LECTURE XVIII. FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE—GENE⯑RAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE—DIFFUSE, CONCISE—FEEBLE, NERVOUS—DRY, PLAIN, NEAT, ELEGANT, FLOWERY.

HAVING treated, at conſiderable length, of the Figures of Speech, of their origin, of their nature, and of the management of ſuch of them as are import⯑ant enough to require a particular diſcuſ⯑ſion, before finally diſmiſſing this ſubject, I think it incumbent on me, to make ſome obſervations concerning the proper uſe of Figurative Language in general. Theſe, indeed, I have, in part, already anticipat⯑ed. But, as great errors are often commit⯑ted in this part of Style, eſpecially by young writers, it may be of uſe that I bring together, under one view, the moſt mate⯑rial directions on this head.

[2] I BEGIN with repeating an obſervation, formerly made, that neither all the beau⯑ties, nor even the chief beauties of compo⯑ſition, depend upon Tropes and Figures. Some of the moſt ſublime and moſt pathetic paſſages of the moſt admired authors, both in proſe and poetry, are expreſſed in the moſt ſimple Style, without any figure at all; inſtances of which I have before given. On the other hand, a compoſition may abound with theſe ſtudied ornaments; the language may be artful, ſplendid, and highly figured, and yet the compoſition be on the whole frigid and unaffecting. Not to ſpeak of ſentiment and thought, which conſtitute the real and laſting merit of any work, if the ſtyle be ſtiff and affected, if it be deficient in perſpicuity or preciſion, or in eaſe and neatneſs, all the Figures that can be employed will never render it agree⯑able: they may dazzle a vulgar, but will never pleaſe a judicious, eye.

IN the ſecond place, Figures, in order to be beautiful, muſt always riſe naturally from the ſubject. I have ſhown that all of them are the language either of Imagina⯑tion, or of Paſſion; ſome of them ſuggeſt⯑ed by Imagination, when it is awakened and ſprightly, ſuch as Metaphors and Com⯑pariſons; others by Paſſion or more heat⯑ed emotion, ſuch as Perſonifications and Apoſtrophes. Of courſe they are beauti⯑ful then only, when they are prompted by [3] fancy, or by paſſion. They muſt riſe of their own accord; they muſt flow from a mind warmed by the object which it ſeeks to deſcribe; we ſhould never interrupt the courſe of thought to caſt about for Figures. If they be fought after coolly, and faſtened on as deſigned ornaments, they will have a miſerable effect. It is a very erroneous idea, which many have of the ornaments of Style, as if they were things detached from the ſubject, and that could be ſtuck to it, like lace upon a coat: this is indeed,

And it is this falſe idea which has often brought attention to the beauties of writ⯑ing into diſrepute. Whereas, the real and proper ornaments of Style are wrought into the ſubſtance of it. They flow in the ſame ſtream with the current of thought. A writer of genius conceives his ſubject ſtrongly; his imagination is filled and im⯑preſſed with it; and pours itſelf forth in that Figurative Language which Imagina⯑tion naturally ſpeaks He puts on no emo⯑tion which his ſubject does not raiſe in him; he ſpeaks as he feels; but his ſtyle will be beautiful, becauſe his feelings are lively. On occaſions, when fancy is lan⯑guid, [4] or finds nothing to rouſe it, we ſhould never attempt to hunt for figures. We then work, as it is ſaid, ‘"invitâ Minervâ;"’ ſuppoſing figures invented, they will have the appearance of being forced; and in this caſe, they had much better be wanted.

In the third place, even when Imagina⯑tion prompts, and the ſubject naturally gives riſe to Figures, they muſt, however, not be employed too frequently. In all beauty, ‘"ſimplex munditiis;"’ is a capital quality. Nothing derogates more from the weight and dignity of any compoſition, than too great attention to ornament. When the ornaments coſt labour, that la⯑bour always appears; though they ſhould coſt us none, ſtill the reader or hearer may be ſurfeited with them; and when they come too thick, they give the impreſſion of a light and frothy genius, that evapo⯑rates in ſhew, rather than brings forth what is ſolid. The directions of the ancient critics, on this head, are full of good ſenſe, and deſerve careful attention. ‘"Volup⯑tatibus maximis,"’ ſays Cicero, de Orat. L. iii. ‘"faſtidium finitimum eſt in rebus omnibus; quo hoc minus in oratione miremur. In qua vel ex poëtis, vel oratoribus poſſumus judicare, concin⯑nam, ornatam, feſtivam ſine intermiſ⯑ſione, quamvis claris ſit coloribus picta, vel poëſis, vel oratio, non poſſe in de⯑lectatione eſſe diuturnâ. Quare, bene [5] et praeclare, quamvis nobis ſaepe dica⯑tur, belie et feſtive nimium ſaepe no⯑lo^*."’ To the ſame purpoſe, are the excellent directions with which Quinctilian concludes his diſcourſe concerning Figures, L. ix. C. 3. ‘"Ego illud de iis figuris quae vere fiunt, adjiciam breviter, ſicut or⯑nant orationem opportunae poſitae, ita ineptiſſimas eſſe cum immodice petuntur. Sunt, qui neglecto rerum pondere et viri⯑bus ſententiarum, ſi vel inania verba in hos modos depravarunt, ſummos ſe ju⯑dicant artifices; ideoque non deſinunt eas nectere; quas ſine ſententia ſectare, tam eſt ridiculum quam quaerere habitum geſtumque ſine corpore. Ne hae quidem quae rectae fiunt, denſandae ſunt nimis. Sciendum imprimis quid quiſque poſtu⯑let locus, quid perſona, quid tempus. Major enim pars harum figurarum poſita eſt in delectatione. Ubi verò, atrocitate, invidiâ, miſeratione pugnandum eſt; quis ferat verbis contrapoſitis, et conſi⯑milibus, & pariter cadentibus, iraſcen⯑tem, flentem, rogantem? Cum in his rebus, cura verborum deroget affectibus fidem; et ubicunque ars oſtentatur, ve⯑ritas [6] abeſſe videatur^*."’ After theſe judicious and uſeful obſervations, I have no more to add, on this ſubject, except this admonition.

IN the fourth place, that without a ge⯑nius for Figurative Language, none ſhould attempt it. Imagination is a power not to be acquired; it muſt be derived from na⯑ture. Its redundancies we may prune, its deviations we may correct, its ſphere we may enlarge; but the faculty itſelf we cannot create: and all efforts towards a metaphorical ornamented ſtyle, if we are deſtitute of the proper genius for it, will prove awkward and diſguſting. Let us ſatisfy ourſelves, however, by conſider⯑ing, that without this talent, or at leaſt [7] with a very ſmall meaſure of it, we may both write and ſpeak to advantage. Good ſenſe, clear ideas, perſpicuity of language, and proper arrangement of words and thoughts, will always command attention. Theſe are indeed the foundations of all ſolid merit, both in ſpeaking and writing. Many ſubjects require nothing more; and thoſe which admit of ornament, admit it only as a ſecondary requiſite. To ſtudy and to know our own genius well; to fol⯑low nature; to ſeek to improve, but not to force it, are directions which cannot be too often given to thoſe who deſire to excell in the liberal arts.

WHEN I entered on the conſideration of Style, I obſerved that words being the co⯑pies of our ideas, there muſt always be a very intimate connection between the manner in which every writer employs words, and his manner of thinking; and that, from the peculiarity of thought and expreſſion which belongs to him, there is a certain character imprinted on his Style, which may be denominated his manner; commonly expreſſed by ſuch general terms, as ſtrong, weak, dry, ſimple, affected, or the like. Theſe diſtinctions carry, in ge⯑neral, ſome reference to an author's man⯑ner of thinking, but refer chiefly to his mode of expreſſion. They ariſe from the whole tenour of his language; and com⯑prehend the effect produced by all thoſe [8] parts of Style which we have already con⯑ſidered; the choice which he makes of ſingle words; his arrangement of theſe in ſentences; the degree of his preciſion; and his embelliſhment, by means of muſical ca⯑dence, figures, or other arts of ſpeech. Of ſuch general Characters of Style, therefore, it remains now to ſpeak, as the reſult of thoſe underparts of which I have hitherto treated.

THAT different ſubjects require to be treated of in different ſorts of Style, is a poſition ſo obvious, that I ſhall not ſtay to illuſtrate it. Every one ſees that Treatiſes of Philoſophy, for inſtance, ought not to be compoſed in the ſame ſtyle with ora⯑tions. Every one ſees alſo, that different parts of the ſame compoſition require a va⯑riation in the ſtyle and manner. In a ſer⯑mon, for inſtance, or any harangue, the application or peroration admits more or⯑nament, and requires more warmth, than the didactic part. But what I mean at preſent to remark is, that amidſt this va⯑riety, we ſtill expect to find, in the com⯑poſitions of any one man, ſome degree of uniformity or conſiſtency with himſelf in manner; we expect to find ſome predomi⯑nant character of Style impreſſed on all his writings, which ſhall be ſuited to, and ſhall mark, his particular genius, and turn of mind. The orations in Livy differ much in Style, as they ought to do, from the reſt [9] of his hiſtory. The ſame is the caſe with thoſe in Tacitus. Yet both in Livy's ora⯑tions, and in thoſe of Tacitus, we are able clearly to trace the diſtinguiſhing manner of each hiſtorian; the magnificent fullneſs of the one, and the ſententious conciſeneſs of the other. The "Lettres Perſanes," and "L'Eſprit de Loix," are the works of the ſame author. They required very dif⯑ferent compoſition ſurely, and accordingly they differ widely; yet ſtill we ſee the ſame hand. Wherever there is real and native ge⯑nius, it gives a determination to one kind of Style rather than another. Where no⯑thing of this appears; where there is no marked nor peculiar character in the com⯑poſitions of any author, we are apt to in⯑fer, not without reaſon, that he is a vul⯑gar and trivial author, who writes from imitation, and not from the impulſe of original genius. As the moſt celebrated painters are known by their hand, ſo the beſt and moſt original writers are known and diſtinguiſhed, throughout all their works, by their Style and peculiar man⯑ner. This will be found to hold almoſt without exception.

THE ancient Critics attended to theſe general characters of Style which we are now to conſider. Dionyſius of Halicarnaſ⯑ſus divides them into three kinds; and calls them the Auſtere, the Florid, and the Middle. By the Auſtere, he means a Style [10] diſtinguiſhed for ſtrength and firmneſs, with a neglect of ſmoothneſs and orna⯑ment; for examples of which, he gives Pindar and Aeſchylus among the Poets, and Thucydides among the Proſe writers. By the Florid, he means, as the name indi⯑cates, a Style ornamented, flowing, and ſweet; reſting more upon numbers and grace, than ſtrength; he inſtances Heſiod, Sappho, Anacreon, Euripides, and princi⯑pally Iſocrates. The Middle kind is the juſt mean between theſe, and comprehends the beauties of both; in which claſs he places Homer and Sophocles among the Poets; in Proſe, Herodotus, Demoſthenes, Plato, and (what ſeems ſtrange) Ariſtotle. This muſt be a very wide claſs indeed, which comprehends Plato and Ariſtotle un⯑der one article as to Style^*. Cicero and Quinctilian make alſo a threefold diviſion of Style, though with reſpect to different qualities of it; in which they are followed by moſt of the modern writers on Rheto⯑ric; the Simplex, Tenue, or Subtile; the Grave or Vehemens; and the Medium, or, temperatum genus dicendi. But theſe divi⯑ſions, and the illuſtrations they give of them, are ſo looſe and general, that they cannot advance us much in our ideas of Style. I ſhall endeavour to be a little more particular in what I have to ſay on this ſubject.

[11] ONE of the firſt and moſt obvious diſtinc⯑tions of the different kinds of Style, is what ariſes from an author's ſpreading out his thoughts more or leſs. This diſtinction forms, what are called the Diffuſe and the Conciſe Styles. A conciſe writer com⯑preſſes his thought into the feweſt poſſible words; he ſeeks to employ none but ſuch as are moſt expreſſive; he lops off, as re⯑dundant, every expreſſion which does not add ſomething material to the ſenſe. Or⯑nament he does not reject; he may be lively and figured; but his ornament is in⯑tended for the ſake of force, rather than grace. He never gives you the ſame thought twice. He places it in the light which appears to him the moſt ſtriking; but if you do not apprehend it well in that light, you need not expect to find it in any other. His ſentences are arranged with compactneſs and ſtrength, rather than with cadence and harmony. The utmoſt pre⯑ciſion is ſtudied in them; and they are commonly deſigned to ſuggeſt more to the reader's imagination than they directly expreſs.

A DIFFUSE writer unfolds his thought fully. He places it in a variety of lights, and gives the reader every poſſible aſſiſt⯑ance for underſtanding it completely. He is not very careful to expreſs it at firſt in its full ſtrength; becauſe he is to repeat the impreſſion; and what he wants in [12] ſtrength, he propoſes to ſupply by copiouſ⯑neſs. Writers of this character generally love magnificence and amplification. Their periods naturally run out into ſome length, and having room for ornament of every kind, they admit it freely.

EACH of theſe manners has its peculiar advantages; and each becomes faulty when carried to the extreme. The extreme of conciſeneſs becomes abrupt and obſcure; it is apt alſo to lead into a Style too point⯑ed, and bordering on the epigrammatic. The extreme diffuſeneſs becomes weak and languid, and tires the reader. However, to one or other of theſe two manners, a writer may lean according as his genius prompts him: and under the general cha⯑racter of a conciſe, or of a more open and diffuſe Style, may poſſeſs much beauty in his compoſition.

FOR illuſtrations of theſe general cha⯑racters, I can only refer to the writers who are examples of them. It is not ſo much from detached paſſages, ſuch as I was wont formerly to quote for inſtances, as from the current of an author's Style, that we are to collect the idea of a formed manner of writing. The two moſt remarkable ex⯑amples that I know, of conciſeneſs carried as far as propriety will allow, perhaps in ſome caſes farther, are Tacitus the Hiſto⯑rian, and the Preſident Monteſquieu in [13] "L'Eſprit de Loix." Ariſtotle too holds an eminent rank among didactic wri⯑ters for his brevity. Perhaps no writer in the world was ever ſo frugal of his words as Ariſtotle; but this frugality of expreſ⯑ſion frequently darkens his meaning. Of a beautiful and magnificent diffuſeneſs, Ci⯑cero is, beyond doubt, the moſt illuſtrious inſtance that can be given. Addiſon alſo, and Sir William Temple, come in ſome de⯑gree under this claſs.

IN judging when it is proper to lean to the conciſe, and when to the diffuſe man⯑ner, we muſt be directed by the nature of the Compoſition. Diſcourſes that are to be ſpoken, require a more copious Style, than books that are to be read. When the whole meaning muſt be catched from the mouth of the ſpeaker, without the advantage which books afford of pauſing at pleaſure, and reviewing what appears obſcure, great conciſeneſs is always to be avoided. We ſhould never preſume too much on the quickneſs of our hearer's underſtanding; but our Style ought to be ſuch, that the bulk of men can go along with us eaſily, and without effort. A flowing copious Style, therefore, is required in all public ſpeakers; guarding, at the ſame time, againſt ſuch a degree of diffuſion, as ren⯑ders them languid and tireſome; which will always prove the caſe, when they [14] inculcate too much, and preſent the ſame thought under too many different views.

IN written Compoſitions, a certain degree of conciſeneſs poſſeſſes great advantages. It is more lively; keeps up attention; makes a briſker and ſtronger impreſſion; and gratifies the mind by ſupplying more exerciſe to a reader's own thought. A ſen⯑timent, which, expreſſed diffuſely, will barely be admitted to be juſt, expreſſed conciſely, will be admired as ſpirited. Deſcription, when we want to have it vi⯑vid and animated, ſhould be in a conciſe ſtrain. This is different from the common opinion; moſt perſons being ready to ſup⯑poſe, that upon deſcription a writer may dwell more ſafely than upon other things, and that by a full and extended Style, it is rendered more rich and expreſſive. I ap⯑prehend, on the contrary, that a diffuſe manner generally weakens it. Any redun⯑dant words or circumſtances encumber the fancy, and make the object we preſent to it, appear confuſed and indiſtinct. Ac⯑cordingly, the moſt maſterly deſcribers, Homer, Tacitus, Milton, are almoſt always conciſe in their deſcriptions. They ſhew us more of an object at one glance, than a feeble diffuſe writer can ſhow, by turning it round and round in a variety of lights. The ſtrength and vivacity of deſcription, whether in proſe or poetry, depend much more upon the happy choice of one or two [15] ſtriking circumſtances, than upon the mul⯑tiplication of them.

ADDRESSES to the paſſions, likewiſe, ought to be in the conciſe, rather than the diffuſe manner. In theſe, it is dangerous to be diffuſe, becauſe it is very difficult to ſupport proper warmth for any length of time. When we become prolix, we are always in hazard of cooling the reader. The heart, too, and the fancy run faſt; and if once we can put them in motion, they ſupply many particulars to greater advantage than an author can diſplay them. The caſe is different, when we addreſs our⯑ſelves to the underſtanding; as in all mat⯑ters of reaſoning, explication, and inſtruc⯑tion. There I would prefer a more free and diffuſe manner. When you are to ſtrike the fancy, or to move the heart, be conciſe; when you are to inform the un⯑derſtanding, which moves more ſlowly, and requires the aſſiſtance of a guide, it is bet⯑ter to be full. Hiſtorical narration may be beautiful, either in a conciſe or diffuſe manner, according to the writer's genius. Livy and Herodotus are diffuſe; Thucy⯑dides and Salluſt are ſuccinct; yet all of them agreeable.

I OBSERVED that a diffuſe ſtyle inclines moſt to long periods; and a conciſe writer, it is certain, will often employ ſhort ſen⯑tences. It is not, however, to be inferred [16] from this, that long or ſhort ſentences are fully characteriſtical of the one or the other manner. It is very poſſible for one to com⯑poſe always in ſhort ſentences, and to be withal extremely diffuſe, if a ſmall meaſure of ſentiment be ſpread through many of theſe ſentences. Seneca is a remarkable example. By the ſhortneſs and quaintneſs of his ſentences, he may appear at firſt view very conciſe; yet he is far from being ſo. He transfigures the ſame thought into many different forms. He makes it paſs for a new one, only by giving it a new turn. So alſo, moſt of the French writers compoſe in ſhort ſentences; though their ſtyle, in general, is not conciſe; common⯑ly leſs ſo than the bulk of Engliſh writers, whoſe ſentences are much longer. A French author breaks down into two or three ſen⯑tences, that portion of thought which an Engliſh author crowds into one. The di⯑rect effect of ſhort ſentences, is to render the Style briſk and lively, but not always con⯑ciſe. By the quick ſucceſſive impulſes which they make on the mind, they keep it awake; and give to Compoſition more of a ſpirited character. Long periods, like Lord Clarendon's are grave and ſtately; but, like all grave things, they are in ha⯑zard of becoming dull. An intermixture of both long and ſhort ones is requiſite, when we would ſupport ſolemnity, toge⯑ther with vivacity; leaning more to the one or the other, according as propriety [17] requires, that the ſolemn or the ſprightly ſhould be predominant in our compoſition. But of long and ſhort ſentences, I had occaſion, formerly, to treat under the head of the conſtruction of periods.

THE Nervous and the Feeble, are gene⯑rally held to be characters of Style, of the ſame import with the Conciſe and the Dif⯑fuſe. They do indeed very often coincide. Diffuſe writers have for the moſt part ſome degree of feebleneſs; and nervous writers will generally be inclined to a conciſe ex⯑preſſion. This, however, does not always hold; and there are inſtances of writers, who, in the midſt of a full and ample Style, have maintained a great degree of ſtrength. Livy is an example; and in the Engliſh lan⯑guage, Dr. Barrow. Barrow's Style has many faults. It is unequal, incorrect and redundant; but withal, for force and ex⯑preſſiveneſs uncommonly diſtinguiſhed. On every ſubject, he multiplies words with an overflowing copiouſneſs; but it is always a torrent of ſtrong ideas and ſignificant ex⯑preſſions which he pours forth. Indeed, the foundations of a nervous or a weak Style are laid in an author's manner of think⯑ing. If he conceives an object ſtrongly, he will expreſs it with energy: but, if he has only an indiſtinct view of his ſubject; if his ideas be looſe and wavering; if his ge⯑nius be ſuch, or, at the time of his writ⯑ing, ſo careleſsly exerted, that he has no [18] firm hold of the conception which he would communicate to us; the marks of this will clearly appear in his Style. Several un⯑meaning words and looſe epithets will be found; his expreſſions will be vague and general; his arrangement indiſtinct and feeble; we ſhall conceive ſomewhat of his meaning, but our conception will be faint. Whereas a nervous writer, whether he em⯑ploys an extended or a conciſe Style, gives us always a ſtrong impreſſion of his mean⯑ing; his mind is full of his ſubject, and his words are all expreſſive; every phraſe and every figure which he uſes, tends to render the picture, which he would ſet be⯑fore us, more lively and complete.

I OBSERVED, under the head of Diffuſe and Conciſe Style, that an author might lean either to the one or to the other, and yet be beautiful. This is not the caſe with reſpect to the nervous and the feeble. Eve⯑ry author, in every compoſition, ought to ſtudy to expreſs himſelf with ſome ſtrength, and, in proportion, as he approaches to the feeble, he becomes a bad writer. In all kinds of writing, however, the ſame de⯑gree of ſtrength is not demanded. But the more grave and weighty any compoſition is, the more ſhould a character of ſtrength predominate in the Style. Hence in hiſto⯑ry, philoſophy, and ſolemn diſcourſes, it is expected moſt. One of the moſt com⯑plete [19] models of a nervous Style, is Demoſt⯑henes in his orations.

AS every good quality in Style has an extreme, when purſued to which it be⯑comes faulty, this holds of the Nervous Style as well as others. Too great a ſtudy of ſtrength, to the neglect of the other qualities of Style, is found to betray writers into a harſh manner. Harſhneſs ariſes from unuſual words, from forced inverſions in the conſtruction of a Sentence, and too much neglect of ſmoothneſs and eaſe. This is reckoned the fault of ſome of our earli⯑eſt claſſics in the Engliſh language; ſuch as Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Bacon, Hooker, Chillingworth, Milton in his proſe works, Harrington, Cudworth, and other writers of conſiderable note in the days of Queen Elizabeth, James I. and Charles I. Theſe writers had nerves and ſtrength in a high degree, and are to this day eminent for that quality in Style. But the language in their hands was exceedingly different from what it is now, and was indeed entirely formed upon the idiom and conſtruction of the Latin in the arrangement of Sentences. Hooker, for inſtance, begins the Preface to his celebrated work of Eccleſiaſtical Polity, with the following Sentence: ‘"Though for no other cauſe, yet for this, that poſte⯑rity may know we have not looſely, through ſilence, permitted things to paſs away as in dream, there ſhall be, for [20] men's information, extant this much, concerning the preſent ſtate of the church of God eſtabliſhed amongſt us, and their careful endeavours which would have upheld the ſame."’ Such a ſentence now ſounds harſh in our ears. Yet ſome ad⯑vantages certainly attended this ſort of Style; and whether we have gained, or loſt, upon the whole, by departing from it, may bear a queſtion. By the freedom of arrangement, which it permitted, it ren⯑dered the Language ſuſceptible of more ſtrength, of more variety of collocation, and more harmony of period. But howe⯑ver this be, ſuch a ſtyle is now obſolete; and no modern writer could adopt it with⯑out the cenſure of harſhneſs and affecta⯑tion. The preſent form which the Lan⯑guage has aſſumed, has, in ſome meaſure, ſacrificed the ſtudy of ſtrength to that of perſpicutiy and eaſe. Our arrangement of words has become leſs forcible, perhaps, but more plain and natural: and this is now underſtood to be the genius of our Language.

THE reſtoration of King Charles II. ſeems to be the aera of the formation of our preſent ſtyle. Lord Clarendon was one of the firſt who laid aſide thoſe fre⯑quent inverſions which prevailed among writers of the former age. After him, Sir William Temple, poliſhed the Language ſtill more. But the author, who, by the [21] number and reputation of his works, formed it more than any one, into its preſent ſtate, is Dryden. Dryden began to write at the Reſtoration, and continued long an author both in poetry and proſe. He had made the language his ſtudy; and though he wrote haſtily, and often incorrectly, and his ſtyle is not free from faults, yet there is a richneſs in his diction, a copiouſneſs, eaſe, and variety in his expreſſion, which has not been ſurpaſſed by any who have come after him^*. Since his time, conſide⯑rable attention has been paid to Purity and Elegance of Style: But it is Elegance, ra⯑ther than Strength, that forms the diſtin⯑guiſhing quality of moſt of the good En⯑gliſh writers. Some of them compoſe in a more manly and nervous manner than others; but, whether it be from the genius of our Language, or from whatever other cauſe, it appears to me, that we are far from the ſtrength of ſeveral of the Greek and Roman authors.

[22] HITHERTO we have conſidered Style un⯑der thoſe characters that reſpect its expreſ⯑ſiveneſs of an author's meaning. Let us now proceed to conſider it in another view, with reſpect to the degree of ornament employed to beautify it. Here, the Style of different authors ſeems to raiſe, in the following gradation: a Dry, a Plain, a Neat, an Elegant, a Flowery manner. Of each of theſe in their order.

FIRST, a Dry manner. This excludes all ornament of every kind. Content with being underſtood, it has not the leaſt aim to pleaſe, either the fancy or the ear. This is tolerable only in pure didactic writ⯑ing; and even there, to make us bear it, great weight and ſolidity of matter is re⯑quiſite; and entire perſpicuity of Lan⯑guage. Ariſtotle is the thorough example of a Dry Style. Never, perhaps, was there any author who adhered ſo rigidly to the ſtrictneſs of a didactic manner, through⯑out all his writings, and conveyed ſo much inſtruction without the leaſt approach to ornament. With the moſt profound geni⯑us, and extenſive views, he writes like a pure intelligence, who addreſſes himſelf ſole⯑ly to the underſtanding, without making any uſe of the channel of the imagination. But this is a manner which deſerves not to be imitated. For, although the goodneſs of the matter may compenſate the dryneſs or harſhneſs of the Style, yet is that dryneſs a conſiderable defect; as it fatigues attenti⯑on, [23] and conveys our ſentiments, with diſad⯑vantage, to the reader or hearer.

A PLAIN Style riſes one degree above a Dry one. A writer of this character, em⯑ploys very little ornament of any kind, and reſts, almoſt, entirely upon his ſenſe. But, if he is at no pains to engage us by the em⯑ployment of figures, muſical arrangement, or any other art of writing, he ſtudies, how⯑ever, to avoid diſguſting us like a dry and a harſh writer. Beſides Perſpicuity, he pur⯑ſues Propriety, Purity, and Preciſion, in his Language; which form one degree, and no inconſiderable one, of beauty. Livelineſs too, and force, may be conſiſtent with a very Plain Style: and, therefore, ſuch an author, if his ſentiments be good, may be abun⯑dantly agreeable. The difference between a dry and plain writer, is, that the former is incapable of ornament, and ſeems not to know what it is; the latter ſeeks not after it. He gives us his meaning, in good lan⯑guage, diſtinct and pure; any further orna⯑ment he gives himſelf no trouble about; ei⯑ther, becauſe he thinks it unneceſſary to his ſubject; or, becauſe his genius does not lead him to delight in it; or, becauſe it leads him to deſpiſe it^*.

[24] THIS laſt was the caſe with Dean Swift, who may be placed at the head of thoſe that have employed the Plain Style. Few writ⯑ers have diſcovered more capacity. He treats every ſubject which he handles, whether ſe⯑rious or ludicrous, in a maſterly manner. He knew, almoſt, beyond any man, the Pu⯑rity, the Extent, the Preciſion of the En⯑gliſh Language; and, therefore, to ſuch as wiſh to attain a pure and correct Style, he is one of the moſt uſeful models. But we muſt not look for much ornament and grace in his Language. His haughty and moroſe genius, made him deſpiſe any embelliſh⯑ment of this kind as beneath his dignity. He delivers his ſentiments in a plain, down⯑right, poſitive manner, like one who is ſure he is in the right; and is very indifferent whether you be pleaſed or not. His ſentences are com⯑monly negligently arranged; diſtinctly e⯑nough as to the ſenſe; but, without any regard to ſmoothneſs of ſound; often without much regard to compactneſs, or elegance. If a metaphor, or any other figure, chanced to render his ſatire more poignant, he would, perhaps, vouchſafe to adopt it, when it came in his way; but if it tended only to embel⯑liſh and illuſtrate, he would rather throw it aſide. Hence, in his ſerious pieces, his ſtyle often borders upon the dry and unpleaſing; in his humourous ones, the plainneſs of his [25] manner gives his wit a ſingular edge, and ſets it off to the higheſt advantage. There is no froth, nor affectation in it; it flows without any ſtudied preparation; and while he hardly appears to ſmile himſelf, he makes his reader laugh heartily. To a writer of ſuch a genius as Dean Swift, the Plain Style was moſt admirably fitted. Among our phi⯑loſophical writers, Mr. Locke comes under this claſs; perſpicuous and pure, but almoſt without any ornament whatever. In works which admit, or require, ever ſo much or⯑nament, there are parts where the plain manner ought to predominate. But we muſt remember, that when this is the cha⯑racter which a writer affects throughout his whole compoſition, great weight of matter, and great force of ſentiment, are required, in order to keep up the reader's attention, and prevent him from tiring of the author.

WHAT is called a Neat Style comes next in order; and here we are got into the re⯑gion of ornament; but that ornament not of the higheſt or moſt ſparkling kind. A writer of this character ſhows, that he does not deſpiſe the beauty of Language. It is an object of his attention. But his atten⯑tion is ſhown in the choice of his words, and in a graceful collocation of them; ra⯑ther than in any high efforts of imaginati⯑on, or eloquence. His ſentences are al⯑ways clean, and free from the incumbrance of ſuperfluous words; of a moderate [26] length; rather inclining to brevity, than a ſwelling ſtructure; cloſing with propriety; without any tails, or adjections dragging after the proper cloſe. His cadence is va⯑ried; but not of the ſtudied muſical kind. His figures, if he uſes any, are ſhort and correct; rather than bold and glowing. Such a Style as this, may be attained by a writer who has no great powers of fancy or genius; by induſtry merely, and careful attention to the rules of writing; and it is a Style always agreeable. It imprints a character of moderate elevation on our compoſition, and carries a decent degree of ornament, which is not unſuitable to any ſubject whatever. A familiar letter, or a law paper, on the drieſt ſubject, may be written with neatneſs; and a ſermon, or a philoſophical treatiſe, in a Neat Style, will be read with pleaſure.

AN Elegant Style is a character, expreſ⯑ſing a higher degree of ornament than a neat one; and, indeed, is the term uſually applied to Style, when poſſeſſing all the vir⯑tues of ornament, without any of its ex⯑ceſſes or defects. From what has been formerly delivered, it will eaſily be under⯑ſtood, that complete Elegance implies great perſpicuity and propriety; purity in the choice of words, and care and dexterity in their harmonious and happy arrangement. It implies, farther, the grace and beauty of Imagination ſpread over Style, as far as the [27] ſubject admits it; and all the illuſtration which Figurative Language adds, when properly employed. In a word, an elegant writer is one who pleaſes the fancy and the ear, while he informs the underſtanding; and who gives us his ideas clothed with all the beauty of expreſſion, but not over⯑charged with any of its miſplaced finery. In this claſs, therefore, we place only the firſt rate writers in the Language; ſuch as, Addiſon, Dryden, Pope, Temple, Boling⯑broke, Atterbury, and a few more: writers who differ widely from one another in ma⯑ny of the attributes of Style, but whom we now claſs together, under the denomi⯑nation of Elegant, as in the ſcale of Or⯑nament, poſſeſſing nearly the ſame place.

WHEN the ornaments, applied to Style, are too rich and gaudy in proportion to the ſubject; when they return upon us too faſt, and ſtrike us either with a dazzling luſtre, or a falſe brilliancy, this forms what is call⯑ed a Florid Style; a term commonly uſed to ſignify the exceſs of ornament. In a young compoſer this is very pardonable. Perhaps, it is even a promiſing ſymptom in young people, that their Style ſhould in⯑cline to the Florid and Luxuriant: ‘"Volo ſe efferat in adoleſcente faecunditas,"’ ſays Quinctilian, ‘"multum inde decoquent an⯑ni, multum ratio limabit, aliquid velut uſu ipſo deteretur; ſit modo unde excidi poffit quid et exculpi.—Audeat haec aetas [28] plura, et inveniat et inventis gaudeat; ſint licet illa non ſatis interim ſicca et ſe⯑vera. Facile remedium eſt ubertatis: ſterilia nullo labore vincuntur^*."’ But, although the Florid Style may be allowed to youth, in their firſt eſſays, it muſt not receive the ſame indulgence from writers of maturer years. It is to be expected, that judgment, as it ripens, ſhould chaſten ima⯑gination, and reject, as juvenile, all ſuch ornaments as are redundant, unſuitable to the ſubject, or not conducive to illuſtrate it. Nothing can be more contemptible than that tinſel ſplendor of Language, which ſome writers perpetually affect. It were well, if this could be aſcribed to the real overflowing of a rich imagination. We ſhould then have ſomething to amuſe us, at leaſt, if we found little to inſtruct us. But the worſt is, that with thoſe frothy writers, it is a luxuriancy of words, not of fancy. We ſee a laboured attempt to riſe to a ſplendour of compoſition, of which they have formed to themſelves ſome looſe idea; but having no ſtrength of geni⯑us for attaining it, they endeavour to ſup⯑ply [29] the defect by poetical words, by cold exclamations, by common place figures, and every thing that has the appearance of pomp and magnificence. It has eſcaped theſe writers, that ſobriety in ornament, is one great ſecret for rendering it pleaſing; and that, without a foundation of good ſenſe and ſolid thought, the moſt Florid Style is but a childiſh impoſition on the Public. The Public, however, are but too apt to be ſo impoſed on; at leaſt, the mob of Readers, who are very ready to be caught, at firſt, with whatever is dazzling and gaudy.

I CANNOT help thinking, that it reflects more honour on the religious turn, and good diſpoſitions of the preſent age, than on the public taſte, that Mr. Harvey's Me⯑ditations have had ſo great a currency. The pious and benevolent heart, which is always diſplayed in them, and the lively fancy which, on ſome occaſions, appears, juſtly merited applauſe: but the perpetual glitter of expreſſion, the ſwoln imagery, and ſtrained deſcription which abound in them, are ornaments of a falſe kind. I would, therefore, adviſe ſtudents of ora⯑tory to imitate Mr. Harvey's piety, rather than his Style; and, in all compoſitions of a ſerious kind, to turn their attention, as Mr. Pope ſays, ‘"from ſounds to things, from fancy to the heart."’ Admonitions of this kind, I have already had occaſion [30] to give, and may hereafter repeat them; as I conceive nothing more incumbent on me in this courſe of Lectures, than to take every opportunity of cautioning my Read⯑ers againſt the affected and frivolous uſe of ornament; and, inſtead of that ſlight and ſuperficial taſte in writing, which I appre⯑hend to be at preſent too faſhionable, to introduce, as far as my endeavours can avail, a taſte for more ſolid thought, and more manly ſimplicity in Style.

LECTURE XIX. GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE—SIMPLE, AFFECTED, VEHE⯑MENT—DIRECTIONS FOR FORM⯑ING A PROPER STYLE.

HAVING entered in the laſt Lec⯑ture on the conſideration of the ge⯑neral Characters of Style, I treated of the conciſe and diffuſe, the nervous and feeble manner. I conſidered Style alſo, with re⯑lation to the different degrees of ornament employed to beautify it; in which view, the manner of different authors riſes ac⯑cording to the following gradation: Dry, Plain, Neat, Elegant, Flowery.

I AM next to treat of Style under ano⯑ther character, one of great importance in writing, and which requires to be accu⯑rately examined, that of Simplicity, or a Natural Style, as diſtinguiſhed from Affec⯑tation. Simplicity, applied to writing, is [32] a term very frequently uſed; but, like ma⯑ny other critical terms often uſed looſely, and without preciſion. This has been ow⯑ing chiefly to the different meanings given to the word Simplicity, which, therefore, it will be neceſſary here to diſtinguiſh; and to ſhew in what ſenſe it is a proper attri⯑bute of Style. We may remark four dif⯑ferent acceptations in which it is taken.

THE firſt is, Simplicity of Compoſition, as oppoſed to too great a variety of parts. Horace's precept refers to this:

THIS is the Simplicity of plan in a tra⯑gedy, as diſtinguiſhed from double plots, and crowded incidents; the Simplicity of the Iliad, or Aeneid, in oppoſition to the digreſſions of Lucan, and the ſcattered tales of Arioſto; the Simplicity of Grecian architecture, in oppoſition to the irregular variety of the Gothic. In this ſenſe, Sim⯑plicity is the ſame with Unity.

THE ſecond ſenſe is, Simplicity of Thought, as oppoſed to Refinement. Sim⯑ple thoughts are what ariſe naturally; what [33] the occaſion, or the ſubject ſuggeſt un⯑ſought; and what, when once ſuggeſted, are eaſily apprehended by all. Refinement in writing, expreſſes a leſs natural and ob⯑vious train of thought, and which it re⯑quired a peculiar turn of genius to pur⯑ſue; within certain bounds very beautiful; but when carried too far, approaching to intricacy, and hurting us by the appear⯑ance of being recherchè, or far ſought. Thus, we would naturally ſay, that Mr. Parnell is a poet of far greater Simplicity, in his turn of thought, than Mr. Cowley: Cicero's thoughts on moral ſubjects are na⯑tural; Seneca's too refined and laboured. In theſe two ſenſes of Simplicity, when it is oppoſed, either to variety of parts, or to refinement of thought, it has no proper relation to Style.

THERE is a third ſenſe of Simplicity, in which it has reſpect to Style; and ſtands oppoſed to too much ornament, or pomp of Language; as when we ſay, Mr. Locke is a ſimple, Mr. Harvey a florid, writer; and it is in this ſenſe, that the ‘"ſimplex,"’ the ‘"tenue,"’ or ‘"ſubtile genus dicendi,"’ is underſtood by Cicero and Quinctilian. The Simple Style, in this ſenſe, coincides with the Plain or the Neat Style, which I before mentioned; and, therefore, requires no farther illuſtration.

[34] BUT there is a fourth ſenſe of Simplici⯑ty, alſo reſpecting Style; but not reſpecting the degree of ornament employed, ſo much as the eaſy and natural manner in which our Language expreſſes our thoughts. This is quite different from the former ſenſe of the word juſt now mentioned, in which Simplicity was equivalent to Plainneſs: whereas, in this ſenſe, it is compatible with the higheſt ornament. Homer, for in⯑ſtance, poſſeſſes this Simplicity in the great⯑eſt perfection; and yet no writer has more Ornament and Beauty. This Simplicity, which is what we are now to conſider, ſtands oppoſed, not to Ornament, but to Affectation of Ornament, or appearance of labour about our Style; and it is a diſtin⯑guiſhing excellency in writing.

A WRITER of Simplicity expreſſes him⯑ſelf in ſuch a manner, that every one thinks he could have written in the ſame way; Horace deſcribes it,

[35] There are no marks of art in his expreſſi⯑on; it ſeems the very language of nature; you ſee in the Style, not the writer and his labour, but the man, in his own natural character. He may be rich in his expreſſi⯑on; he may be full of figures, and of fan⯑cy; but theſe flow from him without ef⯑fort; and he appears to write in this man⯑ner, not becauſe he has ſtudied it, but be⯑cauſe it is the manner of expreſſion moſt natural to him. A certain degree of neg⯑ligence, alſo, is not inconſiſtent with this character of Style, and even not ungrace⯑ful in it; for too minute an attention to words is foreign to it: ‘"Habeat ille,"’ ſays Cicero, (Orat. No. 77.) ‘"molle quiddam, et quod indicet non ingratam negligenti⯑am hominis, de re magis quàm de verbo laborantis.^*"’ This is the great advan⯑tage of Simplicity of Style, that, like ſim⯑plicity of manners, it ſhows us a man's ſen⯑timents and turn of mind laid open with⯑out diſguiſe. More ſtudied and artificial manners of writing, however beautiful, have always this diſadvantage, that they exhibit an author in form, like a man at court, where the ſplendour of dreſs, and the ceremonial of behaviour, conceal thoſe peculiarities which diſtinguiſh one man from another. But reading an author of [36] Simplicity, is like converſing with a perſon of diſtinction at home, and with eaſe, where we find natural manners, and a marked character.

THE higheſt degree of this Simplicity, is expreſſed by a French term, to which we have none that fully anſwers in our Lan⯑guage, naïveté. It is not eaſy to give a pre⯑ciſe idea of the import of this word. It always expreſſes a diſcovery of character. I believe the beſt account of it is given by a French critic, M. Marmontel, who ex⯑plains it thus: That ſort of amiable inge⯑nuity, or undiſguiſed openneſs, which ſeems to give us ſome degree of ſuperiority over the perſon who ſhows it; a certain in⯑fantine Simplicity, which we love in our hearts, but which diſplays ſome features of the character that we think we could have art enough to hide; and which, there⯑fore; always leads us to ſmile at the perſon who diſcovers this character. La Fontaine, in his Fables, is given as the great exam⯑ple of ſuch naïveté. This, however, is to be underſtood, as deſcriptive of a particu⯑cular ſpecies only of Simplicity.

WITH reſpect to Simplicity, in general, we may remark, that the antient original writers are always the moſt eminent for it. This happens from a plain reaſon, that they wrote from the dictates of natural genius, and were not formed upon the labours and [37] writings of others, which is always in ha⯑zard of producing Affectation. Hence, among the Greek writers, we have more models of a beautiful Simplicity than among the Roman. Homer, Heſiod, Anacreon, Theocritus, Herodotus, and Xenophon, are all diſtinguiſhed for it. Among the Ro⯑mans alſo, we have ſome writers of this character, particularly Terence, Lucreti⯑us, Phoedrus, and Julius Caeſar. The fol⯑lowing paſſage of Terence's Andria, is a beautiful inſtance of Simplicity of man⯑ner in deſcription:

[38] All the words here are remarkably happy and elegant; and convey a moſt lively pic⯑ture of the ſcene deſcribed: while, at the ſame time, the Style appears wholly artleſs and unlaboured. Let us, next, conſider ſome Engliſh writers who come under this claſs.

SIMPLICITY is the great beauty of Archbiſhop Tillotſon's manner. Tillotſon has long been admired as an eloquent writ⯑er, and a model for preaching. But his eloquence, if we can call it ſuch, has been often miſunderſtood. For, if we include, in the idea of eloquence, vehemence and ſtrength, pictureſque deſcription, glowing figures, or correct arrangement of ſentenc⯑es, in all theſe parts of oratory the Arch⯑biſhop is exceedingly deficient. His Style is always pure, indeed, and perſpicuous, but careleſs and remiſs, too often feeble and languid; little beauty in the conſtruc⯑tion [39] of his ſentences, which are frequently ſuffered to drag unharmoniouſy; ſeldom any attempt towards ſtrength or ſublimity. But, notwithſtanding theſe defects, ſuch a conſtant vein of good ſenſe and piety runs through his works, ſuch an earneſt and ſe⯑rious manner, and ſo much uſeful inſtruc⯑tion conveyed in a Style ſo pure, natural, and unaffected, as will juſtly recommend him to high regard, as long as the Engliſh Language remains; not, indeed, as a mo⯑del of the higheſt eloquence, but as a ſim⯑ple and amiable writer, whoſe manner is ſtrongly expreſſive of great goodneſs and worth. I obſerved before, that Simplicity of manner may be conſiſtent with ſome de⯑gree of negligence in Style; and it is only the beauty of that Simplicity which makes the negligence of ſuch writers ſeem grace⯑ful. But, as appears in the Archbiſhop, negligence may ſometimes be carried ſo far as to impair the beauty of Simplicity, and make it border on a flat and languid man⯑ner.

SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE is another re⯑markable writer in the Style of Simplicity. In point of ornament and correctneſs, he riſes a degree above Tillotſon; though, for correctneſs, he is not in the higheſt rank. All is eaſy and flowing in him; he is ex⯑ceedingly harmonious; ſmoothneſs, and what may be called amaenity, are the diſ⯑tinguiſhing characters of his manner; re⯑laxing, [40] ſometimes, as ſuch a manner will naturally do, into a prolix and remiſs Style. No writer whatever has ſtamped upon his Style a more lively impreſſion of his own character. In reading his works, we ſeem engaged in converſation with him; we be⯑come thoroughly acquainted with him, not merely as an author, but as a man; and contract a friendſhip for him. He may be claſſed as ſtanding in the middle, between a negligent Simplicity, and the higheſt de⯑gree of Ornament, which this character of Style admits.

OF the latter of theſe, the higheſt, moſt correct, and ornamented degree of the ſim⯑ple manner, Mr. Addiſon, is, beyond doubt, in the Engliſh Language, the moſt perfect example: and, therefore, though not with⯑out ſome faults, he is, on the whole, the ſafeſt model for imitation, and the freeſt from conſiderable defects, which the Lan⯑guage affords. Perſpicuous and pure he is in the higheſt degree; his preciſion, indeed, not very great; yet nearly as great as the ſubjects which he treats of require: the conſtruction of his ſentences eaſy, agreea⯑ble, and commonly very muſical; carrying a character of ſmoothneſs, more than of ſtrength. In Figurative Language, he is rich; particularly, in ſimilies and meta⯑phors; which are ſo employed, as to ren⯑der his Style ſplendid without being gaudy. There is not the leaſt Affectation in his [41] manner; we ſee no marks of labour; no⯑thing forced or conſtrained; but great ele⯑gance joined with great eaſe and ſimplicity. He is, in particular, diſtinguiſhed by a character of modeſty, and of politeneſs, which appears in all his writings. No au⯑thor has a more popular and inſinuating manner; and the great regard which he every where ſhews for virtue and religion, recommends him highly. If he fails in any thing, it is in want of ſtrength and preci⯑ſion, which renders his manner, though perfectly ſuited to ſuch eſſays as he writes in the Spectator, not altogether a proper model for any of the higher and more ela⯑borate kinds of compoſition. Though the public have ever done much juſtice to his merit, yet the nature of his merit has not always been ſeen in its true light: for, though his poetry be elegant, he certainly bears a higher rank among the proſe writ⯑ers, than he is intitled to among the poets; and, in proſe, his humour is of a much higher, and more original ſtrain, than his philoſophy. The character of Sir Roger de Coverley diſcovers more genius than the critique on Milton.

SUCH authors as thoſe, whoſe characters I have been giving, one never tires of read⯑ing. There is nothing in their manner that ſtrains or fatigues our thoughts: we are pleaſed, without being dazzled by their luſtre. So powerful is the charm of Sim⯑plicity [42] in an author of real genius, that it attones for many defects, and reconciles us to many a careleſs expreſſion. Hence, in all the moſt excellent authors, both in proſe and verſe, the ſimple and natural manner may be always remarked; although other beauties being predominant, this form not their peculiar and diſtinguiſhing cha⯑racter. Thus Milton is ſimple in the midſt of all his grandeur; and Demoſthenes in the midſt of all his vehemence. To grave and ſolemn writings, Simplicity of man⯑ner adds the more venerable air. Accord⯑ingly, this has often been remarked as the prevailing character throughout all the ſa⯑cred Scriptures: and indeed no other cha⯑racter of Style was ſo much ſuited to the dignity of inſpiration.

OF authors, who, notwithſtanding ma⯑ny excellencies, have rendered their Style much leſs beautiful by want of Simplicity, I cannot give a more remarkable example than Lord Shaftſbury. This is an author on whom I have made obſervations ſeveral times before, and ſhall now take leave of him, with giving his general character un⯑der this head. Conſiderable merit, doubt⯑leſs, he has. His works might be read with profit for the moral philoſophy which they contain, had he not filled them with ſo many oblique and invidious inſinuations againſt the Chriſtian Religion; thrown out, too, with ſo much ſpleen and ſatire, as do [43] no honour to his memory, either as an au⯑thor or a man. His language has many beauties. It is firm, and ſupported in an uncommon degree: it is rich and muſical. No Engliſh author, as I formerly ſhewed, has attended ſo much to the regular con⯑ſtruction of his ſentences, both with reſ⯑pect to propriety, and with reſpect to ca⯑dence. All this gives ſo much elegance and pomp to his language, that there is no wonder it ſhould have been ſometimes high⯑ly admired. It is greatly hurt, however, by perpetual ſtiffneſs and affectation. This is its capital fault. His lordſhip can ex⯑preſs nothing with Simplicity. He ſeems to have conſidered it as vulgar, and beneath the dignity of a man of quality, to ſpeak like other men. Hence he is ever in buſ⯑kins; full of circumlocutions and artificial elegance. In every ſentence, we ſee the marks of labour and art; nothing of that eaſe, which expreſſes a ſentiment coming natural and warm from the heart. Of fi⯑gures and ornament of every kind, he is exceedingly fond; ſometimes happy in them; but his fondneſs for them is too vi⯑ſible; and having once laid hold of ſome metaphor or alluſion that pleaſed him, he knows not how to part with it. What is moſt wonderful, he was a profeſſed admirer of Simplicity; is always extolling it in the ancients, and cenſuring the moderns for the want of it; though he departs from it himſelf as far as any one modern whatever. [44] Lord Shaftſbury poſſeſſed delicacy and re⯑finement of taſte, to a degree that we may call exceſſive and ſickly; but he had little warmth of paſſion; few ſtrong or vigorous feelings: and the coldneſs of his character led him to that artificial and ſtately manner which appears in his writings. He was fonder of nothing than of wit and raille⯑ry; but he is far from being happy in it. He attempts it often, but always aukward⯑ly; he is ſtiff, even in his pleaſantry; and laughs in form, like an author, and not like a man^*.

FROM the account which I have given of Lord Shaftſbury's manner, it may eaſily be imagined, that he would miſlead many who blindly admired him. Nothing is more dangerous to the tribe of imitators, than an author, who, with many impoſing beau⯑ties, has alſo ſome very conſiderable ble⯑miſhes. This is fully exemplified in Mr. Blackwall of Aberdeen, the author of the Life of Homer, the Letters on Mytholo⯑gy, and the Court of Auguſtus; a writer of conſiderable learning, and of ingenuity [45] alſo; but infected with an extravagant love of an artificial Style, and of that parade of language which diſtinguiſhes the Shaftſbu⯑rean manner.

HAVING now ſaid ſo much to recom⯑mend Simplicity, or the eaſy and natural manner of writing, and having pointed out the defects of an oppoſite manner; in or⯑der to prevent miſtakes on this ſubject, it is neceſſary for me to obſerve, that it is ve⯑ry poſſible for an author to write ſimply, and yet not beautifully. One may be free from affectation, and not have merit. The beautiful Simplicity ſuppoſes an author to poſſeſs real genius; to write with ſolidity, purity, and livelineſs of imagination. In this caſe, the ſimplicity or unaffectedneſs of his manner, is the crowning ornament;" it heightens every other beauty; it is the dreſs of nature, without which, all beau⯑ties are imperfect. But if mere unaffect⯑edneſs were ſufficient to conſtitute the beauty of Style, weak, trifling, and dull writers might often lay claim to this beau⯑ty. And, accordingly, we frequently meet with pretended critics, who extol the dull⯑eſt writers on account of what they call the ‘"Chaſte Simplicity of their manner;"’ which, in truth, is no other than the ab⯑ſence of every ornament, through the mere want of genius and imagination. We muſt diſtinguiſh, therefore, between that Sim⯑plicity which accompanies true genius, [46] and which is perfectly compatible with every proper ornament of Style, and that which is no other than a careleſs and ſlo⯑venly manner. Indeed, the diſtinction is eaſily made from the effect produced. The one never fails to intereſt the Reader; the other is inſipid and tireſome.

I PROCEED to mention one other manner or character of Style, different from any that I have yet ſpoken of; which may be diſtinguiſhed by the name of the Vehe⯑ment. This always implies ſtrength; and is not, by any means, inconſiſtent with Simplicity: but in its predominant charac⯑ter is diſtinguiſhable from either the ſtrong or the ſimple manner. It has a peculiar ar⯑dour; it is a glowing Style; the language of a man, whoſe imagination and paſſions are heated, and ſtrongly affected by what he writes; who is therefore negligent of leſſer graces, but pours himſelf forth with the rapidity and fulneſs of a torrent. It belongs to the higher kinds of oratory; and indeed is rather expected from a man who is ſpeaking, than from one who is writing in his cloſet. The orations of Demoſthe⯑nes furniſh the full and perfect example of this ſpecies of Style.

AMONG Engliſh writers, the one who has moſt of this character, though mixed, indeed, with ſeveral defects, is Lord Bo⯑lingbroke. Bolingbroke was formed by na⯑ture [47] to be a factious leader; the demagogue of a popular aſſembly. Accordingly, the Style that runs through all his political writings, is that of one declaiming with heat, rather than writing with deliberati⯑on. He abounds in Rhetorical Figures; and pours himſelf forth with great impe⯑tuoſity. He is copious to a fault; places the ſame thought before us in many differ⯑ent views; but generally with life and ar⯑dour. He is bold, rather than correct; a torrent that flows ſtrong, but often muddy. His ſentences are varied as to length and ſhortneſs; inclining, however, moſt to long periods, ſometimes including paren⯑theſes, and frequently crowding and heap⯑ing a multitude of things upon one ano⯑ther, as naturally happens in the warmth of ſpeaking. In the choice of his words, there is great felicity and preciſion. In ex⯑act conſtruction of ſentences, he is much inferior to Lord Shaftſbury; but greatly ſuperior to him in life and eaſe. Upon the whole, his merit, as a writer, would have been very conſiderable, if his matter had equalled his Style. But whilſt we find many things to commend in the latter, in the former, as I before remarked, we can hardly find any thing to commend. In his reaſonings, for moſt part, he is flimſy and falſe; in his political writings, factions; in what he calls his philoſophical ones, ir⯑religious and ſophiſtical in the higheſt de⯑gree.

[48] I SHALL inſiſt no longer on the different manners of Writers, or the general Charac⯑ters of Style. Some other, beſides thoſe which I have mentioned, might be pointed out; but I am ſenſible, that it is very diffi⯑cult to ſeparate ſuch general conſiderations of the Style of authors from their peculiar turn of ſentiment, which it is not my bu⯑ſineſs, at preſent, to criticiſe. Conceited Writers, for inſtance, diſcover their ſpirit ſo much in their compoſition, that it imprints on their Style a character of pertneſs; though I confeſs it is difficult to ſay, whether this can be claſſed among the attributes of Style, or rather is to be aſcribed entirely to the thought. In whatever claſs we rank it, all appearances of it ought to be avoided with care, as a moſt diſguſting blemiſh in writing. Under thoſe general heads, which I have conſidered, I have taken an opportunity of giving the character of many of the eminent claſſics in the Engliſh language.

FROM what I have ſaid on this ſubject, it may be inferred, that to determine among all thoſe different manners of writing, what is preciſely the beſt, is neither eaſy, nor ne⯑ceſſary. Style is a field that admits of great latitude. Its qualities in different authors may be very different; and yet in them all beautiful. Room muſt be left here for ge⯑nius; for that particular determination which every one receives from nature to one man⯑ner of expreſſion more than another. Some [49] general qualities, indeed, there are of ſuch importance, as ſhould always, in every kind of compoſition, be kept in view; and ſome defects we ſhould always ſtudy to avoid. An oſtentatious, a feeble, a harſh, or an obſcure Style, for inſtance, are always faults; and Perſpicuity, Strength, Neatneſs, and Sim⯑plicity, are beauties to be always aimed at. But as to the mixture of all, or the degree of predominancy of any one of theſe good qualities, for forming our peculiar diſtin⯑guiſhing manner, no preciſe rules can be given; nor will I venture to point out any one model as abſolutely perfect.

IT will be more to the purpoſe, that I con⯑clude theſe diſſertations upon Style, with a few directions concerning the proper method of attaining a good Style in general; leaving the particular character of that Style to be either formed by the ſubject on which we write, or prompted by the bent of genius.

THE firſt direction which I give for this purpoſe, is, to ſtudy clear ideas on the ſub⯑ject concerning which we are to write or ſpeak. This is a direction which may at firſt appear to have ſmall relation to Style. Its relation to it, however, is extremely cloſe. The foundation of all good Style, is good ſenſe accompanied with a lively imagi⯑nation. The Style and thoughts of a wri⯑ter are ſo intimately connected, that, as I have ſeveral times hinted, it is frequently [50] hard to diſtinguiſh them. Wherever the impreſſions of things upon our minds are faint and indiſtinct, or perplexed and con⯑fuſed, our Style in treating of ſuch things will infallibly be ſo too. Whereas what we conceive clearly and feel ſtrongly, we will naturally expreſs with clearneſs and with ſtrength. This, then, we may be aſ⯑ſured, is a capital rule as to Style, to think cloſely of the ſubject, till we have attained a full and diſtinct view of the matter which we are to clothe in words, till we become warm and intereſted in it; then and not till then, ſhall we find expreſſion begin to flow. Generally ſpeaking, the beſt and moſt proper expreſſions, are thoſe which a clear view of the ſubject ſuggeſts, without much labour or enquiry after them. This is Quinctili⯑an's obſervation, Lib. viii. c. 1. ‘"Plerum⯑que optima verba rebus cohaerent, et cern⯑untur ſuo lumine. At nos quaerimus illa, tanquam lateant ſcque ſubducant. Ita nunquam putamus verba eſſa circa id de quo dicendum eſt; fed ex aliis locis peti⯑mus et inventis vim afferimus^*."’

IN the ſecond place, in order to form a good Style, the frequent practice of compoſ⯑ing [51] is indiſpenſibly neceſſary. Many rules concerning Style I have delivered; but no rules will anſwer the end without exerciſe and habit. At the ſame time, it is not every ſort of compoſing that will improve Style. This is ſo far from being the caſe, that by frequent, careleſs, and haſty compoſition, we ſhall acquire certainly a very bad Style; we ſhall have more trouble afterwards in un⯑learning faults, and correcting negligences, than if we had not been accuſtomed to com⯑poſition at all. In the beginning therefore, we ought to write ſlowly, and with much care. Let the facility and ſpeed of writing, be the fruit of longer practice. ‘"Moram et ſolicitudinem,"’ ſays Quinctilian with the greateſt reaſon, L. x. c. 3, ‘initiis im⯑pero. Nam primum hoc conſtituendum ac obtinendum eſt, ut quam optime ſcri⯑bamus: celeritatem dabit conſuetudo. Paulatim res facilius ſe oſtendent, verba reſpondebunt, compoſitio proſequetur. Cuncta denique ut in famili [...] bene inſti⯑tutâ in officio erunt. Summa haec eſt rei; cito ſcribendo non ſit ut bene ſcribatur; bene ſcribendo, ſit ut cito^*."’

[52] WE muſt obſerve, however, that there may be an extreme, in too great and anxious a care about words. We muſt not retard the courſe of thought, nor cool the heat of imagination, by pauſing too long on every word we employ. There is, on certain oc⯑caſions, a glow of compoſition which ſhould be kept up, if we hope to expreſs ourſelves happily, though at the expence of allowing ſome inadvertencies to paſs. A more ſevere examination of theſe muſt be left to be the work of correction. For, if the practice of compoſition be uſeful, the laborious work of correcting is no leſs ſo; is indeed abſo⯑lutely neceſſary to our reaping any benefit from the habit of compoſition. What we have written, ſhould be laid by for ſome little time, till the ardour of compoſition be paſt, till the fondneſs for the expreſſions we have uſed be worn off, and the expreſſions themſelves be forgotten; and then review⯑ing our work with a cool and critical eye, as if it were the performance of another, we ſhall diſcern many imperfections which at firſt eſcaped us. Then is the ſeaſon for pruning redundancies; for weighing the ar⯑rangement of ſentences; for attending to [53] the juncture and connecting particles; and bringing Style into a regular, correct, and ſupported form. This ‘"Limae Labor,"’ muſt be ſubmitted to by all who would commu⯑nicate their thoughts with proper advantage to others; and ſome practice in it will ſoon ſharpen their eye to the moſt neceſſary ob⯑jects of attention, and render it a much more eaſy and practicable work than might atfirſt be imagined.

IN the third place, with reſpect to the aſſiſtance that is to be gained from the writings of others, it is obvious, that we ought to render ourſelves well acquainted with the Style of the beſt authors. This is requiſite, both in order to form a juſt taſte in Style, and to ſupply us with a full ſtock of words on every ſubject. In reading au⯑thors, with a view to Style, attention ſhould be given to the peculiarities of their differ⯑ent manners; and in this, and former Lec⯑tures, I have endeavoured to ſuggeſt ſeveral things that may be uſeful in this view. I know no exerciſe that will be found more uſeful for acquiring a proper Style, than to tranſlate ſome paſſage from an eminent Eng⯑liſh author, into our own words. What I mean is, to take, for inſtance, ſome page of one of Mr. Addiſon's Spectators, and read it carefully over two or three times, till we have got a firm hold of the thoughts contained in it; then to lay aſide the book; to attempt to write out the paſſage from [54] memory, in the beſt way we can; and hav⯑ing done ſo, next to open the book, and compare what we have written, with the Style of the author. Such an exerciſe will, by compariſon, ſhew us where the defects of our Style lie; will lead us to the proper attentions for rectifying them; and, among the different ways in which the ſame thought may be expreſſed, will make us perceive that which is the moſt beautiful. But,

IN the fourth place, I muſt caution, at the ſame time, againſt a ſervile imitation of any one author whatever. This is always dangerous. It hampers genius; it is likely to produce a ſtiff manner; and thoſe who are given to cloſe imitation, generally imi⯑tate an author's faults as well as his beauties. No man will ever become a good writer, or ſpeaker, who has not ſome degree of confi⯑dence to follow his own genius. We ought to beware, in particular, of adopting any author's noted phraſes, or tranſcribing paſ⯑ſages from him. Such a habit will prove fatal to all genuine compoſition. Infinitely better it is to have ſomething that is our own, though of moderate beauty, than to affect to ſhine in borrowed ornaments, which will, at laſt, betray the utter poverty of our genius. On theſe heads of compoſing, cor⯑recting, reading, and imitating, I adviſe every ſtudent of oratory to conſult what Quinctilian has delivered in the Xth book of his Inſtitutions, where he will find a va⯑riety [55] of excellent obſervations and directions, that well deſerve attention.

IN the fifth place, it is an obvious, but material rule, with reſpect to Style, that we always ſtudy to adapt it to the ſubject, and alſo to the capacity of our hearers, if we are to ſpeak in public. Nothing merits the name of eloquent or beautiful, which is not ſuited to the occaſion, and to the perſons to whom it is addreſſed. It is to the laſt de⯑gree awkward and abſurd, to attempt a po⯑etical florid Style, on occaſions, when it ſhould be our buſineſs only to argue and rea⯑ſon; or to ſpeak with elaborate pomp of ex⯑preſſion, before perſons who comprehend nothing of it, and who can only ſtare at our unſeaſonable magnificence. Theſe are de⯑fects not ſo much in point of Style, as, what is much worſe, in point of common ſenſe. When we begin to write or ſpeak, we ought previouſly to fix in our minds a clear con⯑ception of the end to be aimed at; to keep this ſteadily in our view, and to ſuit our Style to it. If we do not ſacrifice to this great object, every ill-timed ornament that may occur to our fancy, we are unpardon⯑able; and though children and fools may admire, men of ſenſe will laugh at us and our Style.

IN the laſt place, I cannot conclude the ſubject without this admonition, that, in any caſe, and on any occaſion, attention to [56] Style muſt not engroſs us ſo much, as to detract from a higher degree of attention to the thoughts: ‘"Curam verborum,"’ ſays the great Roman Critic, ‘"rerum volo eſſe ſolicitudinem^*."’ A direction the more neceſſary, that the preſent taſte of the age in writing, ſeems to lean more to Style than to thought. It is much eaſier to dreſs up trivial and common ſentiments with ſome beauty of expreſſion, than to afford a fund of vigorous, ingenious, and uſeful thoughts. The latter, requires true genius; the for⯑mer, may be attained by induſtry, with the help of very ſuperficial parts. Hence, we find ſo many writers frivolouſly rich in Style, but wretchedly poor in Sentiment. The public ear is now ſo much accuſtomed to a correct and ornamented Style, that no writer can, with ſafety, neglect the ſtudy of it. But he is a contemptible one who does not look to ſomething beyond it; who does not lay the chief ſtreſs upon his mat⯑ter, and employ ſuch ornaments of Style to recommend it, as are manly, not foppiſh: ‘"Majore animo,"’ ſays the writer whom I have ſo often quoted, ‘"aggredienda eſt eloquentia; quae ſi toto corpore valet, ungues polire et capillum componere, non exiſtimabit ad curam ſuam pertinere. Or⯑natus et virilis et fortis, et ſanctus ſit; nec effeminatam levitatem, et fuco emen⯑titum [57] titum colorem amet; ſanguine et viribus niteat^†."’

LECTURE XX. CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE OF MR. ADDISON, IN N^o. 411. OF THE SPECTATOR.

I HAVE inſiſted fully on the ſubject of Language and Style, both becauſe it is, in itſelf, of great importance, and becauſe it is more capable of being aſcertained by preciſe rule, than ſeveral other parts of compoſition. A critical analyſis of the Style of ſome good author will tend further to illuſtrate the ſubject; as it will ſuggeſt ob⯑ſervations which I have not had occaſion to make, and will ſhow, in the moſt practical light, the uſe of thoſe which I have made.

Mr. ADDISON is the author whom I have choſen for this purpoſe. The Specta⯑tor, of which his papers are the chief orna⯑ment, is a book which is in the hands of every one, and which cannot be praiſed too highly. The good ſenſe, and good writing, [59] the uſeful morality, and the admirable vein of humour which abound in it, render it one of thoſe ſtandard books which have done the greateſt honour to the Engliſh na⯑tion. I have formerly given the general cha⯑racter of Mr. Addiſon's Style and manner, as natural and unaffected, eaſy and polite, and full of thoſe graces which a flowery imagi⯑nation diffuſes over writing. At the ſame time, though one of the moſt beautiful wri⯑ters in the Language, he is not the moſt correct; a circumſtance which renders his compoſition the more proper to be the ſub⯑ject of our preſent criticiſm. The free and flowing manner of this amiable writer ſometimes led him into inaccuracies, which the more ſtudied circumſpection and care of far inferior writers have taught them to a⯑void. Remarking his beauties, therefore, which I ſhall have frequent occaſion to do as I proceed, I muſt alſo point out his ne⯑gligences and defects. Without a free, im⯑partial diſcuſſion of both the faults and beauties which occur in his compoſition, it is evident, this piece of criticiſm would be of no ſervice: and, from the freedom which I uſe in criticiſing Mr. Addiſon's Style, none can imagine, that I mean to depreciate his writings, after having re⯑peatedly declared the high opinion which I entertain of them. The beauties of this author are ſo many, and the general cha⯑racter of his Style is ſo elegant and eſtima⯑ble, that the minute imperfections I ſhall [60] have occaſion to point out, are but like thoſe ſpots in the ſun, which may be diſ⯑covered by the aſſiſtance of art, but which have no effect in obſcuring its luſtre. It is, indeed, my judgment, that what Quinctili⯑an applies to Cicero, ‘"Illeſe profeciſſe ſciat, cui Cicero valde placebit,"’ may, with juſtice, be applied to Mr Addiſon; that to be highly pleaſed with his manner of writ⯑ing, is the criterion of one's having acquir⯑ed a good taſte in Engliſh Style. The pa⯑per on which we are now to enter, is N^o. 411. the firſt of his celebrated Eſſays on the Pleaſures of the Imagination, in the Sixth Volume of the Spectator. It begins thus:

‘Our ſight is the moſt perfect, and moſt delightful of all our ſenſes.’

THIS is an excellent introductory ſen⯑tence. It is clear, preciſe, and ſimple. The author lays down, in a few plain words, the propoſition which he is going to illuſtrate throughout the reſt of the pa⯑ragraph. In this manner we ſhould always ſet out. A firſt ſentence ſhould ſeldom be a long, and never an intricate one.

HE might have ſaid, Our ſight is the moſt perfect, and the moſt delightful.—But he has judged better, in omitting to repeat the ar⯑ticle, the. For the repetition of it is pro⯑per, chiefly when we intend to point out the objects of which we ſpeak, as diſtin⯑guiſhed [61] from, or contraſted with, each other; and when we want that the read⯑er's attention ſhould reſt on that diſtinction. For inſtance; had Mr. Addiſon intended to ſay, That our ſight is at once the moſt de⯑lightful, and the moſt uſeful, of all our ſenſes, the article might then have been repeated with propriety, as a clear and ſtrong diſtinction would have been convey⯑ed. But as between perfect and delightful, there is leſs contraſt, there was no occaſion for ſuch repetition, It would have had no other effect, but to add a word unneceſſari⯑ly to the ſentence. He proceeds:

‘It fills the mind with the largeſt variety of ideas, converſes with its objects at the greateſt diſtance, and continues the longeſt in action, without being tired or ſatiated with its proper enjoyments.’

THIS ſentence deſerves attention, as re⯑markably harmonious, and well conſtruct⯑ed. It poſſeſſes, indeed, almoſt all the properties of a perfect ſentence. It is en⯑tirely perſpicuous. It is loaded with no ſu⯑perfluous or unneceſſary words. For, tired or ſatiated, towards the end of the ſen⯑tence, are not uſed for ſynonymous terms. They convey diſtinct ideas, and refer to different members of the period; that this ſenſe continues the longeſt in action without being tired, that is, without being fatigued with its action; and alſo, without being [62] ſatiated with its proper enjoyments. That quality of a good ſentence which I termed its unity, is here perfectly preſerved. It is our ſight of which he ſpeaks. This is the object carried through the ſentence, and preſented to us, in every member of it, by thoſe verbs, fills, converſes, continues, to each of which, it is clearly the nominative. Thoſe capital words are diſpoſed of in the moſt proper places; and that uniformity is maintained in the conſtruction of the ſen⯑tence, which ſuits the unity of the object.

OBSERVE too, the muſic of the period; conſiſting of three members, each of which, agreeably to a rule I formerly men⯑tioned, grows, and riſes above the other in ſound, till the ſentence is conducted, at laſt, to one of the moſt melodious cloſes which our Language admits; without being tired or ſatiated with its proper enjoyments. Enjoyments, is a word of length and digni⯑ty, exceedingly proper for a cloſe which is deſigned to be a muſical one. The harmo⯑ny is the more happy, that this diſpoſition of the members of the period which ſuits the ſound ſo well, is no leſs juſt and pro⯑per with reſpect to the ſenſe. It follows the order of nature. Firſt, we have the variety of objects mentioned, which ſight furniſhes to the mind; next, we have the action of ſight on thoſe objects; and laſtly, we have time and continuance of its action. No order could be more natural or happy.

[63] THIS ſentence has ſtill another beauty. It is figurative, without being too much ſo for the ſubject. A metaphor runs through it. The ſenſe of ſight is, in ſome degree, per⯑ſonified. We are told of its converſing with its objects; and of its not being tired or ſatiat⯑ed with its enjoyments; all which expreſſions are plain alluſions to the actions and feelings of men. This is that ſlight ſort of Per⯑ſonification, which, without any appear⯑ance of boldneſs, and without elevating the fancy much above its ordinary ſtate, renders diſcourſe pictureſque, and leads us to conceive the author's meaning more diſ⯑tinctly, by clothing abſtract ideas, in ſome degree, with ſenſible colours. Mr. Addi⯑ſon abounds with this beauty of Style be⯑yond moſt authors; and the ſentence which we have been conſidering, is very expreſ⯑ſive of his manner of writing. There is no blemiſh in it whatever, unleſs that a ſtrict Critic might perhaps object, that the epithet large, which he applies to variety,—the largeſt variety of ideas, is an epithet more commonly applied to extent than to number. It is plain, that he here employ⯑ed it to avoid the repetition of the word great, which occurs immediately after⯑wards.

‘The ſenſe of feeling can, indeed, give us a notion of extenſion, ſhape, and all other ideas that enter at the eye, except colours; but, at the ſame time, it is very much ſtraitened and [64] confined in its operations, to the number, bulk, and diſtance of its particular objects.’

THIS ſentence is by no means ſo happy as the former. It is, indeed, neither clear nor elegant. Extenſion and ſhape can, with no propriety, be called ideas; they are pro⯑perties of matter. Neither is it accurate, even according to Mr. Locke's philoſophy (with which our Author ſeems here to have puzzled himſelf), to ſpeak of any ſenſe giv⯑ing us a notion of ideas; our ſenſes give us the ideas themſelves. The meaning would have been much more clear, if the Author had expreſſed himſelf thus: ‘"The ſenſe of feeling can indeed, give us the idea of extenſion, figure, and all the other pro⯑perties of matter which are perceived by the eye, except colours."’

THE latter part of the ſentence is ſtill more embarraſſed. For what meaning can we make of ſenſe of feeling, being confined, in its operations, to the number, bulk, and diſtance, of its particular objects? Surely, every ſenſe is confined, as much as the ſenſe of feeling, to the number, bulk, and diſtance of its own objects. Sight and feeling are, in this reſpect, perfectly on a level; neither of them can extend beyond their own objects. The turn of expreſſion is ſo inaccurate here, that one would be apt to ſuſpect two words to have been omit⯑ted in the printing, which were originally in Mr. Addiſon's manuſcript; becauſe the [65] inſertion would render the ſenſe much more intelligible and clear. Theſe two words are, with regard:—it is very much ſtraitened, and confined, in its operations, with regard to the number, bulk, and diſtance of its particu⯑lar objects. The meaning then would be, that feeling is more limited than ſight in this reſpect; that it is confined to a narrower circle, to a ſmaller number of objects.

THE epithet particular, applied to objects, in the concluſion of the ſentence, is redun⯑dant, and conveys no meaning whatever. Mr. Addiſon ſeems to have uſed it in place of peculiar, as indeed he does often in other paſſages of his writings. But particular and peculiar, though they are too often confounded, are words of different import from each other. Particular ſtands oppoſed to general; peculiar ſtands oppoſed, to what is poſſeſſed in common with others. Particu⯑lar expreſſes what in the logical Style is called Species; peculiar, what is called diffe⯑rentia.—Its peculiar objects would have ſig⯑nified in this place, the objects of the ſenſe of feeling, as diſtinguiſhed from the objects of any other ſenſe; and would have had more meaning than its particular objects. Though, in truth, neither the one nor the other epithet was requiſite. It was ſuffi⯑cient to have ſaid ſimply, its objects.

‘Our ſight ſeems deſigned to ſupply all theſe defects, and may be conſidered as a more de⯑licate [66] and diffuſive kind of touch, that ſpreads itſelf over an infinite multitude of bodies, comprehends the largeſt figures, and brings into our reach ſome of the moſt remote parts of the univerſe.’

HERE again the author's Style returns upon us in all its beauty. This is a ſen⯑tence diſtinct, graceful, well arranged, and highly muſical. In the latter part of it, it is conſtructed with three members, which are formed much in the ſame manner with thoſe of the ſecond ſentence, on which I beſtowed ſo much praiſe. The conſtruction is ſo ſimilar, that if it had followed imme⯑diately after it, we ſhould have been ſenſi⯑ble of a faulty monotony. But the inter⯑poſition of another ſentence between them, prevents this effect.

‘It is this ſenſe which furniſhes the imagina⯑tion with its ideas; ſo that by the pleaſures of the Imagination or Fancy (which I ſhall uſe promiſcuouſly), I here mean ſuch as ariſe from viſible objects, either when we have them actually in our view; or when we call up their ideas into our minds by paintings, ſtatues, deſcriptions, or any the like occaſion.’

IN place of, It is this ſenſe which furniſhes—the author might have ſaid more ſhortly, This ſenſe furniſhes. But the mode of expreſ⯑ſion which he has uſed, is here more proper. This ſort of full and ample aſſertion, it is [67] this which, is fit to be uſed when a propo⯑ſition of importance is laid down, to which we ſeek to call the reader's attention. It is like pointing with the hand at the object of which we ſpeak. The parentheſis in the middle of the ſentence, which I ſhall uſe promiſcuouſly, is not clear. He ought to have ſaid, terms which I ſhall uſe promiſcu⯑ouſly; as the verb uſe relates not to the pleaſures of the imagination, but to the terms of fancy and imagination, which he was to employ as ſynonymous. Any the like occaſion—to call a painting or a ſtatue an occaſion is not a happy expreſſion, nor is it very proper to ſpeak of calling up ideas by occaſions. The common phraſe, any ſuch means, would have been more natural.

‘We cannot indeed have a ſingle image in the fancy, that did not make its firſt entrance through the ſight; but we have the power of retaining, altering, and compounding thoſe images which we have once received, into all the varieties of picture and viſion that are moſt agreeable to the imagination; for by this fa⯑culty, a man in a dungeon is capable of enter⯑taining himſelf with ſenſes and landſcapes more beautiful than any that can be found in the whole compaſs of nature.’

IT may be of uſe to remark, that in one member of this ſentence there is an inaccu⯑racy in ſyntax. It is very proper to ſay, altering and compounding thoſe images which [68] we have once received, into all varieties of picture and viſion. But we can with no pro⯑priety ſay, retaining them into all the va⯑rieties; and yet, according to the manner in which the words are ranged, this con⯑ſtruction is unavoidable. For retaining, al⯑tering, and compounding, are participles, each of which equally refers to, and go⯑verns the ſubſequent noun, thoſe images; and that noun again is neceſſarily connect⯑ed with the following prepoſition, into. This inſtance ſhows the importance of care⯑fully attending to the rules of Grammar and Syntax; when ſo pure a writer as Mr. Addiſon could, through inadvertence, be guilty of ſuch an error. The conſtruction might eaſily have been rectified, by disjoin⯑ing the participle retaining from the other two participles in this way: ‘"We have the power of retaining thoſe images which we have once received; and of altering and compounding them into all the varieties of picture and viſion;"’ or better perhaps thus: ‘"We have the power of retaining, altering, and com⯑pounding thoſe images which we have once received; and of forming them into all the varieties of picture and viſion."’—The latter part of the ſentence is clear and elegant.

‘There are few words in the Engliſh Lan⯑guage, which are employed in a more looſe and uncircumſcribed ſenſe than thoſe of the Fancy and the Imagination.’

[69] There are few words—which are employed.—It had been better, if our author here had ſaid more ſimply—Few words in the Engliſh language are employed.—Mr. Addiſon, whoſe Style is of the free and full, rather than the nervous kind, deals, on all occaſions, in this extended ſort of phraſeology. But it is proper only when ſome aſſertion of con⯑ſequence is advanced, and which can bear an emphaſis; ſuch as that in the firſt ſen⯑tence of the former paragraph. On other occaſions, theſe little words it is, and there are, ought to be avoided as redundant and enfeebling—thoſe of the Fancy and the Imagination. The article ought to have been omitted here. As he does not mean the powers of the Fancy and the Imagina⯑tion, but the words only, the article cer⯑tainly had no proper place; neither, indeed, was there any occaſion for other two words, thoſe of. Better, if the ſentence had run thus: ‘"Few words in the Engliſh language are employed in a more looſe and uncir⯑cumſcribed ſenſe, than Fancy and Ima⯑gination."’

‘I therefore thought it neceſſary to fix and determine the notion of theſe two words, as I intend to make uſe of them in the thread of my following ſpeculations, that the reader may conceive rightly what is the ſubject which I proceed upon.’

[70] THOUGH fix and determine may appear ſynonymous words, yet a difference be⯑tween them may be remarked, and they may be viewed, as applied here, with pe⯑culiar delicacy. The author had juſt ſaid, that the words of which he is ſpeaking were looſe and uncircumſcribed. Fix relates to the firſt of theſe, determine to the laſt. We fix what is looſe; that is, we confine the word to its proper place, that it may not fluctuate in our imagination, and paſs from one idea to another; and we determine what is uncircumſcribed, that is, we aſcer⯑tain its termini or limits, we draw the circle round it, that we may ſee its boun⯑daries. For we cannot conceive the mean⯑ing of a word, nor indeed of any other thing clearly, till we ſee its limits, and know how far it extends. Theſe two words, therefore, have grace and beauty as they are here applied; though a writer, more frugal of words than Mr. Addiſon, would have preferred the ſingle word aſcer⯑tain, which conveys, without any meta⯑phor, the import of them both.

THE notion of theſe words is ſomewhat of a harſh phraſe, at leaſt not ſo commonly uſed, as the meaning of theſe words—as I intend to make uſe of them in the thread of my ſpeculations; this is plainly faulty. A ſort of metaphor is improperly mixed with words in the literal ſenſe. He might very well have ſaid, as I intend to make uſe of [71] them in my following ſpeculations.—This was plain language; but if he choſe to borrow an alluſion from thread, that allu⯑ſion ought to have been ſupported; for there is no conſiſtency in making uſe of them in the thread of ſpeculations; and, indeed, in expreſſing any thing ſo ſimple and fa⯑miliar as this is, plain language is always to be preferred to metaphorical—the ſubject which I proceed upon, is an ungraceful cloſe of a ſentence; better, the ſubject upon which I proceed.

‘I muſt therefore deſire him to remember, that by the pleaſures of the Imagination, I mean only ſuch pleaſures as ariſe orginally from ſight, and that I divide theſe pleaſures into two kinds.’

AS the laſt ſentence began with—I there⯑fore thought it neceſſary to fix, it is careleſs to begin this ſentence in a manner ſo very ſimilar, I muſt therefore deſire him to remem⯑ber; eſpecially, as the ſmall variation of uſing, on this account, or, for this reaſon, in place of therefore, would have amended the Style.—When he ſays—I mean only ſuch pleaſures—it may be remarked, that the ad⯑verb only is not in its proper place. It is not intended here to qualify the verb mean, but ſuch pleaſures; and therefore ſhould have been placed in as cloſe connection as poſſible with the word which it limits or qualifies. The Style becomes more clear and neat, [72] when the words are arranged thus: ‘"by the pleaſures of the Imagination, I mean ſuch pleaſures only as ariſe from ſight."’

‘My deſign being, firſt of all, to diſcourſe of thoſe primary pleaſures of the imagination, which entirely proceed from ſuch objects as are before our eyes; and, in the next place, to ſpeak of thoſe ſecondary pleaſures of the Imagi⯑nation, which flow from the ideas of viſible objects, when the objects are not actually be⯑fore the eye, but are called up into our memo⯑ries, or formed into agreeable viſions of things, that are either abſent or fictitious.’

IT is a great rule in laying down the di⯑viſion of a ſubject, to ſtudy neatneſs and brevity as much as poſſible. The diviſions are then more diſtinctly apprehended, and more eaſily remembered. This ſentence is not perfectly happy in that reſpect. It is ſomewhat clogged by a tedious phraſeology. My deſign being firſt of all to diſcourſe—in the next place to ſpeak of—ſuch objects as are before our eyes—things that are either abſent or fictitious. Several words might have been ſpared here; and the Style made more neat and compact.

‘The pleaſures of the Imagination, taken in their full extent, are not ſo groſs as thoſe of ſenſe, nor ſo refined as thoſe of the under⯑ſtanding.’

[73] This ſentence is diſtinct and elegant.

‘The laſt are indeed more preferable, becauſe they are founded on ſome new knowledge or im⯑provement in the mind of man: Yet it muſt be confeſſed, that thoſe of the Imagination are as great and as tranſporting as the other.’

IN the beginning of this ſentence, the phraſe, more preferable, is ſuch a plain in⯑accuracy, that one wonders how Mr. Ad⯑diſon ſhould have fallen into it; ſeeing pre⯑ferable of itſelf, expreſſes the comparative degree, and is the ſame with more eligible, or more excellent.

I MUST obſerve farther, that the propo⯑ſition contained in the laſt member of this ſentence, is neither clear nor neatly ex⯑preſſed—it muſt be confeſſed, that thoſe of the imagination are as great, and as tranſport⯑ing as the other.—In the former ſentence, he had compared three things together; the pleaſures of the Imagination, thoſe of ſenſe, and thoſe of the underſtanding. In the be⯑ginning of this ſentence, he had called the pleaſures of the underſtanding the laſt: and he ends the ſentence, with obſerving, that thoſe of the Imagination are as great and tranſporting as the other. Now, beſides that the other makes not a proper contraſt with the laſt, he leaves it ambiguous, whe⯑ther, by the other, he meant the pleaſures of the Underſtanding, or the pleaſures of [74] Senſe; for it may refer to either by the con⯑ſtruction; though, undoubtedly, he intend⯑ed that it ſhould refer to the pleaſures of the Underſtanding only. The propoſition re⯑duced to perſpicuous language, runs thus: ‘"Yet it muſt be confeſſed, that the plea⯑ſures of the Imagination, when compared with thoſe of the Underſtanding, are no leſs great and tranſporting."’

‘A beautiful proſpect delights the ſoul as much as a demonſtration; and a deſcription in Homer has charmed more readers than a chapter in Ariſtotle.’

THIS is a good illuſtration of what he had been aſſerting, and is expreſſed with that happy and elegant turn, for which our author is very remarkable.

‘Beſides, the pleaſures of the Imagination have this advantage above thoſe of the Under⯑ſtanding, that they are more obvious, and more eaſy to be acquired.’

THIS is alſo an unexceptionable ſen⯑tence.

‘It is but opening the eye, and the ſcene en⯑ters.’

THIS ſentence is lively and pictureſque. By the gaiety and briſkneſs which it gives the Style, it ſhows the advantage of inter⯑mixing [75] ſuch a ſhort ſentence as this amidſt a run of longer ones, which never fails to have a happy effect. I muſt remark, how⯑ever, a ſmall inaccuracy. A ſcene cannot be ſaid to enter; an actor enters; but a ſcene appears, or preſents itſelf.

‘The colours paint themſelves on the fancy, with very little attention of thought or appli⯑cation of mind in the beholder.’

THIS is ſtill beautiful illuſtration; carri⯑ed on with that agreeable flowerineſs of fancy and ſtyle, which is ſo well ſuited to thoſe pleaſures of the Imagination, of which the author is treating.

‘We are ſtruck, we know not how, with the ſymmetry of any thing we ſee, and immediately aſſent to the beauty of an object, without en⯑quiring into the particular cauſes and occaſions of it.’

THERE is a falling off here from the elegance of the former ſentences. We aſſent to the truth of a propoſition; but cannot ſo well be ſaid to aſſent to the beau⯑ty of an object. Acknowledge would have expreſſed the ſenſe with more propriety. The cloſe of the ſentence too is heavy and ungraceful—the particular cauſes and oc⯑caſions of it—both particular, and occa⯑ſions, are words quite ſuperfluous; and the pronoun it is in ſome meaſure ambiguous, [76] whether it refers to beauty or to object. It would have been ſome amendment to the Style to have run thus: ‘"we immediately acknowledge the beauty of an object, without enquiring into the cauſe of that beauty."’

‘A man of a polite imagination is let into a great many pleaſures, that the vulgar are not capable of receiving.’

Polite is a term more commonly applied to manners or behaviour, than to the mind or imagination. There is nothing farther to be obſerved on this ſentence, unleſs the uſe of that for a relative pronoun, inſtead of which; an uſage which is too frequent with Mr. Addiſon. Which is a much more defi⯑nite word than that, being never employed in any other way than as a relative; where⯑as that is a word of many ſenſes; ſome⯑times a demonſtrative pronoun, often a conjunction. In ſome caſes we are indeed obliged to uſe that for a relative, in order to avoid the ungraceful repetition of which in the ſame ſentence. But when we are laid under no neceſſity of this kind, which is always the preferable word, and certainly was ſo in this ſentence—Pleaſures which the vulgar are not capable of receiving, is much better than pleaſures that the vulgar, &c.

[77] ‘He can converſe with a picture, and find an agreea⯑ble companion in a ſtatue. He meets with a ſecret re⯑freſhment in a deſcription; and often feels a greater ſa⯑tisfaction in the proſpect of fields and meadows, than another does in the poſſeſſion. It gives him, indeed, a kind of property in every thing he ſees; and makes the moſt rude uncultivated parts of nature adminiſter to his pleaſures: ſo that he looks upon the world, as it were, in another light, and diſcovers in it a multitude of charms that conceal themſelves from the generality of mankind.’

ALL this is very beautiful. The illuſ⯑tration is happy; and the Style runs with the greateſt eaſe and harmony. We ſee no labour, no ſtiffneſs, or affectation; but an author writing from the native flow of a gay and pleaſing imagination. This pre⯑dominant character of Mr. Addiſon's man⯑ner, far more than compenſates all thoſe lit⯑tle negligences which we are now remark⯑ing. Two of theſe occur in this para⯑graph. The firſt, in the ſentence which be⯑gins with, It gives him indeed a kind of pro⯑perty—To this it, there is no proper ante⯑cedent in the whole paragraph. In order to gather the meaning, we muſt look back as far as to the third ſentence before, the firſt of the paragraph, which begins with, A man of a polite imagination. This phraſe, polite imagination, is the only antecedent to which this it can refer; and even that is an improper antecedent, as it ſtands in the ge⯑nitive caſe, as the qualification only of a man.

[78] THE other inſtance of negligence, is to⯑wards the end of the paragraph—So that he looks upon the world, as it were, in another light.—By another light, Mr. Addiſon means, a light different from that in which other men view the world. But though this ex⯑preſſion clearly conveyed this meaning to himſelf when writing, it conveys it very indiſtinctly to others; and is an inſtance of that ſort of inaccuracy, into which, in the warmth of compoſition, every writer of a lively imagination is apt to fall; and which can only be remedied by a cool, ſubſequent review.—As it were—is upon moſt occaſions no more than an ungraceful palliative, and here there was not the leaſt occaſion for it, as he was not about to ſay any thing which required a ſoftening of this kind. To ſay the truth, this laſt ſentence, ſo that he looks upon the world, and what follows, had bet⯑ter been wanting altogether. It is no more than an unneceſſary recapitulation of what had gone before; a feeble adjection to the lively picture he had given of the pleaſures of the imagination. The paragraph would have ended with more ſpirit at the words immediately preceding; the uncultivated parts of nature adminiſter to his pleaſures.

‘There are, indeed, but very few who know how to be idle and innocent, or have a reliſh of any pleaſures that are not criminal; every diverſion they take, is at the ex⯑pence of ſome one virtue or another, and their very firſt ſtep out of buſineſs is into vice or folly.’

[79] NOTHING can be more elegant, or more finely turned, than this ſentence. It is neat, clear, and muſical. We could hardly alter one word, or diſarrange one member, without ſpoiling it. Few ſen⯑tences are to be found more finiſhed, or more happy.

‘A man ſhould endeavour, therefore, to make the ſphere of his innocent pleaſures as wide as poſſible, that he may retire into them with ſafety, and find in them, ſuch a ſatisfaction as a wiſe man would not bluſh to take.’

THIS alſo is a good ſentence, and gives occaſion to no material remark.

‘Of this nature are thoſe of the imagination, which do not require ſuch a bent of thought as is neceſſary to our more ſerious employments, nor, at the ſame time, ſuffer the mind to ſink into that indolence and remiſſneſs, which are apt to accompany our more ſenſual delights; but, like a gentle exerciſe to the faculties, awaken them from ſloth and idleneſs, without putting them upon any labour or difficulty.’

THE beginning of this ſentence is not correct, and affords an inſtance of a period too looſely connected with the preceding one. Of this nature, ſays he, are thoſe of the imagination. We might aſk of what nature? For it had not been the ſcope of the preceding ſentence to deſcribe the na⯑ture of any ſet of pleaſures. He had ſaid, that it was every man's duty to make the [80] ſphere of his innocent pleaſures as wide as poſſible, in order that, within that ſphere, he might find a ſafe retreat, and a laudable ſatisfaction. The tranſition is looſely made, by beginning the next ſentence with ſaying, Of this nature are thoſe of the ima⯑gination. It had been better, if, keeping in view the governing object of the preceding ſentence, he had ſaid, ‘"This advantage we gain,"’ or, ‘"This ſatisfaction we enjoy, by means of the pleaſures of imaginati⯑on."’ The reſt of the ſentence is abun⯑dantly correct.

‘We might here add, that the pleaſures of the fancy are more conducive to health than thoſe of the underſtand⯑ing, which are worked out by dint of thinking, and at⯑tended with too violent a labour of the brain.’

ON this ſentence, nothing occurs de⯑ſerving of remark, except that worked out by dint of thinking, is a phraſe which bor⯑ders too much on vulgar and colloquial language, to be proper for being employed in a poliſhed compoſition.

‘Delightful ſcenes, whether in nature, painting, or poetry, have a kindly influence on the body, as well as the mind, and not only ſerve to clear and brighten the imagi⯑nation, but are able to diſperſe grief and melancholy, and to ſet the animal ſpirits in pleaſing and agreeable motions. For this reaſon Sir Francis Bacon, in his Eſſay upon Health, has not thought it improper to preſcribe to his reader a poem, or a proſpect, where he particularly diſ⯑ſuades [81] him from knotty and ſubtile diſquiſitions, and ad⯑viſes him to purſue ſtudies that fill the mind with ſplendid and illuſtrious objects, as hiſtories, fables, and contem⯑plations of nature.’

IN the latter of theſe two ſentences, a member of the period is altogether out of its place; which gives the whole ſentence a harſh and disjointed caſt, and ſerves to illuſtrate the rules I formerly gave con⯑cerning arrangement. The wrong-placed member which I point at, is this; where he particularly diſſuades him from knotty and ſub⯑tile diſquiſitions;—theſe words ſhould, un⯑doubtedly, have been placed not where they ſtand, but thus: Sir Francis Bacon, in his Eſſay upon Health, where he particularly diſ⯑ſuades the reader from knotty and ſubtile ſpecu⯑lations, has not thought it improper to preſcribe to him, &c. This arrangement reduces every thing into its proper order.

‘I have, in this Paper, by way of introduction, ſettled the notion of thoſe pleaſures of the imagination, which are the ſubject of my preſent undertaking, and endea⯑voured, by ſeveral conſiderations, to recommend to my readers the purſuit of thoſe pleaſures; I ſhall, in my next Paper examine the ſeveral ſources from whence theſe pleaſures are derived.’

THESE two concluding ſentences afford examples of the proper collocation of cir⯑cumſtances in a period. I formerly ſhowed, that it is often a matter of difficulty to diſ⯑poſe [82] of them in ſuch a manner, as that they ſhall not embarraſs the principal ſub⯑ject of the ſentence. In the ſentences be⯑fore us, ſeveral of theſe incidental circum⯑ſtances neceſſarily come in—By way of in⯑troduction—by ſeveral conſiderations—in this Paper—in the next Paper. All which are, with great propriety, managed by our author. It will be found, upon trial, that there were no other parts of the ſentence, in which they could have been placed to equal advantage. Had he ſaid, for inſtance, ‘"I have ſettled the notion, (rather, the meaning)—of thoſe pleaſures of the imagination, which are the ſub⯑ject of my preſent undertaking, by way of introduction, in this paper, and en⯑deavoured to recommend the purſuit of thoſe pleaſures to my readers by ſeveral conſiderations,"’ we muſt be ſenſible, that the ſentence, thus clogged with circum⯑ſtances in the wrong place, would neither have been ſo neat nor ſo clear, as it is by the preſent conſtruction.

LECTURE XXI. CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN N^o. 412. OF THE SPEC⯑TATOR.

THE obſervations which have occur⯑red in reviewing that paper of Mr. Addiſon's, which was the ſubject of the laſt Lecture, ſufficiently ſhow, that in the writings of an author of the moſt happy genius, and diſtinguiſhed talents, inaccura⯑cies may ſometimes be found. Though ſuch inaccuracies may be overbalanced by ſo many beauties, as render Style highly pleaſing and agreeable upon the whole, yet it muſt be deſirable to every writer to avoid, as far as he can, inaccuracy of any kind. As the ſubject therefore is of importance, I have thought it might be uſeful to carry on this criticiſm through⯑out two or three ſubſequent Papers of the Spectator. At the ſame time I muſt inti⯑mate, that the Lectures on theſe Papers [84] are ſolely intended for ſuch as are apply⯑ing themſelves to the ſtudy of Engliſh Style. I pretend not to give inſtruction to thoſe who are already well acquainted with the powers of language. To them my re⯑marks may prove unedifying; to ſome they may ſeem tedious and minute: but to ſuch as have not yet made all the proficiency which they deſire in elegance of Style, ſtrict attention to the compoſition and ſtructure of ſentences cannot fail to prove of conſiderable benefit: and though my remarks on Mr. Addiſon ſhould, in any inſtance, be thought ill-founded, they will, at leaſt, ſerve the purpoſe of lead⯑ing them into the train of making proper remarks for themſelves^*. I proceed, there⯑fore, to the examination of the ſubſequent paper N^o. 412.

‘I ſhall firſt conſider thoſe pleaſures of the imagination, which ariſe from the actual view and ſurvey of outward [85] objects: and theſe, I think, all proceed from the ſight of what is great, uncommon, or beautiful.’

THIS ſentence gives occaſion for no ma⯑terial remark. It is ſimple and diſtinct. The two words which he here uſes, view and ſurvey, are not altogether ſynonymous: as the former may be ſuppoſed to import mere inſpection; the latter more deliberate examination. Yet they lie ſo near to one another in meaning, that, in the preſent caſe, any one of them, perhaps, would have been ſufficient. The epithet actual, is introduced, in order to mark more ſtrong⯑ly the diſtinction between what our author calls the primary pleaſures of imagination, which ariſe from immediate view, and the ſecondary, which ariſe from remembrance or deſcription.

‘There may, indeed, be ſomething ſo terrible or offen⯑ſive, that the horror, or loathſomeneſs of an object, may overbear the pleaſure which reſults from its novelty, greatneſs, or beauty; but ſtill there will be ſuch a mix⯑ture of delight in the very diſguſt it gives us, as any of theſe three qualifications are moſt conſpicuous and pre⯑vailing.’

THIS ſentence muſt be acknowledged to be an unfortunate one. The ſenſe is ob⯑ſcure and embarraſſed, and the expreſſion looſe and irregular. The beginning of it is perplexed by the wrong poſition of the words ſomething and object. The natural [86] arrangement would have been, There may, indeed, be ſomething in an object ſo terrible or offenſive, that the horror or loathſomeneſs of it may overbear.—Theſe two epithets, horror or loathſomeneſs, are awkwardly joined to⯑gether. Loathſomeneſs is, indeed, a quality which may be aſcribed to an object; but horror is not; it is a feeling excited in the mind. The Language would have been much more correct, had our Author ſaid, There may, indeed, be ſomething in an object ſo terrible or offenſive, that the horror or diſguſt which it excites may overbear.—The firſt two epithets, terrible or offenſive, would then have expreſſed the qualities of an object; the latter, horror or diſguſt, the correſpond⯑ing ſentiments which theſe qualities pro⯑duce in us. Loathſomeneſs was the moſt un⯑happy word he could have choſen: for to be loathſome, is to be odious, and ſeems to⯑tally to exclude any mixture of delight, which he afterwards ſuppoſes may be found in the object.

IN the latter part of the ſentence there are ſeveral inaccuracies. When he ſays, there will be ſuch a mixture of delight in the very diſguſt it gives us, as any of theſe three qualifications are moſt conſpicuous. The con⯑ſtruction is defective, and ſeems hardly grammatical. He meant aſſuredly to ſay, ſuch a mixture of delight as is proportioned to the degree in which any of theſe three qualifi⯑cations are moſt conſpicuous.—We know, that [87] there may be a mixture of pleaſant and of diſagreeable feelings excited by the ſame object; yet it appears inaccurate to ſay, that there is any delight in the very diſguſt.—The plural verb are, is improperly joined to any of theſe three qualifications; for as any is here uſed diſtributively, and means any one of theſe three qualifications, the correſ⯑ponding verb ought to have been ſingular. The order in which the two laſt words are placed, ſhould have been reverſed, and made to ſtand, prevailing and conſpicuous. They are conſpicuous, becauſe they prevail.

‘By greatneſs, I do not only mean the bulk of any ſingle object, but the largeneſs of a whole view, conſidered as one entire piece.’

IN a former Lecture, when treating of the Structure of Sentences, I quoted this ſentence as an inſtance of the careleſs man⯑ner in which adverbs are ſometimes inter⯑jected in the midſt of a period. Only, as it is here placed, appears to be a limitation of the following verb, mean. The queſtion might be put, What more does he than only mean? as the author, undoubtedly, intend⯑ed it to refer to the bulk of a ſingle object, it would have been placed, with more pro⯑priety, after theſe words:—I do not mean the bulk of any ſingle object only, but the largeneſs of a whole view.—As the following phraſe, conſidered as one entire piece, ſeems to be ſomewhat deficient, both in dignity and [88] propriety, perhaps this adjection might have been altogether omitted, and the ſentence have cloſed with fully as much advantage at the word view.

‘Such are the proſpects of an open champaign country, a vaſt uncultivated deſert, of huge heaps of mountains, high rocks and precipices, or a wide expanſe of waters, where we are not ſtruck with the novelty, or beauty of the ſight, but with that rude kind of magnificence which appears in many of theſe ſtupendous works of nature.’

THIS ſentence, in the main, is beautiful. The objects preſented are all of them noble, ſelected with judgment, arranged with pro⯑priety, and accompanied with proper epi⯑thets. We muſt, however, obſerve, that the ſentence is too looſely, and not very gramatically, connected with the preceding one. He ſays,—ſuch are the proſpects;—ſuch, ſignifies, of that nature or quality; which neceſſarily preſuppoſes ſome adjec⯑tive, or word deſcriptive of a quality go⯑ing before, to which it refers. But, in the foregoing ſentence, there is no ſuch adjec⯑tive. He had ſpoken of greatneſs in the abſtract only; and, therefore, ſuch has no diſtinct antecedent to which we can refer it. The ſentence would have been intro⯑duced with more grammatical propriety, by ſaying, To this claſs belong, or, under this head are ranged the proſpects, &c.—The of, which is prefixed to huge heaps of mountains, is miſplaced, and has, perhaps, [89] been an error in the printing; as, either all the particulars here enumerated ſhould have had this mark of the genitive, or it ſhould have been prefixed to none but the firſt.—When, in the cloſe of the ſentence, the Author ſpeaks of that rude magnificence, which appears in many of theſe ſtupendous works of nature, he had better have omitted the word many, which ſeems to except ſome of them. Whereas, in his general propoſi⯑tion, he undoubtedly meant to include all the ſtupendous works he had enumerated; and there is no queſtion that, in all of them, a rude magnificence appears.

‘Our imagination loves to be filled with an object, or to graſp at any thing that is too big for its capacity. We are flung into a pleaſing aſtoniſhment at ſuch unbounded views; and feel a delightful ſtillneſs and amazement in the ſoul, at the apprehenſion of them.’

THE Language here is elegant, and ſe⯑veral of the expreſſions remarkably happy. There is nothing which requires any ani⯑madverſion except the cloſe, at the appre⯑henſion of them. Not only is this a languid enfeebling concluſion of a ſentence, other⯑wiſe beautiful, but the apprehenſion of views, is a phraſe deſtitute of all propriety, and, indeed, ſcarcely intelligible. Had this ad⯑jection been entirely omitted, and the ſen⯑tence been allowed to cloſe with ſtillneſs and amazement in the ſoul, it would have been a great improvement. Nothing is [90] frequently more hurtful to the grace or vi⯑vacity of a period, than ſuperfluous dragg⯑ing words at the concluſion.

‘The mind of man naturally hates every thing that looks like a reſtraint upon it, and is apt to fancy itſelf under a ſort of confinement, when the ſight is pent up in a nar⯑row compaſs, and ſhortened on every ſide by the neigh⯑bourhood of walls or mountains. On the contrary, a ſpa⯑cious horizon is an image of liberty, where the eye has room to range abroad, to expatiate at large on the im⯑menſity of its views, and to loſe itſelf amidſt the variety of objects that offer themſelves to its obſervation. Such wide and undetermined proſpects are as pleaſing to the fancy, as the ſpeculations of eternity, or infinitude, are to the underſtanding.’

OUR Author's Style appears, here, in all that native beauty which cannot be too much praiſed. The numbers flow ſmoothly, and with a graceful harmony. The words which he has choſen, carry a certain am⯑plitude and fulneſs, well ſuited to the na⯑ture of the ſubject; and the members of the periods riſe in a gradation, accommodated to the riſe of the thought. The eye firſt ranges abroad; then expatiates at large on the immenſity of its views; and, at laſt, loſes itſelf amidſt the variety of objects that offer themſelves to its obſervation. The fancy is elegantly contraſted with the underſtand⯑ing, proſpects with ſpeculations, and wide and undetermined proſpect, with ſpeculations of eternity and infinitude.

[91] ‘But if there be a beauty or uncommonneſs joined with this grandeur, as in a troubled ocean, a heaven adorned with ſtars and meteors, or a ſpacious landſcape cut out into rivers, woods, rocks, and meadows, the pleaſure ſtill grows upon us, as it ariſes from more than a ſingle principle.’

THE article prefixed to beauty, in the be⯑ginning of this ſentence, might have been omitted, and the Style have run, perhaps, to more advantage thus: But if beauty, or uncommonneſs, be joined to this grandeur—A landſcape cut out into rivers, woods, &c. ſeems unſeaſonably to imply an artificial formation, and had better have been expreſ⯑ſed by, diverſified with rivers, woods, &c.

‘Every thing that is new or uncommon, raiſes a plea⯑ſure in the imagination, becauſe it fills the ſoul with an agreeable ſurpriſe, gratifies its curioſity, and gives it an idea of which it was not before poſſeſſed. We are, in⯑deed, ſo often converſant with one ſet of objects, and ti⯑red out with ſo many repeated ſhows of the ſame things, that whatever is new or uncommon contributes a little to vary human life, and to divert our minds, for a while, with the ſtrangeneſs of its appearance. It ſerves us for a kind of refreſhment, and takes off from that ſatiety we are apt to complain of in our uſual and ordinary enter⯑tainments.’

THE Style in theſe Sentences flows in an eaſy and agreeable manner. A ſevere cri⯑tic might point out ſome expreſſions that would bear being retrenched. But this would alter the genius and character of Mr. [92] Addiſon's Style. We muſt always remem⯑ber, that good compoſition admits of being carried on under many different forms. Style muſt not be reduced to one preciſe ſtandard. One writer may be as agreeable, by a pleaſing diffuſeneſs, when the ſubject bears, and his genius prompts it, as ano⯑ther by a conciſe and forcible manner. It is fit, however, to obſerve, that, in the beginning of thoſe Sentences which we have at preſent before us, the phraſe, raiſes a pleaſure in the imagination, is unqueſtion⯑ably too flat and feeble, and might eaſily be amended, by ſaying, affords pleaſure to the imagination; and towards the end, there are two of's, which grate harſhly on the ear, in that phraſe, takes off from that ſa⯑tiety we are apt to complain of; where the correction is as eaſily made as in the other caſe, by ſubſtituting, diminiſhes that ſatiety of which we are apt to complain. Such in⯑ſtances ſhow the advantage of frequent re⯑views of what we have written, in order to give proper correctneſs and poliſh to our Language.

‘It is this which beſtows charms on a monſter, and makes even the imperfections of nature pleaſe us. It is this that recommends variety where the mind is every inſtant called off to ſomething new, and the attention not ſuffered to dwell too long, and waſte itſelf, on any par⯑ticular object. It is this likewiſe, that improves what is great or beautiful, and makes it afford the mind a double entertainment.’

[93] STILL the Style proceeds with perſpicu⯑ity, grace, and harmony. The full and ample aſſertion, with which each of theſe Sentences is introduced, frequent, on many occaſions, with our author, is here proper and ſeaſonable; as it was his intention to magnify, as much as poſſible, the effects of novelty and variety, and to draw our at⯑tention to them. His frequent uſe of that, inſtead of which, is another peculiarity of his Style; but, on this occaſion in particu⯑lar, cannot be much commended, as, it is this which, ſeems, in every view, to be better than, it is this that, three times re⯑peated. I muſt, likewiſe, take notice, that the antecedent to, it is this, when criti⯑cally conſidered, is not altogether proper. It refers, as we diſcover by the ſenſe, to whatever is new or uncommon. But as it is not good language to ſay, whatever is new beſtows charms on a monſter, one cannot avoid thinking that our Author had done better to have begun the firſt of theſe three Sentences, with ſaying, It is novelty which beſtows charms on a monſter, &c.

‘Groves, fields, and meadows, are at any ſeaſon of the year pleaſant to look upon; but never ſo much as in the opening of the Spring, when they are all new and freſh, with their firſt gloſs upon them, and not yet too much accuſtomed and familiar to the eye.’

In this expreſſion, never ſo much as in the opening of the Spring, there appears to be [94] a ſmall error in grammar; for when the conſtruction is filled up, it muſt be read, never ſo much pleaſant. Had he, to avoid this, ſaid, never ſo much ſo, the grammatical error would have been prevented, but the language would have been awkward. Bet⯑ter to have ſaid, but never ſo agreeable as in the opening of the Spring. We readily ſay, the eye is accuſtomed to objects, but to ſay, as our Author has done at the cloſe of the Sentence, that objects are accuſtomed to the eye, can ſcarcely be allowed in a proſe com⯑poſition.

‘For this reaſon, there is nothing that more enlivens a proſpect than rivers, jetteaus, or falls of water, where the ſcene is perpetually ſhifting and entertaining the ſight, every moment, with ſomething that is new. We are quickly tired with looking at hills and vallies, where every thing continues fixed and ſettled in the ſame place and poſture, but find our thoughts a little agitated and relieved at the ſight of ſuch objects as are ever in mo⯑tion, and ſliding away from beneath the eye of the beholder.’

THE firſt of theſe ſentences is connected in too looſe a manner with that which imme⯑diately preceded it. When he ſays, For this reaſon, there is nothing that more enlivens, &c. we are entitled to look for the reaſon in what he had juſt before ſaid. But there we find no reaſon for what he is now going to aſſert, except that groves and meadows are moſt pleaſant in the Spring. We know that he has been ſpeaking of the pleaſure [95] produced by Novelty and Variety, and our minds naturally recur to this, as the reaſon here alluded to; but his language does not properly expreſs it. It is, indeed, one of the defects of this amiable writer, that his ſentences are often too negligently connec⯑ted with one another. His meaning, upon the whole, we gather with eaſe from the tenour of his diſcourſe. Yet this negligence prevents his ſenſe from ſtriking us with that force and evidence, which a more accurate juncture of parts would have produced. Bating this inaccuracy, theſe two ſentences, eſpecially the latter, are remarkably elegant and beautiful. The cloſe, in particular, is uncommonly fine, and carries as much ex⯑preſſive harmony as the language can admit. It ſeems to paint, what he is deſcribing, at once to the eye and the ear.—Such objects as are ever in motion, and ſliding away from beneath the eye of the beholder.—Indeed, notwithſtanding thoſe ſmall errors, which the ſtrictneſs of critical examination obliges me to point out, it may be ſafely pronoun⯑ced, that the two paragraphs which we have now conſidered in this paper, the one concerning greatneſs, and the other con⯑cerning novelty, are extremely worthy of Mr. Addiſon, and exhibit a Style, which they who can ſucceſsfully imitate, may eſteem themſelves happy.

‘But there is nothing that makes its way more directly to the ſoul than Beauty, which immediately diffuſes a ſe⯑cret [96] ſatisfaction and complacency through the imagination, and gives a finiſhing to any thing that is great or uncom⯑mon. The very firſt diſcovery of it ſtrikes the mind with an inward joy, and ſpread's a cheerfulneſs and de⯑light through all its faculties.’

SOME degree of verboſity may be here diſcovered, and phraſes repeated, which are little more than the echo of one ano⯑ther; ſuch as—diffuſing ſatisfaction and complacency through the imagination—ſtrik⯑ing the mind with inward joy—ſpreading cheerfulneſs and delight through all its facul⯑ties. At the ſame time, I readily admit that this full and flowing Style, even though it carry ſome redundancy, is not unſuitable to the gaiety of the ſubject on which the author is entering, and is more allowable here, than it would have been on ſome other occaſions.

‘There is not, perhaps, any real beauty or deformity more in one piece of matter than another; becauſe we might have been ſo made; that whatever now appears loathſome to us, might have ſhewn itſelf agreeable; but we find, by experience, that there are ſeveral modifications of matter, which the mind, without any previous conſiderati⯑on, pronounces at firſt ſight beautiful or deformed.’

IN this ſentence there is nothing remark⯑able, in any view, to draw our attention. We may obſerve only, that the word more, towards the beginning, is not in its proper place, and that the prepoſition in, is want⯑ing [97] before another. The phraſe ought to have ſtood thus—Beauty or deformity in one piece of matter, more than in another.

‘Thus we ſee, that every different ſpecies of ſenſible crea⯑tures has its different notions of Beauty, and that each of them is moſt affected with the beauties of its own kind. This is no where more remarkable, than in birds of the ſame ſhape and proportion, when we often ſee the male de⯑termined in his courtſhip by the ſingle grain or tincture of a feather, and never diſcovering any charms but in the colour of its ſpecies.’

NEITHER is there here any particular ele⯑gance or felicity of language.—Different ſenſe of Beauty would have been a more proper expreſſion to have been applied to irrational creatures, than as it ſtands, differ⯑ent notions of Beauty. In the cloſe of the ſecond Sentence, when the Author ſays, colour of its ſpecies, he is guilty of a conſi⯑derable inaccuracy in changing the gender, as he had ſaid in the ſame Sentence, that the male was determined in his courtſhip.

‘There is a ſecond kind of Beauty, that we find in the ſeveral products of art and nature, which does not work in the imagination with that warmth and violence, as the beauty that appears in our proper ſpecies, but is apt, however, to raiſe in us a ſecret delight, and a kind of fondneſs for the places or objects in which we diſcover it.’

[98] STILL, I am ſorry to ſay, we find little to praiſe. As in his enunciation of the ſubject, when beginning the former para⯑graph, he appeared to have been treating of Beauty in general, in diſtinction from greatneſs or novelty; this ſecond kind of Beauty of which he here ſpeaks, comes up⯑on us in a ſort of ſurprize, and it is only by degrees we learn, that formerly he had no more in view than the Beauty which the different ſpecies of ſenſible creatures find in one another. This ſecond kind of Beauty, he ſays, we find in the ſeveral products of art and nature. He undoubtedly means, not in all, but in ſeveral of the products of art and nature; and ought ſo to have expreſſed himſelf; and in the place of products, to have uſed alſo the more proper word, pro⯑ductions. When he adds, that this kind of Beauty does not work in the imagination with that warmth and violence as the beauty that appears in our proper ſpecies; the language would certainly have been more pure and elegant, if he had ſaid, that it does not work upon the imagination with ſuch warmth and violence, as the beauty that appears in our own ſpecies.

‘This conſiſts either in the gaiety, or variety of co⯑lours, in the ſymmetry and proportion of parts, in the arrangement and diſpoſition of bodies, or in a juſt mix⯑ture and concurrence of all together. Among theſe ſe⯑veral kinds of Beauty, the eye takes moſt delight in colours.’

[99] To the language here, I ſee no objecti⯑on that can be made.

‘We no where meet with a more glorious or pleaſing ſhow in nature, than what appears in the heavens at the riſing and ſetting of the Sun, which is wholly made up of thoſe different ſta [...]s of light, that ſhow themſelves in clouds of a different ſituation.’

THE chief ground of criticiſm on this Sentence, is the disjointed ſituation of the relative which. Grammatically, it refers to the riſing and ſetting of the Sun. But the Author meant, that it ſhould refer to the ſhow which appears in the heavens at that time. It is too common among Au⯑thors, when they are writing without much care, to make ſuch particles as this, and which, refer not to any particular antece⯑dent word, but to the tenour of ſome phraſe, or perhaps the ſcope of ſome whole Sentence, which has gone before. This practice ſaves them trouble in marſhaling their words, and arranging a period: but, though it may leave their meaning intelli⯑gible, yet it renders that meaning much leſs perſpicuous, determined, and preciſe, than it might otherwiſe have been. The error I have pointed out, might have been avoid⯑ed by a ſmall alternation in the conſtruction of the Sentence, after ſome ſuch manner as this: We no where meet with a more glo⯑rious and pleaſing ſhow in nature, than what is formed in the heavens at the riſing [100] and ſetting of the Sun, by the different ſtains of light which ſhow themſelves in clouds of different ſituations. Our Author writes, in clouds of a different ſituation, by which he means, clouds that differ in ſituation from each other. But, as this is neither the obvious nor grammatical meaning of his words, it was neceſſary to change the ex⯑preſſion, as I have done, into the plural number.

‘For this reaſon, we find the poets, who are always addreſſing themſelves to the imagination, borrowing more of their epithets from colours than from any other topic.’

On this Sentence nothing occurs, except a remark ſimilar to what was made be⯑ſore, of looſe connection with the Sentence which precedes. For, though he begins with ſaying, For this reaſon, the foregoing Sentence, which was employed about the clouds and the Sun, gives no reaſon for the general propoſition he now lays down. The reaſon to which he refers, was given two Sentences before, when he obſerved, that the eye takes more delight in colours than in any other beauty; and it was with that Sentence that the preſent one ſhould have ſtood immediately connected.

‘As the Fancy delights in every thing that is great, ſtrange, or beautiful, and is ſtill more pleaſed, the more it finds of theſe perfections in the ſame object, ſo it is ca⯑pable [101] of receiving a new ſatisfaction by the aſſiſtance of another ſenſe.’

Another ſenſe here, means grammatically, another ſenſe than Fancy. For there is no other thing in the period to which this ex⯑preſſion, another ſenſe, can at all be oppoſed. He had not for ſome time made mention of any ſenſe whatever. He forgot to add, what was undoubtedly in his thoughts, another ſenſe than that of ſight.

‘Thus any continued ſound, as the muſic of birds, or a fall of water, awakens every moment the mind of the be⯑holder, and makes him more attentive to the ſeveral beau⯑ties of the place which lie before him. Thus, if there ariſes a fragrancy of ſmells or perfumes, they heighten the pleaſures of the imagination, and make even the co⯑lours and verdure of the landſcape appear more agree⯑able; for the ideas of both ſenſes recommend each other, and are pleaſanter together, than when they enter the mind ſeparately; as the different colours of a picture, when they are well-diſpoſed, ſet off one another, and re⯑ceive an additional beauty from the advantage of their ſituation.’

WHETHER Mr. Addiſon's theory here be juſt or not, may be queſtioned. A conti⯑nued ſound, ſuch as that of a fall of water, is ſo far from awakening, every moment, the mind of the beholder, that nothing is more likely to lull him aſleep. It may, indeed, pleaſe the imagination, and heighten the beauties of the ſcene; but it produces this [102] effect, by a ſoothing, not by an awakening influence. With regard to the Style, no⯑thing appears exceptionable. The flow, both of language and of ideas, is very agree⯑able. The Author continues, to the end, the ſame pleaſing train of thought, which had run through the reſt of the Paper: and leaves us agreeably employed in comparing together different degrees of Beauty.

LECTURE XXII. CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN N^o. 413. OF THE SPEC⯑TATOR.

‘THOUGH in yeſterday's Paper we conſidered how every thing that is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagination with pleaſure, we muſt own, that it is impoſſible for us to aſſign the neceſſary cauſe of this pleaſure, becauſe we know neither the nature of an idea, nor the ſubſtance of a human ſoul, which might help us to diſcover the conformity or diſagreeableneſs of the one to the other; and, therefore, for want of ſuch a light, all that we can do in ſpeculations of this kind, is, to re⯑flect on thoſe operations of the ſoul that are moſt agree⯑able, and to range, under their proper heads, what is pleaſing or diſpleaſing to the mind, without being able to trace out the ſeveral neceſſary and efficient cauſes from whence the pleaſure or diſpleaſure ariſes.’

THIS Sentence, conſidered as an intro⯑ductory one, muſt be acknowledged to be very faulty. An introductory Sentence ſhould never contain any thing that can in any degree fatigue or puzzle the reader. When an Author is entering on a new [104] branch of his ſubject, informing us of what he has done, and what he purpoſes farther to do, we naturally expect that he ſhould expreſs himſelf in the ſimpleſt and moſt per⯑ſpicuous manner poſſible. But the Sentence now before us is crowded and indiſtinct; containing three ſeparate propoſitions, which, as I ſhall afterwards ſhow, required ſeparate Sentences to have unfolded them. Mr. Ad⯑diſon's chief excellency, as a writer, lay in deſcribing and painting. There he is great; but in methodiſing and reaſoning, he is not ſo eminent. As, beſides the general fault of prolixity and indiſtinctneſs, this Sentence contains ſeveral inaccuracies, I will be obliged to enter into a minute diſcuſſion of its ſtructure and parts; a diſcuſſion, which to many readers will appear tedious, and which therefore they will naturally paſs over; but which, to thoſe who are ſtudying compoſition, I hope may prove of ſome benefit.

Though in yeſterday's Paper we conſidered—The import of though is, notwithſtanding that. When it appears in the beginning of a Sentence, its relative generally is yet: and it is employed to warn us, after we have been informed of ſome truth, that we are not to infer from it ſome other thing which we might perhaps have expected to follow: ‘"Though virtue be the only road to happineſs, yet it does not permit the un⯑limited gratification of our deſires."’ Now [105] it is plain, that there was no ſuch oppoſi⯑tion between the ſubject of yeſterday's Pa⯑per, and what the Author is now going to ſay, between his aſſerting a fact, and his not being able to aſſign the cauſe of that fact, as rendered the uſe of this adverſative particle though, either neceſſary or proper in the introduction.—We conſidered how eve⯑ry thing that is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagination with pleaſure.—The adverb how ſignifies, either the means by which, or the manner in which, ſome⯑thing is done. But, in truth, neither one nor other of theſe had been conſidered by our Author. He had illuſtrated the fact alone, that they do affect the imagination with pleaſure; and, with reſpect to the quomodo, or the how, he is ſo far from hav⯑ing conſidered it, that he is juſt now going to ſhow that it cannot be explained, and that we muſt reſt contented with the know⯑ledge of the fact alone, and of its purpoſe or final cauſe.—We muſt own, that it is im⯑poſſible for us to aſſign the neceſſary cauſe (he means; what is more commonly called the efficient cauſe) of this pleaſure, becauſe we know neither the nature of an idea, nor the ſubſtance of a human ſoul.—The ſubſtance of a human ſoul is certainly a very uncouth ex⯑preſſion, and there appears no reaſon why he ſhould have varied from the word nature, which would have equally applied to idea and to ſoul.

[106] Which might help us, our Author pro⯑ceeds, to diſcover the conformity or diſagreea⯑bleneſs of the one to the other.—The which, at the beginning of this member of the period, is ſurely ungrammatical, as it is a relative, without any antecedent in all the Sentence. It refers, by the conſtruction, to the nature of an idea, or the ſubſtance of a human ſoul; but this is by no means the reference which the Author intended. His meaning is, that our knowing the nature of an idea, and the ſubſtance of a human ſoul, might help us to diſcover the conformity or diſagreeableneſs of the one to the other: and therefore the ſyntax abſolutely required the word know⯑ledge to have been inſerted as the antecedent to which. I have before remarked, and the remark deſerves to be repeated, that nothing is a more certain ſign of careleſs compoſition than to make ſuch relatives as which, not refer to any preciſe expreſſion, but carry a looſe and vague relation to the general ſtrain of what had gone before. When our ſen⯑tences run into this form, we may be aſſured there is ſomething in the conſtruction of them that requires alteration. The phraſe of diſcovering the conformity or diſagreeable⯑neſs of the one to the other is likewiſe excep⯑tionable; for diſagreeableneſs neither forms a proper contraſt to the other word, confor⯑mity, nor expreſſes what the author meant here (as far as any meaning can be gathered from his words), that is, a certain unſuit⯑ableneſs or want of conformity to the na⯑ture [107] of the ſoul. To ſay the truth, this member of the ſentence had much better have been omitted altogether. The confor⯑mity or diſagreeableneſs of an idea to the ſub⯑ſtance of a human ſoul, is a phraſe which conveys to the mind no diſtinct nor intel⯑ligent conception whatever. The author had before given a ſufficient reaſon for his not aſſigning the efficient cauſe of thoſe pleaſures of the imagination, becauſe we neither know the nature of our own ideas nor of the ſoul: and this farther diſcuſſion about the conformity or diſagreeableneſs of the nature of the one, to the ſubſtance of the other, affords no clear nor uſeful illuſtration.

And therefore, the ſentence goes on, for want of ſuch a light, all that we can do in ſpeculations of this kind, is to reflect on thoſe operations of the ſoul that are moſt agreeable, and to range under their proper heads what is pleaſing or diſpleaſing to the mind.—The two expreſſions in the beginning of this member, therefore, and for want of ſuch a light, evi⯑dently refer to the ſame thing, and are quite ſynonymous. One or other of them, there⯑fore, had better have been omitted. Inſtead of to range under their proper heads, the lan⯑guage would have been ſmoother, if their had been left out;—without being able to trace out the ſeveral neceſſary and efficient cauſes from whence the pleaſure or diſpleaſure ariſes. The expreſſion, from whence, though [108] ſeemingly juſtified by very frequent uſage, is taxed by Dr. Johnſon as a vicious mode of ſpeech; ſeeing whence alone, has all the power of from whence, which therefore ap⯑pears an unneceſſary reduplication. I am inclined to think, that the whole of this laſt member of the ſentence had better have been dropped. The period might have cloſed with full propriety, at the words, pleaſing or diſpleaſing to the mind. All that follows, ſuggeſts no idea that had not been fully conveyed in the preceding part of the ſentence. It is a mere expletive adjection which might be omitted, not only without injury to the meaning, but to the great re⯑lief of a ſentence already labouring under the multitude of words.

HAVING now finiſhed the analyſis of this long ſentence, I am inclined to be of opinion, that if, on any occaſion, we can adventure to alter Mr. Addiſon's Style, it may be done to advantage here, by break⯑ing down this period in the following man⯑ner: ‘"In yeſterday's paper, we have ſhown that every thing which is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagination with pleaſure. We muſt own, that it is impoſſible for us to aſſign the efficient cauſe of this pleaſure, becauſe we know not the nature either of an idea, or of the human ſoul. All that we can do, therefore, in ſpeculations of this kind, is to reflect on the operations of the ſoul, [109] which are moſt agreeable, and to range under proper heads, what is pleaſing or diſpleaſing to the mind."’—We proceed now to the examination of the following ſentences.

‘Final cauſes lie more bare and open to our obſervation, as there are often a great variety that belong to the ſame effect; and theſe, though they are not altogether ſo ſatis⯑factory, are generally more uſeful than the other, as they give us greater occaſion of admiring the goodneſs and wiſ⯑dom of the firſt contriver.’

THOUGH ſome difference might be traced between the ſenſe of bare and open, yet as they are here employed, they are ſo nearly ſynonymous, that one of them was ſuffi⯑cient. It would have been enough to have ſaid, Final cauſes lie more open to obſervation.—One can ſcarcely help obſerving here, that the obviouſneſs of final cauſes does not proceed, as Mr. Addiſon ſuppoſes, from a variety of them concurring in the ſame effect, which is often not the caſe; but from our being able to aſcertain more clearly, from our own experience, the con⯑gruity of a final cauſe with the circum⯑ſtances of our condition; whereas the con⯑ſtituent parts of ſubjects, whence efficient cauſes proceed, lie for moſt part beyond the reach of our faculties. But as this remark reſpects the thought more than the ſtyle, it is ſufficient for us to obſerve, that when he ſays, a great variety that belong to the [110] ſame effect, the expreſſion, ſtrictly conſider⯑ed, is not altogether proper. The acceſ⯑ſory is properly ſaid to belong to the prin⯑cipal; not the principal to the acceſſory. Now an effect is conſidered as the acceſſory or conſequence of its cauſe; and therefore, though we might well ſay a variety of ef⯑fects belong to the ſame cauſe, it ſeems not ſo proper to ſay, that a variety of cauſes belong to the ſame effect.

‘One of the final cauſes of our delight in any thing that is great may be this: The Supreme Author of our being has ſo formed the ſoul of man, that nothing but himſelf can be its laſt, adequate, and proper happineſs. Be⯑cauſe, therefore, a great part of our happineſs muſt ariſe from the contemplation of his being, that he might give our ſouls a juſt reliſh of ſuch a contemplation, he has made them naturally delight in the apprehenſion of what is great or unlimited.’

THE concurrence of two conjunctions, becauſe, therefore, forms rather a harſh and unpleaſing beginning of the laſt of theſe Sentences; and, in the cloſe, one would think, that the Author might have deviſed a happier word than apprehenſion, to be ap⯑plied to what is unlimited. But that I may not be thought hypercritical, I ſhall make no farther obſervation on theſe Sentences.

‘Our admiration, which is a very pleaſing motion of the mind, immediately riſes at the conſideration of any object that takes up a good deal of room in the fancy, and, [111] by conſequence, will improve into the higheſt pitch of aſtoniſhment and devotion, when we contemplate his na⯑ture, that is neither circumſcribed by time nor place, nor to be comprehended by the largeſt capacity of a creat⯑ed being.’

HERE, our Author's Style riſes beauti⯑fully along with the thought. However inaccurate he may ſometimes be when coolly philoſophiſing, yet, whenever his fancy is awakened by deſcription, or his mind, as here, warmed with ſome glowing ſentiment, he preſently becomes great, and diſcovers, in his language, the hand of a maſter. Every one muſt obſerve, with what felicity this period is conſtructed. The words are long and majeſtic. The members riſe one above another, and con⯑duct the ſentence, at laſt, to that full and harmonious cloſe, which leaves upon the mind ſuch an impreſſion, as the author in⯑tended to leave, of ſomething uncommon⯑ly great, awful, and magnificent.

‘He has annexed a ſecret pleaſure to the idea of any thing that is new or uncommon, that he might encourage us in the purſuit of knowledge, and engage us to ſearch into the wonders of creation; for every new idea brings ſuch a pleaſure along with it, as rewards the pains we have taken in its acquiſition, and, conſequently, ſerves as a motive to put us upon freſh diſcoveries.’

THE Language, in this Sentence, is clear and preciſe: only, we cannot but obſerve, [112] in this, and the two following Sentences, which are conſtructed in the ſame manner, a ſtrong proof of Mr. Addiſon's unreaſon⯑able partiality to the particle that, in pre⯑ference to which—annexed a ſecret pleaſure to the idea of any thing that is new or un⯑common, that he might encourage us.—Here the firſt that, ſtands for a relative pronoun, and the next that, at the diſtance only of four words, is a conjunction. This con⯑fuſion of ſounds ſerves to embarraſs Style. Much better, ſure, to have ſaid, the idea of any thing which is new or uncommon, that he might encourage.—The expreſſion with which the ſentence concludes—a mo⯑tive to put us upon freſh diſcoveries—is flat, and in ſome degree, improper. He ſhould have ſaid, put us upon making freſh diſcove⯑ris—or rather, ſerves as a motive inciting us to make freſh diſcoveries.

‘He has made every thing that is beautiful in our own ſpecies, pleaſant, that all creatures might be tempt⯑ed to multiply their kind, and fill the world with inha⯑bitants; for, 'tis very remarkable, that wherever nature is croſt in the production of a monſter (the reſult of any unnatural mixture) the breed is incapable of propa⯑gating its likeneſs, and of founding a new order of crea⯑tures; ſo that, unleſs all animals were allured by the beauty of their own ſpecies, generation would be at an end, and the earth unpeopled.’

HERE we muſt, however reluctantly, re⯑turn to the employment of cenſure: for [113] this is among the worſt Sentences our Au⯑thor ever wrote; and contains a variety of blemiſhes. Taken as a whole, it is ex⯑tremely deficient in unity. Inſtead of a complete propoſition, it contains a ſort of chain of reaſoning, the links of which are ſo ill put together, that it is with difficul⯑ty we can trace the connection; and, unleſs we take the trouble of peruſing it ſeveral times, it will leave nothing on the mind but an indiſtinct and obſcure impreſ⯑ſion.

BESIDES this general fault, reſpecting the meaning, it contains ſome great inaccu⯑racies in Language. Firſt, God's having made every thing which is beautiful in our own ſpecies (that is in the human ſpecies) pleaſant, is certainly no motive for all crea⯑tures, for beaſts, and birds, and fiſhes, to multiply their kind. What the Author meant to ſay, though he has expreſſed him⯑ſelf in ſo erroneous a manner, undoubted⯑ly was, ‘"In all the different orders of crea⯑tures, he has made every thing, which is beautiful, in their own ſpecies, pleaſant, that all creatures might be tempted to multiply their kind."’ The ſecond mem⯑ber of the Sentence is ſtill worſe. For, it is very remarkable, that wherever nature is croſt in the production of a monſter, &c. The reaſon which he here gives, for the preceding aſſertion, intimated by the caſual particle for, is far from being obvious. [114] The connection of thought is not readily apparent, and would have required an in⯑termediate ſtep, to render it diſtinct. But, what does he mean, by nature being croſt in the production of a monſter? One might un⯑derſtand him to mean, ‘"diſappointed in its intention of producing a monſter,"’ as when we ſay, one is croſt in his purſuits, we mean, that he is diſappointed in accom⯑pliſhing the end which he intended. Had he ſaid, croſt by the production of a monſter, the ſenſe would have been more intelligible. But the proper rectification of the expreſſion would be to inſert the adverb as, before the prepoſition in, after this manner—wherever nature is croſt, as in the production of a mon⯑ſter,—the inſertion of this particle as, throws ſo much light on the conſtruction of this member of the ſentence, that I am very much inclined to believe, it had ſtood thus, originally, in our Author's manuſcript; and that the preſent reading is a typographical error, which, having crept into the firſt edition of the Spectator, ran through all the ſubſequent ones.

‘In the laſt place, he has made every thing that is beautiful, in all other objects, pleaſant, or rather has made ſo many objects appear beautiful, that he might ren⯑der the whole creation more gay and delightful. He has given, almoſt, every thing about us the power of raiſing an agreeable idea in the imagination; ſo that it is impoſ⯑ſible for us to behold his works with coldneſs or indiffe⯑rence, [115] and to ſurvey ſo many beauties without a ſecret ſa⯑tisfaction and complacency.’

THE idea, here, is ſo juſt, and the Lan⯑guage ſo clear, flowing, and agreeable, that, to remark any diffuſeneſs which may be attributed to theſe ſentences, would be juſtly eſteemed hypercritical.

‘Things would make but a poor appearance to the eye, if we ſaw them only in their proper figures and motions: and what reaſon can we aſſign for their exciting, in us, many of thoſe ideas which are different from any thing that exiſts in the objects themſelves (for ſuch are light and colours), were it not to add ſupernumerary ornaments to the univerſe, and make it more agreeable to the imagination?’

OUR Author is now entering on a theo⯑ry, which he is about to illuſtrare, if not with much philoſophical accuracy, yet, with great beauty of fancy, and glow of expreſſion. A ſtrong inſtance of his want of accuracy, appears in the manner in which he opens the ſubject. For what meaning is there in things exciting in us many of thoſe ideas which are different from any thing that exiſts in the objects? No one, ſure, ever imagined, that our ideas exiſt in the objects. Ideas, it is agreed on all hands, can exiſt no where but in the mind. What Mr. Locke's philoſophy teaches, and what our Author ſhould have ſaid, is, exciting in us many ideas of qualities which are different [116] from any thing that exiſts in the objects. The ungraceful parentheſis which follows, for ſuch are light and colours, had far bet⯑ter have been avoided, and incorporated with the reſt of the Sentence, in this man⯑ner:—‘"exciting in us many ideas of quali⯑ties, ſuch as light and colours, which are different from any thing that exiſts in the objects."’

‘We are every where entertained with pleaſing ſhows, and apparitions. We diſcover imaginary glories in the heavens, and in the earth, and ſee ſome of this viſiona⯑ry beauty poured out upon the whole creation; but what a rough unſightly ſketch of nature ſhould we be enter⯑tained with, did all her colouring diſappear, and the ſe⯑veral diſtinctions of light and ſhade vaniſh? In ſhort, our ſouls are delightfully loſt and bewildered in a pleaſ⯑ing deluſion; and we walk about like the enchanted hero of a romance, who ſees beautiful caſtles, woods, and meadows; and, at the ſame time, hears the warbling of birds, and the purling of ſtreams; but, upon the finiſhing of ſome ſecret ſpell, the fantaſtic ſcene breaks up, and the diſconſolate knight finds himſelf on a bar⯑ren heath, or in a ſolitary deſart.’

AFTER having been obliged to point out ſeveral inaccuracies, I return with much more pleaſure to the diſplay of beau⯑ties, for which we have now full ſcope; for theſe two Sentences are ſuch as do the higheſt honour to Mr. Addiſon's ta⯑lents as a writer. Warmed with the idea he had laid hold of, his delicate ſenſibility [117] to the beauty of nature, is finely diſplayed in the illuſtration of it. The Style is flow⯑ing and full, without being too diffuſe. It is flowery, but not gaudy; elevated, but not oſtentatious.

AMIDST this blaze of beauties, it is ne⯑ceſſary for us to remark one or two inac⯑curacies. When it is ſaid, towards the cloſe of the firſt of thoſe Sentences, what a rough unſightly ſketch of nature ſhould we be entertained with, the prepoſition with, ſhould have been placed at the beginning, rather than at the end of this member; and the word entertained, is both improperly applied here, and careleſsly repeated from the former part of the Sentence. It was there employed according to its more com⯑mon uſe, as relating to agreeable objects. We are every where entertained with pleaſing ſhows. Here, it would have been more proper to have changed the phraſe, and ſaid, with what a rough unſightly ſketch of nature ſhould we be preſented.—At the cloſe of the ſecond Sentence, where it is ſaid, the fantaſtic ſcene breaks up, the expreſſion is lively, but not altogether juſtifiable. An aſſembly breaks up; a ſcene cloſes or diſap⯑pears.

BATING theſe two ſlight inaccuracies, the Style, here, is not only correct, but perfectly elegant. The moſt ſtriking beau⯑ty of the paſſage ariſes from the happy [118] ſimile which the Author employs, and the fine illuſtration which it gives to the thought. The enchanted hero, the beauti⯑ful caſtles, the fantaſtic ſcene, the ſecret ſpell, the diſconſolate knight, are terms choſen with the utmoſt felicity, and ſtrongly recal all thoſe romantic ideas with which he in⯑tended to amuſe our imagination. Few authors are more ſucceſsful in their image⯑ry than Mr. Addiſon; and few paſſages in his whrks, or in thoſe of any author, are more beautiful and pictureſque, than that on which we have been commenting.

‘It is not improbable, that ſomething like this may be the ſtate of the ſoul after its firſt ſeparation, in reſpect of the images it will receive from matter; though, in⯑deed, the ideas of colours are ſo pleaſing and beautiful in the imagination, that it is poſſible the ſoul will not be deprived of them, but, perhaps, find them excited by ſome other occaſional cauſe, as they are, at preſent, by the different impreſſions of the ſubtile matter on the organ of ſight.’

As all human things, after having attain⯑ed the ſummit, begin to decline, we muſt acknowledge, that, in this Sentence, there is a ſenſible falling off from the beauty of what went before. It is broken, and defi⯑cient in unity. Its parts are not ſuffici⯑ently compacted. It contains, beſides, ſome faulty expreſſions. When it is ſaid, ſomething like this may be the ſtate of the ſoul, to the pronoun this, there is no de⯑termined antecedent; it refers to the gene⯑ral [119] import of the preceding deſcription, which, as I have ſeveral times remarked, always renders Style clumſy and inelegant, if not obſcure—the ſtate of the ſoul after its firſt ſeparation, appears to be an incomplete phraſe, and firſt, ſeems an uſeleſs, and even an improper word. More diſtinct if he had ſaid,—ſtate of the ſoul immediately on its ſeparation from the body—the adverb per⯑haps, is redundant, after having juſt before ſaid, it is poſſible.

‘I have here ſuppoſed, that my reader is acquaint⯑ed with that great modern diſcovery, which is, at pre⯑ſent, univerſally acknowledged by all the enquirers into natural philoſophy; namely, that light and colours, as apprehended by the imagination, are only ideas in the mind, and not qualities that have any exiſtence in mat⯑ter. As this is a truth which has been proved incon⯑teſtibly by many modern philoſophers, and is, indeed, one of the fineſt ſpeculations in that ſcience, if the Engliſh Reader would ſee the notion explained at large, he may find it in the eight chapter of the ſecond book of Mr. Locke's Eſſay on the Human Underſtanding.’

IN theſe two concluding Sentences, the Author, haſtening to finiſh, appears to write rather careleſsly. In the firſt of them, a manifeſt tautology occurs, when he ſpeaks of what is univerſally acknowledged by all enquirers. In the ſecond, when he calls a truth which has been inconteſtibly proved; firſt, a ſpeculation, and afterwards, a notion, the Language ſurely is not very accurate. [120] When he adds, one of the fineſt ſpeculati⯑ons in that ſcience, it does not, at firſt, ap⯑pear what ſcience he means. One would imagine, he meant to refer to modern philo⯑ſophers; for natural philoſophy (to which, doubtleſs, he refers) ſtands at much too great a diſtance to be the proper or obvi⯑ous antecedent to the pronoun that. The circumſtance towards the cloſe, if the Eng⯑liſh Reader would ſee the notion explained at large, he may find it, is properly taken notice of by the Author of the Elements of Criti⯑ciſm, as wrong arranged; and is rectified thus: the Engliſh Reader, if he would ſee the notion explained at large, may find it, &c.

IN concluding the Examination of this Paper, we may obſerve, that, though not a very long one, it exhibits a ſtriking view both of the beauties, and the defects, of Mr. Addiſon's Style. It contains ſome of the beſt, and ſome of the worſt Sentences, that are to be found in his works. But upon the whole, it is an agreeable and elegant Eſſay.

LECTURE XXIII. CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN No. 414. OF THE SPEC⯑TATOR.

‘IF we conſider the works of Nature and Art, as they are qualified to entertain the imagination, we ſhall find the laſt very defective in compariſon of the former; for though they may ſometimes appear as beau⯑tiful or ſtrange, they can have nothing in them of that vaſtneſs and immenſity which afford ſo great an entertainment to the mind of the beholder.’

I HAD occaſion formerly to obſerve, that an introductory Sentence ſhould always be ſhort and ſimple, and contain no more mat⯑ter than is neceſſary for opening the ſub⯑ject. This ſentence leads to a repetition of this obſervation, as it contains both an aſſertion and the proof of that aſſertion; two things which, for the moſt part, but [122] eſpecially at firſt ſetting out, are with more advantage kept ſeparate. It would certainly have been better, if this Sen⯑tence had contained only the aſſertion, end⯑ing with the word former: and if a new one had then begun, entering on the proofs of Nature's ſuperiority over Art, which is the ſubject continued to the end of the pa⯑ragraph. The proper diviſion of the period I ſhall point out, after having firſt made a few obſervations which occur on different parts of it.

If we conſider the works—Perhaps it might have been preferable, if our Author had begun, with ſaying, When we conſider the works.—Diſcourſe ought always to begin, when it is poſſible, with a clear propoſition. The if, which is here em⯑ployed, converts the Sentence into a ſup⯑poſition, which is always in ſome degree entangling, and proper to be uſed only when the courſe of reaſoning renders it ne⯑ceſſary. As this obſervation however may, perhaps, be conſidered as over-refined, and as the ſenſe would have remained the ſame in either form of expreſſion, I do not mean to charge our Author with any error on this account. We cannot abſolve him from inaccuracy in what immediately follows—the works of Nature and Art. It is the ſcope of the Author throughout this whole Paper, to compare Nature and Art together, and to oppoſe them in ſeveral views to each [123] other. Certainly therefore, in the begin⯑ning, he ought to have kept them as diſ⯑tinct as poſſible, by interpoſing the prepo⯑ſition, and ſaying the works of Nature, and of Art. As the words ſtand at preſent, they would lead us to think that he is go⯑ing to treat of theſe works, not as contraſt⯑ed, but as connected; as united in forming one whole. When I ſpeak of Body and Soul as united in the Human Nature, I would interpoſe neither article nor prepo⯑ſition between them; ‘"Man is compound⯑ed of Soul and Body."’ But the caſe is altered, if I mean to diſtinguiſh them from each other; then I repreſent them as ſepa⯑rate; and ſay, ‘"I am to treat of the in⯑tereſts of the Soul, and of the Body."’

Though they may ſometimes appear as beau⯑tiful or ſtrange—I cannot help conſidering this as a looſe member of the period. It does not clearly appear at firſt what the an⯑tecedent is to they. In reading onwards, we ſee the works of Art to be meant; but from the ſtructure of the Sentence, they might be underſtood to refer to the former, as well as to the laſt. In what follows, there is a greater ambiguity—may ſometimes ap⯑pear as beautiful or ſtrange. It is very doubtful in what ſenſe we are to under⯑ſtand as, in this paſſage. For, according as it is accented in reading, it may ſignify, that they appear equally beautiful or ſtrange, to wit, with the works of Nature; and then [124] it has the force of the Latin tam: or it may ſignify no more than that they appear in the light of beautiful and ſtrange; and then it has the force of the Latin tanquam, with⯑out importing any compariſon. An expreſ⯑ſion ſo ambiguous, is always faulty; and it is doubly ſo here; becauſe, if the Author intended the former ſenſe, and meant (as ſeems moſt probable) to employ as for a mark of compariſon, it was neceſſary to have mentioned both the compared objects; whereas only one member of the compari⯑ſon is here mentioned, viz. the works of Art; and if he intended the latter ſenſe, as was in that caſe ſuperfluous and encum⯑bering, and he had better have ſaid ſimply, appear beautiful or ſtrange.—The epithet ſtrange, which Mr. Addiſon applies to the works of Art, cannot be praiſed. Strange works, appears not by any means a happy expreſſion to ſignify what he here intends, which is new or uncommon.

THE ſentence concludes with much har⯑mony and dignity—they can have nothing in them of that vaſtneſs and immenſity which afford ſo great an entertainment to the mind of the beholder. There is here a fulneſs and grandeur of expreſſion well ſuited to the ſubject; though, perhaps, entertainment is not quite the proper word for expreſſing the effect which vaſtneſs and immenſity have upon the mind. Reviewing the obſerva⯑tions that have been made on this period, it [125] might, I think, with advantage, be reſolv⯑ed into two Sentences ſomewhat after this manner: ‘"When we conſider the works of Nature and of Art, as they are qualified to entertain the imagination, we ſhall find the latter very defective in compariſon of the former. The works of Art may ſometimes appear no leſs beautiful or un⯑common than thoſe of Nature; but they can have nothing of that vaſtneſs and immenſity which ſo highly tranſport the mind of the beholder."’

‘The one,’ proceeds our Author in the next Sentence, ‘may be as polite and delicate as the other; but can never ſhew herſelf ſo auguſt and magnificent in the deſign.’

THE one and the other, in the firſt part of this Sentence, muſt unqueſtionably re⯑fer to the works of Nature and of Art. For of theſe he had been ſpeaking immediately before; and with reference to the plural word, works, had employed the plural pro⯑noun they. But in the courſe of the Sen⯑tence, he drops this conſtruction; and paſſes very incongruouſly to the perſonification of Art—can never ſhew herſelf.—To render his ſtyle conſiſtent, Art, and not the works of Art, ſhould have been made the nomina⯑tive in this Sentence.—Art may be as polite and delicate as Nature, but can never ſhew herſelf—Polite is a term oftener applied to perſons and to manners, than to things; [126] and is employed to ſignify their being high⯑ly civilized. Poliſhed, or refined, was the idea which the Author had in view. Though the general turn of this Sentence be elegant, yet, in order to render it perfect, I muſt obſerve, that the concluding words, in the deſign, ſhould either have been altogether omitted, or ſomething ſhould have been properly oppoſed to them in the preceding member of the period, thus: ‘"Art may, in the execution, be as poliſhed and deli⯑cate as Nature; but, in the deſign, can never ſhew herſelf ſo auguſt and mag⯑nificent."’

‘There is ſomething more bold and maſterly in the rough, careleſs ſtrokes of Nature, than in the nice touches and embelliſhments of Art.’

THIS Sentence is perfectly happy and ele⯑gant; and carries, in all the expreſſions, that curioſa felicitas, for which Mr. Addiſon is ſo often remarkable. Bold and maſterly, are words applied with the utmoſt propriety. The ſtrokes of Nature are finely opoſed to the touches of art; and the rough ſtrokes to the nice touches; the former painting the freedom and eaſe of Nature, and the other, the diminutive exactneſs of art; while both are introduced before us as different perfor⯑mers, and their reſpective merits in execu⯑tion very juſtly contraſted with each other.

[127] ‘The beauties of the moſt ſtately garden or palace lie in a narrow compaſs, the imagination immediately runs them over, and requires ſomething elſe to gratify her; but in the wide fields of Nature, the ſight wanders up and down with confinement, and is fed with an infinite variety of images, without any cer⯑tain ſtint or number.’

THIS Sentence is not altogether ſo cor⯑rect and elegant as the former. It carries, however, in the main, the character of our Author's ſtyle; not ſtrictly accurate, but a⯑greeable, eaſy, and unaffected; enlivened too with a ſlight perſonification of the ima⯑gination, which gives a gaiety to the period. Perhaps it had been better, if this perſoni⯑fication of the imagination, with which the Sentence is introduced, had been continued throughout, and not changed unneceſſarily, and even improperly, into ſight, in the ſe⯑cond member, which is contrary both to unity and elegance. It might have ſtood thus—the imagination immediately runs them over, and requires ſomething elſe to gratify her; but in the wide fields of Nature, ſhe wanders up and down without confinement.—The e⯑pithet ſtately, which the author uſes in the beginning of the ſentence, applies with more propriety to palaces, than to gardens. The cloſe of the ſentence, without any cer⯑tain ſtint or number, may be objected to, as both ſuperfluous and ungraceful. It might perhaps have terminated better in this man⯑ner [128] —ſhe is fed with an infinite variety of im⯑ages, and wanders up and down without con⯑finement.

‘For this reaſon, we always find the Poet in love with a country life, where Nature appears in the greateſt perfection, and furniſhes out all thoſe ſcenes that are moſt apt to delight the imagination.’

THERE is nothing in this Sentence to attract particular attention. One would think it was rather the country, than a country life, on which the remark here made ſhould reſt. A country life may, be productive of ſimpli⯑city of manners, and of other virtues; but it is to the country itſelf, that the properties here mentioned belong, of diſplaying the beauties of Nature, and furniſhing thoſe ſcenes which delight the imagination.

‘But though there are ſeveral of theſe wild ſcenes that are more delightful than any artificial ſhows, yet we find the works of Nature ſtill more pleaſant, the more they reſemble thoſe of art; for in this caſe, our pleaſure riſes from a double principle; from the agreeableneſs of the objects to the eye, and from their ſimilitude to other ob⯑jects: we are pleaſed, as well with comparing their beau⯑ties, as with ſurveying them, and can repreſent them to our minds either as copies or as originals. Hence it is, that we take delight in a proſpect which is well laid out, and diverſified with fields and meadows, woods and ri⯑vers; in thoſe accidental landſcapes of trees, clouds, and cities, that are ſometimes found in the veins of marble, in the curious fretwork of rocks and grottos; and, in a [129] word, in any thing that hath ſuch a degree of variety and regularity as may ſeem the effect of deſign, in what we call the works of chance.’

THE Style in the two Sentences, which compoſe this paragraph, is ſmooth and per⯑ſpicuous. It lies open in ſome places to criticiſm; but leſt the reader ſhould tire of what he may conſider as petty remarks, I ſhall paſs over any which theſe Sentences ſuggeſt; the rather too, as the idea which they preſent to us, of Nature's reſembling Art, of Art's being conſidered as an origi⯑nal, and Nature as a copy, ſeems not very diſtinct nor well brought out, nor indeed very material to our Author's purpoſe.

‘If the products of Nature riſe in value, according as they more or leſs reſemble thoſe of Art, we may be ſure that artificial works receive a greater advantage from the reſemblance of ſuch as are natural; becauſe here the ſi⯑militude is not only pleaſant, but the pattern more per⯑fect.’

It is neceſſary to our preſent deſign, to point out two conſiderable inaccuracies which occur in this Sentence. If the pro⯑ducts (he had better have ſaid the produc⯑tions) of Nature riſe in value, according as they more or leſs reſemble thoſe of Art.—Does he mean, that theſe productions riſe in va⯑lue, both according as they more reſemble, and as they leſs reſemble, thoſe of Art? His meaning undoubtedly is, that they riſe in [130] value only, according as they more reſemble them: and therefore, either theſe words, or leſs, muſt be ſtruck out, or the Sentence muſt run thus—productions of Nature riſe or ſink in value, according as they more or leſs reſemble.—The preſent conſtruction of the Sentence has plainly been owing to haſty and careleſs writing.

THE other inaccuracy is towards the end of the Sentence, and ſerves to illuſtrate a rule which I formerly gave, concerning the poſition of adverbs. The Author ſays,—becauſe here, the ſimilitude is not only pleaſant, but the pattern more perfect. Here, by the poſition of the adverb only, we are led to imagine that he is going to give ſome other property of the ſimilitude, that it is not only pleaſant, as he ſays, but more than pleaſant; it is uſeful, or, on ſome account or other, valuable. Whereas, he is going to oppoſe another thing to the ſimilitude itſelf, and not to this property of its being pleaſant; and therefore, the right colloca⯑tion, beyond doubt, was, becauſe here, not only the ſimilitude is pleaſant, but the pattern more perfect: the contraſt lying, not be⯑tween pleaſant and more perfect, but be⯑tween ſimilitude and pattern.—Much of the clearneſs and neatneſs of Style depends on ſuch attentions as theſe.

‘The prettieſt landſcape I ever ſaw, was one drawn on the walls of a dark room, which ſtood oppoſite on one [133] ſide to a navigable river, and, on the other, to a park. The experiment is very common in optics.’

IN the deſcription of the landſcape which follows, Mr. Addiſon is abundantly happy; but in this introduction to it, he is obſcure and indiſtinct. One who had not ſeen the experiment of the Camera Obſcura, could comprehend nothing of what he meant. And even, after we underſtand what he points at, we are at ſome loſs, whether to underſtand his deſcription as of one conti⯑nued landſcape, or of two different ones, produced by the projection of two Camera Obſcuras on oppoſite walls. The ſcene, which I am inclined to think Mr. Addiſon here refers to, is Greenwich Park, with the proſpect of the Thames, as ſeen by a Camera Obſcura, which is placed in a ſmall room in the upper ſtory of the Obſervatory; where I remember to have ſeen, many years ago, the whole ſcene here deſcribed, correſponding ſo much to Mr. Addiſon's account of it in this paſſage, that, at the time, it recalled it to my memory. As the Obſervatory ſtands in the middle of the Park, it overlooks, from one ſide, both the river and the park; and the objects after⯑wards mentioned, the ſhips, the trees, and the deer, are preſented in one view, with⯑out needing any aſſiſtance from oppoſite walls. Put into plainer language, the Sen⯑tence might run thus: ‘"The prettieſt landſcape I ever ſaw, was one formed by [132] a Camera Obſcura, a common optical inſtrument, on the wall of a dark room, which overlooked a navigable river and a park."’

‘Here you might diſcover the waves and fluctuations of the water in ſtrong and proper colours, with the picture of a ſhip entering at one end, and ſailing by degrees through the whole piece. On another, there appeared the green ſhadows of trees, waving to and fro with the wind, and herds of deer among them in miniature, leap⯑ing about upon the wall.’

BATING one or two ſmall inaccuracies, this is beautiful and lively painting. The principal inaccuracy lies in the connection of the two Sentences, Here, and On another. I ſuppoſe the Author meant, on one ſide, and on another ſide. As it ſtands, another is ungrammatical, having nothing to which it refers. But the fluctuations of the wa⯑ter, the ſhip entering and ſailing on by de⯑grees, the trees waving in the wind, and the herds of deer among them leaping about, is all very elegant, and gives a beau⯑tiful conception of the ſcene meant to be deſcribed.

‘I muſt confeſs the novelty of ſuch a ſight, may be one occaſion of its pleaſantneſs to the imagination; but cer⯑tainly the chief reaſon, is its nearer reſemblance to Na⯑ture; as it does not only, like other pictures, give the colour and figure, but the motions of the things it repre⯑ſents.’

[133] IN this Sentence there is nothing re⯑markable, either to be praiſed or blamed. In the concluſion, inſtead of the things it repreſents, the regularity of correct Style requires the things which it repreſents. In the beginning, as one occaſion and the chief reaſon are oppoſed to one another, I ſhould think it better to have repeated the ſame word—one reaſon of its pleaſantneſs to the imagination, but certainly the chief reaſon is, &c.

‘We have before obſerved, that there is generally, in Nature, ſomething more grand and auguſt than what we meet with in the curioſities of Art. When, there⯑fore, we ſee this imitated in any meaſure, it gives us a nobler and more exalted kind of pleaſure, than what we receive from the nicer and more accurate productions of Art.’

It would have been better to have avoid⯑ed terminating theſe two Sentences in a manner ſo ſimilar to each other; curioſities of Art—productions of Art.

‘On this account, our Engliſh gardens are not ſo en⯑tertaining to the fancy as thoſe in France and Italy, where we ſee a large extent of ground covered over with an agreeable mixture of garden and foreſt, which repre⯑ſens every where an artificial rudeneſs, much more charm⯑ing than that neatneſs and elegance which we meet with in thoſe of our own country.’

[134] THE expreſſion repreſent every where an artificial rudeneſs, is ſo inaccurate, that I am inclined to think, what ſtood in Mr. Addiſon's manuſcript muſt have been—preſent every where.—For the mixture of garden and foreſt does not repreſent, but actually exhibits or preſents, artificial rude⯑neſs. That mixture repreſents indeed na⯑tural rudeneſs, that is, is deſigned to imi⯑tate it; but it in reality is, and preſents, ar⯑tificial rudeneſs.

‘It might indeed be of ill conſequence to the public, as well as unprofitable to private perſons, to alienate ſo much ground from paſturage and the plough, in many parts of a country that is ſo well peopled and cultivated to a far greater advantage. But why may not a whole eſtate be thrown into a kind of garden by frequent plantations, that may turn as much to the profit as the pleaſure of the owner? A marſh overgrown with willows, or a mountain ſhaded with oaks, are not only more beautiful, but more beneficial, than when they lie bare and unadorned. Fields of corn make a pleaſant proſpect; and if the walks were a little taken care of that lie between them, and the natural embroidery of the meadows were helped and improved by ſome ſmall additions of art, and the ſeveral rows of hedges were ſet off by trees and flowers that the ſoil was capable of receiving, a man might make a pretty landſcape of his own poſſeſſions.’

THE ideas here are juſt, and the Style is eaſy and perſpicuous, though in ſome places bordering on the careleſs. In that paſſage, for inſtance, if the walks were a [135] little taken care of that lie between them—one member is clearly out of its place, and the turn of the phraſe, a little taken care of, is vulgar and colloquial. Much better, if it had run thus—if a little care were be⯑ſtowed on the walks that lie between them.

‘Writers who have given us an account of China, tell us, the inhabitants of that country laugh at the planta⯑tions of our Europeans, which are laid out by the rule and the line; becauſe, they ſay, any one may place trees in equal rows and uniform figures. They chuſe rather to ſhow a genius in works of this nature, and therefore al⯑ways conceal the art by which they direct themſelves. They have a word, it ſeems, in their Language, by which they expreſs the particular beauty of a plantation, that thus ſtrikes the imagination at firſt ſight, without diſcovering what it is that has ſo agreeable an effect.’

THESE Sentences furniſh occaſion for no remark, except that in the laſt of them, particular is improperly uſed inſtead of pe⯑culiar—the peculiar beauty of a plantation that thus ſtrikes the imagination, was the phraſe to have conveyed the idea which the Author meant; namely, the beauty which diſtinguiſhes it from plantations of another kind.

‘Our Britiſh gardeners, on the contrary, inſtead of hu⯑mouring nature, love to deviate from it as much as poſ⯑ſible. Our trees riſe in [...]cones, globes, and pyramids. We ſee the marks of the ſciſſars on every plant and buſh.’

[136] THESE Sentences are lively and elegant. They make an agreeable diverſity from the ſtrain of thoſe which went before; and are marked with the hand of Mr. Addiſon. I have to remark only, that, in the phraſe, in⯑ſtead of humouring nature, love to deviate from it—humouring and deviating, are terms not properly oppoſed to each other; a ſort of per⯑ſonification of nature is begun in the firſt of them, which is not ſupported in the ſecond.—To humouring, was to have been oppoſed, thwarting—or if deviating was kept, follow⯑ing, or going along with nature, was to have been uſed.

‘I do not know whether I am ſingular in my opinion, but, for my own part, I would rather look upon a tree, in all its luxuriancy and diffuſion of boughs and branches, than when it is thus cut and trimmed into a mathematical figure; and cannot but fancy that an orchard, in flower, looks infinitely more delightful, than all the little labyrinths of the moſt finiſhed parterre.’

THIS Sentence is extremely harmonious, and every way beautiful. It carries all the characteriſtics of our Author's natural, graceful, and flowing Language.—A tree, in all its luxuriancy and diffuſion of boughs and branches, is a remarkably happy expreſ⯑ſion. The Author ſeems to become luxu⯑riant in deſcribing an object which is ſo, and thereby renders the ſound a perfect e⯑cho to the ſenſe.

[137] ‘But as our great modellers of gardens have their ma⯑gazines of plants to diſpoſe of, it is very natural in them, to tear up all the beautiful plantations of fruit trees, and contrive a plan that may moſt turn to their profit, in tak⯑ing off their evergreens, and the like moveable plants, with which their ſhops are plentifully ſtocked.’

AN author ſhould always ſtudy to con⯑clude, when it is in his power, with grace and dignity. It is ſomewhat unfortunate, that this Paper did not end, as it might very well have done, with the former beautiful period. The impreſſion left on the mind by the beauties of nature, with which he had been entertaining us, would then have been more agreeable. But in this Sentence there is a great falling off; and we return with pain from thoſe pleaſing objects, to the inſignificant contents of a nurſery-man's ſhop.

LECTURE XXIV. CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN A PASSAGE OF DEAN SWIFT's WRITINGS.

MY deſign, in the four preceding Lec⯑tures, was not merely to appretiate the merit of Mr. Addiſon's Style, by point⯑ing out the faults and the beauties that are mingled in the writings of that great Au⯑thor. They were not compoſed with any view to gain the reputation of a Critic; but intended for the aſſiſtance of ſuch as are deſirous of ſtudying the moſt proper and elegant conſtruction of Sentences in the Engliſh Language. To ſuch, it is hoped, they may be of advantage; as the proper application of rules reſpecting the Style, will always be beſt learned by means of the illuſtration which examples afford. I conceived that examples, taken from the writings of an Author ſo juſtly [139] eſteemed, would, on that account, not on⯑ly be more attended to, but would alſo pro⯑duce this good effect, of familiariſing thoſe who ſtudy compoſition with the Style of a writer, from whom they may, upon the whole, derive great benefit. With the ſame view, I ſhall, in this Lecture, give one critical exerciſe more of the ſame kind, upon the Style of an Author of a different character, Dean Swift; repeating the inti⯑mation I gave formerly, that ſuch as ſtand in need of no aſſiſtance of this kind, and who, therefore, will naturally conſider ſuch minute diſcuſſions concerning the propriety of words, and ſtructure of Sen⯑tences, as beneath their attention, had beſt paſs over what will ſeem to them a tedious part of the work.

I FORMERLY gave the general charac⯑ter of Dean Swift's Style. He is eſteemed one of our moſt correct writers. His Style is of the the plain and ſimple kind; free of all affectation, and all ſuperfluity; per⯑ſpicuous, manly, and pure. Theſe are its advantages. But we are not to look for much ornament and grace in it^*. On the contra⯑ry, [140] Dean Swift ſeems to have ſlighted and deſpiſed the ornaments of Language, rather than to have ſtudied them. His arrange⯑ment is often looſe and negligent. In ele⯑gant, muſical, and figurative Language, he is much inferior to Mr. Addiſon. His man⯑ner of writing carries in it the character of one who reſts altogether upon his ſenſe, and aims at no more than giving his mean⯑ing in a clear and conciſe manner.

THAT part of his writings, which I ſhall now examine, is the beginning of his treatiſe, entitled, "A Propoſal for cor⯑recting, improving, and aſcertaining the Engliſh Tongue," in a Letter addreſſed to the Earl of Oxford, then Lord High Treaſurer. I was led, by the nature of the ſubject, to chooſe this treatiſe: but, in juſtice to the Dean, I muſt obſerve, that, after having examined it, I do not eſteem it one of his moſt correct productions; but am apt to think it has been more haſtily compoſed than ſome other of them. It bears the title and form of a Letter; but it is, however, in truth, a Treatiſe deſign⯑ed for the Public: and, therefore, in examining it, we cannot proceed up⯑on the indulgence due to an epiſtolary correſpondence. When a man addreſſ⯑es himſelf to a Friend only, it is ſufficient if he makes himſelf fully under⯑ſtood [141] by him; but when an Author writes for the Public, whether he aſſume the form of an Epiſtle or not, we are always en⯑titled to expect, that he ſhall expreſs him⯑ſelf with accuracy and care. Our Author begins thus:

‘What I had the honour of mentioning to your Lord⯑ſhip, ſometime ago, in converſation, was not a new thought, juſt then ſtarted by accident or occaſion, but the reſult of long reflection; and I have been confirm⯑ed in my ſentiments by the opinion of ſome very judici⯑ous perſons with whom I conſulted.’

THE diſpoſition of circumſtances in a Sentence, ſuch as ſerve to limit or to quali⯑fy ſome aſſertion, or to denote time and place, I formerly ſhowed to be a matter of nicety; and I obſerved, that it ought to be always held a rule, not to crowd ſuch circumſtances together, but rather to inter⯑mix them with more capital words, in ſuch different parts of the Sentence as can admit them naturally. Here are two circum⯑ſtances of this kind placed together, which had better have been ſeparated, Some time ago, in converſation—better thus:—What I had the honour, ſometime ago, of mentioning to your Lordſhip in converſation—was not a new thought, proceeds our Author, ſtarted by accident or occaſion: the dif⯑ferent meaning of theſe two words may not, at firſt, occur. They have, however, a diſtinct meaning, and are properly uſed: [142] for it is one very laudable property of our Author's Style, that it is ſeldom incumbered with ſuperfluous, ſynonymous words. Started by accident, is, fortuitouſly, or at random; ſtarted by occaſion, is, by ſome incident, which at that time gave birth to it. His meaning is, that it was not a new thought which either caſually ſprung up in his mind, or was ſuggeſted to him, for the firſt time, by the train of the diſcourſe: but, as he adds, was the reſult of long re⯑flection.—He proceeds:

‘They all agreed, that nothing would be of greater uſe towards the improvement of knowledge and politeneſs, than ſome effectual method, for correcting, enlarging, and aſcertaining our Language; and they think it a work very poſſible to be compaſſed under the protection of a prince, the countenance and encouragement of a miniſtry, and the care of proper perſons choſen for ſuch an under⯑taking.’

THIS is an excellent Sentence; clear, and elegant. The words are all ſimple, well choſen, and expreſſive; and are ar⯑ranged in the moſt proper order. It is a harmonious period too, which is a beauty not frequent in our Author. The laſt part of it conſiſts of three members, which gra⯑dually riſe and ſwell above one another, without any affected or unſuitable pomp;—under the protection of a prince, the coun⯑tenance and encouragement of a miniſtry, and the care of proper perſons choſen for ſuch an [142] undertaking. We may remark, in the beginning of the Sentence, the proper uſe of the prepoſition towards—greater uſe to⯑wards the improvement of knowledge and po⯑liteneſs—importing the pointing or ten⯑dency of any thing to a certain end; which could not have been ſo well expreſſed by the prepoſition for, commonly employed in place of towards, by Authors who are leſs attentive, than Dean Swift was, to the force of words.

ONE fault might, perhaps, be found, both with this and the former Sentence, conſidered as introductory ones. We ex⯑pect, that an introduction is to unfold, clearly and directly, the ſubject that is to be treated of. In the firſt Sentence, our Author had told us, of a thought he men⯑tioned to his Lordſhip, in converſation, which had been the reſult of long reflecti⯑on, and concerning which he had conſult⯑ed judicious perſons. But what that thought was, we are never told directly. We gather it indeed from the ſecond ſen⯑tence, wherein he informs us, in what theſe judicious perſons agreed; namely, that ſome method for improving the lan⯑guage was both uſeful and practicable. But this indirect method of opening the ſubject, would have been very faulty in a regular treatiſe; though the eaſe of the epiſtolary form, which our Author here [144] aſſumes in addreſſing his patron, may ex⯑cuſe it in the preſent caſe.

‘I was glad to find your Lordſhip's anſwer in ſo differ⯑ent a ſtyle from what hath commonly been made uſe of, on the like occaſions, for ſome years paſt; ‘"That all ſuch thoughts muſt be deferred to a time of peace;"’ a topic which ſome have carried ſo far, that they would not have us, by any means, think of preſerving our civil and religious conſtitution, becauſe we are engaged in a war abroad.’

THIS Sentence alſo is clear and elegant; only there is one inaccuracy, when he ſpeaks of his Lordſhip's anſwer being in ſo different a ſtyle from what had formerly been uſed. His anſwer to what? or to whom? For from any thing going before, it does not appear that any application or addreſs had been made to his Lordſhip by thoſe perſons, whoſe opinion was mention⯑ed in the preceding Sentence; and to whom the anſwer, here ſpoken of, naturally re⯑fers. There is a little indiſtinctneſs, as I before obſerved, in our Author's manner of introducing his ſubject here.—We may obſerve too, that the phraſe—glad to find your anſwer in ſo different a ſtyle—though abundantly ſuited to the language of con⯑verſation, or of a familiar letter, yet, in regular compoſition, requires an additional word—glad to find your anſwer run in ſo different a ſtyle.

[145] ‘It will be among the diſtinguiſhing marks of your mini⯑ſtry, my Lord, that you have a genius above all ſuch re⯑gards, and that no reaſonable propoſal, for the honour, the advantage, or ornament of your country, however foreign to your immediate office, was ever neglected by you.’

THE phraſe—a genius above all ſuch regards, both ſeems ſomewhat harſh, and does not clearly expreſs what the Author means, namely, the confined views of thoſe who neglected every thing that belonged to the arts of peace in the time of war.—B [...]ting this expreſſion, there is nothing that can be ſubject to the leaſt reprehenſion in this Sentence, nor in all that follows, to the end of the paragraph.

‘I confeſs, the merit of this candor and condeſcenſion is very much leſſened, becauſe your Lordſhip hardly leaves us room to offer our good wiſhes; removing all our difficul⯑ties, and ſupplying our wants, faſter than the moſt viſiona⯑ry projector can adjuſt his ſchemes. And therefore, my Lord, the deſign of this paper is not ſo much to offer you ways and means, as to complain of a grievance, the re⯑dreſſing of which is to be your own work, as much as that of paying the nation's debts, or opening a trade into the South Sea; and, though not of ſuch immediate benefit as either of theſe, or any other of your glorious actions, yet, perhaps, in future ages not leſs to your honour.’

THE compliments which the Dean here pays to his patron, are very high and ſtrain⯑ed; and ſhow, that, with all his ſurlineſs, [146] he was as capable, on ſome occaſions, of making his court to a great man by flat⯑tery, as other writers. However, with reſpect to the Style, which is the ſole ob⯑ject of our preſent conſideration, every thing here, as far as appears to me, is fault⯑leſs. In theſe Sentences, and, indeed, throughout this paragraph, in general, which we have now ended, our Author's Style appears to great advantage. We ſee that eaſe and ſimplicity, that correctneſs and diſtinctneſs, which particularly cha⯑racteriſe it. It is very remarkable, how few Latiniſed words Dean Swift employs. No writer, in our Language, is ſo purely Engliſh as he is, or borrows ſo little aſſiſt⯑ance from words of foreign derivation. From none can we take a better model of the choice and proper ſignificancy of words. It is remarkable, in the Sentences we have now before us, how plain all the expreſ⯑ſions are, and yet, at the ſame time, how ſignificant; and, in the midſt of that high ſtrain of compliment into which he riſes, how little there is of pomp, or glare of ex⯑preſſion. How very few writers can pre⯑ſerve this manly temperance of Style; or would think a compliment of this nature ſupported with ſufficient dignity, unleſs they had embelliſhed it with ſome of thoſe high ſounding words, whoſe chief effect is no other than to give their Language a ſtiff and forced appearance?

[147] ‘My Lord, I do here, in the name of all the learned and polite perſons of the nation, complain to your Lord⯑ſhip, as Firſt Miniſter, that our Language is extremely imperfect; that its daily improvements are by no means in proportion to its daily corruptions; that the pretenders to poliſh and refine it, have chiefly multiplied abuſes and abſurdities; and that, in many inſtances, it offends againſt every part of grammar.’

THE turn of this Sentence is extremely elegant. He had ſpoken before of a griev⯑ance for which he ſought redreſs, and he carries on the alluſion, by entering, here, directly on his ſubject, in the Style of a public repreſentation preſented to the Mi⯑niſter of State. One imperfection, how⯑ever, there is in this Sentence, which, luckily for our purpoſe, ſerves to illuſtrate a rule before given, concerning the poſi⯑tion of adverbs, ſo as to avoid ambiguity. It is in the middle of the Sentence;—that the pretenders to poliſh and refine it, have chiefly multiplied abuſes and abſurdities.—Now, concerning the import of this adverb, chiefly, I aſk, whether it ſignifies that theſe pretenders to poliſh the Language, have been the chief perſons who have multiplied its abuſes, in diſtinction from others; or, that the chief thing which theſe pretenders have done, is to multiply the abuſes of our Language, in oppoſition to their doing any thing to refine it? Theſe two meanings are really different; and yet, by the poſition which the word chiefly has in the Sentence, [148] we are left at a loſs in which to underſtand it. The conſtruction would lead us rather to the latter ſenſe; that the chief thing which theſe pretenders have done, is to multiply the abuſes of our Language. But it is more than probable, that the former ſenſe was what the Dean intended, as it carries more of his uſual ſatirical edge; ‘"that the pretended refiners of our Lan⯑guage were, in fact, its chief corruptors;"’ on which ſuppoſition, his words ought to have run thus: that the pretenders to poliſh and refine it, have been the chief perſons to multiply its abuſes and abſurdities; which would have rendered the ſenſe perfectly clear.

PERHAPS, too, there might be ground for obſerving farther upon this Sentence, that as Language is the object with which it ſets out; that our Language is extremely imperfect; and then follows an enumeration concerning Language, in three particulars, it had been better if Language had been kept the ruling word, or the nominative to every verb, without changing the ſcene; by making pretenders the ruling word, as is done in the ſecond member of the enu⯑meration, and then, in the third, returning again to the former word, Language—That the pretenders to poliſh—and that, in many inſtances, it offends—I am perſuaded, that the ſtructure of the Sentence would have been more neat and happy, and its unity [149] more complete, if the members of it had been arranged thus: ‘"That our Language is extremely imperfect; that its daily improvements are by no means in pro⯑portion to its daily corruptions; that, in many inſtances, it offends againſt eve⯑ry part of grammar; and that the pre⯑tenders to poliſh and refine it, have been the chief perſons to multiply its abuſes and abſurdities."’—This degree of at⯑tention ſeemed proper to be beſtowed on ſuch a Sentence as this, in order to ſhow how it might have been conducted after the moſt perfect manner. Our Author, after having ſaid,

‘Leſt your Lordſhip ſhould think my cenſure too ſevere, I ſhall take leave to be more par⯑ticular;’ proceeds in the following para⯑graph:

‘I believe your Lordſhip will agree with me, in the reaſon why our Language is leſs refined than thoſe of Italy, Spain, or France.’

I AM ſorry to ſay, that now we ſhall have leſs to commend in our Author. For the whole of this paragraph, on which we are entering, is, in truth, perplexed and in⯑accurate. Even, in this ſhort Sentence, we may diſcern an inaccuracy—why our Language is leſs refined than thoſe of Italy, Spain, and France; putting the pronoun thoſe in the plural, when the antecedent [150] ſubſtantive tow hich it refers is in the ſingu⯑lar, our Language. Inſtances of this kind may ſometimes be found in Engliſh au⯑thors; but they ſound harſh to the ear, and are certainly contrary to the purity of gram⯑mar By a very little attention, this inac⯑curacy could have been remedied; and the Sentence have been made to run much bet⯑ter in this way; ‘"why our Language is leſs refined than the Italian, Spaniſh, or French."’

‘It is plain, that the Latin Tongue, in its purity, was never in this iſland; towards the conqueſt of which, few or no attempts were made till the time of Claudius; neither was that Language ever ſo vulgar in Britain, as it is known to have been in Gaul and Spain.’

To ſay, that the Latin Tongue, in its pu⯑rity was never in this iſland, is very care⯑leſs Style; it ought to have been, was never ſpoken in this iſland. In the progreſs of the Sentence, he means to give a reaſon why the Latin was never ſpoken in its pu⯑rity amongſt us, becauſe our iſland was not conquered by the Romans till after the pu⯑rity of their Tongue began to decline. But this reaſon ought to have been brought out more clearly. This might eaſily have been done, and the relation of the ſeveral parts of the Sentence to each other much better pointed out by means of a ſmall va⯑riation; thus: ‘"It is plain, that the Latin Tongue, in its purity, was never ſpoken [151] in this iſland, as few or no attempts to⯑wards the conqueſt of it were made till the time of Claudius."’ He adds, Nei⯑ther was the Language ever ſo vulgar in Britain.—Vulgar was one of the worſt words he could have choſen for expreſſing what he means here; namely, that the Latin Tongue was at no time ſo general, or ſo much in common uſe, in Britain, as it is known to have been in Gaul and Spain.—Vulgar, when applied to Language, com⯑monly ſignifies impure, or debaſed Lan⯑guage, ſuch as is ſpoken by the low people, which is quite oppoſite to the Author's ſenſe here; for, in place of meaning to ſay, that the Latin ſpoken in Britain was not ſo debaſed, as what was ſpoken in Gaul and Spain; he means juſt the contrary, and had been telling us, that we never were acquainted with the Latin at all, till its purity began to be corrupted.

‘Further, we find that the Roman legions here were at length all recalled to help their country againſt the Goths, and other barbarous invaders.’

THE chief ſcope of this Sentence is, to give a reaſon why the Latin Tongue did not ſtrike any deep root in this iſland, on account of the ſhort continuance of the Romans in it. He goes on:

‘Meantime the Britons, left to ſhift for themſelves, and daily haraſſed by cruel inroads from the Picts, were [152] forced to call in the Saxons for their defence; who, con⯑ſequently, reduced the greateſt part of the iſland to their own power, drove the Britons into the moſt remote and mountainous parts, and the reſt of the country, in cuſ⯑toms, religion, and language, became wholly Saxon.’

THIS is a very exceptionable ſentence. Frſt, the phraſe left to ſhift for themſelves, is rather a low phraſe, and too much in the familiar Style to be proper in a grave treatiſe. Next, as the Sentence advances—forced to call in the Saxons for their defence, who, con⯑ſequently, reduced the greateſt part of the iſl⯑and to their own power.—What is the mean⯑ing of conſequently here? if it means ‘"af⯑terwards,"’ or ‘"in progreſs of time,"’ this, certianly, is not a ſenſe in which conſequent⯑ly is often taken; and therefore the expreſ⯑ſion is chargeable with obſcurity. The ad⯑verb, conſequently, in its moſt common accep⯑tation, denotes one thing following from another, as an effect from a cauſe. If he uſes it in this ſenſe, and means that the Britons being ſubdued by the Saxons, was a neceſſary conſequence of their having called in the theſe Saxons to their aſ⯑ſiſtane, this conſequence is drawn too ab⯑ruptly, and needed more explanation. For though it has often happened, that nations have been ſubdued by their own auxiliaries, yet this is not a conſequence of ſuch a na⯑ture that it can be aſſumed, as ſeems here to be done, for a firſt and ſelf-evident prin⯑ciple.—But further, what ſhall we ſay to this phraſe, reduced the greateſt part of the [153] iſland to their own power? we ſay reduce to rule, reduce to practice—we can ſay, that one nation reduces another to ſubjection—But when dominion or power is uſed, we always, as far as I know, ſay, reduce under their power. Re⯑duce to their power, is ſo harſh and uncom⯑mon an expreſſion, that, though Dean Swift's authority in language be very great, yet, in the uſe of this phraſe, I am of opi⯑nion, that it would not be ſafe to follow his example.

BESIDES theſe particular inaccuracies, this Sentence is chargeable with want of uni⯑ty in the compoſition of the whole. The perſons and the ſcene are too often changed upon us—Firſt, the Britons are mentioned, who are harraſſed by inroads from the Picts; next, the Saxons appear, who ſubdue the greateſt part of the iſland, and drive the Britons into the mountains; and, laſtly, the reſt of the country is introduced, and a deſcription given of the change made up⯑on it. All this forms a groupe of various objects, preſented in ſuch quick ſucceſſion, that the mind finds it difficult to compre⯑hend them under one view. Accordingly, it is quoted in the Elements of Criticiſm, as an inſtance of a ſentence rendered faulty by the breach of unity.

‘This I take to be the reaſon why there are more Latin words remaining in the Britiſh than the old Sax⯑on; which, excepting ſome few variations in the ortho⯑graphy, is the ſame in moſt original words with our pre⯑ſent [154] Engliſh, as well as with the German and other northern dialects.’

THIS Sentence is faulty, ſomewhat in the ſame manner with the laſt. It is looſe in the connection of its parts; and, beſides this, it is alſo too looſely connected with the preceding ſentence. What he had there ſaid, concerning the Saxons expelling the Britons, and changing the cuſtoms, the religi⯑on, and the language of the country, is a clear and good reaſon for our preſent language being Saxon rather than Britiſh. This is the inference which we would naturally ex⯑pect him to draw from the premiſes juſt be⯑fore laid down: But when he tells us, that this is the reaſon why there are more Latin words remaining in the Britiſh tongue than in the old Saxon, we are preſently at a ſtand. No reaſon for this inference appears. If it can be gathered at all from the foreign de⯑duction, it is gathered only imperfectly. For, as he had told us, that the Britons had ſome conection with the Romans, he ſhould have alſo told us, in order to make out his inference, that the Saxons never had any. The truth is, the whole of this paragraph concerning the influence of the Latin tongue upon ours, is careleſs, perplexed, and obſcure. His argument required to have been more fully unfolded, in order to make it be diſtinctly apprehended, and to give it its due force. In the next para⯑graph, he proceeds to diſcourſe concerning [155] the influence of the French tongue upon our language. The Style becomes more clear, though not remarkable for great beauty or elegance.

‘Edward the Confeſſor having lived long in France, appears to be the firſt who introduced any mixture of the French tongue with the Saxon; the court affecting what the Prince was fond of, and others taking it up for a faſhion, as it is now with us. William the Conqueror proceeded much further, bringing over with him vaſt num⯑bers of that nation, ſcattering them in every monaſtery, giving them great quantities of land, directing all plead⯑ings to be in that language, and endeavouring to make it univerſal in the kingdom.’

ON theſe two Sentences, I have nothing of moment to obſerve. The ſenſe is brought out clearly, and in ſimple, unaf⯑fected language.

‘This, at leaſt, is the opinion generally received; but your Lordſhip hath fully convinced me, that the French tongue made yet a greater progreſs here under Harry the Second, who had large territories on that continent both from his father and his wife; made frequent journeys and expeditions thither; and was always attended with a number of his countrymen, retainers at court.’

IN the beginning of this Sentence, our Author ſtates an oppoſition between an opi, nion generally received, and that of his Lordſhip; and in compliment to his patron, he tells us, that his Lordſhip had convinced [156] him of ſomewhat that differed from the ge⯑neral opinion. Thus one muſt naturally underſtand his words: This, at leaſt, is the opinion generally received; but your Lordſhip hath fully convinced me—Now here there muſt be an inaccuracy of expreſſion. For on examining what went before, there appears no ſort of oppoſition betwixt the generally received opinion, and that of the Author's patron. The general opinion was, that William the Conqueror had proceeded much farther than Edward the Confeſſor, in propagating the French language, and had endeavoured to make it univerſal. Lord Oxford's opinion was, that the French tongue had gone on to make a yet greater progreſs under Harry the Second, than it had done under his predeceſſor William: which two opinions are as entirely conſiſ⯑tent with one another, as any can be; and therefore the oppoſition here affected to be ſtated between them, by the adverſative particle but, was improper and ground⯑leſs.

‘For ſome centuries after, there was a conſtant inter⯑courſe between France and England by the dominions we poſſeſſed there, and the conqueſts we made; ſo that our language, between two and three hundred years ago, ſeems to have had a greater mixture with French than at preſent; many words having been afterwards reject⯑ed, and ſame ſince the days of Spenſer; although we have ſtill retained not a few, which have been long anti⯑quated in France.’

[157] THIS is a Sentence too long and intri⯑cate, and liable to the ſame objection that was made to a former one, of the want of unity. It conſiſts of four members, each divided from the ſubſequent by a ſemico⯑lon. In going along, we naturally expect the Sentence is to end at the ſecond of theſe, or, at fartheſt, at the third; when, to our ſurpriſe, a new member pops out upon us, and fatigues our attention in join⯑ing all the parts together. Such a ſtruc⯑ture of a Sentence is always the mark of careleſs writing. In the firſt member of the Sentence, a conſtant intercourſe between France and England, by the dominions we poſſeſſed there, and the conqueſts we made, the conſtruction is not ſufficiently filled up. In place of intercourſe by the dominions we poſſeſſed, it ſhould have been—by reaſon of the dominions we poſſeſſed—or—occaſioned by the dominions we poſſeſſed—and in place of—the dominions we poſſeſſed there, and the conqueſts we made, the regular Style is—the dominions which we poſſeſſed there, and the conqueſts which we made. The relative pro⯑noun which, is indeed in phraſes of this kind ſometimes omitted: But, when it is omit⯑ted, the Style becomes elliptic; and though in converſation, or in the very light and eaſy kinds of writing, ſuch elliptic Style may not be improper, yet in grave and re⯑gular writing, it is better to fill up the conſtruction, and inſert the relative pro⯑noun.—After having ſaid—I could produce [158] ſeveral inſtances of both kinds, if it were of any uſe or entertainment—our Author be⯑gins the next paragraph thus:

‘To examine into the ſeveral circumſtances by which the language of a country may be altered, would force me to enter into a wide field.’

THERE is nothing remarkable in this Sentence, unleſs that here occurs the firſt inſtance of a metaphor ſince the beginning of this treatiſe; entering into a wide field, be⯑ing put for beginning an extenſive ſubject. Few writers deal leſs in figurative language than Swift. I before obſerved, that he ap⯑pears to deſpiſe ornaments of this kind; and though this renders his Style ſomewhat dry on ſerious ſubjects, yet his plainneſs and ſimplicity, I muſt not forbear to re⯑mind my readers, is far preferable to an eſtentatious and affected parade of orna⯑ment.

‘I ſhall only obſerve, that the Latin, the French, and the Engliſh, ſeem to have undergone the ſame fortune. The firſt from the days of Romulus, to thoſe of Julius Caeſar, ſuffered perpetual changes; and by what we meet in thoſe Authors who occaſionally ſpeak on that ſub⯑ject, as well as from certain fragments of old laws, it is manifeſt that the Latin, three hundred years before Tully, was as unintelligible in his time, as the French and Eng⯑liſh of the ſame period are now; and theſe two have changed as much ſince William the Conqueror (which is [159] but little leſs than 700 years), as the Latin appears to have done in the like term.’

THE Dean plainly appears to be writing negligently here. This Sentence is one of that involved and intricate kind, of which ſome inſtances have occured before; but none worſe than this. It requires a very diſtinct head to comprehend the whole meaning of the period at firſt reading. In one part of it we find extreme careleſſneſs of expreſſion. He ſays, it is manifeſt that the Latin, 300 years before Tully, was as un⯑intelligible in his time, as the Engliſh and French of the ſame period are now. By the Engliſh and French of the ſame period, muſt naturally be underſtood, the Engliſh and French that were ſpoken three hundred years before Tully. This is the only grammatical meaning his words will bear; and yet aſ⯑ſuredly what he means, and what it would have been eaſy for him to have expreſſed with more preciſion, is, the Engliſh and French that were ſpoken 300 years ago; or at a period equally diſtant from our age, as the old Latin, which he had mentioned, was from the age of Tully. But when an author writes haſtily, and does not review with proper care what he has written, many ſuch inaccuracies will be apt to creep into his Style.

[160] ‘Whether our Language or the French will decline as faſt as the Roman did, is a queſtion that would perhaps admit more debate than it is worth. There were many reaſons for the corruptions of the laſt; as the change of their government to a tyranny, which ruined the ſtudy of eloquence, there being no further uſe or encouragement for popular orators; their giving not only the freedom of the city, but capacity for employments, to ſeveral towns in Gaul, Spain, and Germany, and other diſtant parts, as far Aſia, which brought a great number of foreign pretenders to Rome; the ſlaviſh diſpoſition of the Senate and people, by which the wit and eloquence of the age were wholly turned into panegyric, the moſt barren of all ſubjects; the great corruption of manners, and intro⯑duction of foreign luxury, with foreign terms to expreſs it, with ſeveral others that might be aſſigned; not to mention the invaſion from the Goths and Vandals, which are too obvious to inſiſt on.’

IN the enumeration here made of the cauſes contributing towards the corruption of the Roman Language, there are many in⯑accuracies—The change of their government to a tyranny—of whoſe government? He had indeed been ſpeaking of the Roman language, and therefore we gueſs at his mean⯑ing; but the Style is ungrammatical; for he had not mentioned the Romans themſelves; and therefore, when he ſays their govern⯑ment, there is no antecedent in the Sen⯑tence to which the pronoun, their, can refer with any propriety—Giving the capacity for employments to ſeveral towns in Gaul, is a queſtionable expreſſion. For though towns [161] are ſometimes put for the people who inha⯑bit them, yet to give a town the capacity for employments, ſounds harſh and uncouth.—The wit and eloquence of the age wholly turn⯑ed into panegyric, is a phraſe which does not well expreſs the meaning. Neither wit nor eloquence can be turned into panegyric; but they may be turned towards panegyric, or, employed in panegyric, which was the ſenſe the Author had in view.

THE concluſion of the enumeration is viſi⯑bly incorrect—The great corruption of man⯑ners, and introduction of foreign luxury, with foreign terms to expreſs it, with ſeveral others that might be aſſigned—He means, with ſeve⯑ral other reaſons. The word reaſons, had indeed been mentioned before; but as it ſtands at the diſtance of thirteen lines back⯑ward, the repetition of it here became in⯑diſpenſable, in order to avoid ambiguity. Not to mention, he adds, the invaſions front the Goths and Vandals, which are too obvious to inſiſt on. One would imagine him to mean, that the invaſions from the Goths and Vandals, are hiſtorical facts too well known and obvious to be inſiſted on. But he means quite a different thing, though he has not taken the proper [...] of ex⯑preſſing it, through his haſte, [...] finiſh the paragraph; namely, [...] invaſions from the Goths and Vandals were cauſes of the corruption of the Ro⯑man [162] Language too obvious to be inſiſted on.

I SHALL not purſue this criticiſm any further. I have been obliged to point out many inaccuracies in the paſſage which we have conſidered. But, in order that my obſervations may not be conſtructed as meant to depreciate the Style or the Writ⯑ings of Dean Swift below their juſt value, there are two remarks, which I judge it neceſſary to make before concluding this Lecture. One is, That it were unfair to eſtimate an Author's Style on the whole, by ſome paſſage in his writings, which chances to be compoſed in a careleſs man⯑ner. This is the caſe with reſpect to this treatiſe, which has much the appearance of a haſty production; though, as I before obſerved, it was by no means on that ac⯑count that I pitched upon it for the ſubject of this exerciſe. But after having examin⯑ed it, I am ſenſible that, in many other of his writings, the Dean is more accurate.

MY other obſervation, which applies equally to Dean Swift and Mr. Addiſon, is, that there may be writers much freer of ſuch inaccuracies, as I have had occaſion to point out in theſe two, whoſe Style, however, upon the whole, may not have half their merit. Refinement in Language has, of late years, begun to be much at⯑tended [163] to. In ſeveral modern productions of very ſmall value, I ſhould find it diffi⯑cult to point out many errors in Language. The words might, probably, be all proper words, correctly and clearly arranged; and the turn of the ſentence ſonorous and mu⯑ſical; whilſt yet the Style, upon the whole, might deſerve no praiſe. The fault often lies in what may be called the general caſt, or complexion of the Style; which a per⯑ſon of a good taſte diſcerns to be vicious; to be feeble, for inſtance, and diffuſe; flimſy or affected; petulant or oſtentatious; though the faults cannot be ſo eaſily point⯑ed out and particulariſed, as when they lie in ſome erroneous, or negligent conſtruc⯑tion of a ſentence. Whereas, ſuch writers as Addiſon and Swift, carry always thoſe general characters of good Style, which, in the midſt of their occaſional negligences, every perſon of good taſte muſt diſcern and approve. We ſee their faults overbalanced by higher beauties. We ſee a writer of ſenſe and reflection expreſſing his ſenti⯑ments without affectation, attentive to thoughts as well as to words; and, in the main current of his Language, elegant and beautiful; and, therefore, the only proper uſe to be made of the blemiſhes which oc⯑cur in the writings of ſuch authors, is to point out to thoſe who apply themſelves to the ſtudy of compoſition, ſome of the rules which they ought to obſerve for avoiding ſuch errors; and to render them ſenſible of [164] the neceſſity of ſtrict attention to Language and to Style. Let them imitate the eaſe and ſimplicity of thoſe great authors; let them ſtudy to be always natural, and, as far as they can, always correct in their ex⯑preſſions; let them endeavour to be, at ſome times, lively and ſtriking; but care⯑fully avoid being at any time oſtentatious and affected.

LECTURE XXV. ELOQUENCE, OR PUBLIC SPEAK⯑ING.—HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE—GRECIAN ELOQUENCE.—DE⯑MOSTHENES.

HAVING finiſhed that part of the Courſe which relates to Language and Style, we are now to aſcend a ſtep higher, and to examine the ſubjects upon which Style is employed. I begin with what is properly called Eloquence, or Pub⯑lic Speaking. In treating of this, I am to conſider the different kinds and ſubjects of Public Speaking; the manner ſuited to each; the proper diſtribution and manage⯑ment of all the parts of a diſcourſe; and the proper pronunciation or delivery of it. But before entering on any of theſe heads, it may be proper to take a view of the na⯑ture of Eloquence in general, and of the ſtate in which it has ſubſiſted in different ages and countries. This will lead into [166] ſome detail; but I hope an uſeful one; as in every art it is of great conſequence to have a juſt idea of the perfection of the art, of the end at which it aims, and of the progreſs which it has made among man⯑kind.

OF Eloquence, in particular, it is the more neceſſary to aſcertain the proper no⯑tion, becauſe there is not any thing con⯑cerning which falſe notions have been more prevalent. Hence, it has been ſo often, and is ſtill at this day, in diſrepute with many. When you ſpeak to a plain man of Eloquence, or in praiſe of it, he is apt to hear you with very little attention. He conceives Eloquence to ſignify a certain trick of Speech; the art of varniſhing weak arguments plauſibly; or of ſpeaking ſo as to pleaſe and tickle the ear. ‘"Give me good ſenſe,"’ ſays he, ‘"and keep your Eloquence for boys."’ He is in the right, if Eloquence were what he conceives it to be. It would be then a very contemptible art indeed, below the ſtudy of any wiſe or good man. But nothing can be more re⯑mote from truth. To be truly eloquent, is to ſpeak to the purpoſe. For the beſt de⯑finition which, I think, can be given of Eloquence, is, the Art of Speaking in ſuch a manner as to attain the end for which we ſpeak. Whenever a man ſpeaks or writes, he is ſuppoſed, as a rational being, to have ſome end in view; either to inform, or to [167] amuſe, or to perſuade, or, in ſome way or other, to act upon his fellow-creatures. He who ſpeaks, or writes, in ſuch a manner as to adapt all his words moſt effectually to that end, is the moſt eloquent man. What⯑ever then the ſubject be, there is room for Eloquence; in hiſtory, or even in philoſo⯑phy, as well as in orations. The definition which I have given of Eloquence, compre⯑hends all the different kinds of it; whether calculated to inſtruct, to perſuade, or to pleaſe. But, as the moſt important ſubject of diſcourſe is Action, or Conduct, the power of Eloquence chiefly appears when it is employed to influence Conduct, and perſuade to Action. As it is principally, with reference to this end, that it becomes the object of Art, Eloquence may, under this view of it, be defined, The Art of Perſuaſion.

THIS being once eſtabliſhed, certain conſequences immediately follow, which point out the fundamental maxims of the Art. It follows clearly, that, in order to perſuade, the moſt eſſential requiſites are, ſolid argument, clear method, a character of probity appearing in the Speaker, joined with ſuch graces of Style and utterance, as ſhall draw our attention to what he ſays. Good ſenſe is the foundation of all. No man can be truly eloquent without it; for fools can perſuade none but fools. In or⯑der to perſuade a man of ſenſe, you muſt [168] firſt convince him; which is only to be done, by ſatisfying his underſtanding of the reaſonableneſs of what you propoſe to him.

THIS leads me to obſerve, that convin⯑cing and perſuading, though they are ſome⯑times confounded, import, notwithſtand⯑ing, different things, which it is neceſſary for us, at preſent, to diſtinguiſh from each other. Conviction affects the underſtand⯑ing only; perſuaſion, the will and the practice. It is the buſineſs of the philoſo⯑pher to convince me of truth; it is the bu⯑ſineſs of the orator to perſuade me to act agreeably to it, by engaging my affections on its ſide. Conviction, and perſuaſion, do not always go together. They ought, indeed, to go together; and would do ſo, if our inclination regularly followed the dic⯑tates of our underſtanding. But as our na⯑ture is conſtituted, I may be convinced, that virtue, juſtice, or public ſpirit, are laudable, while, at the ſame time, I am not perſuaded to act according to them. The inclination may revolt, though the under⯑ſtanding be ſatisfied: the paſſions may pre⯑vail againſt the judgment. Conviction is, however, always one avenue to the incli⯑nation, or heart; and it is that which an Orator muſt firſt bend his ſtrength to gain: for no perſuaſion is likely to be ſtable, which is not founded on conviction. But, in order to perſuade, the Orator muſt go [169] farther than merely producing conviction; he muſt conſider man as a creature moved by many different ſprings, and muſt act upon them all. He muſt addreſs himſelf to the paſſions; he muſt paint to the fancy, and touch the heart; and, hence, beſides ſolid argument, and clear method, all the conciliating and intereſting arts, both of Compoſition and Pronunciation, enter into the idea of Eloquence.

AN objection may, perhaps, hence be formed againſt Eloquence; as an Art which may be employed for perſuading to ill, as well as to good. There is no doubt that it may; and ſo reaſoning may alſo be, and too often is employed, for leading men into er⯑ror. But who would think of forming an argument from this againſt the cultivation of our reaſoning powers? Reaſon, Elo⯑quence, and every Art which ever has been ſtudied among mankind, may be abuſed, and may prove dangerous in the hands of bad men; but it were perfectly childiſh to contend, that, upon this account, they ought to be abrogated. Give truth and vir⯑tue the ſame arms which you give vice and falſehood, and the former are likely to pre⯑vail. Eloquence is no invention of the ſchools. Nature teaches every man to be eloquent, when he is much in earneſt. Place him in ſome critical ſituation; let him have ſome great intereſt at ſtake, and you will ſee him lay hold of the moſt effec⯑tual [170] means of perſuaſion. The Art of Ora⯑tory propoſes nothing more than to follow out that track which Nature has firſt point⯑ed out to men. And the more exactly that this track is purſued, the more that Elo⯑quence is properly ſtudied, the more ſhall we be guarded againſt the abuſe which bad men make of it, and enabled the better to diſtinguiſh between true Eloquence and the tricks of Sophiſtry.

WE may diſtinguiſh three kinds, or de⯑grees of Eloquence. The firſt, and loweſt, is that which aims only at pleaſing the hearers. Such, generally, is the Eloquence of panegyricks, inaugural orations, addreſ⯑ſes to great men, and other harangues of this ſort. This ornamental ſort of eompo⯑ſition is not altogether to be rejected. It may innocently amuſe and entertain the mind; and it may be mixed, at the ſame time, with very uſeful ſentiments. But it muſt be confeſſed, that where the Speak⯑er has no farther aim than merely to ſhine and to pleaſe, there is great danger of Art being ſtrained into oſtentation, and of the compoſition becoming tireſome and lan⯑guid.

A SECOND and a higher degree of lo⯑quence is, when the Speaker aims not me⯑rely to pleaſe, but alſo to inform, to inſtruct, to convince: when his Art is exerted, in re⯑moving prejudiees againſt himſelf and his [171] cauſe, in chuſing the moſt proper argu⯑ments, ſtating them with the greateſt force, arranging them in the beſt order, expreſſing and delivering them with propriety and beauty; and thereby diſpoſing us to paſs that judgment, or embrace that ſide of the cauſe, to which he ſeeks to bring us. With⯑in this compaſs, chiefly, is employed the Eloquence of the bar.

BUT there is a third, and ſtill higher de⯑gree of Eloquence, wherein a greater pow⯑er is exerted over the human mind; by which we are not only convinced, but are intereſted, agitated, and carried along with the Speaker; our paſſions are made to riſe together with his; we enter into all his e⯑motions; we love, we deteſt, we reſent, ac⯑cording as he inſpires us; and are prompted to reſolve, or to act, with vigour and warmth. Debate, in popular aſſemblies, opens the moſt illuſtrious field to this ſpecies of Elo⯑quence; and the pulpit, alſo, admits it.

I AM here to obſerve, and the obſervati⯑on is of conſequence, that the high Elo⯑quence which I have laſt mentioned, is al⯑ways the offspring of paſſion. By paſſion, I mean that ſtate of the mind in which it is agitated, and fired, by ſome object it has in view. A man may convince, and even per⯑ſuade others to act, by mere reaſon and argument. But that degree of Eloquence which gains the admiration of mankind, and [172] properly denominates one an Orator, is ne⯑ver found without warmth or paſſion. Paſ⯑ſion, when in ſuch a degree as to rouſe and kindle the mind, without throwing it out of the poſſeſſion of itſelf, is univerſally found to exalt all the human powers. It renders the mind infinitely more enlighten⯑ed, more penetrating, more vigorous and maſterly, than it is in its calm moments. A man, actuated by a ſtrong paſſion, becomes much greater than he is at other times. He is conſcious of more ſtrength and force; he utters greater ſentiments, conceives higher deſigns, and executes them with a bold⯑neſs and a felicity, of which, on other oc⯑caſions, he could not think himſelf capable. But chiefly, with reſpect to perſuaſion, is the power of paſſion felt. Almoſt every man, in paſſion, is eloquent. Then, he is at no loſs for words and arguments. He tranſmits to others, by a ſort of contagious ſympathy, the warm ſentiments which he feels; his looks and geſtures are all perſua⯑ſive; and Nature here ſhows herſelf infinite⯑ly more powerful than all art. This is the foundation of that juſt and noted rule: ‘"Si vis me flere, dolendum eſt primum ipſi tibi."’

THIS principle being once admitted, that all high Eloquence flows from paſſion, ſeve⯑ral conſequences follow, which deſerve to be attended to; and the mention of which will ſerve to confirm the principle itſelf. [173] For hence, the univerſally acknowledged effect of enthuſiaſm, or warmth of any kind, in public Speakers, for affecting their audience. Hence all laboured declamation, and affected ornaments of Style, which ſhew the mind to be cool and unmoved, are ſo inconſiſtent with perſuaſive Eloquence. Hence all ſtudied prettineſſeſs, in geſture or pronunciation, detract ſo greatly from the weight of a Speaker. Hence a diſ⯑courſe that is read, moves us leſs than one that is ſpoken, as having leſs the appear⯑ance of coming warm from the heart. Hence, to call a man cold, is the ſame thing as to ſay, that he is not eloquent. Hence a ſceptical man, who is always in ſuſpenſe, and feels nothing ſtrongly; or a cunning mercenary man, who is ſuſpected rather to aſſume the appearance of paſſion than to feel it; have ſo little power over men in Public Speaking. Hence, in fine, the neceſſity of being, and being believed to be, diſintereſted, and in earneſt, in or⯑der to perſuade.

THESE are ſome of the capital ideas which have occured to me, concerning Eloquence in general; and with which I have thought proper to begin, as the foun⯑dation of much of what I am afterwards to ſuggeſt. From what I have already ſaid, it is evident that Eloquence is a high ta⯑lent, and of great importance in ſociety; and that it requires both natural genius, [174] and much improvement from Art. Viewed as the Art of Perſuaſion, it requires, in its loweſt ſtate, ſoundneſs of underſtanding, and conſiderable acquaintance with human nature; and, in its higher degrees, it re⯑quires, moreover, ſtrong ſenſibility of mind, a warm and lively imagination, joined with correctneſs of judgment, and an extenſive command of the power of Language; to which muſt alſo be added, the graces of Pronunciation and Delivery.—Let us next proceed, to conſider in what ſtate Elo⯑quence has ſubſiſted in different ages and nations.

IT is an obſervation made by ſeveral writers, that Eloquence is to be looked for only in free ſtates. Longinus, in particu⯑lar, at the end of his treatiſe on the Sub⯑lime, when aſſigning the reaſon why ſo little ſublimity of genius appeared in the age wherein he lived, illuſtrates this obſer⯑vation with a great deal of beauty. Liber⯑ty, he remarks, is the nurſe of true genius; it animates the ſpirit, and invigorates the hopes of men; excites honourable emula⯑tion, and a deſire of excelling in every Art. All other qualifications, he ſays, you may find among thoſe who are deprived of li⯑berty; but never did a ſlave become an orator; he can only be a pompous flatterer. Now, though this reaſoning be, in the main true; it muſt, however, be under⯑ſtood with ſome limitations. For, under [175] arbitrary governments, if they be of the ci⯑viliſed kind, and give encouragement to the arts, ornamental Eloquence may flouriſh remarkably. Witneſs France at this day, where, ever ſince the reign of Louis XIV., more of what may juſtly be called Eloquence, within a certain ſphere, is to be found, than, perhaps, in any other nation of Europe; though free⯑dom be enjoyed by ſome of them in a much greater degree. Their ſermons, and orations pronounced on publick occaſions, are not only polite and elegant harangues, but ſeveral of them are uncommonly ſpirit⯑ed, animated with bold figures, and riſe to a degree of the Sublime. Their Eloquence, however, in general, muſt be confeſſed to be of the flowery, rather than the vigorous kind; calculated more to pleaſe and ſoothe, than to convince and perſuade. High, manly, and forcible Eloquence is, indeed, to be looked for only, or chiefly, in the re⯑gions of freedom. Under arbitrary govern⯑ments, beſides the general turn of ſoftneſs and effeminacy which ſuch governments may be juſtly ſuppoſed to give to the ſpirit of a nation, the art of ſpeaking cannot be ſuch an inſtrument of ambition, buſineſs, and power, as it is in more democratical ſtates. It is confifed within a narrower range; it can be exerted only in the pulpit, or at the bar; but is excluded from thoſe great ſcenes of public buſineſs, where the ſpirits of men have the freeſt play; where [176] important affairs are tranſacted, and per⯑ſuaſion of courſe, is more ſeriouſly ſtudied. Wherever man can acquire moſt power over man by means or reaſon and diſcourſe, which certainly is under a free ſtate of go⯑vernment, there we may naturally expect that true Eloquence will be beſt under⯑ſtood, and carried to the greateſt height.

HENCE, in tracing the riſe of Oratory, we need not attempt to go far back into the early ages of the world, or ſearch for it among the monuments of Eaſtern or Egyp⯑tian antiquity. In thoſe ages, there was, indeed, an Eloquence of a certain kind; but it approached nearer to Poetry, than to what we properly call Oratory. There is reaſon to believe, as I formerly ſhewed, that the Language of the firſt ages was paſ⯑ſionate and metaphorical; owing partly to the ſcanty ſtock of words, of which Speech then conſiſted; and partly to the tincture which Language naturally takes from the ſavage and uncultivated ſtate of men, agi⯑tated by unreſtrained paſſions, and ſtruck by events, which to them are ſtrange and ſurpriſing. In this ſtate, rapture and en⯑thuſiaſm, the parents of Poetry, had an ample field. But while the intercourſe of men was as yet unfrequent, and force and ſtrength were the chief means employed in deciding controverſies, the arts of Oratory and Perſuaſion, of Reaſoning and Debate, could be but little known. The firſt empires [177] that aroſe, the Aſſyrian and Egyptian, were of the deſpotic kind. The whole power was in the hands of one, or at moſt of a few. The multitude were accuſtomed to a blind reverence: they were led, not perſuaded; and none of thoſe refinements of ſociety, which make public ſpeaking an object of importance, were as yet intro⯑duced.

IT is not till the riſe of the Grecian Re⯑publics, that we find any remarkable ap⯑pearances of Eloquence as the art of per⯑ſuaſion; and theſe gave it ſuch a field as it never had before, and, perhaps, has never had again ſince that time. And, therefore, as the Grecian Eloquence has ever been the object of admiration to thoſe who have ſtudied the powers of Speech, it is neceſ⯑ſary, that we fix our attention, for a little, on this period.

GREECE was divided into a multitude of petty ſtates. Theſe were governed, at firſt, by kings who were called Tyrants, and who being, in ſucceſſion, expelled from all theſe ſtates, there ſprung up a great number of democratical governments, ſounded near⯑ly on the ſame plan, animated by the ſame high ſpirit of freedom, mutually jealous, and rivals of each other. We may compute the flouriſhing period of thoſe Grecian ſtates, to have laſted from the battle of Ma⯑rathon, till the time of Alexander the [178] Great, who ſubdued the liberties of Greece; a period which comprehends about 150 years, and within which are to be found moſt of their celebrated poets and philoſo⯑phers, but chiefly their Orators: for though poetry and philoſophy were not extinct among them after that period, yet Elo⯑quence hardly made any figure.

OF theſe Grecian Republics, the moſt noted, by far, for Eloquence, and, indeed, for arts of every kind, was that of Athens. The Athenians were an ingenious, quick, ſprightly people; practiſed in buſineſs, and ſharpened by frequent and ſudden revolu⯑tions, which happened in their government. The genius of their government was en⯑tirely democratical; their legiſlature con⯑ſiſted of the whole body of the people. They had, indeed, a Senate of five hun⯑dred; but in the general convention of the citizens was placed the laſt reſort; and af⯑fairs were conducted there, altogether, by reaſoning, ſpeaking, and a ſkilful applica⯑tion to the paſſions and intereſts of a popu⯑lar aſſembly. There, laws were made, peace and war decreed, and thence the magiſtrates were choſen. For the higheſt honours of the ſtate were alike open to all; nor was the meaneſt tradeſman excluded from a ſeat in their ſupreme courts. In ſuch a ſtate, Eloquence, it is obvious, would be much ſtudied, as the ſureſt means of riſing to influence and power; and what [179] ſort of Eloquence? Not that which was brilliant merely, and ſhowy, but that which was found, upon trial, to be moſt effectual for convincing, intereſting, and perſuad⯑ing the hearers. For there, public ſpeak⯑ing was not a mere competition for empty applauſe, but a ſerious contention for that public leading, which was the great object both of the men of ambition, and the men of virtue.

AMONG a nation ſo enlightened and acute, and where the higheſt attention was paid to every thing elegant in the arts, we may naturally expect to find the public taſte refined and judicious. Accordingly, it was improved to ſuch a degree, that the Attic taſte and Attic manner have paſſed into a proverb. It is true, that ambitious demagogues, and corrupt orators, did ſome⯑times dazzle and miſlead the people, by a ſhowy but falſe Eloquence; for the Athe⯑nians, with all their acuteneſs, were fac⯑tious and giddy, and great admirers of eve⯑ry novelty. But when ſome important in⯑tereſt drew their attention, when any great danger rouſed them, and put their judg⯑ment to a ſerious trial, they commonly diſ⯑tinguiſhed, very juſtly, between genuine and ſpurious Eloquence: and hence De⯑moſthenes triumphed over all his oppo⯑nents; becauſe he ſpoke always to the pur⯑poſe, affected no inſignificant parade of words, uſed weighty arguments, and ſhew⯑ed [180] them clearly where their intereſt lay. In critical conjunctures of the ſtate, when the public was alarmed with ſome preſſing danger, when the people were aſſembled, and proclamation was made by the crier, for any one to riſe and deliver his opinion upon the preſent ſituation of affairs, empty declamation and ſophiſtical reaſoning would not only have been hiſſed, but reſented and puniſhed by an aſſembly ſo intelligent and accuſtomed to buſineſs. Their great⯑eſt Orators trembled on ſuch occaſions, when they roſe to addreſs the people, as they knew they were to be held anſwerable for the iſſue of the counſel which they gave. The moſt liberal endowments of the greateſt princes never could found ſuch a ſchool for true oratory, as was formed by the nature of the Athenian Republic. Eloquence there ſprung, native and vigo⯑rous, from amidſt the contentions of fac⯑tion and freedom, of public buſineſs, and of active life; and not from that retire⯑ment and ſpeculation, which we are apt ſometimes to fancy more favourable to Eloquence than they are found to be.

PYSISTRATUS, who was cotemporary with Solon, and ſubverted his plan of go⯑vernment, is mentioned by Plutarch, as the firſt who diſtinguiſhed himſelf among the Athenians by application to the Arts of Speech. His ability in theſe arts, he employed for raiſing himſelf to the ſove⯑reign [181] power; which, however, when he had attained, he exerciſed with moderation. Of the Orators who flouriſhed between his time and the Peloponneſian war, no par⯑ticular mention is made in hiſtory. Peri⯑cles, who died about the beginning of that war, was properly the firſt who carried Eloquence to a great height; to ſuch a height indeed, that it does not appear he was ever afterwards ſurpaſſed. He was more than an Orator; he was alſo a Stateſ⯑man and a General; expert in buſineſs, and of conſummate addreſs. For forty years, he governed Athens with abſolute ſway; and hiſtorians aſcribe his influence, not more to his political talents than to his Eloquence, which was of that forcible and vehement kind, that bore every thing before it, and triumphed over the paſſions and affections of the people. Hence he had the ſurname of Olympias given him: and it was ſaid, that, like Jupiter, he thundered when he ſpoke. Though his ambition be liable to cenſure, yet great virtues certainly he had; and it was the confidence which the people repoſed in his integrity, that gave ſuch power to his Eloquence; a circumſtance, without which the influence of public ſpeaking in a po⯑pular ſtate can ſeldom go far. He appears to have been generous, magnanimous, and public ſpirited: he raiſed no fortune to himſelf; he expended indeed great ſums of the public money, but chiefly on pub⯑lic [182] works; and at his death is ſaid to have valued himſelf principally on having ne⯑ver obliged any citizen to wear mourn⯑ing on his account, during his long admi⯑niſtration. It is a remarkable particular recorded of Pericles by Suidas, that he was the firſt Athenian who compoſed, and put into writing, a diſcourſe deſigned for the public.

POSTERIOR to Pericles, in the courſe of the Peloponneſian war, aroſe Cleon, Alcibiades, Critias, and Theramenes, emi⯑nent citizens of Athens, who were all diſ⯑tinguiſhed for their Eloquence. They were not Orators by profeſſion; they were not formed by ſchools, but by a much more powerful education, that of buſineſs and debate; where man ſharpened man, and civil affairs carried on by public ſpeak⯑ing, called forth every exertion of the mind. The manner or ſtyle of Oratory which then prevailed, we learn from the Orations in the hiſtory of Thucydides, who alſo flouriſhed in the ſame age. It was manly, vehement, and conciſe, even to ſome degree of obſcurity. ‘"Grandes erant verbis,"’ ſays Cicero, ‘"crebri ſen⯑tentiis, compreſſione rerum breves, et, ob eam ipſam cauſam, interdum ſubob⯑ſcuri^*."’ A manner very different from [183] what in modern times we would conceive to be the Style of popular Oratory; and which tends to give a high idea of the acuteneſs of thſoe audiences to which they ſpoke.

THE power of Eloquence having, after the days of Pericles, become an object of greater conſequence than ever, this gave birth to a ſet of men till then unknown, called Rhetoricians, and ſometimes Sophiſts, who aroſe in multitudes during the Pelopon⯑neſian war; ſuch as Protagoras, Prodicas, Thraſymus, and one who was more emi⯑nent than all the reſt, Gorgias of Leontium. Theſe Sophiſts joined to their art of rheto⯑ric a ſubtile logic, and were generally a ſort of metaphyſical Sceptics. Gorgias, how⯑ever, was a profeſſed maſter of Eloquence only. His reputation was prodigious. He was highly venerated in Leontium of Sicily, his native city; and money was coined with his name upon it. In the latter part of his life, he eſtabliſhed himſelf at Athens, and lived till he had attained the age of 105 years. Hermogenes (de Ideis, l. ii. cap. 9.) has pre⯑ſerved a fragment of his, from which we ſee his ſtyle and manner. It is extremely quaint and artificial; full of antitheſis and pointed expreſſion; and ſhows how far the Grecian ſubtilty had already carried the ſtudy of language. Theſe Rhetoricians did not content themſelves with delivering ge⯑neral inſtructions concerning Eloquence to [184] their pupils, and endeavouring to form their taſte; but they profeſſed the art of giving them receipts for making all ſorts of Orati⯑ons; and of teaching them how to ſpeak for, and againſt, every cauſe whatever. Upon this plan, they were the firſt who treated of common places, and the artificial invention of arguments and topics for every ſubject. In the hands of ſuch men, we may eaſily believe that Oratory would dege⯑nerate from the maſculine ſtrain it had hi⯑therto held, and become a trifling and ſo⯑phiſtical art: and we may juſtly deem them the firſt corrupters of true Eloquence. To them, the great Socrates oppoſed himſelf. By a profound, but ſimple reaſoning pecu⯑liar to himſelf, he exploded their ſophiſtry; and endeavoured to recall men's attention from that abuſe of reaſoning and diſcourſe which began to be in vogue, to natural lan⯑guage, and ſound and uſeful thought.

IN the ſame age, though ſomewhat later than the philoſopher above-mentioned, flouriſhed Iſocrates, whoſe writings are ſtill extant. He was a profeſſed Rhetorician, and by teaching Eloquence, he acquired both a great fortune, and higher fame than any of his rivals in that profeſſion. No con⯑temptible Orator he was. His orations are full of morality and good ſentiments: they are flowing and ſmooth; but too deſtitute of vigour. He never engaged in public affairs, nor pleaded cauſes; and accordingly his [185] orations are calculated only for the ſhade: ‘"Pompae,"’ Cicero allows, ‘"magis quam pugnae aptior; ad voluptatem aurium ac⯑commodatus potius quam ad judiciorum certamen^*."’ The Style of Gorgias of Leontium was formed into ſhort ſentences, compoſed generally of two members balanc⯑ed againſt each other. The Style of Iſocra⯑tes, on the contrary, is ſwelling and full; and he is ſaid to be the firſt who introduc⯑ed the method of compoſing in regular pe⯑riods, which had a ſtudied muſic and har⯑monious cadence; a manner which he has carried to a vicious exceſs. What ſhall we think of an orator, who employed ten years in compoſing one diſcourſe, ſtill extant, en⯑titled the Panegyric? How much frivolous care muſt have been beſtowed on all the minute elegance of words and ſentences? Dionyſius of Halicarnaſſus has given us upon the orations of Iſocrates, as alſo upon thoſe of ſome other Greek orators, a full and re⯑gular treatiſe, which is, in my opinion, one of the moſt judicious pieces of ancient criticiſm extant, and very worthy of being conſulted. He commends the ſplendor of Iſocrates's Style, and the morality of his ſen⯑timents; but ſeverely cenſures his affecta⯑tion, and the uniform regular cadence of all his ſentences. He holds him to be a florid declaimer; not a natural perſuaſive ſpeak⯑er. [186] Cicero, in his critical works, though he admits his failings, yet diſcovers a pro⯑penſity to be very favourable to that ‘"ple⯑na ac numeroſa oratio,"’ that ſwelling and muſical ſtyle, which Iſocrates intro⯑duced; and with the love of which, Cice⯑ro himſelf was, perhaps, ſomewhat infect⯑ed. In one of his Treatiſe (Orat. ad M. Brut.) he informs us, that his friend Brutus and he differed in this particular, and that Brutus found fault with his partiality to Iſocrates. The manner of Iſocrates gene⯑rally catches young people, when they be⯑gin to attend to compoſition; and it is very natural that it ſhould do ſo. It gives them an idea of that regularity, cadence, and magnificence of ſtyle, which fills the ear: but when they come to write or ſpeak for the world, they will find this oſtentatious manner unfit, either for carrying on buſineſs, or commanding attention. It is ſaid, that the high reputation of Iſocrates prompted Ariſtotle, who was nearly his cotemporary, or lived but a little after him, to write his inſtitutions of Rhetoric; which are indeed formed upon a plan of Eloquence very dif⯑ferent from that of Iſocrates, and the Rhe⯑toricians of that time. He ſeems to have had it in view to direct the attention of ora⯑tors much more towards convincing and af⯑fecting their hearers, than towards the mu⯑ſical cadence of periods.

[187] IS AEUS and Lyſias, ſome of whoſe orati⯑ons are preſerved, belong alſo to this period. Lyſias was ſomewhat earlier than Iſocrates, and is the modle of that manner which the ancients call the ‘"Tenuis vel Subtilis."’ He has none of Iſocrates's pomp. He is every where pure and attic in the higheſt de⯑gree; ſimple and unaffected; but wants force, and is ſometimes frigid in his compoſi⯑tions^*. Iſaeus is chiefly remarkable for be⯑ing [188] the maſter of the great Demoſthenes, in whom, it muſt be acknowledged, Elo⯑quence ſhone forth with higher ſplendor, than perhaps in any that ever bore the name of an orator, and whoſe manner and character, therefore, muſt deſerve our par⯑ticular attention.

I SHALL not ſpend any time upon the circumſtances of Demoſthenes's life; they are well known. The ſtrong ambition which he diſcovered to excel in the art of ſpeaking; the unſucceſsfulneſs of his firſt attempts; his unwearied perſeverance in ſurmounting all the diſadvantages that aroſe from his perſon and addreſs; his ſhutting himſelf up in a cave, that he might ſtudy with leſs diſtraction; his declaiming by the ſea-ſhore, that he might accuſtom himſelf to the noiſe of a tumultuous aſſembly, and with pebbles in his mouth, that he might correct a defect in his ſpeech; his practiſing [189] at home with a naked ſword hanging over his ſhoulder, that he might check an un⯑graceful motion, to which he was ſubject; all thoſe circumſtances which, we learn from Plutarch, are very encouraging to ſuch as ſtudy Eloquence, as they ſhow how far art and application may avail, for acquiring an excellence which nature ſeem⯑ed unwilling to grant us.

DESPISING the affected and florid man⯑ner which the Rhetoricians of that age fol⯑lowed, Demoſthenes returned to the forcible and manly Eloquence of Pericles; and ſtrength and vehemence form the principle characteriſtics of his Style. Never had ora⯑tor a finer field than Domeſthenes in his Olynthiacs and Philippics, which are his capital Orations; and, no doubt, to the nobleneſs of the ſubject, and to that in⯑tegrity and public ſpirit which eminently breathe in them, they are indebted for much of their merit. The ſubject, is to rouze the indignation of his countrymen againſt Philip of Macedon, the public enemy of the liberties of Greece; and to guard them againſt the inſidious meaſures, by which that crafty Prince endeavoured to lay them aſleep to danger. In the proſecution of this end, we ſee him taking every proper method to animate a people, renowned for juſtice, humanity, and valour, but in many in⯑ſtances become corrupt and degenerate. He boldly taxes them with their venality, [190] their indolence, and indifference to the public cauſe; while, at the ſame time, with all the art of an Orator, he recals the glory of their anceſtors to their thoughts, ſhows them that they are ſtill a flouriſhing and a powerful people, the natural protec⯑tors of the liberty of Greece, and who wanted only the inclination to exert them⯑ſelves, in order to make Philip tremble. With his cotemporary orators, who were in Philip's intereſt, and who perſuaded the people to peace, he keeps no meaſures, but plainly reproaches them as the betrayers of their country. He not only prompts to vigorous conduct, but he lays down the plan of that conduct; he enters into parti⯑culars; and points out, with great exact⯑neſs, the meaſures of execution. This is the ſtrain of theſe orations. They are ſtrongly animated; and full of the impe⯑tuoſity and fire of public ſpirit. They proceed in a continued train of inductions, conſequences, and demonſtrations, found⯑ed on ſound reaſon. The figures which he uſes, are never ſought after; but always riſe from the ſubject. He employs them ſparingly indeed; for ſplendor and orna⯑ment are not the diſtinctions of this Orator's compoſition. It is an energy of thought peculiar to himſelf, which forms his cha⯑racter, and ſets him above all others. He appears to attend much more to things than to words. We forget the orator, and think of the buſineſs. He warms the mind, and [191] impels to action. He has no parade and oſ⯑tentation; no methods of inſinuation; no laboured introductions; but is like a man full of his ſubject, who, after preparing his audience by a ſentence or two for hear⯑ing plain truths, enters directly on buſineſs.

DEMOSTHENES appears to great advan⯑tage, when contraſted with Aeſchines in the celebrated oration "pro Corona." Aeſ⯑chines was his rival in buſineſs, and per⯑ſonal enemy; and one of the moſt diſtin⯑guiſhed Orators of that age. But when we read the two orations, Aeſchines is feeble in compariſon of Domoſthenes, and makes much leſs impreſſion on the mind. His reaſonings concerning the law that was in queſtion, are indeed very ſubtile; but his invective againſt Demoſthenes is general, and ill ſupported. Whereas Demoſthenes is a torrent, that nothing can reſiſt. He bears down his antagoniſt with violence; he draws his character in the ſtrongeſt co⯑lours; and the particular merit of that oration is, that all the deſcriptions in it are highly pictureſque. There runs through it a ſtrain of magnanimity and high ho⯑nour: the Orator ſpeaks with that ſtrength and conſcious dignity which great actions and public ſpirit alone inſpire. Both Ora⯑tors uſe great liberties with one another; and in general, that unreſtrained licence which ancient manners permitted, even to [192] the length of abuſive names and downright ſcurrility, as appears both here and in Ci⯑cero's Philippics, hurts and offends a mo⯑dern ear. What thoſe ancient Orators gained by ſuch a manner in point of free⯑dom and boldneſs, is more than compen⯑ſated by want of dignity; which ſeems to give an advantage, in this reſpect, to the greater decency of modern ſpeaking.

THE Style of Demoſthenes is ſtrong and conciſe, though ſometimes, it muſt not be diſſembled, harſh and abrupt. His words are very expreſſive; his arrangement is firm and manly; and, though far from being unmuſical, yet it ſeems difficult to find in him that ſtudied, but concealed number, and Rythmus, which ſome of the ancient critics are fond of attributing to him. Ne⯑gligent of thoſe leſſer graces, one would rather conceive him to have aimed at that Sublime which lies in ſentiment. His acti⯑on and pronunciation are recorded to have been uncommonly vehement and ardent; which, from the manner of his compoſition, we are naturally led to believe. The cha⯑racter which one forms of him, from read⯑ing his works, is of the auſtere, rather than the gentle kind. He is, on every oc⯑caſion, grave, ſerious, paſſionate; takes e⯑very thing on a high tone; never lets him⯑ſelf down, nor attempts any thing like plea⯑ſantry. If any fault can be found to his [193] admirable Eloquence, it is, that he ſome⯑times borders on the hard and dry. He may be thought to want ſmoothneſs and grace; which Dionyſius of Halicarnaſſus attributes to his imitating too cloſely the manner of Thucydides, who was his great model for Style, and whoſe hiſ⯑tory he is ſaid to have written eight times over with his own hand. But theſe defects are far more than compen⯑ſated, by that admirable and maſterly force of maſculine Eloquence, which, as it over⯑powered all who heard it, cannot, at this day, be read without emotion.

AFTER the days of Demoſthenes, Greece loſt her liberty, Eloquence of courſe lan⯑guiſhed, and relapſed again into the feeble manner introduced by the Rhetoricians and Sophiſts. Demetrius Phalerius, who lived in the next age to Demoſthenes, attained indeed ſome character, but he is repreſent⯑ed to us as a flowery, rather than a per⯑ſuaſive ſpeaker, who aimed at grace rather than ſubſtance. ‘"Delectabat Athenienſes,"’ ſays Cicero, ‘"magis quam inflammabat."’ ‘"He amuſed the Athenians, rather than warmed them."’ And after his time, we hear of no more Grecian Orators of any note.

LECTURE XXVI. HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE CONTI⯑NUED—ROMAN ELOQUENCE—CICERO—MODERN ELOQUENCE.

HAVING treated of the riſe of Elo⯑quence, and of its ſtate among the Greeks, we now proceed to conſider its progreſs among the Romans, where we ſhall find one model, at leaſt, of Eloquence, in its moſt ſplendid and illuſtrious form. The Romans were long a martial nation, altogether rude, and unſkilled in arts of any kind. Arts were of late introduction among them; they were not known till after the conqueſt of Greece; and the Ro⯑mans always acknowledged the Grecians as their maſters in every part of learn⯑ing.

AS the Romans derived their Eloquence, Poetry, and Learning from the Greeks, ſo they muſt be confeſſed to be far inferior to them in genius for all theſe accompliſh⯑ments. They were a more grave and mag⯑nificent, but a leſs acute and ſprightly peo⯑ple. They had neither the vivacity nor the ſenſibility of the Greeks; their paſſions were not ſo eaſily moved, nor their concep⯑tions ſo lively; in compariſon of them, they were a phlegmatic nation. Their language reſembled their character; it was regular, firm, and ſtately; but wanted that ſimple and expreſſive naïveté, and, in par⯑ticular, that flexibility to ſuit every diffe⯑rent mode and ſpecies of compoſition, for which the Greek tongue is diſtinguiſhed above that of every other country.

[196] And hence, when we compare together the various rival productions of Greece and Rome, we ſhall always find this diſtinction obtain, that in the Greek productions there is more native genius; in the Roman, more regularity and art. What the Greeks invented, the Romans poliſhed; the one was the original, rough ſometimes, and in⯑correct; the other, a finiſhed copy.

AS the Roman government, during the republic, was of the popular kind, there is no doubt but that, in the hands of the leading men, public ſpeaking became early an engine of government, and was em⯑ployed for gaining diſtinction and power. But in the rude unpoliſhed times of the State, their ſpeaking was hardly of that ſort that could be called Eloquence. Though Cicero, in his Treatiſe "de Claris Oratoribus," endeavours to give ſome reputation to the elder Cato, and thoſe who were his contemporaries, yet he ac⯑knowledges it to have been ‘"Aſperum et horridum genus dicendi,"’ a rude and harſh ſtrain of ſpeech. It was not till a ſhort time preceding Cicero's age, that the Roman Orators roſe into any note. Craſſus and Antonius, two of the Speakers in the dialogue De Oratore, appear to have been the moſt eminent, whoſe different man⯑ners Cicero deſcribes with great beauty in that dialogue, and in his other rhe⯑torical works. But as none of their productions [197] are extant, nor any of Horten⯑ſius's, who was Cicero's cotemporary and rival at the bar, it is needleſs to tranſcribe from Cicero's writings the account which he gives of thoſe great men, and of the character of their Eloquence^*.

THE object in this period, moſt worthy to draw our attention, is Cicero himſelf; whoſe name alone ſuggeſts every thing that is ſplendid in Oratory. With the hiſtory of his life, and with his character, as a man and a politician, we have not at pre⯑ſent any direct concern. We conſider him only as an eloquent Speaker; and, in this view, it is our buſineſs to remark both his virtues, and his defects, if he has any. His virtues are, beyond controverſy, emi⯑nently great. In all his Orations there is high art. He begins, generally, with a regular exordium; and with much prepa⯑ration and inſinuation prepoſſeſſes the hear⯑ers, and ſtudies to gain their affections. His method is clear, and his arguments are arranged with great propriety. His me⯑thod is indeed more clear than that of De⯑moſthenes; and this is one advantage which he has over him. We find every thing in [198] its proper place; he never attempts to move, till he has endeavoured to convince; and in moving, eſpecially the ſofter paſ⯑ſions, he is very ſucceſsful. No man, that ever wrote, knew the power and force of words better than Cicero. He rolls them along with the greateſt beauty and pomp; and, in the ſtructure of his ſentences, is curious and exact to the higheſt degree. He is always full and flowing, never ab⯑rupt. He is a great amplifier of every ſub⯑ject; magnificent, and in his ſentiments highly moral. His manner is on the whole diffuſe, yet it is often happily varied, and ſuited to the ſubject. In his four orations, for inſtance, againſt Catiline, the tone and ſtyle of each of them, particularly the firſt and laſt, is very different, and accommo⯑dated with a great deal of judgment to the occaſion, and the ſituation in which they were ſpoken. When a great public object rouſed his mind, and demanded indigna⯑tion and force, he departs conſiderably from that looſe and declamatory man⯑ner to which he inclines at other times, and becomes exceedingly cogent and ve⯑hement. This is the caſe in his Orations againſt Anthony, and in thoſe two againſt Verres and Catiline.

TOGETHER with thoſe high qualities which Cicero poſſeſſes, he is not exempt from certain defects, of which it is neceſſary to take notice. For the Ciceronian Elo⯑quence [199] is a pattern ſo dazzling by its beau⯑ties, that, if not examined with accuracy and judgment, it is apt to betray the un⯑wary into a faulty imitation; and I am of opinion, that it has ſometimes produced this effect. In moſt of his Orations, eſpe⯑cially thoſe compoſed in the earlier part of his life, there is too much art; even car⯑ried the length of oſtentation. There is too viſible a parade of Eloquence. He ſeems often to aim at obtaining admiration, rather than at operating conviction, by what he ſays. Hence, on ſome occaſions, he is ſhowy rather than ſolid; and diffuſe, where he ought to have been preſſing. His ſentences are, at all times, round and ſo⯑norous; they cannot be accuſed of mono⯑tony, for they poſſeſs variety of cadence; but, from too great a ſtudy of magnificence, he is ſometimes deficient in ſtrength. On all occaſions, where there is the leaſt room for it, he is full of himſelf. His great ac⯑tions, and the real ſervices which he had performed to his country, apologize for this in part; ancient manners, too, im⯑poſed fewer reſtraints from the ſide of de⯑corum; but, even after theſe allowances made, Cicero's oſtentation of himſelf can⯑not be wholly palliated; and his Orations, indeed all his works, leave on our minds the impreſſion of a good man, but withal, of a vain man.

[200] THE defects which we have now taken notice of in Cicero's Eloquence, were not unobſerved by his own cotemporaries. This we learn from Quinctilian, and from the author of the dialogue, "de Cauſis Cor⯑ruptae Eloquentiae," Brutus, we are in⯑formed, called him, ‘"fractum et elum⯑bem,"’ broken and enervated. ‘"Suorum temporum homines,"’ ſays Quinctilian, ‘"in⯑ceſſere audebant eum ut tumidiorem & Aſianum, et redundantem, et in repititi⯑onibus nimium, et in ſalibus aliquando fri⯑gidum, & in compoſitione fractum et exſul⯑tantem, & pene viro molliorem^*."’ Theſe cenſures were undoubtedly carried too far; and ſavour of malignity and perſonal enmi⯑ty. They ſaw his defects, but they aggrava⯑ted them; and theſo urce of theſe aggravati⯑ons can be traced to the difference which prevailed in Rome, in Cicero's days, be⯑tween two great parties, with reſpect to Eloquence. The ‘"Attici,"’ and the ‘"Aſiani."’ The former, who called them⯑ſelves the Attics, were the patrons of what they conceived to be the chaſte, ſimple, and natural Style of Eloquence; from which they accuſed Cicero as having departed, and as leaning to the florid Aſiatic manner. In ſeveral of his rhetorical works, particularly [201] in his "Orator ad Brutum," Cicero, in his turn, endeavours to expoſe this ſect, as ſubſtituting a frigid and jejune manner, in place of the true Attic Eloquence; and con⯑tends, that his own compoſition was form⯑ed upon the real Attic Style. In the 10th Chapter of the laſt Book of Quinctilian's Inſtitutions, a full account is given of the diſputes between theſe two parties; and of the Rhodian, or middle manner between the Attics and the Aſiatics. Quinctilian himſelf declares on Cicero's ſide; and, whe⯑ther it be called Attic or Aſiatic, prefers the full, the copious, and the amplifying Style. He concludes with this very juſt obſervati⯑on: ‘"Plures ſunt eloquentiae facies; ſed ſtultiſſimum eſt quaerere, ad quam rectu⯑rus ſe ſit orator; cum omnis ſpecies, quae modo recta eſt, habeat uſum.—Utetur enim, ut res exiget, omnibus; nec pro cauſâ modo, ſed pro partibus cauſae^*."’

On the ſubject of comparing Cicero and Demoſthenes, much has been ſaid by criti⯑cal writers. The different manners of theſe two Princes of Eloquence, and the [202] diſtinguiſhing characters of each, are ſo ſtrongly marked in their writings, that the compariſon is, in many reſpects, obvious and eaſy. The character of Demoſthenes is vigour and auſterity; that of Cicero is gentleneſs and inſinuation. In the one, you find more manlineſs, in the other, more ornament. The one is more harſh, but more ſpirited and cogent; the other more agreeable, but withal, looſer and weaker.

To account for this difference, without any prejudice to Cicero, it has been ſaid, that we muſt look to the nature of their different auditories; that the refined Athe⯑nians followed with eaſe the conciſe and convincing Eloquence of Demoſthenes; but that a manner more popular, more flowery, and declamatory, was requiſite in ſpeak⯑ing to the Romans, a people leſs acute, and leſs acquainted with the arts of ſpeech. But this is not ſatisfactory. For we muſt obſerve, that the Greek Orator ſpoke much oftener before a mixed multitude, than the Roman. Almoſt all the public buſineſs of Athens was tranſacted in popular Aſſem⯑blies. The common people were his hear⯑ers, and his judges. Whereas Cicero ge⯑nerally addreſſed himſelf to the ‘"Patres Conſcripti,"’ or in criminal trials to the Praetor, and the Select Judges; and it can⯑not be imagined, that the perſons of high⯑eſt rank, and beſt education in Rome, re⯑quired [203] a more diffuſe manner of pleading than the common citizens of Athens, in order to make them underſtand the cauſe, or reliſh the Speaker. Perhaps we ſhall come nearer the truth, by obſerving, that to unite together all the qualities, without the leaſt exception, that form a perfect Orator, and to excel equally in each of thoſe qualities, is not to be expected from the limited powers of human genius. The higheſt degree of ſtrength is, I ſuſpect, ne⯑ver found united with the higheſt degree of ſmoothneſs and ornament; equal atten⯑tions to both are incompatible; and the genius that carries ornament to its utmoſt length, is not of ſuch a kind, as can excel as much in vigour. For there plainly lies the characteriſtical difference between theſe two celebrated Orators.

IT is a diſadvantage to Demoſthenes, that, beſides his conciſeneſs, which ſome⯑times produces obſcurity, the language, in which he writes, is leſs familiar to moſt of us than the Latin, and that we are leſs ac⯑quainted with the Greek antiquities than we are with the Roman. We read Cicero with more eaſe, and of courſe with more pleaſure. Independent of this circumſtance too, he is no doubt, in himſelf, a more agreeable writer than the other. But not⯑withſtanding this advantage, I am of opi⯑nion, that were the ſtate in danger, or ſome great public intereſt at ſtake, which [204] drew the ſerious attention of men, an Ora⯑tion in the ſpirit and ſtrain of Demoſthenes, would have more weight, and produce greater effects than one in the Ciceronian manner. Were Demoſthenes's Philippics ſpoken in a Britiſh Aſſembly, in a ſimilar conjuncture of affairs, they would convince and perſuade at this day. The rapid Style, the vehement reaſoning, the diſdain, an⯑ger, boldneſs, freedom, which perpetually animate them, would render their ſucceſs infallible over any modern Aſſembly. I queſtion whether the ſame can be ſaid of Cicero's Orations; whoſe Eloquence, how⯑ever beautiful, and however well ſuited to the Roman taſte, yet borders oftener on de⯑clamation, and is more remote from the manner in which we now expect to hear real buſineſs and cauſes of importance treated^*.

IN comparing Demoſthenes and Cicero, moſt of the French Critics incline to give the preference to the latter. P. Rapin the Jeſuit, in the Parallels which he has drawn between ſome of the moſt eminent Greek and Roman writers, uniformly de⯑cides in favour of the Roman. For the [205] preference which he gives to Cicero, he aſ⯑ſigns, and lays ſtreſs on one reaſon of a pretty extraordinary nature; viz. that De⯑moſthenes could not poſſibly have ſo com⯑plete an inſight as Cicero into the manners and paſſions of men; Why?—Becauſe he had not the advantage of peruſing Ariſto⯑tle's treatiſe of Rhetoric, wherein, ſays our Critic, he has fully laid open that myſtery: and, to ſupport this weighty argument he enters into a controverſy with A. Gellius, in order to prove that Ariſtotle's Rhetoric was not publiſhed till after Demoſthenes had ſpoken, at leaſt, his moſt conſiderable orations. Nothing can be more childiſh. Such Orators as Cicero and Demoſthenes, derived their knowledge of the human paſ⯑ſions, and their power of moving them, from higher ſources than any Treatiſe of Rhetoric. One French Critic has indeed departed from the common tract; and, af⯑ter beſtowing on Cicero thoſe juſt praiſes to which the conſent of ſo many ages ſhows him to be entitled, concludes howe⯑ver, with giving the palm to Demoſthenes. This is Fenelon, the famous Archbiſhop of Cambray, and Author of Telemachus; himſelf ſurely no enemy to all the graces and flowers of compoſition. It is in his Reflections on Rhetoric and Poetry, that he gives this judgment; a ſmall tract, com⯑monly publiſhed along with his dialogues [206] on Eloquence^*. Theſe dialogues and re⯑flections are particularly worthy of peruſal, as containing, I think, the juſteſt ideas on the ſubject, that are to be met with in any modern critical writer.

THE reign of Eloquence, among the Romans, was very ſhort. After the age of Cicero, it languiſhed, or rather expired; and we have no reaſon to wonder at this be⯑ing the caſe. For not only was liberty en⯑tirely extinguiſhed, but arbitrary power felt in its heavieſt and moſt oppreſſive weight: Providence having, in its wrath, delivered over the Roman Empire to a ſuc⯑ceſſion [207] of ſome of the moſt execrable tyrants that ever diſgraced, and ſcourged, the hu⯑man race. Under their government, it was naturally to be expected that taſte would be corrupted, and genius diſcouraged. Some of the ornamental arts, leſs intimately connected with liberty, continued, for a while, to prevail; but for that maſculine Eloquence, which had exerciſed itſelf in the ſenate, and in the public affairs, there was no longer any place. The change which was produced on Eloquence, by the nature of the government, and the ſtate of the public manners, is beautifully deſcribed in the Dialogue de Cauſis corruptae Eloquen⯑tiae, which is attributed, by ſome, to Taci⯑tus, by others, to Quinctilian. Luxury, effeminacy, and flattery, overwhelmed all. The Forum, where ſo many great affairs had been tranſacted, was now become a deſert. Private cauſes were ſtill pleaded; but the Public was no longer intereſted; nor any general attention drawn to what paſſed there: ‘"Unus inter haec, et alter, dicenti aſſiſtit; et res velut in ſolitudine agitur. Oratori autem clamore plau⯑ſuque opus eſt, et velut quodam thea⯑tro, qualia quotidie antiquis oratori⯑bus contingebant; [...]um tot ac tam no⯑biles forum coarctarent; cum clien⯑telae, & tribus, & municipiorum legati⯑ones, periclitantibus aſſiſterent; cum in [208] pleriſque judiciis crederet populus Ro⯑manus ſua intereſſe quid judicaretur^*."’

IN the ſchools of the declaimers, the cor⯑ruption of Eloquence was completed. Imaginary and fantaſtic ſubjects, ſuch as had no real life, or buſineſs, were made the themes of declamation; and all man⯑ner of falſe and affected ornaments were brought into vogue: ‘"Pace veſtra liceat dixiſſe,"’ ſays Petronius Arbiter, to the declaimers of his time, ‘"primi omnem elo⯑quentiam perdidiſtis. Levibus enim ac inanibus ſonis ludibria quaedam excitan⯑do, effeciſtis ut corpus orationis enervare⯑tur atque caderet. Et ideo ego exiſtimo adoleſcentulos in ſcholis ſtultiſſimos fieri, quia nihil ex iis, quae in uſu habemus, aut vident; ſed piratas cum catenis in lit⯑tore ſtantes; et tyrannos edicta ſcriben⯑tes quibus imperent filiis ut patrum ſuo⯑rum capita praecidant; ſed reſponſa, in peſtilentia data, ut virgines tres aut plu⯑res immolentur; ſed mellitos verborum globulos, & omnia quaſi papavere, & ſeſamo ſparſa. Qui inter haec nutriun⯑tur, [209] non magis ſapere poſſunt, quam be⯑ne olere qui in culina habitant^*."’ In the hands of the Greek rhetoricians, the manly and ſenſible Eloquence of their firſt noted ſpeakers, degenerated, as I formerly ſhow⯑ed, into ſubtility and ſophiſtry; in the hands of the Roman declaimers, it paſſed into the quaint and affected; into point and antitheſis. This corrupt manner begins to appear in the writings of Seneca; and ſhows itſelf, alſo, in the famous panegyric of Pliny the Younger on Trajan, which may be conſidered as the laſt effort of Ro⯑man oratory. Though the author was a man of genius, yet it is deficient in na⯑ture and eaſe. We ſee, throughout the whole, a perpetual attempt to depart from the ordinary way of thinking, and to ſup⯑port a forced elevation.

[210] IN the decline of the Roman Empire, the introduction of Chriſtianity gave riſe to a new ſpecies of Eloquence, in the apolo⯑gies, ſermons, and paſtoral writings of the Fathers of the Church. Among the Latin Fathers, Lactantius and Minutius Felix, are the moſt remarkable for purity of Style; and, in a later age, the famous St. Auguſ⯑tine poſſeſſes a conſiderable ſhare of ſprightlineſs and ſtrength. But none of the Fathers afford any juſt models of Elo⯑quence. Their Language, as ſoon as we deſcend to the third or fourth century, be⯑comes harſh; and they are, in general, in⯑fected with the taſte of that age, a love of ſwoln and ſtrained thoughts, and of the play of words. Among the Greek Fathers, the moſt diſtinguiſhed, by far, for his ora⯑torial merit, is St. Chryſoſtome. His Lan⯑guage is pure; his Style highly figured. He is copious, ſmooth, and ſometimes pa⯑thetic. But he retains, at the ſame time, much of that character which has been al⯑ways attributed to the Aſiatic Eloquence, diffuſe and redundant to a great degree, and often overwrought and tumid. He may be read, however, with advantage, for the Eloquence of the pulpit, as being freer of falſe ornaments than the Latin Fa⯑thers.

AS there is nothing more that occurs to me, deſerving particular attention in the middle age, I paſs now to the ſtate of Elo⯑quence in modern times. Here, it muſt [211] be confeſſed, that, in no European nation, Public Speaking has been conſidered as ſo great an object, or been cultivated with ſo much care, as in Greece or Rome. Its reputation has never been ſo high; its effects have never been ſo conſider⯑able; nor has that high and ſub⯑lime kind of it, which prevailed in thoſe antient ſtates, been ſo much as aimed at: notwithſtanding, too, that a new profeſ⯑ſion has been eſtabliſhed, which gives pe⯑culiar advantages to Oratory, and affords it the nobleſt field; I mean, that of the Church. The genius of the world ſeems, in this reſpect, to have undergone ſome alteration. The two countries where we might expect to find moſt of the ſpirit of Eloquence, are France and Great Britain: France, on account of the diſtinguiſhed turn of the nation towards all the liberal arts, and of the encouragement which, for this century paſt, thoſe arts have received from the Public; Great Britain, on account both of the public capacity and genius, and of the free government which it enjoys. Yet, ſo it is, that, in neither of thoſe countries, has the talent of Public Speak⯑ing riſen near to the degree of its antient ſplendor. While, in other productions of genius, both in proſe and in poetry, they have contended for the prize with Greece and Rome; nay, in ſome compoſitions, may be thought to have ſurpaſſed them: the names of Demoſthenes and Cicero, ſtand, at this day, unrivalled in fame; and [212] it would be held preſumptuous and abſurd, to pretend to place any modern whatever on the ſame, or even on a nearly equal, rank.

IT ſeems particularly ſurpriſing, that Great Britain ſhould not have made a more conſpicuous figure in Eloquence than it has hitherto attained; when we conſider the enlightened, and, at the ſame time, the free and bold genius of the country, which ſeems not a little to favour Oratory; and when we conſider that, of all the po⯑lite nations, it alone poſſeſſes a popular government, or admits into the legiſlature, ſuch numerous aſſemblies as can be ſup⯑poſed to lie under the dominion of Elo⯑quence^*. Notwithſtanding this advantage, it muſt be confeſſed, that, in moſt parts of Eloquence, we are undoubtedly inferior, not only to the Greeks and Romans by many degrees, but alſo to the French. We have Philoſophers, eminent and conſpicu⯑ous, perhaps, beyond any nation, in all the parts of ſcience. We have both taſte and erudition, in a high degree. We have [213] Hiſtorians, we have Poets of the greateſt name; but of Orators, or Public Speakers, how little have we to boaſt? And where are the monuments of their genius to be found? in every period we have had ſome who made a figure, by managing the de⯑bates in Parliament; but that figure was commonly owing to their wiſdom, or their experience in buſineſs, more than to their talents for Oratory; and unleſs, in ſome few inſtances, wherein the power of Ora⯑tory has appeared, indeed, with much luſtre, the art of Parliamentary Speaking rather obtained to ſeveral a temporary ap⯑plauſe, than conferred upon any a laſting renown. At the bar, though, queſtionleſs, we have many able pleaders, yet few or none of their pleadings have been thought worthy to be tranſmitted to poſterity; nor have commanded attention, any longer than the cauſe which was the ſubject of them intereſted the Public; while, in France, the pleadings of Patru, in the former age, and thoſe of Cochin and D'Agueſſeau, in later times, are read with pleaſure, and are often quoted as examples of Eloquence by the French critics. In the ſame man⯑ner, in the pulpit, the Britiſh divines have diſtinguiſhed themſelves by the moſt accu⯑rate and rational compoſitions which, per⯑haps, any nation can boaſt of. Many printed ſermons we have, full of good ſenſe, and of ſound divinity and morality; but the Eloquence to be found in them, [214] the power of perſuaſion, of intereſting and engaging the heart, which is, or ought to be, the great object of the pulpit, is far from bearing a ſuitable proportion to the excellence of the matter. There are few arts, in my opinion, farther from perfec⯑tion, than that of preaching is among us; the reaſons of which, I ſhall afterwards have occaſion to diſcuſs; in proof of the fact, it is ſufficient to obſerve, that an Engliſh ſermon, inſtead of being a perſua⯑ſive animated Oration, ſeldom riſes beyond the ſtrain of correct and dry reaſoning. Whereas, in the ſermons of Boſſuet, Maſ⯑ſillon, Bourdaloue, and Flechier, among the French, we ſee a much higher ſpecies of Eloquence aimed at, and in a great mea⯑ſure attained, than the Britiſh preachers have in view.

IN general, the characteriſtical difference between the ſtate of Eloquence in France and in Great Britain is, that the French have adopted higher ideas both of pleaſing and perſuading by means of Oratory, though, ſometimes, in the execution they fail. In Great Britain, we have taken up Eloquence on a lower key; but in our ex⯑ecution, as was naturally to be expected, have been more correct. In France, the ſtyle of their Orators is ornamented with bolder figures; and their diſcourſe carried on with more amplification, more warmth and elevation. The compoſition is often [215] very beautiful; but ſometimes, alſo, too diffuſe, and deficient in that ſtrength and cogency which renders Eloquence power⯑ful; a defect owing, perhaps, in part, to the genius of the people, which leads them to attend fully as much to ornament as to ſubſtance; and, in part, to the nature of their government, which, by excluding Public Speaking from having much influ⯑ence on the conduct of Public Affairs, de⯑prives Eloquence of its beſt opportunity for acquiring nerves and ſtrength. Hence the pulpit is the principal field which is left for their Eloquence. The members, too, of the French academy give harangues at their admiſſion, in which genius often appears; but labouring under the misfor⯑tune of having no ſubject to diſcourſe up⯑on, they run commonly into flattery and panegyric, the moſt barren and inſipid of all topics.

I OBSERVED before, that the Greeks and Romans aſpired to a more ſublime ſpe⯑cies of Eloquence, than is aimed at by the Moderns. Theirs was of the vehement and paſſionate kind, by which they endea⯑voured to inflame the minds of their hear⯑ers, and hurry their imaginations away: and, ſuitable to this vehemence of thought, was their vehemence of geſture and action; the ‘"ſupploſio pedis^*,"’ the ‘"percuſſio frontis & femoris,"’ were, as we learn [216] from Cicero's writings, uſual geſtures a⯑mong them at the bar; though now they would be reckoned extravagant any where, except upon the ſtage. Modern Eloquence is much more cool and temperate; and in Great Britain eſpecially, has confined itſelf almoſt wholly to the argumentative and rational. It is much of that ſpecies which the antient critics called the ‘"Tenuis,"’ or ‘"Subtilis;"’ which aims at convincing and inſtructing, rather than affecting the paſſi⯑ons, and aſſumes a tone not much higher than common argument and diſcourſe.

SEVERAL reaſons may be given, why modern Eloquence has been ſo limited, and humble in its efforts. In the firſt place, I am of opinion, that this change muſt, in part, be aſcribed to that correct turn of thinking, which has been ſo much ſtudied in modern times. It can hardly be doubt⯑ed, that, in many efforts of mere genius, the antient Greeks and Romans excelled us; but, on the other hand, that, in accuracy and cloſeneſs of reaſoning on many ſub⯑jects, we have ſome advantage over them, ought, I think, to be admitted alſo: In proportion as the world has advanced, phi⯑loſophy has made greater progreſs. A cer⯑tain ſtrictneſs of good ſenſe has, in this iſland particularly, been cultivated, and introduced into every ſubject. Hence we are more on our guard againſt the flowers of Elocution; we are on the watch; we are [217] jealous of being deceived by Oratory. Our Public Speakers are obliged to be more re⯑ſerved than the antients, in their attempts to elevate the imagination, and warm the paſſions; and, by the influence of prevail⯑ing taſte, their own genius is ſobered and chaſtened, perhaps, in too great a degree. It is likely too, I confeſs, that what we fondly aſcribe to our correctneſs and good ſenſe, is owing, in a great meaſure, to our phlegm and natural coldneſs. For the vi⯑vacity and ſenſibility of the Greeks and Ro⯑mans, more eſpecially of the former, ſeem to have been much greater than ours, and to have given them a higher reliſh of all the beauties of Oratory.

BESIDES theſe national conſiderations, we muſt, in the next place, attend to pe⯑culiar circumſtances in the three great ſcenes of Public Speaking, which have proved diſadvantageous to the growth of Eloquence among us. Though the Parlia⯑ment of Great Britain be the nobleſt field which Europe, at this day, affords to a Public Speaker, yet Eloquence has never been ſo powerful an inſtrument there, as it was in the popular aſſemblies of Greece and Rome. Under ſome former reigns, the high hand of arbitrary power bore a vio⯑lent ſway; and in later times, miniſterial influence has generally prevailed. The power of Speaking, though always conſi⯑derable, yet has been often found too feeble [218] to counterbalance either of theſe; and, of courſe, has not been ſtudied with ſo much zeal and fervour, as where its effect on bu⯑ſineſs was irreſiſtible and certain.

AT the Bar, our diſadvantage, in com⯑pariſon of the antients, is great. Among them, the judges were generally numerous; the laws were few and ſimple; the deciſion of cauſes was left, in a great meaſure, to equity and the ſenſe of mankind. Here was an ample field for what they termed Judicial Eloquence. But among the mo⯑derns, the caſe is quite altered. The ſyſ⯑tem of law is become much more compli⯑cated. The knowledge of it is thereby rendered ſo laborious an attainment, as to be the chief object of a lawyer's education, and, in a manner, the ſtudy of his life. The Art of Speaking is but a ſecondary accompliſhment, to which he can afford to devote much leſs of his time and labour. The bounds of Eloquence beſides, are now much circumſcribed at the Bar; and except, in a few caſes, reduced to arguing from ſtrict law, ſtatute, or precedent; by which means knowledge, much more than Ora⯑tory, is become the principal requiſite.

WITH regard to the Pulpit, it has cer⯑tainly been a great diſadvantage, that the practice of reading Sermons, in ſtead of re⯑peating them from memory, has prevailed ſo univerſally in England. This may, in⯑deed, [219] have introduced accuracy; but it has done great prejudice to Eloquence; for a Diſcourſe read, is far inferior to an Oration ſpoken. It leads to a different ſort of com⯑poſition, as well as of delivery; and can never have an equal effect upon any audi⯑ence. Another circumſtance, too, has been unfortunate. The ſectaries and fanatics, before the Reſtoration, adopted a warm, zealous, and popular manner of preaching; and thoſe who adhered to them, in after⯑times, continued to diſtinguiſh themſelves by ſomewhat of the ſame manner. The odium of theſe ſects drove the eſtabliſhed church from that warmth which they were judged to have carried too far, into the op⯑poſite extreme of a ſtudied coolneſs, and compoſure of manner. Hence, from the art of perſuaſion, which preaching ought always to be, it has paſſed, in England, into mere reaſoning and inſtruction; which not only has brought down the Eloquence of the Pulpit to a lower tone than it might juſtly aſſume; but has produced this far⯑ther effect, that, by accuſtoming the Pub⯑lic ear to ſuch cool and diſpaſſionate Diſ⯑courſes, it has tended to faſhion other kinds of Public Speaking upon the ſame model.

THUS I have given ſome view of the ſtate of Eloquence in modern times, and endeavoured to account for it. It has, as we have ſeen, fallen below that ſplendor which it maintained in antient ages; [220] and from being ſublime and vehement, has come down to be temperate and cool. Yet, ſtill in that region which it occu⯑pies, it admits great ſcope; and, to the defect of zeal and application, more than to the want of capacity and ge⯑nius, we may aſcribe its not having hither⯑to riſen higher. It is a field where there is much honour yet to be reaped; it is an inſtrument which may be employed for purpoſes of the higheſt importance. The antient models may ſtill, with much advan⯑tage, be ſet before us for imitation; though, in that imitation, we muſt, doubtleſs, have ſome regard to what modern taſte and mo⯑dern manners will bear; of which I ſhall afterwards have occaſion to ſay more.

LECTURE XXVII. DIFFERENT KINDS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING—ELOQUENCE OF PO⯑PULAR ASSEMBLIES—EXTRACTS FROM DEMOSTHENES.

AFTER the preliminary views which have been given of the nature of Eloquence in general, and of the ſtate in which it has ſubſiſted in different ages and countries, I am now to enter on conſidering the different kinds of Public Speaking, the diſtinguiſhing characters of each, and the rules which relate to them. The ancients divided all Orations into three kinds; the Demonſtrative, the Deliberative, and the Ju⯑dicial. The ſcope of the Demonſtrative was to praiſe or to blame; that of the Delibe⯑rative to adviſe or to diſſuade; that of the Judicial, to accuſe or to defend. The chief ſubjects of Demonſtrative Eloquence, were Panegyrics, Invectives, Gratulatory. and Funeral Orations. The Deliberative was [222] employed in matters of public concern, agitated in the Senate, or before the Aſſem⯑blies of the People. The Judicial is the ſame with the Eloquence of the Bar, em⯑ployed in addreſſing Judges, who have power to abſolve or condemn. This diviſi⯑on runs through all the ancient Treatiſes on Rhetoric; and is followed by the moderns, who copy them. It is a diviſion not inarti⯑ficial; and comprehends moſt, or all of the matters which can be the ſubject of Public Diſcourſe. It will, however, ſuit our pur⯑poſe better, and be found, I imagine, more uſeful, to follow that diviſion which the train of Modern Speaking naturally points out to us, taken from the three great ſcenes of Eloquence, Popular Aſſemblies, the Bar, and the Pulpit; each of which has a diſ⯑tinct character that particularly ſuits it. This diviſion coincides in part with the an⯑cient one. The Eloquence of the Bar is preciſely the ſame with what the ancients called the Judicial. The Eloquence of Po⯑pular Aſſemblies, though moſtly of what they term the Deliberative Species, yet ad⯑mits alſo of the Demonſtrative. The Elo⯑quence of the Pulpit is altogether of a diſ⯑tinct nature, and cannot be properly re⯑duced under any of the heads of the anci⯑ent Rhetoricians.

To all the three, Pulpit, Bar, and Popu⯑lar Aſſemblies, belong, in common, the rules concerning the conduct of a diſcourſe [223] in all its parts. Of thoſe rules I purpoſe afterwards to treat at large. But before proceeding to them, I intend to ſhow, firſt, what is peculiar to each of theſe three kinds of Oratory, in their ſpirit, character, or manner. For every ſpecies of Public Speak⯑ing has a manner or character peculiarly ſuited to it; of which it is highly material to have a juſt idea, in order to direct the ap⯑plication of general rules. The Eloquence of a Lawyer is fundamentally different from that of a Divine, or a Speaker in Par⯑liament: and to have a preciſe and proper idea of the diſtinguiſhing character which any kind of Public Speaking requires, is the foundation of what is called a juſt taſte in that kind of Speaking.

LAYING aſide any queſtion concerning the pre-eminence in point of rank, which is due to any one of the three kinds before mentioned, I ſhall begin with that which tends to throw moſt light upon the reſt, viz. the Eloquence of Popular Aſſemblies. The moſt auguſt Theatre for this kind of Elo⯑quence, to be found in any nation of Eu⯑rope, is, beyond doubt, the Parliament of Great Britain. In meetings too, of leſs dig⯑nity, it may diſplay itſelf. Wherever there is a popular court, or wherever any num⯑ber of men are aſſembled for debate or con⯑ſulation, there, in different forms, this ſpecies of Eloquence may take place.

[224] ITS object is, or ought always to be, Perſuaſion. There muſt be ſome end pro⯑poſed; ſome point, moſt commonly of pub⯑lic utility or good, in favour of which we ſeek to determine the hearers. Now, in all attempts to perſuade men, we muſt pro⯑ceed upon this principle, that it is neceſſa⯑ry to convince their underſtanding. No⯑thing can be more erroneous, than to ima⯑gine, that, becauſe Speeches to Popular Aſſemblies admit more of a declamatory Style than ſome other diſcourſes, they there⯑fore ſtand leſs in need of being ſupported by ſound reaſoning. When modelled upon this falſe idea, they may have the ſhow, but never can produce the effect, of real Elo⯑quence. Even the ſhow of Eloquence which they make, will pleaſe only the tri⯑fling and ſuperficial. For, with all tolera⯑ble judges, indeed almoſt with all men, mere declamation ſoon becomes inſipid. Of whatever rank the hearers be, a Speaker is never to preſume, that by a frothy and oſ⯑tentatious harangue, without ſolid ſenſe and argument, he can either make impreſ⯑ſion on them, or acquire fame to himſelf. It is, at leaſt, a dangerous experiment; for, where ſuch an artifice ſucceeds once, it will fail ten times. Even the common people are better judges of argument and good ſenſe, than we ſometimes think them; and upon any queſtion of buſineſs, a plain man, who ſpeaks to the point without art, [225] will generally prevail over the moſt artful Speaker who deals in flowers and orna⯑ment, rather than in reaſoning. Much more, when Public Speakers addreſs them⯑ſelves to any Aſſembly where there are perſons of education and improved under⯑ſtanding, they ought to be careful not to trifle with their hearers.

LET it be ever kept in view, that the foundation of all that can be called Elo⯑quence, is good ſenſe, and ſolid thought. As popular as the Orations of Demoſthenes were, ſpoken to all the citizens of Athens, every one who looks into them, muſt ſee how fraught they are with argument; and how important it appeared to him, to con⯑vince the underſtanding, in order to per⯑ſuade, or to work on the principles of ac⯑tion. Hence their influence in his own time; hence their fame at this day. Such a pattern as this, Public Speakers ought to ſet before them for imitation, rather than follow the tract of thoſe looſe and frothy Declaimers, who have brought diſcredit on Eloquence. Let it be their firſt ſtudy, in addreſſing any Popular Aſſembly, to be pre⯑viouſly maſters of the buſineſs on which they are to ſpeak; to be well provided with matter and argument; and to reſt upon theſe the chief ſtreſs. This will always give to their diſcourſe an air of manlineſs and ſtrength, which is a powerful inſtru⯑ment of perſuaſion. Ornament, if they [226] have genius for it, will follow of courſe; at any rate it demands only their ſecondary ſtudy: ‘"Cura ſit verborum; ſolicitudo re⯑rum."—’ ‘"To your expreſſion be atten⯑tive, but about your matter be ſolicitous,"’ is an advice of Quinctilian, which cannot be too often recollected by all who ſtudy Oratory.

IN the next place, in order to be perſua⯑ſive Speakers in a Popular Aſſembly, it is, in my opinion, a capital rule, that we be ourſelves perſuaded of whatever we re⯑commend to others. Never, when it can be avoided, ought we to eſpouſe any ſide of the argument, but what we believe to be the true and the right one. Seldom or ne⯑ver will a man be eloquent, but when he is in earneſt, and uttering his own ſenti⯑ments. They are only the ‘"verae voces ab imo pectore,"’ the unaſſumed language of the heart or head, that carry the force of conviction. In a former Lecture, when entering on this ſubject, I obſerved, that all high Eloquence muſt be the offspring of paſſion, or warm emotion. It is this which makes every man perſuaſive; and gives a force to his genius, which it poſſ⯑eſſes at no other time. Under what diſad⯑vantage then is he placed, who, not feel⯑ing what he utters, muſt counterfeit a warmth to which he is a ſtranger?

[227] I KNOW, that young people, on purpoſe to train themſelves to the Art of Speaking, imagine it uſeful to adopt that ſide of the queſtion under debate, which, to them⯑ſelves, appears the weakeſt, and to try what figure they can make upon it. But, I am afraid, this is not the moſt improving education for Public Speaking; and that it tends to form them to a habit of flimſy and trivial diſcourſe. Such a liberty they ſhould, at no time, allow themſelves, un⯑leſs in meetings where no real buſineſs is carried on, but where declamation and im⯑provement in Speech is the ſole aim. Nor even in ſuch meetings, would I recommend it as the moſt uſeful exerciſe. They will improve themſelves to more advantage, and acquit themſelves with more honour, by chooſing always that ſide of the debate to which, in their own judgment, they are moſt inclined, and ſupporting it by what ſeems to themſelves moſt ſolid and perſua⯑ſive. They will acquire the habit of rea⯑ſoning cloſely, and expreſſing themſelves with warmth and force, much more when they are adhering to their own ſentiments, than when they are ſpeaking in contradic⯑tion to them. In aſſemblies where any real buſineſs is carried on, whether that buſineſs be of much importance or not, it is always of dangerous conſequence for young practitioners to make trial of this ſort of play of Speech. It may fix an im⯑putation on their characters before they [228] are aware; and what they intended merely as amuſement, may be turned to the diſ⯑credit, either of their principles or their underſtanding.

DEBATE, in Popular Courts, ſeldom al⯑lows the Speaker that full and accurate preparation before hand, which the Pulpit always, and the Bar ſometimes, admits. The arguments muſt be ſuited to the courſe which the Debate takes; and as no man can exactly foreſee this, one who truſts to a ſet Speech, compoſed in his cloſet, will, on many occaſions, be thrown out of the ground which he had taken. He will find it pre-occupied by others, or his reaſonings ſuperſeded by ſome new turn of the buſi⯑neſs; and, if he ventures to uſe his prepar⯑ed Speech, it will be frequently at the hazard of making an awkward figure. There is a general prejudice with us, and not wholly an unjuſt one, againſt ſet Speeches in Public Meetings. The only occaſion, when they have any propriety, is, at the opening of a debate, when the Speaker has it in his power to chooſe his field. But as the Debate advances, and parties warm, diſcourſes of this kind be⯑come more unſuitable. They want the native air; the appearance of being ſuggeſt⯑ed by the buſineſs that is going on; ſtudy and oſtentation are apt to be viſible; and, of courſe, though applauded as elegant, [229] they are ſeldom ſo perſuaſive as more free and unconſtrained diſcourſes.

THIS, however, does not by any means conclude againſt premeditation of what we are to ſay; the neglect of which, and the truſting wholly to extemporaneous efforts, will unavoidably produce the habit of ſpeaking in a looſe and undigeſted man⯑ner. But the premeditation which is of moſt advantage, in the caſe which we now conſider, is of the ſubject or argument in general, rather than of nice compoſition on any particular branch of it. With re⯑gard to the matter, we cannot be too ac⯑curate in our preparation, ſo as to be fully maſters of the buſineſs under conſideration; but, with regard to words and expreſſion, it is very poſſible ſo far to overdo, as to render our Speech ſtiff and preciſe. In⯑deed, till once perſons acquire that firm⯑neſs, that preſence of mind, and command of expreſſion, in a Public Meeting, which nothing but habit and practice can beſtow, it may be proper for a young Speaker to commit to memory the whole of what he is to ſay. But, after ſome performances of this kind have given him boldneſs, he will find it the better method not to confine himſelf ſo ſtrictly; but only to write, be⯑forehand, ſome Sentences with which he intends to ſet out, in order to put himſelf fairly in the train; and, for the reſt, to ſet down ſhort notes of the topics, or principal [230] thoughts upon which he is to inſiſt, in their order, leaving the words to be ſug⯑geſted by the warmth of diſcourſe. Such ſhort notes of the ſubſtance of the diſ⯑courſe, will be found of conſiderable ſer⯑vice, to thoſe, eſpecially, who are begin⯑ning to ſpeak in public. They will ac⯑cuſtom them to ſome degree of accuracy, which, if they ſpeak frequently, they are in danger too ſoon of loſing. They will even accuſtom them to think more cloſely on the ſubject in queſtion; and will aſſiſt them greatly in arranging their thoughts with method and order.

THIS leads me next to obſerve, that in all kinds of Public Speaking, nothing is of greater conſequence than a proper and clear method. I mean not that formal me⯑thod of laying down heads and ſubdivi⯑ſions, which is commonly practiſed in the Pulpit; and which, in Popular Aſſemblies, unleſs the Speaker be a man of great au⯑thority and character, and the ſubject of great importance, and the preparation too very accurate, is rather in hazard of diſguſt⯑ing the hearers: ſuch an introduction pre⯑ſenting always the melancholy proſpect of along diſcourſe. But though the method be not laid down in form, no diſcourſe, of any length, ſhould be without method; that is, every thing ſhould be found in its proper place. Every one who ſpeaks, will find it of the greateſt advantage to himſelf [231] to have previouſly arranged his thoughts, and claſſed under proper heads, in his own mind, what he is to deliver. This will aſſiſt his memory, and carry him through his diſcourſe, without that confuſion to which one is every moment ſubject, who has fixed no diſtinct plan of what he is to ſay. And with reſpect to the hearers, or⯑der in diſcourſe is abſolutely neceſſary for making any proper impreſſion. It adds both force and light to what is ſaid. It makes them accompany the Speaker eaſily and readily, as he goes along; and makes them feel the full effect of every argument which he employs. Few things, therefore, deſerve more to be attended to than diſtinct arrangement: for Eloquence, however great, can never produce entire conviction without it. Of the rules of method, and the proper diſtribution of the ſeveral parts of a diſcourſe, I am hereafter to treat.

LET us now conſider of the Style and Expreſſion ſuited to the Eloquence of Popu⯑lar Aſſemblies. Beyond doubt, theſe give ſcope for the moſt animated manner of Public Speaking. The very aſpect of a large Aſſembly, engaged in ſome debate of moment, and attentive to the diſcourſe of one man, is ſufficient to inſpire that man with ſuch elevation and warmth, as both give riſe to ſtrong expreſſions, and gives them propriety. Paſſion eaſily riſes in a great Aſſembly, where the movements [232] are communicated by mutual ſympathy between the Orator and the Audience. Thoſe bold figures, of which I treated for⯑merly as the native Language of paſſion, then have their proper place. That ar⯑dour of Speech, that vehemence and glow of Sentiment, which ariſe from a mind animated and inſpired by ſome great and public object, form the peculiar character⯑iſtics of Popular Eloquence, in its higheſt degree of perfection.

THE liberty, however, which we are now giving of the ſtrong and paſſionate manner to this kind of Oratory, muſt be always underſtood with certain limitations and reſtraints, which, it will be neceſſary to point out diſtinctly, in order to guard againſt dangerous miſtakes on this ſub⯑ject.

As firſt, The warmth which we expreſs muſt be ſuited to the occaſion and the ſub⯑ject: for nothing can be more prepoſterous, than an attempt to introduce great vehe⯑mence into a ſubject, which is either of ſlight importance, or which, by its nature, requires to be treated of calmly. A temperate tone of Speech, is that for which there is moſt frequent occaſion; and he who is, on eve⯑ry ſubject, paſſionate and vehement, will be conſidered as a bluſterer, and meet with little regard.

[233] IN the ſecond place, We muſt take care never to counterfeit warmth without feel⯑ing it. This always betrays perſons into an unnatural manner, which expoſes them to ridicule. For, as I have often ſuggeſted, to ſupport the appearance, without the real feeling of paſſion, is one of the moſt difficult things in nature. The diſguiſe can almoſt never be ſo perfect, but it is diſcovered. The heart can only anſwer to the heart. The great rule here, as indeed in every other caſe, is, to follow nature; never to attempt a ſtrain of Eloquence which is not ſeconded by our own genius. One may be a Speaker, both of much reputation and much influence, in the calm argumentative manner. To attain the pathetic, and the ſublime of Oratory, requires thoſe ſtrong ſenſibilities of mind, and that high power of expreſſion, which are given to few.

IN the third place, Even when the ſub⯑ject juſtifies the vehement manner, and when genius prompts it; when warmth is felt, not counterfeited; we muſt, how⯑ever, ſet a guard on ourſelves, not to al⯑low impetuoſity to tranſport us too far. Without emotion in the ſpeaker, Elo⯑quence, as was before obſerved, will ne⯑ver produce its higheſt effects; but, at the ſame time, if the Speaker loſe command of himſelf, he will ſoon loſe command of his audience too. He muſt never kindle too ſoon: he muſt begin with moderation; [234] and ſtudy to carry his hearers along with him, as he warms in the progreſs of his diſcourſe. For, if he runs before in the courſe of paſſion, and leaves them behind; if they are not tuned, if we may ſpeak ſo, uniſon to him, the diſcord will preſently be felt, and be very grating. Let a Speak⯑er have never ſo good reaſon to be animat⯑ed and fired by his ſubject, it is always ex⯑pected of him, that the awe and regard due to his Audience ſhould lay a decent reſtraint upon his warmth, and prevent it from carrying him beyond certain bounds. If, when moſt heated by the ſubject, he can be ſo far maſter of himſelf as to pre⯑ſerve cloſe attention to argument, and even to ſome degree of correct expreſſion, this ſelf-command, this exertion of reaſon, in the midſt of paſſion, has a wonderful effect both to pleaſe, and to perſuade. It is in⯑deed the maſter-piece, the higheſt attain⯑ment of Eloquence; uniting the ſtrength of reaſon, with the vehemence of paſſion; affording all the advantages of paſſion for the purpoſe of perſuaſion, without the confuſion and diſorder which are apt to accompany it.

IN the fourth place, in the higheſt and moſt animated ſtrain of popular ſpeaking, we muſt always preſerve regard to what the public ear will bear. This direction I give, in order to guard againſt an inju⯑dicious imitation of ancient Orators, who, [235] both in their pronunciation and geſture, and in their figures of expreſſion, uſed a bolder manner than what the greater cool⯑neſs of modern taſte will readily ſuffer. This may perhaps, as I formerly obſerved, be a diſadvantage to Modern Eloquence. It is no reaſon why we ſhould be too ſevere in checking the impulſe of genius, and conti⯑nue always creeping on the ground; but it is a reaſon, however, why we ſhould avoid carrying the tone of declamation to a height that would now be reckoned extravagant. Demoſthenes, to juſtify the unſucceſsful action of Cheronaea, calls up the manes of thoſe heroes who fell in the battle of Mara⯑thon and Plataea, and ſwears by them, that their fellow citizens had done well, in their endeavours to ſupport the ſame cauſe. Ci⯑cero, in his oration for Milo, implores and atteſts the Alban hills and groves, and makes a long addreſs to them: and both paſſages, in theſe Orators, have a fine effect^*. But [236] how few modern Orators could venture on ſuch apoſtrophes? and what a power of ge⯑nius would it require to give ſuch figures now their proper grace, or make them pro⯑duce a due effect upon the hearers?

IN the fifth and laſt place, in all kinds of Public Speaking, but eſpecially in Popular Aſſemblies, it is a capital rule to attend to all the decorums of time, place, and charac⯑ter. No warmth of Eloquence can atone for the neglect of theſe. That vehemence, which is becoming in a perſon of character and authority, may be unſuitable to the modeſty expected from a young Speaker. That ſportive and witty manner which may ſuit one ſubject and on eAſſembly, is alto⯑gether out of place in a grave cauſe, and a ſolemn meeting. ‘"Caput artis eſt,"’ ſays Quinctilian, ‘"decere."’ ‘"The firſt prin⯑ciple of art, is, to obſerve decorum."’ No one ſhould ever riſe to ſpeak in pub⯑lic, without forming to himſelf a juſt and ſtrict idea of what ſuits his own age and character; what ſuits the ſubject, the hear⯑ers the place, the occaſion; and adjuſting the whole train and manner of his ſpeak⯑ing on this idea. All the ancients inſiſt much on this. Conſult the firſt chapter of the eleventh book of Quinctilian, which is employed wholly on this point, and is full [237] of good ſenſe. Cicero's admonitions in his Orator ad Brutum, I ſhall give in his own words, which ſhould never be forgotten by any who ſpeak in public. ‘"Eſt Eloquen⯑tiae, ſicut reliquarum rerum, fundamen⯑tum, ſapientia; ut enim in vita, ſic in oratione nihil eſt difficilius quam quod deceat videre; hujus ignoratione ſaepiſſi⯑mè peccatur; non enim omnis fortuna, non omnis auctoritas, non omnis aetas, nec vero locus, aut tempus, aut auditor omnis, eodem aut verborum genere trac⯑tandus eſt, aut ſententiarum. Semper⯑que in omni parte orationis, ut vitae, quid deceat conſiderandum; quod et in re de qua agitur poſitum eſt, et in per⯑ſonis et eorum qui dicunt, et eorum qui audiunt^*."’—So much for the conſiderati⯑ons that require to be attended to, with re⯑ſpect to the vehemence and warmth which is allowed in Popular Eloquence.

[238] THE current of Style ſhould in general be full, free, and natural. Quaint and ar⯑tificial expreſſions are out of place here; and always derogate from perſuaſion. It is a ſtrong and manly Style which ſhould chief⯑ly be ſtudied; and metaphorical Language, when properly introduced, produces often a happy effect. When the metaphors are warm, glowing, and deſcriptive, ſome in⯑accuracy in them will be overlooked, which, in a written compoſition, would be remarked and cenſured. Amidſt the torrent of de⯑clamation, the ſtrength of the figure makes impreſſion; the inaccuracy of it eſcapes.

WITH regard to the degree of conciſeneſs or diffuſeneſs, ſuited to Popular Eloquence, it is not eaſy to fix any exact bounds. I know that it is common to recommend a diffuſe manner as the moſt proper. I am inclined, however, to think, that there is danger of erring in this reſpect; and that by indulging too much in the diffuſe Style, public Speakers often loſe more in point of ſtrength, than they gain by the fulneſs of their illuſtration. There is no doubt, that in ſpeaking to a multitude, we muſt not ſpeak in ſentences and apothegms; care muſt be taken to explain and to inculcate; but this care may be, and frequently is, car⯑ried too far. We ought always to remem⯑ber, that how much ſoever we may be pleaſed with hearing ourſelves ſpeak, eve⯑ry Audience is very ready to tire; and the [239] moment they begin to tire, all our Elo⯑quence goes for nothing. A looſe and ver⯑boſe manner never fails to create diſguſt; and, on moſt occaſions, we had better run the riſque of ſaying too little, than too much. Better place our thought in one ſtrong point of view, and reſt it there, than by turning it into every light, and pouring forth a profuſion of words upon it, exhauſt the attention of our hearers, and leave them flat and languid.

OF Pronounciation and Delivery, I am hereafter to treat apart. It is ſufficient now to obſerve, that in ſpeaking to mixt Aſſemblies, the beſt manner of delive⯑ry is the firm and the determined. An ar⯑rogant and overbearing manner is indeed always diſagreeable; and the leaſt appear⯑ance of it ought to be ſhunned: but there is a certain deciſive tone, which may be aſ⯑ſumed even by a modeſt man, who is tho⯑roughly perſuaded of the ſentiments he ut⯑ters; and which is the beſt calculated for making a general impreſſion. A feeble and heſitating manner beſpeaks always ſome diſtruſt of a man's own opinion; which is, by no means, a favourable circumſtance for his inducing others to embrace it.

THESE are the chief thoughts which have occurred to me from reflection and ob⯑ſervation, concerning the peculiar diſtin⯑guiſhing Characters of the Eloquence pro⯑per [240] for Popular Aſſemblies. The ſum of what has been ſaid, is this: The end of Po⯑pular Speaking is perſuaſion; and this muſt be founded on conviction. Argument and reaſoning muſt be the baſis, if we would be Speakers of buſineſs, and not mere Declaim⯑ers. We ſhould be engaged in earneſt on the ſide which we eſpouſe; and utter, as much as poſſible, our own, and not counter⯑feited Sentiments. The premeditation ſhould be of things, rather than of words. Clear order and method ſhould be ſtudied: The manner and expreſſion warm and ani⯑mated; though ſtill, in the midſt of that vehemence, which may at times be ſuita⯑ble, carried on under the proper reſtraints which regard to the audience, and to the decorum of character, ought to lay on every Public Speaker: the Style free and eaſy; ſtrong and deſcriptive, rather than diffuſe; and the delivery determined and firm. To conclude this head, let every Orator re⯑member, that the impreſſion made by fine and artful ſpeaking is momentary; that made by argument and good ſenſe, is ſolid and laſting.

I SHALL now, that I may afford an ex⯑emplification of that ſpecies of Oratory of which I have been treating, inſert ſome extracts from Demoſthenes. Even under the great diſadvantage of an Engliſh tran⯑ſlation, they will exhibit a ſmall ſpecimen [241] of that vigorous and ſpirited eloquence which I have ſo often praiſed. I ſhall take my extracts moſtly from the Philippics and Olynthiacs, which were entirely popular Orations ſpoken to the general convention of the citizens of Athens: and, as the ſub⯑ject of both the Philippics, and the Olyn⯑thiacs, is the ſame, I ſhall not confine my⯑ſelf to one Oration, but ſhall join together paſſages taken from two or three of them; ſuch as may ſhow his general ſtrain of ſpeaking, on ſome of the chief branches of the ſubject. The ſubject in general is, to rouze the Athenians to guard againſt Philip of Macedon, whoſe growing power and crafty policy had by that time endangered, and ſoon after overwhelmed the liberties of Greece. The Athenians began to be alarm⯑ed; but their deliberations were ſlow, and their meaſures feeble; ſeveral of their fa⯑vourite Orators having been gained by Philip's bribes to favour his cauſe. In this critical conjuncture of affairs Demoſthenes aroſe. In the following manner he begins his firſt Philippic; which, like the exor⯑diums of all his Orations, is ſimple and art⯑leſs^*.

THE Orator goes on to point out the number of forces which ſhould be raiſed; the places of their deſtination; the ſeaſon of the year in which they ſhould ſet out; and then propoſes in form his motion, as we would call it, or his decree, for the ne⯑ceſſary ſupply of money, and for aſcertain⯑ing the funds from which it ſhould be raiſ⯑ed. Having finiſhed all that relates to the buſineſs under deliberation, he concludes theſe Orations on public affairs, common⯑ly with no longer peroration than the fol⯑lowing, [255] which terminates the Firſt Philip⯑pic: ‘'I, for my part, have never, upon any occaſion, choſen to court your fa⯑vour, by ſpeaking any thing but what I was convinced would ſerve you. And, on this occaſion, you have heard my ſen⯑ments freely declared, without art, and without reſerve. I ſhould have been pleaſed, indeed, that, as it is for your advantage to have your true intereſt laid before you, ſo I might have been aſſured, that he who layeth it before you would ſhare the advantage. But, uncertain as I know the conſequence to be with reſpect to myſelf, I yet determined to ſpeak, be⯑cauſe, I was convinced, that theſe mea⯑ſures if purſued, muſt prove beneficial to the Public. And, of all thoſe opini⯑ons which ſhall be offered to your accept⯑ance, may the Gods determine that to be choſen which will beſt advance the gene⯑ral welfare!'’

THESE Extracts may ſerve to give ſome imperfect idea of the manner of Demoſthe⯑nes. For a juſter and more complete one, recourſe muſt be had to the excellent ori⯑ginal.

LECTURE XXVIII. ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR—ANA⯑LYSIS OF CICERO's ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS.

I TREATED in the laſt Lecture, of what is peculiar to the Eloquence of Popular Aſſemblies. Much of what was ſaid on that head is applicable to the Elo⯑quence of the Bar, the next great ſcene of Publick Speaking to which I now proceed, and my obſervations upon which, will therefore be the ſhorter. All, however, that was ſaid in the former Lecture muſt not be applied to it; and it is of importance, that I begin with ſhowing where the diſ⯑tinction lies.

IN the firſt place, The ends of ſpeaking at the Bar, and in Popular Aſſemblies, are commonly different. In Popular Aſſem⯑blies, the great object is perſuaſion; the Orator aims at determining the hearers to [257] ſome choice or conduct, as good, fit, or uſe⯑ful. For accompliſhing this end, it is in⯑cumbent on him to apply himſelf to all the principles of action in our nature; to the paſſions and to the heart, as well as to the underſtanding. But, at the Bar, convicti⯑on is the great object. There, it is not the Speaker's buſineſs to perſuade the Judges to what is good or uſeful, but to ſhow them what is juſt and true; and, of courſe, it is chiefly, or ſolely, to the underſtanding that his Eloquence is addreſſed. This is a characteriſtical difference which ought ever to be kept in view.

IN the next place, Speakers at the Bar addreſs themſelves to one, or to a few Judges, and theſe, too, perſons generally of age, gravity, and authority of character. There, they have not thoſe advantages which a mixed and numerous Aſſembly affords for employing all the arts of Speech, even ſuppoſing their ſubject to admit them. Paſſion does not riſe ſo eaſily; the Speaker is heard more coolly; he is watched over more ſeverely; and would expoſe himſelf to ridicule, by attempting that high vehe⯑ment tone, which is only proper in ſpeak⯑ing to a multitude.

IN the laſt place, The nature and ma⯑nagement of the ſubject which belong to the Bar, require a very different ſpecies of Oratory from that of Popular Aſſemblies. [258] In the latter, the Speaker has a much wider range. He is ſeldom confined to any preciſe rule; he can fetch his topics from a great variety of quarters; and em⯑ploy every illuſtration which his fancy or imagination ſuggeſt. But, at the Bar, the field of ſpeaking is limited to preciſe law and ſtatute. Imagination is not allowed to take its ſcope. The Advocate has always lying before him the line, the ſquare, and the compaſs. Theſe, it is his principal buſineſs to be continually applying to the ſubjects under debate.

FOR theſe reaſons, it is clear, that the Eloquence of the Bar is of a much more limited, more ſober and chaſtened kind, than that of Popular Aſſemblies; and, for ſimilar reaſons, we muſt beware of conſi⯑dering even the judicial Orations of Cicero or Demoſthenes, as exact models of the manner of ſpeaking which is adapted to the preſent ſtate of the Bar. It is neceſſary to warn young Lawyers of this; becauſe, though theſe were Pleadings ſpoken in ci⯑vil or criminal cauſes, yet, in fact, the nature of the Bar antiently, both in Greece and Rome, allowed a much nearer ap⯑proach to Popular Eloquence, than what it now does. This was owing chiefly to two cauſes:

FIRST, Becauſe in the ancient Judicial Orations, ſtrict law was much leſs an ob⯑ject [259] of attention than it is become among us. In the days of Demoſthenes and Cice⯑ro, the municipal ſtatutes were few, ſimple, and general; and the deciſion of cauſes was truſted, in a great meaſure, to the equity and common ſenſe of the Judges. Eloquence, much more than Juriſprudence, was the ſtudy of thoſe who were to plead cauſes. Cicero ſomewhere ſays, that three months ſtudy was ſufficient to make any man a complete Civilian; nay, it was thought that one might be a good Pleader at the Bar, who had never ſtudied law at all. For there were among the Romans a ſet of men called Pragmatici, whoſe office it was to give the Orator all the law knowledge which the cauſe he was to plead required, and which he put into that popular form, and dreſſed up with thoſe colours of Elo⯑quence, that were moſt fitted for influenc⯑ing the Judges before whom he ſpoke.

WE may obſerve next, that the Civil and Criminal Judges, both in Greece and Rome, were commonly much more nume⯑rous than they are with us, and formed a ſort of Popular Aſſembly. The renowned tribunal of the Areopagus at Athens con⯑ſiſted of fifty Judges at the leaſt^*. Some make it to conſiſt of a great many more. When Socrates was condemned, by what court it is uncertain, we are informed that [260] no fewer than 280 voted againſt him. In Rome, the Praetor, who was the proper Judge both in civil and criminal cauſes, named, for every cauſe of moment, the Judices Selecti, as they were called, who were always numerous, and had the office and power of both Judge and Jury. In the famous cauſe of Milo, Cicero ſpoke to fifty⯑one Judices Selecti, and ſo had the advan⯑tage of addreſſing his whole pleading, not to one or a few learned Judges of the point of law, as is the caſe with us, but to an Aſſembly of Roman citizens. Hence all thoſe arts of Popular Eloquence, which we find the Roman Orator ſo frequently em⯑ploying, and probably with much ſucceſs. Hence tears and commiſeration are ſo often made uſe of as the inſtruments of gaining a cauſe. Hence certain practices, which would be reckoned theatrical among us, were common at the Roman Bar; ſuch as introducing not only the accuſed perſon dreſſed in deep mourning, but preſenting to the Judges his family, and his young children, endeavouring to move them by their cries and tears.

FOR theſe reaſons, on account of the wide difference between the ancient and modern ſtate of the Bar, to which we may add alſo the difference in the turn of ancient and modern Eloquence, which I formerly took notice of, too ſtrict an imitation of Ci⯑cero's manner of pleading would now be [261] extremely injudicious. To great advantage he may ſtill be ſtudied by every Speaker at the Bar. In the Addreſs with which he o⯑pens his ſubject, and the inſinuation he em⯑ploys for gaining the favour of the Judges; in the diſtinct arrangement of his facts; in the gracefulneſs of his narration; in the conduct and expoſition of his arguments, he may and he ought to be imitated. A higher pattern cannot be ſet before us; but one who ſhould imitate him alſo in his ex⯑aggeration and amplifications, in his diffuſe and pompous declamation, and in his at⯑tempts to raiſe paſſion, would now make himſelf almoſt as ridiculous at the Bar, as if he ſhould appear there in the Toga of a Roman Lawyer.

BEFORE I deſcend to more particular directions concerning the Eloquence of the Bar, I muſt be allowed to take notice, that the foundation of a Lawyer's reputation and ſucceſs, muſt always be laid in a pro⯑found knowledge of his own profeſſion. Nothing is of ſuch conſequence to him, or deſerves more his deep and ſerious ſtudy. For whatever his abilities as a Speaker may be, if his knowledge of the law be reckoned ſuperficial, few will choſe to com⯑mit their cauſe to him. Beſides previous ſtudy, and a proper ſtock of knowledge attained, another thing highly material to the ſucceſs of every Pleader, is, a diligent and painful attention to every cauſe with [262] which he is intruſted, ſo as to be thorough⯑ly maſter of all the facts and circumſtances relating to it. On this the ancient Rheto⯑ricians inſiſt with great earneſtneſs, and juſtly repreſent it as a neceſſary baſis to all the Eloquence that can be exerted in plead⯑ing. Cicero tells us (under the character of Antonius, in the ſecond book De Oratore), that he always converſed at full length with every client who came to conſult him; that he took care there ſhould be no wit⯑neſs to their converſation, in order that his client might explain himſelf more free⯑ly; that he was wont to ſtart every objec⯑tion, and to plead the cauſe of the adverſe party with him, that he might come at the whole truth, and be fully prepared on every point of the buſineſs; and that, after the client had retired, he uſed to balance all the facts with himſelf, under three dif⯑ferent characters, his own, that of the Judge, and that of the Advocate on the oppoſite ſide. He cenſures very ſeverely thoſe of the profeſſion who decline taking ſo much trouble; taxing them not only with ſhameful negligence, but with diſho⯑neſty and breach of truſt^*. To the ſame [263] purpoſe Quinctilian, in the eighth chapter of his laſt book, delivers a great many ex⯑cellent rules concerning all the methods which a Lawyer ſhould employ for attain⯑ing the moſt thorough knowledge of the cauſe he is to plead; again and again re⯑commending patience and attention in con⯑verſation with clients, and obſerving very ſenſibly, ‘"Non tam obeſt audire ſurperva⯑cua, quam ignorare neceſſaria. Frequenter enim et vulnus, et remedium, in iis Orator inveniet quae litigatori in neutram par⯑tem, habere momentum videbantur^*."’

SUPPOSING an Advocate to be thus pre⯑pared, with all the knowledge which the ſtudy of the law in general, and of that cauſe which he is to plead in particular, can furniſh him, I muſt next obſerve, that Elo⯑quence in pleading is of the higheſt moment for giving ſupport to a cauſe. It were alto⯑gether wrong to infer, that becauſe the an⯑cient popular and vehement manner of [264] pleading is now in a great meaſure ſuper⯑ſeded, there is therefore no room for Elo⯑quence at the Bar, and that the ſtudy of it is become ſuperfluous. Though the man⯑ner of ſpeaking be changed, yet ſtill there is a right and a proper manner, which de⯑ſerves to be ſtudied as much as ever. Per⯑haps there is no ſcene of public ſpeaking where Eloquence is more neceſſary. For on other occaſions, the ſubject on which men ſpeak in public, is frequently ſuffici⯑ent, by itſelf, to intereſt the hearers- But the dryneſs and ſubtilty of the ſubjects ge⯑nerally agitated at the Bar, require more than any other a certain kind of Eloquence in order to command attention; in order to give proper weight to the arguments that are employed, and to prevent any thing which the Pleader advances from paſſing unregarded. The effect of good ſpeaking is always very great. There is as much dif⯑ference in the impreſſion made upon the hearers, by a cold, dry, and confuſed Speaker, and that made by one who pleads the ſame cauſe with elegance, order, and ſtrength, as there is between our concepti⯑on of an object, when it is preſented to us in a dim light, and when we behold it in a full and clear one.

IT is no ſmall encouragement to Elo⯑quence at the Bar, that of all the liberal profeſſions, none gives fairer play to genius and abilities than that of the Advocate. [265] He is leſs expoſed than ſome others, to ſuf⯑fer by the arts of rivalry, by popular preju⯑dices, or ſecret intrigues. He is ſure of coming forward according to his merit: For he ſtands forth every day to view; he en⯑ters the liſt boldly with his competitors; every appearance which he makes is an ap⯑peal to the Public, whoſe deciſion ſeldom fails of being juſt, becauſe it is impartial. Intereſt and friends may ſet forward a young Pleader with peculiar advantages beyond others, at the beginning; but they can do no more than open the field to him. A re⯑putation reſting on theſe aſſiſtances will ſoon fall. Spectators remark, Judges de⯑cide, Parties watch; and to him will the multitude of Clients never fail to reſort, who gives the moſt approved ſpecimens of his knowledge, eloquence, and induſ⯑try.

IT muſt be laid down for a firſt principle, that the Eloquence ſuited to the Bar, whe⯑ther in ſpeaking or in writing law papers, is of the calm and temperate kind, and con⯑nected with cloſe reaſoning. Sometimes a little play may be allowed to the Imaginati⯑on, in order to enliven a dry ſubject, and to give relief to the fatigue of attention; but this liberty muſt be taken with a ſparing hand. For a Florid Style, and a ſparkling manner, never fail to make the Speaker be heard with a jealous ear by the Judge. They detract from his weight, and always [266] produce a ſuſpicion of his failing in ſound⯑neſs and ſtrength of argument. It is puri⯑ty and neatneſs of expreſſion which is chief⯑ly to be ſtudied; a Style perſpicuous and proper, which ſhall not be needleſsly over⯑charged with the pedantry of law terms, and where, at the ſame time, no affectation ſhall appear of avoiding theſe, when they are ſuitable and neceſſary.

VERBOSITY is a common fault, of which the gentlemen of this profeſſion are accuſed; and into which the habit of ſpeaking and writing ſo haſtily, and with ſo little prepa⯑ration, as they are often obliged to do, al⯑moſt unavoidably betrays them. It cannot, therefore, be too much recommended to thoſe who are beginning to practice at the Bar, that they ſhould early ſtudy to guard againſt this, while as yet they have full lei⯑ſure for preparation. Let them form them⯑ſelves, eſpecially in the papers which they write, to the habit of a ſtrong and a correct Style; which expreſſes the ſame thing much better in a few words, than is done by the ac⯑cumulation of intricate and endleſs periods. If this habit be once acquired, it will be⯑come natural to them afterwards, when the multiplicity of buſineſs ſhall force them to compoſe in a more precipitant manner. Whereas, if the practice of a looſe and ne⯑gligent Style has been ſuffered to become familiar, it will not be in their power, even [267] upon occaſions when they wiſh to make an unuſual effort, to expreſs themſelves with energy and grace.

DISTINCTNESS is a capital property in ſpeaking at the Bar. This ſhould be ſhown chiefly in two things; firſt, in ſtating the queſtion; in ſhowing clearly what is the point in debate; what we admit: what we deny; and where the line of diviſion begins between us, and the adverſe party. Next, it ſhould be ſhown in the order and arrange⯑ment of all the parts of the pleading. In every ſort of Oration, a clear method is of the utmoſt conſequence; but in thoſe em⯑broiled and difficult caſes which belong to the Bar, it is almoſt all in all. Too much much pains, therefore, cannot be taken in previouſly ſtudying the plan and method. If there be indiſtinctneſs and diſorder there, we can have no ſucceſs in convincing: we leave the whole cauſe in darkneſs.

WITH reſpect to the conduct of Narrati⯑on and Argumentation, I ſhall hereafter make ſeveral remarks, when I come to treat of the component parts of regular Oration. I ſhall at preſent only obſerve, that the Narration of facts at the Bar, ſhould always be as conciſe as the nature of them will admit. Facts are always of the greateſt conſequence to be remembered during the courſe of the pleading; but, if the Pleader be tedious in his manner of re⯑lating [268] them, and needleſsly circumſtantial, he lays too great a load upon the memory. Whereas, by cutting off all ſuperfluous cir⯑cumſtances in his recital, he adds ſtrength to the material facts; he both gives a clear⯑er view of what he relates, and makes the impreſſion of it more laſting. In Argumen⯑tation, again, I would incline to give ſcope to a more diffuſe manner at the Bar, than on ſome other occaſions. For in Popular Aſſemblies, where the ſubject of debate is often a plain queſtion, Arguments, taken from known topics, gain ſtrength by their conciſeneſs. But the obſcurity of law⯑points frequently requires the Arguments to be ſpread out, and placed in different lights, in order to be fully apprehended.

WHEN the the Pleader comes to refute the arguments employed by his adverſary, he ſhould be on his guard not to do them in⯑juſtice, by diſguiſing, or placing them in a falſe light. The deceit is ſoon diſcovered: it will not fail of being expoſed; and tends to impreſs the Judge and the Hearers with diſtruſt of the Speaker, as one who either wants diſcernment to perceive, or wants fairneſs to admit, the ſtrength of the reaſon⯑ing on the other ſide. Whereas, when they ſee that he ſtates, with accuracy and can⯑dour, the Arguments which have been uſed againſt him, before he proceeds to combat them, a ſtrong prejudice is created in his favour. They are naturally led to think, [269] that he has a clear and full conception of all that can be ſaid on both ſides of the Ar⯑gument; that he has entire confidence in the goodneſs of his own cauſe; and does not attempt to ſupport it by any artifice or concealment. The Judge is thereby inclin⯑ed to receive, much more readily, the im⯑preſſions which are given by a Speaker, who appears both ſo fair and ſo penetrating. There is no part of the diſcourſe, in which the Orator has greater oppoortunity of ſhowing a maſterly addreſs, than when he ſets himſelf to repreſent the reaſonings of his antagoniſts, in order to refute them.

WIT may ſometimes be of ſervice at the Bar, eſpecially in a lively reply, by which we may throw ridicule on ſomething that has been ſaid on the other ſide. But, though the reputation of wit be dazzling to a young Pleader, I woul never adviſe him to reſt his ſtrength upon this talent. It is not his buſineſs to make an Audience laugh, but to convince the Judge; and ſel⯑dom, or never, did any one riſe to eminence in his profeſſion, by being a witty Law⯑yer.

A PROPER degree of warmth in plead⯑ing a cauſe is always of uſe. Though, in ſpeaking to a multitude, greater vehe⯑mence be natural; yet, in addreſſing our⯑ſelves even to a ſingle man, the warmth which ariſes from ſeriouſneſs and earneſt⯑neſs, [270] is one of the moſt powerful means of perſuading him. An Advocate perſonates his client; he has taken upon him the whole charge of his intereſts; he ſtands in his place. It is improper, therefore, and has a bad effect upon the cauſe, if he ap⯑pears indifferent and unmoved; and few clients will be fond of truſting their inter⯑eſts in the hands of a cold Speaker.

AT the ſame time, he muſt beware of proſtituting his earneſtneſs and ſenſibility ſo much, as to enter with equal warmth into every cauſe that is committed to him, whether it can be ſuppoſed really to excite his zeal or not. There is a dignity of cha⯑racter, which it is of the utmoſt import⯑ance for every one in this profeſſion to ſup⯑port. For it muſt never be forgotten, that there is no inſtrument of perſuaſion more powerful, than an opinion of probity and honour in the perſon who undertakes to perſuade^*. It is ſcarcely poſſible for any hearer to ſeparate altogether the impreſſion made by the character of him that ſpeaks, from the things that he ſays. However ſecretly and imperceptibly, it will be al⯑ways lending its weight to one ſide or other; either detracting from, or adding to, [271] the authority and influence of his Speech. This opinion of honour and probity muſt therefore be carefully preſerved, both by ſome degree of delicacy in the choice of cauſes, and by the manner of conducting them. And though, perhaps, the nature of the profeſſion may render it extremely difficult to carry this delicacy its utmoſt length, yet there are attentions to this point, which, as every good man for vir⯑tue's ſake, ſo every prudent man for repu⯑tation's ſake, will find to be neceſſary. He will always decline embarking in cauſes that are odious and manifeſtly unjuſt; and, when he ſupports a doubtful cauſe, he will lay the chief ſtreſs upon ſuch argu⯑ments as appear to his own judgment the moſt tenable; reſerving his zeal and his in⯑dignation for caſes where injuſtice and ini⯑quity are flagrant. But of the perſonal qualities and virtues requiſite in Public Speakers, I ſhall afterwards have occaſion to diſcourſe.

THESE are the chief directions which have occurred to me concerning the pecu⯑liar ſtrain of Speaking at the Bar. In order to illuſtrate the ſubject farther, I ſhall give a ſhort Analyſis of one of Cicero's Pleadings, or judicial Orations. I have choſen that, pro Cluentio. The celebrated one pro Milone is more laboured and ſhowy; but it is too declamatory. That, pro Cluentio comes nearer the ſtrain of a Modern Pleading; [272] and though it has the diſadvantage of being very long, and complicated too in the ſub⯑ject, yet it is one of the moſt chaſte, correct and forcible of all Cicero's judicial Orations, and well deſerves attention for its conduct.

AVITUS CLUENTIUS, a Roman Knight of ſplendid family and fortunes, had accu⯑ſed his Stepfather Oppianicus of an attempt to poiſon him. He prevailed in the proſe⯑cution; Oppianicus was condemned and baniſhed. But as rumours aroſe of the Judges having been corrupted by money in this cauſe, theſe gave occaſion to much po⯑pular clamour, and had thrown a heavy odium on Cluentius. Eight years afterwards Oppianicus died. An accuſation was brought againſt Cluentius of having poiſon⯑ed him, together with a charge alſo of ha⯑ving bribed the Judges in the former trial to condemn him. In this action Cicero de⯑fends him. The accuſers were Saſſia, the mother of Cluentius, and widow of Oppi⯑anicus, and young Oppianicus, the ſon. Q. Naſo, the Praetor, was Judge, together with a conſiderable number of Judices Se⯑lecti.

THE introduction of the Oration is ſim⯑ple and proper, taken from no common⯑place topic, but from the nature of the cauſe. It begins with taking notice, that the whole Oration of the accuſer was divided into two [273] parts^*. Theſe two parts were, the charge of having poiſoned Oppianicus; on which the accuſer, conſcious of having no proof, did not lay the ſtreſs of his cauſe; but reſted it chiefly on the other charge of former⯑ly corrupting the Judges, which was capital in certain caſes, by the Roman law. Ci⯑cero purpoſes to follow him in this method, and to apply himſelf chiefly to the vindica⯑tion of his client from the latter charge. He makes ſeveral proper obſervations on the danger of Judges ſuffering themſelves to be ſwayed by a popular cry, which often is raiſed by faction, and directed againſt the innocent. He acknowledges, that Clu⯑entius had ſuffered much and long by re⯑proach, on account of what had paſſed at the former trial; but begs only a patient and attentive hearing, and aſſures the Judges, that he will ſtate every thing re⯑lating to that matter ſo fairly and ſo clear⯑ly, as ſhall give them entire ſatisfaction. A great appearance of candour reigns throughout this Introduction.

[274] THE crimes with which Cluentius were charged, were heinous. A mother accuſ⯑ing her ſon, and accuſing him of ſuch ac⯑tions, as having firſt bribed Judges to con⯑demn her huſband, and having afterwards poiſoned him, were circumſtances that na⯑turally raiſed ſtrong prejudices againſt Ci⯑cero's client. The firſt ſtep, therefore, ne⯑ceſſary for the Orator, was to remove theſe prejudices; by ſhewing what ſort of perſons Cluentius's mother, and her huſ⯑band Oppianicus, were; and thereby turn⯑ing the edge of public indignation againſt them. The nature of the cauſe rendered this plan altogether proper, and, in ſimilar ſituations, it is fit to be imitated. He executes his plan with much eloquence and force; and, in doing it, lays open ſuch a ſcene of infamy and complicated guilt, as gives a ſhocking picture of the manners of that age; and ſuch as would ſeem incredi⯑ble, did not Cicero refer to the proof that was taken in the former trial, of the facts which he alleges.

SASSIA, the mother, appears to have been altogether of an abandoned character. Soon after the death of her firſt huſband, the father of Cluentius, ſhe fell in love with Aurius Melinus, a young man of illuſtrious birth and great fortune, who was married to her own daughter. She pre⯑vailed with him to divorce her daughter, [275] and then ſhe married him herſelf^*. This Melinus being afterwards, by the means of Oppianicus, involved in Sylla's proſcrip⯑tion, and put to death; and Saſſia being left, for the ſecond time, a widow, and in a very opulent ſituation, Oppianicus him⯑ſelf made his addreſſes to her. She, not ſtartled at the impudence of the propoſal, nor at the thoughts of marrying one, whoſe hands had been imbrued in her former huſ⯑band's blood, objected only, as Cicero ſays, to Oppianicus having two ſons by his preſent wife. Oppianicus removed the objection, by having his ſons privately diſ⯑patched; and then, divorcing his wife, the infamous match was concluded between him and Saſſia. Theſe flagrant deeds are painted, as we may well believe, with the higheſt colours of Cicero's Eloquence, which there has a very proper field. Clu⯑entius, as a man of honour, could no longer live on any tolerable terms with a woman, a mother only in the name, who had loaded herſelf and all her family with [276] ſo much diſhonour; and hence, the feud which had ever ſince ſubſiſted between them, and had involved her unfortunate ſon in ſo much trouble and perſecution. As for Oppianicus, Cicero gives a ſort of hiſtory of his life, and a full detail of his crimes; and by what he relates, Oppiani⯑cus appears to have been a man daring, fierce, and cruel, inſatiable in avarice and ambition; trained and hardened in all the crimes which thoſe turbulent times of Ma⯑rius and Sylla's proſcriptions produced: ‘"ſuch a man,"’ ſays our Orator, ‘"as in place of being ſurpriſed that he was con⯑demned, you ought rather to wonder that he had eſcaped ſo long."’

AND now, having prepared the way by all this narration, which is clear and ele⯑gant, he enters on the hiſtory of that fa⯑mous trial in which his client was charged with corrupting the Judges. Both Cluen⯑tius and Oppianicus were of the city La⯑rinum. In a public conteſt about the rights of the freemen of that city, they had taken oppoſite ſides, which embittered the miſ⯑underſtanding already ſubſiſting between them. Saſſia, now the wife of Oppianicus, puſhed him on to the deſtruction of her ſon, whom ſhe had long hated, as one who was conſcious of her crimes; and as Cluentius was known to have made no will, they expected, upon his death, to ſucceed to his fortune. The plan was formed, there⯑fore, [277] to diſpatch him by poiſon; which, conſidering their former conduct, is no incredible part of the ſtory. Cluentius was at that time indiſpoſed: the ſervant of his phyſician was to be bribed to give him poiſon, and one Fabricius, an inti⯑mate friend of Oppianicus, was employed in the negociation. The ſervant having made the diſcovery, Cluentius firſt proſe⯑cuted Scamander, a freedman of Fabricius, in whoſe cuſtody the poiſon was found; and afterwards Fabricius, for this attempt upon his life. He prevailed in both acti⯑ons: and both theſe perſons were con⯑demned by the voices, almoſt unanimous, of the Judges.

OF both theſe Prejudicia, as our Au⯑thor calls them, or previous trials, he gives a very particular account; and reſts upon them a great part of his argument, as, in neither of them, there was the leaſt charge or ſuſpicion of any attempt to corrupt the Judges. But in both theſe trials, Oppiani⯑cus was pointed at plainly; in both, Sca⯑mander and Fabricius were proſecuted as only the inſtruments and miniſters of his cruel deſigns. As a natural conſequence, therefore, Cluentius immediately after⯑wards raiſed a third proſecution againſt Op⯑pianicus himſelf, the contriver and author of the whole. It was in this proſecution, that money was ſaid to have been given to the Judges; all Rome was filled with the [278] report of it, and the alarm loudly raiſed, that no man's life or liberty was ſafe, if ſuch dangerous practices were not checked: By the following arguments, Cicero defends his client againſt this heavy charge of the Crimen corrupti Judicii.

HE reaſons firſt, that there was not the leaſt reaſon to ſuſpect it; ſeeing the con⯑demnation of Oppianicus was a direct and neceſſary conſequence of the judgments given againſt Scamander and Fabricius, in the two former trials; trials, that were fair and uncorrupted, to the ſatisfaction of the whole world. Yet by theſe, the road was laid clearly open to the detection of Oppianicus's guilt. His inſtruments and miniſters being once condemned, and by the very ſame Judges too, nothing could be more abſurd than to raiſe a cry about an innocent perſon being circumvened by bribery, when it was evident, on the con⯑trary, that a guilty perſon was now brought into judgment, under ſuch circumſtances, that unleſs the Judges were altogether in⯑conſiſtent with themſelves, it was impoſſi⯑ble for him to be acquitted.

HE reaſons next, that, if in this trial there was any corruption of the Judges by money, it was infinitely more probable, that corruption ſhould have proceeded from Oppianicus than from Cluentius. For ſet⯑ting aſide the difference of character be⯑tween [279] the two men, the one fair, the other flagitious; what motive had Cluentius to try ſo odious and dangerous an experiment, as that of bribing Judges? Was it not much more likely that he ſhould have had recourſe to this laſt remedy, who ſaw and knew him⯑ſelf, and his cauſe, to be in the utmoſt dan⯑ger; than the other, who had a cauſe clear in itſelf, and of the iſſue of which, in con⯑ſequence of the two previous ſentences given by the ſame Judges, he had full rea⯑ſon to be confident? Was it not much more likely that he ſhould bribe, who had every thing to fear; whoſe life and liberty, and fortune were at ſtake; than he who had already prevailed in a material part of his charge, and who had no further intereſt in the iſſue of the proſecution, than as juſ⯑tice was concerned?

IN the third place, he aſſerts it as a certain fact, that Oppianicus did attempt to bribe the Judges; that the corruption in this tri⯑al, ſo much complained of, was employed, not by Cluentius, but againſt him. He calls on Titus Attius, the Orator on the oppoſite ſide; he challenges him to deny, if he can, or if he dare, that Stalenus, one of the thirty-two Judices Selecti, did receive money from Oppianicus; he names the ſum that was given; he names the perſons that were preſent, when, after the trial was over, Stalenus was obliged to refund the bribe. This is a ſtrong fact, and would ſeem quite deciſive. But, unluckily, a very [280] croſs circumſtance occurs here. For this very Stalenus gave his voice to condemn Oppianicus. For this ſtrange incident, Ci⯑cero accounts in the following manner: Stalenus, ſays he, known to be a worthleſs man, and accuſtomed before to the like prac⯑tices, entered into a treaty with Oppianicus to bring him off, and demanded for that pur⯑poſe a certain ſum, which he undertook to diſ⯑tribute among a competent number of the other Judges. When he was once in poſ⯑ſeſſion of the money; when he found a great⯑er treaſure, than ever he had been maſter of, depoſited in his empty and wretched ha⯑bitation, he became very unwilling to part with any of it to his colleagues; and be⯑thought himſelf of ſome means by which he could contrive to keep it all to himſelf. The ſcheme which he deviſed for this purpoſe, was, to promote the condemnation, inſtead of the acquittal of Oppianicus; as, from a condemned per⯑ſon, he did not apprehend much danger of being called to account, or being obliged to make reſtitution. In place, therefore, of endeavouring to gain any of his colleagues, he irritated ſuch as he had influence with againſt Oppianicus, by firſt promiſing them money in his name, and afterwards telling them, that Oppianicus had cheated him^*. [281] When ſentence was to be pronounced, he had taken meaſures for being abſent him⯑ſelf; but being brought by Oppianicus's Lawyers from another court, and obliged to give his voice, he found it neceſſary to lead the way, in condemning the man whoſe money he had taken, without ful⯑filling the bargain which he had made with him.

BY theſe plauſible facts and reaſonings, the character of Cluentius ſeems in a great meaſure cleared; and, what Cicero chiefly intended, the odium thrown upon the ad⯑verſe party. But a difficult part of the Ora⯑tor's buſineſs ſtill remained. There were ſeveral ſubſequent deciſions of the Praetor, the Cenſors, and the Senate, againſt the Judges in this cauſe; which all proceeded, or ſeemed to proceed, upon this ground of bribery and corruption: for it is plain the ſuſpicion prevailed, that if Oppianicus had given money to Stalenus, Cluentius had outbribed him. To all theſe deciſions, however, Cicero replies with much diſtinct⯑neſs and ſubtilty of argument; though it might be tedious to follow him through all [282] his reaſonings on theſe heads. He ſhows, that the facts were, at that time, very in⯑diſtinctly known; that the deciſions appeal⯑ed to were haſtily given; that not one of them concluded directly againſt his Client; and that ſuch as they were, they were entirely brought about by the inflammatory and facti⯑ous harangues of Quinctius, the Tribune of the People, who had been the Agent and Advocate of Oppianicus; and who, enraged at the defeat he had ſuſtained, had employ⯑ed all his tribunitial influence to raiſe a ſtorm againſt the Judges who condemned his Client.

AT length, Cicero comes to reaſon con⯑cerning the point of law. The Crimen Corrupti Judicii, or the bribing of the Judges, was capital. In the famous Lex Cornelia de Sicariis, was contained this clauſe (which we find ſtill extant, Pandect. lib. xlviii. Tit. 10. § 1.) ‘"Qui judicem corruperit, vel corrumpendum curaverit, hâc lege teneatur."’ This clauſe, however, we learn from Cicero, was reſtricted to Ma⯑giſtrates and Senators; and as Cluentius was only of the Equeſtrain Order, he was not, even ſuppoſing him guilty, within the law. Of this Cicero avails himſelf doubly; and as he ſhows here the moſt maſterly ad⯑dreſs, I ſhall give a ſummary of his plead⯑ing on this part of the cauſe: ‘"You,"’ ſays he to the Advocate for the proſecutor, ‘"you, T. Attius, I know, had every where [283] given it out, that I was to defend my Client, not from facts, not upon the footing of innocence, but by taking ad⯑vantage merely of the law in his behalf. Have I done ſo? I appeal to yourſelf. Have I ſought to cover him behind a le⯑gal defence only? On the contrary, have I not pleaded his cauſe as if he had been a Senator, liable, by the Cornelian law, to be capitally convicted; and ſhown, that neither proof nor probable preſumption lies againſt his innocence? In doing ſo, I muſt acquaint you, that I have compli⯑ed with the deſire of Cluentius himſelf. For when he firſt conſulted me in this cauſe, and when I informed him that it was clear no action could be brought againſt him from the Cornelian Law, he inſtantly beſought and obteſted me, that I would not reſt his defence upon that ground; ſaying, with tears in his eyes, That his reputation was as dear to him as his life; and that what he ſought, as an innocent man, was not only to be abſolv⯑ed from any penalty, but to be acquitted in the opinion of all his fellow-citizens."’

‘"HITHERTO, then, I have pleaded this cauſe upon his plan. But my Client muſt forgive me, if now I ſhall plead it upon my own. For I ſhould be wanting to myſelf, and to that regard which my character and ſtation require me to bear to the laws of the State, if I ſhould al⯑low [284] any perſon to be judged of by a law which does not bind him. You, Attius, indeed, have told us, that it was a ſcan⯑dal and reproach, that a Roman Knight ſhould be exempted from thoſe penalties to which a Senator, for corrupting Judges, is liable. But I muſt tell you, that it would be a much greater reproach, in a State that is regulated by law, to depart from the law. What ſafety have any of us in our perſons, what ſecurity for our rights, if the law ſhall be ſet aſide? By what title do you, Q. Naſo, ſit in that chair, and preſide in this judgment? By what right, T. Attius, do you accuſe, or do I deſend? Whence all the ſolemni⯑ty and pomp of Judges, and Clerks, and Officers, of which this houſe is full? Does not all proceed from the law, which re⯑gulates the whole departments of the State; which, as a common bond, holds its mem⯑bers together; and, like the Soul within the Body, actuates and directs all public functions^*? On what ground, then, dare [285] you ſpeak lightly of the law, or move that, in a criminal trial, Judges ſhould advance one ſtep beyond what it permits them to go? The wiſdom of our anceſ⯑tors has found, that, as Senators and Magiſtrates enjoy higher dignities, and greater advantages than other members of the ſtate, the law ſhould alſo, with regard to them, be more ſtrict, and the purity and uncorruptedneſs of their mo⯑rals be guarded by more ſevere ſanctions. But if it be your pleaſure that this inſti⯑tution ſhould be altered, if you wiſh to have the Cornelian Law, concerning bri⯑bery extended to all ranks, then let us join, not in violating the law, but in propoſing to have this alteration made by a new law. My Client, Cluentius, will be the foremoſt in this meaſure, who now, while the old law ſubſiſts, rejected its defence, and required his cauſe to be pleaded, as if he had been bound by it. But, though he would not avail himſelf of the law, you are bound in juſtice not to ſtretch it beyond its proper limit."’

SUCH is the reaſoning of Cicero on this head; eloquent, ſurely, and ſtrong. As his manner is diffuſe, I have greatly abridg⯑ed [286] it from the original, but have endea⯑voured to detain its force.

IN the latter part of the Oration, Cicero treats of the other accuſation that was brought againſt Cluentius, of having poi⯑ſoned Oppianicus. On this, it appears, his accuſers themſelves laid ſmall ſtreſs; having placed their chief hope in over⯑whelming Cluentius with the odium of bribery in the former trial; and, therefore, on this part of the cauſe, Cicero does not dwell long. He ſhows the imbrobability of the whole tale, which they related con⯑cerning this pretended poiſoning, and makes it appear to be altogether deſtitute of any ſhadow of proof.

NOTHING, therefore, remains but the Peroration, or Concluſion of the whole. In this, as indeed throughout the whole of this Oration, Cicero is uncommonly chaſte, and, in the midſt of much warmth and ear⯑neſtneſs, keeps clear of turgid declamation. The Peroration turns on two points; the indignation which the character and con⯑duct of Saſſia ought to excite, and the compaſſion due to a ſon, perſecuted through his whole life by ſuch a mother. He re⯑capitulates the crimes of Saſſia; her lewd⯑neſs, her violation of every decorum, her inceſtuous marriages, her violence and cru⯑elty. He places, in the moſt odious light, the eagerneſs and fury which ſhe had ſhown [287] in the ſuit ſhe was carrying on againſt her ſon; deſcribes her journey from Larinum to Rome, with a train of attendants, and a great ſtore of money, that ſhe might em⯑ploy every method for circumvening and oppreſſing him in this trial; while, in the whole courſe of her journey, ſhe was ſo deteſted, as to make a ſolitude wherever ſhe lodged; ſhe was ſhunned and avoided by all; her company and her very looks, were reckoned contagious; the houſe was deemed polluted which was entered into by ſo abandoned a woman^*. To this he op⯑poſes the character of Cluentius, fair, un⯑ſpotted, and reſpectable. He produces the teſtimonies of the magiſtrates of Larinum in his favour, given in the moſt ample and ho⯑nourable manner by a public decree, and ſupported by a great concourſe of the moſt noted inhabitants, who were now preſent, [288] to ſecond every thing that Cicero could ſay in favour of Cluentius.

‘"WHEREFORE, Judges,"’ he concludes, ‘"if you abominate crimes, ſtop the tri⯑umph of this impious woman, prevent this moſt unnatural mother from rejoic⯑ing in her ſon's blood. If you love virtue and worth, relieve this unfortunate man, who, for ſo many years, has been expoſ⯑ed to moſt unjuſt reproach through the calumnies raiſed againſt him by Saſſia, Oppianicus, and all their adherents. Bet⯑ter far it had been for him to have ended his days at once by the poiſon which Op⯑pianicus had prepared for him, than to have eſcaped thoſe ſnares, if he muſt ſtill be oppreſſed by an odium which I have ſhown to be ſo unjuſt. But in you he truſts, in your clemency, and your equi⯑ty, that now, on a full and fair hearing of his cauſe, you will reſtore him to his honour; you will reſtore him to his friends and fellow-citizens, of whoſe zeal and high eſtimation of him you have ſeen ſuch ſtrong proofs; and will ſhow, by your deciſion, that, though faction and calumny may reign for a while in populat meetings and harangues, in trial and judgment regard is paid to the truth only."’

I HAVE given only a ſkeleton of this Oration of Cicero. What I have princi⯑pally [289] aimed at, was to ſhow his diſpoſition and method; his arrangement of facts, and the conduct and force of ſome of his main arguments. But, in order to have a full view of the ſubject, and of the art with which the Orator manages it, recourſe muſt be had to the original. Few of Cice⯑ro's Orations contain a greater variety of facts and argumentations, which renders it difficult to analyſe it fully. But for this reaſon I choſe it, as an excellent exam⯑ple of managing at the Bar a complex and intricate cauſe, with order, elegance, and force.

LECTURE XXIX. ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT.

BEFORE treating of the ſtructure and component parts of a regular Oration, I purpoſed making ſome obſervations on the peculiar ſtrain, the diſtinguiſhing cha⯑racters, of each of the three great kinds of Public Speaking. I have already treated of the Eloquence of Popular Aſſemblies, and of the Eloquence of the Bar. The ſubject which remains for this Lecture is, the ſtrain and ſpirit of that Eloquence which is ſuited to the Pulpit.

LET us begin with conſidering the ad⯑vantages, and diſadvantages, which belong to this field of Public Speaking. The Pul⯑pit has plainly ſeveral advantages peculiar to itſelf. The dignity and importance of its ſubjects muſt be acknowledged ſuperior to any other. They are ſuch as ought to [291] intereſt every one, and can be brought home to every man's heart; and ſuch as admit, at the ſame time, both the higheſt embelliſhment in deſcribing, and the greateſt vehemence and warmth in enforcing them. The Preacher has alſo great advantages in treating his ſubjects. He ſpeaks not to one or a few Judges, but to a large Aſſembly. He is ſecure from all interruption. He is obliged to no replies, or extemporaneous efforts. He chuſes his theme at leiſure; and comes to the Public with all the aſſiſt⯑ance which the moſt accurate premeditation can give him.

BUT, together with theſe advantages, there are alſo peculiar difficulties that at⯑tend the Eloquence of the Pulpit. The Preacher, it is true, has no trouble in con⯑tending with an adverſary; but then, De⯑bate and Contention enliven the genius of men, and procure attention. The Pulpit Orator is, perhaps, in too quiet poſſeſſion of his field. His ſubjects of diſcourſe are, in themſelves, noble and important; but they are ſubjects trite and familiar. They have, for ages, employed ſo many Speak⯑ers, and ſo many pens; the public ear is ſo much accuſtomed to them, that it re⯑quires more than an ordinary power of ge⯑nius to fix attention. Nothing within the reach of art is more difficult, than to beſtow, on what is common, the grace of novelty. No ſort of compoſition whatever is ſuch a [292] trial of ſkill, as where the merit of it lies wholly in the execution; not in giving any information that is new, not in convincing men of what they did not believe; but in dreſſing truths which they knew, and of which they were before convinced, in ſuch colours as may moſt forcibly affect their imagination and heart^*. It is to be conſi⯑dered too, that the ſubject of the Preacher generally confines him to abſtract qualities, to virtues and vices; whereas, that of other popular Speakers leads them to treat of perſons; which is a ſubject that commonly intereſts the hearers more, and takes faſter [293] hold of the imagination. The Preacher's buſineſs is ſolely to make you deteſt the crime. The Pleader's, to make you deteſt the criminal. He deſcribes a living per⯑ſon; and with more facility rouſes your indignation. From theſe cauſes, it comes to paſs, that though we have a great num⯑ber of moderately good Preachers, we have, however, ſo few that are ſingularly emi⯑nent. We are ſtill far from perfection in the art of Preaching; and perhaps there are few things, in which it is more difficult to excel^*. The object, however, is noble, and worthy, upon many accounts, of be⯑ing purſued with zeal.

IT may perhaps occur to ſome, that preaching is no proper ſubject of the Art of Eloquence. This, it may be ſaid, be⯑longs [294] only to human ſtudies and inven⯑tions: but for the truths of religion, with the greater ſimplicity, and the leſs mix⯑ture of art they are ſet forth, they are likely to prove the more ſucceſsful. This objection would have weight, if Eloquence were, as the perſons who make ſuch an objection commonly take it to be, an oſten⯑tatious and deceitful art, the ſtudy of words and of plauſibility only, calculated to pleaſe, and to tickle the ear. But againſt this idea of Eloquence I have all along guarded. True Eloquence is the art of placing truth in the moſt advantageous light for conviction and perſuaſion. This is what every good man who preaches the Goſpel not only may, but ought to have at heart. It is moſt intimately connected with the ſucceſs of his miniſtry; and were it needful, as aſſuredly it is not, to reaſon any further on this head, we might refer to the Diſcourſes of the Prophets and Apoſtles, as models of the moſt ſublime and perſuaſive Eloquence, adapted both to the imagination and the paſſions of men.

AN eſſential requiſite, in order to preach well, is, to have a juſt, and, at the ſame time, a fixed and habitual view of the end of preaching. For in no art can any man execute well, who has not a juſt idea of the end and object of that art. The end of all preaching is, to perſuade men to become good. Every Sermon therefore ſhould be [295] a perſuaſive Oration. Not but that the Preacher is to inſtruct and to teach, to rea⯑ſon and argue. All perſuaſion, as I ſhow⯑ed formerly, is to be founded on conviction. The underſtanding muſt always be applied to in the firſt place, in order to make a laſt⯑ing impreſſion on the heart: and he who would work on men's paſſions, or in⯑influence their practice, without firſt giving them juſt principles, and enlightening their minds, is no better than a mere declaimer. He may raiſe tranſient emotions, or kindle a paſſing ardour; but can produce no ſolid or laſting effect. At the ſame time, it muſt be remembered, that all the Preachers in⯑ſtructions are to be of the practical kind; and that perſuaſion muſt ever be his ulti⯑mate object. It is not to diſcuſs ſome ab⯑ſtruſe point, that he aſcends the Pulpit. It is not to illuſtrate ſome metaphyſical truth, or to inform men of ſomething which they never heard before; but it is to make them better men; it is to give them, at once, clear views, and perſuaſive impreſſions of religious truth. The Eloquence of the Pul⯑pit then, muſt be Popular Eloquence. One of the firſt qualities of preaching is to be po⯑pular; not in the ſenſe of accommodation to the humours and prejudices of the people (which tends only to make a Preacher con⯑temptible), but, in the true ſenſe of the word, calculated to make impreſſion on the people; to ſtrike and to ſeize their hearts. I ſcruple not therefore to aſſert, that the abſtract and philoſophical manner of preach⯑ing, [296] however it may have ſometimes been admired, is formed upon a very faulty idea, and deviates widely from the juſt plan of Pulpit Eloquence. Rational, indeed, a Preacher ought always to be; he muſt give his audience clear ideas on every ſubject, and entertain them with ſenſe, not with ſound; but to be an accurate reaſoner will be ſmall praiſe, if he be not a perſuaſive Speaker alſo.

NOW, if this be the proper idea of a Ser⯑mon, a perſuaſive Oration, one very mate⯑rial conſequence follows, that the Preacher himſelf, in order to be ſucceſsful, muſt be a good man. In a preceding Lecture, I en⯑deavoured to ſhow, that on no ſubject can any man be truly eloquent, who does not utter the ‘"verae voces ab imo pectore,"’ who does not ſpeak the language of his own conviction, and his own feelings. If this holds, as, in my opinion, it does in other kinds of Public Speaking, it certainly holds in the higheſt degree in preaching. There, it is of the utmoſt conſequence that the Speaker firmly believe both the truth, and the importance of thoſe principles which he inculcates on others; and, not only that he believe them ſpeculatively, but have a lively and ſerious feeling of them. This will always give an earneſtneſs and ſtrength, a fervour of piety to his exhortations, ſupe⯑rior in its effects to all the arts of ſtudied Eloquence; and, without it, the aſſiſtance of art will ſeldom be able to conceal the [297] mere declaimer. A ſpirit of true piety would prove the moſt effectual guard againſt thoſe errors which Preachers are apt to com⯑mit. It would make their Diſcourſes ſolid, cogent, and uſeful; it would prevent thoſe frivolous and oſtentatious harangues, which have no other aim than merely to make a parade of Speech, or amuſe an audience; and perhaps the difficulty of attaining that pitch of habitual piety and goodneſs, which the perfection of Pulpit Eloquence would require, and of uniting it with that tho⯑rough knowledge of the world, and thoſe other talents which are requiſite for excel⯑ling in the Pulpit, is one of the great cauſes why ſo few arrive at very high eminence in this ſphere.

THE chief characteriſtics of the Eloquence ſuited to the Pulpit, as diſtinguiſhed from the other kinds of Public Speaking, appear to me to be theſe two, Gravity and Warmth. The ſerious nature of the ſubjects belong⯑ing to the Pulpit, requires Gravity; their importance to mankind, requires Warmth. It is far from being either eaſy or common to unite theſe characters of Eloquence. The Grave, when it is predominant, is apt to run into a dull uniform ſolemnity. The Warm, when it wants gravity, borders on the theatrical and light. The uni⯑on of the two muſt be ſtudied by all Preachers as of the utmoſt conſequence, both in the compoſition of their diſ⯑courſes, and in their manner of delivery. [298] Gravity and Warmth united, form that character of preaching which the French call Onction; the affecting, penetrating, in⯑tereſting manner, flowing from a ſtrong ſen⯑ſibility of heart in the Preacher to the im⯑portance of thoſe truths which he delivers, and an earneſt deſire that they may make full impreſſion on the hearts of his Hearers.

NEXT to a juſt idea of the nature and object of Pulpit Eloquence, the point of gre teſt importance to a Preacher, is a pro⯑per choice of the ſubjects on which he preaches. To give rules for the choice of ſubjects for Sermons, belongs to the theolo⯑gical more than to the rhetorical chair; on⯑ly in general, they ſhould be ſuch as appear to the Preacher to be the moſt uſeful, and the beſt accommodated to the circumſtances of his Audience. No man can be called eloquent, who ſpeaks to an Aſſembly on ſubjects, or in a ſtrain, which none or few of them comprehend. The unmeaning ap⯑plauſe which the ignorant give to what is above their capacity, common ſenſe, and common probity, muſt teach every man to deſpiſe. Uſefulneſs and true Eloquence al⯑ways go together; and no man can long be reputed a good Preacher who is not acknow⯑ledged to be an uſeful one.

THE rules which relate to the conduct of the different parts of a Sermon, the Intro⯑duction, Diviſion, argumentative and pa⯑thetic [299] parts, I reſerve to be afterwards de⯑livered, when treating of the conduct of a Diſcourſe in general; but ſome rules and obſervations, which reſpect a Sermon as a particular ſpecies of compoſition, I ſhall now give, and I hope they may be of ſome uſe.

THE firſt which I ſhall mention is, to at⯑tend to the Unity of a Sermon. Unity in⯑deed is of great conſequence in every com⯑poſition; but in other Diſcourſes, where the choice and direction of the ſubject are not left to the Speaker, it may be leſs in his power to preſerve it. In a Sermon, it muſt be always the Preacher's own fault if he tranſgreſs it. What I mean by unity is, that there ſhould be ſome one main point to which the whole ſtrain of the Sermon ſhall refer. It muſt not be a bundle of different ſubjects ſtrung together, but one object muſt predominate throughout. This rule is founded on what we all experience, that the mind can attend fully only to one capital object at a time. By dividing, you always weaken the impreſſion. Now this Unity, without which no Sermon can either have much beauty, or much force, does not re⯑quire that there ſhould be no diviſions or ſeparate heads in the Diſcourſe, or that one ſingle thought only ſhould be, again and again, turned up to the hearers in different lights. It is not to be underſtood in ſo nar⯑row a ſenſe: it admits of ſome variety; it [300] admits of underparts and appendages, pro⯑vided always that ſo much Union and Con⯑nection be preſerved, as to make the whole concur in ſome one impreſſion upon the mind. I may employ, for inſtance, ſeveral different arguments to enforce the love of God; I may alſo enquire, perhaps, into the cauſes of the decay of this virtue; ſtill one great object is preſented to the mind; but if, becauſe my text ſays, ‘"He that loveth God, muſt love his brother alſo,"’ I ſhould, therefore, mingle in one Diſcourſe argu⯑ments for the love of God and for the love of our neighbour, I would offend unpardon⯑ably againſt Unity, and leave a very looſe and confuſed impreſſion on the Hearers minds.

IN the ſecond place, Sermons are always the more ſtriking, and commonly the more uſeful, the more preciſe and particular the ſubject of them be. This follows, in a great meaſure, from what I was juſt now illuſtra⯑ting. Though a general ſubject is capable of being conducted with a conſiderable de⯑gree of Unity, yet that Unity can never be ſo complete as in a particular one. The impreſſion made muſt always be more un⯑determinate; and the inſtruction conveyed, will commonly too, be leſs direct and con⯑vincing. General ſubjects, indeed, ſuch as the excellency or the pleaſures of religion, are often choſen by young Preachers, as the moſt ſhowy, and the eaſieſt to be handled; [301] and, doubtleſs, general views of religion are not to be neglected, as on ſeveral occa⯑ſions they have great propriety. But theſe are not the ſubjects moſt favourable for pro⯑ducing the high effects of preaching. They fall in almoſt unavoidably with the beaten tract of common-place thought. Attention is much more commanded by ſeizing ſome particular view of a great ſubject, ſome ſin⯑gle intereſting topic, and directing to that point the whole force of Argument and Eloquence. To recommend ſome one grace or virtue, or to inveigh againſt a particular vice, furniſhes a ſubject not deficient in unity or preciſion; but if we confine our⯑ſelves to that virtue or vice as aſſuming a particular aſpect, and conſider it as it ap⯑pears in certain characters, or affects certain ſituations in life, the ſubject becomes ſtill more intereſting. The execution is, I ad⯑mit, more difficult, but the merit and the effect are higher.

IN the third place, never ſtudy to ſay all that can be ſaid upon a ſubject; no error is greater than this. Select the moſt uſeful, the moſt ſtriking and perſuaſive topics which the text ſuggeſts, and reſt the Diſcourſe upon theſe. If the doctrines which Miniſters of the Goſpel preach were altogether new to their hearers, it might be requiſite for them to be exceeding full on every particular, leſt there ſhould be any hazard of their not affording complete information. But it is [302] much leſs for the ſake of information than of perſuaſion, that Diſcourſes are delivered from the Pulpit; and nothing is more op⯑poſite to perſuaſion, than an unneceſſary and tedious fulneſs. There are always ſome things which the Preacher may ſup⯑poſe to be known, and ſome things which he may only ſhortly touch. If he ſeek to omit nothing which his ſubject ſuggeſts, it will unavoidably happen that he will en⯑cumber it, and weaken its force.

IN ſtudying a Sermon, he ought to place himſelf in the ſituation of a ſerious hearer. Let him ſuppoſe the ſubject addreſſed to himſelf: let him conſider what views of it would ſtrike him moſt; what arguments would be moſt likely to perſuade him; what parts of it would dwell moſt upon his mind. Let theſe be employed as his principal ma⯑terials; and in theſe, it is moſt likely his genius will exert itſelf with the greateſt vi⯑gour. The ſpinning and wire-drawing mode, which is not uncommon among Preachers, enervates the nobleſt truths. It may indeed be a conſequence of obſerving the rule which I am now giving, that fewer Sermons will be preached upon one text than is ſometimes done; but this will, in my opinion, be attended with no diſadvantage. I know no benefit that ariſes from intro⯑ducing a whole ſyſtem of religious truth under every text. The ſimpleſt and moſt natural method by far, is to chuſe that view [303] of a ſubject to which the text principally leads, and to dwell no longer on the text, than is ſufficient for diſcuſſing the ſubject in that view, which can commonly be done, with ſufficient profoundneſs and diſtinct⯑neſs, in one or a few Diſcourſes: for it is a very falſe notion to imagine, that they al⯑ways preach the moſt profoundly, or go the deepeſt into a ſubject, who dwell on it the longeſt. On the contrary, that tedious cir⯑cuit, which ſome are ready to take in all their illuſtrations, is very frequently owing, either to their want of diſcernment for per⯑ceiving what is moſt important in the ſub⯑ject; or to their want of ability for placing it in the moſt proper point of view.

IN the fourth place, ſtudy above all things to render your inſtructions intereſting to the Hearers. This is the great trial and mark of true genius for the Eloquence of the Pulpit: for nothing is ſo fatal to ſucceſs in preaching, as a dry manner. A dry Ser⯑mon can never be a good one. In order to preach in an intereſting manner, much will depend upon the delivery of a Diſcourſe; for the manner in which a man ſpeaks, is of the utmoſt conſequence for affecting his Audience; but much will alſo depend on the compoſition of the Diſcourſe. Correct language, and elegant deſcription, are but the ſecondary inſtruments of preaching in an intereſting manner. The great ſecret lies, in bringing home all that is ſpoken to [304] the hearts of the Hearers, ſo as to make every man think that the Preacher is addreſ⯑ſing him in particular. For this end, let him avoid all intricate reaſonings; avoid expreſſing himſelf in general ſpeculative propoſitions, or laying down practical truths in an abſtract metaphyſical manner. As much as poſſible, the Diſcourſe ought to be carried on in the ſtrain of direct ad⯑dreſs to the Audience; not in the ſtrain of one writing an eſſay, but of one ſpeaking to a multitude, and ſtudying to mix what is called Application, or what has an im⯑mediate reference to practice, with the doctrinal and didactic parts of the Ser⯑mon.

IT will be of much advantage to keep always in view the different ages, charac⯑ters, and conditions of men, and to accom⯑modate directions and exhortations to theſe different claſſes of hearers. Whenever you bring forth what a man feels to touch his own character, or to ſuit his own circum⯑ſtances, you are ſure of intereſting him. No ſtudy is more neceſſary for this purpoſe, than the ſtudy of human life, and the human heart. To be able to unfold the heart, and to diſcover a man to himſelf, in a light in which he never ſaw his own character before, produces a wonderful ef⯑fect. As long as the Preacher hovers in a cloud of general obſervations, and deſcends not to trace the particular lines and fea⯑tures [305] of manners, the Audience are apt to think themſelves unconcerned in the deſcription. It is the ſtriking accuracy of moral characters that gives the chief power and effect to a preacher's diſcourſe. Hence, examples founded on hiſtorical facts, and drawn from real life, of which kind the Scriptures afford many, always, when they are well choſen, command high attention. No favourable opportunity of introducing theſe ſhould be omitted. They correct, in ſome degree, that diſadvantage to which I before obſerved preaching is ſubject, of being confined to treat of qualities in the abſtract, not of perſons, and place the weight and reality of religious truths in the moſt convincing light. Perhaps the moſt beautiful, and among the moſt uſeful ſermons of any, though, indeed the moſt difficult in compoſition, are ſuch as are wholly characteriſtical, or founded on the illuſtration of ſome peculiar character, or remarkable piece of hiſtory, in the ſacred writings; by purſuing which, one can trace, and lay open, ſome of the moſt ſe⯑cret windings of man's heart. Other to⯑pics of preaching have been much beaten; but this is a field, which, wide in itſelf, has hitherto been little explored by the compoſers of ſermons, and poſſeſſes all the advantages of being curious, new, and highly uſeful. Biſhop Butler's ſermon on the character of Balaam, will give an idea [306] of that ſort of preaching which I have in my eye.

IN the fifth and laſt place, Let me add a caution againſt taking the model of preach⯑ing from particular faſhions that chance to have the vogue. Theſe are torrents that ſwell to day, and have ſpent themſelves by to-morrow. Sometimes it is the taſte of poetical preaching, ſometimes of philoſo⯑phical, that has the faſhion on its ſide; at one time it muſt be all pathetic, at another time all argumentative, according as ſome celebrated Preacher has ſet the example. Each of theſe-modes, in the extreme, is very faulty; and he who conforms himſelf to it, will both cramp genius, and corrupt it. It is the univerſal taſte of mankind which is ſubject to no ſuch changing modes, that alone is entitled to poſſeſs any autho⯑rity; and this will never give its ſanction to any ſtrain of preaching, but what is founded on human nature, connected with uſefulneſs, adapted to the proper idea of a Sermon, as a ſerious perſuaſive Oration, delivered to a multitude, in order to make them better men. Let a Preacher form himſelf upon this ſtandard, and keep it cloſe in his eye, and he will be in a much ſurer road to reputation, and ſucceſs at laſt, than by a ſervile compliance with any popular taſte, or tranſient humour of his Hearers. Truth and good ſenſe are firm, and will eſtabliſh themſelves; mode [307] and humour are feeble and fluctuating. Let him never follow, implicitly, any one example; or become a ſervile imitator of any Preacher, however much admired. From various examples, he may pick up much for his improvement; ſome he may prefer to the reſt: but the ſervility of imi⯑tation extinguiſhes all genius, or rather is a proof of the entire want of genius.

WITH reſpect to Style, that which the Pulpit requires, muſt certainly, in the firſt place, be very perſpicuous. As diſcourſes ſpoken there, are calculated for the in⯑ſtruction of all ſorts of hearers, plainneſs and ſimplicity ſhould reign in them. All unuſual, ſwoln, or high ſounding words, ſhould be avoided; eſpecially all words that are merely poetical, or merely philoſophical. Young Preachers are apt to be caught with the glare of theſe; and in young Compo⯑ſers the error may be excuſable; but they may be aſſured that it is an error, and pro⯑ceeds from their not having yet acquired a correct Taſte. Dignity of expreſſion, in⯑deed, the Pulpit requires in a high degree; nothing that is mean or groveling, no low or vulgar phraſes, ought on any account to be admitted. But this dignity is perfectly conſiſtent with ſimplicity. The words em⯑ployed may be all plain words, eaſily un⯑derſtood, and in common uſe; and yet the Style may be abundantly dignified, and, at the ſame time, very lively and animated. [308] For a lively animated Style is extremely ſuited to the Pulpit. The earneſtneſs which a Preacher ought to feel, and the grandeur and importance of his ſubjects, juſtify, and often require warm and glowing expreſ⯑ſions. He not only may employ metaphors and compariſons, but, on proper occaſions, may apoſtrophiſe the ſaint or the ſinner; may perſonify inanimate objects, break out into bold exclamations, and, in general, has the command of the moſt paſſionate figures of Speech. But on this ſubject, of the proper uſe and management of figures, I have inſiſted ſo fully in former Lectures, that I have no occaſion now to give parti⯑cular directions; unleſs it be only to recal to mind that moſt capital rule, never to employ ſtrong figures, or a pathetic Style, except in caſes where the ſubject leads to them, and where the Speaker is impelled to the uſe of them by native unaffected warmth.

THE language of Sacred Scripture, pro⯑perly employed, is a great ornament to Sermons. It may be employed, either in the way of quotation, or alluſion. Direct quotations, brought from Scripture, in or⯑der to ſupport what the Preacher incul⯑cates, both give authority to his doctrine, and render his diſcourſe more ſolemn and venerable. Alluſions to remarkable paſſa⯑ges, or expreſſions of Scripture, when in⯑troduced with propriety, have generally a [309] pleaſing effect. They afford the Preacher a fund of metaphorical expreſſion which no other compoſition enjoys, and by means of which he can vary and enliven his Style. But he muſt take care that any ſuch allu⯑ſions be natural and eaſy; for if they ſeem forced, they approach to the nature of con⯑ceits^*.

IN a Sermon, no points or conceits ſhould appear, no affected ſmartneſs and quaintneſs of expreſſion. Theſe derogate much from the dignity of the Pulpit; and give to a Preacher that air of foppiſhneſs, which he ought, above all things, to ſhun. It is rather a ſtrong expreſſive Style, than [310] a ſparkling one, that is to be ſtudied. But we muſt beware of imagining, that we ren⯑der Style ſtrong and expreſſive, by a con⯑ſtant and multiplied uſe of epithets. This is a great error. Epithets have often great beauty and force. But if we introduce them into every Sentence, and ſtring many of them together to one object, in place of ſtrengthening, we clog and enfeeble Style; in place of illuſtrating the image, we ren⯑der it confuſed and indiſtinct. He that tells me, ‘"of this periſhing, mutable and tran⯑ſitory world;"’ by all theſe three epithets, does not give me ſo ſtrong an idea of what he would convey, as if he had uſed one of them with propriety. I conclude this head with an advice, never to have what may be called a favourite expreſſion; for it ſhews affectation, and becomes diſguſting. Let not any expreſſion, which is remarkable for its luſtre or beauty, occur twice in the ſame diſcourſe. The repetition of it be⯑trays a fondneſs to ſhine, and, at the ſame time, carries the appearance of barren in⯑vention.

AS to the queſtion, whether it be moſt proper to write Sermons fully, and commit them accurately to memory, or to ſtudy only the matter and thoughts, and truſt the expreſſion, in part at leaſt, to the de⯑livery? I am of opinion, that no univerſal rule can here be given. The choice of ei⯑ther of theſe methods muſt be left to Preach⯑ers, [311] according to their different genius. The expreſſions which come warm and glowing from the mind, during the fervour of pronunciation, will often have a ſupe⯑rior grace and energy, to thoſe which are ſtudied in the retirement of the cloſet. But then, this fluency and power of expreſſion cannot, at all times, be depended upon, even by thoſe of the readieſt genius; and by many can at no time be commanded, when overawed by the preſence of an Au⯑dience. It is proper therefore to begin, at leaſt, the practice of preaching, with writ⯑ing as accurately as poſſible. This is ab⯑ſolutely neceſſary in the beginning, in or⯑der to acquire the power and habit of cor⯑rect ſpeaking, nay alſo of correct thinking, upon religious ſubjects. I am inclined to go further, and to ſay, that it is proper not only to begin thus, but alſo to continue, as long as the habits of induſtry laſt, in the practice both of writing, and committing to memory. Relaxation in this particular is ſo common, and ſo ready to grow up⯑on moſt Speakers in the Pulpit, that there is little occaſion for giving any cautions againſt the extreme of overdoing in ac⯑curacy.

OF pronunciation or delivery, I am here⯑after to treat apart. All that I ſhall now ſay upon this head is, that the practice of reading Sermons, is one of the greateſt ob⯑ſtacles [312] to the Eloquence of the Pulpit in Great Britain, where alone this practice prevails. No diſcourſe, which is deſigned to be perſuaſive, can have the ſame force when read, as when ſpoken. The com⯑mon people all feel this, and their preju⯑dice againſt this practice is not without foundation in nature. What is gained here⯑by in point of correctneſs, is not equal, I apprehend, to what is loſt in point of per⯑ſuaſion and force. They, whoſe memories are not able to retain the whole of a diſ⯑courſe, might aid themſelves conſiderably by ſhort notes lying before them, which would allow them to preſerve, in a great meaſure, the freedom and eaſe of one who ſpeaks.

THE French and Engliſh writers of Ser⯑mons proceed upon very different ideas of the Eloquence of the Pulpit; and ſeem in⯑deed to have ſplit it betwixt them. A French Sermon, is for moſt part a warm animated exhortation; an Engliſh one, is a piece of cool inſtructive reaſoning. The French Preachers addreſs themſelves chief⯑ly to the imagination and the paſſions; the Engliſh, almoſt ſolely to the underſtanding. It is the union of theſe two kinds of com⯑poſition, of the French earneſtneſs and warmth, with the Engliſh accuracy and reaſon, that would form, according to my idea, the model of a perfect Sermon. A [313] French Sermon woul ſound in our ears as a florid, and, often, as an enthuſiaſtic, ha⯑rangue. The cenſure which, in fact, the French critics paſs on the Engliſh Preachers is, that they are Philoſophers and Logici⯑ans, but not orators^*. The defects of moſt of the French Sermons are theſe: from a mode that prevails among them of taking their texts from the leſſon of the day, the connection of the text with the ſubject is often unnatural and forced^†; their appli⯑cations of Scripture are fanciful rather than inſtructive; their method is ſtiff, and cramp⯑ed, by their practice of dividing their ſub⯑ject always either into three, or two main points; and their compoſition is in general too diffuſe, and conſiſts rather of a very few thoughts ſpread out, and highly wrought up, than of a rich variety of ſen⯑timents. Admitting, however, all theſe defects, it cannot be denied, that their Ser⯑mons are formed upon the idea of a perſua⯑ſive [314] popular Oration; and therefore I am of opinion, they may be read with benefit.

AMONG the French Proteſtant divines, Saurin is the moſt diſtinguiſhed: He is copi⯑ous, eloquent, and devout, though too oſ⯑tentatious in his manner. Among the Ro⯑man Catholics, the two moſt eminent, are Bourdaloue and Maſſillon. It is a ſubject of diſpute among the French Critics, to which of theſe the preference is due, and each of them have their ſeveral partizans. To Bourdaloue, they attribute more ſolidi⯑ty and cloſe reaſoning; to Maſſillon, a more pleaſing and engaging manner. Bourdaloue is indeed a great reaſoner, and inculcates his doctrines with much zeal, piety, and earneſtneſs; but his Style is verboſe, he is diſagreeably full of quotations from the Fa⯑thers, and he wants imagination. Maſſil⯑lon hae more grace, more ſentiment, and, in my opinion, every way more genius. He diſcovers much knowledge both of the world and of the human heart; he is pathe⯑tic and perſuaſive; and, upon the whole, is perhaps, the moſt eloquent writer of Ser⯑mons which modern times have produced^*.

[315] DURING the period that preceded the re⯑ſtoration of King Charles II. the Sermons of the Engliſh divines abounded with [316] ſcholaſtic caſuiſtical theology. They were full of minute diviſions and ſubdiviſions, and ſcraps of learning in the didactic part; but to theſe were joined very warm pathe⯑tic addreſſes to the conſciences of the Hear⯑ers, in the applicatory part of the Sermon. Upon the Reſtoration, preaching aſſumed a more correct and poliſhed form. It became diſencumbered from the pedantry, and ſcholaſtic diviſions of the ſectaries; but it threw out alſo their warm and pathetic Ad⯑dreſſes, and eſtabliſhed itſelf wholly up⯑on [317] the modle of cool reaſoning, and rati⯑onal inſtruction. As the Diſſenters from the Church continued to preſerve ſomewhat of the old ſtrain of preaching, this led the eſtabliſhed Clergy to depart the farther from it. Whatever was earneſt and paſſionate, either in the compoſition or delivery of Ser⯑mons, was reckoned enthuſiaſtic and fana⯑tical; and hence that argumentative man⯑ner, bordering on the dry and unper⯑ſuaſive, which is too generally the cha⯑racter of Engliſh Sermons. Nothing can be more correct upon that model than many of them are; but the model itſelf on which they are formed, is a confined and imperfect one. Dr. Clark, for inſtance, every where abounds in good ſenſe, and the moſt clear and accurate reaſoning; his applications of Scripture are pertinent; his Style is always perſpicuous, and often ele⯑gant; he inſtructs and he convinces; in what then is he deficient? In nothing, ex⯑cept in the power of intereſting and ſeiz⯑ing the heart. He ſhows you what you ought to do; but he excites not the deſire of doing it: he treats man as if he were a being of pure intellect, without imagina⯑tion or paſſions. Archbiſhop Tillotſon's manner is more free and warm, and he ap⯑proaches nearer than moſt of the Engliſh divines to the character of Popular Speak⯑ing. Hence he is, to this day, one of the beſt models we have for preaching. We [318] muſt not indeed conſider him in the light of a perfect Orator: his compoſition is too looſe and remiſs; his ſtyle too feeble, and frequently too flat, to deſerve that high character; but there is in ſome of his Ser⯑mons ſo much warmth and earneſtneſs, and through them all there runs ſo much eaſe and perſpicuity, ſuch a vein of good ſenſe and ſincere piety, as juſtly intitle him to be held as eminent a Preacher as England has produced.

IN Dr. Barrow, one admires more the prodigious fecundity of his invention, and the uncommon ſtrength and force of his conceptions, than the felicity of his execu⯑tion, or his talent in compoſition. We ſee a genius far ſurpaſſing the common, pecu⯑liar indeed almoſt to himſelf; but that genius often ſhooting wild, and unchaſ⯑tiſed by any Diſcipline or ſtudy of Elo⯑quence.

I CANNOT attempt to give particular characters of that great number of Writers of Sermons which this, and the former age, have produced, among whom we meet with a variety of the moſt reſpectable names. We find in their compoſition much that deſerves praiſe; a great diſplay of abilities of different kinds, much good ſenſe and piety, ſound divinity and uſeful inſtructi⯑on; though in general the degree of Elo⯑quence [319] bears not, perhaps, equal propor⯑tion to the goodneſs of the matter. Bi⯑ſhop Atterbury deſerves being particularly mentioned as a model of correct and beau⯑tiful Style, beſides having the merit of a warmer and more eloquent ſtrain of writ⯑ing, in ſome of his Sermons, than is com⯑monly met with. Had Biſhop Butler, in place of abſtract philoſophical eſſays, given us more Sermons, in the ſtrain of thoſe two excellent ones which he has compoſed upon Self-deceit, and upon the character of Balaam, we would then have pointed him out as diſtinguiſhed for that ſpecies of characteriſtical Sermons which I before re⯑commended.

THOUGH the writings of the Engliſh di⯑vines are very proper to be read by ſuch as are deſigned for the Church, I muſt cau⯑tion them againſt making too much uſe of them, or tranſcribing large paſſages from them into the Sermons they compoſe. Such as once indulge themſelves in this practice, will never have any fund of their own. Infinitely better it is, to venture into the public with thoughts and expreſſions which have occured to themſelves, though of in⯑ferior beauty, than to disfigure their com⯑poſitions, by borrowed and ill-ſorted orna⯑ments, which, to a judicious eye, will be al⯑ways in hazard of diſcovering their own po⯑verty. When a Preacher ſits down to write on any ſubject, never let him begin with [320] ſeeking to conſult all who have written on the ſame text, or ſubject. This, if he con⯑ſult many, will throw perplexity and con⯑fuſion into his ideas; and, if he conſults only one, will often warp him inſenſibly into his method, whether it be right or not. But let him begin with pondering the ſubject on his own thoughts; let him endeavour to fetch materials from within; to collect and arrange his ideas; and form ſome ſort of plan to himſelf; which it is always proper to put down in writing. Then, and not till then, he may enquire how others have treated the ſame ſubject. By this means, the method, and the lead⯑ing thoughts in the Sermon are likely to be his own. Theſe thoughts he may improve, by comparing them with the tract of ſenti⯑ment which others have purſued; ſome of their ſenſe he may without blame, incor⯑porate into his compoſition; retaining al⯑ways his own words and ſtyle. This is fair aſſiſtance: all beyond is plagiariſm.

ON the whole, never let the principle, with which we ſet out at firſt, be forgotten, to keep cloſe in view, the great end for which a Preacher mounts the pulpit; even to infuſe good diſpoſitions into his hearers, to perſuade them to ſerve God, and to be⯑come better men. Let this always dwell on his mind when he is compoſing, and it will diffuſe through his compoſitions, that [321] ſpirit which will render them at once eſ⯑teemed, and uſeful. The moſt uſeful Preacher is always the beſt, and will not fail of being eſteemed ſo. Embelliſh truth only, with a view to gain it the more full and free admiſſion into your hearers minds; and your ornaments will, in that caſe, be ſimple, maſculine, natural. The beſt ap⯑plauſe by far, which a Preacher can receive, ariſes from the ſerious and deep impreſſions which his diſcourſe leaves on thoſe who hear it. The fineſt encomium, perhaps, ever beſtowed on a Preacher, was given by Louis XIV. to the eloquent Biſhop of Clermont, Father Maſſillon, whom I before mentioned with ſo much praiſe. After hearing him preach at Verſailles, he ſaid to him, ‘"Father, I have heard many great Orators in this Chapel; I have been high⯑ly pleaſed with them; but for you, whenever I hear you, I go away diſpleaſ⯑ed with myſelf; for I ſee more of my own character."’

LECTURE XXX. CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A SERMON OF BISHOP ATTER⯑BURY's.

THE laſt Lecture was employed in ob⯑ſervations on the peculiar and diſtin⯑guiſhing Characters of the Eloquence pro⯑per for the Pulpit. But as rules and di⯑rections, when delivered in the abſtract, are never ſo uſeful as when they are illuſ⯑trated by particular inſtances, it may, per⯑haps, be of ſome benefit to thoſe who are deſigned for the Church, that I ſhould analyſe an Engliſh Sermon, and conſider the matter of it, together with the manner. For this purpoſe, I have choſen Biſhop At⯑terbury as my example, who is deſervedly accounted one of our moſt eloquent wri⯑ters of Sermons, and whom I mentioned as ſuch in the laſt Lecture. At the ſame time, he is more diſtinguiſhed for elegance and purity of expreſſion, than for profoundneſs [323] of thought. His Style, though ſometimes careleſs, is, upon the whole, neat and chaſte; and more beautiful than that of moſt writers of Sermons. In his ſentiments he is not only rational; but pious and de⯑votional, which is a great excellency. The Sermon which I have ſingled out, is, that upon Praiſe and Thankſgiving, the firſt Sermon of the firſt Volume, which is reck⯑oned one of his beſt. In examining it, it is neceſſary that I ſhould uſe full liberty, and, together with the beauties, point out any defects that occur to me in the matter, as well as in the Style.

PSALM l. 14. Offer unto God Thankſgiving.

‘"AMONG the many excellencies of this pious collection of hymns, for which ſo particular a value hath been ſet upon it by the Church of God in all ages, this is not the leaſt, that the true price of duties is there juſtly ſtated; men are called off from reſting in the outward ſhew of re⯑ligion, in ceremonies and ritual obſer⯑vances; and taught, rather to practiſe (that which was ſhadowed out by theſe rites, and to which they are deſign⯑ed to lead) ſound inward piety and vir⯑tue."’

‘"THE ſeveral compoſers of theſe Hymns were Prophets; perſons, whoſe buſineſs it was not only to foretel events, for the [324] benefit of the Church in ſucceeding times, but to correct and reform alſo what was amiſs among that race of men, with whom they lived and converſed; to preſerve a fooliſh people from idolatry, and falſe worſhip; to reſcue the law from corrupt gloſſes, and ſuperſtitious abuſes; and to put men in mind of (what they are ſo willing to forget) that eternal and invariable rule, which was before theſe poſitive duties, would continue after them, and was to be obſerved, even then, in preference to them."’

‘"THE diſcharge, I ſay, of this part of the prophetic office taking up ſo much room in the book of Pſalms; this hath been one reaſon, among many others, why they have always been ſo highly eſteemed; becauſe we are from hence fur⯑niſhed with a proper reply to an argu⯑ment commonly made uſe of by unbe⯑lievers, who look upon all revealed reli⯑gions as pious frauds and impoſtures, on the account of the prejudices they have entertained in relation to that of the Jews; the whole of which they firſt ſup⯑poſe to lie in external performances, and then eaſily perſuade themſelves, that God could never be the Author of ſuch a mere piece of pageantry and empty formality, nor delight in a worſhip which conſiſted purely in a number of odd unaccountable ceremonies. Which objection of theirs, [325] we ſhould not be able thoroughly to an⯑ſwer, unleſs we could prove (chiefly out of the Pſalms, and other parts of the pro⯑phetic writings) that the Jewiſh religion was ſomewhat more than bare outſide and ſhew; and that inward purity, and the devotion of the heart, was a duty then, as well as now."’

THIS appears to me an excellent Intro⯑duction. The thought on which it reſts is ſolid and judicious; that in the book of Pſalms, the attention of men is called to the moral and ſpiritual part of religion; and the Jewiſh diſpenſation thereby vindicated from the ſuſpicion of requiring nothing more from its votaries, than the obſervance of the external rites and ceremonies of the law. Such views of religion are proper to be often diſplayed; and deſerve to be inſiſt⯑ed on, by all who wiſh to render preaching conductive to the great purpoſe of promoting righteouſneſs and virtue. The Style, as far as we have gone, is not only free from faults, but elegant and happy.

IT is a great beauty in an introduction, when it can be made to turn on ſome one thought, fully brought out and illuſtrated; eſpecially, if that thought has a cloſe con⯑nection with the following diſcourſe, and, at the ſame time, does not anticipate any thing that is afterwards to be introduced in a more proper place. This Introduction of [326] Atterbury's has all theſe advantages. The encomium which he makes on the ſtrain of David's Pſalms, is not ſuch as might as well have been prefixed to any other diſcourſe, the text of which was taken from any of the Pſalms. Had this been the caſe, the Intro⯑duction would have loſt much of its beauty. We ſhall ſee from what follows, how natu⯑rally the introductory thought connects with his text, and how happily it uſhers it in.

‘"ONE great inſtance of this proof, we have in the words now before us; which are taken from a Pſalm of Aſaph, written on purpoſe to ſet out the weakneſs and worthleſſneſs of external performances, when compared with more ſubſtantial and vital duties. To enforce which doc⯑trine, God himſelf is brought in as deli⯑vering it. Hear O my people, and I will ſpeak; O Iſrael, and I will teſtify againſt thee: I am God, even thy God. The Pre⯑face is very ſolemn, and therefore what it uſhers in, we may be ſure is of no com⯑mon importance; I will not reprove thee for thy ſacrifices or thy burnt offerings, to have been continually before me. That is, I will not ſo reprove thee for any failures in thy ſacrifices and burnt-offerings, as if theſe were the only, or the chief things I required of thee. I will take no bullock out of thy houſe, nor he-goat out of thy folds; I preſcribed not ſacrifices to thee for my own ſake, becauſe I needed them; [327] For every beaſt of the foreſt is mine, and the cattle on a thouſand hills. Mine they are, and were, before I commanded thee to offer them to me; ſo that, as it follows, If I were hungry, yet would I not tell thee, for the world is mine, and the fullneſs thereof. But can ye be ſo groſs and ſenſeleſs, as to think me liable to hunger and thirſt? as to imagine that wants of that kind can touch me? Will I eat the fleſh of bulls, or drink the blood of goats?—Thus doth he expoſtulate ſeverely with them, after the moſt graceful manner of the Eaſtern Poetry. The iſſue of which is a plain and full reſolution of the caſe, in thoſe few words of the text.—Offer unto God thankſgiving. Would you do your homage the moſt agreeable way? would you render the moſt acceptable of ſervices? offer unto God thankſgiving."’

IT is often a difficult matter to illuſtrate gracefully the text of a Sermon from the context, and to point out the connection between them. This is a part of the diſ⯑courſe which is apt to become dry and te⯑dious, eſpecially when purſued into a mi⯑nute commentary. And therefore, except as far as ſuch illuſtration from the context is neceſſary for explaining the meaning, or in caſes where it ſerves to give dignity and force to the text, I would adviſe it to be al⯑ways treated with brevity. Sometimes it may even be wholly omitted, and the text [328] aſſumed merely as an independent propo⯑ſition, if the connection with the context be obſcure, and would require a laborious ex⯑planation. In the preſent caſe, the illuſ⯑tration from the context is ſingularly happy. The paſſage of the Pſalm on which it is founded is noble and ſpirited, and connect⯑ed in ſuch a manner with the text, as to introduce it with a very ſtriking emphaſis. On the language I have little to obſerve, except that the phraſe, one great inſtance of this proof, is a clumſy expreſſion. It was ſufficient to have ſaid, one great proof, or one great inſtance, of this. In the ſame ſen⯑tence, when he ſpeaks of ſetting out the weakneſs and worthleſſneſs of external perfor⯑mances, we may obſerve, that the word worthleſſneſs, as it is now commonly uſed, ſignifies more than the deficiency of worth, which is all that the Author means. It ge⯑nerally imports, a conſiderable degree of badneſs or blame. It would be more pro⯑per, therefore, to ſay, the imperfection, or the inſignificancy, of external performances.

‘"THE uſe I intend to make of theſe words, is, from hence to raiſe ſome thoughts about that very excellent and important duty of Praiſe and Thankſgiv⯑ing, a ſubject not unfit to be diſcourſed of at this time; whether we conſider, ei⯑ther the more than ordinary coldneſs that appears of late in men's tempers towards the practice of this (or any other) part of [329] a warm and affecting devotion; the great occaſion of ſetting aſide this particular day in the calendar, ſome years ago; or the new inſtances of mercy and goodneſs, which God hath lately been pleaſed to beſtow upon us; anſwering at laſt the many prayers and faſtings, by which we have beſought him ſo long for the eſtab⯑liſhment of their Majeſties Throne, and for the ſucceſs of their arms; and giving us in his good time, an opportunity of appearing before him in the more delight⯑ful part of our duty, with the voice of joy and praiſe, with a multitude that keep ho⯑lidays."’

IN this paragraph there is nothing re⯑markable; no particular beauty or neatneſs of expreſſion; and the Sentence which it forms is long and tireſome—to raiſe ſome thoughts about that very excellent, &c. is ra⯑ther looſe and awkward;—better—to recom⯑mend that very excellent, &c. and when he mentions ſetting aſide a particular day in the calendar, one would imagine, that ſetting apart would have been more proper, as to ſet aſide, ſeems rather to ſuggeſt a different idea.

‘"Offer unto God Thankſgiving.—Which that we may do, let us enquire firſt, how we are to underſtand this command of of⯑fering Praiſe and Thankſgiving unto [330] God; and then, how reaſonable it is that we ſhould comply with it."’

THIS is the general diviſion of the diſ⯑courſe. An excellent one it is, and correſ⯑ponds to many ſubjects of this kind, where particular duties are to be treated of; firſt to explain, and then to recommend or en⯑force them. A diviſion ſhould always be ſimple and natural; and much depends on the proper view which it gives of the ſub⯑ject.

‘"OUR enquiry into what is meant here, will be very ſhort; for who is there, that underſtands any thing of religion, but knows, that the offering praiſe and thanks to God, implies, our having a lively and devout ſenſe of his excellencies, and of his benefits; our recollecting them with humility and thankfulneſs of heart; and our expreſſing theſe inward affecti⯑ons by ſuitable outward ſigns, by reve⯑rent and lowly poſtures of body, by ſongs and hymns, and ſpiritual ejacula⯑tions; either publicly or privately; either in the cuſtomary and daily ſervice of the Church, or in its more ſolemn Aſſemblies, convened upon extraordinary occaſions? This is the account which every Chriſtan eaſily gives himſelf of it; and which, therefore, it would be needleſs to enlarge upon. I ſhall only take notice upon this head, that Praiſe and Thankſgiving do, [331] in ſtrictneſs of ſpeech, ſignify things ſomewhat different. Our praiſe properly terminates in God, on account of his na⯑tural excellencies and perfections; and is that act of devotion, by which we confeſs and admire his ſeveral attributes: but Thankſgiving is a narrower duty, and im⯑ports only a grateful ſenſe and acknow⯑ledgment of paſt mercies. We praiſe God for all his glorious acts of every kind, that regard either us or other men, for his very vengeance, and thoſe judg⯑ments which he ſometimes ſends abroad in the earth; but we thank him, proper⯑ly ſpeaking, for the inſtances of his good⯑neſs alone; and for ſuch only of theſe, as we ourſelves are ſomeway concerned in. This, I ſay, is what the two words ſtrict⯑ly imply; but ſince the language of Scrip⯑ture is generally leſs exact, and uſeth ei⯑ther of them often to expreſs the other by, I ſhall not think myſelf obliged, in what follows, thus nicely always to diſ⯑tinguiſh them."’

THERE was room here for inſiſting more fully on the nature of the duty, than the Author has done under this head; in particular, this was the place for correcting the miſtake, to which men are always prone, of making Thankſgiving to conſiſt merely in outward expreſſions; and for ſhewing them, that the eſſence of the duty lies in the inward feelings of the heart. In gene⯑ral, [332] it is of much uſe to give full and diſ⯑tinct explications of religious duties. But, as our Author intended only one diſcourſe on the ſubject, he could not enlarge with equal fullneſs on every part of it; and he has choſen to dwell on that part, on which indeed it is moſt neceſſary to enlarge, the motives enforcing the duty. For, as it is an eaſier matter to know, than to practice duty, the perſuaſive part of the diſcourſe is that to which the Speaker ſhould always bend his chief ſtrength. The account given in this head, of the nature of Praiſe and Thankſgiving, though ſhort, is yet compre⯑henſive and diſtinct, and the language is ſmooth and elegant.

‘"Now the great reaſonableneſs of this duty of Praiſe or Thankſgiving, and our ſeveral obligations to it, will appear, if we either conſider it abſolutely in itſelf, as the debt of our natures; or compare it with other duties, and ſhew the rank it bears among them; or ſet out, in the laſt place, ſome of its peculiar properties and advantages, with regard to the devout performer of it."’

THE Author here enters upon the main part of his ſubject, the reaſonableneſs of the duty, and mentions three arguments for proving it. Theſe are well ſtated, and are in themſelves proper and weighty con⯑ſiderations. How far he has handled each [333] of them to advantage, will appear as we proceed. I cannot, however, but think that he has omitted one very material part of the argument, which was to have ſhewn the obligations we are under to this duty, from the various ſubjects of Thankſgiving afforded us by the divine goodneſs. This would have led him to review the chief benefits of Creation, Providence, and Re⯑demption: and certainly, they are theſe which lay the foundation of the whole ar⯑gument for Thankſgiving. The heart muſt firſt be affected with a ſuitable ſenſe of the divine benefits, before one can be excited to praiſe God. Iy you would perſuade me to be thankful to a benefactor, you muſt not employ ſuch conſiderations merely as thoſe upon which the Author here reſts, taken from gratitude's being the law of my nature, or bearing a high rank among mo⯑ral duties, or being attended with peculiar advantages. Theſe are conſiderations but of a ſecondary nature. You muſt begin with ſetting before me all that my friend has done for me, if you mean to touch my heart, and to call forth the emotions of gratitude. The caſe is perfectly ſimilar, when we are exhorted to give thanks to God; and, therefore, in giving a full view of the ſubject, the bleſſings conferred on us by divine goodneſs ſhould have been taken into the argument.

[334] IT may be ſaid, however, in apology for our Author, that this would have led him into too wide a field for one diſcourſe, and into a field alſo, which is difficult, becauſe ſo beaten, the enumeration of the divine benefits. He therefore ſeems to take it for granted, that we have upon our minds a juſt ſenſe of theſe benefits. He aſſumes them as known and acknowledg⯑ed; and ſetting aſide what may be called the pathetic part of the ſubject, or what was calculated to warm the heart, he goes on to the reaſoning part. In this manage⯑ment, I cannot altogether blame him. I do not by any means ſay, that it is neceſſary in every diſcourſe to take in all that be⯑longs to the doctrine of which we treat. Many a diſcourſe is ſpoiled, by attempting to render it too copious and comprehenſive. The Preacher may, without reprehenſion, take up any part of a great ſubject to which his genius at the time leads him, and make that his theme. But when he omits any thing which may be thought eſſential, he ought to give notice, that this is a part, which for the time he lays aſide. Some⯑thing of this ſort, would perhaps have been proper here. Our Author might have be⯑gun, by ſaying, that the reaſonableneſs of this duty muſt appear to every thinking be⯑ing, who reflects upon the infinite obliga⯑tions which are laid upon us, by creating, preſerving, and redeeming love; and, after taking notice that the field which theſe [335] open, was too wide for him to enter upon at that time, have proceeded to his other heads. Let us now conſider theſe ſepa⯑rately.

‘"THE duty of Praiſe and Thankſgiv⯑ing, conſidered abſolutely in itſelf, is, I ſay, the debt and law of our nature. We had ſuch faculties beſtowed on us by our Creator, as made us capable of ſatis⯑fying this debt, and obeying this law; and they never, therefore, work more naturally and freely, than when they are thus employed."’

‘"'TIS one of the earlieſt inſtructions given us by philoſophy, and which hath ever ſince been approved and inculcated by the wiſeſt men of all ages, that the original deſign of making man was, that he might praiſe and honour him who made him. When God had finiſhed this goodly frame of things we call the world, and put together the ſeveral parts of it, according to his infinite wiſdom, in ex⯑act number, weight, and meaſure; there was ſtill wanting a creature, in theſe lower regions, that could apprehend the beauty, order, and exquiſite contrivance of it; that from contemplating the gift, might be able to raiſe itſelf to the great Giver, and do honour to all his attri⯑butes. Every thing indeed that God [336] made, did, in ſome ſenſe, glorify its Au⯑thor, inaſmuch as it carried upon it the plain mark and impreſs of the Deity, and was an effect worthy of that firſt cauſe from whence it flowed; and thus might the Heavens be ſaid, at the firſt moment in which they ſtood forth, to de⯑clare his glory, and the firmament to ſhow his handy-work: But this was an imper⯑fect and defective glory; the ſign was of no ſignification here below, whilſt there was no one here as yet to take notice of it. Man, therefore, was formed to ſup⯑ply this want, endowed with powers fit to find out, and to acknowledge theſe unlimited perfections; and then put into this Temple of God, this lower world, as the prieſt of nature, to offer up the incenſe of Thanks and Praiſe for the mute and inſenſible part of the Crea⯑tion."’

‘"THIS, I ſay, hath been the opinion all along of the moſt thoughtful men down from the moſt ancient times: and though it be not demonſtrative, yet it is what we cannot but judge highly rea⯑ſonable, if we do but allow, that man was made for ſome end or other; and that he is capable of perceiving that end. For, then, let us ſearch and enquire ne⯑ver ſo much, we ſhall find no other ac⯑count of him that we can reſt upon ſo [337] well. If we ſay, that he was made pure⯑ly for the good pleaſure of God; this is, in effect, to ſay, that he was made for no determinate end; or for none, at leaſt, that we can diſcern. If we ſay, that he was deſigned as an inſtance of the wiſdom, and power, and goodneſs of God; this, indeed, may be the reaſon of his being in general; for 'tis the common reaſon of the being of every thing be⯑ſides. But it gives no account, why he was made ſuch a being as he is, a reflec⯑ting, thoughtful, inquiſitive being. The particular reaſon of this, ſeems moſt aptly to be drawn from the praiſe and honour that was (not only to redound to God from him, but) to be given to God by him."’

THE thought which runs through all this paſſage, of man's being the Prieſt of Nature, and of his exiſtence being calculat⯑ed chiefly for this end, that he might offer up the praiſes of the mute part of the crea⯑tion, is an ingenious thought, and well illuſtrated. It was a favourite idea among ſome of the antient philoſophers; and it is not the worſe on that account, as it there⯑by appears to have been a natural ſenti⯑ment of the human mind. In compoſing a Sermon, however, it might have been better to have introduced it as a ſort of collateral argument, or an incidental illuſ⯑tration, than to have diſplayed it with ſo [338] much pomp, and to have placed it in the front of the arguments for this duty. It does not ſeem to me, when placed in this ſtation, to bear all the ſtreſs which the Au⯑thor lays upon it. When the divine good⯑neſs brought man into exiſtence, we can⯑not well conceive that its chief purpoſe was, to form a being who might ſing praiſes to his Maker. Prompted by infinite benevolence, the Supreme Creator formed the human race, that they might riſe to happineſs, and to the enjoyment of him⯑ſelf, through a courſe of virtue, or proper action. The ſentiment on which our Au⯑thor dwells, however beautiful, appears too looſe and rhetorical, to be a principal head of diſcourſe.

‘"THIS duty, therefore, is the debt and law of our nature. And it will more diſtinctly appear to be ſuch, if we con⯑ſider the two ruling faculties of our mind, the Underſtanding and the Will apart, in both which it is deeply found⯑ed: in the Underſtanding, as in the prin⯑ciple of Reaſon, which owns and ac⯑knowledges it; in the Will, as in the fountain of gratitude and return, which prompts, and even conſtrains us to pay it."’

‘"Reaſon was given us as a rule and mea⯑ſure, by the help of which we were to proportion our eſteem of every thing, ac⯑cording [339] to the degrees of perfection and goodneſs which we found therein. It cannot, therefore, if it doth its office at all, but apprehend God as the beſt and moſt perfect being; it muſt needs ſee, and own, and admire his infinite perfec⯑tions. And this is what is ſtrictly meant by praiſe; which, therefore, is expreſſed in Scripture, by confeſſing to God, and acknowledging him; by aſcribing to him what is his due; and as far as this ſenſe of the words reaches, 'tis impoſſible to think of God without praiſing him; for it depends not on the underſtanding, how it ſhall apprehend things, any more than it doth on the eye, how viſible objects ſhall appear to it."’

‘"THE duty takes the further and ſurer hold of us, by the means of the will, and that ſtrong bent towards gratitude, which the Author of our Nature hath implant⯑ed in it. There is not a more active principle than this in the mind of man; and ſurely that which deſerves its utmoſt force; and ſhould ſet all its ſprings a⯑work, is God; the great and univerſal Benefactor, from whom alone we re⯑ceived whatever we either have, or are, and to whom we can poſſibly repay no⯑thing but our Praiſes, or to ſpeak more properly on this head, and according to the ſtrict import of the word) our [340] Thankſgiving. Who hath firſt given to God (ſaith the great Apoſtle, in his uſual figure) and it ſhall be recompenſed unto him again? A gift, it ſeems, always re⯑quires a recompence: nay, but of him, and through him, and to him, are all things: of him, as the Author; through him, as the Preſerver and Governor; to him, as the end and perfection of all things: to whom, therefore, (as it follows) be glory for ever, Amen!"’

I CANNOT much approve of the light in which our Author places his argument in theſe paragraphs. There is ſomething too metaphyſical and refined, in his deducing, in this manner, the obligation to thankſ⯑giving, from the two faculties of the mind, Underſtanding and Will. Though what he ſays be in itſelf juſt, yet the argument is not ſufficiently plain and ſtriking. Ar⯑guments in Sermons, eſpecially on ſubjects that ſo naturally and eaſily ſuggeſt them, ſhould be palpable and popular; ſhould not be brought from topics that appear far ſought, but ſhould directly addreſs the heart and feelings. The Preacher ought never to depart too far from the common ways of thinking, and expreſſing himſelf. I am in⯑clined to think, that this whole head might have been improved, if the Author had taken up more obvious ground; had ſtated Gratitude as one of the moſt natural prin⯑ciples [341] in the human heart; had illuſtrated this, by ſhowing how odious the oppoſite diſpoſition is, and with what general con⯑ſent men, in all ages, have agreed in hat⯑ing, and condemning the ungrateful; and then applying theſe reaſonings to the pre⯑ſent caſe, had placed, in a ſtrong view, that entire corruption of moral ſentiment which it diſcovers, to be deſtitute of thank⯑ful emotions towards the Supreme Bene⯑factor of Mankind. As the moſt natural method of giving vent to grateful ſenti⯑ments is, by external expreſſions of thankſ⯑giving, he might then have anſwered the objection that is apt to occur, of the ex⯑preſſion of our praiſe being inſignificant to the Almighty. But, by ſeeking to be too refined in his argument, he has omitted ſome of the moſt ſtriking and obvious con⯑ſiderations, and which, properly diſplayed, would have afforded as great a field for Elo⯑quence, as the topics which he has choſen. He goes on,

‘"GRATITUDE conſiſts in an equal re⯑turn of benefits, if we are able; of thanks, if we are not: which thanks, therefore, muſt riſe always in proportion as the fa⯑vours received are great, and the receiver incapable of making any other ſort of requital. Now, ſince no man hath bene⯑fited God at any time, and yet every man, in each moment of his life, is continually benefited by him, what ſtrong obligations [342] muſt we needs be under to thank him? 'Tis true, our thanks are really as inſig⯑nificant to him, as any other kind of re⯑turn would be; in themſelves, indeed, they are worthleſs; but his goodneſs hath put a value upon them: he hath declared, he will accept them in lieu of the vaſt debt we owe; and after that, which is fitteſt for us, to diſpute how they came to be taken as an equivalent, or to pay them?"’

‘"IT is, therefore, the voice of nature (as far as gratitude itſelf is ſo) that the good things we receive from above, ſhould be ſent back again thither in thanks and praiſes; as the rivers run into the ſea, to the place (the ocean of bene⯑ficence) from whence the rivers come, thi⯑ther ſhould they return again."’

IN theſe paragraphs, he has, indeed, touched ſome of the conſiderations which I mentioned. But he has only touched them; whereas, with advantage, they might have formed the main body of his argument.

‘"WE have conſidered the duty abſo⯑lutely; we are now to compare it with others, and to ſee what rank it bears among them. And here we ſhall find, that, among all the acts of religion im⯑mediately addreſſed to God, this is much [343] the nobleſt and moſt excellent; as it muſt needs be, if what hath been laid down be allowed, that the end of man's crea⯑tion was to praiſe and glorify God. For that cannot but be the moſt noble and excellent act of any being, which beſt anſwers the end and deſign of it. Other parts of devotion, ſuch as confeſſion and prayer, ſeem not originally to have been deſigned for man, nor man for them. They imply guilt and want, with which the ſtate of innocence was not acquainted. Had man continued in that eſtate, his worſhip (like the devotions of angels), had been paid to Heaven in pure acts of thankſgiving; and nothing had been left for him to do, beyond the enjoying the good things of life, as nature directed, and praiſing the God of nature who be⯑ſtowed them. But being fallen from in⯑nocence and abundance; having contrac⯑ted guilt, and forfeited his right to all ſorts of mercies; prayer and conſeſſion became neceſſary, for a time, to retrieve the loſs, and to reſtore him to that ſtate wherein he ſhould be able to live without them. Theſe are fitted, therefore, for a lower diſpenſation; before which, in pa⯑radiſe, there was nothing but praiſe, and after which, there ſhall be nothing but that in Heaven. Our perfect ſtate did at firſt, and will at laſt, conſiſt in the per⯑formance of this duty; and herein, there⯑fore, [344] lies the excellence, and the honour of our nature."’

‘"'TIS the ſame way of reaſoning, by which the Apoſtle hath given the pre⯑ference to charity, beyond faith, and hope, and every ſpiritual gift. Charity never faileth, ſaith he; meaning, that it is not a virtue uſeful only in this life, but will accompany us alſo into the next: but whether there be propheſies, they ſhall fail; whether there be tongues, they ſhall ceaſe; whether there be knowledge, it ſhall vaniſh away. Theſe are gifts of a tem⯑porary advantage, and ſhall all periſh in the uſing. For we know in part, and we propheſy in part: our preſent ſtate is im⯑perfect, and, therefore, what belongs to that, and only that, muſt be imperfect too. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part ſhall be done away. The argument of St. Paul, we ſee, which ſets charity above the reſt of Chriſtian graces, will give praiſe alſo the pre-eminence over all the parts of Chriſtian worſhip; and we may conclude our reaſoning, therefore, as he doth his: And now abideth confeſſion, prayer, and praiſe, theſe three; but the greateſt of theſe is praiſe."’

THE Author, here, enters on the ſecond part of his argument, the high rank which thankſgiving holds, when compared with [345] other duties of religion. This he handles, with much eloquence and beauty. His idea, that this was the original worſhip of man, before his fall rendered other duties requiſite, and ſhall continue to be his worſhip in Heaven, when the duties which are oc⯑caſioned by a conſciouſneſs of guilt ſhall have no place, is ſolid and juſt; his illuſ⯑tration of it is very happy; and the ſtyle extremely flowing and ſweet. Seldom do we meet with any piece of compoſition in Sermons, that has more merit than this head.

‘"IT is ſo, certainly, on other accounts, as well as this; particularly, as it is the moſt diſintereſted branch of our re⯑ligous ſervice; ſuch as hath the moſt of God, and the leaſt of ourſelves in it, of any we pay; and therefore approaches the neareſt of any to a pure, and free, and perfect act of homage. For though a good action doth not grow immediately worthleſs by being done with the proſ⯑pect of advantage, as ſome have ſtrangely imagined; yet it will be allowed, I ſup⯑poſe, that its being done, without the mixture of that end, or with as little of it as poſſible, recommends it ſo much the more, and raiſes the price of it. Doth Job fear God for nought? was an objection of Satan; which implied, that thoſe du⯑ties were moſt valuable, where our own intereſt was leaſt aimed at: and God [346] ſeems, by the commiſſion he then gave Satan, to try experiments upon Job, thus far to have allowed his plea. Now, our requeſts for future, and even our acknowledgments of paſt mercies, center purely in ourſelves; our own intereſt is the direct aim of them. But praiſe is a generous and unmercenary principle, which propoſes no other end to itſelf, but to do, as is fit for a creature endow⯑ed with ſuch faculties to do, towards the moſt perfect and beneficent of beings; and to pay the willing tribute of honour there, where the voice of Reaſon directs us to pay it. God hath, indeed, annex⯑ed a bleſſing to the duty; and when we know this, we cannot chooſe, while we are performing the duty, but have ſome regard to the bleſſing which belongs to it. However, that is not the direct aim of our devotions, nor was it the firſt mo⯑tive that ſtirred us up to them. Had it been ſo, we ſhould naturally have be⯑taken ourſelves to Prayer, and breathed out our deſires in that form wherein they are moſt properly conveyed."’

‘"IN ſhort, Praiſe is our moſt excellent work, a work common to the church triumphant and militant, and which militant, and which lifts us up into communion and fellowſhip with Angels. The matter about which it is converſant, is always the perfections [347] of God's nature; and the act itſelf, is the perfection of ours."’

OUR Author's ſecond illuſtration, is taken from praiſe being the moſt diſintereſt⯑ed act of homage. This he explains juſtly and elegantly; though, perhaps, the conſide⯑ration is rather too thin and refined for en⯑forcing religious duties: as creatures, ſuch as we, in approaching to the divine pre⯑ſence, can never be ſuppoſed to lay aſide all conſideration of our own wants and ne⯑ceſſities; and certainly are not required (as the Author admits) to diveſt ourſelves of ſuch regards. The concluding Sentence of this head is elegant and happily expreſſ⯑ed.

‘"I COME now, in the laſt place, to ſet out ſome of its peculiar properties and ad⯑vantages, which recommend it to the devout performer. And,"’

‘"1. IT is the moſt pleaſing part of our devotions: it proceeds always from a lively cheerful temper of mind, and it cheriſhes and improves what it proceeds from. For it is good to ſing praiſes unto our God (ſays one, whoſe experience, in this caſe, we may rely upon), for it is pleaſant, and praiſe is comely. Petition and Confeſſion are the language of the indigent and the guilty, the breathings of a ſad and contrite ſpirit: Is any afflict⯑ed? [348] let him pray; but, Is any merry? let him ſing pſalms. The moſt uſual and natural way of men's expreſſing the mirth of their hearts is in a ſong, and ſongs are the very language of praiſe; to the ex⯑preſſing of which they are in a peculiar manner appropriated, and are ſcarce of any other uſe in Religion. Indeed, the whole compoſition of this duty is ſuch, as throughout ſpeaks eaſe and delight to the mind. It proceeds from Love and from Thankfulneſs; from Love, the foun⯑tain of pleaſure, the paſſion which gives every thing we do, or enjoy, its reliſh and agreeableneſs. From Thankfulneſs, which involves in it the memory of paſt benefits, the actual preſence of them to the mind, and the repeated enjoyment of them. And as is its principle, ſuch is its end alſo: for it procureth quiet and eaſe to the mind, by doing ſomewhat towards ſatisfying that debt which it labours un⯑der; by delivering it of thoſe thoughts of praiſe and gratitude, thoſe exultations it is ſo full of; and which would grow uneaſy and troubleſome to it, if they were kept in. If the thankful refrained, it would be pain and grief to them; but then, then is their ſoul ſatisfied as with marrow and fatneſs, when their mouth praiſeth God with joyful lips."’

IN beginning this head of diſcourſe, the expreſſion which the Author uſes, to ſet [349] out ſome of its peculiar properties and advan⯑tages, would now be reckoned not ſo pro⯑per an expreſſion, as to point out, or to ſhow. The firſt ſubdiviſion concerning praiſe be⯑ing the moſt pleaſant part of devotion, is very juſt and well expreſſed, as far as it goes; but ſeems to me rather defective. Much more might have been ſaid, upon the pleaſure that accompanies ſuch exalted acts of devotion. It was a cold thought, to dwell upon its diſburdening the mind of a debt. The Author ſhould have inſiſted more upon the influence of Praiſe and Thankſgiving, in warming, gladdening, ſoothing the mind; lifting it above the world, to dwell among divine and eternal objects. He ſhould have deſcribed the peace and joy which then expand the heart; the relief which this exerciſe procures from the cares and agitations of life; the encou⯑raging views of Providence to which it leads our attention; and the truſt which it pro⯑motes in the divine mercy for the future, by the commemoration of benefits paſt. In ſhort, this was the place for his pouring out a greater flow of devotional ſentiments than what we here find.

‘"2. IT is another diſtinguiſhing proper⯑ty of divine praiſe, that it enlargeth the powers and capacities of our ſouls, turn⯑ing them from low and little things, up⯑on their greateſt and nobleſt object, the divine nature, and employing them in [350] the diſcovery and admiration of thoſe ſe⯑veral perfections that adorn it. We ſee what difference there is between man and man, ſuch as there is hardly greater be⯑tween man and beaſt; and this proceeds chiefly from the different ſphere of thought which they act in, and the diffe⯑rent objects they converſe with. The mind is eſſentially the ſame, in the pea⯑ſant and the prince; the force of it natu⯑rally equal, in the untaught man, and the philoſopher; only the one of theſe is buſied in mean affairs, and within nar⯑rower bounds; the other exerciſes himſelf in things of weight and moment; and this it is, that puts the wide diſtance be⯑tween them. Noble objects are to the mind, what the ſun-beams are to a bud or flower; they open and unfold, as it were, the leaves of it; put it upon exert⯑ing and ſpreading itſelf every way; and call forth all thoſe powers that lie hid and locked up in it. The praiſe and admira⯑tion of God, therefore, brings this advan⯑tage along with it, that it ſets our faculties upon their full ſtretch, and improves them to all the degrees of perfection of which they are capable."’

THIS head is juſt, well expreſſed, and to cenſure it might appear hypercritical. Some of the expreſſions, however, one would think, might be amended. The ſimile, for inſtance, about the effects of the ſun-beams upon the bud or flower, is pretty, but not [351] correctly expreſſed. They open and unfold, as it were, the leaves of it. If this is to be literally applied to the flower, the phraſe, as it were, is needleſs; if it is to be meta⯑phorically underſtood (which appears to be the caſe), the leaves of the mind, is harſh lan⯑guage; beſides that, put it upon exerting it⯑ſelf, is rather a low expreſſion. Nothing is more nice than to manage properly ſuch ſimilies and alluſions, ſo as to preſerve them perfectly correct, and at the ſame time to render the image lively: it might perhaps be amended in ſome ſuch way as this: ‘"As the ſun-beams open the bud, and unfold the leaves of a flower, noble objects have a like effect upon the mind: they expand and ſpread it, and call forth thoſe powers that before lay hid and locked up in the ſoul."’

‘"3. IT farther promotes in us an exqui⯑ſite ſenſe of God's honour, and an high indignation of mind at every thing that openly profanes it. For what we value and delight in, we cannot with patience hear ſlighted or abuſed. Our own praiſes, which we are conſtantly putting up, will be a ſpur to us toward procuring and pro⯑moting the divine glory in every other inſtance; and will make us ſet our faces againſt all open and avowed impieties; which, methinks, ſhould be conſidered a little by ſuch as would be thought not to be wanting in this duty, and yet are often [352] ſilent under the fouleſt diſhonours done to Religion, and its great Author: For tamely to hear God's name and worſhip vilified by others, is no very good argu⯑ment that we have been uſed to honour and reverence him, in good earneſt, our⯑ſelves."’

THE thought here is well founded, though it is careleſly and looſely brought out. The Sentence, our own praiſes which we are con⯑ſtantly putting up, will be a ſpur to us toward procuring and promoting the divine glory in every other inſtance, is both negligent in lan⯑guage, and ambiguous in meaning; for our own praiſes, properly ſignifies the praiſes of ourſelves. Much better if he had ſaid, ‘"Thoſe devout praiſes which we conſtantly offer up to the Almighty, will naturally prompt us to promote the divine glory in every other inſtance."’

‘"4. IT will, beyond all this, work in us a deep humility and conſciouſneſs of our own imperfections. Upon a frequent at⯑tention to God and his attributes, we ſhall eaſily diſcover our own weakneſs and emptineſs; our ſwelling thoughts of ourſelves will abate, and we ſhall ſee and feel that we are altogether lighter to be laid in the balance than vanity; and this is a leſſon which, to the greateſt part of man⯑kind is, I think, very well worth learn⯑ing. We are naturally preſumptuous [353] and vain; full of ourſelves, and regard⯑leſs of every thing beſides, eſpecially when ſome little outward privileges diſ⯑tinguiſh us from the reſt of mankind; then, 'tis odds, but we look into ourſelves with great degrees of complacency, and are wiſer (and better every way) in our own conceit, than ſeven men that can render a reaſon. Now nothing will contribute ſo much to the cure of this vanity, as a due attention to God's excellencies and perfections. By comparing theſe with thoſe which we imagine belong to us, we ſhall learn, not to think more highly of our⯑ſelves than we ought to think of ourſelves, but to think ſoberly; we ſhall find more ſatisfaction in looking upwards, and humbling ourſelves before our common Creator, than in caſting our eyes down⯑ward with ſcorn upon our fellow crea⯑tures, and ſetting at nought any part of the work of his hands. The vaſt diſ⯑tance we are at from real and infinite Worth, will aſtoniſh us ſo much, that we ſhall not be tempted to value ourſelves upon theſe leſſer degrees of pre-eminence, which cuſtom or opinion, or ſome little accidental advantages have given us over other men."’

THOUGH the thought here alſo be juſt, yet alike deficiency in elegance and beauty appears. The phraſe 'tis odds, but we look into ourſelves with great degrees of compla⯑cency, [354] is much too low and colloquial for a Sermon—he might have ſaid, we are likely, or we are prone to look into ourſelves.—Comparing theſe with thoſe which we imagine to belong to us, is alſo very careleſs ſtyle.—By comparing theſe with the virtues and abili⯑ties which we aſcribe to ourſelves, we ſhall learn—would have been purer and more correct.

‘"5. I SHALL mention but one uſe of it more, and 'tis this; that a conſcientious praiſe of God will keep us back from all falſe and mean praiſe, all fulſome and ſervile flatteries, ſuch as are in uſe among men. Praiſing, as 'tis commonly manag⯑ed, is nothing elſe but a trial of ſkill upon a man, how many good things we can poſſibly ſay of him. All the treaſures of Oratory are ranſacked, and all the fine things that ever were ſaid, are heaped together for his ſake; and no matter whether it belongs to him or not; ſo there be enough on't. Which is one deplora⯑ble inſtance, among a thouſand, of the baſeneſs of human nature, of its ſmall re⯑gard to truth and juſtice; to right or wrong; to what is, or is not to be praiſ⯑ed. But he who hath a deep ſenſe of the excellencies of God upon his heart, will make a God of nothing beſides. He will give every one his juſt encomium, honour where honour is due, and as much as is due, becauſe it is his duty to do ſo; but [355] the honour of God will ſuffer him to go no further. Which rule, if it had been obſerved, a neighbouring prince (who now, God be thanked, needs flattery a great deal more than ever he did), would have wanted a great deal of that incenſe which hath been offered up to him by his adorers."’

THIS head appears ſcarcely to deſerve any place among the more important topics, that naturally preſented themſelves on this ſubject; at leaſt, it had much better have wanted the application which the Author makes of his reaſoning to the flatterers of Louis XIV.; and the thanks which he offers to God, for the affairs of that prince being in ſo low a ſtate, that he now needed flat⯑tery more than ever. This Political Satire is altogether out of place, and unworthy of the ſubject.

ONE would be inclined to think, upon reviewing our Author's arguments, that he has overlooked ſome topics, reſpecting the happy conſequences of this duty, of fully as much importance as any that he has inſerted. Particularly, he ought not to have omitted the happy tendency of praiſe and thankſ⯑giving, to ſtrengthen good diſpoſitions in the heart; to promote love to God, and imitation of thoſe perfections which we adore; and to infuſe a ſpirit of ardour and zeal into the whole of religion, as the ſer⯑vice [356] of our benefactor. Theſe are conſe⯑quences which naturally follow from the proper performance of this duty; and which ought not to have been omitted; as no op⯑portunity ſhould be loſt, of ſhowing the good effect of devotion on practical religion and moral virtue; and pointing out the ne⯑ceſſary connection of the one with the other. For certainly the great end of Preaching is, to make men better in all the relations of life, and to promote that com⯑plete reformation of heart and conduct, in which true Chriſtianity conſiſts. Our Au⯑thor, however, upon the whole, is not de⯑ficient in ſuch views of religion; for, in his general ſtrain of preaching, as he is ex⯑tremely pious, ſo he is, at the ſame time, practical and moral.

HIS ſumming up the whole argument, in the next paragraph is elegant and beauti⯑ful; and ſuch concluding views of the ſub⯑ject are frequently very proper and uſeful: ‘"Upon theſe grounds doth the duty of praiſe ſtand, and theſe are the obligations that bind us to the performance of it. 'Tis the end of our being, and the very rule and law of our nature; flowing from the two great fountains of human action, the underſtanding and the will, natural⯑ly, and almoſt neceſſarily. It is the moſt excellent part of our religious worſhip; enduring to eternity, after the reſt ſhall be done away; and paid, even now, in [357] the frankeſt manner, with the leaſt re⯑gard to our own intereſt. It recommends itſelf to us by ſeveral peculiar properties and advantages; as it carries more plea⯑ſure in it, than all other kinds of devo⯑tion; as it enlarges and exalts the ſeveral powers of the mind; as it breeds in us an exquiſite ſenſe of God's honour, and a willingneſs to promote it in the world; as it teaches us to be humble and lowly ourſelves, and yet preſerves us from baſe and ſordid flattery, from beſtowing mean and undue praiſes upon others."’

AFTER this, our Author addreſſes him⯑ſelf to two claſſes of men, the Careleſs and the Profane. His addreſs to the Careleſs is beautiful, and pathetic; that to the Pro⯑fane, is not ſo well executed, and is liable to ſome objection. Such addreſſes appear to me to be, on ſeveral occaſions, very uſeful parts of a diſcourſe. They prevail⯑ed much in the ſtrain of preaching before the Reſtoration; and, perhaps, ſince that period, have been too much neglected. They afford an opportunity of bringing home to the conſciences of the audience, many things, which, in the courſe of the Sermon, were, perhaps, delivered in the abſtract.

I SHALL not dwell on the Concluſion of the Sermon, which is chiefly employed in obſervations on the poſture of public affairs [358] at that time. Conſidered, upon the whole, this Diſcourſe of Biſhop Atterbury's is both uſeful and beautiful, though I have ven⯑tured to point out ſome defects in it. Sel⯑dom, or never, can we expect to meet with a compoſition of any kind, which is abſo⯑lutely perfect in all its parts: and when we take into account the difficulties which I before ſhowed to attend the Eloquence of the Pulpit, we have, perhaps, leſs reaſon to look for perfection in a Sermon, than in any other compoſition.

LECTURE XXXI. CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE IN ALL ITS PARTS—INTRODUCTION—DIVISION—NARRATION AND EX⯑PLICATION.

I HAVE, in the four preceding Lectures, conſidered what is peculiar to each of the three great fields of Public Speaking, Popular Aſſemblies, the Bar, and the Pul⯑pit. I am now to treat of what is common to them all; of the conduct of a Diſcourſe or Oration, in general. The previous view which I have given of the diſtinguiſhing ſpirit and character of different kinds of Public Speaking, was neceſſary for the pro⯑per application of the rules which I am about to deliver; and as I proceed, I ſhall farther point out, how far any of theſe rules may have a particular reſpect to the Bar, to the Pulpit, or to Popular Courts.

[360] ON whatever ſubject any one intends to diſcourſe, he will moſt commonly begin with ſome introduction, in order to prepare the minds of his hearers; he will then ſtate his ſubject, and explain the facts connect⯑ed with it; he will employ arguments for eſtabliſhing his own opinion, and over⯑throwing that of his antagoniſt; he may perhaps, if there be room for it, endeavour to touch the paſſions of his Audience; and after having ſaid all he thinks proper, he will bring his Diſcourſe to a cloſe, by ſome Peroration or Concluſion. This being the natural train of Speaking, the parts that compoſe a regular formal Oration, are theſe ſix; firſt, the Exordium or Introduction; ſecondly, the State, and the Diviſion of the Subject; thirdly, Narration, or Explication; fourthly, the Reaſoning or Arguments; fifthly, the Pathetic Part; and laſtly, the Concluſion. I do not mean, that each of theſe muſt enter into every Public Diſ⯑courſe, or that they muſt enter always in this order. There is no reaſon for being ſo formal on every occaſion; nay, it would often be a fault, and would render a Diſ⯑courſe pedantic and ſtiff. There may be many excellent Diſcourſes in public, where ſeveral of theſe parts are altogether wanting; where the Speaker, for inſtance, uſes no In⯑troduction, but enters directly on his ſubject; where he has no occaſion either to divide or explain; but ſimply reaſons on one ſide of the queſtion, and then finiſhes. But as the [361] parts, which I mentioned, are the natural conſtituent parts of a regular Oration; and as in every Diſcourſe whatever, ſome of them muſt be found, it is neceſſary to our preſent purpoſe, that I ſhould treat of each of them diſtinctly.

I BEGIN, of courſe, with the Exordium or Introduction. This is manifeſtly com⯑mon to all the three kinds of Public Speak⯑ing. It is not a rhetorical invention. It is founded upon nature, and ſuggeſted by common ſenſe. When one is going to counſel another; when he takes upon him to inſtruct, or to reprove, prudence will ge⯑nerally direct him not to do it abruptly, but to uſe ſome preparation; to begin with ſomewhat that may incline the perſons, to whom he addreſſes himſelf, to judge fa⯑vourably of what he is about to ſay; and may diſpoſe them to ſuch a train of thought, as will forward and aſſiſt the purpoſe which he has in view. This is, or ought to be, the main ſcope of an Introduction. Ac⯑cordingly Cicero and Quinctilian mention three ends, to one or other of which it ſhould be ſubſervient, ‘"Reddere auditores benevolos, attentos, dociles."’

FIRST, To conciliate the good will of the hearers; to render them benevolent, or well-affected to the Speaker and to the ſub⯑ject. Topics for this purpoſe may, in Cauſes at the Bar, be ſometimes taken from the [362] particular ſituation of the Speaker himſelf, or of his client, or from the character or behaviour of his antagoniſts contraſted with his own; on other occaſions, from the na⯑ture of the ſubject, as cloſely connected with the intereſt of the hearers: and, in general, from the modeſty and good inten⯑tion, with which the Speaker enters upon his ſubject. The ſecond end of an Intro⯑duction, is, to raiſe the attention of the hearers; which may be effected, by giving them ſome hints of the importance, digni⯑ty, or novelty of the ſubject; or ſome fa⯑vourable view of the clearneſs and preci⯑ſion with which we are to treat it; and of the brevity with which we are to diſcourſe. The third end, is to render the hearers do⯑cile, or open to perſuaſion; for which end, we muſt begin with ſtudying to remove any particular prepoſſeſſions they may have contracted againſt the cauſe, or ſide of the argument which we eſpouſe.

SOME one of theſe ends ſhould be pro⯑poſed by every Introduction. When there is no occaſion for aiming at any of them; when we are already ſecure of the good will, the attention, and the docility of the Audience, as may often be the caſe, formal Introductions can, without any prejudice, be omitted. And, indeed, when they ſerve for no purpoſe but mere oſtentation, they had, for the moſt part, better be omitted; unleſs as far as reſpect to the Audience [363] makes it decent, that a Speaker ſhould not break in upon them too abruptly, but by a ſhort exordium prepare them for what he is going to ſay. Demoſthenes's Introducti⯑ons are always ſhort and ſimple; Cicero's are fuller and more artful.

THE ancient Critics diſtinguiſh two kinds of Introductions, which they call ‘"Princi⯑pium,"’ and ‘"Inſinuatio."’ ‘"Principi⯑um"’ is, where the Orator plainly and di⯑rectly profeſſes his aim in ſpeaking. ‘"In⯑ſinuatio"’ is, where a larger compaſs muſt be taken; and where, preſuming the diſpoſi⯑tion of the Audience be to much againſt the Orator, he muſt gradually reconcile them to hearing him, before he plainly diſcovers the point which he has in view.

OF this latter ſort of Introduction, we have an admirable inſtance in Cicero's ſecond Oration againſt Rullus. This Rullus was Tribune of the People, and had propoſed an Agrarian Law; the purpoſe of which was to create a Decemvirate, or ten commiſſioners, with abſolute power for five years over all the lands conquered by the Republic, in order to divide them among the citizens. Such laws had often been propoſed by factious magiſtrates, and were always greedily received by the people. Cicero is ſpeaking to the people; he had newly been made Conſul by their intereſt; and his firſt attempt is to make them reject [364] this law. The ſubject was extremely deli⯑cate, and required much art. He begins with acknowledging all the favours which he had received from the people, in prefer⯑ence to the nobility. He profeſſes himſelf the creature of their power, and of all men the moſt engaged to promote their intereſt. He declares, that he held himſelf to be the Conſul of the People; and that he would always glory in preſerving the character of a popular magiſtrate. But to be popular, he obſerves, is an ambiguous word. He underſtood it to import, a ſteady attachment to the real intereſt of the people, to their liberty, their eaſe, and their peace; but by ſome, he ſaw, it was abuſed, and made a cover to their own ſelfiſh and ambitious de⯑ſigns. In this manner, he begins to draw gradually nearer to his purpoſe of attacking the propoſal of Rullus; but ſtill with great management and reſerve. He proteſts, that he is far from being an enemy to Agra⯑rian Laws; he gives the higheſt praiſes to the Gracchi, thoſe zealous patrons of the people; and aſſures them, that when he firſt heard of Rullus's law, he had reſolved to ſupport it, if he found it for their inter⯑eſt; but that, upon examining it, he found it calculated to eſtabliſh a dominion that was inconſiſtent with liberty, and to aggrandize a few men at the expence of the public: and then terminates his exordium, with telling them, that he is going to give his reaſons for beging of this opinion; but that [365] if his reaſons ſhall not ſatisfy them, he will give up his own opinion, and embrace theirs. In all this, there was great art. His Eloquence produced the intended ef⯑fect; and the people, with one voice, re⯑jected this Agrarian Law.

HAVING given theſe general views of the nature and end of an Introduction, I proceed to lay down ſome rules for the proper compo⯑ſition of it. Theſe are the more neceſſary, that this is a part of the Diſcourſe which re⯑quires no ſmall care. Itis always of importance to begin well; to make a favourable impreſſi⯑on at firſt ſetting out; when the minds of the hearers, vacant as yet and free, are moſt diſpoſed to receive any impreſſion eaſi⯑ly. I muſt add too, that a good Introducti⯑on is often found to be extremely difficult. Few parts of the Diſcourſe give the Com⯑poſer more trouble, or are attended with more nicety in the execution.

THE firſt rule is, that the Introduction ſhould be eaſy and natural. The ſubject muſt always ſuggeſt it. It muſt appear, as Cicero beautifully expreſſes it: ‘"Effloruiſſe peni⯑tus ex re de qua tum agitur^*."’ It is too common a fault in Introductions, that they are taken from ſome common-place topic, which has no peculiar relation to the ſub⯑ject [366] in hand; by which means they ſtand apart, like pieces detached from the reſt of the Diſcourſe. Of this kind are Salluſt's Introductions, prefixed to his Catilinarian and Jugurthine wars. They might as well have been Introductions to any Hiſtory, or to any other Treatiſe whatever: and, there⯑fore, though elegant in themſelves, they muſt be conſidered as blemiſhes in the work, from want of due connection with it. Ci⯑cero, though abundantly correct in this par⯑ticular in his Orations, yet is not ſo in his other works. It appears from a letter of his to Atticus (L. xvi. 6.) that it was his cuſtom to prepare, at his leiſure, a collecti⯑on of different Introductions or Prefaces, ready to be prefixed to any work that he might afterwards publiſh. In conſequence of this ſtrange method of compoſing, it hap⯑pened to him, to employ the ſame Intro⯑duction twice without remembering it; pre⯑fixing it to two different works. Upon At⯑ticus informing him of this, he acknow⯑ledges the miſtake, and ſends him a new Introduction.

IN order to render Introductions natural and eaſy, it is, in my opinion, a good rule, that they ſhould not be planned, till after one has meditated in his own mind the ſub⯑ſtance of his Diſcourſe. Then, and not till then, he ſhould begin to think of ſome proper and natural Introduction. By taking a contrary courſe, and labouring in [367] the firſt place on an Introduction, every one who is accuſtomed to compoſition will often find, that either he is led to lay hold of ſome common-place topic, or, that inſtead of the Introduction being accommo⯑dated to the Diſcourſe, he is obliged to ac⯑commodate the whole Diſcourſe to the In⯑troduction which he had previouſly writ⯑ten. Cicero makes this remark; though, as we have ſeen, his practice was not al⯑ways conformable to his own rule. ‘"Om⯑nibus rebus conſideratis, tum denique id quod primum eſt dicendum, poſtremum ſoleo cogitare, quo utar exordio. Nam ſi quando id primum invenire volui, nul⯑lum mihi occurrit, niſi aut exile, aut nu⯑gatorium, aut vulgare^*."’ After the mind has been once warmed and put in train, by cloſe meditation on the ſubject, materials for the Preface will then ſuggeſt themſelves much more readily.

IN the ſecond place, In an Introduction, correctneſs ſhould be carefully ſtudied in the expreſſion. This is requiſite, on account of the ſituation of the hearers. They are then more diſpoſed to criticiſe than at any other period; they are, as yet, unoccupied [368] with the ſubject or the arguments; their attention is wholly directed to the Speaker's ſtyle and manner. Something muſt be done, therefore, to prepoſſeſs them in his favour; though for the ſame reaſons, too much art muſt be avoided; for it will be more eaſily detected at that time, than afterwards; and will derogate from perſuaſion in all that fol⯑lows. A correct plainneſs, an elegant ſim⯑plicity, is the proper character of an Intro⯑duction; ‘"ut videamur,"’ ſays Quinctilian, ‘"accuratè non callidè dicere."’

IN the third place, Modeſty is another character which it muſt carry. All appear⯑ances of modeſty are favourable, and pre⯑poſſeſſing. If the Orator ſet out with an air of arrogance and oſtentation, the ſelf⯑love and pride of the hearers will be pre⯑ſently awakened, and will follow him with a very ſuſpicious eye throughout all his progreſs. His modeſty ſhould diſcover itſelf not only in his expreſſions at the be⯑ginning, but in his whole manner; in his looks, in his geſtures, in the tone of his voice. Every auditory take in good part thoſe marks of reſpect and awe, which are paid to them by one who addreſſes them. Indeed the modeſty of an Introduction ſhould never betray any thing mean or abject. It is always of great uſe to an Orator, that together with modeſty and deference to his hearers, he ſhould ſhow a certain ſenſe of dignity, ariſing from a perſuaſion of the [369] juſtice, or importance, of the ſubject on which he is to ſpeak.

THE modeſty of an Introduction requires, that it promiſe not too much. ‘"Non fu⯑mum ex fulgore, ſed ex fumo dare lu⯑cem^*."’ This certainly is the general rule, that an Orator ſhould not put forth all his ſtrength at the beginning; but ſhould riſe and grow upon us, as his Diſcourſe ad⯑vances. There are caſes, however, in which it is allowable for him to ſet out from the firſt in a high and bold tone; as, for inſtance, when he riſes to defend ſome cauſe which has been much run down, and decried by the Public. Too modeſt a beginning, might be then like a confeſſion of guilt. By the boldneſs and ſtrength of his Exor⯑dium, he muſt endeavour to ſtem the tide that is againſt him, and to remove prejudices, by encountering them with⯑out fear. In ſubjects too of a declama⯑tory nature, and in Sermons, where the ſubject is ſtriking, a magnificent Intro⯑duction has ſometimes a good effect, if it be properly ſupported in the ſequel. Thus Biſhop Atterbury, in beginning an eloquent Sermon, preached on the 30th of January, the Anniverſary of what is called King [370] Charles's Martyrdom, ſets out in this pompous manner: ‘"This is a day of Trou⯑ble, of Rebuke, and of Blaſphemy; diſ⯑tinguiſhed in the Calendar of our Church, and the annals of our Nation, by the ſuf⯑ferings of an excellent Prince, who fell a ſacrifice to the rage of his rebellious ſub⯑jects; and, by his fall, derived infamy, miſery, and guilt on them, and their ſin⯑ful poſterity."’ Boſſuet, Flechier, and the other celebrated French Preachers very of⯑ten begin their Diſcourſeswith laboured and ſublime Introductions. Theſe raiſe atten⯑tion, and throw a luſtre on the ſubject: but let every Speaker be much on his guard againſt ſtriking a higher note at the begin⯑ning, than he is able to keep up in his pro⯑greſs.

IN the fourth place, An Introduction ſhould uſually be carried on in the calm manner. This is ſeldom the place for vehe⯑mence and paſſion. Emotions muſt riſe, as the Diſcourſe advances. The minds of the hearers muſt be gradually prepared, be⯑fore the Speaker can venture on ſtrong and paſſionate ſentiments. The exceptions to this rule are, when the ſubject is ſuch, that the very mention of it naturally awakens ſome paſſionate emotion; or when the un⯑expected preſence of ſome perſon or object, in a Popular Aſſembly, inflames the Speak⯑er, and makes him break forth with unu⯑ſual warmth. Either of theſe will juſtify [371] what is called, the Exordium ab abrupto. Thus the appearance of Catiline in the Se⯑nate, renders the vehement beginning of Cicero's firſt Oration againſt him very natu⯑ral and proper. ‘"Quouſque tandem, Cati⯑lina, abutere patientia noſtra?"’ And thus Biſhop Atterbury, in preaching from this text, ‘"Bleſſed is he, whoſoever ſhall not be offended in me,"’ ventures on breaking forth with this bold Exordium; ‘"And can any man then be offended in thee, bleſſed Jeſus?"’ which addreſs to our Saviour, he continues for a page or two, till he en⯑ters on the diviſion of his ſubject. But ſuch Introductions as theſe ſhould be ha⯑zarded by very few, as they promiſe ſo much vehemence and unction through the reſt of the Diſcourſe, that it is very diffi⯑cult to fulfil the expectations of the hearers.

AT the ſame time, though the Introduc⯑tion is not the place in which warm emo⯑tions are uſually to be attempted, yet I muſt take notice, that it ought to prepare the way for ſuch as are deſigned to be raiſed in ſubſequent parts of the Diſcourſe. The Orator ſhould, in the beginning, turn the minds of his hearers towards thoſe ſenti⯑ments and feelings which he ſeeks to awak⯑en in the courſe of his Speech. According, for inſtance, as it is compaſſion, or indig⯑nation, or contempt, on which his Diſ⯑courſe [372] is to reſt, he ought to ſow the ſeeds of theſe in his Introduction; he ought to begin with breathing that ſpirit which he means to inſpire. Much of the Orator's art and ability is ſhown, in thus ſtriking properly at the commencement, the key note, if we may ſo expreſs it, of the reſt of his Oration.

IN the fifth place, It is a rule in Intro⯑ductions, not to anticipate any material part of the ſubject. When topics, or ar⯑guments, which are afterwards to be en⯑larged upon, are hinted at, and, in part, brought forth in the Introduction, they loſe the grace of novelty upon their ſecond ap⯑pearance. The impreſſion intended to be made by any capital thought, is always made with the greateſt advantage, when it is made entire, and in its proper place.

IN the laſt place, The Introduction ought to be proportioned, both in length and in kind, to the diſcourſe that is to follow: in length, as nothing can be more abſurd than to erect a very great portico before a ſmall building; and in kind, as it is no leſs ab⯑ſurd to overcharge, with ſuperb ornaments, the portico of a plain dwelling-houſe, or to make the entrance to a monument as gay as that to an arbour. Common ſenſe di⯑rects, that every part of a Diſcourſe ſhould be ſuited to the ſtrain and ſpirit of the whole.

[373] THESE are the principal rules that relate to Introductions. They are adapted, in a great meaſure, equally, to Diſcourſes of all kinds. In Pleadings at the Bar, or Speeches in Public Aſſemblies, particular care muſt be taken not to employ any Introduction of that kind, which the adverſe party may lay hold of, and turn to his advantage. To this inconvenience, all thoſe Introductions are expoſed, which are taken from general and common-place topics; and it never fails to give an adverſary a conſiderable triumph, if, by giving a ſmall turn to ſome⯑thing we had ſaid in our Exordium, he can appear to convert, to his own favour, the principles with which we had ſet out, in beginning our attack upon him. In the caſe of Replies, Quinctilian makes an ob⯑ſervation which is very worthy of notice; that Introductions, drawn from ſomething that has been ſaid in the courſe of the De⯑bate, have always a peculiar grace; and the reaſon he gives for it is juſt and ſenſible: ‘"Multum gratiae exordio eſt, quod ab ac⯑tione diverſae partis materiam trahit; hoc ipſo, quod non compoſitum domi, ſed ibi atque e re natum; et facilitate famam ingenii auget; et facie ſimpli⯑cis, ſumptique e proximo ſermonis, fi⯑dem quoque acquirit; adeo, ut etiamſi reliqua ſcripta atque elaborara ſint, ta⯑men videatur tota extemporalis oratio, [374] cujus initium nihil preparatum habuiſſe, manifeſtum eſt^*."’

IN Sermons, ſuch a practice as this can⯑not take place; and, indeed, in compoſing Sermons, few things are more difficult than to remove an appearance of ſtiffneſs from an Introduction, when a formal one is uſed. The French Preachers, as I before obſerved, are often very ſplendid and lively in their Introductions; but, among us, attempts of this kind are not always ſo ſucceſsful. When long Introductions are formed upon ſome common-place topic, as the deſire of happineſs being natural to man, or the like, they never fail of being tedious. Variety ſhould be ſtudied in this part of compoſition as much as poſſible; often it may be proper to begin without any Introduction at all, unleſs, perhaps, one or two Sentences. Ex⯑planatory Introductions from the context, are the moſt ſimple of any, and frequently the beſt that can be uſed: but as they are in hazard of becoming dry, they ſhould ne⯑ver [375] be long. A Hiſtorical Introduction has, generally, a happy effect to rouze attenti⯑on; when one can lay hold upon ſome no⯑ted fact that is connected with the Text or the Diſcourſe, and, by a proper deduction of it, open the way to the ſubject that is to be treated of.

AFTER the Introduction, what com⯑monly comes next in order, is, the Propo⯑ſition, or Enunciation of the Subject; con⯑cerning which there is nothing to be ſaid, but that it ſhould be as clear and diſtinct as poſſible, and expreſſed in few and plain words, without the leaſt affectation. To this, generally ſucceeds the Diviſion, or the laying down the method of the Diſ⯑courſe; on which it is neceſſary to make ſome obſervations. I do not mean, that, in every Diſcourſe, a formal Diviſion, or Diſtribution of it into parts, is requiſite. There are many occaſions of Public Speak⯑ing, when this is neither requiſite, nor would be proper; when the Diſcourſe, per⯑haps, is to be ſhort, or only one point is to be treated of; or when the Speaker does not chuſe to warn his hearers of the method he is to follow, or of the concluſion to which he ſeeks to bring them. Order of one kind or other is, indeed, eſſential to every good Diſcourſe; that is, every thing ſhould be ſo arranged as that what goes before, may give light and force to what follows after. But this may be accompliſh⯑ed [376] by means of a concealed method. What we call Diviſion, is, when the method is propounded in form to the hearers.

THE Diſcourſe in which this ſort of Di⯑viſion moſt commonly takes place, is a Ser⯑mon; and a queſtion has been moved, whe⯑ther this method of laying down heads, as it is called, be the beſt method of preach⯑ing. A very able Judge, the Archbiſhop of Cambray, in his Dialogues on Elo⯑quence, declares ſtrongly againſt it. He obſerves, that it is a modern invention; that it was never practiſed by the Fathers of the Church; and, what is certainly true, that it took its riſe from the ſchoolmen, when metaphyſics began to be introduced into preaching. He is of opinion, that it renders a Sermon ſtiff, that it breaks the unity of the Diſcourſe; and that, by the natural connection of one part with ano⯑ther, the attention of the hearers would be carried along the whole with more advan⯑tage.

BUT, notwithſtanding his authority and his arguments, I cannot help being of opinion, that the preſent method of divid⯑ing a Sermon into heads, ought not to be laid aſide. Eſtabliſhed practice has now given it ſo much weight, that, were there nothing more in its favour, it would be dangerous for any Preacher to deviate ſo far from the common tract. But [377] the practice itſelf has alſo, in my judgment, much reaſon on its ſide. If formal partiti⯑ons give a Sermon leſs of the oratorial ap⯑pearance, they render it, however, more clear, more eaſily apprehended, and, of courſe, more inſtructive to the bulk of hearers, which is always the main object to be kept in view. The heads of a Sermon are great aſſiſtances to the memory, and re⯑collection of a hearer. They ſerve alſo to fix his attention. They enable him more eaſily to keep pace with the progreſs of the Diſcourſe; they give him pauſes and reſt⯑ing places, where he can reflect on what has been ſaid, and look forward to what is to follow. They are attended with this ad⯑vantage too, that they give the audience the opportunity of knowing, before hand, when they are to be releaſed from the fa⯑tigue of attention, and thereby make them follow the Speaker more patiently: ‘"Refi⯑cit audientem,"’ ſays Quinctilian, taking notice of this very advantage of Diviſions in other Diſcourſes, ‘"Reficit audientem certo ſingularium partium fine; non aliter quám facientibus iter, multum detrahunt fati⯑gationis notata ſpatia inſcriptis lapidibus; nam et exhauſti laboris nôſſe menſuram voluptati eſt; et hortatur ad reliqua for⯑tius exequenda, ſcire quantum ſuperſit^*."’ [378] With regard to breaking the Unity of a Diſ⯑courſe, I cannot be of opinion that there ariſes, from that quarter, any argument againſt the method I am deſending. If the Unity be broken, it is to the nature of the heads, or topics of which the Speaker treats, that this is to be imputed; not to his lay⯑ing them down in form. On the contrary, if his heads be well-choſen, his marking them out, and diſtinguiſhing them, in place of impairing the Unity of the whole, ren⯑ders it more conſpicuous and complete; by ſhowing how all the parts of a Diſcourſe hang upon one another, and tend to one point.

IN a Sermon, or in a Pleading, or any Diſcourſe, where Diviſion is proper to be uſed, the moſt material rules are,

FIRST, That the ſeveral parts into which the ſubject is divided, be really diſtinct from one another; that is, that no one include another. It were a very abſurd Diviſion, for inſtance, if one ſhould propoſe to treat firſt, of the advantages of Virtue, and next, of thoſe of Juſtice or Temperance; becauſe, the firſt head evidently comprehends the ſecond, as a Genus does the Species; which method of proceeding involves the ſubject in indiſtinctneſs and diſorder.

[379] SECONDLY, In Diviſion, we muſt take care to follow the order of nature; begin⯑ning with the ſimpleſt points, ſuch as are eaſieſt apprehended, and neceſſary to be firſt diſcuſſed; and proceeding thence to thoſe which are built upon the former, and which ſuppoſe them to be known. We muſt divide the ſubject into thoſe parts, in⯑to which moſt eaſily and naturally it is re⯑ſolved; that the ſubject may ſeem to ſplit itſelf, and not to be violently torn aſunder: ‘"Dividere,"’ as is commonly ſaid, ‘"non frangere."’

THIRDLY, The ſeveral members of a Diviſion ought to exhauſt the ſubject; otherwiſe we do not make a complete Divi⯑ſion; we exhibit the ſubject by pieces and corners only, without giving any ſuch plan as diſplays the whole.

FOURTHLY, The terms in which our partitions are expreſſed, ſhould be as con⯑ciſe as poſſible. Avoid all circumlocution here. Admit not a ſingle word but what is neceſſary. Preciſion is to be ſtudied, above all things, in laying down a method. It is this which chiefly makes a Diviſion ap⯑pear neat and elegant; when the ſeveral heads are propounded in the cleareſt, moſt expreſſive, and, at the ſame time, the few⯑eſt words poſſible. This never fails to ſtrike the hearers agreeably; and is, at the [380] ſame time, of great conſequence towards making the Diviſions be more eaſily remem⯑bered.

FIFTHLY, Avoid an unneceſſary multi⯑plication of heads. To ſplit a ſubject into a great many minute parts, by Diviſions and Subdiviſions without end, has always a bad effect in ſpeaking. It may be proper in a logical treatiſe; but it makes an Oration appear hard and dry, and unneceſſarily fa⯑tigues the memory. In a Sermon, there may be from three to five, or ſix heads, in⯑cluding Subdiviſions; ſeldom ſhould there be more.

IN a Sermon, or in a Pleading at the Bar, few things are of greater conſequence, than a proper and happy Diviſion. It ſhould be ſtudied with much accuracy and care; for if one take a wrong method at firſt ſet⯑ting out, it will lead him aſtray in all that follows. It will render the whole Diſcourſe either perplexed or languid; and though the hearers may not be able to tell where the fault or diſorder lies, they will be ſenſi⯑ble there is a diſorder ſomewhere, and find themſelves little affected by what is ſpoken. The French writers of Sermons ſtudy neat⯑neſs and elegance in laying down their heads, much more than the Engliſh do; whoſe diſtributions, though ſenſible and juſt, yet are often inartificial and verboſe. Among the French, however, too much [381] quaintneſs appears in their Diviſions, with an affectation of always ſetting out either with two, or with three, general heads of Diſcourſe. A Diviſion of Maſſillon's on this text, ‘"It is finiſhed,"’ has been much extolled by the French Critics: ‘"This im⯑ports,"’ ſays the Preacher, ‘"the conſum⯑mation, firſt, of juſtice on the part of God; ſecondly, of wickedneſs on the part of men; thirdly, of love on the part of Chriſt."’ This alſo of Bourdaloue's has been much praiſed, from theſe words." ‘"My peace I give unto you."’ ‘"Peace,"’ ſays he, ‘"firſt, to the underſtanding, by ſubmiſſion to faith; ſecondly, to the heart, by ſubmiſſion to the law."’

THE next conſtituent part of a Diſcourſe, which I mentioned, was Narration or Ex⯑plication. I put theſe two together, both becauſe they fall nearly under the ſame rules, and becauſe they commonly anſwer the ſame purpoſe; ſerving to illuſtrate the cauſe, or the ſubject of which one treats, before proceeding to argue either on one ſide or other; or to make any attempt for intereſting the paſſions of the hearers.

IN Pleadings at the Bar, Narration is of⯑ten a very important part of the Diſcourſe, and requires to be particularly attended to. Beſides, its being in any caſe no eaſy mat⯑ter to relate with grace and propriety, there is, in Narrations at the Bar, a peculiar dif⯑ficulty. [382] The Pleader muſt ſay nothing but what is true; and, at the ſame time, he muſt avoid ſaying any thing that will hurt his cauſe. The facts which he relates, are to be the ground-work of all his future reaſoning. To recount them ſo as to keep ſtrictly within the bounds of truth, and yet to preſent them under the colours moſt favourable to his cauſe; to place, in the moſt ſtriking light, every circumſtance which is to his advantage, and to ſoften and weaken ſuch as make againſt him, demands no ſmall exertion of ſkill and dexterity. He muſt always re⯑member, that if he diſcovers too much art, he defeats his own purpoſe, and creates a diſtruſt of his ſincerity. Quinctilian very properly directs, ‘"Effugienda in hac praeci⯑puè parte, omnis calliditatis ſuſpicio; ne⯑que enim ſe uſquam magis cuſtodit judex, quàm cùm narrat orator: nihil tum vide⯑atur fictum; nihil ſollicitum; omnia potius a cauſa, quam ab oratore, profecta vide⯑antur^*."’

TO be clear and diſtinct, to be probable, and to be conciſe, are the qualities which [383] Critics chiefly require in Narration; each of which carries, ſufficiently, the evidence of its importance. Diſtinctneſs belongs to the whole train of the Diſcourſe, but is eſ⯑pecially requiſite in Narration, which ought to throw light on all that follows. A fact, or a ſingle circumſtance left in ob⯑ſcurity, and miſapprehended by the Judge, may deſtroy the effect of all the argument and reaſoning which the Speaker employs. If his Narration be improbable, the Judge will not regard it; and if it be tedious and diffuſe, he will tire of it, and forget it. In order to produce diſtinctneſs, beſides the ſtudy of the general rules of perſpicuity which were formerly given, Narration re⯑quires particular attention to aſcertain clearly the names, the dates, the places, and every other material circumſtance of the facts recounted. In order to be probable in Narration, it is material to enter into the characters of the perſons of whom we ſpeak, and to ſhow, that their actions proceeded from ſuch motives as are natural, and like⯑ly to gain belief. In order to be as conciſe as the ſubject will admit, it is neceſſary to throw out all ſuperfluous circumſtances; the rejection of which, will likewiſe tend to make our Narration more forcible, and more clear.

CICERO is very remarkable for his talent of Narration; and from the examples in his Orations much may be learned. The Nar⯑ration, [384] for inſtance, in the celebrated Ora⯑tion pro Milone, has been often and juſtly admired. His ſcope is to ſhow, that though in fact Clodius was killed by Milo or his ſervants, yet that it was only in ſelf-de⯑fence; and that the deſign had been laid, not by Milo againſt Clodius, but by Clodius againſt Milo's life. All the circumſtances for rendering this probable are painted with wonderful art. In relating the manner of Milo's ſetting out from Rome, he gives the moſt natural deſcription of a family excurſion to the country, under which it was impoſſible that any bloody deſign could be concealed. ‘"He remained,"’ ſays he, ‘"in the Senate-houſe that day, till all the buſineſs was over. He came home, changed his clothes deliberately, and waited for ſome time, till his wife had got all her things ready for going with him in his carriage to the country. He did not ſet out, till ſuch time as Clodius might eaſily have been in Rome, if he had not been lying in wait for Milo by the way. By and by, Clodius met him on the road, on horſeback, like a man prepared for action, no carriage, not his wife, as was uſual, nor any family equi⯑page along with him: whilſt Milo, who is ſuppoſed to be meditating ſlaughter and aſſaſſination, is travelling in a car⯑riage with his wife, wrapped up in his cloak, embarraſſed with baggage, and attended by a great train of women ſer⯑vants, [385] and boys."’ He goes on, deſcri⯑bing the rencounter that followed, Clodius's ſervants attacking thoſe of Milo, and killing the driver of his carriage; Milo jumping out, throwing off his cloak, and making the beſt defence he could, while Clodius's ſervants endeavoured to ſurround him; and then concludes his narration with a very delicate and happy ſtroke. He does not ſay in plain words, that Milo's ſervants killed Clodius, but that ‘"in the midſt of the tu⯑mult, Milo's ſervants, without the or⯑ders, without the knowledge, without the preſence of their maſter, did what every maſter would have wiſhed his ſervants, in a like conjuncture, to have done^*."’

[386] IN Sermons, where there is ſeldom any occaſion for Narration, explication of the ſubject to be diſcourſed on, comes in the place of narration at the bar, and is to be taken up much on the ſame tone; that is, it muſt be conciſe, clear, and diſtinct; and in a Style correct and elegant, rather than highly adorned. To explain the doctrine of the text with propriety; to give a full and perſpicuous account of the nature of that virtue or duty which forms the ſub⯑ject of the Diſcourſe, is properly the di⯑dactic part of preaching; on the right exe⯑cution of which much depends for all that comes afterward in the way of perſuaſion. The great art of ſucceeding in it, is, to meditate profoundly on the ſubject, ſo as to be able to place it in a clear and ſtrong point of view. Conſider what light other paſſages of Scripture throw upon it; con⯑ſider whether it be a ſubject nearly related to ſome other from which it is proper to diſtinguiſh it; conſider whether it can be illuſtrated to advantage by comparing it with, or oppoſing it to, ſome other thing; by enquiring into cauſes, or tracing ef⯑fects; by pointing out examples, or ap⯑pealing to the feelings of the hearers; that thus, a definite, preciſe, circumſtan⯑tial view may be afforded of the doctrine to be inculcated. Let the Preacher be perſuaded, that by ſuch diſtinct and apt illuſtrations of the known truths of Re⯑ligion, he may both diſplay great merit [387] in the way of Compoſition, and, what he ought to conſider as far more valuable, render his Diſcourſes weighty, inſtructive, and uſeful.

LECTURE XXXII. CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE—THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART—THE PATHETIC PART—THE PERO⯑RATION.

IN treating of the conſtituent parts of a regular Diſcourſe or Oration, I have al⯑ready conſidered the Introduction, the Di⯑viſion, and the Narration or Explication. I proceed next to treat of the argumenta⯑tive or reaſoning Part of a Diſcourſe. In whatever place, or on whatever ſubject one ſpeaks, this beyond doubt is of the great⯑eſt conſequence. For the great end for which men ſpeak on any ſerious occaſion, is to convince their hearers of ſomething being either true, or right, or good; and, by means of this conviction, to influence their practice. Reaſon and Argument make the foundation, as I have often in⯑culcated, of all manly and perſuaſive Elo⯑quence.

[389] NOW, with reſpect to Arguments, three things are requiſite. Firſt, the invention of them; ſecondly, the proper diſpoſition and arrangement of them; and thirdly, the expreſſing of them in ſuch a ſtyle and manner, as to give them their full force.

THE firſt of theſe, Invention, is, with⯑out doubt, the moſt material, and the ground-work of the reſt. But, with reſ⯑pect to this, I am afraid it is beyond the power of art to give any real aſſiſtance. Art cannot go ſo far, as to ſupply a Speak⯑er with arguments on every cauſe, and eve⯑ry ſubject; though it may be of conſider⯑able uſe in aſſiſting him to arrange, and ex⯑preſs thoſe, which his knowledge of the ſubject has diſcovered. For it is one thing to diſcover the reaſons that are moſt pro⯑per to convince men, and another, to ma⯑nage thoſe reaſons with moſt advantage. The latter is all that Rhetoric can pre⯑tend to.

THE ancient Rhetoricians did indeed at⯑tempt to go much farther than this. They attempted to form Rhetoric into a more complete ſyſtem; and profeſſed not only to aſſiſt Public Speakers in ſetting off their arguments to moſt advantage; but to ſupply the defect of their invention, and to teach them where to find arguments on every ſubject and cauſe. Hence their Doctrine of Topics, or ‘"Loci Communes,"’ [390] and ‘"Sedes Argumentorum,"’ which makes ſo great a figure in the writings of Ariſtotle, Cicero, and Quinctilian. Theſe Topics or Loci, were no other than general ideas ap⯑plicable to a great many different ſubjects, which the Orator was directed to conſult, in order to find out materials for his Speech. They had their intrinſic and extrinſic Loci; ſome Loci, that were common to all the different kinds of Public Speaking, and ſome that were peculiar to each. The com⯑mon or general Loci, were ſuch as Genus and Species, Cauſe and Effect, Antecedents and Conſequents, Likeneſs and Contrariety, Definition, Circumſtances of Time and Place; and a great many more of the ſame kind. For each of the different kinds of Public Speaking, they had their ‘"Loci Perſonarum,"’ and ‘"Loci Rerum:"’ As in demonſtrative Orations, for inſtance, the heads from which any one could be decried or praiſed; his birth, his country, his edu⯑cation, his kindred, the qualities of his body, the qualities of his mind, the for⯑tune he enjoyed, the ſtations he had filled, &c. and in Deliberative Orations, the Topics that might be uſed in recom⯑mending any public meaſure, or diſſuad⯑ing from it; ſuch as, honeſty, juſtice, facility, profit, pleaſure, glory, aſſiſtance from friends, mortification to enemies, and the like.

[391] THE Grecian Sophiſts were the firſt in⯑ventors of this artificial ſyſtem of Oratory; and they ſhowed a prodigious ſubtilty, and fertility in the contrivance of theſe Loci. Succeeding Rhetoricians, dazzled by the plan, wrought them up into ſo regular a ſyſtem, that one would think they meant to teach how a perſon might mechanically become an Orator, without any genius at all. They gave him receipts for making Speeches, on all manner of ſubjects. At the ſame time, it is evident, that though this ſtudy of common places might produce very ſhowy academical declamations, it could never produce uſeful diſcourſes on real buſineſs. The Loci indeed ſupplied a moſt exuberant fecundity of matter. One who had no other aim, but to talk co⯑piouſly and plauſibly, by conſulting them on every ſubject, and laying hold of all that they ſuggeſted, might diſcourſe with⯑out end; and that too, though he had none but the moſt ſuperficial knowledge of his ſubject. But ſuch Diſcourſe, could be no other than trivial. What is truly ſolid and perſuaſive, muſt be drawn ‘"ex viſceribus cauſae,"’ from a thorough knowledge of the ſubject, and profound meditation on it. They who would direct ſtudents of Oratory to any other ſources of Argumentation, only delude them; and by attempting to render Rhetoric too perfect an art, they render it, in truth, a trifling and childiſh ſtudy.

[392] On this doctrine, therefore, of the Rhe⯑torical Loci or Topics, I think it ſuperflu⯑ous to inſiſt. If any think that the know⯑ledge of them may contribute to improve their invention, and extend their views, they may conſult Ariſtotle and Quinctilian, or what Cicero has written on this head, in his Treatiſe De Inventione, his Topica, and Second Book De Oratore. But when they are to prepare a Diſcourſe, by which they purpoſe to convince a Judge, or to produce any conſiderable effect upon an Aſſembly, I would adviſe them to lay aſide their common places, and to think cloſely of their ſubject. Demoſthenes, I dare ſay, conſulted none of the Loci, when he was inciting the Athenians to take arms againſt Philip; and where Cicero has had recourſe to them, his Orations are ſo much the worſe on that account.

I PROCEED to what is of more real uſe, to point out the aſſiſtance that can be given, not with reſpect to the invention, but with reſpect to the diſpoſition, and conduct of Arguments.

TWO different methods may be uſed by Orators in the conduct of their reaſon⯑ing; the terms of art for which are, the Analytic, and the Synthetic method. The Analytic is, when the Orator conceals his in⯑tention [393] concerning the point he is to prove, till he has gradually brought his hearers to the deſigned concluſion. They are led on ſtep by ſtep, from one known truth to ano⯑ther, till the concluſion be ſtolen upon them, as the natural conſequence of a chain of propoſitions. As, for inſtance, when one intending to prove the being of a God, ſets out with obſerving that every thing which we ſee in the world has had a beginning; that whatever has a beginning, muſt have had a prior cauſe; that in hu⯑man productions, art ſhown in the effect neceſſarily infers deſign in the cauſe; and proceeds leading you on from one cauſe to another, till you arrive at one ſupreme firſt cauſe, from whom is derived all the order and deſign viſible in his works. This is much the ſame with the Socratic method, by which that Philoſopher ſilenced the So⯑phiſts of his age. It is a very artful me⯑thod of reaſoning; may be carried on with much beauty, and is proper to be uſed when the hearers are much prejudiced againſt any truth, and by imperceptible ſteps muſt be led to conviction.

BUT there are few ſubjects that will ad⯑mit this method, and not many occaſions on which it is proper to be employed. The mode of reaſoning moſt generally uſed, and moſt ſuited to the train of Popular Speak⯑ing, is what is called the Synthetic; when [394] the point to be proved is fairly laid down, and one Argument after another is made to bear upon it, till the hearers be fully con⯑vinced.

NOW, in allar guing, one of the firſt things to be attended to is, among the va⯑rious Arguments which may occur upon a cauſe, to make a proper ſelection of ſuch as appear to one's ſelf the moſt ſolid; and to employ theſe as the chief means of perſua⯑ſion. Every Speaker ſhould place himſelf in the ſituation of a hearer. and think how he would be affected by thoſe reaſons, which he purpoſes to employ for perſuading others. For he muſt not expect to impoſe on man⯑kind by mere arts of Speech. They are not ſo eaſily impoſed on, as Public Speakers are ſometimes apt to think. Shrewdneſs and ſagacity are found among all ranks; and the Speaker may be praiſed for his fine Diſ⯑courſe, while yet the hearers are not per⯑ſuaded of the truth of any one thing he has uttered.

SUPPOSING the Arguments properly choſen, it is evident that their effect will, in ſome meaſure, depend on the right arrange⯑ment of them; ſo as they ſhall not juſtle and embarraſs one another, but give mutual aid; and bear with the faireſt and fulleſt di⯑rection on the point in view. Concerning this, the following rules may be taken:

[395] IN the firſt place, avoid blending Argu⯑ments confuſedly together, that are of a ſe⯑parate nature. All Arguments whatever are directed to prove one or other of theſe three things; that ſomething is true; that it is morally right or fit; or that it is pro⯑fitable and good. Theſe make the three great ſubjects of diſcuſſion among mankind; Truth, Duty, and Intereſt. But the Argu⯑ments directed towards either of them are generically diſtinct; and he who blends them all under one Topic, which he calls his Argument, as, in Sermons, eſpecially, is too often done, will render his reaſoning indiſtinct, and inelegant. Suppoſe, for in⯑ſtance, that I am recommending to an Au⯑dience Benevolence, or the Love of our Neighbour; and that I take my firſt Argu⯑ment, from the inward ſatisfaction which a benevolent temper affords; my ſecond, from the obligation which the example of Chriſt lays upon us to this duty; and my third, from its tendency to procure us the good⯑will of all around us; my arguments are good, but I have arranged them wrong: for my firſt and third Arguments are taken from conſiderations of intereſt, internal peace, and external advantages; and between theſe, I have introduced one, which reſts wholly upon duty. I ſhould have kept thoſe claſs⯑es of Arguments, which are addreſſed to different principles in human nature, ſe⯑parate and diſtinct.

[396] IN the ſecond place, With regard to the different degrees of ſtrength in Arguments, the general rule is, to advance in the way of climax, ‘"ut augeatur ſemper, et increſcat oratio."’ This eſpecially is to be the courſe, when the Speaker has a clear cauſe, and is confident that he can prove it fully. He may then adventure to begin with feebler arguments; riſing gradually, and not put⯑ting forth his whole ſtrength till the laſt, when he can truſt to his making a ſucceſs⯑ful impreſſion on the minds of hearers, prepared by what has gone before. But this rule is not to be always followed. For, if he diſtruſts his cauſe, and has but one material Argument on which to lay the ſtreſs, putting leſs confidence in the reſt, in this caſe, it is often proper for him to place this material Argument in the front; to preoccupy the hearers early, and make the ſtrongeſt effort at firſt; that, having re⯑moved prejudices, and diſpoſed them to be favourable, the reſt of his reaſoning may be liſtened to with more docility. When it happens, that amidſt a variety of Argu⯑ments, there are one or two which we are ſenſible are more inconcluſive than the reſt, and yet proper to be uſed, Cicero adviſes to place theſe in the middle, as a ſtation leſs conſpicuous than either the beginning, or the end, of the train of reaſoning.

[397] IN the third place, When our Arguments are ſtrong and ſatisfactory, the more they are diſtinguiſhed and treated apart from each other, the better. Each can then bear to be brought out by itſelf, placed in its full light, amplified and reſted upon. But when our Arguments are doubtful, and only of the preſumptive kind, it is ſafer to throw them together in a crowd, and to run them into one another: ‘"ut quae ſunt na⯑tura imbecilla,"’ as Quinctilian ſpeaks, ‘"mutuo auxilio ſuſtineantur;"’ that though infirm of themſelves, they may ſerve mu⯑tually to prop each other. He gives a good example, in the caſe of one who was ac⯑cuſed of murdering a relation, to whom he was heir. Direct proof was wanting; but, ‘"you expected a ſucceſſion, and a great ſucceſſion; you was in diſtreſt circum⯑ſtances; you was puſhed to the utmoſt by your creditors; you had offended your relation, who had made you his heir; you knew that he was juſt then intend⯑ing to alter his will; no time was to be loſt. Each of theſe particulars, by itſelf,"’ ſays the Author, ‘"is inconcluſive; but when they were aſſembled in one groupe, they have effect."’

OF the diſtinct Amplification of one per⯑ſuaſive Argument, we have a moſt beautiful example, in Cicero's Oration for Milo. The Argument is taken, from a circumſtance of time. Milo was candidate for the Conſul⯑ſhip; [398] and Clodius was killed a few days be⯑fore the election. He aſks, if any one could believe that Milo would be mad enough, at ſuch a critical time, by a moſt odious aſſaſ⯑ſination, to alienate from himſelf the favour of the people, whoſe ſuffrages he was ſo anxiouſly courting? This Argument, the moment it is ſuggeſted, appears to have con⯑ſiderable weight. But it was not enough, ſimply to ſuggeſt it; it could bear to be dwelt upon, and brought out into full light. The Orator, therefore, draws a juſt and ſtriking picture of that ſolicitous attention with which candidates, at ſuch a ſeaſon, always found it neceſſary to cultivate the good opinion of the people. ‘"Quo tem⯑pore,"’ ſays he, ‘"(Scio enim quam timi⯑da ſit ambitio, quantaque et quam ſollici⯑ta, cupiditas conſulatûs) omnia, non mo⯑do quae reprehendi palam, ſed etiam quae obſcure cogitari poſſunt, timemus. Ru⯑morem, fabulam fictam et falſam, per⯑horreſcimus; ora omnium atque oculos intuemur. Nihil enim eſt tam tenerum, tam aut fragile aut flexibile, quam volun⯑tas erga nos ſenſuſque civium, qui non modo improbitati iraſcuntur candidato⯑rum, ſed etiam in recte factis ſaepe faſti⯑diunt."’ From all which he moſt juſtly concludes, ‘"Hunc diem igitur Campi, ſpe⯑ratum atque exoptatum; ſibi proponens Milo, cruentis manibus, ſcelus atque fa⯑cinus prae ſe ferens, ad illa centuriarum auſpicia veniebat? Quam hoc in illo mi⯑nimum [399] credibile!^*"’ But though ſuch amplification as this be extremely beautiful, I muſt add a caution,

IN the fourth place, againſt extending Arguments too far, and multiplying them too much. This ſerves rather to render a cauſe ſuſpected, than to give it weight. An unneceſſary multiplicity of Arguments, both burdens the memory, and detracts from the weight of that conviction, which a few well choſen Arguments carry. It is to be obſerv⯑ed too, that in the Amplification of Argu⯑ments, a diffuſe and ſpreading method, be⯑yond the bounds of reaſonable illuſtration, is always enfeebling. It takes off greatly from that ‘"vis et acumen,"’ which ſhould be the diſtinguiſhing character of the Argu⯑mentative Part of a Diſcourſe. When a [400] Speaker dwells long on a favourite Argu⯑ment, and ſeeks to turn it into every poſ⯑ſible light, it almoſt always happens, that, fatigued with the effort, he loſes the ſpirit with which he ſet out; and concludes with feebleneſs, what he began with force. There is a proper temperance in reaſoning, as there is in other parts of a Diſcourſe.

AFTER due attention given to the proper arrangement of Arguments, what is next re⯑quiſite for their ſucceſs, is to expreſs them in ſuch a ſtyle, and to deliver them in ſuch a manner, as ſhall give them full force. On theſe heads I muſt refer the Reader to the directions I have given in treating of Style, in former Lectures; and to the directions I am afterwards to give concerning Pronun⯑ciation and Delivery.

I PROCEED, therefore, next, to another eſſential part of Diſcourſe which I mention⯑ed as the fifth in order, that is, the Pathe⯑tic; in which, if any where, Eloquence reigns, and exerts its power. I ſhall not, in beginning this head, take up time in combating the ſcruples of thoſe who have moved a queſtion, whether it be conſiſtent with firmneſs and candor in a Public Speak⯑er, to addreſs the paſſions of his Audience? This is a queſtion about words alone, and which common ſenſe eaſily determines. In enquiries after mere truth, in matters of ſim⯑ple information and inſtruction, there is no [401] queſtion that the paſſions have no concern, and that all attempts to move them are ab⯑ſurd. Wherever conviction is the object, it is the underſtanding alone that is to be ap⯑plied to. It is by argument and reaſoning, that one man attempts to ſatisfy another of what is true, or right, or juſt; but if per⯑ſuaſion be the object, the caſe is changed. In all that relates to practice, there is no man who ſeriouſly means to perſuade ano⯑ther, but addreſſes himſelf to his paſſions more or leſs; for this plain reaſon, that paſ⯑ſions are the great ſprings of human action. The moſt virtuous man, in treating of the moſt virtuous ſubject, ſeeks to touch the heart of him to whom he ſpeaks; and makes no ſcruple to raiſe his indignation at injuſ⯑tice, or his pity to the diſtreſſed, though pity and indignation be paſſions.

IN treating of this part of Eloquence, the ancients made the ſame ſort of attempt as they employed with reſpect to the argumen⯑tative part, in order to bring Rhetoric into a more perfect ſyſtem. They enquired metaphyſically into the nature of every paſſion; they gave a definition, and a de⯑ſcription of it; they treated of its cauſes, its effects, and its concomitants; and thence deduced rules for working upon it. Ari⯑ſtotle in particular has, in his Treatiſe upon Rhetoric, diſcuſſed the nature of the paſ⯑ſions with much profoundneſs and ſubtilty; and what he has written on that head, may [402] be read with no ſmall profit, as a valuable piece of Moral Philoſophy; but whether it will have any effect in rendering an Orator more pathetic, is to me doubtful. It is not, I am afraid, any philoſophical knowledge of the paſſions, that can confer this talent. We muſt be indebted for it to Nature, to a certain ſtrong and happy ſenſibility of mind; and one may be a moſt thorough adept in all the ſpeculative knowledge that can be acquired concerning the paſſions, and re⯑main at the ſame time a cold and dry Speak⯑er. The uſe of rules and inſtructions on this, or any other part of Oratory, is not to ſupply the want of genius, but to direct it where it is found, into its proper chan⯑nel; to aſſiſt it in exerting itſelf with moſt advantage, and to prevent the errors and extravagancies into which it is ſometimes apt to run. On the head of the Pathetic, the following directions appear to me to be uſeful.

THE firſt is to conſider carefully, whe⯑ther the ſubject admit the Pathetic, and ren⯑der it proper; and if it does, what part of the Diſcourſe is the moſt proper for attempt⯑ing it. To determine theſe points belongs to good ſenſe; for it is evident, that there are many ſubjects which admit not the Pa⯑thetic at all, and that even in thoſe that are ſuſceptible of it, an attempt to excite the paſſions in the wrong place, may expoſe an Orator to ridicule. All that can be ſaid in [403] general is, that if we expect any emotion which we raiſe to have a laſting effect, we muſt be careful to bring over to our ſide, in the firſt place, the underſtanding and judgment. The hearers muſt be convinced that there are good and ſufficient grounds, for their entering with warmth into the cauſe. They muſt be able to juſtify to themſelves the paſſion which they feel; and remain ſatisfied that they are not carried away by mere deluſion. Unleſs their minds be brought into this ſtate, although they may have been heated by the Orator's diſ⯑courſe, yet, as ſoon as he ceaſes to ſpeak, they will reſume their ordinary tone of thought; and the emotion which he has raiſed will die entirely away. Hence moſt writers aſſign the Pathetic to the Peroration or Concluſion, as its natural place; and, no doubt, all other things being equal, this is the impreſſion that one would chuſe to make laſt, leaving the minds of the hearers warmed with the ſubject, after argument and reaſoning had produced their full ef⯑fect: but wherever it is introduced, I muſt adviſe,

IN the ſecond place, never to ſet apart a head of diſcourſe in form, for raiſing any paſſion; never give warning that you are about to be pathetic; and call upon your hearers, as is ſometimes done, to follow you in the attempt. This almoſt never fails to prove a refrigerant to paſſion. It puts the [404] hearers immediately on their guard, and diſ⯑poſes them for criticizing, much more than for being moved. The indirect method of making an impreſſion is likely to be more ſucceſsful; when you ſeize the critical mo⯑ment that is favourable to emotion, in what⯑ever part of the diſcourſe it occurs; and then, after due preparation, throw in ſuch circumſtances, and preſent ſuch glowing images, as may kindle their paſſions before they are aware. This can often be done more happily, in a few ſentences inſpired by natural warmth, than in a long and ſtudied Addreſs.

IN the third place, It is neceſſary to ob⯑ſerve, that there is a great difference be⯑tween ſhowing the hearers that they ought to be moved, and actually moving them. This diſtinction is not ſufficiently attended to, eſpecially by Preachers, who, if they have a head in their Sermon to ſhow how much we are bound to be grateful to God, or to be compaſſionate to the diſtreſt, are apt to imagine this to be a pathetic part. Now, all the Arguments you produce to ſhow me, why it is my duty, why it is rea⯑ſonable and fit, that I ſhould be moved in a certain way, go no further than to diſ⯑poſe or prepare me for entering into ſuch an emotion; but they do not actually excite it. To every emotion or paſſion, Nature has adapted a ſet of correſponding objects; and, without ſetting theſe before the mind, [405] it is not in the power of any Orator to raiſe that emotion. I am warmed with grati⯑tude, I am touched with compaſſion, not when a Speaker ſhows me that theſe are noble diſpoſitions, and that it is my duty to feel them; or when he exclaims againſt me for my indifference and coldneſs. All this time, he is ſpeaking only to my reaſon or conſcience. He muſt deſcribe the kind⯑neſs and tenderneſs of my friend; he muſt ſet before me the diſtreſs ſuffered by the perſon for whom he would intereſt me; then, and not till then, my heart begins to be touched, my gratitude or my compaſſion begin to flow. The foundation, therefore, of all ſucceſsful execution in the way of Pathetic Oratory is, to paint the object of that paſſion which we wiſh to raiſe, in the moſt natural and ſtriking manner; to de⯑ſcribe it with ſuch circumſtances as are likely to awaken it in the minds of others. Every paſſion is moſt ſtrongly excited by ſenſation; as anger, by the feeling of an injury, or the preſence of the injurer. Next to the influence of Senſe, is that of Me⯑mory; and next to Memory is, the influ⯑ence of the Imagination. Of this power, therefore, the Orator muſt avail himſelf, ſo as to ſtrike the imagination of the hearers with circumſtances which, in luſtre and ſteadineſs, reſemble thoſe of Senſation and Remembrance. In order to accompliſh this,

[406] IN the fourth place, the only effectual method is, to be moved yourſelves. There are a thouſand intereſting circumſtances ſuggeſted by real paſſion, which no art can imitate, and no refinement can ſupply. There is obviouſly a contagion among the paſſions.

The internal emotion of the Speaker adds a pathos to his words, his looks, his geſtures, and his whole manner, which exerts a pow⯑er almoſt irreſiſtible over thoſe who hear him^*. But on this point, though the moſt material of all, I ſhall not now inſiſt, as I have often had occaſion before to ſhow, that all attempts towards becoming Pathetic, when we are not moved ourſelves, expoſe us to certain ridicule.

QUINCTILIAN, who diſcourſes upon this ſubject with much good ſenſe, takes pains to inform us of the method which he uſed, when he was a Public Speaker, for entering into thoſe paſſions which he want⯑ed [407] to excite in others; ſetting before his own imagination what he calls, ‘"Phanta⯑ſiae"’ or ‘"Viſiones,"’ ſtrong pictures of the diſtreſs or indignities which they had ſuffered, whoſe cauſe he was to plead, and for whom he was to intereſt his hearers; dwelling upon theſe, and putting himſelf in their ſituation, till he was affected by a paſſion ſimilar to that which the perſons themſelves had felt^*. To this method he attributes all the ſucceſs he ever had in Public Speaking; and there can be no doubt, that whatever tends to increaſe an Orator's ſenſibility, will add greatly to his Pathetic Powers.

IN the fifth place, It is neceſſary to at⯑tend to the proper language of the paſſions. We ſhould obſerve in what manner any one expreſſes himſelf who is under the power of a real and a ſtrong paſſion; and we ſhall always find his Language unaffected and ſimple. It may be animated, indeed, with bold and ſtrong figures, but it will have no [408] ornament or finery. He is not at leiſure to follow out the play of Imagination. His mind being wholly ſeized by one object which has heated it, he has no other aim, but to repreſent that, in all its circumſtan⯑ces, as ſtrongly as he feels it. This muſt be the Style of the Orator, when he would be pathetic; and this will be his Style, if he ſpeaks from real feeling; bold, ardent, ſimple. No ſort of deſcription will then ſucceed, but what is written ‘"fervente calamo."’ If he ſtay till he can work up his Style, and poliſh and adorn it, he will infallibly cool his own ardor; and then he will touch the heart no more. His compo⯑ſition will become frigid; it will be the Language of one who deſcribes, but who does not feel. We muſt take notice, that there is a great difference between painting to the imagination, and painting to the heart. The one may be done coolly, and at leiſure: the other, muſt always be rapid and ardent. In the former, art and labour may be ſuffered to appear; in the latter, no effect can follow, unleſs it ſeem to be the work of nature only.

IN the ſixth place, Avoid interweaving anything of a foreign nature with the pathe⯑tic part of a Diſcourſe. Beware of all digreſ⯑ſions, which may interrupt or turn aſide the natural courſe of the paſſion, when once it begins to riſe and ſwell. Sacrifice all beau⯑ties, however bright and ſhowy, which would divert the mind from the principal [409] object, and which would amuſe the imagi⯑nation, rather than touch the heart. Hence compariſons are always dangerous, and generally quite improper, in the midſt of paſſion. Beware even of reaſoning un⯑ſeaſonably; or, at leaſt, of carrying on a long and ſubtile train of reaſoning, on occaſions when the principal aim is to excite warm emotions.

IN the laſt place, Never attempt prolong⯑ing the Pathetic too much. Warm emoti⯑ons are too violent to be laſting^*. Study the proper time of making a retreat; of making a tranſition from the paſſionate to the calm tone; in ſuch a manner, however, as to deſcend without falling, by keeping up the ſame ſtrain of Sentiment that was carried on before, though now expreſſing it with more moderation. Above all things, be⯑ware of ſtraining paſſion too far; of attempt⯑ing to raiſe it to unnatural heights. Pre⯑ſerve always a due regard to what the hear⯑ers will bear; and remember, that he who ſtops not at the proper point; who attempts to carry them farther, in paſſion, than they will follow him, deſtroys his whole deſign. [410] By endeavouring to warm them too much, he takes the moſt effectual method of freez⯑ing them completely.

HAVING given theſe rules concerning the Pathetic, I ſhall give one example from Ci⯑cero, which will ſerve to illuſtrate ſeveral of them, particularly the laſt. It ſhall be taken from his laſt Oration againſt Verres, wherein he deſcribes the cruelty exerciſed by Verres, when Governor of Sicily, againſt one Gavius, a Roman citizen. This Gavi⯑us had made his eſcape from priſon, into which he had been thrown by the Go⯑vernor; and when juſt embarking at Meſ⯑ſina, thinking himſelf now ſafe, had utter⯑ed ſome threats, that when he had once ar⯑rived at Rome, Verres ſhould hear of him, and be brought to account for having put a Roman citizen in chains. The Chief Magiſtrate of Meſſina, a creature of Ver⯑res's, inſtantly apprehends him, and gives information of his threatnings. The be⯑haviour of Verres, on this ocaſion, is de⯑ſcribed in the moſt pictureſque manner, and with all the colours which were proper, in order to excite againſt him the public indig⯑nation. He thanks the Magiſtrate of Meſ⯑ſina for his diligence. Filled with rage, he comes into the Forum; orders Gavius to be brought forth, the executioners to attend, and againſt the laws, and contrary to the well-known privileges of a Roman citizen, commands him to be ſtripped naked, bound, [411] and ſcourged publicly in a cruel manner. Cicero then proceeds thus; ‘"Caedebatur virgis, in medio foro Meſſanae, civis Ro⯑manus, Judices!"’ every word riſes above another in deſcribing this flagrant enormi⯑ty; and, ‘"Judices,"’ is brought out at the end with the greateſt propriety: ‘"Caedeba⯑tur virgis, in medio foro Meſſanae, civis Romanus, Judices! cum interea, nullus gemitus, nulla vox alia iſtius miſeri, inter dolorem crepitumque plagarum audieba⯑tur, niſi haec, Civis Romanus ſum. Hâc ſe commemoratione civitatis, omnia ver⯑bera depulſurum a corpore arbitrabatur. Is non modo hoc non perfecit, ut virga⯑rum vim deprecaretur, ſed cum implora⯑ret ſaepius uſurparetque nomen civis, crux, crux inquam, infelici iſto & aerum⯑noſo, qui nunquam iſtam poteſtatem vi⯑derat, comparabatur. O nomen dulce libertatis! O jus eximium noſtrae civita⯑tis! O Lex Porcia, legeſque Semproniae!—Huccine omnia tandem reciderunt, ut civis Romanus, in provincia populi Ro⯑mani, in oppido foederatorum, ab eo qui beneficio populi Romani faſces et ſecures haberet, deligatus, in foro, virgis caede⯑retur^*?"’

[412] NOTHING can be finer, nor better con⯑ducted than this paſſage. The circum⯑ſtances are well choſen for exciting both the compaſſion of his hearers for Gavius, and their indignation againſt Verres. The ſtyle is ſimple; and the paſſionate Excla⯑mation, the Addreſs to Liberty and the Laws, is well-timed, and in the proper Style of Paſſion. The Orator goes on to exaggerate Verres's cruelty ſtill farther, by another very ſtriking circumſtance. He or⯑dered a gibbet to be erected for Gavius, not in the common place of execution, but juſt by the ſea-ſhore, over againſt the coaſt of Italy. ‘"Let him,"’ ſaid he, ‘"who boaſts ſo much of his being a Roman citizen, take a view from his gibbet of his own country.—This baſe inſult over a dying man is the leaſt part of his guilt. It was not Gavius alone that Verres meant to inſult; but it was you, O Romans! it was every citizen who now hears me; in the per⯑ſon of Gavius, he ſcoffed at your rights, [413] and ſhowed in what contempt he held the Roman name, and Roman liberties."’

HITHERTO all is beautiful, animated, pathetic; and the model would have been perfect, if Cicero had ſtopped at this point. But his redundant and florid genius carried him further. He muſt needs intereſt, not his hearers only, but the beaſts, the moun⯑tains, and the ſtones, againſt Verres: ‘"Si haec non ad cives Romanos, non ad ami⯑cos noſtrae civitatis, non ad eos qui populi Romani nomen audiſſent; denique ſi non ad homines, verum ad beſtias; atque ut longius progrediar, ſi in aliqua deſertiſſima ſolitudine, ad ſaxa et ad ſcopulos, haec conqueri et de⯑plorare vellem, tamen omnia muta atque inanima, tantâ et tam indignâ rerum atrocitate commoverentur^*."’ This, with all the deference due to ſo eloquent an Ora⯑tor, we muſt pronounce to be Declamatory, not Pathetic. This is ſtraining the Lan⯑guage of Paſſion too far. Every hearer ſees this immediately to be a ſtudied figure of Rhetoric; it may amuſe him, but inſtead of inflaming him more, it, in truth, cools [414] his paſſion. So dangerous it is to give ſcope to a flowery imagination, when one intends to make a ſtrong and paſſionate im⯑preſſion.

NO other part of Diſcourſe remains now to be treated of, except the Peroration, or Concluſion. Concerning this, it is need⯑leſs to ſay much, becauſe it muſt vary ſo conſiderably, according to the ſtrain of the preceding Diſcourſe. Sometimes, the whole pathetic part comes in moſt properly at the Peroration. Sometimes, when the Diſ⯑courſe has been entirely argumentative, it is fit to conclude with ſumming up the Arguments, placing them in one view, and leaving the impreſſion of them, full and ſtrong, on the mind of the Audience. For the great rule of a Concluſion, and what nature obviouſly ſuggeſts, is, to place that laſt on which we chooſe that the ſtrength of our cauſe ſhould reſt.

IN Sermons, inferences from what has been ſaid, make a common Concluſion. With regard to theſe, care ſhould be taken, not only that they riſe naturally, but (what is leſs commonly attended to), that they ſhould ſo much agree with the ſtrain of ſen⯑timent throughout the Diſcourſe, as not to break the Unity of the Sermon. For inferences, how juſtly ſoever they [415] may be deduced from the doctrine of the Text, yet have a bad effect, if, at the Concluſion of a Diſcourſe, they introduce ſome ſubject altogether new, and turn off our attention from the main object to which the Preacher had directed our thoughts. They appear, in this caſe, like excreſcences jutting out from the body, which had bet⯑ter have been wanted; and tend to enfee⯑ble the impreſſion, which the Compoſition, as a whole, is calculated to make.

THE moſt eloquent of the French, per⯑haps, indeed, of all modern Orators, Bouſ⯑ſuet, Biſhop of Meaux, terminates in a very moving manner, his funeral Oration on the great Prince of Condé, with this return up⯑on himſelf, and his old age: ‘"Accept, O Prince! theſe laſt efforts of a voice which you once well knew. With you, all my funeral Diſcourſes are now to end. In⯑ſtead of deploring the death of others, henceforth, it ſhall be my ſtudy to learn from you, how my own may be bleſſed. Happy, if warned by thoſe grey heirs, of the account which I muſt ſoon give of my miniſtry, I reſerve, ſolely, for that flock whom I ought to feed with the word of life, the feeble remains of a voice which now trembles, and of an ardor, which is now on the point of being ex⯑tinct^*."’

[416] IN all Diſcourſes, it is a matter of im⯑portance to hit the preciſe time of conclud⯑ing, ſo as to bring our Diſcourſe juſt to a point; neither ending abruptly and unex⯑pectedly; nor diſappointing the expectation of the hearers, when they look for our be⯑ing done; and continuing to hover round and round the Concluſion, till they become hear⯑tily tired of us. We ſhould endeavour to go off with a good grace; not to end with a languiſhing and drawling Sentence; but to cloſe with dignity and ſpirit, that we may leave the minds of the hearers warm; and diſmiſs them with a favourable impreſ⯑ſion of the Subject, and of the Speaker.

LECTURE XXXIII. PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY.

HAVING treated of ſeveral general heads relating to Eloquence, or Pub⯑lic Speaking, I now proceed to another ve⯑ry important part of the ſubject yet remain⯑ing, that is, Pronunciation, or Delivery of a Diſcourſe. How much ſtreſs was laid upon this by the moſt eloquent of all Ora⯑tors, Demoſthenes, appears from a noted ſaying of his, related both by Cicero and Quinctilian; when being aſked, What was the firſt point in Oratory? he anſwered, Delivery; and being aſked, What was the ſecond? and afterwards, What was the third? he ſtill anſwered, Delivery. There is no wonder, that he ſhould have rated this ſo high, and that for improving him⯑ſelf in it, he ſhould have employed thoſe aſſiduous and painful labours, which all the antients take ſo much notice of; for, be⯑yond doubt, nothing is of more importance. [418] To ſuperficial thinkers, the management of the voice and geſture, in Public Speaking, may appear to relate to Decoration only, and to be one of the inferior arts of catching an Audience. But this is far from being the caſe. It is intimately connected with what is, or ought to be, the end of all Pub⯑lic Speaking, Perſuaſion; and therefore de⯑ſerves the ſtudy of the moſt grave and ſe⯑rious Speakers, as much as of thoſe, whoſe only aim it is to pleaſe.

FOR, let it be conſidered, whenever we addreſs ourſelves to others by words, our intention certainly is to make ſome impreſ⯑ſion on thoſe to whom we ſpeak; it is to convey to them our own ideas and emoti⯑ons. Now the tone of our voice, our looks, and geſtures, interpret our ideas and emoti⯑ons no leſs than words do; nay, the im⯑preſſion they make on others, is frequently much ſtronger than any that words can make. We often ſee that an expreſſive look, or a paſſionate cry, unaccompanied by words, convey to others more forcible ideas, and rouſe within them ſtronger paſ⯑ſions, than can be communicated by the moſt eloquent Diſcourſe. The ſignification of our ſentiments, made by tones and geſ⯑tures, has this advantage above that made by words, that it is the Language of nature. It is that method of interpreting our mind, which nature has dictated to all, and which is underſtood by all; whereas, words are [419] only arbitrary, conventional ſymbols of our ideas; and, by conſequence, muſt make a more feeble impreſſion. So true is this, that, to render words fully ſignificant, they muſt, almoſt in every caſe, receive ſome aid from the manner of Pronunciation and De⯑livery; and he who, in ſpeaking, ſhould employ bare words, without enforcing them by proper tones and accents, would leave us with a faint and indiſtinct impreſſion, often with a doubtful and ambiguous con⯑ception, of what he had delivered. Nay, ſo cloſe is the connection between certain ſen⯑timents and the proper manner of pronounc⯑ing them, that he who does not pronounce them after that manner, can never perſuade us, that he believes, or feels, the ſenti⯑ments themſelves. His Delivery may be ſuch, as to give the lie to all that he aſſerts. When Marcus Callidius accuſed one of an attempt to poiſon him, but enforced his ac⯑cuſation in a languid manner, and without any warmth or earneſtneſs of Delivery, Ci⯑cero, who pleaded for the accuſed perſon, improved this into an argument of the fal⯑ſity of the charge, ‘"An tu, M. Callidi niſi fingeres, ſic ageres?"’ In Shakeſpeare's Richard II. the Ducheſs of York thus im⯑peaches the ſincerity of her huſband:

[420] BUT, I believe it is needleſs to ſay any more, in order to ſhow the high importance of a good Delivery. I proceed, therefore, to ſuch obſervations as appear to me moſt uſeful to be made on this head.

THE great objects which every Public Speaker will naturally have in his eye in for⯑ming his Delivery, are, firſt, to ſpeak ſo as to be fully and eaſily underſtood by all who hear him; and next, to ſpeak with grace and force, ſo as to pleaſe and to move his Audience. Let us conſider what is moſt important with reſpect to each of theſe^*.

IN order to be fully and eaſily under⯑ſtood, the four chief requiſites are a due degree of Loudneſs of Voice; Diſtinctneſs; Slowneſs; and Propriety of Pronunciation.

THE firſt attention of every Public Speaker, doubtleſs, muſt be, to make him⯑ſelf be heard by all thoſe to whom he ſpeaks. He muſt endeavour to fill with his voice, the ſpace occupied by the Aſſembly. This power of voice, it may be thought, is wholly a natural talent. It is ſo in a good meaſure; but, however, may receive con⯑ſiderable aſſiſtance from art. Much de⯑pends for this purpoſe on the proper pitch, and management of the voice. Every man [421] has three pitches in his voice; the High, the Middle, and the Low one. The High, is that which he uſes in calling aloud to ſome one at a diſtance. The Low is, when he approaches to a whiſper. The Middle is, that which he employs in common conver⯑ſation, and which he ſhould uſe for ordi⯑nary in public Diſcourſe. For it is a great miſtake, to imagine that one muſt take the higheſt pitch of his voice, in order to be well heard by a great Aſſembly. This is confounding two things which are differ⯑ent, Loudneſs, or Strength of Sound, with the key, or note on which we ſpeak. A Speaker may render his voice louder, with⯑out altering the key; and we will always be able to give moſt body, moſt perſevering force of ſound, to that pitch of voice, to which in converſation we are accuſtomed. Whereas, by ſetting out on our higheſt pitch or key, we certainly allow ourſelves leſs compaſs, and are likely to ſtrain and outrun our voice before we have done. We ſhall fatigue ourſelves, and ſpeak with pain; and whenever a man ſpeaks with pain to himſelf, he is always heard with pain by his Audience. Give the voice there⯑fore full ſtrength and ſwell of ſound: but always pitch it on your ordinary ſpeaking key. Make it a conſtant rule never to ut⯑ter a greater quantity of voice, than you can afford without pain to yourſelves, and without any extraordinary effort. As long [422] as you keep within theſe bounds, the other organs of ſpeech will be at liberty to diſ⯑charge their ſeveral offices with eaſe; and you will always have your voice under command. But whenever you tranſgreſs theſe bounds, you give up the reins, and have no longer any management of it. It is an uſeful rule too, in order to be well heard, to fix our eye on ſome of the moſt diſtant perſons in the Aſſembly, and to con⯑ſider ourſelves as ſpeaking to them. We naturally and mechanically utter our words with ſuch a degree of ſtrength, as to make ourſelves be heard by one to whom we addreſs ourſelves, provided he be within the reach of our voice. As this is the caſe in common converſation, it will hold alſo in Public Speaking. But remember, that in public as well as in converſation, it is poſſible to offend by ſpeaking too loud. This extreme hurts the ear, by making the voice come upon it in rumbling indiſ⯑tinct maſſes; beſides its giving the Speaker the diſagreeable appearance of one who en⯑deavours to compel aſſent, by mere vehe⯑mence and force of ſound.

IN the next place, to being well heard, and clearly underſtood, diſtinctneſs of arti⯑culation contributes more, perhaps, than more loudneſs of ſound. The quantity of ſound neceſſary to fill even a large ſpace, is ſmaller than is commonly imagined; and with diſtinct articulation, a man of a weak [423] voice will make it reach farther, than the ſtrongeſt voice can reach without it. To this, therefore, every Public Speaker ought to pay great attention. He muſt give eve⯑ry ſound which he utters its due proportion, and make every ſyllable, and even every letter in the word which he pronounces, be heard diſtinctly; without ſlurring, whiſ⯑pering, or ſuppreſſing any of the proper ſounds.

IN the third place, In order to articulate diſtinctly, moderation is requiſite with re⯑gard to the ſpeed of pronouncing. Preci⯑pitancy of Speech, confounds all articula⯑tion, and all meaning. I need ſcarcely obſerve, that there may be alſo an extreme on the oppoſite ſide. It is obvious, that a lifeleſs, drawling Pronunciation, which allows the minds of the hearers to be al⯑ways outrunning the Speaker, muſt render every Diſcourſe inſipid and fatiguing. But the extreme of ſpeaking too faſt is much more common, and requires the more to be guard edagainſt, becauſe, when it has grown up into a habit, few errors are more difficult to be corrected. To pronounce with a proper degree of ſlowneſs, and with full and clear Articulation, is the firſt thing to be ſtudied by all who begin to ſpeak in public; and cannot be too much recommended to them. Such a Pronunciation, gives weight and dignity to their Diſcourſe. It is a great aſſiſtance to the [424] voice, by the pauſes and reſts which it allows it more eaſily to make; and it enables the Speaker to ſwell all his ſounds, both with more force, and more muſic. It aſſiſts him alſo in preſerving a due command of him⯑ſelf; whereas a rapid and hurried manner, is apt to excite that flutter of ſpirits, which is the greateſt enemy to all right execution in the way of Oratory. ‘"Promptum ſit os,"’ ſays Quinctilian, ‘"non praeceps, moderatum, non lentum."’

AFTER theſe fundamental attentions to the pitch and management of the voice, to diſtinct Articulation, and to a proper de⯑gree of ſlowneſs of ſpeech, what a Public Speaker muſt, in the fourth place, ſtudy, is, propriety of Pronunciation; or the giv⯑ing to every word, which he utters, that ſound which the moſt polite uſage of the language appropriates to it; in oppoſition, to broad, vulgar, or provincial Pronuncia⯑tion. This is requiſite, both for ſpeaking intelligibly, and for ſpeaking with grace or beauty. Inſtructions concerning this Arti⯑cle, can be given by the living voice only. But there is one obſervation, which it may not be improper here to make. In the Eng⯑liſh Language, every word which conſiſts of more ſyllables than one, has one accent⯑ed ſyllable. The accent reſts ſometimes on the vowel, ſometimes on the conſonant. Seldom, or never, is there more than one accented ſyllable in any Engliſh word, how⯑ever [425] long; and the genius of the language requires the voice to mark that ſyllable by a ſtronger percuſſion, and to paſs more ſlight⯑ly over the reſt. Now, having once learn⯑ed the proper ſeats of theſe accents, it is an important rule, to give every word juſt the ſame accent in Public Speaking, as in com⯑mon Diſcourſe. Many perſons err in this reſpect. When they ſpeak in public, and with ſolemnity, they pronounce the ſylla⯑bles in a different manner from what they do at other times. They dwell upon them, and protract them; they multiply accents on the ſame word; from a miſtaken notion, that it gives gravity and force to their Diſ⯑courſe, and adds to the pomp of Public De⯑clamation. Whereas, this is one of the greateſt faults that can be committed in Pro⯑nunciation; it makes what is called, a the⯑atrical, or mouthing manner; and gives an artificial affected air to Speech, which de⯑tracts greatly both from its agreeableneſs, and its impreſſion.

I PROCEED to treat next of thoſe higher parts of delivery, by ſtudying which, a Speaker has ſomething farther in view than merely to render himſelf intelligible, and ſeeks to give grace and force to what he ut⯑ters. Theſe may be compriſed under four heads, Emphaſis, Pauſes, Tones, and Geſ⯑tures. Let me only premiſe, in general, to what I am to ſay concerning them, that at⯑tention to theſe articles of delivery is by no [426] means to be confined, as ſome might be apt to imagine, to the more elaborate, and pa⯑thetic parts of a Diſcourſe. There is, per⯑haps, as great attention requiſite, and as much ſkill diſplayed, in adapting Emphaſes, Pauſes, Tones, and Geſtures, properly, to calm and plain Speaking; and the effect of a juſt and graceful delivery will, in every part of a ſubject, be found of high import⯑ance for commanding attention, and enforc⯑ing what is ſpoken.

FIRST, Let us conſider Emphaſis; by this, is meant a ſtronger and fuller ſound of voice, by which we diſtinguiſh the accented ſyllable of ſome word, on which we deſign to lay particular ſtreſs, and to ſhow how it affects the reſt of the ſentence. Sometimes the emphatic word muſt be diſtinguiſhed by a particular tone of voice, as well as by a ſtronger accent. On the right management of the Emphaſis, depends the whole life and ſpirit of every Diſcourſe. If no emphaſis be placed on any words, not only is Diſ⯑courſe rendered heavy and lifeleſs, but the meaning left often ambiguous. If the Em⯑phaſis be placed wrong, we pervert and con⯑found the meaning wholly. To give a com⯑mon inſtance; ſuch a ſimple queſtion as this: ‘"Do you ride to town to-day?"’ is capable, of no fewer than four different acceptations ac⯑cording as the Emphaſis is differnetly placed on the words. If it be pronounced thus; do you ride to town to-day? the anſwer [427] may naturally be, No; I ſend my ſervant in my ſtead. If thus; Do you ride to town to-day? Anſwer, No; I intend to walk. Do you ride to town to-day? No; I ride out into the fields. Do you ride to town to-day? No; but I ſhall to-morrow. In like man⯑ner, in ſolemn Diſcourſe, the whole force and beauty of an expreſſion often depends on the accented word; and we may preſent to the hearers quite different views of the ſame Sentiment, by placing the Emphaſis differently. In the following words of our Saviour, obſerve in what different lights the thought is placed, according as the words are pronounced. ‘"Judas, betrayeſt thou the Son of Man with a kiſs?’ Betrayeſt thou—makes the reproach turn, on the in⯑famy of treachery. Betrayeſt thou—makes it reſt, upon Judas's connection with his maſter. Betrayeſt thou the Son of Man—reſts it, upon our Saviour's perſonal charac⯑ter and eminence. Betrayeſt thou the Son of Man with a kiſs? turns it, upon his pro⯑ſtituting the ſignal of peace and friendſhip, to the purpoſe of a mark of deſtruction.

IN order to acquire the proper manage⯑ment of the Emphaſis, the great rule, and indeed the only rule poſſible to be given is, that the Speaker ſtudy to attain a juſt con⯑ception, of the force and ſpirit of thoſe ſentiments which he is to pronounce. For to lay the Emphaſis with exact propriety, is a conſtant exerciſe of good ſenſe, and atten⯑tion [428] It is far from being an inconſiderable attainment. It is one of the greateſt trials of a true and juſt taſte; and muſt ariſe from feeling delicately ourſelves, and from judging accurately, of what is fitteſt to ſtrike the feeling of others. There is as great a difference between a Chapter of the Bible, or any other piece of plain proſe, read by one who places the ſeveral Emphaſes every where, with taſte and judgment, and by one who neglects or miſtakes them, as there is between the ſame tune played by the moſt maſterly hand, or by the moſt bung⯑ling performer.

IN all prepared Diſcourſes, it would be of great uſe, if they were read over or re⯑hearſed in private, with this particular view, to ſearch for the proper Emphaſes be⯑fore they were pronounced in public; mark⯑ing, at the ſame time, with a pen, the em⯑phatical words in every Sentence, or at leaſt in the moſt weighty and affecting parts of the Diſcourſe, and fixing them well in me⯑mory. Were this attention oftener beſtow⯑ed, were this part of Pronunciation ſtudied with more exactneſs, and not left to the moment of delivery, as is commonly done, Public Speakers would find their care abun⯑dantly repaid, by the remarkable effects which it would produce upon their Audi⯑ence. Let me caution, at the ſame time, againſt one error, that of multiplying em⯑phatical words too much. It is only by a [429] prudent reſerve in the uſe of them, that we can give them any weight. If they re⯑cur too often; if a Speaker attempts to render every thing which he ſays of high importance, by a multitude of ſtrong Empha⯑ſes, we ſoon learn to pay little regard to them. To crowd every Sentence with em⯑phatical words, is like crowding all the pages of a Book with Italic Characters, which, as to the effect, is juſt the ſame with uſing no ſuch diſtinctions at all.

NEXT to Emphaſis, the pauſes in Speak⯑ing demand attention. Theſe are of two kinds; firſt, Emphatical Pauſes; and next, ſuch as mark the diſtinctions of Senſe. An Emphatical Pauſe is made, after ſomething has been ſaid of peculiar moment, and on which we want to fix the hearer's attention. Sometimes, before ſuch a thing is ſaid, we uſher it in with a pauſe of this nature. Such pauſes have the ſame effect, as a ſtrong Em⯑phaſis; and are ſubject to the ſame rules; eſpecially to the caution juſt now given, of not repeating them too frequently. For as they excite uncommon attention, and of courſe raiſe expectation, if the importance of the matter be not fully anſwerable to ſuch expectation, they occaſion diſappointment and diſguſt.

BUT the moſt frequent and the principal uſe of pauſes, is to mark the diviſions of [430] the ſenſe, and at the ſame time to allow the Speaker to draw his breath; and the proper and graceful adjuſtment of ſuch pau⯑ſes, is one of the moſt nice and difficult ar⯑ticles in delivery. In all Public Speaking, the management of the breath requires a good deal of care, ſo as not to be obliged to divide words from one another, which have ſo intimate a connection, that they ought to be pronounced with the ſame breath, and without the leaſt ſeparation. Many a ſentence is miſerably mangled, and the force of the Emphaſis totally loſt, by diviſions being made in the wrong place. To avoid this, every one, while he is ſpeak⯑ing, ſhould be very careful to provide a full ſupply of breath for what he is to utter. It is a great miſtake to imagine, that the breath muſt be drawn, only at the end of a period, when the voice is allowed to fall. It can eaſily be gathered at the intervals of the period, when the voice is only ſuſpend⯑ed for a moment; and, by this management, one may have always a ſufficient ſtock for carrying on the longeſt Sentences, without improper interruptions.

IF any one, in Public Speaking, ſhall have formed to himſelf a certain melody or tune, which requires reſt and pauſes of its own, diſtinct from thoſe of the ſenſe, he has, for certain contracted one of the worſt habits into which a Public Speaker can fall. It is the ſenſe which ſhould always rule the [431] pauſes of the voice; for wherever there is any ſenſible ſuſpenſion of the voice, the hearer is always led to expect ſomewhat cor⯑reſponding in the meaning. Pauſes in Pub⯑lic Diſcourſe, muſt be formed upon the manner in which we utter ourſelves in or⯑dinary, ſenſible converſation; and not upon the ſtiff artificial manner which we acquire, from reading books according to the com⯑mon punctuation. The general run of punctuation is very arbitrary; often caprici⯑ous and falſe; and dictates an uniformity of tone in the pauſes, which is extremely diſ⯑agreeable: for we are to obſerve, that to render pauſes graceful and expreſſive, they muſt not only be made in the right place, but alſo be accompanied with a proper tone of voice, by which the nature of theſe pauſes is intimated; much more than by the length of them, which can never be ex⯑actly meaſured. Sometimes it is only a ſlight and ſimple ſuſpenſion of voice that is proper; ſometimes a degree of cadence in the voice is required; and ſometimes that peculiar tone and cadence, which denotes the Sentence finiſhed. In all theſe caſes, we are to regulate ourſelves, by attending to the manner in which Nature teaches us to ſpeak, when engaged in real and earneſt diſcourſe with others.

WHEN we are reading or reciting verſe, there is a peculiar difficulty in making the pauſes juſtly. The difficulty ariſes from [432] the melody of verſe, which dictates to the ear pauſes or reſts of its own; and to adjuſt and compound theſe properly with the pauſes of the ſenſe, ſo as neither to hurt the ear, nor offend the underſtanding, is ſo very nice a matter, that it is no wonder we ſo ſeldom meet with good readers of poetry. There are two kinds of pauſes that belong to the muſic of verſe; one is, the pauſe at the end of the line; and the other, the cae⯑ſural pauſe in the middle of it. With regard to the pauſe at the end of the line, which marks that Strain or Verſe to be finiſhed, Rhyme renders this always ſenſible, and in ſome meaſure compels us to obſerve it in our Pronunciation. In blank verſe, where there is a greater liberty permitted of run⯑ning the lines into one another, ſometimes without any ſuſpenſion in the ſenſe, it has been made a queſtion, Whether in reading ſuch verſe with propriety, any regard at all ſhould be paid to the cloſe of a line? On the Stage, where the appearance of ſpeaking in verſe ſhould always be avoided, there can, I think, be no doubt, that the cloſe of ſuch lines as make no pauſe in the ſenſe, ſhould not be rendered perceptible to the ear. But on other occaſions, this were improper: for what is the uſe of melody, or for what end has the Poet compoſed in verſe, if in reading his lines, we ſuppreſs his numbers; and degrade them, by our Pronunciation, into mere proſe? We ought, therefore, certainly to read blank verſe ſo, as to make [433] every line ſenſible to the ear. At the ſame time in doing ſo, every appearance of ſing⯑ſong and tone, muſt be carefully guarded againſt. The cloſe of the line, where it makes no pauſe in the meaning, ought to be marked, not by ſuch a tone as is uſed in finiſhing a ſentence; but without either letting the voice fall, or elevating it, it ſhould be marked only by ſuch a ſlight ſuſ⯑penſion of ſound, as may diſtinguiſh the paſſage from one line to another, without injuring the meaning.

THE other kind of muſical pauſe, is that which falls ſomewhere about the middle of the verſe, and divides it into two hemiſ⯑tichs; a pauſe, not ſo great as that which belongs to the cloſe of the line, but ſtill ſenſible to an ordinary ear. This, which is called the caeſural pauſe, in the French heroic verſe falls uniformly in the middle of the line. In the Engliſh, it may fall af⯑ter the 4th, 5th, 6th or 7th ſyllables in the line, and no other. Where the verſe is ſo conſtructed, that this caeſural pauſe coincides with the ſlighteſt pauſe or divi⯑ſion in the ſenſe, the line can be read eaſi⯑ly; as in the two firſt verſes of Mr. Pope's Meſſiah,

[434] But if it ſhall happen that words, which have ſuch a ſtrict and intimate connection, as not to bear even a momentary ſepara⯑tion, are divided from one another by this caeſural pauſe, we then feel a ſort of ſtrug⯑gle between the ſenſe and the ſound, which renders it difficult to read ſuch lines grace⯑fully. The rule of proper Pronunciation in ſuch caſes is, to regard only the pauſe which the ſenſe forms; and to read the line accordingly. The neglect of the caeſural pauſe, may make the line ſound ſomewhat unharmoniouſly; but the effect would be much worſe, if the ſenſe were ſacrificed to the ſound. For inſtance, in the following line of Milton,

THE ſenſe clearly dictates the pauſe af⯑ter "illumine," at the end of the third ſyl⯑lable, which, in reading, ought to be made accordingly; though, if the melody only were to be regarded, "illumine" ſhould be connected with what follows, and the pauſe not made till the 4th or 6th ſyllable. So in the following line of Mr. Pope's (Epiſtle to Dr. Arbuthnot):

The ear plainly paints out the caeſural pauſe as ſalling after "ſad," the 4th ſylla⯑ble. [435] But it would be very bad reading to make any pauſe there, ſo as to ſeperate "ſad" and "civility." The ſenſe admits of no other pauſe than after the ſecond ſyllable "ſit," which therefore muſt be the only pauſe made in the reading.

I PROCEED to treat next of Tones in Pro⯑nunciation, which are different both from emphaſis and pauſes; conſiſting in the modu⯑lation of the voice, the notes or variations of ſound which we employ in Public Speaking. How much of the propriety, the force and grace of Diſcourſe, muſt de⯑pend on theſe, will appear from this ſingle conſideration; that to almoſt every ſenti⯑ment we utter, more eſpecially to every ſtrong emotion, Nature hath adapted ſome peculiar tone of voice; inſomuch, that he who ſhould tell another that he was very angry, or very grieved, in a tone which did not ſuit ſuch emotions, inſtead of being believed, would be laughed at. Sympathy is one of the moſt powerful principles by which Perſuaſive Diſcourſe works its effect. The Speaker endeavours to transfuſe into his hearers his own ſentiments and emo⯑tions; which he can never be ſucceſsful in doing, unleſs he utters them in ſuch a man⯑ner as to convince the hearers that he feels them^*. The proper language and expreſ⯑ſion [436] of tones, therefore, deſerves to be at⯑tentively ſtudied by every one who would be a ſucceſsful Orator.

THE greateſt and moſt material inſtruc⯑tion which can be given for this purpoſe is, to form the tones of Public Speaking upon the tones of ſenſible and animated conver⯑ſation. We may obſerve that every man, when he is much in earneſt in common Diſcourſe, when he is engaged in ſpeaking on ſome ſubject which intereſts him nearly, has an eloquent or perſuaſive tone and manner. What is the reaſon of our being often ſo frigid and unperſuaſive in Public Diſcourſe, but our departing from the na⯑tural tone of Speaking, and delivering our⯑ſelves in an affected artificial manner? No⯑thing can be more abſurd than to imagine, that as ſoon as one mounts a Pulpit, or riſes in a Public Aſſembly, he is inſtantly to lay aſide the voice with which he ex⯑preſſes himſelf in private; to aſſume a new, [437] ſtudied tone, and a cadence altogether fo⯑reign to his natural manner. This has vitiated all delivery; this has given riſe to cant and tedious monotony, in the different kinds of Modern Public Speaking, eſpecially in the Pulpit. Men departed from Nature; and ſought to give a beauty or force, as they imagined, to their Diſcourſe, by ſub⯑ſtituting certain ſtudied muſical tones, in the room of the genuine expreſſions of ſen⯑timent, which the voice carries in natural Diſcourſe. Let every Public Speaker guard againſt this error. Whether he ſpeak in a private room, or in a great Aſſembly, let him remember that he ſtill ſpeaks. Follow Nature: conſider how ſhe teaches you to utter any ſentiment or feeling of your heart. Imagine a ſubject of debate ſtarted in con⯑verſation among grave and wiſe men, and yourſelf bearing a ſhare in it. Think after what manner, with what tones and inflex⯑ions of voice, you would on ſuch an occa⯑ſion expreſs yourſelf, when you was moſt in earneſt, and ſought moſt to be liſtened to. Carry theſe with you to the Bar, to the Pulpit, or to any Public Aſſembly; let theſe be the foundation of your manner of pronouncing there; and you will take the ſureſt method of rendering your delivery both agreeable, and perſuaſive.

I HAVE ſaid, Let theſe converſation tones be the foundation of Public Pronunci⯑ation; for, on ſome occaſions, ſolemn Pub⯑lic [438] Speaking requires them to be exalted beyond the ſtrain of common Diſcourſe. In a formal ſtudied Oration, the elevation of the Style, and the harmony of the Sentences, prompt, almoſt neceſſarily, a modulation of voice more rounded, and bordering more upon muſic, than converſation admits. This gives riſe to what is called, the Declai⯑ming Manner. But though this mode of Pronunciation runs conſiderably beyond or⯑dinary Diſcourſe, yet ſtill it muſt have, for its baſis, the natural tones of grave and dig⯑nified converſation. I muſt obſerve, at the ſame time, that the conſtant indulgence of a declamatory manner, is not favourable ei⯑ther to good compoſition, or good delivery; and is in hazard of betraying Public Speak⯑ers into that monotony of tone and ca⯑dence, which is ſo generally complained of. Whereas, he who forms the general run of his delivery upon a ſpeaking manner, is not likely ever to become diſagreeable through monotony. He will have the ſame natural variety in his tones, which a perſon has in converſation. Indeed, the perfec⯑tion of delivery requires both theſe differ⯑ent manners, that of ſpeaking with liveli⯑neſs and eaſe, and that of declaiming with ſtatelineſs and dignity, to be poſſeſſed by one man; and to be employed by him, accord⯑ing as the different parts of his Diſcourſe require either the one or the other. This is a perfection which not many attain; the greateſt part of Public Speakers, allowing [439] their delivery to be formed altogether acci⯑dentally; according as ſome turn of voice appears to them moſt beautiful, or ſome ar⯑tificial model has caught their fancy; and acquiring, by this means, a habit of Pro⯑nunciation, which they can never vary. But the capital direction, which ought ne⯑ver to be forgotten is, to copy the proper tones for expreſſing every ſentiment from thoſe which Nature dictates to us, in con⯑verſation with others; to ſpeak always with her voice; and not to form to our⯑ſelves a fantaſtic public manner, from an abſurd fancy of its being more beautiful than a natural one^*.

IT now remains to treat of geſture, or what is called action in public Diſcourſe. Some nations animate their words in com⯑mon converſation, with many more motions of the body than others do. The French and the Italians are, in this reſpect, much more ſprightly than we. But there is no nation, hardly any perſon ſo phlegmatic, as not to accompany their words with ſome actions and geſticulations, on all occaſions, when they are much in earneſt. It is there⯑fore [440] unnatural in a Public Speaker, it is inconſiſtent with that earneſtneſs and ſeri⯑ouſneſs which he ought to ſhow in all af⯑fairs of moment, to remain quite unmoved in his outward appearance; and to let the words drop from his mouth, without any expreſſion of meaning, or warmth in his geſture.

THE fundamental rule as to propriety of action, is undoubtedly the ſame with what I gave as to propriety of tone. Attend to the looks and geſtures, in which earneſtneſs, indignation, compaſſion, or any other emo⯑tion, diſcovers itſelf to moſt advantage in the common intercourſe of men; and let theſe be your model. Some of theſe looks and geſtures are common to all men; and there are alſo certain peculiarities of manner which diſtinguiſh every individual. A Public Speaker muſt take that manner which is moſt natural to himſelf. For it is here, juſt as in tones. It is not the buſi⯑neſs of a Speaker to form to himſelf a cer⯑tain ſet of motions and geſtures, which he thinks moſt becoming and agreeable, and to practiſe theſe in public, without their having any correſpondence to the manner which is natural to him in private. His geſtures and motions ought all to carry that kind of expreſſion which nature has dictat⯑ed to him; and, unleſs this be the caſe, it is impoſſible, by means of any ſtudy, to avoid their appearing ſtiff and forced.

[441] HOWEVER, although nature muſt be the groundwork, I admit that there is room in this matter for ſome ſtudy and art. For many perſons are naturally ungraceful in the motions which they make; and this un⯑gracefulneſs might, in part at leaſt, be re⯑formed by application and care. The ſtudy of action in Public Speaking, conſiſts chief⯑ly in guarding againſt awkward and diſa⯑greeable motions, and in learning to perform ſuch as are natural to the Speaker, in the moſt becoming manner. For this end, it has been adviſed by Writers on this ſub⯑ject, to practice before a mirror, where one may ſee, and judge of their own geſtures. But I am afraid, perſons are not always the beſt judges of the gracefulneſs of their own motions; and one may declaim long enough before a mirror, without correcting any of his faults. The judgment of a friend, whoſe good taſte they can truſt, will be found of much greater advantage to begin⯑ners, than any mirror they can uſe. With regard to particular rules concerning action and geſticulation, Quinctilian has delivered a great many, in the laſt Chapter of the 11th Book of his Inſtitutions; and all the Modern Writers on this ſubject have done little elſe but tranſlate them. I am not of opinion, that ſuch rules, delivered either by the voice or on paper, can be of much uſe, [442] unleſs perſons ſaw them exemplified before their eyes^*.

I SHALL only add further on this head, that in order to ſucceed well in delivery, no⯑thing is more neceſſary than for a Speaker to guard againſt a certain flutter of ſpirits, which is peculiarly incident to thoſe who begin to ſpeak in public. He muſt endea⯑vour [443] above all things to be recollected, and maſter of himſelf. For this end, he will find nothing of more uſe to him, than to ſtudy to become wholly engaged in his ſub⯑ject; to be poſſeſſed with a ſenſe of its im⯑portance or ſeriouſneſs; to be concerned much more to perſuade, than to pleaſe. He will generally pleaſe moſt, when pleaſ⯑ing is not his ſole nor chief aim. This is the only rational and proper method of raiſ⯑ing one's ſelf above that timid and baſhful regard to an Audience, which is ſo ready to diſconcert a Speaker, both as to what he is to ſay, and as to his manner of ſaying it.

I CANNOT conclude, without an earneſt admonition to guard againſt all affectation, which is the certain ruin of good delivery. Let your manner, whatever it is, be your own; neither imitated from another, nor aſſumed upon ſome imaginary model, which is unnatural to you. Whatever is native, even though accompanied with ſeveral de⯑fects, yet is likely to pleaſe; becauſe it ſhows us a man; becauſe it has the appear⯑ance of coming from the heart. Whereas a delivery, attended with ſeveral acquired graces and beauties, if it be not eaſy and free, if it betray the marks of art and affec⯑tation, never fails to diſguſt. To attain any extremely correct, and perfectly grace⯑ful delivery, is what few can expect; ſo many natural talents being requiſite to con⯑cur in forming it. But to attain, what as [444] to the effect is very little inferior, a forcible and perſuaſive manner, is within the pow⯑er of moſt perſons; if they will only unlearn falſe and corrupt habits; if they will only unlearn falſe and corrupt habits; if they will allow themſelves to follow nature, and will ſpeak in public, as they do in private, when they ſpeak in earneſt, and from the heart. If one has naturally any groſs defects in his voice or geſtures, he begins at the wrong end, if he attempts at reforming them, on⯑ly when he is to ſpeak in public. He ſhould begin with rectifying them, in his private manner of Speaking; and then car⯑ry to the Public the right habit he has form⯑ed. For when a Speaker is engaged in a Public Diſcourſe, he ſhould not be then employing his attention about his manner, or thinking of his tones and his geſtures. If he be ſo employed, ſtudy and affectation will appear. He ought to be then quite in earneſt; wholly occupied with his ſubject and his ſentiments; leaving Nature, and previouſly formed habits, to prompt and ſuggeſt his manner of Delivery.