THE Albert M. Shipp Library By Miss Susie V. Shipp November, 1921 Digitized by tine Internet Arcliive in 2015 I Iittps://arcliive.org/details/drblairslectures01blai Dean^s Stereotype Edition, DR. BLAIR'S LECTUEES 01 EHETOEIC. ABRIDaED, WITH QUESTIONS. PHILADELPHIA : J. B. LIPPINCOTT ;& CO. 1857. Entered accordiug to the Act of Congress. Ir? the year one Thousand Eight Hundred and Forty- Kight, by W E. Dean, in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New Yor? ADVERTISEMENT. The want of a system of Rhetoric upon a concis plan, and at an easy price, will, it is presumed, render this httle volume acceptable to the pubKc. To collect knowledge, which is scattered over a wide extent, into a small compass, if it has not the merit of originality, has at least the advantage of being useful. Many, who are terrified at the idea of travelling over a ponderous volume in search of in- formation, will yet set out on a short journey in pursuit of science with alacrity and profit. Those, for whom the following essays are principally intended, will derive peculiar benefit from the brevity with which they are conveyed. To youth, who are engaged in the rudiments of learning ; whose time and attention must be occupied by a variety of sub- jects ; every branch of science should be rendered as concise as possible. Hence the attention is not fatigued, nor the memory overloaded. That the knov/ledge of Rhetoric forms a very material part of the education of a pohte scholar must be universally allowed. An attempt, there- fore, however imperfect, to make so useful an art more generally known, has claim to that praise which is the reward of good mtention. With this the editor will be sufficiently satisfied ; since being serviceable to others is the most agi-eeable method of becoming contented udtli ourselves. The arrangement of the questions, as in this edi- tion, is evidently more convenient, than the plan of placing them at the close of the lecture, the end of .iie book, or in a separate pamphlet. S4550T LECTUKES ON RHETORIC. LECTURE 1. ' INTRODUCTION. A PROPER acquaintance with, the circle of hberal arts is requisite to the study of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres. To extend the knowledge of them must be the first care of those who wish, either to write with reputation, or so to express themselves in public, as to . command attention. Among the ancients it was an essentia] principle, that the orator ought to be conver- sant in every department of learning. No art indeed can be contrived which can stamp merit on a compo- sition, rich or splendid in expression, but bari'en or er- roneous in sentiment. Oratory, it is true, has often been disgraced by attempts to establish a false ci-ite- rion of its value. Writers have endeavoured to supply want of matter by graces of composition ; and cointed the temporary applause of the ignorant instead of the lasting approbation of the discerning. But such im- posture must be short and transitory. The body and substance of any valuable composition must be form- ed of knowledge and science. Rhetoric completes the structure, and adds the poHsh ; but &m and so- lid bodies only are able to receive it. What is requisite for the study of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres ? —What must be the first care ? — AVhat was an essential principle among the ancients ? — What cannot art do ?— How has oratory been disgraced ? — What ha\e writers attempted to do ? — AVhat will be the result of such imposture ?— Of what must the body and sub- stance of any valuable composition be formed ? — What does rhe- toric do ? — AVhat bodies only are able to receive it ? 6 INTRODUCTION. Among tlie learned it lias long been a contested, and remains still an undecided question, whether na- tm-e or art contribute most toward excellence in wilt- ing and discourse. Various may be the opinions with respect to the manner, in which art can most ef- fectually furnish aid for such a purpose ; and it were presumption to assert, that rhetorical rules, how just soever, are sufficient to form an orator. Private ap- phcation and study, supposing natural genius to be favourable, are certainly superior to any system of public instruction. But, though rules and instructions cannot effect every thing which is requisite, they may be of considerable use. If they cannot inspire genius, they can give it direction and assistance. K they cannot make barrenness fruitful, they can cor- rect redundancy. They present proper models for imitation ; they point out the principal beauties which ought to be studied, and the chief faults which ought to be avoided, and consequently, tend to enlighten taste, and to conduct genius from unnatural deviations into its proper channel. Though they are incapable of producing great excellencies, they may at least serve to prevent considerable mistakes. In the education of youth, no object has appeared more important to wise men in every age, than to ex- cite in them an early relish for the entertainments of taste. From these to the discharge of the higher and more important duties of life the transition is natural and easy. Of those minds which have this elegant and liberal turn, the most pleasing hopes may be en- tertained. On the contrary, entire insensibihty to What question has been long contested among the learned ?-- What opinions may be various ? — What would be presumption to assert ? — What is superior to any system of instruction ? — Are rules and instructions of any use ?— Of what use are they ? In the education of youth what has been an important object ? — How is the transition from this to the discharge of the more im- portant duties of life ?— Of whom may pleasing hopes be enter- INTRODUCTION. 7 eloquence, poetry, or any of tlie fine arts, may justly be considered as a bad sjniiptom in youth ; and sup- poses them inclined to low gratifications, or capable of being engaged only in the common pursuits of life. Improvement of taste seems to be more or less con- nected with eveiy good and virtuous disposition. By giving frequent exercises to the tender and hu- mane passions, a cultivated taste increases sensibili- ty ; yet, at the same time, it tends to soften the moi^ violent and angry emotions. Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes Emollit mores, nec sinit esse f eras. These polished arts have humaniz'd mankind. Softened the rude and calmed the boisterous mind. Poetry, eloquence, and history, continually exhibit to our view those elevated sentiments and high exam- . pies, which tend to nourish in our minds public spirit, love of gloiy, contempt of external fortune, and admi- ration of everything truly gi-eat, noble, and illus- trious. taincd ?— What may he considered a had symptom in youth ?— What does it suppose them ? What is improvement of taste more or less connected vrith ?— What is said of poetry, eloquence and history ? [ 8 ] LECTURE II. TASTE. Taste is "the power of receiving pleasure or pain from the beauties or deformities of nature and of art." It is a faculty common in some degTee to all men. Through the circle of human narture, nothing is more general, than the relish of beauty of one kind or other ; of what is orderly, proportioned, grand, har- monious, new, or sprightly. Nor does there prevail less generally a disrelish of whatever is gi'oss, dispro- portioned, disorderly, and discordant. In children the rudiments of taste appear very early in a thousand instances ; in their partiality for regular bodies, their fondness for pictures and statues, and their warm at- tachment to whatever is new or astonishing. The most stupid peasants receive pleasure from tales and ballads, and are delighted with the beautiful appear- ances of nature in the earth and heavens. Even in the deserts of America, w^here human nature appears in its most uncultivated state, the savages have their ornaments of dress, their w^ar and their death songs, their harangues and their orators. The principles of taste must therefore be deeply founded in the human mmd. To have some discernment of beauty is no less essential to man, than to possess the attributes of speech and reason. Though no human being can be entirely devoid of this faculty, yet it is possessed in very different de- grees. In some men only faint ghmmerings of taste are visible ; iae beauties which they relish are of the What is the subject of this lecture ? — What is taste ? — Is it common to all men ? — What do men relish ? — W^hat do they dis- relish ? — How do the rudiments of taste appear in children ? — How does taste appear in peasants ? — How in savages ? — What must we conclude therefore ? How is this faculty possessed among men? TASTE. 9 coarsest kind ; and of these they have only a ^eak and confused impression ; while in others, taste rises to an acute discernment, and a lively enjoyment of the most refined beauties. This inequality of taste among men is to be ascribed undoubtedly in part, to the different frame of their natm-es ; to nicer organs, and more dehcate internal powers, mth which sonae are endued beyond others ; yet it is owing still more to culture and education. Taste is certainly one of the most improvable faculties of our natm-e. We may easily be con^dnced of the truth of this assertion, by only reflecting on that im- mense superiority, which education and improvement give to ci\dlized, above barbarous nations, in refine- ment of taste ; and on the advantage, which they give in the same nation, to those who have studied the libe- ral arts, above the rude and ilhterate \'ulgar. Reason and good sense have so extensive an influ- ence on aU the operations and decisions of taste, that a completely good taste may weU be considered, as a power compounded of natiu'al sensibility to beauty, and of improved imderstanding. To be satisfied of this, we may observe, that the gTeater part of the pro- ductions of genius are no other than imitations of na- ture : representations of the characters, actions, or manners of men. Now the pleasure we experience &om such imitations or representations, is founded on mere taste ; but to judge, whether they may be pro- perly executed, belongs to " the understanding, which compares the copy with the original. In reading, for instance, the Eneid of Vhgil, a great part of our pleasiue arises from the proper conduct of the plan or story ; from all the parts being joined to- To what is this inequality of taste to be ascribed ? Is taste an improvable faculty ? — IIow may we be convinced of this ? \Vhat influence do reason and good sense have upon the opera- tions and decisions of taste ? — How may we be satisfied of this 1 • Illustrate. 10 TASTE. gether with probability and due connection ; from tlie adoption of the characters from nature, the corres- pondence of the sentiments to the characters, and of the style to the sentiments. The pleasure which is derived fi-om a poem so, conducted, is felt or enjoyed by taste, as an internal sense ; but the discovery of tliis conduct in the poem is owing to reason ; and the more reason enables us to discover such propri- ety in the conduct, the greater will be our pleasure. The constituents of taste, when brought to its most perfect state, are two, delicacy and correctness. Delicacy of taste refers principally to the perfection of that natural sensibility, on which taste is founded. It implies those finer organs or powers, which enable us to discover beauties that are concealed from a vid- gar eye. It is judged of by the same marks, that we employ in judging of the delicacy of an external sense. As the goodness of the palate is not tried by strong flavours, but by a mixture of ingi-edients, where, not^vithstanding the confusion, we remain sensible of each ; so delicacy of internal taste ap- pears, by a quick and lively sensibility to its finest, most compounded, or most latent objects. (Correctness of taste respects the improvement this faculty receives through its connection with the un- derstanding. A man of correct taste is one, who is never imposed on by counterfeit beauties ; who car- ries always, in his own mind, that standard of good sense, which he employs in judging of every thing. He estimates with propriety the relative merit of the several beauties which he meets in any work of ge- nius ; refers them to their proper classes ; assigns the principles as far as they can be traced, whence tlieir power of pleasing is derived ; and is pleased How many are the constituents of taste ? — What are they ? What doe§( delicacy of taste refer to principally ? — What does it Imply I — How is it judged of ? Whzt is correctness of taste ? — What is a man of correct taste ? TASTE. 11 liiniself precisely in tliat degTee, in y.-McIl lie oiigiit, and no more. Taste is certainly not an arbitrary principle, wliieli is subject to the fancy of every individual, and %v]iicli adjuits no critenon for determining, whether it be true or fiilse. Its foundation is the same in e\'ery liuman '"mind. It is btiik iipun sentiments and perceptions, '\vTITch are iri-i;-i-;;iab:e from our nature ; and which generally operate the same unifonnity as our other intellectual principles. AVIi.-n tlic-'r >L-iitiiri'"^nt3 are perverted by ignorance or prLjUvlioe, they may be rectified by reason. Their sound and natuiral state is finally determined by comparing them with the gene- ral taste of mankind. Let men declaim as much as they please, concerning the caprice and uncertainty of taste ; it is found by experience, that there are beau- ties, which, if displayed in a proper light, have power to command lasting and universal admiration. In every compo.-ition, what intc-rests the imog:ii:it: ^ n. and tc-uches the heart, gives pleasure to all a„\.- ;abl na- tions. There is a certain stiing, which being pro- perly struck, the human heart is so made, as to ac- cord to it. Hence the universal testimony, which the most unproved nations of the earth, through a long series of ages, have conctirred to bestow on some few works of genius ; such as the Ihad of Homer, and the Eneid of Virgil. Hence the authority which such vrorks have attained, as standards of poetical compo- sition ; since by them we are enabled to collect, what the sense of mankind is, with respect to those beau- ties, Avhich give them the highest pleasure, and Is taste an arbitrary principle ? Is its foundation tlm same in every mind ? — "What is it-. built up- on ? — How do they operate ? — How may these sentiments be recti- fied when perTeiied ? — IIow is tht-ir sound and natural state deter- min-'d ? — Wh-u may men do ? — Vs'h^n i- louud by experience ? "VMiat is udducea in frci'f of this ? — ^Vhat may auihc riry or pre*" judice do ?— How arc his faults diicoyertd ?- What is seen ?— What does time do .' 12 CRITICISM. wliich, tlierefore, poetry ouglit to exhibit. Authority or prejudice may, in .one age or country, give a short- lived reputation to an indifferent poet, or a bad artist ; but when foreigners or posterity examine his works, his faults are discovered, and the genuine taste of human nature is seen. Time overthrows the illusionsi of opinion, but estabhshes the decisions of nature. i LECTURE III. CRITICISM.— GENIUS.— PLEASURES OF TASTE.— SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. True criticism is the application of taste and of good sense to the several fine arts. Its design is to distinguish what is beautiful, and what is faulty, in every performance. From particular instances it ascends to general principles, and gradually forms rules or conclusions concerning the several kinds of beauty in works of genius. Criticism is an art founded entirely on experience ; on the observation of such beauties as have been found to please mankind most generally. For ex- ample, Aristotle's rules concerning the unity of ac- tion in dramatic and epic composition, were not first discovered by logical reasoning, and then applied to poetry ; but they were deduced from the practice of Homer and Sophocles. They were founded upon'* observing the superior pleasure which we derive fi'om the relation of an action, which is one and en- tire, beyond what we receive fi:om the relation of scattered and unconnected facts. What is the subject of this lecture ?— What is true criticism ? What is its design ? — How does it ascend ? — What does it gradually form What IS criticism founded on ? — Example ? CRITICISM. 13 A supeiior genius, indeed, will of himself, iinin- stmcted, compose in such manner as is agreeable to the most important rules of criticism ; for, as these rules are founded in nature, nature will frequently suggest them in practice. Homer was acquainted with no system of the art of poetry. Guided by ge- nius alone, he composed in verse a regular story, which all succeeding ages have admu-ed. This, however, is no argument against the usefulness of criticism. For since no human genius is perfect, there is no writer who may not receive assistance from critical observations upon the beauties and faults of those who have gone before him. No rules in- deed can supply the defects of genius, or inspire it, where it is wanting; but they may often guide it in- to its proper channel ; they may correct its extrava- gancies, and teach it the most just and proper imi- tation of nature. Critical rules are intended chiefly to point out the faults, which ought to be avoided. We must be indebted to natm-e for the production of eminent beauties. Genius is a word which in common acceptation extends much further than to objects of taste. It signifies that talent or aptitude which we receive from nature, in order to excel in any one thing whatever. A man is said to have a genius for mathematics as well as a genius for poetry; a genius for war, for TX>htics, or for any mechanical emplojTuent. Genius may be gTcatly improved by art and study ; b it by them alone it cannot be acquired. As it is a higher faculty than taste, it is ever, according to the common fi-ugality of nature, more hmited in the What is said of a superior genius ? — What is said of Homer ? Why is this no argument against the usefulness of criticism? — What cannot rules do ? — What may they do ? — What are they in- tended for chiefly ?— For what must we be indebted to nature ? What is genius ? How may it be improved ?— Can it be acquired by these ? — How does it differ from taste ?— What persons are not unfrequently to 2 GENIUS. sphere of its operations. There are persons, not unfrequently to be met, who have an excellent taste in several of the polite arts ; such as music, poetry, painting, and eloquence ; but an excellent performer in all these arts is very seldom found ; or rather is not to be looked for. A universal genius, or one who is equally and indifferently inclined toward se- veral different professions and arts, is not likely to excel in any. Although there may be some few ex- ceptions, yet in general it. is true, that, v/hen tha mind is wholly directed toward some one object ex- clusively of others, ^here is the fairest prospect of eminence in that, whatever it may be. Extreme heat can be produced only when the rays converge to a single point. Young persons are highly inte- rested in this remark; since it may teach them to examine with care, and to pursue with ardour, that path, which nature has marked out for their pecuhar exertions. The nature of taste, the nature and importance of criticism, and the distinction between taste and ge- nius, being thus explained ; the sources of the plea- sures of taste shall next be considered. Here a very extensive field is opened ; no less than all the pleasures of the imagination, as they are generally called, whether aftbrded us by natural objects, or by imita- tions and descriptions of them. It is not, however, necessary to the pui-pose of the present work, that all these be examined fully ; the pleasure which we re- ceive fi'om discourse or writing being the principal object of them. Our design is to give some opening into the pleasures of taste in general, and to insist more particularly upon sublimity and beauty. be met with ?— What is said of a tmiversal genius ? — When is there the fairest prospect of eminence in any one object ? — Illustrate.— Vho are interested in this remark ? — Why ? What has been explained ? — What is next to he considered T— »f hat field is here opened ?— What is not necessary 1 — What then is the design of the author t PLEASURES OF TASTE. 15 We are far from lia-^-ing yet attained any s}T;tein concerning tliis subject. A regular inquiry into it was first attempted by Mr. Addison, in his essay on the Pleasures of tlie Imagination. By Mm these pleasures are ai'ranged under three heads, beauty, gi-andeur, and novelty. His speculations on this sub- ject, if not i-emarkably profound, are yery beautiful and entertaining; and he has the merit of ha\dng discovered a track, v^diich -svas before untrodden. Since his time, the advances made in this part of philosophical criticism, are not considerable ; which is owing, doubtless, to that thinness and subtilty which are discovered to be properties of all the feeling's of taste. It is difficult to enumerate the several objects which give pleasure to taste ; it is more difficult to define all those, which have been discovered, and to range them in proper classes ; and, when we would proceed further, and investigate the efficient causes of the pleasm-e which we receive from such objects, here we find ourselves at the gTeatest loss. For example, we all learn by experience, that some figures of- bodies appear more beautiful than othei-s ; on fm-thei inquiry we discover that the regularity of some » figures, and the graceful variety of others, are the foundation of the beauty which we discern in them; but, when we endeavciu' to go a step beyond this, and inquire, why regularity and variety produce in our minds the sensation of beauty ; any reason, we can assign, is extremely imperfect. Those fii"st principles of mternal sensation, natm^e appeal's to have stu- 'diously concealed. It is some consolation, however, that, although the efficient cause is obscure, the final cause of those sen- What are we far from having attained ?— Who first attempted a regular in':iuiry into the subject ?— How did he range these plea- sures ' — \\ hat is said of his speculations T—AVhat have been tae advances in this subject since his time? — What is it owing tot — 1^ Example. What Lj said of the efficient cause of these sensations 1 — What 16 PLEASURES OF TASTE. sations lies commonly more open ; and here we must observe the strong impressiop. which the powers of taste and imagination are calculated to give us of the benevolence of our Creator. By these powers he hath widely enlarged the sphere of the pleasures of human life ; and those too of a kind the most pure and innocent. The necessary purposes of life migh have been answered, though our eenses of seeing and hearing had only served to distinguish external ob jects, without giving us any of those refined and ^delicate sensations of beauty and grandem-, with which we are now so much delighted. The pleasure, which arises from sublimity or gi*an- deur, deserves to be fuUy considered; because it has a character more precise and distinctly marked, than any other of the pleasures of the imagination, and because it coincides more directly with our main subject. The simplest form of external grandeur is seen in the vast and boundless prospects presented to us by nature; such as widely extended plains, of which the eye can find no hmits ; the firmament of heaven ; or the boundless expanse of the ocean. All vastness produces the impression of sublimity. Space, however extended in length, makes not so ' strong an impression, as height or depth. Though a boundless plain is a grand object; yet a lofty moun- tain to which we look up, or an awful precipice or tower, whence we look down on objects below, i still more so. The excessive gi^andeur of the firma ment arises from its height, added to its boundless extent; and that of the ocean, not fi'om its exten alone, hut from the continual motion and irresistible of the final cause ? — What impression are they calculated to give ?— Explain. What deserves fully to be consid^^red ?— Why ?— Where is seen the simplest form of external grandeur ? — What impression does Tastness produce? — What is said of space 1 — Examples. — What does the excessive grandeur of the firmament arise from 1 — What the ocean — What is necessary to grandeixr where space is con- SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 17 force of that mass of waters. Wherever space is eon- cerned, it is evident that amphtude, or greatness of extent, in one dimension or other, is necessary U gi-andenr. Remove all bounds from any object, and you immediately render it sublime. Hence inlinitc- tpace, endless numbers, and eternal duration, fill the mind with great ideas. The most copious source of subhme ideas seems to DC derived from the exertion of great power and force. Hence the grandeur of earthquakes and burning mountains ; of great conflagrations ; of the boisterous ocean ; of the tempestuous storm ; of thunder and hghtning; and of all the unusual violence of the ele- ments. A stream which glides along gently within its banks, is a beautifid object; but, when it rushes down with the impetuosity and noise of a torrent, it immediately becomes a sublime one. A race horse is viewed with pleasure; but it is the war horse, " whose neck is clothed with thunder," that conveys grandeur in its idea. The engagement of two pow- erful armies, as it is the highest exertion of human strength, combines various sources of the sublime ; and has consequently been ev'er considered as one of the most striking and magnificent spectacles which can be either presented to the eye, or exhibited to the imagination in description. All ideas of the solemn and awful kind, and even bordering on the terrible, tend gi'eatly to assist the sublime; such as darkness, solitude, and silence. The firmament, when filled with stars, scattered in infinite numbers and with splendid profusion, strikes the imagination with more awful gi-andeur, than when cerned? — IIo-w do you render an object sublime? — What fills the mind Y-itli great ideas ? Whence is the most copious source of sublime ideas derived from ? — Examples. — What is said of a stream ? — Of a race horse 1 — Of the war horse ? — The engagement of two powerful armies ? What tends greatly to assist the sublime ?— Such as what !— Examples. 2* 18 SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. we behold it enlightened by all the splendour of the sun. The deep sound of a great bell, or the striking of a great clock, is at any time gTand and awful ; but, when heard amid the silence and stillness of night, they become doubly so. Darkness is very generally applied for adding sublimity to all our ideas of the Deity. " He maketh darkness his pavilion ; he dwell eth in the thick cloud." Thus Milton — How oft amid Thick clouds and dark does Hf aven's all riiling Sire Choose to reside, his glory unobscured ; . And with the naajesty of darkness round ' Circles his throne Obscurity is favourable to the sublime. The de- scriptions given us of appearances of supernatural beings, carry some sublimity ; though the conception, which they afford us, be confused and indistinct. Their sublimity arises from the ideas, which they al- ways convey, of superior power and might connected with awful obscurity. !No ideas, it is evident, are so subhme, as those derived from the Supreme Bemg, the most unknown, yet the greatest of all objects; the infinity of whose nature, and the eternity of whose duration, adde(l to the omnipotence of his power, though they surpass our conceptions, yet exalt them to the highest. Disorder is also very compatible with grandeur ; nay, . frequently heightens it. Few things which are exactly regular and methodical, appear subhme. We see the hmits on every side ; we feel ourselves confined ; there is no room for any considerable ex ertion of the mind. Though exact proportion of parts enters often into the beautiful, it is much dis- regarded in the sublime. A great mass of rocks, thrown together by the hand of nature with wildness and confusion, strikes the mind with more grandeur, What is said of obscurity ?— Of the Supreme Being ? What is said of disorder ^—Example. • SUBLIMITY IX OBJECTS. 1& thau if they liacl been adjusted to each other wi:h the most accurate spnmetry. There yet remains one class of sublime objects to be mentioned, which may be termed the mjral or sentimental subhme, aiismg from certain ex.^rtions of the mind ; frrjm certain atfections an^l actions of our fellow creatm-es. These wiU be found to be chiefly of that class which coni'-s under the name of magna- nimity or heroism, anii th<-y produce an eifect veiy similar to what is produced by a view of grand ob- jects in natm-e, fihing the mmd with admiration, and raising it above itself. Wherever in some critical and dangerous situation, we behold a man micommonly intrepid, and resting solely upon himself; superior to passion and to fear ; animated by some great princi- ple to contempt of popular opinion, of selhsh interest, of dangers, or of death ; we are there siruck vdth a sense of the subhme. Thus Porus, when trik^n by Alexander, after a gaUant defence, being asked in what manner he would be treated, answered, " Like a Mng ;" and Caesar, chiding the pilot, who was afraid to set out with him iri a storm, Quid times ? Cssarem vehis," are good instances of the senti- mental subhme. The sublime 'in natural, and in moral objects, is presented to us hi one \"iew, and compared together, in the foUowing beautifid passage of Akenside's Pleastu'es of the Imagination. Look then abroad through nature to the range Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres. Wheeling, unshaken, through the void immense ! And speak. 0 man ; does this capacious fccene, With half that kindling majesty, dilate Thv strong conception, as when Brutus rose Refulgent from the stroke of Ctesar's fate Amid the crowd of patriots ; and his arm . "^Tiat is the next class of sublime objects to be mentioned?— Of what class will they be found chiefly !— What effect do they pro- duce ? Examples. — Cite the passage from Akenside. 20 SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. Aloft extending, like eternal Jove, When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel, And bade the father of his country hail 1 For lo ! the tyrant prostrate on the dust ! And Rome again is free. It lias been imagined by an ingenious author, tliat terror is the source of the subhme ; and that no ob- jects have this character, but such as produce impres sions of pain and danger. Many terrible objects are indeed highly sublime ; nor does grandeur refuse alli- ance with the idea of danger. But the subhme does not consist wholly in modes of danger and pain. In many grand objects, there is not the least coinci- dence with terror ; as in the magnificent prospect of widely extended plains, and of the starry firmament ; or in the moral dispositions and sentiments which we communicate with high admiration. In inany pain- ful and terrible objects also it is evident, there is no sort of grandeur. The amputation of a limb, or the bite of a snake, is in the highest degree terrible ; but they are destitute of all claim whatever to subhmity. It seems just to allow, that mighty force or power, whether attended by terror or not, whether employed in protecting or alarming us, has a better title, than any thing yet mentioned, to be the fundamental quality of the sublime. There appears to be no sub- lime object, into the idea of which strength and forcfi either enter not directly, or are not at least inti mately associated, by conducting our thoughts tc some astonishing power as concerned in the produc tion of the object. What has been imagined by an ingenious author?— What is said in respect to ihia sentiment ! — What is said of mighty force and power 1 [21] LECTURE IV. SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. The foiiliclation of the sublime in composition must always be laid in the nature of tlie object described. Unless it be such an object, as, if presented to our sight, if exhibited to us in reahty, would excite ideas of that elevating, that awful and magnificent Mnd, which we call sublime; the description, however finely drawn, is not entitled to be placed under this class. This excludes all objects, which are merely beautiful, gay, or elegant. Besides, the object must not only in itself be subhme, but it must be placed before us in such a light, as is best calculated to give - us a clear and fall impression of it ; it must be de- scribed with strength, conciseness, and simphcity. This depends chiefly upon the lively impression, which the poet or orator has of the object, which he exhibits ; and upon his being deeply afiected and ani- mated by the sublime idea which he would convey. If his own feehng be languid, he can never inspire his reader w^th any strong emotion. Instances, which on this subject are extremely necessary, will clearly • show the importance of all these requisites. It is chiefly among ancient authors, that we are to look for the most striking instances of the subhme The early ages of the world, and the uncultivated state of society, were peculiarly favourable to tha emotions of subhmity. The genius of men was then What is the subject of this lecture ? In ■what must the foundation of the sublime iu composition be laid 1 — What must be the object ' — What objects does this exclude • — How placed before -us? — How described? — What does this de» pend on ? Where must we look for instances chiefly of the sublime? — What were favourable to sublime emotions .' — W^hat was then the 22 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. very prone to admiration and astonishment. Meet- ing continually new and strange objects, tlieir imar gination was kept glowing, and their passions were often raised to the utmost. They thought and ex- pressed themselves boldly without restraint. In the progress of society, the genius and manners of men Lave undergone a change more favourable to accu- racy, than to strength or sublimity. Of all writings, ancient or modern, the sacred scriptures afford the most striking instances of the subhme. In them the descriptions of the Supreme Being are wonderfully noble, both from the grandeur of the object, and the manner of representing it. What an assemblage of awful and sublime ideas is presented to us in that pas- sage of the ' eighteenth Psalm, where an appearance of the Almighty is described ! " In my distress I call- ed upon the Lord ; he heard my voice out of his temple, and my cry came before him. Then the earth shook and trembled ; the foundations of the hills were moved ; because he was wroth. He bowed the heavens and came down, and darkness was under his feet ; and he did ride upon a cherub, and did fly ; yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness his secret place ; his pavilion round about him were dark waters and thick clouds of the # sky." The circumstances of darkness and terror, are here applied with propriety and success, for heighten- ing the sublime. The celebrated instance, given by Longinus, from Hoses, " God said, let there be light; and there was hght," belongs to the true sublime ; and its sublimity ai'ises from the strong conception it conveys, of an genius of men T— Meeting continually with what ?— How did they think and express themselves ? — vvhat has taken place in the pro- gress of society ? — What affords the most striking instances of the sublime? — What is said of the descriptions of the Supremo Being? — What example is presented in the ISth Psalm ?— What peculiar cixcurastances here heighten the sublime ? What is the celebrated instance given by Longinus from Moses I SUBLIMITY IN- WRITING. 23 effort of power, producing its effect, with the utmost speed and facihty. A similar thought is magnificent- ly expanded, in the following passage of Isaiah : chap. xxiv. 24. 37, 28. "Thus saith the Lord, thy Redeemer, and he that formed thee from the womb : I am the Lord, that maketh aU things ; that strttcheth forth the heavens alone ; that spreadeLh abroad th earth by myself ; that saith to the deep, be dry, and I will dry up thy rivers; that saith to C}tus, he is my sheplierd, and shall perfonn all my pleasure; even sapng to Jerusalem, thou shalt be built ; and to the temple, thy foundation shall be laid." Homer has in all ages been universaUy admhed for subhmity ; and he is indebted for much of his gran- deur, to that native and unaffected simphcity, which characterizes his manner. His descripfions of conflict- ing armies ; the spirit, the fire, the rapidity, ^^"hich he throws into his battles, present to every reader of the IHad, frequent instances of sublime writhig. The majesty of his warlike scenes, is often heightened in a high degTce, by the introduction of the gods. In the twentieth book, where all the gods take part in the engagement, according as they severally favour either the Grecians or the Trojans, the poet appears to put forth one of his highest efforts, and the description rises into the most awful magnificence. All nature appeal's in commotion. Jupiter thunders in the hea- vens ; Neptune strikes the earth with his trident ; the ships, the city, and the mountauis shake ; the earth trembles to its centre ; Pluto starts from his throne, fearing, lest the secrets of the infernal regions should be laid open to the view of mortals. We shall trans- cribe Mr. Pope's translation of this passage ; which, though inferior to the original, is highly animated and subhme. — ^^Tiat does this sublimity arise from ? — What is the exampifl from Isaiah ? What is said of Homer ?— To what is he indebted for much of 24 SUBLIMITY IN WRITlNa. But, when the powers descending swell'd the flight, Then tumult rose, fierce rage, and pale affright. Now through the tremhling shores Minerva calls, And now she thunders from the Grecian walls. Mars, hovering o'er his Troy, his terror shrouds, In gloomy tempests, and a night of clouds ; Mow through each Trojan heart he fury pours With voice divine, from Ilion's topmost towers ; Above the sire of gods his thunder rolls, And peals on peals redoubled rend the poles. Beneath, stern Neptune shakes the solid ground. The forests wave, the mountains nod around ; Through all her summits tremble Ida's woods, And from their sources boil her hundred floods : Troy's turrets totter on the rocking plain, And the toss'd navies beat the heaving main ; Deep in the dismal region of the dead The infernal monarch rear'd his horrid head, Leap'd from his throne, lest Neptune's arm should lay His dark dominions open to the day. And pour in light on Pluto's drear abodes, Abhorr'd by men, and dreadful e'en to gods. / Such wars the immortals wage ; such horrors rend The world's vast concave, when the gods contend. Conciseness and simplicity wiW ever found es- sential to sublime writing. Simplicity is properly opposed to studied and profuse ornament ; and con- ciseness to superfluous expression. It will easily appear, why a defect either in conciseness or simpli- city, is peculiarly hurtful to the subhme. The emo- tion, excited in the mind by some great or noble ob- ject, raises it considerably above its common pitch. A species of enthusiasm is produced, extremely pleasing, while it lasts ; but the mind is tending every moment to sink into its ordinary state. When an author has brought us, or is endeavouring to bring us into this state, if he multiply words unnecessarily ; if he deck the sublime object on all sides with ghttering ornar ments; nay, if he throw in any one decoration, which falls in the least below the principal image ; that moment he changes the key ; he relaxes the ten- sion of the mind ; the strength of the feehng is emas- his grandeur ?— Examples.— Cite the passage from Pope's translation of the Iliad ? What is essential to sublime writing 7 — What is simplicity opposed to What conciseness I— Show how a defect either in conciseness or simplicity is peculiarly hurtful to the sublime. SUBLIMITY IN WRITING, 2a culated ; the beautiful may remain ; but tlie sublime is extinguished. Homer's description of the nod of Jupiter, as shaking* the heavens, has been admired in all ages, as wonderfully sublime. Literally translated, it runs thus : " He spoke, and bending his sable brows, gave the a^vful nod ; while he shook the celestial locks of his immortal head, all Ol^mipus was shaken." Mr. Pope translates it thus : He spoke ; and awful bends his sable brows, Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod ; The stamp of fate, and sanction of a God ; High heaven with trembling the dread signal took, And aU Olympus to its centre shook. The image is expanded, and attempted to be beau- tified ; but in reality it is weakened. The third line, " The stamp of fate, and sanction of a God," is en- tirely expletive, and introduced only to fill up the rhyme ; for it interrups the description, and clogs the image. For the same reason Jupiter is represented, as shaking his locks, before he gives the nod ; " shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod ;" which is tri- fling and insignificant; whereas in the original the shaking of his hair is the consequence of his nod, and makes a happy picturesque chcumstance in the de- scription. The boldness, freedom, and variety of our blank verse are infinitely more propitious than rhyme, to all kinds of sublime poetry. The fullest proof of this is afiJ'orded by Milton ; an author, whose genius led him peculiarly to the sublime. The first and second books of Paradise Lost are continued examples of it. Take, for instance, the following noted description Satan, after his fall, appearing at the head of his in- fernal hosts. He, above the rest, In shape and gesture proudly eminent, Stood, like a tower ; his form had not yet lost All her original brightness, nor appear'd Less, than Archangel ruin'd, and the excess. What is said of blank verse ? — What proof is afforded of thlst— What are examples of it ? — Example. — Remarks. 3 26 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. Of glory obscured ; as when the sun new risen, Looks through the horizontal misty air, Shorn of hi? beams ; or, from behind the moon, In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs. Darken 'd so, yet shone Above them all the Archangel. Here various sources of the sublime are joined to- gether; the principal object superlatively great; a high, superior nature, fahen indeed, but raising itself against distress ; the grandeur of the principal object heightened by connecting it with so noble an idea, as that of the sun suffering an eclipse ; this picture, shaded with all those images, of change and trouble, of darkness and terror, which coincide so exquisitely with the sublime emotion ; and the whole expressed in a style and versification easy, natural, and simple, but iTiagnificent. Beside simplicity and conciseness, strength is essen- tially necessary to sublime writing. Strength of de- scription proceeds, in a great measure, from concise- ness; but it implies something more, namely, a judi- cious choice of circumstances in the description ; such as will exhibit the object in its full and most striking point of view. For, every object has several faces, by which it may be presented to us, according to the circumstances with which we sunmmd it ; and it will appear superlatively sublime, or not, in proportion as these circumstances are happily chosen, and of a sub- lime kind. In this, the great art of the writer con- sists ; and indeed the principal difficulty of sublime description. If the description be too general and divested of circumstances, the object is shown in ft faint Hght, and makes a feeble impression, or no im- pression, on the reader. At the same time, if any trivial or improper circumstances bo mingled, the whole is degraded. Besides simplicity. &c. what next is necessary to sublime writing ! —What does strength of description proceed from in a great meas- Su:e ? — What does it imply ?— Illustrate. SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 21 The nature of that emotion, wliieli is aimed at by sublime description, admits no mediocrity, and cannot subsist in a lyjiMl.^ state; but must eiilier highly trans- port us ; or. ii' unsuccessful in the execution, leave us exceedingly disguste'h "We attempt to rise with the ^\Titer ; the hnagination is awakened, and put upon the sti'etch ; but it ought to be supported ; and, n in the midst of its effort it be deseited unexpectedly, it falls with a painful shock. When Milton, in his bat- tie of the angels. d--:i ibes them, as teaiing up moun- tains, and throwing ilv.-ui at one another ; there are in his description, as iMr. Addison has remarked, no ch'cumstanecS; but vrhat are truly sublime : From their foundations loos'ning to and fro, They pluck" d the seated hills wiih aU their load, Kocks, waters. woods : {ind by the shaejy tops Uplifting bore them with their hanis. ■ This idea of the giants throwing the motmtains, Trhich is in itself so o-ran ;1. Claudian rendei-s burlesque and ridicuLjUi. by tlie single circtimstance of one of his giants, vriili the mountain Ida upon his shoulders, and a river, which flowed from the mountain, running down the giant's back, as he held it up in that pos- ture. A^irgil. in his description of Mount Etna, i^ guiky of a slight inaccuracy of this kind. After several magniliijcnt imau':^-- the poet concludes with personityhig the mountain under this figure, Eructans viscera cum gemitu " "belching up its bowels ^^^th a gi'oan which, by making the mountain resemble a sick or druuken persou, degTades the majesty of tlie description. The dL'iiasing effect of this idea will appear in a stronger hgut, h'om observing what figure it makes in a poem of Sir Richard Blackmore ; who, through an extra- "What admits of no mediocrity ? — Illustrate. — Example. How does Claudian render this ridic'.ilous .' — How has Virgil been guilty of an inacctiracy of this kind ? — How does this aLso appear in a poem by Sir E,. Blackmore '> 28 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. vagant pen-ei-sity of taste, selected it for the principal circumstance in his description ; and thereby, as Dr. Arbiithnot humourously observes, represented the raoi/rLcain as in a fit of the cholic. Etna and all the hurniag mountains find Their kindled stores, with inbred storms of -wind, Elo-yn up to rage, and roaring out complain, As torn with inwar J gripe'j and tortviring pain ; Lahotvring. they cast their dreadful vomit round, And with 'iheir melted bowels spread the ground Such instances show how much the sublime de- :iends upon a proper selection of circumstances ; and with how great care every circumstance must be avoided, which, by approaching in the smallest degree to the mean, or even to the gay or trifling, changes the tone of the emotion. What is commonly called the sublime style, is for the most part a very bad one, and has no relation whatever to the true sublime. Writers are apt to imagine, that splendid words, accumulated epithets, and a certain swelling kind of expression, by rising above what is customary or vulgar, constitutes the sub- Hme ; yet nothing is in reality more false. In genu- ine instances of sublime writing, nothing of this kind appears. " God said, let there be light, and there was light. This is striking and sublime, but put it into what is commonly called the sublime style; "The Sovereign Arbiter of nature, by the potent energy of a single word, commanded the light to exist ;" and, as Boileau justly observed, the style is indeed raised, but the thought is degraded. In general, it may be ob- served, that the sublime Hes in the thought, not in the expression ; and, when the thought is really no- ble, it will generally clothe itself in a native majesty of language. What do such instances show ? What is said of what is commonly called the sublime style ? — What are writers apt to imagine ? — Is this filse ? — Does this appear in genuine instances of sublime writing ? — Examples. — Remarkis. — ■ la general, where does the sublime lie ? BEAUTY. 29 Tlie faults, opposite to the sublime, are principally two, the frigid and the bombast. The fi-igid consists in degrading An object or sentiment, which is sublime in itselt^ bj a mean conception of it ; or by a weak,-| low, or puerile description of it. This betrays entire ^ absence, or, at least, extreme poverty of genius. The' boniljast lies in forcing a common or trivial object out of its rank, and in labouring to raise it mto the sub- hme ; or, in attempting to exalt a sublime object be- / yond all natm-al bounds. LECTURE Y. BEAUTY AXD OTHER PLEASURES OF TASTE. Beautt, next to sublmiity, affords the highest plea- sm-e to the imagination. The emotion which it raises is easily distinguished from that of subhmity. It is of a calmer kind; more gentle and soothing; does not elevate the mind so much, but produces a plea=i- ing serenity. Subhmity excites a feehng, too violent to be lasting ; the pleasm-e proceeding from beauty, admits longer duration. It extends also to a much gTeater variety of objects than sublimity ; to a variety indeed so great, that the sensations which beautiful objects excite, differ exceedingly, not in degree only, but also in kind, from each other. Hence no word is used in a more undetermined signification than beauty. It is apphed to almost every external ol>" ject, which pleases the eye or the ear; to many of the graces of writing; to several dispositions of the mind; nay, to some objects of abstract science. What are the faults opposite to the fublime 1 — What does the frigid consist in ?— What does this betray ?— In what does the bombast lie? What is the subject of this lecture ? Wliat is said of beauty as one of the sources of the pleasurea of taste! 3* 30 BEAUTY AND OTHER We speak frequently of a beautiful tree or flower ; a beautiful poem ; a beautiful character ; and a beauti- ful theorem in mathematics. I Colour seems to afford the simplest instance of beauty. Association of ideas, it is probable, has some influence on the pleasure, which we receive froii colours. Green, for example, may appear more beai> tiful, from being connected in our ideas with rural scenes and prospects; white, with innocence; blue, with the serenity of the sky. Independently of asso- ciations of this sort, all that we can f^irther observe respecting colours is, that those, chosen for beauty, are commonly delicate, rather than glaring. Such, are the feathers of several kinds of birds, the leaves of flowers, and the fine variations of colours shown by the sky, at the rising and setting of the sun. Figure opens to us forms of beauty moi-e complex and divers&ed. Regidarity first offers, itself as a source of beauty. By a regular figure is meant one, which we perceive to be formed according to some certain rule, and not left arbitrary or loose in the con- sti'uction of its parts. Thus a circle, a square, a trian- gle, or a hexagon, gives pleasure to the eye by its regularity, as a beautiful figure ; yet a certain grace- ful variety is found to be a much more powerful prin- ciple of beauty. Regularity seems to appear beautiful to us chiefly, if not entirely, on account of its sug- gesting the ideas of fitness, propriety and use, which have always a more intimate connection with orderly and proportioned forms, than those wliich appear not constructed according to any certain rule. Nature, who is the most graceful artist, hath, in all her orna- mental works, pursued variety with an apparent neg- lect of reg\ilarity. Cabinets, doors, and windows are made after a regular fonn, in cubes and parallelograms How does colour afford an instance of beauty Hf>w does figure i — Examples '—Examples. PLEASURES OF TASTE. 31 v^ith exact proportion of parts ; and thus formed they please the eye, for this just reason, that, being works of use, they are by such figures better adapted to the ends for which tliey were designed. But plants, flow- ers, and leaves are full of variety and divei-sity. A straight canal is an insipid figure, when compared with the meandei-s of a river. Cones and pyramids have their degi-ee of beauty; but trees, growing in theu' natural wilderness, have infinitely more beauty than when tiimmed into pp-amids and cones. The apartments of a house must be disposed with regu- larity for the convenience of its inhabitants ; but a garden, which is intended merely for beauty, would be extremely disgusting, if it had as much uniformity and order as a dwelling house. Motion affords another source of beauty, distinct from figure. Motion of itself is pleasing ; and bodies in motion are, " casteris paiibus," universally prefeiTed to those at rest. Only gentle motion, however, be- longs to the beautiful ; for when it is swift, or very powerful, such as that of a toiTent, it partakes of the sublime. The motion of a bhd gliding through the air is exquisitely beautiful ; but the swiftness with which lightning darts through the skv, is magnificent and astonishing. Here it is necessary to observe, that the sensations of sublime and beautiful are not always distinguished by very distant boundaries ; but are capable m many mstances of approaching towards each other. Thus, a gentle running stream is one of the most beautiful objects in nature ; but as it swells gradually into a great river, the beautiful by degTees is lost in the sublime. A young tree is a beautiful object; a spreading ancient oak is a venerable and subKme one. To return, however, to the beauty of motion, it will be found to hold very generally, that motion in a straight line is not so beautiful, as in a What affords another source of beauty, distinct from figure!— Wiat is necessary to be observed ? 32 BEAUTY AND OTHER waving direction ; and motion upward is commonly more pleasing than motion downward. The easy, curling motion of flame and smoke is an object sin- gulaiiy agreeable. Hogaith observes very ingeniously, that all the common and necessary motions for the , business of life, are performed in straight or plain'*; lines; but that all the graceful and ornamental move-^ ments are made in curve hues ; an observation worthy of the attention of those who study the grace of ges- ture and action. Colour, iigm-e, and motion, though separate princi pies of beauty, yet in many beautiful objects meet to- gether, and thereby render the beauty greater and more complex. Thus in flowers, trees, and animals, we are entertained at once with the dehcacy of the colour, with the gracefulness of the figure, and some- times also with the motion of the object. The most complete assemblage of beautiful objects, which can be found, is presented by a rich natural landscape, where there is a sufiicient variety of objects ; fields in ver- dure, scattered trees and flowers, running water, and animals grazing. If to these be added some of the productions of art, suitable to such a scene; as, a bridge with arches over a river, smoke rising from cot- tages in the midst of trees, and a distant view of a fine building, seen by the rising sun ; we then enjoy in the highest perfection that gay, cheerful, and placid sensation, which characterizes beauty. The beauty of the human countenance is more com- plex than any we have yet examined. It compre- hends the beauty of colour, arising from the dehcata 'shades of the complexion ; and the beauty of figure, •arising from the fines, which constitute difierent fea- tures of the face. But the principal beauty of the What does Hogarth ohserve ? What, when colour, figure, and motion meet togethei; 1— Elus- trate. What is said of the beauty of the human countenance 7 — What does it comprehend Upou "what does the principal beauty of the PLEASURES OF TASTE. 33 countenance depends upon a mysterious expression, which it conveys, of the quahties of the mind ; of good sense, of good humour ; of candour, benevo- lence, sensibility, or other amiable dispositions. It may be observed, that there are certam qualities of the mind, which, whether 'expressed in the counte- nance, or by words, or by actions, always raise in us a feehng similar to that of beauty. There are two great classes of moral qualities; owe is of the high and the great virtues, which require extraordinary eftbrts, and is founded on dangers and sufferings ; as heroism, magnanimity, contempt of pleasures, and contempt of death. These produce m the spectator an emotion of sublimity and grandeur. The other class is chiefly of the social \di-taes ; and such as are of a softer and gentler kind ; as compassion, mildness, and generosity. These excite in the beholder a sen- sation of pleasure, so nearly allied to that excited by beautiful external objects, that, though of a more ex- alted nature, it may with propriety be classed under the same head. Beauty of writing in its more definite sense, charae- \./ terizes a particular manner ; signifying a certain gTace and amenity in the turn either of style or sentiment, oy which some authors are particularly distinguished. In this sense, it denotes a manner neither remarkably ubhme, nor vehemently passionate, nor uncommonly parkhng ; but such as excites in the reader, an emo- ion of the placid kind, resembling that which is aised by the contemplation of beautiful objects in natme ; which neither hfts the mind very high, nor agitates it to excess ; but spreads over the imagination a pleasmg serenity. AdcUson is a writer of this cha- racter, and one of the most proper examples of it Fenelon, the author of Telemachus, is another exam- human countenance depend ?— What may loe obseryed 7— What are the two great classes of moral qualities ]— and what effect do they produce ? 84: BEAUTY AND OTHER pie, Virgil, also, though very capable of rising oc- casionally into the sublime, yet generally is distin- guished by the character of beauty and grace, rather than of sublimity. Among orators, Cicero has more of the beautiful than Demosthenes, whose genius led him wholly toward vehemence and strength. So much it is necessary to have said upon the sub- ject of beauty; since next to sublimity it is the most copious source of the pleasures of taste. But objects delight the imagination not only by appearing under the forms of sublime or beautiful ; they hkewise derive their power of giving it pleasure from several other principles. Novelty, for example, has been mentioned by Addi- son, and by every writer on this subject. An object, which has no other merit, than that of being new, by this quality alone raises in the mind a vivid and an agreeable emotion. Hence that passion of curiosity, which prevails so generally in mankind. Objects and ideas, which have been long familiar, make too faint an impression, to give an agreeable exercise to our faculties. New and strange objects rouse the mind fi'ora its dormant state, by giving it a sudden and pleasing impulse. Hence, in a great measure, the en- tertainment we receive from fiction and romance. The emotion raised by novelty, is of a more lively and awakening nature, than that produced by beauty; but much shorter in its duration. For, if the object have in itself no charms to hold our attention, the gloss, spread over it by novelty, soon wears off. I Imitation is another source of pleasure to taste This gives rise to what Addison terms the secondary pleasures of imagination, which form a very extensive class. For all imitation affords some pleasure to this What is said of the beauty of writing ? — Who are writers of this character ?—V7hat is said of Cicero''— Of Demosthenes? What is said of norelty ? What of imitation ? PLEASURES OF TASTE. 35 mind; not only the imitation of beautiful or sublime objects, by recalling the original ideas of beauty or grandeur, which such objects themselves- exhibited; but even objects, which have neither beauty nor gran- deur ; nay, some, which are tenible or deformed, give us pleasure, in a secondary or represented view. The pleasures of melody and harmony belong also to taste. There is no delightful sensation we receive, either from beauty or sublimity, which is not capable of being heightened by the power of musical sound. Hence the charm of poetical numbers ; and even of the concealed and looser measures of prose. Wit, humour, and ridicule, open likewise a variety of plea- sures to taste, altogether different from any that have yet been considered. At present it is not necessary to pursue any farther the subject of the pleasures of taste ; we have opened some of the general principles ; it is time now to ap- ply them.to our chief subject. If it be asked, to what class of those pleasures of taste which have been enu- merated, that pleasure is to be referred which we re- ceive fi'om poetiy, eloquence, or fine ^^^^ting ? The answer is, not to any one, but to them all. This pe- culiar advantage writing and discourse possess ; they encompass a large and fr-uitful field on all sides, and have power to exhibit in great perfection, not a single set of objects only, but almost the whole of those which give pleasure to taste and imagination ; whe- ther that pleasure arise fi-om subhmity, from beauty- in its vai-ious forms, fr-om design and art, fi-om moral sentiment, from novelty, from harmony, from wit, hu- mo'ii', or ridicule. To whichsoever of these a pei- son's taste is directed, from some wi-iter or other he What of the pleasures of melody and harmony ?— What is said of ■wit. humour, and ridicule ? What is not necessary to do? — What has been done ? — What ques- tion is proposed ?— What is the answer?— What peculiar advantage does writing and discourse possess ? 36 BEAUTY, &C. has it always in his power to receive the gratification of it. It has been usual among critical writere to treat of discourse as the chief of all the imitative arts. They compare it with painting and with sculpture, and in many respects prefer it justly before them. But we _naust distinguish between imitation and description Words have no natural resemblance of the ideas or objects which they signify ; but a statue or picture has a natural likeness of the original. As far, however, as a poet or historian introduces into his work persons really speaking, and by words^ which he puts into their mouths, represents the con- versation which they might be supposed to hold ; so far his art may be called imitative ; and this is the case in all dramatic composition. But in narrative or descriptive works, it cannot with propriety be so call- ed. Who, for example, would call Virgil's description of a tempest, in the first Eneid, an imitartion of a storm ? If we heard of the imitation of a battle, we might naturally think of some mock fight, or repre- sentation of a battle on the stage ; but should never imagine it meant one of Homer's descriptions in the Iliad. It must be allowed, at the same time, that imi- tation and description agree in their principal eflfect, that of recaUing by external signs the ideas of things which we do not see. But, though in this they coin- cide, yet it should be remembered, that the terms "themselves are not synonymous ; that they import dif- ferent means of producing the same end ; and conse- quently make different impressions on the mind. What has been usual among critical writers ?— But what must we do) When may the art of the poet or historian he called imitative ?— lu what composition is this the case ? — In what works cannot It be eo called ?— Example.— What must be allowed ]— But though in thU thoy coincide, yet what must be remembered ? [3^ LECTURE VI. ORIGIN AND PPvOGRESS OF LANGUAGE. To foiTQan adequate idea of the origin of language ve must contemplate the circumstancesl)f manMiid in tlieir earliest and rudest state. They were then a wandering, scattered race; no society among them except families ; and family society also very imper- fect, as theh mode of li-v-ing, by hunting or pasturage, must have separated them h-equently from each other. In such a condition, how could any one set of sounds or words be universally agreed on, as the signs of their ideas ? Supposing that a few whom chance or necessity threw together, agreed by some means up- on certain signs ; yet, by what authority could these be so propagated among other tribes or iamiiies, as to ^Tow up into a language ? One would imagine that fien must have been previously gathered together in (X)nsiderable niunbers, before language could be fixed and extended ; and yet on the other hand there seems to have been an absolute necessity of speech pre\T.ously to the formation of society. For by what bond could a multitude of men be kept together, or be connected in prosecution of any common interest, before by the assistance of speech they could communicate theii* wants and intentions to each other? So that, how f)^ciety could subsist previously to language, and how \ ords could rise into language before the formation of society, seem to be points attended ^vith equal dif- ficulty. When WB consider farther that curious anal- ogy, Avhich prevails in the construction of almost all languages, and that deep and subtile logic, on which What is the subject of this lecture ? To form an idea of the origin of language, what circumstances of mankind must be considered ? — Are there difficulties in accounting for the origin cf language, and what are thej " — In view of thestf difficulties what haye we no small reason to conclude] 4 38 ORIGIN AND PKOGREBS tliey are founded ; difficulties increase so mucli an us OR all sides, that there seems to be no small reason for referring the origin of all language to divine in- spiration. But supposing language to have a divine original, we cannot imagine that a perfect system of it was at once given to man. It is much more natural to sup- pose that God taught our first parents only such lan- guage as suited their present occasions ; lea^dng them as he did in other respects, to enlarge and improve it as their future necessities should require. Conse- quently, those rudiments of speech must have been poor and narrow ; and we are at liberty to inquire, in what manner, and by what steps, language advanced to the state in which we now find it. Should we suppose a period existed before words were invented or known, it is evident, that men could have no other method of communicating their feelings than by the cries of passion, accompanied by such motions and gestures as were farther expressive of emotion. These indeed are the only signs which na- ture teaches all men, and which are understood by all. One, who saw another going into some place where he himself had been frightened, or exposed to danger, and who wished to warn his neighbour of the danger, could contrive no other method of doing it than by uttering those cries, and making those ges- tures, which are the signs of fear ; as two men at this day would endeavour to make themselves understood by each other, if thrown together on a desolate island, ignorant of each other's language. Those exclama- tions, therefore, by grammarians called interjections, J uttered in a strong and passionate manner, were un- doubtedly the elements of speech. Supposing language to have a divine original, in what degrees may we imagine it was given to man ? In supposing a period before which words were invented or known, in what way W(^uld men communicate their feelings ?— Were theso exclamations eh ments of speech ? OF LANGUAGE. 39 When more enlarged commimication became requi- - site, and names began to be applied to objects ; how can we suppose men proceeded m this application of names, or invention of words ? Certainly by imitating, as much as they could, the nature of the object named by the sound of the name given to it. As a painter, who would represent gi-ass, must employ a green co- lour ; so in the infancy of language one, gi^^ng a name to any thing harsh or boisterous, would of coui-se em- ploy a harsh or boisterous sound. He could not do otherwise, if he desired to excite in the hearer the idea of that object, which he wished to name. To ima- gine words invented or names given to things, without any ground or reason, is to suppose an effect without a cause. There must always have been some motive, which led to one name, rather than another ; and we can suppose no motive, which would more generally operate upon men in their first efforts toward lan- g-uage, than a desire to paiiit by speedi the objects, - which they named, in a manner more or less complete, according as it was in the power of the human voice to effect this imitation. Wherever objects were to be named, in which sound, noise, or motion was concerned, the imitation by words was sufficiently obvious. Nothing was more natural, than to imitate, by the sound of the voice, the quality of the sound or noise, which any external object produced ; and to form its name accordingly. Thus in all languages we discover a multitude of words, which are e\-idently constructed on this princi- ple. A Certain bird is cahed the cuckoo, from the sound which it emits. When one sort of vdnd is said to whistle, and another to roar ; when a serpent is said to lass ; a fly to buzz ; and falling timber to crash ; when a stream is said to fiow ; and hail to rattle; the resemblance between the word and the How can we suppose men proceeded in this application of namea or inTention of words •— liluitrate. — Exampliis. 40 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS things signified is plainly discernible. But. in the names of objects which address the sight only, where neither noise nor motion is concerned' and still more in terms, appropriated to moral ideas, this analogy ap- pears to fail. Yet many learned men have imagined that, though in such cases it becomes more obscure, it is not altogether lost ; and that in the radical words of all languages there may be traced some degi-ee of correspondence ^vith the objects signified. This principle, however, of a natural relation be- tween words and objects, can be applied to language only in its most simple and early state. Though in every tongue some remains of it may be traced, it • were uttei-ly in vain to search for it through the whole [: construction of any modern language. As terms in- \ creaso in every nation, and the vast field of language is filled up, words by a thousand fanciful and irregu- lar methods of derivation- and composition deviate widely from the primitive character of their roots, and J lose all resemblance in sound of the thing signified. I This is the present state of language. Words, as w^ now use them, taken in general, may be considered as symbols, not imitations ; as arbitrary or instituted, not natural signs of ideas. But there can be no doubt, that language, the nearer we approach to its rise among men, will be found to partake more of a na- tural expression. Interjections, it has been shown, or passionate ex- clamations, were the elements of speech. Men la- boured to communicate their feehngs to each other, by those expressive cries and gestures, which nature taught them. After words, or names of objects, be- gan to be invented, this mode of speaking by natural What have ^any learned men imagined ? How is this principle to be applied to language ? — Why is it not fonnd now ? — What are words as we now use them? — Of what can there be no doubt 1 AVhat were the elements of speech ?— How is this proved ? OF LANGUAGE. 41 signs could not be all at once disused. For language in its infancy must have been extremely barren ; and there certainly was a period among all rude nations, when conversation was carried on by a very few words, intermixed with many exclamations and earn- est gestures. The small stock of words which then possessed, rendered those helps entirely necessary for explaining theu* conceptions; and rude, unculti- vated indi\aduals, not having always ready even the few words which they knew, would naturally labour to make themselves understood by varying their tones of voice, and by accompanying their tones with the most expressive gesticulations. To this mode of speaking, necessity gave rise. But we must observe that, after this necessity had in a great degree ceased, by language becoming in process of time more extensive and copious, the ancient man- ner of speech still subsisted among many nations; and, what had arisen from necessity, continued to be used for ornament. In the Greek and Roman lan- guages, a musical and gesticulatina: pronunciation was retained in a very high degree. Without attending to this, we shall be at a loss in understanding several passages of the classics, which relate to the public speaking and theatrical entertainments of the ancients. Our modern pronunciation would have seemed to them a lifeless monotony. The declamation of their orators and the pronunciation of theu* actors upon the stage approached to the nature of recitative in music ; was capable of being marked by notes, and supported by instruments ; as several learned men have proved, With regard to gesture the case was parallel ; for strong tones and animated gestm-es always go together. What gave rise to this mode of speech ?— When this necessity had ceased, was this practice retained, and for what purpose ■? — In what languages was it retained? — How would our pronunciation have seemed'to them ?— What was the character of the declamation of their orators, and the pronunciation of their actors ? What always go together? — vvhat was the action of orators and 4* 42 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS The action botli of orators and players'^n Greece and Rome was far more vehement than that to which we are accustomed. To us, Roscius would appear a mad- man. Gesture was of such consequence on the ancient stage, that there is reason for behoving that on some occasions the speaking and the acting were divided which, according to our ideas, would form a Strang exhibition. One player spoke the words in the pro- })er tones, while another expressed the corresponding motions and gestures. Cicero tells us, it was a con- test between him and Roscius, w^hether he could ex- press a sentiment in a greater variety of phrases, or Roscius in a greater variety of intelligible significant gestm-es. At last, gesture engi-ossed the stage entirely ; for under the reigns of Augustus and Tiberius, the favourite entertainment of the public was the panto- mime, which was. carried on by gesticulation only. The people were moved, and wept at it as much as at tragedies ; and the passion for it became so violent, that laws were made for restraining the senators fi'om studying the pantomime art. Now,- though in de- clamations and theatrical exhibitions both tone and gesture were carried much farther than in common discourse ; yet public speaking of any kind must in every country bear some proportion to the manner which is used in conversation ; and such pubhc en- tertainments could never be relished by a nation whose tones and gestures in discourse were as languid as ours. * The early language of men, being entirely com DOsed of words descriptive of sensible objects, be- came of necessity extremely metaphorical. For, to players in Greece and Homo ? — What would RoschiP appear to ns ? — Of what consequence was gesture ? — What does Cicero tell us ? — To what extent was gesture at length carried ?— What was the favourite amusement of the public in the reigns of Augustus and Tiberius 1 — How were the people affected by it ?— What is said of public speaking ? — What of such public entertainments? Why did language become of necessity metaphorical i— In what OF LANGUAGE. 43 signify any d^-e or passion, or any act or feeling of tlie mind, they had no fixed expression which was appropriated to that piu'pose; but were obhged to paint the emotion or passion, which they fek, by alhid- mg to those sensible objects, which had most connex ion -with, it, and which could render it in some degi ce visible to others. But it was not necessity alone, that gave rise to this pictured style. In the infancy of all societies, fear and surprise, wonder and astonishment, are the most frequent passions of men. Then- language will neces- < sarily be affected by this character of their minds. They will be disposed to paint every thing m the strongest colours. Even the manner, in- which the first tribes of men uttered their words, had considera- ble influence on their style. Wherever strong excla- mations, tones, and' gestures, are connected with con- versation, the imagination is always more exercised ; a gi-eater effort of fancy and passion is excited. Thus the fancy, being kept awake, and rendered more sprightly by this mode of utterance, operates upon the style, and gives it additional life and spirit. As one proof among many, which might be prod^iced to the truth of these observations, we shall transcribe a speech from Colden's Histoiy of the Five Indian Nations, which was delivered by then* chiefs, when entering on a treaty of peace with us, in the following language. " We are happy in ha\dng buried under gi'ound the red axe, that has so often been dyed in the blood of our brethren. N'ow in this fort we inter the axe, and plant the tree of peace. We p^ant a tree, whose top will reach the sun ; and its branches spread abroad so that it shall be seen afar off. May its growth never be stifled and choked ; but may it shade both your country and ours with its leaves. way?— What gave rise to this pictured style?— Illustrate.— What proof is adduced in support of this truth J— Cite the Siauipie. 44 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. Let US make fast its roots, and extend tliem to tlie ut- most of your colonies. If the French should come to shake this tree, we should know it by the motion of its roots reaching into our country. May the Great Spirit allow us to re.^t in tranquillity upon our mats, and ne^er again dig up the axe, to cut down the tree of peace ! Let the earth be trodden hard over it, where it lies buried. Let a strong stream run under the pit, to wash the evil away out of our sight and remembrance. The fire, that had long burned in Al- bany, is extinguished. The bloody bed is washed clean, and the tears are wiped from our eyes. We now renew the covenant chain of friendship. Let it be kept bright and clean as silver, and not suffered to contract any rust. Let not any one pull away his arm from it." As language in its progress grew more copious it gi'adually lost that figurative style, which was its early character. The vehement manner of speaking by tones and gestures became less common. Instead of poets, philosophers became 'the instructors of men ; and in their reasoning on all subjects introduced that plainer and more simple style of composition which we now call prose. Thus the ancient metaphorical and poetical dress of language was at length laid aside iri the intercourse of meii, alid reserved for those occasions only, on which ornament was professedl}» studied. How did languagi^ lose its figurative style ? — What became lesi common?— What did philosophers beconio instead of poets ?— What did they do ? — Thus what followed. ? 145] LECTURE YII. RISE AND PKOGEESS OF LANGUAGE AND OF WRITING. 4 When we examine tlie order in which ■ words are arranged in a sentence, we find a very remarkable difference between ancient and modern tongues. The consideration of this will serve to unfold farther the genius of language, and to show the causes of those alterations it has undergone in the progress of society. To conceive distinctly the nature of this alteration, we must go back, as before, to the earhest period of languao^e. Let us fia;ure to ourselves a savao-e be- holding some fruit which he earnestly desires, and requests another to give him. Suppose him unac- quainted with w^ords, he .T^ould strive to make himsell* understood by pointing eagerly at the object desired, and uttering at the same time a passionate cry. Su}> posing him to have acquired words, the first word which he would utter would be the name of that ob- ject. He would not express himself according to our ^rder of constitietion, " Give me fruit ;" but according to the Latin -OAjder, "Fruit give me," "Fructumda mihi," for .this plain reason, that his attention was wholly directed towards fruit, the object desired. Hence we might conclude a priori^ that this was the What is the subject of this lecture ? What do we find in examining the order in which words are ar- ranged in a sentence ? The consideration of this will serve to do what ? To conceive distinctly the nature of this alteration, what must we do ?— What should we figure to ourselves ?— Supposing him un- acquainted with words, what woidd he do ? — Supposing him tr\ have acquired words, what would he do ? — How would he not express himself? — How would' he express himself, and for what reason? - Hence what might we conclude ? — Accordingly what do we find ? 46 RISE AND PROGRESS OF order in wliicli words were most commonly arranged in the infancy of language ; and accordingly we find in reality that in this order words are arranged in most of the ancient tongues, as in the Greek and La- tin ; and it is said likewise in the Russian, Sclavonic, Gaehc, and several American tongues. The modern languages of Europe have adopted a different arrangement from the ancient. In their prosa compositions very little variety is admitted in the col location of words ; they are chiefly fixed to one order, which may be called the order of the understanding. They place first in the sentence the person or thing, which speaks or acts ; next, its action ; and lastly, the object of its action. Thus an English writer, paying a compliment to a great man, would say, " It is im- possible for me to pass over in silence so distinguished mildness, so singular and unheard-of clemency, and so uncommon moderation, in the exercise of supreme power." Here is first presented to us the person who speaks, " It is impossible for me;" next, what the same person is to do, " to pass over in silence ;" and lastly, the object which excites him to action, " the mildness, clemency, and moderation of his patron." Cicero, from whom these words are translated, re- verses this order. lie begins with the object ; places that first, which was the exciting idea in the speaker's mind, and ends with the speaker and his action. " Tantum, mansuetudinem, tam inusitatam mauditam- que clementiam, tantumque in summa potestate rerum omnium modum, tacitus nullo modo pra^terire possum." 'Elere, it must be observed, the Latin order is more animated ; the English more clear and distinct. Our language naturally allows greater liberty for transposition and inversion in poetry, than in prose. What have the modern languages of Europe adopted ? — What ia said of their prose compositions ? — Illustrate. — How is the Latin order ? — llow is the English ? What does our language naturally allow ?— What is further said LANGUAGE AND OF WRITING. 47 E\'en there, however, this hberty is confined "U'ilhin narrow hmits, in comparison with the ancient lan- guages. In this respect, modern tongues vary from each other. The Itahan approaches the nearest in its character to the ancient transposition ; the Enghsh has more inversion than tlie rest ; and the French has the least of aU. Wnting is an improvement upon speech, and con sequently was posterior to it in order of time. Its characters are of two kinds, signs of things, an ^1 signs of words. Thus the pictures, hieroglyphics, and sym- bols, employed by the ancients, were of the former sort; the alphabetical charactei-s, now employed by Eiu'opeans, of the latter. Pictures were certainly the first attempt toward writing. Mankind in all ages and in all nations have been prone to imitation. This would soon be em- ployed for describing and recording events. Thus, to signify that one man had Idlled another, they paint- ed the figure of one man lying on the ground, and of another standing by him with a hostile weapon in his hand. When America was first discovered, this was the only kind of writing ^vith which the Mexicans were acquainted. It was, however, a very imperfect mode of recordmg facts ; since by pictmes external events only could be delineated. Hieroglyphic al characters may be considered as the second stage of the art of writing. They consist of ^-ertain symbols, which are made to stand for in^dsible objects, on account of their supposed resemblance of the objects themselves. Thus an eye represented of this liberty ?— What is said of the Italian language ?— Of the English, aud of the French ? What is said of "vrriting ? — What are its characters ? — What vrere of the former sort ?— What the latter ? What is said of pictures ?— What haye mankind been prone to in all ages?— HoTv -w-ould this soon be employed? — Illustrate. — Who ^^•rote in this vr^j ? — What is said of this mode of -(vriting ? — What may hiexoglyphical characters be considered ? — What do they con- 48 RISE AND PROGRESS OF knowledge ; and a circle, having neither beginning nor end, was the symbol of eternity. Egypt was the country wdiere this kind of writing was most studied, and brought into a regular art. By these characters all the boasted wisdom of their priests was conveyed. They pitched upon animals, to be the emblems of moral objects, according to the qualities with whicl they supposed them to be endued, Thus imprudenc was denominated by a fly ; wisdom, by an ant ; and victory, by a hawk. But this sort of writing was in the highest degree enigmatical and confused ; and consequently a very imperfect vehicle of know- ledge. From hieroglyphics some nations gradually advanc- ed to simple arbitrary marks, which stood for objects, though without any resemblance of the objects signi- fied. Of this nature was the writing of the Peru- vians. They used small cords of different colours ; and by knots upon these of different sizes and variously ranged, they invented signs for communicating their thoughts to one another. The Chinese at this day use written characters of this nature. They have no alphabet of letters or simple sounds of which their words are composed, but every single character, which they use, is expressive of an idea ; it is a mark, which signifies some one thing or object. The number of these characters must consequently be immense. — They are said indeed to amount to seventy thousand. To be perfectly acquainted with them is the business of a whole life ; which must have greatly retarded among them the progress of every kind of science. gist of? — Wbat did an eye represent ?— What a circle ?— Where was this kind of writing most studied 1 — By. these characters what was done ? — What did they do 1 — How were imprudence, wisdom, and victory denominated ? — But what was this sort of writing ? From hieroglyphics what did some nations do ? — Who wrote in this way ? — What did they use ? — What is the present mode of writ- ing among the Chinese ?— Said of the number of their characters ? — Of acquiring a knowled^ of them ? LAXGUAGE AXD OF WRITIXG. 49 It is evident, that tlie Chinese character^, like hie- roglyphics, are signs of things, and not of Avords For we are told, that the Japanese, the Tonquinese, and the Coroeans, who speak different languages from each other, and from the inhabitants of China, use, towever, the same vrritten characters with them, and tlins coiTespond intelligibly with one another in vrdt ing, though mutnahy ignorant of each other's language. Our arithmetical figures, 1, 2, 3, 4, &c., are an example of this sort of ^Titing. Thej have no dependence on words ; each figure represents the number for which it stands; and consecjuently is equally understood by all nations, who have agi-eed in the use of these figures. The first step, to remedy the imperfection, the am- biguity, and the tediousness of each of the methodtS of communication which have been mentioned, was the invL^ntii:>n of signs, which should stand not directly for things, but for the words by which things were named and distinguished. An alphabet of syllables seems to haye been inyented previously to an alpha- bet of letters. Such a one is said to be retained at this day in Ethiopia, and some coimtries of India. But at best it must have been imperfect and inefiec- tual ; since the number of characters, being very con- siderable, must have rendered both reachng and writ- ing very complex and laborious. To whom we are indebted for the subhme and re- fined discoyery of letters is not determined. They were brought into Greece by Cadmus the Phenician, who, according to Sir Isaac I^ewton's Chronology, was contemporary with kmg Da^id. His alphabet What is eTident in respect to the Chinese characters ? — What reasons are assigned for this ? — What, is an example of this sort of ■writing ?— What is said of them ? "\\hat -n-as the first step to remedy the imperfection. &c., of this method ?— Where is it still retained ? — What is said of it ? Is it knoTrn vrho discovered letters 1 — Ey Trhom -were they hronght into Greece ? — Who -was he contemporary -with ? — How many 5 50 RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE, &C. contained only sixteen letters. The rest were after- wards added, according as signs for proper sounds were found to be wanting. The Phenician, Hebrew, Greek, and Roman alphabets agree so much in the figure, names, and arrangement of the letters, as amounts to demonstration, that they were derived originally from the same source. The ancient order of writing was from the right nand to the left. This method, as appears from some very old inscriptions, prevailed even among the Greeks. They afterwards used to write their hues alternately from the right to the left, and ft-ora the left to the right. The inscription on the famous Si- gean monument is a specimen of this mode of writ- ing, which continued till the days of Solon, the cele- brated legislator of Athens. At length, the motiou from the left hand to the rio-ht, beino' found more natural and convenient, this order of writing was adopted by all the nations of Europe. Writing was first exhibited on pillars and tables of stone ; afterward on plates of the softer metals. As it became more common, the leaves and bark of cer- tain trees were used in some countries ; and in others, tablets of wood covered with a thin coat of soft wax, on which the impression was made ^vith a stylus of iron. Parchment, made of the hides of animals, was an invention of later times. Pciper was not invented before the fom-teenth century. letters did his alphabet contain ? — How -vrere the rest added ? — What is said of the Phenician. Hebrew, Greek, and Roman alpha- bets 1 What was the ancient order of -writing ?— Among whom did this method prevail ? — How did they afterward write ? — Where is there a specimen of this mode of writing ? At length what was found more natural and convenient; T_By whom was this order adopted ? — How was writing first exhibited ? •—How afterward? — How when it became more common? — AYhat TFas invented in later times ?— When was paper invented ? [51] LECTURE Yin. STEUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. The common division of speecli into eiglit parts, nouns, pronouns, verbs, participles, adverbs, preposi- tions, interjections, and conjunctions, is not very ac- curate ; siifce under the general term of nouns it comprehends both substanti^'es and adjectives, which are parts of speech essentially distinct. Yet, as wo are most accustomed to this division, and, as logical exactness is not necessary to our present design, we shall adopt these terms, which habit has made fa- miliar to us. Substantive nouns are the foundation of grammar, and the most ancient part of speech.' AVhen men had advanced beyond simple mterjections or excla- mations of passion, and had begun to communicate their ideas to each other, they would be obliged to assign names to objects by which they were .sur- rounded. Wherever a savage looked, he beheld forests and trees. To distinguish each by a separate name would have been endless. Then- common qua- lities, such as springing from a root, and bearing branches and leaves, would suggest a general idea and a general name. The genus, tree, was after- wards subdivided into its several species of oak, elm, ash, (fee, upon experience and observation. Still, however, only general terms were used in speech. For oak, elm, and ash, were names of whole classes of objects, each of which comprehended an immense number of undistinguished indi\dduals. Thus, when the nouns man, hon, or tree, were men- What is the subject of this lecture ? What is said cf the common dlTision of speech ?— Why does the author adopt these terms ? — What are substantive nouns ; — How did they originate ? — What gave rise to that part cf spi ech called the article I 52 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. tioned in conversation, it could not be known, which man, lion, or tree, was meant among the multitude comprehended under one name. Hence arose a ve- ry useful contrivance for determining the individual object intended, by means of that part of speeca called the article. In English we have two articles.| a and the ; a is more general, the more definite ^ The Greeks had but one, which agrees \^ith om* de- finite article the. They supplied the place of our ar- ticle a, by the absence of theh article ; thus Anthro- pos signifies a man, 0 Anthropos the man. The Latins had no article ; but in the room of it used the pronouns, hie, ilie, iste. This however seems a defect in their language ; since articles certainly contribute much to perspicuity and precision. To perceive the truth of this remark, observe the different imports of the following expressions : " The son of a king, the son of the king, a son of the king's." Each of these three phrases has a separate meaning, too obvious to be misunderstood. But, in Latin, " filius regis," is entirely undetermined ; it may bear, either of the three senses mentioned. Besides this quality of being defined by the article, three affections belong to nouns ; number, gender, and case, which deserve to be considered. Number, as it makes a noun significant of one or more, is, singular or plural ; a distinction found in all tongues, which must have been coeval with the ori- gin of language, since there were few things, which men had more frequent necessity of expressing, than^ the distmction between one and more. In the He- What arp the English articles ? — How many had the Greeks ? — How did they supply the place of our article a?— Had the Latins an article 1— What did they use in the room of it ?— Is this a defect in their language, and why ? How may we perceive the truth of this remark ? — What belongs to nouns ? What is number ? — In what language do we find a dual number ' —How may this be accounted for ? STRUCTURE 0? LANGUAGE. 53 brew, Greek, and some otlier ancient languages, we find not only a plural, but a dual number ; tlie origin of wliicli may very naturally be accounted for, as separate terms of numbering were yet undiscovered, and one, two, and many were all, or at least the prin- cipal numeral distinctions which men at first had any occasion to make. Gender, which is founded on the distinction of the two sexes, can with propriety be applied to the names of living creatures only. All other nouns ought to be of the neuter gender. Yet in most languages the same distinction is apphed to a great number of in- animate objects. Thus, in the Latin tongue, ensis, a sword, is masculine ; sagitta, an arrow, is feminine ; and this assignation of sex to inanimate objects, often appears entirely capricious. In the Greek and Latin, however, all inanimate objects are not distributed into masculine and feminine; but many of them are classed, where all ought to be, under the neuter gen- der ; as saxurn^ a rock ; mare^ the sea. But in the French and Italian tono-ues, the neuter p'ender is wholly unknown ; all their names of inanimate ob- jects being put upon the same footin^with those of living creatures, and distributed without, reserve into masculine and feminine. In the English language, all nouns, literally used, that are not names of liv- ing creatures, are neuter ; and ours is, perhaps, the only tongue, except the Chinese, which is said to re- semble it in this particular, in which the distinction of gender is philosophically applied. Case denotes the state or relation, which one ob- ject bears to another, by some variation of the name of that object ; generally in the final letters, and by some languages in the initial. All tongues, however, To what only should gender be applied ?— What should all other norms be ? — Yet how is it in most languages ? — Example. — How is it in the Greek and Latin ? — How in the French and Italian ?— How in the English ? What does case denote ? — Do all tongues agree in this mode of 5* 64 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. do not agree in this mode of expression. Declension is used by the Greek and Latin ; but in the English, French, and Italian, it is not found ; or, at most, it exists in a very imperfect state. These languages express the relations of objects by prepositions, which are the names of those relations prefixed to the names of objects. English nouns have no case, except a sort of genitive, commonly formed by adding the letter s to the noun ; al' when we say " Pope's Dunciad " meaning the Dunciad of Pope. Whether the moderns have given beauty or utility to language, by the abolition of cases, may perhaps be doubted. They have, however, certainly rendered it more simple, by removing that intricacy which arose from different forms of declension, and from the irregularities of the several declensions. But in obtaining this simplicity, it must be confessed, we have filled lano-uao-e with a multitude of those little words, called prepositions, which, by perpetually occurring in every sentence, encumber speech; and by rendering it more prohx, elevate its force. The sound of modern language is also less agreeable to the ear, being deprived of that variety and sweetness, which arose from the length of words, and the change of terminations, occasioned by cases in the Greek and Latin. But perhaps the greatest disadvantage we sustain by the abolition of cases, is the loss of that liberty of transposition in the arrangement of words, which the ancient languages enjoyed. Pronouns are the representatives of nouns, and are expression ?— By what languages is declension used ? — Where is it not found ? — What do these languages do ? — Have English nouns case ? — Example. Have the moderns given beauty or utility to language by the abolition of cases ? — What, however, have they done ? — In obtain- ing this simplicity, what has language been filled with ? — What ia their elfect ?— What is said of the sound of modern languages ?— What perhaps is the greatest disadvantage we sustain by the abo- lition of cases ? STRUCTURE OF LAXGUAGE. 65 subject to tlie same modifications of nrnxiber, gender, and case. We may observe, however, that the pro- nouns of the fii'st and second person, / and thou, have no distinction of gender in any language ; for, as they always refer to persons present, then' sex must be knoA^Ti, and therefore needs not to be marked by their pronouns. But, as the third person may be absent, or unknown, the distinction of gender there becomes requisite ; and accordingly in Enghsh, it hath all the three gendei-s, he, she, it. Adjectives, as strong, weak, handsome, ugly, are the plainest and most simple in that class of words, which are termed attiibutive. They are common to all languages, and must have been very early invented ; since objects could neither be distinguished nor treated of in discom-se, before names were assigned to then- difi"erent c^uahties. LECTURE IX. STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE— ENQLISH TONGUE. Of all the parts of speech, verbs are by far the most complex and useful. From their importance we may justly conclude, that they were coeval with the orioin of lanonao-e : thouo-h a lono- time must have been requisite to rear them up to that accuracy which they now possess. What are pronouns ? — To •«-hat are they snhject? — Wliat is said the first and second person? — What of the third person? What is said of adjectives? What is the subject of this lectiire I What is said of verbs ? 56 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. Tlie tenses were contrived to mark the several dis- tinctions of time. We commonly think of no more than Its three great divisions, the past, the present, and the future ; and wo might suppose that, if verbs had been so contrived as merely to express these, BO more was necessary. But language proceeds v/ith much greater subtilty. It divides time into its several moments; it regards it, as never standing still, but always flowing ; things past, as more or less distant ; and things future, as more or less remote by different gradations. Hence the variety of tenses in almost every language. The present may indeed be always regarded as one indivisible point, which admits no variety ; " I am," " su7ny But it is not so with the past. Even the poorest language has two or three tenses to express its varieties. Ours has four. 1. A past action may be represented as unfinished, by the imperfect tense ; " I was walking, amhulahamr 2. As finished, by the perfect tense; " I have walked." 3, As finished some time since, the particular time being left unde- termined ; " I walked, amhidavi ;" this is what grammarians call an aorist or indefinite past. 4. As finished before something else, which is also past. This is the plusquamperfect ; " I had walked, amhula- veram. I had walked before you called upon me." Our language, we must perceive with pleasure, has an advantage over the Latin, which has only three variations of past time. The varieties in future time are two ; a simple or indefinite future ; " I shall walk, amhulaho ;" and a What were the tenses contrived for ? — How many divisions do we commonly think of .' — What might we suppose 1 — How does it divide time 1 — How does it regard it ? How may the present be regarded ? — Is it so with the past ?— What has the poorest language 1 — How many has ours? — What are they ? — Has our language an advantage over the Latin ? How many are the varieties in future time ? — What are they f EXGLISH TOXGUE. 57 future having a reference to sometliiug else, ^tiicli is lIk:e^^ise fotiu-e ; "I shall have ^valked. a;/i5?//'./;v;/-o ; I shall have walhed, before he will pay me a vi-it.*' Besides tenses, verbs admit the distinction of voices, viz. the active and passive : as. " I love, or I am lov- ed."' They admit also die ',l:-ti]!o:i:-ii i:f in.;._l- - .'i are intended to express the perceptions and ve.iii.ju^ of the mind under different forms. The indicative mode simply declares a proposition ; " I "wiite : I have wiitten." Tlie imperative requires, commands, or threatens ; AVrite thou : \?t him v^iite." The subjunctive ex|?re5SeS a pr^'pC'siti';'!! iin ].?r the tbrm of a condition ; or as sub'^rdinate t-j somi^rihinu'. to Avhieh reference is made : '"I might vrrite : I criui:! write ; I should write if the nifittCT w.;-!'.} sr.."' This c-xpr.;->i':.ii of the perceptiT'iis anl v^^;Iv.ns of the mini in ?o many various f jtm-. t^'gether with the- d:-::iioti'jn of the three persons. /. thou, and Ae, constitutes the con- jugation of verbs, which makes so gTeat a pan of the grammar of aU languages. Conjugation is reckoned most perf ; t in t'lose lan- gtiages. which, by varying the termin;iti' n '.r the in- itial syllable of the v.-ri .. .-xv'ressc-s the gTeate-t num- ber of unportant circiuustances ^^itholU the help of auxiliary verbs. In the oriental tongties verbs have few tenses ; but their modes are so contrive'! a- to express a gi-eat variety c^f circumstances an^l rLi;rd_'n-. In the Hebrew they say in one word, without tlie aid of an auxiliary, not only, " I taught," but. " I was tanuht : I cau-ed to teach ; I was can- ' _ di *, I tauuht myself." The Greek, which i __...-^nly thought to be the most perfect of ah languages. Besides tenses what do Terts admit ■ — What are they- — Wliat else do thev admit ?— "What is the indicative mode ' — Wliat is the imperative ? — What the subjunctive \ — What constitutes the conju« gation of verhs ■ In what lanjTuage is conjugation reckoned most perfect ? — How is it in the 'jriei;tal tongues ? — How in the Hebrew ? — In the Greek i— In the Latin I — In modem European tongues 1 58 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. is very regular and complete in the modes and tenses. The Latin, though formed on the same model, is not so perfect ; particularly in the passive voice, which forms most of the tenses by the aid of the auxiliary *' sumy In modern European tongues, conjugation is very defective. The two great . auxiliary verbs, to have^ and to he^ with those otiier auxiliaries, which we use in English, c/o, shali^ will, may, and can^ prefixed to a participle, or to another verb in the infinitive mode, supersede in a great measure the difterent ter- minations of modes and tenses which formed the an- cient conjugations. . The other parts of speech, as they admit no varia- tion, will require only a short discussion. Adverbs are for the most part an abridged mode of speech, expressing by one word, what might by a circumlocution be resolved into two or moi-e words, belonging to other parts of speech. — " Here," for instance, is the same with " in this place." Hence adverbs seem to be less necessary, and of later in- troduction into speech, than several other classes of w^ords ; and accordingly most of them are derived from other words, formerly estabhshed in the lan- guage. I'repositions and conjunctions serve to express the relations which things bear to one another, their mu- tual influence, dependence, and coherence ; and so to join w^ords together, as to form intelligible positions. Conjunctions are commonly employed for connecting sentences, or members of sentences ; as, and, because and the like. Prepositions are used for connecting words ; as of, from, to, &c. The beauty and strength of every language depend in a great measure on a What is said of other parts of speech ? What are adverbs ? — What is said of their introduction into speech ? What are prepositions and conjunctions ? — For what are they commonly employed ?— Upon what does the beauty and strength of every lauguago depend ' ENGLISH TONGUE. 69 proper use of conjunctions, prepositions, and those relative pronouns, -u^hicli serve tlie same purpose of connir'.tii.g diS'erent parts of discourse. Ha^uiig thus briefly considered the stmctm-e of lan- guage in general, we ■will now enter more parrlcularlv into an examination of our own lano-uarfe. The Eiiglish, which was spoken after the Xormari conquest and continues to he spoken now, is a mix- ttu'e of the ancient Saxon and the Xorman French, to- gether with such new and foreig-n words, as commerce and learning have, in a succession of ages. gTadually introduced. From the influx of so many streams, from a junction of so n:ary d:--:mi';-r parts, it natural- ly follows, that the - -ye irr -:: ;;d lanofuao^e, must he s- a. v.L^.t iiTC-iiT.iur. AVc ecj.n-t expect fi'om it that c inplete analogy in struettire, which may he found in those simpler langnagy v L: h were fonned within themselves, and built on ■ a- dat?n. — Hence our synt--:: -1 it, since there are few marks in the words th i. - a - which show their relation to each other, or point out «:■::■ ' r t' ':■ ^ ].cor- dance or their gorernment in a sent a ■. L a_. a. ihesa be disadvai:-; „ - 'a ■ 1 I i ;_aage, they are balanced by i - ; ' ; a _ - - 'a :i:a:nd it paiticu- larlv bv the niunber aiai ' • - ' - words bv v. hicli such a language is comn.' a^y enriched. Few lan- guages are more copious than the English. In all gTave subjects, especially, historical, critical, political, and moral, no complaint can justly be made of the baiTenness of our tongue. We are rich too in the lan- guage of poetiy ; our poetical style differs widely from prose, net with respect to numbers only, but in the reiy vrords themselves ; which proves what a com- What is th- Erraa-. ! — ^— Why i; it irregrilar What eann';t we tx; ' a '\_ : ^aid cf cur syntax — Ty -^ha-; are these di5a.a-;,v ; ; g i.;-.:;,:.c-i Said cf its 'ccpiousneis I— Of its character in aU grare subjects : — Row is it in respect to poetry ? — What does this prove .- — How are we in comparison with ihifica- tion, its power of supporting poetical niuRbers, with- out the assistance of rh}Tne, is a sufficient proof, that it is far fi-om being unharmonious. Even the hissing sound, of which it has been accused, obtains less fre- quently than has been suspected. For in many words, and in the final sjdlaljles especially, the letter s has the sound of z, which is one of the sounds on which the ear rests with pleasure ; as in has, these, loves, hears, &c. It must, however, be admitted that smoothness is not the distinguishing property of the English tongue. Strength and expressiveness, rather than grace and tnelody, constitute its character. It possesses also the property of being the most simple of all the European dialects in its form and construction. It is ti^ee from the intricacy of cases, declensions, modes, and tenses. Its words are subject to fewer variations from their original fonn, than those of any other language. Its nouns have no distinction of gender, except what is made by nature ; and but one variation in case. Its adjectives admit no change, except what expresses the degree of comparison. Its verbs, instead of the varieties of ancient conjugation, admit only four or five changes in termination. A few prepositions and auxihary verbs eflect aU the pm-poses of signifi'cancy : while the jmncipal words for the most part preserve What has onr language 'been thoTight deficient in? — What is a ETifficient proof that it is not so 1 — What is said of the hissing sound of vrhich it has been accused ? "What. ho'.veTer. must be admitted 1 — What constitutes its cha- racter ? — What does it also possess ? — What is it free from ? — WTiat is said of its -words ?- -^Touns — AdjectiTes ? — Terhs — Preposi 6 62 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. tlieir form unaltered. Hence our language acqmres a simplicity and facility, which are the cause of its beiijg frequently written and sj^oken with inaccuracy. We imagine that a competent skill in it may be ac- quired without any study ; and that in a syntax sc narrow and limited as ours, there is nothing which requires attention. But the fundamental rules of syn tax are common to the English and to the aucient tongues ; and regard to them is absolutel}^ requisite for writing or speaking with propriety. Whatever be the advantages or defects of our lan- guage, it certainly deserves in, the highest degi^ee, our study and attention. The Greeks and Romans in the meridian of their glory, bestowed the highest cultiva- tion on the respective languages. The French and Italians have employed much study upon theirs ; and their example is worthy of imitation. For, whatever knowledge may be gained by the study of other lan- guages, it can never be communicated with advantage, unless by those who can write and speak then own language with propriety. Let the matter of an author be ever so good and useful, his compositions will always suffer in the ^public esteem, if his expressions be deficient hi purity or propriety. At the same time, the attainment of a correct and elegant style is an ob- ject which demands application and labour. If any one suppose he can catch it merely by the ear, or ac- quire it by a hasty perusal of some of our good au- thors, he will be much disappointed. The many grammatical errors, the many impuie expressions. tions and auxiliary verbs ?— Hence -what does our language acquire ? — What do we imagine 1 — Is this so ? • What does our language deserve ? — What did the Greeks and Ro- mans do 1— What have the French and Italians done ?— Why is their example -worthy of imitation ? — Upon what groiind is an author in danger of sufiferiug in the public esteem ? — What is necessary to at- tain a correct and elegant style ? — Can it be caught by the ear mere- »y, or by the hasty perusal of some good authors 1 — What demon- etrate the necessity of a careful study of our language J STYLE, PEKSPICUITT, iC. 63 whicii are found in autliors ^vllo are far from "being contemptible, demonstrate that a careful study of ou'- language is predously requisite for writing it witV propriety, purity, and elegance. LECTURE X. STYLE, PERSPICUITY, AND PEECISIOX. Style is tlie peculiar manner in wliicli a man ex- presses liis thoiigEfs'"T)j words. It is a picture of tlie , ideas in liis mind, and of the order in which they there exist. The qualities of a good style may be ranged under two heads, perspicuity and grnainent. — It will recidily be admitted, that perspicuity is the fundamental qual- ity of a good style. AViihout this the brightest orna- ments only ghmmer through the dark, and perplex instead of pleasing the reader. If we be forced to , follow a writer with much care ; to pause, and to read ; over his sentences a second time^in order to under- ' f stand them fuhy, he will not please us long. Men are too indolent to rehsh so much labour. — Though .they may pretend, to admhe an author's depth, after they have discovered his meaning, they will seldom be inchned to look a second time into his book. Perspicuity requires attention, first to single words and. phrases, and then to the construction of sentences.' ^Yhen considered with respect to '\\'^:>rds and phrases, it reqtiires these three Q^m]i\iQ?>^ purity^ ^rrojjriety^ and 'precision. What is the subject of this lecture? What i= marks. What is the second rule ? 1 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. piilative3, relatives, and particles, employed for tran- sition and connexion. Some observations on this subject, which appear useful, shall be mentioned. What is termed splitting of particles, or separating a preposition from the noun, which it governs, is ever to be avoided. For example, "though virtue borrows no assistance from, yet it may often be accompanied 'by, the advantages of fortune." In such instances we suffer pain from the violent separation of two things, which by nature are closely united. The strength of a sentence is much injured by an unnecessary multiplication of relative and demonstra- tive particles. If a writer say, "there is nothing which disgusts me sooner, than the empty pomp of language ;" he expresses himself less forcibly, than if he had said, " nothing disgusts me sooner, than the empty pomp of language." The former mode of ex- 'pression in the introduction of a subject, or in laying down a proposition to which particular attention is demanded, is very proper ; but in ordinary discourses the latter is far preferable. With regard to the relative we shall only observe, that in conversation and epistolary wi'iting it may be omitted ; but in compositions of a serious or dignified kind, it should constantly be inserted. On the copulative particle and, which occurs so ■often, several observations are to be made. It is e\'i- dent, that an unnecessary repetition of it enfeebles style. By omitting it we often make a closer con- nexion, a quicker succession of objects, than when it is inserted between them. " Veni, vidi, vici,''^ ex- presses with more spirit the rapidity of conquest, than What is ever to be avoided? — Example.— How do we suffer pain from such instances ? How is the strength of a sentence injured ? — Illustrate. — When is the former mode proper ] What is said in regard to the relative ? On what are several observations to be made ? — How does it enfee- ble style ]— What effect does the omission of it produce ?— Ex- STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 15 if connecting particles had been used. Wlien, how- ever, we wish to prevent a quick transition fi'om one object to another; and when enumerating objects which we wish to appear as distinct from each other as possible ; copulatives may be multiplied with pe- culiar advantage. Thus Lord Bolingbroke says with propriety, " such a man might fall a victim to power ; but truth, and reason, and liberty, would fall with him." The third rule for promoting the strength of a sen- tence is, dispose of the principal word or words in that part of the sentence, where they wil] make the • most striking impression. Perspicuity ought fii'st to "be studied ; and the nature of our language allows no great liberty of collocation. In general, the impor- tant words are placed at the beginning of a sentence. Thus Mr. Addison ; " the pleasures of the imagina- tion taken in then- full extent, are not so gross as those of sense ; nor so refined as those of the understand- ing." This order seem.s to be the most plain and natural. Sometimes, however, when we propose giv- ing weight to a sentence, it is useful to suspend the meaning a httle, and then to biing it out fully at the close. "Thus," says Pope, "on whatever side we contemplate Homer, what principally strikes us, is his wonderful invention." The fourth rule for pi'omoting the strength of sen- tences is, make the members of them go on rising in their importance one above another. This kind of arrangement is called a climax, and is ever regarded as a beauty in composition. Why it pleases is sufii- ciently evident. In all things we love to advance to ample.— When may copulatives be multiplied with advantage ? — Example. What is the third rule ? — What ought first to he studied ? — What does not the nature of our langi;agf allow ? — How are the impor- tant words generally placed ?— Example. — Remarks. — What is useful ■when we propose gi\ing weight to a sentence ?— Example. What is the fourth rule J— What is this calk-d? — How is it re- garded?— Why does it please?— What does Quintilian say?— A 16 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. what is more and more beautiful, rather than to fol- low a retawrade order. Havino^ viewed some consi- derable object, we cannot without pain descend to an inferior circumstance. " Cavendum est,''^ says Quin- tilian, " ne descrescat oratio, et fortior suhjungatur ali- quid injirmius." A weak assertion should never fol- low a stronger one ; and, when a sentence consists of two members, the longest should in general be the concluding one. Periods, thus divided, are pro- nounced more easily ; and, the shortest member be- ing placed first, we carry it more readily in our me- mory, as we proceed to the second, and see the con- nexion of the two more clearly. Thus to say, " When our passions have forsaken us, we flatter ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken them," is both more graceful and more persj)icuous, than to begin with the longest part of the proposition ; " We flatter ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken our passions, when they have forsaken us." The fifth rule for constructing sentences with strength is, avoid concluding them with an adverb, a preposition, or any insignificant word. By such con- clusions, style is always weakened and degraded. Sometimes, indeed, where the stress and significancy rest chiefly upon words of this kind, they ought to have the principal place allotted them. No fault, for example, can be found with this sentence of Boling- broke ; " In their prosperity my fi-iends shall never hear of me ; in their adversity always ;" where never and always, being emphatical words, are so placed, as to make a strong impression. But, when these in ferior parts of speech are introduced, as circumstan- weak assertion should never foUo-w what ? — When a sentence con- Bists of two members, which should be the concluding one I — What are the benefits of this arrangement ? — Illustrate. What is the fifth rule ? — What is the effect of such conclusions — When ought they to have the principal place allotted them ?— Example. — Remarks — What is farther said of these parts of speech I STRUCTURE OF SEXTE^CES. 77 ces, or as qualifieations of more important ^-ords, tliey should always be disposed of in the least conspicuous parts of the period. "We sh'juld always avoid concluding a sentence or member with any of those particles, which distinguish the cases of nouns ; as q/", to^ from, with, hj. Thus t is much better to say, " avarice is a crime of which wise men are often g-uilty," than to say, " avarice is a crime, which -wise men are often guilty o£" This is a phi-aseology which all correct writei-s shun. A complex verb, compounded of a simple verb and a subsequent preposition, is also an ungraceiiil con- clusion of a period ; as, bring about, clear up, give over, and many others of the same kind ; instead of which, if a simple verb be employed, it will terminate the sentence with more strength. Even the pronomi it, especially when joiued with some of the preposi- tions, as, with it, in it, to it, cannot vrithout violation of grace be the conclusion of a sentence. Any phrase which expresses a circumstance onlv, cannot conclude a sentence without gTeat inelegance. Cir>:umstances, indeed, are' like imshapely stones in a building, which try the skill of an artist, where to place them \\dth the least offence. We should not crowd too many of them together ; but rather intersperse them in differ- ent parts of the sentence, joined with the principal words on which they depend. Thus, for instance, when Dean Swift says, " what I had the honom* of mentioning to your lordship some time ago in conver- sation, was not a new th' aig-lit f these two circum stances, sorne tirne ago, and in conversation, which are joined, woidd have been better separated thus ; " w ha What should always avoid : — Illustrate. — Who shun this phraseology 1 What is also an ungraceful conclusion of a period ? — What will terminate the sentence with mere strength : — What is said of the pronoun t7 7— Of any phrase which expresses a circumstance only ? — What are circumstances hke 1 — What should we do with them Example. — Correct. 7* 78 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. I had tlie honour some time ago of mentioning to your brdship in conversation." The sixth and last rule concernino; the strenccth of a sentence is this; in the members of it, where two things are compared or contrasted ; where either re- semblance or opposition is to be expressed ; some re semblance in the language and construction ought tc be observed. The following passage from Pope's pre- face to his Homer, beautifully exemplifies this rule. " Homer was the greater genius ; Virgil the better ar- tist ; in the one we admire the man ; in the other the work. Homer hurries us with a commanding impet- uosity ; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty Homer scatters with a generous profusion ; Virgil be- stows with a careful magnificence. Homer, like the Nile, poui's out his riches with a sudden overthrow ; Virgil, like a river in its banks, with a constant stream. When we look upon their machines. Homer seems like his own Jupiter in his terrors, shaking Olympus, scattering lightning, and firing the heavens. Virgil hke the same power in his benevolence, counselling with the gods, lapng plans for empires, and ordering his whole creation." Periods, thus constructed, when introduced with propriety, and not too frequently re- peated, have a sensible beauty. But, if such a con- struction be aimed at in every sentence, it betrays into a disagreeable uniformity, and produces a regular jingle in the period, which tires the ear, and plainly disco vei^s affectation. What is the sixth and last rule ? — Example. — W^hat is said of pe riods thus constructed ^ -What if such construction be aimed at i erery sentence ? [79] LECTURE XIII. STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES.— HARMONY. Havixg considered sentences with regard to tlie't meaning under the heads of Perspicuity, Unity, and Strength ; we shall now consider them with respect to their Sound. In the harmony of periods two things are to be considered. First, agreeable sound or modulation in general, ^dthout any particular expression. iSText, the sound so ordered as to become expressive of the sense. The fii'st is the more common ; the second the supe- rior beauty. The beauty of musical construction depends upon the choice and arrangement of words. Those words are most pleasing to the ear, which are composed of smooth and hqiiid sounds, in which there is a proper intermixture of vowels and consonants without too many harsh consonants, or too many open vowels in succession. Long words are generally more pleasing to the ear than monosyllables ; and those are the most musical, which are not whoUy composed of long or short syllables, but of an intermixture of them ; such as delight^ amuse, velocity, celerity, beautiful, impe- tuosity. If the words, however, which compose a entence, be ever so well chosen and harmonious; yet, if they be unskilfully arranged, its music is entire- y lost. As an instance of a musical sentence, we may ^ake the following from Milton ; " We shah conduct "What is the subject of this lecture ? What has been considered ?— How are we now to consider them ? In the harmony of periods, what two things are to be considered? What does the beauty of musical construction depend upon ? — What words are most pleasing to the ear 'i — Example.— What if the words are unskilfully arranged? — What instance of a musicai sentence is giren ?— What is said of it ] 80 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. you to a hill si.le, laborious indeed at tlie first ascent ; but else so smooth, so gi-een, so full of goodly pros- pects and melodious sounds on every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming." Every thing in this sentence conspires to render it harmoni- ous. The words are well chosen ; laborious^ smooth^ green, goodly, melodious, charming ; and so happily arranged that no alteration can be made without in- juring the melody. There are two things on which the music of a sen tence principally depends ; these are, the proper dis- tribution of the several members of it, and the close or cadence of the whole. First, the distribution of the several members should be carefully regarded. Whatever is easy to the or- gans of speech, is always grateful to the ear. While a period advances, the termination of each member forms a pause in the pronunciation ; and these pauses should be so distributed, as to bear a certain musical proportion to each other. This will be best illiisffated by examples. "This discourse concerning the easi- ness of God's commands, does all along suppose and acknowledge the difficulties of the first entrance upon a religious course ; except only in those persons who have had the happiness to be trained up to rehgion by the easy and insensible degrees of a pious and virtuous education." This sentence is ftir from being harmonious ; owing chiefly to this, that there is but one pause in it, by which it is divided into two mem- bers ; each of which is so long, as to require a con siderable stretch of breath in pronouncing it. On the contrary, let us observe the grace of the following passage from Sir William Temple, in which he speaks sarcastically of man. " But, God be thanked, his pride is greater than his ignorance ; and what he wants Upon-what does the music of a sentence principally depend? What is the first ? — Example. — What is said of this sentence ? —Example from Sir William Temple.— Remarks.— What is apt to savour of affectation ' HARMONY. 81 in knowledge, lie supplies by sufSciency. Wlien he has looked about bim as far as be can, be concludes tbere is no more to be seen ; when be is at tbe end of bis line, be is at tbe bottom of tbe ocean ; ^vben be bas sbot bis best, be is sm-e none ever did, or ever can sboot better, or beyond it. His own reason be holds to be tbe certain measure of truth ; and bis own know- ledge, of what is possible in nature." Here every thing is at once easy to tbe breath, and grateful to the ear. We must, however, observe, that if compo- sition abound with sentences which have too many rests, and these placed at intervals apparently meas- lu-ed and regular, it is apt to savour of affectation. Tbe next thing which demands attention is tbe close or cadence of the period. The only important rule, which can here be gi^'en, is this, when we aim at dignity or elevation, the sound should increase to the last ; the longest members of tbe period, and tbe fullest and most sonorous words, should be reserved for the conclusion. As an instance of this, the fol- lowing sentence of x\ddison may be given. " It fills tbe mind with tbe largest variety of ideas ; converses vdth its objects at tbe greatest distance ; and conti- nues tbe longest in action ^vitbout being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments." Here every reader must be sensible of beauty in tbe just distribu- tion of the pauses, and m tbe manner of rounding tbe period, and of bringing it to a full and harmonious close. It may be remarked, that little words in the con elusion of a sentence are as injiuious to melody, aa they are inconsistent with strength of expression. A musical close in our language seems in general to re- quire either tbe last syUable, or tbe last but one, to "WTiat is the next thing?— What rule is given ?—E sample.— What is said of it ? V\Tiat is said of little words at the conclusion of a sentence ' — What does a musical close in our language require ■ — What is said of words which chiefly consist of short syllables ? 82 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. be a long syllable. Words whicli consist chiefly of short syllables, as contrary^ particular^ retrospect^ sel- dom terminate a sentence harmoniously, unless a previous run of long syllables have rendered them pleasing to the ear. Sentences, however, which are so constructed, as to make the sound always swell toward the end, and rest either on the last or penult syllable, give a dis «ourse the tone of declamation. If melody be not varied, the ear is soon cloyed with it. Sentences con- structed in the same manner, with the pauses at equal intervals, should never succeed each other. Short sentences must be blended with long and swelling ones, to render discourse sprightly as well as mag- nificent. We now proceed to treat of a higher- species of harmony ; the sound adapted to the sense. Of this we may remark two degrees. First, the current of sound suited to the tenor of a discourse. Next, a pe- culiar resemblance effected between some object, and the sounds that are employed in describing it. Sounds have in many respects an intimate corres- pondence with our ideas ; partly natural, partly pro- duced by artificial associations. Hence, any one mo- dulation of sound continued, stamps on style a certain character and expression. Sentences, constructed with Ciceronian fulness, excite an idea of what is anportant, magnificent, and sedate. But they suit no violent passion, no eager reasoning, no famihar ad- dress. These require measures brisker, easier, and What sentences give a discourse a tone of declamation ?— What if melody be not varied? — What sentences should not succeed each other 1 — Why must short sentences be blended with long ones ? What are we now to proceed to treat of ? — What are the two degrees ? What haven sounds ? — what? — What do sentences con- Btructed with Ciceronian fulness excite?— What do they not suit ? —What do these require ? — What would be absurd ? HAHMONY. 83 often more abrupt. It were as absurd to write a panegyric and an invective in a style of tlie same cadence, as to set the words of a tender love song to tlie tune of a warlike march. Beside the general correspondence of the current of sound with the current of thought, a more particu lar expression of certain objects by resembling sounds may be attempted. In poetry this resemblance is chiefly to be sought. It obtains sometimes, indeed, in prose composition ; but there in an inferior de- gree. The sounds of words may be employed for repre- senting chiefly three classes of objects ; first, other sounds ; secondly, motions ; and thirdly, the emotions and passions of the mind. In most languages, the names of many particular sounds are so formed, as to bear some resemblance of the sound which they signify ; as with us the ivhistling of winds, the buzz and hum of insects, the hiss of ser- pents, and the crash of falling thnber ; and many other instances, where the name is plainly adapted to the sound it represents. A remarkable instance of this beauty may be taken from two passages in Milton's Paradise Lost ; in one of which he describes the sound, made by the opening of the gates of hell ; in the other, that made by the opening of the gates of heaven. The contrast between the two exhibits to great advantage the art of the poet. The first is the opening of hell's gates ; On a sudden, open fly, With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, The infernal doors ; and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.— VVhat may be attempted ? — Where Is this resemblance to be Bought What may the sounds of Tvords be employed for representing ? How are many sounds formed in most languages ? — Where may be found an example of this beauty ? — Cite the examples. 84 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. Observe the smootliness of tlie otlier : Heaven opened wide Her ever during gates, harmonious sound ! On golden hinges turning. In the second place, tlie sound of words is frequent- ly employed to imitate motion ; as it is swift or slow violent or gentle, uniform or interrupted, easy or ac companied with, effort. Between sound and motion there is no natural aflSnity ; yet in the imagination there is a strong one ; as is evident from the connexion between music and dancing. The poet can therefore give us a lively idea of the kind of motion he would describe, by the help of sounds which in our imagina- tion correspond with that motion. Long syllables naturally excite an idea of slow motion ; as in this line of Vu'gil, 0111 inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt. A succession of short syllables gives the impres- sion of quick motion ; as, Sed fugit interea, fugit irreparabile tempus. The works of Homer and Virgil abound with in- stances of this beauty ; which are so often quoted, and so well known, that it is unnecessary to produce them. The third set of objects, which the sound of words is capable of representing, consists of emotions and passions of the mind. Between sense and sound there appears to be no natural resemblance. But if the ar- T ingement of syllables by their sound alone recall one Bet of ideas more readily than pnother, and dispose How is the sound of words frequently employed ?— Is there a natural affinity between sound and words » — Is there in the imagi- nation?— As is evident from what ? — What can the poet do there- fore ? — What idea do long syllables naturally excite ? — Example. What impression does a succession of short syllables give ? — Example. In whose works do instances of this be&uty abound ? In what consists the third set of objects ? — Is there a resemblance between sense and sound ? — When may an arrangement of syl- FIGURATIVE LAXGUAGE. 85 tlie mind for entering into that affection ^liicli tlie poet intends to raise ; such aiTangement may vriXh proprietv be said to resemlue the s^nse. Thus, vihen pleasure, joy, and agi'eeable objects, are described by one vho feeis his "subject, the Language natiurally uns in smooth, hquid and flowing numbers. — Xamque ipsa decoram Caesariem nato genetrix. lumenque juventaa Piirpureuiii, et laetos ocuLLs affiarat honores. Brisk and hvely sensations exact quicker and more animated numbers. JuTemua. mainis emicat ardens . Littus in Hesperium. Mehancholy and gloomy subjects are natm-ahy 'connected with slow measm-es and long words. In those deep solitudes and a'vrful cells. Where heaxenlv pensire contemplation dwells. Abundant instances of this kind are suggested by a moderate acquaintance with good poets, either an- cient or modern. LECTURE XIV. OEIGIX AXD XATURE OF PIGURATITE LAXGUAGE. Figures may be described to be that language which is prompted either by the imaghiarion or pas- sions. They are commonly di\ided by rhetoricians lahles be said to resemhle the sense? — When pleasnre, joy, portant circumstances. Hence the name of the ac- cessory or correspondent idea is substituted ; although the principal has a proper and well known name of its —The form er is called what ?— Consists in what ? — Hence what ? —Illustrate.— What is said of the other class ?— Is this distinctioa of importance Why ? What are tropes derived from?— TIow are ideas or objects con- templated by the imagination ?— What is said of these accessories ? — Illustrate. FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 87 own. Thus, for example, -sylien we design to point out the period, in which a state enjoyed most reputa- tion or glory, we might easily employ the proper words for expressing this ; but, as this, in our imagi- nation is readily connected with the flourishing period of a plant or tree, we prefer this correspondent idea, and say, " The Roman empire flourished most under Augustus." The leader of a faction is a plain expres- sion ; but, because the 'head is the principal part of the human body, and is supposed to direct all the animal operations ; resting on this resemblance, we say, " Cataline was the head of his party." We shall now examine, why tropes and figures conti'ibute to the beauty arid gi-ace of style. By them language is enriched, and made more copious. Hence words and phrases are multiplied for expressing all sorts of ideas; for describing even the smallest dif- ferences ; the nicest shades and colom^s of thought ; which by proper words alone cannot possibly be ex- pressed. They also give dignity to style, which is degraded by the familiarity of common words. — Figures have the same effect on language, that a rich and splendid apparel has on a person of rank and dig- nity. In prose compositions, assistance of this kind is often requisite ; to poetry it is essential. To say, " the sun rises," is common and trite ; but it becomes a magnificent image, as expressed by Thomson : I But yonder comes the powerful king of day, Rejoicing in the east. Figures furnish the pleasure of enjoying two ob- jects, presented at the same time to our view, without confusion ; the principal idea together with its acces- sory, which gives it the figurative appearance. AVhen, What shall we now examine ? — By them language is what ? — Hence what ? — What do they also give to style ? — What effect do figui-os have upon language ? — In what compositions is assistance of this kind requisite ?— In what is it essential ^ — Illustrate What do figures furnish ?— Example. 88 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF for example, instead of "youtli," we say "the morn- ing of life ;" the fo.ncy is instantly entertained with all the corresponding circumstances between these two objects. At the same instant we behold a certain period of human hfe, and a certain time of the day so connected, that the imagination plays between them with delight, and views at once two similar objects without embarrassment. Figures are also attended ' with the additional ad- \'antage of giving us a more clear and striking view of the principal object, than if it were expressed in simple terms, and freed from its accessory idea. They exhibit the object, oh which they are employed, in a picturesque form ; they render an abstract conception in some degree an object of sense ; they surround it with circumstances, which enable the mind to lay hold of it steadily, and to contemplate it fully. By a well adapted figure, even conviction is assisted, and a truth is impressed upon the mind with additional hve- liness and force. Thus in the following passage of Dr. Young : " When we dip too deep in pleasure, wo always stir a sediment, that renders it impure and noxious." When an image presents such a resem- blance between a moral and a sensible idea, it serves, like an argument fr'om analogy, to enforce what the author advances, and to induce belief. All tropes being founded on the relation which one object bears to another, the name of the one may be substituted for that of the other ; and by this the ^ vivacity of the idea is generally increased. The rela- tion between a cause and its effect is one of the first and most obvious. Hence the cause is sometimes figuratively put for the effect. Thus Mr. Addison, writing of Italy, says, What additional advantages are figures attended with ? — Example. — What is said of this image ? In the use of tropes, when may the vivacity of the idea he in- creased ?— What is said of the relation between a cause and elfect * — Example. — llemarks. riGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 89 Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, And the whole year in gay confusion lies. Here tlie " Avliole year" is plainly meant' to signify tlie productions of tlie year. The effect is also put for the cause ; as " gi^ay hairs" for " old age," which produces gray hairs; and "shade" for the "trees," which cause the shade. The relation between the container and the thing contained is so intimate and apparent, as natm-ally to give rise to tropes. Ille impiger hausit Spumantem pateram, et pleno se proluit auro "Where it is ob^-ious, that the cup and gold are put for the hquor, contained in the golden cup. The name of the country is often used to signify its inha- bitants. To pray for the assistance of Heaven is the same with praying for the assistance of God, who is in heaven. The relation between a sign and the thing signified is another som"ce of tropes. Thus, Cedant arma togee ; concedat laurea linguEe. Here the " toga," which is the badge of the civil professions, and the "laurel," that of military ho- nours, are each of them put for the civil and military characters themselves. Tropes, founded on these several relations of cause and effect, container and contained, sign and thing signified, are caUed by the name of metonomy. When a trope is founded on the relation between an antecedent and its consequent, it is caUed a met- ' alepsis ; as in the Roman phrase, " fuit," or " vkit," to signify that one was deacl. " Fuit Ihum et ingens gloria Teucrum" expresses that the glory of Troy is no more. What naturally gives rise to tropes ? — Example. — Remarks, What is another source of tropes ?— Example.— Remark* What tropes are called by the name of metonomy ? When is a trope caUed a metalepsis 1 — Example. 8* 90 METAPHOR. When tlie wliole is put for a part, or a part for tlie wliole ; a genus for a species, or a species for a genus ; the singular number for the plural, or the plural for the singular ; in general, when any thing less, or any thing more, is put for the precise object meant ; the figure is then termed a synedoche. We say, for in stance, "A fleet of so many sail," instead of so many " ships ;" we frequently use the " head" for the " per son," the " pole" for the " earth," the " waves" for the ' " sea." An attribute is often used for its subjects , as, " youth and beauty," for the " young and beauti- ful ;" and sometimes a subject for its attribute. But the relation, by far the most fruitful of tropes, is simil- itude, which is the sole foundation of metaphor. LECTURE XV. METAPHOR. Metaphor is founded entirely on the resemblance which one object bears to another. It is, therefore, nearly allied to simile or comparison ; and is, indeed, a comparison in an abridged form. When we say of t a great minister, " he upholds the state, like a pillar, which supports the weight of an edifice," we evident- ly make a comparison ; but, when we say of him, he is " the pillar of the state," it becomes a metaphor. Of all the figures of speech, none approaches so When is the figure termed a synedoche ? — Examples. — What is far the most fruitful of tropes ?— Of what is it the sole foundation 1 What is the subject of this lecture ? On what is metaphor founded ? — To what is it nearly allied ? — Is Indeed what? — Illustrate. What is said of metaphor in respect to painting ?— What is ro- METAPHOR. 91 near to painting, as metaplior. It gives light and strength to description ; makes intellectual ideas in some degree visible, by giving them colour, substance, and sensible Cjualities. To produce this effect, hovr- ever, a dehcate hand is requisite ; for by a little in- accuracy vre may introduce confusion instead of pro- moting perspicuity. Several rules therefore must be given for the proper management of metaphors. The first rule respecting metaphors is, they must be suited to the nature of the subject ; neither too numerous, nor too gay, nor too elevated for it ; we must neither attempt to force the subject by the use of them into a degi'ee of elevation, not congruous to it ; nor on the contrary suffer it to fall belovr its proper dignity. Some metaphors are beautiful in poetiy, which would be unnatural in prose ; some are grace- ful in orations, which would be highly improper in historical or philosophical composition. Figures are the dress of sentiment. They should consequently be adapted to the ideas which they are intended to adorn. The second rule respects the choice of objects, whence metaphoi-s are to be drawn. The field for figurative language is very wide. All nature opens her stores and alloAvs us to collect them without re- straint. But we miLst beware of using stich allusions as raise in the mind disagTceable, mean, low, or dirty ideas. To render a metaphor perfect, it must not only be apt, but pleasing ; it must entertain as well as en- lighten. Dryden, therefore, can hardly escape the imputation of a very unpardonable breach of delicacy, when he observes to the Earl of Doreet, that " some bad poems carry their owners' marks about them ; qnisite to produce this effect ?— Why ? — Several rules must therefore Le given for what ? What is the first ? What is the second ?— Of what must we beware ? — To render a metaphor perfectj what must he done I— Wliat is said of Dryden I 92 METAPHOR. some brand or oilier on this buttock, or that ear ; that it is notorious, who are the owners of the cattle." The most pleasing metaphors are derived from the frequent , occurrences of art and nature, or from the civil transactions and customs of mankind. Thus, how expressive,- yet at the same time how famihar, is the image, which Ottway has put into the mouth of Me- tellus in his play of Caius Marius, where he calls Sulpicius That mad wild bull, whom Marms lets loose Oa each occasion, when he'd make Rome feel him, To toss our laws and liberties in the air. In the third place, a metaphor should be founded on • a resemblance, which is clear and striking, not far fetched, nor difficult to be discovered. Harsh or forced metaphors are always displeasing, because they perplex the reader, and instead of illustrating the thought, render it intricate and confused. Thus, for instance, Cowley, speaking of his mistress, expres- ses himself in the following forced and obscure ver- ses : Wo to her stubborn heart ; if once mine come Into the self-same room, 'T will tear and blow up all within, Like a grenada. shot into a magazine. Then shall love keep the ashes and torn parts Of both our broken hearts ; Shall out of both one new one make ; From hers the alloy, from mine the metal take For of her heart he from the flames will find But little left behind : Mine only will remain entire ; . No dross was there to perish in the fire Metaphors, borrowed from any of the sciences, especially from particular professions, are almost al- ways faulty by their obscurity. —Whence are the most pleasing metaphors derived ?— Example. What, in the third place, should a metaphor be founded on ? — What is said of harsh or forced metaphors ?— Example. What is saia of metaphors borrowed from any of the scienceB ? METAPHOR. 93 In tlie foTU'tli place, we must nerer jiimble meta- phorical and plain language together ; never construct a perio'i so, that part of it must be understood meta- phorically, part hterallv : which always produces con- fusion. The works of Ossian afford an instance of the fault we are now censuring. " Trothall went forth with the stream of his people, but they met a rock; for F:::g:;l stood unmii-vcd ; broken, they rohed horn his sMc. Xor did they roll hi safety; the sjjear of the king pursued their flight." The metaphor at the beginning is beautiful ; the " stream," the " unmoved rock," the " waves roUing back broken," are expres- sions in the proper and consistent language of figiue ; but in the end, when w^ ^re told, " they did not roll in safety, because the spear of the king piu-sued theh flight," the hteral meaning is hijuLliei^jusly mixed -^ith the metaphor ; they are at the same mo- ment presented to us as waves that roll^ and as men that may ho^ pursued and wounded hy a spear. In the fifth place, take care not to make two differ- ent metaphoi-s meet on the same object. This, which is called mixed metaphor, is one of the gTossest abuses of this figure. Shak-pearc's exy'rv^::-;!!, f r example, to take arms against a sea ca' trC'iiblcs." makes a most unnatural medley, and enthely contbtmds the imagination. More correct writers than Shakspeare, are somethnes guilty of this error. Mr. Addison says, "there is not a single ' ' 'f human nature, which is not sufficient to • :i the seeds of pride.'* Here a vieic is made lo txtinguish and to extinguish seeds. In examining the pr':'priety of metaph :!?, :: is a good rule to form a pictiu-e 'jf them, an^l vj L- .i.-ider In the fourth place, vrhat mtist vtq aroid ? — Whose vrcrks afford an instance of this ? — Cite the example. — K.emark? thereon. In the fifth pilace. of what must we take care? — Example froia Shaksp.-are. — Fr^m Addison. — liemarks. What is a good rule in examining the propriety of metaphors 1 94 METAPHOR. how tlie parte agi-ee, and what kind oi figure the whole presents, when dehneated with a pencil. Metaphors, in the sixth place, should not be crowd- ed together on the same object. Though each of them be distinct, yet, if they be heaped on one ano- ther, they produce confusion. The fohowing passag from Horace will exemplify this observation : Motum ex Metello consule civisum Bellique causas, et vitia. et modos, Ludumque fortnnae. gravesque Principium amicitias, et arma Nonduni expiatis uncta cruoribus, Periculosse plenum opus aleae, Traijtas. et incedis per ignes Suppositos cineri doloso. This passage, though very poetical, is rendered harsh and obscure by three distinct metaphors crowd- ed together. First, " arma uncta cruoribus nondum expiatis ;" next, " opus plenum periculosce alece ;" and then, " incedis per ignes suppositos cineri duloso.^^ The last rule concerning metaphors is, they should not be too far pursued. For when the resemblance, which is the foundation of the figure, is long dwelt upon, and carried into all its minute circumstances, an allegor)^ is produced instead of a metaphor ; the reader is wearied, and the discourse becomes obscure. This is termed straining a metaphor. Dr. Young, whose imaginatioa was more distinguished by strength, than delicacy, is often guilty of running down his metaphors. Speaking of old age, he says, it should Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore Of that vast ocean, it must sail so soon ; And put good works on board ; and wait the wind That shortly blows us into worlds unknown. The first two lines are uncommonly beautiful ; but when he continues the metaphor by " putting What is said-of metaphors in the sixth place ? — Example. How is this passage rendered harsh and ob-cure ? What is the last rule concerning metaphors ? — Why ? — What is this termed ?— Said of Dr. Young .'—Example.— Remarks thereon METAPHOR. 95 good Tvorks on board, and waiting tlie wind," it is strained, and sinks in dignity. Ha^-ing treated of a metaphor, we shall conclude this chapter with a few words concerning allegory. An allegory is a continued metaphor ; as it is the representation of one thing by another that resembles it. Thus Piior mates Emma describe her constancy to Henry in the following allegorical manner. Did I but purpose to embark with thee On 1 he finooth surface of a summer's sea. While gentle zephjTS play ■svith prosperous gales, And fortune's favour fills the swelling sails ; But would forsake the ship, and make the shore. When the winds whistle and the tempests roar ? The same rules that were given for metaphors, may be applied to allegories on account of the affinity between them. The only material difference beside the one being short and the other prolonged is, that a metaphor always explains itself by the words that are connected with it in their proper and literal meaning ; as, when we say, " Achilles was a hon ;" " an able minister is the pillar of the state." Lion and pillar are here sufficiently interpreted by the mention of Achilles and the minister, Avhich are join- ed to them ; but an ahegory may be allowed to stand less connected with the hteral meaning ; the inter- pretation not being so plainly pointed out, but left to otu' OYvTi reflection. WhE\,f is an allegory Example. Why-fDHy the same rules that were given for metaphors be a|> lied to allegories ?— What is the difference ?T-Illustrate. [96] LECTURE XYI. HYPERBOLE. Hyperbole consists in magnifying an object be- yond its natural bounds. Tbis figure occurs very frequently in all languages, even in common conver- sation. As swift as tbe wind ; as wbite as snow ; and our usual forms of compliment are in general extravagant byperboles. From babit, bowever, tbese exaggerated expressions are seldom considered as by- perbolical. Hyperboles are of two kinds ; sucb as are employed in description, or sucb as are suggested by passion. Tbose are far best wbicb are tbe effect of passion ; since it not only gives rise to tbe most daring figures, but often renders tbem' just and natural. Hence, tbe following pa»sage in Milton, tbougb extremely byper- bobcal, contains notbing but wbat is natural and proper. It exbibits tbe mind of Satan agitated bv rage and despair. Me miserable ! Which vray shall I fly ? Infinite wrath, and infinite despair ? Which way I fly is hell ; myself am hell ; And in the lowest depth, a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heayen. - In simple description, byperboles must be employ- ed witb more caution. Wben an eartbquake or storm is described, or wben our imagination is car- ried into tbe midst of battle, we can bear strong by perboles witbout displeasure. But, wben only a What is the subject of this lecture ? What is hyperbole ? — Where does this figure occur ? — Examples. —What is said of these exaggerated expressions ? How many kinds of hyperboles are there ? — What are they ? — Which are best ?— Why ?— Example. What is said of hyperboles in simple description !— When can they be borne without displeasure ?— When are they disgusting ? — Example.— Remarks. PERSONIFICATION. 97 woman in grief is presented to our \dew, it is impossi- ble not to be disgusted with such exaggeration, as the following, in one of our dramatic poets : I found her on the floor In all the storm of grief, yet beautiful, Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate, That, were the world on fire, they might have drown'd The wrath of heaven, and quench'd the mighty ruin. This is mere bombast. The person herself, who laboured under the distracting agitations of grief might be permitted to express herself in strong hy- perbole ; but the spectator who describes her, cannot be allowed equal liberty. The just boundary of this figau-e cannot be ascertained by any precise rule. Good sense and an accurate taste must ascertain the hmit beyond which, if it pass, it becomes ex- travagant. PERSONIFICATION AND APOSTROPHE We proceed now to those figures, which He alto- gether in the thought, the words being taken in their common and literal sense. We shall begin with personification, by which life and action are attribut- ed to inanimate objects. All poetry, even in its most humble form, abounds in this figure. From prose it is far fi-om being excluded ; nay, even in common conversation, frequent approaches are made to it. When we say the earth thirsts for rain, or the fields smile with plenty ; when ambition is said to be restless^ or a disease to be deceitful ; such expressions show the facility with which the mind can accommo- date the properties of h\dng creatures to things inan- imate, or abstract conceptions. What is further said of this figure ? To what do we now proceed ? — Beginning with what ? — What abounds in this figure ? —From what is it not excluded ?— Ezain« pies. — What do these expressions show ? 9 98 PERSONIFICATION. There are three different degi-ees of this figure ; which it is requisite to distinguish, in order to deter- mine the propriety of its use. The first is, when some of the properties of hving creatures are ascribed to inanimate objects ; the second when those inani- mate objects are described as acting hke such as have life ; and the third, when they are exhibited either as speaking to us, or as hstening to what we say to them. The first and lowest degree of this figure, which consists in ascribing to inanimate objects some of the quahties of hving creatures, raises the style so httle, that the humblest discourse admits it without any force. Thus " a raging storm, a deceitful disease, a cruel disaster," are familiar expressions. This indeed is so obscure a degi-ee of personification, that it ixught perhaps be properly classed with simple metaphors, which almost escape our observation. The second degree of this figure is, when we re- present inanimate objects acting like those that have life. Here we rise a step higher, and the personifi- cation becomes sensible. According to the nature of the action which we ascribe to those inanimate ob- jects, and to the particularity, with which we describe it, is the strength of the figure. When pursued to a considerable length, it belongs only to studied ha- rangues ; when slightly touched, it may be admitted into less elevated compositions. Cicero, for example, speaking of the cases, where kilhng a man is lawful in self defence, uses the following expressions : " AH- quando nobis gladius ad occidendum hominem ah ip- sis porrigitur legibus^ Here the laws are beautiful- ly personified, as reaching forth their hand, to give us a sword for putting a man to death. How many degrees are there of this figure I — What is the first ?— The second? — The third ? What is said af the first and lowest degree of this figure ?— Exam- ples. — Remarks. What is the second degree ?— Example.— What is said of it ? PERSONIFICATION. 99 In poetry, personifioations of this kind are ex- tremely fi-equent, and are indeed tlie life and soul of it. In the descriptions of a poet, ^vho has a Hvely fancv. every thino- is animated. Homer, the father of puctry, is ]'eniarkaljle fur the use of this figure. Wcir, peace, darts, rivers, every thing in short, is alive in his writings. The same is true of Milt-jn ■ and Slialvspeare. Xo personification is more striking, or introduced on a more proper occasion, than the fol- Ljwing of Milton upon Eve's eating the forbidden fi'uit : So saying, her rasli hand in exil hour Forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck'd. she ate ; Earth felt the wound, and nature from her seat, Sighing through all her works, gave signs of wo. That ail was lost. The third and highest degTee of this figure is yet to be mentioned ; ^-heii inanimate objects are repre- sented, not only as feeling and acting, but as speaking to us, or hstening, while we address them. This is the boldest of all rhetorical figures ; it is the style of strong passion only : and therefore should never be attempteii, except when the mind is considerably heated and agitated. Milton afibrds a very beautifiil example of this figure in that moving and tender ad- dress which Eve makes to Paradise immediately be- fore she is compeUed to leave it. 0. unexpected stroke, worse than of death .' 31ust I thus leave thee. Paradise ? Thus leave Thee, native soil : these happy walks and shades, Fit haunt of gods : where I had hop'd to spend Quiet, though >aJ, tht respite of that day. Which must be mi.rtal to us both? 0 flowers, That never will iu other climate grow, My early visitation, aud my last At even, which I bred up with tender hand From your first opening buds, and gave you names, Who now shall rear you to the sun, or rank Your tribes, and vrater from the ambrosial fount ? In what are personific itions of this kind frecjuent ? — Who was remarkable for this ngure .' — What is alive in his writings? — The same is true of whom .-—Example. What is said of the third and highest degree of this figure ? — In ■what does Milton afford an example of this figure 1— Cite the ex- ample. 100 APOSTROPHE. This is the real language of nature and of female passion. In the management of this sort of personification two rules are to be observed. First, never attempt it, unless prompted by strong passion, and never con tinue it when the passion begins to subside. Tho second rule is, never personify an object Avhich has not some dignity in itself, ancl which is incapable of making a proper figure in the elevation to which we raise it. To address the body of a deceased friend is natural ; but to address the clothes which he wore, introduces low and degrading ideas. So likewise, addressing the several parts of the body, as if they were animated, is not agreeable to the dignity of passion. For this reason the following passage in Pope's. Eloisa to Abelard is liable to censure : Dear, fatal name, rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips, in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where, mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies ; 0, write it not, my hand ; — his name appears Already written — blot it out, my tears. Here the name of Abelard is first personified ; which, as the name of a person often stands for the person himself, is exposed to no objection. Next, Eloisa personifies her own heart ; and, as the heart is a dignified part of the human frame, and is often put for the mind, this also may pass without censure. But, when she addresses her hand, and tells it not to write his name, this is forced and unnatural. Yet the figure becomes still worse, when she exhorts her tears to blot out what her hand had written. The two last lines are indeed altogether unsuitable to the tenderness, which breathes through the rest of that inimitable poem. What is said of it ? What must be observed in the management of this sort of per bonification ?— What is the first ? — The second ?— Example.— Re- marks thereon. COMPARISON. 101 Apostrophe is an address to a real person ; but one Tvlio is either absent or dead, as if be were pre-| sent, and bstening to us. This figure is in boldness a degree lower than personification ; since it requires less effoi-t of imagination to suppose persons present, who are dead or absent, than to animate insensible beings, and direct our discourse to them. The po- ems of Ossian abound in beautiful instances of this figure. " Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O Maid of Inistore. Bend thy fair head over the waves, thou fairer than the ghost of the hills, when it moves in a sun-beam at noon over the silence of Morven. He is fallen. Thy youth is low ; pale beneath the Bword of Cuchulhn." LECTURE XYIL COMPAEISON, ANTITHESIS, INTERROGATION, EX- CLAMATION, AND OTHER FIGURES OF SPEECH. A COMPARISON, or simile, is, when the resemblance between two objects is expressed in form, and usually pursued more fuUy than the nature of a metaphor ad- mits. As when we say, "The actions of princes are hke those great rivers, the course of which every one beholds, but their springs have been seen by few."| This shoit instance ysill show that a happy compar-. ison is a sort of sparkling ornament, which adds lustre^' and beauty to discourse. ^ What is apostrophe ? — How is this figure in comparison to personi- fication ?— For -what reason ? — AVhose poems abound, in instances of this ligxxre ] — Cite the example. "What are the suhjects of this lecture ? What is a comparison 1 — Example. — What does this instanc* Bho-w ] 9* 102 COMPARISON. All comparisons maybe reduced imder two Iieads; explaining and embellishing comparisons. For, when a writer compares an object wdth any other thing, it always is, or ought to be, with a view to make us un- derstand that object more clearl}^, or to render it more pleasing. Even abstract reasoning admits explaining comparisons. For instance, the distinction between the powers of sense and imagination is in Mr. Harris's Hermes illustrated by a simile ; " As wax," says he, " would not be adequate to the purpose of signature, if it had not the power to retain as w^ell as to receive the impression ; the same holds of the soul with re- spect to sense and imagination. Sense is its recep- tive power, and imagination its retentive. Had it sense ^svithout imagination, it would not be as wax, but as water; wdiere, though all impressions be in- stantly made, yet as soon as they are made, they are lost." In comparisons of this kind, perspicuity and usefulness are chiefly to be studied. But embelhshing comparisons are those w^hich most frequently occur. Resemblance, it has been observed, is the foundation of this figure. Yet resemblance must not be taken in too strict a sense for actual si- militude. Two objects may raise a train of concor- dant ideas in the mind, though they resemble each other, strictly speaking, in nothing. For example, to describe the nature of soft and melancholy music, Ossian says, " The music of Carryl was like the mem- ory of jo3^s that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul." This is happy and delicate ; yet no kind of music bears any resemblance to the memory of past joys. We shall now consider, when comparisons may be Under what two heads may comparisons be reduced ?— What is the object of a writer in the use of comparison ?— Illustrate ? — What are chiefly to be studied in comparisons of this kind ? What comparisons most frequently occur ? — What is said of re- aemblance ?— Example. — Remarks. What shall we now consider ?— Aa author can hardly comioit a COMPARISON. 103 introduced witli propriety. Since they are the lan- guage of imagination, rather than of passion, an au- thor can hardly commit a greater fault, than in the midst of passion to introduce a shnile. Our miters of tragedies often err in this respect. Thus Addison in his Cato makes Fortius, just after Lucia had bid him farewell for ever, express himself in a studied comparison. Thus o'er the dying lamp the -unsteady flame Hangs quivering cn a point, leaps off by fits, And falls again, as loth to quit his hold. Thou must not go ; my soul still hovers o'er thee, And can't get loose. As comparison is not the style of strong passion, so when designed for emheUishment, it is not the lan- guage of a mind totally unmoved. Being a figure of dignity, it always requhes some elevation in the sub- ject, to make it proper. It supposes the imagination to be enlivened, though the heart is not agitated by passion. The language of simile hes in the middle region between the highly pathetic and the very humble style. It is, hovrever, a sparkling ornament ; and must consequently dazzle and fatigue, if it recur too often. Similes, even m poetiy, should be em- ployed with moderation ; but in prose much more so ; otherwise the style will become disgustingly luscious, and the ornament lose its beauty and effect. We shall now consider the nature of those objects from which comparisons should be drawn. In the first place, they must not be drawn fi-om things, which have too near and ob\dous a resem- blance of the object, with which they are compared. greater fault than M-hat ? — Who often err in this respect ?— Ex- ample. '\^'hat is further said of comparison ?— It always requires what ?- Supposes what ? — In what region does the language of simile lie ? — What will he its effect if it recur too often ?— How should thej employed in poetry ?— How in prose ? — Why ? What shall we now consider ? What, in the first place ?— For what reason ? 104 ANTITHESIS. The pleasure we receive from tlie act of comparing, rises from the discovery of likenesses among things of different species, where we should not, at fii'st sight, expect a resemblance. But, in the second place, as comparisons ought not , to be founded on likenesses too obvious, much less^; ought they to be founded on those which are too faint' and distant. These, instead of assisting, strain the fancy to comprehend them, and throw no light upon the subject. In the third place, the object, from which a com- parison is drawn, ought never to be an unknown ob- ject, nor one of which few people can have a clear idea. Therefore similes, founded on philosophical discoveries, or on any thing, with which persons of a particular trade only, or a particular profession, are acquainted, produce not their proper effect. They should be drawn from those illustrious and noted objects, which most readers have either seen, or can strongly conceive. In the fourth place, in compositions of a serious or elevated kind, similes should never be drawn from low or mean objects. These degrade and vilify ; whereas similes are generally intended to embelKsh and dignify. Therefore, except in burlesque writings, or where an object is meant to be degraded, mean ideas should never be presented. Antithesis is founded on the contrast or opposition of two objects. By contrast, objects, opposed to each . other, appear in a stronger light. Beauty, for instance, * never appears so charming as when contrasted with ugliness. Antithesis therefore may, on many occa- In the second Why ? In the third ? — What similes therefore produce not a proper effect ? — From what should they be drawn ? In tne fourth place Why ? On what is antithesis founded ?— How do objects contrasted ap- pear ?— How beauty, as an instance I— For what may antithesia IXTERROGATIOXS. 105 Eions, be used advantageously, to strengthen tlie im- pression wliich we propose that any object should make. Thus Cicero, in his oration for Milo, repre- senting the improbabihty of Milo's designing to take a\Yay the life of Clodius, when every thing was un- favc urable to such design, after he had omit to 1 j \ i .- opportunities of effecting such a pm-pose, hci^Lici-S our condction of this improbability by a skilful use of this figm'C. — ^''Quem igitur cum omnium gratia inier- ficere noluit ; hunc voluit cum aliquorum querela? Quern jure^ quern loco, quern temjoore. quern impune, non est ausus; hunc injuria, iniqiLo loco, alieno tem- pore, periculo capitis, non dubitavit occidere /" Here the antithesis is rendered complete by the words and membei-s of the sentence, expressing the contrasted objects, being similarly constructed, and made to cor- respond with each other. AYe must however acknowledge that fi-equent use of antithesis, especially where the opposition in the words is nice and quaint, is apt to make st}"le im- pleasing. A maxim or moral saying very properly receives this form ; because it is supposed to be the effect of meditation, and is desio-ned to be enoa-ayen on the memory, which recalls it more easily by the aid of contrasted expressions. But, where several such sentences succeed each other ; where this is an author's favom-ite and prevailing mode of expression ; his style is exposed to censm-e. IxTERROGATiONS and exclamatious are passionat figures. The literal use of inten'ogation is to ask a question ; but, when men are prompted by passion, whatever they would affirm, or deny, with gTeat earnestness, they natm-ally put in the form of a ques- V-e used therefore ?— In \rhat has Cicero made a skilful Tise of this figure 1 — Cite the example. — llomarks. What is said of the frequent use of antithesis ? What are interrogations and exclamations ? — What is the literas use of interrogation ? — How is it used by men vrhon prompted iy passion ? — Example. 106 VISION-. tion ; expressing thereby the firmest confidence of the truth of their own opinion ; and appeahng to their hearers for the impossibihty of the contrary. Thus in scripture ; " God is not a man, that he should he ; nor the son of man, that he should repent. Hath ho said it ? And shall he not do it ? Hath he spoken Jt ? And shall he not make it good ?" Interrogations may be employed in the prosecution of close and earnest reasonings; but exclamations belong only to stronger emotions of the mind ; to surprise, anger, joy, grief, and the like. These, being natural signs of a moved and agitated mind, always, when properly employed, make us sympathise with those who use them, and enter into their feelings. Nothing, however, has a worse effect, than frequent and unseasonable use of exclamations. Young, inex- perienced writers suppose, that by pouring them forth plenteously they render their compositions warm and animated. But the contrary follows; they render them frigid to excess. When an author is always cahing upon us to enter into transports, which he has said nothing to inspire, he excites our disgust and in- dignation. Another figure of speech, fit only for animated com- position, is called Vision ; when, instead of relating something that is past, we use the present tense, and describe it, as if passing before our eyes. Thus Cicero, in his fourth oration against Cataline : " Videor enim mihi hanc urhem videre, lucem orhis terrarun > atque arccm omnium gentium, suhito uno incendio con- ' cidentum; cerno animo sepulta in patria miseros atque in sepultos acervos civium; versatur mihi ante oculus Ho-w may interrogations be employed ?— To what only do excla- mations belong? — What is their effect when properly employed? — When have they a bad effect ?— What do young and inexperienced writers suppose ! — But what 'follows ?— When does an author excite our disgust and indignation ? <^hat other figure of speech is named ?— Describe it.— Example. CLIMAX. 107 asjoectus Cethegi, et furor, in vestra cade haccJiantisy This fio;m'e has o-reat force when it is well executed, and when it flows from genuine enthusiasm. Other- ^vise, it shares the same fate with all feeble attempts towards passionate figures ; that of throwing ridicule upon the author, and lea\ing the reader more cool and uninterested than he was before. The last figure which we shall mention, and which is of frequent use among all public speakers, is Climax. It consists in an artful exaggeration of all the circum- stances of some object or action, wliicli we wish to place in a strung light. It operates by a gradual rise of one circiunstance above another, till our idea is raised to the highest pitch. We shaU give an instance of this figure from a printed pleading of a c«^lebrated lawyer, in a charge to the jury in the case of a woman, who was accused of murdering her own child. " Gentlemen, if one man had any how slain another ; if an adversary had killed his C'ppostrr ; or a woman occasioned the death of her eiirmy : c\"en these crimi- nals would have been capitally punislied by the Cor- nehan law. But, if this guiltless infant, who could make no enemy, had been murdered by its own nurse ; what punishment would not the mother have demand- ed ? Vritli what cries and exclamations would she have stunned your ears i What shall we say, then, when a woman, guilty of homicide; a mother, of the murder of her innocent child, hath comprised all those misdeeds in one single crime ; a crime, in its own na- ture detestable; in a woman prodigious ; in a mother incrediljle ; and perpetrated against one, whose age caUed for compassion ; whose near relation claimed afi"ection ; and whose innocence deserved the highest favour Such regular climaxes, however, though — \Mieii has this figure great force ? — Otherwise what fate does it share ] What is the last fignre mentioned ^ — In what does it consist ? — How dots it operate] — Example. — What is said of such climaxes? 108 GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE. they liave great beauty, yet at tlie same time have the appearance of art and study ; and, therefore, though they may be admitted into formal harangues, yet they are not the language of passion, which sel dom proceeds by steps so regular. LECTURE XVIII. GENERAL CHARAOTERS OF STYLE ; DIFFUSE, CON- CISE, FEEBLE, NERVOUS, DRY, PLAIN, NEAT, ELEGANT, FLOWERY. That different subjects ought to be treated in dif- ferent kinds of style, is a position so obvious, that it requires no illustration. Every one knows, that treatises of philosophy should not be composed in the same style with orations. It is equally apparent, that different parts of the same composition require a va- riation in the style. Yet amid this variety, we still expect to find in the compositions of any one man, some degTce of uniformity in manner ; we expect to find some prevaihng character of style impressed on all his writings, which will mark his peculiar genius -and turn of mind. The orations in Livy differ con- siderably in style, as they ought to do, fi'om the rest - of his history. The same may be observed in those of Tacitus. Yet, in the orations of both these histo- rians, the distinguishing manner of each may be clearly traced ; the splendid fulness of the one and What are the subjects of this lecture ? What position is so obyious that it requires no illustratior ? — What does every one know 1 — What is equally apparent ' — Yet amid this variety what do we expect ? — What is said of the orations of Livy ^ —Of Tacitus] — What is further said of the orations of DIFFUSE ASB CONCISE. 109 the sententious bre\aty of the other. Wherever there is real genius, it prompts to one kind of style, rather than to another. "Where this is wanting ; where there is no marked nor pecuHar character in the composi- tions of an author ; we are apt to conclude, and not without cause, that he is a vulgar and trivial author who writes from imitation, and not h'om the impulse of genius. One of the first and most obdous distinctions in style, arises from an author's expanding his thoughts more or less. This distinction forms what are termed tlie diffuse and concise styles. A concise writer com- presses his ideas into the fewest words ; he employs none but the most expressive ; he lops off all those which are not a material addition to the sense. What- ever ornament he admits, is adopted for the sake of force, rather than of grace. The same thought is never repeated. The utmost precision is studied in his sentences ; and they are generally designed to suggest more to the reader's imagination than they express. A diffuse v^Titer unfolds his ideas fully. He places it in a variety of hghts, and gives the reader every possible assistance for understanding it completely. He is not very anxious to express it at first in its full strength, because he intends repeating the impression ; and, what he wants in strength, he endeavours to sup- ply by copiousness. His periods naturally flow into s ~)me length, and having room for ornament of every i\nd, he gives it free admittance. Each of these styles has its peculiar advantages; and each becomes faulty when carried to the extreme. both these historiatis ? — To what does real genius prompt ?-- What are yre apt to conclude when this is wanting f Whence arises one of the most obvious distinctions in style ? — What does this distinction form ?— Describe the manner of a concise writer. Describe the manner of a diffuse writer. What is said of each of these styles ?— Who are examples ?f con- ciaeness ?— Who of diffuseness ? 10 110 DIFFUSE AND CONCISE. il Of conciseness, carried as far as propriety will allow, perhaps in some cases farther, Tacitus the historian, and Montesquieu in " I'Esprit de Loix" are remarka- ble examples. Of a beautiful and magnificent diifuse- ness, Cicero is undoubtedly the noblest instance which can be given. Addison also and Sir William Tempi may be ranked in the same class. In determining when to adopt the concise, and when the diffuse manner, we must be guided by the nature of the composition. Discourses that are to be spoken, require a more diffuse style than books, which are to be read. In written compositions a proper degree of conciseness has great advantages. It is more lively ; keeps up attention ; makes a stronger impression on the mind ; and gratifies the reader by supplying more exercise to his thoughts. Description, when we wish to have it vivid and animated, should be concise. Any redundant words or circumstances encumber the ifancy, and render the object we present to it confused and indistinct. The strength and vivacity of descrip- tion, whether in prose or poetry, depend much more upon a happy choice of one or two important circum- stances, than upon the multiplication of them. When we desire to strike the fancy, or to move the heart, we should be concise ; when to inform the under- standing, which is more deliberate in its motions, and wants the assistance of a guide, it is better to be full Historical narration may be beautiful either in a concise or diffuse manner, according to the author'3 genius. Livy and Herodotus are diffuse ; Thucy- dides and Sallust are concise; yet they are all agree- able. How are we to be guided in the adoption of style ?— What is said of discourses, that are to be spoken ? — Of written compositions ? — What should description be when we wish to hare it vivid and ani- mated ?— What is the effect of redundant words or circumstances? — Upon what do strength and vivacity of description depend ? — When should we bo concise ? — When is it better to be full ? — What manner is suited to historical narration ? — What authors are dif- fuse ? — What concise ? — Are they all agreeable ? KEKYOUS AND FEEBLE. Ill The nervous and tlie feeble are generally considered as characters of style of the same import with the concise and the diffuse. Indeed, they freriucntly co- incide ; yet this does not always hold ; since there are instances of writers, who, in the midst of a full and ample style, have maintained a considerable degTce cf stFt-ngth. Livy is an instance of the truth of this observation. The foundation of a nervous or weak style is laid in an author's manner of thinking. If he conceive an object strongly, he will exprc>s it with energy ; but, if he have an indi-tinct vievr c.f his sub- ject, it will clearly appear in his style. Unmeaning words and loose epithets will escape him ; his expres- sions wiU hd vague and general ; his arrangement indistinct ; and our conception of his moaning vrill be faint and confused. But a nervous writer, l e hi- style concise or extended, gives us always a sti'L'n.g idea of his meaning. His mind being full of his subject, his words are always expressive ; every phrase and every figure renders the picture wliich he would set before us, more striking and complete. It must, however, be observed, that too gi'eat study of strength is apt to betray vrriters into a har.-h man- ner. Harshness proceeds tiv_ni uncommon words, ti'oni forced invertions in the cui.struciion of a sentence, and h'om neglect of smoothness and ease. This is eckoned the fault of some of our earliest classics ; uch as Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Bacon, Hooker. Harrington, Cudworth, and other writers of c jn-ide-i'able reputation in the days of Queen Eliza- )etli. Janies I. and Charles I. These writers had eiTes and strength in a high degree ; and are to this How are the nerrous and feeble generally considered ?— Who is an instance of this ?— In vrhat is the foundation of a nervons and weak Style biid '—When will an author express his object with energy ?- What is th-i effect if he have an indistinct view of his subject?—- What is said of a nervous writer I What is apt to betray wiiters into a harsh mannpr ? — Prom what does harshness proceed ? — This is reckoned the fatilt of -Hhom 112 DRY AND PLAIN. day distinguislied by this quality in style. But the language in their hands was very different from what it is now, and was indeed entirwy formed upon the idiom and construction of the Latin in the arrangement of sentences. The present form of our language has in some degree sacrificed the study of strength to that of ease and perspicuity. Our arrangement is less for- cible, but more plain and natural ; and this is now considered as the genius of our tongue. Hitherto style has been considered under those characters" which regard its expressiveness of an au- thor's meaning. We shall now consider it wdth re- spect to the degree of ornament employed to embel- lish it. Here the style of different authors seems to rise in the foUov/ing gradation, a dry, a plain, a neat, an elegant, a flowery manner. A dry manner excludes every kind of ornament. Content with being understood, it aims not to please either the fancy or the ear. This is tolerable only in pure didactic writing; and even there, to make us bear it, great solidity of matter and entire perspicuity of language are required. A plain style rises one degree above a dry one. A writer of this character employs very little ornam^^-it of any kind, and rests almost entirely upon his senbe. But, though he does not engage us by the arts of com- position, he avoids disgusting us like a dry and a harsh writer. Beside perspicuity, he observes propriety, purity, and precision in his language ; which form no inconsiderable degree of beauty. Liveliness and force are also compatible with a plain style; and What is said of these writers ? — What was langviage in their hands ? '—What has the present form of our language done? — What is ova arrangement ? How have we hitherto considered style ? ITow shall we no\f consider it 1 — In what gradation does the style of different authors seem to rise I What is sa-id of a dry manner ? What is said of a plain style?— A writer of this character does 2s EAT AXD ZLEGA^^T. 113 therefore siicli an ciu:'! '"r. Ir's sentiments be good, may be sufficiently Mgrccciijle. Tlie ditil-rence be- tween a diy and a plain writer is this ; tlie t': imer is incapable of ornament : the latter goes iv'^z in } iir-uit of it. Of th-se ^vh'.' have emplovtd th'j pluhi ^lylo, Dean Swift is an eminent example. A ntat style i^ next in cader ; and here we are ad- vancc^l into the regijn of ':r'nameiit ; but not C'f the most sparkling kind. A writ^^r e-f this character -liows bv his attention to the choice of words, and to their gi-acefid collocation, that he does not despise the beautv of language. His sentences are alv, ays free from the incumbrance ot supe-rdu'jus vrri'.is : of a moderate length ; inchning rather to brcviiy, than a swehing sti'ucture ; and closing with pre pricty. There is variety in his cadence ; but no a[ipear:ince cf stu- died harmony. Hi- figures, if he u-e any. are short and accm-ate, ratlier tli:tn b iki and glo\Wng. Such a style may be attaineii by a writer, whose pC'W.:rs of fancy or genius are not great, by industry and attention. This sort of style is nC't unsuitable te* any subject whatever. A familiar ep:-tie. or a law pap-r on the diiest subject, may be wiitten wiih neatne-s ; and a sermon, l r a ]"'h:le5ophical tieatise in a neat style,, is read w::!; - u-tl-Uviu. An eb-gen: -ybe implies a higher degree of orna- ment than a ne;u ■ " - "-i^g f^H ^he virtues of ornament withuut eep : excesses or defects. Complete elegance imphc- gr^i-at perspicuity and pro- jmety: purity in the choiee vt words; and care and skill in their aiTangement. It implies farther, the beauties of imagination spread over style as tar as the vrbat • — What i? the difference between a dry and a plain writer? — Wb : an -minent example of the plain style ? W hiit i; nc-st in crder ? — Into what are we h.re advanced? — What dot-i a writer of thi? character jhow ?— Said cf hi; 5enten- ces ; — e>i his cadc-nce ?— His iigures ] — How may such a style be attained 1— To what is it suitable ? What does an e.tgam style imply? — Wlaat is an elegant writer? 10^ 114 FLORID. subject permits ; and all tlie illustration wliicli figTira- tive language adds, when properly employed. An elegant writer, in short, is one who delights the fancy and the ear, while he informs the understanding ; who clothes his ideas in all the beauty of expression, but does not overload them with any of its misplaced finery. A florid style implies excess of ornament. In a young composer it is not qr\\y pardonable, but often a promising symptom. But although it may be allowed to youth in their first essays, it must not receive the same indulgence from writers of more experience. In them judgment should chasten im- agination, and reject every ornament which is unsuita- ble or redundant. That tinsel splendour of language, which some writers perpetually aftect, is truly con- temptible. With such it is a iuxuriancy of words, not of fancy. They forget that, unless founded on good sense and solid thought, the most florid style is but a childish imposition on the pubHc. What does a florid style imply ? — In whom is it pardonable, and a pr.;ml*ing symptom'— la whom is it not allowable? — What is expectt (1 from them ?--What is contemptible in some writers?— What is it with siuch ?— What do they forget ? [115] LECTURE XtX. STYLE.— SBIPLE, AFFECTED, VEHEMENT.— DIKEC TIOITS FOR FORMING A PROPER STYLE. SiMrLiciTY, applied to -^-riting, is a term very com- monly used; but, like many other critical terms, often used \Yitliout precision. The dift'erent meanings of the word simplicity are the chief cause of this inac- curacy. It is therefore necessary to show, in what sense simplicity is a proper attribute of style. There are fom- different acceptations, in which this term is taken. The first is simplicity of composition, as opposed to too gTeat a variety of parts. This is the simphcity of plan in tragedy, as distinguished from double plots and cro\Yded incidents ; the simphcity of the Iliad in opposition to the digressions of Lucan ; the simphcity of Grecian architectm-e in opposition to the irregular variety of the Gothic. Simphcity in this sense is the same with unity. The second sense is simplicity of thought in oppo- sition to refinement. Simple thoughts are those which flow naturally ; which are suggested by the subject or occasion ; and which, when once suggested, are easi- ly understood by all. Refinement in writing means a less obvious and natural train of thought, which, when carried too far, approaches to intricacy, and dis- pleases us by the appearance of being far sought. Wliat are the subjects of this lecture ? What is said of simplicity when applied to -writing? — What is it therefore necessary to show ? — How many different acceptationa are there, in which this term is taken ? What is the first? — Examples. — Simplicity in this sense is the same with what ? What is the second sense? — Said of simple "-honghts ? — WTiat docs refinement in writing mean? — What is its effect when carried Too far ? — Example. 116 SIMPLICITY. Thus Parnell is a poet of much gi-eater simplicity in his turn of thought than Cowley. In these two senses simplicity has no relation to style. The third sense of simphcity regards style, and is opposed to too much ornament, or pomp of language. Thus we say Mr. Locke is a simple, Mr. Hervey a florid writer. A siro.ple style, in this sense, coincides with a plain or neat style. The fourth sense of simplicity also respects style ; but it regards not so much the degree of ornament employed, as the easy and natural manner, in which our language expresses our thoughts. In this sense simplicity is compatible with the highest ornament Homer, for example, possesses this simplicity in the greatest perfection ; and yet no writer has more orna- ment and beauty. This simplicity is opposed not to ornament, but to affectation of ornament ; and is a superior excellence in composition. A simple writer has no mark of art in his expres- sion ; it appears the very language of nature. We see not the writer and his labour, but the man in his own natural character. He may be rich in expression ; he may be full of figures and of fancy ; but these flow from him without effort ; and he seems to write in this manner, not because he had studied it, but because it is the mode of expression most natural to him. With this character of style, a certain degree of negligence is not inconsistent ; for too accurate an attention to wwds is foreign to it. Simplicity of style, like sim- plicity of manners, shows a man's sentiments and turn of mind without disguise. A more studied and arti- What is the third sense ?— Example. — What does a simple style in this sense coincide with ? What is the fourth sense ? — What is said of Homer as an example ? —This simplicity is what ? What is said of a simple writer? — What is not inconsistent with this character of style ? — Why ?— What do^'s simplicity of style ehow ? — Said of a more studied and artificial mode of writing ?— Reading an author of simplicity is like what I AFFECTATION. 117 ficial mode of ^yriting, however beautiful, ha? always this disadvantage, that it exhibits an author in form, like a man at court, where splendour of dress and the ceremonial of beha\'iour conceal those peculiarities, which distinguish one man from another. But reading an author of simplicity is hke conversing with a person of rank at home and with ease, where we see his natural manners and his real char- Jicter. With regard to simplicity in general, we may ob- serve, that the ancient original writers are always most eminent for it. This proceeds from a very ob- vious cause ; they wrote from the dictates of genius, and were not formed upon the laboui-s and writings of others. . Of affectation, which is opposed to simplicity of style, we have a remarkable example in Lord Shaftes- bury. Though an author of considerable merit, he expresses nothing wdth simphcity. He seems to have tliought it vulgar and beneath the dignity of a man of quality to speak like other men. Hence he is ever in buskins ; full of circumlocutions and artificial ele- gance. In every sentence we see marks of labour and art ; nothiiig of that ease which expresses a sentiment coming natural and warm from the heart. He abounds with figures and ornament of every kind ; is some- times happy in them ; but his fondness for them is too visible ; and, having once seized some metaphor or al- lusion, that pleased him, he knows not how to pait with it. He possessed delicacy and refinement of taste in a degree that may be called excessive and sickly ; but he had little warmth of passion ; and the coldness of his character suo-o-ested that artificial and stately manner, which appears in his writings. No Who are most eminent for this simplicity in writing ? — What does this proceed from ' In whom have we a remarkable example of affectation in style What is said of him ] 118 VEHEMENCE. ftatlior is more dangerous to tlie tribe of imitatoi'S. tlian Shaftesbury ; who amid several very considera- ble blemishes, has many dazzling and imposing ^^•eauties. It is very possible, however, for an author to write with simplicity, and yet without beauty. He may be free from affectation, and not have merit. Beautiful implicity supposes an author to possess real genius ; and to write with sohdity, purity, and brilliancy of imagination. In this case, the simplicity of his man- ner is the crowning ornament ; it heightens every other beauty ; it is the dress of nature, without which all beauties are imperfect. But, if mere absence of affectation were sufficient to constitute beauty of style, weak and dull writers might often lay claim to it A distinction therefore must be made between that simplicity which accompanies true genius and is en- tirely compatible with every proper ornament of style ; and that which is the effect of carelessness. Another character of style, different from those al- ready mentioned, is vehemence. This always implies strength ; and is not in any respect incompatible with simplicity. It is distinguished by a peculiar ardom- ; it is the language of a man, whose imagination and passions are glowing and impetuous ; who, neglecting inferior graces, pours himself forth with the rapidity and fulness of a torrent. This belongs to the higher kinds of oratory ; and is rather expected from a man who is speaking, than from one who is writing in his closet. Demosthenes is the most full and perfect example of this kind of style. What is very possible for an author ? — What does beautiful sini' plicity suppose ? — In this case the simplicity of his manner is what? — Said of ttie mere absence of affectation ? — What distinction must therefore be made ? What is another character of style ?— What does it imply ? — How is it distinguished ?— Whose language is it ? — To what kind of oratory does it belong T— Who is an example of this kind of style ? DIRECTIONS FOR FORMING A PROPER STYLE. 119 Having explained tlie different cliaracters of style. vre shall conclude our observations Tvitli a few direc- tions for attaining a good style in general. The first direction is, study clear ideas of the sub- ject, on which you are to write or speak. AYhat we conceive clearly and feel strongly, we naturally ex press with clearness and strength. We should there- fore think closely on the subject till we have attained a full and distinct %dew of the matter which we are to clothe in words ; till we become warm and interested in it ; then, and then only shall we find expression begin to flow. Secondly, to the acquisition of a good style, fre- quency of composing is indispensably nece^^sary. But it is not every kind of composing that will improve style. By a careless and hasty habit of writing, a bad style will be acquhed ; more trouble will after- wards be necessary to unlearn faults, than to become acquainted with the rudiments of composition. In the beginning therefore we ought to -^^lite slowly and with much care. Facility and speed are the fruit of prac- tice. ^ye must be cautious, however, not to retard the coui'se of thought, noi cool the ardour of imagi- nation, by pausing too long on every word. On cer- tain occasions a glow of composition must be kept up, ^ if we hope to express ourselves happily, though at the expense of some inaccuracies. A more severe examination must be the work of con-ection. "What we have written should be laid by some time, till the ardour of composition be past ; tih partiahty for our expressions be weakened, and the expressions them- selves be forgotten ; and then reviewing our work What is the first direction for attaining a good style ? What is the second direction ? — How maj' a bad style be a-c- qnired ? — What will be the result ? — How ought we to write in the beginning ? — What is the fruit of practice? — Of what must we be cautious ?— ^^'hat must we do to discoT«r imperfections in what we Lave written ? 120 DIRECTIONS FOR FORMING- with a cool and critical eye as if it were the per- formance of another, we shall discover many imper- fections which at first escaped us. Thirdly, acquaintance with the style of the best authors is peculiarly requisite. Hence a just taste will be formed, and a copious fund of words supplied on every subject. No exercise perhaps will be found more useful for acquiring a proper style, than trans lating some passage from an eminent author into our own words. Thus to take for instance, a page of one of Addison's Spectators, and read it attentively two or three times till we are in full possession of the thoughts it contains ; then to lay aside the book ; to endeavour to write out the passage from memory as well as we can ; and then to compare what we have written with the style of the author. Such an exer- cise will show us our defects ; will teach us to cor- rect them ; and from the variety of expression which it will exhibit, wiR conduct us to that which is most beautiful. Fourthly, caution must be used against servile imi- tation of any author whatever. Desire of imitating hampers genius, and generally produces stifi'ness of expression. They, who follow an author closely, commonly copy his faults as well as his beauties. No one will ever become a good writer or speaker, who has not some confidence in his own genius. We ought carefully to avoid using any author's pecuhar phrases, and of transcribing passages from him. Such a habit will be fatal to all genuine cc^mposition. It is much better to have something of our own, though of What is the third direction? — Hence what will follow? — What exercise is recommended for acquiring a proper style? — What will be the benefit we shall derire from such an exercise ? What is the fourth direction ?— What effect does desire of imi- tation have ?— Said of those who follow an author closely ? — Who ■will not become a good writer or speaker ?— What ought we care- fully to avoid ?— What will be the result of such a habit ?— What is much better? A PROPER STYLE. 121 moderate beauty, than to shine in borrowed orna- ments, which will at last betray the poverty of our genius. Fifthly, always adapt your style to the subject and likewise to the capacity of your hearers, if you are to speak in pubhc. To attempt a poetical style, when it should be our business only to reason, is in the highest degree awkward and absurd. To speak vnth. elaborate pomp of words before those who can- not comprehend them, is equally ridiculous. When we are to write or speak, we should prenously fix in om' minds a clear idea of the end aimed at ; keep this steadily in \aew, and adapt our style to it. Lastly, let not attention to style engross us so much, as to prevent a higher degre~e of attention to the thoughts. This rule is more necessary, since the preseTTT taste of the age is directed more to style than thought. It is much more easy to dress up trifling and common thoughts with some beauty of expression, than to afford a fund of vigorous, ingenious, and use- ful sentiments. The latter requires genius ; the for- mer may be attained by industry. Hence the crowd of ^Titers who are rich in style, but poor in sentiment. Custom obliges us to be attentive to the ornaments of style, if Ave wish our labours to be read and admired. But he is a contemptible writer, who looks not be- yond the di-ess of language ; who lays not the chief stress upon his matter, and employs not such orna- ments of style to recommend it, as are manly, not foppish. What is the fifth direction ? — What is in the highest degree awk- ward and ab>urd ? — What is equally ridiculous 1 — When we are to write or speak, what ^hould we do ? What is th»* last direction? — Why ig this rule necessarv ? — It is much easier to do what ? — Than what ?— What does the latter require ? — How may the former be attained ? —Hence what ? — What dots custom oblige us to be ?— Who is a contemptible writer? 11 [122] LECTURE XX. CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF MR. ADDISON'S STYLE IN No. 411 OF THE SPECTATOR. Having fully insisted on the subject of language, we shall now commence a critical analysis of the style of some good author. This will suggest obser- vations, which we have not hitherto had occasion to make, and will show in a practical light the use of those which have been made. Mr. Addison, though one of the most beautiful writers in our language, is not the most correct ; a ch- cumstance which makes his composition a proper subject of criticism. We proceed therefore to examine No. 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 tlie most perfect, and most delightful of all our senses. This sentence is clear, precise, and simple. The author in a few plain words lays down the proposi- tion which he is going to illustrate. A first sentence should seldom be long, and never intricate. He might have said, our sight is the most perfect and the most delightful. But in omitting to repeat the article the, he has been more judicious ; for, as between perfect and delightful there is no contrast, such a repetition is unnecessary. He proceeds : It fills the mind mth the largest variety of ideas, converses with its What is the subject of this lecture ? What shall we now commence ?— What will this suggest ? What is said of Mr. Addison as a writer ? — We proceed there- fore to what ? — Cite the sentence ? What is said of this sentence ? TIow might he have said ?— Said of the omission of the article thel—Uovi does he proceed? CRITICAL EXAMIXATIO^', ETC. 123 objects at the greatest distance, and continues the longest in action, without biiug tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments ? This sentence is remarkably harmonious, and well constructed. It is entirely perspicuous. It is loaded with no unnecessary words. That quality of a good sentence, which we termed its unity, is here perfectly preserved. The members of it also grow, and rise above each other in sound, till it is conducted to one of the most harmonious closes which our lan- guage admits. It is moreover tigm-ative without be- mg too much so for the subject. There is no fault in it whatever, except this, the epithet large^ which he applies to variety, is more commonly applied to extent than to number. It is plain, however, that he employed it to avoid the repetition of the word great^ which occurs immediately afterward. The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us a notion of extension, shape, and all other ideas that enter at the eve. except colours : but at the same time, it is very much straiteaed and confined in its operations, to the number, bulk, and distance of its particular objects. But is not every sense confined as much as the sense of feeling, to the number, bulk, and distance of its own objects ? The turn of expression is also very inaccurate, requiring the two words with re- gard, to be inserted after the word operations, in or- der to make the sense clear and intelligible. The epithet particular seems to be used instead of pecu- liar ; but these words, though often confounded, are of very different import. Particular is opposed to general ; peculiar stands opposed to what is possessed in common with others. Our sight seems designed to supply all these defects, and may be considered as a most delicate and diffusive kind of t uch. that spreads itself over an infinite multitud-^ of bodies, comprehends the largest fiiures. and brings into our reach some of the most remote pares of the universe "What is said of this sentence ? Cite the next sentence. — >aid of it? Oite the next. — Said of it ? 124 CRITICAL EXAMINATION This sentence is perspicuous, graceful, well arranged, and highly musical. Its construction is so similar to that of the second sentence, that, had it immediately succeeded it, the ear would have been sensible of a faulty monotony. But the interposition of a peria:^ prevents this eftect. It is tliif5 sense which furnishes the imagination 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. The parenthesis in the middle of this sentence is not clear. It should have been, terms ivhich I shall use promiscuously ; since the verb use does not relate to the pleasures of the imagination, but to the terms fancy and imagination^ which were meant to be sy- nonymous. To call a painting or a statue an occa- sion is not accurate ; 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 malie 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 faculty, a man in a dun- geon is capable of entertaining himself with scenes and landscapes more beautiful than any that can be found in the whole compass of nature. In one member of this sentence there is an inac- curacy in syntax. It is proper to say, altering and ^ compounding those linages which we have once receiv-' edj into all the varieties of picture and vision. But we cannot with propriety say, retaining them into all the varieties ; yet the arrangement requires this con- Cite the next.— What in this sentence is not clear I— How should it have been ? Cite the next sentence.— What inaccuracy is there in this sen- tence .'— ilow might it have been avoided 2 OF ui\. Addison's style. 125 structlon. This error might have been avoided by- arranging the passage in the following manner : " We have the power of retaining those images which we have once received ; and of altering and compound- hig 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 Englisli language, which are employed in a more loose and uncircumscribed sense than those of the fancy and the imagination. Except when some assertion of consequence is ad- vanced, these little words it is and there are, ought to be avoided, as redundant and enfeebling. The two fii'st words of this sentence therefore should have been omitted. The article prefixed to fancy and the im- agination ought also to have been omitted, since he does not mean the powers of the fancy and imagina- tio7i, but the words only. The sentence should have run thus : " Few words in the English language are employed in a more loose and uncircumscribed sense than fancy and imagination." 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. The words fx and determine, though they may ap- pear so, are not synonymous. We fx what is loose ; we determine what is uncircumscribed. They may be viewed, therefore, as applied here with peculiar dehcacy. The notion of these words is rather harsh, and is not so commonly used, as the meaning of these words. As I intend to maTce use of them in the thread of my speculations is evidently faulty. A sort of metaphor is improperly mixed with words in their literal sense. Cite the next. — Said of those little words it is and there are 1 — What should have been omitted ? — Ho\7 should the sentence have run ? Cite the next. — Said of the words fix and determine ?—ln what respects is this sentence faulty 1 11* 126 CRITICAL EXAMINATION' The subject which I proceed upon, is an ungraceful close of a sentence ; it should have been, the subject tipon which I proceed. I must therefore desire bim to remember, that by the pleasure of imagination, I mean only such pleasures as arise originally froia Bight, and that I divide these pleasures into two kinds. This sentence begins in a manner too similar to the preceding. / mean only such pleasures — the ad- verb only is not in its proper place. It is not intend- ed here to quahfy the verb mean^ but such pleasures ; and ought therefore to be placed immediately after the latter. My design being, first of all, to discourse of those primary pleasures of thu 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 imagination, which flow from the ideas of visible ob- jects, when the objects are not actually before the eye, but are called up into our memories, or formed into agreeable visions of things that are either absent or fictitious. Neatness and brevity are peculiarly requisite in the division of a subject. This sentence is somewhat clogged by a tedious phraseology. My design being^ first of all, to discourse — in the next place to speak of — such subjects as are before our eyes — things that are either absent or fictitious. Several words might have been omitted, and the style made more neat and compact. The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full extent, are not io gross as those of sense, nor so refined as those of the understand- *mg. This sentence is clear and elegant. The last are indeed more preferable, because they are founded on Cite the next.— How is it faulty ? Cite the next.— Said of neatness tence faulty ? Cite the next —Said of it ? Cite the next.— How is it faulty ? and brevity !— How is this sen- OF MR. Addison's style. 121 some new knowledge or improvement in the mind of man ; yet it must be confessed, that tho^e of the imagination are as great and as transporting as the other. The plirase, more preferable, is so palpable an in- accuracy, that we wonder how it could escape the observation of Mr. Addison. The proposition, con- tained in the last member of this sentence, is neither clearly nor elegantly expressed. It must be confessed that those of the imagination are as great and as transporting as the other. In the beginning of this sentence he had called the pleasures of the under- standing the last ; and he concludes with observing, that those of the imagination are as great and trans- porting as the other. Besides that tJie other makes not a proper contrast vriih. the last, it is left doubtful whether by the other are meant the pleasures of the understanding, or the pleasures of sense ; though without doubt it was intended to refer to the pleasures of the imderstandino; only. A beautiful prospect delights the soul as much as a demonstration ; and a description in Homer has charmed more readers than a chap- ter in Aristotle. This is a good illustration of what he had been as- serting, and is expressed with that elegance by which Mr. Adchson is distinguished. Besides, the pleasures of the imagination have this advantage above those of the understanding; that they are more obvious, and more easy to be acquired. This sentence is unexceptionable. It is but opening the eye, and the scene enters Though this is hvely and picturesque, yet we must remark a small inaccuracy. A scene cannot be said to enter ; an actor enters ; but a scene appears or presents itself. Cite this sentence.— Said of it 1 Cite the next.— Said of it? Cite the next.- -What is the small inaccuracy in it T 128 CRITICAL EXAMINATION _ The colours paint themselves on the fancy, -with vei'y little atten- tion of thought or application of mind in tlid beholder. This is beautiful and elegant, and well suited to those pleasures of the imagination of which the au- thor 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 inquiring into the particular causes and occasions of it. We assent to the truth of a proposition ; but can- not with propriety be said to assent to the hsaaty of an object. In the conclusion, particular and occa- sions are superfluous words ; and the pronoun it is in some measure ambiguous. A man nf polite imagination is let into a great many pleasures that the vulgar are not capable of receiving. The term polite is oftener applied to manners, than to the imagination. The use of that instead of which is too common with Mr. Addison. Except in cases where it is necessary to avoid repetition, which is preferable to that^ and is undoubtedly so in the present instance. He can converse Avith a picture, and find an agreeable companion In a statue. He meets with a secret refreshment iu a description ; and ofceu feels a greater satisfaction in the prospect nf fields and meadows, than another d )es in the possession. It gives him. indeed, a kind of property in every thing he sees ; and makes the most rude, unculiivated 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 them.selves from the gene- rality of mankind. This sentence is easy, flowing, and harmonious. We must, however, observe a slight inaccuracy. It gives him a kind of property — to this it there is no Cite this sentence ?— Said of it ? Cite th'} next.— How is it faulty ? Cite the next sentence.— Said of the word polite?— Oi the use of that instead of which ? Cite the next.— Said of it ?— What is the slight inaccuracy in it ? OF MR. Addison's style. 129 antecedent in tlie ^vhole paragrapli. To discover connexion, we must look back to the third sentence preceding, which begins with man of polite imagina- tion. This phrase, polite imagination^ is the only- antecedent to which it can refer ; and even this is not a proper antecedent, since it stands in the gen'- tive case as the qualification only of a man. There are. indeed, but very few who know how to be idle and innocent, or have a relish of any pleasures that are not criuiiral ; every diversion they take is at the expense of some one virtue or another, and their very first step out of business is into vice or foUy. This sentence is truly elegant, musical, and correct-. A man should endeavour, therefore, to make the sphere of his inno- eent pleasures as wide as possible, that he may retire into them with eafety. and tind in them such a satisfaction as a wise man would not blush to take. This also is a good sentence, and exposed to no objection. Of this nature are those of the imagination, which do not require such a bent of thought as is necessary to our more serious employ- ments ; nor. at the same time, suffer the mind to sink into that indolence ani remi-sness. which are apt to accompany our more sensual d"iii:hts : but like a gentle exercise to the faculties, awaken them from sloth and idleness,, without putting them upon any labour or difacuity. The beginning of this sentence is incorrect. Of this nature., says he, are those of the imagination. It might be asked, of what nature ? For the preced- ing sentence had not described the nature of any class of pleasures. He had said that it was every man's duty to make the sphere of his innocent plea- sures as extensive as possible, that within this sphere he might find a safe retreat and laudable satisfaction. The transition therefore is loosely made. It would Cit« this sentence.— Said of it ? Cite the next.— Said of it ? Cite the next — What is incorrect in it?- "What wotildhaTe oeoa better ? I'SO CRITICAL EXAMINATION, ETO. have been better, if he had said, " this advantage we gain," or "this satisfaction we enjoy," by means of the pleasure of the imagination. The rest of the sen- tence is correct. , We might here add. that the pleasures of the fancy are m -re con- ducive to health than those of the understanding, which are worked out by dint of thinking ; and attended with too violent a labour of the brain. Worked out by dint of thinhing, is a phrase, which borders too nearly on the style of common conver- sation, to be admitted into polished composition. Delightful scenes, whether in nature, painting, or poetry, havfl a kindly influence on the h^Ay. as wfll as the mind ; and not only serve to clear and brighten the imagination, 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, whei'e he particularly di-suades him from knotty and subtle disquisitions, and advises him to pursue studies that fill the mind with splendid and illustrious objects, as histories, fables, and contemplations of nature. In the latter of these two periods a member is out of its place. Where he particularly dissuades him fror)i knotty and subtle disquisitions ought to precede has not thought it improper to prescribe^ (&c. I have in this paper, by way of introduction, settled the motion of those pleasures of the imagination, which are the subject of my present undertaking; and endeavoured, 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 furnish examples of proper collocation of circumstances. We formerly showed that it is difficult so to dispose them, as not to embarrass the principal subject. Had the following incidental circumstances, by way of introduction — Cite this sentence. — Said of the phrase, loorked out by dint of thinking ! Cite the next —Said of the latter of these two periods? Cite the next.— Said of these two concluding sent^^nces? ELOQUENCE. 131 by several considerations — in this pa2:)er — in the next paper, been placed in any other situation, the sentence Ts-oukl have been neither so neat, nor so clear, as it is in the present construction. LECTURE XXL ELOQUEXCE.— ORIGIX OF ELOQUEXCE.— GEECIAN ELOQUENCE. -DEMOSTHEXES. ^Eloquexce is the art of persuasion. Its most essential r-^.jui-ites are sohcl argument, clear method, and an a]: >]:>earance of Jmcerit j in the speaker, with such graces'or'iETe and utterance as command atten- tion. Good sense must be its foundation. Without this no man can be truly eloquent ; since fDols can pei-suade none but fools. Before we can persuade a man of sense, we must convince him. Convincing and persujiding, though sometimes confounded, are of very diftcj-ent import. Connction affects the under- standing only : persuasion the will and the practice. It is the business of a philosopher to conduce us of truth ; it is that of an orator to pei*suade us to act conformably to it, by engaging our affections in its favour. Con^-iction is, however, our avenue to the heart, and it is that Avhich an orator must first attempt to gain ; for no persuasion can be stable, which is not founded on comiction. But the orator must not be satisfied vidth con\dncing ; he must address himself to the passions ; he must paint to the fency, and touch What are the suhjects of thi> bcture ? What is eloquence ? — What are its most essential requisites ? — WTiat must be its foundation ?— Why ? — Said of conyincing and persuading? — What does conviction effect? — What persuasion? — What is the business of a philosophy ?— Of an orator ?— What ia further said of conviction ? — Of the duty of an ora':or ?— Hence what enter into the idea of eloquence ' 132 ELOQUENCE. tlie heart. Hence, beside solid argument and clear method, all the conciliating and interesting arts of composition and pronunciation enter into the idea of eloquence. Eloquence may be considered as consisting of three kinds, or degrees. The first and lowest is that which aims only to please the hearers. Such, in general, is the eloquence of panegyrics, inaugural orations, ad- dresses to great men, and other harangues of this kind. This ornamental sort of composition may innocently amuse and entertain the mind ; and may be mixed at the same time with very useful sentiments. But it must be acknowledged, that where the speaker aims only to shine and to please, there is great danger of art being strained into ostentation, and of the compo- sition becoming tiresome and insipid. The second degree of eloquence is, when the speaker aims, not merely to please, but also to inform, to instruct, to convince; when his art is employed in removing prejudices against himself and his course ; in selecting the most proper arguments, stating them with the greatest force, arranging them in the best order, expressing and delivering them with propriety and beauty ; thereby disposing us to pass that judg- ment, or favour that side of the cause, to which he seeks to bring us. Within this degree chiefly is em- ployed the eloquence of the bar. The third and highest degree of eloquence is that by which we are not only convinced, but interested, and agitated, and earned along with the speaker ; our passions rise with his ; we share all his emotions ; we love, we hate, we resent, as he inspires us ; and are prompted to resolve and act with vigour and warmth. How many kinds or dea;rees does eloquence consist of? — What the firbt and lowest 1 — Said of this ornamental Bort of composi- tion ? What is the second degree of eloquence ? What is the third and highest degree t ELOQUENCE. 133 Debate in popular assemblies opens tlie most exten- sive field to this species of eloquence ; and the pulpit also admits it. This high species of eloquence is always the off- spring of passion. By passion we mean that state of mind in Avhich it is agitated and fired by some objec in view. Hence the universally acknowledged powei of enthusiasm in public speakers for affecting theii audience. Hence all studied declamations and la boured ornaments of style, which show the mind to be cool and unmoved, are inconsistent with persuasive eloquence. Hence every kind of affectation in gesture and pronunciation detracts so much from the weight of a speaker. Hence the necessity of being, and of being believed to be, disinterested and in earnest, in order to persuade. In tracing the origin of eloquence, it is not neces- sary to go far back into the early ages of the world, to search for it among the monuments of eastern or Egyptian antiquity. In those ages, it is true, there was a certain kind of eloquence ; but it is more nearly- allied to poeiry, than to what we properly call ora- tory. While the intercourse of men was unfrequent, and force was the principal means employed in de- ddmg controvei-sies, the arts of oratory and persua- sion, of reasoning and debate, could be little known. The first empires were of the despotic kind. A sin- gle person, or at most a few, held the reins of gov- ernment. The multitude were accustomed to bhnd obedience ; they were driven, not persuaded. Con- sequently, none of those refinements of society, which. What is the high species of eloquence the offspring of?— What is meant by passion ? — Hence the power of what is acknowledged ? — Hence what are inconsistent with persuasive eloquence T — Hence what detracts from the weight of a speaker 1 — Hence what is neces- sary in order to persuade 1 In tracing the origin of eloquence what is not necessary ' — What kind of eloquence was there in those ages ? — What reasons are assigned why the arts of oratory were littls known iiv. the earlj ages ' 12 134 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. make public speaking an object of importance, were introduced. Before tbe rise of tbe Grecian republics, we per- ceive no remarkable appearance of eloquence, as the art of persuasion ; and these gave it such a field as it never had before, and perhaps has never had again since that time. Greece was divided into many little states. These were governed at first by kings ; who being for their tyranny successively expelled from their dominions, there sprung up a multitude of demo- cratical governments, founded nearly upon the same plan, animated by the same high spirit of freedom, mutually jealous, and rivals of each other. Among these Athens was most noted for arts of every kind, but especially for eloquence. We shall pass over the orators who flourished in the early period of this re- public, and take a view of the great Demosthenes, in whom eloquence shone with unrivalled splendour. Not formed by nature either to please or persuade, he struggled with, and surmounted, the most formida- ble impediments. He shut himself up in a cave, that he might study with less distraction. He declaimed by the sea-shore, that he might be used to the noise of a tumultuous assembly ; and with pebbles in his mouth, that he might correct a defect in his speech. He practised at home with a naked sword hanging over his shoulder, that he might check an ungraceful motion to which he was subject. Hence the example of this great man affords the highest encouragement to every student of eloquence ; since it shows how far art and application availed for acquiring an excellence, which nature appeared willing to deny. What do vre not perceive before the rise of the Grecian republics ? ^What did these give it ? — How was Greece divided ? — Uo^ were these at first governed ?— Upon their expulsion what sprung up ?— . Which was the most noted among these for arts of every kind ?— Whom does the author say he shall pass over ? — Take a view of whom ?— Said of him ?— What did he do ?— What does his example affor'ular, firm and stately ; but wanted that expressive snnphci- ty, that flexibihty to suit every diiferent species of composition, by which the Greek tongue is pecuHarly distinguished. Hence, we always find in Greek proP ductions more native genius ; in Roman more regii:^ larity and art. As the Roman government, during the republic, was of the popular kind, public speaking early became the mean of acquiring power and distinction. But in the unpolished times of the state, their •speaking h^ird- ly deserved the name of eloquence. It was but a short time before the age of Cicero, that the Roman orators rose into any reputation. Crassus and Antonius seem to have been the most eminent ; but as none of their works are extant, nor any of Hortensius's, who was Cicero's rival at the bar, it is not necessary to tran- scribe what Cicero said of them, and of the character of their eloquence. The object most worthy of onr attention is Cicero himself ; whose name alone suggests every thing — Where we shall find what ? — From -whom did the Romans derive their eloquence ?— And were what ? — What had they not ? — What were they in comparison with ihem ? — What did their language resemble ?— What was it ?— But wanted what ?— Hence what do we find ? What was the Roman government during the republic ? — Public speaking became the mean of acqiiiring what ?— How was it in the unpolished times of the state ?— When did the Roman oi-ators rise into reputation ? — Who were the. most eminent 1 — Whose works are not extant ? — What is not necessary ? What object is most worthy of our attention ?— Whose name sug- 12* 138 CICERO. Eplendid in oratory. With liis life and character, in other respects, we are not at present concerned. We shall view him only as an eloquent speaker ; and en- deavour to mark both his virtues and defects. His virtues are eminently great. In all his orations, art is conspicuous. He begins commonly Avith a regular exordium ; and, with much address, prepossesses the hearers, and studies to gain their affections. His me- thod is clear, and his arguments arranged with great propriety. In clearness of method he has advantage over Demosthenes. Every thing is in its proper place; he never attempts to move before he has endeavoured to convince; and in moving, particularly the softer passions, he is very successful. No one ever knew the force of words better than Cicero. He rolls them along with the greatest beauty and pomp ; and in the structure of his sentences, is eminently curious and exact. He is always full and flowing ; never abrupt. He amplifies every thing ; yet, though his manner is on the whole diffuse, it is often happily varied, and suited to the subject. When a gi-eat pubhc ob- ject roused his mind, and demanded indignation and force, he departs considerably from that loose and declamatory manner, to which he at other times is addicted, and becomes very forcible and vehe- ment. This great orator, however, is not without defects. In most of his orations, there is too much art. He seems often desirous of obtaining admiration, rather gp?':s -what ?— With what, in other respects, are we not concern- ed T — How shall we view him ? — Endeavour to do what ? — Said of his virtues .' — In all his orations, what is conspicuous ?— How does he begin ? — What is his method ? — How are his arguments arrang- ed ?— What advantage has he over Demosthenes ?— What does he not attempt to do first ? — In what particularly is he successful ? — Said of his knowledge of the force of words ? — How does he roll them ?— How is he in the structure of his sentences ?— What is he always ? — Is never what ? — What does he amplify ? — Farther said of his manner ? — Said of hini when roused by aome great public ob.iect f Was this great orator without defects ? — What is there in most CICERO. 139 than of operating conviction. He is sometimes, there- fore, showy, rather than sohd ; and diffuse, where he ought to be urgent. His periods are always round and sonorous ; they cannot be accused of monotony, for they possess variety of cadence ; but, from too great fondness for magnificence, he is sometimes defl cient in strength. Though the sei-vices which he per- formed for his country were very considerable, yet he is too much his own panegyrist. Ancient manners, which imposed fewer restraints on the side of deco- rum, may in some degree excuse, but cannot entirely justify, his vanity. Whether Demosthenes or Cicero were the most perfect orator, is a question on which critics are not agreed. Fenelon, the celebrated archbishop of Cam- bray, and author of Telemachus, seems to have stated their merits with great justice and perspicuity. His judgment is given in his reflections on rhetoric and poetry. We shall translate the passage, though not, it is feared, without losing much of the spirit of the original. '''I do not hesitate to declare," says he, "that I think Demosthenes superior to Cicero. I am persuaded no one can admire Cicero more than I do. He adorns whatever he attempts. He does honour to language. He disposes of ^Yords in a manner peculiar to himself His style has great variety of character. Whenever he pleases, he is even concise and vehe- ment ; for instance, against Cataline, against Verres, against Anthony. But ornament is too visible in his writings. His art is wonderful, but it is perceived. When the orator is providing for the safety of the of his orations ? — What does he seem often desirous of? — What is he sometimes T — How are his periods ?— What is he sometimes deficient in. from his fondness for magnificence ? — Said of the services per- formed for his country ? — Yet he is too much what ? — What may in some degree excuse this ? — But cannot what ? On what question are not critics agreed ? — Who has stated their merits with justice and perspicuity ? — His judgment is given in what ' — Cite the passage ? I 140 ELOQUENCE. republic, lie forgets not himself, nor permits othei*s to forget him. Demosthenes seems to escape from him- self, and to see nothing but his country. He seeks not elegance of expression ; unsought, he possesses it. He is superior to admiration. He makes use of ian-i guage, as a modest man does of dress, only to cover - him. He thunders, he lightens. He is a torrent, which carries every thing before it. We cannot criti- cise, because we are not ourselves. His subject en- chains our attention, and makes us forget his language. We lose him from our sight ; Philip alone occupies our minds. I am delighted with both these orators ; but I confess that I am less affected by the infinite art and magnificent eloquence of Cicero, than by the rapid simplicity of Demosthenes." The reign of eloquence among the Romans was very short. It expired with Cicero. Nor can we wonder at this ; for liberty was no more, and the government of Rome was delivered over to a succes- sion of the most execrable tyrants, that ever disgraced and scourged the human race. In the decline of the Roman Empire, the introduc- tion of Christianity gave rise to a new kind of elo- quence, in the apologies, sermons, and pastoral wri- tings of the fathers. But none of them afl'orded very just models of eloquence. Their language, as soon as we descend to the thu'd or fourth century, becomes harsh ; and they are generally infected with the taste of that age, a love of swollen and strained thoughts, ^ and of the play of words. | As nothing in the middle ages deserves attention, we pass now to the state of eloquence in modern Said of the reign of eloquence among the Romans ?— It expired inth whom ? — Why can we not wonder at this ? In the decline of the Roman Empire, what did the introduction of Christianity give rise to ?— Did any of them afford very just models of eloquence ?— Said of their language ?— What are they generally Infected with ? MODERX ELOQUENCE. 141 times. Here it must be confessed, that in no European TTSfion public speaking lias been valued so biglily, or cultivated with so much care, as in Greece or Rome. The genius of the world appears 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 Biitain ; France, on account of the distinguiihed turn of its inhabitants toward all the hberal arts, and of the encouragement which, more than a century past, these arts have re- ceived from the public ; Great Britain, on account of its free government, and the hheral spirit and genius of its^peDpte. Yet in neither of these countries has oratory risen nearly to the degree of its ancient splen- doiu-. Several reasons may be given, why modern elo quence has been so confined and humble in its eff'orts. In the fii"st place, it seems, that this change must, in part, be ascribed to that_ accurate turn of thinking, which has been so much cultivated in modern times. Our public speakers are obliged to be more reserved than the ancients, in their attempts to elevate the imagination, and w^arm the passions ; and by the in- fluence of prevaihng taste, then- own genius is chas- tened perhaps in too great a degree. It is probable, also, that we ascribe to our correctness and good sense, what is chiefly owing to the phlegm and natural cold- ness of our disposition. For the "\"ivacity and sensi bility of the Greeks and Romans, especially of the former, seem to have been much superior to ours, and to have given them a higher relish for aU the beauties of oratory. Though the parliament of Great Britain is the To what do we now pa^s ?— WTiat must here he confessed ? — Said of the genius of the world ?— In what iwo countries might we ex pect to find the spirit of eloquence ?— Why France ? — Why Great Britain 1 — Said of oratory in these two countries ? What reasons are assigned why modern eloquence has heen so confined and hum bie iu its efforts J 142 MODERN ELOQUENCE. noblest field which Europe at present affords to a public speaker, yet eloquence has ever been there a more feeble instrument than in the popular assemblies of Greece and Rome. Under some foreign reigns, the iron hand of arbitrary power checked its efforts ; and in later times, ministerial influence has generally rendered it of small importance. At the bar, our disadvantage, in comparison with the ancients, is great. Among them, the judges were commonly numerous ; the laws were few and simple ; the decision of causes was left, in a great measure, to equity and the sense of mankind. Hence, the field for judicial eloquence was ample. But at present, the system of law is much more complicated. The knowledge of it is ren dered so laborious, as to be the study of a man's life. Speaking is therefore only a secondary accomplish- ment, for which he has little leisure. With respect to the pulpit, it has been a great dis- advantage, that the practice of reading sermons, in- stead of repeating them, has prevailed so universally in England. This indeed may have introduced accu- racy ; but eloquence has been much enfeebled. Another circumstance too has been prejudicial. The sectaries and fanatics, before the restoration, used a warm, zealous, and popular manner of preaching ; and their adherents afterward continued to distinguish themselves by similar ardour. Hatred of these sects drove the established church into the opposite extreme of a studied coolness of expression. Hence, from the art of persuasion, which preaching ought ever to be, /it has passed in England into mere reasoning and / instruction. Said of eloquence in the parliament of Great Britain ? — What has checked its efforts ?— Said of our disadvantage at the bar*? — What reasons are assigned for this ? With respect to the pulpit, what has been of great disadvantage T —What other circumstance has been prejudicial! — Ilence, what ha* been the result ? [143 J LECTURE XXIII. ELOQUENCE OF POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. The foundation of every species of eloquence is good sense and solid thought. It should be the fifst study of him who means to address a popular assem- bly, to be previously master of the business on which he is to speak ; to be well pro\dded with matter and argument ; and to rest upon these the chief stress. This will give to his discourse an air of manliness and strength, which is a pov/erful instrument of persuasion. Ornament, if we have genius for it, will succeed of course ; at any rate, it deserves only secondary re- gard. To become a persuasive speaker in a popular as- sembly, it is a capital rule, that a man should always be persuaded of whatever he recommends to others. • - ^ever, if it can be avoided, should he espouse that side of an argument which he does not believe to be the right. All high eloquence must be the offspring of passion. This makes every man persuasive, and gives a force to his genius, which it cannot otherwise possess. Debate in popular assemblies seldom allows a speaker that previous preparation, which the pulpit always, and the bar sometimes, admit. A general prejudice prevails, and not an unjust one, against set speeches in public meetings. At the opening of a debate they may sometimes be introduced with pro- What is the subject of this lecture ? What is the foundation of every species of eloquence ? — What should le the first study of him -who means to address a popular as- sembly ? — What ■will this give to his discourse ? — Said of ornament 1 ■\\ hat is necessary to become a persuasive speaker in a popular assembly ? Said of debate in popular assemblies? — Against 'what does a general |rejudice prevail ? — When may they be introduced ? — 144 ELOQUENCE OF priety; but, as the debate advances, they become improper; they lose the appearance of being sug- gested by the business that is going on. Study and ostentation are apt to be visible ; and, consequently, though, admired as elegant, they are seldom so per- jiiuasive as more free and unconstrained discourses. This, however, does not forbid premeditation on what we intend to speak. With respect to the matter, we cannot be too accurate in our preparation ; but with regard to words and expressions, it is very pos- sible so far to overdo, as to render our speech stiff and precise. Short notes of the substance of the discourse are not only allowable, but of considerable service, to those especially who are beginning to speak in public. They will teach them a degree of accuracy, which, if they speak frequently, they are in danger of losing. They will accustom them to distinct arrangement^ without which eloquence, however great, cannot pro- duce entire conviction. Popular assembhes give scope for the most animated manner of public speaking. Passion is easily excited in a great assembly, where the movements are com- municated by mutual sympathy between the orator and the audience. That ardour of speech, that vehe- mence and glow of sentiment, which proceed from a mind animated and inspired by some great and public object, form the peculiar character of popular elo- quence in its highest degree of perfection. The warmth, however, which we express, must be always suited to the subject ; since it would be ridi- culous to introduce great vehemence into a subject of When do they become improper ? — What are apt to be visible ?— What, consequently, will be the result ? What does this not forbid ?— Said in respect to the matter?— In regard to words ? — What is of considerable service ? — What will they teach them ?— What will they accustom them to ? What do popular assemblies give scope for ?— What forms the pe- culiar character of popular eloquence in its highest degree of per- fection ? What is said of the warmth which we express T— What would b« POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 145 small importance, or which hj its nature requires to be treated with calmness. We must also be careful not to counterfeit warmth without feeHng it. The best rule is, to follow nature ; and never to attempt a strain of eloquence which is not prompted by our own genius. A speaker may acquire reputation and in- fluence by a calm, argumentative manner. To reach [ the pathetic and subHme of oratory, requires those ( strong sensibilities of mind, and that high power of ^ \ expression, which are ^ven to few. Even when vehemence is justified by the subject, and prompted by genius ; when warmth is felt, not feigned ; we must be cautious, lest impetuosity trans- port us too far. If the speaker lose command of him- self, he will soon lose command of his audience. He must begin with moderation, and study to w^arm his hearers gradually and equally with himself. For, if their passions be not in unison with his, the discord will soon be felt. Respect for his audience, should always lay a decent restraint upon his warmth, and prevent it from carrying him beyond proper limits. When a speaker is so far master of himself, as to preserve close attention to argument, and even to some degree of accurate expression ; this self-command, this effort of reason, in the midst of passion, contri- butes in the highest degree both to please and to per- suade. The advantages of passion are afforded for the purposes of persuasion, without that confusion and disorder which are its usual attendants. In the most animated strain of popular speaking, wo must always regard what the public ear will receiv ridiculous ? — Of what must we be careful ? — What is the best rule ? — What may a speaker acquire ? — What is required to reach the pa thetic and sublime of oratory ? Of what must we be cautious ? — What if the speaker lose com- mand of himself ? — How must he begin ? — Study to do what ? — What if their passions be not in unison with his ? — Respect for hia audience should do what ? — What will contribute in a high degrwj both to please and persuade ?— For what are the advantages of pas- sion afforded ? 13 146 ELOQUENCE OF POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. without disgust. Without attention to this, imitation ■ of ancient orators might betray a speaker into a bold- iness of manner, with which the coolness of modern taste would be displeased. It is also necessary to at- tend with care to the decorums of time, place, and character. No ardour of eloquence can atone for neglect of these. No one should attempt to speak in public without forming to himself a just and strict idea of what is suitable to his age and character what is suitable to the subject, to the hearers, the place, and the occasion. On this idea he should adjust the whole train and manner of his speaking. What degi-ee of conciseness or diftuseness is suited to popular eloquence, it is not easy to determine with iprecision. A diffuse manner is generally considered .as most , proper. There is danger, however, of erring in this respect ; by too diffuse a style, public speakers often lose more in point of strength, than they gain by fulness of illustration. Excessive conciseness indeed must be avoided. We must explain and inculcate ; but confine ourselves within certain limits. We should never forget that, however we may be pleased with ihearing ourselves speak, every audience may be tired ; and the moment they grow weary, our eloquence be- comes useless. It is better, in general, to say too little than too much ; to place our thought in one strong point of view, and rest it there, and by showing it in every light, than pouring forth a profusion of words upon it, to exhaust the attention of our hearers, and leave them languid and fatigued. In the most animated strain of public speaking, what must we al- ways regard ? — What if this be not attended to ? — What is also neces- sary ?— What cannot atone for the neglect of these ?— No one should attempt to speak in public without doing what ? What is not easy to determine with precision ? — Said of a diffuse manner T— What error are we in danger of ?— What must be avoid- ed ?— We must do what ?— We should neyer forget what ?— It is bet- ter in general to do what ' [147] LECTURE XXIV. ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. The ends of speaking at the bar and in popular assemblies are commonly different. In the latter, the orator aims principally to persuade ; to determine his hearers to some choice or conduct, as good, fit, or useful. He therefore applies himself to every prin- ciple of action in our nature ; to the passions and tc the heart, as well as to the understanding. But at the bar, conviction is the principal object. There, the speaker's duty is not to persuade the judges to what is good or useful, but to exhibit what is just and true ; and, consequently, his eloquence is chiefly addressed to the understanding. At the bar, speakers address themselves to one, or to a few judges, who are generally persons of age, gra\dty, and dignity of character. There, those ad- vantages which a mixed and numerous assembly affords for employing all the arts of speech, are not enjoyed. Passion does not rise so easily. The speaker is heard with more coolness ; he is watched with more severity ; and would expose himself to i-idicule by attempting that high and vehement tone which is suited only to a multitude. Besides, at the bar, the field of speaking is confined within law and What is the subject of this lecture ? Are the ends of public speaking at the bar and in popular assem- blies different ? — In the latter, what does the orator aim at f — To •what does he apply himself therefore ? — What is the principal object at the bar ? — What is the speaker's duty there ? At the bar. to whom do speakers generally address themselves T — What advantages are not enjoyed there 1 — What does not rise so easily ? — How is the speaker heard and watched ? — On what grormd Would he expose himself to ridicule ? — At the bar, within what ifl 148 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. statute. Imagination is fettered. The advocate has always before him the Kne, the square, and the com- pass. These it is his chief business to be constantly applying to the subjects under debate. Hence, the eloquence of the bar is of a nauch more limited, more sober, and chastised kind, than that of popular assemblies ; and, consequently, the judicial orations of the ancients must not be considered as exact models of that kind of speaking which is adapted to the present state of the bar. With them, strict law was much less an object of attention, than it is with us. In the days of Demosthenes and Cicero, the municipal statutes were few, simple, and general; and the decision of causes was left, in a great measure, to the equity and common sense of the judges. Eloquence, rather than jurisprudence, was the study of pleaders. Cicero says, that three months' study would make a complete civilian ; nay, it was thought that a man might be a good pleader without any previous study. Among the Romans, there was a set of men, called Pragmatici, whose office it was to supply the orator with all the law knowledge his cause required ; which he disposed in that popular form, and decorated with those colours of eloquence, which were most fitted for influencing the judges. It may also be observed, that the civil and criminal judges in Greece and Rome were more numerous than with us, and formed a kind of popular assembly. the field of speaking confined ?— What is fettered ?— What has the advocate always before him ? — What is his chief business with these ? Hence, what is the eloquence of the bar ? — Said of the judicial orations of the ancients ?— How was strict law with them ? — What were the principal statutes in the days of Demosthenes and Cicero? — To what was the decision of causes left ? — What was the study of pleaders ?— How much study does Cicero say would make a com- plete civilian ?— Said of the Pragmatici among the Romans ?— Which he disposed and decorated how ? What is said of the civil and criminal judges in Greece and ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 149 Tlie celebrated tribunal of the Areopagus at Athens consisted of fifty judges at least. In Rome, the Ju~ dices Selecti were always numerous, and had the office and power of judge and jmy. In the famous cause of Milo, Cicero spoke to Mtj-one Judices Selecti, and thus had the advantage of addressing his whole plead- ing, 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 those arts of popular elo- quence, which he employed with such success. Hence certain practices, which would be reckoned theatrical by 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 young childi'en, endeavouring to excite pity by theh cries and tears. The foundation of a lawyers reputation and success must be laid in a profound knowledge of his profes- sion. If his abilities, as a speaker, be ever so emi- nent; yet^ if his knowledge of the law be superficial, few will choose to engage him in their defence. Be- sides preWous study and an ample stock of acquired knowledge, another thing, inseparable from the suc- cess of every pleader, is a diligent and painful atten- tion to every cause with which he is intrusted ; to all the facts and circumstances with wliich it is connect- ed. Thus he Tvill, in a great measure, be prepared for the arguments of his opponent ; and, being predously acquainted with the weak parts of his own cause, he Rome?— Ho\r many judges did the celebrated tribunal of the Are- opagus consist of?— Said of the Judicps Selecti?— In the famous cause of Milo. how many did Cicero speak to ? — What advantage had he ?— Hence, what did he employ with success Hence; what practices were common ? In what must the foundation of a lawyer's reputation and suc- cess be laid • — What if his knowledge of law be superficial, however eminent his abilities as a speaker ?— Besides previous study, &o., what other thing is inseparable from the success of every pleader ^— - What advantage will he have, therefore ? 13* 1 . 150 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. will be able to fortify them in the best manner against the attack of his adversary. Though the ancient popular and vehement manner of pleading is now in a great measure superseded, we must not infer that there is no room for eloquence at the bar, and that the study of it is superfluous. There is perhaps no scene of public speaking whe.r^ elo "quence is more requisite. The dryness and subtlety "of subjects usually agitated at the bar require, more than any other, a certain kind of eloquence, in order to command attention, to give proper weight to the arguments employed, and to prevent what the pleader advances from passing unregarded. The effect of good speaking is always great. There is as much difference in the impression made by a cold, dryj and confused speaker, and that made by one who pleads the same cause with elegance, order and strength, as there is between our conception of an object when presented in twilight, and when viewed in the efful- gence of noon. purity and neatness of expression are, in this spe- cies of eloquence, chiefly to be studied ; a style per- spicuous and proper, not needlessly overcharged with the pedantry of law terms, nor affectedly avoiding these, when suitable and requisite. Verbosity is a fault of which men of this profession are frequently accused ; into which the habit of speaking and writ- ing hastily, and with little preparation, almost una- voidably betrays them. It cannot, therefore, be too earnestly recommended to those who are Oeginning to practise at the bar, that they early guard against this, while they have leisure for preparation. Let them What is in a great measure superseded ? — What inu!=t we not infer ? — Why is a certain kind of eloquence necessary at the bar? — Said of the effect of good speaking ? What is chiefly to be studied in this species of eloquence? — What is a fault of which men of this profession have been accused T — IIow may they guard against it? — What if a loose and negligent etjle 1i e suffered to become familiar ? ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 151 form tliera.-elves to tlie liabit of a strong and coiTect style ; ^vliich will become natural to tlieni afterward, when compelled by multiplicity of business to com- pose with precipitation. Whereas, if a loose ana negligent style have been suffered to become familiar, they will not be able, even upon occasions when they wdsh to make an unusual effort, to express themselves with force and elegance. Distinctness in speaking at the bar is a capital pro- perty. It should be shown, first, in statii;g the ques- tion ; in exhibiting clearly the point in debate ; what we admit ; what we deny ; and where the line of di\dsion begins between us and the adverse party. iSText, il should appear in the order and arrangement of all the parts of the pleading. A clear method is of the hiu-hest consequence in every species of ora- tion ; but in those intricate cases which belong to the bar, it is infinitely essential. Narration of facts should always be concise as the nature of them wih admit. Tliey are always very necessary to be remembered ; consequently, unneces- sary minuteness in relating them overloads the me- mory. "''.Vhereas, if a pleader omit all superfluous circumstances in his recital, he adds strength to the material facts, gives a clearer view of what he relates, and makes the impression of it more lasting. In ar- gumentation, however, a more difluse manner seems requisite at the bar than on some other Occasions. For in popular assemblies, where the subject of debate is often a plain question, arguments gain strength by conciseness. But the intricacy of law points fre- quently requires the arguments to be expanded, and WTiat is a cajital property in speaking at the bar ?— How should it be shovrn '—How next ?— Said of a clear methrid ? How 5:hjL;ld narration of facts always be' — \Vhat the effect of omittin_' all sup-rfiuon? cireitmstances Tn what and where is a diffuse manner requisite ? — Said of conciseness in ri -p^ct to popu- lar assemblies ? — What does the intricacy of law points frequently require ? I 152 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. placed in different liglits, in order to be fully appre- hended. Candour in stating the arguments of his adversary cannot he too much recommended to every pleader. If he disguise them, or place them in a false light, the artifice will soon be discovered ; and the judge and the hearers will conclude, that he either wants dis- cernment to perceive, or fairness to admit, the strength of his opponent's reasoning. But, if he state with ac- curacy and candour the arguments used against him, before he endeavours to combat them, a strong preju- dice is created in his favour. He will appear to have entire confidence in his cause, since he does not at- tempt to support it by artifice or concealment. The judge will therefore be inclined to receive more readily the impressions made upon him by a speaker who appears both fair and penetrating. Wit may sometimes be serviceable at the bar, par- ticularly in a lively reply, by which ridicule is thrown on what an adversary has advanced. But a young pleader should never rest his strength on this daz- zling talent. His office is not to excite laughter, but to produce conviction ; nor perhaps did any one ever rise to eminence in his profession by being a witty lawyer. Since an advocate personates his chent, he must plead his cause with a proper degree of warmth. He must be cautious, however, of prostituting his earnestness and sensibility by an equal degree of ar- dour on every subject. There is a dignity of cha- racter, which it is highly important for every one of this profession to support. An opinion of probity and What cannot be too much recommended in a pleader 1 — What if he disguise thena, or place them in a false light ? — What if he state with accuracy and candour the arguments used against him ? When may wit be serviceable at the bar ? — What advice is given to young pleaders in respect to it ? Whom does an advocate personate ? — How should he plead his cause ?— Of what must he be cautious ? — Said of supporting digni- ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 153 honour in a pleader is Ms most powerful instrument of persuasion. He should always, therefore, decline embarking in causes wliicli are odious, and mani- festly unjust ; and, when he supports a doubtful cause, he should lay the chief stress upon those arguments w^hich appear to him to be most forcible ; reserving liis zeal and indignation for cases where injustice and iniquity are flagrant. LECTURE XXV. ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. Having treated of the eloquence of popular assem- bhes, and that of the bar, we shall now consider the strain and spirit of that eloquence which is suited to the pulpit. This field of public speaking has several advantages pecuhar to itself. The dignity and im- portance of its subjects must be allowed to be superior to any other. They admit the highest embellishment in description, and the greatest warmth and vehe- mence of expression. In treating his subject, the preacher has also peculiar advantages. He speaks not to one or a few judges, but to a large assembly. He is not afraid of interruption. He chooses his subject at leisure ; and has all the assistance of the most ac- curate premeditation. The disadvantages, however ty of character ?— What is his most powerful instrument of persua- sion ? — What should he therefore always decline ? — Whal should he do in supporting a doubtful cause! — Reserving; his zeal and indigna- tion for what ? What is the subject of this lecture ? What are we now to consider ?— What has this field of public speaking J— Said of its subjects ?— What do they admit ?— What peculiar advantages has the preacher ]— What are the disadvanta* 164 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. which attend the eloquence of the pulpit are not in- considerable. The preacher, it is true, has no con- tention with an adversary ; but debate awakens ge- nius, and excites attention. His subjects, though no- ble, are trite and common. They are become so fa- miliar to the public ear, that it requires no ordinary genius in the preacher to fix attention. Nothing is more difficult than to bestow on what is common the grace of novelty. Besides, the subject of the preacher usually confines him to abstract qualities, to virtues and vices ; whereas that of other popular speakers leads them to treat of persons ; which is generally more interesting to the hearers, and occupies more power- fully the imagination. We are taught by the preacher to detest only the crime ; by the pleader to detest the criminal. Hence it happens, that though the number of moderately good preachers is great, so few have arrived at eminence. Perfection is very distant from modern preaching. The object, however, is truly noble, and worthy of being pursued with zeal. To excel in preaching, it is necessary to have a fixed and habitual view of its object. This is to per- suade men to become good. Every sermon ought, therefore, to be a persuasive oration. It is not to discuss some abstruse point, that the preacher ascends the pulpit. It is not to teach his hearers something new, but to make them better ; to give them at once clear views and persuasive impressions of religious ti'uths. The principal characteristics of pulpit eloquence, as distinguished from the other kinds of public speak- ing, appear to be these two, gravity and warmth. ges which attend the eloquence of the pulpit ?— Hence what hap- pens ? To excel in preaching, what is necessary ? — What should every sermon be ?— What is not the object of the preacher in ascending the pulpit ?— What is his object ? What are the principal characteristics of pulpit eloquence ?— ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 155 It is neither easy nor common to imite these eliArac- tei-s of eloquence. The grave, when it is predomi- nant, becomes a dull, uniform solemnity. The warm, when it wants gravity, bordei-s on the light and the- ati'ical. A proper union of the two forms that cha- racter of preaching which the French call Onction ; that affecting, penetrating, and interesting manner, which flows from a strong sense in the preacher of the importance of the truths he delivers, and an earnest deshe that they may mate full impression on the hearts of his hearers. A sermon, as a particular species of composition, requhes the strictest attention to unity. By this we mean that there should be some mam point to which the whole tenor of the sermon shall refer. It must not be a pile of dilferent subjects heaped upon each other ; but one object must predominate through the whole. Hence, however, it must not be understood, that there should be no didsions or separate heads in a discourse ; nor that one single thought only should be exhibited in different points of ^^iew. Unity is not to be understood in so limited a sense ; it admits some variety ; it rerjuires only that union and connexion be so far preserved, as to make the whole concm* in some one impression on the mind. Thus, for in- stance, a preacher may employ several different arguments to enforce the love of God ; he may also inquire into the causes of the decay of this virtue : still, one gi-eat object is presented to the mind. But, if because his text says, " He that loveth God must love his brother also," he should therefore mix in the same discourse arguments for the love of God, and for the love of our neighboiu*, he would gi'ossly Said of uniting these characters ?— Said of the grave ?— Of the warm ? — AVhat forms -what the French call Onetion 7 What does a sermon require ? — What is meant by this ? — It mast not be what ?— What must not be understood ?— What does unity :nly require ?— Example. 156 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. offend against unity, and leave a very confused im- pression on the minds of his hearers. Sermons are always more striking, and generally more useful, the more precise and particular the subject of them is. Unity can never be so perfect in a general, as in a particular subject. General subjects, indeed, such as the excellency or the plea sures of religion, are often chosen by young preach ers, as the most showy, and the easiest to be handled • but these subjects produce not the high effects of preaching. Attention is much more commanded, by taking some particular view of a great subject, and employing on that the whole force of argument and eloquence. To recommend some one virtue, or to inveigh against a particular vice, affords a subject not deficient in unity or precision. But, if that vir- tue or vice be considered as assuming a particular aspect in certain situations in life, the subject be- comes still more interesting. The execution is more difficult, but the merit and the effect are higher. A preacher should be cautious not to exhaust his subject; since nothing is more opposite to persuasion than unnecessary and tedious fulness. There are always some things which he may suppose to be known, and some which require only brief attention. If he endeavour to omit nothing which his subject suggests, he must unavoidably encumber it and diminish its force. To render his instructions interesting to his hearers should be the grand object of every preacher. He When are sermons most striking and useful ?— Said of unity ?— Of general subjects ? — Why chosen by young preachers ? — What do these subjects not produce ? — By what is the attention much more eommanded ? Of what should a preacher be cautious ? — For what reason ? — What may he suppose? — Said of omitting nothing which his subject BUggests? What should be the grand object of every preacher ? — What •hould he avoid ? — How should a discovurse be carried on ? ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 157 should bring home to their hearts the truths which he inculcates ; and make each suppose himself particu- larly addressed. He should avoid all intricate rea- sonings ; avoid expressing himself in general, specu- lative propositions ; or laying down practical truths in an abstract, metaphysical manner. A discourse ought to be carried on in the strain of direct address to the audience ; not in the strain of one writing an essay, but of one speaking to a multitude, and stud}nng- to connect what is called application, or what imme- diately refers to practice, with the doctrinal parts of the sermon. It is always highly advantageous to keep in view the different ages, characters, and conditions of men, and to accommodate directions and exhortations to each of these different classes. Whenever you ad- vance what touches a man's character, or is applicable to his circumstances, you are sure of his attention. No study is more necessary for a preacher than the study of human life and of the human heart. To discover a man to himself in a light in which he never saw his character before, produces a wonderful effect. Those sermons, though the most difficult in composition, are not only the most beautiful, but also the most useful, which are founded on the illustration of some pecuhar character, or remarkable piece of history, in the sacred writings ; by pursuing which we may trace, and lay open, some of the most secret windings of the human heart. Other topics of preaching are become trite ; but this is an extensive field which hitherto has been little explored, and possesses all the advantages of being curious, new, and highly useful. Bishop Butler's sermon on the character of Balaam is an example of this kind of preaching. Wliat is always highly advantageous ?— When are you sure of a man's attention ?— What study is necessary for a preacher? — What sermons are the most beautiful and useful ?— What is an example of this kiad of preaching 1 ^ 14 158 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. Fashion, which operates so extensively on human manners, has given to preaching, at different times, a change of character. This, however, is a torrent which swells to-day and subsides to-mon'ow. Some- times poetical preaching is fashionable; sometimes philosophical. At one time, it must be all pathetic; at another, all argumentative ; as some celebrated preacher has set the example. Each of these modes is very defective ; and he who conforms himself to it will both confine and corrupt his genius. Truth and good sense are the sole basis on which he can build with safety. Mode and humour are feeble and un- steady. No example should be servilely imitated. From various examples the preacher may collect materials for improvement ; but servility of imitation extinguishes all genius, or rather proves entire want of it. What has fashion given to preaching? — Said of each of these modes ? — Of him who confines himself to it ? — What is the basia upon which he can build with safety ?— Said of mode and humour ? — Said of serTility of imitation ? [159] LECTURE XXVI. CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE IN ALL ITS PARTS.— INTRODUCTION, DIVISION, NARRATION, AND EXPLICATION. Hayi^'G already considered wliat is peculiar to each of the three great fields of public speaking, popular assemblies, the bar, and the pulpit ; we shall now treat of what is common to them all, and explain the conduct of a discoui-se or oration in general. The parts which compose a regular oration are these six ; the exordium or introduction, the state or the dinsion of the subject, narration or explication, the reasoning or arguments, the pathetic part, and the conclusion. It is not necessary that each of these enter into every public discourse, nor that they always enter in this order. There are many excellent dis- courses in which some of these parts are omitted. But as they are the constituent parts of a regular oration, and as in every discourse some of them must occur, it is agreeable to our present piu'pose to ex- amine each of them distinctly. The design of the introduction is to conciliate the good will of the hearers, to excite their attention, and to render them open to pereuasion. When the speaker is pre\aoiisly secure of the good \vill, attention, and docility of his audience, a formal introduction may be omitted. Respect for his hearei^s wiU, in that case, require only a short exordium, to prepare them for the other parts of his discourse. Wliat are the subjects of this lecture ? What has already been considered ? — What are we now to treat of? What are the six parts which compose a regular oration ? — What is said of these ? What is the design of the introduction? — When may a formPj introduction be omitted ? — What vrill a respect for his hearers only require ? 160 CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE. The introduction is a part of a discourse, whicli requires no small care. It is always important to begin well ; to make a favourable impression at first setting out, when the minds of the hearers, as yet vacant and free, are more easily prejudiced in favour of the speaker. We must add, also, that a good in-, troduction is frequently found to be extremely difficult. Few parts of a discourse give more trouble to the composer, or require more delicacy in the execution. An introduction should be easy and natural. It should always be suggested by the subject. The writer should not plan it, before he has meditated in his own mind the substance of his discourse. By .taking the opposite course, and composing in the first place an introduction, the writer will often find that he is either led to lay hold of some commonplace topic, or that, instead of the introduction being ac- commodated to the discourse, he is under the necessity of accommodating the discourse to the introduction. In this part of a discourse, correctness of expression should be carefully studied. This is peculiarly requi- site, on account of the situation of the hearers. At the beginning, they are more disposed to criticise than at any other period ; they are then unoccupied by the subject and the arguments ; their attention is entirely directed to the speaker's style and manner. Care, therefore, is requisite to prepossess them in his favour ; though too much art must be cautiously avoided, since it will then be more easily detected, and will derogate from that persuasion, which the other parts of the dis-' course are intended to produce. Modesty is also an indispensable characteristic of What does the introduction require ?— What is always important T -What is farther said of a good introduction ? How should an introduction be?— When should the writer not plan it ? — Said of taking the opposite course ? In this part of a discourse, what should be carefully studied ?— Why is this requisite ? — What must be cautiously avoidt-d ?— Why ' What is an indispensable characteristic of a good introduction ?— INTRODUCTION. 161 a good introduction. If the speaker begin with an an of arrogance and ostentation, the self-love and pride of his hearers will be presently awakened, and fohow him with a very suspicions eye through the rest of his discourse. His modesty should appear, not only in his expression, but in his whole manner ; in his looks, in his gestures, and in the tone of his voice. Every audience is pleased with those marks of respect and awe which are paid by the speaker. The modesty, however, of an introduction should betray nothing mean or abject. Together with modesty and defer- ence to his hearers, the orator should show a certain sense of dignity, arising from, persuasion of the justice or importance of his subject. Particular cases excepted, the orator should not put forth all his strength at the begiLiining ; but it should 'nse and grow upon his hearers, as his discourse ad- vances. The introduction is seldom the place for vehemence and passion. The audience must be gTa- dually prepared, before the speaker venture on strong and passionate sentiments. Yet when the subject is such that the very mention of it naturally awakens some passionate emotion, or wdien the unexpected presence of some person or object in a popular assem- bly inflames the speaker, either of these will justify an abrupt and vehement exordium. Thus, the ap- pearance of Catiline in the senate renders the violent opening of Cicero's first oration against him very natural and proper. " Quousque tandem, Catilina, abutere patientia nostra ?" Bishop Atterbury, preach- ing from this text, "Blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended in me," ventures on this bold exor- What if the spea^ker begin with an air of arrogance ? — In what Bhould his modesty appear ? — Every audience is pleased with what ?— What should not the modesty of an introduction betray ? — Together with modesty and deference, Avhat should an orator ehow ? What is said of an orator putting forth all his strength at the be- ginning ? — What will justify an abrupt and vehement exordium ? — 14* 162 CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE. dium, — " And can any man then be offended in thee, blessed Jesus ?" which address to onr Saviour he con- tinues, till he enters on the division of his subject. But such introductions should be attempted by very few, since they promise so much vehemence and ar- dour through the rest of the discourse, that it is ex tremely difficult to satisfy the expectation of the hear ers. An introduction should not anticipate any mate- rial part of the subject. When topics or arguments which are afterward to be enlarged upon are hinted at, and in part exhibited in the introduction, they lose, upon their second appearance, the gi'ace of novelty. The impression intended to be made by any capital thought is always made with greatest advantage when it is made entire, and in its proper place. An introduction should be proportioned in its length and kind to the discourse which follows it. In length, as nothing can be more absurd than to erect a large portico before a small building ; and in kind, as it is no less absurd to load with superb ornaments the portico of a plain dwelling-house, or to make the ap- proach to a monument as gay as that to an arbour. After the introduction, the proposition or enuncia- tion of the subject commonly succeeds ; concerning which we shall only observe, that it should be clear and distinct, and expressed without affectation, in the most concise and simple manner. To this generally succeeds the division, or laying down the method of the discourse ; in the management of which, the fol lowing rules should be carefully observed. First, The parts into which the subject is divided must be really distinct from each other. It were an Examples. — Said of such introductions ? — Why should not an intro- duction anticipate any material part of the subject ? What is said of an introduction with respect to length and kind ? After the introduction, what commonly succeeds ? — What should it be ? — What generally succeeds to this ? W hat is the first rule for the management of this ? — What were an absurd division ? DR-ISION. 1C3 .ibsiird division, for example, if a speaker should pro- pose to explain, first the advantages of virtue, and next those of justice or temperance ; because the first head plainly comprehends the second, as a genus does the species. Such a method of proceeding involves the subject in confusion. Secondly, We must be careful always to follow the order of, nature ; beginning with the most simple points^ with such as are most easily understood, and necessary to be first discussed ; and proceeding to those which are built upon the former, and suppose them to be known. The subject must be divided, into those parts, into which it is most easily and naturally resolved. Thirdly, The members of a di^dsion ought to ex- haust the subject ; otherwise, the division is incom- plete ; the subject is exhibited by pieces only, without displaying the whole. Fourthly, Let conciseness and precision be pecu- liarly studied. A division always appears to most advantage, when the several heads are expressed in the clearest, most forcible, and fewest words possible. This never fails to strike the hearer agreeably : and contributes also to make the divisions more easily re- membered. Fifthly, Unnecessary multiplication of heads should be cautiously avoided. To di-side a subject into many minute parts, by endless didsions and subch\'isions, produces a bad effect in speaking. In a logical trea- tise, this may be proper ; but it renders an oration, hard and diy, and unnecessarily fatigues the memory. A sermon may admit from three to five or six heads, including subdivisions ; seldom are more allowable. The next constituent part of a discourse is narration What is the second 1 "What is the third 1 What is the fourth 1 What is the fifth ?— How many heads may a sermon admit J 164 CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE. or explication. These two are joined together, be- cause they fall nearly under the same rules, and because they generally answer the same purpose ; serving to illustrate the cause, or the subject, of which one treats, before proceeding "to argue on one side or the other, or attempting to interest the passions of the hearers. To be clear and distinct, to be probable, and to be concise, are the qualities which critics chiefly require in narration. Distinctness is requisite to the whole j of the discourse, but belongs especially to narration, ' which ought to throw light on all that follows. At the bar, an act, or a single circumstance, left in obscurity, or misunderstood by the judge, may destroy the effect j of all the argument and reasoning which the pleader j employs. If his narration be improbable, it will be disregarded ; if it be tedious and diffuse, it will fatigue and be forgotten. To render narration distinct, par- ticular attention is requisite in ascertaining clearly the names, dates, places, and every other important cir- cumstance of the facts recounted. In order to be probable in narration, it is necessary to exhibit the . characters of the persons of whom we speak, and to show that their actions proceeded from such motives as are natural and likely to gain belief. To be as j concise as the subject will admit, all superfluous cir- ' cumstances must be rejected ; by which the narration will be rendered more forcible and more clear. In sermons, explication of the subject to be dis- coursed on occupies the place of narration at the bar ' and is to be conducted in a similar manner. It must What is the next constituent part of a discourse ?— Why are these two joined together ? What are the qualities which critics chiefly require in narration ? — Said of distinctness ?— Its importance at the bar ? — Wliat if his narration be improbable ? — What if it be tedious and diffuse ? — To render narration distinct, what is requisite? — What is necessary in order to be probable in narration ? — What to be concise I Said of ezpiication in sermons ? — IIow must it be ? — What iB THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART. 165 be concise, clear, and distinct ; in a style correct and elegant, ratlier than higbly adorned. To explain the doctrine of the text with propriety ; to give a full and clear account of the nature of that virtue or duty which forms the subject of discourse, is properly the didactic part of preaching ; on the right execution of which much depends. In order to succeed, the preacher must meditate profoundly on the subject; so as to place it in a clear and striking point of view. He must consider what light it may derive from other passages of scripture ; whether it be a subject nearly allied to some other, from which it ought to be distin- guished ; whether it can be advantageously illustrated by comparing or opposing it to some other thing ; by searching into causes, or tracing eftects ; by pointing out examples, or appealing to the hearts of the hearers, that thus a precise and circumstantial view may be afforded of the doctrine inculcated. By distinct and apt illustrations of the known truths of religion, a preacher may both display great merit as a composer, and, what is infinitely more valuable, render his discourses weighty, instructive, and useful. LECTURE XXVII. THE ARGUMENTATIVE PAET OF A DISCOURSE, THE PATHETIC PART, AND THE PERORATION. As the great end for which men speak on any serious occasion is to convince their hearers that something properly the didactic part of preaching ? — In order to succeed, what must the preacher do ?— Said of distinct and apt illustrations ? What are the subjects of this lecture ? What is said of the great end for which men speak ? — Said oj reason and argument ? 166 CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE. is true, or riglit, or good, and tlius to influence tlieir practice, reason and argument must constitute the foundation of all manly and persuasive eloquence. With regard to arguments, three things are requi- site. First, invention of them ; secondly, proper dis- position and arrangement of them ; and thirdly, ex- pressing them in the most forcible manner. Inven- tion is undoubtedly the most material, and the basis "of the rest. But in this, art can afford only small assistance. It can aid a speaker, however, in arrang- ing and expressing those arguments which his knowl- edge of the subject has discovered. Supposing the arguments properly chosen, we must avoid blending those together that are of a separate nature. All arguments whatever are intended to prove one of these three things ; that something is true, that it is right or fit, or that it is profitable and good. Truth, duty, and interest are the three great subjects of discussion among men. But the argu- ments employed upon either of them are generally distinct ; and he who blends them all under one topic, which he calls his argument, as in sermons is too frequently done, will render his reasoning indistinct and inelegant. With respect to the different degrees of strength in arguments, the common rule isj to_adyance in the way of climax from the weakest to the most forcible. This method is recommended, when the speaker is convinced that his cause is clear and easy to be proved. But this rule must not be universally observed. If he With regard to arguments, how many things are requisite ? — What is the first ? — The second ?— The third ?— Said of invention ? Supposing the arguments properly chosen, what must we avoid ? — What are all arguments intended to prove ? — AVhat are the three great subjects of discussion among men ? — What is said of blending them all ixnder one topic ? With regard to the different degrees of strength in arguments, what is the common rule?— When is this method recommended? -Farther said of this rule ? — When is it proper to place an argu* THE ARGUMENTATIVE PART. 167 distrust his cause, and have but one mateiial argu- ment, it is often proper to place this argument in the front ; to prejudice his hearers early in his favour, and thus dispose them to pay attention to the weaker reasons which he may afterward introduce. When amid a variety of arguments there is one or two more feeble than the rest, though proper to be used, Cicero ad\dses to place them in the middle, as a situation less conspicuous than either the beginning or end of the train of reasoning. When ai'guments are strong and satisfactory, the more they are separated the better. Each can then bear to be introduced alone, placed m its full light, amplified and contemplated. But when they are of a doubtful or presmnptive nature, it is safer to crowd them together, to form them into a phalanx, that, though individually weak, they may mutually support each other. Arguments should never be extended too far, nor multiplied too much. This serves rather to render a cause suspicious, than to increase its strength. A needless multiphcity of arguments burdens the memory, and diminishes the weight of that conviction, which a few well chosen arguments produce. To expand them also beyond the bounds of reasonable illustra- tion is always enfeebhng. When a speaker endea- vours to expose a favourable argument in every light possible, fatigued by the effort, he loses the spirit with which he set out; and ends with feebleness, what he began with force. • ment in the front, and for what reason ? — AVhen amid a variety of arguments there is one or two more feeble than the rest, what does Cicero advise ? What should be done when arguments are strong and satis- factory ? — What when they are of a doubtful or presumptive na- ture? What is farther said of arguments? — What does this serve to do ? — What is the effect of % needless multiplicity of arguments ?— Said of expanding them ? 168 CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE. Having attended thus far to tlie proper arrange- /ment of arguments, we proceed to another essential *! part of a discourse, the pathetic, in which, if any /where, eloquence reigns, and exerts its power. On ' this head, the following directions appear useful. Consider carefully whether the subject admits the pathetic, and renders it proper ; and, if it do, what part of the discourse is most fit for it. To determine these points belongs to good sense. Many subjects admit not the pathetic ; and even in those that are susceptible of it, an attempt to excite the passions in a wrong place may expose an orator to ridicule. It may in general be observed, that if we expect any emotion which we- raise to have a lasting effect, we must secure in our favour the understanding and judg- ment. The hearers must be satisfied that there are sufficient grounds for their engaging in the cause with zeal and ardour. When argument and reasoning have produced their full effect, the pathetic is admit- ted with the greatest force and propriety. A speaker should cautiously avoid giving his hearers warning that he intends to excite their passions. Every thing of this kind chills their sensibility. There is also a great difference between telling the hearers that they ought to be moved, and actually moving them. To every emotion or passion nature has adapted cer- tain corresponding objects ; and without setting these before the mind, it is impossible for an orator to excite that emotion. We are warmed with gratitude, we are touched with compassion, not when a speaker shows us that these are noble dispositions, and that it Having thus attended to the proper arrangement of arguments, to what do we now proceed ? What should be carefully considered ?— What may in general be observed ? — Of what must the hearers be satisfied ? — When is the pathetic admitted ? What should a speaker cautiously avoid ? — What is the efifect of this ?— In what is There a great difference ? — To every emotion or passion what has nature done ?— Said of setting these before the THE PERORATION. 1G9 is our duty to feel tliem ; nor wlien lie exclaims against us for our indifference and coldness. Hitherto he has addressed only our reason or conscience. He must describe the kindness and tenderness of our friend ; he must exhibit the distress suffered by the person for whom he would interest us. Then, and not before, our hearts begin to be touched ; our gi-atitude, our compassion begins to flow. The basis, therefore, of all successful execution in pathetic oratory is to paint the object of that passion which we desire to raise in the most natural and striking manner ; to describe it with such circumstances as are likely to awaken it in the minds of others. To succeed in the pathetic, it is necessaiy to attend to the proper language of the passions. This, if we consult nature, we shall ever find is unaffected and simple. It may be animated by bold and strong figures, but it will have no ornament, no finery. There is a great difference between painting to the imagina- tion and to the heart. The one may be done with deliberation and coolness ; the other must always be rapid and ardent. In the former, art and labour may be suffered to appear ; in the latter, no proper effect can be produced, unless it be the work of nature only. Hence, all digressions should be avoided which may interrupt or turn aside the swell of passion. Hence, comparisons are always dangerous, and commonly quite improper in the midst of the pathetic. It is also to be observed, that violent emotions cannot be lasting. The pathetic, therefore, should not be prolonged too much. Due regard should always be preserved to mind ?— What must he do ? — What is the effect ? — What is the basis, therefore, of successful execution in pathetic oratory ? To succeed in the pathetic, what is necessary ? — This, if we con- sult nature, we shall ever find what ? — It may be what ? — There is a great difference between what ? — Said of the one ? — The other ? — Of the former ? — The latter ?— Hence, what should be avoided ? — Hence, what are dangerous ? — What is also to be observed ? — The pathetic, therefore, should not be what ? — Said of attempting to carry the hearers farther in passion than they wiU foUow ? 170 CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE. what tlie hearers will bear ; for he who attempts to carry them farther in passion than they will follow him, frustrates his purpose. By endeavouring to warm them too much, he takes the surest method of freezing them completely. Concerning the peroration or conclusion of a dis course, a few words will be sufficient. Sometimes, the whole pathetic part comes in most properly at the conclusion. Sometimes, when the discourse has been altogether argumentative, it is proper to conclude with summing up the arguments, placing them in one view, and leaving the impression of them full and strong on the minds of the hearers. For the great rule of a conclusion, and what nature obviously suggests, is, place that last on Avhich you choose to rest the strength of your cause. In every kind of public speaking, it is important to hit the precise time of concluding ; to bring the dis- course just to a point ; neither ending abruptly and unexpectedly, nor disappointing the expectation of the hearers, when they look for the end of the discourse. The speaker should always close with dignity and spirit, that the minds of the hearers may be left warm, and that they may depart with a favom-able impres- sion of the subject and of himself. Where does the pathetic part come in most properly ?— When the iiscoiirse has heen altogether argumentative, how is it proper to con- flude ? — What is the great rule of a conclusion ? In every kind of public speaking, what is important ? How should the speaker always close ? [in] LECTURE XXVin. PRONUNCIATION OR DELIVER?. The gi-eat objects to wliicli every public speake) should direct his attention in forming his delivery are, first, to speak so as to be fully and easily undei-stood by his hearei-s ; and next, to express himself with such gTace and energy as to please and to move them. To be fully and easily understood, the chief requi- sites are, a due degi-ee of loudness of voice, distinct- ness, sloT\Tiess, and propriety of pronunciation. To be heard is undoubtedly the first requisite. The speaker must endeavour to fill with his voice the space occupied by the assembly. Though this power of voice is in a gi-eat measure a natural talent, it may receive considerable . assistance fi'om art. Much de- pends on the proper pitch and management of the voice. Every man has three pitches in his voice ; the high, the middle, and the low. The high is used ia calhng aloud to some one at a distance ; the low ap- proaches to a whisper ; the middle is that which is employed in common convei-sation, and which should generally be used in pubhc speaking. For it is a great error to suppose, that the highest pitch of the voice is requisite, to be well heard by a gTeat assembly. This is confounding two things materially . diS"erent, loud- What is the subject of this lecture ? What are the great objects to which every public speaker should direct his attention ? To be fully and easily understood, what are the chief requi- Bites ? What is the first requisite ? — What must the speaker endeavour to do ?— Said of this power of the voice ? — Of its pitch and manage- ment ?— How many pitches has every man in hi? voice ? — What are they ?— Said of the high ?— The low ?— The middle ?— What ia a great error ?— What two things is this confounding ?— Said of the 1*72 PRONUNCIATION OR DELIVERY. ness or strength of sound Avitli the key or note on which we speak. The voice may be rendered louder without altering the key ; and the speaker will always be able to give most body, most persevering force of sound, to that pitch of voice to which in conversation he is accustomed. Whereas, if he begin on the highes key, he wih fatigue himself and speak with pain and whenever a man speaks with pain to himself, h( is al ways heard with pain by his audience. Give tht voice, therefore, full strength and swell of sound, but always pitch it on your ordinary speaking key ; a greater quantity of voice should never be uttered, than can be afforded without pain, and without any exti-a- ordinary effort. To be well heard, it is useful for a speaker to fix his eye on some of the most distant persons in the assembly, and to consider himself as speaking to them. We naturally and mechanically utter out words with such strength, as to be heard by one to whom we address ourselves, provided he be within the reach of our voice. This is the case in public speaking, as well as in common conversation. But it must be remembered, that speaking too loudly is pecuharly offensive. The ear is wounded, when the voice comes upon it in rumbhng, indistinct mass- es ; besides, it appears as if assent were demanded by mere vehemence and force of sound. To being well heard, and clearly understood, dis tinctness of articulation is more conducive, perhaps than mere loudness of sound. The quantity of sound requisite to fill even a large space is less than is com monly supposed ; with distinct articulation, a man of a weak voice will make it extend farther tfvan the advantages of pitching the voice in the conversation key ? — Said of beginning on the highest key ? — What should we give the voice, therefore? — To be well heard, what is useful for a speaker? — Said of the effect of speaking too loudly ? What is more conducive than mere loudness of sound to being well heard and clearly understood ?— What is said of a quantity of sound filing a large place ? — Of a man of a weak voice with dis- PRONUNCIATION OR DELIVERY. 173 strongest voice can reacli without it. This, therefore, demands peculiar attention. The speaker must give every sound its due proportion, and make every syl- lable, and even every letter, be heard distinctly. To,j succeed in this, rapidity of pronunciation must be, avoided. A lifeless, di-awKiig method, however, is not to be indulged. To pronounce with a proper de- gree of slowness, and with full and clear articulation, cannot be too industriously studied, nor too earnestly recommended. Such pronunciation gives weight and dignity to a discourse. It assists the voice by the pauses and rests which it allows it more easily to make ; and it enables the speaker to swell all his sounds with more energy and more music. It assists him also in preserving a due command of himself ; whereas, a rapid and hurried manner excites that flut- ter of spirits, which is the greatest enemy to all right execution in oratory. To the propriety of pronunciation nothing is more conducive than giving to every word Avhich we ut- ter that sound which the most pohte usage appro- priates to it, in opposition to broad, vulgar, or pro- vincial pronmiciation. On this subject, however, w^ritten instructions avail nothing. But there is one observation which it may be useful to make. In our language, every word of more syllables than one, has one accented syllable. The genius of the Ian guage requires the voice to mark that syllable by a stronger percussion, and to pass more slightly over the rest. The same accent should be given every word in public speaking and in common discom'se.j Many persons err in this respect. When they speak tinct articulation ? — What must the speaker do ? — To succeed in this, what must be avoided ? — What is not to be indulged ? — What cannot be too industriously studied ? — Said of such pronunciation ? —How does it assist the voice ? — IIow does it assist the speaker ? What is conducive to propi'iety of pronunciation ? — On this sub- ject, do written instructions avail anything ? — What is the observa tion which it is thought useful to make ?— How do many err in thia respect ? — Said of this error ? 16* 1*14: PRONUNCIATION OR DELIVERT. in public and with solemnity, tliey pronounce differ- ently from what they do at other times. They dwell upon syllables, and protract them ; they multiply ac- cents on the same word, from a false idea that it give gravity and force to their discourse, and increases tli pomp of public declamation. But this is one of th gi'eatest faults which can be committed in pronuncia Hon ; it constitutes what is termed a theatrical or mouthing manner, and gives an artificial, affected air to speech, which detracts greatly from its agreeable- ness and its impression. We shall now treat of those higher parts of de- livery, by studying which a speaker endeavours, not merely to render himself intelligible, but to give grace and force to what he utters. These may be compre- hended under four heads, — emphasis, pauses, tones, and gestures. By emphasis is meant a fuller and stronger sound of voice, by which we distinguish the accent'ed sylla- ble of some word, on which we intend to lay particular stress, and to show how it affects the rest of the sen- tence. To acquire the proper management of em- phasis, the only rule is, study to acquire a just con- ception of the force and spirit of those sentiments which you are to deliver. In all prepared discourses, it would be extremely useful, if they were read over or rehearsed in private, with a view of ascertaining the proper emphasis, before they were pronounced in public ; marking, at the same time, the emphatical words in every sentence, or at least in the most im- portant parts of the discourse, and fixing them wel in memory. A caution, however, must be given against multiplying emphatical words too much. They become striking, only when used with prudent reserve. What are we now to treat of ? — Under how many heads may these be comprehended ? What is meant by emphasis ? — What i ule is given to acquire th« proper management Of emphasis ? — What would be useful in all pre- pared discourses ?— What caution is given ? PRONUNCIATION OR DELIVERY. 175 If tliey recur too fi-eqiiently, if a speaker attempt to render every thing he says of high importance by a multitude of strong emphasis, they will soon fail to excite the attention of his hearers. Next to emphasis, pauses demand attention. They are of two kinds ; first, emphatical pauses ; and se condly, such as mark the distinction of sense. An emphatical pause is made after something has been said of peculiar moment, on which we wish to fix the hearers' attention. Sometimes a matter of importance is preceded by a pause of this nature. Such pauses have the same effect with strong emphasis, 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 conse- quently raise expectation, if this be not fully answered, they occasion disappointment and disgust. But the most frequent and the principal use of pau- ses is, to mark the divisions of the sense, and at the same time to permit the speaker to draw^ his breath ; and the proper management of such pauses is one of the most nice and difficult articles in delivery. A pro- per command of the breath is pecuharly requisite. To obtain this, every speaker should be very careful to provide a full supply of breath for what he is to utter. It is a great mistake to suppose that the breath must be drawn only at the end of a period, w^hen the voice is allowed to fall. It may easily be gathered at the intervals of a period, when the voice sufiers only a momentary suspension. By this management, a suflS- cient supply may be obtained for carrying on the longest period, without improper interruptions. Next to emphasis, v^hat demand attention ? — What are the two kinds ? — When is an emphatical pause made ?— What effect have euch pauses, and to what are they subject ?— Why ? What is the most frequent and principal use of pauses ? — What is peculiarly requisite ? — To obtain this, what should every speaker do ? — What is a great mistake ?— When may it easily be gathered ?— By this management, what may be obtained ? 176 PRONUNCIATION OR DELIVERY. Pauses in public discourse must be formed upon tbe manner in which we express ourseh^es in sensible conversation, and not upon the stiff, artificial manner which we acquire from perusing books according to' common punctuation. Punctuation, in general, is very arbitrary ; often capricious and false ; dictating a uniformity of tone in the pauses, which is extremely unpleasing. For it must be observed, that to rendei pauses graceful and expressive, they must not only be made in the right places, but also be accompanied by proper tones of voice ; by which the nature of these pauses is intimated much more than by their length, which can never be exactly measured. Sometimes, only a slight and simple suspension of the voice is proper ; sometimes a degree of cadence is requisite ; and sometimes that peculiar tone and cadence which mark the conclusion of a period. In these cases, a speaker is to regulate himself by the manner in which he speaks when engaged in earnest discourse with others. In reading or reciting verse, there is a peculiar diffi- culty in making the pauses with propriety. There are two kinds of pauses, which belong to the music of verse ; one at the end of a line, and the other in the middle of it. Rhyme always renders the former sensible, and compels observance of it in pronuncia- tion. In blank verse, it is less perceivable ; and when there is no suspension of the sense, it has been doubt ^ ed whether, in reading such verse, any regard should 1 be paid to the close of a line. On the stage, indeed, f where the appearance of speaking in verse should be avoided, the close of such lines as make no pause in How must pauses in public discourses be formed? — What is said of punctuation ? — How are pauses rendered graceful and expressiye ? — In all cases, how is the speaker to regulate himself? What is said of reading and reciting verse ' — How many pauses ere there which belong to the music of verse ? — What does rhyme render the former 1 — How is it iu blank verse ?— How should it b« PRONUNCIATION OR DELIVERY. J)1 tlie sense should not be rendered perceptible to tlie ear. On other occasions, we ought, for the sake of melody, to read blank verse in such manner as tc make each line sensible to the ear. In attempting this, however, every appearance of singsong and tone must be cautiously avoided. The close of a hne, where there is no pause in the meaning, should be marked only by so slight a suspension of sound as may dis- tinguish the passage from one hne to another, without injuring the sense. The pause in the middle of the line fahs after tho. 4th, 5th, 6th, or 7th syllable, and no other. When this pause coincides with the slightest division in the sense, the line may be read with ease ; as in the &st two hues of Pope's Messiah : Ye nymphs of Solyma, 'begin the song, To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. But if words that have so intimate a connexion as not to admit even a momentary separation, be divided from each other by this cesural pause, we then per- ceive a conflict between the sense and sound, which renders it difficult to read such lines gracefully. In such cases, it is best to sacrifice sound to sense. For instance, in the following lines of Milton : What in me is dark, * Illumine ; what is low, raise and support. The sense clearly dictates the pause after "illu- mine," which ought to be observed ; though if melody only were to be regarded, "illumine" should be con- nected with what follows, and no pause made before the 4th or 6th syllable. So also in the foUowing line of Pope's Epistle to Arbuthnot : on the stage ? — How on other occasions ? — In attempting this, what should be avoided ? — What farther directions are given for reading blank verse ?— Example. What is farther said on the subject ? — Example from Milton. — Remarks thereon ?— Example from Pope's Epistle to Arbuthnot. — Remarks t PRONUNCIATION OR DELIVERY. I sit ; -with sad civility I read. The ear points out the pause as falling after " sad," the fourth syllable. But to separate " sad " and " civi lity " would be very bad reading. The sense allows no other pause than after the second syllable, " sit which, therefore, is the only one to be observed. We proceed to treat of tones in pronunciation, which are different both fi'om emphasis and pauses ; consisting in the modulation of the voice, the notes or variations of sound which are employed in public speaking. The most material instruction which can be given on this subject is, to form the tones of public speaking upon the tones of animated conversation. Every one who is engaged in speaking on a subject which interests him nearly, has an eloquent, persua- sive tone and manner. But when a speaker departs from his natural tone of expression, he becomes frigid and unpersuasive. Nothing is more absurd than to suppose, that as soon as a speaker ascends a pulpit, or rises in a public assembly, he is instantly to lay aside the voice with which he expresses himself in private, and to assume a new, studied tone, and a cadence altogether different from his natural manner. This has vitiated all delivery, and has given rise to cant and tedious monotony. Let every public speaker guard against this error. Whether he speak in private or in a great assembly, let him remember than he still speaks. Let him take nature for his guide, and she -will teach him to express his sentiments and feeHngs in such manner, as to make the most forcible and pleasing impression upon the minds of his hearers. It now remains to treat of gesture, or what is called action in public discourse. The best rule is, attend to the looks and gesture in which earnestness, indigna- To what do we now proceed ?— Consisting in what ? — What instruc- tion is given ? — What has every one ? — What when he departs from his natural tone of expression ''. — Nothing is more absurd tlian what? — What has this done ?— What should every speaker do ? What now remains to be treated of ?— What is the best rule!— PRONUNCIATION OR DELIVERY. 119 tion, compassion, or any other emotion discovers itself to most advantage in the common intercourse of men ; and let these be yom- model. A pubHc speaker must, however, adopt that manner which is most natural to himself His motions and gestures ought all to exhibit that kind of expression which nature has dictated to him ; and unless this be the case, no study can prevent their appearing stilf and forced. But, though nature is the basis on which every grace of gesture must be founded, yet there is room for some improvements of art. The study of action consists chiefly in guarding against awkward and disagreeable motions, and in learning to perform such as are natural to the speaker, in the most graceful manner. Numerous are the rules which writei-s have laid down for the attainment of a proper gesticulation. But written instructions on this subject can be of httle service. To become useful, they must be exemplified. A few of the simplest precepts, however, may be observed with advantage. Every speaker should study to preserve as much dig- nity as possible in the attitude of his body. He should generally prefer an erect posture ; his position should be firm, that he may have the fullest and h'eest command of all his motions. If any inchnation be used, it should be toward the hearers, which is a natural expression of earnestness. The countenance should correspond with the nature of the discourse ; and, when no particular emotion is expressed, a serious and manly look is always to be preferred. The eyes should never be fixed entirely on any one object, but move easily round the audience. In motion made with the hands consists the principal part of gesture in speaking. It is natural for the right hand to be employed more frequently than the left. Warm emo- tions require the exercise of them both together. But WTiat manner must a pnblic speaker adopt T— What does the study of action consist in ? — What hare writers done ?— Said of writtea instructions ?— What directions are given? 180 MEANS OF IMPROVING whether a speaker gesticulate with one or with both his hands, it is important that all his motions be easy and unrestrained. Narrow and confined movements are usually ungTaceful ; and, consequently, motions made with the hands should proceed from the shoul- der, rather than fi-om the elbow. Perpendicular move- ments are to be avoided. Oblique motions are most pleasing and graceful. Sudden and rapid motions are seldom good. Earnestness can be fully expressed without their assistance. We cannot conclude this subject, without earnestly admonishing every speaker to guard against aftecta- tion, which is the destruction of good dehvery. Let his manner, whatever it be, be his own ; neither imi- tated from another, nor taken from some imaginary, model, which is unnatural to him. Whatever is na- tive, though attended by several defects, is likely to please, because it shows us the man ; and because it has the appearance of proceeding from the heart. To attain a delivery extremely correct and graceful is what few can expect ; since so many natural talents must concur in its formation. But to acquire a forcible and persuasive manner is within the power of most, persons. They need only to dismiss bad habits, follow nature, and speak in public as they do in private, when they speak in earnest, and from the heart. LECTURE XXIX. MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE To those who are anxious to excel in any of the higher kinds of oratory, nothing is more necessary What admonition is given ?— What is said of attaining a delivery BXtremely correct and graceful? — Of acquiring a forcible and per- suasive manner ? What is the stihjcct of this lecture ? IX ELOQUENCE. 181 than to cultivate habits of the several jijiues, and to refine and improve their moral feelings. A ti^ne ora- tor must possess generous sentiments, Avarm feelings, and a mind turned towards admiration of those g;reat and high objects, which men are by nature formed to venerate. Connected with the manly vu-tues, he should possess strong and tender sensibility to all the inj aries, distresses, and sorrows of his fellow-creatures. IS'ext to moral qualifications, what is most requisite for an orator is a fund of knowledge. There is no art by which eloquence can be taught, in any sphere, without a sufiicient acquaintance v,i.t]i what belongs to that sphere. Attention to the ornaments of style can only assist an orator in setting ofi' to advantage the stock of materials which he possesses ; but the materials themselves must be derived from other sources than from rhetoric. A pleader must make himseh completely acquainted with the law ; he must possess all that learning and experience which can be useful for supporting a cause, or convincing a judge. A preacher must apply himself closely to the study of divinity, of practical religion, of morals, and of human nature ; that he may be rich in all topics of instruction and persuasion. He who wishes to excel in the supreme council of the nation, or in any pubhc assembly, should be thoroughly acquainted with the business that belongs to such assembly ; and should attend with accuracy to all the facts which may be tie subject of question or deliberation. Besides the knowledge peculiar to his profession, a pubhc speaker shotild be acquainted with the general ♦ circle of polite literature. Poetry he will find useful for embelHsInng his style, for suggesting lively ima- To excel in any of the higher kinds of oratory, -what is necess&ry? Next to moral qnalifications, what is most requisite for an orator ? — What must a pleader do ?— A preacher ? — He who wishes to exc^ in the supreme council of the nation or in any public assembly ? What next should a public speaker be acquainted with ? — How 16 182 MEANS OF IMPROVING ges, or pleasing illusions. History may be still more advantageous ; as the knowledge of facts, of eminent characters, and of the course of human affairs, finds place on many occasions. Deficiency of knowledge, even in subjects not immediately connected with his profession, will expose a public speaker to many dis- advantages, and give his rivals, who are better quali- fied, a decided superiority. To every one, who wishes to excel in eloquence, apphcation and industry cannot be too much recom- mended. Without this, it is impossible to excel in any thing. No one ever became a distinguished pleader, or preacher, or speaker, in any assembly, without previous labour and application. Industry, indeed, is not only necessary to every valuable acqui- sition, but it is designed, by Prov^dence, as the season- ing of every pleasure, without which, life is doomed to languish. No enemy is so destructive, both to honourable attainments, and to the real and spirited enjoyment of life, as that relaxed state of mind, which proceeds from indolence and dissipation. He, who is destined to excel in any art, will be distinguished by enthusiasm for that art ; which, firing his mind with the object in view, will dispose him to rehsh every necessary labour. This was the characteristic of the great men of antiquity ; and this must distinguish moderns who wish to imitate them. This honoura- ble enthusiasm should be cultivated by students in oratory. If it be wanting to youth, manhood will flag exceedingly. Attention to the best models contributes greatly to will he find poetry useful ? — History ? — What will deficiency of kiiowledge expose him to ? What is recommended ?— Said of its importance? — What is indus- try designed by Providence for ? — What is said of a relaxed state of mind which proceeds from indolence and dissipation ? — What is he distinguished for who is destined to excel in any art ?— This was the characteristic of whom ? — Must distinguish whom ? — Should be cul- tiyated by whom ?— What if it be wanting to youth ? IN ELOQUENCE. 18S improvement in the arts of speaking and wiiting. Every one, indeed, slioidd endeavour to have some- thing that is his own, that is pecuhar to himself, and wHl distinguish his style. Genius is eertamly de- pressed, or the want of it betrayed, by slavish imita- tion. Yet, no genius is so original, as not to receive improvement from proper examples in style, compo- sition, and delivery. They always afford some new ideas, and serve to enlarge and correct our own. They quicken the cm-rent of thought, and excite emulation. In imitating the style of a favourite author, a mate- rial distinction should be observed, between written / and spoken language. These are, in reahty, tw^o / different modes of communicating ideas. In books, ' we expect correctness, precision, all redundancies pruned, all repetitions avoided, language completely . polished. Speaking allows a more easy, copious style, and less confined by rule ; repetitions may often be requisite ; parentheses may sometimes be orna- mental ; the same thought must often be placed in different points of view ; since the hearers can catch it only from the mouth of the speaker, and have not the opportunity, as in reading, of turning back again, and of contemplating what they do not entirely com- prehend. Hence, the style of many good authors would appear stift', affected, and even obscure, if transferred into a popular oration. How unnatural, for instance, would Lord Shaftsbury's sentences sound in the mouth of a public speaker ? Some kinds of pubHc discourse, indeed, such as that of the pulpit, What is said of attention to the best models ? — What should every one endeavour to have ? — What is the effect of slavish imitation upon genius? — Said of the improvement of genius ? — What do they do ? In imitating the style of a favorite author, what should be ob- served 1 — What do we expect in books ? — What does speaking allow ? — Hence, how would the style of many good authors appear ? — What instance is adduced ? — In what kind of public discourses wo^lid thia MEANS OF IMPROVINa where more accurate preparation and more studied style are allowable, would admit such a manner better than others, which are expected to approach nearer to extemporaneous speaking. But still there is gene- rally such a difference between a composition, intend- ed only to be read, and one proper to be spoken, as should caution us against a close and improper imi- tation. The composition of some authors approaches nearer to the style of speaking, than that of others, and they may therefore be imitated with more safety. In our own language. Swift and BoKngbroke are of this de- scription. The former, though correct, preserves the easy and natural manner of an unaffected speaker. The style of the latter is more splendid ; but still it is the style of speaking, or rather of declamation. Frequent exercise, both in composing and speaking, is a necessary means of improvement. That kind of composition is most useful, which is connected with the profession, or sort of public speaking, to which persons devote themselves. This they should ever keep in view, and gradually inure themselves to it At the same time, they should be cautious not to allow themselves to compose negligently on any occasion. He, v/ho wishes to write or speak correctly, should, in the most trivial kind of composition, in writing a letter, or even in common conversation, study to ex- press himself with propriety. By this, we do not mean that he is never to write or speak, but in elabo- late and artificial language. This would mtroduce be allowable better than in others ? — But stiU there is a diflFerence between what ? — As should caution us against what ? What is said of the composition of some authors ? — In our own language, who are of this description ? — Said of the former ? — The style of the latter ? What is a necessary means of improyement ? — What kind of com- position is the most useful ? — At the same time, of what should they be cautioi\s ? — "What direction is given to him who wishes to write or speak correctly ? — By this what is not meant ? — What would thia IN ELOQUENCE. 165 stiffness and affectation, infinitely worse tlian tlie . gTeatest negligence. But -we must observe, that theie is, in everything, a proper and becoming manner: and, on the contrary, there is also an awkward per- formance of the same thing. The becoming manner is often the most hght, and seemingly most careless ; but taste and attention are requisite to seize the just idea of it. That idea, when acquired, should be kept in view, and upon it should be formed whatever we wiite or speak. Exercises in speaking have always been recom- mended to students ; and, when under proper regula- tion, must be of gi-eat use. Those public and pro- miscuous societies, in which numbers are brought together, who are frequently of low stations and occu- pations ; who are connected by no common bond of union, except a ridiculous rage for public speaking, and have no other object in view, than to exhibit their supposed talents, are institutions, not only useless, but injurious. They are calculated to become seminaries of hcentiousness, petulance and faction. Even the allowable meetings, into which students of oratory may form themselves, need dhection, in order to ren- der them useful. If their subjects of discourse be improperly chosen; if they support extravagant or indecent topics ; if they indulge themselves in loose and flimsy declamation ; or accustom themselves with- out preparation to speak pertly on all subjects, they will unavoidably acquhe a very faulty and vicious taste in speaking. It should, therefore, be recom- mended to all those who are members of such socie- ties, to attend to the choice of their subjects ; to take care that they be useful and manly, either connected introdiice ? — What is obserTcd ? — What is often, the becoming man- ner 1 — What are requisite ? — Said of that idea ? Said of exercises in speaking ? — Of public and promiscuoug so. cieties ?— Of allowable meetings ?— What should therefore be recora' mended ?— By these means what will they gradually form ? 16* 186 MEANS OF IMPROVING witli the course of tlieir studies, or related to morals and taste, to action and life. They should also be temperate in the practice of speaMng ; not speak too often, nor on subjects of which they are ignorant ; but only when they have proper materials for a discourse, and have previously considered and digested the sub- ject. In speaMng, they should be cautious always to keep good sense and persuasion in view, rather than a show of eloquence. By these means, they will gradually form them^selves to a manly, correct, and persuasive manner of speaking. / It may now be asked, of what use will the study / of critical and rhetorical writers be, to those who wish * to excel In eloquence ? They certainly ought not to be neglected; and yet, perhaps, very much cannot be expected from them. It is, however, from the original ancient writers, that the greatest advantage may be derived ; and it is a disgrace to any one, whose profession calls him to speak in public, to be luiacquainted with them. In all the ancient rhetorical writers, there is indeed one defect ; . they are too, sys- tematical. They aim at doing too much ; at reducing rhetoric to a perfect art, which may even supply in- vention with materials, on every subject : so that one would suppose they expected to form an orator by rule, as they would form a carj^enter. But in reality, all that can be done, is to assist and enlighten taste, and to point out to genius the course it ought to hold- Aristotle was the first who toc^k rhetoric out of th hands of the sophists, and founded it on reason and solid sense. Some of the profoundest observation which have been made on the passions and manners of men, are to be found in his treatise on Rhetoric ; From what -writers may the greatest advantage be derived, by those who wish to excel in eloquence? — What is the defect of the ancient rhetorical writers ? — What can be done to form an' orator ? Who first founded rhetoric on reason and solid sense ? — Where may the profoundest observations on the passions and manneuB oj IN ELOQUENCE. 187 tlio'tigli in this, as in all his writings, his great concise- ness often renders him obscure. The Greek rhetori- cians, who succeeded him, most of whom are now lost, improved on his foundation. Two of them still remain, Demetrius Phalereus, and Dionysius of Hali- carnassus. Both wrote on the construction of sen tences, and deserve to be consulted; particularly Dionysius, who is a very accurate amd judicious critic. To recommend the rhetorical writings of Cicero is superfluous. Whatever, on the subject of eloquence, is suggested by so great an orator, must be worthy of attention. His most extensive work, on this subject, is that De Oratore. None of his writings are more highly finished than this treatise. The dialogue is polite ; the characters are well supported, and the management of the whole is beautiful and pleasing. The Orator ad M, Brutum is also a valuable treatise ; and, indeed, through all Cicero's rhetorical works are displayed those sublime ideas of eloquence which are calculated to form a just taste, and to inspire that enthusiasm for the art, which is highly condu- cive to excellence. But of all ancient writers on the subject of oratory, . the most instructive and most useful is Quintilian. His institutions abound with good sense, and discover a taste, in the highest degree just and accurate. Al- most all the principles of good criticism are found in them. He has well digested the ancient ideas con- cerning rhetoric, and has delivered his instructioiis in elegant and polished language. men be found ?— Who improved on his foundation ? — Do any oi them still remain ?— What did they write on ? What is superfluous ? — Why ? — Which is Cicero's most extensive work on eloquence ? — What is said of this treatise ? — What is said to be displayed in all of Cicero's rhetorical works ? Of all the ancient writers on the subject of oratory, who is th» most instructive and useful ? — What is said of his institutions 1 L188J LECTURE XXX. COMPARATIVE MERIT OF THE ANCIENTS AND MODERNS. A VERY curious question has been agitated, with regard to the comparative merit of the ancients and moderns. In France this dispute was carried on with great heat between Boileau and Madame Dacier, for the ancients, and Perrault and La Motte, for the mo- derns. Even at this day, men of letters are dividea on the subject. A few reflections upon, it may be useful. To decry the ancient classics is a vain attempt. Their reputation is established upon too sohd a foun- dation to be shaken. Imperfections may be traced in their writings : but to discredit their works in general, can belong only to peevishness or prejudice. The approbation of the public through so many centuries, establishes a verdict in their favour, from which there is no appeal. In matters of mere reasoning the world may be long in error ; and systems of philosophy often have a cur- rency for a time, and then die. But in objects of taste there is no such falhbihty ; as they depend not on knowledge and science, but upon sentiment and feel- ino*. Now the universal feelino: of mankind must be right ; Homer and Virgil, therefore, must continue to stand upon the same ground which they have so long occupied. What is the subject of this lecture ? A qiiestion has been agitated concerning what ? — Between whom has this dispute been carried on ? What is a vain attempt ? — Why ? — What establishes a verdict in favour of the ancient classics, from which there is no appeal ? In what may the world be long in error ? — What is there not in objects of taste ? — What do objects of taste depend on ? — What must be right ? — Hence, what is said of Homer and Virgil ? COMPARISON OF THE AXCIENTS, ETC. 189 Let us guard, however, against blind veneration for die ancients, and institute a fair comparison between tliem and tlie moderns. If the ancients had the pre- eminence in genius, vet the moderns must have some advantage in all arts, which are improved by the natural progi'ess of knowledge. Hence, in natural philosophy, astronomy, chemis-, try, and other sciences, which rest upon observation of facts, the moderns have a decided superiority over the ancients. Perhaps, too, in precise r^.-asc>niug, phi- losophei-s of modern ages are superior to those of an- cient times ; as a more extensive hterary intercourse has contributed to shaiiDen the faculties of men. The moderns have also the superioiity in history and in political knowledge ; owing to the entension of com- merce, the discovery of different countries, the supe- rior facility of intercourse, and the multiphcity of events and revoltitions, which have taken place in the world. In poetry, hkewise, some advantages have been gained, in point of regularity and accuracy. In dramatic pei-formances, improvements have certainly been made upon the ancient models. The variety of characters is gTeater ; gi-eater sMU has been chsplay- ed. in the concluct of the plot ; and a happier attention to probability and decorum. Among the ancients we find higher conceptions, greater simphcity, and more original fancy. Among the moderns, there is more of art and correctness, but less genius. But though this remark may, in general, be just, there are some exceptions from it ; Milton and Shakspeare are in ferior to no poets in any age. t Let us guard against Tfhat ?— Institute what ? — The ancients had a pre-eminence in what ? — The moderns have an advantage in vrhat ? In what hare the moderns a superiority oxer the ancients ? — Perhaps also in what ? — Why ? — What is their supericriTy in his tory and political knowledge owing to ? — What is said of dramatic performances ? — Of Milton and Sha^peare ? 190 COMPARISON OF THE ANCIENTS, ETC. Among the ancients, were many circumstances fa- vourable to tlie exertions of genius. They travelled much in search of learning, and conversed with priests, poets, and philosophers. They returned home full of discoveries, and fired by uncommon objects. Their enthusiasm was greater ; and few being stimulated to excel as authors, their fame was more intense and flattering. In modern times, good writing is less prized. We write with less effort. Printing has so multiplied books that assistance is easily procured. Hence mediocrity of genius prevails. To rise beyond this, and to soar above the crowd, is given to few. Li epic poetry, Homer and Virgil are still unrival- ed ; and orators, equal to Demosthenes and Cicero, we have none. In history we have no modern nar- ration so elegant, so picturesque, so animated and in- teresting, as those of Herodotus, Thucydides, Xeno- phon, Livy, Tacitus, and Sallust. Our dramas, with all their improvements, are inferior in poetry and /sentiment to those of Sophocles and Euripides. We have no comic dialogue that equals the correct, grace- ful, and elegant simplicity of Terence. The elegies of TibuUus, the pastorals of Theocritus, and the lyric poetry of Horace are still unrivalled. By those, therefore, who wish to form their taste, and nourish their genius, the utmost attention must be paid to the ancient classics, both Greek and Roman. After these reflections on the ancients and moderns, we proceed to a critical examination of the most dis- tinguished kinds of composition, and of the charactere of those writers, whether ancient or modern, who have excelled in them. Of orations and public discourses, What circumstances among the ancients were favourable to the exertions of genius ? — What is said respecting modern times ? Who are unrivalled in epic poetry ? — Who in oratory ? — What is said of our history ? — Our dramas ? — Our comic dialogue ? — What must those do -who wish to form their taste and nourish their genius ? We proceed to what ? — Much has already been said of what ? — • How may the remaining prose compositions be divided ? HISTORICAL WRITING. 191 much has already been said. The remaining prose compositions may be divided into historical writing, philosophical writing, epistolary writing, and fictitious history. LECTURE XXXI. HISTORICAL WRITING. History is a record of truth for the instruction of mankind. Hence, the great requisites in an historian are, inipartiality, fidelity, and accuracy. In the conduct "of historical detail, the first object of an historian should be, to give his work all possible unity. History should not consist of unconnected parts. Its portions should be united by some con- necting principle, which will produce in the mind an impression of something that is one, whole and en- tire. Polybius, though not an elegant writer, is re- markable for this quality. An historian should trace actions and events to their sources. He should, therefore, be well acquainted with human natm-e and politics. His skill in the former will enable him to describe the characters of individuals ; and his knowledge of the latter, to ac- count for the revolutions of government, and the ope- ration of political causes on pubhc aftahs. With re- gard to political knowledge, the ancients wanted some advantages, which are enjoyed by the moderns. In ancient times there was less communication among What is the subject of this lecture ? What is history ? — The great requisites of an historian are what : In historical detail, what should be the first object of the histo- rian ? What should an historian do ? — With what should he be well ae ijuainted ? 192 HISTORICAL WRITING. neiglibouring states; no intercourse by established posts, nor by ambassadors at distant courts. Larger experience, too, of the difterent modes of government has improved the modern historian, beyond the histo- rian of antiquity. It is, however, in the form of narrative, and not by dissertation, that the historian is to impart his pohtical knowledge. Formal discussions expose him to suspi- cion of being wilhng to accommodate his facts to his theory. They have also an air of pedantry, and evidently result from want of art. For reflections, whether moral, political, or philosophical, may be insinuated in the body of a narrative. Clearness, order, and connexion are primary virtues in historical narration. These are attained when the historian is complete master of his subject; can see the whole at one view ; and comprehend the de- pendence of all its parts. History being a dignified species of composition, it should also be conspicuous for gravity. There should be notbmg mean nor vulgar in the style : no quaintness, no smartness, no affectation, no wit. A history should likewise be in- teresting ; and this is the quality which chiefly dis- tinguishes a writer of genius and eloquence. To be interesting, an historian must preserve a me- dium between rapid recital, and prolix detail. He should know when to be concise, and when to enlarge. He should make a proper selection of circumstances. These give life, body, and colouring to his narration. They constitute what is termed historical painting. In all these virtues of narration, particularly in picturesque description, the ancients eminently excel. How should the historian impart his political knowledge ? — What \b said of formal discussions ? — What of narratiye ? What are primary virtues in historical narration? — When are these attained ? — History should be conspicuous for what ? — What Bhonid not be in the style ? What must an historian do to be interesting ? HISTORICAL WRITING. 193 Hence, tlie pleasure of reading Thiicydides, Livy, SiiUust, and Tacitus. In historical painting there are great varieties. Livy and Tacitus paint in very different ways. The descriptions of Livy are full, plain, and natural; those of Tacitus are short and bold. One embellishment, which the moderns have laid aside, was employed by the ancients. They put ora- tions into the mouths of celebrated personages. By these they diversified their history, and conveyed both moral and political instruction. Thucydides was the fii-st who adopted this method; and the orations, with which his history abounds, are valuable remains of antiquity. It is doubtful, hu'Acver, whether this embellishment should be allowed to the historian ; for they form a mixture, unnatural to history, of truth and fiction. The moderns are more chaste, when, on gTeat occasions, the historian delivers, in his own person, the sentiments and reasonings of opposite parties. Another splendid embellishment of history is, the delineation of characters. These are considered as exhibitions of fine writing ; and hence the chfficulty of excelhng in this produce : for characters may be too shining and laboured. The accomplished histo- rian avoids here to dazzle too much.- He is solicitous to give the resemblance in a style equally removed from meanness and aftectation. He studies the gTandeur of simphcity. Sound morality should always reign in history. An historian should ever show himself on the side of \ii-tue. It is not, however, his province to deliver The ancient? excel in what Tirtues ? — ^Hence. what ? What embellishment was employed by the ancients ? — What is said of it ? "R hat is another embellishment rf history? — Said of it ? — The ac- complished historian does what? What should always reign in history ? — An historian should eyer do what ? 17 194 HISTORICAL WRITING. moral instructions in a formal manner. He should excite indignation against the designing and the vicious ; and by appeals to the passions, he will not only improve his reader, but take away from the natural coolness of historical narration. In modern times, historical genius has shone most in Italy. Acuteness, political sagacity, and wisdom are all conspicuous in Machiavel, Guicciardin, Davi la, Bentivoglio, and Father Paul. In Great Britain, history has been fashionable only a few j^ears. For though Clarendon and Burnet are considerable his- torians, they are inferior to Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon. The inferior kinds of histoncal composition are annals, memoirs, and lives. Annals are a collection of facts in chronological order ; and the properties of an annahst are fidelity and distinctness. Memoirs are a species of composition, in Avhich an author pre- tends not to give a complete detail of facts, but only to record what he himself knew, or was concerned in, or what ihustrates the conduct of some person, or some transaction, which he chooses for his subject. It is not, therefore, expected of such a writer, that he possesses the same profound research, and those superior talents, which are requisite in an historian. It is chiefly required of him, that he be sprightly and interesting. The French, during two centuries, have poured forth a flood of memoirs ; the most of which are little more than agreeable trifles. We must, how- ever, except from this censure the memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz, and those of the Duke of Sully. The former join to a lively narrative great knowledge of human nature : the latter deserve very particular praise. They approach to the usefulness and dignity Where has historical genius shone most in modern times ? — What is said of certain historians ? — What is said of the history and his- torians of Great Britain ? What are annals ? — What are memoirs ? — Said of the memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz. and of the Duke of Sully ? HISTORICAL WRITING. 195 of legitimate history. Tliey are full of virtue and good sense; and are well calculated to form both the heads and hearts of those who are designed for public business and high stations in the world. Biography is a very useful kind of composition;' ess stately than history, but perhaps not less instruc-i Ve. It affords full opportunity of displaying thei characters of eminent men, and of entering into a^ thorough acquaintance with them. In this kind of writing Plutarch excels ; but his matter is better than his manner ; he has no peculiar beauty nor elegance. His judgment and accuracy also are sometimes taxed. But he is a very humane writer, and fond of display- ing great men in the gentle lights of retirement. Before we conclude this subject, it is proper to observe, that of late years, a great improvement has been introduced into historical composition. More particular attention than formerly has been given to laws, customs, commerce, religion, literature, and to every thing that shows the spirit and genius of na- tions. It is now conceived, that an historian ought to illustrate manners as well as facts and events. "Whatever displays the state of mankind in different periods ; whatever illustrates the progress of the hu- man mind, is more useful than details of sieges and battles. What is biography ? — What does it afford ? — What is said of Plutarch ? Have improvements been introduced lately in historical compcai* tion 7— What are they ? [196] LECTURE XXXII. PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING.— DIALOGUE.— EPISTO- LARY WRITING — FICTITIOUS HISTORY Of philosophy the professed design is instriictiou. "With the philosopher, therefore, style, form, and dress are inferior objects. But they must not be wholly neglected. The same truths and reasonings, delivered with elegance, will strike more than in a dull and dry manner. Beyond mere perspicuity, the strictest precision and accuracy are required in a philosophical writer ; and these qualities may be possessed without dry- ness. Philosophical writing admits a polished, neat, and elegant style. It admits the calm figures of speech ; but rejects whatever is florid and tumid. Plato and Cicero have left philosophical treatises, composed with much elegance and beauty. Seneca is too fond of an affected, brilliant, sparkling manner. Locke's Treatise on Human Understanding is a mo- del of a clear and distinct philosophical style. In the writings of Shaftsbury, on the other hand, phi losophy is dressed up with too much ornament and finery. Among the ancients, philosophical writing often assumed the form of dialogue. Plato is eminent for the beauty of his dialogues. In richness of imagina- tion, no philosophic writer, ancient or modern, is equal to him. His only fault is the excessive fer- What are the subjects of this lecture ? What is the professed design of philosophy ? — With the philoso- pher, what are inferior object< ? — What is said of them ? What beyond mere perspicuity are required in a philosophical writer ? — Philosophical writing admits what style ? — Rejects what? — What is said of several eminent writers ? What form did philosophical writing assume among the ancients ? «— Wha<- are the characteristic marks of writers in this style ? EPISTOLARY TVFJTIXa. 197 tilitv of liis imagination, whieli sometimes obsciu'es. His judgment, and frequently carries liim into allego- ry, fiction, enthusiasm, and tiie airy regions of mvsti- cal theology. Cicero's dialogues are not so spirited and characteristical as those of Plato. They are, however, agreealjle, and AveU supported ; and show us conversation, carried on among some principal persons of ancient Rome, with freedom, good breed- ing, and chgnity. Of the light and humorous dia- logue, Lucian is a moi;lel ; and he has been imitated by several modern writers.- Fontenelle has written dialogues, which are sprightly and agreeable ; but his characters, whoever his per-onagts be, all become Frenchmen. The divine dialogues of Dr. Henry More, amid the academic stitfness of the age, are often re- markable fjr character and vivacity. Bishop Berk- ley s dialogues are abstract, yet perspicuous. EPISTOLARY TVRITIXG. Ix epistolary writing we expect ease and fomiliaii- ty ; and much of its charm depends on its introdu- cing us into some acquaintance with the writer. Its fundamental requisites are nature and simplicity, sprightliness and wit. The style of letters, like that of conversation, should liow easily. It ought to be neat and correct, but no more. Cicero's epistles are the most valuable coUection of letters extant, in any language. They are composed with purity and ele- gance, but without the least atiectation. Several let- ters of Lord Bolingbroke and of Bishop Atterbury are masterly. In those of Pope there is generally too much study ; and his letters to ladies, in particular, are fuU of affectation. Those of Swifi and Arbuth- not are written with ease and simphcity. Of a fa- mihar correspondence, the most accomplished model What is expected in epistolary writing ^ — What are its funda- mental requisites ? — What is said of the style of letters ? — What au« 17* 198 FICTITIOUS HISTORY. are the letters of Madame de Sevigne. They are easy, varied, lively, and beautiful. The letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montague are, perhaps, mora agreeable to the epistolary style, than any in the English language. FICTITIOUS HISTORY. This species of composition includes a very nu merous, and, in general, a very insignificant class of writings, called romances and novels. Of these, how- ever, the influence is known to be great, both on the morals and taste of a nation. Notwithstanding the bad ends to which this mode of writing is apphed, it might be employed for very useful purposes. Ro mances and novels describe human life and manners, and discover the errors into which we are betrayed by the passions. Wise men in all ages have used fables and fictions as vehicles of knowledge : and it is an observation of Lord Bacon, that the common aftairs of the world are insufficient to fill the mind of man. He must create worlds of his own, and wander in the regions of imagination. All nations whatsoever have discovered a love of fiction, and talents for invention. The Indians, Per- sians, and Arabians abounded in fables and parables. Among the Greeks, we hear of the Ionian and Mi- lesian tales. During the dark ages, fiction assumed an unusual form, from the prevalence of chivalry. Romances arose, and carried the marvellous to its summit. Their knights were patterns not only of the most heroic courage, but of religion, generosity courtesy, and fidelity ; and the heroines were no less thors have been celebrated for their excellencies in this species of writing ? What is included in the species of composition styled fictitioui history ? — Said of romances and novels ? All nations have discovered what ? — Who abound in fables and parables ? — Said of chivalerian romances ? FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 190 distinguislied for modesty, delicacy, and dignity of manners. Of these romances, the most perfect mo- del is the Orlando Fmioso. But as magic and en- chantment came to be disbelieved and lidicnled, the chivalerian romances were discontinued, and were succeeded by a new species of fictitious writing. Of the second stage of romance writing, the Cleo- patra of Madame Seuderi, and the Arcadia of Sir Philip Sydney, are good examples. In these, how- ever, there was still too large a proportion of the mar- vellous ; and the books were too voluminous and te- dious. Romance writing appeared, therefore, in a new form, and dwindled down to the familiar novel. Interesting situations in real life are the groundwork of novel writing. Upon this plan, the French have produced some works of considerable merit. Such are the Gil Bias of Le Sage, and the Marianne of Mavrivaux. In this mode of writing the English are inferior to the French ; yet in this kind there are some perform- ances which discover the strength of the British ge- nius. No fiction was ever better supported than the adventures of Robinson Crusoe. Fielding's novels are highly distinguished for humour and boldness of character. Richardson, the author of Clarissa, is the most moral of all our novel writers ; but he possesses the unfortunate talent of spinning out pieces of amuse- ment into an immeasurable length. The trivial per- formances which daily appear under the title of hves, adventures, and histories, by anonymous authors, are most insipid, and, it must be confessed, often tend to deprave the morals, and to encourage dissipation and idleness. Wtat are good examples in the pecond stage of romance •nriting ? — W hat is said of them ? — What is the groundwork of novel writ- ing ? What authors are distinguished in this kind of writing ? — "What if said of those productions of this kind which daily appear [ 200 ] LECTURE XXXIII. NATURE OF POETRY.— ITS ORIGIN AND PRO- GRESS.— VERSIFICATION. ^ What, it may be asked, is poetry? and how do^ it differ from prose ? Many disputes have been main- tained among critics upon these questions. The es- sence of poetry is supposed by Aristotle, Plato, and others, to consist in fiction. But this is too hmited a description. Many think the characteristic of po- etry lies in imitation. But imitation of manners and characters may be carried on in prose, as well as in poetry. Perhaps the best definition is this, " poetry is the language of passion, or of enlivened imagination, formed most commonly into regular iiumbers." As the primary object of a poet is to please and to move, it is to the imagination and the passions that he ad- dresses himsell". It is by pleasing and moving, that he aims to instruct and reform. Poetry is older than prose. In the beginning of so- ciety there were occasions, upon which men met to- gether for feasts and sacrifices, when music, dancing, and songs, were the chief entertainment. The meet- ings of American tribes are distinguished by music and songs. In songs, they celebrate tlieir religious rites and martial achievements ; and in such songs wo ti-ace the beginning of poetic composition. Man is by nature both a poet and musician. The same impulse which produced a poetic style, prompted a certain melody or modulation of sound, suited to the What are the subjects of this lecture ? Aristotle and Plato supposed what ? — Many think what ? What is the best definition of poetry ?— What is a poet's primary object ? — To what does he address himself? Is poetry older than prose ? — IIow is this accounted for ? ENGLISH VERSIFICATION. 201 emotions of joy or grief, love or anger. Music and poetry are united in song, and mutually assist and exalt each other. The first poets sung their own verses. Hence the origin of versification, or the ar- rangement of words to tune or melody. Poets and songs are the first objects that make their appearance in all nations. Apollo, Orpheus and Am phion, were the first tamers of mankind among the Greeks. The Gothic nations had their scalders, or poets. The Celtic tribes had their bards. Poems and songs are among the antiquities of all countries ; and, as the occasions of their being composed are nearly the same, so they remarkably resemble each other in style. They comprise the celebration of gods, and heroes, and victories. They abound in fire and en- thusiasm ; as they are wild, irregular, and glowing. During the infancy of poetry, all its difterent kinds were mingled in the same composition ; but in the progress of society, poems assumed their difterent reg- ular forms. Time separated into classes the several kinds of poetic composition. The ode, and the elegy, J the epic poem and the drama, are all reduced to rule, \ and exercise the acuteness of criticism. ENGLISH VERSIFICATION. Nations, whose language and pronunciation were musical, rested their versification chiefly on the quan- tities of their syllables ; but mere quantity has very little eflfect in English verse. For the difterence made between long and short syllables, in our manner of pronouncing them, is very inconsiderable. Whence the origin of versification ? W hat objects first make their appearance in all nations ? — ^What is said of the poets among the ancients ? What is said of poetry in its infancy ? — What has time ione ? Who rested their versification chiefly on the quantities Oi their syllables ? — Has mere quantity much effect in English verse ?— Why ? 202 ENGLISH VERSIFICATION. The only perceptible difference among our sylla' bles, arises from that strong percussion of voice, which is termed accent. This accent, however, does not always make the syllable longer, but only gives it more force of sound ; and it is rather upon a certain order and succession of accented and unaccented syl lables, tb«n upon theu- quantity, that the melody of our verse depends. In the constitution of our verse, there is another es sential circumstance. This is the cesural pause, which falls near the middle of each line. This pause may fall after the fourth, fifth, sixth, or seventh syllable ; and, by this means, uncommon variety and richness are added to English versification. Our Enghsh verse is of Iambic structure, composed of a neai-ly alternate succession of unaccented and ac- cented syllables. When the pause falls earliest, that is, after the fourth syllable, the briskest melody is thereby formed. Of this the following lines from Pope are a happy illustration : On her white breast | a sparkUng cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss i and infidels adore ; Her lively looks | a sprightly mind disclose, Quick, as her eyes, | and as unfix'd as those, Favours to none, | to all she smiles extends, Oft she rejects, | but Aever once offends. When the pause falls after the fifth syllable, divid- ing the fine into two equal portions, the melody is sen- sibly altered. The verse, losing the brisk air of th former pause, becomes more smooth and flowing. Eternal sunshine [ of the spotless mind, Each prayer accepted, | and each wish resign'd. Whence arises the perceptible difference among our syllables ? — What is said of accent ? What is another essential circumstance in the constitution of our verse ? — This pause may fall where ? What is the structure of our English verse ? — How is it composed? — What is the effect when the pause falls after the fourth syllable ? — Cite the illustration. The effect, when the pause falls after the fifth syllable ?— The illus- tration * ENGLISH VERSIFICATION. 203 When tlie pause follows the sixth syllable, the me- lody becomes grave. The movement of the verse is more solemn and measured. The wrath of Peleus' son | the direful spring Of all the Grecian woes, ) 0, goddess, sing. The grave cadence becomes still more sensible wlien the pause follows the seventh syllable. This kind of verse, however, seldom occurs ; and its effect is to di- versify the melody. And in the smooth, descriptive | murmur stUl, Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, | all adieu. Our blank verse is a noble, bold, and disencum- bered mode of versification. It is free from the full close which rhyme forces upon the ear at the end of every couplet. Hence it is peculiarly suited to sub- jects of dignity and force. It is more favourable than rhyme to the sublime and highly pathetic. It is the most proper for an epic poem, and for tragedy. Rhyme finds its proper place in the middle regions of poetry ; and blank verse in the highest. The present form of our English heroic rhyme, in couplets, is modern. The measure used in the days of Elizabeth, James, and Charles I. was the stanza of eight fines. Waller was the first who introduced couplets; and Dryden estabfished the usage. Wal- ler smoothed our verse, and Dryden perfected it. The versification of Pope is pecufiar. It is flowing, smooth, and correct, in the highest degree. He has totally thrown aside the triplets so common in Dry- den. In ease and variety, Dryden excels Pope. He frequently makes his couplets run into one another, with somewhat of the freedom of blank verse. What is the effect when the pause follows the sixth syllable ? — The illustration ? The effect when the pause follows the seventh syllable ? What is said of our blank verse ? What is modern ? — When was the stanza of eight lines use<3 ?— Whit is said of Waller, and other poets ^ L 204 1 LECTURE XXXIV. PASTORAL POETRY. It was not before men had begun to assemble in great cities, and the bustle of courts and large socie- ties was known, that pastoral poetry assumed its pre- /sent form. From the tumult of a city life, men lopk- < ed back with complacency to the innocence of ^ural retirement. In the court of Ptolemy, Theocritus wrote the first pastorals with which we are acquaint- ed ; and in the court of Augustus, Virgil imitated him. The pastoral is a very agreeable species of poetry. It lays before us the gay and pleasing scenes of natu re. It recalls objects which are commonly the delight of our childhood and youth. It exhibits a life with which we associate ideas of innocence, peace, and leisure. It transports us into Elysian regions. It presents many objects favourable to poetry ; rivers and mountains, meadows and hills, rocks and trees, flocks and shepherds void of care. A pastoral poet is careful to exhibit whatever is most pleasing in the pastoral state. He paints its simplicity, tranquillity, innocence, and happiness ; but conceals its rudeness and misery. If his pictures be not those of real life, they must resemble it. This is a general idea of pastoral poetry. But to under- stand it more perfectly, let us consider, 1st. The scenery ; 2d. The characters ; and, lastly, The subjects it should exhibit. The scene must always be in the country ; and the poet must have a talent for description. In this re- spect, Virgil is excelled by Theocritus, whose descrip- tions are richer and more picturesque. In every pas- What is the subject of this lecture ? When did pastoral poetry assume its present form ? — The reason T What are the characteristics of pastoral poetry ? \ pastoral poet is careful to do what ? PASTORAL POETRY. 205* toral, a rural prospect should be drawn, with distinct- ness. It is not enough to have unmeaning groups of roses and violets, of birds, breezes, and brooks thrown together. A good poet gives such a landscape as a painter might copy. His objects are particu- larized. The stream, the rock, or the tree so stands forth, as to make a figure in the imagination, and give a pleasing conception of the place where we are. In his allusions to natural objects, as well as in pro- fessed descriptions of the scenery, the poet must study variety. He must diversify his face of nature by presenting us new images. He must also suit the scenery to the subject of his pastoral ; and exhibit nature under such forms as may correspond with the emotions and sentiments he describes. Thus Virgil, w^hen he gives the lamentation of. a despairing lover, communicates a gloom to the scene. Tantum inter densas, umbrosa cacumina, fagos, Assidue yeniebat ; ibi bee incondita solus Montibus et sylvis studio jactabat inani. With regard to the characters in pastorals, it is not sufficient that they be persons residing in the country. Courtiers and citizens, who resort thither occasional- ly, are not the characters expected in pastorals. We expect to be entertained by shepherds, or persons wholly engaged in rural occupations. The shepherd must be plain and unaffected in his mAner of think- ing. An amiable simplicity must be the groundwork of his character ; though there is no necessity for his being dull and insipid. He may have good sense and even vivacity ; tender and dehcate feelings. But he must never deal in general reflections, or abstract rea- sonings ; nor in conceits of gallantry, for these are consequences of refinement. When Aminta in Tasso Where must be the scene ? — What talent must the poet have ?— What is said of a good poet ? What must the poet study ? — What must he do ? What is the proper description of characters in pastoral poetry T 18 206 PASTORAL POETRY. is disentangling his mistress's hair from the tree to which a savage had bound it, he is made to say, Cruel tree, how couldst thou injure that lovely hair, which did thee so much honour ? Thy rugged trunk was not worthy of so lovely knots. What advantage have the servants of love, if those precious chains are common to them and to trees ?" Strained sentiments like these suit not the woods. The lano-uajre of rural personages is that of plain sense and natural feeling; as in the following beautiful lines of Virgil : Sepibus in nostris parvam te roscida mala (Dmx ego Tester eram) vidi cum matre legentem, Alter ab undecimo tum me jam ceperat annus, Jam fragiles poteram a terra contingere ramods. TJt vidi, ut peril, ut me malus abstulit error ! The next inquiry is, what are the proper subjects of pastorals ? For it is not enough that the poet give us shepherds discoursing together. Every good poem has a subject that in some way interests us. In this lies the difficulty of pastoral writing. The active scenes of country life are too barren of incidents. The condition of a shepherd has few things in it that excite curiosity or surprise. Hence of all poems the pastoral is most meagre in subject, and least diversified in strain. Yet this defect is not to be ascribed solely to barrenness of subjects. It is in a great measure the fault of the poet. For human nature and human passions are much the same in every situation and rank of life. What a variety of objects within the rural sphere do the passions present ! The struggles and ambition of shepherds ; their adventures ; their disquiet and felicity ; the rivalship of lovers ; unex- pected successes and disasters ; are all proper subjects for the pastoral muse. Theocritus and Virgil are the two great fathers of pastoral writing. For simplicity of sentiment, har- What are the proper subjects of pastorals ? Who are the fathers of pastoral writing? — Give the excellencies if Theocritus and Virgil. PASTORAL POETRF. 20"/ mony of numbers, and ricliness of sceneiy, tlie former is liigiily distinguisliecl. But lie sometimes descends to ideas that are gross and mean, and makes liis shep- herds abusive and immodest. -Vii-gil, on the conti-ary, preserves the pastoral simplicity without any offensive rusticity. Modern writers of pastorals have, in general, imi tated the ancient poets. Sannazarius, however, a Latin poet, in the age of Leo X., attempted a bold inno^•ation, by composing piscatory eclogues, and chanoino^ the scene from the wood to the sea, and the characters from shepherds to fishermen. But the at- tempt was so unhappy that he has nofoUowers. The toilsome life of fishermen has nothing agTeeable to present to the imagination. Fishes and marine pro- ductions have nothing poetical in them. Of all the moderns, Gesner, a poet of Switzerland, has been the most happy in pastoral composition. Many new ideas are introduced in his Idyls. His scenery is striking, and his descriptions lively. He is pathetic, and writes to the heart. Neither the pastorals of Pope, nor of Philips, do much honour to English poetry. The pastorals of Pope are baiTcn ; their chief merit is the smoothness of the numbers. Philips attempted to be more simple and natural than Pope; but wanted genius to support the attempt. His topics, hke those of Pope, are beaten ; and, instead of being natm-al or simple, he is flat and insipid. Shenstone's pastoral ballad is one of the most elegant poems of the kind in the English language. In latter times, pastoral writing has been extended into regular ch-ama; and this is the chief improve- What have modern -writers of pastorals done ? — What did san- nazarius attempt ? — What is said of the attempt ? — Who, among mod- erns, has been the most happy in pastoral composition ? — What la gaid of his productions ? — What is said of the pastorals of Pope, Philips and Shenstone ? What improvement have the moderns made in pastoral writirg ? — ^What is said of the pieces of Guarini and Tasso .' 208 LYRIC POETRY. ment the moderns have made in it. Two pieces of this kind are highly celebrated, Guarini's Pastor Fido, and Tasso's Aminta. Both possess great beauties ; but the latter is the preferable poem, because less intricate and less affected ; though not wholly free from Italian refinement. As a poem, however, it has great merit The poetry is pleasing and gentle, and the Italian Ian guage confers on it much of that softness, which is suited to the pastoral. The Gentle Shepherd of Allan Ramsay is a pasto- ral drama, which will bear comparison with any com- position of the kind in any language. To this admi- I'able poem, it is a disadvantage that it is written in the old rustic dialect of Scotland, which must soon be obsolete ; and it is a farther disadvantage, that it is formed so entirely on the rural manners of Scotland, that none, but a native of that country, can thoroughly understand and relish it. It is full of natural descrip- tion, and excels in tenderness of sentiment. The cha- racters are well drawn, the incidents affecting, the scenery and manners hvely and just. LYRIC POETRY. ' The ode is a species of poetry which has much digiiity, and in which many writers in every age have distinguished themselves. Ode in Greek is the same with song or hymn ; and lyric poetry implies, that the* verses are accompanied with a lyre or musical instrument. In the ode, poetry retains its first form and its original union with music. Sentiments com- monly constitute its subject. It recites not actions, Its spirit and the manner of its execution mark its character. It admits a bolder and more passionate Wha'i. is said of The Gentle Shepherd" of Allan Ramsay ? The ode is what ?— What is implied by lyric poetry ?— What com- monly constitute the subject of an ode .'— VV^hat mark the character! »f the ode f LYRIC POETRY. 209 strain than is allowed in simple recital. Hence thfl enthusiasm that belongs to it. Hence that neglect of regularity, those digressions, and that disorder it is supposed to admit. Ah odes may be classed under four denominations. ' 1. Hymns addi'essed to God, or composed on reh-- gious subjects. 2. Heroic odes, which concern the celebration of heroes, and great actions. 3. Moral and philosophical odes, which refer chiefly to vhtue, friendship, and humanity. 4. Festive and amorou3 odes, which are calculated merely for amusement and pleasure. Enthusiasm being considered as the characteiistic of the ode, it has often degenerated into licentious- ness. This species of writing has, above aU others, been infected by want of order, method, and connex- ion. The poet is out of sight in a moment. He is so abrupt and eeoentrie, so hregular and obscure, that we cannot foUow him. It is not indeed necessai-y that the structure of the ode be so perfectly regtilar as an epic poein. But in every composition there ought to be a whole ; and this whole should consist of con- nected paits. The ti'ansition fi'om thought to thought may be light and dehcate, but the connexion of ideas should be preserved ; the author shotild thmk, and not rave. Pindar, the father of lyric poetry, has led his imi- > s*- tators into enthusiastic wildness. They hnitate his - disorder, without catchiug his sphit. In Horace's odes every thing is coiTCCt, harmonious, and happy. His elevation is moderate, not rapturotis. Grace andj. elegance are his chai-acteristics. He supports a mora] Odes may be classed under how many denoininatioiis ? — What ar? they ? What is considered the characteristic of the ode? — With what faults has this species of \rriting been infected ? — ^What should there be in every composition ? Who "vras the father of lyric poetry ? — What has he done ? — What i5 said of his imitators ?---What of Horace and his odes ? 18^ 210 DIDACTIC POETRY. Rentiraent with dignity, touches a gay one with feli city, and has the art of trifling most agreeably. His language, too, is most fortunate. Many Latin poets of later ages have imitated him. Cassimer, a Polish poet of the last century, is of this number ; and discovers a considerable degree of ori- ginal genius and poetic fire. He is, however, far in- ferior to the Roman in graceful expression. Bucha- nan, in some of his lyric compositions, is very elegant and classical. In our own language, Dryden's ode on St. Cecilia is well known. Mr. Gray, in some of his odes, is celebrated for tenderness and sublimity ; and in Dodsley's Miscellanies are several very beautiful lyric poems. Professedly Pindaric odes are seldom intelli- gible. Cowley is doubly harsh in his Pindaric com- positions. His Anacreonic odes are h^jppier ; and, perhaps, most agi-eeable and perfect in their kind of all his poems. LECTURE XXXV. DIDACTIC POETRY. Of didactic poetry, it is the express intention to convey instruction and knowledge. It may be exe- cuted in diflerent ways. The poet may treat some instructive subject in a regular form, or, without in- tending a gi'eat or regular work, he may inveigh By whom has Horace been imitated ? — What is said of Cassimer and Buchanan ? What is said of the odes in our own language ? What is the subject of this lecture ? What is the intention of didactic poetry ? — In what ways may it be executed ? DIDACTIC POETRY. 211 against particular vices, or make some moral observa- tions on human life and characters. The highest species of didactic poetry is a regular treatise on some philosophical, grave, or useful subject Such are the books of Lucretius "de Rerum Natura, the Georgics of Virgil, Pope's Essay on Criticism, A-kenside's Pleasures of the Imagination, Armstrong on Health, and the Art of Poetry, by Horace, Vida, -iud Boileau. In all such works, as instruction is the professed object, the chief merit consists in sound thought, just piinciples, and apf illustrations. It is necessary, how- ever, that the poet enliven his lessons by figures, inci- aents, and poetical painting. Virgil, in his Georgics, fcmbeilishes the most trivial circumstances in rural life. '^hen he teaches that the labour of the farmer must begin in spring, he expresses himself thus : ■Vei«* rovv' gcUd^JS canis cum montibus humor Liquitur, et Zephyro putris se gleba resolvit ; DsptPs^o lacipiate jam turn mihi Taurus aratro Ingamsre, £t sulec attritus splendescere vomer. Iri h\\ didactic works such method is requisite, as will Clearly exhibit a connected train of instruction. With legard to episodes and embelhshments, writers of didactic poetry are indulged great liberties : for in a poetical perform ance, a continued series of instruc- tion, without embelhshment, soon fatigues. The hap- piness of a country life, the fable of Aristeus, and the tale of Orpheus and Eu/ydice, cannot be praised too much. A didactic poet ought abo to connect his episodes with his subject. In this,^ Yhgil is eminent. Among What is the highest species ot itiwli® poetry ? — What works ar« of this character ? In such works the chief merit ccnnrta in what ? — What is neces- eary ? — What is said of Virgil ? What method is necessary in didactic works ? — What is said of episodes and embellishments ? A didactic, poet ought to do what ? — WTvo are distinguished among modern didactic poets ? — What is said of t^em 2 212 DIDACTIC POETRY. modern didactic poets, Akenside and Armstrong are distinguished. The former is rich and poetical ; but the latter maintains greater equality, and more chaste and correct eloquence. Of didactic poetry, satires and epistles run in th most familiar style. Satire seems to have been a first a relic of ancient comedy, the grossness of whicl was corrected by Ennius and Lucilius. At length Horace brought it into its present form. Reformatioi of manners is its professed end ; and vice and vicioua characters are the objects of its censure. There are three different modes in which it has been conducted by the three great ancient satirists, Horace, Juvenal, and Persius. The satires of Horace have not much elevation. They exhibit a measured prose. Ease and grace characterize his manner ; and he glances rather at the follies and weaknesses of mankind, than at their vices. He smiles while he reproves. He moralizes like a sound philosopher, but with the pohteness of a courtier. Juvenal is more declamatory and serious ; and has greater strength and fire. Persius has dis- tinguished himself by a noble and sublime morality. Poetical epistles, when employed on moral or criti- cal subjects, seldom rise into a higher strain of poetry than satires. But in the epistolary form, many other subjects may be treated ; as love, poetry, or elegiac. The ethical epistles of Pope are a model ; and in them he shows the strength of his genius. Here he had a full opportunity for displaying his judgment and wit, his concise and happy expression, together What is said of satire ? — What is its end, and what are the objects of its censure ? — In how many modes has it been conducted, and by whom ? What is said of the satires of Horace ?— What of Juvenal ?— Of Persius ? What is observed of poetical epistles, and the epistolary form 1 — What is said of the ethical epistles of Pope, and his imitations of Horace ? DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 213 witli the liarraony of his numbers. His imitations of Horace are so happy, that it is difficult to say whether the original or the copy ought to be most admired. Among moral and didactic writers, Dr. Young- ought not to be passed over in silence. Genius appeai-s in all his works ; but his Universal Passion may be considered as possessing the full merit of that animated conciseness, particularly requisite in satirical and didac- tic compositions. At the same time, it is to be ob- served, that his wit is often too sparkling, and Yis, sentences too pointed. In his Night Thoughts there is gi-eat energy of expression, several pathetic pas- sages, many happy images, and many pious reflec- tions. But the sentiments are frequently overstrained and turgid, aiid the style harsh and obscure. DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. In descriptive poetry, the highest exertions of genius may be displayed. In general, indeed, description is introduced as an embelhshment, not as the subject of a regular work. It is the test of the poet's imagi- nation, and always distinguishes an original from a second rate genius. A writer of an inferior class sees nothing new or peculiar in the object he would paint; his conceptions are loose and vague ; and his expres- sions feeble and general. A true poet places an object before our eyes. He gives it the colouring of life ; a painter might copy from him. The great art of picturesque description lies in the selection of circumstances. These ought never to be vulgar* or common. They should mark strongly the What is said of Dr. Young aad his works ? What may be displayed in descriptive poetry ? — What is said of description ? — Of an inferior writer ? — Of a true poet ? In what lies the great art of picturesque description ? — "What ifl eaid of these circumstances ? 214 DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. object. "No general description is good; all distinct ideas are formed upon particulars. There should also be uniformity in the circumstances selected. In describing a great object, every circumstance brought forward should tend to aggrandize ; and in describing a gay object, all the circumstances should tend to beautify it. Lastly, the cucumstances in description should be expressed with conciseness and simplicity. The largest and fullest descriptive performance, in perhaps any language, is Thomson's Seasons ; a work which possesses very uncommon merit. The style is splendid and strong, but sometimes harsh and indis- tinct. He is an animated and beautiful describer; for he had a feeling heart, and a warm imagination. He studied nature with care ; was enamoured of her beauties ; and had the happy talent of painting them like a master. To show the power of a single well chosen circumstance in heightening a description, the following passage may be produced from his Summer, -where, relating the efi'ects of heat in the torrid zone, lie is led to take notice of the pestilence that de- stroyed the Enghsh fleet at Carthagena, under Admi- ral Vernon : You, gallant Vemon, saw The miserable scene ; you pitying saw To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arm ; Saw the deep racking pang ; the ghastly form ; The lip pale quiTeriug, and the beamless eye No more with ardour bright ; you heard the groan a Of agonizing ships from shore to shore ; Heard nightly plung'd amid the sullen waves The frequent corse. All the circumstances here selected, tend to heighten the dismal scene; but the last image is the most striking in the picture. Of descriptive narration, there are beautiful exam- ples in Parn ell's Tale of the Hermit. The setting forth of the hermit to visit the world, his meeting a What ia said of Thomson's Seasons? — Give the passage quoted from his works ? — What is said of it ? Where are beautiful examples of descriptiye narration ? — What DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 215 companion, and the houses in which they are enter- tained, of the vain man, the covetous man, and the good man, are pieces of highly finished painting. But the richest and the most remarkable of all the descrip- tive poems in the English language, are the Allegro and the Penseroso of Milton. They are the storehouse whence many succeeding poets have enriched their descriptions, and are inimitably fine poems. Take, for instance, the follo^ving hues from the Penseroso : ■ 1 walk unseen On the dry, smooth shaven green, To behold the wandering moon Riding near her highest noon ; And oft, as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft on a plat of rising ground I hear the far off curfew sound, Over some wide watered shore Swinging slow Avith solemn roar ; Or, if the air will not permit, Some still removed place will sit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman's drowsy charm, To bless the doors from nightly harm ; Or let my lamp at midnight hour lie seen in some high lonely tower, Exploring Plato, to unfold What worlds, or what vast regions hold, Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshy nook ; And of these demons that are found In fire, in air, flood, or under ground. Here are no general expressions ; all is picturesque, expressive and concise. One strong point of view is exhibited to the reader ; and the impression made is lively and interesting. Both Homer and Virgil excel in poetical descrip- tion. In the second .^neid, the sacking of Troy is so particularly described, that the reader finds himself in the midst of the scene. The death of Pnam is a are they ? — Which are the richest descriptive poems in the English language ? — What is said of them ? — Of the quotation trora the Penseroso ? Who. among the ancient writers, excelled in descriptive poetry ? 216 DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. masterpiece of description. Homer's battles are all wonderful. Ossian, too, paints in strong colours, and is remarkable for touching the heart. He thus por- trays the ruins of Balclutha : " I have seen the walls of Balclutha ; but they were desolate. The fire had resounded within the halls ; and the voice of the people is now heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place by the fall of the walls • the thistle shook there its lonely head ; the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out of the window ; the rank grass waved round his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina ; silence is in the house of her fathers." Much of the beauty of descriptive poetry depends upon a proper choice of epithets. Many poets are often careless in this particular ; hence the multitude of unmeaning and redundant epithets. Hence the "Liquidi Fontes" of Virgil, and the "Prata Canis Albicant Prunis" of Horace. To observe that water is liquid, and that snow is white, is little better than mere tautology. Every epithet should add a new idea to the word which it qualifies. So in Milton : Who shall tempt with wandering feet The dark, utibottom'd, infinite abyss ; And through the palpable obscure find out His uncouth way ; or spread his airy flight Upborne with indefatigable wings, Over the vast abrupt ? The description here is strengthened by the epi- 'thets. The wandering feet, the unbottomed abyss the palpable obscure, the uncouth way, the indefati gable wing, are all happy expressions. — What is said of their works ? — Give Ossian's description of the ruins of Balclutha ? What is said of a proper choice of epithets ?— What is farther said on this subject ? [217] LECTURE XXXVI. THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. / In treating of the various kinds of poetry, that of the Scriptures justly deserves a place. The sacred books present us the most ancient monuments of poetiy now extant, and furnish a curious subject of criticism. They display the taste of a remote age and j country. They exhibit a singular, but beautiful ( species of composition; and it must give great plea- sure, if we find the beauty and dignity of the style adequate to the w^eight and importance of the matter..^^ Dr. Lowth's learned treatise on the poetry of the He- brews, ought to be perused by all. It is an exceed- ingly valuable work, both for elegance of style, and justness of criticism. "We cannot do better than to follow the track of this ingenious author. Amono' the Hebrews, poetry was cultivated from the earhe& times. Its general construction is singular and pecuhar. It consists in dividing every period into correspondent, for the most part into equal mem- bers, which answer to each other, both in sense and sound. In the first member of a period a sentiment is expressed ; and in the second, the same sentiment is amphfied, or repeated in difi'erent terms, or some- times contrasted with its opposite. Thus : " Sing mito the Lord a new song ; sing unto the Lord all tiiQ earth. Sing unto the Lord and bless his name ; show forth his salvation from day to day. Decla^3 his What is the subject of this lecture ? What do the sacred books present and furnish ? — What do they display and exhibit ?— What treatise ought to be perused ?— Wh»l is said of it ? Was poetry cultivated from the earliest times among the He- trews ?— What is said of the construction of their poetry ?— Giye tlie example. 19 218 POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. glory among the heatlien ; his wonders among all people." This form of poetical composition is deduced from the manner in which the Hebrews sung their sacred hymns. These were accompanied with music, and performed by bands of singers and musicians, who alternately answered each other. One band began the hymn thus : The Lord reigneth, let the earth rejoice ;" and the chorus, or semi-chorus, took up the corresponding versicle : " Let the multitudes of the isles be glad thereof." But, independent of its peculiar mode of construc- tion, the sacred poetry is distinguished by the highest beauties of strong, concise, bold, and figurative ex- pression. Conciseness and strength are two of its most remarkable characters. ' The sentences are always short. The same thought is never dwelt upon long. Hence the sublimity of the Hebrew poetry; and all writers who attempt _the. sublime, might profit much by imitating, in this respect, the style of the Old Testament. No writings abound so much in bold and animated figures, as the sacred books. Metaphors, comparisons, allegories, and per- sonifications, are particularly frequent. But to relish these figures justly, we must transport ourselves into Judea, and attend to particular circumstances in it. Through all that region, little or no rain falls in the summer months. Hence, to represent distress, fre- quent allusions are made to a dry and thirsty land where no water is ; and hence, to describe a change from distress to prosperity, their metaphors are founded on the falling of showers, and the bursting out of springs in a desert. Thus in Isaiah ; " The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. Foi From -what is this form of composition deduced ? How is sacred p»^etry distinguished, independent of its mode ot construction ? POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 21& m tlie v/ilclerness sliall waters break out, and streams in the desert ; and the parched ground shall become a pool ; and the thhsty land springs of water ; in the habitation of dragons there shall be grass, with rushes and reeds." Comparisons employed by the sacred poets, are generally short, touching only one point of resem- blance. Such is the following : " He that ruleth over men, must be just, ruhng in the fear of God ; and he shall be as the light of the morning, when the sun riseth ; even a morning without clouds ; as the tender gTass, springing out of the earth by clear shining, after rain." Allegory is likewise frequently employed in the sacred books ; and a fine instance of this occurs in the Ixxxth Psalm, wherein the people of Israel are compared to a vine. Of parables, the prophetical writings are full ; and if to us they sometimes appear obscure, we should remember, that in early times it was universally the custom among all eastern nations, to convey sacred truths under mysterious figures. The figure, however, which elevates beyond all others, the poetical style of the Scriptures, is personi- fication. The personifications of the inspired writers exceed, in force and magnificence, those of all other poets. This is more particularly true, when any ap- pearance or operation of the Almighty is concerned. * Before him went the pestilence. The waters saw thee, O God, and were afraid. The mountains saw thee, and they trembled. The overflowings of the waters passed by ; the deep uttered his voice, and ifted up his hands on high." The poetry of the What is said of the comparisons employed by the sacred poets ?— Give the example. Is allegory employed in the sacred books ? — What was a custom among eastern nations ? What figure most elevates the poetical style of the Scriptures ?— "What is said of the personifications of the inspired writers ? — ^Whcn is this more particularly true ? 220 POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. Scriptures is veiy different from modern poetry. It is the burst of inspiration. Bold sublimity, not cor- rect elegance, is its character. The several kinds of poetry found in Scripture, are chiefly the didactic, elegiac, pastoral, and lyric. The book of Proverbs is the principal instance of the didactic species of poetry. Of elegiac poetry, the lamentation of David over Jonathan, is a very beau- tiful instance. Of pastoral poetry, the Song of Solo- mon is a high exemplification ; and of lyric poetry, the Old Testament is full. The whole Book of Psalms is a collection of sacred odes. Among the composers of the sacred books, there is an evident diversity of style. Of the sacred poets, the most eminent are the author of the book of Job, Da^ad, and Isaiah. In the compositions of David, there is a great variety of manner. In the soft and tender he excels; and in his Psalms are many lofty passages. But in strength of description, he yields to Job ; in sublimity, to Isaiah. Without exception, Isaiah is the most sublime of all poets. Dr. Lowth compares Isaiah to Homer, Jeremiah to Simonides, and Ezekiel to Eschylus. Among the minor prophets, Hosea, Joel, Micah, Habakkuk, and especially Na- hum, are distinguished for poetical spirit. In the prophecies of Daniel and Jonah there is no poetry. The book of Job is extremely ancient ; the author uncertain ; and it is remarkable, that it has no con- nexion with the affairs or manners of the Hebrews It is the most descriptive of all the sacred poems. A peculiar glow of fancy and strength of description, characterize the author; and no writer abounds so much in metaphors. He renders visible whatever he What several kinds of poetry are found in the scriptures ? — Wher« are these kinds to be found ? What is said of the sacred poets ? — What comparison is made by Dr. Lowth ? — Who, among the minor prophets, are distinguished for poetical spirit ? What observations are made on the book of Job ? EPIC POETRY. 221 treats. The scene is laid in the land of Uz, or Ida- mea, which is a part of Arabia; and the imageiy employed differs from that "vvhich is pecuhar to the Hebrews. LECTURE XXXVn. EPIC POETRY. Of all poetical works, the epic poem is the most dignified. To contrive a story which is entertaining, important, and instructive; to enrich it with happy incidents; to enliven it by a variety of characters and descriptions ; and to maintain a uniform propriety of sentiment, and a due elevation of style, are the highest efforts of poetical genius. An epic poem is the recital of some illustrious en- terprize in a poetical form. Epic poetry is of a moral nature, and tends to the promotion of virtue. With this view, it acts by extending our ideas of perfection and exciting admiration. Now this is accomphshed only by proper representations of heroic deeds and vhtuous characters. Valour, truth, justice, fidehty, friendship, piety and magnanimity, are objects which the epic muse presents to our minds in the most splendid and honourable colours. Epic composition is distinguished fr-om histoiy by ts poetical form, and its liberty of fiction. It is a more calm composition than tragedy. It requires a gTave, equal, and supported dignity. On some occa- What is the subject of this lecture ? What is obserTed of the epic poem ? — ^What are the highest efforts of poetical genius ? Au epic poem is what ? — How does epic poetry act 1 — How is this accomplished ?— "What objects does the epic muse present to out minds ? How is epic composition distinguished from history ? — What doeg it require, demand, and embrace ? 19* 222 EPIC POETRY. sions it demands the pathetic and the violent ; and it embraces a greater compass of time and action than dramatic writing admits. The action or subject of an epic poem must have three properties. It must be one ; it must be great; it must be interesting. One action or enterprise must constitute its subject. Aristotle insists on unity aa essential to epic poetry; because independent facts never affect so deeply as a tale that is one and con- nected. Virgil has chosen for his subject the esta- bhshment of -^neas in Italy; and the anger of Achilles, with its consequences, is the subject of the Ihad. It is not, however, to be understood, that epic unity excludes all episodes. On the contrary, critics con- sider them as great ornaments of epic poetry. They diversify the subject, and relieve the reader by shift- ing the scene. Thus Hector's visit to Andromache in the IKad, and Erminia's adventure with the shep- herd, in the seventh book of the Jerusalem, afford us a well judged and pleasing retreat from the camps and battles. Secondly, the subject of an epic poem must be so great and splendid as to fix attention, and to justify the magnificent apparatus the poet bestows on it The subject should also be of ancient date. Both Lucan and Voltaire have transgressed this rule. By confining himself too strictly to historical truth, the former does not please ; and the latter has improperly mingled well known events with fictitious. Hence they exhibit not that greatness which the epic requires. The thhd requisite in an epic subject is, that it be mteresting. This depends in a gi-eat measure upon How many properties' must the subject of an epic poem have?— flow? Are all episodes excluded by epic unity ? — Of what service are episodes ? How must the subject of an epic poem be ? — What is observed of Lucan and Voltaire ? EPIC POETRY. 220 tlie clioice of it. But it depends mucli more upon the skilful management of the poet. He must so frame his plan as to comprehend many affecting inci- dents. He must sometimes dazzle viiih rahant achievements ; sometimes he must he av.-M and au gust ; often tender and pathetic ; and he must some- times give us gentle and pleasing scenes of love friendship, and affection. To render the subject interesting, much also depends upon the dangers and obstacles which must be en- coimtered. It is by the management of these, that the poet must rouse attention, and hold his reader in suspense and agitation. It is generally supposed by critics, that an epic poem should conclude successfully; as an unhappy conclusion depresses the mind. Indeed, ii is on the prosperous side that epic poems generally conclude. But two authors of gTeat name, Miltuu and Lucan, hold the contraiy course. The one concludes with the subversion of Roman liberty : and the other with the ex|Dulsion of man from Paradise. !N"o precise boundaries can be ffsed for the duration of the epic action. The action of the Iliad lasts, according to Bossu, only forty-seven days. The action of the Odyssey extends to eight years and a half; and that of the ^Eneid in chides about six years. The personages in an epic poem should be propei and well supported. They shotild display the fea- ttires c-f human nature ; and may admit different de grees of \irtue, and even vice ; though the principa\ characters should be such as wih raise admiration and love. Poetic charactei-s are of two sorts, general and Wliat is the third requisite in an epic subject ? — What does thia depend npcn ? — What must the poet do ? Ho^ should an epic poem conclude ? — ^What course is held by Milton and Lucan ? Can the time of the action be limited ? — What is said of the action of the Iliad, the Odyssey, and the ^aeid ' "What is said of the personages in an epic poem ? — Of -what twc 224 EPIC POETRY. particular. General characters are such as are wise, brave, and virtuous, without any further distinction. Particular characters express the species of bravery, of wisdom, and of virtue, for which any one is remark- able. In this discrimination of characters, Homer excels. Tasso approaches the nearest to him in this respect ; and Virgil is the most deficient. Among epic poets it is the practice to select some personage as the hero of the tale. This renders the unity of the subject more perfect, and contributes highly to the interest and perfection of this species of writing. It has been asked, who then is the hero of Paradise Lost? The devil, say some critics, who affect to be pleasant against Milton. But they mis- take his intention, by supposing, that whoever is tri- umphant in the close, must be the hero of the poem. For Adam is Milton's hero ; that is, the capital and most interesting figure in his poem. In epic poetry, there are beside human characters, gods and supernatural beings. This forms what is called the machinery of epic poetry ; and the French suppose this essential to the nature of an epic poem. They hold, that in every epic composition, the main action is necessarily carried on by the intervention of gods. But there seems to be no solid reason for their opinion. Lucan has no gods, nor supernatural agents. The author of Leonidas "also has no machinery. But though machinery is not absolutely necessary to the epic plan, it ought not to be totally excluded from it. The. marvellous has a great charm for most readers. It leads to sublime description, and fills the imagination. At the same time it becomes a poet to sorts are poetic characters ? — What are general characters ? — Par- ticular characters ? What is a practice araong epic poets ? — What effect has this ? What are there in epic poetry beside human characters ? — What is this called ? What, though not absolutely necessary, ought not to be escluded from the epic plan? — Why ? EPIC POETRY. 225 be temperate in the use of supernatural macliinery \ and so to employ tlie religious faitli or superstition of his country, as to give an air of probability to events most contrary to the common course of nature. V/ith regard to the allegorical personages, feme, discord, love, and the like, they form the Avorst kind of machinery. In description they may sometimes be ahowed ; but they should never bear any part in the action of the poem. As they are only mere names of general ideas, they ought not to be considered as persons ; and cannot mingle with human actors, with- out an intolerable confusion of shadows with realities. In the narration of the poet, it is of little conse- quence, whether he relate the whole story in his own character, or introduce one of his personages to relate a part of the action that passed before the poem opens. Homer follows one method in his Iliad, and the other in his Odyssey. It is to be observed, however, that if the narrative be given by any of the actors, it gives the poet greater hberty of spreading out such parts of the subject, as he incHnes to dwell upon in person, and of comprising the rest within a short recital. When the subject is of great extent, and comprehends the ti'ansactions of several years, as in the Odyssey and JEneid, this method seems preferable. But, when the subject is of smaller compass and shorter duration, as in the Iliad and Jerusalem, the poet may, without dis- advantage, relate the whole in his own person. What is of most importance in the nan-ation, is, that it be perspicuous, animated, and enriched with every poetic beauty. 'No sort of composition requires more strength, dignity, and fire, than an epic poem. It is Should allegorical personages be introduced in this kind of writ- ing ? How should the narration of the poet be managed ?— What is far- ther said on this subject ? — What advantage results if the narrative be given by any of the actors ? What is of most importance in the narration ?— What is observed of an epic poem 'i 226 homer's ILIAD AND ODYSSEY. the region in which we look for every thing subhme in description, tender in sentiment, and bold or lively in expression. The ornaments of epic poetry are grave and chaste. Nothing loose, ludicrous, or^aifect- ed, finds place there. All the objects it presents, ought to be great, tender, or pleasing. Descriptions of dis- gusting or shocking objects are to be avoided ; hence the fable of the Harpies in the ^neid, and the alle- gory of Sin and Death, in Paradise Lost, should have been omitted. LECTURE XXXVin. HOMER'S ILLiD AND ODYSSEY. The father of epic poetry is Homer ; and in order to relish him, we must divest ourselves of modern ideas of dignity and refinement, and transport our imagination almost three thousand years back in the history of mankind. The reader is to expect a pic- ture of the ancient world. The two great characters of Homer's poetry, are fire and simplicity. But to have a clear idea of his"ih'erit, let us'consider the Iliad under the three heads of the subject or action, the characters, and the narration. The subject of the Ihad is happily chosen. For no ' Tibject could be more splendid than the Trojan war. A great confederacy of the Grecian states, and ten years' siege of Troy, must have spread far abroad the renown of many military exploits, and given an exten- sive interest to the heroes who were concerned in them. Upon these traditions. Homer grounded his ' What are the subjects of this lecture ? Who is the father of epic poetry ? — What must we do in order to Ireli^h him ? — What are the two great characters of Homer's poetry ? Is the subject of the Iliad well chosen ? — Upon what traditions did Homer ground his poem ? — What part of the war did he select ? homer's ILIAD AND ODYSSEY. 221 poem ; and, as lie lived two or three centuries after the Trojan Avar, he had full liberty to intermingle fable with history. He chose not, however, the whole Trojan war for his subject ; but with great judgment, selected the quarrel between Achilles and Agamem- non, which includes the most interesting period of the war. He has thus given greater unity to his poem. He has gained one hero or principal character, that is, Achilles ; and shown the pernicious effects of discord ' among confederated princes. The praise of high invention has in eveiy age been justly given to Homer. His incidents, speeches, cha- racters, divine and human ; his battles, his httle his- - tory pieces of the persons slain, discover a boundless invention. Nor is his judg-ment less worthy of praise. His story is conducted with great art. He rises upon us gradually. His heroes are introduced with exqui- site skill to our acquaintance. The distress thickens, as the poem advances ; every thing serves to aggTan- dize Achilles, and to make him the capital figure. Li characters. Homer is without a rival. He abounds in dialogue and conversation, and this produces a spi- rited exhibition of his personages. This dramatic method, however, though more natural, expressive, and animated, is less grave and majestic, than narra- tive. Some of Homer's speeches are unseasonable, and others trifling. With the Greek vivacity, he has also some of the Greek loquacity. In no character, perhaps, does he display greatei art than in that of Helen. Notwithstanding hei frailty and crimes, he contrives to make her an inte- resting object. The admiration with which the old generals bfeheld her, when she is coming towards To whom has the praise of high invention been given ? — In what did he discover his invention ? — How did he show his judgment ? Are Homer's characters well supported ? In what character does Homer display great art ? 228 homer's ILIAD AND ODYSSEY. them ; her veiling herself and shedding tears in the presence of Priam ; her grief at the sight of Mene- laus ; her upbraiding of Paris for his cowardice, and her returning fondness for him, are exquisite strokes, and worthy of a great master. Homer has been accused of making Achilles toe brutai a character, and critics seem to have adopted this censure from two lines of Horace : Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, J ura negat sibi nata ; nihil non arrogat armis. It appears that Horace went beyond the truth, Achilles is passionate ; but he is not a contemner of law. He has reason on his side ; for, though he dis- covers too much heat, it must be allowed that he had been notoriously wronged. Beside bravery and con- tempt of death, he has the qualities of openness and sincerity. He loves his subjects, and respects the gods. He is warm in his friendships ; and throughout, he is high spirited, gallant, and honourable. Homer's gods make a great figure; but his ma- chinery was not his own invention. He followed the traditions of his country. But though his machinery is often lofty and magni- ficent, yet his gods are often deficient in dignity. They have all the human passions; they drink and feast, and are vulnerable, like men. While, however, he at times degi'ades his divinities, he knows how to make them appear with most awful majesty. Jupiter, for the most part, is introduced with great dignity ; and several of the most subHme conceptions in the [liad are founded on the appearances of Neptune, Minerva, and Apollo. The style of Homer is easy, natural, and highly animated. Of all the great poets, he is the most simple in his style, and resembles most the style of the poetical parts of the Old Testament. Pope's What is saiiJ oi HomeT's maralnery ? What are tho erteilenciea oi Homer's style ? homer's ILIAD AND ODYSSEY. 229 translation of him affords no idea of his manner. His versification, however, is allowed to be uncomm9nly melodious, and to carry, beyond that of any poet, resemblance of sound to sense. In narration, Homer is always concise and descrip- tive. He paints his objects in a manner to our sight. His battles are singularly admirable. We see them in all their huiTy, terror, and confusion. In similes no poet abounds so much. His comparisons, however, taken in general, are not his gi-eatest beauties ; they come upon us in too quick succession ; and often dis- turb his narration or description. His lions, bulls, eagles, and herds of sheep, recur too fi-equently. The criticism of Longinus upon the Odyssey, is not without foundation ; that in this poem Homer may be likened to the setting sun, whose gi-andeur remains without the heat of his meridian beams. It wants the vigour and sublimity of the Iliad; yet possesses so many beauties, as to be justly entitled to high praise. It is a very amusing poem, and has much greater variety than the Iliad. It contains many interesting stories and pleasing pictures of ancient manners. Instead of the ferocity which pervades the Iliad, it presents us most amiable images of humanity and hos- pitahty. It entertains us with many a w^onderful adventm'e, and many a landscape of nature; and instructs us by a rich vein of morality and virtue, run- ning through every part of the poem. There are some defects, however, in the Odyssey. Many of its scenes fall below the majesty of an epic poem. The last twelve books are, in many places, languid and tedious ; and, perhaps, the poet is not happy in the discovery of Ulysses to Penelope. She is too cautious and distrustful ; and we meet not that V)yotis surprise, expected on such an occasion. What are the heanties of Homer's narration ? What is said of the criticism of Longinus, and -what is the coxa, parative merit of the Iliad and Odyssey ? 20 [ 230 ] THE M^EID OF VIRGIL. The distinguisliing excellencies of the ^neld are elegance and tenderness. Virgil is less animated and less sublime tlian Homer ; but he has fewer negligen- cies, greater variety, and more dignity. The ^neid has all the correctness and improvements of the Augustan age. We meet no contention of heroes about a female slave ; no violent scolding, nor abusive language ; but the poem opens with the utmost mag- nificence. The subject of the JEneid, which is the establish- ment of ^neas in Italy, is extremely happy. Nothing could be more interesting to the Romans, than Virgil's deriving their origin from so famous a hero as JEneas. The object was splendid itself; it gave the poet a theme, taken from the traditionary, history of his country ; it allowed him to adopt Homer's mythology ; and afforded him frequent opportunities of glancing at all the future great exploits of the Romans, and of describing Italy in its ancient and fabulous state. Unity of action is perfectly preserved in the ^neid. The settlement of JEneas in Italy by order of the gods, is constantly kept in view. The episodes are properly linked to the main subject ; and the nodus or intrigue of the poem is happily formed. The wrath of Juno, who opposes -(Eneas, gives rise to all his difficulties, who connects the human with the celestial operations, through the whole poem. Great art and judgment are displayed in the ^neid ; but even Virgil is not without his faults. One is, that he has so few marked characters. Achates, Cloanthes, What are the distinguishing excellencies of the Mneid. ?— What is eaid of Virgil and the ^neid ? What is remarked on the subject of the iEneid ? What are the merits of the action in the JEneid ? — Of the episodes ? —Of the intrigue ? In what manner did Yirgil succeed with his characters ? THE iENEID OF VIRGIL. 231 Gyas, and other Trojan heroes, who accompanied iEneas into Italy, are undistinguished figures. E^en JEneas himself is not a very interesting hero. He is described, indeed, as pious and brave; but his character is not marked by those strokes that touch the heart. The character of Dido is the best supported in the whole ^neid. Her warmth of passion, keen- ness of resentment, and violence of character, exhibit] a more animated figm-e than any other Virgil has drawn. The management of the subject, also, is in some respects exceptionable. The last six books received not the finishing hand of the author; and, for this reason, he ordered his poem to be committed to the flames. The wars with the Latins are in dignity inferior to the more interesting objects pre\'iously pre- sented to us ; and the reader is tempted to take part with Tm'nus against ^neas. The principal exceUency of Virgil, and what he possesses beyond all poets, is tenderness. His soul was fuh of sensibihty. He felt himself all the aff'ect- ing circumstances in the scenes he describes ; and knew how, by a single stroke, to reach the heart. In an epic poem, this merit is 'next to sublimity. The second book of the ^neid, is one of the greatest master pieces ever executed. The death of old Priam, and the family pieces of ^neas, Anchises, and Creusa, are as tender as can be conceived. In the fourth book, the unhappy passion and death of Dido are admirable. The inter^dew of ^neas with Andromache and Helenus, in the third book ; the episodes of Pal- las and Evander, of Nisus and Euryalus, of Lausus and Mezentius, are all striking instances of the power of raising the tender emotions. The best and most finished books are the fii'st, second, fomth, sixth, seventh, eighth and twelfth. In -what does Virgil's principal exceUency consist ? — Which Doosa of the ^neid are best and most finished ? 232 lucan's pharsalia. Virgil's battles are, in fii-e and sublimity, far inferior to Homer's. But 'in one important episode, tbe descent into hell, he has outdone Homer in the Odyssey, by many degrees. There is nothing in all antiquity, equal in its kind, to the sixth book of the ^neid. The scenery, the objects, and the description are great, solemn, and subhme. With regard to the comparative merit of these two great princes of epic poetry, it must be allowed that Homer was the greater genius, and Virgil the more correct writer. Homer is more original, more bold, more sublime, and more forcible. In judgment they are both eminent. Homer has all the Greek vivacity ; Virgil all the Roman stateliness. The imagination of Homer is the most copious ; that of Virgil the most correct. The strength of the former lies in warming the fe-ncy ; that of the latter in touching the heart. Homer's style is more simple and animated ; Virgfi's more elegant and uniform. LECTURE XXXIX. LUCAN'S PHARSALIA. Luc AN is inferior to Homer and Virgil ; yet he de- serves attention. There is Httle invention in his Phar- saha ; and it is conducted in too historical a manner to be strictly epic. It may be arranged, however, in the epic class, as it treats of great and heroic adven- tm-es. The subject of the Pharsalia has all the epic dignity and grandeur ; and it possesses unity of object, viz., the triumph of Csesar over Roman Liberty. In what episode has Virgil excelled Homer ? What are the comparative merits of Homer and Virgil ? What is the subject of this lecture ? What is said of Lucan ?— Of liis Pharsalia ?— Of the subject of the Pharsalia ? lucan's pharsalia. 233 But, tlioiigli tlie subject of Lucan is confessedly heroic, it lias two defects. Civil wars present object3 too shocking for epic poetry, and furnish odiijus and diso'ustinix views of human nature. But Lucan's o;e- nius seems to dehoiit in savao-e scenes. The other defect of Lucan's subject is, that it w^as too near the time in which he lived. This deprived him of the assistance of fiction and machinery ; and thereby rendered his work less splendid and amusing. The facts on which he founds his poem, were too well knov^Ti, and too recent, to admit fables and the interposition of gods. The characters of Lucan are drawn with spirit and force. But, though "Pompey is his hero, he has not made him very interesting. He marks not Pompey by any high distinction, either for magnanimity or valour. He is always sm-passed by Csesar. Cato is Lucan's favourite character ; and, whenever he inti'o- duces him, he rises above himself. Li manaoino' his story, Lucan confines himself too much to chronological order. This breaks the thread of his narration, and hurries him fi-om place to place. He is also too digressive ; frequently quitting his sub- ject, to give us some geographical description, or phi- losophical disquisition. There are several poetical and spirited descriptions in the Pharsalia ; but the strength of this poet does not lie either in nan-ation or description. His narration is often dry and harsh ; his descriptions are often over- wrought, and employed on disagTceable objects. Plis chief merit consists in his sentiments ; which are noble, striking, glowing, and ardent. He is the most philo- Has the subject of Lucan defects ?— Wliat is the first ? What is the other defect of Lucan's subject ? — Why is this a de- fect ? How are Lucan's characters drawn ? What error has Lucan committed in the management of hij Story ? In what does the chief merit of Lucan consist ? 20* % 234 TASSO'S JERUSALEM. sopliical, and tlie most patriotic poet of antiquity. He was a stoic ; and the spirit of that philosophy breathes through his poem. He is elevated and bold ; and abounds in well timed exclamations and apostrophes. As his vivacity and fire are great, he is apt to be carried away by them. His great defect is want of moderation. He knows not where to stop. When h would aggrandize his objects, he becomes tumid and unnatural. There is much bombast in his poem. Hls taste is marked with the corruption of his age ; and instead of poetry, he often exhibits declamation. On the whole, however, he is an author of lively and original genius. His high sentiments, and his fire, serve to atone for many of his defects. His genius had strength, but no tenderness nor amity. Compared with Virgil, he has more fire and sublimer sentiments ; but in every thing else, falls infinitely below him, par- ticularly in purity, elegance, and tenderness. Stations and Silius Italicus, though poets of the epic class, are too inconsiderable for particular criticism. TASSO'S JERUSALEM. Jerusalem Delivered is a strictly regular epic poem, and abounds with beauties. The subject is the recovery of Jerusalem from infidels, by the united powers of Christendom. The enterprise was splendid, Tenerable, and heroic ; and an interesting contrast is exhibited between the Christians and Saracens. Re* ligion renders the subject august, and opens a natu ral field for machinery and subhme description. The action, i,oo, lies in a country, and in a period of time, sufficiently remote to admit an intermixture of fable with history. Rich invention is a capital quahty in Tasso. 'Ha What is the comparison between this author and Virgil ? What is the subject of " Jerusalem Delivered ? " — What is said on the choice of this subject ? TASSO'S JERUSALEM. 235 is full of events, finely diversified. He never fatigues his reader by mere war and fighting. He frequently shifts the scene ; and from camps and battles, trans- ports us to more pleasing objects. Sometimes the solemnities of religion ; sometimes the intrigues of love ; at other times the adventures of a journey, or the incidents of pastoral life, relieve and entertain the reader. The work, at the same time, is artfully con- nected ; and, in the midst of variety, there is perfect unity of plan. Many characters enliven the poem ; and these dis- tinctly marked and well supported. Godfrey, the leader of the entei-prise, is prudent, moderate, and brave ; Tancred, amorous, generous, and gallant. Rinaldo, who is properly the hero of the poem, is passionate and resentful, but frill of zeal, honour, and heroism. Solyman is high minded ; Erminia tender ; Armida, artful and violent ; and Clorinda, masculine. In drawing characters, Tasso is superior to Virgil, and yields to no poet but Homer. He abounds in machinery. When celestial beings interpose, his machinery is noble. But devils, en- chanters, and conjurors act too great a part throughout his poem. In general, the marvellous is canied to extravagance. The poet was too great an admirer of the romantic spirit of knight errantry. In describing magnificent objects, his style is firm and majestic. In gay and pleasing description, it is soft and insinuating. Erminia's pastoral retreat in the seventh book, and the arts and beauty of Armida in the fourth book, are exquisitely beautiful. His battles are animated, and properly varied by inci- dents. It is rather by actions, characters, and de- What is a capital quality in Tasso ? — What is farther said on thia BTibject ? Are Tasso's characters distinctly marked and well supported ? What is said of his machinery ? When is Tasso's style firm and majestic, and ■when soft and insinu* ating ? — By what does he interest us ? 236 LUSIAD OF CAMOENS. scriptions, that he interests us, than by the sentimental part of his work. He is far inferior to Virgil in ten- derness ; and, when he aims at being sentimental and pathetic, he is apt to become artificial. It has often been objected to Tasso, that he abounds in point and conceit ; but this censure has been car ried too far ; for, in his general character, he is mas- cuhne and strong. The humour of decrying him passed from the French critics to those of England. But their strictures are founded either in ignorance or prejudice. For the Jerusalem is, in my opinion, the third regular epic poem in the world; and stands next to the Iliad and ^neid. In simplicity and fire, Tasso is inferior to Homer, in tenderness to Virgil, * in sublimity to Milton ; but for fertihty of invention, variety of incidents, expression of characters, richness of description, and beauty of style, no poet, except the three just named, can be compared to him. THE LUSIAD OF CAMOENS. The Portuguese boast of Camoens, as the Italians do of Tasso. The discovery of the East Indies by Vasco de Gama, an enterprise alike splendid and in- teresting, is the subject of the poem of Camoens. The adventures, distresses, and actions of Vasco and his countrymen, are well fancied and described ; and the Lusiad is conducted on the epic plan. The inci- dents of the poem are magnificent ; and, joined with some wildness and irregularity, there is displayed in it much poetic spirit, strong fancy, and bold descrip- tion. In the poem, however, there is no attempt What is tlic rank of Tasso's Jerusalem with respect to the Iliad and JEneid? — What are Tasso's peculiar excellencies ? What is the subject of the poem of Camoens ?— What are described LUSIAD OF CAMOEXS. 231 toward painting characters. Yasco is the hero, and the only personage that makes any figm-e. The machinery of the Lusiad is perfectly extrava- gant; being formed of an odd mixture of Christian ideas and Pagan mythology. Pagan divinities appear to be the deities ; and Christ and the Holy Virgin to be inferior agents. One great object, however, of the Portuguese expedition, is to extend the emphe of Christianity, and to extirpate Mahometanism. In this religious undertaking, the chief protector of the Portuguese is Venus, and their great adversary is Bacchus. Jupiter is introduced as foretelling the downfall of Mahomet. Vasco during a storm implores the aid of Christ and the Virgin ; and in return to this prayer Venus appears, and discovering the storm to be the work of Bacchus, complains to Jupiter, and procures the winds to be calmed. All this is most preposterous; but toward the end of his work, the poet ofi'ers an awkward apology for his mythology ; making the goddess Thetes inform Vasco, that she and the other heathen divinities are no more than names to describe the operations of Pro\'idence. In the Lusiad, however, there is some fine ma- chinery of a diS'erent kind. The appearance of the genius of the river Ganges, in a dream to Emanuel, king of Portugal, inviting him to discover his secret springs, and acquainting him that he was the monarch destined to enjoy the treasures of the East, is a happy idea. But in the fifth canto, the poet displays his noblest conception of this sort, where Vasco recounts to the king of Melinda, all the wonders of his voyage. He tells him, that when the fleet anived at the Cape of Good Hope, which had never been doubled before ' by any na\'igator, there appeared to them suddenly a huge phantom, rising out of the sea, in the midst of What is observed of the machinery of the Lusiad ? — Of what ifl It formed? — Does the author offer anj' apology for his mythology I Is there any good machinery in the Lusiad ? — What is it ? 238 TELEMACHUS OF FENELON. tempest and thunder, with a head that reached the clouds, and a countenance that filled them with terror. This was the genius of that hitherto unknown ocean and he menaced them in a voice of thunder for in- vading those unknown seas ; foretelling the calamities that were to befall them, if they should proceed ; and then with a mighty noise disappeared. This is a very solemn and striking piece of machinery, and shows that Camoens was a poet of a bold and lofty imagination. THE TELEMACHUS OF FENELON. It would be unpardonable in a review of epic poets to forget the amiable Fenelon. His work, though in prose, is a poem ; and the plan in general is well contrived, having epic grandeur and unity of action. He employs the ancient mythology; and excels in application of it. There is great richness as well as beauty in his descriptions. To soft and calm scenes, his genius is more peculiarly suited ; such as the inci- dents of pastoral life, the pleasures of virtue, or a country flourishing in peace. His fii'st books are eminently excellent. The ad- ventures of Calypso are the chief beauty of his work. Vivacity and interest join in the narration. In the books which follow, there is less happiness in the execution, and an apparent languor. The author, in vs^arlike adventures, is most unfortunate. Some critics have refused to rank this work among epic poems. Their objection arises fi'om the minute details it exhibits of virtuous policy, and from the discourses of Mentor, which recur too frequently, and too much in the strain of common-place morality. To these peculiarities, however, the author was led What are the author's introductory remarks on the " Telemachus '* of Fenelon ? What is said of his first books ? — What is the chief beauty of hia work ? HENRIADE OF VOLTAIRE. 239 by tlie design witli which he wrote, that of forming a young prince to the cares and duties of a virtuous monarch. Several epic poets have described a descent into hell ; and in the prospects they have given us of the invisible world, we may observe the gi-adual refine ment in the opinions of men, concerning a future state of rewards and punishments. Homer's descent of Ulysses into hell, is indistinct and dreary. The scene is in the countiy of the Cimmerians, which is always covered with clouds and darkness ; and when the spirits of the dead appear, wS hardly know whether Ulysses is above or below ground. The ghosts, too, even of the heroes, appear dissatisfied with their con- dition. In Virgil, the descent into hell discovers great re- finement, corresponding to the progTess of philosophy. The objects are more distinct, grand and awful. There is a fine description of the separate mansions of good and bad spirits. Fenelon's -visit of Tele- machus to the shades, is still much more philosophical than Virgil's. He refines the ancient mythology by his knowledge of the true religion, and adorns it with that beautiful enthusiasm, for which he is so remark- able. His relation of the happiness of the just is an excellent description in the mystic strain. THE HENRIADE OF YOLTATEE. The Henriade is, without doubt, a regular epic poem. In several places of this work, Voltaire dis- covers that boldness of conception, that vivacity and WTiat was the author's design in writing this poem ? What may be observed in the different prospects given by the eeveral poets who hare described a descent into hell ? WTiat are the excellencies of Fenelon's visit of Telemachus to the shades ? Is the Henriade a regular epic poem ? — "What does the author discover ? — What is remarked of the Henriade? 240 HENRIADE OF VOLTAIRE. liveliness of expression, by which he is so much dis- tinguished. Several of his comparisons are new and happy. But the Henriade is not his masterpiece. In the tragic line he has cei'tainly been more successful than in the epic. French versification is illy suited to epic poetry. It is not only fettered by rhyme, but wants elevation. Hence, not only feebleness, but sometimes prosaic flatness in the style. The poem consequently languishes, and the reader is not ani- mated by that spirit which is inspired by a subhme composition of the epic kind. The triumph of Henry IV. over the arms of the League, is the subject of the Henriade. The action of the poem properly includes only the siege of Paris. It is an action perfectly epic ; and conducted with due regard to unity, and to the rules of critics. But it has great defects. It is founded on civil wars ; and presents to the mind those odious objects, massacres and assassinations. It is also of too recent date, and too much within the bounds of well known history. The author has farther erred by mixing fiction with truth. The poem, for instance, opens with a voyage of Henry's to England, and an interview between him and Queen Elizabeth ; though Henry never saw England, nor ever conversed with Elizabeth. In sub- jects of such notoriety, a fiction of this kind shocks eveiy intelligent reader. A great deal of machinery is employed by Voltaire, for the purpose of embellishing his poem. But it ia of the worst kind, that of allegorical beings. Discord, cunning, and love, appear as personages, and mix with human actors. This is contrary to all rational criticism. Ghosts, angels, and devils have a popular existence ; but every one knows that allegorical What is the subject of the poem ? — What siege does the action of the poem include ? — Is the action epic ? — Has it defects ? — What are they? What is said of the machinery of this poem ? Milton's paradise lost. 241 beings are no more than representations of human passions and dispositions ; and ought not to have place, as actors, in a poem which relates to human ti'ansactions. In justice, however, it must be observed, that the machinery of St. Louis possesses real dignity. The prospect of the in\asible world, which St. Louis gives to Henry in a dream, is the finest passage in the Hen- riade. Death bringing the souls of the departed in succession before God, and the place of destinies open- ed to Henry, are striking and magnificent objects. Though some of Voltaire's episodes are properly extended, his narration is too general. The events are superficially related, and too much crowded. The strain of sentiment, however, which pervades the Henriade, is high and noble. MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. Milton chalked out a new and very extraordinary com-se. As soon as we open his Paradise Lost, we are introduced into an in^^sible world, and surrounded by celestial and infernal beings. Angels and devils are not his machinery, but his principal actors. What in any other work would be the marvellous, is in this the natural course of events ; and doubts may arise, whether his poem be strictly an epic composition. But whether it be so or not, it is certainly one of the highest efforts of poetical genius, and in one great characteristic of epic poetr)^, majesty and subhmity, is equal to any that bears this name. The subject of this poem led Milton upon diflicult gi'ound. If it had been more human and less theolo- Does any part of tlie macliinery possess real dignity ? What is said of Voltaire's narration ? — What is the strain of senti- ment pervading the Henriade ? Is Paradise Lost an epic composition ? — What great characteristie of epic poetry does it display ? 21 242 Milton's paradise lost. gical ; if his occurrences had been more connected with real life ; if he had afforded a greater display of the characters and passions of men ; his poem would have been more pleasing to most readers. His sub- ject, however, was peculiarly suited to the daring sub- limity of his genius. As he alone was fitted for it, so he has shown in the conduct of it a wonderful stretch of imagination and invention. From a few hints, given in the Sacred Scriptures, he has raised a regular structure, and filled his poem with a variety of inci- dents. He is sometimes dry and harsh ; and too often the metaphysician and divine. But the general tenor of his work is interesting, elevated, and aftecting. The artful clmnge of his objects, and the scene, laid now in heaven, now on earth, and now in hell, afford sufficient diversity ; while unity of plan is perfectly supported. Calm scenes are exhibited in the employments of Adam and Eve, in Paradise ; and busy scenes, and great actions in the enterprises of Satan, and in the wars of angels. The amiable innocence of our First Parents, and the proud ambition of Satan, afford a happy contrast through the whole poem, which gives it an uncommon charm. But the conclusion perhaps is too tragic for epic poetry. The subject naturally admits no great display of characters ; but such as could be introduced are pro- perly supported. Satan makes a striking figure ; and is the best drawn character in the poem. Milton has artfully given him a mixed character, not altogether void of some good qualities. He is brave, and faithful to his troops. Amid his impiety he is not without remorse. He is even touched with pity for our First Parents ; and from the necessity of his situation justi- fies his design against them. lie is actuated by ambi- tion and resentment, rather than by pure malice. The What is remarked on the subject of Paradise Lost ? — What is th« tenor of the work ? Are the characters introduced well supported ? Milton's paradise lost. 243 characters of Beelzebub, Molocli, and Belial, are well ^ painted. The good angels, though described with dignity, have more uniformity of character. Among them, however, the mild condescension of Rapha^ and the tried fidelity of Abdiel form proper charac- teristic distinctions. The attempt to . describe God Almighty himself, was too bold, and accordingly most unsuccessful. The innocence of our First Parents ia delicately painted. In some speeches, perhaps Adam appears too knowing and refined for his situation. Eve is hit ofi" more happily. Her gentleness, modesty, and frailty, are expressively characteristic of the female character. Milton's great and distinguishing excellence is his sublimity. In this, perhaps, he excels even Homer. The first and second books of Paradise Lost are almost a continued series of the highest subhme. But, his sublimity differs from that of Homer ; which is always accompanied by impetuosity and fire. The sublime of Milton is a calm and amazing grandeur. Homer warms and hurries us along ; Milton fixes us in a state of elevation and astonishment. Hopaer's sub- limity appears most in his description of actions ; Mil- ton's in that of wonderful and stupendous objects. But while Milton excels most in sublimity, his work abounds in the beautiful, the pleasing, and the tender. "When the scene is in Paradise, the imagery is gay and smiling. His descriptions show a fertile imagination ; and in his similes he is remarkably happy. If faulty, it is from their too frequent allusions to matters of learning, and to ancient fables. It must also be con- fessed, that there is a falling off in the latter part of Paradise Lost. The language and versification of Milton have high What is Milton's distinguishing excellence ? — How does his sub- lUnity differ from that of Homer ? What does Milton's work abound in ? What is said of his language and versificatiou ? 244 DRAMATIC POETRY. merit. His blank verse is harmonious and diversified ; and his style is full of majesty. There may be found indeed some prosaic lines in his poem. But in a work so long and so harmonious, these may be for- given. Paradise Lost, amid beauties of every kind, has many inequahties. No high and daring genius was ever uniformly correct. Milton is too frequently theo- logical and metaphysical ; his words are often tech- nical ; and he is affectedly ostentatious of his learn- ing. Many of his faults, however, are to be imputed to the pedantry of his age. He discovers a vigour, a grasp of genius equal to every thing great ; sometimes he rises above every other poet; and sometimes he falls below himself. , LECTURE XL. DRAMATIC POETEY. TRAGEDY. In all civilized nations dramatic poetry has been a favourite amusement. It divides itself into the two forms of tragedy and comedy. Of these, tragedy is the most dignified ; as great and serious objects interest us more than little and ludicrous ones. The former, rests on the high passions, the virtues, crimes, and sufferings of mankind ; the latter on their humours, follies, and pleasures; and ridicule is its sole instru- ment. Tragedy is a direct imitation of human manners and actions. It does not, like an epic poem, exhibit What are the faults of Milton's style ? What is the subject of this lecture ? Into how many forms does dramatic poetry divide itself ? — Which is most dignified, tragedy or comedy ? — On what does tragedy rest ?— On what does comedy rest ' In what respect does tragedy differ from an epic poem ? TRAGEDY. 245 characters by description or narration ; it sets the per- sonages before us, and makes them act and speak witt propriety. This species of T\"riting, therefore, requires deep knowledge of the human heart; and, when, happily executed, it has the power of raising the- strongest emotions. \ In its general strain and sphit tragedy is favourable to vh'tue. Charactei-s of honour claim our respect and approbation ; and, to raise indignation, we must paint a person in the odious colours of vice and depra^dty. Virtuous men indeed are often represented by the tragic poet as unfortunate ; for this happens in real life. But he always engages our hearts in their behalf; and never represents vice as jSnally triumphant mid happy. Upon the same principle, if bad men succeed in their designs, they are yet finally conducted to punishment. It may therefore be concluded that tragedies are moral compositions. It is affirmed by Aristotle, that the design of tragedy is to purge our passions by means of pity and terror. But, perhaps, it would have been more accurate, to have said, that the object of this species of composition is to improve our vhtuous sensibility. If a writer excite our pity for the afiflicted, inspire us with proper sentiments on beholding the vicissitudes of fife, and stimulate us to avoid the misfortunes of others by exhibiting their eiTors, he has accomplished aU the moral purposes of tragedy. In a tragedy it is necessary to have an interesting story, and that the writer conduct it in a natural and' probable manner. For the end of tragedy is not so much to elevate the imagination as to afiect the heait. This principle, which is founded on the clearest reason, excludes from tragedy all machinery, or fabulous in' lervention of gods. Ghosts alone, from their founda Are tragedies moral compositions ? ■When, are the moral purposes of tragedy accomplished ? Should machinery be excluded from tragt>dy ? 21^ 246 DRAMATIC POETRY. tion in popular belief, have maintained their place in tragedy. To promote an impression of probability, the story of a tragedy, according to some critics, should never be a pure fiction, but ought to be built on real facts This, however, is carrying the matter too far. For a fictitious tale, if properly conducted, will melt the heart as much as real history. Hence, the tragic poet mixes many fictitious circumstances with well known facts. Most readers never think of separating the historical from the fabulous. They attend only to what is probable, and are touched by events, that resemble nature. Accordingly some of the most affect- ing tragedies are entirely fictitious in their subjects. Such are the Fair Penitent, Douglas, and the Orphan. In its origin, tragedy was rude and imperfect Among the Greeks it was at first nothing more than the song, which was s.^ig at the festival of Bacchus. These songs were sometimes sung by the whole com- pany, and sometimes by separate bands answering alternately to each other, and making a chorus. To give this entertainment some variety, Thespis, who lived about five hundred years before the Christian era, introduced a person between the songs, who made a recitation in verse. Eschylus, who hved fifty years after him, introduced a dialogue between two persons or actors, comprehending some interesting story; and placed them on a stage adorned with scenery. The drama now began to assume a regular form; and was soon after brought to perfection by Sophocles and Euripides. It thus appears that the chorus was the foundation of tragedy. But, what is remarkable, the dramatic dialogue, which was only an addition to it, at length became the principal part of the entertainment ; and Is it necessary that the story of a tragedy be built on real facts ? How has tragedy been gradually improving ? What was the foundation of tragedy ? — What is remarkable ? TRAGEDY. 247 the chorus, losing ite dignity, came to be accounted only an accessary in tragedy. At last, in modern tragedy, it has entirely disappeared ; and its absence from the stage, forms the chief distinction between the ancient and modern drama. The chorus, it must be allowed, rendered tragedy more magnificent, instructive, and moral. But, ou the other hand, it was unnatural, and lessened the interest of the piece. It removed the representation from the resemblance of life. It has accordingly been with propriety excluded from the stage. The three unities of action, place, and time, have been considered as essential to the proper conduct of dramatic fable. Of these three, unity of action is undoubtedly most important. This consists in the relation which all the incidents introduced, bear to some design or effect, combining them naturally into one whole. This unity of subject is most essential to tragedy. For a multiphcity of plots, by distracting the attention, prevents the passions fi'om rising to any height. Hence the absurdity of two independent actions in the same play. There may indeed be imderplots ; but the poet should make these subser- vient to the main action. They should conspire to bring forward the catastraphe of the play. Of a separate and independent action, or intrigtie, there is a clear example in Addison's Cato. The subject of this tragedy is the death of Cato, a noble personage, and supported by the author with much digiiity. But all the love scenes in the play ; the pas- sion of Cato's two sons for Lucia, and that of Juba for Cato's daughter, are mere episodes. They break the What advantages were derived from the chorus ? — Was it ser- riceable ? Have the three unities been considered as essential to the proper conduct of dramatic fable ?— Which is the most important of the three ? — This consists in what ? — Why is unity of subject essential t-o tragedy ? What is observed of Addisoa's Cato ? 248 DRAMATIC POETRY. unity of the subject, and form a very unseasonable ""unction of gallantry, with high sentiments of pa- triotism. Unity of action must not, however, be confounded with simplicity of plot. Unity and simplicity import different things in dramatic composition. The plot is simple, when a small number of incidents is intro-' duced into it. With respect to plots, the ancientXA were more simple than the moderns. The Greek tra- gedies appear indeed to be too naked, and destitute of interesting events. The moderns admit a much great- er variety of incidents ; which is certainly an improve- ment, as it renders the entertainment more animated and more instructive. It may, however, be carried too far ; for an overcharge of action and intrigue pro- duces perplexity and embarrassment. Of this, the Mourning Bride of Congreve is an exam23le. The in- cidents succeed each other too rapidly ; and the catas- trophe, which ought to be plain and simple, is artificial and intricate. Unity of action must be maintained, not only in the general construction of the fable, but in all the acta and scenes of the play. The division of every play into five acts is founded merely on common practice, and the authority of Horace. Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior acta Fabula. There is nothing in nature which fixes this rule. On the Greek stage the division by acts was unknown. The word act never occurs once in the Poetics of Aristotle. Practice, however, has established this division ; and the poet must be careful that each act terminate in a proper place. The fii'st act should contain a clear exposition of the subject. It should excite curiosity, and introduce the personages to the How are unity of action and simplicity of plot distinguished ? Should unity of action be maintained throughout the play ? — Hott is it, that every play is divided into five acts ?— How should the acta terminate ? TRAGEDY. 240 ncquaintance of the spectators. During the second, thh'd, and fourth acts, the plots should gi-adually thicken. The passions should be kept constantly awake. There should be no scenes of idle conver- sation or mere declamation. The suspense and con cern of the spectators should be excited more ana more. This is the great excellency of Shakspeare. Sentknent, passion, pity, and terror, should pervade every tragedy. In the fifth act, which is the seat of the catastrophe, the author should most fully display his art and ge- nius. The first requisite is, that the unravelling of the plot be brought about by probable and natural means. Secondly, the catastrophe should be simple, depend- ing on few events and including but few persons. Passionate sensibility languishes when divided among many objects. Lastly, in the catastrophe, every thing should be warm and glowing ; and the poet must be simple, serious, and pathetic ; using no language but that of nature. It is not essential to the catastrophe of a tragedy that it end happily. Sufi[icient distress and agitation, with many tender emotions, may be raised in the course of the play. But in general the spirit of tra- gedy leans to the side of leaving the impression of \artuous sorrow strong upon the mind. A curious question here occurs ; how happens it, that the emotions of sorrow in tragedy aftbrd gratifi cation to the mind ? It seems to be the constitution of our nature, that all the social passions should be at- tended with pleasure. Hence nothing is more pleas- ing than love and friendship. Pity is, for wise ends, a strong instinct ; and it necessarily produces some dis- tress on account of its sympathy with sufferers. The What is said on the subject of the catastrophe? Is it essential to the catastrophe of a tragedy that it end happily ? How happens it. that the emotions of sorrow in tragedy afford gratification to the mind ? 250 DRAMATIC POETRY. heart is at the same moment warmed by kindness, and afflicted by distress. Upon the whole, the state of the mind is agreeable. We are pleased with ourselves, not only for our benevolence, but for our sensibility. The pain of sympathy is also diminished by recollect- ing that the distress is not real ; and by the power of action and sentiment, of language and poetry. After treating of the acts of a play it is proper to notice the scenes. The entrance of a new person upon the stage forms what is called a new scene. These scenes or successive conversations, should be closely connected ; and much of the art of dramatic composition consists in maintaining this connexion. For this purpose two rules must be observed. 1. During the course of one act, the stage should never be left empty a moment, for this would make a gap in the representation. Whenever the stage is evacuated, the act is closed. This rule is generally observed by French tragedians ; but it is much neglected by the English. 2. No person should come upon the stage, or leave it, without some apparent reason. If this rule be neglected, the dramatis personse are little better than so many puppets ; for the drama professes imitation of real transactions. To unity of action, critics have added the unities of time and place. Unity of place, requires the scene never to be shifted ; that the action of the play con- tinue in the same place where it began. Unity of time, strictly taken, requires that the time of the ac- tion be no longer than the time allowed for the repre- sentation of the play. Aristotle, however, permits the action to comprehend a whole day. These rules are intended to bring the imitation nearer to reality. Among the Greeks there was no division of acts. In modern times the practice has prevailed of sus- How should the scenes he conducted ? — What rules must be ob* served in order to maintain the connexion ? What is required by unity of place, and unity of time ? TEAGEDY. 251 pending the spectacle some little time between tlie acts. This practice gives latitude to the imagination, and renders strict confinement to time and place less necessary. Upon this account, therefore, too strict an observance of these unities should not be preferred to higher beauties of execution, nor to the introduction of more pathetic situations. But transgressions of these unities, though they may be often advantageous, ought not to be too frequent, nor violent. Hurrying the spectator from one distant city to another, or making several days or weeks pass during the repre- sentation, would shock the imagination too much, and therefore cannot be allowed in a dramatic witer. Ha^^ng examined dramatic action, we shall now attend to the characters, most proper to be exhibited in a tragedy. Several critics affirm that the nature of a tragedy requires the principal personages to be always of high or princely rank ; as the suft'erings of such persons seize the heart most forcibly. But this is more specious than solid. For the distresses of Desdemona, Monimia, and Belvidera, interest us as much, as if they had been princesses or queens. It is suflQcient, that in tragedy there be nothing degrading or mean in the personages exhibited. High rank may render the spectacle more splendid ; but it is the tale itself, and the art of the poet, that makes it interesting and pathetic. In describing his characters, the poet should be careful so to order the incidents, which relate to them, as to impress the spectators with favourable ideas of = virtue, and of the di^^ne administration. Pity should be raised for the virtuous in distress ; and the author should studiously beware of making such represen- tations of life, as would render virtue an object of aversion. Ought a strict observance of these unities to be preferred to high* er beauties of execution ? What quality of personages does the nature of tragedy require ? In describing characters, how should the incidents be ordered ' 252 DRAMATIC POETRY. Unmixed characters, either of good or ill men, are not, in the opinion of Aristotle, fit for tragedy. For the distresses of the former, as unmerited, hurt us ; and the sufferings of the latter excite no compassion. Mixed charactei^ afford the best field for displaying, without injury to morals, the vicissitudes of life. They interest us the most deeply ; and their distresses are most instructive, when represented as springing out of their own passions, or as originating in some weakness, incident to human nature. The Greek tragedies are often founded on mere destiny and inevitable misfortunes. Modern tragedy aims at a higher object, and takes a wider range ; as it shows the direful effects of ambition, jealousy, love, resentment, and of every strong emotion. But of all the passions which furnish matter for tragedy, love has most occupied the modern stages. To the an-cient theatre, love was almost unknown. This proceeded from the national mannei*s of the Greeks, which encouraged a greater separation of the sexes, than takes place in modern times; and did not admit female actors \ipon the ancient stage ; a circumstance, which operated against the introduction of love stories. No soHd reason, however, can be assigned for this predominancy of love upon the stage. Indeed it not only limits the natural extent of tragedy, but degrades its majesty. Mixing it with the great and solemn revolutions of human fortune, tends to give tragedy 'the air of gallantry and juvenile entertainment. With- out any assistance from love, the drama is capable of producing its highest effects upon the mind. Besides the arrangement of his subject, and the conduct of his personages, the tragic poet must attend to the propriety of his sentiments. These must be Are unmixed characters fit for tragedy ? What are the Greek tragedies founded on ? — How does modern tragedy aim at a higher object ? — Is it necessary that love occupy the principal part in tragedy ? In -sFhat manner should the poet manage his sentiments ' TKAGEDY. 253 suited to the characters of the persons, to whom thej are attributed, and to the situations, in which thej are placed. It is chiefly in the pathetic parts, that the difficulty and importance of this rule are greatest. We go to a tragedy, expecting to be moved ; and, if the poet cannot reach the heart, he has no tragic merit ; and we return cold and disappointed h-om the performance. To paint, and to excite passion strongly, are prero- gatives of genius. They require not only ardent sensi- bility, but the power of entering deeply into characters. It Ls here, that cancUdates for the drama are least successful. A man, under the agitation of passion, makes known his feehngs in the glowing language of sensibility. He does not coolly describe what his feelings are ; yet this sort of secondary description, tragic poets often give us, instead of the primary and native language of passion. Thus in Addison's Cato, when Lucia confesses to Fortius her love for him, but sweaK that she wih never maiTy him ; Fortius, instead of giving way to the language of giief and astonishment, only describes his feehng-s ; Fix'd in astonishment, I gaze npon thee, Like one jnst blasted bv a stroke from heaven, "Who pants for breath, and stiffens yet alive In dreadful looks ; a monument of -wrath. This might have proceeded from a bystander or an indifferent person ; but it is altogether improper in the mouth of Fortius. Similar to this descriptive language, are the imnatural and forced thoughts which tragic poets sometimes employ, . o exaggerate the feehngs of persons, whom they wish to paint, as strongly moved. * Thus, when Jane Shore on meeting her husband in distress, and finding that he had forgiven her, calls on the rains to give her their di'ops, and to the springs to lend her their streams, that she may have a constant What are prerogatives of genius ?— What do they require ?— How does a man. under the agitation of passion, make knowTi t.is feelijigs What is observed of the description of Jane Shore ? 22 254 DRAMATIC POETRY. supply of tears ; we see plainly tliat it is not Jane Shore that speaks; but the poet himself, who is straining his fancy, and spurring up his genius to say something uncommonly strong and lively. The language of real passion is always plain and simple. It abounds in figures that express a disturbed and impetuous state of mind, but never employs any for parade and embellishment. Thoughts, suggested by passion, are natural and ob\'ious ; and not the off spring of refinement, subtilty, and wit. Passion nei- ther reasons, speculates, nor declaims; its language is short, broken, and interrupted. The French trage- dians deal too much in refinement and declamation. The Greek tragedians adhere most to nature, and are most pathetic. This, too, is the great excellency of Shakspeare. He exhibits the true language of nature and passion. Moral sentiments and reflections ought not to recur very frequently in tragedy. When unseasonably crowded, they lose their effect, and convey an air of ipedantry. When introduced ^vith propriety, they give dignity to the composition. Cardinal Wolsey's soliloquy on his fall, is a fine instance of the felicity with which they may be employed. Much of the merit of Addison's Cato depends on that moral turn of thought which distinguishes it. The style and versification of tragedy should be free, easy, and varied. English blank verse is happily suited to this species of composition. It has sufficien majesty, and can descend to the simple and familiar it admits a happy variety of cadence, and is free from the constraint and monotony of rhyme. Of the French tragedies it is a gi^eat misfortime, that they are always in rhyme. For it fetters the freedom of the tragic What is the most suitable language for tragedy ? What is said of moral sentiments and reflections ? What should be the style and versification of tragedy ? — Which is best adapted to tragedy, blank verse or rhyme ? GREEK TRAGEDY. 255 dialogue, fills it with a languid monotony, and is fatal to the power of passion. With regard to these splendid comparisons in rhyme, and those strings of couplets, with which it was some time ago fashionable to conclude the acts of a tragedy, and .sometimes the most interesting scenes; they are now laid aside, and regarded not only as childish ornaments, but as perfect barbarisms. LECTURE XLI. GREEK TRAGEDY. The plot of Greek tragedy was exceedingly sim- ple ; the incidents few ; and the conduct very exact with regard to the unities of action, time, and place. Machinery, or the intervention of gods, was employed ; and, what was very faulty, the final unravelling was sometimes made to turn upon it. Love, one or two instances excepted, was never admitted into Greek ti'agedy. A vein of morahty and religion always runs through it ; but they employed, less than the moderns, the combat of the passions. Their plots were all taken from the ancient traditionary stories of their own nation. Eschylus, the father of Greek tragedy, exhibits both the beauties and defects of an early original \vriter. He is bold, nervous, and animated ; but very obscure, and difficult to be understood. His style is highly metaphorical, and often harsh and tumid. Ha abounds in martial ideas and descriptions, has much fii'e and elevation, and httle tenderness. He also dehghts in the marveUous. What are now laid aside as childish ornaments ? "What is the subject of this lecture ? What are the author's remarks on Greek tragedy ? Who was the father of Greek tragedy ?— For what is Eschylus dia- cinguished ? 256 FRENCH TRAGEDl. The most masterly of the Greek tragedians is So- phocles. He is the most correct in the conduct of his subjects ; the most just and sublime in his sentiments. In descriptive talents he is also eminent. Euripides is accounted more tender than Sophocles ; he is fuller of moral sentiments ; but he is less correct in the con duct of his plays. His expositions of his subjects are less artful ; and the songs of his chorus, though very poetic, are less connected with the principal action, than those of Sophocles. Both of them, however, have high merit, as tragic poets. Their style is ele- gant and beautiful ; and their sentiments for the most part, just. They speak with the voice of nature ; and in the midst of simplicity, they are touching and interesting. Theatrical representation, on the stages of Greece and Rome, was in many respects very singular, and widely difterent from that of modern times. The songs of the chorus were accompanied by instrumental music ; and the dialogue part had a modulation of its own, and might be set to notes. It has also been thought, that on the Roman stage, the pronouncing and gesticulating parts were sometimes divided, and performed by different actovs. The actors in tragedy wore a long robe ; they were raised upon cothurni, and played in masks ; these masks were painted ; and the actor, by turning the different profiles, ex- hibited different emotions to the auditors. This contrivance, however, was attended by many dis- advantages. FRENCH TRAGEDY. In the compositions of some French dramatic writers, tragedy has appeared with great lustre ; par- Who is the most masterly of the Greek tragedians ? — What are the merits of Sophocles? — What is said of Euripides ? How did theatrical representation on the stages of Greece and Rome differ from that of modern times ? FRENCH TRAGEDY. 257 ticularly Corneille, Racine, and Yoltaii'e. Tliey have improved upon the ancients, "by inti'oduciug more incidents, a greater variety of passions, and a fuller display of cliaracters. Like the ancients, they excel in regidarity of conduct ; and their style is poetical and elegant. But to an Enghsh taste, they want strength and passion, and are too declamatoiy and refined. Thev seem afi-aid of beino; too traoic : and it was the opinion of Voltaire, that, to the perfection of tragedy, it is necessary to unite the vehemence and action of the Enghsh theatre, with the correctness and decorum of the French. Corneille, the father of French tragedy, is distin- guished by majesty of sentiment, and a fruitful ima- gination. His genius was rich, but more turned to the epic, than the tragic vein. He is magnificent and splendid, rather than touching and tender. He is full of declamation, impetuous and extravagant. In tragedy, Racine is superior to Corneille. Hq wants, indeed, the copiousness of Corneille ; but he is free from his bombast, and excels him greatly in tenderness. The beauty of his lano-uao-e and versifi- cation is uncommon ; and he has managed his rhymes with superior advantage. Voltaire is not inferior to his predecessoi'S in the drama ; and in one article he has outdone them ; the dehcate and interesting situations he has introduced. Here lies his chief strength. Like his predecessors, however, he is sometimes deficient in force, and some- times too declamatoiy. His characters notwithstand- ing, are drawn with spirit, his events are striking, and his sentiments elevated. Who are the most successful French dramatic writers ? — By what means have they improTed upon the ancients ? By what is Corneille distinguished ? What are the comparatiye merits of Eacine ? Wliat is said of VUtaire ? 22* [ 258 ] ENGLISH TRAGEDY. It lias often been remarked of tragedy in Great Britain, that it is more ardent tlian that of France, but more irregular and incorrect. It has, therefore, excelled in the soul of tragedy. For the pathetic must be allowed to be the chief excellence of the tragic muse. The first object on the English theatre, is the gTcat Shakspeare. In extent and force of genius, both for tragedy and comedy, he is unrivalled. But at the same time, it is genius shooting wild, deficient in taste, not always chaste, and unassisted by art and knowledge. Criticism has been exhausted in com- mentaries upon him ; yet, to this day, it is undecided, whether his beauties or defects be greatest. In his writings there are admirable scenes and passages without number ; but there is not one of his plays which can be pronounced a good one. Besides ex- treme irregularities in conduct, and grotesque mix- tures of the serious and comic, we are frequently dis- turbed by unnatural thoughts, harsh expressions, and a certain obscure bombast, and play upon words. These faults are, however, compensated by two of the greatest excellencies a tragic poet can possess, his lively and diversified painting of character, and his strong and natural expressions of passion. On these two virtues his merit rests. In the midst of his absurdities he interests and moves us ; so great is his skill in human nature, and so lively his representa- tions of it. He possesses also the merit of having created for himself, a world of preternatural beings. His witches, ghosts, fairies, and spirits of all kinds, are so awful, mysterious, and pecuhar, as strongly to affect the Wliat has been remarked of tragedy in Great Britain ? Who is the first object on the English theatre ? — What are Shaks* peare's merits ? ENGLISH TRAGEDY. 259 imagination. His two masterpieces are liis Otliello and Macbeth. With regard to his historical plays, thev are neither tragedies nor comeches ; but a pecu- liar species of dramatic entertainment, in which he describes the charactei-s, events, and manners of the times of which h-e treats. i Since Shakspeare, there are few English dramatia ^ writers, whose whole works are entitled to high praise. There are several tragedies, however, of con- siderable merit. Lee's Theodosius has warmth and tenderness, though romantic in the plan, and extrava- gant in the sentiments. Otway is great in his Orphan and Venice Preserved. Perhaps, however, he is too tragic in these pieces. He had genius and strong passions, but was very indelicate. The tragedies of Rowe abound in morality, and in elevated sentiments. His poetry is good, and his lan- guage pure and elegant. He is, notwithstanding, too cold and uninteresting ; and flowery rather than tra- gic. His best dramas are Jane Shore and the Fair Penitent, which excel in the tender and pathetic. Dr. Young's Revenge discovei^s genius and fire ; but wants tenderness, and turns too much on the dhe- fnl passions. In the Mom-ning Bride of CongTCve, there are fine situations and much good poetry. The tragedies of Thomson are too full of a stiff morahty, which rendei^ them duU and formal. His Tancred and Sigismunda is his masterpiece ; and for the plot, characters, and sentiments, justly deserves a place among the best English tragedies. A Greek tragedy is a simple relation of an interest- ing incident. A French tragedy is a series of artful and refined conversations. An.Enghsh tragedy is a combat of strong passions, set before us in aU their Which of Shakspeare's plays are his masterpieces ? What is said of dramatic writers since Shakspeare ? — What are their merits and defects ? Define a Greek tragedy — A French tragedy — An English tragedy —Ancient tragedies. 260 COMEDY. violence, producing deep disasters, and filling tlie spectators with grief. Ancient tragedies are more natural and simple ; modern more artful and complex. LECTURE XLII. COMEDY. The strain and spirit of comedy, discriminate it sufficiently from tragedy. While pity, terror, and the other strong passions form the province of the latter, the sole instrument of the former is ridicule. FoUies and vices, and whatever in the human character is improper, or exposes to censure and ridicule, are objects of comedy. As a satirical exhibition of the improprieties and follies of men, it is useful and moral. It is commendable by this species of composition, to coiTect, and to polish the manners of men. Many vices are more successfully exploded by ridicule, than by serious arguments. It is possible, however, to employ ridicule improperly ; and by its operation to do mischief instead of good. For ridicule is far from being a proper test of truth. Licentious writers there- fore, of the comic class, have often cast ridicule on objects and characters which did not deserve it. But this is not the fault of comedy, but of the turn and genius of certain writers. In the hands of loose men, comedy will mislead and corrupt ; but in those of vir- tuous writers, it is not only a gay and innocent, but a laudable and useful entertainment. Enghsh comedy, however, is frequently a school of vice. The rules of dram'atic action, that were prescribed for tragedy, belong also to comedy. A comic writer What is the subject of this lecture ? How is comedy discriminated from tragedy ? — What are objects of comedy ?— How is comedy useful ? — Can ridicule be employed improperly ? — What is said of English comedy ? COMEDF. 261 must observe the unities of action, time and place. He must attend to nature and probability. The imitation of manners ought to be even more exact in comedy than in tragedy ; for the subjects of comedy are more familiar and better known. The subjects of tragedy are confined to no age nor country ; but it is otherwise in comedy. For the decorums of behaviour, and the nice discriminations of character, which are the subjects of comedy, change with time and country ; and are never so well under- stood by foreigners as by natives. We weep for the heroes of Greece and Rome ; but we are touched by the ridicule of such manners and characters only, as we see and know. The scene therefore of comedy should always be laid in the author's own country and age. The comic poet catches the manners living, as they rise. It is true, indeed, that Plautus and Terence did not follow this rule. The scene of their comedies is laid in Greece, and they adopted the Greek laws and cus- toms. But it is to be remembered, that comedy was in their age, a new entertainment in Rome, and that they were contented with the praise of translating Menander and other comic writers of Greece. In posterior times the Romans had the " Comedia Toga- ta," or what was founded on their own manners, as well as the " Comedia Palhata," which was taken from the Greeks. There are two kinds of comedy, that of character and that of intrigue. In the last, the plot or action of the play is the principal object. In the first, the dis- play of a peculiar character is the chief point ; and to this the action is subordinate. The French abound What should a comic writer observe and attend to ' Are the subjects of tragedy confined to any age or country ?— How is it in oomedy ? — Why ? Who have not followed this rule ? — In what respect ? How many kinds of comedy are there ? — What are they ? 262 COMEDY. most in comedies of character. Such are the capital pieces of Moliere. The EngKsh have inclined to comedies of intrigue. Such are the plays of Con- greve ; and in general there is more story, action, and bustle in English, than in French comedy. The perfection of comedy is to be found in a proper mixture of these two kinds. Mere conversation with- out an interesting story, is insipid. There should ever be so much intrigue, as to excite both fears and wishes. The incidents should be striking, and afford a proper field for the exhibition of character. The piece, however, should not be overcharged with intrigue ; for this would be to convert a comedy into a novel. With respect to characters it is a common error of comic writers, to carry them much beyond real life ; indeed it is very difficult to hit the precise point, where w^it ends, and buffoonery begins. The come- dian may exaggerate ; but good sense must teach him where to stop. In comedy there ought to be a clear distinction in characters. The contrast of characters, however, by pairs, and by opposites, is too theatrical and affected. It is the perfection of art to conceal art. A masterly writer gives us his characters, distinguished rather by such shades of diversity, as are commonly found in society, than marked by such oppositions as are sel- dom brought into actual contrast in any of the cir- c imstances of life. The style of comedy ought to be pure, lively, and elegant, generally imitating the tone of polite conver- sation, and never descending into gross expressions. Rhyme is not suitable to comic composition ; for what has poetry to do with the conversation of men in In what is the perfection of comedy to be found ? What is a common error of comic writers ? How does a masteily writer give us his characters ? What ought to be thi style of comedy ? ANCIENT COMEDr. 263 common life ? The cmTent of tlie dialogue should be easy without pertness, and genteel without flippancy. The wit should never be studied, nor unseasonable. ANCIENT COMEDY. The ancient comedy was an avowed satire against particular persons, brought upon the stage by name. Such are the plays of Aristophanes ; and compositions of so singular a nature illustrate well the turbulent and licentious state of Athens. The most illustrious per- sonages, generals and magistrates, were then made the subjects of comedy. Vivacity, satire, and buf- foonery, are the characteristics of Aristophanes. On many occasions he displays genius and force ; but his performances give us no high idea of the Attic taste for wit in his age. His ridicule is extravagant ; his wit farcical ; his personal raillery cruel and biting ; and his obscenity intolerable. Soon after the age of Aristophanes, the hberty of attacking persons by name, on the stage, was pro- hibited by law. The middle comedy then took its rise. Living persons were still attacked, but under fictitious names. Of these pieces we have no remains. They were succeeded by the new comedy ; when it became, as it is now, the business of the stage to exhibit manners and characters, but not those of par- ticular persons. The author of this kind, most cele- brated among the Greeks, was Menander ; but his ■sYiitings are perished. Of the new comedy of the ancients, the only remains are the plays of Plautus and Terence. The first is eminent for the vis comica, and for an expressive phraseology. He beai-s, however, many marks of the What was the ancient comedy ? — ^What are the characteristics of Aristophanes ? — What is said of his performances ? What change took place in comedy after the age of Aristophanes? What is said of Plautus ? 264 SPANISH COMEDY. rudeness of the dramatic art, in his time. He has too much low wit and scurrility ; and is by far too quaint and full of conceit. He has more variety and more force than Terence ; and his characters are strongly marked, though sometimes coarsely. Terence is pohshed, dehcate, and elegant. His style is a model of the most pure and graceful Latinity. His dialogue is always correct and decent ; and his relations have a picturesque and beautiful simphcity. His morality is in general unexceptionable ; his situa- tions are interesting ; and many of his sentiments touch the heart. He may be considered as the founder of serious comedy. In sprightliness and strength, he is deficient. There is a sameness in his characters and ' plots ; and he is said to have been inferior to Menan- der, whom he copied. To form a perfect comic author, the spirit and fire of Plautus ought to be united with the grace and correctness of Terence. SPANISH COMEDY. The most prominent object in modern comedy is the Spanish theatre. The chief comedians of Spain are Lopez de Vega, Guillen, and Calderon. The first, who is the most famous of them, wrote above a thousand plays ; and was infinitely more irregular than Shakspeare. He totally disregarded the three unities, and every established rule of dramatic writing. One play often includes many years, and even the whole life of a man. The scene, during the first act, is in Spain ; the next in Italy ; and the third in Africa. Hia plays are chiefly historical ; and are a mixture of he- roic speeches, serious incidents, war and slaughter, ridicule and bufibonery. He jumbles together Chris- What were the excellences of Terence ? What is the most prominent object in modern comedy ? — Who are tlLS chief comedians of Spain ?— What is said of Lopez de Vega ? FRENCH COMEDY. 265 tianity and paganism, virtues and vices, angels and gods. Notwithstanding his faults, he possessed ge- nius, and great force of imagination. Many of his characters are well painted ; many of his situations are happy ; and from the source of his rich invention, dramatic writers of other nations have frequently drawn their materials. FRENCH COMEDY. The comic theatre of France is allowed to be cor- rect, chaste, and decent. The comic author in whom the French glory most, is MoKere. In the judgment of French critics he has nearly reached the summit of perfection in his art. Nor is this the decision of mere partiality. Moliere is the satirist only of vice and folly. His characters were peculiar to his own times ; and, in general, his ridicule was justly directed. His comic powers were great ; and his pleasantry is always innocent. His Misanthrope and Tartuffe are in verse, and constitute a kind of dignified comedy, in which vice is exposed in the style of elegant and polite satire. In his prose comedies, there is a pro- fusion of ridicule ; but the poet never gives alarm to modesty, nor casts contempt on ^artue. With these high qualities, however, considerable defects are mingled. In unravelling his plots he is unhappy ; as this is frequently brought on with too little prepara- tion, and in ah improbable manner. In his verse comedies he is not always sufiiciently interesting , and he is too full of long speeches. In his risible pieces in prose, he is too farcical. But, upon the whole, it may be affirmed, that few writers ever at- tained so perfectly the true end of comedy. His Tar- tuflfe and Avare are his two capital productions. What is the character of the comic theatre of France ?-^In what comic author do the French most glory ? — In what is Moliere most distinguished ?— What are his defects ? [ 266 ] ENGLISH COMEDY. From the Enghsh theatre is naturally expected a greater variety of original characters in comedy, and bolder strokes of wit and humour, than from any other modern stage. Humour is in some degree peculiar to England. The freedom of the govern- ment and the unrestrained liberty of Enghsh manners, are favourable to humour and sing-ularity of character. In France, the influence of a despotic court spreads uniformity over the nation. Hence comedy has a more amplified and a freer vein in Britain than in France. But it is to be regretted, that the comic spirit of Britain is often disgraced by indecency and licentiousness. The first age, however, of English comedy was not infected by this spirit. The plays of Shakspeare and Ben Jonson have no immoral tendency. The comedies of the former display a strong, creative genius ; but are irregular in conduct. They are sin- gularly rich in characters and manners ; but often descend to please the mob. Jonson is more regular, but stiff and pedantic ; though not void of dramatic genius. Much fancy and invention, and many fine passages, are' found in the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher. But, in general, they abound in romantic incidents, unnatural characters, and coarse allusions. Change of manners has rendered the comedies of the last age obsolete. For it is the exhibition of pre- vailing modes and characters, that gives a charm to comedy. Thus Plautus was antiquated to the Romans" in the days of Augustus. But, to the honour of Why is there expected a greater variety of original characters in comedy from the English than the French theatre ? — ^What is to ba regretted ? What is said of the comedies of Shakspeare and Jonson ?— What of Beaumont and Fletcher ? What is that which gives a charm to comedy ? ENGLISH COMEDY. 261 Shakspeare, his Falstaff is still admired, and his Merry "Wives of Windsor read with pleasure. After the restoration of Charles 11. the licentious- ness which polluted the court and nation, seized upon comedy. The rake became the predommant charac- ter. Ridicule was thrown upon chastity and sobriety :^At the end of the play, indeed, the rake becomes a ' sober man ; but through the performance he is a fine gentleman, and exhibits a picture of the pleasurable enjoyments of life. This spirit of comedy had the worst effect on youth of both sexes, and continued to the days of George II. In the comedies of Dryden, there are many strokes of genius ; but he is hasty and careless. As his object was to please, he followed the current of the times, and gave way to indehcacy and licentiousness. ' His indecency was, at times, so gross, as to occasion a prohibition of his plays on the stage. After Dryden, flourished Gibber, Vanburgh, Far- quhar, and Congreve. Gibber has sprightliness and a pert vivacity ; but his incidents are so forced and unnatural, that his performances have all sunk into obscurity, excepting The Gareless Husband, and The Provoked Husband. Gf these, the fii'st is remarkable ' yr the easy politeness of the dialogue ; and it is tole- rably moral in its conduct. The latter, in which Gibber was assisted by Vanburgh, is perhaps the best comedy in the English language ; and even to this it may be objected, that it has a double plot. Its cha- racters, however, are natm-al, and it abounds with fine painting and happy strokes of humour. Gf late years a sensible reformation has taken place in EngHsh comedy. Gur writers of comedy now What took place in plays after the restoration of Charles 11. ?— "What effect had this spirit of comedy, and how long did it continue 1 What is said of Dryden's comedies ? What comic -writers flourished after Dryden ? — ^What is obserred of Gibber? What reformation in comedy has taken place of late years ? 268 ENGLISH COMEDY. appear ashamed of the indecency of their predeces- sors. They may be inferior to Farquhar and Con- gi'ev^ in spirit, ease, and wit ; but they have the merit of being far more innocent and moral. To the French stage we are much indebted for this refoiTnation. The introduction within a few years of a graver comedy in France, called the serious or tender comedy, has attracted the attention and approbation of our writers. Gayety and ridicule are not excluded from tliis species of comedy; but.it lays the chief stress on tender and interesting situations. It is senti- mental, and touches the heart. It pleases not so much by the laughter it excites, as by the tears of af- fection and joy which it draws forth. This form of comedy was opposed in France, as an unjustifiable innovation. It was objected by critics, that it was not founded on laughter and ridicule ; but it is not necessary that all comedies be formed on one precise model. Some may be gay ; some serious ; and some may partake of both qualities. Serious and tender comedy has no right to exclude gayety and ridicule from the stage. There are mateiials for both ; and the stage is richer for the innovation. In gene- ral, it may be considered as a mark of increasing po- hteness and refinement, when those theatrical exhibi tions become fashionable, which are free from indeli- cate sentiment and an immoral tendency. To what are the English indebted for this reformation ? — What kind of comedy has been introdxiced in France ? — What are the pe- culiarities of this species of comedy ? Was this form of comedy approved in France ? — For what reason ? —What may be considered a mark of increasing politeness and re- ftnement ? THE END. V 4 /J 3»