ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM.
VOLUME II.
EDINBURGH: Printed for A. MILLAR, London; AND A. KINCAID & J. BELL, Edinburgh. MDCCLXII.
[]ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM.
CHAP. X. Congruity and Propriety.
MAN is diſtinguiſhed from the brute creation, not more re⯑markably by the ſuperiority of his rational faculties, than by the greater delicacy of his perceptions and feelings. With reſpect to the groſs plea⯑ſures of ſenſe, man probably has little ſupe⯑riority over other animals. Some obſcure perception of beauty may alſo fall to their ſhare. But they are probably not acquaint⯑ed with the more delicate conceptions of regularity, order, uniformity, or congruity. [4] Such refined conceptions, being connected with morality and religion, are reſerved to dignify the chief of the terreſtrial creation. Upon this account, no diſcipline is more ſuitable to man, or more congruous to the dignity of his nature, than that by which his taſte is refined, to diſtinguiſh in every ſubject, what is regular, what is orderly, what is ſuitable, and what is fit and pro⯑per*.
No diſcerning perſon can be at a loſs a⯑bout the meaning of the terms congruity and propriety, when applied to dreſs, beha⯑viour, or language; that a decent grab, for example, is proper for a judge, modeſt behaviour for a young woman, and a lofty [5] ſtyle for an epic poem. In the following examples every one is ſenſible of an unſuit⯑ableneſs or incongruity: a little woman ſunk in an overgrown farthingale, a coat richly embroidered covering coarſe and dirty li⯑nen, a mean ſubject in an elevated ſtyle, or 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.
But it is not ſufficient that theſe terms be underſtood in practice; the critical art re⯑quires, that their meaning be traced to its foundation in human nature. The rela⯑tions that connect objects together, have been examined in more than one view. Their influence in directing the train of our perceptions, is handled in the firſt chapter; and in the ſecond, their influence in genera⯑ting paſſion. Here they muſt be handled in a new view; for they are clearly the oc⯑caſion of congruity and propriety. We are ſo framed by nature, as to require a certain ſuitableneſs or correſpondence among things connected by any relation. This ſuitable⯑neſs or correſpondence is termed congruity [6] or propriety; and the want of it, incongrui⯑ty or impropriety. Among the many prin⯑ciples that compoſe the nature of man, a ſenſe of congruity or propriety is one. De⯑ſtitute of this ſenſe, we could have no no⯑tion of congruity or propriety: the terms to us would be unintelligible*.
As this ſenſe is diſplayed upon relations, it is reaſonable beforehand to expect, that [7] we ſhould be ſo formed, as to require among connected objects a degree of congruity pro⯑portioned to the degree of the relation. And upon examination we find this to hold in fact. Where the relation is ſtrong and intimate as betwixt a cauſe and its effect, a body and its members, we require that the things be ſuited to each other in the ſtricteſt manner. On the other hand, where the relation is ſlight, or accidental, as among things jumbled together in the ſame place, we demand little or no congruity. The ſtricteſt propriety is required in behaviour and manner of living; becauſe a man is con⯑nected with theſe by the relation of cauſe and effect. The ſituation of a great houſe ought to be lofty; for the relation betwixt an edifice and the ground it ſtands upon, is of the moſt intimate kind. Its relation to neighbouring hills, rivers, plains, being that of propinquity only, demands but a ſmall ſhare of congruity. Among members of the ſame club, the congruity ought to be conſiderable, as well as among things pla⯑ced for ſhow in the ſame niche. Among paſſengers in a ſtage-coach, we require ve⯑ry [8] little congruity; and leſs ſtill at a public ſpectacle.
Congruity is ſo nearly allied to beauty, as commonly to be held a ſpecies of it. And yet they differ ſo eſſentially, as never to co⯑incide. Beauty, like colour, 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.
Congruity and propriety are commonly reckoned ſynonymous terms; and hitherto in opening the ſubject they are uſed indiffer⯑ently. But they are diſtinguiſhable; and the preciſe meaning of each muſt be aſcer⯑tained. Congruity is the genus, of which propriety is a ſpecies. For we call nothing propriety, but that congruity or ſuitableneſs which ought to ſubſiſt betwixt ſenſible be⯑ings and their thoughts, words, and actions.
In order to give a full view of this ſub⯑ject, I ſhall trace it through ſome of the moſt conſiderable relations. The relation of a part to the whole, being extremely inti⯑mate, demands the utmoſt degree of con⯑gruity. For that reaſon, the ſlighteſt devia⯑tion [9] is diſguſtful. Every one muſt be ſen⯑ſible of a groſs incongruity in the Lutrin, a burleſque poem, being cloſed with a ſerious and warm panegyric on Lamoignon, one of the King's judges:
No relation affords more examples of congruity and incongruity, than that betwixt a ſubject and its ornaments. A literary per⯑formance intended merely for amuſement, is ſuſceptible of much ornament, as well as a muſic-room or a play-houſe. In gaiety, the mind hath a peculiar reliſh for ſhow and decoration. The moſt gorgeous appa⯑rel, however unſuitable to an actor in a re⯑gular tragedy, diſguſts not at an opera. 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 any thing natural in thoſe which are acceſſory. On the other hand, a ſerious and important ſubject, admits not much or⯑nament*: [10] nor a ſubject that of itſelf is ex⯑tremely 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, gor⯑geous apparel is unſuitable: which, beſide the incongruity, has a bad effect; for by contraſt it ſhows the meanneſs of appear⯑ance in the ſtrongeſt light. Sweetneſs of look and manner, requires ſimplicity of dreſs joined with the greateſt elegance. A ſtately and majeſtic air requires ſumptuous apparel, which ought not to be gaudy, or crowded with little ornaments. A woman of conſummate beauty can bear to be highly adorned, and yet ſhows beſt in a plain dreſs:
[11] In judging of the propriety of ornament, we muſt attend, not only to the nature of the ſubject that is to be adorned, but alſo to the circumſtances in which it is placed. The ornaments that are proper for a ball, will appear not altogether ſo decent at pu⯑blic worſhip; and the ſame perſon ought to dreſs differently for a marriage-feaſt and for a burial.
Nothing is more intimately related to a man, than his ſentiments, words, and ac⯑tions; and therefore we require here the ſtricteſt conformity. When we find what we thus require, we have a lively ſenſe of pro⯑priety: when we find the contrary, our ſenſe of impropriety is not leſs lively. Hence the univerſal diſtaſte of affectation, which conſiſts in making a ſhew of greater delica⯑cy and refinement than is ſuited either to the character or circumſtances of the perſon. Nothing hath a worſe effect in a ſtory than impropriety of manners. In Corneille's tragedy of Cinna, Aemilia, a favourite of Auguſtus, receives daily marks of his affec⯑tion, and is loaded with benefits; yet all the while is laying plots to aſſaſſinate her be⯑nefactor, [12] directed by no other motive but to avenge her father's death*. Revenge againſt a benefactor founded ſolely upon filial piety, will never ſuggeſt unlawful means; becauſe it can never exceed the bounds of juſtice. And yet the crime here attempted, murder under truſt repoſed, is what even a miſcreant will ſcarce attempt againſt his bittereſt enemy.
What is ſaid may be thought ſufficient to explain the qualities of congruity and pro⯑priety. But the ſubject is not exhauſted. On the contrary, the proſpect enlarges up⯑on us, when we take under view the ef⯑fects theſe qualities produce in the mind. Congruity and propriety, where-ever percei⯑ved, appear agreeable; and every agreeable object produceth in the mind a pleaſant e⯑motion. Incongruity and impropriety, on the other hand, are diſagreeable; and con⯑ſequently produce painful emotions. An emotion of this kind ſometimes vaniſheth without any conſequence; but more fre⯑quently is the occaſion of other emotions. [13] When any ſlight incongruity is perceived in an accidental combination of perſons or things, as of paſſengers in a ſtage-coach or of individuals dining at an ordinary, the e⯑motion of incongruity, 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 au⯑thor: when proper, we reward him with our eſteem: when improper, we puniſh him with our contempt. Let us ſuppoſe, for example, an heroic action ſuitable to the character of the author, which raiſes in him and in every ſpectator the pleaſant e⯑motion of propriety. This emotion gene⯑rates in the author both ſelf-eſteem and joy; the former when he conſiders his relation to the action, and the latter when he conſiders the good opinion that others will entertain of him. The ſame emotion of propriety, produceth in the ſpectators, eſteem for the author of the action: and when they think of themſelves, it alſo produceth, by means of contraſt, an emotion of humility. To diſcover the effects of an unſuitable action, [14] we muſt invert each of theſe circumſtances. The painful emotion of impropriety, gene⯑rates in the author of the action both humi⯑lity and ſhame; the former when he con⯑ſiders his relation to the action, and the lat⯑ter 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 means of 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 different perſons; a machine pro⯑vided with many ſprings, and not a little complicated. Propriety of action, it would ſeem, is a chief favourite of nature, or of the author of nature, when ſuch care and ſolici⯑tude is beſtowed upon it. It is not left to our own choice; but, like juſtice, is requi⯑red at our hands; and, like juſtice, infor⯑ced by natural rewards and puniſhments. A man cannot, with impunity, do any thing unbecoming or improper. He ſuffers the chaſtiſement of contempt inflicted by others, and of ſhame inflicted by himſelf. An ap⯑paratus [15] ſo complicated and ſo ſingular, ought to rouſe our attention. Nature doth nothing in vain; and we may conclude with great certainty, that this curious branch of the human conſtitution is intended for ſome va⯑luable purpoſe. To the diſcovery of this purpoſe I ſhall with ardor apply my thoughts, after diſcourſing a little more at large upon the puniſhment, for I may now call it ſo, that Nature hath provided for in⯑decent or unbecoming behaviour. This, at any rate, is neceſſary, in order to give a full view of the ſubject; and who knows whe⯑ther it may not, over and above, open ſome track that will lead us to what we are in queſt of?
A groſs impropriety is puniſhed with con⯑tempt and indignation, which are vented a⯑gainſt the offender by every external ex⯑preſſion that can gratify theſe paſſions. And even the ſlighteſt impropriety raiſes ſome degree of contempt. But there are improprieties, generally of the ſlighter kind, that provoke laughter; of which we have examples without end in the blunders and abſurdities of our own ſpecies. Such [16] improprieties receive a different puniſh⯑ment, as will appear by what follows. The emotions of contempt and of laughter occaſioned by an impropriety of this kind, uniting intimately in the mind of the ſpec⯑tator, are expreſſed externally by a peculiar ſort of laugh, termed a laugh of deriſion or ſcorn *. An impropriety that thus moves not only contempt but laughter, is diſtin⯑guiſhed by the epithet of ridiculous; and a laugh of deriſion or ſcorn is the puniſhment provided for it by nature. Nor ought it to eſcape obſervation, that we are ſo fond of inflicting this puniſhment, as ſometimes to exert it even againſt creatures of an in⯑ferior ſpecies; witneſs a Turkycock ſwell⯑ing with pride, and ſtrutting with diſplayed feathers. This object appears ridiculous, and in a gay mood is apt to provoke a laugh of deriſion.
We muſt not expect that the improprie⯑ties to which theſe different puniſhments are adapted, can be ſeparated by any preciſe boundaries. Of improprieties, from the [17] ſlighteſt to the moſt groſs, from the moſt riſible to the moſt ſerious, a ſcale may be formed aſcending by degrees almoſt imper⯑ceptible. Hence it is, that in viewing ſome unbecoming actions, too riſible for anger and too ſerious for deriſion, the ſpectator feels a ſort of mixt emotion partaking both of deri⯑ſion and of anger. This accounts for an expreſſion, common with reſpect to the im⯑propriety of ſome actions, That we know not whether to laugh or be angry.
It cannot fail to be obſerved, that in the caſe of a riſible impropriety, which is al⯑ways ſlight, the contempt we have for the offender is extremely faint, though deriſion, its gratification, is extremely pleaſant. This diſproportion betwixt a paſſion and its grati⯑fication, ſeems not conformable to the ana⯑logy of nature. In looking about for a ſo⯑lution, I reflect upon what is laid down a⯑bove, that an improper action, not only moves our contempt for the author, but al⯑ſo, by means of contraſt, ſwells the good o⯑pinion we have of ourſelves. This contri⯑butes, more than any other article, to the pleaſure we feel in ridiculing the follies and [18] abſurdities of others. And accordingly, it is well known, that they who put the great⯑eſt value upon themſelves, are the moſt prone to laugh at others. Pride is a vivid paſſion, as all are which have ſelf for their object. It is extremely pleaſant in itſelf, and not leſs ſo in its gratification. This paſſion ſingly would 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 vi⯑gor.
Having with wary ſteps traced an intri⯑cate road, not without danger of wander⯑ing; what remains to complete our jour⯑ney, is to account for the final cauſe of con⯑gruity and propriety, which make ſo great a figure in the human conſtitution. One fi⯑nal cauſe, regarding congruity, is pretty obvious. The ſenſe of congruity, as one of the principles of the fine arts, contributes in a remarkable degree to our entertainment. [19] This is the final cauſe aſſigned above for our ſenſe of proportion*, and need not be enlarged upon here. Congruity indeed with reſpect to quantity, coincides with proportion. When the parts of a building are nicely adjuſted to each other, it may be ſaid indifferently, that it is agreeable by the congruity of its parts, or by the proportion of its parts. But propriety, which regards voluntary agents only, can never in any in⯑ſtance be the ſame with proportion. A very long noſe is diſproportioned, but cannot be termed improper. In ſome inſtances, it is true, impropriety coincides with diſpropor⯑tion in the ſame ſubject, but never in the ſame reſpect. I give for an example a very little man buckled to a long toledo. Con⯑ſidering the man and the ſword with re⯑ſpect to ſize, we perceive a diſproportion. Conſidering the ſword as the choice of the man, we perceive an impropriety.
The ſenſe of impropriety with reſpect to miſtakes, blunders, and abſurdities, is hap⯑pily contrived for the good of mankind. [20] In the ſpectators it is productive of mirth and laughter, excellent recreation in an in⯑terval from buſineſs. The benefit is ſtill more extenſive. It is not agreeable to be the ſubject of ridicule; and to puniſh with ridicule the man who is guilty of an abſur⯑dity, tends to put him more upon his guard in time coming. Thus even the moſt in⯑nocent blunder is not committed with im⯑punity; becauſe, were errors licenſed where they do no hurt, inattention would grow into a 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 two ſorts of moral duties muſt be kept in view, viz. thoſe that reſpect others, and thoſe that re⯑ſpect ourſelves. Fidelity, gratitude, and the forbearing injury, are examples of the firſt ſort; temperance, modeſty, firmneſs of mind, are examples of the other. The for⯑mer are made duties by means of the moral ſenſe; the latter, by means of the ſenſe of propriety. Here is a final cauſe of the ſenſe of propriety, that muſt rouſe our attention. [21] It is undoubtedly the intereſt of every man, to regulate his behaviour ſuitably to the dig⯑nity of his nature, and to the ſtation allot⯑ted him by Providence. Such rational con⯑duct contributes in every reſpect to happi⯑neſs: it contributes to health and plenty: it gains the eſteem of others: and, which is of all the greateſt bleſſing, it gains a juſt⯑ly-founded ſelf-eſteem. But in a matter ſo eſſential to our well-being, even ſelf-intereſt is not relied on. The ſenſe of propriety ſu⯑peradds the powerful authority of duty 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 principles and feelings. Theſe prevent many aberrations, which would daily happen were we totally ſurren⯑dered to ſo fallible a guide as is human rea⯑ſon. The ſenſe of propriety cannot juſtly be conſidered in another light, than as the natural law that regulates our conduct with reſpect to ourſelves; as the ſenſe of juſtice is the natural law that regulates our conduct with reſpect to others. I call the ſenſe of [22] propriety a law, becauſe it really is ſo, not leſs than the ſenſe of juſtice. If by law be meant a rule of conduct that we are con⯑ſcious ought to be obeyed, this definition, which I conceive to be ſtrictly accurate, is applicable undoubtedly to both. The ſenſe of propriety includes this conſciouſneſs; 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 forborn. It is this very conſciouſneſs of ought and ſhould inclu⯑ded in the moral ſenſe, that makes juſtice a law to us. This conſciouſneſs of duty, when applied to propriety, is perhaps not ſo vigo⯑rous or ſtrong as when applied to juſtice: but the difference is in degree only, not in kind: and we ought, without heſitation or reluctance, to ſubmit equally to the govern⯑ment of both.
But I have more to urge upon this head. It muſt, in the next place, be obſerved, that to the ſenſe of propriety as well as of juſtice are annexed the ſanctions of rewards and puniſhments; which evidently prove the one to be a law as well as the other. The [23] ſatisfaction a man hath in doing his duty, joined with the eſteem and good-will of o⯑thers, is the reward that belongs to both e⯑qually. 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 re⯑morſe; diſobedience to the law of propriety, with ſhame, which is remorſe in a lower de⯑gree. Every tranſgreſſion of the law of ju⯑ſtice raiſes indignation in the beholder; and ſo doth every flagrant tranſgreſſion of the law of propriety. Slighter improprieties re⯑ceive 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 an⯑nexed to the ſenſe of propriety are ſlighter in degree than thoſe annexed to the ſenſe of juſtice. And that this is wiſely ordered, will appear from conſidering, that to the well-being of ſociety, duty to others is ſtill more eſſential than duty to ourſelves; for ſociety could not ſubſiſt a moment, were in⯑dividuals not protected from the headſtrong and turbulent paſſions of their neighbours.
[24] Reflecting coolly and carefully upon the ſubject under conſideration, the conſtitution of man, admirable in all its parts, appears here in a fine light. The final cauſe now unfolded of the ſenſe of propriety, muſt, to every diſcerning eye, appear delightful; and yet hitherto we have given but a partial view of it. The ſenſe of propriety reaches another illuſtrious end; which is, to co⯑ope⯑rate with the ſenſe of juſtice in inforcing the performance of ſocial duties. In fact, the ſanctions viſibly contrived to compel a man to be juſt to himſelf, are equally ſer⯑viceable to compel him to be juſt to others. This 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 ſuit⯑able to human nature, that each man do his duty to others; and accordingly every tranſgreſſion of duty with reſpect to others, is at the ſame time a tranſgreſſion of duty with reſpect to ſelf. This is an undiſguiſed truth without exaggeration; and it opens a new and delightful view in the moral land⯑ſcape. [25] The proſpect is greatly enriched, by the multiplication of agreeable objects. It appears now, that nothing is overlooked, nothing left undone, that can poſſibly con⯑tribute to the enforcing ſocial duty. For to all the ſanctions that belong to it ſingly, are ſuperadded the ſanctions of ſelf-duty. A fa⯑miliar example ſhall ſuffice for illuſtration. An act of ingratitude conſidered in itſelf, is to the author diſagreeable as well as to eve⯑ry 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. Again, conſidered by others, it raiſes their con⯑tempt 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 me⯑rited puniſhment; and in others, the bene⯑factor chiefly, indignation and hatred di⯑rected upon the ungrateful perſon. Thus ſhame and remorſe united in the ungrateful [26] 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 in extreme, who, in a contrivance ſo exquiſite, perceives not the hand of the Sovereign Architect.
CHAP. XI. Of Dignity and Meanneſs.
[27]THESE terms are applied to man in point of character, ſentiment, and behaviour. We ſay, for example, of one man, that he hath a natural dignity in his air and manner; of another, that he makes a mean figure. There is a dignity in every action and ſentiment of ſome per⯑ſons: the actions and ſentiments of others are mean and vulgar. 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 expreſſions are common, though they have not always a preciſe mean⯑ing. With reſpect to the art of criticiſm, it muſt be a real acquiſition to aſcertain what theſe terms truly import; which poſ⯑ſibly may enable us to rank every perform⯑ance in the fine arts according to its dignity.
[28] 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 magni⯑ficent palace ever 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 be⯑long to ſenſitive beings, probably to man only; which will be evident when we ad⯑vance in the inquiry.
Of all objects, human actions produce in a ſpectator the greateſt variety of feelings. They are in themſelves grand or little: with reſpect to the author, they are proper or improper: with reſpect to thoſe affected by them, juſt or unjuſt. And I muſt now add, that they are alſo diſtinguiſhed by dignity and meanneſs. It may poſſibly be thought, that with reſpect to human ac⯑tions, dignity coincides with grandeur, and meanneſs with littleneſs. But the differ⯑ence will be evident upon reflecting, that we never attribute dignity to any action but what is virtuous, nor meanneſs to any but what in ſome degree is faulty. But an ac⯑tion [29] may be grand without being virtuous, or little without being faulty. Every action of dignity creates reſpect and eſteem for the author; and a mean action draws upon him contempt. A man is always 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.
As it appears to me, dignity and mean⯑neſs are founded on a natural principle not hitherto mentioned. Man is endued with a ſenſe of the worth and excellence of his nature. He deems it to be more perfect than that of the other beings around him; and he feels that the perfection of his na⯑ture conſiſts in virtue, particularly in virtue of the higheſt rank. To expreſs this 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 duty every man owes to himſelf. By acting in this manner, he attracts love and eſteem. By acting meanly or below himſelf, he is diſapproved and contemned.
[30] According to the deſcription here given of dignity and meanneſs, they will be found 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 this ac⯑tion. Revenge fairly taken, if againſt law, is improper, but it is not mean. But every action of dignity is alſo proper, and every mean action is alſo improper.
This ſenſe of the dignity of human na⯑ture, reaches even our pleaſures and amuſe⯑ments. If they enlarge the mind by raiſing grand or elevated emotions, or if they hu⯑manize the mind by exerciſing our ſympa⯑thy, they are approved as ſuited to our na⯑ture: if they contract the mind by fixing it on trivial objects, they are contemned as low and mean. Hence in general, every occupation, whether of uſe or amuſement, that correſponds to the dignity of man, ob⯑tains the epithet of manly; and every occu⯑pation below his nature, obtains the epithet of childiſh.
To thoſe who ſtudy human nature, there [31] is a point which has always appeared intri⯑cate. How comes it that generoſity and courage are more valued 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 hap⯑pineſs? This queſtion bluntly propoſed, might puzzle a cunning philoſopher; but by means of the foregoing obſervations will eaſily be ſolved. Human virtues, like o⯑ther objects, obtain a rank in our eſtima⯑tion, not from their utility, which is a ſub⯑ject of reflection, but from the direct im⯑preſſion they make on us. Juſtice and good-nature are a ſort of negative virtues, that make no figure unleſs when they are tranſgreſſed. Courage and generoſity pro⯑ducing elevated emotions, enliven greatly the ſenſe of a man's dignity, both in him⯑ſelf and in others; and for that reaſon, cou⯑rage and generoſity are in higher regard than the other virtues mentioned. We de⯑ſcribe them as grand and elevated, as of greater dignity, and more praiſe-worthy.
This leads us to examine more directly emotions and paſſions with reſpect to the [32] preſent ſubject. And it will not be diffi⯑cult to form a ſcale of them, beginning at the meaneſt, and aſcending gradually to thoſe of the higheſt rank and dignity. Pleaſure felt as at the organ of ſenſe, named corporeal pleaſure, is perceived to be low; and when indulged to exceſs, beyond what nature demands, is perceived alſo to be mean. Perſons therefore of any delicacy, diſſemble the pleaſure they have in eating and drinking. The pleaſures of the eye and ear, which have no organic feeling*, are free from any ſenſe of meanneſs; and for that reaſon are indulged without any ſhame. They even ariſe to a certain degree of dignity, when their objects are grand or elevated. The ſame is the caſe of the ſym⯑pathetic paſſions. They raiſe the character conſiderably, when their objects are of im⯑portance. A virtuous perſon behaving with fortitude and dignity under the moſt cruel misfortunes, makes a capital figure; and the ſympathiſing ſpectator feels in himſelf the ſame dignity. Sympathetic diſtreſs at [33] the ſame time never is mean: on the con⯑trary, it is agreeable to the nature of a ſocial being, and has the general approbation. The rank that love poſſeſſes in this ſcale, depends in a great meaſure on its object. It poſſeſſes a low place when founded on external properties merely; and is mean when beſtowed upon a perſon of a rank much inferior without any extraordinary qualification. But when founded on the more elevated internal properties, it aſſumes a conſiderable degree of dignity. The ſame is the caſe of friendſhip. When gra⯑titude is warm, it animates the mind; but it ſcarce riſes to dignity. Joy beſtows dig⯑nity when it proceeds from an elevated cauſe.
So far as I can gather from induction, dignity is not a property of any diſagreea⯑ble paſſion. One is ſlight another ſevere, one depreſſes the mind another rouſes and animates it; but there is no elevation, far leſs dignity, in any of them. Revenge, in particular, though it inflame and ſwell the mind, is not accompanied with dignity, not even with elevation. It is not however felt [34] as mean or groveling, unleſs when it takes indirect meaſures for its gratification. Shame and remorſe, though they ſink the ſpirits, are not mean. Pride, a diſagreeable paſ⯑ſion, 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.
I proceed to the pleaſures of the under⯑ſtanding, which poſſeſs 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 ſuit⯑ed to man as a rational and contemplative being; and they tend not a little to ennoble his nature. Even to the Deity he ſtretches his contemplations, which, in the diſcovery of infinite power wiſdom and benevolence, afford delight of the moſt exalted kind. Hence it appears, that the fine arts ſtudied as a rational ſcience, afford entertainment of great dignity; ſuperior far to what they afford as a ſubject of taſte merely.
[35] But contemplation, though in itſelf va⯑luable, 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, mag⯑nanimity, heroiſm, raiſe his character to the higheſt pitch. Theſe beſt expreſs the dignity of his nature, and advance him nearer to divinity than any other of his at⯑tributes.
By every production that ſhows art and contrivance, our curioſity is excited upon two points; firſt how it was made, and next to what end. Of the two, the latter is the more important inquiry, becauſe the means are ever ſubordinate to the end; and in fact our curioſity is always more in⯑flamed by the final than by the efficient cauſe. This preference is no where more viſible, than in contemplating the works of nature. If in the efficient cauſe, wiſ⯑dom and power be diſplayed, wiſdom is not 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 [36] important. Having endeavoured to aſſign the efficient cauſe of dignity and meanneſs, and to unfold the principle on which they are founded, we proceed to explain the final cauſe of the dignity or meanneſs beſtowed upon the ſeveral particulars above mention⯑ed, beginning with corporeal pleaſures. Theſe, ſo far as uſeful, 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 they dignified over and above with a place in a high claſs, they would infallibly overturn the balance of the mind, by out⯑weighing the ſocial affections. This is a ſatisfactory final cauſe for refuſing to corpo⯑real pleaſures any degree of dignity. And the final cauſe is not leſs evident of their meanneſs, when they are indulged to ex⯑ceſs. The more refined pleaſures of exter⯑nal 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 ariſe to a conſiderable dig⯑nity. [37] The very loweſt pleaſures of the kind, are never eſteemed mean or grovel⯑ing. The pleaſure ariſing from wit, hu⯑mour, ridicule, or from what is ſimply lu⯑dicrous, is uſeful, by relaxing the mind after the fatigue of more manly occupation. But the mind, when it ſurrenders itſelf to pleaſure of this kind, loſes its vigor, and ſinks gradually into ſloth. The place this pleaſure occupies in point of dignity, is ad⯑juſted to theſe views. To make it uſeful as a relaxation, it is not branded with meanneſs. To prevent its uſurpation, it is removed from this place but a ſingle de⯑gree. No man values himſelf upon this pleaſure, even during the gratification; and if more time have been given to it than is requiſite for relaxation, a man looks back with ſome degree of ſhame.
In point of dignity, the ſocial paſſions riſe above the ſelfiſh, and much above the plea⯑ſures of the eye and ear. Man is by his na⯑ture a ſocial being; and to qualify him for ſociety, it is wiſely contrived, that he ſhould value himſelf more for being ſocial than ſelfiſh.
[38] The excellency of man is chiefly diſcern⯑ible in the great improvements he is ſuſcep⯑tible of in ſociety. Theſe, by perſeverance, may be carried on progreſſively to higher and higher degrees of perfection, above any aſſignable limits; and, even abſtracting from revelation, there is great probability, that the progreſs begun in this life will be completed in ſome future ſtate. Now, as all valuable improvements proceed from the exerciſe of our rational faculties, the author of our nature, in order to excite us to a due uſe of theſe faculties, hath aſſigned a high rank to the pleaſures of the underſtanding. Their utility, with reſpect to this life as well as a future, intitles them to this rank.
But as action is the end of all our im⯑provements, virtuous actions juſtly poſſeſs the higheſt of all the ranks. Theſe, I find, are by nature diſtributed into different claſſ⯑es, and the firſt in point of dignity aſſigned to actions which 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 magnanimi⯑ty, [39] heroiſm, undaunted courage, riſe ſtill higher in our eſteem. One would readily think, that the moral virtues ſhould be e⯑ſteemed according to their importance. Nature has here deviated from her ordinary path, and great wiſdom is ſhown in the de⯑viation. The efficient cauſe is explained above; and the final cauſe is explained in the Eſſays of morality and natural reli⯑gion*.
CHAP. XII. RIDICULE.
[40]THIS ſubject has puzzled and vexed all the critics. Ariſtole gives a de⯑finition of ridicule, obſcure and imperfect*. Cicero handles it at great length†; but without giving any ſatisfac⯑tion. He wanders in the dark, and miſſes the diſtinction betwixt riſible and ridicu⯑lous. Quintilian is ſenſible of this diſtinc⯑tion‡; but has not attempted to explain it. Luckily this ſubject lies no longer in ob⯑ſcurity. A riſible object produceth an emo⯑tion of laughter merely‖. A ridiculous ob⯑ject is improper as well as riſible; and pro⯑duceth a mixt emotion, which is vented by a laugh of deriſion or ſcorn**.
[41] Having therefore happily unravelled the abſtruſe and knotty part, I proceed to what may be thought further neceſſary upon this ſubject.
Burleſque is one great engine of ridicule. But it is not confined to that ſubject; for it is clearly diſtinguiſhable into burleſque that excites laughter merely, and burleſque that provokes deriſion or ridicule. A grave ſubject in which there is no impropriety, may be brought down by a certain colouring ſo as to be riſible. This is the caſe of Vir⯑gil Traveſtie *. And it is the caſe of the Secchia Rapita †. The authors laugh firſt at every turn, in order to make their readers laugh. The Lutrin is a burleſque poem of the other ſort. The author Boileau, lays hold of a low and trifling incident to ex⯑poſe the luxury, indolence, and contentious ſpirit of a ſet of monks. He turns the ſub⯑ject into ridicule by dreſſing it in the heroic ſtyle, and affecting to conſider it as of the utmoſt dignity and importance; and though ridicule is the poet's aim, he himſelf carries [42] all along a grave face, and never once be⯑wrays a ſmile. The oppoſition betwixt the ſubject and the manner of handling it, is what produces the ridicule. In a compoſi⯑tion of this kind, no image profeſſedly ludi⯑crous ought to have quarter; becauſe ſuch images deſtroy the contraſt.
Though the burleſque that aims at ridi⯑cule, produces its effect by elevating the ſtyle far above the ſubject, yet it has limits beyond which the elevation ought not to be carried. The poet, conſulting the imagi⯑nation of his readers, ought to confine him⯑ſelf to ſuch images as are lively and readily apprehended. A ſtrained elevation, ſoaring above an ordinary reach of fancy, makes not a pleaſant impreſſion. The mind fatigued with being always upon the ſtretch, is ſoon diſguſted; and if it perſeveres, becomes thoughtleſs and indifferent. Further, a fic⯑tion gives no pleaſure, unleſs where painted in ſo lively colours as to produce ſome per⯑ception of reality; which never can be done effectually where the images are formed with labour or difficulty. For theſe reaſons, I cannot avoid condemning the Batrachomuo⯑machia [43] 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 concep⯑tion 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 men⯑tioned. It is not properly a burleſque per⯑formance, but what may rather be termed an heroi-comical poem. It treats a gay and familiar ſubject, with pleaſantry and with a moderate degree of dignity. The author puts not on a maſk like Boileau, nor pro⯑feſſes to make us laugh like Taſſoni. The Rape of the Lock is a genteel and gay ſpecies of writing, leſs ſtrained than the others mentioned; and is pleaſant or ludicrous without having ridicule for its chief aim; giving way however to ridicule where it ari⯑ſes naturally from a particular character, ſuch as that of Sir Plume. Addiſon's Spec⯑tator upon the exerciſe of the fan* is ex⯑tremely [44] gay and ludicrous, reſembling in its ſubject the Rape of the Lock.
Humour belongs to the preſent chapter, becauſe it is undoubtedly connected with ridi⯑cule. Congreve defines humour to be ‘"a ſin⯑gular and unavoidable manner of doing or ſaying any thing, peculiar and natural to one man only, by which his ſpeech and ac⯑tions are diſtinguiſhed from thoſe of other men."’ Were this definition juſt, a ma⯑jeſtic and commanding air, which is a ſin⯑gular property, is humour; as alſo that na⯑tural flow of eloquence and correct elocu⯑tion which is a rare talent. Nothing juſt or proper is denominated humour; nor any ſingularity of character, words, or actions, that is valued or reſpected. When we at⯑tend to the character of an humoriſt, we find that the peculiarity of this character leſſens the man in our eſteem: we find that this character ariſes from circumſtances both riſible and improper, and therefore in ſome meaſure ridiculous.
Humour in writing is very different from humour in character. When an author in⯑ſiſts upon ludicrous ſubjects with a profeſſ⯑ed [54] purpoſe to make his readers laugh, he may be ſtyled a ludicrous writer; but is ſcarce intitled to be ſtyled a writer of hu⯑mour. This quality belongs to an author, who, affecting to be grave and ſerious, paints his objects in ſuch colours as to pro⯑voke mirth and laughter. A writer that is really an humoriſt in character, does this without deſign. If not, he muſt affect the character in order to ſucceed. Swift and Fontaine were humoriſts in character, and their writings are full of humour. Addiſon was not an humoriſt in character; and yet in his proſe writings a moſt delicate and re⯑fined humour prevails. Arbuthnot exceeds them all in drollery and humorous painting; which ſhows a great genius, becauſe, if I am not miſinformed, he had nothing of this peculiarity in his character.
There remains to ſhow, by examples, the manner of treating ſubjects ſo as to give them a ridiculous appearance.
Il ne dit jamais, je vous donne, mais, je vous prete le bon jour.
I know him to be valiant.
I was told that by one that knows him better than you.
What's he?
Marry, he told me ſo himſelf; and he ſaid, he car'd not who knew it.
He never broke any man's head but his own, and that was againſt a poſt when he was drunk.
Sententious Mirabell! pr'ythee don't look with that violent and inflexible wiſe face, like Solomon at the dividing of the child in an old tapeſtry hanging.
‘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 conſe⯑quently is apt to ſnarl moſt when there are the few⯑eſt bones. Tale of a Tub.’
In the following inſtances the ridicule is made to appear from the behaviour of the perſons introduced.
Te ſouvient-il, vicomte, de cette demi-lune, que nous emportâmes ſur les ennemis au ſiege d'Arras?
Que veux tu dire avec ta demi-lune? c'etoit bien une lune toute entiere.
I came yonder at Eaton to marry Mrs Anne Page; and ſhe's a great lubberly boy.
Upon my life then you took the wrong.
What need you tell me that? I think ſo, when I took a boy for a girl: if I had been marry'd to him, for all he was in woman's apparel, I would not have had him.
Your bleſſing, Sir,
You've had it already, Sir: I think I ſent it you to day in a bill for four thou⯑ſand pound; a great deal of money, Brother Fore⯑ſight.
Ay indeed, Sir Sampſon, a great deal of money for a young man; I wonder what can he do with it.
I nauſeate walking; 'tis a country⯑diverſion; I lothe the country, and every thing that relates to it.
Indeed! hah! look ye, look ye, you do? nay, 'tis like you may—here are choice of paſtimes here in town, as plays and the like; that muſt be confeſs'd indeed.
Ah l'etourdie! I hate the town too.
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 o⯑thers can't away with the country—'tis like you may be one of thoſe, Couſine.
I aſſure you, Sir Paul, I laugh at no body's jeſt but my own, or a lady's: I aſſure you, Sir Paul.
How? how, my Lord? what, affront my wit! Let me periſh, do I never ſay any thing worthy to be laugh'd at?
O 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 expreſ⯑ſion of the paſſion! every body can laugh. Then eſpecially to laugh at the jeſt of an inferior perſon, or when any body elſe of the ſame quality does not laugh with one; ridiculous! To be pleas'd with what pleaſes the crowd! Now, when I laugh I always laugh alone.
[49] So ſharp-ſighted is pride in blemiſhes, and ſo willing to be gratified, that it will take up with the very ſlighteſt improprie⯑ties; ſuch as a blunder by a foreigner in ſpeaking our language, eſpecially if the blunder can bear a ſenſe that reflects upon the ſpeaker:
The young man is an honeſt man.
What ſhall de honeſt man do in my clo⯑ſet? dere is no honeſt man dat ſhall come in my cloſet.
Love-ſpeeches are finely ridiculed in the following paſſage.
Irony turns things into ridicule in a pe⯑culiar manner. It conſiſts in laughing at a man under diſguiſe, by appearing to praiſe or ſpeak well of him. Swift affords us ma⯑ny illuſtrious examples of this ſpecies of ri⯑dicule. Take the following example. ‘"By theſe methods, in a few weeks, there ſtarts up many a writer, capable of managing the profoundeſt and moſt [51] univerſal ſubjects. For what though his head be empty, provided his common⯑place book be full? And if you will bate him but the circumſtances of method, and ſtyle, and grammar, and invention; allow him but the common privileges of tranſcribing from others, and digreſſing from himſelf, as often as he ſhall ſee oc⯑caſion; he will deſire no more ingre⯑dients towards fitting up a treatiſe that ſhall make a very comely figure on a bookſeller's ſhelf, there to be preſerved neat and clean, for a long eternity, ad⯑orned with the heraldry of its title, fairly inſcribed on a label; never to be thumbed or greaſed by ſtudents, nor bound to e⯑verlaſting chains of darkneſs in a libra⯑ry; but when the fullneſs of time is come, ſhall happily undergo the trial of purgatory, in order to aſcend the ſky*."’ The following paſſage from Arbuthnot is not leſs ironical. ‘"If the Reverend clergy ſhowed more concern than others, I charitably impute it to their great charge of ſouls; and what confirmed me in this [52] opinion was, that the degrees of appre⯑henſion and terror could be diſtinguiſhed to be greater or leſs, according to their ranks and degrees in the church*."’
A parody muſt be diſtinguiſhed from every ſpecies of ridicule. It enlivens a gay ſubject by imitating ſome important inci⯑dent that is ſerious. It is ludicrous, and may be riſible. But ridicule is not a ne⯑ceſſary ingredient. Take the following ex⯑amples, the firſt of which refers to an ex⯑preſſion of Moſes.
The next is an imitation of Achilles's oath in Homer.
The following imitates the hiſtory of A⯑gamemnon's ſceptre in Homer.
Ridicule, as obſerved above, is no neceſ⯑ſary ingredient in a parody. But I did not intend to ſay, that there is any oppoſition betwixt them. A parody, no doubt, may be ſucceſsfully employed to promote ridi⯑cule; [54] witneſs the following example, in which the goddeſs of Dullneſs is addreſſed upon the ſubject of modern education.
The interpoſition of the gods in the man⯑ner of Homer and Virgil, ought to be confined to ludicrous ſubjects, which are much enlivened by ſuch interpoſition han⯑dled in the form of a parody; witneſs the cave of Spleen, Rape of the Lock, canto 4.; the goddeſs of Diſcord; Lutrin, canto 1.; and the goddeſs of Indolence, canto 2.
Thoſe who have a talent for ridicule, which is ſeldom united with a taſte for de⯑licate and refined beauties, are quick-ſight⯑ed in improprieties; and theſe they eagerly [55] lay hold of, in order to gratify their favou⯑rite propenſity. The perſons galled have no other refuge but to maintain, that ridi⯑cule ought not to be applied to grave ſub⯑jects. It is yielded, on the other hand, that ſubjects really grave and important, are by no means fit for ridicule: but then it is urged, that ridicule is the only proper teſt for diſcovering whether a ſubject be really grave, or be made ſo artificially by cuſtom and faſhion. This diſpute has pro⯑duced a celebrated queſtion, Whether ridi⯑cule be or be not a teſt of truth? I give this queſtion a place here, becauſe it tends to illuſtrate 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 thoſe that are not ſo? To anſwer this que⯑ſtion with preciſion, I muſt premiſe, that ridicule is not a ſubject of reaſoning, but of ſenſe or taſte*. This being taken for grant⯑ed, I proceed thus. No perſon doubts that our ſenſe of beauty is the true teſt of what [56] is beautiful, and our ſenſe of grandeur, of what is great or ſublime. Is it more doubt⯑ful 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 is a ſubject that 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 or eſteem to which naturally it is not intitled, what are the proper means for wiping off the artificial colouring, and diſplaying the ſubject in its true light? Reaſoning, as obſerved, cannot be applied. And therefore the only means is to judge by taſte. The teſt of ridicule which ſeparates it from its artificial connections, expoſes it naked with all its native improprieties.
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 con⯑demned, becauſe it may be employed to [57] burleſque a great or lofty ſubject. Such ir⯑regular uſe made of a talent for wit or ridi⯑cule, cannot long impoſe upon mankind. It cannot ſtand the teſt of correct and deli⯑cate taſte; and truth will at laſt prevail even with the vulgar. To condemn a talent for ridicule becauſe it may be perverted to wrong purpoſes, is not a little ridicu⯑lous. Could one forbear to ſmile, if a talent for reaſoning were condemned be⯑cauſe it alſo may be perverted? And yet the concluſion in the latter caſe, would be not leſs juſt than in the former; per⯑haps more juſt, for no talent is ſo often perverted as that of reaſon.
We had beſt leave Nature to her own o⯑perations. The moſt valuable talents may be abuſed, and ſo may that of ridicule. Let us bring it under proper culture if we can, without endeavouring to pull it up by the root. Were we deſtitute of this teſt of truth, I know not what might be the conſequen⯑ces: I ſee not what rule would be left us to prevent ſplendid trifles paſſing for matters of importance, ſhow and form for ſubſtance, and ſuperſtition or enthuſiaſm for pure reli⯑gion.
CHAP. XIII. WIT.
[58]WIT is a quality of certain thoughts and expreſſions. The term is never applied to an action or a paſſion, and as little to an external object.
However difficult it may be in every par⯑ticular inſtance 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 ex⯑preſſions as are ludicrous, and alſo occaſion ſome degree of ſurpriſe by their ſingularity. Wit alſo in a figurative ſenſe expreſſes that talent which ſome men have of inventing ludicrous thoughts or expreſſions. We ſay commonly, a witty man, or a man of wit.
Wit in its proper ſenſe, as ſuggeſted a⯑bove, is diſtinguiſhable into two kinds; wit in the thought, and wit in the words or ex⯑preſſion. Again, wit in the thought is of [59] 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 foun⯑dation in nature, are fabricated by the ima⯑gination. And the imagination is well qua⯑lified for the office; being of all our facul⯑ties the moſt active, and the leaſt under re⯑ſtraint. Take the following example.
You knew (none ſo well, none ſo well as you) of my daughter's flight.
That's certain; I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings ſhe flew withal.
The image here is undoubtedly witty. It is ludicrous: and it muſt occaſion ſurpriſe; for having no natural foundation, it is altoge⯑ther unexpected.
The other branch of wit in the thought, is that only which is taken notice of by Ad⯑diſon, following Locke, who defines it ‘"to lie in the aſſemblage of ideas; and put⯑ting thoſe together with quickneſs and variety, wherein can be found any reſem⯑blance [60] or congruity, thereby to make up pleaſant pictures and agreeable viſions in the fancy*."’ It may be defined more curtly, and perhaps more accurately, ‘"A junction of things by diſtant and fanciful relations, which ſurpriſe becauſe they are unexpected†."’ The following is a pro⯑per example.
Wit is of all the moſt elegant recreation. The image enters the mind with gaiety, and gives a ſudden flaſh which is extremely plea⯑ſant. Wit thereby gently elevates with⯑out ſtraining, raiſes mirth without diſſolute⯑neſs, and relaxes while it entertains.
Wit in the expreſſion, commonly called a play of words, being a baſtard ſort of wit, [61] is reſerved for the laſt place. I proceed to examples of wit in the thought. And firſt of ludicrous images.
Falſtaff, ſpeaking of his taking Sir John Colevile of the Dale:
Here he is, and here I yield him; and I be⯑ſeech 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, Colevile kiſſing my foot: to the which courſe if I be inforc'd, if you do not all ſhew like gilt twopences to me; and I, in the clear ſky of fame, o'er-ſhine you as much as the full moon doth the cinders of the element, which ſhew like pins' heads to her; believe not the word of the Noble. Therefore let me have right, and let deſert mount.
‘I knew, when ſeven juſtices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties were met them⯑ſelves, one of them thought but of an if; as, if you ſaid ſo, then I ſaid ſo; and they ſhook hands, and ſwore brothers. Your if is the only peace⯑maker; much virtue is in if. Shakeſpear.’ ‘[62] For there is not through all nature, another ſo callous and inſenſible a member as the world's poſteriors, whether you apply to it the toe or the birch. Preface to a Tale of a tub.’ ‘The war hath introduced abundance of polyſyl⯑lables, which will never be able to live many more campaigns. Speculations, operations, prelimina⯑ries, ambaſſadors, paliſadoes, communication, cir⯑cumvallation, battalions, as numerous as they are, if they attack us too frequently in our coffeehouſes, we ſhall certainly put them to flight, and cut off the rear. Tatler, No 230.’
Speaking of Diſcord, ‘"She never went abroad, but ſhe brought home ſuch a bundle of mon⯑ſtrous lies, as would have amazed any mor⯑tal, 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 reli⯑gion; of the Pope's being ſeen in a brandy-ſhop at Wapping,"’ &c.
The other branch of wit in the thought, viz. ludicrous combinations and oppoſitions, may be traced through various ramifica⯑tions. [63] And, firſt, fanciful cauſes aſſigned that have no natural relation to the effects produced.
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 over-cool 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 too, but for inflamma⯑tion. 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 vapours which en⯑viron it; makes it apprehenſive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable ſhapes; which deliver'd o'er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The ſecond pro⯑perty of your excellent ſherris, is, the warming of the blood; which before cold and ſettled, left the liver white and pale; which is the badge of pu⯑ſillanimity [64] and cowardice: but the ſherris warms it, and makes it courſe from the inwards, to the parts extreme; it illuminateth the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the reſt of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital com⯑moners 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 this valour 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 commences it, and ſets it in act and uſe. Hereof comes it, that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did natu⯑rally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, ſteril, and bare land, manured, huſbanded, and till'd, with excellent endeavour of drinking good and good ſtore of fertil ſherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thouſand ſons, the firſt human principle I would teach them, ſhould be to forſwear thin potations, and to addict themſelves to ſack.
Speaking of phyſicians, ‘Le bon de cette profeſſion eſt, qu'il y a parmi les morts une honnêteté, une diſcrétion la plus grande du monde; jamais on n'en voit ſe plaindre du médicin qui l'a tué. Le medicin malgré lui.’
Lard, he has ſo peſter'd me with flames and ſtuff—I think I ſhan't endure the ſight of a fire this twelvemonth.
To account for effects by ſuch fantaſtical cauſes, being highly ludicrous, is quite im⯑proper [66] in any ſerious compoſition. There⯑fore the following paſſage from Cowley, in his poem on the death of Sir Henry Wooton, is in a bad taſte.
Fanciful reaſoning,
Imbowell'd!—if thou imbowel me to day, I'll give you leave to powder me, and eat me to-morrow! 'Sblood, 'twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me ſcot and lot too. Counterfeit? I lie, I am no counterfeit; to die is to be a counterfeit; for he is but the counterfeit of a man, who hath not the life of a man: but to counterfeit dying, when a man there⯑by liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life, indeed.
And the more pity that great folk ſhould [67] have countenance in this world to drown or hang themſelves, more than their even Chriſtian.
Will you have me, Lady?
No, my Lord, unleſs I might have another for working days. Your Grace is too coſtly to wear every day.
I ſhall be ſaved by my huſband; he hath made me a Chriſtian.
Truly the more to blame he; we were Chriſtians enough before, e'en as many as could well live by one another: this making of Chriſtians will raiſe the price of hogs; if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we ſhall not have a raſher on the coals for money.
Ludicrous junction of ſmall things with great, as of equal importance.
Joining things that in appearance are op⯑poſite. As for example, where Sir Roger de Coverley, in the Spectator, ſpeaking of his widow, ‘"That he would have given her a coal-pit to have kept her in clean linen; and that her finger ſhould have ſparkled with one hundred of his richeſt acres."’
Premiſſes that promiſe much and per⯑form nothing. Cicero upon this article ſays, ‘[70] "Sed ſcitis eſſe notiſſimum ridiculi genus, cum aliud expectamus, aliud dicitur: hic nobiſmetipſis noſter error riſum mo⯑vet*."’
—With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his purſe, ſuch a man would win any woman in the world, if he could get her good-will.
I have a good eye, uncle, I can ſee a church by day-light.
Again,
Again,
Having diſcuſſed wit in the thought, we proceed to what is verbal only, commonly called a play of words. This ſort of wit de⯑pends for the moſt part upon chuſing words that have different ſignifications. By this 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 labour; and accordingly man loves play. He even reliſheth a play of [72] words; and it is happy for us, that words can be employed, not only for uſeful pur⯑poſes, but alſo for our amuſement. This amuſement accordingly, though humble and low, is reliſhed by ſome at all times, and by all at ſome times, in order to un⯑bend the mind.
It is remarkable, that this low ſpecies of wit, has, at one time or other, made a fi⯑gure in moſt civilized nations, and has gra⯑dually gone into diſrepute. So ſoon as a language is formed into a ſyſtem, and the meaning of words are aſcertained with tole⯑rable accuracy, opportunity is afforded for expreſſions, which, by the double meaning of ſome words, give a familiar thought the appearance of being new. And the pene⯑tration of the reader or hearer, is gratified in detecting the true ſenſe diſguiſed under the double meaning. That this ſort of wit was in England deemed a reputable amuſement, during the reigns of Eliſabeth and James I. is vouched by the works of Shakeſpear, and even by the writings of grave divines. But it cannot have any any long endurance: for as language ripens, and the meaning of [73] words is more and more aſcertained, words held to be ſynonymous diminiſh daily; and when thoſe that remain have been more than once employed, the pleaſure vaniſheth with the novelty.
I proceed to examples, which, as in the former caſe, ſhall be diſtributed into differ⯑ent claſſes.
A ſeeming reſemblance from the double meaning of a word.
A ſeeming contraſt from the ſame cauſe, termed a verbal antitheſis, which hath no deſpicable effect in ludicrous ſubjects.
[74] Other ſeeming connections from the ſame cauſe.
Speaking of Prince Eugene. ‘"This General is a great taker of ſnuff as well as of towns."’
‘Exul mentiſque domuſque. Metamorphoſes, lib. ix. 409.’
[75] A ſeeming inconſiſtency from the ſame cauſe. ‘Hic quieſcit qui nunquam quievit.’ Again,
Again,
Wit of this kind is unſuitable in a ſerious poem; witneſs the following line in Pope's [76] Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady:
This ſort of writing is finely burleſqued by Swift:
Taking a word in a different ſenſe from what is meant, comes under wit, becauſe it occaſions ſome ſlight degree of ſurpriſe.
I may ſit in a corner, and cry Heigh ho! for a huſband.
Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.
I would rather have one of your fa⯑ther's getting: hath your Grace ne'er a brother like you? Your father got excellent huſbands, if a maid could come by them.
My honeſt lads, I will tell you what I am about.
Two yards and more.
No quips now, Piſtol: indeed, I am [77] in the waſte two yards about; but I am now about no waſte; I am about thrift.
Was he mad, Sir?
An aſſertion that bears a double mean⯑ing, one right, one wrong; but ſo connect⯑ed with other matters as to direct us to the wrong meaning. This ſpecies of baſtard wit is diſtinguiſhed from all others by the name pun. For example,
[78] The pun is in the cloſe. The word diſarm has a double meaning. It ſignifies to take off a man's armour, 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.
N. B. Jocondus was a monk.
Well! the truth is, Sir John, you live in great infamy.
He that buckles him in my belt, can⯑not live in leſs.
Your means are very ſlender, and your waſte is great.
I would it were otherwiſe: I would my means were greater, and my waſte ſlenderer.
I pray you bear with me, I can go no further.
For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you: yet I ſhould bear no croſs if I did bear you; for I think you have no money in your purſe.
The ſeventh ſatire of the firſt book of Ho⯑race, is purpoſely contrived to introduce at the cloſe a moſt execrable pun. Talking of ſome infamous wretch whoſe name was Rex Rupilius.
Though playing with words is a mark of a mind at eaſe, and diſpoſed for any ſort of amuſement, we muſt not thence conclude that playing with words is always ludicrous. Words are ſo intimately connected with [80] thought, that if the ſubject be really grave, it will not appear ludicrous even in this fan⯑taſtic dreſs. I am, however, far from re⯑commending it in any ſerious performance. On the contrary, the diſcordance betwixt the thought and expreſſion muſt be diſagree⯑able; witneſs the following ſpecimen.
He hath abandoned his phyſicians, Madam, un⯑der whoſe practices he hath perſecuted time with hope: and finds no other advantage in the proceſs, but only the loſing of hope by time.
A ſmart repartee may be conſidered as a ſpecies of wit. A certain petulant Greek, objecting to Anacharſis that he was a Scy⯑thian: True, ſays Anacharſis, my country diſgraces me, but you diſgrace your coun⯑try.
CHAP. XIV. Cuſtom and Habit.
[81]INquiring into the nature of man as a ſenſitive being, and finding him af⯑fected in a high degree with novelty, would any one conjecture that he is equally affected with cuſtom? Yet theſe frequently take place, not only in the ſame perſon, but even with relation to the ſame ſubject: when new, it is inchanting; familiarity renders it indifferent; and cuſtom, after a longer familiarity, makes it again deſirable. Human nature, diverſified with many and various ſprings of action, is wonderfully, and, indulging the expreſſion, intricately conſtructed.
Cuſtom hath ſuch influence upon many of our feelings, by warping and varying them, that we muſt attend to its operations if we would be acquainted with human na⯑ture. [82] This ſubject, in itſelf obſcure, has been much neglected; and to give a com⯑plete analyſis of it will be no eaſy taſk. I pretend only to touch it curſorily; hoping, however, that what is here laid down, will diſpoſe more diligent inquirers to attempt further diſcoveries.
Cuſtom reſpects the action, habit the actor. By cuſtom we mean, a frequent re⯑iteration of the ſame act; and by habit, the effect that cuſtom has on the mind or body. This effect may be either active, witneſs the dexterity produced by cuſtom in performing certain exerciſes; or paſſive, as when, by cu⯑ſtom, a peculiar connection is formed betwixt a man and ſome agreeable object, which ac⯑quires thereby a greater power to raiſe emo⯑tions in him than it hath naturally. Active habits come not under the preſent underta⯑king; and therefore I confine myſelf to thoſe that are paſſive.
This ſubject is thorny and intricate. Some pleaſures are fortified by cuſtom; and yet cuſtom begets familiarity, and conſequently [83] indifference*. In many inſtances, ſatiety and diſguſt are the conſequences of reitera⯑tion. Again, though cuſtom blunts the edge of diſtreſs and of pain; yet the want of any thing to which we have long been ac⯑cuſtomed, is a ſort of torture. A clue to guide us through all the intricacies of this labyrinth, would be an acceptable preſent.
Whatever be the cauſe, it is an eſtabliſh⯑ed fact, that we are much influenced by cuſtom. It hath an effect upon our plea⯑ſures, upon our actions, and even upon our thoughts and ſentiments. Habit makes no figure during the vivacity of youth; in middle age it gains ground; and in old age it governs without control. In that period of life, generally ſpeaking, we eat at a cer⯑tain hour, take exerciſe at a certain hour, go to reſt at a certain hour, all by the direc⯑tion of habit. Nay a particular ſeat, table, bed, comes to be eſſential. And a habit in [84] any of theſe, cannot be contradicted without uneaſineſs.
Any ſlight or moderate pleaſure frequent⯑ly reiterated for a long time, forms a con⯑nection betwixt us and the thing that cauſes the pleaſure. This connection, termed ha⯑bit, has the effect to raiſe our deſire or ap⯑petite for that thing when it returns not as uſual. During the courſe of enjoyment, the pleaſure grows inſenſibly ſtronger till a habit be eſtabliſhed; at which time the pleaſure is at its height. It continues not however ſtationary. The ſame cuſtomary reiteration which carried it to its height, brings it down again by inſenſible degrees, even lower than it was at firſt. But of this circumſtance afterward. What at preſent we have in view, is to prove by experiments, that thoſe things which at firſt are but mo⯑derately agreeable, are the apteſt to be⯑come habitual. Spirituous liquors, at firſt ſcarce agreeable, readily produce an habi⯑tual appetite; and cuſtom prevails ſo far, as even to make us fond of things originally diſagreeable, ſuch as coffee, aſſa-foetida, and [85] tobacco. This is pleaſantly illuſtrated by Congreve:
For a paſſionate lover, methinks you are a man ſomewhat too diſcerning in the failings of your miſtreſs.
And for a diſcerning man, ſomewhat too paſſionate a lover; for I like her with all her faults; nay like her for her faults. Her follies are ſo natural, or ſo artful, that they become her; and thoſe affectations which in another woman would be odious, ſerve but to make her more agree⯑able. I'll tell thee, Fainall, ſhe once us'd me with that inſolence, that in revenge I took her to pieces, ſifted her, and ſeparated her failings; I ſtudy'd 'em, and got 'em by rote. The catalogue was ſo large, that I was not without hopes, one day or other, to hate her heartily: to which end I ſo us'd myſelf to think of 'em, that at length, con⯑trary to my deſign and expectation, they gave me every hour leſs and leſs diſturbance; till in a few days it became habitual to me, to remember 'em without being diſpleaſed. They are now grown as familiar to me as my own frailties; and in all probability, in a little time longer, I ſhall like 'em as well.
[86] A walk upon the quarterdeck, though in⯑tolerably confined, becomes however ſo a⯑greeable by cuſtom, that a ſailor in his walk on ſhore, confines himſelf commonly with⯑in 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 ar⯑tificial mount with a level ſummit, reſem⯑bling moſt accurately a quarterdeck, not only in ſhape but in ſize; and this was his choice walk. Play or gaming, at firſt bare⯑ly amuſing by the occupation it affords, be⯑comes in time extremely agreeable; and is frequently proſecuted with avidity, as if it were the chief buſineſs of life. The ſame obſervation is applicable to the pleaſures of the internal ſenſes, thoſe of knowledge and virtue in particular. Children have ſcarce any ſenſe of theſe pleaſures; and men very little, who are in the ſtate of nature without culture. Our taſte for virtue and know⯑ledge improves ſlowly; but is capable of growing ſtronger than any other appetite in human nature.
To introduce a habit, frequency of acts is not alone ſufficient: length of time is al⯑ſo [87] neceſſary. The quickeſt ſucceſſion of acts in a ſhort time, is not ſufficient; nor a ſlow ſucceſſion in the longeſt time. The effect muſt be produced by a moderate ſoft action, and a long ſeries of eaſy touches removed from each other by ſhort intervals. Nor are theſe ſufficient, without regularity in the time, place, and other circumſtances of the action. The more uniform any operation is, the ſooner it becomes habitual; and this holds equally in a paſſive habit. Variety in any remarkable degree, prevents the effect. Thus any particular food will ſcarce ever become habitual, where the manner of dreſſing is varied. The circumſtances then requiſite to augment any 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. Eve⯑ry agreeable cauſe which operates in this manner, will grow habitual.
Affection and averſion, as diſtinguiſhed from paſſion on the one hand, and on the other from original diſpoſition, are in rea⯑lity habits reſpecting particular objects, ac⯑quired in the manner above ſet forth. The [88] pleaſure of ſocial intercourſe with any per⯑ſon, muſt originally be faint, and frequently reiterated, in order to eſtabliſh the habit of affection. Affection thus generated, whe⯑ther it be friendſhip or love, ſeldom ſwells into any tumultuous or vigorous paſ⯑ſion; but is however the ſtrongeſt cement that can bind together two individuals of the human ſpecies. In like manner, a ſlight degree of diſguſt often reiterated with any degree of regularity, grows into the habit of averſion, which generally ſubſiſts for life.
Thoſe objects of taſte that are the moſt agreeable, are ſo far from having a tenden⯑cy to become habitual, that too great in⯑dulgence fails not to produce ſatiety and diſguſt. No man contracts a habit of ta⯑king ſugar, honey, or ſweet-meats, as he doth of tobacco:
The ſame holds in the cauſes of all violent pleaſures: theſe cauſes are not naturally ſuſceptible of habit. Great paſſions ſud⯑denly raiſed are incompatible with a habit of any ſort. In particular they never pro⯑duce affection or averſion. A man who at firſt ſight falls violently in love, has a ſtrong deſire of enjoyment, but no affection for the woman*. A man who is ſurpriſed [90] with an unexpected favour, burns for an opportunity to exert his gratitude, without having any affection for his benefactor. Neither does deſire of vengeance for an a⯑trocious injury involve averſion.
It is perhaps not eaſy to ſay why mode⯑rate pleaſures gather ſtrength by cuſtom. But two cauſes concur to prevent this effect [91] in the more intenſe pleaſures. Theſe, by an original law in our nature, increaſe quickly to their full growth, and decay with no leſs precipitation*; and cuſtom is too ſlow in its operation to overcome this law. Another cauſe is not leſs powerful. The mind is exhauſted with pleaſure as well as with pain. Exquiſite pleaſure is ex⯑tremely fatiguing; occaſioning, as a natu⯑raliſt would ſay, great expence of animal ſpirits†. And therefore, of ſuch the mind cannot bear ſo frequent gratification as to ſuperinduce a habit. If the thing which raiſes the pleaſure return before the mind have recovered its tone and reliſh, diſguſt enſues inſtead of pleaſure.
A habit never fails to admoniſh us of the wonted time of gratification, 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 [92] preſenting the object, both vaniſh inſtan⯑taneouſly. Thus a man accuſtomed to to⯑bacco, feels, at the end of the uſual inter⯑val, a confuſed pain of want, which in its firſt appearance points at nothing in parti⯑cular, though it ſoon ſettles upon its accu⯑ſtomed object. The ſame may be obſerved in perſons addicted to drinking, who are often in an uneaſy reſtleſs ſtate before they think of their bottle. In pleaſures indul⯑ged regularly and at equal intervals, the appetite, remarkably obſequious to cuſtom, returns regularly with the uſual time of gra⯑tification; and a ſight of the object in the interim, has ſcarce any power to move it. This pain of want ariſing from habit, ſeems directly oppoſite to that of ſatiety. Singular it muſt appear, that frequency of gratifica⯑tion ſhould produce effects ſo oppoſite as are the pains of exceſs and of want.
The appetites that reſpect the preſerva⯑tion and propagation of our ſpecies, are at⯑tended with a pain of want ſimilar to that occaſioned by habit. Hunger and thirſt are uneaſy ſenſations of want, which al⯑ways precede the deſire of eating or drink⯑ing: [93] and a pain for want of carnal enjoy⯑ment precedes the deſire of a proper object. The pain being thus felt independent of an object, cannot be cured but by gratifi⯑cation. An ordinary paſſion, in which de⯑ſire precedes the pain of want, is in a differ⯑ent condition. It is never felt but while the object is in view; and therefore by remo⯑ving the object out of thought, it vaniſheth with its deſire and pain of want*.
Theſe natural appetites above mentioned, differ from habit in the following particular, They have an undetermined direction to⯑ward all objects of gratification in general; whereas an habitual appetite is directed upon a particular object. The attachment we have by habit to a particular woman, differs widely from the natural paſſion which comprehends the whole ſex; and the habitual reliſh for a particular diſh, is far from being the ſame with a vague appetite for food. Notwithſtanding this difference, it is ſtill remarkable, that nature hath in⯑forced the gratification of certain natural [94] appetites eſſential to the ſpecies, by a pain of the ſame ſort with that which habit produ⯑ceth.
The pain of habit is leſs under our power, than any other pain for want of gratification. Hunger and thirſt are more eaſily endured, eſpecially at firſt, than an unuſual intermiſ⯑ſion of any habitual pleaſure. We often hear perſons declaring, they would forego ſleep or food, rather than ſnuff or any other habitual trifle. We muſt not however con⯑clude, 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 this means a habit of intemperate gratification is often formed. After unbounded acts of in⯑temperance, the habitual reliſh is ſoon reſto⯑red, and the pain for want of enjoyment re⯑turns with freſh vigor.
The cauſes of the pleaſant emotions hi⯑therto in view, are either an individual, ſuch [95] as a companion, a certain dwelling-place, certain amuſements, &c.; or a particular ſpecies, ſuch as coffee, mutton, or any par⯑ticular food. But habit is not confined to theſe. A conſtant train of trifling diver⯑ſions, may form ſuch a habit in the mind, as that it cannot be eaſy a moment without amuſement. Variety in the objects prevents a habit as to any one in particular; but as the train is uniform with reſpect to amuſe⯑ment in general, the habit is formed accor⯑dingly; and this ſort of habit may be deno⯑minated a generic habit, in oppoſition to the former, which may be called a ſpecific habit. A habit of a town-life, of country-ſports, of ſolitude, of reading, or of buſineſs, where ſufficiently varied, are inſtances of generic habits. It ought to be remarked, that eve⯑ry ſpecific habit hath a mixture of the ge⯑neric. The habit of one particular ſort of food, makes the taſte agreeable; and we are fond of this taſte where-ever found. 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. The habit of drinking punch, [96] makes wine a good reſource. A man ac⯑cuſtomed to the ſweet ſociety and comforts of matrimony, being unhappily deprived of his beloved object, inclines the ſooner to a ſecond choice. In general, the quality which the moſt affects us in an habitual ob⯑ject, produceth, when we are deprived of it, a ſtrong appetite for that quality in any other object.
The reaſons are aſſigned above, why the cauſes of intenſe pleaſure become not readi⯑ly habitual. But now I muſt obſerve, that theſe reaſons conclude only againſt ſpecific habits. With regard to any particular ob⯑ject that is the cauſe of a weak pleaſure, a habit is formed by frequency and uniformi⯑ty of reiteration, which in the caſe of an in⯑tenſe pleaſure cannot obtain without ſatiety and diſguſt. But it is remarkable, that ſa⯑tiety and diſguſt have no effect, except as to that thing which occaſions them. A ſur⯑feit of honey produceth not a loathing of ſu⯑gar; and intemperance with one woman, produceth no diſreliſh of the ſame pleaſure with others. Hence it is eaſy to account for a generic habit in any ſtrong pleaſure. [97] The diſguſt of intemperance, is confined to the object by which it is produced. The delight we had in the gratification of the ap⯑petite, inflames the imagination, and makes us, with avidity, ſearch for the ſame gratifi⯑cation in whatever other object it can be found. And thus frequency and uniformi⯑ty in gratifying the ſame paſſion upon dif⯑ferent objects, produceth at the longrun a habit. In this manner, a man acquires an habitual delight in high and poignant ſauces, rich dreſs, fine equipage, crowds of compa⯑ny, and in whatever is commonly termed pleaſure. There concurs at the ſame time to introduce this habit, a peculiarity obſer⯑ved above, that reiteration of acts enlarges the capacity of the mind, to admit a more plentiful gratification than originally, with regard to frequency as well as quantity.
Hence it appears, that though a ſpecific habit can only take place in the caſe of a moderate pleaſure, yet that a generic habit may be formed with reſpect to every ſort of pleaſure, moderate or immoderate, that can be gratified by a variety of objects indiffer⯑ently. The only difference is, that any par⯑ticular [98] object which cauſes a weak pleaſure, runs naturally into a ſpecific habit; whereas a particular object that cauſes an intenſe pleaſure, is altogether incapable of ſuch a habit. In a word, it is but in ſingular caſes that a moderate pleaſure produces a generic habit: an intenſe pleaſure, on the other hand, cannot produce any other habit.
The appetites that reſpect the preſervation and propagation of the ſpecies, are formed into habit in a peculiar manner. The time as well as meaſure of their gratification, are much under the power of cuſtom; which, by introducing a change upon the body, oc⯑caſions a proportional change in the appe⯑tites. Thus, if the body be gradually form⯑ed to a certain quantity of food at regu⯑lar times, the appetite is regulated accor⯑dingly; and the appetite is again changed when a different habit of body is introdu⯑ced by a different practice. Here it would ſeem, that the change is not made upon the mind, which is commonly the caſe in paſſive habits, but only upon the body.
When rich food is brought down by in⯑gredients of a plainer taſte, the compoſition [99] is ſuſceptible of a ſpecific habit. Thus the ſweet taſte of ſugar, rendered leſs poignant in a mixture, may, in courſe of time, pro⯑duce a ſpecific habit for ſuch mixture. As moderate pleaſures, by becoming more in⯑tenſe, tend to generic habits; ſo intenſe pleaſures, by becoming more moderate, tend to ſpecific habits.
The beauty of the human figure, by a ſpecial recommendation of nature, appears to us ſupreme, amid the great variety of beauteous forms beſtowed upon animals. The various degrees in which individuals enjoy this property, render it an object ſometimes of a moderate ſometimes of an intenſe paſſion. The moderate paſſion, admitting frequent reiteration without dimi⯑nution, and occupying the mind without exhauſting it, becomes gradually ſtronger till it ſettle in a habit. So true this is, that inſtances are not wanting, of an ugly face, at firſt diſagreeable, afterward rendered in⯑different by familiarity, and at the longrun agreeable. On the other hand, conſum⯑mate beauty, at the very firſt view, fills the mind ſo as to admit no increaſe. En⯑joyment [100] in this caſe leſſens the pleaſure*; and if often repeated, ends commonly in ſatiety and diſguſt. Conſtant experi⯑ence ſhows, that the emotions created by great beauty become weaker by fami⯑liarity. The impreſſions made ſucceſ⯑ſively by ſuch an object, ſtrong at firſt and leſſening by degrees, conſtitute a ſeries oppoſite to that of the weak and increaſing emotions, which grow into a ſpecific habit. But the mind, when accuſtomed to beauty, contracts a reliſh for it in general, though often repelled from particular objects by the pain of ſatiety. Thus a generic habit is formed, of which inconſtancy in love is the neceſſary conſequence. For a generic habit, comprehending every beautiful object, is an invincible obſtruction to a ſpecific habit, which is confined to one.
But a matter which is of great import⯑ance to the youth of both ſexes, deſerves more than a curſory view. Though the pleaſant emotion of beauty differs widely from the corporeal appetite, yet both may [101] concur upon the ſame object. When this is the caſe, they inflame the imagination; and produce a very ſtrong complex paſ⯑ſion*, which is incapable of increaſe, be⯑cauſe the mind as to pleaſure is limited ra⯑ther more than as to pain. Enjoyment in this caſe muſt be exquiſite, and therefore more apt to produce ſatiety than in any o⯑ther caſe whatever. This is a never-failing effect, where conſummate beauty on the one ſide, meets with a warm imagination and great ſenſibility on the other. What I am here explaining, is the naked truth without exaggeration. They muſt be in⯑ſenſible upon whom this doctrine makes no impreſſion; and it deſerves well to be pon⯑dered by the young and the amorous, who in forming a ſociety which is not diſſolvable, are too often blindly impelled by the ani⯑mal pleaſure merely, inflamed by beauty. It may indeed happen after this pleaſure is gone, and go it muſt with a ſwift pace, that a new connection is formed upon more dignified and more laſting principles. But [102] this is a dangerous experiment. For even ſuppoſing good ſenſe, good temper, and in⯑ternal merit of every ſort, which is a very favourable ſuppoſition, yet a new connection upon theſe qualifications is rarely formed. It generally or rather always happens, that ſuch qualifications, the only ſolid foundation of an indiſſoluble connection, are rendered altogether inviſible by ſatiety of enjoyment creating diſguſt.
One effect of cuſtom, different from any that have been explained, muſt not be o⯑mitted, becauſe it makes a great figure in human nature. Cuſtom augments mode⯑rate pleaſures, and diminiſhes thoſe that are intenſe. It has a different effect with re⯑ſpect to pain; for it blunts the edge of every ſort of pain and diſtreſs great and ſmall. Uninterrupted miſery therefore is attended with one good effect. If its tor⯑ments be inceſſant, cuſtom hardens us to bear them.
It is extremely curious, to remark the gradual changes that are made in forming habits. Moderate pleaſures are augmented gradually by reiteration till they become [103] habitual; and then are at their height. But they are not long ſtationary; for from that point they gradually decay till they vaniſh altogether. The pain occaſioned by the want of gratification, runs a very differ⯑ent courſe. This pain increaſes uniformly; and at laſt becomes extreme, when the pleaſure of gratification is reduced to nothing.
The effect of cuſtom with relation to a ſpe⯑cific habit, is diſplayed through all its varie⯑ties in the uſe of tobacco. The taſte of this plant is at firſt extremely unpleaſant. Our diſguſt leſſens gradually till it vaniſh al⯑together; at which period the plant is nei⯑ther agreeable nor diſagreeable. Continu⯑ing the uſe, we begin to reliſh it; and our reliſh increaſes by uſe till it come to its ut⯑moſt extent. From this ſtate it gradually decays, while the habit becomes ſtronger [104] and ſtronger, and conſequently the pain of want. The reſult is, that when the habit has acquired its greateſt vigor, the pleaſure of gratification is gone. And hence it is, that we often ſmoke and take ſnuff habi⯑tually, without ſo much as being conſcious of the operation. We muſt except gratifi⯑cation after the pain of want; becauſe gra⯑tification in that caſe is at the height when the habit is ſtrongeſt. It is of the ſame kind with the joy one feels upon being de⯑livered from the rack, the cauſe of which is explained above*. This pleaſure however is but occaſionally the effect of habit; and however exquiſite, is guarded againſt as much as poſſible, by preventing want.
With regard to the pain of want, I can diſcover no difference betwixt a generic and ſpecific habit: the pain is the ſame in both. 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 become imperceptible. Not ſo the pleaſure of a ge⯑neric [105] habit. So far as I can diſcover, this pleaſure ſuffers little or no decay after it comes to its height. The variety of gratifi⯑cation preſerves it entire. However it may be with other generic habits, the obſerva⯑tion I am certain holds with reſpect to the pleaſures of virtue and of knowledge. The pleaſure of doing good has ſuch an un⯑bounded ſcope, and may be ſo variouſly gratified, that it can never decay. Science is equally unbounded; and our appetite for knowledge has an ample range of gratifica⯑tion, where diſcoveries are recommended by novelty, by variety, by utility, or by all of them.
Here is a large field of facts and experi⯑ments, and ſeveral phenomena unfolded, the cauſes of which have been occaſionally ſuggeſted. The efficient cauſe of the power of cuſtom over man, a fundamental point in the preſent chapter, has unhappily evaded my keeneſt ſearch; and now I am reduced to hold it an original branch of the human conſtitution, though I have no better reaſon for my opinion, than that I cannot reſolve it into any other principle. But with reſpect [106] to the final cauſe, a point of ſtill greater im⯑portance, I promiſe myſelf more ſucceſs. It cannot indeed have eſcaped any thinking perſon, that the power of cuſtom is a happy contrivance for our good. Exquiſite plea⯑ſure produceth ſatiety: moderate pleaſure becomes ſtronger by cuſtom. Buſineſs is our province, and pleaſure our relaxation only. Hence, ſatiety is neceſſary to check exquiſite pleaſures, which otherwiſe would ingroſs the mind, and unqualify us for bu⯑ſineſs. On the other hand, habitual increaſe of moderate pleaſure, and even converſion of pain into pleaſure, are admirably contri⯑ved for diſappointing the malice of Fortune, and for reconciling us to whatever courſe of life may be our lot:
The foregoing diſtinction betwixt intenſe [107] and moderate, holds in pleaſure only, not in pain, every degree of which is ſoftened by time and cuſtom. Cuſtom is a catholi⯑con for pain and diſtreſs of every ſort; and of this regulation the final cauſe is ſo evi⯑dent as to require no illuſtration.
Another final cauſe of cuſtom will be highly reliſhed by every perſon of humani⯑ty; and yet has in a great meaſure been o⯑verlooked. Cuſtom hath a greater influ⯑ence than any other known principle, to put the rich and poor upon a level. Weak pleaſures, which fall to the ſhare of the lat⯑ter, become fortunately ſtronger by cuſtom; while voluptuous pleaſures, the lot of the former, are continually loſing ground by ſatiety. Men of fortune, who poſſeſs pala⯑ces, ſumptuous gardens, rich fields, enjoy them leſs than paſſengers 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 de⯑gree while there is little pleaſure in enjoy⯑ment, a voluptuous life is of all the leaſt to be envied. Thoſe who are accuſtomed [108] to high feeding, eaſy vehicles, rich furni⯑ture, a crowd of valets, much deference and flattery, enjoy but a ſmall ſhare of happi⯑neſs, while they are expoſed to manifold diſtreſſes. To ſuch a man, inſlaved by eaſe and luxury, even the petty inconveniencies of a rough road, bad weather, or homely fare on a journey, are ſerious evils. He loſes his tone of mind, becomes peeviſh, and would wreak his reſentment even upon the common accidents of life. Better far to uſe the goods of Fortune with moderation. A man who by temperance and activity has acquired a hardy conſtitution, is, on the one hand, guarded againſt external accidents, and is, on the other, provided with great variety of enjoyment ever at command.
I ſhall cloſe this chapter with the diſcuſ⯑ſion of a queſtion more delicate than ab⯑ſtruſe, viz. What authority cuſtom ought to have over our taſte in the fine arts? It is proper to be premiſed, that we chearfully abandon to its authority every thing that na⯑ture leaves to our choice, and where the preference we beſtow has no foundation o⯑ther than whim or fancy. There appears [109] no original difference betwixt the right and the left hand: cuſtom however has eſta⯑bliſhed a difference, ſo as to make it auk⯑ward and diſagreeable to uſe the left where the right is commonly uſed. The various colours, though they affect us differently, are all of them agreeable in their purity, But cuſtom has regulated this matter in an⯑other manner: a black ſkin upon a human creature, is to us diſagreeable; and a white ſkin probably not leſs ſo to a negro. Thus things originally indifferent, become agree⯑able or diſagreeable by the force of cuſtom. Nor ought this to be ſurpriſing after the diſ⯑covery made above, that the original agree⯑ableneſs or diſagreeableneſs of an object, is, by the influence of cuſtom, often converted into the oppoſite quality.
Concerning now thoſe matters of taſte where there is naturally a preference 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 mea⯑ſure under the government of cuſtom. [110] Dreſs, and the modes of external behaviour, are juſtly regulated by cuſtom in every country. 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 this practice, conſi⯑dering the lawful authority of cuſtom, or of the faſhion, as it is called. It is told of the people who inhabit the ſkirts of the Alps facing the north, that the ſwelling they univerſally have in the neck is to them agreeable. So far has cuſtom power to change the nature of things, and to make an object originally diſagreeable take on an oppoſite appearance.
But as to the emotions of propriety and impropriety, and in general as to all emo⯑tions involving the ſenſe of right or wrong, cuſtom has little authority, and ought to have none at all. Emotions of this kind, be⯑ing qualified with the conſciouſneſs of duty, take naturally place of every other feeling; and it argues a ſhameful weakneſs or dege⯑neracy of mind, to find them in any caſe ſo far ſubdued as to ſubmit to cuſtom.
[111] Theſe few hints may enable us to judge in ſome meaſure of foreign manners, whe⯑ther exhibited by foreign writers or our own. A compariſon betwixt the ancients and the moderns, was ſome time ago a favourite ſubject. Thoſe who declared for the for⯑mer, thought it a ſufficient juſtification of ancient manners, that they were ſupported by the authority of cuſtom. Their antago⯑niſts, on the other hand, refuſing ſubmiſ⯑ſion to cuſtom as a ſtandard of taſte, con⯑demned ancient manners in ſeveral inſtances as irrational. In this controverſy, an appeal being made to different principles, without the ſlighteſt attempt on either ſide to eſta⯑bliſh a common ſtandard, the diſpute could have no end. The hints above given tend to eſtabliſh a ſtandard, for judging how far the lawful authority of cuſtom may be ex⯑tended, and within what limits it ought to be confined. For the ſake of illuſtration, we ſhall apply this ſtandard in a few inſtan⯑ces.
Human ſacrifices, the cruelleſt effect of blind and groveling ſuperſtition, wore gra⯑dually out of uſe by the prevalence of rea⯑ſon [112] and humanity. In the days of Sopho⯑cles and Euripides, the traces of this ſavage practice were ſtill recent; and the Athe⯑nians, through the prevalence of cuſtom, could without diſguſt ſuffer human ſacrifices to be repreſented in their theatre. The I⯑phigenia of Euripides is a proof of this fact. But a human ſacrifice, being altoge⯑ther inconſiſtent with modern manners, as producing horror inſtead of pity, cannot with any propriety be introduced upon a modern ſtage. I muſt therefore condemn the Iphigenia of Racine, which, inſtead of the tender and ſympathetic paſſions, ſubſti⯑tutes diſguſt and horror. But this is not all. Another objection occurs againſt every fable that deviates ſo remarkably from improved notions and ſentiments. If it ſhould even command our belief, by the authority of genuine hiſtory, its fictitious and unnatural appearance, however, would prevent its ta⯑king ſuch hold of the mind as to produce a perception of reality*. A human ſacrifice is ſo unnatural, and to us ſo improbable, [113] that few will be affected with the repreſen⯑tation of it more than with a fairy tale. The objection firſt mentioned ſtrikes alſo againſt the Phedra of this author. The queen's paſſion for her ſtepſon, being unnatural and beyond all bounds, creates averſion and hor⯑ror rather than compaſſion. The author in his preface obſerves, that the queen's paſ⯑ſion, however unnatural, was the effect of deſtiny and the wrath of the gods; and he puts the ſame excuſe in her own mouth. But what is the wrath of a heathen god to us Chriſtians? We acknowledge no deſti⯑ny in paſſion; and if love be unnatural, it never can be reliſhed. A ſuppoſition, like what our author lays hold of, may poſſibly cover ſlight improprieties; but it will ne⯑ver engage our ſympathy for what appears to us frantic or extravagant.
Neither can I reliſh the cataſtrophe of this tragedy. A man of taſte may peruſe, without diſguſt, a Grecian performance deſcribing a ſea-monſter ſent by Neptune to deſtroy Hippolytus. He conſiders, that ſuch a ſto⯑ry might agree with the religious creed of Greece; and, entering into ancient opi⯑nions, [114] may be pleaſed with the ſtory, as what probably had a ſtrong effect upon a Grecian audience. But he cannot have the ſame indulgence for ſuch a repreſentation upon a modern ſtage; for no ſtory which carries a violent air of fiction, can ever move us in any conſiderable degree.
In the Coëphores of Eſchylus*, Oreſtes is made to ſay, that he was commanded by Apollo to avenge his father's murder; and yet if he obeyed, that he was to be deli⯑vered to the furies, or be ſtruck with ſome horrible malady. The tragedy according⯑ly concludes with a chorus, deploring the fate of Oreſtes, obliged to take vengeance againſt a mother, and involved thereby in a crime againſt his will. It is impoſſible for any man at preſent to accommodate his mind to opinions ſo irrational and abſurd, which muſt diſguſt him in peruſing even a Grecian ſtory. Among the Greeks again, groſsly ſuperſtitious, it was a common opi⯑nion, that the report of a man's death was a preſage of his death; and Oreſtes, in [115] the firſt act of Electra, ſpreading a report of his own death in order to blind his mo⯑ther and her adulterer, is even in this caſe affected with the preſage. Such im⯑becility can never find grace with a modern audience. It may indeed produce ſome degree of compaſſion for a people afflicted to ſuch a degree with abſurd terrors, ſimilar to what is felt in peruſing a deſcription of the Hottentotes: but manners of this kind will not intereſt our affections, nor excite any degree of ſocial concern.
CHAP. XV. External Signs of Emotions and Paſſions.
[116]SO intimately connected are the ſoul and body, that there is not a ſingle agitation in the former, but what produceth a viſible effect upon the latter. There is, at the ſame time, a wonderful uniformity in this operation; each claſs of emotions being invariably attended with an external appearance peculiar to itſelf*. Theſe external appearances or ſigns, may not improperly be conſidered as a natural language, expreſſing to all beholders the ſeveral emotions and paſſions as they ariſe in the heart. We perceive diſplay'd ex⯑ternally, hope, fear, joy, grief: we can read the character of a man in his face; and [117] beauty, which makes ſo ſtrong an impreſ⯑ſion, is known to reſult, not ſo much from regular features and a fine complexion, as from good nature, good ſenſe, ſprightlineſs, ſweetneſs, or other mental quality, ex⯑preſſed ſome way upon the countenance. Though perfect ſkill in this language be rare, yet ſo much knowledge of it is diffuſed through mankind, as to be ſufficient for the ordinary events of life. But by what means we come to underſtand this language, is a point of ſome intricacy. It cannot be by ſight merely; for upon the moſt atten⯑tive inſpection of the human viſage, all that can be diſcerned are figure, colour, and motion; and yet theſe, ſingly or com⯑bined, never can repreſent a paſſion or a ſentiment. The external ſign is indeed vi⯑ſible. But to underſtand its meaning, we muſt be able to connect it with the paſſion that cauſes it; an operation far beyond the reach of eye-ſight. Where then is the in⯑ſtructor to be found, that can unvail this ſecret connection? If we apply to expe⯑rience, it is yielded, that from long and di⯑ligent obſervation, we may gather in ſome [118] meaſure in what manner thoſe we are ac⯑quainted with expreſs their paſſions exter⯑nally. But with reſpect to ſtrangers, of whom we have no experience, 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-com⯑panion*. Further, had we no other means but experience for underſtanding the exter⯑nal ſigns of paſſion, we could not expect any uniformity or any degree of ſkill in the bulk of individuals. But matters are ordered ſo differently, that the external ex⯑preſſions of paſſion form a language under⯑ſtood by all, by the young as well as the old, by the ignorant as well as the learned. I talk of the plain and legible characters of this language; for undoubtedly we are much indebted to experience in decipher⯑ing the dark and more delicate expreſſions. Where then ſhall we apply for a ſolution of this intricate problem, which ſeems to penetrate deep into human nature? In my [119] mind it will be convenient to ſuſpend the inquiry, till we be better acquainted with the nature of external ſigns and with their operations. Theſe articles therefore ſhall be premiſed.
The external ſigns of paſſion are of two kinds, voluntary and involuntary. The voluntary ſigns are alſo of two kinds: ſome are arbitrary and ſome natural. Words are arbitrary ſigns, excepting a few ſimple ſounds expreſſive of certain internal emo⯑tions; and theſe ſounds, being the ſame in all languages, muſt be the work of nature. But though words are arbitrary, the manner of employing them is not altogether ſo; for each paſſion has by nature peculiar ex⯑preſſions and tones ſuited to it. Thus the unpremeditated tones of admiration, are the ſame in all men; as alſo of compaſſion, reſentment, and deſpair. Dramatic wri⯑ters ought to be well acquainted with this natural manner of expreſſing paſſion. The chief talent of a fine writer, is a ready com⯑mand of the expreſſions that nature dic⯑tates to every man when any vivid emotion ſtruggles for utterance; and the chief ta⯑lent [120] of a fine reader, is a ready command of the tones ſuited to theſe expreſſions.
The other kind of voluntary ſigns, com⯑prehends certain attitudes and geſtures that naturally accompany certain emo⯑tions with a ſurpriſing uniformity. Thus exceſſive joy is expreſſed by leaping, dan⯑cing, or ſome elevation of the body; and exceſſive grief by ſinking or depreſſing it. Thus proſtration and kneeling have been employ'd by all nations and in all ages to ſignify profound veneration. Another cir⯑cumſtance, ſtill more than uniformity, de monſtrates theſe geſtures to be natural, viz. their remarkable conformity or reſemblance to the paſſions that produce them*. Joy, which produceth a chearful elevation of mind, is expreſſed by an elevation of body. Pride, magnanimity, courage, and the whole tribe of elevating paſſions, are expreſſed by external geſtures that are the ſame as to the circumſtance of elevation, however diſtinguiſhable in other reſpects. Hence it comes, that an erect poſture is a ſign or expreſſion of dignity:
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. Hence, to be caſt down, is a common phraſe, ſigni⯑fying to be grieved or diſpirited.
One would not imagine, who has not given peculiar attention, that the body is ſuſceptible of ſuch a variety of attitude and motion, as readily to accompany every dif⯑ferent emotion with a correſponding geſture. Humility, for example, is expreſſed natu⯑rally by hanging the head; arrogance, by its elevation; and langour or deſpondence, by reclining it to one ſide. The expreſſions of the hands are manifold. By different at⯑titudes and motions, the hands expreſs de⯑ſire, hope, fear: they aſſiſt us in promi⯑ſing, in inviting, in keeping one at a di⯑ſtance: they are made inſtruments of threat⯑ening, of ſupplication, of praiſe, and of [122] horror: they are employ'd in approving, in refuſing, in queſtioning; in ſhowing our joy, our ſorrow, our doubts, our regret, our admiration. Theſe geſtures, ſo obe⯑dient to paſſion, are extremely difficult to be imitated in a calm ſtate. The ancients, ſenſible of the advantage as well as difficul⯑ty 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 an important branch of education.
The foregoing ſigns, though in a ſtrict ſenſe voluntary, cannot however be re⯑ſtrained but with the utmoſt difficulty when they are prompted by paſſion. Of this we ſcarce need a ſtronger proof, than the geſtures of a keen player at bowls. Obſerve only how he wreaths 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 [123] paſſion, it is true, when in extreme, is ſi⯑lent*; but when leſs violent, it muſt be vented in words, which have a peculiar force, not to be equalled in a ſedate com⯑poſition. The eaſe and truſt we have in a confident, encourages us no doubt to talk of ourſelves and of our feelings. But the cauſe is more general; for it operates when we are alone as well as in company. Paſſion is the cauſe; for in many inſtances it is no ſlight gratification to vent a paſſion ex⯑ternally 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 where there is none to liſten. It is this cir⯑cumſtance in paſſion, that juſtifies ſolilo⯑quies; and it is this circumſtance that proves them to be natural†. The mind [124] ſometimes favours this impulſe of paſſion, by beſtowing a temporary ſenſibility upon any object at hand, in order to make it a confident. Thus in the Winter's Tale *, Antigonus addreſſes himſelf to an infant whom he was ordered to expoſe:
[125] The involuntary ſigns, which are all of them natural, are either peculiar to one paſ⯑ſion or common to many. Every violent paſſion hath an external expreſſion peculiar to itſelf, not excepting pleaſant paſſions: witneſs admiration and mirth. The plea⯑ſant 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 chearful or contented look; and we can make no more of it. Painful paſſions, being all of them violent, are diſtinguiſhable from each other by their external expreſſions. Thus fear, ſhame, anger, anxiety, dejection, deſpair, have each of them peculiar expreſſions; which are apprehended without the leaſt confuſion. Some of theſe paſſions produce violent effects upon the body, ſuch as trem⯑bling, ſtarting, and ſwooning. But theſe effects, depending in a good meaſure upon ſingularity of conſtitution, are not uniform in all men.
The involuntary ſigns, ſuch of them as are diſplay'd upon the countenance, are of two kinds. Some make their appearance [126] occaſionally with the emotions that produce them, and vaniſh with the emotions: o⯑thers are formed gradually by ſome violent paſſion often recurring; and, becoming per⯑manent ſigns of this prevailing paſſion, ſerve to denote the diſpoſition or temper. The face of an infant indicates no particular diſ⯑poſition, becauſe it cannot be marked with any character to which time is neceſſary. And even the temporary ſigns are extremely aukward, being the firſt rude eſſays of Na⯑ture to diſcover internal feelings. Thus the ſhrieking of a new-born infant, with⯑out tears or ſobbings, is plainly an at⯑tempt to weep. Some of the temporary ſigns, as ſmiling and frowning, cannot be obſerved for ſome months after birth. The permanent ſigns, formed in youth while the body is ſoft and flexible, are preſerved entire by the firmneſs and ſolidity which the body acquires; and are never oblitera⯑ted even by a change of temper. Perma⯑nent ſigns are not produced after a certain age when the fibres become rigid; ſome violent caſes excepted, ſuch as reiterated fits of the gout or ſtone through a courſe of [127] 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.
The natural ſigns of emotions, voluntary and involuntary, being nearly the ſame in all men, form an univerſal language, which no diſtance of place, no difference of tribe, no diverſity of tongue, can darken or ren⯑der doubtful. Education, though of migh⯑ty influence, hath not power to vary or ſo⯑phiſticate, far leſs to deſtroy, their ſignifica⯑tion. This is a wiſe appointment of Provi⯑dence. For if theſe ſigns were, like words, arbitrary and variable, it would be an intri⯑cate ſcience to decipher the actions and mo⯑tives of our own ſpecies, which would prove a great or rather invincible obſtruction to the formation of ſocieties. But as matters are ordered, the external appearances of joy, grief, anger, fear, ſhame, and of the other paſſions, forming an univerſal lan⯑guage, 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 for the [128] natural ſigns in which all agree. Words are ſufficient for the communication of ſci⯑ence, and of all mental conceptions: but the diſcovering paſſions inſtantly as they a⯑riſe, being eſſential to our well-being and often neceſſary for ſelf-preſervation, the au⯑thor of our nature, attentive to our wants, hath provided a paſſage to the heart, which never can be obſtructed while our external ſenſes remain entire.
In an inquiry concerning the external ſigns of paſſion, actions ought not altogether to be overlooked: for though ſingly they af⯑ford no clear light, they are upon the whole the beſt interpreters of the heart*. By ob⯑ſerving [129] a man's conduct for a courſe of time, we diſcover unerringly the various paſſions that move him to action, what he loves and what he hates. In our younger years, eve⯑ry ſingle action is a mark not at all ambigu⯑ous 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 an univerſal language; becauſe it is not thoroughly underſtood but by thoſe who either have a penetrating genius or ex⯑tenſive obſervation. It is a language, how⯑ever, 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 re⯑gard to others. If we commit any miſtake when ſuch light is afforded, it never can be the effect of unavoidable ignorance, but of raſhneſs or inadvertence.
In reflecting upon the various expreſſions of our emotions, voluntary and involuntary, [130] we muſt recogniſe the anxious care of Na⯑ture to diſcover men to each other. Strong emotions, as above hinted, beget an impa⯑tience 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 behaviour or harſh words. As to the involuntary ſigns, theſe are altoge⯑ther unavoidable. No volition or effort can prevent the ſhaking of the limbs or a pale viſage, when one is agitated with a vio⯑lent fit of terror. The blood flies to the face upon a ſudden emotion of ſhame, in ſpite of all oppoſition:
Emotions indeed properly ſo called, which are quieſcent, produce no remarkable ſigns externally; nor is it neceſſary that the more deliberate paſſions ſhould, becauſe the ope⯑ration of ſuch paſſions is neither ſudden nor violent. Theſe however remain not alto⯑gether [131] in the dark. Being more frequent than violent paſſion, the bulk of our actions are directed by them. Actions therefore diſplay, with ſufficient evidence, the more deliberate paſſions, and complete the admi⯑rable ſyſtem of external ſigns, by which we become ſkilful in human nature.
Next in order comes an article of great importance, which 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 emotions tending all of them to ends wiſe and good. This curious article makes a capital branch of human nature. It is peculiarly uſeful to writers who deal in the pathetic; and with reſpect to hiſtory⯑painters, it is altogether indiſpenſable.
When we enter upon this article, we ga⯑ther from experience, that each paſſion, or claſs of paſſions, hath its peculiar ſigns; and that theſe invariably make certain impreſ⯑ſions on a ſpectator. The external ſigns of joy, for example, produce a chearful emo⯑tion, the external ſigns of grief produce pity, and the external ſigns of rage produce a [132] ſort of terror even in thoſe who are not aim⯑ed at.
Secondly, it is natural to think, that pleaſant paſſions ſhould expreſs themſelves externally by ſigns that appear agreeable, and painful paſſions by ſigns that appear diſ⯑agreeable. This conjecture, which Nature ſuggeſts, is confirmed by experience. Pride ſeems to be an exception; its external ſigns being diſagreeable, though it be commonly reckoned a pleaſant paſſion. But pride is not an exception; for in reality it is a mix⯑ed paſſion, partly pleaſant partly painful. When a proud man confines his thoughts to himſelf, and to his own dignity or import⯑ance, the paſſion is pleaſant, and its exter⯑nal ſigns agreeable: but as pride chiefly conſiſts in undervaluing or contemning o⯑thers, 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*. According to this law, the [133] external ſigns of a pleaſant paſſion, being a⯑greeable, muſt produce in the ſpectator a pleaſant emotion; and the external ſigns of a painful paſſion, being diſagreeable, muſt produce in him a painful emotion.
Fourthly, in the preſent chapter it is ob⯑ſerved, that pleaſant paſſions are, for the moſt part, expreſſed externally in one uniform manner; and that only the painful paſſions are diſtinguiſhable from each other by their external expreſſions. In the emotions ac⯑cordingly raiſed by external ſigns of pleaſant paſſions, there is little variety. They are pleaſant or chearful, and we have not words to reach a more particular deſcription. But the external ſigns of painful paſſions produce in the ſpectator emotions of different kinds: the emotions, for example, raiſed by external ſigns of grief, of remorſe, of anger, of en⯑vy, of malice, are clearly diſtinguiſhable from each other.
Fifthly, emotions raiſed by the external ſigns of painful paſſions, are ſome of them attractive, ſome repulſive. Every painful [134] paſſion that is alſo diſagreeable*, raiſes by its external ſigns a repulſive emotion, repel⯑ling the ſpectator from the object. Thus the emotions raiſed by external ſigns of envy and rage, are repulſive. But this is not the caſe of painful paſſions that are agreeable. Their external ſigns, it is true, are diſagree⯑able, and raiſe in the ſpectator a painful e⯑motion. But this painful emotion is not re⯑pulſive. On the contrary, it is attractive; and produceth in the ſpectator good-will to the man who is moved by the paſſion, and a deſire to relieve or comfort him. This cannot be better exemplified than by diſtreſs painted on the countenance, which inſtan⯑taneouſly inſpires the ſpectator with pity, and impels him to afford relief. The cauſe of this difference among the painful emo⯑tions raiſed by external ſigns of paſſion, may be readily gathered from what is laid down chapter Emotions and paſſions, part 7.
It is now time to look back to the que⯑ſtion propoſed in the beginning, How we come to underſtand external ſigns, ſo as [135] readily to aſcribe each ſign to its proper paſ⯑ſion? We have ſeen that this branch of knowledge, cannot be derived originally from ſight, nor from experience. Is it then im⯑planted in us by nature? The following conſiderations will help us to anſwer this queſtion in the affirmative. In the firſt place, the external ſigns of paſſion muſt be natural; for they are invariably the ſame in every country, and among the different tribes of men. Pride, for example, is al⯑ways expreſſed by an erect poſture, reve⯑rence 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 uni⯑verſal. 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 accuſtom⯑ed ſigns, infer the paſſion of fear among his new neighbours, with as little heſitation as he did at home. And upon ſecond thoughts, the queſtion may be anſwered without any preliminaries. If the branch of knowledge we have been inquiring about be [136] not derived from ſight nor from experience, there is no remaining ſource from whence it can be derived but from nature.
We may then venture to pronounce, with ſome degree of confidence, that man is provided by nature with a ſenſe or facul⯑ty which lays open to him every paſſion by means of its external expreſſions. And I ima⯑gine that we cannot entertain any reaſonable doubt of this fact, when we reflect, that e⯑ven infants are not ignorant of the mean⯑ing of external ſigns. An infant is remark⯑ably affected with the paſſions of its nurſe expreſſed on her countenance: a ſmile chears it, and a frown makes it afraid. Fear thus generated in the infant, muſt, like every other paſſion, have an object. What is the object of this paſſion? Surely not the frown conſidered abſtractly, for a child never abſtracts. The nurſe who frowns is evidently the object. Fear, at the ſame time, cannot ariſe but from apprehend⯑ing danger. But what danger can a child apprehend, if it be not ſenſible that the perſon who frowns is angry? We muſt therefore admit, that a child can read anger [137] in its nurſe's face; and it muſt be ſenſible of this intuitively, for it has no other means of knowledge. I have no occaſion to af⯑ſirm, that theſe particulars are clearly ap⯑prehended by the child. To produce clear and diſtinct perceptions, reflection and ex⯑perience are requiſite. But that even an infant, when afraid, muſt have ſome no⯑tion of its being in danger, is extremely e⯑vident.
That we ſhould be conſcious intuitively of a paſſion from its external expreſſions, is conformable to the analogy of nature. The knowledge of this language is of too great importance to be left upon experience. To reſt it upon a foundation ſo uncertain and precarious, would prove a great obſta⯑cle to the formation of ſocieties. Wiſely therefore is it ordered, and agreeably to the ſyſtem of Providence, that we ſhould have Nature for our inſtructor.
Manifold and admirable are the purpo⯑ſes to which the external ſigns of paſſion are made ſubſervient by the author of our nature. What are occaſionally mentioned [138] above, make but a part. Several final cau⯑ſes remain to be unfolded; and to this taſk I apply myſelf with alacrity. In the firſt place, the ſigns of internal agitation that are diſplayed externally to every ſpectator, tend to fix the ſignification of many terms. The only effectual means to aſcertain the meaning of any doubtful word, is an ap⯑peal to the thing it repreſents. Hence the ambiguity of words expreſſive of things that are not objects of external ſenſe; for in that caſe an appeal is denied. Paſſion, ſtrictly ſpeaking, is not an object of exter⯑nal 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 feel⯑ings, are leſs diſtinct. This defect with reſpect to internal action, is what chiefly occaſions the intricacy of logic. The terms of that ſcience are far from being ſufficient⯑ly aſcertained, even after the care and la⯑bour [139] beſtowed by an eminent writer*: to whom however the world is greatly indebt⯑ed, for removing a mountain of rubbiſh, and moulding the ſubject into a rational and correct form. The ſame defect is remark⯑able in criticiſm, which has for its object the more delicate feelings. The terms that denote theſe feelings, are not more diſtinct than thoſe of logic. To reduce this ſcience of criticiſm to any regular form, has never once been attempted. However rich the ore may be, no critical chymiſt has been found to give us a regular analyſis of its conſtituent parts, and to diſtinguiſh each by its own name.
In the ſecond place, ſociety among in⯑dividuals is greatly promoted by this uni⯑verſal language. The diſtance and reſerve that ſtrangers naturally diſcover, ſhow its utility. Looks and geſtures give direct ac⯑ceſs to the heart; and lead us to ſelect with tolerable accuracy the perſons who may be truſted. It is ſurpriſing how quickly, and [140] for the moſt part how correctly, we judge of character from external appearances.
Thirdly, after ſocial intercourſe is com⯑menced, theſe external ſigns contribute a⯑bove all other means to the ſtricteſt union, by diffuſing through a whole aſſembly the feelings of each individual. Language no doubt is the moſt comprehenſive vehicle for communicating emotions: but in expedi⯑tion, as well as in the power of conviction, it falls ſhort of the ſigns under conſidera⯑tion; the involuntary ſigns eſpecially, which are incapable of deceit. Where the coun⯑tenance, the tones, the geſtures, the ac⯑tions, join with the words, in communica⯑ting emotions, theſe united have a force ir⯑reſiſtible. Thus all the agreeable 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, ſocial inter⯑courſe becomes that lively and animating a⯑muſement, without which life would at beſt be inſipid. One joyful countenance ſpreads chearfulneſs inſtantaneouſly through a mul⯑titude of ſpectators.
[141] Fourthly, diſſocial paſſions being hurtful by prompting violence and miſchief, are no⯑ted by the moſt conſpicuous external ſigns, in order to put us upon our guard. Thus anger and revenge, eſpecially when ſudden⯑ly provoked, 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. Nor is this paſſion occaſioned by con⯑ſciouſneſs of danger, though it may be infla⯑med [142] by ſuch conſciouſneſs. It is an inſtinc⯑tive paſſion, which operating without rea⯑ſon or reflection, moves us by a ſudden im⯑pulſe to avoid the impending danger*.
In the fifth place, theſe external ſigns are made ſubſervient in a curious manner to the cauſe of virtue. The external ſigns of a painful paſſion that is virtuous or inno⯑cent, and conſequently agreeable, produce indeed a painful emotion. But this emo⯑tion is attractive, and connects the ſpectator with the perſon who ſuffers. Diſagreeable paſſions only, are productive of repulſive e⯑motions involving the ſpectator's averſion, and frequently his indignation. This art⯑ful contrivance makes us cling to the virtu⯑ous and abhor the wicked.
Sixthly, of all the external ſigns of paſ⯑ſion, thoſe of affliction or diſtreſs are the moſt illuſtrious with reſpect to a final cauſe; and deſervedly merit a place of diſtinction. They are illuſtrious by the ſingularity of their con⯑trivance; and they are ſtill more illuſtrious by the ſympathy they inſpire, a paſſion to [143] which human ſociety is indebted for its greateſt bleſſing, that of ſecuring relief in all caſes of diſtreſs. A ſubject ſo intereſting, ought to be examined with leiſure and at⯑tention. The conformity of the nature of man to his external circumſtances, is in e⯑very particular wonderful. His nature makes him prone to ſociety; and his ſitua⯑tion makes it neceſſary for him. In a ſoli⯑tary ſtate he is the moſt helpleſs of beings; deſtitute of ſupport, and in his manifold di⯑ſtreſſes deſtitute of relief. Mutual ſupport, the ſhining attribute of ſociety, being eſſen⯑tial to the well-being of man, is not left up⯑on reaſon, but is inforced even inſtinctively by the paſſion of ſympathy. Here ſympathy makes a capital figure; and contributes, more than any other means, to make life eaſy and comfortable. But however eſſen⯑tial ſympathy be to comfortable exiſtence, one thinking of it beforehand, would find difficulty in conjecturing how it could be raiſed by external ſigns of diſtreſs. For con⯑ſidering the analogy of nature, if theſe ſigns be agreeable, they muſt give birth to a plea⯑ſant emotion leading every beholder to be [144] pleaſed with human misfortunes. If they be diſagreeable, as they undoubtedly are, ought not the painful emotion they produce to repel the ſpectator from them, in order to be relieved from pain? Such would be the conjecture, in thinking of this matter be⯑forehand; and ſuch would be the effect, were man purely a ſelfiſh being. But the benevolence of our nature gives a very dif⯑ferent direction to the painful paſſion of ſympathy, and to the deſire involved in it. Far from flying from diſtreſs, we fly to it in order to afford relief; and our ſympathy cannot be otherwiſe gratified than by giving all the ſuccour in our power*. Thus ex⯑ternal ſigns of diſtreſs, though diſagreeable, are attractive; and the ſympathy they in⯑ſpire us with is a powerful cauſe, impelling us to afford relief even to a ſtranger as if he were our friend or blood-relation.
This branch of human nature concern⯑ing the external ſigns of paſſion, is ſo fine⯑ly adjuſted to anſwer its end, that thoſe who underſtand it the beſt will admire it the [145] moſt. Theſe external ſigns, being all of them reſolvable into colour, 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 what would be expected. We cannot therefore account otherwiſe for the operation of theſe external ſigns, than by aſcribing it to the original conſtitution of human nature. To improve the ſocial ſtate, by making us inſtinctively rejoice with the glad of heart, weep with the mourner, and ſhun thoſe who threaten danger, is a contri⯑vance illuſtrious for its wiſdom as well as be⯑nevolence. With reſpect to the external ſigns of diſtreſs in particular, to judge of the excellency of their contrivance, we need only reflect upon ſeveral other means ſeem⯑ingly more natural, that would not have an⯑ſwered the end propoſed. I am attracted by this amuſing ſpeculation, and will not aſk pardon for indulging in it. We ſhall in the firſt place reverſe the truth, by putting the caſe that the external ſigns of joy were diſ⯑agreeable, and the external ſigns of diſtreſs [146] agreeable. This is no whimſical ſuppoſi⯑tion; for theſe external ſigns, ſo far as can be gathered from their nature, ſeem indif⯑ferent to the production of pleaſure or pain. Admitting then the ſuppoſition, the queſtion is, How would our ſympathy operate? There is no occaſion to deliberate for an an⯑ſwer. Sympathy, upon that ſuppoſition, would be not leſs deſtructive, than accor⯑ding to the real caſe it is beneficial. We ſhould be incited, to croſs the happineſs of others if its external ſigns were diſagreeable to us, and to augment their diſtreſs if its external ſigns were agreeable. I make a ſecond ſuppoſition, That the external ſigns of diſtreſs were indifferent to us, and pro⯑ductive neither of pleaſure nor pain. This would annihilate the ſtrongeſt branch of ſympathy, that which is raiſed by means of ſight. And it is evident, that reflective ſympathy, felt by thoſe only who have more than an ordinary ſhare of ſenſibility, would be far from being ſufficient to fulfil the ends of the ſocial ſtate. I ſhall approach nearer truth in a third ſuppoſition, That the exter⯑nal ſigns of diſtreſs being diſagreeable, were [147] productive of a painful repulſive emotion. Sympathy upon this ſuppoſition would not be annihilated; but it would be rendered uſeleſs. For it would be gratified by flying from or avoiding the object, inſtead of cling⯑ing to it, and affording relief. The condi⯑tion of man would in reality be worſe than if ſympathy were totally eradicated; becauſe ſympathy would only ſerve to plague thoſe who feel it, without producing any good to the afflicted.
Loath to quit ſo intereſting a ſubject, I add a reflection, with which I ſhall conclude. The external ſigns of paſſion are a ſtrong in⯑dication, that man, by his very conſtitution, is framed to be open and ſincere. A child, in all things obedient to the impulſes of na⯑ture, hides none of its emotions: the ſavage and clown, who have no guide other than pure nature, expoſe their hearts to view by giving way to all the natural ſigns: and even when men learn to diſſemble their ſenti⯑ments, and when behaviour degenerates in⯑to art, there ſtill remain checks, which keep diſſimulation within bounds, and pre⯑vent a great part of its miſchievous effects. [148] The total ſuppreſſion of the voluntary ſigns during any vivid paſſion, begets the utmoſt uneaſineſs, which cannot be endured for a⯑ny conſiderable time. This operation be⯑comes indeed leſs painful by habit: but luc⯑kily the involuntary ſigns, cannot by any ef⯑fort be ſuppreſſed or even diſſembled. An abſolute hypocriſy, by which the character is concealed and a fictitious one aſſumed, is made impracticable; and nature has there⯑by prevented much harm to ſociety. We may pronounce therefore, that nature, her⯑ſelf ſincere and candid, intends that man⯑kind ſhould preſerve the ſame character, by cultivating ſimplicity and truth, and baniſh⯑ing every ſort of diſſimulation that tends to miſchief.
CHAP. XVI. SENTIMENTS.
[149]EVERY thought ſuggeſted by a paſſion or emotion, is termed a ſentiment *.
The knowledge of the ſentiments peculiar to each paſſion conſidered abſtract⯑ly, will not alone enable an artiſt to make a juſt repreſentation of nature. He ought, over and above, to be acquainted with the various appearances of the ſame paſſion in different perſons. Paſſions, it is certain, re⯑ceive a tincture from every peculiarity of character; and for that reaſon, it rarely happens that any two perſons vent their paſ⯑ſions preciſely in the ſame manner. Hence the following rule concerning dramatic and epic compoſitions. That a paſſion be adjuſted to the character, the ſentiments to the paſ⯑ſion, and the language to the ſentiments. [150] If nature be not faithfully copied in each of theſe, a defect in execution is perceived. 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 at⯑titudes of the body, ought to be intimately acquainted with muſcular motion: not leſs intimately acquainted with emotions and cha⯑racters ought a writer to be, in order to re⯑preſent the various attitudes of the mind. A general notion of the paſſions, in their groſſer differences of ſtrong and weak, ele⯑vated and humble, ſevere and gay, is far from being ſufficient. Pictures formed ſo ſuperficially, have little reſemblance, and no expreſſion. And yet it will appear by and by, that in many inſtances our reputed ma⯑ſters are deficient even in this ſuperficial knowledge.
In handling the preſent ſubject, it would be endleſs to trace even the ordinary paſ⯑ſions through their nicer and more minute differences. Mine ſhall be an humbler taſk; which is, to ſelect from the beſt wri⯑ters inſtances of faulty ſentiments, after pa⯑ving [151] the way by ſome general obſervations.
To talk in the language of muſic, each paſſion hath a certain tone, to which every ſentiment proceeding from it ought to be tuned with the greateſt accuracy. This is no eaſy work, eſpecially where ſuch har⯑mony is to be ſupported during the courſe of a long theatrical repreſentation. In or⯑der to reach ſuch delicacy of execution, it is neceſſary that a writer aſſume the preciſe character and paſſion of the perſonage re⯑preſented. This requires an uncommon genius. But it is the only difficulty; for the writer, who, forgetting himſelf, can thus perſonate another, ſo as to feel truly and diſtinctly the various agitations of the paſſion, need be in no pain about the ſen⯑timents: theſe will flow without the leaſt ſtudy, or even preconception; and will fre⯑quently be as delightfully new to himſelf as afterward to his reader. But if a lively pic⯑ture even of a ſingle emotion require an ef⯑fort of genius; how much greater muſt the effort be, to compoſe a paſſionate dialogue, in which there are as many different tones of paſſion as there are ſpeakers? With what [152] ductility of feeling ought a writer to be en⯑dued who aims at perfection in ſuch a work; when, to execute it correctly, it is neceſſa⯑ry to aſſume different and even oppoſite characters and paſſions, in the quickeſt ſuc⯑ceſſion? And yet this work, difficult as it is, yields to that of compoſing a dialogue in genteel comedy devoid of paſſion; where the ſentiments muſt be tuned to the nicer and more delicate tones of different charac⯑ters. That the latter is the more difficult taſk, appears from conſidering, that a cha⯑racter is greatly more complex than a paſ⯑ſion, and that paſſions are more diſtinguiſh⯑able from each other than characters are. Many writers accordingly who have no ge⯑nius for characters, make a ſhift to repre⯑ſent, tolerably well, an ordinary paſſion in its plain movements. But of all works of this kind, what is truly the moſt difficult, is a characteriſtical dialogue upon any philoſo⯑phical ſubject. To interweave characters with reaſoning, by adapting to the peculiar cha⯑racter of each ſpeaker a peculiarity not only of thought but of expreſſion, requires the perfection of genius, taſte, and judgement.
[153] How hard dialogue-writing is, will be evident, even without reaſoning, from the imperfect compoſitions of this kind found without number in all langua⯑ges. The art of mimicking any ſingulari⯑ty in voice or geſture, is a rare talent, though directed by ſight and hearing, the acuteſt and moſt lively of our external ſen⯑ſes: how much more rare muſt the talent be of imitating characters and internal e⯑motions, tracing all their different tints, and repreſenting them in a lively manner by natural ſentiments properly expreſſed? The truth is, ſuch execution is too delicate for an ordinary genius; and for that reaſon, the bulk of writers, inſtead of expreſſing a paſſion like one who is under its power, content themſelves with deſcribing it like a ſpectator. To awake paſſion by an inter⯑nal effort merely, without any external cauſe, requires great ſenſibility; and yet this operation is neceſſary not leſs to the writer than to the actor; becauſe none but they who actually feel a paſſion, can repre⯑ſent it to the life. The writer's part is much more complicated: he muſt join compoſi⯑tion [154] with action; and, in the quickeſt ſuc⯑ceſſion, be able to adopt every different character introduced in his work. 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 hear⯑ing. In this figured ſituation, he is led naturally to deſcribe as a ſpectator, and at ſecond hand to entertain his readers with his own obſervations, with cool deſcription and florid declamation; inſtead of making them eye-witneſſes, as it were, to a real e⯑vent, and to every movement of genuine paſſion*. Thus, in the bulk of plays, a [155] tireſome monotony prevails, a pompous de⯑clamatory ſtyle, without entering into dif⯑ferent characters or paſſions.
This deſcriptive manner of expreſſing paſ⯑ſion, has a very unhappy effect. Our ſym⯑pathy is not raiſed by deſcription: we muſt be lulled firſt into a dream of reality; and every thing muſt appear as actually pre⯑ſent and paſſing in our ſight*. Unhappy is the player of genius who acts a capital part in what may be termed a deſcriptive tragedy. After he has aſſumed the very paſſion that is to be repreſented, how muſt he be cramped in his action, when he is forced to utter, not the ſentiments of the paſſion he feels, but a cold deſcription in the language of a by-ſtander? It is this im⯑perfection, I am perſuaded, in the bulk of our plays, that confines our ſtage almoſt entirely to Shakeſpear, his many irregula⯑rities notwithſtanding. In our lateſt Eng⯑liſh tragedies, we ſometimes find ſenti⯑ments tolerably well adapted to a plain paſ⯑ſion. But it would be fruitleſs labour, to [156] ſearch in any of them for a ſentiment ex⯑preſſive of character; and, upon that very account, all our modern performances of the dramatic kind, are intolerably inſipid.
Looking back upon the foregoing obſer⯑vation, I am uncertain whether it will be ſufficiently apprehended; for, upon this complicated ſubject, I find ſome difficulty to expreſs myſelf with perſpicuity. I de⯑ſpair not however to place this matter in the cleareſt light, by adding example to precept. In the front ſhall be ſet one or two examples of ſentiments that appear the legitimate offspring of paſſion; and to them ſhall be oppoſed a few others that are de⯑ſcriptive only, and illegitimate. In making this compariſon, I ſhall borrow my inſtan⯑ces from Shakeſpear and Corneille, who for genius in dramatic compoſition ſtand up⯑permoſt in the rolls of fame.
Shakeſpear ſhall furniſh the firſt inſtance, being of ſentiments dictated by a violent and perturbed paſſion.
To illuſtrate the foregoing doctrine, one other inſtance of the ſame kind may ſuffice, [158] expreſſing ſentiments ariſing from remorſe and deſpair.
The ſentiments here diſplay'd flow ſo na⯑turally from the paſſions repreſented, and are ſuch genuine expreſſions of theſe paſ⯑ſions, that it is not poſſible to conceive any imitation more perfect.
With regard to the French author, truth obliges me to acknowledge, that he de⯑ſcribes in the ſtyle of a ſpectator, inſtead of expreſſing paſſion like one who feels it; and alſo that he is thereby betray'd into the other faults above mentioned, a tire⯑ſome monotony, and a pompous declama⯑tory ſtyle*. It is ſcarce neceſſary to pro⯑duce [160] particular inſtances; for he never va⯑ries from this tone. I ſhall however take two paſſages at a venture, in order to be [161] confronted with thoſe tranſcribed above. In the tragedy of Cinna, Aemilia, after the conſpiracy was diſcovered, having nothing in view but racks and death to herſelf and her lover, receives a pardon from Auguſtus, attended with the brighteſt circumſtances of magnanimity and tender⯑neſs. This is a happy ſituation for repre⯑ſenting the paſſions of ſurpriſe and gratitude in their different ſtages. Theſe paſſions, raiſed at once to the utmoſt pitch, are at firſt too big for utterance; and Aemilia's feelings muſt, for ſome moments, have been expreſſed by violent geſtures only. So ſoon as there is a vent for words, the [162] firſt expreſſions are naturally broken and interrupted. At laſt we ought to expect a tide of intermingled ſentiments, occaſioned by the fluctuation of the mind betwixt the two paſſions. Aemilia is made to behave in a very different manner. With extreme coolneſs ſhe deſcribes her own ſituation, as if ſhe were merely a ſpectator; or rather the poet takes the taſk off her hands.
[163] In the tragedy of Sertorius, the Queen, ſurpriſed with the news that her lover was aſſaſſinated, inſtead of venting any paſſion, degenerates into a cool ſpectator, even ſo much as to inſtruct the by-ſtanders how a queen ought to behave on ſuch an occaſion.
So much in general upon the genuine ſentiments of paſſion. I proceed now to particular obſervations. And, firſt, Paſ⯑ſions are ſeldom uniform for any conſider⯑able time: they generally fluctuate, ſwell⯑ing and ſubſiding by turns, often in a quick [164] ſucceſſion*. This fluctuation, in the caſe of a real paſſion, will be expreſſed exter⯑nally by proper ſentiments; and ought to be imitated in writing and acting. Accor⯑dingly, a climax ſhows never better than in expreſſing a ſwelling paſſion. The fol⯑lowing paſſages ſhall ſuffice for an illuſtra⯑tion.
[165] The following paſſage expreſſes finely the progreſs of conviction.
In the progreſs of thought, our reſolutions become more vigorous as well as our paſ⯑ſions.
And this leads to a ſecond obſervation, That the different ſtages of a paſſion, and its different directions, from its birth to its extinction, ought to be carefully re⯑preſented in the ſentiments, which other⯑wiſe will often be miſplaced. Reſentment, for example, when provoked by an atro⯑cious injury, diſcharges itſelf firſt upon the [166] author. Sentiments therefore of revenge take place of all others, and muſt in ſome meaſure be exhauſted before the perſon injured think of pitying himſelf, or of grie⯑ving for his preſent diſtreſs. In the Cid of Corneille, Don Diegue having been affront⯑ed in a cruel manner, expreſſes ſcarce any ſentiment of revenge, but is totally occu⯑pied in contemplating the low ſituation to which he was reduced by the affront.
Theſe ſentiments are certainly not what oc⯑cur to the mind in the firſt movements of the paſſion. In the ſame manner as in re⯑ſentment, the firſt movements of grief are always directed upon its object. Yet with relation to the ſudden and ſevere diſtemper that ſeized Alexander bathing in the ri⯑ver Cydnus, Quintus Curtius deſcribes the firſt emotions of the army as directed upon 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, which muſt naturally have been their firſt concern, occupies them but in the ſecond place according to that author. In the Aminta of Taſſo, Sylvia, upon a report of her lover's death, which ſhe believed certain, inſtead of bemoaning the loſs of a beloved object, turns her [168] thoughts upon herſelf, and wonders her heart does not break.
In the tragedy of Jane Shore, Alicia, in the full purpoſe of deſtroying her rival, has the following reflection:
Theſe are the reflections of a cool ſpecta⯑tor. A paſſion while it has the aſcendant, and is freely indulged, ſuggeſts not to the man who feels it any ſentiment to its own prejudice. Reflections like the foregoing, occur not to him readily till the paſſion have ſpent its vigor.
[169] A perſon ſometimes is agitated at once by different paſſions. The mind in this caſe vibrating like a pendulum, vents itſelf in ſentiments which partake of the ſame vibra⯑tion. This I give as a third obſervation:
[171] A fourth obſervation is, that nature, which gave us paſſions, and made them extremely beneficial when moderate, in⯑tended undoubtedly that they ſhould be ſubjected to the government of reaſon and conſcience*. It is therefore againſt the or⯑der of nature, that paſſion in any caſe ſhould take the lead in contradiction to reaſon and conſcience. Such a ſtate of mind is a ſort of anarchy, which every one is aſhamed of, and endeavours to hide or diſſemble. Even love, however laudable, is attended with a conſcious ſhame when it becomes immode⯑rate: it is covered from the world, and diſ⯑cloſed only to the beloved object:
Hence a capital rule in the repreſentation of ſtrong paſſions, that their genuine ſentiments [172] ought to be hid or diſſembled as much as poſſible. And this holds in an eſpecial man⯑ner with reſpect to criminal paſſions. One never counſels the commiſſion of a crime in plain terms. Guilt muſt not appear in its native colours, even in thought: the pro⯑poſal muſt be made by hints, and by repre⯑ſenting the action in ſome favourable light. Of the propriety of ſentiment upon ſuch an occaſion, Shakeſpear, in the Tempeſt, has given us a beautiful example. The ſubject is a propoſal made by the uſurping Duke of Milan to Sebaſtian, to murder his brother the King of Naples.
There cannot be a finer picture of this ſort, than that of King John ſoliciting Hubert to murder the young Prince Arthur.
As things are beſt illuſtrated by their contraries, I proceed to collect from claſſi⯑cal authors, ſentiments that appear faulty. The firſt claſs ſhall conſiſt of ſentiments that [175] accord not with the paſſion; or, in other words, ſentiments that the paſſion repreſent⯑ed does not naturally ſuggeſt. In the ſe⯑cond claſs, ſhall be ranged ſentiments that may belong to an ordinary paſſion, but un⯑ſuitable to it as tinctured by a ſingular cha⯑racter. Thoughts that properly are not ſentiments, but rather deſcriptions, make a third. Sentiments that belong to the paſ⯑ſion 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 un⯑natural.
The firſt claſs contains faulty ſentiments of various kinds, which I ſhall endeavour to diſtinguiſh from each other. And firſt ſentiments that are faulty by being above the tone of the paſſion.
This ſentiment is too ſtrong to be ſuggeſted by ſo ſlight a joy as that of meeting after a ſtorm at ſea.
Secondly, 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 be⯑ing dethroned. In this agitating ſituation, Corneille makes him utter a ſpeech full of cool reflection, that is in no degree expreſ⯑ſive of the paſſion.
In Les Freres ennemies of Racine, the ſecond act is opened with a love-ſcene. Hemon talks to his miſtreſs of the torments of ab⯑ſence, of the luſtre of her eyes, that he ought to die no where but at her feet, and that one moment of abſence was a thouſand years. Antigone on her part acts the coquette, and pretends ſhe muſt be gone to wait on her mother and brother, and cannot ſtay to li⯑ſten to his courtſhip. This is odious French gallantry, below the dignity of the paſſion of love. It would ſcarce be excuſable in painting modern French manners; and is inſufferable where the ancients are brought upon the ſtage. The manners painted in the Alexandre of the ſame author are not more juſt. French gallantry prevails there throughout.
Third. Sentiments that agree not with the tone of the paſſion; as where a pleaſant ſen⯑timent [178] is grafted upon a painful paſſion, or the contrary. In the following inſtances the ſentiments are too gay for a ſerious paſ⯑ſion.
Again,
Theſe thoughts are pretty; they ſuit Pope extremely, but not Eloiſa.
Satan, enraged by a threatening of the angel Gabriel, anſwers thus:
The concluding epithet forms a grand and delightful image, which cannot be the ge⯑nuine offspring of rage.
Fourth. Sentiments too artificial for a ſerious paſſion. I give for the firſt example a ſpeech of Piercy expiring:
Livy inſerts the following paſſage in a plaintive oration of the Locrenſes accuſing Pleminius the Roman legate of oppreſſion. ‘[180]"In hoc legato veſtro, nec hominis quic⯑quam eſt, Patres Conſcripti, praeter figu⯑ram et ſpeciem; neque Romani civis, praeter habitum veſtitumque, et ſonum linguae Latinae. Peſtis et bellua imma⯑nis, quales fretum, quondam, quo ab Sicilia dividimur, ad perniciem navigan⯑tium circumſediſſe, fabulae ferunt*."’
Congreve ſhows a fine taſte in the ſentiments of the Mourning Bride. But in the follow⯑ing paſſage the picture is too artful to be ſuggeſted by ſevere grief:
[181] In the ſame play, Almeria ſeeing a dead body, which ſhe took to be Alphonſo's, ex⯑preſſes ſentiments ſtrained and artificial, which nature ſuggeſts not to any perſon up⯑on ſuch an occaſion:
How could you be ſo cruel to defer giving me that joy which you knew I muſt receive from your preſence? You have robb'd my life of ſome hours of happineſs that ought to have been in it.
Pope's Elegy to the memory of an unfor⯑tunate lady, expreſſes delicately the moſt tender concern and ſorrow for the deplorable [182] fate of a perſon of worth. A poem of this kind, deeply ſerious and pathetic, rejects all fiction with diſdain. We therefore can give no quarter to the following paſſage, which is eminently diſcordant with the ſub⯑ject. It is not the language of the heart, but of the imagination indulging its flights at eaſe. It would be a ſtill more ſevere cenſure, if it ſhould be aſcribed to imitation, copying indiſcreetly what has been ſaid by others.
Fifth. Fanciful or finical ſentiments, ſen⯑timents that degenerate into point or con⯑ceit, however they may amuſe in an idle hour, can never be the offspring of any ſe⯑rious or important paſſion. In the Ieruſalem [183] of Taſſo, Tancred, after a ſingle combat, ſpent with fatigue and loſs of blood, falls into a ſwoon. In this ſituation, un⯑derſtood 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 higheſt pitch; and yet, in venting her ſorrow, ſhe deſcends moſt abominably to antitheſis and conceit, even of the loweſt kind.
Armida's lamentation reſpecting her lover Rinaldo*, is in the ſame vitious taſte.
Jane Shore utters her laſt breath in a witty conceit.
Gilford to Lady Jane Gray, when both were condemned to die:
The concluding ſentiment is altogether fi⯑nical, unſuitable to the importance of the occaſion, and even to the dignity of the paſ⯑ſion of love.
Corneille, in his Examen of the Cid *, an⯑ſwering [186] 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 performances would often be low; and ex⯑treme grief would never ſuggeſt but excla⯑mations merely. This is in plain language to aſſert, That forced thoughts are more reliſhed than ſuch as are natural, and there⯑fore ought to be preferred.
The ſecond claſs is of ſentiments that may belong to an ordinary paſſion, but are not perfectly concordant with it, as tinctured by a ſingular character. In the laſt act of that excellent comedy, The Careleſs Huſ⯑band, Lady Eaſy, upon Sir Charles's refor⯑mation, is made to expreſs more violent and turbulent ſentiments of joy, than are con⯑ſiſtent with the mildneſs of her character.
O the ſoft treaſure! O the dear re⯑ward of long-deſiring love—Thus! thus to have you mine, is ſomething more than happineſs, 'tis double life, and madneſs of abounding joy.
[187] If the ſentiments of a paſſion ought to be ſuited to a peculiar character, it is ſtill more neceſſary that ſentiments devoid of paſſion be ſuited to the character. In the 5th act of the Drummer, Addiſon makes his gar⯑dener act even below the character of an ig⯑norant credulous ruſtic: he gives him the behaviour of a gaping idiot.
The following inſtances are deſcriptions rather than ſentiments, which compoſe a third claſs.
Of this deſcriptive manner of painting the paſſions, there is in the Hippolytus of Euri⯑pides, act 5. an illuſtrious inſtance, viz. the ſpeech of Theſeus, upon hearing of his ſon's diſmal exit. In Racine's tragedy of Eſther, the Queen hearing of the decree iſſued againſt her people, inſtead of expreſſ⯑ing ſentiments ſuitable to the occaſion, turns her attention upon herſelf, and de⯑ſcribes with accuracy her own ſituation.
[188] Again,
What other are the foregoing inſtances than deſcribing the paſſion another feels?
An example is given above of remorſe and deſpair expreſſed by genuine and natu⯑ral ſentiments. In the fourth book of Pa⯑radiſe Loſt, Satan is made to expreſs his re⯑morſe and deſpair in ſentiments, which though beautiful, are not altogether na⯑tural. They are rather the ſentiments of a ſpectator, than of a perſon who actually is tormented with theſe paſſions.
[189] The fourth claſs is of ſentiments intro⯑duced too early or too late.
Some examples mentioned above belong to this claſs. Add the following from Ve⯑nice preſerv'd, act 5. at the cloſe of the ſcene betwixt Belvidera and her father Pri⯑uli. The account given by Belvidera of the danger ſhe was in, and of her huſband's threatening to murder her, ought naturally to have alarmed her relenting father, and to have made him expreſs the moſt per⯑turbed ſentiments. Inſtead of which he diſſolves into tenderneſs and love for his daughter, as if he had already delivered her from danger, and as if there were a perfect tranquillity.
Immoral ſentiments expoſed in their na⯑tive [190] colours, inſtead of being concealed or diſguiſed, compoſe the fifth claſs.
The Lady Macbeth projecting the death of the King, has the following ſoliloquy:
This ſpeech is not natural. Murder under truſt was never perpetrated even by the moſt hardened miſcreant without compunc⯑tion. And that the lady here muſt have been in horrible agitation appears, from her invoking the infernal ſpirits to fill her with cruelty, and to ſtop up all avenues to re⯑morſe. But in this ſtate of mind, it is a ne⯑ver-failing device of ſelf-deceit, to draw the thickeſt veil over the wicked action, and to extenuate it by all circumſtances that ima⯑gination [191] 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.
The lady follows neither of theſe courſes, but in a deliberate manner endeavours to fortify her heart in the commiſſion of an ex⯑ecrable crime, without even attempting a diſguiſe. This I think is not natural. I hope there is no ſuch wretch to be found, as is here repreſented. In the Pompey of Cor⯑neille*, Photine counſels a wicked action in the plaineſt terms without diſguiſe.
In the tragedy of Eſther *, Haman acknow⯑ledges, without diſguiſe, his cruelty, inſo⯑lence, and pride. And there is another example of the ſame kind in the Agamem⯑non of Seneca†. In the tragedy of Atha⯑lie ‡, Mathan, in cool blood, relates to his friend many black crimes he had been guil⯑ty of to ſatisfy his ambition.
In Congreve's Double-dealer, Maſkwell, inſtead of diſguiſing or colouring 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 friend⯑ſhip, and ſets men right upon their firſt founda⯑tions.
[194] In French plays, love, inſtead of being hid or diſguiſed, is treated as a ſerious concern, and of greater importance than for⯑tune, 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 connec⯑tion that is regulated entirely by the mode or faſhion*. This may in ſome meaſure excuſe their writers, but will never make their plays be reliſhed among foreigners.
The laſt claſs comprehends ſentiments that are unnatural, as being ſuited to no character nor paſſion. Theſe may be ſub⯑divided into three branches: firſt, ſenti⯑ments unſuitable to the conſtitution of man and the laws of his nature; ſecond, incon⯑ſiſtent ſentiments; third, ſentiments that are pure rant and extravagance.
When the fable is of human affairs, eve⯑ry event, every incident, and every circum⯑ſtance, ought to be natural, otherwiſe the imitation is imperfect. But an imperfect [197] imitation is a venial fault, compared with that of running croſs to nature. In the Hippolytus of Euripides*, Hippolytus, wiſh⯑ing 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 ano⯑ther than for one's own.
No man, in his ſenſes, ever thought of ap⯑plying his eyes to diſcover what paſſes in his mind; far leſs of blaming his eyes for not [198] ſeeing a thought or idea. In Moliere's L'A⯑vare *, Harpagon being robbed of his mo⯑ney, ſeizes himſelf by the arm, miſtaking it for that of the robber. And again he expreſſes himſelf as follows:
Je veux aller querir la juſtice, et faire donner la queſtion à toute ma maiſon; à ſervantes, à valets, a fils, à fille, et à moi auſſi.
This is ſo abſurd as ſcarce to provoke a ſmile if it be not at the author.
Of the ſecond branch the following are examples.
Of the third branch, take the following ſamples.
Lucan, talking of Pompey's ſepulchre,
Thus in Rowe's tranſlation:
The following paſſages are pure rant. Coriolanus ſpeaking to his mother,
Not to talk of the impiety of this ſentiment, it is ludicrous inſtead of being lofty.
The famous Epitaph on Raphael is not leſs abſurd than any of the foregoing paſ⯑ſages:
Imitated by Pope in his Epitaph on Sir God⯑frey Kneller:
Such is the force of imitation; for Pope of himſelf would never have been guilty of a thought ſo extravagant.
CHAP. XVII. Language of Paſſion.
[204]AMONG the particulars that compoſe the ſocial part of our nature, a pro⯑penſity to communicate our opi⯑nions, our emotions, and every thing that affects us, is remarkable. Bad fortune and injuſtice affect every one greatly; and of theſe we are ſo prone to complain, that if we have no friend or acquaintance to take part in our ſufferings, we ſometimes utter our complaints aloud even where there are none to liſten.
But this propenſity, though natural, ope⯑rates not in every ſtate of mind. A man immoderately grieved, ſeeks to afflict him⯑ſelf; and ſelf-affliction is the gratification of the paſſion. Immoderate grief is therefore mute; becauſe complaining is ſtruggling for relief:
When grief ſubſides, it then and no ſooner finds a tongue. We complain, becauſe complaining is an effort to diſburden the mind of its diſtreſs*.
Surpriſe and terror are ſilent paſſions for a different reaſon: they agitate the mind ſo violently, as for a time to ſuſpend the ex⯑erciſe of its faculties, and in particular that of ſpeech.
Love and revenge, when immoderate, [206] are not more loquacious than immoderate grief. But when theſe paſſions become moderate, they ſet the tongue free, and, like moderate grief, become loquacious. Mo⯑derate love, when unſucceſsful, is vented in complaints; when ſucceſsful, is full of joy expreſſed both in words and geſtures.
As no paſſion hath any long uninterrupted exiſtence* nor beats always with an equal pulſe, the language ſuggeſted by paſſion is alſo unequal and interrupted. And even du⯑ring an uninterrupted fit of paſſion, we only expreſs in words the more capital ſentiments. In familiar converſation, one who vents every ſingle thought is juſtly branded with [207] the character of loquacity. Senſible perſons expreſs no thoughts but what make ſome figure. In the ſame manner, we are only diſpoſed to expreſs the ſtrongeſt impulſes of paſſion, eſpecially when it returns with im⯑petuoſity after ſome interruption.
I already have had occaſion to obſerve*, that the ſentiments ought to be tuned to the paſſion, and the language to both. E⯑levated 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 ſen⯑timents muſt be expreſſed in words that are humble, not low. Words have an intimate connection with the ideas they repreſent; and the repreſentation muſt be imperfect, if the words correſpond not preciſely to the ideas. An elevated tone of language to ex⯑preſs a plain or humble ſentiment, has a bad effect by a diſcordant mixture of feeling. There is not leſs diſcord when elevated ſen⯑timents are dreſſed in low words:
This however excludes not figurative ex⯑preſſion, which, within moderate bounds, communicates to the ſentiment an agree⯑able elevation. We are ſenſible of an effect directly oppoſite, where figurative expreſ⯑ſion is indulged beyond a juſt meaſure. The oppoſition betwixt the expreſſion and the ſentiment, makes the diſcord appear greater than it is in reality*,
At the ſame time, all paſſions admit not equally of figures. Pleaſant emotions, which elevate or ſwell the mind, vent themſelves in ſtrong epithets and figurative expreſſion. Humbling and diſpiriting paſ⯑ſions, on the contrary, affect to ſpeak plain:
[209] Figurative expreſſion is the work of an en⯑livened imagination, and for that reaſon cannot be the language of anguiſh or diſtreſs. A ſcene of this kind is painted by Otway in colours finely adapted to the ſubject. There is ſcarce a figure in it, except a ſhort and natural ſimile with which the ſpeech is in⯑troduced.
Belvidera talking to her father of her huſ⯑band:
To preſerve this reſemblance betwixt words and their meaning, the ſentiments of active and hurrying paſſions ought to be dreſſed in words where ſyllables prevail that are pronounced ſhort or faſt; for theſe make an impreſſion of hurry and precipitation. Emotions, on the other hand, that reſt upon their objects, are beſt expreſſed by words where ſyllables prevail that are pronounced long or ſlow. A perſon affected with me⯑lancholy has a languid and ſlow train of per⯑ceptions. The expreſſion beſt ſuited to this ſtate of mind, is where words not only of long but of many ſyllables abound in the compoſition. For that reaſon, nothing can be finer than the following paſſage:
To preſerve the ſame reſemblance, another [211] circumſtance is requiſite, that the language conformable to 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 inqui⯑rer into nature, that in the hurry of paſſion, one generally expreſſes that thing firſt which is moſt at heart. This is beautifully done in the following paſſage.
Paſſion has often the effect of redoubling words, the better to make them expreſs the ſtrong conception of the mind. This is finely repreſented in the following exam⯑ples:
Shakeſpear is ſuperior to all other writers in delineating paſſion. It is difficult to ſay in what part he moſt excels, whether in moulding every paſſion to peculiarity of character, in diſcovering the ſentiments that proceed from various tones of paſſion, or in expreſſing properly every different ſentiment. He impoſes not upon his reader, general de⯑clamation and the falſe coin of unmeaning words, which the bulk of writers deal in. His ſentiments are adjuſted, with the great⯑eſt propriety, to the peculiar character and circumſtances of the ſpeaker; and the pro⯑priety is not leſs perfect betwixt his ſenti⯑ments and his diction. That this is no ex⯑aggeration, [213] will be evident to every one of taſte, upon comparing Shakeſpear with o⯑ther writers, in ſimilar paſſages. If upon a⯑ny occaſion he fall below himſelf, it is in thoſe ſcenes where paſſion enters not. By endeavouring in this caſe to raiſe his dialogue above the ſtyle of ordinary converſation, he ſometimes deviates into intricate thought and obſcure expreſſion*. Sometimes, to [214] throw his language out of the familiar, he employs rhyme. But may it not in ſome meaſure excuſe Shakeſpear, I ſhall not ſay his works, that he had no pattern, in his own or in any living language, of dialogue fitted for the theatre? At the ſame time, it ought not to eſcape obſervation, that the ſtream clears in its progreſs, and that in his later plays he has attained the purity and perfection of dialogue; an obſervation that, with greater certainty than tradition, will direct us to arrange his plays in the order of time. This ought to be conſidered by thoſe who magnify every blemiſh that is diſcover⯑ed in the fineſt genius for the drama ever the world enjoy'd. They ought alſo for their own ſake to conſider, that it is eaſier to diſcover his blemiſhes, which lie general⯑ly at the ſurface, than his beauties, of which none can have a thorough reliſh but thoſe who dive deep into human nature. One thing muſt be evident to the meaneſt capa⯑city, that where-ever paſſion is to be diſ⯑play'd, Nature ſhows itſelf ſtrong in him, [215] and is conſpicuous by the moſt delicate pro⯑priety of ſentiment and expreſſion*.
I return to my ſubject from a digreſſion I cannot repent of. That perfect harmony which ought to ſubſiſt among all the con⯑ſtituent parts of a dialogue, is a beauty, not leſs rare than conſpicuous. As to expreſ⯑ſion 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 vo⯑lumes. Following therefore the method laid down in the chapter of ſentiments, I ſhall confine my citations to the groſſer er⯑rors, which every writer ought to avoid.
[216] And, firſt, of paſſion expreſſed in words flowing in an equal courſe without inter⯑ruption.
In the chapter above cited, Corneille is cen⯑ſured for the impropriety of his ſentiments; and here, for the ſake of truth, I am obli⯑ged to attack him a ſecond time. Were I to give inſtances from that author of the fault under conſideration, I might co⯑py whole tragedies; for he is not leſs faulty in this particular, than in paſſing up⯑on us his own thoughts as a ſpectator, in⯑ſtead of the genuine ſentiments of paſſion. Nor would a compariſon betwixt him and Shakeſpear upon the preſent point, re⯑dound more to his honour, than the for⯑mer upon the ſentiments. Racine here is leſs incorrect than Corneille, though many degrees inferior to the Engliſh author. From Racine I ſhall gather a few inſtan⯑ces. The firſt ſhall be the deſcription of the ſea-monſter in his Phaedra, given by Theramene the companion of Hippolytus, and an eye-witneſs to the diſaſter. The⯑ramene is repreſented in terrible agitation, which appears from the following paſſage, [217] ſo boldly figurative as not to be excuſed but by violent perturbation of mind.
Yet Theramene gives a long pompous connected deſcription of this event, dwelling upon every minute circumſtance, as if he had been only a cool ſpectator.
The laſt ſpeech of Atalide, in the tragedy of Bajazet, of the ſame author, is a conti⯑nued diſcourſe, and but a faint repreſenta⯑tion of the violent paſſion which forc'd her to put an end to her own life.
Though works, not authors, are the profeſſed ſubject of this critical underta⯑king, I am tempted by the preſent ſpecu⯑lation, to tranſgreſs once again the limits [218] preſcribed, and to venture a curſory reflec⯑tion upon this juſtly-celebrated author, That he is always ſenſible, generally correct, never falls low, maintains a moderate de⯑gree of dignity without reaching the ſub⯑lime, paints delicately the tender paſſions, but is a ſtranger to the true language of enthuſiaſtic or fervid paſſion.
If in general the language of violent paſ⯑ſion ought to be broken and interrupted, ſo⯑liloquies 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*. Shakeſpear's ſoliloquies may be juſtly 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, being different in their manner.
Hum! ha! is this a viſion? is this a dream? do I ſleep? Mr Ford, awake; awake Mr Ford; there's a hole made in your beſt coat, Mr Ford! this 'tis to be married! this 'tis to have linen and buck baſkets! Well, I will proclaim myſelf what I am; I will now take the leacher; he is at my houſe, he cannot 'ſcape me; 'tis im⯑poſſible he ſhould; he cannot creep into a half-penny purſe, nor into a pepper-box. But leſt the devil that guides him ſhould aid him, I will ſearch impoſſible places; though what I am I cannot a⯑void, yet to be what I would not, ſhall not make me tame.
Theſe ſoliloquies are accurate copies of na⯑ture. In a paſſionate ſoliloquy one begins [221] with thinking aloud; and the ſtrongeſt feelings only, are expreſſed. As the ſpeaker warms, he begins to imagine one liſtening, and gradually ſlides into a connected diſ⯑courſe.
How far diſtant are ſoliloquies generally from theſe models? They are indeed for the moſt part ſo unhappily executed, 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 Euripides, almoſt without exception. Nothing can be more ridiculous. It puts one in mind of that ingenious device in Gothic paint⯑ings, of making every figure explain itſelf by a written label iſſuing from its mouth. The deſcription a paraſite, in the Eunuch of Terence*, gives of himſelf in the form of a ſoliloquy, is lively; but againſt all the rules of propriety; for no man, in his or⯑dinary ſtate of mind, and upon a familiar [222] ſubject, ever thinks of talking aloud to himſelf. The ſame objection lies againſt a ſoliloquy in the Adelphi of the ſame au⯑thor*. The ſoliloquy which makes the third ſcene, act third, of his Heicyra, is in⯑ſufferable; for there Pamphilus, ſoberly and circumſtantially, relates to himſelf an adventure which had happened to him a moment before.
Corneille is not more happy in his ſolilo⯑quies than in his dialogue. Take for a ſpe⯑cimen the firſt ſcene of Cinna.
Racine alſo is extremely faulty in the ſame reſpect. His ſoliloquies, almoſt without exception, are regular harangues, a chain completed in every link, without interrup⯑tion or interval. That of Antiochus in Be⯑renice † reſembles a regular pleading, where the parties pro and con diſplay their argu⯑ments at full length. The following ſoli⯑loquies are equally deſtitute of propriety: Bajazet, act 3. ſc. 7. Mithridate, act 3. ſc. 4. & act 4. ſc. 5. Iphigenia, act 4. ſc. 8.
Soliloquies upon lively or intereſting ſub⯑jects, [223] but without any turbulence of paſſion, may be carried on in a continued chain of thought. If, for example, the nature and ſprightlineſs of the ſubject prompt a man to ſpeak his thoughts in the form of a dialogue, the expreſſion muſt be carried on without break or interruption, as in a dialogue be⯑twixt two perſons. This juſtifies Falſtaff's ſoliloquy upon honour:
What need I be ſo forward with Death, that calls not on me? Well, 'tis no matter, Honour pricks me on. But how if Honour prick me off, when I come on? how then? Can Honour ſet a leg? No: or an arm? No: or take away the grief of a wound? No: Honour hath no ſkill in ſurgery then? No. What is Honour? A word.—What is that word honour? Air; a trim reckoning.—Who hath it? He that dy'd 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 living? No: Why? Detraction will not ſuffer it. Therefore, I'll none of it; honour is a mere ſcutcheon; and ſo ends my catechiſm.
And even without dialogue, a continued diſcourſe may be juſtified, where the ſolilo⯑quy [224] is upon an important ſubject that makes a ſtrong impreſſion, but without much agita⯑tion. For if it be at all excuſable to think a⯑loud, it is neceſſary that the language with the reaſoning be carried on in a chain without a broken link. In this view that admirable ſoliloquy in Hamlet upon life and immorta⯑lity, being a ſerene meditation upon the moſt intereſting of all ſubjects, ought to e⯑ſcape cenſure. And the ſame conſideration will juſtify the ſoliloquy that introduces the 5th act of Addiſon's Cato.
The next claſs of the groſſer errors which all writers ought to avoid, ſhall be of lan⯑guage elevated above the tone of the ſenti⯑ment; of which take the following inſtan⯑ces.
The language here is undoubtedly too pompous and laboured for deſcribing ſo ſimple a circumſtance as abſence of ſleep. In the following paſſage, the tone of the language, warm and plaintive, is well ſuited to the paſſion, which is recent grief. But every one will be ſenſible, that in the laſt couplet ſave one, the tone is changed, and the mind ſuddenly elevated to be let fall as ſuddenly in the laſt couplet.
Language too artificial or too figurative [226] for the gravity, dignity, or importance, of the occaſion, may be put in a third claſs.
Chimene demanding juſtice againſt Ro⯑drigue who killed her father, inſtead of a plain and pathetic expoſtulation, makes a ſpeech ſtuffed with the moſt artificial flowers of rhetoric:
And again:
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.
In a fourth claſs ſhall be given ſpecimens of language too light or airy for a ſevere paſſion.
The agony a mother muſt feel upon the ſavage murder of two hopeful ſons, rejects all imagery and figurative expreſſion, as diſ⯑cordant in the higheſt degree. Therefore the following paſſage is undoubtedly in a bad taſte:
Again,
A thought that turns upon the expreſſion inſtead of the ſubject, commonly called a play of words, being low and childiſh, is un⯑worthy of any compoſition, whether gay or ſerious, that pretends to the ſmalleſt ſhare of dignity. Thoughts of this kind make a fifth claſs.
In the Aminta of Taſſo* the lover falls into a mere play of words, demanding how [229] he who had loſt himſelf, could find a mi⯑ſtreſs. And for the ſame reaſon, the fol⯑lowing paſſage in Corneille has been gene⯑rally condemned:
Antony, ſpeaking of Julius Caeſar:
Playing thus with the ſound of words, which is ſtill worſe than a pun, is the meaneſt of all conceits. But Shakeſpear, when he deſcends to a play of words, is not always in the wrong; for it is done ſometimes to denote a peculiar character; as is the following paſſage.
A jingle of words is the loweſt ſpecies of this 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 this puerility:
[232] One ſhould think it unneceſſary to enter a caveat againſt an expreſſion that has no meaning, or no diſtinct meaning; and yet ſomewhat of this kind may be found even among good writers. Theſe make a ſixth claſs.
[233] His whole poem, inſcribed, My Picture, is a jargon of the ſame kind:
Such empty expreſſions are finely ridiculed in the Rehearſal:
CHAP. XVIII. Beauty of Language.
[234]OF all the fine arts, painting only and ſculpture are in their nature imita⯑tive. A field laid out with taſte, is not, properly ſpeaking, a copy or imita⯑tion of nature, but nature itſelf embelliſhed. Architecture deals in 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, deals in originals. Language has no archetype in nature, more than muſic or architecture; unleſs where, like mu⯑ſic, it is imitative of ſound or motion. In the deſcription of particular ſounds, lan⯑guage ſometimes happily furniſheth words, which, beſide their cuſtomary power of ex⯑citing ideas, reſemble by their ſoftneſs or harſhneſs the ſound deſcribed: and there are words, which, by the celerity or ſlow⯑neſs of pronunciation, have ſome reſemblance [235] to the motion they ſignify. This imitative power of words goes one ſtep farther. The loftineſs of ſome words, makes them pro⯑per ſymbols of lofty ideas: a rough ſub⯑ject is imitated by harſh-ſounding words; and words of many ſyllables pronounced ſlow and ſmooth, are naturally expreſſive of grief and melancholy. Words have a ſepa⯑rate effect on the mind, abſtracting from their ſignification and from their imitative power. They are more or leſs agreeable to the ear, by the roundneſs, ſweetneſs, faint⯑neſs, or roughneſs, of their tones.
Theſe are beauties, but not of the firſt rank: They are reliſhed by thoſe only, who have more delicacy of ſenſation than be⯑longs to the bulk of mankind. Language poſſeſſeth a beauty ſuperior greatly in de⯑gree, of which we are eminently conſcious when a thought is communicated in a ſtrong and lively manner. This beauty of lan⯑guage, ariſing from its power of expreſſing thought, is apt to be confounded with the beauty of the thought expreſſed; which beauty, by a natural tranſition of feeling a⯑mong things intimately connected, is con⯑vey'd [236] to the expreſſion, and makes it ap⯑pear more beautiful*. But theſe beauties, if we wiſh to think accurately, muſt be carefully diſtinguiſhed from each other. They are indeed ſo diſtinct, that we ſome⯑times are conſcious of the higheſt pleaſure language can afford, when the ſubject ex⯑preſſed is diſagreeable. A thing that is loathſome, or a ſcene of horror to make one's hair ſtand on end, may be deſcribed in the livelieſt manner. In this caſe, the diſagree⯑ableneſs of the ſubject, doth not even ob⯑ſcure the agreeableneſs of the deſcription. The cauſes of the original beauty of lan⯑guage conſidered as ſignificant, which is a branch of the preſent ſubject, will be explain⯑ed in their order. I ſhall only at preſent obſerve, that this beauty is the beauty of means fitted to an end, viz. the communi⯑cation of thought. And hence it evidently appears, that of ſeveral expreſſions all con⯑veying the ſame thought, the moſt beauti⯑ful, in the ſenſe now mentioned, is that [237] which in the moſt perfect manner anſwers its end.
The ſeveral beauties of language above mentioned, being of different kinds and diſtinguiſhable from each other, ought to be handled ſeparately. I ſhall begin with thoſe beauties of language which ariſe from ſound; after which will follow the beauties of language conſidered as ſignificant. This or⯑der appears natural; for the ſound of a word is attended to, before we conſider its ſignifica⯑tion. In a third ſection come thoſe ſingular beauties of language that are derived from a reſemblance betwixt ſound and ſignification. The beauties of verſe I propoſe to handle in the laſt ſection. For though the foregoing beauties are found in verſe as well as in proſe; yet verſe has many peculiar beauties, which for the ſake of perſpicuity muſt be brought under one view. And verſification, at any rate, is a ſubject of ſo great import⯑ance, as to deſerve a place by itſelf.
SECT. I. Beauty of language with reſpect to ſound.
[238]I Propoſe to handle this ſubject in the fol⯑lowing order, which appears the moſt natural. 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 by a ſingle expiration of air from the wind-pipe through the cavity of the mouth; and by varying this cavity, the different vowels are ſounded. 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 vowels accordingly, pro⯑nounced with the ſame extenſion of the [239] wind-pipe, but with different openings of the mouth, form a regular ſeries of ſounds, deſcending from high to low, in the follow⯑ing order, i, e, a *, o, u. Each of theſe ſounds is agreeable to the ear. And if it be inquired which of them is the moſt agree⯑able, it is perhaps the ſafeſt ſide to hold, that there is no univerſal preference of any one before the reſt. Probably thoſe vowels which are fartheſt removed from the ex⯑tremes, will generally be the moſt reliſhed. This is all I have to remark upon the firſt article. For conſonants being letters which of themſelves have no ſound, have no other power but to form articulate ſounds in con⯑junction with vowels; and every ſuch arti⯑culate ſound being a ſyllable, conſonants come naturally under the ſecond article. To which therefore we proceed.
All conſonants are pronounced with a leſs cavity than any of the vowels; and con⯑ſequently they contribute to form a ſound ſtill more ſharp than the ſharpeſt vowel pronounced ſingle. Hence it follows, that [240] every articulate ſound into which a conſonant enters, muſt neceſſarily be double, though pronounced with one expiration of air, or with one breath as commonly expreſſed. The reaſon is, that though two ſounds readily unite; yet where they differ in tone, both of them muſt be heard if neither of them be ſuppreſſed. For the ſame reaſon, every ſyllable muſt be compoſed of as many ſounds as there are letters, ſuppoſing every letter to be diſtinctly pronounced.
We next inquire, how far articulate ſounds into which conſonants enter, are agreeable to the ear. With reſpect to this point, there is a noted obſervation, that all ſounds of dif⯑ficult pronunciation are to the ear harſh in proportion. Few tongues are ſo poliſhed as entirely to have rejected ſounds that are pronounced with difficulty; and ſuch ſounds muſt in ſome meaſure be diſagreeable. But with reſpect to agreeable ſounds, it appears, that a double ſound is always more agree⯑able than a ſingle ſound. Every one who has an ear muſt be ſenſible, that the diph⯑thongs oi or ai are more agreeable than any of theſe vowels pronounced ſingly. [241] And the ſame holds where a conſonant en⯑ters into the double ſound. The ſylla⯑ble le has a more agreeable ſound than the vowel e or than any vowel. And in ſupport of experience, a ſatisfactory argu⯑ment may be drawn from the wiſdom of Providence. Speech is beſtowed upon man, to qualify him for ſociety. The proviſion he hath of articulate ſounds, is proportioned to the uſe he hath for them. But if ſounds that are agreeable ſingly were not alſo agree⯑able in conjunction, the neceſſity of a pain⯑ful ſelection would render language intricate and difficult to be attained in any perfection. And this ſelection, at the ſame time, would tend to abridge the number of uſeful ſounds, ſo as perhaps not to leave ſufficient for an⯑ſwering the different ends of language.
In this view, the harmony of pronuncia⯑tion differs widely from that of muſic pro⯑perly ſo called. In the latter are diſcovered many ſounds ſingly agreeable, that in con⯑junction are extremely diſagreeable; none but what are called concordant ſounds having a good effect in conjunction. In the for⯑mer, all ſounds ſingly agreeable are in con⯑junction [242] concordant; and ought to be, in order to fulfil the purpoſes of language.
Having diſcuſſed ſyllables, we proceed to words; which make a third article. Mo⯑noſyllables belong to the former head. Po⯑lyſyllables open a different ſcene. In a cur⯑ſory view, one will readily imagine, that the effect a word hath upon the ear, muſt depend entirely upon the agreeableneſs or diſagreeableneſs of its component ſyllables. In part it doth; but not entirely; for we muſt alſo take under conſideration the effect that a number of ſyllables compoſing a word have in ſucceſſion. In the firſt place, ſylla⯑bles in immediate ſucceſſion, pronounced, each of them, with the ſame or nearly the ſame aperture of the mouth, produce a weak and imperfect ſound; witneſs the French words détêté (deteſted), dit-il (ſays he), patetique (pathetic). On the other hand, a ſyllable of the greateſt aperture ſucceed⯑ing one of the ſmalleſt, or the oppoſite, makes a ſucceſſion, which, becauſe of its remarkable diſagreeableneſs, is diſtinguiſh⯑ed by a proper name, viz. hiatus. The moſt agreeable ſucceſſion, is, where the [243] cavity is increaſed and diminiſhed alternate⯑ly by moderate intervals. 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 o⯑ther hand, the intermixture of long and ſhort ſyllables is remarkably agreeable; for example, degree, repent, wonderful, altitude, rapidity, independent, impetuoſity. The cauſe will be explained afterward, in treat⯑ing 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 plea⯑ſure. But this ſubject belongs to the third ſection.
The foregoing obſervations afford a ſtan⯑dard to every nation, for eſtimating, pretty accurately, the comparative merit of the words that enter into their own language. [244] And though at firſt view they may be thought equally uſeful for eſtimating the comparative merit of different languages; yet this holds not in fact, becauſe no per⯑ſon can readily be found who is ſufficiently qualified to apply the ſtandard. What I mean is, that different nations judge differ⯑ently of the harſhneſs or ſmoothneſs of ar⯑ticulate ſounds: a ſound, harſh and diſa⯑greeable to an Italian, may be abundantly ſmooth to a northern ear. Where are we to find a judge to determine this contro⯑verſy? and ſuppoſing a judge, upon what principle is his deciſion to be founded? The caſe here is preciſely the ſame as in behaviour and manners. Plain-dealing and ſincerity, liberty in words and actions, form the character of one people. Polite⯑neſs, 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 [245] bear the leaſt harſhneſs in words that are deemed nervous and ſounding by thoſe ac⯑cuſtomed to a rougher tone of language. Muſt we then relinquiſh all thoughts of comparing languages in the point of rough⯑neſs and ſmoothneſs, as a fruitleſs inquiry? Not altogether ſo; for we may proceed a certain length, though without hope of an ultimate deciſion. A language with difficulty pronounced even by natives, muſt yield the preference to a ſmoother lan⯑guage. Again, ſuppoſing two languages pro⯑nounced with equal facility by natives, the preference, in my judgement, ought to be in favour of the rougher language; provided it be alſo ſtored with a competent ſhare of more mellow ſounds. This will be evident from attending to the different effects that articu⯑late ſound hath upon the mind. A ſmooth gliding ſound is agreeable, by ſmoothing the mind and lulling it to reſt. A rough bold ſound, on the contrary, animates the mind. The effort perceived in pronoun⯑cing, is communicated to the hearers: they feel in their own minds a ſimilar effort, [246] which rouſes their attention and diſpo⯑ſes them to action. I muſt add another conſideration. The agreeableneſs of con⯑traſt in the rougher language, for which the great variety of ſounds gives ample op⯑portunity, muſt, even in an effeminate ear, prevail over the more uniform ſounds of the ſmoother language*. This appears to me all that can be ſafely determined upon the preſent point. With reſpect to the o⯑ther circumſtances that conſtitute the beau⯑ty of words, the ſtandard above mentioned is infallible when apply'd to foreign langua⯑ges as well as to our own. For every man, whatever be his mother-tongue, is equally capable to judge of the length or ſhortneſs of words, of the alternate opening and cloſing of the mouth in ſpeaking, and of the relation which the ſound bears to the ſenſe. In theſe particulars, the judgement is ſuſceptible of no prejudice from cuſtom, at leaſt of no invincible prejudice.
[247] That the Engliſh tongue, originally harſh, is at preſent much ſoftened by drop⯑ing in the pronunciation many redundant conſonants, is undoubtedly true. That it is not capable of being farther 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 over⯑looking the majeſty of words compoſed of many ſyllables aptly connected, the pre⯑vailing taſte is, to ſhorten words, even at the expence of making them diſagreeable to the ear and harſh in the pronunciation. But I have no occaſion to inſiſt upon this article, being prevented by an excellent writer, who poſſeſſed, if any man ever did, the true genius of the Engliſh tongue*. I cannot however forbear urging one ob⯑ſervation borrowed from that author. Seve⯑ral tenſes of our verbs are formed by add⯑ing the final ſyllable ed, which, being a weak ſound, has remarkably the worſe ef⯑fect [248] by poſſeſſing the moſt conſpicuous place in the word. Upon that account, the vowel is in common ſpeech generally ſuppreſſed, and the conſonant is added to the foregoing ſyllable. Hence the follow⯑ing rugged ſounds, drudg'd, diſturb'd, re⯑buk'd, fledg'd. It is ſtill leſs excuſeable to follow this practice in writing; for the hur⯑ry of ſpeaking may excuſe what is altoge⯑ther improper in a compoſition of any va⯑lue. The ſyllable ed, it is true, makes but a poor figure at the end of a word: but we ought to ſubmit to that defect, rather than multiply the number of harſh words, which, after all that has been done, bear an over⯑proportion in our tongue. The author a⯑bove mentioned, by ſhowing a good ex⯑ample, did all in his power to reſtore that ſyllable; and he well deſerves to be imi⯑tated. Some exceptions however I would make. A word which ſignifies labour, or any thing harſh or rugged, ought not to be ſmooth. Therefore forc'd, with an apo⯑ſtrophe, is better than forced, without it. Another exception is, where the penult ſyllable ends with a vowel. In that caſe [249] the final ſyllable ed may be apoſtrophized without making the word harſh. Examples, betray'd, carry'd, deſtroy'd, employ'd.
The article next in order, is to conſider the muſic of words as united in a period. And as the arrangement of words in ſuc⯑ceſſion ſo as to afford the greateſt pleaſure to the ear, depends on principles pretty re⯑mote from common view, it will be neceſ⯑ſary to premiſe ſome general obſervations upon the effect that a number of objects have upon the mind when they are placed in an increaſing or decreaſing ſeries. The effect of ſuch a ſeries will be very different, according as reſemblance or contraſt pre⯑vails. Where the members of a ſeries vary by ſmall differences, reſemblance pre⯑vails; which, in aſcending, makes us con⯑ceive the ſecond object of no greater ſize than the firſt, the third of no greater ſize than the ſecond, and ſo of the reſt. This diminiſheth in appearance the ſize of the whole. Again, when beginning at the largeſt object, we proceed gradually to the leaſt, reſemblance makes us imagine the ſecond as large as the firſt, and the third as [250] large as the ſecond; which in appearance magnifies every object of the ſeries except the firſt. On the other hand, in a ſeries varying by great differences, where contraſt prevails, the effects are directly oppoſite. A large object ſucceeding a ſmall one of the ſame kind, appears by the oppoſition lar⯑ger than uſual: and a ſmall object, for the ſame reaſon, ſucceeding one that is large, appears leſs than uſual*. Hence a remarkable pleaſure in viewing a ſeries aſcending by large intervals; directly op⯑poſite to what we feel when the intervals are ſmall. Beginning at the ſmalleſt object of a ſeries where contraſt prevails, this object has the ſame effect upon the mind as if it ſtood ſingle without making a part of the ſeries. But this is not the caſe of the ſecond object, which by means of contraſt makes a much greater figure than when viewed ſingly and apart; and the ſame effect is perceived in aſcending progreſſively, till we arrive at the laſt object. The direct contrary effect is produced in deſcending; for in this direc⯑tion, [251] every object, except the firſt, makes a leſs figure than when viewed ſeparately and independent of the ſeries. We may then lay down as a maxim, which will hold in the compoſition of language as well as of other ſubjects, That a ſtrong impulſe ſuc⯑ceeding a weak, makes a double impreſ⯑ſion 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 application to the ſub⯑ject in hand. The following rule is laid down by Diomedes*. ‘"In verbis obſer⯑vandum eſt, ne a majoribus ad minora deſcendat oratio; melius enim dicitur, Vir eſt optimus, quam, Vir optimus eſt."’ This rule is applicable not only to ſingle words, but equally 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, on wri⯑ter [252] equals Cicero. The beauty of the fol⯑lowing examples out of many, will not ſuf⯑fer me to ſlur them over by a reference.
Again:
Again:
This order of words or members gradually increaſing in length, may, ſo far as con⯑cerns the pleaſure of ſound ſingly, be de⯑nominated a climax in ſound.
[253] The laſt article is the muſic of periods as united in a diſcourſe; which ſhall be diſ⯑patched in a very few words. By no other human means is it poſſible to preſent to the mind, ſuch a number of objects and in ſo ſwift a ſucceſſion, as by ſpeaking or wri⯑ting. And for that reaſon, variety ought more to be ſtudied in theſe, than in any o⯑ther ſort of compoſition. Hence a rule re⯑garding the arrangement of the members of different periods with relation to each o⯑ther, That to avoid a tedious uniformity of ſound and cadence, the arrangement, the cadence, and the length of theſe members, ought to be diverſified as much as poſſible. And if the members of different periods be ſufficiently diverſified, the periods them⯑ſelves will be equally ſo.
SECT. II. Beauty of language with reſpect to ſignifi⯑cation.
[254]IT is well ſaid by a noted writer*, ‘"That by means of ſpeech we can divert our ſorrows, mingle our mirth, impart our ſecrets, communicate our counſels, and make mutual compacts and agreements to ſupply and aſſiſt each other."’ Conſidering ſpeech as contributing thus to ſo many good purpoſes, it follows, that the chuſing words which have an accurate meaning, and tend to convey clear and diſtinct ideas, muſt be one of its capital beauties. This cauſe of beauty, is too extenſive to be handled as a branch of any other ſubject. To aſcertain with accuracy even the proper meaning of words, not to talk of their figurative power, would require a large volume; an uſeful work indeed; but not to be attempted with⯑out a large ſtock of time, ſtudy, and reflec⯑tion. [255] This branch therefore of the ſubject I muſt humbly decline. Nor do I propoſe to exhauſt all the other beauties of language with reſpect to ſignification. The reader, in a work like the preſent, cannot fairly expect more than a ſlight ſketch of thoſe that make the greateſt figure. This is a taſk which I attempt the more willingly, as it appears to be connected with ſome prin⯑ciples in human nature; and the rules I ſhall have occaſion to lay down, will, if I judge aright, be agreeable illuſtrations of theſe principles. Every ſubject muſt be of importance that tends in any meaſure to un⯑fold the human heart; for what other ſcience is more worthy of human beings?
The preſent ſubject is ſo extenſive, that, to prevent confuſion, it muſt be divided in⯑to parts; and what follows ſuggeſts a di⯑viſion into two parts. In every period, two things are to be regarded, equally capital; firſt, the words of which the period is com⯑poſed; next, the arrangement of theſe words. The former reſemble the ſtones that com⯑poſe a building; and the latter reſembles the order in which theſe ſtones are placed. [256] Hence the beauty of language with reſpect to its meaning, may not improperly be diſ⯑tinguiſhed into two kinds. The firſt con⯑ſiſts in a right choice of words or materials for conſtructing the period; and the other conſiſts in a due arrangement of theſe words or materials. I ſhall begin with rules that direct us to a right choice of words, and then proceed to rules that concern their ar⯑rangement.
And with reſpect to the former, commu⯑nication of thought being the principal end of language, it is a rule, That perſpicuity ought not to be ſacrificed to any other beauty whatever. If it ſhould be doubted whether perſpicuity be a poſitive beauty, it cannot be doubted, that the want of it is the greateſt defect. Nothing therefore in the ſtructure of language ought more to be ſtudied, than to prevent all obſcurity in the expreſſion; for to have no meaning, is but one degree worſe than to expreſs it ſo as not to be un⯑derſtood. Want of perſpicuity from a wrong arrangement, belongs to the next branch. I ſhall give a few examples where the obſcurity ariſes from a wrong choice of [257] words; and as this defect is ſo common in ordinary writers as to make examples from them unneceſſary, I confine myſelf to the moſt celebrated authors.
Livy, ſpeaking of a rout after a battle,
There is want of neatneſs even in an am⯑biguity ſo ſlight as that is which ariſes from the conſtruction merely; as where the pe⯑riod commences with a member which is conceived to be in the nominative caſe, and which afterward is found to be in the accu⯑ſative. Example: ‘"Some emotions more peculiarly connected with the fine arts, I propoſe to handle in ſeparate chapters*."’ Better thus: ‘"Some emotions more pecu⯑liarly connected with the fine arts, are propoſed to be handled in ſeparate chap⯑ters."’
The rule next in order, becauſe next in importance, is, That the language ought to correſpond to the ſubject. Grand or heroic actions or ſentiments require elevated lan⯑guage: tender ſentiments ought to be ex⯑preſſed [259] in words ſoft and flowing; and plain language devoid of ornament, is adapted to ſubjects grave and didactic. Language may be conſidered as the dreſs of thought; and where the one is not ſuited to the other, we are ſenſible of incongruity, in the ſame man⯑ner as where a judge is dreſſed like a fop, or a peaſant like a man of quality. The in⯑timate connection that words have with their meaning, requires that both be in the ſame tone. Or, to expreſs the thing more plainly, the impreſſion made by the words ought as nearly as poſſible to reſemble the impreſſion made by the thought. The ſi⯑milar emotions mix ſweetly in the mind, and augment the pleaſure*. On the other hand, where the impreſſions made by the thought and the words are diſſimilar, they are forc'd into a ſort of unnatural union, which is diſagreeable†.
In the preceding chapter, concerning the language of paſſion, I had occaſion to give many examples of deviations from this [260] rule with regard to the manner of expreſſ⯑ing paſſions and their ſentiments. But as the rule concerns the manner of expreſſing thoughts and ideas of all kinds, it has an extenſive influence in directing us to the choice of proper materials. In that view it muſt be branched out into ſeveral particu⯑lars. And I muſt obſerve, in the firſt place, that to write with elegance, it is not ſufficient to expreſs barely the conjunction or disjunction of the members of the thought. It is a beauty to find a ſimilar conjunction or disjunction in the words. This may be illuſtrated by a familiar exam⯑ple. When we have occaſion to mention the intimate connection that the ſoul has with the body, the expreſſion ought to be the ſoul and body; becauſe the particle the, re⯑lative to both, makes a connection in the ex⯑preſſion, which reſembles in ſome degree the connection in the thought. But when the ſoul is diſtinguiſhed from the body, it is better to ſay the ſoul and the body, becauſe the disjunction in the words reſembles the disjunction in the thought. In the follow⯑ing [261] examples the connection in the thought is happily imitated in the expreſſion. ‘Conſtituit agmen; et expedire tela animoſque, equitibus juſſis, &c. Livy, l. 38. § 25.’ Again: ‘Quum ex paucis quotidie aliqui eorum caderent aut vulnerarentur, et qui ſuperarent, feſſi et cor⯑poribus et animis eſſent, &c. Livy, l. 38. § 29.’
The following paſſage of Tacitus appears to me not ſo happy. It approaches to wit by connecting in the foregoing manner things but ſlightly related, which is not altogether ſuitable to the dignity or gravity of hiſtory. ‘Germania omnis a Galliis, Rhaetiiſque, et Pan⯑noniis, Rheno et Danubio fluminibus; a Sarmatis Daciſque, mutuo metu aut montibus ſeparatur. De moribus Germanorum.’ [262] I am more doubtful about this other in⯑ſtance:
I ſhall add ſome other examples where the oppoſition in the thought is imitated in the words; an imitation that is diſtinguiſhed by the name of antitheſis.
Speaking of Coriolanus ſoliciting the peo⯑ple to be made conſul:
Had you rather Caeſar were living, and die all ſlaves; than that Caeſar were dead, to live all free men?
‘He hath cool'd my friends and heated mine ene⯑mies. Shakeſpear.’
This rule may be extended to govern the conſtruction of ſentences or periods. A ſentence or period in language ought to ex⯑preſs one entire thought or mental propoſi⯑tion; and different thoughts ought to be ſe⯑parated in the expreſſion by placing them in different ſentences or periods. It is therefore offending againſt neatneſs, to crowd into one period entire thoughts which require more than one; for this is conjoining in language things that are ſepa⯑rated in reality; and conſequently rejecting that uniformity which ought to be preſer⯑ved betwixt thought and expreſſion. Of errors againſt this rule take the following examples.
Caeſar, deſcribing the Suevi: ‘Atque in eam ſe conſuetudinem adduxerunt, ut locis frigidiſſimis, neque veſtitus, praeter pelles, habeant quidquam, quarum, propter exiguitatem, [264] magna eſt corporis pars operta, et laventur in flu⯑minibus. Commentaria, l. 4. prin.’
Burnet, in the hiſtory of his own times, giving Lord Sunderland's character, ſays,
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 honour of a favourite author. Letters on hiſtory, vol. 1. let. 5.’ ‘It ſeems to me, that in order to maintain the moral ſyſtem of the world at a certain point, far below that of ideal perfection, (for we are made capable of conceiving what we are incapable of at⯑taining), [265] but however ſufficient upon the whole to conſtitute a ſtate eaſy and happy, or at the worſt tolerable: I ſay, it ſeems to me, that the author of nature has thought fit to mingle from time to time, among the ſocieties of men, a few, and but a few, of thoſe on whom he is graciouſly pleaſed to beſtow a larger proportion of the ethereal ſpirit than is given in the ordinary courſe of his provi⯑dence to the ſons of men. Bolingbroke, on the ſpirit of patriotiſm, let. 1.’
To crowd into a ſingle member of a pe⯑riod, different ſubjects, is ſtill worſe than to crowd them into one period.
Where two things are ſo connected as to require but a copulative, it is pleaſant to find a reſemblance in the members of the period, were it even ſo ſlight as where both begin with the ſame letter: ‘The peacock, in all his pride, does not diſplay half the colour that appears in the garments of a [266] Britiſh lady, when ſhe is either dreſſed for a ball or a birth-day. Spectator, No 265.’ ‘Had not my dog of a ſteward run away as he did, without making up his accounts, I had ſtill been immerſed in ſin and ſea coal. Ibid. No. 530.’
There is obviouſly a ſenſible defect in neat⯑neſs when uniformity is in this caſe totally neglected*; witneſs the following exam⯑ple, where the conſtruction of two mem⯑bers connected by a copulative is unneceſſa⯑rily 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 natu⯑ral abilities, without the leaſt tincture of learning, have made a diſcovery that there was no God, and [267] generouſly communicating their thoughts for the good of the public, were ſome time ago, by an unparallelled ſeverity, and upon I know not what obſolete law, broke for blaſphemy*. [Better thus]: Having made a diſcovery that there was no God, and having generouſly communicated their thoughts for the good of the public, were ſome time ago, &c.’ ‘He had been guilty of a fault, for which his maſter would have put him to death, had he not found an opportunity to eſcape out of his hands, and fled into the deſerts of Numidia. Guardian, No 139.’ ‘If all the ends of the revolution are already ob⯑tained, it is not only impertinent to argue for ob⯑taining any of them, but factious deſigns might be imputed, and the name of incendiary be applied with ſome colour, perhaps, to any one who ſhould perſiſt in preſſing this point. Diſſertation upon parties, Dedication.’
It is even unpleaſant to find a negative and affirmative propoſition connected by a copulative.
An artificial connection among the words, is undoubtedly a beauty when it repreſents any peculiar connection among the conſti⯑tuent parts of the thought; but where there is no ſuch connection, it is a poſitive de⯑formity, becauſe it makes a diſcordance be⯑twixt the thought and expreſſion. For the ſame reaſon, we ought alſo to avoid every artificial oppoſition of words where there is none in the thought. This laſt, termed verbal antitheſis, is ſtudied by writers of no taſte; and is reliſhed by readers of the ſame ſtamp, becauſe of a certain degree of live⯑lineſs in it. They do not conſider how incongruous it is, in a grave compoſition, to cheat the reader, and to make him ex⯑pect [269] a contraſt in the thought, which upon examination is not found there.
Here is a ſtudied oppoſition in the words, not only without any oppoſition in the ſenſe, but even where there is a very inti⯑mate connection, that of cauſe and effect; for it is the levity of the wife that vexes the huſband.
What, ſhall theſe papers lie like tell⯑tales here?
If thou reſpect them, beſt to take them up.
Nay, I was taken up for laying them down.
To conjoin by a copulative, members that ſignify things oppoſed in the thought, is an error too groſs to be commonly practi⯑ſed. [270] And yet writers are guilty of this fault in ſome degree, when they conjoin by a copulative things tranſacted at different pe⯑riods of time. Hence a want of neatneſs in the following expreſſion. ‘The nobility too, whom the King had no means of retaining by ſuitable offices and preferments, had been ſeized with the general diſcontent, and unwarily threw themſelves into the ſcale, which began already too much to preponderate. Hiſtory of G. Britain, vol. 1. p. 250.’ In periods of this kind, it appears more neat to expreſs the paſt time by the participle paſſive, thus: ‘The nobility having been ſeized with the gene⯑ral diſcontent, unwarily threw themſelves, &c. [or], The nobility who had been ſeized, &c. un⯑warily threw themſelves, &c.’
So much upon conjunction and disjunc⯑tion in general. I proceed to apply the rule to compariſons in particular. Where a reſemblance betwixt two objects is deſcribed, the writer ought to ſtudy a reſemblance be⯑twixt the two members that expreſs theſe [271] objects. For it makes the reſemblance the more entire to find it extended even to the words. To illuſtrate this rule, I ſhall give various examples of deviations from it. I begin with the words that expreſs the re⯑ſemblance. ‘I have obſerved of late, the ſtyle of ſome great miniſters very much to exceed that of any other productions. Letter to the Lord High Treaſurer. Swift.’ This, inſtead of ſtudying the reſemblance of words in a period that expreſſes a com⯑pariſon, is going out of one's road to avoid it. Inſtead 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 liable to flattery on the other. If they receive reproaches which are not due to them, they likewiſe receive praiſes which they do not deſerve. Spectator.’ Here the ſubject plainly demands uniformi⯑ty in expreſſion inſtead of variety; and [272] 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 which are not due, they likewiſe receive praiſes which are not due.’ ‘I cannot but fancy, however, that this imitation, which paſſes ſo currently with other judgements, muſt at ſome time or other have ſtuck a little with your Lordſhip *. [Better thus:] I cannot but fancy, however, that this imitation, which paſſes ſo currently with others, muſt at ſome time or other have ſtuck a little with your Lordſhip.’ ‘A glutton or mere ſenſualiſt is as ridiculous as the other two characters. Shafteſbury, vol. 1. p. 129.’ ‘They wiſely prefer the generous efforts of good⯑will and affection, to the reluctant compliances of ſuch as obey by force. Remarks on the hiſtory of England. Letter 5. Bolingbroke.’
[273] Titus Livius, concerning the people of Enna demanding the keys from the Ro⯑man garriſon, makes the governor ſay, ‘Quas ſimul tradiderimus, Carthaginienſium ex⯑templo Enna erit, foediuſque hic trucidabimur, quam Murgantiae praeſidium interfectum eſt. L. 24. § 38.’
Quintus Curtius, ſpeaking of Porus mount⯑ed on an elephant, and leading his army to battle: ‘Magnitudini Pori adjicere videbatur bellua qua vehebatur, tantum inter caeteras eminens, quanto aliis ipſe praeſtabat. L. 8. cap. 14.’
It is a ſtill greater deviation from congru⯑ity, to affect not only variety in the words, but alſo in the conſtruction. Deſcribing Thermopylae, Titus Livius ſays, ‘Id jugum, ſicut A pennini dorſo Italia dividitur, ita mediam Graeciam deremit. L. 36. § 15.’ [274] Speaking of Shakeſpear: ‘There may remain a ſuſpicion that we over-rate the greatneſs of his genius; in the ſame manner as bodies appear more gigantic on account of their be⯑ing diſproportioned and miſhapen. Hiſtory of G. Britain, vol. 1. p. 138.’ This is ſtudying variety in a period where the beauty lies in uniformity. Better thus: ‘There may remain a ſuſpicion that we over-rate the greatneſs of his genius, in the ſame manner as we over-rate the greatneſs of bodies which are diſ⯑proportioned and miſhapen.’
Next as to the length of the members that ſignify the reſembling objects. To produce a reſemblance betwixt ſuch mem⯑bers, they ought not only to be conſtructed in the ſame manner, but as nearly as poſ⯑ſible be equal in length. By neglecting this circumſtance, the following example is de⯑fective in neatneſs. ‘As the performance of all other religious duties will not avail in the ſight of God, without charity, ſo neither will the diſcharge of all other miniſterial [275] duties avail in the ſight of men without a faithful diſcharge of this principal duty. Diſſertation upon parties, dedication.’ In the following paſſage all the errors are accumulated that a period expreſſing a re⯑ſemblance can well admit: ‘Miniſters are anſwerable for every thing done to the prejudice of the conſtitution, in the ſame pro⯑portion as the preſervation of the conſtitution in its purity and vigour, or the perverting and weakening it, are of greater conſequence to the nation, than any other inſtances of good or bad government. Diſſertation upon parties, dedication.’
The ſame rule obtains in a compariſon where things are oppoſed to each other. Objects contraſted, not leſs than what are ſimilar, require a reſemblance in the mem⯑bers of the period that expreſs them. The reaſon is, that contraſt has no effect up⯑on the mind, except where the things com⯑pared have a reſemblance in their capital parts*. Therefore, in oppoſing two cir⯑cumſtances [276] to each other, it remarkably heightens the contraſt, to make as entire as poſſible the reſemblance betwixt the other parts, and in particular betwixt the mem⯑bers expreſſing the two circumſtances con⯑traſted. As things are often beſt illuſtrated by their contraries, I ſhall alſo give exam⯑ples of deviations from the rule in this caſe.
Addiſon ſays, ‘A friend exaggerates a man's virtues, an enemy inflames his crimes. Spectator, No 399.’ Would it not be neater to ſtudy uniformity inſtead of variety? as thus: ‘A friend exaggerates a man's virtues, an enemy his crimes.’ For here the contraſt is only betwixt a friend and an enemy; and betwixt all the other circumſtances, including the members of the period, the reſemblance ought to be pre⯑ſerved as entire as poſſible.
Speaking of a lady's head-dreſs: ‘About ten years ago it ſhot up to a very great [277] height, inſomuch that the female part of our ſpe⯑cies were much taller than the men. Spectator, No 98.’ It ſhould be, ‘Than the male part.’ ‘The wiſe man is happy when he gains his own approbation; the fool when he recommends him⯑ſelf 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 o⯑thers.’ ‘Sicut in frugibus pecudibuſque, non tantum ſe⯑mina ad ſervandum indolem valent, quantum ter⯑rae proprietas coelique, ſub quo aluntur, mutat. Livy, l. 38. § 17.’
Salluſt, in his hiſtory of Catiline's con⯑ſpiracy: ‘Per illa tempora quicumque rempublicam agita⯑vere, honeſtis nominibus, alii, ſicuti populi jura defenderent, pars, quo ſenati auctoritas maxuma [278] foret, bonum publicum ſimulantes, pro ſua quiſ⯑que potentia certabant. Cap. 38.’
We proceed to a rule of a different kind. During the courſe of a period, the ſame 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 af⯑fords no time for a ſolid impreſſion. I il⯑luſtrate this rule by giving examples of de⯑viations from it. ‘Honos alit artes, omneſque incenduntur ad ſtudia gloriâ; jacentque ea ſemper quae apud quoſque im⯑probantur. Cicero, Tuſcul. quaeſt. l. 1.’ Speaking of the diſtemper contracted by Alexander bathing in the river Cydnus and of the cure offered by Philip the phy⯑ſician: ‘Inter haec à Parmenione fidiſſimo purpurato⯑rum, literas accipit, quibus ei denunciabat, ne ſa⯑lutem ſuam Philippo committeret. Quintus Curtius, l. 3. cap. 6.’ [279] Hook, in his Roman hiſtory, ſpeaking of Eumenes, who had been beat down to the ground with a ſtone, ſays, ‘After a ſhort time he came to himſelf; and the next day, they put him on board his ſhip, which conveyed him firſt to Corinth, and thence to the iſland of Aegina.’ I give another example of a period which is unpleaſant, even by a very ſlight devia⯑tion from the rule.‘That ſort of inſtruction which is acquired by in⯑culcating an important moral truth, &c.’ This expreſſion includes two perſons, one acquiring, and one inculcating; and the ſcene is changed without neceſſity. To a⯑void this blemiſh, the thought may be ex⯑preſſed thus: ‘That ſort of inſtruction which is afforded by in⯑culcating, &c.’ The bad effect of this change of perſon is remarkable in the following paſſage. ‘[280] The Britains, daily haraſſed by cruel inroads from the Picts, were forced to call in the Saxons for their defence, who conſequently reduced the greateſt part of the iſland to their own power, drove the Britains into the moſt remote and moun⯑tainous parts, and the reſt of the country, in cu⯑ſtoms, religion, and language, became wholly Saxons. Letter to the Lord High Treaſurer. Swift.’ The following example is a change from ſubject to perſons. ‘This proſtitution of praiſe is not only a deceit upon the groſs of mankind, who take their notion of characters from the learned; but alſo the better ſort muſt by this means loſe ſome part at leaſt of that deſire of fame which is the incentive to gene⯑rous actions, when they find it promiſcuouſly be⯑ſtowed on the meritorious and undeſerving. Guardian, No 4.’
Even ſo ſlight a change as to vary the conſtruction in the ſame period, is unplea⯑ſant: ‘Annibal luce prima, Balearibus levique alia ar⯑matura praemiſſa, tranſgreſſus flumen, ut quoſque [281] traduxerat, ita in acie locabat; Gallos Hiſpanoſ⯑que equites prope ripam laevo in cornu adverſus Romanum equitatum; dextrum cornu Numidis equitibus datum. Tit. Liv. l. 22. § 46.’ Speaking of Hannibal's elephants drove back by the enemy upon his own army: ‘Eo magis ruere in ſuos belluae, tantoque majo⯑rem ſtragem edere quam inter hoſtes ediderant, quanto acrius pavor conſternatam agit, quam inſi⯑dentis magiſtri imperio regitur. Liv. l. 27. § 14.’ This paſſage is alſo faulty in a different re⯑ſpect, that there is no reſemblance betwixt the members of the expreſſion, though they import a compariſon.
The preſent head, which relates to the choice of materials, ſhall be cloſed with a rule concerning the uſe of copulatives. Longinus obſerves, that it animates a period to drop the copulatives; and he gives the following example from Xenophon. ‘[282] Cloſing their ſhields together, they were puſh'd, they fought, they ſlew, they were ſlain. Treatiſe of the Sublime, cap. 16.’ The reaſon I take to be what follows. A continued ſound, if not ſtrong, tends to lay us aſleep. An interrupted ſound rou⯑ſes and animates by its repeated impulſes. Hence it is, that ſyllables collected into feet, being pronounced with a ſenſible in⯑terval betwixt each, make more lively im⯑preſſions than can be made by a continued ſound. A period, the members of which are connected by copulatives, produceth an effect upon the mind approaching to that of a continued ſound: and therefore to ſuppreſs the copulatives muſt animate a deſcription. To ſuppreſs the copulatives hath another good effect. The mem⯑bers of a period connected by the proper copulatives, glide ſmoothly and gently a⯑long; and are a proof of ſedateneſs and leiſure in the ſpeaker. On the other hand, a man in the hurry of paſſion, neglecting copulatives and other particles, expreſſes the principal image only. Hence it is, that [283] hurry or quick action is beſt expreſſed with⯑out copulatives:
In this view Longinus* juſtly compares co⯑pulatives in a period to ſtrait tying, which in a race obſtructs the freedom of motion.
It follows from the ſame premiſſes, that to multiply copulatives in the ſame period ought to be avoided. For if the laying aſide copulatives give force and livelineſs, a redun⯑dancy of them muſt render the period languid. I appeal to the following inſtance, though there are not more than two copulatives. ‘Upon looking over the letters of my female cor⯑reſpondents, I find ſeveral from women complain⯑ing of jealous huſbands; and at the ſame time pro⯑teſting their own innocence, and deſiring my ad⯑vice upon this occaſion. Spectator, No 170.’ [284] I except the caſe where the words are in⯑tended to expreſs the coldneſs of the ſpeak⯑er; for there the redundancy of copulatives is a beauty.
Dining one day at an alderman's in the city, Peter obſerved him expatiating after the manner of his brethren, in the praiſes of his ſirloin of beer. ‘"Beef,"’ ſaid the ſage magiſtrate, ‘"is the king of meat: Beef comprehends in it the quinteſ⯑cence of partridge, and quail, and veniſon, and pheaſant, and plum-pudding, and cuſtard."’
And the author ſhows great taſte in vary⯑ing the expreſſion in the mouth of Peter, who is repreſented more animated.
‘"Bread,"’ ſays he, ‘"dear brothers, is the ſtaff of life, in which bread is contained, incluſivè, the quinteſcence of beef, mutton, veal, veni⯑ſon, partridge, plum-pudding, and cuſtard."’
We proceed to the ſecond kind of beauty, which conſiſts in a due arrangement of the words or materials. This branch of the ſubject is not leſs nice than extenſive; and [285] I deſpair to put it in a clear light, until a ſketch be given of the general principles that govern the ſtructure or compoſition of language.
Every thought, generally ſpeaking, con⯑tains one capital object conſidered as acting or as ſuffering. This object is expreſſed by a ſubſtantive noun. Its action is ex⯑preſſed by an active verb; and the thing affected by the action is expreſſed by ano⯑ther ſubſtantive noun. Its ſuffering or paſ⯑ſive ſtate is expreſſed by a paſſive verb, and the thing which acts upon it, by a ſubſtantive noun. Beſide theſe, which are the capital parts of a ſentence or period, there are generally under-parts. Each of the ſubſtan⯑tives as well as the verb, may be qualified. Time, place, purpoſe, motive, means, in⯑ſtrument, and a thouſand other circum⯑ſtances, may be neceſſary to complete the thought. And in what manner theſe ſeve⯑ral parts are connected together in the ex⯑preſſion, will appear from what follows.
In a complete thought or mental propo⯑ſition, all the members and parts are mu⯑tually related, ſome ſlightly, ſome more inti⯑mately. [286] In communicating ſuch a thought, it is not ſufficient that the component ideas be clearly expreſſed: it is alſo neceſſary, that all the relations contained in the thought be expreſſed according to their different de⯑grees of intimacy. To annex a certain meaning to a certain ſound or word, re⯑quires no art. The great nicety in all lan⯑guages is, to expreſs the various relations that connect together the parts of the thought. Could we ſuppoſe this branch of language to be ſtill a ſecret, it would puzzle, I am apt to think, the greateſt grammarian ever exiſted, to invent an expeditious me⯑thod. And yet, by the guidance merely of nature, the rude and illiterate have been led to a method ſo perfect, that it appears not ſuſceptible of any improvement. Without a clear conception of the manner of expreſſ⯑ing relations, one at every turn muſt be at a loſs about the beauties of language; and upon that ſubject therefore I find it neceſſary to ſay a few words.
Words that import a relation, muſt be diſtinguiſhed from thoſe that do not. Sub⯑ſtantives commonly imply no relation, ſuch [287] as animal, man, tree, river. Adjectives, verbs, and adverbs, imply a relation. The adjective good muſt be connected with ſome ſubſtantive, ſome being poſſeſſed of that quality. The verb write muſt be applied to ſome perſon who writes; and the adverbs moderately, diligently, have plainly a refer⯑ence to ſome action which they modify. When in language a relative term is intro⯑duced, all that is neceſſary to complete the expreſſion, is, to aſcertain that thing to which the term relates. For anſwering this purpoſe, I obſerve in Greek and Latin two different methods. Adjectives are declined as well as ſubſtantives; and declenſion ſerves to aſcertain the connection that is betwixt them. If the word that expreſſes the ſub⯑ject 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. A contrivance ſimilar to that now mentioned, ſerves to ex⯑preſs this double relation. The nominative caſe is appropriated to the agent, the accu⯑ſative [286] [...] [287] [...] [288] to the paſſive ſubject; and the verb is put in the firſt ſecond or third perſon, to correſpond the more intimately with both. Examples: Ego amo Tulliam; tu amas Sem⯑proniam; Brutus amat Portiam. The other method is by juxtapoſition, which is ne⯑ceſſary with reſpect to words only that are not declined, adverbs for example, articles, prepoſitions, and conjunctions. In the Engliſh language there are few declenſions; and therefore juxtapoſition is our chief re⯑ſource. Adjectives accompany their ſub⯑ſtantives*; an adverb accompanies the word it qualifies; and the verb occupies the middle place betwixt the active and paſ⯑ſive ſubjects to which it relates.
It muſt be obvious, that thoſe terms which have nothing relative in their ſignification, [289] cannot be connected in ſo eaſy a manner. When two ſubſtantives happen to be con⯑nected, as cauſe and effect, as principal and acceſſory, or in any other manner, ſuch connection cannot be expreſſed by contigu⯑ity ſolely; for words muſt often in a period be placed together which are not thus rela⯑ted. The relation betwixt ſubſtantives, therefore, cannot otherwiſe be expreſſed than by particles denoting the relation. Latin indeed and Greek, by their declen⯑ſions, go a certain length to expreſs ſuch re⯑lations, without the aid of particles. The relation of property, for example, betwixt Caeſar and his horſe is, expreſſed by putting the latter in the nominative caſe, the for⯑mer in the genitive; equus Caeſaris. The like in Engliſh, Caeſar's horſe. But in other inſtances, declenſions not being uſed in the Engliſh language, relations of this kind are commonly expreſſed by prepoſitions.
This form of connecting by prepoſitions, is not confined to ſubſtantives. Qualities, at⯑tributes, manner of exiſting or acting, and all other circumſtances, may in the ſame manner be connected with the ſubſtantives [290] to which they relate. This is done artifi⯑cially by converting the circumſtance into a ſubſtantive, in which condition it is qualified to be connected with the principal ſubject by a prepoſition, in the manner above deſcri⯑bed. 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 ex⯑preſſion, a wiſe man. This variety in the ex⯑preſſion, enriches language. I obſerve be⯑ſide, that the uſing a prepoſition in this caſe, is not always a matter of choice. It is in⯑diſpenſable with reſpect to every circum⯑ſtance that cannot be expreſſed by a ſingle adjective or adverb.
To pave the way for the rules of arrange⯑ment, one other preliminary muſt be diſ⯑cuſſed, which is, to explain the difference betwixt a natural ſtyle, and that where tranſpoſition or inverſion prevails. There are, it is true, no preciſe boundaries betwixt theſe two; for they run into each other, like the ſhades of different colours. No perſon however is at a loſs to diſtinguiſh them in their extremes: and it is neceſſary to make [291] 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 lan⯑guage. Again, a circumſtance connected by a prepoſition, follows naturally the word with which it is connected. But this ar⯑rangement 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 betwixt a relative word and that to which it relates. When ſuch liberties are frequently taken, the ſtyle be⯑comes inverted or tranſpoſed.
But as the liberty of inverſion is a capital point in handling the preſent ſubject, it will be neceſſary to examine it more narrowly, and in particular to trace the ſeveral degrees in which an inverted ſtyle recedes more and more from that which is natural. And firſt, as to the placing a circumſtance before the word with which it is connected, I obſerve, [292] 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 fol⯑lowing examples.‘In the ſincerity of my heart, I profeſs, &c.’ ‘By our own ill management, we are brought to ſo low an ebb of wealth and credit, that, &c.’ ‘On Thurſday morning there was little or nothing tranſacted in Change-alley.’ ‘At St Bride's church in Fleetſtreet, Mr Wool⯑ſton, (who writ againſt the miracles of our Saviour), in the utmoſt terrors of conſcience made a public recantation.’
The interjecting a circumſtance betwixt a relative word and that to which it relates, is more properly termed inverſion; becauſe, by a violent disjunction of words intimately connected, it recedes farther from a natural ſtyle. But this liberty has alſo degrees; for the disjunction is more violent in ſome caſes than in others. This I muſt alſo explain: and to give a juſt notion of the difference, I muſt crave liberty of my reader to enter a [293] little more into an abſtract ſubject, than would otherwiſe be my choice.
In nature, though a ſubſtance cannot ex⯑iſt without its qualities, nor a quality with⯑out a ſubſtance; yet in our conception of theſe, a material difference may be remark⯑ed. I cannot conceive a quality but as be⯑longing to ſome ſubject: it makes indeed a part of the idea which is formed of the ſub⯑ject. But the oppoſite holds not. Though I cannot form a conception of a ſubject de⯑void of all qualities, a partial conception may however be formed of it, laying aſide or abſtracting from any particular quality. I can, for example, form the idea of a fine Arabian horſe without regard to his colour, or of a white horſe without regard to his ſize. Such partial conception of a ſubject, is ſtill more eaſy with reſpect to action or motion; which is an occaſional attribute only, and has not the ſame permanency with colour or figure. I cannot form an idea of motion independent of a body; but there is nothing more eaſy than to form an idea of a body at reſt. Hence it appears, that the degree of inverſion depends greatly [294] on the order in which the related words are placed. When a ſubſtantive occupies the firſt place, we cannot foreſee what is to be ſaid of it. The idea therefore which this word ſuggeſts, muſt ſubſiſt in the mind at leaſt for a moment, independent of the re⯑lative words afterward introduced; and if it can ſo ſubſiſt, that moment may without difficulty be prolonged by interjecting a cir⯑cumſtance betwixt the ſubſtantive and its connections. Examples therefore of this kind, will ſcarce alone be ſufficient to deno⯑minate 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 greater violence be ſeparated from the ſubject that follows. And for that reaſon, every ſuch ſeparation by means of an interjected circumſtance belongs to an inverted ſtyle.
To illuſtrate this doctrine examples being neceſſary, I ſhall begin with thoſe where the word firſt introduced does not imply a relation.
In the following examples, where the word firſt introduced imports a relation, the disjunction will be found more violent.
Language would have no great power, were it confined to the natural order of i⯑deas. A thouſand beauties may be compaſſ⯑ed by inverſion, that muſt be relinquiſhed in a natural arrangement. I ſhall ſoon have an opportunity to make this evident. In the mean time, it ought not to eſcape ob⯑ſervation, 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 violent disjunction of words that by the ſenſe are in⯑timately connected. I ſcarce can ſay that inverſion has any limits; though I may venture to pronounce, that the disjunction of articles, conjunctions, or prepoſitions, [297] from the words to which they belong, ne⯑ver has a good effect. The following ex⯑ample with relation to a prepoſition, is per⯑haps as tolerable as any of the kind.‘He would neither ſeparate from, nor act againſt them.’
I give notice to the reader, that I am now ready to enter upon the rules of ar⯑rangement; beginning with a natural ſtyle, and proceeding gradually to what is the moſt inverted. And in the arrangement of a period, as well as in a right choice of words, the firſt and great object being perſpi⯑cuity, it is above laid down as a rule, That perſpicuity ought not to be ſacrificed to any other beauty whatever. Ambiguities occa⯑ſioned by a wrong arrangement are of two ſorts; one where the arrangement leads to a wrong ſenſe, and one where the ſenſe is left doubtful. The firſt being the more culpable, ſhall take the lead, beginning with examples of words put in a wrong place. ‘How much the imagination of ſuch a preſence muſt exalt a genius, we may obſerve merely from [298] the influence which an ordinary preſence has over men. Characteriſtics, vol. 1. 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 ar⯑rangement ought to be thus. ‘How much the imagination of ſuch a preſence muſt exalt a genius, we may obſerve from the in⯑fluence which an ordinary preſence merely has o⯑ver men.’ ‘The time of the election of a poet-laureat be⯑ing now at hand, it may be proper to give ſome ac⯑count of the rites and ceremonies anciently uſed at that ſolemnity, and only diſcontinued through the neglect and degeneracy of later times. Guardian.’ The term only is intended to qualify the noun degeneracy, and not the participle diſ⯑continued; and therefore the arrangement ought to be as follows. ‘[299] —and diſcontinued through the neglect and degeneracy only, of later times.’ ‘Sixtus the Fourth was, if I miſtake not, a great collector of books at leaſt. Letters on hiſtory, vol. 1. let. 6. Bolingbroke.’ The expreſſion here leads evidently to a wrong ſenſe. The averb at leaſt, ought not to be connected with the ſubſtantive books, but with collector, thus: ‘Sixtus the Fourth was a great collector at leaſt, of books.’
Speaking of Lewis XIV. ‘If he was not the greateſt king, he was the beſt actor of majeſty at leaſt, that ever filled a throne. Ibid. letter 7.’ Better thus: ‘If he was not the greateſt king, he was at leaſt the beſt actor of majeſty, &c.’ This arrangement removes the wrong ſenſe occaſioned by the juxtapoſition of majeſty and at leaſt.
[300] The following examples are of the wrong arrangement of members. ‘I have confined myſelf to thoſe methods for the advancement of piety, which are in the power of a prince limited like ours by a ſtrict execution of the laws. A project for the advancement of religion. Swift.’ The ſtructure of this period leads to a meaning which is not the author's, viz. power limited by a ſtrict execution of the laws. This 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 daugh⯑ters 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 ar⯑rangement, may be eaſily prevented by va⯑rying it thus: ‘[301] This morning when, with great care and dili⯑gence, one of Lady Lizard's daughters was look⯑ing over ſome hoods and ribands, &c.’ ‘A great ſtone that I happened to find after a long ſearch by the ſea-ſhore, ſerved me for an anchor. Gulliver's Travels, part 1. chap. 8.’ One would think that the ſearch was con⯑fined to the ſea-ſhore; but as the meaning is, that the great ſtone was found by the ſea-ſhore, the period ought to be arranged thus: ‘A great ſtone, that, after a long ſearch, I hap⯑pened to find by the ſea-ſhore, ſerved me for an⯑chor.’
Next of a wrong arrangement where the ſenſe is left doubtful; beginning, as in the former ſort, with examples of the wrong arrangement of words in a member. ‘Theſe forms of converſation by degrees multi⯑tiplied and grew troubleſome. Spectator, No 119.’ [302] Here it is left doubtful whether the modi⯑fication by degrees relate to the preceding member or to what follows. It ſhould be, ‘Theſe forms of converſation multiplied by de⯑grees.’ ‘Nor does 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 follow⯑ing arrangement. ‘Nor does this falſe modeſty expoſe us to ſuch actions only as are indiſcreet, &c.’ ‘The empire of Blefuſcu is an iſland ſituated to the north-eaſt ſide of Lilliput, from whence it is parted only by a channel of 800 yards wide. Gulliver's Travels, part 1. chap. 5.’ The ambiguity may be removed thus: ‘—from whence it is parted by a chan⯑nel of 800 yards wide only.’
In the following examples the ſenſe is left [303] doubtful by a wrong arrangement of mem⯑bers. ‘The miniſter who grows leſs by his elevation, like a little ſtatue placed on a mighty pedeſtal, will always have his jealouſy ſtrong about him. Diſſertation upon parties, dedication. Bolingbroke.’ Here, ſo far as can be gathered from the arrangement, it is doubtful, whether the object introduced by way of ſimile, relate to what goes before or to what follows. The ambiguity is removed by the following arrangement. ‘The miniſter who, like a little ſtatue placed on a mighty pedeſtal, grows leſs by his elevation, will always, &c.’ ‘Since this is too much to aſk of freemen, nay of ſlaves, if his expectation be not anſwered, ſhall he form a laſting diviſion upon ſuch tranſient motives? Ibid.’ Better thus: ‘Since this is too much to aſk of freemen, nay of ſlaves, ſhall he, if his expectation be not an⯑ſwered, form, &c.’ [304] Speaking of the ſuperſtitious practice of locking up the room where a perſon of diſ⯑tinction dies: ‘The knight, ſeeing his habitation reduced to ſo ſmall a compaſs, and himſelf in a manner ſhut out of his own houſe, upon the death off his mother or⯑dered all the apartments to be flung open, and ex⯑orciſed by his chaplain. Spectator, No 110.’ Better thus: ‘The knight, ſeeing his habitation reduced to ſo ſmall a compaſs, and himſelf in a manner ſhut out of his own houſe, ordered, upon the death of his mother, all the apartments to be flung open."’
Speaking of ſome indecencies in conver⯑ſation: ‘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.’
[305] Speaking of a diſcovery in natural phi⯑loſophy, that colour is not a quality of mat⯑ter: ‘As this is a truth which has been proved incon⯑teſtably by many modern philoſophers, and is in⯑deed one of the fineſt ſpeculations in that ſcience, if the Engliſh reader would ſee the notion explained at large, he may find it in the eighth chapter of the ſecond book of Mr Locke's eſſay on human underſtanding. Spectator, No 413.’ Better thus: ‘As this is a truth, &c. the Engliſh reader, if he would ſee the notion explained at large, may find it, &c.’ ‘A woman ſeldom aſks advice before ſhe has bought her wedding-cloaths. When ſhe has made her own choice, for form's ſake ſhe ſends a conge d'elire to her friends. Ibid. No 475.’ Better thus: ‘—ſhe ſends for form's ſake a conge d'elire to her friends.’ ‘And ſince it is neceſſary that there ſhould be a perpetual intercourſe of buying and ſelling, and [306] dealing upon credit, where fraud is permitted or connived at, or hath no law to puniſh it, the honeſt dealer is always undone, and the knave gets the advantage. Gulliver's Travels, part 1. chap. 6.’ Better thus: ‘And ſince it is neceſſary that there ſhould be a perpetual intercourſe of buying and ſelling, and dealing upon credit, the honeſt dealer, where fraud is permitted or connived at, or hath no law to puniſh it, is always undone, and the knave gets the advantage.’
From theſe examples, the following ob⯑ſervation will readily occur, that a circum⯑ſtance ought never to be placed betwixt two capital members of a period; for by ſuch ſituation it muſt always be doubtful, ſo far as we gather from the arrangement, to which of the two members it belongs. Where it is interjected, as it ought to be, betwixt 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 gene⯑ral, to preſerve members diſtinct which ſignify things diſtinguiſhed in the thought, [307] the ſure method is, to place firſt in the conſequent member ſome word that cannot connect with what precedes it.
If by any one it ſhall be thought, that the objections here are too ſcrupulous, and that the defect of perſpicuity is eaſily ſup⯑plied by accurate punctuation; the anſwer is, That punctuation may remove an am⯑biguity, but will never produce that pecu⯑liar beauty which is felt when the ſenſe comes out clearly and diſtinctly by means of a happy arrangement. Such influence has this beauty, that by a natural tranſition of feeling, it is communicated to the very ſound of the words, ſo as in appearance to improve the muſic of the period. But as this curious ſubject comes in more properly afterward, it is ſufficient at preſent to appeal to experience, that a period ſo arranged as to bring out the ſenſe clear, ſeems always more muſical than where the ſenſe is left in any degree doubtful.
A rule deſervedly occupying the ſecond place, is, That words expreſſing things con⯑nected in the thought, ought to be placed as near together as poſſible. This rule is [308] derived immediately from human nature, in which there is diſcovered a remarkable propenſity to place together things that are in any manner connected*. Where things are arranged according to their connections, we have a ſenſe of order: otherwiſe we have a ſenſe of diſorder, as of things placed by chance. And we naturally place words in the ſame order in which we would place the things they ſignify. The bad effect of a violent ſeparation of words or members thus intimately connected, will appear from the following examples. ‘For the Engliſh are naturally fanciful, and ve⯑ry often diſpoſed, by that gloomineſs and melancho⯑ly 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.’ Here the verb or aſſertion is, by a pretty long circumſtance, violently ſeparated from the ſubject to which it refers. This makes a harſh arrangement; the leſs excuſable that [309] the fault is eaſily prevented by placing the circumſtance before the verb or aſſertion, af⯑ter the following manner: ‘For the Engliſh are naturally fanciful, and, by that gloomineſs and melancholy of temper which is ſo frequent in our nation, are often diſpoſed to many wild notions, &c.’ ‘For as no mortal author, in the ordinary fate and viciſſitude of things, knows to what uſe his works may, ſome time or other, be applied, &c. Spectator, No 85.’ Better thus: ‘For as, in the ordinary fate and viciſſitude of things, no mortal author knows to what uſe, ſome time or other, his works may be apply'd.’ ‘From whence we may date likewiſe the rival⯑ſhip of the houſe of France, for we may reckon that of the Valois and that of Bourbon as one upon this occaſion, and the houſe of Auſtria, that conti⯑nues at this day, and has oft coſt ſo much blood and ſo much treaſure in the courſe of it. Letters on hiſtory, vol. 1. letter 6. Bolingbroke.’ ‘[310] It cannot be impertinent or ridiculous therefore in ſuch a country, whatever it might be in the Ab⯑bot of St Real's, which was Savoy I think; or in Peru, under the Incas, where Garcilaſſo de la Ve⯑ga 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 jud⯑ges of thoſe that act, or controllers of thoſe that judge. Letters on hiſtory, vol. 1. letter 5. Bolingbroke.’ ‘If Scipio, who was naturally given to women, for which anecdote we have, if I miſtake not, the authority of Polybius, as well as ſome verſes of Nevius preſerved by Aulus Gellius, had been edu⯑cated by Olympias at the court of Philip, it is im⯑probable that he would have reſtored the beautiful Spaniard. Ibid. letter 3.’ If any one have a curioſity for more ſpeci⯑mens of this kind, they will be found with⯑out number in the works of the ſame au⯑thor.
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 [311] the foregoing rule; and with the reaſon there given, another concurs, viz. That if other ideas intervene, it is difficult to recal the perſon or thing by reference. ‘If I had leave to print the Latin letters tranſmit⯑ted to me from foreign parts, they would fill a vo⯑lume, and be a full defence againſt all that Mr Partridge, or his accomplices of the Portugal inqui⯑ſition, will be ever able to object; who, by the way, are the only enemies my predictions have ever met with at home or abroad.’ Better thus: ‘—and be a full defence againſt all that can be objected by Mr Partridge, or his accomplices of the Portugal inquiſition; who, by the way, are, &c.’ ‘There being a round million of creatures in hu⯑man figure, throughout this kingdom, whoſe whole ſubſiſtence, &c. A modeſt propoſal, &c. Swift.’ Better: ‘There being, throughout this kingdom, a round million of creatures in human figure, whoſe whole ſubſiſtence, &c.’ ‘[312] 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.’ ‘It is the cuſtom of the Mahometans, if they ſee any printed or written paper upon the ground, to take it up, and lay it aſide carefully, as not know⯑ing but it may contain ſome piece of their Alcoran. Spectator, No 85.’ The arrangement here leads to a wrong ſenſe, as if the ground were taken up, not the paper. Better thus: ‘It is the cuſtom of the Mahometans, if they ſee upon the ground any printed or written paper, to take it up, &c.’
The following rule depends on the com⯑munication of emotions or feelings to rela⯑ted objects, a principle in human nature we have had more than one occaſion to mention. We find this operation, even where the objects are not otherwiſe related than by the juxtapoſition of the words that expreſs them. Hence to elevate or depreſs an ob⯑ject, one method is, to join it in the ar⯑rangement [313] to another that is naturally high or low. Witneſs the following ſpeech of Eumenes to the Roman ſenate. ‘Cauſam veniendi ſibi Roman fuiſſe, praeter cu⯑piditatem viſendi deos homineſque, quorum beneficio in ea fortuna eſſet, ſupra quam ne optare quidem auderet, etiam ut coram moneret ſenatum ut Perſei conatus obviam iret. Livy, l. 42. cap. 11.’ To join the Romans with the gods in the ſame enunciation, is an artful ſtroke of flattery, becauſe it tacitly puts them on a le⯑vel. On the other hand, when the pur⯑poſe is to degrade or vilify an object, this is done ſucceſsfully 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 Hea⯑ven from time to time, for the chaſtiſement of a ſin⯑ful people, has inflicted upon whole nations. For when the degeneracy becomes common, 'tis but [314] juſt the puniſhment ſhould be general. Of this kind, in our own unfortunate country, was that deſtructive peſtilence, whoſe mortality was ſo fa⯑tal as to ſweep away, if Sir William Petty may be believed, five millions of Chriſtian ſouls, beſides women and Jews. God's revenge againſt punning. Arbuthnot.’ ‘Such alſo was that dreadful conflagration enſuing in this famous metropolis of London, which con⯑ſumed, according to the computation of Sir Samuel Morland, 100,000 houſes, not to mention church⯑es and ſtables. Ibid.’ ‘But on condition it might paſs into a law, I would gladly exempt both lawyers of all ages, ſub⯑altern and field officers, young heirs, dancing-ma⯑ſters, pickpockets, and players. An infallible ſcheme to pay the public debts. Swift.’
Circumſtances in a period reſemble ſmall ſtones in a building employ'd to fill up va⯑cancies among thoſe of a larger ſize. In the arrangement of a period, ſuch under⯑parts crowded together make a poor figure; and never are graceful but when interſper⯑ſed among the capital parts. I ſhall illuſtrate this rule by the following example. ‘[315] It is likewiſe urged, that there are, by computa⯑tion, in this kingdom, above 10,000 parſons, whoſe revenues, added to thoſe of my Lords the biſhops, would ſuffice to maintain, &c. Argument againſt aboliſhing Chriſtianity. Swift.’ Here two circumſtances, viz. by computa⯑tion and in this kingdom, are crowded toge⯑ther unneceſſarily. They make a better ap⯑pearance 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 be introduced, the better. Circumſtances are proper for that coolneſs of mind, with which a period as well as a work is commenced. In the progreſs, the mind warms, and has a greater reliſh for matters of importance. When a circum⯑ſtance is placed at the beginning or near the beginning of the period, the tranſition from it to the principal ſubject is agreeable: it is like aſcending or mounting upward. On the other hand, to place it late in the period has a bad effect; for after being engaged in [316] the principal ſubject, one is with reluctance brought down to give attention to a circum⯑ſtance. Hence evidently the preference of the following arrangement, ‘Whether in any country a choice altogether un⯑exceptionable has been made, ſeems doubtful,’ before this other, ‘Whether a choice altogether unexceptionable has in any country been made, &c.’ For this reaſon the following period is ex⯑ceptionable in point of arrangement: ‘I have conſidered formerly, with a good deal of attention, the ſubject upon which you command me to communicate my thoughts to you. Bolingbroke of the ſtudy of hiſtory, letter 1.’ which, with a ſlight alteration, may be im⯑proved thus: ‘I have formerly, with a good deal of attention, conſidered the ſubject, &c.’
The bad effect of placing a circumſtance [317] laſt or late in a period, will appear from the following examples. ‘Let us endeavour to eſtabliſh to ourſelves an in⯑tereſt in him who holds the reins of the whole creation in his hand. Spectator, No 12.’ Better thus: ‘Let us endeavour to eſtabliſh to ourſelves an in⯑tereſt in him, who, in his hand, holds the reins of the whole creation.’ ‘Virgil, who has caſt the whole ſyſtem of Platonic philoſophy, ſo far as it relates to the ſoul of man, into beautiful allegories, in the ſixth book of his Aeneid, gives us the puniſhment, &c. Spectator, No 90.’ Better thus: ‘Virgil, who in the ſixth book of his Aeneid has caſt, &c.’ ‘And Philip the Fourth was obliged at laſt to con⯑clude a peace, on terms repugnant to his inclina⯑tion, to that of his people, to the intereſt of Spain, and to that of all Europe, in the Pyrenean treaty. Letters on hiſtory, vol. 1. letter 6. Bolingbroke.’ [318] Better thus: ‘And at laſt, in the Pyrenean treaty, Philip the Fourth was obliged to conclude a peace, &c.’
In arranging a period, it is of importance to determine in what part of it a word makes the greateſt figure, whether in the begin⯑ning, during the currency, or at the cloſe. The breaking ſilence rouſes the attention to what is ſaid; and therefore deeper impreſ⯑ſion is made at the beginning than during the currency. The beginning, however, muſt yield to the cloſe; which being ſuc⯑ceeded by a pauſe, affords time for a word to make its deepeſt impreſſion. Hence the following rule, That to give the utmoſt force to a period, it ought if poſſible to be cloſed with that word which makes the greateſt figure. The opportunity of a pauſe ſhould not be thrown away upon acceſſories, but reſerved for the principal object, in order that it may make a full impreſſion. This is an additional reaſon againſt cloſing a pe⯑riod with a circumſtance. There are how⯑ever periods that admit not this ſtructure; [319] and in that caſe, the capital word ought if poſſible to be placed in the front, which next to the cloſe is the moſt advantageous for making an impreſſion. Hence, in di⯑recting our diſcourſe to any man, we ought to begin with his name; and one will be ſenſible of a degradation, when this rule is neglected, as it frequently is for the ſake of verſe. I give the following examples.
‘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 other proof than Addiſon's tranſlation of the laſt example. ‘[320] O Abner! I fear my God, and I fear none but him. Guardian, No 117.’
Every one muſt be ſenſible of a dignity in the invocation at the beginning, which that in the middle is far from reaching. I mean not however to cenſure this expreſſion. On the contrary it appears beautiful, by diſtin⯑guiſhing the reſpect due to a father and to a ſon.
The ſubſtance of what is ſaid in this and the foregoing ſection, upon the method of arranging the words of a period ſo as to make the ſtrongeſt impreſſion with reſpect to ſound as well as ſignification, is compre⯑hended in the following obſervation. That order of the words in a period will always be the moſt agreeable, where, without ob⯑ſcuring the ſenſe, the moſt important i⯑mages, [321] the moſt ſonorous words, and the longeſt members, bring up the rear.
Hitherto of arranging ſingle words, ſin⯑gle 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 rules. But luckily reflecting upon what is ſaid in the firſt chapter about order, we find rules laid down to our hand, ſo as to leave us no harder taſk than their application to the preſent queſtion. And, firſt, with reſpect to the enumerating a number of particulars of equal rank, it is laid down in the place cited, that as there is no foundation for preferring any one be⯑fore the reſt, it is indifferent to the mind in what order they be viewed. And it is only neceſſary to be added here, that for the ſame reaſon, it is indifferent in what order they be named. 2dly, If a number of objects of the ſame kind, differing only in ſize, are to be ranged along a ſtraight [322] line, the moſt agreeable order to the eye is that of an increaſing ſeries. In ſurveying a number of ſuch objects, beginning at the leaſt and proceeding to greater and greater, the mind ſwells gradually with the ſucceſſive objects, and in its progreſs has a very ſen⯑ſible pleaſure. Preciſely for the ſame rea⯑ſon, the words expreſſive of ſuch objects ought to be placed in the ſame order. The beauty of this figure, which may be term⯑ed a climax in ſenſe, has eſcaped Lord Bo⯑lingbroke in the firſt member of the fol⯑lowing period.‘Let but one great, brave, diſintereſted, active man ariſe, and he will be received, followed, and almoſt adored.’ The following arrangement has ſenſibly a better effect.‘Let but one brave, great, active, diſintereſt⯑ed man ariſe, &c.’ Whether the ſame rule ought to be follow⯑ed in enumerating men of different ranks, ſeems doubtful. On the one hand, a pro⯑ceſſion [323] of a number of perſons, preſenting the loweſt claſs firſt, and riſing upon the eye in ſucceſſion till it terminate upon the high⯑eſt, is undoubtedly the moſt agreeable or⯑der. On the other hand, in every liſt of names, it is cuſtomary to ſet the perſon of the greateſt dignity at the top, and to deſcend gradually through his inferiors. Where the purpoſe is to honour the perſons named according to their rank, the latter order ought to be followed; but every one who regards himſelf only, or his reader, will chuſe the former order. 3dly, As the ſenſe of order directs the eye to deſcend from the principal to its greateſt acceſſory, and from the whole to its greateſt part, and in the ſame order through all the parts and acceſſories till we arrive at the minu⯑teſt; the ſame order ought to be followed in the enumeration of ſuch particulars. I ſhall give on familiar example. Talking of the parts of a column, viz. the baſe, the ſhaft, the capital, theſe are capable of ſix different arrangements, and the queſtion is, Which is the beſt? When one has in view the erection of a column, he will na⯑turally [324] be led to expreſs the parts in the or⯑der above mentioned; which at the ſame time is agreeable by mounting upward. But conſidering the column as it ſtands without reference to its erection, the ſenſe of order, as obſerved above, requires the chief part to be named firſt. For that reaſon we begin with the ſhaft; and the baſe comes next in order, that we may a⯑ſcend from it to the capital. Laſtly, In tracing the particulars of any natural ope⯑ration, order requires that we follow the courſe of nature. Hiſtorical facts are rela⯑ted in the order of time. We begin at the founder of a family, and proceed from him to his deſcendents. But in deſcribing a lofty oak, we begin with the trunk, and aſcend to the branches.
When force and livelineſs of expreſſion are aimed at, the rule is, to ſuſpend the thought as much as poſſible, and to bring it out full and entire at the cloſe. This cannot be done but by inverting the natu⯑ral arrangement, and by introducing a word or member before its time. By ſuch in⯑verſion our curioſity is raiſed about what is [325] to follow; and it is agreeable to have our curioſity gratified at the cloſe of the period. Such arrangement produceth on the mind an effect ſimilar to a ſtroke exerted upon the body by the whole collected force of the agent. On the other hand, where a pe⯑riod 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 ſuper⯑fluous. His diſappointment contributes al⯑ſo to this appearance, when he finds, that, contrary to his expectation, 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 pe⯑riod; for without the verb the ſenſe can⯑not be complete. And when the verb happens to be the capital word, which is frequently the caſe, it ought at any rate to be put laſt, according to another rule, above laid down. I proceed as uſual to illuſtrate this rule by examples. The following pe⯑riod is placed in its natural order. ‘[326] Were inſtruction an eſſential circumſtance in epic poetry, I doubt whether a ſingle inſtance could be given of this ſpecies of compoſition, in any lan⯑guage.’ The period thus arranged admits a full cloſe upon the word compoſition; after which it goes on languidly, and cloſes without force. This blemiſh will be avoided by the following arrangement. ‘Were inſtruction an eſſential circumſtance in epic poetry, I doubt whether, in any language, a ſingle inſtance could be given of this ſpecies of compoſi⯑tion.’ ‘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 [237] or leſs, with theſe groundleſs horrors and preſages of futurity, upon ſurveying the moſt indifferent works of nature. Spectator, No 505.’ Better: ‘Upon ſurveying the moſt indifferent works of nature, men of the beſt ſenſe, &c.’ ‘She ſoon informed him of the place he was in, which, notwithſtanding all its horrors, appeared to him more ſweet than the bower of Mahomet, in the company of his Balſora. Guardian, No 167.’ Better: ‘She ſoon, &c. appeared to him, in the compa⯑ny of his Balſora, more ſweet, &c.’ ‘The Emperor was ſo intent on the eſtabliſhment of his abſolute power in Hungary, that he expo⯑ſed the Empire doubly to deſolation and ruin for the ſake of it. Letters on hiſtory, vol. 1. let. 7. Bolingbroke.’ Better: ‘—that for the ſake of it he expoſed the Empire doubly to deſolation and ruin.’
[328] None of the rules for the compoſition of periods are more liable 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 perſpi⯑cuity. Neither ought ſuch ſuſpenſion to be attempted in a long period; becauſe in that caſe the mind is bewildered among a profuſion of words. A traveller, while he is puzzled about the road, reliſhes not the fineſt proſpects.‘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 Ecbatana. Travels of Cyrus, book 1.’
The foregoing rules concern the arrange⯑ment of a ſingle period. I ſhall add one rule more concerning the diſtribution of a diſcourſe into different periods. A ſhort period is lively and familiar. A long pe⯑riod, [329] requiring more attention, makes an impreſſion grave and ſolemn. In general, a writer ought to ſtudy a mixture of long and ſhort periods, which prevents an irk⯑ſome uniformity, and entertains the mind with variety of impreſſions. In particular, long periods ought to be avoided till the reader's attention be thoroughly engaged; and therefore a diſcourſe, eſpecially of the familiar kind, ought never to be introduced with a long period. For that reaſon, the commencement of a letter to a very young lady on her marriage is faulty. ‘Madam, The hurry and impertinence of recei⯑ving and paying viſits on account of your marriage, being now over, you are beginning to enter into a courſe of life, where you will want much advice to divert you from falling into many errors, foppe⯑ries, and follies, to which your ſex is ſubject. Swift.’ See a ſtronger example in the commence⯑ment of Cicero's oration, Pro Archia poeta.
Before we proceed farther, it may be proper to take a review of the rules laid [330] down in this and the preceding ſection, in order to make ſome general obſervations. The natural order of the words and mem⯑bers of a period, is undoubtedly the ſame with 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 reach ſome beauty either of ſound or meaning that cannot be reached in the natural or⯑der. But ſeldom it happens, that in the ſame period there is place for a plurality of theſe rules. If one beauty can be catched, another muſt be relinquiſhed. The only queſtion is, Which ought to be preferred? This is a queſtion that cannot be reſolved by any general rule. But practice, ſup⯑ported by a good taſte, will in moſt inſtan⯑ces make the choice eaſy. The component words and members of a period, are aſcer⯑tained by the ſubject. If the natural order be not reliſhed, a few trials will diſcover that artificial order which has the beſt effect. All that can be ſaid in general is, that in making a choice, ſound ought to yield to ſignification.
[331] 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 tranſpoſition or inverſion beſtows upon a period a very ſenſible degree of force and elevation; and yet writers ſeem to be at a loſs in what manner to account for this effect. Cerçeau* aſcribes ſo much power to inverſion, as to make it the characteriſtic of French verſe, and the ſingle circumſtance which in that language diſtinguiſhes verſe from proſe. And yet he pretends not to ſay, that it hath any other power but to raiſe ſurpriſe; he muſt mean curioſity; which is done by ſuſpending the thought during the period, and bringing it out en⯑tire at the cloſe. This indeed is one power of inverſion; but neither its ſole power, nor even that which is the moſt remarkable, as is made plain above. But waving cenſure, which is not an agreeable taſk, I enter into the matter. And I begin with obſerving, that if a conformity betwixt words and their [332] meaning be agreeable, it muſt of courſe be agreeable to find the ſame order or ar⯑rangement in both. Hence the beauty of a plain or natural ſtyle, where the order of the words correſponds preciſely to the order of the ideas. Nor is this the ſingle beauty of a natural ſtyle: it is alſo agreeable upon account of 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, it cannot otherwiſe be a⯑greeable, but as contributing to ſome poſi⯑tive beauty which 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 inverſion, is ſuſcep⯑tible of many beauties that are totally ex⯑cluded in a natural arrangement of words. From theſe premiſſes it clearly follows, that inverſion ought not to be indulged, un⯑leſs in order to reach ſome beauty ſupe⯑rior to that of a natural ſtyle. It may with great certainty be pronounced, that every inverſion which is not governed by [333] this rule, will appear harſh and ſtrained, and be diſreliſhed by every one of taſte. Hence the beauty of inverſion when happily conducted; the beauty, not of an end, but of means, as furniſhing opportunity for num⯑berleſs ornaments that find no place in a natu⯑ral ſtyle. Hence the force, the elevation, the harmony, the cadence, of ſome compoſi⯑tions. Hence the manifold beauties of the Greek and Roman tongues, of which li⯑ving languages afford but faint imitations.
SECT. III. Beauty of language from a reſemblance betwixt ſound and ſignification.
THE reſemblance betwixt the ſound and ſignification of certain words, is a beauty, which has eſcaped no critical wri⯑ter, and yet is not handled with accuracy by any of them. They have probably been erroneouſly of opinion, that a beauty ſo obvious in the feeling, requires no ex⯑planation [334] in the underſtanding. In order to ſupply this defect, I ſhall give examples of the various reſemblances betwixt ſound and ſignification; and at the ſame time ſhall endeavour to explain why ſuch reſem⯑blances are beautiful. I begin with exam⯑ples where the reſemblance betwixt the ſound and ſignification is the moſt entire; proceeding to others, where the reſem⯑blance is leſs and leſs ſo.
There being frequently a ſtrong reſem⯑blance betwixt different ſounds, it will not be ſurpriſing to find a natural ſound imita⯑ted by one that is articulate. Thus the ſound of a bow-ſtring is imitated by the words that expreſs it.
The ſound of felling trees in a wood:
No perſon can be at a loſs about the cauſe of this beauty. It is obviouſly that of imi⯑tation.
That there is any other natural reſem⯑blance betwixt ſound and ſignification, muſt not be taken for granted. There is evidently no reſemblance betwixt ſound and motion, nor betwixt ſound and ſentiment. In this matter, we are apt to be deceived by artful reading or pronouncing. 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, de⯑pending on artful pronunciation, muſt be diſtinguiſhed from that concord betwixt ſound and ſenſe, which is perceived in ſome expreſſions independent of artful pronun⯑ciation. [336] 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 are ſo intimately connected, as that the proper⯑ties of the one are readily communicated to the other. An emotion of grandeur, of ſweetneſs, of melancholy, or of compaſſion, though occaſioned by the thought ſolely, is transferred upon the words, which by that means reſemble in appearance the thought that is expreſſed by them*. I have great reaſon to recommend theſe obſervations to my reader, conſidering how inaccurately the preſent ſubject is handled by critics. Not one of them diſtinguiſhes the natural re⯑ſemblance of ſound and ſignification, from the artificial reſemblance now deſcribed. Witneſs Vida in particular, who in a very long paſſage has given very few examples, but what are of the latter kind†.
That there may be a reſemblance betwixt natural and artificial ſounds, is ſelf-evident; [337] and that in fact there exiſt ſuch reſemblances ſucceſsfully employ'd by writers of genius, is clear from the foregoing examples, and many others that might be given. But we may ſafely pronounce, that this natural re⯑ſemblance can be carried no farther. The objects of the ſeveral ſenſes, differ ſo widely from each other as to exclude any reſem⯑blance. Sound in particular, whether arti⯑culate or inarticulate, reſembles not in any degree taſte, ſmell, or motion; and as little can it reſemble any internal ſentiment, feel⯑ing, or emotion. But muſt we then agree, that nothing but natural ſound can be imi⯑tated by that which is articulate? Taking imitation in its proper ſenſe, as involving a reſemblance betwixt two objects, the pro⯑poſition muſt be admitted. And yet in ma⯑ny paſſages that are not deſcriptive of natu⯑ral ſound, every one muſt be ſenſible of a peculiar concord betwixt the ſound of the words and their meaning. As there can be no doubt of the fact, what remains is, to in⯑quire into its cauſe.
Reſembling cauſes may produce effects that have no reſemblance; and cauſes that [338] have no reſemblance may produce reſem⯑bling effects. A magnificent building, for example, reſembles not in any degree an he⯑roic action; and yet the emotions they pro⯑duce, being concordant, bear a reſemblance to each other. We are ſtill more ſenſible of this reſemblance, in a ſong where the muſic is properly adjuſted to the ſentiment. There is no reſemblance betwixt thought and ſound; but there is the ſtrongeſt reſem⯑blance betwixt the emotion raiſed by muſic tender and pathetic, and that raiſed by the complaint of an unſucceſsful lover. To ap⯑ply theſe examples to the preſent ſubject, I obſerve, that the ſound even of a ſingle word makes, in ſome inſtances, an impreſſion reſembling that which is made by the thing it ſignifies; witneſs the word running, com⯑poſed of two ſhort ſyllables; and more re⯑markably the words rapidity, impetuoſity, precipitation. Brutal manners produce in the ſpectator, an emotion not unlike what is produced by a harſh and rough ſound. Hence the figurative expreſſion, rugged manners; an expreſſion peculiarly agreeable by the relation of the ſound to the ſenſe. [339] Again, the word little, being pronounced with a very ſmall aperture of the mouth, has a weak and faint ſound, which makes an impreſſion reſembling that made by any diminutive object. This reſemblance of ef⯑fects, is ſtill more remarkable where a num⯑ber of words are connected together 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, a peculiar pleaſure ariſes. The thought or ſentiment produces one pleaſant emotion: the melody or tone of the words produces another. But the chief pleaſure proceeds from having theſe two concordant emotions combined in perfect harmony, and carried on in the mind to a full cloſe*. Ex⯑cept in the ſingle caſe where ſound is de⯑ſcribed, 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 re⯑ſemblance; but ſound itſelf cannot have a reſemblance to any thing but ſound.
[340] Proceeding now to particulars, and be⯑ginning with thoſe caſes where the emo⯑tions have the ſtrongeſt reſemblance, I ob⯑ſerve, firſt, That in pronouncing a number of ſyllables in ſucceſſion, an emotion is ſometimes raiſed extremely ſimilar to that raiſed by ſucceſſive motion. This may be made evident even to thoſe who are defective in taſte, by the following fact, that the term movement in all languages is equally apply'd to both. In this manner, ſucceſſive mo⯑tion, ſuch as walking, running, galloping, can be imitated by a ſucceſſion of long or ſhort ſyllables, or by a due mixture of both. For example, ſlow motion may be aptly imitated in a verſe where long ſyllables pre⯑vail; eſpecially when aided by a ſlow pro⯑nunciation: ‘Illi inter ſeſe magnâ vi brachia tollunt. Georg. iv. 174.’
On the other hand, ſwift motion is imi⯑tated by a ſucceſſion of ſhort ſyllables: ‘Quadrupedante putrem ſonitu quatit ungula cam⯑pum.’ [341] Again: ‘Radit iter liquidum, celeres neque commovet alas.’
Thirdly, a line compoſed of monoſyl⯑lables, makes an impreſſion, by the frequen⯑cy of its pauſes, ſimilar to what is made by laborious interrupted motion:
Fourthly, the impreſſion made by rough ſounds in ſucceſſion, reſembles that made by rough or tumultuous motion. On the other hand, the impreſſion of ſmooth ſounds reſembles that of gentle motion. The fol⯑lowing is an example of both.
Another example of the latter:
Fifthly, prolonged motion is expreſſed in an Alexandrine line. The firſt exam⯑ple ſhall be of ſlow motion prolonged:
The next example is of forcible motion pro⯑longed:
The laſt ſhall be of rapid motion prolonged:
Again, ſpeaking of a rock torn from the brow of a mountain,
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.’
Seventhly, a ſlow ſucceſſion of ideas is a circumſtance that belongs equally to ſettled melancholy, and to a period compoſed of polyſyllables pronounced ſlow. Hence, by ſimilarity of emotions, the latter is imitative of the former:
Eighthly, a long ſyllable made ſhort, or a ſhort ſyllable made long, raiſes, by the diffi⯑culty of pronouncing contrary to cuſtom, a feeling ſimilar to that of hard labour:
Ninthly, harſh or rough words pronoun⯑ced with difficulty, excite a feeling reſem⯑bling that which proceeds from the labour of thought to a dull writer:
I ſhall cloſe with one other example, which of all makes the fineſt figure. In the firſt ſection mention is made of a climax in ſound, and in the ſecond of a climax in [345] ſenſe. It belongs to the preſent ſubject to obſerve, that when theſe coincide in the ſame paſſage, the concordance of ſound and ſenſe is delightful. The reader is conſcious not only of pleaſure from the two climaxes ſeparately, but of an 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 ſec⯑tion.
The concord betwixt ſenſe and ſound is not leſs agreeable in what may be termed an anticlimax, where the progreſs is from great to little; for this has the effect to make di⯑minutive objects appear ſtill more diminu⯑tive. Horace affords a ſtriking example: ‘Parturiunt montes, naſcetur ridiculus mus.’ The arrangement here is ſingularly artful. The firſt place is occupied by the verb, which is the capital word by its ſenſe as well as ſound. The cloſe is reſerved for the word that is the meaneſt in ſenſe as well as in ſound. And it muſt not be overlooked, [346] that the reſembling ſounds of the two laſt ſyllables give a ludicrous air to the whole.
Reviewing the foregoing examples, it ap⯑pears to me, contrary to expectation, that in paſſing from the ſtrongeſt reſemblances to thoſe that are fainter, the pleaſure riſes gradually in proportion. Can this be ac⯑counted for? or ſhall I renounce my taſte as capricious? When I renew the experi⯑ment again and again, I feel no wavering, but the greateſt pleaſure conſtantly from the fainteſt reſemblances. And yet how can this be? for if the pleaſure lie in imitation, muſt not the ſtrongeſt reſemblance afford the greateſt pleaſure? From this vexing dilemma, I am happily relieved, by reflect⯑ing on a doctrine eſtabliſhed in the chapter of reſemblance and contraſt, that the plea⯑ſure of reſemblance is the greateſt, where it is leaſt expected, and where the objects compared are in their capital circumſtances widely different. Nor will this appear ſur⯑priſing, when we deſcend to familiar exam⯑ples. It raiſeth not wonder in the ſmalleſt degree, to find the moſt perfect reſemblance betwixt two eggs of the ſame animal. It is [347] more rare to find ſuch reſemblance betwixt two human faces; and upon that account ſuch an appearance raiſes ſome degree of wonder. But this emotion riſes to a ſtill greater height, when we find in a pebble, an aggat, or any natural production, a per⯑fect reſemblance to a tree or other organi⯑ſed body. We cannot heſitate a moment, in applying theſe obſervations to the preſent ſubject. What occaſion of wonder can it be to find one ſound reſembling another, where both are of the ſame kind? It is not ſo common to find a reſemblance betwixt an articulate ſound and one not articulate; and accordingly the imitation here affords ſome ſlight pleaſure. But the pleaſure ſwells greatly, when we employ ſound to imitate things it reſembles not otherwiſe than by the effects produced in the mind.
I have had occaſion to obſerve, that to complete the reſemblance betwixt 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 I ſhall conclude the ſection.
[348] In order to give a juſt idea of pronuncia⯑tion, it muſt be diſtinguiſhed from ſinging. The latter is carried on by notes, requiring each of them a different aperture of the windpipe. The notes properly belonging to the former, are expreſſed by different a⯑pertures of the mouth, without varying the aperture of the windpipe. This however doth not hinder pronunciation to borrow from ſinging, as a man ſometimes is natu⯑rally led to do, in expreſſing a vehement paſſion.
In reading, as in ſinging, there is a key-note. Above this note the voice is fre⯑quently elevated, to make the ſound corre⯑ſpond to the elevation of the ſubject. But the mind in an elevated ſtate, is diſpoſed to action. Therefore in order to a reſt, it muſt be brought down to the key-note. Hence the term cadence.
The only general rule that can be given for directing the pronunciation, is, To ſound the words in ſuch a manner as to imitate the things they repreſent, or of which they are the ſymbols. The ideas which make the greateſt figure, ought to be expreſſed [349] with a peculiar emphaſis. In expreſſing an elevated ſubject, the voice ought to be rai⯑ſed above its ordinary pitch; and words ſignifying dejection of mind, ought to be pronounced in a low note. A ſucceſſion of ſounds gradually aſcending from low to high notes, repreſents an aſcending ſeries of objects. An oppoſite ſucceſſion of ſounds, is fitted for objects or ſentiments that deſcend gradually. In Dryden's ode of Alexander's feaſt, the line, Faln, faln, faln, faln, ought to be pronounced with a falling voice; and is pronounced in that manner, by every one of taſte, without in⯑ſtruction. Another circumſtance contri⯑butes to the reſemblance betwixt ſenſe and ſound, which is ſlow or quick pronuncia⯑tion. For though the length or ſhortneſs of the ſyllables with relation to each other, be in proſe aſcertained in ſome meaſure, and in verſe always; yet taking a whole line or period together, it is arbitrary to pronounce it ſlow or faſt. Hence it is, that a period expreſſing what is ſolemn or deli⯑berate, ought to be pronounced ſlow; and ought to be pronounced quick, when it ex⯑preſſes [350] any thing briſk, lively, or impe⯑tuous.
The art of pronouncing with propriety and grace, being calculated to make the ſound an echo to the ſenſe, ſcarce admits of any other general rule than that above mentioned. This rule may indeed be branched out into many particular rules and obſervations: but theſe belong not properly to the preſent undertaking, becauſe they cannot be explained in words. We have not words to ſignify the different degrees of high and low, loud and ſoft, faſt and ſlow; and before theſe differences can be made the ſubject of regular inſtruction, notes muſt be invented reſembling thoſe employ'd in muſic. We have reaſon to believe, that in Greece every tragedy was accompanied with ſuch notes, in order to aſcertain the pronunciation. But the moderns hitherto have not thought of this refinement. Ci⯑cero indeed*, without the help of notes, pretends to give rules for aſcertaining the ſeveral tones of voice that are proper in ex⯑preſſing [351] the ſeveral paſſions; and it muſt be acknowledged, that in this attempt he has exhauſted the whole power of lan⯑guage. At the ſame time, every perſon of judgement muſt ſee, that theſe rules a⯑vail little in point of inſtruction. The very words he employs, are ſcarce intelli⯑gible, except to thoſe who beforehand are acquainted with the ſubject.
To vary the ſcene a little, I propoſe to cloſe with a ſlight compariſon betwixt ſing⯑ing and pronouncing. In this compariſon the five following circumſtances relative to articulate ſound, muſt be kept in view. 1ſt, It is harſh or ſmooth. 2d, A ſound or ſyllable, is long or ſhort. 3d, It is pronounced high or low. 4th, It is pro⯑nounced loud or ſoft. And, laſtly, a num⯑ber of words in ſucceſſion conſtituting a pe⯑riod or member of a period, are pronoun⯑ced ſlow or quick. Of theſe five, the firſt depending on the component letters, and the ſecond being aſcertained by cuſtom, admit not any variety in pronouncing. The three laſt are arbitrary, depending on the will of the perſon who pronounces; [352] and it is chiefly in the artful management of theſe, that juſt pronunciation conſiſts. With reſpect to the firſt circumſtance, mu⯑ſic has evidently the advantage; for all its notes are agreeable to the ear, which is not always the caſe of articulate ſound. With reſpect to the ſecond, long and ſhort ſyl⯑lables variouſly combined, produce a great variety of feet; yet far inferior to the varie⯑ty which is found in the multiplied com⯑binations of muſical notes. With reſpect to high and low notes, pronunciation is ſtill more inferior to ſinging. For it it obſer⯑ved by Dionyſius of Halicarnaſſus*, that in pronouncing, i. e. without altering the aperture of the windpipe, the voice is con⯑fined within three notes and a half. Sing⯑ing has a much greater compaſs. With reſpect to the two laſt circumſtances, pro⯑nunciation equals ſinging.
In this diſcourſe, I have mentioned none of the beauties of language, but what ariſe [353] from words taken in their proper ſenſe. Thoſe beauties that depend on the meta⯑phorical and figurative power of words, are reſerved to be treated in chap. 20.
SECT. IV. VERSIFICATION.
THE muſic of verſe, though handled by every grammarian, merits more attention than has been given it. The ſub⯑ject is intimately connected with human nature; and to explain it thoroughly, ſeve⯑ral nice and delicate feelings muſt be em⯑ploy'd. Entering upon this ſubject, it oc⯑curs as a preliminary point, By what mark is verſe diſtinguiſhed from proſe? The diſ⯑cuſſion of this point is neceſſary, were it for no other purpoſe but to aſcertain the nature and limits of our ſubject. To produce this diſtinguiſhing mark, is a taſk not perhaps ſo eaſy as may at firſt be apprehended. Verſe of every ſort, has, it is true, rules for [354] its conſtruction. It is compoſed of feet, the number and variety of which are aſcer⯑tained. Proſe, though alſo compoſed of feet, is more looſe and ſcarce ſubjected to any rules. But many are ignorant of theſe rules: Are ſuch left without means to make the diſtinction? And even with reſpect to the learned, muſt they apply the rule be⯑fore they can with certainty pronounce whether the compoſition be proſe or verſe? This will hardly be maintained; and there⯑fore, inſtead of rules, the ear muſt be ap⯑pealed to as the proper judge. But what gain we by being thus referred to another ſtandard? It ſtill recurs, by what mark does the ear diſtinguiſh verſe from proſe? The proper and ſatisfactory anſwer is, That theſe make different impreſſions, which are readily diſtinguiſhable by every one who hath an ear. This advances us one ſtep in our inquiry.
Taking it then for granted, that verſe makes upon the ear a different impreſſion from that of proſe; nothing remains but to explain this difference, and to aſſign its cauſe. To theſe ends, I muſt call to my [355] aid an obſervation made above in treating of the ſound of words, that they are more agreeable to the ear when compoſed of long and ſhort ſyllables than when all the ſylla⯑bles are of the ſame ſort. A continued ſound in the ſame tone, makes an impreſ⯑ſion that comes not up to any idea we have of muſic. The ſame note ſucceſſively re⯑newed by intervals, is more agreeable; but ſtill makes not a muſical impreſſion. To produce this impreſſion, variety is neceſſary as well as number. The ſucceſſive ſounds or ſyllables, muſt be ſome of them long, ſome of them ſhort; and if alſo high and low, the muſic is the more perfect. Now if this impreſſion can be made by ſingle words, much more by a plurality in an or⯑derly ſucceſſion. The muſical impreſſion made by a period conſiſting of long and ſhort ſyllables arranged in a certain order, is what the Greeks call rhythmus, the La⯑tins, numerus, and we modulation or mea⯑ſure. Cicero juſtly obſerves, that in one continued ſound there is no modulation: ‘"Numerus in continuatione nullus eſt."’ But in what follows he is wide of the truth, [356] if by numerus he means modulation or mu⯑ſical meaſure. ‘"Diſtinctio, et aequalium et ſaepe variorum intervallorum percuſſio, numerum conficit; quem in cadentibus guttis, quod intervallis diſtinguuntur, notare poſſumus."’ Falling drops, whe⯑ther with equal or unequal intervals, are certainly not muſical. We begin then only to be ſenſible of a muſical expreſſion, when the notes are varied. And this alſo was probably the opinion of the author ci⯑ted, though his expreſſion be a little un⯑guarded*.
It will probably occur, that modulation, ſo far as connected with long and ſhort ſyllables combined in a ſentence, may be found in proſe as well as in verſe; conſi⯑dering eſpecially, that in both, particular words are accented or pronounced in a [357] higher tone than ordinary; and therefore that the difference betwixt them cannot conſiſt in modulation merely. The obſer⯑vation is juſt; and it follows, that the diſ⯑tinction betwixt proſe and verſe, ſince it depends not on modulation merely, muſt ariſe from the difference of the modula⯑tion. This is preciſely the caſe, though the difference cannot with any accuracy be explained in words. Verſe is more muſi⯑cal than proſe; and of the former, the modulation is more perfect than of the latter. The difference betwixt verſe and proſe, re⯑ſembles the difference in muſic properly ſo called betwixt the ſong and the recitative. And the reſemblance is not the leſs com⯑plete, that theſe differences, like the ſhades of colours, approximate ſometimes ſo near⯑ly as ſcarce to be diſcernible. A recitative in its movement approaches ſometimes to the livelineſs of a ſong; which on the o⯑ther hand degenerates ſometimes toward a plain recitative. Nothing is more diſtin⯑guiſhable from proſe, than the bulk of Virgil's hexameters. Many of thoſe com⯑poſed [358] by Horace, are very little removed from proſe. Sapphic verſe has a very ſen⯑ſible modulation. That on the other hand of an Iambic, is extremely faint*.
This more perfect modulation of articu⯑late ſounds, is what diſtinguiſheth verſe from proſe. Verſe is ſubjected to certain inflex⯑ible laws. The number and variety of the component ſyllables are aſcertained, and in 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 ſingular genius. Uſeful leſſons of every ſort convey'd to us in verſe, are agreeable by the union of mu⯑ſic with inſtruction. But are we for that reaſon to reject knowledge offered in a plain⯑er dreſs? This would be ridiculous; for knowledge may be acquired without muſic, and muſic is entertaining independent of knowledge. Many there are, not leſs will⯑ing [359] than capable 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 modulation of an inferior kind, which, being extremely ornamental, ought to be the aim of every writer. But to ſucceed in it, practice is neceſſary more than genius. Nor are we rigid on this article. Provided the work anſwer its chief end of inſtruction, we are the leſs ſolicitous about its dreſs.
Having aſcertained the nature and limits of our ſubject, I proceed to the laws by which it is regulated. Theſe would be endleſs, were verſe of all different kinds to be taken under conſideration. I propoſe therefore to confine the inquiry, to Latin or Greek hexameter, and to French and Eng⯑liſh heroic verſe; which perhaps will carry me farther than the reader may chuſe to fol⯑low. The obſervations I ſhall have occa⯑ſion to make, will at any rate be ſufficient for a ſpecimen; and theſe with proper va⯑riations may eaſily be transferred to the compoſition of other ſorts of verſe.
Before I enter upon particulars, it muſt [360] be premiſed in general, that to verſe of eve⯑ry kind, five things are of importance. 1ſt, The number of ſyllables that compoſe a verſe. 2d, The different lengths of ſyl⯑lables, 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, Pronouncing ſyllables in a high or low tone. The three firſt mentioned are obviouſly eſ⯑ſential to verſe. If any of them be wanting, there cannot be that higher degree of mo⯑dulation which diſtinguiſheth 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 is, to ſeparate periods and members of the ſame period according to the ſenſe: another is, to improve the modulation of verſe: and the laſt is, 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, is in no degree arbitrary; its place being determined by the modulation. The laſt ſort again is in a [361] meaſure arbitrary, depending on the read⯑er's command of breath. This ſort ought always to coincide with the firſt or ſecond; for one cannot read with grace, unleſs, for drawing breath, opportunity be taken of a pauſe in the ſenſe or in the melody; and for that reaſon this pauſe may be neglected. With reſpect then to the pauſes of ſenſe and of melody, it may be affirmed without he⯑ſitation, that their coincidence in verſe is a capital beauty. But as it cannot be expect⯑ed, in a long work eſpecially, that every line ſhould be ſo perfect; we ſhall after⯑ward have occaſion to ſee, that the pauſe neceſſary for ſenſe muſt often, in ſome de⯑gree, be ſacrificed to the verſe-pauſe; and the latter ſometimes to the former.
The pronouncing ſyllables in a high or low tone, contributes alſo to melody. In reading, whether verſe or proſe, a certain tone is aſſumed, which may be called the key-note; and in this tone the bulk of the words are ſounded. Sometimes to humour the ſenſe and ſometimes the melody, a parti⯑cular ſyllable is ſounded in a higher tone; and this is termed accenting a ſyllable, or gracing [362] 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 accent⯑ed, 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 lan⯑guage. Let him conſult in particular a pe⯑riod canto 2. beginning at line 47. and cloſed line 52. with the word gay, which only of the whole final ſyllables is pronoun⯑ced with a cadence. He may alſo examine another period in the 5th canto, which runs from line 45. to line 52.
Though the five requiſites above mention⯑ed, enter the compoſition of every ſpecies of verſe, they are however governed by differ⯑ent [363] rules, peculiar to each ſpecies. Upon quantity only, one general obſervation may be premiſed, becauſe it is applicable to eve⯑ry ſpecies of verſe. Syllables, with reſpect to the time taken in pronouncing, are diſtin⯑guiſhed into long and ſhort; two ſhort ſyl⯑lables, with reſpect to time, being preciſely equal to one long. Theſe two lengths are eſſential to verſe of all kinds; and to no verſe, ſo far as I know, is a greater variety of time neceſſary in pronouncing ſyllables. The voice indeed is frequently made to reſt longer than commonly, upon a word that bears an important ſignification. But this is done to humour the ſenſe, and is not ne⯑ceſſary for the modulation. A thing not more neceſſary occurs with reſpect to ac⯑centing, ſimilar to that now mentioned. A word ſignifying any thing humble, low, or dejected, is naturally, in proſe as well as in verſe, pronounced in a tone below the key⯑note.
We are now ſufficiently prepared for en⯑tering upon particulars; and Latin or Greek Hexameter, which are the ſame, coming firſt in order, I ſhall exhauſt what I have to [364] ſay upon this ſpecies of verſe, under the four following heads; of number, arrange⯑ment, pauſe, and accent; for as to quanti⯑ty, ſo far as concerns the preſent point, what is obſerved above may ſuffice.
Hexameter lines are, with reſpect to time, all of the ſame length. A line may conſiſt of ſeventeen ſyllables; and when regular and not Spondaic, it never has fewer than thirteen. Hence it is plain, that where the ſyllables are many, the plurality muſt be ſhort; where few, the plurality muſt be long. And upon the whole, the number of ſyllables in every line with reſpect to the time taken in pronouncing, are equivalent to twelve long ſyllables, or twenty-four ſhort.
With regard to arrangement, this line is ſuſceptible of much variety. The ſucceſſion of long and ſhort ſyllables, may be great⯑ly varied without injuring the melody. It is ſubjected however to laws, that confine its variety within certain limits. For trying the arrangement, and for determining whe⯑ther it be perfect or faulty, grammarians have invented a rule by Dactyles and Spon⯑dees, [365] which they denominate feet. One at firſt view is led to think, that theſe feet are alſo intended to regulate the pronunciation. But this is far from being the caſe. It will appear by and by, that the rules of pronun⯑ciation are very different. And indeed were one to pronounce according to theſe feet, the melody of a Hexameter line would be deſtroy'd, or at beſt be much inferior to what it is when properly pronounced*. Theſe feet then muſt be confined to their [366] ſole province of regulating the arrangement, for they ſerve no other purpoſe. They are withal ſo artificial and complex, that, neg⯑lecting them altogether, I am tempted to ſubſtitute in their room, 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 [367] found in any part of the line, nor fewer than two if any. And, 3d, Two long ſyl⯑lables which have been preceded by two ſhort, cannot alſo be followed by two ſhort. Theſe few rules fulfil all the conditions of a Hexameter line, with relation to order or arrangement. To theſe again a ſingle rule may be ſubſtituted, for which I have a ſtill greater reliſh, as it regulates more affirma⯑tively the conſtruction of every part. That I may put this rule into words with the [368] greater facility, 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. This prelimi⯑nary being eſtabliſhed, the rule is ſhortly what follows. The 1ſt, 3d, 5th, 7th, 9th, 11th, and 12th portions, muſt each of them be one long ſyllable; the 10th muſt always be two ſhort ſyllables; the 2d, 4th, 6th, and 8th, may indifferently 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 ſyl⯑lable or two ſhort; the 10th muſt be two ſhort ſyllables; all the reſt muſt conſiſt of one long ſyllable. This fulfils all the con⯑ditions of an Hexameter line, and compre⯑hends all the combinations of Dactyles and Spondees that this line admits.
Next in order comes the pauſe. At the end of every Hexameter line, no ear but muſt be ſenſible of a complete cloſe or full pauſe. This effect is produced by the fol⯑lowing [369] means. Every line invariably is fi⯑niſhed with two long ſyllables preceded by two ſhort; a fine preparation for a full cloſe. Syllables pronounced ſlow, reſemble a ſlow and languid motion tending to reſt. The mind put in the ſame tone by the pronun⯑ciation, is naturally diſpoſed to a pauſe. And to this diſpoſition the two preceding ſhort ſyllables contribute; for theſe, by contraſt, make the ſlow pronunciation of the final ſyllables the more conſpicuous. Beſide this complete cloſe or full pauſe at the end, others are alſo requiſite for the ſake of me⯑lody. I diſcover two clearly, and perhaps there may be more. The longeſt and moſt remarkable, ſucceeds the 5th portion, ac⯑cording to the foregoing meaſure. The other, which being more faint, may be called the ſemipauſe, ſucceeds the 8th por⯑tion. So ſtriking is the pauſe firſt mention⯑ed, as to be diſtinguiſhed even by the rudeſt ear. The monkiſh rhymes are evi⯑dently built upon it. In theſe, it is an in⯑variable rule, to make the final word chime with that which immediately precedes the pauſe:
The difference of time in the pauſe and ſemipauſe, occaſions another difference not leſs remarkable. The pauſe ought regu⯑larly to be at the end of a word; but it is lawful to divide a word by a ſemipauſe. The bad effect of dividing a word by the pauſe, is ſenſibly felt in the following ex⯑amples.
Again,
Again,
The dividing a word by a ſemipauſe has not the ſame bad effect:
Again,
[371] Again,
Lines, however, where words are left entire to be pronounced as they ought to be, with⯑out being divided even by a ſemipauſe, run by that means much the more ſweetly.
Again,
Again,
The reaſon of theſe obſervations, will be e⯑vident upon the ſlighteſt reflection. Be⯑twixt things ſo intimately connected as ſenſe and ſound in pronunciation, to find diſ⯑cordance is unpleaſant to the ear; and for that reaſon, it is a matter of importance, to make the muſical pauſes coincide as much as poſſible with thoſe of the ſenſe. This is requiſite, more eſpecially, with reſpect [372] to the pauſe. A deviation from the rule is leſs remarkable in a ſemipauſe, which makes but a ſlight impreſſion. Conſi⯑dering the matter as to modulation ſolely, it is indifferent whether the pauſes be at the end of words or in the middle. But when we carry the ſenſe along, nothing is more diſagreeable than to find a word ſplit into two parts, neither of which ſeparately have any meaning. This bad effect, though it regard the ſenſe only, is by an eaſy tranſ⯑ition of ideas transferred to the ſound, with which the ſenſe is intimately connect⯑ed; and by this means, we conceive a line to be harſh and grating to the ear, which in reality is only ſo to the underſtanding*.
To the rule which places the pauſe after the 5th portion, there is one exception, and no more. If the ſyllable ſucceeding the 5th portion be ſhort, the pauſe is ſometimes poſtponed to it:
[373] Again,
Again,
This contributes to diverſify the melody; and where the words are ſmooth and li⯑quid, is not ungraceful; as in the follow⯑ing examples.
Again,
If this pauſe, poſtponed as aforeſaid to 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.
Hitherto the arrangement of the long and ſhort ſyllables of an Hexameter line and [374] 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 a latitude in the long and ſhort ſyllables. This circumſtance contributes greatly to that richneſs of modulation which is remarkable in Hexameter verſe; and which makes Ariſtotle pronounce, that an epic poem in any other ſort would not ſucceed*. One defect however muſt not be diſſembled. The ſame means that con⯑tribute to the richneſs of the melody, ren⯑der it leſs fit than ſeveral other ſorts for a narrative poem. With regard to the melo⯑dy, as above obſerved, there cannot be a more artful contrivance than to cloſe an Hexameter line with two long ſyllables pre⯑ceded by two ſhort. But unhappily this conſtruction proves a great imbarraſſment to the ſenſe; as will be evident from what follows. As in general there ought to be a ſtrict concordance betwixt every thought [375] and the words in which it is dreſſed, ſo in particular, every cloſe in the ſenſe, com⯑plete and incomplete, ought to be accom⯑panied with a ſimilar cloſe in the ſound. In the compoſition of proſe, there is ſuffi⯑cient latitude for applying this rule in the ſtricteſt manner. But the ſame ſtrictneſs in verſe, would occaſion inſuperable difficul⯑ties. Some ſhare of the concordance be⯑twixt thought and expreſſion, may be juſt⯑ly ſacrificed to the melody of verſe; and therefore during the courſe of a line, we freely excuſe the want of coincidence of the muſical pauſe with that of the ſenſe. But the cloſe of an Hexameter line is too conſpicuous to admit a total neglect of this coincidence. And hence it follows, that there ought to be always ſome pauſe in the ſenſe at the end of every Hexameter line, were it but ſuch a pauſe as is marked with a comma. It follows alſo, for the ſame rea⯑ſon, that there ought never to be a full cloſe in the ſenſe but at the end of a line, becauſe there the modulation is cloſed. An Hexameter line, to preſerve its melody, cannot well permit any greater relaxation; [376] and yet in a narrative poem, it is extremely difficult to keep up to the rule even with theſe indulgences. Virgil, the greateſt poet for verſification that ever exiſted, is forc'd 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 fail to be diſagreeable.
The accent, to which we proceed, is not leſs eſſential than the other circumſtances a⯑bove handled. By a good ear it will be diſcerned, that in every line there is one ſyllable diſtinguiſhable from the reſt by a ſtrong accent. This ſyllable making the 7th portion, is invariably long; and in point of time occupies a place nearly at an equal diſtance from the pauſe which ſuc⯑ceeds the 5th portion, and the ſemipauſe, which ſucceeds the 8th:
[377] Again,
Again,
In theſe examples, the accent is laid upon the laſt ſyllable of a word. And that this is a favourable circumſtance for the melody, will appear from the following conſideration. In reading, there muſt be ſome pauſe after every word, to ſeparate it from what follows; and this pauſe, however ſhort, ſupports the accent. Hence it is, that a line thus accented, has a more ſpirited air, than where the accent is placed on any other ſyllable. Compare the fore⯑going lines with the following.
Again,
Again,
[378] In lines where the pauſe comes after the ſhort ſyllable ſucceeding the 5th portion, the accent is diſplaced and rendered leſs ſenſible. It ſeems to be ſplit into two, and to be laid partly on the 5th portion, and partly on the 7th, its uſual place; as in
Again,
Beſide this capital accent, ſlighter ac⯑cents are laid upon other portions; particu⯑larly upon the 4th, unleſs where it conſiſts of two ſhort ſyllables; upon the 9th, which is always a long ſyllable; and upon the 11th, where the line concludes with a mo⯑noſyllable. Such concluſion, by the by, leſſens the melody, and for that reaſon is not to be indulged unleſs where it is expreſ⯑ſive of the ſenſe. The following lines are marked with all the accents.
[379] Again,
Again,
Inquiring into the melody of Hexameter verſe, we ſoon diſcover, that order or ar⯑rangement doth not conſtitute the whole of it. Comparing different lines, equally re⯑gular as to the ſucceſſion of long and ſhort ſyllables, the melody is found in very differ⯑ent degrees of perfection. Nor does the difference ariſe from any particular combi⯑nation of Dactyles and Spondees, or of long and ſhort ſyllables. On the contrary, we find lines where Dactyles prevail and lines where Spondees prevail, equally melodious. Of the former take the following inſtance:
Of the latter:
What can be more different as to melody [380] than the two following lines, which, how⯑ever, as to the ſucceſſion of long and ſhort ſyllables, are conſtructed preciſely in the ſame manner?
In the former, the pauſe falls in the mid⯑dle of a word, which is a great blemiſh, and the accent is diſturbed by a harſh eliſion of the vowel a upon the particle et. In the latter the pauſes and the accent are all of them diſtinct and full: there is no eliſion: and the words are more liquid and ſound⯑ing. In theſe particulars conſiſts the beauty of an Hexameter line with reſpect to melo⯑dy; 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 make theſe lines ſound, they muſt be pronounced without relation to the ſenſe. It muſt not be regarded, that words are di⯑vided [381] 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 in⯑ſtances.
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 ſome⯑times employs rhymes and ſometimes not, which diſtinguiſhes it into two kinds; one named metre, and one blank verſe. In the former, the lines are connected two and two by ſimilarity of ſound in the final ſylla⯑bles; and ſuch connected lines are termed couplets. Similarity of ſound being avoided in the latter, baniſhes couplets. Theſe two ſorts muſt be handled ſeparately, becauſe there [382] are many peculiarities in each. The firſt article with reſpect to rhyme or metre, ſhall be diſcuſſed in a few words. Every line conſiſts of ten ſyllables, five ſhort and five long. There are but two exceptions, both of them rare. A couplet can bear to be drawn out, by adding a ſhort ſyllable at the end of each of the two lines:
This licence is ſufferable in a ſingle couplet; but if frequent would ſoon become diſguſt⯑ful.
The other exception concerns the ſecond line of a couplet, which is ſometimes ſtretched out to twelve ſyllables, termed an Alexandrine line.
[383] It doth extremely well when employ'd to cloſe a period with a certain pomp and ſo⯑lemnity ſuitable to the ſubject.
With regard to the ſecond article, it is un⯑neceſſary to mention a ſecond time, that the quantities employ'd in verſe are but two, the one double of the other; that every ſyl⯑lable 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 pecu⯑liarities there may be in the Engliſh lan⯑guage as to long and ſhort ſyllables. In every language, there are 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 invariable. The exceptions are more fre⯑quent in diſſyllables; but as to monoſylla⯑bles, they may without many exceptions be pronounced either long or ſhort. Nor is the ear hurt by this liberty; being accuſtomed to the variation of quantity in the ſame word. This ſhows that the melody of Eng⯑liſh [384] verſe muſt depend leſs upon quantity, than upon other circumſtances. In that par⯑ticular it differs widely from Latin verſe. There, every ſyllable having but one ſound, ſtrikes the ear conſtantly with its accuſtom⯑ed impreſſion; and a reader muſt be de⯑lighted to find a number of ſuch ſyllables, diſpoſed ſo artfully as to raiſe a lively ſenſe of melody. Syllables variable in quantity can⯑not poſſeſs this power. Cuſtom may ren⯑der familiar, both a long and ſhort pronun⯑ciation of the ſame word; but the mind conſtantly wavering betwixt the two ſounds, cannot be ſo much affected with a ſyllable of this kind as with one which bears always the ſame ſound. What I have further to ſay upon quantity, will come in more pro⯑perly under the following head, of arrange⯑ment.
And with reſpect to arrangement, which may be brought within a narrow compaſs, the Engliſh heroic line is commonly Iam⯑bic, the firſt ſyllable ſhort, the ſecond long, and ſo on alternately through the whole line. One exception there is, pretty fre⯑quent. Many lines commence with a [385] Trochaeus, viz. a long and a ſhort ſyllable. But this affects not the order of the follow⯑ing ſyllables. Theſe go on alternately as uſual, one ſhort and one long. The fol⯑lowing couplet affords an example of each kind:
It is unhappy in the conſtruction of Engliſh verſe, that it excludes the bulk of polyſyllables, though the moſt ſounding words in our language; for upon examina⯑tion it will be found, that very few of them are compoſed of ſuch alternation of long and ſhort ſyllables as to correſpond to either of the arrangements mentioned. Engliſh verſe accordingly is almoſt totally reduced to diſſyllables and monoſyllables. Magna⯑nimity 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. Poly⯑ſyllables compoſed of ſyllables long and ſhort alternately, make a good figure in [386] verſe; for example, obſervance, opponent, oſtenſive, pindaric, productive, prolific, and ſuch others of three ſyllables. Imitation, imperfection, miſdemeanour, mitigation, mo⯑deration, obſervator, ornamental, regulator, and others ſimilar of four ſyllables, begin⯑ning 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. miſinterpretation. But words ſo compoſed are not frequent in our language.
One would not imagine without trial, how uncouth falſe quantity appears in verſe; not leſs than a provincial tone or idiom. The article the is one of the few monoſyllables that is invariably ſhort. See how harſh it makes a line where it muſt be pronounced long:
Again:
[387] Let the article be pronounced ſhort, and it reduces the melody almoſt to nothing. Better ſo however than a falſe quantity. In the following examples we perceive the ſame defect.
The great variety of modulation conſpi⯑cuous in Engliſh verſe, will be found upon trial to ariſe chiefly from the pauſes and ac⯑cents; and therefore theſe circumſtances are of greater importance than is commonly thought. There is a degree of intricacy in this branch of our ſubject, and it will re⯑quire ſome pains to give a diſtinct view of it. But we muſt not be diſcouraged by dif⯑ficulties. The pauſe, which paves the way to the accent, offers itſelf firſt to our exami⯑nation. From a very ſhort trial, the fol⯑lowing [388] 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 parti⯑culars lay a ſolid foundation for dividing Engliſh heroic lines into four ſorts, diſtin⯑guiſhed by the different places of the pauſe. Nor is this an idle diſtinction. On the contrary, unleſs it be kept in view, we can⯑not have any juſt notion of the richneſs and variety of Engliſh verſification. Each ſort or order hath a melody peculiar to itſelf, readily diſtinguiſhable by a good ear; and, in the ſequel, I am not without hopes to make the cauſe of this peculiarity ſufficient⯑ly 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 more fully afterward; and con⯑ſequently, 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 this pauſe ought to coincide, if poſſible, [389] with a pauſe in the ſenſe; in order that the ſound may accord with the ſenſe.
What is ſaid muſt be illuſtrated by ex⯑amples of each ſort or order. And firſt of the pauſe after the fourth ſyllable:
Again,
After the 5th:
After the 6th:
Again,
After the 7th:
[390] Again,
Beſide the capital pauſe now mentioned, other inferior or ſemipauſes will be diſco⯑vered by a nice ear. Of theſe there are commonly two in each line; one before the capital pauſe, and one after it. The former is invariably placed after the firſt long ſyl⯑lable, whether the line begin with a long ſyllable or a ſhort. The other in its variety imitates the capital pauſe. In ſome lines it follows the 6th ſyllable, in ſome the 7th, and in ſome the 8th. Of theſe ſemipauſes take the following examples.
1ſt and 8th:
1ſt and 7th:
2d and 8th:
[391] 2d and 6th:
2d and 7th:
Even from theſe few examples, it ap⯑pears, that the place of the laſt ſemipauſe, 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. If this hold, the pla⯑cing this ſemipauſe after the 6th or after the 7th ſyllable, muſt be directed by the ſenſe, in order to avoid a pauſe in the middle of a word, or betwixt two words intimately connected; and ſo far melody is juſtly ſa⯑crificed to ſenſe.
In diſcourſing of the full pauſe in a Hex⯑ameter line, it is laid down as a rule, That it ought never to divide a word. Such licence deviates too far from the connection [392] that ought to be betwixt the pauſes of ſenſe and of melody. And in an Engliſh line, it is for the ſame reaſon equally wrong to divide a word by a full pauſe. Let us juſtify this reaſon by experiments.
Are theſe lines diſtinguiſhable from proſe? Scarcely, I think.
The ſame rule is not applicable to a ſe⯑mipauſe, which being ſhort and faint, is not ſenſibly diſagreeable when it divides a word.
It muſt however be acknowledged, that the melody here ſuffers in ſome degree. A word ought to be pronounced without any reſt betwixt its component ſyllables. The [393] ſemipauſe muſt bend to this rule, and thereby vaniſheth almoſt altogether.
With regard to the capital pauſe, it is ſo eſſential to the melody, that a poet cannot be too nice in the choice of its place, in or⯑der to have it full, clear, and diſtinct. It cannot be placed more happily than with a pauſe in the ſenſe; and if the ſenſe require but a comma after the fourth, fifth, ſixth, or ſeventh ſyllable, there can be no diffi⯑culty about this 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 how⯑ever imagine, that a muſical pauſe may be placed at the end of any word indifferently. Some words, like ſyllables of the ſame word, are ſo intimately connected as not to bear a ſeparation even by a pauſe. No good poet ever attempted to ſeparate a ſubſtantive from its article: the dividing ſuch intimate companions, would be harſh and unplea⯑ſant. The following line, for example, [394] cannot be pronounced with a pauſe as marked.
But ought to be pronounced in the follow⯑ing manner.
If then it be not a matter of indifferency where to make the pauſe, there ought to be rules for determining what words may be ſeparated by a pauſe and what are in⯑capable of ſuch ſeparation. I ſhall endea⯑vour to unfold theſe rules; not chiefly for their utility, but in order to exemplify ſome latent principles that tend to regulate our taſte even where we are ſcarce ſenſible of them. And to that end, it ſeems the eli⯑gible method to run over the verbal rela⯑tions, beginning with the moſt intimate. The firſt that preſents itſelf, is that of ad⯑jective and ſubſtantive, being the relation of ſubſtance and quality, the moſt in⯑timate of all. A quality cannot exiſt inde⯑pendent of a ſubſtance, nor is it ſeparable from it even in imagination, becauſe they [395] make parts of the ſame idea; and for that reaſon, it muſt, with regard to melody, be diſagreeable, to beſtow upon the adjective a ſort of independent exiſtence, by inter⯑jecting a pauſe betwixt it and its ſubſtan⯑tive. I cannot therefore approve the fol⯑lowing lines, nor any of the ſort; for to my taſte they are harſh and unpleaſant.
I have upon this article multiplied exam⯑ples, that in a caſe where I have the miſ⯑fortune to diſlike what paſſes current in practice, every man upon the ſpot may judge by his own taſte. The foregoing reaſoning, it is true, appears to me juſt: it is however too ſubtile, to afford conviction in oppoſition to taſte.
Conſidering this matter in a ſuperficial view, 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 diſco⯑ver this to be a miſtake. Colour cannot be conceived independent of the ſurface co⯑loured; but a tree may be conceived, as growing in a certain ſpot, as of a cer⯑tain [397] kind, and as ſpreading its extended branches all around, without ever thinking of the colour. In a word, qualities, though related all to one ſubject, may be conſidered ſeparately, and the ſubject may be conſider⯑ed with ſome of its qualities independent of others; though we cannot form an image of any ſingle quality independent of the ſubject. Thus then, though an adjective named firſt be inſeparable from the ſub⯑ſtantive, the propoſition does not recipro⯑cate. An image can be formed of the ſub⯑ſtantive independent of the adjective; and for this reaſon, they may be ſeparated by a pauſe, when the former is introduced be⯑fore the latter:
The verb and adverb are preciſely in the ſame condition with the ſubſtantive and ad⯑jective. An adverb, which expreſſes a cer⯑tain modification of the action expreſſed by the verb, is not ſeparable from it even in i⯑magination. And therefore I muſt alſo give up the following lines.
But an action may be conceived leaving out a particular modification, preciſely as a ſub⯑ject may be conceived leaving out a particu⯑lar quality; and therefore when by inver⯑ſion the verb is firſt introduced, it has no bad effect to interject a pauſe betwixt it and the adverb which 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:
The agent and its action come next, ex⯑preſſed in grammar by the active ſubſtan⯑tive and its verb. Betwixt theſe, placed in their natural order, there is no difficulty of interjecting a pauſe. An active being is not always in motion, and therefore it is eaſily ſeparable in idea from its action. When in a ſentence the ſubſtantive takes the lead, we know not that action is to follow; and [399] as reſt muſt precede the commencement of motion, this interval is a proper opportu⯑nity for a pauſe.
On the other hand, when by inverſion the verb is placed firſt, is it lawful to ſepa⯑rate it by a pauſe from the active ſubſtan⯑tive? I anſwer not, becauſe an action is not in idea ſeparable from the agent, more than a quality from the ſubſtance to which it belongs. Two lines of the firſt rate for beauty have always appeared to me excep⯑tionable, upon account of the pauſe thus interjected betwixt the verb and the conſe⯑quent ſubſtantive; and I have now diſco⯑vered a reaſon to ſupport my taſte:
The point of the greateſt delicacy regards the active verb and the paſſive ſubſtantive placed in their natural order. On the one ſide it will be obſerved, that theſe words ſignify things which are not ſeparable in idea. Killing cannot be conceived with⯑out [400] ſome being that is put to death, nor painting without a ſurface upon which the colours are ſpread. On the other ſide, an action and the thing on which it is exerted, are not, like ſubſtance and quality, united in one individual ſubject. The active ſubject is perfectly diſtinct from that which is paſ⯑ſive; and they are connected by one cir⯑cumſtance only, that the action exerted by the former, is exerted upon the latter. This makes it poſſible to take the action to pieces, and to conſider it firſt with relation to the a⯑gent, and next with relation to the patient. But after all, ſo intimately connected are the parts of the thought, that it requires an effort to make a ſeparation even for a mo⯑ment. The ſubtiliſing to ſuch a degree is not agreeable, eſpecially in works of imagi⯑nation. The beſt poets however, taking advantage of this ſubtilty, ſcruple not to ſeparate by a pauſe an active verb from its paſſive ſubject. Such pauſes in a long work may be indulged; but taken ſingly, they certainly are not agreeable. I appeal to the following examples.
On the other hand, when the paſſive ſub⯑ject by inverſion is firſt named, there is no difficulty of interjecting a pauſe betwixt it and the verb, more than when the active ſubject is firſt named. The ſame reaſon holds in both, that though a verb cannot be ſeparated in idea from the ſubſtantive which governs it, and ſcarcely from the ſubſtantive it governs; yet a ſubſtantive [402] may always be conceived independent of the verb. When the paſſive ſubject is in⯑troduced before the verb, we know not that an action is to be exerted upon it; therefore we may reſt till the action com⯑mences. For the ſake of illuſtration take the following examples.
What is ſaid about placing the pauſe, leads to a general obſervation, which I ſhall have occaſion for afterwards. The natural order of placing the active ſubſtantive and its verb, is more friendly to a pauſe than the inverted order. But in all the other connections, inverſion affords by far a bet⯑ter opportunity for a pauſe. Upon this de⯑pends one of the great advantages that blank verſe hath over rhyme. The privi⯑lege of inverſion, in which it far excels rhyme, gives it a much greater choice of pauſes, than can be had in the natural order of arrangement.
[403] We now proceed to the ſlighter connec⯑tions, which ſhall be diſcuſſed in one gene⯑ral article. Words connected by conjunc⯑tions and prepoſitions freely admit a pauſe betwixt them, which will be clear from the following inſtances.
Connecting particles were invented to unite in a period two ſubſtantives ſignifying things occaſionally united in the thought, but which have no natural union. And be⯑twixt two things not only ſeparable in idea, but really diſtinct, the mind, for the ſake of melody, chearfully admits by a pauſe a momentary disjunction of their occaſional union.
One capital branch of the ſubject is ſtill upon hand, to which I am directed by what is juſt now ſaid. It concerns thoſe parts of ſpeech which ſingly repreſent no idea, and which become not ſignificant till they be joined to other words. I mean conjunctions, [404] prepoſitions, articles, and ſuch like acceſſo⯑ries, 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? Whe⯑ther, for example, in the following lines, the ſeparation of the acceſſory prepoſition from the principal ſubſtantive, be according to rule?
Or ſeparating the conjunction from the word it connects with what goes before:
It will be obvious at the firſt glance, that the foregoing reaſoning upon objects natu⯑rally [405] connected, are not applicable to words which of themſelves are mere ciphers. We muſt therefore have recourſe to ſome other principle for ſolving the preſent queſtion. Theſe particles out of their place are total⯑ly inſignificant. To give them a meaning, they muſt be joined to certain words. The neceſſity of this junction, together with cuſtom, forms an artificial connection, which 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. The long ſyllable immediately preceding the full pauſe, muſt be accented; for this is requi⯑red by the melody, as will afterward ap⯑pear. But it is ridiculous to accent or put an emphaſis upon a low word that raiſes no idea, and is confined to the humble pro⯑vince of connecting words that raiſe ideas. And for that reaſon, a line muſt be diſa⯑greeable where a particle immediately pre⯑cedes the full pauſe; for ſuch conſtruction [406] of a line makes the melody diſcord with the ſenſe.
Hitherto we have diſcourſed upon that pauſe only which divides the line. Are the ſame rules applicable to the concluding pauſe? This muſt be anſwered by making a diſtinction. In the firſt line of a couplet, the concluding pauſe differs little, if at all, from the pauſe which 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 re⯑ſembles greatly the concluding pauſe in a Hexameter line. Both of them indeed are ſo remarkable, that they never can be grace⯑ful, unleſs when they accompany a pauſe in the ſenſe. Hence it follows, that a couplet ought always to be finiſhed with ſome cloſe in the ſenſe; if not a point, at leaſt a comma. The truth is, that this rule is ſeldom tranſ⯑greſſed. In Pope's works, upon a curſory ſearch indeed, I found but the following deviations from the rule.
Another:
But now, ſuppoſing the connection to be ſo ſlender as to admit a pauſe, it follows not that a pauſe may always be put. There is one rule to which every other ought to bend, That the ſenſe muſt never be wound⯑ed or obſcured by the muſic; and upon that account, I condemn the following lines:
And,
With reſpect to inverſion, it appears both from reaſon and experiments, that many words which cannot bear a ſeparation in their natural order, admit a pauſe when in⯑verted. And it may be added, that when [408] 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 runs croſs to the natural train of ideas, requires to be marked in ſome mea⯑ſure even by pauſes in the ſenſe, that the parts may be diſtinctly known. Take the following examples.
The ſame where the ſeparation is made at the cloſe of the firſt line of the couplet:
The pauſe is tolerable even at the cloſe of the couplet, for the reaſon juſt now ſuggeſt⯑ed, [409] that inverted members require ſome ſlight pauſe in the ſenſe:
Thus a train of reaſoning hath inſenſibly led us to concluſions with regard to the muſical pauſe, very different from thoſe in the firſt ſection, concerning the ſeparating by an interjected circumſtance words inti⯑mately connected. One would conjecture, that where-ever words are ſeparable by in⯑terjecting a circumſtance, they ſhould be e⯑qually ſeparable by interjecting a pauſe. But, upon a more narrow inſpection, the appearance of analogy vaniſheth. To make this evident, I need only premiſe, that a pauſe in the ſenſe diſtinguiſhes the different members of a period from each other; that two words of the ſame member may be ſe⯑parated by a circumſtance, all the three making ſtill but one member; and therefore that a pauſe in the ſenſe has no connection with the ſeparation of words by interjected [410] circumſtances. This ſets the matter in a clear light. It is obſerved above, that the muſical pauſe is intimately connected with the pauſe in the ſenſe; ſo intimately indeed, that regularly they ought to coincide. As this would be too great a reſtraint, a licence is indulged, to place pauſes for the ſake of the muſic where they are not neceſſary for the ſenſe. But this licence muſt be kept within bounds. And a muſical pauſe ought never to be placed where a pauſe is excluded by the ſenſe; as, for example, be⯑twixt the adjective and following ſubſtantive which make parts of the ſame idea, and ſtill leſs betwixt a particle and the word which makes it ſignificant.
Abſtracting at preſent from the peculia⯑rity of modulation ariſing from the different pauſes, it cannot fail to be obſerved in general, that they introduce into our verſe no ſlight degree of variety. Nothing more fatigues the ear, than a number of uniform lines having all the ſame pauſe, which is extremely remarkable in the French verſifi⯑cation. This imperfection will be diſcern⯑ed by a fine ear even in the ſhorteſt ſucceſ⯑ſion, [411] and becomes intolerable in a long poem. Pope excels all the world in the variety of his modulation, which indeed is not leſs perfect of its kind than that of Virgil.
From what is now ſaid, there ought to be one exception. Uniformity in the members of a thought, demands equal uni⯑formity in the members of the period which expreſſes that thought. When therefore reſembling objects or things are expreſſed in a plurality of verſe-lines, theſe lines in their ſtructure ought to be as uniform as poſſible, and the pauſes in particular ought all of them to have the ſame place. Take the following examples.
Again,
[412] Speaking of Nature, or the God of Nature:
Pauſes are like to dwell longer upon hand than I imagined; for the ſubject is not yet exhauſted. It is laid down above, that Engliſh heroic verſe, conſidering melo⯑dy only, admits no more than four capital pauſes; and that the capital pauſe of every line is determined by the ſenſe to be after the fourth, the fifth, the ſixth, or ſeventh ſyllable. And that this doc⯑trine holds true ſo far as melody alone is concerned, every good ear will bear teſti⯑mony. At the ſame time, examples are not unfrequent, in Milton eſpecially, of the capital pauſe being after the firſt, the ſe⯑cond, or the third ſyllable And that this licence may be taken, even gracefully, when it adds vigour to the expreſſion, I readily admit. So far the ſound may be juſtly ſacrificed to the ſenſe or expreſſion. That this licence may be ſucceſsfully taken, [413] will be clear from the following example. Pope, in his tranſlation of Homer, de⯑ſcribes a rock broke off from a mountain, and hurling to the plain, in the following words.
In the penult line the proper place of the muſical pauſe is at the end of the fifth ſyl⯑lable; but it enlivens the expreſſion by its coincidence with that of the ſenſe at the end of the ſecond ſyllable. The ſtop⯑ping ſhort before the uſual pauſe in the melody, aids the impreſſion that is made by the deſcription of the ſtone's ſtopping ſhort. And what is loſt to the melody by this artifice, is more than compenſated by the force that is added to the deſcription. [414] Milton makes a happy uſe of this licence; witneſs the following examples from his Paradiſe Loſt.
If we conſider the foregoing paſſages with reſpect to melody ſingly, the pauſes are undoubtedly out of their proper place. But being united with thoſe of the ſenſe, they inforce the expreſſion and enliven it greatly. And the beauty of expreſſion is communicated to the ſound, which, by a natural deception, makes even the melody appear more perfect than if the muſical pauſes were regular.
To explain the rules of accenting, two general obſervations muſt be premiſed. The firſt is, That accents have a double effect. They contribute to the melody, by giving it air and ſpirit: they contribute not leſs to the ſenſe, by diſtinguiſhing important words from others. Theſe two effects ought never to be ſeparated. If a muſical accent be put where the ſenſe rejects it, we feel a diſcordance betwixt the thought and [416] the melody. An accent, for example, placed on a word that makes no figure, has the effect to burleſk it, by giving it an unnatural elevation. The injury thus done to the ſenſe, is communicated to the melo⯑dy by the intimacy of connection, and both ſeem to be wounded. This rule is applicable in a peculiar manner to particles. It is indeed ridiculous to put an emphaſis on a word which of itſelf has no meaning, and like cement ſerves only to unite words ſignificant. The other general obſervation is, That a word of whatever number of ſyllables, is not accented upon more than one of them. Nor is this an arbitrary prac⯑tice. The object repreſented by the word, is ſet in its beſt light by a ſingle accent: reiterated accents on different ſyllables in ſucceſſion, make not the emphaſis ſtronger; but have an air, as if the ſound only of the accented ſyllables were regarded, and not the ſenſe of the word.
Keeping in view the foregoing obſerva⯑tions, the doctrine of accenting Engliſh he⯑roic verſe, is extremely ſimple. In the firſt place, accenting is confined to the long [417] ſyllables; for the melody admits not an accent upon any ſhort ſyllable. In the next place, as the melody is inriched in propor⯑tion to the number of accents, every word that has a long ſyllable ought to be accent⯑ed, unleſs where the accent is rejected by the ſenſe: a word, as obſerved, that makes no figure by its ſignification, cannot bear an accent. 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 conſtantly, in every line, one accent which makes a greater figure than the reſt. This capital accent is that which precedes the capital pauſe. Hence it is diſtinguiſhable into two kinds; one that is immediately ſucceeded by the pauſe, and one that is divided from the pauſe by a ſhort ſyllable. The former be⯑longs to lines of the firſt and third order: the latter to thoſe of the ſecond and fourth. Examples of the firſt kind.
Examples of the ſecond.
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 capi⯑tal defect in the compoſition of verſe, to put a low word, incapable of an accent, in the place where this accent ſhould be. This bars the accent altogether; and I know no other fault more ſubverſive of the melody, if it be not that of barring a pauſe altogether. I may add affirmatively, that it is a capital beauty in the compoſition of verſe, to have the moſt important word of the ſentence, ſo placed as that this capital accent may be laid upon it. No ſingle circumſtance contri⯑butes more to the energy of verſe, than to [419] have this accent on a word, that, by the importance of its meaning, is intitled to a peculiar emphaſis. To ſhow the bad effect of excluding the capital accent, I refer the reader to ſome inſtances given above, p. 000, where particles are ſeparated by a pauſe from the capital words that make them ſignificant, and which particles ought, for the ſake of the melody, to be accented, were they capable of an accent. Add to theſe the following inſtances from the Eſſay on Criticiſm.
When this fault is at the end of the line that cloſes a couplet, it leaves not the leaſt trace of melody:
In a line expreſſive of what is humble or dejected, it improves the reſemblance be⯑twixt the ſound and ſenſe, to exclude the capital accent. This, to my taſte, is a beauty in the following lines.
To conclude this article, the accents are not, like the ſyllables, confined to a certain number Some lines have no fewer than [421] five, and there are lines that admit not a⯑bove one. This variety, as we have ſeen, depends entirely on the different powers of the component words. Particles, even where they are long by poſition, cannot be accented; and polyſyllables, whatever ſpace they occupy, admit but one accent. Poly⯑ſyllables have another defect, that they generally exclude the full pauſe. I have ſhown above, that few polyſyllables can find place in the conſtruction of Engliſh verſe. Here are reaſons for excluding them, could they find place.
I am now prepared to fulfil a promiſe concerning the four ſorts of lines that enter into Engliſh heroic verſe. That theſe have, each of them, a peculiar melody diſtinguiſh⯑able by a good ear, I ventured to ſuggeſt, and promiſed to account for: and though this ſubject is extremely delicate, I am not without hopes of making good my engage⯑ment. Firſt, however, like a wary gene⯑ral, I take all advantages the ground will permit. I do not aver, that this peculiarity of modulation is in every inſtance per⯑ceptible. [422] Far from it. The impreſſion made by a period, whether it be verſe or proſe, is occaſioned chiefly by the thought, and in an inferior degree by the words; and theſe articles are ſo intimately uni⯑ted with the melody, that they have each of them a ſtrong influence upon the others. With reſpect to the melody in particular, inſtances are without number, of melody, in itſelf poor and weak, paſſing for rich and ſpirited where it is ſupported by the thought and expreſſion. I am therefore intitled to inſiſt, that this experiment be tried upon lines of equal rank. And to a⯑void the perplexity of various caſes, I muſt alſo inſiſt, that the lines choſen for a trial be regularly accented before the pauſe: for upon a matter abundantly refined in itſelf, I would not willingly be imbarraſſed with faulty and irregular lines. Theſe prelimi⯑naries being adjuſted, I begin with ſome general obſervations, that will ſave repeating the ſame thing over and over upon each par⯑ticular caſe. And, firſt, an accent ſucceed⯑ed by a pauſe, makes ſenſibly a deeper im⯑preſſion than where the voice goes on with⯑out [423] a ſtop: to make an impreſſion re⯑quires time; and there is no time where there is no pauſe. The fact is ſo certain, that in running over a few lines, there is ſcarce an ear ſo dull as not readily to diſtinguiſh from others, that particular accent which immediately precedes the full pauſe. In the next place, the elevation of an accenting tone, produceth in the mind a ſimilar ele⯑vation, which is continued during the pauſe. Every circumſtance is different where the pauſe is ſeparated from the accent by a ſhort ſyllable. The impreſſion made by the ac⯑cent is more ſlight when there is no ſtop; and the elevation of the accent is gone in a moment by the falling of the voice in pro⯑nouncing the ſhort ſyllable that follows. The pauſe alſo is ſenſibly affected by the poſition of the accent. In lines of the firſt and third order, the cloſe conjunction of the accent and pauſe, occaſions a ſudden ſtop without preparation, which rouſes the mind, and beſtows on the melody a ſpirit⯑ed air. When, on the other hand, the pauſe is ſeparated from the accent by a ſhort ſyllable, which always happens in [424] lines of the ſecond and fourth order, the pauſe is ſoft and gentle. This ſhort unac⯑cented ſyllable ſucceeding one that is ac⯑cented, muſt of courſe be pronounced with a falling voice, which naturally prepares for a pauſe. The mind falls gently from the accent⯑ed ſyllable, and ſlides into reſt as it were inſenſibly. Further, the lines themſelves, derive different powers from the poſition of the pauſe. A pauſe after the fourth ſylla⯑ble divides the line into two unequal por⯑tions, of which the largeſt comes laſt. This circumſtance reſolving the line into an aſcending ſeries, makes an impreſſion in pronouncing like that of mounting upward. And to this impreſſion contributes the re⯑doubled effort in pronouncing the largeſt portion, which is laſt in order. The mind has a different feeling when the pauſe ſucceeds the fifth ſyllable. The line being divided into two equal parts by this pauſe, theſe parts, pronounced with equal effort, are agreeable by their uniformity. A line divided by a pauſe after the ſixth ſyllable, makes an impreſſion oppoſite to that firſt mentioned. Being divided into two une⯑qual [425] portions, of which the ſhorteſt is laſt in order, it appears like a ſlow deſcending ſeries; and the ſecond portion being pro⯑nounced with leſs effort than the firſt, the diminiſhed effort prepares the mind for reſt. And this preparation for reſt is ſtill more ſenſibly felt where the pauſe is after the ſeventh ſyllable, as in lines of the fourth order.
No perſon can be at a loſs in applying theſe obſervations. A line of the firſt order is of all the moſt ſpirited and lively. To produce this effect, ſeveral of the circum⯑ſtances above mentioned concur. The accent, being followed inſtantly by a pauſe, makes an illuſtrious figure: the elevated tone of the accent elevates the mind: the mind is ſup⯑ported in its elevation by the ſudden un⯑prepared pauſe which rouſes and animates: and the line itſelf, repreſenting by its une⯑qual diviſion an aſcending ſeries, carries the mind ſtill higher, making an impreſſion ſi⯑milar to that of mounting upward. The ſecond order has a modulation ſenſibly ſweet, ſoft, and flowing. The accent is not ſo ſprightly as in the former, becauſe a [426] ſhort ſyllable intervenes betwixt it and the pauſe: its elevation, by the ſame means, vaniſheth inſtantaneouſly: the mind, by a falling voice, is gently prepared for a ſtop: and the pleaſure of uniformity from the di⯑viſion of the line into two equal parts, is calm and ſweet. The third order has a modulation not ſo eaſily expreſſed in words. It in part reſembles the firſt order, by the livelineſs of an accent ſucceeded inſtantly by a full pauſe. But then the elevation oc⯑caſioned by this circumſtance, is balanced in ſome degree by the remitted effort in pronouncing the ſecond portion, which re⯑mitted effort has a tendency to reſt. An⯑other circumſtance diſtinguiſheth it remark⯑ably. Its capital accent comes late, being placed on the ſixth ſyllable; and this cir⯑cumſtance beſtows on it an air of gravity and ſolemnity. The laſt order reſembles the ſecond in the mildneſs of its accent and ſoftneſs of its pauſe. It is ſtill more ſolemn than the third, by the lateneſs of its capital accent. It alſo poſſeſſes in a higher degree than the third, the tendency to reſt; and by that circumſtance is of all the beſt qua⯑lified [427] for cloſing a period in the completeſt manner.
But theſe are not all the diſtinguiſhing characters of the different orders. Each order alſo, by means of its final accent and pauſe, makes a peculiar impreſſion; ſo pe⯑culiar as to produce a melody clearly diſ⯑tinguiſhable from that of the others. This peculiarity is occaſioned by the diviſion which the capital pauſe makes in a line. By an unequal diviſion in the firſt order, the mind has an impreſſion of aſcending; and is left at the cloſe in the higheſt eleva⯑tion, which is diſplay'd on the concluding ſyllable. By this means, a ſtrong emphaſis is naturally laid upon the concluding ſylla⯑ble, whether by raiſing the voice to a ſharper tone, or by expreſſing the word in a fuller tone. This order accordingly is of all the leaſt proper for concluding a period, where a cadence is proper, and not an ac⯑cent. In the ſecond order, the final ac⯑cent makes not ſo capital a figure. There is nothing ſingular in its being marked by a pauſe, for this is common to all the orders; and this order, being deſtitute of the im⯑preſſion [428] of aſcent, cannot rival the firſt or⯑der in the elevation of its accent, nor con⯑ſequently in the dignity of its pauſe; for theſe always have a mutual influence. This order, however, with reſpect to its cloſe, maintains a ſuperiority over the third and fourth orders. In theſe the cloſe is more humble, being brought down by the impreſſion of deſcent, and by the remitted effort in pronouncing; conſiderably in the third order, and ſtill more conſiderably in the laſt. According to this deſcription, the concluding accents and pauſes of the four orders being reduced to a ſcale, will form a deſcending ſeries probably in an arithmeti⯑cal progreſſion.
After what is ſaid, will it be thought re⯑fining too much to ſuggeſt, that the different orders are qualified for different purpoſes, and that a poet of genius will be naturally led to make a choice accordingly? I cannot think this altogether chimerical. It appears to me, that the firſt order is proper for a ſen⯑timent that is bold, lively, or impetuous; that the third order is proper for ſubjects grave, ſolemn, or lofty; the ſecond for [429] what is tender, delicate, or melancholy, and in general for all the ſympathetic emo⯑tions; 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. At that rate, no ſort of modu⯑lation would be left for accompanying ordi⯑nary thoughts, that have nothing peculiar in them. I only venture to ſuggeſt, and I do it with diffidence, that one order is pe⯑culiarly adapted to certain ſubjects, and better qualified than the others for expreſſ⯑ing ſuch ſubjects. The beſt way to judge is by experiment; and to avoid the impu⯑tation of a partial ſearch, I ſhall confine my inſtances to a ſingle poem, beginning with the firſt order.
In accounting for the remarkable livelineſs of this paſſage, it will be acknowledged by every one who has an ear, that the modu⯑lation 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 verſifi⯑cation. Who can doubt, that, in this paſ⯑ſage, he has been led by delicacy of taſte to employ the firſt order preferably to the o⯑thers?
Second order.
[431] Again,
Third order.
Again,
A plurality of lines of the fourth order, would not have a good effect in ſucceſſion; becauſe, by a remarkable tendency to reſt, its proper office is to cloſe a period. The reader, therefore, muſt be ſatisfied with in⯑ſtances where this order is mixed with o⯑thers.
[432] Again,
Again,
Again,
And this ſuggeſts another experiment, which is, to ſet the different orders more di⯑rectly in oppoſition, by giving examples where they are mixed in the ſame paſſage.
Firſt and ſecond orders.
Again,
Firſt and third.
Again,
Again,
Again,
Second and third.
Again,
Muſing on the foregoing ſubject, I begin to doubt whether I have not been all this while in a reverie. Here unexpectedly a ſort of fairy-ſcene opens, where every ob⯑ject is new and ſingular. Is there any truth in the appearance, or is it merely a work of imagination? The ſcene ſeems to be a reality; and if it can bear ex⯑amination, it muſt exalt greatly the me⯑lody of Engliſh heroic verſe. If uni⯑formity prevail, in the arrangement, in the equality of the lines, and in the re⯑ſemblance of the final ſounds; variety is ſtill more conſpicuous in the pauſes and accents, [435] which are diverſified in a ſurpriſing man⯑ner. The beauty that reſults from com⯑bined objects, is juſtly obſerved to conſiſt in a due mixture of uniformity and varie⯑ty*. Of this beauty many inſtances have already occurred, but none more illuſtrious than Engliſh verſification. However rude it may be by the ſimplicity of arrange⯑ment, it is highly melodious by its pau⯑ſes and accents, ſo as already to rival the moſt perfect ſpecies known in Greece or Rome. And it is no diſagreeable pro⯑ſpect to find it ſuſceptible of ſtill greater re⯑finement.
We proceed to blank verſe, which hath ſo many circumſtances in common with rhyme, that what is neceſſary to be ſaid upon it may be brought within a narrow compaſs. With reſpect to form, it differs not from rhyme farther than in rejecting the jingle of ſimilar ſounds. But let us not think this difference a trifle, or that we gain nothing by it but the purifying our [436] verſe from a pleaſure ſo childiſh. In truth, our verſe is extremely cramped by rhyme; and the great advantage of blank verſe is, that, being free from the fetters of rhyme, it is at liberty to attend the imagination in its boldeſt flights. Rhyme neceſſarily di⯑vides 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 modulation begins anew with the next couplet: and in this manner a compoſition in rhyme proceeds couplet after couplet. I have more than once had occa⯑ſion to obſerve the influence that ſound and ſenſe have upon each other by their intimate union. If a couplet be a com⯑plete period with regard to the melody, it ought regularly to be ſo alſo with re⯑gard to the ſenſe. This, it is true, proves too great a cramp upon compoſition; and licences are indulged, as explained a⯑bove. Theſe however muſt be uſed with diſcretion, ſo as to preſerve ſome degree of uniformity betwixt the ſenſe and the muſic. [437] 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 end of every couplet. The ſame period as to ſenſe may be extended through ſeveral couplets; but in this caſe each couplet ought to contain a diſtinct member, diſtinguiſhed by a pauſe in the ſenſe as well as in the ſound; and the whole ought to be cloſed with a com⯑plete cadence. Rules ſuch as theſe, muſt confine rhyme within very narrow bounds. A thought of any extent, cannot be redu⯑ced within its compaſs. The ſenſe muſt be curtailed and broken into pieces, to make it ſquare with the curtneſs of melody: and it is obvious, that ſhort periods afford no latitude for inverſion. I have examined this point with the greater accuracy, in or⯑der to give a juſt notion of blank verſe; and to ſhow that a ſlight difference in form may produce a very great difference in ſubſtance. Blank verſe has the ſame pauſes and ac⯑cents 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 [438] melody in blank verſe, are the ſame that obtain with reſpect to the firſt line of a couplet. But luckily, being diſengaged from rhyme, or, in other words, from couplets, there is acceſs to make every line run into another, preciſely as the firſt line of a couplet may run into the ſecond. There muſt be a muſical pauſe at the end of every line; but it is not neceſſary that it be accompanied with a pauſe in the ſenſe. The ſenſe may be carried on through dif⯑ferent lines; till a period of the utmoſt ex⯑tent be completed, by a full cloſe both in the ſenſe and the ſound. There is no re⯑ſtraint, other than that this full cloſe be at the end of a line. This reſtraint is neceſſa⯑ry in order to preſerve a coincidence be⯑twixt ſenſe and ſound; which ought to be aimed at in general, and is indiſpenſable in the caſe of a full cloſe, becauſe it has a ſtri⯑king effect. Hence the aptitude of blank verſe for inverſion; and conſequently the luſtre of its pauſes and accents; for which, as obſerved above, there is greater ſcope in inverſion, than when words run in their na⯑tural order.
[439] In the ſecond ſection of this chapter it is ſhown, that nothing contributes more than inverſion to the force and elevation of lan⯑guage. The couplets of rhyme confine inverſion within narrow limits. Nor would the elevation of inverſion, were there acceſs for it in rhyme, be extremely concordant with the humbler tone of that ſort of verſe. It is univerſally agreed, that the loftineſs of Milton's ſtyle ſupports admira⯑bly the ſublimity of his ſubject; and it is not leſs certain, that the loftineſs of his ſtyle ariſes chiefly from inverſion. Shake⯑ſpear deals little in inverſion. But his blank verſe, being a ſort of meaſured proſe, is perfectly well adapted to the ſtage. La⯑boured inverſion is there extremely impro⯑per, becauſe in dialogue it never can appear natural.
Hitherto I have conſidered the advantage of laying aſide rhyme, with reſpect to that ſuperior power of expreſſion which verſe acquires thereby. But this is not the only advantage of blank verſe. It has another not leſs ſignal of its kind; and that is, of a more extenſive and more complete melody. [440] Its muſic is not, like that of rhyme, con⯑fined to a ſingle couplet; but takes in a great compaſs, ſo as in ſome meaſure to rival muſic properly ſo called. The inter⯑vals betwixt its cadences may be long or ſhort at pleaſure; and, by this means, its modulation, 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 ob⯑ſervation no perſon can doubt who is ac⯑quainted with the Paradiſe Loſt. In that work there are indeed many careleſs lines; but at every turn it ſhines out in the richeſt melody as well as in the ſublimeſt ſenti⯑ments. Take the following ſpecimen.
Comparing the Latin Hexameter and Eng⯑liſh heroic rhyme, the former has obviouſly the advantage in the following particulars. It is greatly preferable as to arrangement, by the latitude it admits in placing the long and ſhort ſyllables. Secondly, the length of an Hexameter line hath a majeſtic air: ours, by its ſhortneſs, is indeed more briſk and lively, but much leſs fitted for the ſub⯑lime. And, thirdly, the long high-ſound⯑ing [442] words that Hexameter admits, add greatly to its majeſty. To compenſate theſe advantages, Engliſh rhyme poſſeſſes a greater number and greater variety both of pauſes and of accents. Theſe two ſorts of verſe ſtand indeed pretty much in oppoſi⯑tion: in the Hexameter, great variety of arrangement, none in the pauſes or accents: in the Engliſh rhyme, great variety in the pauſes and accents, very little in the ar⯑rangement.
In blank verſe are united, in a good mea⯑ſure, the ſeveral properties of Latin Hexa⯑meter and Engliſh rhyme; and it poſſeſſes beſide many ſignal properties of its own. It is not confined, like a Hexameter, by a full cloſe at the end of every line; nor, like rhyme, by a full cloſe at the end of every couplet. This form of conſtruction, which admits the lines to run into each other, gives it a ſtill greater majeſty than ariſes from the length of a Hexameter line. By the ſame means, it admits inverſion e⯑ven beyond the Latin or Greek Haxame⯑ter, which ſuffer ſome confinement by the regular cloſes at the end of every line. In [443] its muſic it is illuſtrious above all. The melody of Hexameter verſe, is circumſcri⯑bed to a line; and of Engliſh rhyme, to a couplet. The melody of blank verſe is under no confinement, but enjoys the ut⯑moſt privilege of which the melody of verſe is ſuſceptible, and that is to run hand in hand with the ſenſe. In a word, blank verſe is ſuperior to the Hexameter in many articles; and inferior to it in none, ſave in the latitude of arrangement, and in the uſe of long words.
In the French heroic verſe, there are found, on the contrary, all the defects of the Latin Hexameter and Engliſh rhyme, without the beauties of either. Subjected to the bondage of rhyme, and to the full cloſe at the end of each couplet, it is fur⯑ther peculiarly diſguſtful by the uniformity of its pauſes and accents. The line inva⯑riably is divided by the pauſe into two equal parts, and the accent is invariably placed before the pauſe.
[444] Here every circumſtance contributes to a moſt tedious uniformity. A conſtant re⯑turn of the ſame pauſe and of the ſame ac⯑cent, as well as an equal diviſion of every line; by which the latter part always an⯑ſwers to the former, and fatigues the ear without intermiſſion or change. I cannot ſet this matter in a better light, than by preſenting to the reader a French tranſla⯑tion of the following paſſage of Milton.
Were the pauſes of the ſenſe and ſound in this paſſage, but a little better aſſorted, no⯑thing in verſe could be more melodious. In [445] general, the great defect of Milton's verſi⯑fication, in other reſpects admirable, is the want of coincidence betwixt the pauſes of the ſenſe and ſound.
The tranſlation is in the following words.
Here the ſenſe is fairly tranſlated, the words are of equal power, and yet how in⯑ferior the melody!
[446] I take the liberty to add here a ſpecula⯑tion, which, though collateral only, ariſes naturally from the ſubject, and ſhall be diſ⯑cuſſed in a few words. Many attempts have been made to introduce Hexameter verſe into the living languages, but without ſucceſs. The Engliſh language, I am in⯑clined to believe, is not ſuſceptible of this melody; and my reaſons are theſe. Firſt, the polyſyllables in Latin and Greek are finely diverſified by long and ſhort ſyllables, a circumſtance that qualifies them for the melody of Hexameter verſe. Ours are ex⯑tremely ill qualified for this ſervice, becauſe they ſuperabound in ſhort ſyllables. Se⯑condly, the bulk of our monoſyllables are arbitrary with regard to length, which is an unlucky circumſtance in Hexameter. Cuſtom, as obſerved above, may render fa⯑miliar a long or ſhort pronunciation of the ſame word: but the mind wavering be⯑twixt 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 [447] by quantity. In Latin and Greek Hexa⯑meter, invariable ſounds direct and aſcer⯑tain the melody: Engliſh Hexameter would be deſtitute of melody, unleſs by artful pronunciation; becauſe of neceſſity the bulk of its ſounds muſt be arbitrary. The pronunciation is eaſy in a ſimple move⯑ment of alternate ſhort and long ſyllables; but would be perplexing and unpleaſant in the diverſified movement of Hexameter verſe.
Rhyme makes ſo great a figure in mo⯑dern poetry, as to deſerve a ſolemn trial. I have for that reaſon reſerved it to be ex⯑amined with ſome deliberation; in order to diſcover, if poſſible, its peculiar beauties, and the degree of merit it is intitled to. The firſt view of this ſubject leads naturally to the following reflection, ‘"That rhyme having no relation to ſentiment, nor any effect upon the ear other than a mere jingle, ought to be baniſhed all com⯑poſitions of any dignity, as affording but a trifling and childiſh pleaſure."’ It will alſo be obſerved, ‘"That a jingle of words [448] hath in ſome meaſure a ludicrous effect; witneſs the celebrated poem of Hudibras, the double rhymes of which contribute no ſmall ſhare to its drollery; that this effect would be equally remarkable in a ſerious work, were it not obſcured by the nature of the ſubject; that having how⯑ever a conſtant tendency to give a ludi⯑crous air to the compoſition, it requires more than ordinary fire to ſupport the dig⯑nity of the ſentiments againſt ſuch an un⯑dermining anotagoniſt*."’
Theſe arguments are ſpecious, and have undoubtedly ſome weight. Yet, on the o⯑ther hand, it ought to be conſidered, that rhyme, in later times, has become univer⯑ſal among men as well as children; and that to give it a currency, it muſt have ſome foundation in human nature. In fact, it has been ſucceſsfully employ'd by poets of genius, in their ſerious and grave compoſi⯑tions, as well as in thoſe which are more light and airy. Here, in weighing autho⯑rity [449] againſt argument, the balance ſeems to hang pretty even; and therefore, to come at any thing deciſive, we muſt pierce a little deeper.
Muſic has great power over the ſoul; and may be ſucceſsfully employ'd to in⯑flame or ſooth our paſſions, if not actually to raiſe them. A ſingle ſound, however ſweet, is not muſic; but a ſingle ſound re⯑peated after proper intervals, may have an effect upon the mind, by rouſing the at⯑tention and keeping the hearer awake. A variety of ſimilar ſounds, ſucceeding each other after regular intervals, muſt have a ſtill ſtronger effect. This is applicable to rhyme, which conſiſts in the connec⯑tion that two verſe-lines have by cloſing with two words ſimilar in ſound. And conſidering deliberately the effect that this may have; we find, that it rouſes the atten⯑tion, and produceth an emotion moderately gay without dignity or elevation. Like the murmurings of a brook gliding through pebbles, it calms the mind when perturbed, and gently raiſes it when ſunk. Theſe ef⯑fects are ſcarce perceived when the whole [450] poem is in rhyme; but are extremely re⯑markable by contraſt, in the couplets which cloſe the ſeveral acts of our later tragedies. The tone of the mind is ſenſibly varied by them, from anguiſh, diſtreſs, or melancho⯑ly, to ſome degree of eaſe and alacrity. For the truth of this obſervation, I appeal to the ſpeech of Jane Shore in the fourth act, when her doom was pronounced by Glo'⯑ſter; to the ſpeech of Lady Jane Gray at the end of the firſt act; and to that of Ca⯑liſta, in the Fair Penitent, when ſhe leaves the ſtage, about the middle of the third act. The ſpeech of Alicia, at the cloſe of the fourth act of Jane Shore, puts the matter beyond doubt. In a ſcene of deep diſtreſs, the rhymes which finiſh the act, produce a certain gaiety and chearfulneſs, far from according with the tone of the paſſion.
Having deſcribed, the beſt way I can, the impreſſion that rhyme makes on the mind; I proceed to examine whether rhyme be proper for any ſubject, and to what ſubjects in particular it is beſt ſuited. Great and elevated ſubjects, which have a powerful influence, claim juſtly the pre⯑cedence 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 regularity and order. This obſervation is applicable to the preſent point. The mo⯑derately-enlivening muſic of rhyme, gives a tone to the mind very different from that of grandeur and ſublimity. Suppoſing then [452] an elevated ſubject to be expreſſed in rhyme, what muſt be the effect? The intimate union of the muſic with the ſubject, pro⯑duces an intimate union of their emotions; one inſpired by the ſubject, which tends to elevate and expand the mind; and one in⯑ſpired by the muſic, which, confining the mind within the narrow limits of regular cadency 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 clo⯑thed in rhyme, and yet ſupported in its ut⯑moſt elevation. A happy thought or warm expreſſion, may at times give a ſudden bound upward; but it requires a genius greater than has hitherto exiſted, to ſupport a poem of any length in a tone much more elevated than that of the melody. Taſſo and Arioſto ought not to be made ex⯑ceptions, and ſtill leſs Voltaire. And after all, where the poet has the dead weight of rhyme conſtantly to ſtruggle with, how [453] can we expect an uniform elevation in a high pitch; when ſuch elevation, with all the ſupport it can receive from language, re⯑quires the utmoſt effort of the human ge⯑nius?
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. Ad⯑diſon* obſerves, ‘"That rhyme, without any other aſſiſtance, throws the language off from proſe, and very often makes an indifferent phraſe paſs unregarded; but where the verſe is not built upon rhymes, there, pomp of ſound and energy of ex⯑preſſion are indiſpenſably neceſſary, to ſupport the ſtyle and keep it from falling into the flatneſs of proſe."’ This effect of rhyme is remarkable in the French verſe, which, being ſimple and natural and in a good meaſure unqualified for inverſion, rea⯑dily ſinks down to proſe where it is not ar⯑tificially ſupported. Rhyme, by rouſing the mind, raiſes it ſomewhat above the [454] tone of ordinary language: rhyme there⯑fore is indiſpenſable in the French tragedy; and may be proper even for their comedy. Voltaire* aſſigns this very reaſon for adhe⯑ring to rhyme in theſe compoſitions. He indeed candidly owns, that even with the ſupport of rhyme, the tragedies of his coun⯑try are little better than converſation-pieces. This ſhows, that the French language is weak, and an improper dreſs for any grand ſubject. Voltaire was ſenſible of this im⯑perfection; and yet Voltaire attempted an epic poem in that language.
The chearing 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. And for that reaſon, rhyme is perfectly well ad⯑apted to gay, light, and airy ſubjects. Witneſs the following.
For this reaſon, ſuch frequent rhymes are very improper for any ſevere or ſerious paſ⯑ſion: the diſſonance betwixt the ſubject and the modulation, is very ſenſibly felt. Witneſs the following.
[456] Rhyme is not leſs unfit for 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 e⯑levated, it has not a good effect; becauſe the airineſs of the modulation agrees not with the gravity of the ſubject. The Eſſay on Man, which treats a ſubject great and important, would ſhow much better in blank verſe. Sportive love, mirth, gaiety, humour, and ridicule, are the province of rhyme. The boundaries aſſigned it by na⯑ture, were extended in barbarous and illi⯑terate ages, and in its uſurpations it has long been protected by cuſtom. But taſte in the fine arts, as well as in morals, im⯑proves daily; and makes a progreſs, ſlowly indeed, but uniformly, towards perfection: and there is no reaſon to doubt, that rhyme in Britain will in time be forc'd to abandon its unjuſt conqueſts, and to confine itſelf within its natural limits.
Having thrown out what occurred upon rhyme, I cloſe the ſection with a general [457] obſervation. The melody of articulate ſound ſo powerfully inchants the mind, as to draw a vail over very groſs faults and imper⯑fections. Of this power a ſtronger example cannot be given, than the epiſode of Ari⯑ſtaeus, which cloſes the fourth book of the Georgies. To renew a ſtock of bees when the former is loſt, Virgil aſſerts, that they will be produced in the intrails of a bullock, ſlain and managed in a certain manner. This leads him to ſay, how this ſtrange receipt was invented; which is as follows. Ariſtaeus having loſt his bees by diſeaſe and famine, never dreams of employing the ordinary means for obtaining a new ſtock; but, like a froward child, complains heavily of his misfortune to his mother Cyrene, a water⯑nymph. She adviſes him to conſult Pro⯑teus, a ſea-god, not how he was to obtain a new ſtock, but only by what fatality he had loſt his former ſtock; adding, that violence was neceſſary, becauſe Proteus would ſay nothing voluntarily. Ariſtaeus, ſatisfied with this advice, though it gave him no proſpect of repairing his loſs, proceeds to execution. Proteus is catched ſleeping, [458] bound with cords, and compelled to ſpeak. He declares, that Ariſtaeus was puniſhed with the loſs of his bees, for attempting the chaſtity of Euridice, the wife of Orpheus; ſhe having got her death by the ſting of a ſerpent in flying his embraces. Proteus, whoſe ſullenneſs ought to have been con⯑verted into wrath by the rough treatment he met with, becomes on a ſudden cour⯑teous and communicative. He gives the whole hiſtory of Orpheus's expedition to hell in order to recover his ſpouſe; a very entertaining ſtory indeed, but without the leaſt relation to the affair on hand. Ariſtaeus returning to his mother, is adviſed to de⯑precate by ſacrifices the wrath of Orpheus, who was now dead. A bullock is ſacrificed, and out of the intrails ſpring miraculouſly a ſwarm of bees. How ſhould this have led any mortal to think, that, without a miracle, the ſame might be obtained natu⯑rally, as is ſuppoſed in the receipt?
- 1. PYRRHICHIUS, conſiſts of two ſhort ſyllables. Examples: Deus, given, cannot, hillock, running.
- 2. SPONDEUS, conſiſts of two long ſylla⯑bles. Ex. Omnes, poſſeſs, forewarn, mankind, ſometime.
- 3. IAMBUS, compoſed of a ſhort and a long. Ex. pios, intent, degree, ap⯑pear, conſent, repent, demand, report, ſuſpect, affront, event.
- 4. TROCHAEUS, or CHOREUS, a long and a ſhort. Ex. fervat, whereby, af⯑ter, legal, meaſure, burden, holy, lofty.
- 5. TRIBRACHYS, three ſhort. Ex. me⯑lius, property.
- 6. MOLOSSUS, three long. Ex. dele⯑ctant.
- [460] 7. ANAPAESTUS, two ſhort and a long. Ex. animos, condeſcend, apprehend, overheard, acquieſce, immature, over⯑charge, ſerenade, opportune.
- 8. DACTYLUS, a long and two ſhort. Ex. carmina, evident, excellence, eſtimate, wonderful, altitude, burden⯑ed, miniſter, tenement.
- 9. BACCHIUS, a ſhort and two long. Ex. dolores.
- 10. HYPPOBACCHIUS, or ANTIBACCHIUS, two long and a ſhort. Ex. pel⯑luntur.
- 11. CRETICUS, or AMPHIMACER, a ſhort ſyllable betwixt two long. Ex. inſito, afternoon.
- 12. AMPHIBRACHYS, a long ſyllable be⯑twixt two ſhort. Ex. honore, conſi⯑der, imprudent, procedure, attended, propoſed, reſpondent, concurrence, ap⯑prentice, reſpective, revenue.
- [461]13. PROCELEUSMATICUS, four ſhort ſyl⯑lables. Ex. hominibus, neceſſary.
- 14. DISPONDEUS, four long ſyllables. Ex. infinitis.
- 15. DIIAMBUS, compoſed of two Iambi. Ex. ſeveritas.
- 16. DITROCHAEUS, of two Trochaei. Ex. permanere, procurator.
- 17. IONICUS, two ſhort ſyllables and two long. Ex. properabant.
- 18. Another foot paſſes under the ſame name, compoſed of two long ſylla⯑bles and two ſhort. Ex. calcaribus, poſſeſſory.
- 19. CHORIAMBUS, two ſhort ſyllables be⯑twixt two long. Ex. Nobilitas.
- 20. ANTISPASTUS, two long ſyllables be⯑twixt two ſhort. Ex. Alexander.
- 21. PAEON 1ſt, one long ſyllable and three ſhort. Ex. temporibus, ordinary, in⯑ventory, temperament.
- [462]22. PAEON 2d, the ſecond ſyllable long, and the other three ſhort. Ex. potentia, rapidity, ſolemnity, minority, conſi⯑dered, imprudently, extravagant, re⯑ſpectfully, accordingly.
- 23. PAEON 3d, the third ſyllable long and the other three ſhort. Ex. anima⯑tus, independent, condeſcendence, ſa⯑cerdotal, reimburſement, manufacture.
- 24. PAEON 4th, the laſt ſyllable long and the other three ſhort. Ex. Celeritas.
- 25. EPITRITUS 1ſt, the firſt ſyllable ſhort and the other three long. Ex. vo⯑luptates.
- 26. EPITRITUS 2d, the ſecond ſyllable ſhort and the other three long. Ex. poeni⯑tentes.
- 27. EPITRITUS 3d, the third ſyllable ſhort and the other three long. Ex. diſ⯑oordias.
- 28. EPITRITUS 4th, the laſt ſyllable ſhort and the other three long. Ex. fortu⯑natus.
- [463]29. A word of five ſyllables compoſed of a Pyrrhichius and Dactylus. Ex. mi⯑niſterial.
- 30. A word of five ſyllables compoſed of a Trochaeus and Dactylus. Ex. ſin⯑gularity.
- 31. A word of five ſyllables compoſed of a Dactylus and Trochaeus. Ex. precipitation, examination.
- 32. A word of five ſyllables, the ſecond only long. Ex. neceſſitated, ſignifi⯑cancy.
- 33. A word of ſix ſyllables compoſed of two Dactyles. Ex. impetuoſity.
- 34. A word of ſix ſyllables compoſed of a Tribrachys and Dactyle. Ex. pu⯑ſillanimity.
N. B. Every word may be conſidered as a proſe foot, becauſe every word is diſtin⯑guiſhed by a pauſe; and every foot in verſe may be conſidered as a verſe word, compoſed of ſyllables pronounced at once without a pauſe.
‘Nec vero illa parva vis naturae eſt rationiſque, quod u⯑num hoc animal ſentit quid ſit ordo, quid ſit quod deceat in fa⯑ctis dictiſque, qui modus. Itaque eorum ipſorum, quae aſpe⯑ctu ſentiuntur, nullum aliud animal, pulchritudinem, venuſta⯑tem, convenientiam partium, ſentit. Quam ſimilitudinem na⯑tura ratioque ab oculis ad animum transferens, multo etiam magis pulchritudinem, conſtantiam, ordinem, in conſiliis fa⯑ctiſque conſervandum putat, cavetque ne quid indecorè effemi⯑natève faciat; tum in omnibus et opinionibus et factis ne quid libidinosè aut faciat aut cogitet. Quibus ex rebus conflatur et efficitur id, quod quaerimus, honeſtum. Ciccro de officiis, l. 1.’
‘Ideoque anceps ejus rei ratio eſt, quod a deriſu non pro⯑cul abeſt riſus. Lib. 6. cap. 3. § 1.’
Violent love without affection is finely exemplified in the following ſtory. When Conſtantinople was taken by the Turks, Irene, a young Greek of an illuſtrious family, ſell into the hands of Mahomet II. who was at that time in the prime of youth and glory. Irene's charms conquered the ſavage heart of Mahomet. He abandoned himſelf to his new miſtreſs; and ſhut himſelf up with her, denying acceſs even to his mi⯑niſters. His paſſion ſeemed to increaſe with time. In the moſt important expeditions, frequently would he abandon the army, and fly to his Irene. War was at a ſtand, for victory was no longer the monarch's favourite paſſion. The ſoldiers, accuſtomed to booty, began to murmur, and the infection ſpread even among the commanders. The Baſha Muſtapha, conſulting the fidelity he owed his maſter, was the firſt who durſt acquaint him of the diſcourſes held publicly to the pre⯑judice of his glory.
The Sultan, after a gloomy ſilence, formed his reſolution. He ordered Muſtapha to aſſemble the troops next morning; and then retired with precipitation to Irene's apartment. Ne⯑ver before did that princeſs appear ſo charming: never be⯑fore did the prince beſtow ſo many tender careſſes. To give a new luſtre to her beauty, he exhorted her women next morning to beſtow all their art and care on her dreſs. He took her by the hand, led her into the middle of the army, and pulling off her vail, demanded at the Baſhas with a fierce look, whether they had ever beheld ſo accompliſhed a beauty? After an awful pauſe, Mahomet with one hand laying hold of the young Greek by her beautiful locks, and with the o⯑ther pulling out his ſimitar, ſevered the head from the body at one ſtroke. Then turning to his grandees, with eyes wild and furious, ‘"This ſword,"’ ſays he, ‘"when it is my will, knows to cut the bands of love."’
Lady Eaſy, upon her huſband's reformation, expreſſes to her friend the following ſentiment. ‘"Be ſatisfy'd; Sir Charles has made me happy, even to a pain of joy."’
‘Omnis enim motus animi, ſuum quemdam a natura habet vultum et ſonum et geſtum. Cicero, l. 3. De oratore.’
Though a ſoliloquy in the perturbation of paſſion is un⯑doubtedly natural, and indeed not unfrequent in real life; yet Congreve, who himſelf has penned ſeveral good ſoliloquies, yields, with more candor than knowledge, that they are un⯑natural; and he only pretends to juſtify them from neceſſity. This he does in his dedication of the Double Dealer, in the following words. ‘"When a man in ſoliloquy reaſons with himſelf, and pro's and con's, and weighs all his de⯑ſigns; we ought not to imagine, that this man either talks to us, or to himſelf; he is only thinking, and thinking (frequently) ſuch matter as were inexcuſeable folly in him to ſpeak. But becauſe we are concealed ſpectators of the plot in agitation, and the poet finds it neceſſary to let us know the whole myſtery of his contrivance, he is willing to inform us of this perſon's thoughts; and to that end is forced to make uſe of the expedient of ſpeech, no other better way being yet invented for the communication of thought."’
In the Aeneid, the hero is made to deſcribe himſelf in the following words: Sum pius Aeneas, fama ſuper aethera 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 Gre⯑cian auxiliaries, whom he was leading againſt his brother Ar⯑taxerxes. ‘"I have choſen you, O Greeks! my auxiliaries, not to enlarge my army, for I have Barbarians without number; but becauſe you ſurpaſs all the Barbarians in va⯑lour and military diſcipline."’ This ſentiment is Xeno⯑phon's; for ſurely Cyrus did not reckon his countrymen Bar⯑barians.
This criticiſm reaches the French dramatic writers in general, with very few exceptions. Their tragedies are moſtly, if not totally, deſcriptive. Corneille led the way; and later writers following his track, have accuſtomed the French ear to a ſtyle, formal, pompous, declamatory, which ſuits not with any paſſion. Hence it becomes an eaſy taſk to burleſk a French tragedy: it is not more difficult than to bur⯑leſk a ſtiff ſolemn fop. The facility of the operation has in Paris introduced a ſingular amuſement, which is, to burleſk the more ſucceſsful tragedies in a ſort of farce, called a pa⯑rody. La Motte, who himſelf appears to have been ſorely galled by ſome of theſe burleſk compoſitions, acknowledges, that no more is neceſſary to give them a run, than barely to vary the dramatis perſonae, and in place of kings and heroes, queens and princeſſes, to ſubſtitute tinkers and tailors, milk-maids and ſeamſtreſſes. The declamatory ſtyle, ſo different from the genuine expreſſion of paſſion, paſſes in ſome meaſure unobſerved, when great perſonages are the ſpeakers. But in the mouths of the vulgar, the impropriety, with regard to the ſpeaker as well as to the paſſion repreſented, is ſo remarkable as to become ridiculous. A tragedy, where every paſſion is made to ſpeak in its natural tone, is not liable to be thus burleſked. The ſame paſſion is by all men expreſſed nearly in the ſame manner: and therefore the genuine expreſſions of paſſion cannot be ridiculous in the mouth of any man, provided only he be of ſuch a character as to be ſuſceptible of the paſ⯑ſion.
It is a well-known fact, that to an Engliſh ear the French actors appear to pronounce with too great rapidity; a complaint much inſiſted on by Cibber in particular, who had frequently heard the famous Baron upon the French ſtage. This may in ſome meaſure be attributed to our want of facility in the French language; as foreigners generally imagine, that every language is pronounced too quick by natives. But that it is not the ſole cauſe, will be probable from a fact directly oppo⯑ſite, that the French are not a little diſguſted with the lan⯑guidneſs, as they term it, of the Engliſh pronunciation. I conjecture this difference of taſte may be derived from what is obſerved above. The pronunciation of the genuine lan⯑guage of paſſion is neceſſarily directed by the nature of the paſſion, and by the ſlowneſs or celerity of its progreſs. In par⯑ticular, plaintive paſſions, which are the moſt frequent in tra⯑gedy, having a ſlow motion, dictate a ſlow pronunciation. In declamation again, which is not the genuine language of any paſſion, the ſpeaker warms gradually; and as he warms, he naturally accelerates his pronunciation. But as the French have formed their tone of pronunciation upon Corneille's decla⯑matory tragedies, and the Engliſh upon the more natural lan⯑guage of Shakeſpear, it is not ſurpriſing that cuſtom ſhould produce ſuch difference of taſte in the two nations.
A certain author ſays humourouſly, ‘"Les mots mêmes d'amour et d'amant ſont bannis de l'intime ſociété des deux ſexes, et relegués avec ceux de chaine et de flame dans les Romans qu'on ne lit plus."’ And where nature is once ba⯑niſhed, a fair field is open to every ſantaſtic imitation, even the moſt extravagant.
This obſervation is finely illuſtrated by a ſtory which Herodotus records, book 3. Cambyſes when he conquered Egypt, took Pſammenitus the King priſoner: and to try his conſtancy, ordered his daughter to be dreſſed in the habit of a ſlave, and to be employ'd 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. Pſammenitus only, with a down-caſt eye, remained ſilent. Afterward meeting one of his companions, a man advanced in years, who being plundered of all, was begging alms, he wept bitterly, calling him by his name. Cambyſes was ſtruck with wonder, and ſent a meſſenger with the following queſtion, ‘"Pſammenitus, thy maſter Cambyſes is deſirous to know, why, after thou hadſt ſeen thy daughter ſo ignominiouſly treat⯑ed, and thy ſon led to execution, without exclamation or weeping, thou ſhouldſt be ſo highly concerned for a poor man no way related to thee?"’ Pſammenitus returned the following anſwer: ‘"Son of Cyrus, the calamities of my fa⯑mily are too great to leave me the power of weeping: but the misfortunes of a companion, reduced in his old age to want of bread, is a fit ſubject for lamentation."’
After ſome attention given to this ſubject, and weighing deliberately every circumſtance, I have been forc'd to reſt up⯑on the foregoing concluſion, That the Dactyle and Spondee are no other than artificial meaſures invented for trying the accu⯑racy of compoſition. Repeated experiments convince me, that though the ſenſe ſhould be altogether neglected, an Hex⯑ameter line read by Dactyles and Spondees, will not be me⯑lodious. And the compoſition of an Hexameter line demon⯑ſtrates this to be true, without neceſſity of an experiment. It will appear afterward, that in an Hexameter line, there muſt always be a capital pauſe at the end of the fifth long ſyllable, reckoning, as above, two ſhort for one long. And when we meaſure this line by Dactyles and Spondees, the pauſe now mentioned divides always a Dactyle or a Spondee: it never falls in at the end of either of theſe feet. Hence it is evident, that if a line be pronounced, as it is ſcanned, by Dactyles and Spondees, the pauſe muſt be utterly neglected; which conſe⯑quently muſt deſtroy the melody, becauſe a pauſe is eſſential to the melody of an Hexameter verſe. If, on the other hand, the melody be preſerved by making this pauſe, the pronoun⯑cing by Dactyles and Spondees muſt be abandoned.
What has led grammarians into the uſe of Dactyles and Spondees, ſeems not beyond the reach of conjecture. To produce melody, the latter part of a Hexameter line conſiſt⯑ing of a Dactyle and a Spondee, muſt be read according to theſe feet: in this part of the line, the Dactyle and Spondee are diſtinctly expreſſed in the pronunciation. This diſcovery, joined with another, that the foregoing part of the verſe could be meaſured by the ſame feet, has led grammarians to adopt theſe artificial meaſures, and perhaps raſhly to conclude, that the pronunciation is directed by theſe feet as well as the com⯑poſition. The Dactyle and Spondee at the cloſe, ſerve indeed the double purpoſe of regulating the pronunciation as well as the compoſition: but in the foregoing part of the line, they regulate the compoſition only, not the pronunciation.
If we muſt have feet in verſe to regulate the pronunciation, and conſequently the melody, theſe feet muſt be determined by the pauſes. The whole ſyllables interjected betwixt two pauſes ought to be deemed one muſical foot; becauſe, to pre⯑ſerve the melody, they muſt all be pronounced together, with⯑out any ſtop. And therefore, whatever number there are of pauſes in a Hexameter line, the parts into which it is divided by theſe pauſes, make juſt ſo many muſical feet.
Connection obliges me here to anticipate, by obſerving, that the ſame doctrine is applicable to Engliſh heroic verſe. Con⯑ſidering its compoſition merely, it is of two kinds. One is compoſed of five Iambi; and one of a Trochaeus followed by four Iambi. But theſe feet afford no rule for pronouncing. The muſical feet are obviouſly thoſe parts of the line that are inter⯑jected betwixt two pauſes. To bring out the melody, theſe feet muſt be expreſſed in the pronunciation; or, which comes to the ſame, the pronunciation muſt be directed by the pauſes, without regard to the Iambus or Trochaeus.
Voſſius, de poematum cantu, p. 26. ſays, ‘"Nihil aeque gravitati orationis officit, quam in ſono ludere ſyllabarum."’
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3917 Elements of criticism In three volumes pt 2. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-58E4-0