 642. Fluctuations of taste. Inference t honre drawn bv some Tle in archltcctm*. IB 
 loqucno* and poetry. Questions su$$osted by auctuiUon* in last*
 
 482 STANDARD OF TASTE. 
 
 unavoidably to this conclusion, that there is some foundation for the 
 preference of one man's taste to that of another ; or, that there is a 
 good and a bad, a right and a wrong in taste, as in other things. 
 
 But to prevent mistakes on this subject, it is necessary to observe 
 next, that the diversity of tastes which prevails among mankind, does 
 not in every case infer corruption of taste, or oblige us to seek for 
 some standard in order to determine who are in the right. The 
 tastes of men may differ very considerably as to their object, and yet 
 none of them be wrong. One man relishes poetry most ; another 
 takes pleasure in nothing but history : one prefers comedy ; another, 
 tragedy : one admires the simple ; another, the ornamented style. 
 The young are amused with gay and sprightly compositions. The 
 elderly are more entertained with those of a graver cast. Some 
 nations delight in bold pictures of manners, and strong representa- 
 tions of passion. Others incline to more correct and regular elegance 
 both in description and sentiment. Though all differ, yet all pitch 
 upon some one beauty which peculiarly suits their turn of mind ; 
 and therefore no one has a title to condemn the rest. It is not in 
 matters of taste, as in questions of mere reason, where there is but 
 one conclusion that can be true, and all the rest are erroneous. 
 Truth, which is the object of reason, is one ; beauty, which is the 
 object of taste, is manifold. Taste, therefore, admits of latitude and 
 diversity of objects, in sufficient consistency with goodness or justness 
 of taste. 
 
 644. But then, to explain this matter thoroughly, I must observe 
 farther that this admissible diversity of tastes can only have place 
 where the objects of taste are different Where it is with respect 
 to the same object that men disagree, when one condemns that as 
 ugly, which another admires as highly beautiful ; then it is no longer 
 diversity, but direct opposition of taste that takes place ; and there- 
 fore one must be in the right, and another in the wrong, unless that 
 absurd paradox were allowed to hold, that all tastes are equally good 
 and true. One man prefers Virgil to Homer. Suppose that I, on 
 the other hand, admire Homer more than Virgil. I have as yet no 
 reason to say that our tastes are contradictory. The other person is 
 more struck with the elegance and tenderness which are the charac- 
 teristics of Virgil ; I, with the simplicity and fire of Homer. As 
 long as neither of us deny that both Homer and Virgil have great 
 beauties, our difference falls within the compass of that diversity of 
 tastes, which I have showed to be natural and allowable. But if the 
 other man shall assert that Homer has no beauties whatever ; that 
 he holds him to be a dull and spiritless writer, and that he would as 
 soon peruse any old legend of knight-errantry as the Iliad ; then I 
 exclaim, that my antagonist either is void of all taste, or that hia 
 
 643. If there Tse no standard, what absurd consoipieiieo will follow ? Diversity of tast* 
 
 ot always Infer corruption of taste.
 
 STANDARD OF TASTE. 
 
 
 When we say that nature is the standard of tastef we lay down 
 
 ^ 
 
 ; , erae cases in which th* 
 
 rule cannot be a all applied ; and conformity to nature, is an ex- 
 pression frequently used, without any distinct or determinate meal 
 g. We must therefore search for somewhat that can be rendered 
 more clear and precise, to be the standard of tasto 
 
 46 Taste, as I before explained it, is ultimately founded on an 
 mtema sense of beauty, which is natural to men, and which, in iu 
 application to particular objects, is capable of being guided7nd en- 
 hghtened by reason Now were there any one pern who possessed 
 m lull perfection all the powers of human nature, whoJblnS 
 were in every; instance exquisite and just, and whose reason 
 was unerring and sure, the determinations of such a person con- 
 sermng beauty, would, beyond doubt, be a perfect standard for the 
 taste of all others. Wherever their taste differed from bis, it could 
 * imputed only to some imperfection in their natural powers. But 
 as there is no such living standard, no one person to whom all man- 
 a will allow such submission to be due, what is there of sufficient 
 utnonty to be the standard of the various and opposite tastes of 
 i ? Most certainly there is nothing but the taste, as far as it can 
 be gathered, of human nature. That which men concur the most 
 m admiring, must be held to be beautiful. His taste must be es- 
 teemed just and true, which coincides with the genend sentiment* 
 of men. In this standard we must rest. To the sense of mankind 
 ie ultimate appeal must ever lie, in all works of taste. If any one 
 should maintain that sugar was bitter and tobacco was sweet, no 
 
 ^SSS* 8 could avail to prove iL The taste of such j* 1 * 011 w uW 
 
 infallibly be held to be diseased, merely because it differed so widely 
 
 UluU : tta!. er * * D admiMlble di lty of tsts cn bv 6 pIc.-Hoiiir and Ytiftt cMd At 
 fi. Standard defintl Is it tofllcieot to isy tbtt nature Is Oie ttaaJard
 
 484 STANDARD OF TASTE. 
 
 from the taste of the species to which he belongs. In like manner, 
 with regard to the objects of sentiment or internal taste, the common 
 feelings of men cany the same authority, and have a title to regulate 
 the taste of every individual. 
 
 647. But have we then, it will be said, no other criterion of what 
 is beautiful, than the approbation of the majority ? Must we collect 
 the voices of others, before we form any judgment for ourselves, of 
 what deserves applause in eloquence or poetry ? By no means ; 
 there are principles of reason and sound judgment which can be ap- 
 plied to matters of taste, as well as to the subjects of science and 
 philosophy. He who admires or censures any work of genius, is 
 always ready, if his taste be in any degree improved, to assign some 
 reasons for his decision. He appeals to principles, and points out 
 the grounds on which he proceeds. Taste is a sort of compound 
 power, in which the light of the understanding always mingles, more 
 or less, with the feelings of sentiment. 
 
 But though reason can carry us a certain length in judging con- 
 cerning works of taste, it is not to be forgotten that the ultimate 
 conclusions to which our reasonings lead, refer at last to sense and 
 perception. We may speculate and argue concerning propriety of 
 conduct in a tragedy, or an epic poem. Just reasonings on the sub- 
 ject will correct the caprice of unenlightened taste, and establish 
 principles for judging of what deserves praise. But, at the same 
 time, these reasonings appeal always in the last resort to feeling. 
 The foundation upon which they rest, is what has been found from 
 experience to please mankind universally. Upon this ground we 
 prefer a simple and natural, to an artificial and affected style ; a 
 regular and well-connected story, to loose and scattered narratives ; 
 a catastrophe which is tender and pathetic, to one which leaves us 
 unmoved. It is from consulting our own imagination and heart, and 
 from attending to the feelings of others, that any principles are 
 formed which acquire authority in matters of taste. 
 
 648. When we refer to the concurring sentiments of men as the 
 ultimate taste of what is to be accounted beautiful in the arts, this is 
 to be always understood of men placed in such situations as are 
 favorable to the proper exertions of taste. Every one must perceive, 
 that among rude and uncivilized nations, and during the ages of 
 ignorance and darkness, any loose notions that are entertained con- 
 cerning such subjects, carry no authority. In those states of 
 society, taste has no materials on which to operate. It is either 
 totally suppressed, or appears in its lower and most imperfect form. 
 We refer to the sentiments of mankind in polished and flourishing 
 nations ; when arts are cultivated and manners refined ; when works 
 
 646. The foundation of taste. No living standard of taste. The taste of human natnra, 
 the standard. How ascertained. 
 
 647. Have we no criterion but the approbation of the majority? Principles to be p- 
 plled. Is the ultimate appeal made to reaton or to feeling ?
 
 STANDARD OF TASTE. 495 
 
 Even among nations, at such a period of society, I admit that 
 accidental causes may occasionally warp the proper operctL, of 
 taste; sometimes the taste of religion, sometimes (he fo of^? 
 ernment, may for a while pervert; a licentious court may introduce 
 * taste for false ornaments, and dissolute writings. The usace of 
 one admired genius may procure approbation for his faults, and even 
 render them fashionable. Sometimes envy may have power to bear 
 down for a little, productions of great merit ; while popular humor 
 or party spmt, may, at other times, exalt to a high, though shortl 
 kved reputation, what little deserved it. But though such casual 
 circumstances give the appearance of caprice to the judgment* 
 taste, that appearance is easily corrected. In the course of time, the 
 genuine taste of human nature never fails to disclose itself and to 
 gam the ascendant over any fantastic and corrupted modes of taste 
 which may chance to have been introduced. These may have cur- 
 rency for a while, and mislead superficial judges ; but being sub- 
 jected to examination, by degrees they pass a>vay ; while that alone 
 remains which is founded on sound reason, and the native feelings 
 of men. 
 
 649. I by no means pretend that there is any standard of taste, 
 to which, in every particular instance, we can resort for clear and 
 immediate determination. Where, indeed, is such a standard to be 
 found for deciding any of those great controversies in reason and 
 philosophy, which perpetually divide mankind? In the present 
 case, there was plainly no occasion for any such strict and absolute 
 provision to be made. In order to judge of what is morally good 
 or evil, of what man ought, or, ought not in duty to do, it was fit 
 that the means of clear and precise determination should be af- 
 forded us. But to ascertain in every case with the utmost exactness 
 what is beautiful or elegant, was not at all necessary to the happi- 
 ness of man. And therefore some diversity in feeling was here 
 allowed to take place ; and room was left for discussion and debate, 
 concerning the degree of approbation to which any work of genius 
 
 in s%*i*^ J-l A J * 
 
 is entitled. 
 
 650. The conclusion, which it is sufficient for us to rest upon, is, 
 that taste is far from being an arbitrary principle, which is subject to 
 the fancy of every individual, and which admits of no criterion for 
 determining whether it be false or true. Its foundation is the same 
 in all human minds. It is built upon sentiments and perceptions 
 which belong to our nature, and which, in general, operate with the 
 same uniformity as our other intellectual principles. When these 
 
 648. To the sentiments of what class of men do we appeal In mitten of UsU AcdJo- 
 tal causes affecting the correctness of taste. 
 
 649. No standard of taste for every particular instance. In what other matter* I* tb*r 
 noneT
 
 STANDARD OF TASTE. 
 
 sentiments are perverted by ignorance a*nd prejudice, they are capa- 
 ble of being rectified by reason. Their sound and natural state is 
 ultimately determined by comparing them with the general taste of 
 mankind. Let men declaim as much as they please concerning the 
 caprice and the uncertainty of taste, it is found, by experience, 
 that there are beauties, which, if they be displayed in a proper 
 light> have power to command lasting and general"admiration. In 
 every composition, what interests the imagination, and touches 
 the heart, pleases all ages and all nations. There is a certain 
 string to which, when properly struck, the human heart is so made 
 as to answer. 
 
 Hence the universal testimony which the most improved nations 
 of the earth have conspired, throughout a long tract of ages, to give 
 to some few works of genius ; such as the Iliad of Homer, and the 
 JEneid of Virgil. Hence the authority which such works have 
 acquired, as standards in some degree of poetical composition ; since 
 from them we are enabled to collect what the sense of mankind is 
 concerning those beauties which give them the highest pleasure, and 
 which therefore poetry ought to exhibit Authority or prejudice 
 may, in one age or country, give a temporary reputation to an in- 
 different poet or a bad artist ; but when foreigners, or when pos- 
 terity examine his works, his faults are discerned, and the genuine 
 taste of human nature appears. " Opinionum commenta delet dies ; 
 naturae judicia confirmat." Time overthrows the illusions of 9pinion, 
 but establishes the decisions of nature. 
 
 050. The contusion arrived at What taste is built upon. Work* of genius that hart 
 b*en universally approved,
 
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 DAVIES 1 SHADES. SHADOWS, AND PERSPECTIVE ........... 
 
 DAVIES 1 LOGIC OK MATHEMATICS ............................. , 
 
 DAVIES' MATHEMATICAL DICTIONARY ....................... 
 
 DAVIES' MATHEMATICAL CIIABT (Sheet) ................................. 
 
 This Series, combining all ilmt 1s mo.t valuable In the various methods of Kar"p* 
 instruction, improved and matured by the suggestions of nearly forty years 1 oxporteoe*, 
 now forms the only complete consecutive Conrtt of JUatAftntitle*. ll methods, 
 barmonizing as tbe work of one mind, carry the student onward by the same analogic* 
 and tbe same laws of association, and are calculated to Impart a comprehensive knowl- 
 edge of the Science, combining elearnef-8 in the several branches, and unity and propor- 
 tion in the whole. The higher Jtooka in connection with Prof. Churth'i Cturulu* 
 and Analytical Gkonutrytn tlw Text-books In the Military Academies of tl.* 
 United Stntes. The Superintendents of Public Instruction in very many 8tV 
 have oflicially recommended this Series. It la adopted and In iior.Wiil ur ia U> 
 Normal Schools of New York. Michigan, Connecticut, and other Sutoa, and In t 
 iarge proportion of the beM School:*. Academie.i, and l.'ollegrs of the Union Tb 
 Revised EdlthHM of tbe Arithmetics *'nb<x!y all the latent and m<-t upprnir-l pro- 
 CMmS of lmpiirt!'iu' n knowledge of :ho Kcience of tiuml>er% 
 
 A. S. BARNICT & BCKR have tl.o plcii>iirr nf aino n.-inj AX KKTIKKLT N'r \\..*.\ 
 l>y Professor DAVIBS, entitled 
 
 ELEMENTS OF ANALYTICAL GEOMETRY. AND OF THE PIFFKK 
 
 ENTIAL AND INTi'GAAL * ALCULUS. forming a romjx-nJ of <h nr 
 Uruer volumes by I'rof. Dnvien on the respective branches ireauvl ot It 
 complete In Haelf, and contains all tlial is neeesaary for thr (p-neral nudmL 
 
 Alsi recently iagued 
 
 NEW ELEMENTARY ALGEBRA, 
 
 UNIVERSITY ALGEBRA, 
 
 Forming, wl'h the Author's Bourdon's Algebra, a complete and eot*ttT. 
 otm. 
 
 A. S. BARNES & BURR, Publisher, 
 
 61 .ind i>3 John Strwt. New Yoik
 
 RECOMMENDATIONS OF DA VIES' MATHEMATICS. 
 
 DAVIES' COURSE OF MATHEMATICS are the prominent Texl-Books m wwwi 
 yf the Colleges of (he United Stales, and also in the various Schock at 1 
 Academies throughout the Union. 
 
 YOEK, PA., A ay. 28,1853. 
 
 Davits' 1 Series of Mathematics I deem the very best I ever saw. From a numbet 
 of authors I selected it, after a careful perusal, as a course of ^tudy to be pursued by 
 the Teachers attending the sessions of the York Co. Normal School believing ft also 
 to be well adapted to the wants of the schools throughout our eonntry. Already two 
 \ .indred schools are supplied \vith DAVIES' valuable Series of Arithmetics; and 1 
 fully believe that in a very short time the Teachers of our country en manse will h 
 nwLred in imparting instruction through the medium of this new and easy. im;ti 
 f analysis of numbers. A. E. lU.AIIi. 
 
 Principal of York Co-. Normal Scfiooi 
 
 JACKSON UNION SCHOOL, MICHIGAN, Sept. 25, 1S5S. 
 
 MKSBKS. A. S. BARNES & Co. : I take pleasure in adding my testimony in favor ol 
 Davies 1 Series of Mathematics, as published by you. We have used these works in 
 this school for more than four years ; ar.d so well satisfied are we of their superiority 
 over any other Series, that vce neither contemplate making, nor desire to make, any 
 change in that direction. Yours truly, E. L. RIPLEY. 
 
 NEW BRITAIN, June 122A, 185S. 
 
 MESSRS. A. S. BARNES & Co. : I have examined Davieif Series of Aritiimetics 
 with some care. They appear well adapted for the different grades ol schools fi> 
 which they are designed. The language is clear and precise; each priacvple is 
 thoroughly analyzed, and the whole so arranged as to facilitate the work of instruc- 
 tion. Having observed th satisfaction and success with which the different books 
 have been used by eminent teachers, it gives me pleasure to commend them to others. 
 DAVID N, CAMP, Principal of Conn. State Normal Sctwol.. 
 
 I have long regarded Dories' Series of Mathematical Text-Books as far superfew 
 to any now before the public. "We frrd them in every way adapted to the wants o! 
 the Isorma! School, and we use no other. A unity of system and method runs through- 
 out the series, and constitutes one of its great excellences. Especially in the Arith- 
 metics the author has earnestly endeavored to supply the wants of our Common and 
 Union Schools: and his success is complete and undeniable. I know of no Arith- 
 metics wnich exhibit so clearly the philosophy of numbers, and at the same time lead 
 the pupil surely on to readiness and practice. A. S. WELCH. 
 
 From PROF. G. W. PLYMPTON, late oftii* State Normal School, If. Y. 
 Out of a great number of Arithmetics that I have examined during the past year, I 
 find none that will compare with Duties' Intellectual and Daisies' 'Analytical and 
 Practical Arithmetics, in clearness of demonstration or philosophical arrangement 
 I shall with pleasure recommend the use of these two excellent works to those who 
 go from our institution to teacb. 
 
 From C. MAT, JR., Sdiool Commissioner, Keene, N. B. 
 
 I have carefully examined Dames' Series of Arithmetics, and Higher Matfe- 
 maticx, and am prepared to say that I consider them far superior to any with which 
 1 am acquainted. 
 
 from JOILS L. CAHPBBI.L, Professor of 3fathematics, Natural Philosophy, anil 
 Astronomy, in Wauash College, Indiana. 
 
 WABASH COLLEGE, June 22, 1SW 
 
 MUSSES. A. S. BABNES & Co. : GENTLEMEN: Every text-book on Science properly 
 consists of two parts the philosophical and the illustrative. A proper comoinatiw. 
 of abstract reasoning and practical illustration is the chief excellence in Prot Da?i~' 
 Mathematical Works. I prefer his Arithmetics, Algebras, Geometry, and Trigonoiu 
 etry, to all others now in use. and cordially recommend them to all who desire tht 
 advancement of sound learning, Yours, very truly, JOHN L. CAMPBELL. 
 
 PKOFKSSOKS MAHAN, BARTLETT, and CHURCH, of the United States Military Academy 
 
 West Point, say ol Dairies' University Arithmetic : 
 
 " In the distinctness with which the various definitions are given, the clear and 
 strictly mathematical demonstration of the rules, the convenint form and well-chosen 
 mutter of the tables, as well as in the complete and much-desired application of all te 
 tho business of the c wintry, the University Arithmetic of Prof. Davies is st pcrtor t 
 ny other work of the kind with which we are acquainted "
 
 NATIONAL SERIES OP STANDARD SCHOOL-BOOKS. 
 
 PARKER & WATSON'S READING SERIES. 
 
 NATIONAL ELEMENTAEY SPELLER. 
 
 THE NATIONAL PRONOUNCING SPELLER. 188 pages. 
 
 A full treatise, with words arranged and classified according to thett cwel 
 sounds, and reading and dictation exercises. 
 
 THE NATIONAL SCHOOL PRIMER; or, "PRIMARY WORD-BUILDER." 
 (Beautifully Illustrated) .................................... 
 
 fHE NATIONAL FIRST READER; or, " WORD-BUILDER. " 
 (Beautifully Illustrated) .......................... Ug pares. 
 
 fHE NATIONAL SECOND READE-R .......... 224 page*. 
 
 Containing Primary Exercise* In Articulation, Pronunciation, and Punctuation, 
 (Splendidly Illustrated.) 
 
 THE NATIONAL THIRD READER .......... 288 pages. 
 
 Containing Exercises in Accent, Emphasis, Punctuation, ic. (Illustrated) 
 IHE NATIONAL FOURTH READ ER .......... 405 pages. 
 
 Containing a Course of Instruction in Elocution, Exercises in Heading, Declama- 
 tion, Ac. 
 
 THE NATIONAL FIFTH READER ................ 600 pagss. 
 
 With copious Notes, and Biographical Sketches of each Writer. 
 
 These READEKB have been prepared with the greatest care and labw, by BICNAEA 
 6. PABKKB, A. M., of Boston, and J. MADISON WATSON, an experienced Teacher el 
 New York. No amount of !abor or expense baa been spared to render them a* neai 
 perfect as possible. The Illustrations, which are from original designs, and UN 
 Typography, are unrivalled by any similar work*. 
 
 The First Header, or " Word-Builder," being the first issued, U alrmd) 
 In extensive use. It is on a plan entirely new and original, commencing with erA 
 of one letter, and building up letter by letter, until sentences are formed. 
 
 The Second, Third, and Fourth Headers follow the tame lnductlv< 
 plan, with a perfect and systematic gradation, and a strict classification of subjects 
 The pronunciation and definition of difficult words are given In notes at th button 
 of each page. Much attention has been paid to Artlcultitian and Ortkoifty; ab< 
 Exercises on the Elementary Sounds and their combinations hare been so introduces 
 as to teach but one element at a time, and to apply IhU knowledge to Immediate oae, 
 until the whole Is accurately and thoroughly acquired. 
 
 The Fifth Header Is a full work upon Heading and Elocution. Toe works at 
 many authors, ancient and modern, have bet-n consulted, and more than a bor.Iicd 
 ttandard writers of the English language, on both sides the Atlantic, laid nn.lor eon 
 tiibution to enable the authors to present a collection rich In all that can mf..nn Uw 
 understanding. Improve the taste, and cultivate the heart, and which, at the MM 
 Ume, shall furnish every variety of style and subject to exemplify lh prtacipba tt 
 Rhetorical delivery, and form a finished reader and elocntlonUL Classical and his- 
 torical allusions, so crtnmnn among the best writers, have In all cases been exptalne.1 ; 
 ar.d concise Biographical Sketches of authors from whose work* extracts hare kM 
 selected, have also been introduced, together with Alphabetical and Cbioialsgjsa 
 LdsU of the Names of Authors ; thus rendering this a convenient Uxt-took KM 8U 
 tents in English and American Literature. 
 
 A. S. BABNES & BURE, Publishers, 
 
 61 & 53 John Btret. N>w 7ork
 
 RECOMMENDATIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 PARKER & WATSON'S READERS 
 
 From PKOF. FEEDKRICK S. JKWEI.L, of Vie New York Stnt formal School. 
 It gives me pleasure to find in tlie National Scries of School Kcaders ample u-on 
 ft>r commendation. From a brief examination of them, I am led to believe tbs 
 have none equal to them. I hope they will prove as popular as they are excellent 
 
 From HON. THEODORK FKELIM;HUYSEN, President of Rutgers 1 College, 31 J. 
 \ cursory examination leads me to the conclusion that the system contained ir 
 these volumes deserves the patronage of our schools, and 1 have no donbt that it wil 
 become extensively used in the education of children and youth. 
 
 From N. A. HAMILTON, Pi-mdent of Teacher*' Union, Whitewttter, IVts. 
 The National Readers and Speller 1 have examined, and carefully compared witb 
 others, and must pronounce them decidedly superior, in respect to literary merit 
 style, and price. The gradation is more complete, and the serio much more rtesirablr 
 for use in our schools than Sanders' or McGnffey's. 
 
 From PUOF. T. F. TUICKSTUN, Principal of Academy nnd Nnrmnl Scluml, 
 
 Meadville, 1'n. 
 
 1 am much pleased with the National Series of Readers after having canvassed 
 their merits pretty thoroughly. The first of the series especially pleases me, because 
 It affords the means of teaching the wnril-mtthod" in an appropriate and natural 
 manner. They all are progressive, the rules of elocution are stated with clearness, 
 and the selection of pieces is such as to please ai the same time that they instruct. 
 
 From .1. \V. ScHK.u.MF.p.aoRN, A. B., Principal Coll. Jnititute, Middletown, N. J. 
 I consider them emphatically t/te Readers of the present day, and I believe thtt 
 their ii.trinsic merits will insure for them a full measure of popularity. 
 
 From PETER llouuEr, Principal Public School No. 10, Brooklyn, 
 It gives me great pleasure to be able to bear my unqualified testimony to the excel 
 lence of the National Series of Readers, by PAKKKR and WATSON. The gradation ol 
 the books of the series is very fine : we have reading in its elements and in its highest 
 style. The fine taste displayed in the selections and in the collocation of the piecef 
 leserves much praise. A distinguishing feature of the series is the variety of the 
 enbject-matter and of the style. The practical teacher knows the value of this charnc- 
 teristic for the development of the voice. The authors seem to have kept constantly 
 in view the fact that a reading-book is designed for children, and therefore they have 
 succeeded in forming a very interesting and improving collection of reading-matter, 
 highly adapted to the wants and purposes of the School-room. In short, I look upon 
 the National Series of Readers as a great success. 
 
 From, A. P. HARRINGTON, Principal of Union School, MaratAon, Jf. 1'. 
 These Readers, in my opinion, are the best I have ever examined. The rhetorical 
 exercises, in particular, are superior to any thing of the kind 1 have ever seen. I have 
 had better success with my n-adine clai-st-s i-ince I commenced training them en these 
 lhnu I ever mot with U-ton-. Tin- tu.-irked vowels in the reading exercises convey to 
 the reader's mind at once the aMonfehitiii t:ict that he has been accustomed to mi.-pro- 
 riomice more than one-third of the words yl'tbe English language. 
 
 Fro-n CHAKI.KS S. HAL.-EY, Principal Collfgittte Inxtitute, Newton, N. J. 
 
 In the simplicity and clearness with which the principles are stated, in the appro 
 
 lriat-n<fi of the selections for reading, and in the happy adaptation of the ditt'eienl 
 
 ,mrtt or the series to each other, the.-e works are superior to any other text-books o 
 
 ttiis 31 bject which I have examined. 
 
 From WILLIAM TRAVIS, Principal of Union School, Flint, MMi. 
 J n ve examined the National Series of Readers, and am delighted to find it so fai 
 Hi a'. 1 ance of most other series now in use, and so well adapted to the wants of th 
 rjlv: Schools. It is unequaled in the skillful arrangement of the material used 
 UMJ ICul typography, nnd the general neat and inviting appearance of its .severa; 
 bo- Ls I predict for it a cordial welcome and a general introduction by many of orj 
 vua.1 enterprising to ichors.
 
 NATIONAL SEEIES OF STANDARD 
 
 SCHOOL-BOOKS 
 
 ENGLISH GRAMMAB, 
 
 BY S. W. CLARK AND A. S. WELCH, 
 
 CONSISTING Of 
 
 CLARK'S FIEST LESSONS II? ENGLISH ORAMMAB 
 
 CLARK'S NEW ENGLISH GRAMMAS 
 
 CLARK'S GEAMMATTCAL CHAET 
 
 CLARK'S ANALYSIS OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE 
 
 WELCH'S ANALYSIS OF THE ENGLISH SENTENCE... 
 
 A more Advanced Work, designed t,r Higher Classes In Academic* and Normal 
 Schools. By A. a WKLCH, A. M... Principal of the State Normal Pcboo. 
 Michigan, at Ypsilantl. 
 
 The First Lessons in Grammar are prepared for young pupil*, and a* <u 
 tppropriate Introduction to the larger work. The elements of Grammar are ber 
 presented lu a series of gradual oral exercises, and, as far as possible, !n plain Baxoti 
 words. 
 
 Clark's New Grammar, It is confidently believed, present* the only tnu 
 and successful method of teaching the science of the English Language. The work 
 thoroughly progressive and practical ; the relations of elements happily lllustrat** 
 and their analysis thorough and simple. 
 
 This Grammar has been officially recommended by the Superintendent* of Pnblt* 
 Instruction of Illinois Wisconsin, Michigan, and Missouri, and It the Text-book 
 adopted in the State Normal Schools of New York, and other States. It* extenstf i 
 circulation and universal success is good evidence of Its practical worth and tup**' 
 orlty. 
 
 riofessor F. S. JEWELL, of On Fw York Stab yormal School^ tayt : 
 " Clurk's System of Grammar is worthy of the marked attention of the friend* cj 
 
 Education. Its points of excellence are of tbAMoet decided character, and will art 
 
 soon be surpassed." 
 "Let any clear-headed, independent-minded tencher master UM vyitem. and (ben 
 
 give it a fair trial, and there will be no doubt as to hi - trMlinony." 
 
 "Welch's Analysis of the English Sentence. -The prominent featoria 
 of this work have been presented by Lecture* to nnniorou.s Teacher*' Inttltut**, and 
 unanimously approved. The classification, (bunded u\nn the fact that there are bat 
 three elements in the language, ! very simple, and, in many respects, new. The 
 method of disposing of connectives is entirely so. The author has endeavor*! to 
 tody the language a* it it, and to analyze it without the aid of antiquated rule*. 
 
 This work Is highly recommended by the Superintendents of Public Inctrnetioa a* 
 Michigan, Wisconsin, and other States, and is being used in many of the heat aehaafc 
 throughout the Union. It was introduced soon after publication Into Oberitn Col- 
 lege, a^d his met with deserved success. 
 
 A. S BARNES & BURR, Publisher*. 
 
 61 ft 63 John Street. New Tort.
 
 RECOMMENDATIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 CLARK'S ENGLISH GRAMMAR. 
 
 We cannot better set forth the merits of this work than by quoting a part of a com- 
 munication from Prof: F. S. JEWKLL, of the New York State Normal School, in whick 
 cb<><il this Grammar is now used as the text book on this subject : 
 
 4i CLARK'S SYSTEM OF GRAMMAR is worthy of the marked attention of the friends o 
 education. Its points of excellence are of the most decided character, and will no 1 , 
 .won be surpassed. Among them are 
 
 1st ' The justness of its ground principle of classification. There is no simple, phil- 
 osophical, and practical classification of the elements of language, other than that bnilt 
 in their use or office. Our tendencies hitherto to follow the analogies of the classical 
 languages, and classify extensively according to forms, have been mischievous and ab- 
 surd. It is time we corrected them. 
 
 '2d. " Its thorough and yet simple and transparent analysis of the elements of the 
 language according to its gronnd principle. Without such an analysis, no broad and 
 comprehensive view of the structure and power of the language can be attained. The 
 absence of this analysis has hitherto precipitated the study of Grammar upon a surfaco 
 of dry details and bare authorities, and useless technicalities. 
 
 3d. " Its happy method of illustrating the relations of elements by diagrams. These, 
 however uncouth they may appear to the novice, are really simple and philosophical. 
 Of their utility there can be uo question. It is supported by the usage of other sci- 
 ences, and has been demonstrated by experience in this. - 
 
 4th. "The tendency of thn system, when rightly taught and faithfully carried out, 
 to cultivate habits of nice discrimination and close reasoning, together with skill in 
 Illustrating truth. In this it is not excelled by any, unless it be the mathematical sci- 
 ences, and even there it has this advantage, that it deals with elements more within 
 the present grasp of the intellect On this point I speak advisedly. 
 
 5th. "The system is thoroughly progressive and practical, and as such, American in 
 its character. It does not adhere to "old usages, merely because they are veneraliy 
 musty; and yet it does not discard things merely because they are old, or are in un- 
 important minutias not prudishly perfect It does not overlook details and technicali- 
 ties, nor does it allow them to interfere with plain philosophy or practical utility. 
 
 "Let any clear-headed, independent-minded teacher master the system, and then 
 give it a fair trial, and there will be no doubt as to his testimony." 
 
 A Testimonial from the Principals of the Public ScJwols of Rochester, 2f. Y. 
 We regard CLARK'S GRAMMAR as the clearest in its analysis, the most natural and 
 
 logical in its arrangement, the most concise and accurate in its definitions, the mos; 
 
 systematic in design, and the best adapted to the use of schools of any Grammar with 
 
 which we are acquainted. 
 
 C. C. MESERVE, WM. C. FEGLES, 
 
 M. D. ROWLEY, OHN ATAVATER, 
 
 C. R. BURBICK, EDWARD WEBSTER, 
 
 J. R. VOSBURG, S. W. STARKWEATHER, 
 
 E. R. ARMSTRONG ^ PHILIP CURTISS. 
 
 ""EAWRKXCK IXSTTTUTK, Brooklyn, Jan 15, 1859. 
 
 MESSRS. A. S. BARN ra & Co : Having used Clark's New Grammar since its publica- 
 tion, 1 do most unhesitatingly recommend it as a work of superior merit By the use 
 of no other work, and I have used several, have I been enabled to advance iny pupils 
 so rapidly and thoroughly. 
 
 The author has, by an Etymological Chart and a system of Diagrams, made Gram 
 icar the study that It ought to be, interesting as well as useful. 
 
 MARGARET S. LAWRENCE, Principal* 
 
 WELCH'S ENGLISH SENTENCE, 
 
 From PBOF. J. R. BOISE, A. M., Profesior of the Latin and Greek Language* and 
 
 Literature in the University of Michigan. 
 
 This work belongs to a new era in the grammatical study of our own language. We 
 hazard nothing, in expressing the opinion, that for severe, searching, and "exhaustive 
 analysis, the work of Professor Welch is second to none. His book is not intended foi 
 beginners, bat only for advanced students, and by such only it will bo understood and 
 ppreciated.
 
 HATIONA1 8EEIES 0* 8TAHDAED SCHOOL-BOOK* 
 
 AND HIcN ALLY'S 
 
 MONTEITH'S FIRST LESSONS IN GEOGRAPHY 
 
 MONTEITH'S INTRODUCTION TO MANUAL OF GEOGRAPHY. 
 MONTEITH'S NEW MANUAL OF GEOGRAPHY... 
 MsNALLY'S COMPLETE SCHOOL GEOGRAPHY... 
 
 Monteith's First Lessons In Geography-Introduction to Man. 
 ul of Geography-and New Manual of Geography, are ip| ea 
 
 the catechetical plan, which has been proven to be the br*t and matt irirneasfej 
 method of teaching this branch of study. The question* and answers are models at 
 brevity and adaptation, and the maps are Mmple, but accurate and beautiful 
 
 McNally'f Geography completes the Series, and follows the *MB g-inil 
 plan. The maps are splendidly engraved, beautifully colored, and perfectly eecnrau; 
 and a profile of the country, showing the elevations and depressions of land. Is (rir.n 
 at the bottom of th maps. The order and arrangement of map question* Is abo 
 peculiarly happy and systematic, and the descriptive matter jost what Is needed. ad 
 nothing more. No Series heretofore published has been so extensively Introduced la 
 so short a time, or gained such a wide-spread popularity. 
 
 These Geographies are used more extensively In the Public Schools of New York. 
 
 Brooklyn, and Newark, than all others. 
 
 13T" A. B. CLABK, Principal of one of the largest Public Schools In Brooklyn, say* 
 " I have used over a thousand copies of Monteith's Manual of Geography sloe* rki 
 adoption by the Board of Education, and am prepared to my It is the bK wsvi to 
 junior and intermediate classes in our schools I have ever seen.'* 
 
 We Series, in tchole or in part, hat been adopted to ti 
 
 New York State Normal School 
 New York City Normal School 
 New Jersey State Normal School. 
 Kentucky State Normal School. 
 Indiana State Normal School 
 Ohio State Normal School 
 Michigan State Normal School 
 York County (Pa.) Normal Sehoo.. 
 Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute. 
 Cleveland Female Seminary. 
 Public Schools of Milwatikle. 
 Public Schools of Pittsburgh. 
 Public Schools of Lancaster, Pa. 
 Public Schools of New Orleans. 
 
 Public Schools of New York. 
 Public Schools of Brooklyn, L L 
 Public Schools of New Have*. 
 Public School* of Toledo, Ohio. 
 Public Schools of Norwalk, Oocm. 
 Public Schools of Richmond, Y 
 Public Schools of II adisu*, Wla 
 Public Schoob of Indianapolis. 
 Publle Schools of SprlBffleW. Ma* 
 Public Schools of Colombo*, Otto 
 Public Schools of Hartford, OOM 
 Public School* of Cleveland. OW 
 And other places too aamerMe 
 mention. 
 
 They have also been recommended by the State Superintendents ef fujvo* 
 IXMAKA, WISCONSIN, MISSOURI, Norru CAROLINA, ALABAMA, and by awaen^k 
 Teaefcm 1 Associations and Institutes throughout the country, and are to SMMHM 
 M to multitude of Public and Private Schools throughout the Untied Sutoa 
 
 A. S BARNES & BURR, Publisher* 
 
 61 ft 53 John Street. New Yo
 
 MOWTEITH AND McNALLTS GEOGRAPHIES 
 
 THK MOST SUCCESSFUL SERIES EVER ISSUED. 
 
 RE COMMEND ATIONS. 
 
 A. B. CLARK, Principal of one of the largest Public Schools In Brooklyn, says: 
 * I have used over a thousand copies of Monteith's Manual of Geography since itc 
 adoption by the Board of Education, and am prepared to say it Is the best woik ten 
 Junior and intermediate classes iu our si*>ols I hove ever seen." 
 
 The Series, in whole < in ptirt. Jut* been adopted in ths 
 New York State Normal School. , Public Schools of New York. 
 
 New York City Normal School. j Public Schools of Brooklyn, L. J. 
 
 New Jersey State Normal School. Public Schools of New Haven. 
 
 Kentucky State Normal School. Public Schools of Toledo, Ohio. 
 
 Indiana State Normal School. Public Schools of Norwafk, Conn 
 
 Ohio State Normal School. 
 Michigan State Normal School. 
 York County (Pa.) Normal School. 
 Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute. 
 Cleveland Female Seminary. 
 Public Schools of Milwaukie. 
 
 Public Schools of Richmond. Va. 
 Public Schools of Madison, Wis. 
 Public Schools of Indianapolis. 
 Public Schools of Springfield, Mass. 
 Public Schools of Columbus. Ohio. 
 Public Schools of Hartford. Conn. 
 
 Public Schools of Pittsburgh. Public Schools of Cleveland, Ohio. 
 
 Public. Schools of Lancaster, Pa. And other places too numerous to 
 
 Public Schools of New Orleans. I mention. 
 
 They have also been recommended by the State Superintendents of ILLINOIS, 
 INDIANA, WISCONSIN, MISSOURI. NOI-.TH CAROLINA. ALABAMA, and by numeroni 
 Teachers 1 Associations and Institutes throughout the country, and are in successful 
 use in H multitude of Public and Private Schools throughout the United States. 
 
 From PROF. WM. F. PHKLPS, A. M., Principal ofthe.Neic Jersey State 
 Normal School. 
 
 TRENTON, June 17. 1S5S. 
 
 MUSSES. A. S. BARNKS & Co.: GENTLKMKN: It gives me much pleasure to state 
 that McNally's Geography has been used in this Institution from its organization In 
 1855, with great acceptance. The author of this work has avoided on one hand the 
 extreme of being too meager, and on the other of going too much into detail, whila 
 he has presented, in a clear and concise manner, all those leading facts of Descriptive 
 Geography which it is important for the young to know. The mps are accurate snd 
 wellexecuted, the type clear, and indeed the entire work is a decided success. I most 
 cheerfully commend it to the profession throughout the country. 
 
 Very Tilly yours, WM. F. PHELP8. 
 
 From, W. V. DAVIS, Principal of nigh School, Laticaster, Pa, 
 
 LANOASTKR, PA., Jane 26, 1868. 
 
 DKAR SIRS: I have examined your National Geographical Series with much 
 care, and find them most excellent works of their kind. They have been used in the 
 various Public Schools of this city, ever since their publication, with great success and 
 atisfaction to both pupil and teacher. All the Geographies embraced in your series 
 are well adapted to school purposes, and admirably calculated to impart to the pupil, 
 in a very attractive manner, a complete knowledge of a science, annually becoming 
 more useful and important Their maps, illustrations, and typography, are unsur- 
 passed. One peculiar feature of McNally's Geography and which will recommend 
 it at once to every practical teacher IB the arrangement of its maps and lessons ; 
 each map fronts the particular lesson which it is designed to illustrate thus enabling 
 the scholar to prepare his task without that constant turning over of leaves, or refer* 
 ence to a separate book, as is necessary with most other Geographies. Yours. &c. 
 
 Messrs. A. 8. BARNES &, Co., New York. V. W. DAVIS. 
 
 From CHARLES BARNES, late President Slate Teachers' Association, and Superin- 
 tendent qftht Public Schools at New Albany, Indiana, 
 
 MKBSRS. A. S. BARNES & Co. : DEAR SIRS : I have examined with considerable 
 care the Series of Geographies published by you, and have no hesitation in saying 
 that it is altogether the best with which I am acquainted. A trial of more than a 
 year in the Public Schools of this city has demonstrated that Cornell is utterlv unfit 
 for the school-room. Yours, dec, C. BARGES.
 
 NATIONAL SZBIE8 OF BTABEABD SCHOOL-BOOKS 
 
 HISTORY AND MYTHOLOGY, 
 
 IIONTEITH'B CHILD'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. 
 (DBSIGNKD roE PDBLIO SCHOOLS: COIMOUSLT ILLCSTVATUI.) 
 
 WILLARD'S SCHOOL III8TOET OF THE UNITED STATES 
 
 (Wrra MAI-S AND ENGRAVING-, ) 
 
 WILLARD'S LARGE HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES 
 
 (WITH MAPS AND ENGRAVINGS) 
 
 WILLARD'8 HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES 
 
 (In SPANISH LAKOUAOE.) 
 
 WILLARD'S UNIVERSAL HLSTORY IN PERSPECTIVE 
 
 (WITH MAPS AMD ENGRAVINGS.) 
 RICORD'S ROMAN HISTORY 
 
 (WlTU KSOBAVIM,- ) 
 
 DWIQHTS GRECIAN AND ROMAN MYTHOLOGY 
 
 (SCHOOL EDITION.) 
 
 DWIGHT8 GRECIAN AND ROMAN MYTHOLOGY 
 
 (UsivKMirr EDITION.) 
 MILLS' HISTORY OF THE ANCIENT HEBREWS .. 
 
 Monteith'u History of the United States Is designed for young tebolan, 
 on the catechetical plan, with Maps and Engravings. It bat alto Biographical 
 Sketches of the most prominent men ID early history. 
 
 Willard's Histories are used In a large proportion of the Hlgb Scboola, 
 Academies, and Female Seminaries throughout the United Stat*a, and have (MM 
 recommended by several State Superintendents. Tbo History of the Unlu.1 Suut 
 la so highly esteemed, as accurate, reliable, and complete, that tl haa ben iraaUUd, 
 and published in the German, Spanish, and French languages. 
 
 The large work Is designed as a Text-book for ACADEMICS and FKMALX Sim* A- 
 tin; and also for DISTRICT SCHOOLS and FAMILY LIBBABJO. The (mall work btlng 
 an Abridgement of the same, Is designed as a Text-boot Jbr Common School*. Tfc 
 ortginnllty of the plan consists In dividing the time into ptHodt, of m-hleb UM b*g In- 
 nings and terminations are marked by Important events ; and conatrnctlng * ttrta 
 of maps illustrating the. progress of the settlement qfthe eountry, nmd U rtyvlm 
 advance of eiviluatton, A full Chronological Table, will b found, in whkh a) 
 the events of the History are arranged In the order of time. There 1* appended to 
 the work the Constitution "tftfa United States, and a aerte of QaecUona adapted to 
 ich chapter, so that the work may be used In schools and for prlrau Instruction. 
 
 Dwight's Mythology Is peculiarly adapted for DM at a C1aa*-book In High 
 Schools, Academies, and Seminaries, and U Indispensable to a thorough arqnalataixi 
 with Ancient History, and to a proper appreciation of the elawleal allnrtont eofwUBlrj 
 occurring In the writings of the best author*. It la alio very vaJoabl* foe prlvatr 
 vading and study. 
 
 Hioord'B Koman History is also dealgned as a Twt-book tor Scbooia. aM 
 tor private reading and reference. It is the most complete and eondena*.! Hbtory o< 
 tb Romans before the public, and will be found exceedingly Intonating, and vy 
 rsluable to all, especially to those wishing to be familiar with Un dawk* 
 
 A. S. BARNES & BURB, Pnbluhew, 
 
 61 & 53 John Street. New York.
 
 RECOMMENDATIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 MONTEITH'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 This volume is designed for youth, and we think the author has been unus laS / 
 'uccessful in its Arrangement and entire preparation. Books of the same design a * 
 so often beyond the full understanding of the scholar. As history is so much ne>,- 
 jcted in all our schools, the publication of such a work as this should be hailed with 
 leasnrc; for if scholars find their first studies of history pleasant, it will become a 
 .leasure rather than a task. This is a book of S3 pages, and finely illustrated. It is In 
 ivery way worthy of a place in every Public School in the State. Maine Teacher. 
 
 This is a most capital work : just the thing for children. Our boy commenced iie 
 study of it the day it caine to hand. It is arranged in the catechetical form, and is 
 finely illustrated with maps, with special reference to the matter discussed in the text 
 It begins with the first discoveries of America, and comes down to the laying of tlu, 
 Atlantic Telegraph Cable. Many spirited engravings are given to illustrate the work. 
 It also contains brief Biographies of all prominent men who have identified them- 
 selves with the history of this country. It is the best work of the kind we have 
 seen. Chester County Time*. 
 
 WILLARD'S HISTORIES. 
 
 From EKV. HOWARD MALCOLM, D. D., President of the University o/ Leitrisbury. 
 
 1 have examined, during the thirteen years that I have had charge of a College, 
 many School Histories of the United States, and have found none, on the whole, so 
 proper for a text-book as that of Mrs. Willard. It is neither too short nor too long 
 til the space given to periods, events, and persons, is happily proportioned to their 
 Importance. The style is attractive and lucid, and the narrative so woven, as both 
 to sustain the interest and aid the memory of the student Candor, impartiality, and 
 accuracy, are conspicuous throughout. I think no teacher intending to commence a 
 history class will be disappointed in adopting this book. 
 
 MRS. L. H. SIGOURNRY, the distinguished Aidhorens, writes: 
 Mrs. Willard should be considered as a benefactress not only by her own sex, ot 
 whom she became in early years a prominent and permanent educator, but by the 
 country at large, to whose good she has dedicated the gathered learning and faithful 
 labor of life's later periods. The truths that she has recorded, and the principles that 
 she has Impressed, will win, from a future race, gratitude that cannot grow old, and a 
 garland that will never fade. 
 
 DANIEL "WEBSTER wrote, in a letter to the Author : 
 
 I cannot better express my sense of the value of your History of the United State*, 
 than by saying I iep it near me as a book of reference, accurate in facts and dates. 
 
 DWIGHT'S MYTHOLOGY. 
 
 The mythology of the Grecians and Eomans is so closely interlinked with the hls- 
 try and literature of the world, that some knowledge ot it is indispensable to any 
 icnolarly familiarity with either that history or literature. We have seen no book so 
 convenient in size that contains so full and elegant ai. exposition of mythology as th 
 one before us. It will be found at once a most interesting and a most useful book to 
 any one who wistes an acquaintance with the splendid myths and fables with which 
 the great masters of ancient learning amused their leisure and cheated tb<ir (kith - 
 Michigan Journal ofEdtica'ton.
 
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