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<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span></p>

<p class="chead">
<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="351" height="500" alt="" />
</p>

<h1>ELEMENTS<br />
<br />
<small>OF</small><br />
<br />
CRITICISM.</h1>

<p class="cb"><span class="spc">In THREE VOLUMES.<br />
<br />

VOLUME III.<br />
<br />

EDINBURGH:</span><br />

Printed for <span class="smcap">A. <span class="spc">Millar</span></span>, London;<br />

<span class="spc">AND</span><br />

<span class="spc">A. <span class="smcap">Kincaid</span> &amp; J. <span class="smcap">Bell</span></span>, Edinburgh,<br />

<span class="spc">MDCCLXII</span>.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span>&nbsp; </p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span>&nbsp; </p>

<h1>
ELEMENTS<br />
<small>OF</small><br />
CRITICISM.<br />
</h1>

<table border="0" cellpadding="3" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td colspan="3"></td><td><i>Vol.</i></td>
<td><i>Pag.</i></td></tr>

<tr><td colspan="3"><i>Introduction</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">1</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">1</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Perceptions and ideas in a train</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">1</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">21</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Emotions and passions</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">1</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">42</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Beauty</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">1</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">241</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Grandeur and sublimity</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">1</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">264</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">5.</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Motion and force</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">1</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">309</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">6.</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Novelty, and the unexpected appearance of objects</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">1</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">319</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">7.</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Risible objects</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">1</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">337</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">8.</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Resemblance and contrast</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">1</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">345</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">9.</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Uniformity and variety</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">1</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">380</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">10</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Congruity and propriety</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">2</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">2</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">11</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Dignity and meanness</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">2</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">27</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">12</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Ridicule</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">2</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">40</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">13</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Wit</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">2</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">58</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">14</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Custom and habit</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">2</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">80</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">15</td>
<td valign="top"><i>External signs of emotions and passions</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">2</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">116</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">16</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Sentiments</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">2</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">149</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">17</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Language of passion</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">2</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">204</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top">18</td>
<td valign="top"><i>Beauty of language</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">2</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">234</td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAP_XIX">19</a></td>
<td valign="top"><a href="#CHAP_XIX"><i>Comparisons</i>,</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">3</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_3">3</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAP_XX">20</a></td>
<td valign="top"><a href="#CHAP_XX"><i>Figures</i>,</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">3</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_53">53</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAP_XXI">21</a></td>
<td valign="top"><a href="#CHAP_XXI"><i>Narration and description</i>,</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">3</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_169">169</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAP_XXII">22</a></td>
<td valign="top"><a href="#CHAP_XXII"><i>Epic and dramatic compositions</i>,</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">3</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_218">218</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAP_XXIII">23</a></td>
<td valign="top"><a href="#CHAP_XXIII"><i>The three unities</i>,</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">3</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_259">259</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAP_XXIV">24</a></td>
<td valign="top"><a href="#CHAP_XXIV"><i>Gardening and architecture</i>,</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">3</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_294">294</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">Ch.</td><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAP_XXV">25</a></td>
<td valign="top"><a href="#CHAP_XXV"><i>Standard of taste</i>,</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">3</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_351">351</a></td></tr>

<tr><td colspan="3"><i><a href="#APPENDIX">Appendix</a></i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">3</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_375">375</a></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="3"><a href="#INDEX"><i>Index to all three volumes.</i></a>
</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">3</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_407">407</a></td></tr>
</table>

<h2><a name="CHAP_XIX" id="CHAP_XIX"></a>CHAP. XIX.</h2>

<p class="chead"><span class="spc">COMPARISONS</span>.</p>

<p class="nind"><span class="letra">C</span>O<span class="smcap">mparisons</span>, as observed above<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>; serve two different purposes: When
addressed to the understanding, their purpose is to instruct; when to
the heart, their purpose is to give pleasure. With respect to the
latter, a comparison may be employ’d to produce various pleasures by
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span>different means. First, by suggesting some unusual resemblance or
contrast: second, by setting an object in the strongest light: third, by
associating an object with others that are agreeable: fourth, by
elevating an object: and, fifth, by depressing it. And that comparisons
may produce various pleasures by these different means, appears from
what is said in the chapter above cited; and will be made still more
evident by examples, which shall be given after premising some general
observations.</p>

<p>An object of one sense cannot be compared to an object of another; for
such objects are totally separated from each other, and have no
circumstance in common to admit either resemblance or contrast. Objects
of hearing may be compared, as also of taste, and of touch. But the
chief fund of comparison are objects of sight; because, in writing or
speaking, things can only be compared in idea, and the ideas of visible
objects are by far more lively than those of any other sense.</p>

<p>It has no good effect to compare things by way of simile that are of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span>same kind, nor to contrast things of different kinds. The reason is
given in the chapter cited above; and the reason shall be illustrated by
examples. The first is a resemblance instituted betwixt two objects so
nearly related as to make little or no impression.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">This just rebuke inflam’d the Lycian crew,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They join, they thicken, and th’ assault renew;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Unmov’d th’ embody’d Greeks their fury dare,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And fix’d support the weight of all the war;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor could the Greeks repel the Lycian pow’rs,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor the bold Lycians force the Grecian tow’rs.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As on the confines of adjoining grounds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Two stubborn swains with blows dispute their bounds;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They tugg, they sweat; but neither gain, nor yield,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">One foot, one inch, of the contended field:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thus obstinate to death, they fight, they fall;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor these can keep, nor those can win the wall.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i>, xii. 505.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Another from Milton labours under the same defect. Speaking of the
fallen angels searching for mines of gold:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A numerous brigade hasten’d: as when bands<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span><span class="i0">Of pioneers with spade and pick-ax arm’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Forerun the royal camp to trench a field<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or cast a rampart.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The next shall be of things contrasted that are of different kinds.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Queen.</i> What, is my Richard both in shape and mind<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Transform’d and weak? Hath Bolingbroke depos’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thine intellect? Hath he been in thy heart?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The lion, dying, thrusteth forth his paw,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To be o’erpower’d: and wilt thou, pupil-like,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And fawn on rage with base humility?<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard II. act 5. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">This comparison has scarce any force. A man and a lion are of different
species; and there is no such resemblance betwixt them in general, as to
produce any strong effect by contrasting particular attributes or
circumstances.</p>

<p>A third general observation is, That abstract terms can never be the
subject of comparison, otherwise than by being personified.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> Shakespear
compares adversity to a toad, and slander to the bite of a crocodile;
but in such comparisons these abstract terms must be imagined sensible
beings.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>I now proceed to illustrate by particular instances the different means
by which comparison can afford pleasure; and, in the order above
established, I shall begin with those instances that are agreeable by
suggesting some unusual resemblance or contrast:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sweet are the uses of Adversity,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wears yet a precious jewel in her head.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>As you like it, act 2, sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>Gardiner.</i> Bolingbroke hath seiz’d the wasteful King.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What pity is’t that he had not so trimm’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And dress’d his land, as we this garden dress,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Left, being over proud with sap and blood,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With too much riches it confound itself.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Had he done so to great and growing men,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They might have liv’d to bear, and he to taste<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their fruits of duty. All superfluous branches<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">We lop away, that bearing boughs may live:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which waste and idle hours have quite thrown down.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard II. act 3. sc. 7.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">See, how the Morning opes her golden gates,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And takes her farewell of the glorious sun;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How well resembles it the prime of youth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Trim’d like a yonker prancing to his love.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Second Part Henry VI.> act 2. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>Brutus</i>. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That carries anger as the flint bears fire;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who, much inforced, shows a hasty spark,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And straight is cold again.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Julius Cæsar, act 4. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Thus they their doubtful consultations dark<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ended, rejoicing in their matchless chief:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As when from mountain-tops the dusky clouds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ascending, while the North-wind sleeps, o’erspread<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Heav’n’s chearful face, the lowring element<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Scowls o’er the darken’d landscape, snow, and shower;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If chance the radiant sun with farewell sweet<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Extend his ev’ning-beam, the fields revive,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Attest their joy, that hill and valley rings.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost, book 2.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The last exertion of courage compared to the blaze of a lamp before
extinguishing, <i>Tasso Gierusalem</i>, <i>canto</i> 19. <i>st.</i> 22.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">As the bright stars, and milky way,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shew’d by the night, are hid by day:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So we in that accomplish’d mind,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Help’d by the night, new graces find,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which, by the splendor of her view<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dazzled before, we never knew.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Waller.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>None of the foregoing similes, as it appears to me, have the effect to
add any lustre to the principal subject; and therefore the pleasure they
afford, must arise from suggesting resemblances that are not obvious: I
mean the chief pleasure; for undoubtedly a beautiful subject introduced
to form the simile affords a separate pleasure, which is felt in the
similes mentioned, particularly in that cited from Milton.</p>

<p>The next effect of a comparison in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> order mentioned, is to place an
object in a strong point of view; which I think is done sensibly in the
following similes.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">As when two scales are charg’d with doubtful loads,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From side to side the trembling balance nods,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">(While some laborious matron, just and poor,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With nice exactness weighs her woolly store),<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till pois’d aloft, the resting beam suspends<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Each equal weight; nor this nor that descends:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So stood the war, till Hector’s matchless might,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With fates prevailing, turn’d the scale of fight.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fierce as a whirlwind up the walls he flies,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And fires his host with loud repeated cries.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span><span class="i5"><i>Iliad, b.</i> xii. 52<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ut flos in septis secretis nascitur hortis,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ignotus pecori, nullo contusus aratro,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Quem mulcent auræ, firmat sol, educat imber,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Multi illum pueri, multæ cupiere puellæ.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Idem, cum tenui carptus defloruit ungui,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nulli illum pueri, nullæ cupiere puellæ.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sic virgo, dum intacta manet, dum cara suis; sed<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cum castum amisit, polluto corpore, florem,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nec pueris jucunda manet, nec cara puellis.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Catullus.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The imitation of this beautiful simile by <i>Ariosto, canto 1. st. 42</i>.
falls short of the original. It is also in part imitated by Pope<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a>.</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Lucetta</i>. I do not seek to quench your love’s hot fire, But
qualify the fires extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the
bounds of reason.</p>

<p><i>Julia</i>. The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns: The
current, that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know’st, being
stopp’d, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not
hindered, He makes sweet music with th’ enamel’d stones Giving a
gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage. And so
by many winding nooks he strays With willing sport, to the wild
ocean. Then let me go, and hinder not my course; I’ll be as patient
as a gentle stream, And make a pastime of each weary step Till the
last step have brought me to my love; And there I’ll rest, as,
after much turmoil, A blessed soul doth in Elysium.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span></p>

<p class="r">
<i>Two Gentlemen of Verona, act 2. sc. 10.</i><br />
</p></div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; She never told her love,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ bud,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Feed on her damask cheek: she pin’d in thought;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And with a green and yellow melancholy,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She sat like Patience on a monument,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Smiling at Grief.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Twelfth-Night, act 2. sc. 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="blockquot"><p><i>York.</i> Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon
a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring rider seem’d to know,
With slow but stately pace, kept on his course: While all tongues
cry’d, God save thee, Bolingbroke.</p>

<p><i>Duchess.</i> Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while?</p>

<p><i>York.</i> As in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-grac’d actor
leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking
his prattle to be tedious: Even so, or with much more contempt,
mens eyes Did scowl on Richard; no man cry’d, God save him! No
joyful tongue gave him his welcome home; But dust was thrown upon
his sacred head; Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, His
face still combating with tears and smiles,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> The badges of his
grief and patience; That had not God, for some strong purpose,
steel’d The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted; And
barbarism itself have pitied him.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Richard</i> II. <i>act 5. sc. 3.</i><br />
</p></div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Northumberland.</i> How doth my son and brother?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thou tremblest, and the whiteness in thy cheek<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So dull, so dead in look, so wo-be-gone,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And would have told him, half his Troy was burn’d;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But Priam found the fire, ere he his tongue:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And I my Percy’s death, ere thou report’st it.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Second Part Henry</i> IV. <i>act 1. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Why, then I do but dream on sov’reignty,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like one that stands upon a promontory,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And spies a far-off shore where he would tread,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wishing his foot were equal with his eye,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And chides the sea that sunders him from thence,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Saying, he’ll lave it dry to have his way:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So do I wish, the crown being so far off,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And so I chide the means that keep me from it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">And so (I say) I’ll cut the causes off,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Flatt’ring my mind with things impossible.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Third Part Henry</i> VI. <i>act 3. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Out, out, brief candle!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And then is heard no more.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Macbeth, act 5. sc. 5.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O thou Goddess,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thou divine Nature! how thyself thou blazon’st<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In these two princely boys! they are as gentle<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As zephyrs blowing below the violet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">(Their royal blood inchas’d) as the rud’st wind,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That by the top doth take the mountain-pine,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And make him stoop to th’ vale.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Cymbeline, act 4. sc. 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The sight obtained of the city of Jerusalem by the Christian army,
compared to that of land discovered after a long voyage, Tasso’s
<i>Gierusalem, canto 3. st. 4.</i> The fury of Rinaldo subsiding when not
opposed, to that of wind or water when it has a free passage, <i>canto 20.
st. 58.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span></p>

<p>As words convey but a faint and obscure notion of great numbers, a poet,
to give a high notion of the object he describes with regard to number,
does well to compare it to what is familiar and commonly known. Thus
Homer<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> compares the Grecian army in point of number to a swarm of
bees. In another passage<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> he compares it to that profusion of leaves
and flowers which appear in the spring, or of insects in a summer’s
evening. And Milton,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; As when the potent rod<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of Amram’s son in Egypt’s evil day<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wav’d round the coast, up call’d a pitchy cloud<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That o’er the realm of impious Pharaoh hung<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like night, and darken’d all the land of Nile:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So numberless were those bad angels seen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hovering on wing under the cope of hell,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost, book 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Such comparisons have, by some writers<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a>, been condemned for the
lowness of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> the images introduced: but surely without reason; for, with
regard to numbers, they put the principal subject in a strong light.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>The foregoing comparisons operate by resemblance; others have the same
effect by contrast:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>York.</i> I am the last of Noble Edward’s sons,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In war, was never lion rag’d more fierce;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In peace, was never gentle lamb more mild;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Than was that young and princely gentleman.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His face thou hast; for even so look’d he,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Accomplish’d with the number of thy hours.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But when he frown’d, it was against the French,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And not against his friends. His noble hand<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Did win what he did spend; and spent not that<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which his triumphant father’s hand had won.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His hands were guilty of no kindred’s blood,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But bloody with the enemies of his kin.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Oh, Richard! York is too far gone with grief,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or else he never would compare between.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard</i> II. <i>act 2. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Milton has a peculiar talent in embellishing the principal subject by
associating it with others that are agreeable, which is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> the third end
of a comparison. Similes of this kind have, beside, a separate effect:
they diversify the narration by new images that are not strictly
necessary to the comparison: they are short episodes, which, without
distracting us from the principal subject, afford great delight by their
beauty and variety:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He scarce had ceas’d, when the superior fiend<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Was moving toward the shore; his pond’rous shield,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Behind him cast; the broad circumference<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At ev’ning from the top of Fesole,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Milton, b. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i5">&mdash;&mdash; Thus far these, beyond<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Compare of mortal prowess, yet observ’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their dread commander. He, above the rest<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In shape and gesture proudly eminent,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stood like a tow’r; his form had yet not lost<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All her original brightness, nor appear’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Less than arch-angel ruin’d, and th’ excess<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of glory obscur’d: as when the sun new-risen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Looks through the horizontal misty air<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shorn of his beams; or from behind the moon<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On half the nations, and with fear of change<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Perplexes monarchs.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Milton, b. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">As when a vulture on Imaus bred,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whose snowy ridge the roving Tartar bounds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dislodging from a region scarce of prey<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To gorge the flesh of lambs, or yeanling kids,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On hills where flocks are fed, flies toward the springs<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of Ganges or Hydaspes, Indian streams,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But in his way lights on the barren plains<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of Sericana, where Chineses drive<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With sails and wind their cany waggons light:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So on this windy sea of land, the fiend<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Walk’d up and down alone, bent on his prey.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Milton, b. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; Yet higher than their tops<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The verdurous wall of Paradise up sprung:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which to our general sire gave prospect large<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Into this nether empire neighbouring round.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And higher than that wall, a circling row<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of goodliest trees loaden with fairest fruit,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Appear’d, with gay enamel’d colours mix’d,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">On which the sun more glad impress’d his beams<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When God hath show’r’d the earth; so lovely seem’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That landscape: and of pure now purer air<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vernal delight and joy, able to drive<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All sadness but despair: now gentle gales<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fanning their odoriferous wings dispense<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Those balmy spoils. As when to them who sail<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mozambic, off at sea North-east winds blow<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sabean odour from the spicy shore<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of Arabie the Blest; with such delay<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Well pleas’d they slack their course, and many a league,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Chear’d with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Milton, b. 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">With regard to similes of this kind, it will readily occur to the
reader, that when the resembling subject or circumstance is once
properly introduced in a simile, the mind passes easily to the new
objects, and is transitorily amused with them, without feeling any
disgust at the slight interruption. Thus, in fine weather, the momentary
excursions of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> a traveller for agreeable prospects or sumptuous
buildings, chear his mind, relieve him from the langour of uniformity,
and without much lengthening his journey in reality, shorten it greatly
in appearance.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Next of comparisons that aggrandize or elevate. These make stronger
impressions than any other sort; the reason of which may be gathered
from the chapter of grandeur and sublimity, and, without reasoning, will
be evident from the following instances.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">As when a flame the winding valley fills,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And runs on crackling shrubs between the hills,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then o’er the stubble up the mountain flies,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fires the high woods, and blazes to the skies,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This way and that, the spreading torrent roars;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So sweeps the hero through the wasted shores.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Around him wide, immense destruction pours,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And earth is delug’d with the sanguine show’rs.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> xx. 569.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Through blood, through death, Achilles still proceeds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O’er slaughter’d heroes, and o’er rolling steeds.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">As when avenging flames with fury driv’n<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On guilty towns exert the wrath of Heav’n,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The pale inhabitants, some fall, some fly,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the red vapours purple all the sky.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So rag’d Achilles: Death, and dire dismay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And toils, and terrors, fill’d the dreadful day.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> xxi. 605.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Methinks, King Richard and myself should meet<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With no less terror than the elements<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of fire and water, when their thund’ring shock,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard</i> II. <i>act. 3. sc. 5</i>.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">I beg peculiar attention to the following simile, for a reason that
shall be mentioned.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Thus breathing death, in terrible array,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The close-compacted legions urg’d their way:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fierce they drove on, impatient to destroy;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Troy charg’d the first, and Hector first of Troy.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As from some mountain’s craggy forehead torn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A rock’s round fragment flies with fury born,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">(Which from the stubborn stone a torrent rends)<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Precipitate the pond’rous mass descends:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From steep to steep the rolling ruin bounds:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At every shock the crackling wood resounds;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Still gath’ring force, it smoaks; and urg’d amain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">There stops&mdash;So Hector. Their whole force he prov’d,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Resistless when he rag’d; and when he stopt, unmov’d.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> xiii. 187.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The image of a falling rock is certainly not elevating<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a>. Yet
undoubtedly the foregoing image fires and swells the mind. It is grand
therefore, if not sublime. And that there is a real, though delicate
distinction, betwixt these two feelings, will be illustrated from the
following simile.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So saying, a noble stroke he lifted high,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fell<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On the proud crest of Satan, that no sight,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor motion of swift thought, less could his shield<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Such ruin intercept. Ten paces huge<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He back recoil’d; the tenth on bended knee<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His massy spear upstaid; as if on earth<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Winds under ground or waters forcing way<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sidelong had push’d a mountain from his seat<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Half sunk with all pines.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Milton, b. 6.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<p>A comparison by contrast may contribute to grandeur or elevation, not
less than by resemblance; of which the following comparison of Lucan is
a remarkable instance.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Victrix causa diis placuit, sed victa Catoni.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Considering that the Heathen deities possessed a rank but one degree
above that of mankind, I think it scarce possible, by a single
expression, to elevate or dignify more one of the human species, than is
done by this comparison. I am sensible, at the same time, that such a
comparison among Christians, who entertain juster notions of the Deity,
would justly be reckoned extravagant and absurd.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>The last article mentioned, is that of lessening or depressing a hated
or disagreeable object; which is effectually done by resembling it to
any thing that is low or despicable. Thus Milton, in his description of
the rout of the rebel-angels, happily expresses their terror and dismay
in the following simile.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span></p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; As a herd<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of goats or timorous flock together throng’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Drove them before him thunder-struck, pursu’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With terrors and with furies to the bounds<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And crystal wall of heav’n, which op’ning wide,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rowl’d inward, and a spacious gap disclos’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Into the wasteful deep; the monstrous sight<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Strook them with horror backward, but far worse<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Urg’d them behind; headlong themselves they threw<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Down from the verge of heav’n.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Milton, b. 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">In the same view, Homer, I think, may be defended, in comparing the
shouts of the Trojans in battle, to the noise of cranes<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a>, and to the
bleating of a flock of sheep<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a>: and it is no objection, that these are
low images; for by opposing the noisy march of the Trojans to the silent
and manly march of the Greeks, he certainly intended to lessen the
former. Addison<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a>, imagining the figure that men make in the sight of a
superior being, takes opportunity to mor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span>tify their pride by comparing
them to a swarm of pismires.</p>

<p>A comparison that has none of the good effects mentioned in this
discourse, but is built upon common and trifling circumstances, makes a
mighty silly figure: “Non sum nescius, grandia consilia a multis
plerumque causis, ceu magna navigia a plurimis remis, impelli<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a>.”</p>

<p>By this time I imagine the different purposes of comparison, and the
various impressions it makes on the mind, are sufficiently illustrated
by proper examples. This was an easy work. It is more difficult to lay
down rules about the propriety or impropriety of comparisons; in what
circumstances they may be introduced, and in what circumstances they are
out of place. It is evident, that a comparison is not proper upon every
occasion; a man in his cool and sedate moments, is not disposed to
poetical flights, nor to sacrifice truth and reality to the delusive
operations of the imagination; far less is he so disposed, when
oppressed with cares, or interested in some important transaction<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> that
occupies him totally. The region of comparison and of all figurative
expression, lies betwixt these two extremes. It is observable, that a
man, when elevated or animated by any passion, is disposed to elevate or
animate all his objects: he avoids familiar names, exalts objects by
circumlocution and metaphor, and gives even life and voluntary action to
inanimate beings. In this warmth of mind, the highest poetical flights
are indulged, and the boldest similes and metaphors relished<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a>. But
without soaring so high, the mind is frequently in a tone to relish
chaste and moderate ornament; such as comparisons that set the principal
object in a strong point of view, or that embellish and diversify the
narration. In general, when by any animating passion, whether pleasant
or painful, an impulse is given to the imagination; we are in that
condition wonderfully disposed to every sort of figurative expression,
and in particular to com<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span>parisons. This in a great measure is evident
from the comparisons already mentioned; and shall be further illustrated
by other examples. Love, for example, in its infancy, rousing the
imagination, prompts the heart to display itself in figurative language,
and in similes:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Troilus.</i> Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne’s love,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her bed is India, there she lies, a pearl:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Between our Ilium, and where she resides,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let it be call’d the wild and wandering flood;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Troilus and Cressida, act 1. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Again,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Come, gentle Night; come, loving black-brow’d Night!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Take him, and cut him out in little stars,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And he will make the face of heav’n so fine,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That all the world shall be in love with Night<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And pay no worship to the garish sun.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span><span class="i5"><i>Romeo and Juliet, act 3. sc. 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The dread of a misfortune, however imminent, involving always some doubt
and uncertainty, agitates the mind, and excites the imagination:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Wolsey.</i>&mdash;&mdash; Nay, then, farewell;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ve touch’d the highest point of all my greatness;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And from that full meridian of my glory<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I haste now to my setting. I shall fall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like a bright exhalation in the evening,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And no man see me more.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Henry VIII. act 3. sc. 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>But it will be a better illustration of the present head, to give
examples where comparisons are improperly introduced. I have had already
occasion to observe, that similes are not the language of a man in his
ordinary state of mind, going about the common affairs of life. For that
reason, the following speech of a gardiner to his servants, is extremely
improper.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Go bind thou up yon dangling apricocks<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which, like unruly children, make their sire<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Give some supportance to the bending twigs.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Go thou, and like an executioner,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cut off the heads of too-fast-growing sprays,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That look too lofty in our commonwealth:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All must be even in our government.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard II. act 3. sc. 7.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The fertility of Shakespear’s vein betrays him frequently into this
error. There is the same impropriety in another simile of his:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Hero.</i> Good Margaret, run thee into the parlour;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursula<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is all of her; say, that thou overheard’st us:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And bid her steal into the pleached bower,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where honeysuckles, ripen’d by the sun,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Forbid the sun to enter; like to favourites,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Made proud by princes, that advance their pride<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Against that power that bred it.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Much ado about nothing, act 3. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Rooted grief, deep anguish, terror, remorse, despair, and all the severe
dispiriting passions, are declared enemies, perhaps not to figurative
language in general, but undoubtedly to the pomp and solemnity of
comparison.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> Upon this account the simile pronounced by young Rutland
under terror of death from an inveterate enemy, and praying mercy, is
unnatural:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That trembles under his devouring paws;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And so he walks insulting o’er his prey,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And not with such a cruel threat’ning look.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Third part Henry VI. act 1. sc. 5.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Nothing appears more out of place, or more aukwardly introduced, than
the following simile.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Lucia.</i>&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;Farewell, my Portius,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Farewell, though death is in the word, <i>for-ever</i>!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Portius.</i> Stay, Lucia, stay; what dost thou say, <i>for-ever</i>?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Lucia.</i> Have I not sworn? If, Portius, thy success<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Must throw thy brother on his fate, farewell:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Oh, how shall I repeat the word <i>for-ever</i>!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Portius.</i> Thus, o’er the dying lamp th’ unsteady flame<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hangs quivering on a point, leaps off by fits,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And falls again, as loath to quit its hold.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; Thou must not go, my soul still hovers o’er thee,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And can’t get loose.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Cato, act 3. sc. 2.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Nor doth the simile which closes the first act of the same tragedy, make
its appearance with a much better grace; the situation there
represented, being too dispiriting for a simile. A simile is improper
for one who dreads the discovery of a secret machination.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Zara.</i> The mute not yet return’d! Ha! $1’the King,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The King that parted hence! frowning he went;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His eyes like meteors roll’d, then darted down<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their red and angry beams; as if his sight<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Would, like the raging Dog-star, scorch the earth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And kindle ruin in its course.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Mourning Bride, act 5. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">A man spent and dispirited after losing a battle, is not disposed to
heighten or illustrate his discourse by similes:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>York.</i> With this we charg’d again; but out! alas,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We bodg’d again; as I have seen a swan<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">With bootless labour swim against the tide,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And spend her strength with over-matching waves.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ah! hark, the fatal followers do pursue.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And I am faint and cannot fly their fury.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The sands are number’d that make up my life;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Here must I stay, and here my life must end.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Third part Henry VI. act 1. sc. 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Far less is a man disposed to similes who is not only defeated in a
pitch’d battle, but lies at the point of death mortally wounded.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Warwick.</i>&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; My mangled body shews,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shews,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That I must yield my body to the earth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thus yields the cedar to the ax’s edge,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Under whose shade the ramping lion slept,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whose top-branch overpeer’d Jove’s spreading tree,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And kept low shrubs from winter’s pow’rful wind.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Third part Henry VI. act 5. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Queen Katharine, deserted by the King and in the deepest affliction upon
her divorce, could not be disposed to any sallies of imagination: and
for that reason, the fol<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span>lowing simile, however beautiful in the mouth
of a spectator, is scarce proper in her own.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I am the most unhappy woman living,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shipwreck’d upon a kingdom, where no pity,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No friends, no hope! no kindred weep for me!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Almost no grave allowed me! like the lily,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That once was mistress of the field, and flourish’d,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ll hang my head and perish.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>King Henry VIII. act 3. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Similes thus unseasonably introduced, are finely ridiculed in the
<i>Rehearsal</i>:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Bayes.</i> Now here she must make a simile.</p>

<p><i>Smith.</i> Where’s the necessity of that, Mr Bayes?</p>

<p><i>Bayes.</i> Because she’s surpris’d; that’s a general rule; you must
ever make a simile when you are surprised; ’tis a new way of
writing.</p></div>

<p>A comparison is not always faultless, even where it is properly
introduced. I have endeavoured above to give a general view of the
different ends to which a comparison may contribute. A comparison, like
other human productions, may fall short of its end; and of this defect
instances are not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> rare even among good writers. To complete the present
subject, it will be necessary to make some observations upon such faulty
comparisons. I begin with observing, that nothing can be more erroneous
than to institute a comparison too faint: a distant resemblance or
contrast, fatigues the mind with its obscurity instead of amusing it,
and tends not to fulfil any one end of a comparison. The following
similes seem to labour under this defect:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Albus ut obscuro deterget nubila cœlo<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sæpe Notus, neque parturit imbres<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Perpetuos: sic tu sapiens finire memento<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tristitiam vitæque labores<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Molli, Plance, mero.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horace, Carm. l. 1. ode 7.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Medio dux agmine Turnus<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vertitur arma tenens, et toto vertice supra est,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ceu septem surgens sedatis amnibus altus<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Per tacitum Ganges: aut pingui flumine Nilus<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cum refluit campis, et jam se condidit alveo.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid ix. 28.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Talibus orabat, talesque miserrima fletus<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fertque refertque soror; sed nullus ille movetur<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fletibus, aut voces ullas tractabilis audit.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fata obstant: placidasque viri Deus obstruit aures.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ac veluti annoso validam cum robore quercum<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Alpini Boreæ, nunc hinc, nunc flatibus illinc<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Eruere inter se certant; it stridor; et alte<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Consternunt terram concusso stipite frondes:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ipsa hæret scopulis: et quantum vertice ad auras<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Æthereas, tantum radice in tartara tendit.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Haud secus assiduis hinc atque hinc vocibus heros<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tunditur, et magno persentit pectore curas:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mens immota manet, lacrymæ volvuntur inanes.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid iv. 437.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>K. Rich.</i> Give me the crown.&mdash;Here, cousin, seize the crown,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Here, on this side, my hand; on that side, thine.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Now is this golden crown like a deep well,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That owes two buckets, filling one another;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The emptier ever dancing in the air,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The other down, unseen and full of water;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That bucket down, and full of tears, am I;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard II. act 4. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>King John.</i> Oh! Cousin, thou art come to set mine eye;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The tackle of my heart is crack’d and burnt;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all the shrowds wherewith my life should sail,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Are turned to one thread, one little hair:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which holds but till thy news be uttered.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>King John, act 5. sc. 10.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>York.</i> My uncles both are slain in rescuing me:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all my followers, to the eager foe<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Turn back, and fly like ships before the wind,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or lambs pursu’d by hunger-starved wolves.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Third Part Henry</i> VI. <i>act 1. sc. 6</i>.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The latter of the two similes is good. The former, because of the
faintness of the resemblance, produces no good effect, and crowds the
narration with an useless image.</p>

<p>The next error I shall mention is a capital one. In an epic poem, or in
any elevated subject, a writer ought to avoid raising a simile upon a
low image, which never fails to bring down the principal subject. In
general, it is a rule, that a grand object ought never to be resembled
to one that is diminutive, however delicate the resemblance may be. It
is the peculiar character<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> of a grand object to fix the attention, and
swell the mind: in this state, it is disagreeable to contract the mind
to a minute object, however elegant. The resembling an object to one
that is greater, has, on the contrary, a good effect, by raising or
swelling the mind. One passes with satisfaction from a small to a great
object; but cannot be drawn down, without reluctance, from great to
small. Hence the following similes are faulty.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Meanwhile the troops beneath Patroculus’ care,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Invade the Trojans, and commence the war.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As wasps, provok’d by children in their play,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pour from their mansions by the broad high-way,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In swarms the guiltless traveller engage,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whet all their stings, and call forth all their rage;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All rise in arms, and with a general cry<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Assert their waxen domes, and buzzing progeny:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thus from the tents the fervent legion swarms,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So loud their clamours, and so keen their arms.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> xvi. 312.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So burns the vengeful hornet (soul all o’er)<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Repuls’d in vain, and thirsty still of gore;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">(Bold son of air and heat) on angry wings<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Untam’d, untir’d, he turns, attacks and stings.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fir’d with like ardour fierce Atrides flew,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And sent his soul with ev’ry lance he threw.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> xvii. 642.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Instant ardentes Tyrii: pars ducere muros,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Molirique arcem, er manibus subvolvere saxa;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pars aptare locum tecto, et concludere sulco.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Jura magistratusque legunt, sanctumque senatum.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hic portus alii effodiunt: hic alta theatris<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fundamenta locant alii, immanesque columnas<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rupibus excidunt, scenis decora alta futuris.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Quails apes æstate nova per florea rura<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Exercet sub sole labor, cum gentis adultos<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Educunt fœtus, aut cum liquentia mella<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stipant, et dulci distendunt nectare cellas,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Aut onera accipiunt venientum, aut agmine facto<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ignavum fucos pecus a præsepibus arcent.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fervet opus, redolentque thymo fragrantia mella.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid</i> i. 427.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">To describe bees gathering honey as resembling the builders of Carthage,
would have a much better effect.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Tum vero Teucri incumbunt, et littore celsas<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Deducunt toto naves: natat uncta carina;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Frondentesque ferunt remos, et robora sylvis<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Infabricata, fugæ studio.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Migrantes cernas, totaque ex urbe ruentes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ac veluti ingentem formicæ farris acervum<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cum populant, hyemis memores, tectoque reponunt:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It nigrum campis agmen, prædamque per herbas<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Convectant calle angusto: pars grandia trudunt<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Obnixæ frumenta humeris: pars agmina cogunt,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Castigantque moras: opere omnis semita fervet.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid.</i> iv. 397.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The following simile has not any one beauty to recommend it. The subject
is Amata the wife of King Latinus.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Tum vero infelix, ingentibus excita monstris,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Immensam sine more furit lymphata per urbem:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ceu quondam torto volitans sub verbere turbo,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Quem pueri magno in gyro vacua atria circum<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Intenti ludo exercent. Ille actus habena<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Curvatis fertur spatiis: stupet inscia turba,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Impubesque manus, mirata volubile buxum:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dant animos plagæ. Non cursu segnior illo<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Per medias urbes agitur, populosque feroces.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid.</i> vii. 376.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">This simile seems to border upon the burlesque.</p>

<p>An error opposite to the former, is the introducing a resembling image,
so elevated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> or great as to bear no proportion to the principal subject.
The remarkable disparity betwixt them, being the most striking
circumstance, seizes the mind, and never fails to depress the principal
subject by contrast, instead of raising it by resemblance: and if the
disparity be exceeding great, the simile takes on an air of burlesque;
nothing being more ridiculous than to force an object out of its proper
rank in nature, by equalling it with one greatly superior or greatly
inferior. This will be evident from the following comparisons.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Fervet opus, redolentque thymo fragrantia mella.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ac veluti lentis Cyclopes fulmina massis<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cum properant: alii taurinis follibus auras<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Accipiunt, redduntque: alii stridentia tingunt<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Æra lacu: gemit impositis incudibus Ætna:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Illi inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In numerum; versantque tenaci forcipe ferrum.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Non aliter (si parva licet componere magnis)<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cecropias innatus apes amor urget habendi,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Munere quamque suo. Grandævis oppida curæ,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Et munire favos, et Dædala fingere tecta.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At fessæ multâ referunt se necte minores,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Crura thymo plenæ: pascuntur et arbuta passim,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Et glaucas salices, casiamque crocumque rubentem,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Et pinguem tiliam, et ferrugineos hyacinthos.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Omnibus una quies operum, labor omnibus unus.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Georgic.</i> iv. 169.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Tum Bitian ardentem oculis animisque frementem;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Non jaculo, neque enim jaculo vitam ille dedisset;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sed magnum stridens contorta falarica venit<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fulminis acta modo, quam nec duo taurea terga,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nec duplici squama lorica fidelis et auro<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sustinuit: collapsa ruunt immania membra:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dat tellus gemitum, et clypeum super intonat ingens.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Qualis in Euboico Baiarum littore quondam<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Saxea pila cadit, magnis quam molibus ante<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Constructam jaciunt ponto: sic illa ruinam<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Prona trahit, penitusque vadis illisa recumbit:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Miscent se maria, et nigræ attolluntur arenæ:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tum sonitu Prochyta alta tremit, durumque cubile<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Inarime Jovis imperiis imposta Typhoëo.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid.</i> ix. 703.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Loud as a bull makes hill and valley ring,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So roar’d the lock when it releas’d the spring.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Odyssey</i> xxi. 51.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Such a simile upon the simplest of all actions, that of opening a lock,
is pure burlesque.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span></p>

<p>A writer of delicacy will avoid drawing his comparisons from any image
that is nauseous, ugly, or remarkably disagreeable: for however strong
the resemblance may be, more will be lost than gained by such
comparison. Therefore I cannot help condemning, though with some
reluctance, the following simile, or rather metaphor.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O thou fond many! with what loud applause<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Did’st thou beat heav’n with blessing Bolingbroke<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Before he was what thou wou’dst have him be?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And now being trimm’d up in thine own desires,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That thou provok’st thyself to cast him up.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And now thou wou’dst eat thy dead vomit up,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And howl’st to find it.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Second Part Henry IV. act 1. sc. 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The strongest objection that can lie against a comparison, is, that it
consists in words only, not in sense. Such false coin, or bastard wit,
does extremely well in burlesque; but is far below the dignity of the
epic, or of any serious composition:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span></p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The noble sister of Poplicola,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The moon of Rome; chaste as the isicle<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That’s curdled by the frost from purest snow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And hangs on Dian’s temple.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Coriolanus, act 5. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">There is evidently no resemblance betwixt an isicle and a woman, chaste
or unchaste. But chastity is cold in a metaphorical sense, and an isicle
is cold in a proper sense; and this verbal resemblance, in the hurry and
glow of composing, has been thought a sufficient foundation for the
simile. Such phantom similes are mere witticisms, which ought to have no
quarter, except where purposely introduced to provoke laughter. Lucian,
in his dissertation upon history, talking of a certain author, makes the
following comparison, which is verbal merely.</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>This author’s descriptions are so cold, that they surpass the
Caspian snow, and all the ice of the north.</p></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span></p>

<p class="nind">Virgil has not escaped this puerility:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; Galathæa thymo mihi dulcior Hyblæ.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Bucol.</i> vii. 37.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; Ego Sardois videar tibi amarior herbis.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Ibid.</i> 41.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Gallo, cujus amor tantum mihi crescit in horas,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Quantum vere novo viridis se subjicit alnus.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Buccol.</i> x. 73.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Nor Tasso, in his Aminta:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Picciola e’ l’ape, e fa col picciol morso<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pur gravi, e pur moleste le ferite;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ma, qual cosa é più picciola d’amore,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Se in ogni breve spatio entra, e s’asconde<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In ogni breve spatio? hor, sotto a l’ombra<br /></span>
<span class="i0">De le palpebre, hor trà minuti rivi<br /></span>
<span class="i0">D’un biondo crine, hor dentro le pozzette,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Che forma un dolce riso in bella guancia;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">E pur fá tanto grandi, e si mortali,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">E cosi immedicabili le piaghe.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Act 2. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Nor Boileau, the chastest of all writers; and that even in his art of
poetry:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span></p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ainsi tel autrefois, qu’on vit avec Faret<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Charbonner de ses vers les murs d’un cabaret,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">S’en va mal a’ propos, d’une voix insolente,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Chanter du peuple He’breu la suite triomphante,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Et poursuivant Moise au travers des déserts,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Court avec Pharaon se noyer dans les mers.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Chant. 1. l. 21.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; But for their spirits and souls<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This word <i>rebellion</i> had froze them up<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As fish are in a pond.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Second Part Henry IV. act 1. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Queen</i>. The pretty vaulting sea refus’d to drown me;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Knowing, that thou wou’dst have me drown’d on shore<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Second Part Henry VI. act 3. sc. 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Here there is no manner of resemblance but in the word <i>drown</i>; for
there is no real resemblance betwixt being drown’d at sea, and dying of
grief at land. But perhaps this sort of tinsel wit, may have a propriety
in it, when used to express an affected, not a real, passion, which was
the Queen’s case.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span></p>

<p>Pope has several similes of the same stamp. I shall transcribe one or
two from the <i>Essay on Man</i>, the gravest and most instructive of all his
performances.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And hence one master-passion in the breast,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like Aaron’s serpent, swallows up the rest.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Epist. 2. l. 131.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">And again, talking of this same ruling or master passion.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Nature its mother, Habit is its nurse;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wit, spirit, faculties, but make it worse;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Reason itself but gives it edge and pow’r;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As heav’n’s blest beam turns vinegar more sowr.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Ibid. l. 145.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Lord Bolingbroke, speaking of historians:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Where their sincerity as to fact is doubtful, we strike out truth
by the confrontation of different accounts; as we strike out sparks
of fire by the collision of flints and steel.</p></div>

<p class="nind">Let us vary the phrase a very little, and there will not remain a shadow
of resemblance. Thus, for example:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span></p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>We discover truth by the confrontation of different accounts; as
we strike out sparks of fire by the collision of flints and steel.</p></div>

<p class="nind">Racine makes Pyrrhus say to Andromaque,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Vaincu, chargé de fers, de regrets consumé,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Brulé de plus de feux que je n’en allumai,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Helas! fus-je jamais si cruel que vous l’etés?<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">And Orestes, in the same strain:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Que les Scythes sont moins cruels qu’ Hermione.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Similes of this kind put one in mind of a ludicrous French song:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Je croyois Janneton<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Aussi douce que belle:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Je croyois Janneton<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Plus douce qu’un mouton;<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Helas! helas!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Elle est cent fois, mille fois, plus cruelle<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Que n’est le tigre aux bois.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Again,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Helas! l’amour m’a pris,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Comme le chat fait la souris.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">A vulgar Irish ballad begins thus:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I have as much love in store<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As there’s apples in Portmore.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Where the subject is burlesque or ludicrous, such similes are far from
being improper. Horace says pleasantly,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Quanquam tu levior cortice.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>L. 3. ode 9.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">And Shakespear,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In breaking oaths he’s stronger than Hercules.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>And this leads me to observe, that beside the foregoing comparisons,
which are all serious, there is a species, the end and purpose of which
is to excite gaiety or mirth. Take the following examples.</p>

<p>Falstaff, speaking to his page:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>I do here walk before thee, like a sow that hath overwhelmed all
her litter but one.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Second Part Henry IV. act 1. sc. 4.</i><br />
</p></div>

<div class="blockquot"><p>I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horse-stealer; but for his
verity in love, I do think him as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> concave as a cover’d goblet, or
a worm-eaten nut.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>As you like it, act 3. sc. 10.</i><br />
</p></div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">This sword a dagger had his page,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That was but little for his age;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And therefore waited on him so<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As dwarfs upon knights-errant do.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Hudibras, canto 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Desciption of Hudibras’s horse:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He was well stay’d, and in his gait<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Preserv’d a grave, majestic state.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At spur or switch no more he skipt,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or mended pace, than Spaniard whipt:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And yet so fiery he would bound,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As if he griev’d to touch the ground:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That Cæsar’s horse, who, as fame goes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Had corns upon his feet and toes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Was not by half so tender hooft,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor trod upon the ground so soft.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And as that beast would kneel and stoop,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">(Some write) to take his rider up;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So Hudibras his (’tis well known)<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Would often do, to set him down.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Canto 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Honour is, like a widow, won<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With brisk attempt and putting on,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">With entering manfully, and urging;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Not slow approaches, like a virgin.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Canto 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The sun had long since in the lap<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of Thetis taken out his nap;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, like a lobster boil’d, the morn<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From black to red began to turn.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Part 2. canto 2.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Books, like men, their authors, have but one way of coming into the
world; but there are ten thousand to go out of it, and return no
more.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Tale of a Tub.</i><br />
</p></div>

<div class="blockquot"><p>And in this the world may perceive the difference between the
integrity of a generous author, and that of a common friend. The
latter is observed to adhere close in prosperity, but on the
decline of fortune, to drop suddenly off: whereas the generous
author, just on the contrary, finds his hero on the dunghill, from
thence by gradual steps raises him to a throne, and then
immediately withdraws, expecting not so much as thanks for his
pains.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Tale of a Tub.</i><br />
</p></div>

<div class="blockquot"><p>The most accomplish’d way of using books at present is, to serve
them as some do lords, learn<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> their <i>titles</i>, and then brag of
their acquaintance.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Tale of a Tub</i>.<br />
</p></div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Box’d in a chair, the beau impatient sits,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While spouts run clatt’ring o’er the roof by fits;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And ever and anon with frightful din<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The leather sounds; he trembles from within.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pregnant with Greeks, impatient to be freed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Instead of paying chairmen, run them through),<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And each imprison’d hero quak’d for fear.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Description of a city shower. Swift.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With throngs promiscuous strow the level green.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thus when dispers’d a routed army runs,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of Asia’s troops, and Afric’s sable sons,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With like confusion different nations fly,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of various habit, and of various dye,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The pierc’d battalions disunited, fall<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In heaps on heaps; one fate o’erwhelms them all.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Rape of the Lock, canto 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="blockquot"><p>He does not consider, that sincerity in love is as much out of
fashion as sweet snuff; no body takes it now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span></p>

<p class="r">
<i>Careless Husband.</i><br />
</p></div>

<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Lady Easy.</i> My dear, I am afraid you have provoked her a little
too far.</p>

<p><i>Sir Charles.</i> O! Not at all. You shall see, I’ll sweeten her, and
she’ll cool like a dish of tea.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Ibid.</i><br />
</p></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAP_XX" id="CHAP_XX"></a>CHAP. XX.</h2>

<p class="chead"><span class="spc">FIGURES</span>.</p>

<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>H<span class="smcap">e</span> reader must not expect to find here a complete list of the different
tropes and figures that have been carefully noted by ancient critics and
grammarians. Tropes and figures have indeed been multiplied with so
little reserve, as to make it no easy matter to distinguish them from
plain language. A discovery almost accidental, made me think of giving
them a place in this work: I found that the most important of them
depend on principles formerly explained; and I was glad of an
opportunity to show the extensive influence of these principles.
Confining myself therefore to figures that answer this purpose, I am
luckily freed from much trash; without dropping, so far as I remember,
any figure that merits a proper<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> name. And I begin with Prosopopœia or
personification, which is justly intitled to the first place.</p>

<h3>SECT. I.</h3>

<p class="chead"><i>PERSONIFICATION.</i></p>

<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>H<span class="c">is</span> figure, which gives life to things inanimate, is so bold a delusion
as to require, one should imagine, very peculiar circumstances for
operating the effect. And yet, in the language of poetry, we find
variety of expressions, which, though commonly reduced to this figure,
are used without ceremony or any sort of preparation. I give, for
example, the following expressions. <i>Thirsty</i> ground, <i>hungry</i>
church-yard, <i>furious</i> dart, <i>angry</i> ocean. The epithets here, in their
proper meaning, are attributes of sensible beings. What is the effect of
such epithets, when apply’d to things inanimate? Do they raise in the
mind of the reader a perception of sensibility? Do they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> make him
conceive the ground, the church-yard, the dart, the ocean, to be endued
with animal functions? This is a curious inquiry; and whether so or not,
it cannot be declined in handling the present subject.</p>

<p>One thing is certain, that the mind is prone to bestow sensibility upon
things inanimate, where that violent effect is necessary to gratify
passion. This is one instance, among many, of the power of passion to
adjust our opinions and belief to its gratification<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a>. I give the
following examples. Antony, mourning over the body of Cæsar, murdered in
the senate-house, vents his passion in the following words.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Antony.</i> O pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That I am meek and gentle with these butchers.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thou art the ruins of the noblest man<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That ever lived in the tide of times.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Julius Cæsar, act 3. sc. 4</i>.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Here Antony must have been impressed with some sort of notion, that the
body of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> Cæsar was listening to him, without which the speech would be
foolish and absurd. Nor will it appear strange, after what is said in
the chapter above cited, that passion should have such power over the
mind of man. Another example of the same kind is, where the earth, as a
common mother, is animated to give refuge against a father’s unkindness.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>Almeria</i>. O Earth, behold, I kneel upon thy bosom,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And bend my flowing eyes to stream upon<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy face, imploring thee that thou wilt yield;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Open thy bowels of compassion, take<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Into thy womb the last and most forlorn<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of all thy race. Hear me thou, common parent;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; I have no parent else.&mdash;&mdash; Be thou a mother,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And step between me and the curse of him,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who was&mdash;who was, but is no more a father;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But brands my innocence with horrid crimes;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And for the tender names of <i>child</i> and <i>daughter</i>,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Now calls me <i>murderer</i> and <i>parricide</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Mourning Bride, act. 4. sc. 7</i>.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Plaintive passions are extremely solicitous for vent. A soliloquy
commonly answers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> the purpose. But when a passion swells high, it is not
satisfied with so slight a gratification: it must have a person to
complain to; and if none be found, it will animate things devoid of
sense. Thus Philoctetes complains to the rocks and promontories of the
isle of Lemnos<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a>; and Alcestes dying, invokes the sun, the light of
day, the clouds, the earth, her husband’s palace, <i>&amp;c.</i><a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a>. Plaintive
passions carry the mind still farther. Among the many principles that
connect individuals in society, one is remarkable: it is that principle
which makes us earnestly wish, that others should enter into our
concerns and think and feel as we do<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a>. This social principle, when
inflamed by a plaintive passion, will, for want of a more complete
gratification, prompt the mind to give life even to things inanimate.
Moschus, lamenting the death of Bion, conceives that the birds, the
fountains, the trees, lament with him. The shepherd,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> who in Virgil
bewails the death of Daphnis, expresseth himself thus:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Daphni, tuum Pœnos etiam ingemuisse leones<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Interitum, montesque feri sylvæque loquuntur.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Eclogue</i> v. 27.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Again,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Illum etiam lauri, illum etiam flevere myricæ.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pinifer illum etiam sola sub rupe jacentem<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mænalus, et gelidi fleverunt saxa Lycæi.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Eclogue</i> x. 13.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Again,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Ho visto al pianto mio<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Responder per pietate i sassi e l’onde;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">E sospirar le fronde<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Ho visto al pianto mio.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Ma non ho visto mai,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Ne spero di vedere<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Compassion ne la crudele, e bella.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Aminta di Tasso, act 1. sc. 2.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Earl Rivers carried to execution, says,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fatal and ominous to Noble peers!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Within the guilty closure of thy walls<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Richard the Second, here, was hack’d to death;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, for more slander to thy dismal seat,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We give to thee our guiltless blood to drink.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard III, act 3. sc. 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">King Richard having got intelligence of Bolingbroke’s invasion, says,
upon his landing in England from his Irish expedition, in a mixture of
joy and resentment,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; I weep for joy<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To stand upon my kingdom once again.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Though rebels wound thee with their horses hoofs.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As a long parted mother with her child<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So weeping, smiling, greet I thee my earth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And do thee favour with my royal hands.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Feed not thy sovereign’s foe, my gentle earth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor with thy sweets comfort his rav’nous sense:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But let thy spiders that suck up thy venom,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Doing annoyance to the treach’rous feet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which with usurping steps do trample thee.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Guard it, I pr’ythee, with a lurking adder;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Throw death upon thy sovereign’s enemies.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mock not my senseless conjuration, Lords:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This earth shall have a feeling; and these stones<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shall faulter under foul rebellious arms.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard II. act 3. sc. 2.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Among the ancients, it was customary after a long voyage to salute the
natal soil. A long voyage, was of old a greater enterprise than at
present: the safe return to one’s country after much fatigue and danger,
was a circumstance extremely delightful; and it was natural to give the
natal soil a temporary life, in order to sympathise with the traveller.
See an example, <i>Agamemnon</i> of Æschilus, act 3. in the beginning. Regret
for leaving a place one has been accustomed to has the same effect<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a>.</p>

<p>Terror produceth the same effect. A man, to gratify this passion,
extends it to every thing around, even to things inanimate:</p>

<p class="nind">Speaking of Polyphemus,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Clamorem immensum tollit, quo pontus et omnes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Intremuere undæ penitusque exterrita tellus<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Italiæ.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid.</i> iii. 672.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; As when old Ocean roars,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And heaves huge surges to the <i>trembling</i> shores.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> ii. 249.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And thund’ring footsteps <i>shake</i> the sounding shore.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> ii. 549.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then with a voice that <i>shook</i> the vaulted skies.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> v. 431.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Racine, in the tragedy of <i>Phedra</i>, describing the sea-monster that
destroy’d Hippolitus, conceives the sea itself to be inspired with
terror as well as the spectators; or more accurately transfers from the
spectators their terror to the sea, with which they were connected:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Le flot qui l’apporta recule epouvanté.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>A man also naturally communicates his joy to all objects around, animate
or inanimate:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; As when to them who sail<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sabean odour from the spicy shore<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of Araby the Blest; with such delay<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Well pleas’d, they slack their course, and many a league<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Chear’d with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost, b. 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>I have been profuse of examples, to show what power many passions have
to animate their objects. In all the foregoing examples, the
personification, if I mistake not, is so complete as to be derived from
an actual conviction, momentary indeed, of life and intelligence. But it
is evident from numberless instances, that personification is not always
so complete. Personification is a common figure in descriptive poetry,
understood to be the language of the writer, and not of any of his
personages in a fit of passion. In this case, it seldom or never comes
up to a conviction, even momentary, of life and intelligence. I give the
following examples.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">First in <i>his</i> east the glorious lamp was seen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Regent of day, and all th’ horizon round<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Invested with bright rays; jocund to run<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>His</i> longitude through heav’n’s high road: the gray<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dawn, and the Pleiades before <i>him</i> danc’d,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shedding sweet influence. Less bright the moon<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But opposite, in levell’d west was set<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>His</i> mirror, with full face borrowing <i>her</i> light<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From <i>him</i>; for other light <i>she</i> needed none.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost, b. 7. l. 370.</i><a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Romeo and Juliet, act 3. sc. 7.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastward hill.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Hamlet, act 1. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">It may, I presume, be taken for granted, that, in the foregoing
instances, the personification, either with the poet or his reader,
amounts not to a conviction of intelligence; nor that the sun, the moon,
the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> day, the morn, are here understood to be sensible beings. What then
is the nature of this personification? Upon considering the matter
attentively, I discover that this species of personification must be
referred to the imagination. The inanimate object is imagined to be a
sensible being, but without any conviction, even for a moment, that it
really is so. Ideas or fictions of imagination have power to raise
emotions in the mind<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a>; and when any thing inanimate is, in
imagination, supposed to be a sensible being, it makes by that means a
greater figure than when an idea is formed of it according to truth. The
elevation however in this case, is far from being so great as when the
personification arises to an actual conviction; and therefore must be
considered as of a lower or inferior sort. Thus personification is of
two kinds. The first or nobler, may be termed <i>passionate
personification</i>: the other, or more humble, <i>descriptive
personification</i>; because seldom or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> never is personification in a
description carried the length of conviction.</p>

<p>The imagination is so lively and active, that its images are raised with
very little effort; and this justifies the frequent use of descriptive
personification. This figure abounds in Milton’s <i>Allegro</i> and
<i>Penseroso</i>.</p>

<p>Abstract and general terms, as well as particular objects, are often
necessary in poetry. Such terms however are not well adapted to poetry,
because they suggest not any image to the mind: I can readily form an
image of Alexander or Achilles in wrath; but I cannot form an image of
wrath in the abstract, or of wrath independent of a person. Upon that
account, in works addressed to the imagination, abstract terms are
frequently personified. But this personification never goes farther than
the imagination.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sed mihi vel Tellus optem prius ima dehiscat;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vel pater omnipotens adigat me fulmine ad umbras,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pallentes umbras Erebi, noctemque profundam,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ante pudor quam te violo, aut tua jura resolvo.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. 4. l. 24.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Thus, to explain the effects of slander, it is imagined to be a
voluntary agent:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; No, ’tis Slander;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Out venoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All corners of the world, kings, queens, and states,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Maids, matrons: nay, the secrets of the grave<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This viperous Slander enters.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Shakespear, Cymbeline, act. 3. sc. 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">As also human passions. Take the following example.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;For Pleasure and Revenge<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Have ears more deaf than adders, to the voice<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of any true decision.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Troilus and Cressida, act 2. sc. 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Virgil explains fame and its effects by a still greater variety of
action<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a>. And Shakespear personifies death and its operations in a
manner extremely fanciful:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span></p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; Within the hollow crown<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That rounds the mortal temples of a king,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Keeps Death his court; and there the antic sits,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Allowing him a breath, a little scene<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To monarchize, be fear’d, and kill with looks;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Infusing him with self and vain conceit,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As if his flesh, which walls about our life,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Were brass impregnable; and humour’d thus,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Comes at the last, and with a little pin<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bores through his castle-walls, and farewell king!<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard</i> II. <i>act 3. sc. 4</i>.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Not less successfully is life and action given even to sleep:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>K. Henry.</i> How many thousands of my poorest subjects<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Are at this hour asleep! O gentle Sleep,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids down,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And steep my senses in forgetfulness?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why rather, Sleep, ly’st thou in smoky cribs,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Than in the perfum’d chambers of the great,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Under the canopies of costly state,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">And lull’d with sounds of sweetest melody?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O thou dull god, why ly’st thou with the vile<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In loathsome beds, and leav’st the kingly couch,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A watch-case to a common larum-bell?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Seal up the ship-boy’s eyes, and rock his brains<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In cradle of the rude imperious surge;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And in the visitation of the winds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who take the ruffian billows by the top,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With deaf’ning clamours in the slipp’ry shrouds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That, with the hurly, Death itself awakes:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Can’st thou, O partial Sleep, give thy repose<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, in the calmest and the stillest night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With all appliances and means to boot,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Deny it to a king? Then, happy low! lie down;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Second Part Henry</i> IV. <i>act 3. sc. 1</i>.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">I shall add one example more, to show that descriptive personification
may be used with propriety, even where the purpose of the discourse is
instruction merely:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh! let the steps of youth be cautious,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How they advance into a dangerous world;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Our duty only can conduct us safe:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Our passions are seducers: but of all,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The strongest Love: he first approaches us,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In childish play, wantoning in our walks:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If heedlessly we wander after him,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As he will pick out all the dancing way,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We’re lost, and hardly to return again.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We should take warning: he is painted blind,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To show us, if we fondly follow him,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The precipices we may fall into.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Therefore let Virtue take him by the hand:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Directed so, he leads to certain joy.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Southern.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Hitherto our progress has been upon firm ground. Whether we shall be so
lucky in the remaining part of the journey, seems doubtful. For after
acquiring some knowledge of the subject, when we now look back to the
expressions mentioned in the beginning, <i>thirsty</i> ground, <i>furious</i>
dart, and such like, it seems as difficult as at first to say what sort
of personification it is. Such expressions evidently raise not the
slighted conviction of sensibility. Nor do I think they amount to
descriptive personification: in the expressions mentioned, we do not so
much as figure the ground or the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> dart to be animated; and if so, they
cannot at all come under the present subject. And to show this more
clearly, I shall endeavour to explain what effect such expressions have
naturally upon the mind. In the expression <i>angry ocean</i>, for example,
do we not tacitly compare the ocean in a storm, to a man in wrath? It is
by this tacit comparison, that the expression acquires a force or
elevation, beyond what is found when an epithet is used proper to the
object: for I have had occasion to show<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a>, that a thing inanimate
acquires a certain elevation by being compared to a sensible being. And
this very comparison is itself a demonstration, that there is no
personification in such expressions. For, by the very nature of a
comparison, the things compared are kept distinct, and the native
appearance of each is preserved. It will be shown afterward, that
expressions of this kind belong to another figure, which I term <i>a
figure of speech</i>, and which employs the seventh section of the present
chapter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span></p>

<p>Though thus in general we can precisely distinguish descriptive
personification from what is merely a figure of speech, it is however
often difficult to say, with respect to some expressions, whether they
are of the one kind or of the other. Take the following instances.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When the sweet wind did gently <i>kiss</i> the trees,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And they did make no noise; in such a night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan wall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And sigh’d his soul towards the Grecian tents<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where Cressid lay that night.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Merchant of Venice, act 5. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; I have seen<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Th’ <i>ambitious</i> ocean swell, and rage, and foam,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To be exalted with the threat’ning clouds.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Julius Cæsar, act 1. sc. 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>Jane Shore.</i> My form, alas! has long forgot to please;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The scene of beauty and delight is chang’d,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No roses bloom upon my fading cheek,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No laughing graces wanton in my eyes;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But haggard Grief, lean-looking sallow Care,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">And pining Discontent, a rueful train,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dwell on my brow, all hideous and forlorn.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Jane Shore, act 1. sc. 2.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">With respect to these and numberless other instances of the same kind,
whether they be examples of personification or of a figure of speech
merely, seems to be an arbitrary question. They will be ranged under the
former class by those only who are endued with a sprightly imagination.
Nor will the judgement even of the same person be steady: it will vary
with the present state of the spirits, lively or composed.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Having thus at large explained the present figure, its different kinds,
and the principles from whence derived; what comes next in order is to
ascertain its proper province, by showing in what cases it is suitable,
in what unsuitable. I begin with observing, upon passionate
personification, that this figure is not promoted by every passion
indifferently. All dispiriting passions are averse to it. Remorse, in
particular, is too serious and severe, to be gratified by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> a phantom of
the mind. I cannot therefore approve the following speech of Enobarbus,
who had deserted his master Antony.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When men revolted shall upon record<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Before thy face repent&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Oh sovereign mistress of true melancholy,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The poisonous damp of night dispunge upon me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That life, a very rebel to my will,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">May hang no longer on me.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Antony and Cleopatra, act 4. sc. 7.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">If this can be justified, it must be upon the Heathen system of
theology, which converted into deities the sun, moon, and stars.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Secondly, After a passionate personification is properly introduced, it
ought to be confined strictly to its proper province, that of gratifying
the passion; and no sentiment nor action ought to be exerted by the
animated object, but what answers that purpose. Personification is at
any rate a bold figure, and ought to be employed with great reserve. The
passion of love, for ex<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span>ample, in a plaintive tone, may give a momentary
life to woods and rocks, that the lover may vent his distress to them:
but no passion will support a conviction so far stretched, as that these
woods and rocks should be living witnesses to report the distress to
others:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ch’i’ t’ami piu de la mia vita,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Se tu nol fai, crudele,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Chiedilo a queste selve,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Che te’l diranno, et te’l diran con esso<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Le fere loro e i duri sterpi, e i sassi<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Di questi alpestri monti,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ch’i’ ho si spesse volte<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Inteneriti al suon de’ miei lamenti.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Pastor fido, act 3. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">No lover who is not crazed will utter such a sentiment: it is plainly
the operation of the writer, indulging his imagination without regard to
nature. The same observation is applicable to the following passage.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In winter’s tedious nights sit by the fire<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of woful ages, long ago betid:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">And ere thou bid goodnight, to quiet their grief,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tell them the lamentable fall of me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And send the hearers weeping to their beds.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For why! the senseless brands will sympathise<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And in compassion weep the fire out.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard II. act 5. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">One must read this passage very seriously to avoid laughing. The
following passage is quite extravagant: the different parts of the human
body are too intimately connected with self, to be personified by the
power of any passion; and after converting such a part into a sensible
being, it is still worse to make it be conceived as rising in rebellion
against self.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Cleopatra</i>. Haste, bare my arm, and rouze the serpent’s fury.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Coward flesh&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Would’st thou conspire with Cæsar, to betray me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As thou wert none of mine? I’ll force thee to’t.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Dryden, All for Love, act 5.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Next comes descriptive personification; upon which I must observe in
general, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span> it ought to be cautiously used. A personage in a tragedy,
agitated by a strong passion, deals in strong sentiments; and the
reader, catching fire by sympathy, relishes the boldest
personifications. But a writer, even in the most lively description,
ought to take a lower flight, and content himself with such easy
personifications as agree with the tone of mind inspired by the
description. In plain narrative, again, the mind, serious and sedate,
rejects personification altogether. Strada, in his history of the Belgic
wars, has the following passage, which, by a strained elevation above
the tone of the subject, deviates into burlesk. “Vix descenderat a
prætoria navi Cæsar; cum fœda illico exorta in portu tempestas, classem
impetu disjecit, prætoriam hausit: quasi non vecturam amplius Cæsarem,
Cæsarisque fortunam<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a>.” Neither do I approve, in Shakespear, the
speech of King John, gravely exhorting the citizens of Angiers to a
surrender; though a tragic writer has much greater latitude than a
hi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span>storian. Take the following specimen of this speech.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The cannons have their bowels full of wrath;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And ready mounted are they to spit forth<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their iron-indignation ’gainst your walls.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Act 2. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Secondly, If extraordinary marks of respect put upon a person of the
lowest rank be ridiculous, not less so is the personification of a mean
object. This rule chiefly regards descriptive personification: for an
object can hardly be mean that is the cause of a violent passion; in
that circumstance, at least, it must be an object of importance. With
respect to this point, it would be in vain to set limits to
personification: taste is the only rule. A poet of superior genius hath
more than others the command of this figure; because he hath more than
others the power of inflaming the mind. Homer appears not extravagant in
animating his darts and arrows: nor Thomson in animating the seasons,
the winds, the rains, the dews. He even ventures to animate the diamond,
and doth it with propriety.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span></p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; That polish’d bright<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all its native lustre let abroad,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dares, as it sparkles on the fair-one’s breast,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With vain ambition emulate her eyes.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">But there are things familiar and base, to which personification cannot
descend. In a composed state of mind, to animate a lump of matter even
in the most rapid flight of fancy, degenerates into burlesk.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">How now? What noise? that spirit’s possess’d with haste,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That wounds th’ unresisting postern with these strokes.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Shakespear, Measure for Measure, act 4. sc. 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The following little better:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; Or from the shore<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The plovers when to scatter o’er the heath,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And sing their wild notes to the list’ning waste.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Thomson, Spring, l. 23.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Speaking of a man’s hand cut off in battle:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Te decisa suum, Laride, dextera quærit:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Semianimesque micant digiti; ferrumque retractant.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. x. 395.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The personification here of a hand is insufferable, especially in a
plain narration; not to mention that such a trivial incident is too
minutely described.</p>

<p class="nind">The same observation is applicable to abstract terms, which ought not to
be animated unless they have some natural dignity. Thomson, in this
article, is quite licentious. Witness the following instances out of
many.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O vale of bliss! O softly swelling hills!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On which <i>the power of cultivation</i> lies,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And joys to see the wonders of his toil.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Summer, l. 1423</i>.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then sated <i>Hunger</i> bids his brother <i>Thirst</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Produce the mighty bowl:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor wanting is the brown October, drawn<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mature and perfect, from <i>his</i> dark retreat<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of thirty years; and now <i>his honest front</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Flames in the light refulgent.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Autumn, l. 516.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Thirdly, it is not sufficient to avoid improper subjects. Some
preparation is necessary, in order to rouze the mind. The i<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span>magination
refuses its aid, till it be warmed at least, if not inflamed. Yet
Thomson, without the least ceremony or preparation, introduceth each
season as a sensible being:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">From brightening fields of æther fair disclos’d,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Child of the sun, refulgent Summer comes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In pride of youth, and felt through Nature’s depth.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He comes attended by the sultry hours,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And ever-fanning breezes, on his way,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While from his ardent look, the turning Spring<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Averts her blushful face, and earth and skies<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Summer, l. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">See <i>Winter</i> comes, to rule the vary’d year,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sullen and sad with all his rising train,<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>Vapours</i>, and <i>clouds</i>, and <i>storms</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Winter, l. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">This has violently the air of writing mechanically without taste. It is
not natural, that the imagination of a writer should be so much heated
at the very commencement; and, at any rate, he cannot expect such
ductility in his readers: but if this practice can be justified by
authority,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> Thomson has one of no mean note: Vida begins his first
eclogue in the following words.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Dicite, vos Musæ, et juvenum memorate querelas;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dicite; nam motas ipsas ad carmina cautes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Et requiesse suos perhibent vaga flumina cursus.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Even Shakespear is not always careful to prepare the mind for this bold
figure. Take the following instance:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Upon these taxations,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The clothiers all, not able to maintain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The many to them ’longing, have put off<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers; who,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Unfit for other life, compell’d by hunger<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And lack of other means, in desp’rate manner<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Daring th’ event to th’ teeth, are all in uproar,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And <i>Danger</i> serves among them.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Henry VIII. act 1. sc. 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Fourthly, Descriptive personification ought never to be carried farther
than barely to animate the subject: and yet poets are not easily
restrained from making this phantom of their own creating behave and act
in every respect as if it were really a sensible<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span> being. By such licence
we lose sight of the subject; and the description is rendered obscure or
unintelligible, instead of being more lively and striking. In this view,
the following passage, describing Cleopatra on shipboard, appears to me
exceptionable.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Burnt on the water; the poop was beaten gold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The winds were love sick with ’em.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Antony and Cleopatra, act 2. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Let the winds be personified; I make no objection. But to make them
love-sick, is too far stretched; having no resemblance to any natural
action of wind. In another passage, where Cleopatra is also the subject,
the personification of the air is carried beyond all bounds:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; The city cast<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Its people out upon her; and Antony<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Inthron’d i’ th’ market-place, did sit alone,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whistling to th’ air, which but for vacancy,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And made a gap in nature.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Antony and Cleopatra, act 2. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The following personification of the earth or soil is not less wild.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">She shall be dignify’d with this high honour<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To bear my Lady’s train; lest the base earth<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And of so great a favour growing proud,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Disdain to root the summer swelling flower,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And make rough winter everlastingly.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>The Two Gentlemen of Verona, act 2. sc. 7.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Shakespear, far from approving such intemperance of imagination, puts
this speech in the mouth of a ranting lover. Neither can I relish what
follows.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Omnia quæ, Phœbo quondam meditante, beatus<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Audiit Eurotas, jussitque ediscere lauros,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ille canit.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Virgil, Buc. vi. 82.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The chearfulness singly of a pastoral song, will scarce support
personification in the lowest degree. But admitting, that a river gently
flowing may be imagined a sensible being listening to a song, I cannot
enter into the conceit of the river’s ordering his laurels to learn the
song. Here all resem<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span>blance to any thing real is quite lost. This
however is copied literally by one of our greatest poets; early indeed,
before maturity of taste or judgement.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Thames heard the numbers as he flow’d along,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And bade his willows learn the moving song.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Pope’s Pastorals, past. 4. l. 13.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">This author, in riper years, is guilty of a much greater deviation from
the rule. Dullness may be imagined a deity or idol, to be worshipped by
bad writers: but then some sort of disguise is requisite, some bastard
virtue must be bestowed, to give this idol a plausible appearance. Yet
in the <i>Dunciad</i>, dullness, without the least disguise, is made the
object of worship. The mind rejects such a fiction as unnatural; for
dullness is a defect, of which even the dullest mortal is ashamed:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then he: great tamer of all human art, &amp;c.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Book i. 163.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The following instance is stretched beyond all resemblance. It is bold
to take a part<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> or member of a living creature, and to bestow upon it
life, volition, and action: after animating two such members, it is
still bolder to make them envy each other; for this is wide of any
resemblance to reality:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; De nostri baci<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Meritamente sia giudice quella, &amp;c.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Pastor Fido, act 2. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Fifthly, The enthusiasm of passion may have the effect to prolong
passionate personification: but descriptive personification cannot be
dispatched in too few words. A minute description dissolves the charm,
and makes the attempt to personify appear ridiculous. Homer succeeds in
animating his darts and arrows: but such personification spun out in a
French translation, is mere burlesk:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Et la fléche en furie, avide de son sang,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Part, vole à lui, l’atteint, et lui perce le flanc.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Horace says happily, “Post equitem sedet atra Cura.” See how this
thought dege<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span>nerates by being divided, like the former, into a number of
minute parts:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Un fou rempli d’erreurs, que le trouble accompagne<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Et malade à la ville ainsi qu’à la campagne,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">En vain monte à cheval pour tromper son ennui,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Le Chagrin monte en croupe et galope avec lui.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The following passage is, if possible, still more faulty.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Her fate is whisper’d by the gentle breeze,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And told in sighs to all the trembling trees;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The trembling trees, in ev’ry plain and wood,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her fate remurmur to the silver flood;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The silver flood, so lately calm, appears<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Swell’d with new passion, and o’erflows with tears;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The winds, and trees, and floods, her death deplore,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Daphne, our grief! our glory! now no more.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Pope’s Pastorals, iv. 61.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Let grief or love have the power to animate the winds, the trees, the
floods, provided the figure be dispatched in a single expression. Even
in that case, the figure seldom has a good effect; because grief or love
of the pastoral kind, are causes rather too faint for so violent an
effect as imagining the winds,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> trees, or floods, to be sensible beings.
But when this figure is deliberately spread out with great regularity
and accuracy through many lines, the reader, instead of relishing it, is
struck with its ridiculous appearance.</p>

<h3><a name="SECT_II" id="SECT_II"></a>SECT. II.</h3>

<p class="chead"><i>APOSTROPHE.</i></p>

<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HIS figure and the former are derived from the same principle. If, to
gratify a plaintive passion, we can bestow a momentary sensibility upon
an inanimate object, it is not more difficult to bestow a momentary
presence upon a sensible being who is absent.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hinc Drepani me portus et illætabilis ora<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Accipit. Hic, pelagi tot tempestatibus actus,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Heu! genitorem, omnis curæ casusque levamen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Amitto Anchisen: <i>hic me pater optime fessum</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>Deseris</i>, heu! tantis nequiequam erepte periclis.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nec vates Helenus, cum multa horrenda moneret,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hos mihi prædixit luctus; non dira Celæno.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. iii. 707.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">This figure is sometimes joined with the former: things inanimate, to
qualify them for listening to a passionate expostulation, are not only
personified, but also conceived to be present.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Et, si fata Deûm, si mens non læva fuisset,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Impulerat ferro Argolicas fœdare latebras:<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>Trojaque nunc stares, Priamique arx alta maneres</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. ii. 54.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>Helena.</i>&mdash;&mdash; Poor Lord, is’t I<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That chase thee from thy country, and expose<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Those tender limbs of thine to the event<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of non-sparing war? And is it I<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That ride upon the violent speed of fire,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fly with false aim; pierce the still moving air,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That sings with piercing; do not touch my Lord.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>All’s well that ends well, act 3. sc. 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>This figure, like all others, requires an agitation of mind. In plain
narrative, as, for example, in giving the genealogy of a family, it has
no good effect:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span></p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;Fauno Picus pater; isque parentem<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Te, Saturne, refert; tu sanguinis ultimus auctor.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. vii. 48.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<h3><a name="SECT_III" id="SECT_III"></a>SECT. III.</h3>

<p class="chead"><i>HYPERBOLE.</i></p>

<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>N this figure we have another effect of the foregoing principle. An
object uncommon with respect to size, either very great of its kind or
very little, strikes us with surprise; and this emotion, like all
others, prone to gratification, forces upon the mind a momentary
conviction that the object is greater or less than it is in reality. The
same effect, precisely, attends figurative grandeur or littleness. Every
object that produceth surprise by its singularity, is always seen in a
false light while the emotion subsists: circumstances are exaggerated
beyond truth; and it is not till after the emotion subsides, that things
appear as they are. A writer, taking advantage of this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> natural
delusion, enriches his description greatly by the hyperbole. And the
reader, even in his coolest moments, relishes this figure, being
sensible that it is the operation of nature upon a warm fancy.</p>

<p>It will be observed, that a writer is generally more successful in
magnifying by a hyperbole than in diminishing: a minute object contracts
the mind, and fetters its power of conception; but the mind, dilated and
inflamed with a grand object, moulds objects for its gratification with
great facility. Longinus, with respect to the diminishing power of a
hyperbole, cites the following ludicrous thought from a comic poet. “He
was owner of a bit of ground not larger than a Lacedemonian letter.<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a>”
But, for the reason now given, the hyperbole has by far the greater
force in magnifying objects; of which take the following specimen.</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>For all the land which thou seest, to thee will I give it, and to
thy seed for ever. And I will make thy seed as the dust of the
earth: so that if a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> man can number the dust of the earth, then
shall thy seed also be numbered.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Genesis xiii. 15. 16.</i><br />
</p></div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Illa vel intactæ segetis per summa volaret<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gramina: nec teneras cursu læsisset aristas.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. vii. 808.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; Atque imo barathri ter gurgite vastos<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sorbet in abruptum fluctus, rursusque sub auras<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Erigit alternos, et sidera verberat undà.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. iii. 421.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; Horrificis juxta tonat Ætna ruinis,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Interdumque atram prorumpit ad æthera nubem,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Turbine fumantem piceo et candente favilla:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Attollitque globos flammarum, et sidera lambit.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. iii. 571.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Speaking of Polyphemus,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; Ipse arduus, altaque pulsat Sidera.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. iii. 619.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; When he speaks,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The air, a charter’d libertine, is still.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Henry V. act 1. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Now shield with shield, with helmet helmet clos’d,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To armour armour, lance to lance oppos’d,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Host against host with shadowy squadrons drew,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The sounding darts in iron tempests flew,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Victors and vanquish’d join promiscuous cries,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And shrilling shouts and dying groans arise;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With streaming blood the slipp’ry fields are dy’d,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And slaughter’d heroes swell the dreadful tide.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad iv. 508.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The following may also pass, though stretched pretty far.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Econjungendo à temerario ardire<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Estrema forza, e infaticabil lena<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vien che si’ impetuoso il ferro gire,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Che ne trema la terra, e’l ciel balena.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Gierusalem, cant. 6. st. 46.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Quintilian<a name="FNanchor_23_23" id="FNanchor_23_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a> is sensible that this figure is natural. “For,” says he,
“not contented with truth, we naturally incline to augment or diminish
beyond it; and for that reason the hyperbole is familiar even among the
vulgar and illiterate.” And he adds, very justly, “That the hyperbole is
then proper, when the subject of itself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> exceeds the common measure.”
From these premisses, one would not expect the following conclusion, the
only reason he can find for justifying this figure of speech.
“Conceditur enim amplius dicere, quia dici quantum est, non potest:
meliusque ultra quam citra stat oratio.” (We are indulged to say more
than enough, because we cannot say enough; and it is better to be over
than under). In the name of wonder, why this slight and childish reason,
when immediately before he had made it evident, that the hyperbole is
founded on human nature? I could not resist this personal stroke of
criticism, intended not against our author, for no human creature is
exempt from error; but against the blind veneration that is paid to the
ancient classic writers, without distinguishing their blemishes from
their beauties.</p>

<p>Having examined the nature of this figure, and the principle on which it
is erected; I proceed, as in the first section, to some rules by which
it ought to be governed. And in the first place, it is a capital fault
to introduce an hyperbole in the de<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span>scription of an ordinary object or
event which creates no surprise. In such a case, the hyperbole is
altogether unnatural, being destitute of surprise, the only foundation
that can support it. Take the following instance, where the subject is
extremely familiar, <i>viz.</i> swimming to gain the shore after a shipwreck.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I saw him beat the surges under him,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And ride upon their backs; he trode the water;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The surge most swoln that met him: his bold head<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Himself with his good arms, in lusty strokes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To th’ shore, that o’er his wave-born basis bow’d,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As stooping to relieve him.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Tempest, act 2. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>In the next place, it may be gathered from what is said, that an
hyperbole can never suit the tone of any dispiriting passion. Sorrow in
particular will never prompt such a figure; and for that reason the
following hyperboles must be condemned as unnatural.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span></p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>K. Rich.</i> Aumerle, thou weep’st, my tender-hearted cousin!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We’ll make foul weather with despised tears;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Our sighs, and they, shall lodge the summer-corn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And make a dearth in this revolting land.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard II. Act 3. Sc. 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Draw them to Tyber’s bank, and weep your tears<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Into the channel, till the lowest stream<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Julius Cæsar, act 1. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Thirdly, a writer, if he wish to succeed, ought always to have the
reader in his eye. He ought in particular never to venture a bold
thought or expression, till the reader be warmed and prepared for it.
For this reason, an hyperbole in the beginning of any work can never be
in its place. Example:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Jam pauca aratro jugera regiæ<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Moles relinquent.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. Carm. lib. 2. ode. 15.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>In the fourth place, the nicest point of all, is to ascertain the
natural limits of an hyperbole, beyond which being overstrained it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> has
a bad effect. Longinus, in the above-cited chapter, with great propriety
of thought, enters a caveat against an hyperbole of this kind. He
compares it to a bowstring, which relaxes by overstraining, and
produceth an effect directly opposite to what is intended. I pretend not
to ascertain any precise boundary: the attempt would be difficult, if
not impracticable. I must therefore be satisfied with an humbler task,
which is, to give a specimen of what I reckon overstrained hyperboles;
and I shall be also extremely curt upon this subject, because examples
are to be found every where. No fault is more common among writers of
inferior rank; and instances are found even among those of the finest
taste; witness the following hyperbole, too bold even for an Hotspur.</p>

<p class="nind">Hotspur talking of Mortimer:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In single opposition hand to hand,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He did confound the best part of an hour<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In changing hardiment with great Glendower.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Three times they breath’d, and three times did they drink,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who then affrighted with their bloody looks,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And hid his crisp’d head in the hollow bank<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Blood-stained with these valiant combatants.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>First Part Henry IV. act 1. sc. 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Speaking of Henry V.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">England ne’er had a King until his time:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Virtue he had, deserving to command:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His brandish’d sword did blind men with its beams:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His arms spread wider than a dragon’s wings:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His sparkling eyes, replete with awful fire,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">More dazzled, and drove back his enemies,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What should I say? his deeds exceed all speech:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He never lifted up his hand, but conquer’d.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>First Part Henry VI. act 1. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Lastly, an hyperbole after it is introduced with all advantages, ought
to be comprehended within the fewest words possible. As it cannot be
relished but in the hurry and swelling of the mind, a leisurely view
dissolves the charm, and discovers the description to be extravagant at
least, and perhaps also ridiculous. This fault is pal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span>pable in a sonnet
which passeth for one of the most complete in the French language.
Phillis is made as far to outshine the sun as he outshines the stars.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Le silence regnoit sur la terre et sur l’onde,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">L’air devenoit serain, <i>&amp;c.</i><br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Collection of French epigrams, vol. 1. p. 66.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">There is in Chaucer a thought expressed in a single line, which sets a
young beauty in a more advantageous light, than the whole of this
much-laboured poem.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Up rose the sun, and up rose Emelie.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<h3><a name="SECT_IV" id="SECT_IV"></a>SECT. IV.</h3>

<p class="chead"><i>The means or instrument conceived to be the agent.</i></p>

<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>N viewing a group of things, we have obviously a natural tendency to
bestow all possible perfection upon that particular object which makes
the greatest figure. The emotion raised by the object, is, by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> this
means, thoroughly gratified; and if the emotion be lively, it prompts us
even to exceed nature in the conception we form of the object. Take the
following examples.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">For Neleus’ sons Alcides’ <i>rage</i> had slain.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A broken rock the <i>force</i> of Pirus threw.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">In these instances, the rage of Hercules and the force of Pirus, being
the capital circumstances, are so far exalted as to be conceived the
agents that produce the effects.</p>

<p>In the following instance, hunger being the chief circumstance in the
description, is itself imagined to be the patient.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Whose hunger has not tasted food these three days.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Jane Shore.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; As when the <i>force</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of subterranean wind transports a hill.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; As when the <i>potent rod</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of Amram’s son in Egypt’s evil day<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wav’d round the coast, upcall’d a pitchy cloud<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of locusts.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span><span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<h3><a name="SECT_V" id="SECT_V"></a>SECT. V.</h3>

<p class="chead"><i>A figure, which, among related objects, extends properties of one to
another.</i></p>

<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HIS figure is not dignified with a proper name, because it has been
overlooked by all writers. It merits, however, place in this work; and
must be distinguished from those formerly handled, as depending on a
different principle. <i>Giddy brink</i>, <i>jovial wine</i>, <i>daring wound</i>, are
examples of this figure. Here are expressions that certainly import not
the ordinary relation of an adjective to its substantive. A <i>brink</i>, for
example, cannot be termed <i>giddy</i> in a proper sense: neither can it be
termed <i>giddy</i> in any figurative sense that can import any of its
qualities or attributes. When we attend to the expression, we discover
that a <i>brink</i> is termed <i>giddy</i> from producing that effect in those who
stand on it. In the same manner a wound is said to be daring,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span> not with
respect to itself, but with respect to the boldness of the person who
inflicts it: and wine is said to be jovial, as inspiring mirth and
jollity. Thus the attributes of one subject, are extended to another
with which it is connected; and such expression must be considered as a
figure, because it deviates from ordinary language.</p>

<p>How are we to account for this figure, for we see it lies in the
thought, and to what principle shall we refer it? Have poets a privilege
to alter the nature of things, and at pleasure to bestow attributes upon
subjects to which these attributes do not belong? It is an evident
truth, which we have had often occasion to inculcate, that the mind, in
idea, passeth easily and sweetly along a train of connected objects;
and, where the objects are intimately connected, that it is disposed to
carry along the good or bad properties of one to another; especially
where it is in any degree inflamed with these properties<a name="FNanchor_24_24" id="FNanchor_24_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a>. From this
principle is derived the figure under consideration.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> Language, invented
for the communication of thought, would be imperfect, if it were not
expressive even of the slighter propensities and more delicate feelings.
But language cannot remain so imperfect, among a people who have
received any polish; because language is regulated by internal feeling,
and is gradually so improved as to express whatever passes in the mind.
Thus, for example, a sword in the hand of a coward, is, in poetical
diction, termed <i>a coward sword</i>: the expression is significative of an
internal operation; for the mind, in passing from the agent to its
instrument, is disposed to extend to the latter the properties of the
former. Governed by the same principle, we say <i>listening</i> fear, by
extending the attribute <i>listening</i> of the man who listens, to the
passion with which he is moved. In the expression, <i>bold deed</i>, or
<i>audax facinus</i>, we extend to the effect, what properly belongs to the
cause. But not to waste time by making a commentary upon every
expression of this kind, the best way to give a complete view of the
subject, is to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> exhibit a table of the different connections that may
give occasion to this figure. And in viewing this table, it will be
observed, that the figure can never have any grace but where the
connections are of the most intimate kind.</p>

<p>1. An attribute of the cause expressed as an attribute of the effect.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
Audax facinus.<br /><br />
Of yonder fleet a <i>bold</i> discovery make.<br /><br />
An impious mortal gave the <i>daring</i> wound.<br />
<br />
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; To my <i>adventrous</i> song,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That with no middle flight intends to soar.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>2. An attribute of the effect expressed as an attribute of the cause.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Quos periisse ambos <i>misera</i> censebam in mari.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Plautus.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">No wonder, fallen such a <i>pernicious</i> height.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span><span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>3. An effect expressed as an attribute of the cause.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Jovial wine, Giddy brink, Drowsy night, Musing<br /></span>
<span class="i0">midnight, Panting height, Astonish’d thought,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mournful gloom.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Casting a dim <i>religious</i> light.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Milton, Comus.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And the <i>merry</i> bells ring round,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the <i>jocund</i> rebecks sound.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Milton, Allegro.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>4. An attribute of a subject bestowed upon one of its parts or members.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Longing arms.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">It was the nightingale, and not the lark,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That pierc’d the <i>fearful</i> hollow of thine ear.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Romeo and Juliet, act 3. sc. 7.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Oh, lay by<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Those most ungentle looks and angry weapons;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Unless you mean my griefs and killing fears<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Should stretch me out at your <i>relentless</i> feet.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Fair Penitent, act 3.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; And ready now<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To stoop with <i>wearied</i> wing, and <i>willing</i> feet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On the bare outside of this world.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost, b. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>5. A quality of the agent given to the instrument with which it
operates.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Why peep your <i>coward</i> swords half out their shells?<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>6. An attribute of the agent given to the subject upon which it
operates.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">High-climbing hill.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Milton.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>7. A quality of one subject given to another.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Icci, <i>beatis</i> nunc Arabum invides<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gazis.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Hora. Carm. l. 1. ode 29.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">When sapless age, and weak unable limbs,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Should bring thy father to his <i>drooping</i> chair.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Shakespear.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">By art, the pilot through the boiling deep<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And howling tempest, steers the <i>fearless</i> ship.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad xxiii. 385.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then, nothing loath, th’ enamour’d fair he led,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And sunk transported on the <i>conscious</i> bed.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Odyss.</i> viii. 337.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A <i>stupid</i> moment motionless she stood.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Summer, l. 1336.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>8. A circumstance connected with a subject, expressed as a quality of
the subject.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Breezy summit.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">’Tis ours the chance of fighting fields to try.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> i. 301.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh! had I dy’d before that well-fought wall.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Odyss.</i> v. 395.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>From this table it appears, that the expressing an effect as an
attribute of the cause, is not so agreeable as the opposite expression.
The descent from cause to effect is natural and easy: the opposite
direction resembles retrograde motion<a name="FNanchor_25_25" id="FNanchor_25_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a>. <i>Panting height</i>, for
example, <i>astonish’d thought</i>, are strained and uncouth expressions,
which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> a writer of taste will avoid. For the same reason, an epithet is
unsuitable, which at present is not applicable to the subject, however
applicable it may be afterward.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Submersasque</i> obrue puppes.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. i. 73</i>.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And mighty <i>ruins</i> fall.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> v. 411.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Impious sons their <i>mangled</i> fathers wound.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Another rule regards this figure, That the property of one object ought
not to be bestowed upon another with which it is incongruous:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>K. Rich.</i>&mdash;&mdash; How dare thy joints forget<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To pay their <i>awful</i> duty to our presence.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard</i> II. <i>act 3. sc. 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The connection betwixt an awful superior and his submissive dependent is
so intimate, that an attribute may readily be transferred from the one
to the other. But awfulness cannot be so transferred, because it is
inconsistent with submission.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="SECT_VI" id="SECT_VI"></a>SECT VI.</h3>

<p class="chead"><i>Metaphor and Allegory.</i></p>

<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span> Metaphor differs from a simile, in form only, not in substance. In a
simile the two different subjects are kept distinct in the expression,
as well as in the thought: in a metaphor, the two subjects are kept
distinct in thought only, not in expression. A hero resembles a lion,
and upon that resemblance many similes have been made by Homer and other
poets. But instead of resembling a lion, let us take the aid of the
imagination, and feign or figure the hero to be a lion. By this
variation the simile is converted into a metaphor; which is carried on
by describing all the qualities of a lion that resemble those of the
hero. The fundamental pleasure here, that of resemblance, belongs to
thought as distinguished from expression. There is an additional
pleasure which arises from the expression.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> The poet, by figuring his
hero to be a lion, goes on to describe the lion in appearance, but in
reality the hero; and his description is peculiarly beautiful, by
expressing the virtues and qualities of the hero in new terms, which,
properly speaking, belong not to him, but to a different being. This
will better be understood by examples. A family connected with a common
parent, resembles a tree, the trunk and branches of which are connected
with a common root. But let us suppose, that a family is figured not
barely to be like a tree, but to be a tree; and then the simile will be
converted into a metaphor, in the following manner.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Edward’s sev’n sons, whereof thyself art one,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Were sev’n fair branches, springing from one root:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Some of these branches by the dest’nies cut:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But Thomas, my dear Lord, my life, my Glo’ster,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">One flourishing branch of his most royal root,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is hack’d down, and his summer leaves all faded,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By Envy’s hand and Murder’s bloody axe.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span><span class="i5"><i>Richard II. act 1. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Figuring human life to be a voyage at sea:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">There is a tide in the affairs of men,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Omitted, all the voyage of their life<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is bound in shallows and in miseries.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On such a full sea are we now afloat;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And we must take the current when it serves,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or lose our ventures.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Julius Cæsar, act 4. sc. 5.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Figuring glory and honour to be a garland of fresh flowers:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Hotspur.</i>&mdash;&mdash; Would to heav’n,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy name in arms were now as great as mine!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Pr. Henry.</i> I’ll make it greater, ere I part from thee;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all the budding honours on thy crest<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ll crop, to make a garland for my head.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>First Part Henry IV. act 5. sc. 9.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Figuring a man who hath acquired great reputation and honour to be a
tree full of fruit:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Oh, boys, this story<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The world may read in me: my body’s mark’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With Roman swords; and my report was once<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov’d me;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And when a soldier was the theme, my name<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Was not far off: then was I as a tree,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whose boughs did bend with fruit. But in one night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A storm or robbery, call it what you will,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shook down my mellow hangings, nay my leaves;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And left me bare to weather.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Cymbeline, act 3. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>I am aware that the term <i>metaphor</i> has been used in a more extensive
sense than I give it; but I thought it of consequence, in matters of
some intricacy, to separate things that differ from each other, and to
confine words within their most proper sense. An allegory differs from a
metaphor; and what I would chuse to call <i>a figure of speech</i>, differs
from both. I shall proceed to explain these differences. A metaphor is
defined above to be an operation of the imagination, figuring one thing
to be another. An allegory requires no operation of the imagination, nor
is one thing figured to be another: it consists in chusing a subject
having properties or circumstances resembling those of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span> the principal
subject; and the former is described in such a manner as to represent
the latter. The subject thus represented is kept out of view; we are
left to discover it by reflection; and we are pleased with the
discovery, because it is our own work. Quintilian<a name="FNanchor_26_26" id="FNanchor_26_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a> gives the
following instance of an allegory,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O navis, referent in mare te novi<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fluctus. O quid agis? fortiter occupa portum.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. lib. 1. ode 14.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">and explains it elegantly in the following words: “Totusque ille Horatii
locus, quo navim pro republica, fluctuum tempestates pro bellis
civilibus, portum pro pace atque concordia, dicit.”</p>

<p>There cannot be a finer or more correct allegory than the following, in
which a vineyard is put for God’s own people the Jews.</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt: thou hast cast out the
heathen, and planted it. Thou didst cause it to take deep root, and
it filled the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span> land. The hills were covered with its shadow, and
the boughs thereof were like the goodly cedars. Why hast thou then
broken down her hedges, so that all which pass do pluck her? The
boar out of the wood doth waste it, and the wild beast doth devour
it. Return, we beseech thee, O God of hosts: look down from heaven,
and behold and visit this vine, and the vineyard thy right hand
hath planted, and the branch thou madest strong for thyself.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Psalm 80.</i><br />
</p></div>

<p>In a word, an allegory is in every respect similar to an hieroglyphical
painting, excepting only, that words are used instead of colours. Their
effects are precisely the same. A hieroglyphic raises two images in the
mind; one seen, which represents one not seen. An allegory does the
same. The representative subject is described; and it is by resemblance
that we are enabled to apply the description to the subject represented.</p>

<p>In a figure of speech, neither is there any fiction of the imagination
employ’d, nor a representative subject introduced. A figure of speech,
as imply’d from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> its name, regards the expression only, not the thought;
and it may be defined, the employing a word in a sense different from
what is proper to it. Thus youth or the beginning of life, is expressed
figuratively by <i>morning of life</i>. Morning is the beginning of the day;
and it is transferred sweetly and easily to signify the beginning of any
other series, life especially, the progress of which is reckoned by
days.</p>

<p>Figures of speech are reserved for a separate section; but a metaphor
and allegory are so much connected, that it is necessary to handle them
together: the rules for distinguishing the good from the bad, are common
to both. We shall therefore proceed to these rules, after adding some
examples to illustrate the nature of an allegory. Horace speaking of his
love to Pyrrha, which was now extinguished, expresses himself thus.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Me tabulâ sacer<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Votivâ paries indicat uvida<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Suspendisse potenti<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vestimenta maris Deo.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span><span class="i5"><i>Carm. l. 1. ode 5.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Again,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Phœbus volentem prælia me loqui,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Victas et urbes, increpuit lyrâ:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Ne parva Tyrrhenum per æquor<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Vela darem.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Carm. l. 4. ode 15.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>Queen.</i> Great Lords, wise men ne’er sit and wail their loss,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But chearly seek how to redress their harms.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What though the mast be now blown overboard,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The cable broke, the holding anchor lost,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And half our sailors swallow’d in the flood?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet lives our pilot still. Is’t meet, that he<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Should leave the helm, and, like a fearful lad,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With tearful eyes add water to the sea;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And give more strength to that which hath too much?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While in his moan the ship splits on the rock,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which industry and courage might have sav’d?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ah, what a shame! ah, what a fault were this!<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Third Part Henry VI. act 5. sc. 5.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>Oroonoko.</i> Ha! thou hast rous’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The lion in his den, he stalks abroad<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the wide forest trembles at his roar.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I find the danger now.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span><span class="i5"><i>Oroonoko, act 3. sc. 2.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The rules that govern metaphors and allegories, are of two kinds: those
of the first kind concern the construction of a metaphor or allegory,
and ascertain what are perfect and what are faulty: those of the other
kind concern the propriety or impropriety of introduction, in what
circumstances these figures may be admitted, and in what circumstances
they are out of place. I begin with rules of the first kind; some of
which coincide with those already given with respect to similes; some
are peculiar to metaphors and allegories.</p>

<p>And in the first place, it has been observed, that a simile cannot be
agreeable where the resemblance is either too strong or too faint. This
holds equally in a metaphor and allegory; and the reason is the same in
all. In the following instances, the resemblance is too faint to be
agreeable.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Malcolm.</i>&mdash;&mdash; But there’s no bottom, none,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The cistern of my lust.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span><span class="i5"><i>Macbeth, act 4. sc. 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The best way to judge of this metaphor, is to convert it into a simile;
which would be bad, because there is scarce any resemblance betwixt lust
and a cistern, or betwixt enormous lust and a large cistern.</p>

<p class="nind">Again,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He cannot buckle his distemper’d cause<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Within the belt of rule.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Macbeth, act 5. sc. 2.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">There is no resemblance betwixt a distempered cause and any body that
can be confined within a belt.</p>

<p class="nind">Again,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Steep me in poverty to the very lips.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Othello, act 4. sc. 9.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Poverty here must be conceived a fluid, which it resembles not in any
manner.</p>

<p class="nind">Speaking to Bolingbroke banish’d for six years.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The sullen passage of thy weary steps<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Esteem a foil, wherein thou art to set<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">The precious jewel of thy home-return.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard II. act 1. sc. 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Again,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Here is a letter, lady,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And every word in it a gaping wound<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Issuing life-blood.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Merchant of Venice, act 3. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The following metaphor is strained beyond all endurance. Timur-bec,
known to us by the name of Tamarlane the Great, writes to Bajazet
Emperor of the Ottomans in the following terms.</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Where is the monarch who dares resist us? where is the potentate
who doth not glory in being numbered among our attendants? As for
thee, descended from a Turcoman sailor, since the vessel of thy
unbounded ambition hath been wreck’d in the gulf of thy self-love,
it would be proper, that thou shouldst take in the sails of thy
temerity, and cast the anchor of repentance in the port of
sincerity and justice, which is the port of safety; lest the
tempest of our vengeance make thee perish in the sea of the
punishment thou deservest.</p></div>

<p class="nind">Such strained figures, it is observable, are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> not unfrequent in the
first dawn of refinement. The mind in a new enjoyment knows no bounds,
and is generally carried to excess, till experience discover the just
medium.</p>

<p>Secondly, whatever resemblance subjects may have, it is wrong to put one
for another if they bear no mutual proportion. Where a very high and a
very low subject are compared, the simile takes on an air of burlesk;
and the same will be the effect, where the one is imagined to be the
other, as in a metaphor, or made to represent the other, as in an
allegory.</p>

<p>Thirdly, these figures, a metaphor in particular, ought not to be
extended to a great length, nor be crowded with many minute
circumstances; for in that case it is scarcely possible to avoid
obscurity. It is difficult, during any course of time, to support a
lively image of one thing being another. A metaphor drawn out to any
length, instead of illustrating or enlivening the principal subject,
becomes disagreeable by overstraining the mind. Cowley is ex<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span>tremely
licentious in this way. Take the following instance:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Great, and wise conqu’ror, who where-e’er<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Thou com’st, dost fortify, and settle there!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Who canst defend as well as get;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And never hadst one quarter beat up yet;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Now thou art in, thou ne’er will part<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With one inch of my vanquish’d heart;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For since thou took’st it by assault from me,  <span style="margin-left: .58em;">}</span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Tis garrison’d so strong with thoughts of thee}<br /></span>
<span class="i2">It fears no beauteous enemy.                 <span style="margin-left: 5.9em;">}</span><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">For the same reason, however agreeable at first long allegories may be
by their novelty, they never afford any lasting pleasure: witness the
<i>Fairy Queen</i>, which with great power of expression, variety of images,
and melody of versification, is scarce ever read a second time.</p>

<p>In the fourth place, the comparison carried on in a simile, being in a
metaphor sunk, and the principal subject being imagined that very thing
which it only resembles, an opportunity is furnished to describe it in
terms taken strictly or literally with respect to its imagined nature.
This suggests<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> another rule, That in constructing a metaphor, the writer
ought to confine himself to the simplest expressions, and make use of
such words only as are applicable literally to the imagined nature of
his subject. Figurative words ought carefully to be avoided; for such
complicated images, instead of setting the principal subject in a strong
light, involve it in a cloud; and it is well if the reader, without
rejecting by the lump, endeavour patiently to gather the plain meaning,
regardless of the figures:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A stubborn and unconquerable flame<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Creeps in his veins, and drinks the streams of life.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Lady Jane Gray, act 1. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Copied from Ovid,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sorbent avidæ præcordia flammæ.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Metamorphoses, lib. ix. 172.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Let us analize this expression. That a fever may be imagined a flame, I
admit; though more than one step is necessary to come at the
resemblance. A fever, by heating the body, resembles fire; and it is no
stretch to imagine a fever to be a fire.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span></p>

<p class="nind">Again, by a figure of speech, flame may be put for fire, because they
are commonly conjoined; and therefore a fever may also be imagined a
flame. But now admitting a fever to be a flame, its effects ought to be
explained in words that agree literally to a flame. This rule is not
observed here; for a flame <i>drinks</i> figuratively only, not properly.</p>

<p class="nind">King Henry to his son Prince Henry:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Thou hid’st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To stab at half an hour of my frail life.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Second Part Henry IV. act 4. sc. 11.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Such faulty metaphors are pleasantly ridiculed in the <i>Rehearsal</i>:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Physician.</i> Sir, to conclude, the place you fill has more than
amply exacted the talents of a wary pilot; and all these
threatening storms, which, like impregnate clouds, hover o’er our
heads, will, when they once are grasp’d but by the eye of reason,
melt into fruitful showers of blessings on the people.</p>

<p><i>Bayes.</i> Pray mark that allegory. Is not that good?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span></p>

<p><i>Johnson</i>. Yes, that grasping of a storm with the eye, is
admirable.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Act 2. sc. 1.</i><br />
</p></div>

<p>Fifthly, The jumbling different metaphors in the same sentence, or the
beginning with one metaphor and ending with another, is commonly called
a mixt metaphor. Quintilian bears testimony against it in the bitterest
terms: “Nam id quoque in primis est custodiendum, ut quo ex genere
cœperis translationis, hoc desinas. Multi enim, cum initium a tempestate
sumpserunt, incendio aut ruina finiunt: quæ est inconsequentia rerum
fœdissima.” <i>L. 8. cap. 6. § 2.</i></p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>K. Henry.</i>&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Will you again unknit<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This churlish knot of all-abhorred war,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And move in that obedient orb again,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where you did give a fair and natural light?<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>First Part Henry IV. act 5. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Whether ’tis nobler in the mind, to suffer<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The stings and arrows of outrag’ous fortune;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And by opposing end them.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span><span class="i5"><i>Hamlet, act 3. sc. 2.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>In the sixth place, It is unpleasant to join different metaphors in the
same period, even where they are preserved distinct. It is difficult to
imagine the subject to be first one thing and then another in the same
period without interval: the mind is distracted by the rapid transition;
and when the imagination is put on such hard duty, its images are too
faint to produce any good effect:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">At regina gravi jamdudum saucia cura,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vulnus alit venis, et cæco carpitur igni.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. iv. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Est mollis flamma medullas<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Interea, et taciturn vivit sub pectore vulnus.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. iv. 66.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Motum ex Metello consule civicum,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bellique causas, et vitia, et modos,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Ludumque fortunæ, gravesque<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Principum amicitias, et arma<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nondum expiatis uncta cruoribus,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Periculosæ plenum opus aleæ,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Tractas, et incedis per ignes<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Subpositos cineri doloso.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span><span class="i5"><i>Horat. Carm. l. 2, ode 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>In the last place, It is still worse to jumble together metaphorical and
natural expression, or to construct a period so as that it must be
understood partly metaphorically partly literally. The imagination
cannot follow with sufficient ease changes so sudden and unprepared. A
metaphor begun and not carried on, hath no beauty; and instead of light
there is nothing but obscurity and confusion. Instances of such
incorrect composition are without number. I shall, for a specimen,
select a few from different authors:</p>

<p class="nind">Speaking of Britain,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">This precious stone set in the sea<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which serves it in the office of a wall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or as a moat defensive to a house<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Against the envy of less happier lands.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard II. act 2. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">In the first line Britain is figured to be a precious stone. In the
following lines, Britain, divested of her metaphorical dress, is
presented to the reader in her natural appearance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span></p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">These growing feathers pluck’d from Cæsar’s wing,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who else would soar above the view of men,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And keep us all in servile fearfulness.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Julius Cæsar, act 1. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Rebus angustis animosus atque<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fortis adpare: sapienter idem<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Contrahes vento nimium secundo<br /></span>
<span class="i5">Turgida vela.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The following is a miserable jumble of expressions, arising from an
unsteady view of the subject betwixt its figurative and natural
appearance.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But now from gath’ring clouds destruction pours,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which ruins with mad rage our halcyon hours:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mists from black jealousies the tempest form,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whilst late divisions reinforce the storm.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Dispensary, canto 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">To thee, the world its present homage pays,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The harvest early, but mature the praise.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Pope’s imitation of Horace, b. 2.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oui, sa pudeur n’est que franche grimace,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Qu’une ombre de vertu qui garde mal la place,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Et qui s’evanouit, comme l’on peut savoir<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Aux rayons du soleil qu’une bourse fait voir.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Molliere, L’Etourdi, act 3. sc. 2.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Et son feu depourvû de sense et de lecture,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">S’éteint a chaque pas, faute de nourriture.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Boileau, L’art poetique, chant. 3. l. 319.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Dryden, in his dedication to the translation of <i>Juvenal</i>, says,</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>When thus, as I may say, before the use of the loadstone, or
knowledge of the compass, I was sailing in a vast ocean, without
other help than the pole-star of the ancients, and the rules of the
French stage among the moderns, <i>&amp;c.</i></p></div>

<div class="blockquot"><p>There is a time when factions, by the vehemence of their own
fermentation, stun and disable one another.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Bolingbroke.</i><br />
</p></div>

<p>This fault of jumbling the figure and plain expression into one confused
mass, is not less common in allegory than in metaphor. Take the
following example.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span></p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Heu! quoties fidem,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mutatosque Deos flebit, et aspera<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Nigris æquora ventis<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Emirabitur insolens,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aureâ:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Sperat, nescius auræ<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Fallacis.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. Carm. l. 1. ode 5.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Lord Halifax, speaking of the ancient fabulists: “They (says he) wrote
in signs and spoke in parables: all their fables carry a double meaning:
the story is one and entire; the characters the same throughout; not
broken or changed, and always conformable to the nature of the creature
they introduce. They never tell you, that the dog which snapp’d at a
shadow, lost his troop of horse; that would be unintelligible. This is
his (Dryden’s) new way of telling a story, and confounding the moral and
the fable together.” After instancing from the hind and panther, he goes
on thus: “What relation has the hind to our Saviour? or what notion have
we of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span> panther’s bible? If you say he means the church, how does the
church feed on lawns, or range in the forest? Let it be always a church
or always a cloven-footed beast, for we cannot bear his shifting the
scene every line.”</p>

<p>A few words more upon allegory. Nothing gives greater pleasure than this
figure, when the representative subject bears a strong analogy, in all
its circumstances, to that which is represented. But the choice is
seldom so lucky; the resemblance of the representative subject to the
principal, being generally so faint and obscure, as to puzzle and not
please. An allegory is still more difficult in painting than in poetry.
The former can show no resemblance but what appears to the eye: the
latter hath many other resources for showing the resemblance. With
respect to what the Abbé du Bos<a name="FNanchor_27_27" id="FNanchor_27_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a> terms mixt allegorical compositions,
these may do in poetry, because in writing the allegory can easily be
distinguished from the historical part: no person<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> mistakes Virgil’s
Fame for a real being. But such a mixture in a picture is intolerable;
because in a picture the objects must appear all of the same kind,
wholly real or wholly emblematical. The history of Mary de Medicis, in
the palace of Luxenbourg, painted by Rubens, is in a vicious taste, by a
perpetual jumble of real and allegorical personages, which produce a
discordance of parts and an obscurity upon the whole: witness in
particular, the tablature representing the arrival of Mary de Medicis at
Marseilles: mixt with the real personages, the Nereids and Tritons
appear sounding their shells. Such a mixture of fiction and reality in
the same group, is strangely absurd. The picture of Alexander and
Roxana, described by Lucian, is gay and fanciful: but it suffers by the
allegorical figures. It is not in the wit of man to invent an
allegorical representation deviating farther from any appearance of
resemblance, than one exhibited by Lewis XIV. <i>anno</i> 1664; in which an
overgrown chariot, intended to represent that of the sun, is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> dragg’d
along, surrounded with men and women, representing the four ages of the
world, the celestial signs, the seasons, the hours, <i>&amp;c.</i>: a monstrous
composition; and yet scarce more absurd than Guido’s tablature of
Aurora.</p>

<p>In an allegory, as well as in a metaphor, terms ought to be chosen that
properly and literally are applicable to the representative subject. Nor
ought any circumstance to be added, that is not proper to the
representative subject, however justly it may be applicable figuratively
to the principal. Upon this account the following allegory is faulty.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Ferus et Cupido,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Semper ardentes acuens sagittas<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Cote <i>cruentâ</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. l. 2. ode 8.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">For though blood may suggest the cruelty of love, it is an improper or
immaterial circumstance in the representative subject: water, not blood,
is proper for a whetstone.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>We proceed to the next head, which is, to examine in what circumstances
these fi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span>gures are proper, in what improper. This inquiry is not
altogether superseded by what is said upon the same subject in the
chapter of comparisons; because, upon trial, it will be found, that a
short metaphor or allegory may be proper, where a simile, drawn out to a
greater length, and in its nature more solemn, would scarce be relished.
The difference however is not considerable; and in most instances the
same rules are applicable to both. And, in the first place, a metaphor,
as well as a simile, are excluded from common conversation, and from the
description of ordinary incidents.</p>

<p>In the next place, in any severe passion which totally occupies the
mind, metaphor is unnatural. For that reason, we must condemn the
following speech of Macbeth.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Methought, I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Macbeth doth murther sleep; the innocent sleep;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleeve of Care,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The birth of each day’s life, sore Labour’s bath,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Balm of hurt minds, great Nature’s second course,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Chief nourisher in life’s feast.&mdash;&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Act 2. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The next example, of deep despair, beside the highly figurative style,
hath more the air of raving than of sense:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Calista.</i> Is it the voice of thunder, or my father?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Madness! Confusion! let the storm come on,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let the tumultuous roar drive all upon me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dash my devoted bark; ye surges, break it;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Tis for my ruin that the tempest rises.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When I am lost, sunk to the bottom low,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Peace shall return, and all be calm again.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Fair Penitent, act 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The metaphor I next introduce, is sweet and lively, but it suits not the
fiery temper of Chamont, inflamed with passion. Parables are not the
language of wrath venting itself without restraint:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Chamont.</i> You took her up a little tender flower,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Had nip’d; and with a careful loving hand,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Transplanted her into your own fair garden,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where the sun always shines: there long she flourish’d,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Grew sweet to sense and lovely to the eye,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till at the last a cruel spoiler came,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cropt this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then cast it like a loathsome weed away.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Orphan, act 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The following speech, full of imagery, is not natural in grief and
dejection of mind.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Gonsalez.</i> O my son! from the blind dotage<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of a father’s fondness these ills arose.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For thee I’ve been ambitious, base and bloody:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For thee I’ve plung’d into this sea of sin;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stemming the tide with only one weak hand,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While t’other bore the crown, (to wreathe thy brow),<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whose weight has sunk me ere I reach’d the shore.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Mourning Bride, act 5. sc. 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The finest picture that ever was drawn of deep distress, is in
Macbeth<a name="FNanchor_28_28" id="FNanchor_28_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a>, where Macduff is represented lamenting his wife and
children, inhumanly murdered by the tyrant. Struck with the news, he
questions the messenger over and over; not that he doubted the fact, but
that his heart revolted against so cruel a misfortune. After struggling
some time with his grief, he turns from his wife and children to their
savage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> butcher; and then gives vent to his resentment; but still with
manliness and dignity:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And braggart with my tongue. But, gentle Heav’n!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cut short all intermission: front to front<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Within my sword’s length set him&mdash;&mdash; If he ’scape,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then Heav’n forgive him too.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">This passage is a delicious picture of human nature. One expression only
seems doubtful. In examining the messenger, Macduff expresses himself
thus:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He hath no children&mdash;&mdash; all my pretty ones!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Did you say all? what all? Oh, hell-kite! all?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What! all my pretty little chickens and their dam,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At one fell swoop!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Metaphorical expression, I am sensible, may sometimes be used with
grace, where a regular simile would be intolerable: but there are
situations so overwhelming, as not to admit even the slightest metaphor.
It requires great delicacy of taste to determine with firmness, whether
the present case be of that nature. I incline to think it is; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> yet I
would not willingly alter a single word of this admirable scene.</p>

<p>But metaphorical language is proper when a man struggles to bear with
dignity or decency a misfortune however great. The struggle agitates and
animates the mind:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Wolsey.</i> Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His greatness is a ripening, nips his root,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And then he falls as I do.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Henry VIII. act 3. sc. 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<h3><a name="SECT_VII" id="SECT_VII"></a>SECT. VII.</h3>

<p class="chead"><i>Figure of Speech.</i></p>

<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>N the section immediately foregoing, a figure of speech is defined,
“The em<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span>ploying a word in a sense different from what is proper to it;”
and the new or uncommon sense of the word is termed <i>the figurative
sense</i>. The figurative sense must have a relation to that which is
proper; and the more intimate the relation is, the figure is the more
happy. How ornamental this figure is to language, will not be readily
imagined by any one who hath not given peculiar attention. I shall
endeavour to display its capital beauties and advantages. In the first
place, a word used figuratively, together with its new sense, suggests
what it commonly bears: and thus it has the effect to present two
objects; one signified by the figurative sense, which may be termed <i>the
principal object</i>; and one signified by the proper sense, which may be
termed <i>accessory</i>. The principal makes a part of the thought; the
accessory is merely ornamental. In this respect, a figure of speech is
precisely similar to concordant sounds in music, which, without
contributing to the melody, make it harmonious. I explain myself by
examples. <i>Youth</i>, by a figure of speech, is termed <i>the morning of
life</i>. This<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span> expression signifies <i>youth</i>, the principal object, which
enters into the thought: but it suggests, at the same time, the proper
sense of <i>morning</i>; and this accessory object being in itself beautiful
and connected by resemblance to the principal object, is not a little
ornamental. I give another example, of a different kind, where an
attribute is expressed figuratively, <i>Imperious ocean</i>. Together with
the figurative meaning of the epithet <i>imperious</i>, there is suggested
its proper meaning, <i>viz.</i> the stern authority of a despotic prince.
Upon this figurative power of words, Vida descants with great elegance:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Nonne vides, verbis ut veris sæpe relictis<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Accersant simulata, aliundeque nomina porro<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Transportent, aptentque aliis ea rebus; ut ipsæ,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Exuviasque novas, res, insolitosque colores<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Indutæ, sæpe externi mirentur amictus<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Unde illi, lætæque aliena luce fruantur,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mutatoque habitu, nec jam sua nomina mallent?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sæpe ideo, cum bella canunt, incendia credas<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cernere, diluviumque ingens surgentibus undis.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Contrà etiam Martis pugnas imitabitur ignis,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cum surit accensis acies Vulcania campis.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nec turbato oritur quondam minor æquore pugna:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Confligunt animosi Euri certamine vasto<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Inter se, pugnantque adversis molibus undæ.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Usque adeo passim sua res insignia lætæ<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Permutantque, juvantque vicissim; &amp; mutua sese<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Altera in alterius transformat protinus ora.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tum specie capti gaudent spectare legentes:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nam diversa simul datur è re cernere eadem<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Multarum simulacra animo subeuntia rerum.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Poet. lib. 3. l. 44.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>In the next place, this figure possesses a signal power of aggrandising
an object, by the following means. Words, which have no original beauty
but what arises from their sound, acquire an adventitious beauty from
their meaning. A word signifying any thing that is agreeable, becomes by
that means agreeable; for the agreeableness of the object is
communicated to its name<a name="FNanchor_29_29" id="FNanchor_29_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_29_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a>. This acquired beauty, by the force of
custom, adheres to the word even when used figuratively; and the beauty
received from the thing it properly signifies, is communicated to the
thing which it is made to sig<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span>nify figuratively. Consider the foregoing
expression <i>Imperious ocean</i>, how much more elevated it is than <i>Stormy
ocean</i>.</p>

<p>Thirdly, this figure hath a happy effect in preventing the familiarity
of proper names. The familiarity of a proper name, is communicated to
the thing it signifies by means of their intimate connection; and the
thing is thereby brought down in our feeling<a name="FNanchor_30_30" id="FNanchor_30_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_30_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a>. This bad effect is
prevented by using a figurative word instead of one that is proper; as,
for example, when we express the sky by terming it <i>the blue vault of
heaven</i>. For though no work made with hands can compare with the sky in
magnificence, the expression however is good, by preventing the object
from being brought down by the familiarity of its proper name. With
respect to the degrading familiarity of proper names, Vida has the
following passage.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hinc si dura mihi passus dicendus Ulysses,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Non illum vero memorabo nomine, sed qui<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Et mores hominum multorum vidit, &amp; urbes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Naufragus eversæ post sæva incendia Trojæ.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Poet. lib. 2. l. 46.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Lastly, by this figure language is enriched and rendered more copious.
In that respect, were there no other, a figure of speech is a happy
invention. This property is finely touched by Vida:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Quinetiam agricolas ea fandi nota voluptas<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Exercet, dum læta seges, dum trudere gemmas<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Incipiunt vites, sitientiaque ætheris imbrem<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Prata bibunt, ridentque satis surgentibus agri.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hanc vulgo speciem propriæ penuria vocis<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Intulit, indictisque urgens in rebus egestas.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Quippe ubi se vera ostendebant nomina nusquam,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fas erat hinc atque hinc transferre simillima veris.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Poet. lib. 3. l. 90.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The beauties I have mentioned belong to every figure of speech. Several
other beauties peculiar to one or other sort, I shall have occasion to
remark afterward.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Not only subjects, but qualities, actions, effects, may be expressed
figuratively. Thus<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span> as to subjects, <i>the gates of breath</i> for the lips,
<i>the watery kingdom</i> for the ocean. As to qualities, <i>fierce</i> for
stormy, in the expression <i>Fierce winter</i>: <i>altus</i> for profundus, <i>altus
puteus, altum mare</i>: <i>Breathing</i> for perspiring, <i>Breathing plants</i>.
Again, as to actions, the sea <i>rages</i>: Time will <i>melt</i> her frozen
thoughts: Time <i>kills</i> grief. An effect is put for the cause, as <i>lux</i>
for the sun; and a cause for the effect, as <i>boum labores</i> for corn. The
relation of resemblance is one plentiful source of figures of speech;
and nothing is more common than to apply to one object the name of
another that resembles it in any respect. Height, size, and worldly
greatness, though in themselves they have no resemblance, produce
emotions in the mind that have a resemblance; and, led by this
resemblance, we naturally express worldly greatness by height or size.
One feels a certain uneasiness in looking down to a great depth: and
hence depth is made to express any thing disagreeable by excess; as
<i>depth</i> of grief, <i>depth</i> of despair. Again, height of place and time
long past, produce similar feelings; and hence the ex<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span>pression, <i>Ut
altius repetam</i>. Distance in past time, producing a strong feeling, is
put for any strong feeling: <i>Nihil mihi antiquius nostra amicitia.</i>
Shortness with relation to space, for shortness with relation to time:
<i>Brevis esse laboro; obscurus fio</i>. Suffering a punishment resembles
paying a debt: hence <i>pendere pœnas</i>. Upon the same account, light may
be put for glory, sun-shine for prosperity, and weight for importance.</p>

<p>Many words, originally figurative, having, by long and constant use,
lost their figurative power, are degraded to the inferior rank of proper
terms. Thus the words that express the operations of the mind, have in
all languages been originally figurative. The reason holds in all, that
when these operations came first under consideration, there was no other
way of describing them but by what they resembled. It was not
practicable to give them proper names, as may be done to objects that
can be ascertained by sight and touch. A <i>soft</i> nature, <i>jarring</i>
tempers, <i>weight</i> of wo, <i>pompous</i> phrase, <i>beget</i> compassion, <i>assuage</i>
grief, <i>break</i> a vow, <i>bend</i> the eye downward, <i>shower</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span> down curses,
<i>drown’d</i> in tears, <i>wrapt</i> in joy, <i>warm’d</i> with eloquence, <i>loaden</i>
with spoils, and a thousand other expressions of the like nature, have
lost their figurative sense. Some terms there are, that cannot be said
to be either purely figurative or altogether proper: originally
figurative, they are tending to simplicity, without having lost
altogether their figurative power. Virgil’s <i>Regina saucia cura</i>, is
perhaps one of these expressions. With ordinary readers, <i>saucia</i> will
be considered as expressing simply the effect of grief; but one of a
lively imagination will exalt the phrase into a figure.</p>

<p>To epitomise this subject, and at the same time to give a clear view of
it, I cannot think of a better method, than to present to the reader a
list of the several relations upon which figures of speech are commonly
founded. This list I divide into two tables; one of subjects expressed
figuratively, and one of attributes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span></p>

<p>FIRST TABLE.</p>

<p><i>Subjects expressed figuratively.</i></p>

<p>1. A word proper to one subject employed figuratively to express a
resembling subject.</p>

<p>There is no figure of speech so frequent, as what is derived from the
relation of resemblance. Youth, for example, is signified figuratively
by the <i>morning</i> of life. The life of a man resembles a natural day in
several particulars. The morning is the beginning of day, youth the
beginning of life: the morning is chearful, so is youth; &amp;c. By another
resemblance, a bold warrior is termed the <i>thunderbolt</i> of war; a
multitude of troubles, a <i>sea</i> of troubles.</p>

<p>No other figure of speech possesses so many different beauties, as that
which is founded on resemblance. Beside the beauties above mentioned,
common to all sorts, it possesses in particular the beauty of a metaphor
or of a simile. A figure of speech<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> built upon resemblance, suggests
always a comparison betwixt the principal subject and the accessory; and
by this means every good effect of a metaphor or simile, may, in a short
and lively manner, be produced by this figure of speech.</p>

<p>2. A word proper to the effect employ’d figuratively to express the
cause.</p>

<p><i>Lux</i> for the sun. <i>Shadow</i> for cloud. A helmet is signified by the
expression <i>glittering terror</i>. A tree by <i>shadow</i> or <i>umbrage</i>. Hence
the expression,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Nec habet Pelion umbras.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Ovid.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Where the dun umbrage hangs.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Spring, l. 1023.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">A wound is made to signify an arrow:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Vulnere non pedibus te consequar.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Ovid.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>There is a peculiar force and beauty in this figure. The word which
signifies figuratively the principal subject, denotes it to be a cause
by suggesting the effect.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span></p>

<p>3. A word proper to the cause, employ’d figuratively to express the
effect.</p>

<p><i>Boumque labores</i> for corn. <i>Sorrow</i> or <i>grief</i> for tears.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Again Ulysses veil’d his pensive head,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Again unmann’d, a show’r of <i>sorrow</i> shed.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Streaming <i>Grief</i> his faded cheek bedew’d.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p><i>Blindness</i> for darkness:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Cæcis erramus in undis.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. iii. 200.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>There is a peculiar energy in this figure similar to that in the former.
The figurative name denotes the subject to be an effect by suggesting
its cause.</p>

<p>4. Two things being intimately connected, the proper name of the one
employ’d figuratively to signify the other.</p>

<p><i>Day</i> for light. <i>Night</i> for darkness. Hence, A sudden night. <i>Winter</i>
for a storm at sea.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span></p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Interea magno misceri murmure pontum,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Emissamque Hyemem sensit Neptunus.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. i. 128.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">This last figure would be too bold for a British writer, as a storm at
sea is not inseparably connected with winter in this climate.</p>

<p>5. A word proper to an attribute employ’d figuratively to denote the
subject.</p>

<p><i>Youth</i> and <i>beauty</i> for those who are young and beautiful:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Youth and beauty shall be laid in dust.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p><i>Majesty</i> for the King:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What art thou, that usurp’st this time of night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Together with that fair and warlike form,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In which the <i>Majesty</i> of buried Denmark<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Did sometime march?<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Hamlet, act 1. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Or have ye chosen this place,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">After the toils of battle, to repose<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your weary’d <i>virtue</i>?<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>Verdure</i> for a green field. <i>Summer. l. 301.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Speaking of cranes:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">To pigmy nations wounds and death they bring,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all the <i>war</i> descends upon the wing.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> iii. 10.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Cool <i>age</i> advances venerably wise.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> iii. 149.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The peculiar beauty of this figure arises from suggesting an attribute
that embellishes the subject, or puts it in a stronger light.</p>

<p>6. A complex term employ’d figuratively to denote one of the component
parts.</p>

<p><i>Funus</i> for a dead body. <i>Burial</i> for a grave.</p>

<p>7. The name of one of the component parts instead of the complex term.</p>

<p><i>Tœda</i> for a marriage. The <i>East</i> for a country situated east from us.
<i>Jovis vestigia servat</i>, for imitating Jupiter in general.</p>

<p>8. A word signifying time or place em<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span>ploy’d figuratively to denote a
connected subject.</p>

<p><i>Clime</i> for a nation, or for a constitution of government: Hence the
expression, <i>Merciful clime</i>. <i>Fleecy winter</i> for snow. <i>Seculum felix.</i></p>

<p>9. A part for the whole.</p>

<p>The <i>pole</i> for the earth. The <i>head</i> for the person.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Triginta minas pro capite tuo dedi.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Plautus.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p><i>Tergum</i> for the man:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Fugiens tergum.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Ovid.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p><i>Vultus</i> for the man:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Jam fulgor armorum fugaces<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Terret equos, equitumque vultus.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tam chari <i>capitis</i>?<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Dumque virent <i>genua</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span>
<span class="i0">Thy growing virtues justify’d my cares,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And promis’d comfort to my <i>silver hairs</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> ix. 616.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;Forthwith from the pool he rears<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His mighty <i>stature</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The silent <i>heart</i> which grief assails.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Parnell.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The peculiar beauty of this figure consists in marking out that part
which makes the greatest figure.</p>

<p>10. The name of the container employ’d figuratively to signify what is
contained.</p>

<p><i>Grove</i> for the birds in it: Vocal <i>grove</i>. <i>Ships</i> for the seamen:
Agonizing <i>ships</i>. <i>Mountains</i> for the sheep pasturing upon them:
Bleating <i>mountains</i>. <i>Zacynthus, Ithaca, &amp;c.</i> for the inhabitants. <i>Ex
mœstis domibus.</i> Livy.</p>

<p>11. The name of the sustainer employ’d figuratively to signify what is
sustained.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span></p>

<p><i>Altar</i> for the sacrifice. <i>Field</i> for the battle fought upon it:
Well-fought <i>field</i>.</p>

<p>12. The name of the materials employ’d figuratively to signify the
things made of them.</p>

<p><i>Ferrum</i> for <i>gladius</i>.</p>

<p>13. The names of the Heathen deities employ’d figuratively to signify
what they patronise.</p>

<p><i>Jove</i> for the air. <i>Mars</i> for war. <i>Venus</i> for beauty. <i>Cupid</i> for
love. <i>Ceres</i> for corn. <i>Neptune</i> for the sea. <i>Vulcan</i> for fire.</p>

<p>This figure bestows great elevation upon the subject; and therefore
ought to be confined to the higher strains of poetry.</p>

<h3>SECOND TABLE.</h3>

<p class="c"><i>Attributes expressed figuratively.</i></p>

<p>1. When two attributes are connected,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> the name of the one may be
employ’d figuratively to express the other.</p>

<p>Purity and virginity are attributes of the same person. Hence the
expression, <i>Virgin</i> snow for pure snow.</p>

<p>2. A word signifying properly an attribute of one subject, employ’d
figuratively to express a resembling attribute of another subject.</p>

<p><i>Tottering</i> state. <i>Imperious</i> ocean. <i>Angry</i> flood. <i>Raging</i> tempest.
<i>Shallow</i> fears.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My sure divinity shall bear the shield,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And edge thy sword to <i>reap</i> the glorious field.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Odyssey</i> xx. 61.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p><i>Black omen</i>, for an omen that portends bad fortune:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Ater</i> odor.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Virgil.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The peculiar beauty of this figure arises from suggesting a comparison.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span></p>

<p>3. A word proper to the subject, employ’d to express one of its
attributes.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Mens</i> for <i>intellectus</i>. <i>Mens</i> for a resolution.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Istam, oro, exue mentem.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>4. When two subjects have a resemblance by a common quality, the name of
the one subject may be employ’d figuratively to denote that quality in
the other.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Summer</i> life for agreeable life.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>5. The name of the instrument, made to signify the power of employing
it.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; Melpomene, cui liquidam pater<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vocem cum <i>cithara</i> dedit.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The ample field of figurative expression display’d in these tables,
affords great scope for reasoning and reflection. Several of the
observations relating to metaphor, are applicable to figures of speech.
These I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> shall slightly retouch, with some additions peculiarly adapted
to the present subject.</p>

<p>In the first place, as the figure under consideration is built upon
relation, we find from experience, and it must be obvious from reason,
that the beauty of the figure depends on the intimacy of the relation
betwixt the figurative and proper sense of the word. A slight
resemblance, in particular, will never make this figure agreeable. The
expression, for example, <i>drink down a secret</i>, for listening to a
secret with attention, is harsh and uncouth, because there is scarce any
resemblance betwixt <i>listening</i> and <i>drinking</i>. The expression <i>weighty
crack</i>, used by Ben Johnson for <i>loud crack</i>, is worse if possible: a
loud sound has not the slightest resemblance to a piece of matter that
is weighty. The following expression of Lucretius is not less faulty.
“Et lepido quæ sunt <i>fucata</i> sonore.” i. 645.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Sed magis<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pugnas et exactos tyrannos<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Densum humeris <i>bibit</i> aure vulgus.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. Carm. l. 2. ode 13.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Phemius! let acts of gods, and heroes old,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What ancient bards in hall and bow’r have told,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Attemper’d to the lyre, your voice employ,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Such the pleas’d <i>ear will drink</i> with silent joy,<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Odyssey</i> i. 433.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Strepitumque exterritus <i>hausit</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid.</i> vi. 559.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Write, my Queen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And with mine eyes I’ll <i>drink</i> the words you send.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Cymbeline, act 1. sc. 2.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">As thus th’ effulgence tremulous I <i>drink</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Summer, l. 1684.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Neque <i>audit</i> currus habenas.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Georg.</i> i. 514.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O Prince! (Lycaon’s valiant son reply’d)<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As thine the steeds, be thine the task to guide.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The horses practis’d to their lord’s command,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shall <i>hear</i> the rein, and answer to thy hand.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad.</i> v. 288.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The following figures of speech seem altogether wild and extravagant,
the figurative<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span> and proper meaning having no connection whatever.
<i>Moving</i> softness, freshness <i>breathes</i>, <i>breathing</i> prospect, <i>flowing</i>
spring, <i>dewy</i> light, <i>lucid</i> coolness, and many others of this false
coin may be found in Thomson’s <i>Seasons</i>.</p>

<p>Secondly, the proper sense of the word ought to bear some proportion to
the figurative sense, and not soar much above it, nor sink much below
it. This rule, as well as the foregoing, is finely illustrated by Vida:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hæc adeo cum sint, cum fas audere poetis<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Multa modis multis; tamen observare memento,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Si quando haud propriis rem mavis dicere verbis,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Translatisque aliunde notis, longeque petitis,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ne nimiam ostendas, quærendo talia, curam.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Namque aliqui exercent vim duram, et rebus iniqui<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nativam eripiunt formam, indignantibus ipsis,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Invitasque jubent alienos sumere vultus.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Haud magis imprudens mihi erit, et luminis expers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Qui puero ingentes habitus det ferre gigantis,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Quam siquis stabula alta lares appellet equinos,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Aut crines magnæ genitricis gramina dicat.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Poet. l. iii. 148.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<p>Thirdly, in a figure of speech, every circumstance ought to be avoided
that agrees with the proper sense only, not the figurative sense; for it
is the latter that expresses the thought, and the former serves for no
other purpose but to make harmony:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Zacynthus green with ever-shady groves,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And Ithaca, presumptuous boast their loves;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Obtruding on my choice a second lord,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They press the Hymenean rite abhorr’d.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Odyssey</i> xix. 152.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Zacynthus here standing figuratively for the inhabitants, the
description of the island is quite out of place. It puzzles the reader,
by making him doubt whether the word ought to be taken in its proper or
figurative sense.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Write, my Queen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And with mine eyes I’ll drink the words you send,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Though ink be made of gall.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Cymbeline, act 1. sc. 2.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The disgust one has to drink ink in reality,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> is nothing to the purpose
where the subject is drinking ink figuratively.</p>

<p>In the fourth place, to draw consequences from a figure of speech, as if
the word were to be understood literally, is a gross absurdity, for it
is confounding truth with fiction:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Be Moubray’s sins so heavy in his bosom,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That they may break his foaming courser’s back,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And throw the rider headlong in the lists,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard II. act 1. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Sin may be imagined heavy in a figurative sense: but weight in a proper
sense belongs to the accessory only; and therefore to describe the
effects of weight, is to desert the principal subject, and to convert
the accessory into a principal.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Cromwell.</i> How does your Grace?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Wolsey.</i> Why, well;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I know myself now, and I feel within me<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A peace above all earthly dignities,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">A still and quiet conscience. The King has cur’d me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I humbly thank his Grace; and, from these shoulders,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">These ruin’d pillars, out of pity taken<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A load would sink a navy, too much honour.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Henry VIII. act 3. sc. 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Ulysses speaking of Hector:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I wonder now how yonder city stands<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When we have here the base and pillar by us.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Troilus and Cressida, act 4. sc. 9.</i><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Othello.</i> No, my heart is turn’d to stone: I strike it and it
hurts my hand.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Othello, act 4. sc. 5.</i><br />
</p></div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Not less, even in this despicable now,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Than when my name fill’d Afric with affrights,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And froze your hearts beneath your torrid zone.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Don Sebastian King of Portugal, act 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">How long a space, since first I lov’d, it is!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To look into a glass I fear,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And am surpris’d with wonder, when I miss<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Grey hairs and wrinkles there.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Cowley, vol. 1. p. 86.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I chose the flourishing’st tree in all the park<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With freshest boughs, and fairest head;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I cut my love into his gentle bark,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And in three days behold ’tis dead;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My very written flames so violent be,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They’ve burnt and wither’d up the tree.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Cowley, vol. 1. p. 136.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ah, mighty Love, that it were inward heat<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which made this precious Limbeck sweat!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But what, alas, ah what does it avail<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That she weeps tears so wond’rous cold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As scarce the asses hoof can hold,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So cold, that I admire they fall not hail.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Cowley, vol. 1. p. 132.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Je crains que cette saison<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ne nous amenne la peste;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">La gueule du chien celeste<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vomit feu sur l’horison.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A fin que je m’en délivre,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Je veux lire ton gros livre<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Jusques au dernier feüillet:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tout ce que ta plume trace,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Robinet, a de la glace<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A faire trembler Juillet.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Maynard.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In me tota ruens Venus<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Cyprum deseruit.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. Carm. lib. 1. ode. 19.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Almeria.</i> O Alphonso, Alphonso!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Devouring seas have wash’d thee from my sight,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No time shall rase thee from my memory;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No, I will live to be thy monument:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The cruel ocean is no more thy tomb;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But in my heart thou art interr’d.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Mourning Bride, act 1. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">This would be very right, if there were any inconsistence in being
interred in one place really and in another place figuratively.</p>

<p>From considering that a word employ’d in a figurative sense suggests at
the same time its proper meaning, a fifth rule occurs, That to raise a
figure of speech, we ought to use no word, the proper sense of which is
inconsistent or incongruous with the subject: for no incongruity, far
less inconsistency, whether real or imagined, ought to enter into the
expression of any subject:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Interea genitor Tyberini ad fluminis undam<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vulnera <i>siccabat</i> lymphis&mdash;&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. x. 833.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Tres adeo incertos cæca caligine <i>soles</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Erramus pelago, totidem sine sidere noctes.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid</i>. iii. 203.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The foregoing rule may be extended to form a sixth, That no epithet
ought to be given to the figurative sense of a word that agrees not also
with its proper sense:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Dicat Opuntiæ<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Frater Megillæ, quo <i>beatus</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vulnere.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. Carm. lib. 1. ode 27.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Parcus deorum cultor, et infrequens,<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>Insanientis</i> dum sapientiæ<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Consultus erro.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. Carm. lib. 1. ode 34.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Seventhly, The crowding into one period or thought different figures of
speech, is not less faulty than crowding metaphors in that manner. The
mind is distracted in the quick transition from one image to another,
and is puzzled instead of being pleased:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I am of ladies most deject and wretched,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That suck’d the honey of his music vows.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Hamlet.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My bleeding bosom sickens at the sound.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Odyss.</i> i. 439.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Ah miser,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Quantâ laboras in <i>Charybdi</i>!<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Digne puer meliore <i>flammâ</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Quæ saga, quis te solvere Thessalis<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Magus <i>venenis</i>, quis poterit deus?<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Vix illigatum te triformi<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Pegasus expediet <i>Chimærâ</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. Carm. lib. 1. ode 27.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Eighthly, If crowding figures be bad, it is still worse to graft one
figure upon another. For instance,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">While his keen falchion drinks the warriors lives.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> xi. 211.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">A falchion drinking the warriors blood is a figure built upon
resemblance, which is passable. But then in the expression, <i>lives</i> is
again put for blood; and by thus grafting one figure upon another the
expression is rendered obscure and unpleasant.</p>

<p>Ninthly, Intricate and involved figures, that can scarce be analized or
reduced to plain language, are least of all tolerable:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span></p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Votis incendimus aras.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid.</i> iii. 279.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; Onerantque canistris<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dona laboratæ Cereris.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid.</i> viii. 180.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Vulcan to the Cyclopes,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Arma acri facienda viro: nunc viribus usus,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nunc manibus rapidis, omni nunc arte magistra:<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>Præcipitate</i> moras.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid.</i> viii. 441.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Huic gladio, perque ærea suta<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Per tunicam squalentem auro, latus <i>haurit</i> apertum.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid.</i> x. 313.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Semotique prius tarda necessitas<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lethi, corripuit gradum.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. Carm. lib. 1. ode 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Scribêris Vario fortis, et hostium<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Victor, Mæonii carminis <i>alite</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. Carm. lib. 1. ode 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Else shall our fates be number’d with the dead.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> v. 294.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Commutual death the fate of war confounds.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad viii. 85. and xi. 117.</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0">p<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span>/<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Speaking of Proteus,<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">/p<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Instant he wears, elusive of the rape,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The mimic force of every savage shape.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Odyss.</i> iv. 563.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Rolling convulsive on the floor, is seen<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The piteous object of a prostrate Queen.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Ibid.</i> iv. 952.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The mingling tempest waves its gloom.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Autumn</i>, 337.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A various sweetness swells the gentle race.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Ibid.</i> 640.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A sober calm fleeces unbounded ether.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Ibid.</i> 967.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The distant water-fall swells in the breeze.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Winter</i>, 738.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>In the tenth place, When a subject is introduced by its proper name, it
is absurd to attribute to it the properties of a different subject to
which the word is sometimes apply’d in a figurative sense:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hear me, oh Neptune! thou whose arms are hurl’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From shore to shore, and gird the solid world.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Odyss.</i> ix. 617.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Neptune is here introduced personally, and not figuratively for the
ocean: the description therefore, which is only applicable to the ocean,
is altogether improper.</p>

<p>It is not sufficient, that a figure of speech be regularly constructed,
and be free from blemish: it requires taste to discern when it is proper
when improper; and taste, I suspect, is the only guide we can rely on.
One however may gather from reflection and experience, that ornaments
and graces suit not any of the dispiriting passions, nor are proper for
expressing any thing grave and important. In familiar conversation, they
are in some measure ridiculous. Prospero in the <i>Tempest</i>, speaking to
his daughter Miranda, says,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The fringed curtains of thine eyes advance,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And say what thou seest yond.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">No exception can be taken to the justness of the figure; and
circumstances may be imagined to make it proper: but it is certainly not
proper in familiar conversation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span></p>

<p>In the last place, though figures of speech have a charming effect when
accurately constructed and properly introduced, they ought however to be
scattered with a sparing hand: nothing is more luscious, and nothing
consequently more satiating, than redundant ornament of any kind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAP_XXI" id="CHAP_XXI"></a>CHAP. XXI.</h2>

<p class="chead">Narration and Description.</p>

<p class="nind"><span class="letra">H</span>O<span class="smcap">race</span>, and many writers after him, give instructions for chusing a
subject adapted to the genius of the author. But rules of criticism
would be endless, did one descend to peculiarities in talent or genius.
The aim of the present work is, to consider human nature in general, and
to explore what is common to the species. The choice of a subject comes
not under such a plan: but the manner of execution comes under it;
because the manner of execution is subjected to general rules. These
rules respect the things expressed, as well as the language or
expression; which suggests a division of the present chapter into two
parts; first of thoughts, and next of words. I pretend not to justify
this division as entirely accurate. In discoursing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> of the thoughts, it
is difficult to abstract altogether from words; and still more
difficult, in discoursing of the words, to abstract altogether from
thought.</p>

<p>The first observation is, That the thoughts which embellish a narration
ought to be chaste and solid. While the mind is intent upon facts, it is
little disposed to the operarations of the imagination. Poetical images
in a grave history are intolerable; and yet Strada’s Belgic history is
full of poetical images. These being discordant with the subject, are
disgustful; and they have a still worse effect, by giving an air of
fiction to a genuine history. Such flowers ought to be scattered with a
sparing hand, even in epic poetry; and at no rate are they proper, till
the reader be warmed, and by an enlivened imagination be prepared to
relish them: in that state of mind, they are extremely agreeable. But
while we are sedate and attentive to an historical chain of facts, we
reject with disdain every fiction. This Belgic history is indeed wofully
vicious both in matter and form: it is stuffed with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> frigid and
unmeaning reflections, as well as with poetical flashes, which, even
laying aside the impropriety, are mere tinsel.</p>

<p>Vida<a name="FNanchor_31_31" id="FNanchor_31_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_31_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a>, following Horace, recommends a modest commencement of an epic
poem; giving for a reason, that the writer ought to husband his fire.
This reason has weight; but what is said above suggests a reason still
more weighty: Bold thoughts and figures are never relished till the mind
be heated and thoroughly engaged, which is not the reader’s case at the
commencement. Shakespear, in the first part of his history of Henry VI.
begins with a sentiment too bold for the most heated imagination:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>Bedford.</i> Hung be the heav’ns with black, yield day to night!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Comets, importing change of times and states,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And with them scourge the bad revolting stars,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That have consented unto Henry’s death!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">England ne’er lost a king of so much worth.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The passage with which Strada begins his history, is too poetical for a
subject of that kind; and at any rate too high for the beginning of a
grave performance. A third reason ought to have not less influence than
either of the former: A man who, upon his first appearance, endeavours
to exhibit all his talents, is never relished; the first periods of a
work ought therefore to be short, natural, and simple. Cicero, in his
oration <i>pro Archia poeta</i>, errs against this rule: his reader is out of
breath at the very first period, which seems never to end. Burnet begins
the history of his own times with a period long and intricate.</p>

<p>A third rule or observation is, That where the subject is intended for
entertainment solely, not for instruction, a thing ought to be described
as it appears, not as it is in reality. In running, for example, the
impulse upon the ground is accurately proportioned to the celerity of
motion: in ap<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span>pearance it is otherwise; for a person in swift motion
seems to skim the ground, and scarcely to touch it. Virgil, with great
taste, describes quick running according to its appearance; and thereby
raises an image far more lively, than it could have been by adhering
scrupulously to truth:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hos super advenit Volsca de gente Camilla,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Agmen agens equitum et florentes ære catervas,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bellatrix: non illa colo calathisve Minervæ<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fœmineas assueta manus; sed prælia virgo<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dura pati, cursuque pedum prævertere ventos.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Illa vel intactæ segetis per summa volaret<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gramina: nec teneras cursu læsisset aristas:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vel mare per medium, fluctu suspensa tumenti,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ferret iter; celeres nec tingeret æquore plantas.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid</i> vii. 803.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">This example is copied by the author of <i>Telemachus</i>:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Les Brutiens sont legeres à la course comme les cerfs, et comme les
daims. On croiroit que l’herbe même la plus tendre n’est point
foulée sous leurs pieds; à peine laissent ils dans le sable
quelques traces de leurs pas.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Liv.</i> 10.<br />
</p></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span></p>

<p class="nind">Again,</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Déja il avoit abattu Eusilas si léger à la course, qu’à peine il
imprimoit la trace de ses pas dans le sable, et qui devançoit dans
son pays les plus rapides flots de l’ Eurotas et de l’ Alphée.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Liv.</i> 20.<br />
</p></div>

<p>Fourthly, In narration as well as in description, facts and objects
ought to be painted so accurately as to form in the mind of the reader
distinct and lively images. Every useless circumstance ought indeed to
be suppressed, because every such circumstance loads the narration; but
if a circumstance be necessary, however slight, it cannot be described
too minutely. The force of language consists in raising complete
images<a name="FNanchor_32_32" id="FNanchor_32_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_32_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a>; which cannot be done till the reader, forgetting himself, be
transported as by magic into the very place and time of the important
action, and be converted, as it were, into a real spectator, beholding
every thing that passes. In this view, the narrative in an epic poem
ought to rival a picture<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> in the liveliness and accuracy of its
representations: no circumstance must be omitted that tends to make a
complete image; because an imperfect image, as well as any other
imperfect conception, is cold and uninteresting. I shall illustrate this
rule by several examples, giving the first place to a beautiful passage
from Virgil.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Qualis <i>populeâ</i> mœrens Philomela sub umbrâ<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Amissos queritur fœtus, quos durus <i>arator</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Observans nido <i>implumes</i> detraxit.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Georg. lib. 4. l. 511.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The poplar, plowman, and unfledged, though not essential in the
description, are circumstances that tend to make a complete image, and
upon that account are an embellishment.</p>

<p class="nind">Again,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hic viridem Æneas <i>frondenti ex ilice</i> metam<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Constituit, signum nautis.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid.</i> v. 129.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Horace, addressing to Fortune:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Te pauper ambit sollicita prece<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ruris colonus: te dominam æquoris,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Quicumque Bithynâ lacessit<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Carpathium pelagus carinâ.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Carm. lib. 1. ode 35.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; Illum ex mœnibus hosticis<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Matrona bellantis tyranni<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Prospiciens, et adulta virgo,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Suspiret: Eheu, ne rudis agminum<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sponsus lacessat regius asperum<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Tactu leonem, quem cruenta<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Per medias rapit ira cædes.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Carm. lib. 3. ode 2.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Shakespear says<a name="FNanchor_33_33" id="FNanchor_33_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a>, “You may as well go about to turn the sun to ice by
fanning in his face with <i>a peacock’s</i> feather.” The peacock’s feather,
not to mention the beauty of the object, completes the image. An
accurate image cannot be formed of this fanciful operation, without
conceiving a particular feather; and the mind is at some loss, when this
is not specified in the de<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span>cription. Again, “The rogues slighted me into
the river with as little remorse, as they would have drown’d a bitch’s
blind puppies, fifteen i’ th’ litter<a name="FNanchor_34_34" id="FNanchor_34_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a>.”</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Old Lady.</i> You would not be a queen?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Anne.</i> No not for all the riches under heaven.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Old Lady.</i> ’Tis strange: a three-pence bow’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">would hire me, old as I am, to queen it.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Henry VIII. act 2. sc. 5.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">In the following passage, the action, with all its material
circumstances, is represented so much to the life, that it could not be
better conceived by a real spectator; and it is this manner of
description which contributes greatly to the sublimity of the passage.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He spake; and to confirm his words, out-flew<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of mighty cherubim: the sudden blaze<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Far round illumin’d hell: highly they rag’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Clash’d on their sounding shields the din of war,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hurling defiance toward the vault of heav’n.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Milton, b. I.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">A passage I am to cite from Shakespear, falls not much short of that now
mentioned in particularity of description:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O you hard hearts! you cruel men of Rome!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Have you climb’d up to walls and battlements,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your infants in your arms; and there have sat<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The live-long day with patient expectation<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And when you saw his chariot but appear,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Have you not made an universal shout,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That Tyber trembled underneath his banks,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To hear the replication of your sounds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Made in his concave shores?<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Julius Cæsar, act 1, sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The <i>Henriade</i> of Voltaire errs greatly against the foregoing rule:
every thing is touched in a summary way, without ever descending to the
circumstances of an event. This manner is good in a general history,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span>
the purpose of which is to record important transactions: but in a
fable, which hath a very different aim, it is cold and uninteresting;
because it is impracticable to form distinct images of persons or things
represented in a manner so superficial.</p>

<p>It is observed above, that every useless circumstance ought to be
suppressed. To deal in such circumstances, is a fault, on the one hand,
not less to be avoided, than the conciseness for which Voltaire is
blamed, on the other. In the <i>Æneid</i><a name="FNanchor_35_35" id="FNanchor_35_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</a>, Barce, the nurse of Sichæus,
whom we never hear of before or after, is introduced for a purpose not
more important than to call Anna to her sister Dido. And that it might
not be thought unjust in Dido, even in this trivial incident, to prefer
her husband’s nurse before her own, the poet takes care to inform his
reader, that Dido’s nurse was dead. To this I must oppose a beautiful
passage in the same book, where, after Dido’s last speech, the poet,
supposing her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> dead, hastens to describe the lamentation of her
attendants:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Dixerat: atque illam media inter talia ferro<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Collapsam aspiciunt comites, ensemque cruore<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Spumantem, sparsasque manus. It clamor ad alta<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Atria, concussam bacchatur fama per urbem;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lamentis gemituque et fœmineo ululatu<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tecta fremunt, resonat magnis plangoribus æther.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Lib. 4. l. 663.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>As an appendix to the foregoing rule, I add the following observation,
That to raise a sudden and strong impression, some single circumstance
happily selected, has more power than the most laboured description.
Macbeth, mentioning to his lady some voices he heard while he was
murdering the King, says,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">There’s one did laugh in’s sleep, and one cry’d Murder!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They wak’d each other; and I stood and heard them;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But they did say their prayers, and address them<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Again to sleep.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Lady.</i> There are two lodg’d together.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Macbeth.</i> One cry’d, God bless us! and, Amen! the other;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As they had seen me with these hangman’s hands.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Listening their fear, I could not say, Amen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When they did say, God bless us.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Lady.</i> Consider it not so deeply.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Macbeth.</i> But wherefore could not I pronounce, Amen?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I had most need of blessing, and Amen<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stuck in my throat.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Lady.</i> These deeds must not be thought<br /></span>
<span class="i0">After these ways; so, it will make us mad.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Macbeth.</i> Methought, I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Macbeth doth murder sleep, &amp;<i>c</i>.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Act 2. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Describing Prince Henry:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm’d,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rise from the ground like feather’d Mercury;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And vaulted with such ease into his seat,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As if an angel dropt down from the clouds,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And witch the world with noble horsemanship.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>First Part Henry IV. act 4. sc. 2.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>King Henry.</i> Lord Cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He dies, and makes no sign!<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Second Part Henry VI. act 3. sc. 10.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The same author, speaking ludicrously of an army debilitated with
diseases, says,</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Half of them dare not shake the snow from off their cassocks, lest
they shake themselves to pieces.</p></div>

<p>To draw a character is the master-stroke of description. In this Tacitus
excels: his figures are natural, distinct, and complete; not a feature
wanting or misplaced. Shakespear however exceeds Tacitus in the
sprightliness of his figures: some characteristical circumstance is
generally invented or laid hold of, which paints more to the life than
many words. The following instances will explain my meaning, and at the
same time prove my observation to be just.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By being peevish? I tell that what, Anthonio,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">(I love thee, and it is my love that speaks):<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There are a sort of men, whose visages<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Do cream and mantle like a standing pond;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And do a wilful stillness entertain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As who should say, I am Sir Oracle,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O my Anthonio, I do know of those,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That therefore only are reputed wise,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For saying nothing.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Merchant of Venice, act 1. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Again,</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in
all Venice: his reasons are two grains of wheat hid in two bushels
of chaff; you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you
have them, they are not worth the search.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Ibid</i>.<br />
</p></div>

<p class="nind">In the following passage a character is completed by a single stroke.</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Shallow.</i> O the mad days that I have spent; and to see how many of
mine old acquaintance are dead.</p>

<p><i>Silence.</i> We shall all follow, Cousin.</p>

<p><i>Shallow.</i> Certain, ’tis certain, very sure, very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> sure; Death (as
the Psalmist saith) is certain to all: all shall die. How a good
yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair?</p>

<p><i>Slender.</i> Truly, Cousin, I was not there.</p>

<p><i>Shallow.</i> Death is certain. Is old <i>Double</i> of your town living
yet.</p>

<p><i>Silence.</i> Dead, Sir.</p>

<p><i>Shallow.</i> Dead! see, see; he drew a good bow: and dead? He shot a
fine shoot. How a score of ewes now?</p>

<p><i>Silence.</i> Thereafter as they be. A score of good ewes may be worth
ten pounds.</p>

<p><i>Shallow.</i> And is old <i>Double</i> dead?</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Second Part Henry IV. act 3. sc. 3.</i><br />
</p></div>

<p class="nind">Describing a jealous husband:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an
abstract for the remembrance of such places, and goes to them by
his note. There is no hiding you in the house.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Merry Wives of Windsor, act 4. sc. 3.</i><br />
</p></div>

<p class="nind">Congreve has an inimitable stroke of this kind in his comedy of <i>Love
for Love</i>:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Ben Legend.</i> Well, father, and how do all at home? how does
brother Dick, and brother Val?</p>

<p><i>Sir Sampson.</i> Dick, body o’ me, Dick has been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> dead these two
years, I writ you word, when you were at Leghorn.</p>

<p><i>Ben.</i> Mess, that’s true; marry, I had forgot. Dick’s dead, as you
say.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Act 3. sc. 6.</i><br />
</p></div>

<p class="nind">Falstaff speaking of Ancient Pistol,</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>He’s no swaggerer, hostess; a tame cheater i’ faith; you may stroak
him as gently as a puppey-greyhound; he will not swagger with a
Barbary hen, if her feathers turn back in any shew of resistence.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Second Part Henry</i> IV. <i>act 2. sc. 9</i>.<br />
</p></div>

<p>Some writers, through heat of imagination, fall into contradictions;
some are guilty of downright inconsistencies; and some even rave like
madmen. Against such capital errors one cannot be warned to better
purpose than by collecting instances. The first shall be of a
contradiction, the most venial of all. Virgil speaking of Neptune:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Interea magno misceri murmure pontum<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Emissamque hyemem sensit Neptunus, et imis<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stagna refusa vadis: <i>graviter commotus</i>, et alto<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Prospiciens, summâ <i>placidum</i> caput extulit undâ.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid.</i> i. 128.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Again,</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">When first young Maro, in his boundless mind,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A work t’outlast immortal Rome design’d.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Essay on Criticism, l. 130.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The following examples are of downright inconsistencies.</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Alii pulsis e tormento catenis discerpti sectique, dimidiato
corpore pugnabant sibi superstites, ac peremptæ partis ultores.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Strada, Dec. 2. L. 2.</i><br />
</p></div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Il povér huomo, che non sen’ era accorto,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Andava combattendo, ed era morto. <i>Berni.</i><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He fled, but flying, left his life behind. <i>Iliad</i> xi. 443.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Full through his neck the weighty falchion sped;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Along the pavement roll’d the mutt’ring head.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Odyssey</i> xxii. 365.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The last article is of raving like one mad. Cleopatra speaking to the
aspick:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; Welcome, thou kind deceiver,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thou best of thieves; who, with an easy key,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Do’st open life, and unperceiv’d by us<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ev’n steal us from ourselves; discharging so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Death’s dreadful office, better than himself,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Touching our limbs so gently into slumber,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That Death stands by, deceiv’d by his own image,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And thinks himself but Sleep.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Dryden, All for Love, act 5.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Reasons that are common and known to every person, ought to be taken for
granted: to express them is childish and interrupts the narration.
Quintus Curtius, relating the battle of Issus:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Jam in conspectu, sed extra teli jactum, utraque acies erat; quum
priores Persæ inconditum et trucem sustulere clamorem. Redditur et
a Macedonibus major, exercitus impar numero, sed jugis montium
vastisque saltibus repercussus: <i>quippe semper circumjecta nemora
petræque, quantamcumque accepere vocem, multiplicato sono
referunt.</i></p></div>

<p>Having discussed what observations occurred upon the thoughts or things
expressed, I proceed to what more peculiarly concern the language or
verbal dress. The language proper for expressing passion is the subject
of a former chapter. Several observations there made, are applicable to
the present subject; particularly, That words are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> intimately connected
with the ideas they represent, and that the representation cannot be
perfect unless the emotions raised by the sound and the sense be
concordant. It is not sufficient, that the sense be clearly expressed:
the words must correspond to the subject in every particular. An
elevated subject requires an elevated style: what is familiar, ought to
be familiarly expressed: a subject that is serious and important, ought
to be cloathed in plain nervous language: a description, on the other
hand, addressed to the imagination, is susceptible of the highest
ornaments that sounding words, metaphor, and figurative expression, can
bestow upon it.</p>

<p>I shall give a few examples of the foregoing doctrine. A poet of any
genius will not readily dress a high subject in low words; and yet
blemishes of this kind are found even in some classical works. Horace
observing that men, perfectly satisfied with themselves, are seldom so
with their condition, introduces Jupiter indulging to each his own
choice:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span></p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Jam faciam quod vultis: eris tu, qui modo miles,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mercator: tu, consultus modo, rusticus: hinc vos,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vos hinc mutatis discedite partibus: eia,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Quid? statis? nolint: atqui licet esse beatis.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Quid causæ est, merito quin illis Jupiter ambas<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Iratus buccas inflet? neque se fore posthac<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tam facilem dicat, votis ut præbeat aurem?<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Serm, lib. 1. sat. 1. l. 16.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Jupiter in wrath puffing up both cheeks, is a ludicrous expression, far
from suitable to the gravity of the subject: every one must feel the
discordance. The following couplet, sinking far below the subject, is
not less ludicrous.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Not one looks backward, onward still he goes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet ne’er looks forward farther than his nose.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Essay on Man</i>, <i>ep.</i> iv. 223.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>On the other hand, to raise the expression above the tone of the
subject, is a fault than which none is more common. Take the following
instances.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Orcan le plus fidéle à server ses desseins,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Né sous le ciel brûlant des plus noirs Affricains.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Bajazet, act 3. sc. 8.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Les ombres par trois fois ont obscurci les cieux<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Depuis que le sommeil n’est entré dans vos yeux;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Et le jour a trois fois chassé la nuit obscure<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Depuis que votre corps languit sans nourriture.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Phedra, act 1. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Assuerus.</i> Ce mortel, qui montra tant de zéle pour moi,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vit-il encore?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Asaph.</i>&mdash;&mdash; Il voit l’astre qui vous éclaire.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Esther, act 2. sc. 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oui, c’est Agamemnon, c’est ton Roi qui t’eveille;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Viens, reconnois la voix qui frape ton oreille.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iphigenie.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; In the inner room<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I spy a winking lamp, that weakly strikes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The ambient air, scarce kindling into light.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Southerne, Fate of Capua, act 3.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">In the funeral orations of the Bishop of Meaux, the following passages
are raised far above the tone of the subject.</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>L’Ocean etonné de se voir traversé tant de fois en des appareils si
divers, et pour des causes si differentes, &amp;<i>c.</i>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span></p>

<p class="r">
<i>p. 6.</i><br />
</p></div>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Grande Reine, je satisfais à vos plus tendres desirs, quand je
célébre ce monarque; et ce cœur qui n’a jamais vêcu que pour lui,
se eveille, tout poudre qu’il est, et devient sensible, même sous
ce drap mortuaire, au nom d’un epoux si cher.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>p. 32.</i><br />
</p></div>

<p class="nind">Montesquieu, in a didactic work, <i>L’esprit des Loix</i>, gives too great
indulgence to imagination: the tone of his language swells frequently
above his subject. I give an example:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Mr le Comte de Boulainvilliers et Mr l’Abbé Dubos ont fait chacun
un systeme, dont l’un semble être une conjuration contre le
tiers-etat, et l’autre une conjuration contre la noblesse. Lorsque
le Soleil donna à Phaéton son char à conduire, il lui dit: Si vous
montez trop haut, vous brulerez la demeure céleste; si vous
descendez trop bas, vous réduirez en cendres la terre: n’allez
point trop a droite, vous tomberiez dans la constellation du
serpent; n’allez point trop à gauche, vous iriez dans celle de
l’autel: tenez-vous entre les deux.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>L. ch. 10.</i><br />
</p></div>

<p class="nind">The following passage, intended, one would imagine, as a receipt to boil
water, is alto<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span>gether burlesque by the laboured elevation of the
diction.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A massy caldron of stupendous frame<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They brought, and plac’d it o’er the rising flame:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then heap the lighted wood; the flame divides<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Beneath the vase, and climbs around the sides:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In its wide womb they pour the rushing stream;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The boiling water bubbles to the brim.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Pope’s Homer</i>, <i>book</i> xviii. 405.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">In a passage near the beginning of the 4th book of Telamachus, one feels
a sudden bound upward without preparation, which accords not with the
subject:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Calypso, qui avoit été jusqu’ à ce moment immobile et transportée
de plaisir en écoutant les avantures de Télémaque, l’interrompit
pour lui faire prendre quelque repos. Il est tems, lui dit-elle,
que vous alliez goûter la douceur du sommeil aprés tant de travaux.
Vous n’avez rien à craindre ici; tout vous est favorable.
Abandonnez-vous donc à la joye. Goûtez la paix, et tous les autres
dons des dieux dont vous allez être comblé. Demain, <i>quand l’Aurore
avec ses doigts de roses entr’ouvrira les portes dorées de
l’Orient, et que les chevaux du soleil sortans de l’onde amére
répandront les flames<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span> du jour, pour chasser devant eux toutes les
etoiles du ciel</i>, nous reprendrons, mon cher Télémaque, l’histoire
de vos malheurs.</p></div>

<p class="nind">This obviously is copied from a similar passage in the Æneid, which
ought not to have been copied, because it lies open to the same censure:
but the force of authority is great.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">At regina gravi jamdudum saucia cura,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vulnus alit venis, &amp; cæco carpitur igni.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Multa viri virtus animo, multusque recursat<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gentis honos: hærent infixi pectore vultus,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Verbaque: nec placidam membris dat cura quietem.<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>Postera Phœbea lustrabat lampade terras,</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0"><i>Humentemque Aurora polo dimoverat umbram</i>;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cum sic unanimem alloquitur malesana sororem:<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Lib.</i> iv. 1.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Take another example where the words rise above the subject:</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Ainsi les peuples y accoururent bientôt en foule de toutes parts;
le commerce de cette ville étoit semblable au flux et reflux de la
mer. Les trésors y entroient comme les flots viennent l’un sur
l’autre. Tout y etoit apporté et en sortoit librement: tout<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span> ce qui
y entroit, étoit utile; toute ce qui en sortoit, laissoit en
sortant d’autres richesses en sa place. La justice sevére presidoit
dans le port au milieu de tant de nations. La franchise, la bonne
foi, la candeur, sembloient du haut de ces superbs tours appeller
les marchands des terres les plus éloignées: chacun des ces
marchands, <i>soit qu’il vint des rives orientales où le soleil sort
chaque jour du sein des ondes, soit qu’il fût parti de cette grande
mer ou le soleil assé de son cours va eteindre ses feux</i>, vivoit
plaisible et en sureté dans Salente comme dans sa patrie!</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Telemaque, l. 12.</i><br />
</p></div>

<p>The language of Homer is suited to his subject, not less accurately than
the actions and sentiments of his heroes are to their characters.
Virgil, in this particular, falls short of perfection: his language is
stately throughout; and though he descends at times to the simplest
branches of cookery, roasting and boiling for example, yet he never
relaxes a moment from the high tone<a name="FNanchor_36_36" id="FNanchor_36_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</a>. In adjusting his language to
his subject, no writer equals Swift. I can recollect but one exception,
which at the same time is far<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> from being gross. The journal of a modern
lady, is composed in a style where sprightliness is blended with
familiarity, perfectly suited to the subject. In one passage, however,
the poet assumes a higher tone, which corresponds neither to the subject
nor to the tone of language employ’d in the rest of that piece. The
passage I have in view begins <i>l.</i> 116. “But let me now a while survey,”
&amp;<i>c.</i> and ends at <i>l.</i> 135.</p>

<p>It is proper to be observed upon this head, that writers of inferior
rank are continually upon the stretch to enliven and enforce their
subject by exaggeration and superlatives. This unluckily has an effect
opposite to what is intended: the reader, disgusted with language that
swells above the subject, is led by contrast to think more meanly of the
subject than it may possibly deserve. A man of prudence, beside, will be
not less careful to husband his strength in writing than in walking: a
writer too liberal of superlatives, exhausts his whole stock upon
ordinary incidents, and reserves no share to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span> express, with greater
energy, matters of importance<a name="FNanchor_37_37" id="FNanchor_37_37"></a><a href="#Footnote_37_37" class="fnanchor">[37]</a>.</p>

<p>The power that language possesses to imitate thought, goes farther than
to the capital circumstances above mentioned: it reacheth even the
slighter modifications. Slow action, for example, is imitated by words
pronounced slow; labour or toil, by words harsh or rough in their sound.
But this subject has been already handled<a name="FNanchor_38_38" id="FNanchor_38_38"></a><a href="#Footnote_38_38" class="fnanchor">[38]</a>.</p>

<p>In dialogue-writing, the condition of the speaker is chiefly to be
regarded in framing the expression. The centinel in <i>Hamlet</i>,
interrogated about the ghost, whether his watch had been quiet? answers
with great<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> propriety for a man in his station, “Not a mouse
stirring<a name="FNanchor_39_39" id="FNanchor_39_39"></a><a href="#Footnote_39_39" class="fnanchor">[39]</a>.”</p>

<p>I proceed to a second remark, not less important than the former. No
person of reflection but must be sensible, that an incident makes a
stronger impression on an eye-witness, than when heard at second hand.
Writers of genius, sensible that the eye is the best avenue to the
heart, represent every thing as passing in our sight; and from readers
or hearers, transform us, as it were, into spectators. A skilful writer
conceals himself, and presents his personages. In a word, every thing
becomes dramatic as much as possible. Plutarch, <i>de gloria
Atheniensium</i>, observes, that Thucydides makes his reader a spectator,
and inspires him with the same passions as if he were an eye-witness. I
am intitled to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> make the same observation upon our countryman Swift.
From this happy talent arises that energy of style which is peculiar to
him: he cannot always avoid narration; but the pencil is his choice, by
which he bestows life and colouring upon his objects. Pope is richer in
ornament, but possesses not in the same degree the talent of drawing
from the life. A translation of the sixth satire of Horace, begun by the
former and finished by the latter, affords the fairest opportunity for a
comparison. Pope obviously imitates the picturesque manner of his
friend: yet every one of taste must be sensible, that the imitation,
though fine, falls short of the original. In other instances, where Pope
writes in his own style, the difference of manner is still more
conspicuous.</p>

<p>Abstract or general terms have no good effect in any competition for
amusement; because it is only of particular objects that images can be
formed<a name="FNanchor_40_40" id="FNanchor_40_40"></a><a href="#Footnote_40_40" class="fnanchor">[40]</a>. Shakespear’s style in that respect is excellent. Every
article<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span> in his descriptions is particular, as in nature; and if
accidentally a vague expression slip in, the blemish is extremely
discernible by the bluntness of its impression. Take the following
example. Falstaff, excusing himself for running away at a robbery, says,</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye,
my masters; was it for me to kill the heir-apparent? should I turn
upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as
Hercules; but beware instinct, the lion will not touch the true
prince: instinct is a great matter. I was a coward on instinct: I
shall think the better of myself, and thee, during my life; I, for
a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads,
I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to the doors; watch
to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all
the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry?
shall we have a play <i>extempore</i>?</p>

<p class="r">
<i>First Part Henry IV. act 2. sc. 9.</i><br />
</p></div>

<p class="nind">The particular words I object to are, <i>instinct is a great matter</i>,
which make but a poor figure, compared with the liveliness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span> of the rest
of the speech. It was one of Homer’s advantages, that he wrote before
general terms were multiplied: the superior genius of Shakespear
displays itself in avoiding them after they were multiplied. Addison
describes the family of Sir Roger de Coverley in the following words.</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>You would take his valet de chambre for his brother, his butler is
gray-headed, his groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever
seen, and his coachman has the looks of a privy counsellor.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Spectator</i>, Nº 106.<br />
</p></div>

<p class="nind">The description of the groom is less lively than of the others; plainly
because the expression, being vague and general, tends not to form any
image. “Dives opum variarum<a name="FNanchor_41_41" id="FNanchor_41_41"></a><a href="#Footnote_41_41" class="fnanchor">[41]</a>,” is an expression still more vague; and
so are the following.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Mæcenas, mearum<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Grande decus, columenque rerum.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. Carm. l. 2. ode 17.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; et fide Teia<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Dices laborantes in uno<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Penelopen, vitreamque Circen.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. Carm. l. 1. ode 17.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>In the fine arts, it is a rule, to put the capital objects in the
strongest point of view; and even to present them oftener than once,
where it can be done. In history-painting, the principal figure is
placed in the front, and in the best light: an equestrian statue is
placed in a centre of streets, that it may be seen from many places at
once. In no composition is there a greater opportunity for this rule
than in writing:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Sequitur pulcherrimus Astur,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Astur equo fidens et versicoloribus armis.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid.</i> x. 180.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;Full many a lady<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ve ey’d with best regard, and many a time<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Th’ harmony of their tongues hath into bondage<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Brought my too diligent ear, for several virtues<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Have I lik’d several women, never any<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With so full soul, but some defect in her<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow’d,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">And put it to the foil. But you, O you,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So perfect, and so peerless, are created<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of every creature’s best.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>The Tempest, act 3. sc. 1.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">With thee conversing I forget all time;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All seasons and their change, all please alike.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When first on this delightful land he spreads<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flow’r,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertil earth<br /></span>
<span class="i0">After soft showers; and sweet the coming on<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of grateful evening mild, the silent night<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And these the gems of heav’n, her starry train:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But neither breath of morn, when she ascends<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Glistering with dew, nor fragrance after showers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor grateful evening mild, nor silent night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost, book</i> 4. l. 634.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="blockquot"><p>What mean ye, that ye use this proverb, The fathers have eaten sour
grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge? As I live, saith
the Lord<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> God, ye shall not have occasion to use this proverb in
Israel. If a man keep my judgements to deal truly, he is just, he
shall surely live. But if he be a robber, a shedder of blood; if he
have eaten upon the mountains, and defiled his neighbour’s wife; if
he have oppressed the poor and needy, have spoiled by violence,
have not restored the pledge, have lift up his eyes to idols, have
given forth upon usury, and have taken increase: shall he live? he
shall not live: he shall surely die; and his blood shall be upon
him. Now, lo, if he beget a son, that seeth all his father’s sins,
and considereth, and doth not such like; that hath not eaten upon
the mountains, hath not lift up his eyes to idols, nor defiled his
neighbour’s wife, hath not oppressed any nor with held the pledge,
neither hath spoiled by violence, but hath given his bread to the
hungry, and covered the naked with a garment; that hath not
received usury nor increase, that hath executed my judgments, and
walked in my statutes; he shall not die for the iniquity of his
father; he shall surely live. The soul that sinneth, it shall die:
the son shall not bear the iniquity of the father; neither shall
the father bear the iniquity of the son; the righteousness of the
righteous shall be upon him, and the wickedness of the wicked shall
be upon him. Have I any pleasure that the wicked should die? saith
the Lord<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span> God; and not that he should return from his ways and
live.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Ezekiel</i> xviii.<br />
</p></div>

<p class="nind">The repetitions in Homer, which are frequent, have been the occasion of
much criticism. Suppose we were at a loss about the reason, might not
taste be sufficient to justify them? At the same time, one must be
devoid of understanding not to be sensible, that they make the narration
dramatic; and give an air of truth, by making things appear as passing
in our sight.</p>

<p>A concise comprehensive style is a great ornament in narration; and a
superfluity of unnecessary words, not less than of circumstances, a
great nuisance. A judicious selection of the striking circumstances,
cloathed in a nervous style, is delightful. In this style, Tacitus
excels all writers, ancient and modern. Instances are numberless: take
the following specimen.</p>

<div class="blockquot"><p>Crebra hinc prælia, et sæpius in modum latrocinii: per saltus, per
paludes; ut cuique sors aut virtus: temere, proviso, ob iram, ob
prædam, jussu, et aliquando ignaris ducibus.</p>

<p class="r">
<i>Annal. lib.</i> 12. § 39.<br />
</p></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span></p>

<p>If a concise or nervous style be a beauty, tautology must be a blemish.
And yet writers, fettered by verse, are not sufficiently careful to
avoid this slovenly practice: they may be pitied, but they cannot be
justified. Take for a specimen the following instances, from the best
poet, for versification at least, that England has to boast of:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">High on his helm celestial lightnings play,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His beamy shield emits a living ray,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Th’ unweary’d blaze incessant streams supplies,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like the red star that fires th’ autumnal skies.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> v. 5.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Strength and omnipotence invest thy throne.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> viii. 576.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So silent fountains, from a rock’s tall head,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In sable streams soft-trickling waters shed.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> ix. 19.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">His clanging armour rung.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> xii. 94.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Fear on their cheek, and horror in their eye.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> xv. 4.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The blaze of armour flash’d against the day.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> xvii. 736.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">As when the piercing blasts of Boreas blow.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> xix. 380.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And like the moon, the broad refulgent shield<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Blaz’d with long rays, and gleam’d athwart the field.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> xix. 402.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
No&mdash;could our swiftness o’er the winds prevail,<br />
Or beat the pinions of the western gale,<br />
All were in vain&mdash;&mdash;<br />
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> xix. 460.</span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The humid sweat from ev’ry pore descends.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Iliad</i> xxiii. 829.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Redundant epithets, such as <i>humid</i>, in the last citation, are by
Quintilian disallowed to orators, but indulged to poets<a name="FNanchor_42_42" id="FNanchor_42_42"></a><a href="#Footnote_42_42" class="fnanchor">[42]</a>; because his
favourite poets, in a few instances, are reduced to such epithets for
the sake of versification. For instance, <i>Prata canis albicant pruinis</i>,
of Horace, and <i>liquidos fontes</i>, of Virgil.</p>

<p>As an apology for such careless expressions, it may well suffice, that
Pope, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> submitting to be a translator, acts below his genius. In a
translation, it is hard to require the same spirit or accuracy, that is
chearfully bestowed on an original work. And to support the reputation
of this author, I shall give some instances from Virgil and Horace, more
faulty by redundancy than any of those above mentioned:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sæpe etiam immensum cœlo venit agmen aquarum,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Et fœdam glomerant tempestatem imbribus atris<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Collectæ ex alto nubes: ruit arduus æther,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Et pluviâ ingenti sata læta, boumque labores<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Diluit.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Georg. lib.</i> i. 322.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Postquam altum tenuere rates, nec jam amplius ullæ<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Apparent terræ; cœlum undique et undique pontus:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tum mihi cœruleus supra caput astitit imber,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Noctem hyememque ferens: et inhorruit unda tenebris.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Æneid. lib.</i> iii. 191.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Hinc tibi copia<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Manabit ad plenum benigno<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Ruris honorum opulenta cornu.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. Carm. lib. 1. ode 17.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Videre fessos vomerem inversum boves<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Collo trahentes languido.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Horat. Epod.</i> ii. 63.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Here I can luckily apply Horace’s rule against himself:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Impediat verbis lassas onerantibus aures.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Serm. lib. 1. sat. x. 9.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>I close this chapter with a curious inquiry. An object, however ugly to
the sight, is far from being so when represented by colours or by words.
What is the cause of this difference? The cause with respect to painting
is obvious. A good picture, whatever the subject be, is agreeable,
because of the pleasure we take in imitation: the agreeableness of
imitation overbalances the disagreeableness of the subject; and the
picture upon the whole is agreeable. It requires a greater compass to
explain the cause with respect to the description of an ugly object. To
connect individuals in the social state, no one particular contributes
more than language, by the power it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> possesses of an expeditious
communication of thought and a lively representation of transactions.
But nature hath not been satisfied to recommend language by its utility
merely: it is made susceptible of many beauties that have no relation to
utility, which are directly felt without the intervention of any
reflection<a name="FNanchor_43_43" id="FNanchor_43_43"></a><a href="#Footnote_43_43" class="fnanchor">[43]</a>. And this unfolds the mystery; for the pleasure of
language is so great, as in a lively description to overbalance the
disagreeableness of the image raised by it<a name="FNanchor_44_44" id="FNanchor_44_44"></a><a href="#Footnote_44_44" class="fnanchor">[44]</a>. This however is no
encouragement to deal in disagreeable subjects; for the pleasure is out
of sight greater where the subject and the description are both of them
agreeable.</p>

<p>The following description is upon the whole agreeable, though the
subject described is in itself dismal.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Nine times the space that measures day and night<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To mortal men, he with his horrid crew<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lay vanquish’d, rowling in the fiery gulf<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span><span class="i0">Confounded though immortal: but his doom<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Reserv’d him to more wrath; for now the thought<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Both of lost happiness and lasting pain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That witness’d huge affliction and dismay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mix’d with obdurate pride and stedfast hate:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At once as far as angels ken he views<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The dismal situation waste and wild:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A dungeon horrible, on all sides round<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As one great furnace flam’d; yet from those flames<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No light, but rather darkness visible<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Serv’d only to discover sights of wo,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And rest can never dwell, hope never comes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That comes to all; but torture without end<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With ever burning sulphur unconsum’d:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Such place eternal justice had prepar’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For those rebellious.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost, book 1. l. 50</i>.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">An unmanly depression of spirits in time of danger is not an agreeable
sight; and yet a fine description or representation of it will be
relished:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>K. Richard</i>. What must the King do now? must he submit?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The King shall do it: must he be depos’d?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">The King shall be contented: must he lose<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The name of King? O’ God’s name, let it go:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ll give my jewels for a set of beads;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My gorgeous palace, for a hermitage;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My gay apparel, for an almsman’s gown;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My figur’d goblets, for a dish of wood;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My sceptre, for a palmer’s walking staff;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My subjects, for a pair of carved saints;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And my large kingdom, for a little grave;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A little, little grave;&mdash;&mdash; an obscure grave.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or I’ll be bury’d in the King’s highway;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Some way of common tread, where subjects feet<br /></span>
<span class="i0">May hourly trample on their sovereign’s head:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For on my heart they tread now, whilst I live;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, bury’d once, why not upon my head?<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Richard II. act 3. sc. 6.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Objects that strike terror in a spectator, have in poetry and painting a
fine effect. The picture, by raising a slight emotion of terror,
agitates the mind; and in that condition every beauty makes a deep
impression. May not contrast heighten the pleasure, by opposing our
present security to the danger we would be in by encountering the object
represented?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span></p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; The other shape,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If shape it might be call’d, that shape had none<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or substance might be call’d that shadow seem’d,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For each seem’d either; black it stood as night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And shook a dreadful dart.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost, book 2. l. 666.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Now storming fury rose,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And clamour such as heard in heav’n till now<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Was never, arms on armour clashing bray’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Horrible discord, and the madding wheels<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of brazen chariots rag’d; dire was the noise<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of conflict; over-head the dismal hiss<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of fiery darts in flaming vollies flew,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And flying vaulted either host with fire.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So under fiery cope together rush’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Both battles main, with ruinous assault<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And inextinguishable rage; all heav’n<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Resounded, and had earth been then, all earth<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Had to her centre shook.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost, book 6. l. 207.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Ghost.</i>&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; But that I am forbid<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To tell the secrets of my prison-house,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy knotty and combined locks to part,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And each particular hair to stand on end<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like quills upon the fretful porcupine:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But this eternal blazon must not be<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To ears of flesh and blood.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Hamlet, act 1. sc. 8.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Gratiano.</i> Poor Desdemona! I’m glad thy father’s dead:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy match was mortal to him; and pure grief<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shore his old thread in twain. Did he live now,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This sight would make him do a desp’rate turn:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yea, curse his better angel from his side,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And fall to reprobation.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Othello, act 5. sc. 8.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Objects of horror must be excepted from the foregoing theory; for no
description, however masterly, is sufficient to overbalance the disgust
raised even by the idea of such an object. Every thing horrible ought
therefore to be avoided in a description. Nor is this a severe law: the
poet will avoid such scenes for his own sake, as well as for that of his
reader; and to vary his descriptions, nature affords plenty of objects
that disgust<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> us in some degree without raising horror. I am obliged
therefore to condemn the picture of sin in the second book of <i>Paradise
Lost</i>, though drawn with a masterly hand. The original would be a
horrible spectacle; and the horror is not much softened in the copy.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; Pensive here I sat<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Alone, but long I sat not, till my womb<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pregnant by thee, and now excessive grown<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Prodigious motion felt and rueful throes.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At last this odious offspring whom thou seest,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thine own begotten, breaking violent way,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tore through my intrails, that with fear and pain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Distorted, all my nether shape thus grew<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Transform’d; but he my inbred enemy<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Forth issu’d, brandishing his fatal dart,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Made to destroy: I fled, and cry’d out Death;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hell trembl’d at the hideous name, and sigh’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From all her caves, and back resounded Death.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I fled, but he pursu’d, (though more, it seems,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Inflam’d with lust than rage), and swifter far,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Me overtook, his mother all dismay’d,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And in embraces forcible and foul<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ingendring with me, of that rape begot<br /></span>
<span class="i0">These yelling monsters that with ceaseless cry<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Surround me, as thou saw’st, hourly concei<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span>v’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And hourly born, with sorrow infinite<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To me; for when they list, into the womb<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That bred them they return, and howl and gnaw<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My bowels, their repast; then bursting forth<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A fresh with conscious terrors vex me round,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That rest or intermission none I find.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Before mine eyes in opposition sits<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Grim Death, my son and foe, who sets them on,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And me his parent would full soon devour<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For want of other prey, but that he knows<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His end with mine involv’d; and knows that I<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Should prove a bitter morsel, and his bane,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whenever that shall be.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Book 2. l. 777.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">Iago’s character in the tragedy of <i>Othello</i>, is so monstrous and
satanical, as not to be sufferable in a representation: not even
Shakespear’s masterly hand can make the picture agreeable.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Though the objects introduced in the following scenes, are not
altogether so horrible as Sin is in Milton’s picture; yet with every
person of taste, disgust will be the prevailing emotion.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">&mdash;&mdash; Strophades Graio stant nomine dictæ<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Insulæ Ionio in magno: quas dira Celæno,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Harpyiæque colunt aliæ: Phineia postquam<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Clausa domus, mensasque metu liquere priores.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tristius haud illis monstrum, nec sævior ulla<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pestis et ira Deûm Stygiis sese extulit undis.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Virginei volucrum vultus, fœdissima ventris<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Proluvies, uncæque manus, et pallida semper.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ora fame.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Huc ubi delati portus intravimus: ecce<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Læta boum passim campis armenta videmus,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Caprigenumque pecus, nullo custode, per herbas.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Irruimus ferro, et Divos ipsumque vocamus<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In prædam partemque Jovem: tunc littore curvo<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Extruimusque toros, dapibusque epulamur opimis.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At subitæ horrifico lapsu de montibus adsunt<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Harpyiæ: et magnis quatiunt clangoribus alas:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Diripiuntque dapes, contactuque omnia fœdant<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Immundo: tum vox tetrum dira inter odorem.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Æneid. lib</i>. iii. 210.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sum patria ex Ithaca, comes infelicis Ulyssei,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nomen Achemenides: Trojam, genitore Adamasto<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Paupere (mansissetque utinam fortuna!) profectus.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hic me, dum trepidi crudelia limina linquunt,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Immemores socii vasto Cyclopis in antro<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Deseruere. Domus sanie dapibusque cruentis,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Intus opaca, ingens: ipse arduus, altaque pulsat<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sidera: (Dii, talem terris avertite pestem)<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nec visu facilis, nec dictu affabilis ulli.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Visceribus miserorum, et sanguine vescitur atro.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vidi egomet, duo de numero cum corpora nostro,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Prensa manu magna, medio resupinus in antro,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Frangeret ad saxum, sanieque aspersa natarent<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Limina: vidi, atro cum membra fluentia tabo<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Manderet, et tepidi tremerent sub dentibus artus.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Haud impune quidem: nec talia passus Ulysses,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Oblitusve sui est Ithacus discrimine tanto.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nam simul expletus dapibus, vinoque sepultus<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cervicem inflexam posuit, jacuitque per antrum<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Immensus, saniem eructans, ac frusta cruento<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Per somnum commixta mero; nos, magna precati<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Numina, sortitique vices, unà undique circum<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fundimur, et telo lumen terebramus acuto<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ingens, quod torva solum sub fronte latebat.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Æneid. lib.</i>. iii 613.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span></div></div>
</div>

<h2><a name="CHAP_XXII" id="CHAP_XXII"></a>CHAP. XXII.</h2>

<p class="chead">Epic and Dramatic Compositions.</p>

<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>R<span class="smcap">agedy</span> differs from the epic more in form than in substance. The ends
proposed by each are instruction and amusement; and each of them copy
human actions as means to bring about these ends. They differ in the
manner only of copying. Epic poetry deals in narration: Tragedy
represents its facts as transacted in our sight. In the former, the poet
introduces himself as an historian: in the latter he presents his actors
and never himself<a name="FNanchor_45_45" id="FNanchor_45_45"></a><a href="#Footnote_45_45" class="fnanchor">[45]</a>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span></p>

<p>This difference, regarding form only, may be thought slight; but the
effects it occasions, are by no means so. What we see, makes a stronger
impression than what we learn from others. A narrative poem is a story
told by another: facts and incidents passing upon the stage, come under
our own observation; and are beside much enlivened by action and
gesture, expressive of many sentiments beyond the reach of language.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span></p>

<p>A dramatic composition has another property, independent altogether of
action. A dialogue makes a deeper impression than a narration: because
in the former persons express their own sentiments; whereas in the
latter sentiments are related at second hand. For that reason,
Aristotle, the father of critics, lays it down as a rule, That in an
epic poem the author ought to take every opportunity to introduce his
actors, and to confine the narrative part within the narrowest
bounds<a name="FNanchor_46_46" id="FNanchor_46_46"></a><a href="#Footnote_46_46" class="fnanchor">[46]</a>. Homer understood perfectly the advantage of this method; and
his poems are both of them in a great measure dramatic. Lucan runs to
the opposite extreme; and is guilty of a still greater fault: the
<i>Pharsalia</i> is stuffed with cold and languid reflections; the merit of
which the author assumes to himself, and deigns not to share with his
personages. Nothing can be more impertinent, than a chain of such
reflections, which suspend the battle of Pharsalia after the leaders had
made their speech<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span>es, and the two armies are ready to engage<a name="FNanchor_47_47" id="FNanchor_47_47"></a><a href="#Footnote_47_47" class="fnanchor">[47]</a>.</p>

<p>Aristotle, from the nature of the fable, divides tragedy into simple and
complex. But it is of greater moment, with respect to dramatic as well
as epic poetry, to found a distinction upon the different ends attained
by such compositions. A poem, whether dramatic or epic, that hath no
tendency beyond moving the passions and exhibiting pictures of virtue
and vice, may be distinguished by the name of <i>pathetic</i>. But where a
story is purposely contrived to illustrate some important lesson of
morality, by showing the natural connection betwixt disorderly passions
and external misfortunes, such composition may be denominated
<i>moral</i><a name="FNanchor_48_48" id="FNanchor_48_48"></a><a href="#Footnote_48_48" class="fnanchor">[48]</a>. It indeed conveys moral instruc<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span>tion with a perspicuity
that is not exceeded by the most accurate reasoning; and makes a deeper
impression than any moral discourse can do. To be satisfied of this, we
need but reflect, that a man whose affections are justly balanced, hath
a better chance to escape misfortunes, than one who is a slave to every
passion. Indeed, nothing is more evident, than the natural connection
that vice hath with misery, and virtue with happiness; and such
connection may be illustrated, by stating a fact as well as by urging an
argument. Let us assume, for example, the following moral truths, That
discord among the chiefs, renders ineffectual all common measures; and
that the consequences of a slightly-founded quarrel, fostered by pride
and arrogance, are not less fatal than those of the grossest injury.
These truths may be inculcated, by the quarrel betwixt Agamemnon and
Achilles at the siege of Troy. In this view, it ought to be the poet’s
chief aim, to invent proper cir<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span>cumstances, presenting to our view the
natural consequences of such discord. These circumstances must seem to
arise in the common course of human affairs: no accidental or
unaccountable event ought to be indulged; for the necessary or probable
connection betwixt vice and misery, is learned from no events but what
are governed by the characters and passions of the persons represented.
A real event of which we see no cause, may be a lesson to us; because
what hath happened may again happen: but this cannot be inferred from a
story that is known to be fictitious.</p>

<p>Many are the good effects of such compositions. A pathetic composition,
whether epic or dramatic, tends to a habit of virtue, by exciting
emotions that produce good actions, and avert us from those that are
vicious or irregular<a name="FNanchor_49_49" id="FNanchor_49_49"></a><a href="#Footnote_49_49" class="fnanchor">[49]</a>. It likewise, by its frequent pictures of human
woes, humanizes the mind, and fortifies us in bearing our own
misfortunes. A moral composition must obviously produce the same good
effects, because by being moral it doth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> not cease to be pathetic. It
enjoys beside an excellence peculiar to itself: for it not only improves
the heart, as above mentioned, but instructs the head by the moral it
contains. For my part, I cannot imagine any entertainment more suited to
a rational being, than a work thus happily illustrating some moral
truth; where a number of persons of different characters are engaged in
an important action, some retarding, others promoting, the great
catastrophe; and where there is dignity of style as well as of matter. A
work of this kind, has our sympathy at command, and can put in motion
the whole train of the social affections. We have at the same time great
mental enjoyment, in perceiving every event and every subordinate
incident connected with its proper cause. Our curiosity is by turns
excited and gratified; and our delight is consummated at the close, upon
finding, from the characters and situations exhibited at the
commencement, that every circumstance down to the final catastrophe is
natural, and that the whole in conjunction make a regular chain of
causes and effects.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span></p>

<p>Considering an epic and dramatic poem as the same in substance, and
having the same aim or end, it might be thought that they are equally
fitted for the same subjects. But considering their difference as to
form, there will be found reason to correct that thought, at least in
some degree. Many subjects may indeed be treated with equal advantage in
either form; but the subjects are still more numerous for which one of
the forms is better qualified than the other; and there are subjects
proper for the one and not for the other. To give some slight notion of
the difference, as there is no room here for enlarging upon every
article, I observe, that dialogue is better qualified for expressing
sentiments, and narrative for displaying facts. These peculiarities tend
to confine each within certain limits. Heroism, magnanimity, undaunted
courage, and the whole tribe of the elevated virtues, figure best in
action: tender passions and the whole tribe of sympathetic affections,
figure best in sentiment. What we feel is the most remarkable in the
latter: what we perform is the most remarkable in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span> former. It
clearly follows, that tender passions are more peculiarly the province
of tragedy, grand and heroic actions of epic poetry<a name="FNanchor_50_50" id="FNanchor_50_50"></a><a href="#Footnote_50_50" class="fnanchor">[50]</a>.</p>

<p>I have no occasion to say more upon the epic, considered as peculiarly
adapted to certain subjects. But as dramatic subjects are more complex,
I must take a narrower view of them; which I do the more willingly, in
order to clear a point thrown into great obscurity by critics.</p>

<p>In the chapter of emotions and passions<a name="FNanchor_51_51" id="FNanchor_51_51"></a><a href="#Footnote_51_51" class="fnanchor">[51]</a>, it is occasionally shown,
that the subject best fitted for tragedy is the story of a man who has
himself been the cause of his misfortune. But this man must neither be
deeply guilty nor altogether innocent. The misfortune must be occasioned
by a fault incident to human nature, and therefore venial. Misfortunes
of this kind, call forth the whole force of the social affections, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span>
interest the spectator in the warmest manner. An accidental misfortune,
if not extremely singular, doth not greatly move our pity. The person
who suffers, being innocent, is freed from the greatest of all torments,
<i>viz</i>. the anguish of mind occasioned by remorse:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i3">Poco é funesta<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Laltrui fortuna,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Quando non resta<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Ragione alcuna<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ne di pentirsi, né darrossir.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Metastasio.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">A criminal, on the other hand, who brings misfortunes upon himself,
excites little pity, for a different reason. His remorse, it is true,
aggravates his distress, and swells the first emotions of pity: but then
our hatred to the criminal blending with pity, blunts its edge
considerably. Misfortunes that are not innocent nor highly criminal,
partake the advantages of each extreme: they are attended with remorse
to embitter the distress, which raises our pity to a great height; and
the slight indignation we have at a venial fault, detracts not sen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span>sibly
from our pity. For this reason, the happiest of all subjects for
tragedy, if such a one could be invented, would be where a man of
integrity falls into a great misfortune by doing an innocent action, but
which by some singular means he conceives to be criminal. His remorse
aggravates his distress; and our compassion, unrestrained by
indignation, rises to its highest pitch. Pity comes thus to be the
ruling passion of a pathetic tragedy; and by proper representation, may
be raised to a height scarce exceeded by any thing felt in real life. A
moral tragedy takes in a larger field; for, beside exercising our pity,
it raises another passion, selfish indeed, but which deserves to be
cherished equally with the social affections. When a misfortune is the
natural consequence of some wrong bias in the temper, every spectator
who is conscious of some such defect in himself, takes the alarm, and
considers that he is liable to the same misfortune. This consideration
raises in him an emotion of fear or terror; and it is by this emotion,
frequently reiterated in a variety of moral tragedies, that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span>
spectators are put upon their guard against the disorders of passion.</p>

<p>The commentators upon Aristotle and other critics, have been much
graveled about the account given of tragedy by this author, “That by
means of pity and terror it refines in us all sorts of passion.” But no
one who has a clear conception of the end and effects of a good tragedy,
can have any difficulty about Aristotle’s meaning. Our pity is engaged
for the persons represented, and our terror is upon our own account.
Pity indeed is here made to stand for all the sympathetic emotions,
because of these it is the capital. There can be no doubt, that our
sympathetic emotions are refined or improved by daily exercise; and in
what manner our other passions are refined by terror I have just now
said. One thing is certain, that no other meaning can justly be given to
the foregoing doctrine than that now mentioned; and that it was really
Aristotle’s meaning, appears from his 13th chapter, where he delivers
several propositions agreeable to the doctrine as here explained. These,
at the same time, I the rather chuse<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> to mention; because, so far as
authority can go, they confirm the foregoing reasoning about the proper
subjects for tragedy. His first proposition is, That it being the
province of tragedy to excite pity and terror, an innocent person
falling into adversity ought never to be the subject. This proposition
is a necessary consequence of his doctrine as explained: a subject of
this nature may indeed excite pity and terror; but the former in an
inferior degree, and the latter in no degree for moral instruction. The
second proposition is, That we must not represent a wicked person
emerging from misery to good fortune. This excites neither terror nor
compassion, nor is agreeable in any respect. The third is, That the
misfortunes of a wicked person ought not to be represented. Such
representation may be agreeable in some measure upon a principle of
justice: but it will not move our pity; or any degree of terror, except
in those of the same vicious disposition with the person represented.
His last proposition is, That the only character fit for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> representation
lies in the middle, neither eminently good nor eminently bad; where the
misfortune is not the effect of deliberate vice, but of some involuntary
fault, as our author expresses it<a name="FNanchor_52_52" id="FNanchor_52_52"></a><a href="#Footnote_52_52" class="fnanchor">[52]</a>. The only objection I find to
Aristotle’s account of tragedy, is, that he confines it within too
narrow bounds, by refusing admittance to the pathetic kind. For if
terror be essential to tragedy, no representation deserves that name,
but where the misfortunes exhibited are caused by a wrong balance of
mind, or some disorder in the internal constitution. Such misfortunes
always suggest moral instruction; and by such misfortunes only can
terror be excited for our improvement.</p>

<p>Thus Aristotle’s four propositions above mentioned, relate solely to
tragedies of the moral kind. Those of the pathetic kind, are not
confined within so narrow limits. Subjects fitted for the theatre, are
not in such plenty, as to make us reject innocent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> misfortunes which
rouse our sympathy, though they inculcate no moral. With respect to
subjects of this kind, it may indeed be a doubtful question, whether the
conclusion ought not always to be happy. Where a person of integrity is
represented as suffering to the end under misfortunes purely accidental,
we depart discontented, and with some obscure sense of injustice; for
seldom is man so submissive to the course of Providence, as not to
revolt against the tyranny and vexations of blind chance: he will be
inclined to say, This ought not to be. I give for an example the <i>Romeo
and Juliet</i> of Shakespear, where the fatal catastrophe is occasioned by
Friar Laurence’s coming to the monument a minute too late. Such a story
we think of with regret: we are vexed at the unlucky chance, and go away
dissatisfied. This is a temper of mind which ought not to be cherished;
and for that reason, I vote for excluding stories of this kind from the
theatre. The misfortunes of a virtuous person arising from necessary
causes, or from a chain of unavoidable circumstances, will, I am apt to
think,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> be considered in a different light. Chance affords always a
gloomy prospect, and in every instance gives an impression of anarchy
and misrule. A regular chain, on the other hand, of causes and effects,
directed by the general laws of nature, never fails to suggest the hand
of Providence; to which we submit without resentment, being conscious
that submission is our duty<a name="FNanchor_53_53" id="FNanchor_53_53"></a><a href="#Footnote_53_53" class="fnanchor">[53]</a>. For that reason, we are not
dissatisfied with the distresses of Voltaire’s <i>Mariamne</i>, though
redoubled on her till the moment of her death, without the least fault
or failing on her part. Her misfortunes are owing to a cause extremely
natural, and not unfrequent, the jealousy of a barbarous husband. The
fate of Desdemona in the <i>Moor of Venice</i>, affects us in the same
manner. We are not so easily reconciled to the fate of Cordelia in <i>King
Lear</i>: the causes of her misfortune, are by no means so evident, as to
exclude the gloomy notion of chance. In short, it appears, that a
perfect character suffering under misfortunes is qualified<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> for being
the subject of a pathetic tragedy, provided chance be excluded. Nor is
it altogether inconsistent with a moral tragedy: it may successfully be
introduced as an under-part, supposing the chief place to be filled with
an imperfect character from which a moral can be drawn. This is the case
of Desdemona and Mariamne just now mentioned; and it is the case of
Monimia and Belvidera, in Otway’s two tragedies, <i>The Orphan</i>, and
<i>Venice preserv’d</i>.</p>

<p>I had an early opportunity to unfold a curious doctrine, That fable
operates on our passions, by representing its events as passing in our
sight, and by deluding us into a conviction of reality<a name="FNanchor_54_54" id="FNanchor_54_54"></a><a href="#Footnote_54_54" class="fnanchor">[54]</a>. Hence, in
epic and dramatic compositions, it is of importance to employ every
means that may promote the delusion, such as the borrowing from history
some noted event, with the addition of circumstances that may answer the
author’s purpose. The principal facts are known to be true; and we are
disposed to extend our belief to every circumstance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span> But in chusing a
subject that makes a figure in history, greater precaution is necessary
than where the whole is invented. In the first place, no circumstances
must be added, but such as connect naturally with what are known to be
true: history may be supplied, but it must not be contradicted. In the
next place, a pure fable, entirely new with respect to the persons as
well as the incidents, may be supposed an ancient or a modern story. But
if the poet build upon truth, the subject he chuses must be distant in
time, or at least in place; for he ought by all means to avoid the
familiarity of persons and events nearly connected with us. Familiarity
ought more especially to be avoided in an epic poem, the peculiar
character of which is dignity and elevation. Modern manners make but a
poor figure in such a poem<a name="FNanchor_55_55" id="FNanchor_55_55"></a><a href="#Footnote_55_55" class="fnanchor">[55]</a>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span></p>

<p>After Voltaire, no writer, it is probable, will think of erecting an
epic poem upon a recent event in the history of his own country. But an
event of this kind is perhaps not altogether unqualified for tragedy. It
was admitted in Greece, and Shakespear has employ’d it successfully in
several of his pieces. One advantage it possesses above fiction, that of
more readily engaging our belief, which tends above any other particular
to raise our sympathy. The scene of comedy is generally laid at home:
familiarity is no objection; and we are peculiarly sensible of the
ridicule of our own manners.</p>

<p>After a proper subject is chosen, there appears to me some delicacy in
dividing it into parts. The conclusion of a book in an epic poem, or of
an act in a play, cannot be altogether arbitrary; nor be intended for so
slight a purpose as to make the parts of equal length. The supposed
pause at the end of every book, and the real pause at the end of every
act, ought always to coincide with some pause in the action. In this
re<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span>spect, a dramatic or epic poem, ought to resemble a sentence or
period in language, divided into members that are distinguished from
each other by regular pauses: or it ought to resemble a piece of music,
having a full close at the end, preceded by imperfect closes that
contribute to the melody. Every act therefore ought to close with some
incident that makes a pause in the action; for otherwise there can be no
pretext for interrupting the representation. It would be absurd to break
off in the very heat of action: against this every one would exclaim.
The absurdity still remains, though the action relents, if it be not
actually suspended for some time. This rule is also applicable to an
epic poem; though there a deviation from the rule is less remarkable,
because it is in the reader’s power to hide the absurdity, by proceeding
instantly to another book. The first book of the <i>Paradise Lost</i>, ends
without any regular close, perfect or imperfect: it breaks off abruptly,
where Satan, seated on his throne, is prepared to make a speech to the
convocated host of the fall’n angels; and the second book be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span>gins with
the speech. Milton seems to have copied the <i>Æneid</i>, of which the two
first books are divided much in the same manner. Neither is there any
proper pause at the end of the fifth book of the <i>Æneid</i>. There is no
proper pause at end of the seventh book of <i>Paradise Lost</i>, nor at the
end of the eleventh.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Hitherto I have carried on together the epic and dramatic compositions.
I proceed to handle them separately, and to mention circumstances
peculiar to each, beginning with the epic kind. In a theatrical
entertainment, which employs both the eye and the ear, it would be a
monstrous absurdity to introduce upon the stage invisible beings in a
visible shape. But it has been much disputed, whether such beings may
not be properly introduced in an epic poem. If we rest upon the
authority of practice, we must declare for the affirmative; and
Boileau<a name="FNanchor_56_56" id="FNanchor_56_56"></a><a href="#Footnote_56_56" class="fnanchor">[56]</a>, among many other critics, is a stout champion for this sort
of machinery. But waving authority, which is apt to im<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span>pose upon the
judgement, let us draw what light we can from reason. I begin with a
preliminary remark, That this matter is but indistinctly handled by
critics. It is laid down above, that several passions incite the mind to
animate its objects<a name="FNanchor_57_57" id="FNanchor_57_57"></a><a href="#Footnote_57_57" class="fnanchor">[57]</a>: the moral virtues become so many goddesses, and
even darts and arrows are inspired with life and action. But then it
must not be overlooked, that such personification, being the work of
imagination, is descriptive only, and assumes not even an appearance of
truth<a name="FNanchor_58_58" id="FNanchor_58_58"></a><a href="#Footnote_58_58" class="fnanchor">[58]</a>. This is very different from what is termed <i>machinery</i>, where
deities, angels, devils, or other supernatural powers, are introduced as
real personages, mixing in the action, and contributing to the
catastrophe; and yet these two things are constantly jumbled together in
the reasoning. The poetical privilege of animating insensible objects
for the sake of description, cannot be controverted, because it is
founded on a natural principle. But has the privilege of machinery, if
it be a privilege, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> same good foundation? Far from it: nothing can
be more unnatural. Its effects, at the same time, are deplorable. First,
it gives an air of fiction to the whole; and prevents that impression of
reality which is requisite to interest our affections, and to move our
passions<a name="FNanchor_59_59" id="FNanchor_59_59"></a><a href="#Footnote_59_59" class="fnanchor">[59]</a>. This of itself is sufficient to explode machinery,
whatever entertainment it may give to readers of a fantastic taste or
irregular imagination. And next, were it possible to disguise the
fiction, and to delude us into a notion of reality, which I think can
hardly be, an insuperable objection would still remain, which is, that
the aim or end of an epic poem can never be accomplished in any
perfection where machinery is introduced. Virtuous emotions cannot be
raised successfully but by the actions of those who are endued with
passions and affections like our own, that is, by human actions. And as
for moral instruction, it is evident, that we can draw none from beings
who act not upon the same principles with us. A fable in Æso<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span>p’s manner
is no objection to this reasoning. His lions, bulls, and goats, are
truly men under disguise: they act and feel in every respect as human
beings; and the moral we draw is founded on that supposition. Homer, it
is true, introduces the gods into his fable; and he was authorised to
take that liberty by the religion of his country; it being an article in
the Grecian creed, that the gods often interpose visibly and bodily in
human affairs. I must however observe, that Homer’s deities do no honour
to his poems. Fictions that transgress the bounds of nature, seldom have
a good effect: they may inflame the imagination for a moment, but will
not be relished by any person of a correct taste. Let me add, that of
whatever use such fictions may be to a mean genius, an able writer has
much finer materials of Nature’s production for elevating his subject,
and making it interesting.</p>

<p>Boileau, a strenuous advocate for the Heathen deities, as observed,
declares against angels and devils, though supported by the religious
creed of his country. One would be apt to imagine, that a critic fa<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span>med
for his good taste, could have no other meaning than to justify the
employing Heathen deities for enlivening or elevating the description.
But as the Heathen deities make not a better figure in poetical language
than angels and devils, Boileau, in pleading for the former, certainly
meant, if he had any distinct meaning, that these may be introduced as
actors. And, in fact, he himself is guilty of this glaring absurdity,
where it is not so pardonable as in an epic poem. In his ode upon the
taking of Namur, he demands with a most serious countenance, whether the
walls were built by Apollo or Neptune; and in relating the passage of
the Rhine, <i>anno</i> 1672, he describes the god of that river as fighting
with all his might to oppose the French monarch. This is confounding
fiction with reality at a strange rate. The French writers in general
run into this error: wonderful! that they should not be sensible how
ridiculous it is.</p>

<p>That this is a capital error in the <i>Gierusalleme liberata</i>, Tasso’s
greatest admirers must acknowledge. A situation can never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span> be intricate,
nor the reader ever in pain about the catastrophe, so long as there is
an angel, devil, or magician, to lend a helping hand. Voltaire, in his
essay upon epic poetry, talking of the <i>Pharsalia</i>, observes
judiciously, “That the proximity of time, the notoriety of events, the
character of the age, enlightened and political, joined with the
solidity of Lucan’s subject, deprived him of all liberty of poetical
fiction.” Is it not amazing, that a critic who reasons so justly with
respect to others, can be so blind with respect to himself? Voltaire,
not satisfied to enrich his language with images drawn from invisible
and superior beings, introduces them into the action. In the sixth canto
of the <i>Henriade</i>, St Louis appears in person, and terrifies the
soldiers; in the seventh canto, St Louis sends the god of Sleep to
Henry; and, in the tenth, the demons of Discord, Fanaticism, War, &amp;<i>c.</i>
assist Aumale in a single combat with Turenne, and are chased away by a
good angel brandishing the sword of God. To blend such fictitious
personages in the same action with mortals,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span> makes a bad figure at any
rate; and is intolerable in a history so recent as that of Henry IV.
This singly is sufficient to make the <i>Henriade</i> a short-liv’d poem,
were it otherwise possessed of every beauty. I have tried serious
reasoning upon this subject; but ridicule, I suppose, will be found a
more successful weapon, which Addison has applied in an elegant manner:
“Whereas the time of a general peace is, in all appearance, drawing
near; being informed that there are several ingenious persons who intend
to shew their talents on so happy an occasion, and being willing, as
much as in me lies, to prevent that effusion of nonsense which we have
good cause to apprehend; I do hereby strictly require every person who
shall write on this subject, to remember that he is a Christian, and not
to sacrifice his catechism to his poetry. In order to it, I do expect of
him in the first place, to make his own poem, without depending upon
Phœbus for any part of it, or calling out for aid upon any of the muses
by name. I do likewise positively<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> forbid the sending of Mercury with
any particular message or dispatch relating to the peace; and shall by
no means suffer Minerva to take upon her the shape of any
plenipotentiary concerned in this great work. I do further declare, that
I shall not allow the destinies to have had an hand in the deaths of the
several thousands who have been slain in the late war; being of opinion
that all such deaths may be very well accounted for by the Christian
system of powder and ball. I do therefore strictly forbid the fates to
cut the thread of man’s life upon any pretence whatsoever, unless it be
for the sake of the rhyme. And whereas I have good reason to fear, that
Neptune will have a great deal of business on his hands in several poems
which we may now suppose are upon the anvil, I do also prohibit his
appearance, unless it be done in metaphor, simile, or any very short
allusion; and that even here he be not permitted to enter, but with
great caution and circumspection. I desire that the same rule may be
extended to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> whole fraternity of Heathen gods; it being my design to
condemn every poem to the flames in which Jupiter thunders, or exercises
any other act of authority which does not belong to him. In short, I
expect that no Pagan agent shall be introduced, or any fact related
which a man cannot give credit to with a good conscience. Provided
always, that nothing herein contained shall extend, or be construed to
extend, to several of the female poets in this nation, who shall still
be left in full possession of their gods and goddesses, in the same
manner as if this paper had never been written.” <i>Spectator</i>, Nº 523.</p>

<p>The marvellous is indeed so much promoted by machinery, that it is not
wonderful to find it embraced by the bulk of writers, and perhaps of
readers. If indulged at all, it is generally indulged to excess. Homer
introduces his deities with no greater ceremony than his mortals; and
Virgil has still less moderation: an over-watched pilot cannot fall
asleep and drop into the sea by natural means: the two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> lovers, Æneas
and Dido, cannot take the same bed, without the immediate interposition
of superior powers. The ridiculous in such fictions, must appear even
through the thickest vail of gravity and solemnity.</p>

<p>Angels and devils serve equally with the Heathen deities, as materials
for figurative language, perhaps better among Christians, because we
believe in them, and not in the Heathen deities. But every one is
sensible, as well as Boileau, that the invisible powers in our creed
make a much worse figure as actors in a modern poem, than the invisible
powers in the Heathen creed did in ancient poems. The reason I take to
be what follows. The Heathen deities, in the opinion of their votaries,
were beings elevated one step only above mankind, actuated by the same
passions, and directed by the same motives; therefore not altogether
improper to mix with mankind in an important action. In our creed,
superior beings are placed at such a mighty distance from us, and are of
a nature so different, that with no propriety can they appear with us
upon the same stage. Man is a creature so much in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span>ferior, that he loses
all dignity when set in opposition.</p>

<p>There seems to be no doubt, that an historical poem admits the
embellishment of allegory, as well as of metaphor, simile, or other
figure. Moral truth, in particular, is finely illustrated in the
allegorical manner. It amuses the fancy to find abstract terms, by a
sort of magic, converted into active beings; and it is delightful to
trace a general proposition in a pictured event. But allegorical beings
should be confined within their own sphere; and never be admitted to mix
in the principal action, nor to co-operate in retarding or advancing the
catastrophe. This would have a still worse effect, than the introduction
of invisible powers; and I am ready to assign the reason. An historical
fable affords entertainment chiefly by making us conceive its personages
to be really existing and acting in our presence: in an allegory, this
agreeable delusion is denied; for we must not imagine an allegorical
personage to be a real being, but the figure only of some virtue or
vice; otherwise the allegory is lost. The impression<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span> of real existence,
essential to an epic poem, is inconsistent with that figurative
existence which is essential to an allegory; and therefore no method can
be more effectual to destroy the impression of reality, than to
introduce allegorical beings co-operating with those whom we conceive to
be really existing. The love-episode in the <i>Henriade</i><a name="FNanchor_60_60" id="FNanchor_60_60"></a><a href="#Footnote_60_60" class="fnanchor">[60]</a>, is
insufferable by the discordant mixture of allegory with real life. This
episode is copied from that of Rinaldo and Armida in the <i>Gierusalemme
liberata</i>, which hath no merit to intitle it to be copied. An
allegorical object, such as fame in the <i>Æneid</i>, and the temple of love
in the <i>Henriade</i>, may find place in a description: but to introduce
Discord as a real personage, imploring the assistance of Love as another
real personage, to enervate the courage of the hero, is making these
figurative beings act beyond their sphere, and creating a strange jumble
of discordant materials, <i>viz.</i> truth and fiction. The allegory of Sin
and Death in the <i>Paradise Lost</i>, is, I pre<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span>sume, not generally
relished, though it is not entirely of the same nature with what I have
been condemning. The <i>Paradise Lost</i> is not confined to the history of
our first parents; and in a work comprehending the achievements of
superior beings, there is more room for fancy than where it is confined
to human actions.</p>

<p>What is the true notion of an episode? or how is it to be distinguished
from what is really a part of the principal action? Every incident that
promotes or retards the catastrophe, must be a part of the principal
action. This clears the nature of an episode; which may be defined, “An
incident connected with the principal action, but which contributes not
either to advance or retard it.” The descent of Æneas into hell doth not
advance or retard the catastrophe; and therefore is an episode. The
story of Nisus and Euryalus, producing an alteration in the affairs of
the contending parties, is a part of the principal action. The
family-scene in the sixth book of the <i>Iliad</i> is of the same nature: by
Hector’s retiring from the field of battle to visit his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> wife, the
Grecians got liberty to breathe, and even to press upon the Trojans. It
being thus the nature of an episode to break the unity of action, it
ought never to be indulged unless to refresh and unbend the mind after
the fatigue of a long narration. This purpose of an episode demands the
following properties. It ought to be well connected with the principal
action: it ought to be short: and it ought to be lively and interesting.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Next, upon the peculiarities of a dramatic poem. And the first I shall
mention is a double plot; being naturally led to it by what is said
immediately above. One of these double plots must be of the nature of an
episode in an epic poem; for it would distract the spectator, instead of
entertaining him, if he were forc’d to attend, at the same time, to two
capital plots equally interesting. An under-plot in a tragedy has seldom
a good effect; because a passionate piece cannot be too simple. The
sympathetic emotions once roused, cling to their objects, and cannot
bear interruption:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> when a subject fills the mind, it leaves no room for
any separate concern<a name="FNanchor_61_61" id="FNanchor_61_61"></a><a href="#Footnote_61_61" class="fnanchor">[61]</a>. Variety is more tolerable in comedy, which
pretends only to amuse, without totally occupying<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> the mind. But even
here, to make a double plot agreeable, a good deal of art is requisite.
The under-plot ought not to vary greatly in its tone from that which is
principal: passions may be varied, but discordant passions are
unpleasant when jumbled together. This is a solid objection to
tragi-comedy. For this reason, I blame the <i>Provok’d Husband</i>: all the
scenes that bring the family of the Wrongheads into action, being
ludicrous and farcical, agree very ill with the sharpness and severity
of the principal subject, exhibiting the discord betwixt Lord Townly and
his lady. The same objection touches not the double plot of the
<i>Careless Husband</i>: the different subjects are sweetly connected; and
have only so much variety as to resemble shades of colours harmoniously
mixed. But this is not all. The under plot ought to be connected with
the principal action, so as to employ the same persons: the intervals or
pauses of the principal action ought to be filled with the under-plot;
and both ought to be concluded together. This is the case of the <i>Merry
Wives of Windsor</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span></p>

<p>Violent action ought to be excluded from the stage. While the dialogue
runs on, a thousand particulars concur to delude us into an impression
of reality; genuine sentiments, passionate language, and persuasive
gesture. The spectator once engaged, is willing to be deceived, loses
sight of himself, and without scruple enjoys the spectacle as a reality.
From this absent state, he is roused by violent action: he wakes as from
a pleasing dream, and gathering his senses about him, finds all to be a
fiction. Horace delivers the same rule; and sounds it upon the reason
given:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">The French critics, as it appears to me, misapprehend the reason of this
rule. Shedding blood upon the stage, say they, is barbarous and shocking
to a polite audience. This no doubt is an additional reason for
excluding bloodshed from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> French stage, supposing the French to be
in reality so delicate. But this evidently is not the reason that
weighed with the Greeks: that polite people had no notion of such
delicacy; witness the murder of Clytemnestra by her son Orestes, passing
behind the scene, as represented by Sophocles. Her voice is heard
calling out for mercy, bitter expostulations on his part, loud shrieks
upon her being stabb’d, and then a deep silence. I appeal to every
person of feeling, whether this scene be not more horrible, than if the
deed had been committed in sight of the spectators upon a sudden gust of
passion. According to the foregoing reasoning of the French critics,
there is nothing to exclude from the stage a duel occasioned by an
affair of honour, because in it there is nothing barbarous or shocking
to a polite audience: yet a scene of this nature is excluded from the
French stage; which shows, without more argument, that these critics
have misapprehended the rule laid down by Horace. If Corneille, in
representing the affair betwixt Horatius and his sister, upon which
murder<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> ensues behind the scene, had no other view than to remove from
the spectators a scene of horror, he certainly was in a capital mistake:
for murder in cold blood, which in some measure was the case as
represented, is more horrible even where the conclusive stab is not
seen, than the same act performed on the stage by violent and
unpremeditated passion, as suddenly repented of as committed. I heartily
agree with Addison<a name="FNanchor_62_62" id="FNanchor_62_62"></a><a href="#Footnote_62_62" class="fnanchor">[62]</a>, that no part of this incident ought to have been
represented, but reserved for a narrative, with all the alleviating
circumstances possible in favour of the hero. This is the only method to
avoid the difficulties that unqualify this incident for representation,
a deliberate murder on the one hand, and on the other a violent action
performed on the stage, which must rouse the spectator from his dream of
reality.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>I shall finish with a few words upon the dialogue; which ought to be so
conducted as to be a true representation of nature. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> talk not here of
the sentiments, nor of the language; for these come under different
heads. I talk of what properly belongs to dialogue-writing; where every
single speech, short or long, ought to arise from what is said by the
former speaker, and furnish matter for what comes after, till the end of
the scene. In this view, the whole speeches, from first to last,
represent so many links, all connected together in one regular chain. No
author, ancient or modern, possesses the art of dialogue equal to
Shakespear. Dryden, in this particular, may justly be placed as his
opposite. He frequently introduces three or four persons speaking upon
the same subject, each throwing out his own sentiments separately,
without regarding what is said by the rest. I give for an example the
first scene of <i>Aurenzebe</i>. Sometimes he makes a number club in relating
an event, not to a stranger, supposed ignorant of it, but to one
another, for the sake merely of speaking. Of this notable sort of
dialogue, we have a specimen in the first scene of the first part of the
<i>Conquest of Granada</i>. In the second part of the same tragedy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span> scene
second, the King, Abenamar, and Zulema, make their separate
observations, like so many soliloquies, upon the fluctuating temper of
the mob. It puts one in mind of a pastoral, where two shepherds are
introduced reciting couplets alternately, each in praise of his own
mistress, as if they were contending for a prize.</p>

<p>The bandying sentiments in this manner, beside an unnatural air, has
another bad effect. It stays the course of the action, because it is not
productive of any consequence. In Congreve’s comedies, the action is
often suspended to make way for a play of wit. But of this more
particularly in the chapter immediately following.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAP_XXIII" id="CHAP_XXIII"></a>CHAP. XXIII.</h2>

<p class="chead">The three Unities.</p>

<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>H<span class="smcap">e</span> first chapter unfolds the pleasure we have in a chain of connected
facts. In histories of the world, of a country, of a people, this
pleasure is but faint; because the connections are slight or obscure. We
find more entertainment in biography, where the incidents are connected
by their relation to one person, who makes a figure and commands our
attention. But the greatest entertainment of the kind, is afforded by
the history of a single event, supposing it to be interesting. The
history of one event produceth a more entire connection among the parts,
than the history of one person. In the latter, the circumstances are not
otherwise connected than by their relation to that person: in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span>
former, the circumstances are connected by the strongest of all
relations, that of cause and effect. Thus, the circumstances of a single
event, having a mutual connection extremely intimate, form a delightful
train: we survey with peculiar pleasure a number of facts that give
birth to each other; and we pass with ease and satisfaction from the
first to the last.</p>

<p>But this subject merits a more particular discussion. When we consider
the chain of causes and effects in the material world, independent of
purpose, design, or thought, we find a train of incidents in succession,
without beginning, middle, or end. Every thing that happens is both a
cause and an effect: it is the effect of something that goes before, and
the cause of one or many things that follow. One incident may affect us
more, another less; but all of them, great and small, are so many links
in the universal chain. The mind, in viewing these incidents, cannot
rest or settle ultimately upon any one; but is carried along in the
train without any close.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span></p>

<p>But when the intellectual world is taken under view, in conjunction with
the material, the scene is varied. Man acts with deliberation, will, and
choice; he acts with a view to some end, glory, for example, or riches,
or conquest, the procuring happiness to individuals, or to his country
in general; and he proposes means and lays schemes to attain the end
proposed. Here is recognised a capital end or event, connected with
subordinate events or incidents by the relation of causation. In running
over a series of subordinate events, we cannot rest upon any one;
because they are presented to us as means only, leading to some end. But
we rest with satisfaction upon the ultimate event; because there, the
purpose, the plan, the aim, of the chief person or persons, is completed
and brought to a final conclusion. This indicates a beginning, a middle,
and an end, of what Aristotle calls <i>an entire action</i><a name="FNanchor_63_63" id="FNanchor_63_63"></a><a href="#Footnote_63_63" class="fnanchor">[63]</a>. The story
naturally begins with describing those circumstances which move the
distinguished person to form a plan, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span> order to compass some desired
event. The prosecution of that plan, and the obstructions, carry the
reader into the heat of action. The middle is properly where the action
is the most involved; and the end is where the event is brought about,
and the design accomplished.</p>

<p>A design or plan thus happily perfected, after many obstructions,
affords wonderful delight to the reader. And to produce this delight, a
principle mentioned above<a name="FNanchor_64_64" id="FNanchor_64_64"></a><a href="#Footnote_64_64" class="fnanchor">[64]</a> mainly contributes; a principle that
disposes the mind to complete every work commenced, and in general to
carry every thing to its ultimate conclusion.</p>

<p>I have given the foregoing example of a plan laid down and completed,
because it affords the clearest conception of a beginning, a middle, and
an end, in which consists unity of action: and indeed stricter unity
cannot be imagined than in this case. But an action may have unity, or a
beginning, middle, and end, without so intimate a relation of parts. The
catastrophe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span> may be different from what is intended or desired; which is
frequently the case in our best tragedies. The <i>Æneid</i> is an instance of
means employ’d to produce a certain event, and these means crowned with
success. The <i>Iliad</i> is formed upon a different model. It begins with
the quarrel betwixt Achilles and Agamemnon: it goes on to describe the
several effects produced by that cause; and ends in a reconciliation.
Here is unity of action, no doubt, a beginning, a middle, and an end: it
must however be acknowledged, that the <i>Æneid</i> is more happy in point of
connection. The mind hath a propensity to go forward in the chain of
history: it keeps always in view the expected event; and when the
incidents or under-parts are connected together by their relation to the
event, the mind runs sweetly and easily along them. This pleasure we
have in the <i>Æneid</i>. But it is not altogether so pleasant, as in the
<i>Iliad</i>, to connect effects by their common cause; for such connection
forces the mind to a continual retrospect: looking backward is like
walking backward.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span></p>

<p>But Homer’s plan is still more imperfect, for another reason, That the
events described are but imperfectly connected with the wrath of
Achilles as their cause. His wrath did not exert itself in action; and
the misfortunes of his countrymen were but negatively the effects of his
wrath, by depriving them of his assistance.</p>

<p>If unity of action be a capital beauty in a fable imitative of human
affairs, a double action must be a capital defect, by carrying on
together two trains of unconnected objects. For the sake of variety, we
indulge an under-plot that contributes to the principal event. But two
unconnected events are a great deformity; and it lessens the deformity
but a very little, to engage the same actors in both. Ariosto is quite
licentious in this particular: he carries on at the same time a
plurality of unconnected stories. His only excuse is, that his plan is
perfectly well adjusted to his subject; for every thing in the <i>Orlando
Furioso</i> is wild and extravagant.</p>

<p>To state facts according to the order of time, is the most natural and
the most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> simple method: a method however not so essential, in an
historical fable especially, as not to yield to some conspicuous
beauties<a name="FNanchor_65_65" id="FNanchor_65_65"></a><a href="#Footnote_65_65" class="fnanchor">[65]</a>. If a noted story, cold and simple in its first movements,
be made the subject of an epic poem, the reader may be hurried into the
heat of action, reserving the preliminaries for a conversation-piece, if
it shall be thought necessary. This method, at the same time, being
dramatic, hath a peculiar beauty, which narration cannot reach<a name="FNanchor_66_66" id="FNanchor_66_66"></a><a href="#Footnote_66_66" class="fnanchor">[66]</a>.
Romance-writers, who give little attention to nature, deviate in this
particular, among many, from a just standard. They make no difficulty of
presenting to the reader, without the least preparation, unknown persons
engaged in some adventure equally unknown. In <i>Cassandra</i>, two
personages, who afterward are discovered to be the heroes of the story,
start up completely armed upon the banks of the Euphrates, and engage in
a single combat<a name="FNanchor_67_67" id="FNanchor_67_67"></a><a href="#Footnote_67_67" class="fnanchor">[67]</a>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span></p>

<p>A play analyzed, is a chain of connected facts, of which each scene
makes a link. Each scene, accordingly, ought to produce some incident
relative to the catastrophe or ultimate event, by advancing or retarding
it. If no incident be produced, such a scene, which may be termed
barren, ought not to be indulged, because it breaks the unity of action.
A barren scene can never be intitled to a place, because the chain is
complete without it. In the <i>Old Bachelor</i>, the 3d scene of act 2. and
all that follow to the end of that act, are mere conversation-pieces,
without any consequence. The 10th and 11th scenes, act 3. <i>Double
Dealer</i>, the 10th, 11th, 12th, 13th, and 14th scenes, act 1. <i>Love for
Love</i>, are of the same kind. Neither is <i>The Way of the World</i> entirely
guiltless of such scenes. It will be no justification, that they help to
display characters. It were better, like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span> Dryden, in his <i>dramatis
personæ</i>, to describe characters beforehand, which would not interrupt
the chain of action. But a writer of genius has no occasion for such
artifice: he can display the characters of his personages much more to
the life in sentiment and action. How successfully is this done by
Shakespear! in whose works there is not to be found a single barren
scene.</p>

<p>Upon the whole, it appears, that all the facts in an historical fable,
ought to have a mutual connection by their common relation to the grand
event or catastrophe. And this relation, in which the <i>unity</i> of action
consists, is equally essential to epic and dramatic compositions.</p>

<p>How far the unities of time and of place are essential, is a question of
greater intricacy. These unities were strictly observed in the Grecian
and Roman theatres; and they are inculcated by the French and English
critics as essential to every dramatic composition. In theory, these
unities are also acknowledged by our best poets, though their practice
is seldom correspondent: they are often forc’d to take liberties, which
they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span> pretend not to justify, against the practice of the Greeks and
Romans, and against the solemn decision of their own countrymen. But in
the course of this inquiry it will be made evident, that the example of
the ancients ought, upon this point, to have no weight with us, and that
our critics are guilty of a mistake, in admitting no greater latitude of
place and time than was admitted in Greece and Rome.</p>

<p>Suffer me only to premise, that the unities of place and time, are not,
by the most rigid critics, required in a narrative poem. In such a
composition, if it pretend to copy nature, these unities would be
absurd; because real events are seldom confined within narrow limits
either of place or of time. And yet we can follow history, or an
historical fable, through all its changes, with the greatest facility.
We never once think of measuring the real time by what is taken in
reading; nor of forming any connection betwixt the place of action and
that which we occupy.</p>

<p>I am sensible, that the drama differs so far from the epic, as to admit
different rules.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> It will be observed, “That an historical fable, which
affords entertainment by reading solely, is under no limitation of time
or of place, more than a genuine history; but that a dramatic
composition cannot be accurately represented, unless it be limited, as
its representation is, to one place and to a few hours; and therefore
that no fable can be admitted but what has these properties, because it
would be absurd to compose a piece for representation that cannot be
justly represented.” This argument, I acknowledge, has at least a
plausible appearance; and yet one is apt to suspect some fallacy,
considering that no critic, however strict, has ventured to confine the
unities of place and of time within so narrow bounds<a name="FNanchor_68_68" id="FNanchor_68_68"></a><a href="#Footnote_68_68" class="fnanchor">[68]</a>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span></p>

<p>A view of the Grecian drama, and a comparison betwixt it and our own,
may perhaps help to relieve us from this dilemma. If they be differently
constructed, as shall by and by be made evident, it is possible that the
foregoing reasoning may not be applicable with equal force to both. This
is an article, that, with relation to the present subject, has not, so
far as I know, been examined by any writer.</p>

<p>All authors agree, that the first notion of tragedy in Greece, was
derived from the hymns in praise of Bacchus, which were sung in parts by
a chorus. Thespis, to relieve the singers, and for the sake of variety,
introduced one actor; who gave a narrative of the subject, and sometimes
represented one or other personage. Eschylus, introducing a second
actor, formed the dialogue; by which the performance became dramatic:
and the actors were multiplied when the subject represented made it
necessary. But still, the chorus, which gave a beginning to tragedy, was
considered as an essential part of its constitution. In the first scene,
generally, are unfolded the pre<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span>liminary circumstances that lead to the
grand event. This scene is by Aristotle termed the <i>prologue</i>. In the
second scene, where the action properly begins, the chorus is
introduced, which, as originally, continues upon the stage during the
whole performance. Sophocles adheres to this plan religiously. Euripides
is not altogether so correct. In some of his pieces it becomes necessary
to remove the chorus. But this is seldom done; and when done, matters
are so ordered as that their absence is but momentary. The chorus often
mix in the dialogue; and when the dialogue happens to be suspended, the
chorus, during the interval, is employ’d in singing. Nor does the
removal of the chorus, when that unusual step is risked, interrupt the
representation. They never leave the stage of their own accord, but at
the command of some principal personage who constantly waits their
return.</p>

<p>Thus the Grecian drama is a continued representation without any
interruption; a circumstance that merits attention. A continued
representation without a pause, af<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span>fords not opportunity to vary the
place of action; and has withal a very short duration. To a
representation so confined in place and time, the foregoing reasoning is
strictly applicable. A real or feigned action that is brought to a
conclusion after considerable intervals of time and frequent change of
place, cannot accurately be copied in a representation that admits of no
latitude in either. Hence it is, that the unities of place and of time,
were, or ought to have been, strictly observed in the Grecian tragedies.
This is made necessary by the very constitution of their drama; for it
is absurd to compose a tragedy that cannot be justly represented.</p>

<p>Modern critics, who for our drama pretend to establish rules founded on
the practice of the Greeks, are guilty of an egregious blunder. The
unities of place and of time, so much vaunted, were in Greece, as we
see, a matter of necessity, not of choice. I am now ready to show, that
if we submit to these fetters, it must be from choice not necessity.
This will be evident upon taking a view of the construc<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span>tion of our
drama, which differs widely from that of Greece; whether more or less
perfect, is a separate question, which shall be handled afterward. By
dropping the chorus, an opportunity is afforded to split our drama into
parts or acts, which in the representation are distinguished by
intervals of time; and during these intervals, the stage is totally
evacuated and the spectacle suspended. This construction qualifies our
drama for subjects spread through a wide space both of time and of
place. The time supposed to pass during the suspension of the
representation, is not measured by the time of the suspension; nor is
any connection formed, betwixt the box we sit in and the place where
things are supposed to be transacted in our absence: and by that means,
many subjects can be justly represented in our theatres, for which there
was no place in those of ancient Greece. This doctrine may be
illustrated, by comparing a modern play to a set of historical pictures:
let us suppose them five in number, and the resemblance will be
complete. Each of the pictures resembles an act in one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span> of our plays.
There must necessarily be the strictest unity of place and of time in
each picture; and the same necessity requires these two unities during
each act of a play, because during an act there is no interruption in
the spectacle. Now, when we view in succession a number of such
historical pictures, let it be, for example, the history of Alexander by
Le Brun, we have no difficulty to conceive, that months or years have
passed betwixt the subjects exhibited in two different pictures, though
the interruption is imperceptible in passing our eye from the one to the
other. We have as little difficulty to conceive a change of place,
however great. In this matter, there is truly no difference betwixt five
acts of a modern play and five such pictures. Where the representation
is suspended, we can with the greatest facility suppose any length of
time or any change of place. The spectator, it is true, may be
conscious, that the real time and place are not the same with what are
employ’d in the representation, even including the intervals. But this
is a work of reflection; and by the same reflec<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span>tion he may also be
conscious, that Garrick is not King Lear, that the playhouse is not
Dover cliffs, nor the noise he hears thunder and lightning. In a word,
during an interruption of the representation, it is not more difficult
for a spectator to imagine himself carried from place to place, and from
one period of time to another, than at once, when the scene first opens,
to be carried from London to Rome, or from the present time two thousand
years back. And indeed, it must appear ridiculous, that a critic, who
makes no difficulty of supposing candle-light to be sun-shine, and some
painted canvasses a palace or a prison, should affect so much difficulty
in imagining a latitude of place or of time in the story, beyond what is
necessary in the representation.</p>

<p>There are, I acknowledge, some effects of great latitude in time that
ought never to be indulged in a composition for the theatre. Nothing can
be more absurd, than at the close to exhibit a full grown person who
appears a child at the beginning. The mind rejects as contrary to all
proba<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span>bility, such latitude of time as is requisite for a change so
remarkable. The greatest change from place to place hath not altogether
the same bad effect. In the bulk of human affairs place is not material;
and the mind, when occupied with an interesting event, is little
regardful of minute circumstances. These may be varied at will, because
they scarce make any impression.</p>

<p>But though I have thus taken arms to rescue modern poets from the
slavish fetters of modern critics, I would not be understood to justify
liberty without any reserve. An unbounded licence with relation to place
and time, is faulty for a reason that seems to have been overlooked: it
never fails to break in upon the unity of action. In the ordinary course
of human affairs, single events, such as are fit to be represented on
the stage, are confined to a narrow spot, and generally employ no great
extent of time. We accordingly seldom find strict unity of action in a
dramatic composition, where any remarkable latitude is indulged in these
particulars. I must say farther, that a composition which employs but
one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span> place, and requires not a greater length of time than is necessary
for the representation, is so far the more perfect: because the
confining an event within so narrow bounds, contributes to the unity of
action; and also prevents that labour, however slight, which the mind
must undergo in imagining frequent changes of place and many intervals
of time. But still I must insist, that the limitation of place and time
which was necessary in the Grecian drama, is no rule to us; and
therefore that though such limitation adds one beauty more to the
composition, it is at best but a refinement, which may justly give place
to a thousand beauties more substantial. And I may add, that it is
extremely difficult, I was about to say impracticable, to contract
within the Grecian limits, any fable so fruitful of incidents in number
and variety as to give full scope to the fluctuation of passion.</p>

<p>It may now appear, that critics who put the unities of place and of time
upon the same footing with the unity of action, making them all equally
essential, have not attended to the nature and construction of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span>
modern drama. If they admit an interrupted representation, with which no
writer finds fault, it is plainly absurd to condemn the greatest
advantage it procures us, that of representing many interesting subjects
excluded from the Grecian stage. If there needs must be a reformation,
why not restore the ancient chorus and the ancient continuity of action?
There is certainly no medium: for to admit an interruption without
relaxing from the strict unities of place and of time, is in effect to
load us with all the inconveniencies of the ancient drama, and at the
same time to with-hold from us its advantages.</p>

<p>And therefore the only proper question is, whether our model be or be
not a real improvement. This indeed may justly be called in question;
and in order to a fair comparative trial, some particulars must be
premised. When a play begins, we have no difficulty to enter into the
scene of action, however distant it be in time or in place. We know that
the play is a representation only: and the imagination, with facility,
accommodates itself to every circumstance. Our situation is very
different<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span> after we are engaged. It is the perfection of representation
to hide itself, to impose upon the spectator, and to produce in him an
impression of reality, as if he were spectator of a real event<a name="FNanchor_69_69" id="FNanchor_69_69"></a><a href="#Footnote_69_69" class="fnanchor">[69]</a>. Any
interruption annihilates this impression: he is roused out of his waking
dream, and unhappily restored to his senses. So difficult it is to
support this impression of reality, that much slighter interruptions
than the interval betwixt two acts are sufficient to dissolve the charm.
In the 5th act of the <i>Mourning Bride</i>, the three first scenes are in a
room of state; the fourth in a prison. This change is operated by
shifting the scene, which is done in a trice. But however quick the
transition may be, it is impracticable to impose upon the spectators so
far as to make them conceive that they are actually carried from the
palace to the prison. They immediately reflect, that the palace and
prison are imaginary, and that the whole is a fiction.</p>

<p>From these premisses one will be naturally led, at first view, to
declare against<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span> the frequent interruptions in the modern drama. It will
occur, “That every interruption must have the effect to banish the dream
of reality, and with it to banish our concern, which cannot subsist
while we are conscious that all is a fiction; and therefore that in the
modern drama sufficient time is not afforded for the fluctuation and
swelling of passion, like what is afforded in the Grecian drama, where
there is no interruption.” This reasoning, it must be owned, has a
specious appearance: but we must not turn faint-hearted upon the first
repulse; let us rally our troops for a second engagement.</p>

<p>Considering attentively the ancient drama, we find, that though the
representation is never interrupted, the principal action is suspended
not less frequently than in the modern drama. There are five acts in
each; and the only difference is, that in the former, when the action is
suspended, as it is at the end of every act, opportunity is taken of the
interval to employ the chorus in singing. Hence it appears, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span> the
Grecian continuity of representation cannot have the effect to prolong
the impression of reality. To banish this impression, a suspension of
the action while the chorus is employ’d in singing, is not less
operative than a total suspension both of the representation and action.</p>

<p>But to open a larger view, I am ready to show, that a continued
representation, without a single pause even in the principal action, so
far from an advantage, would be really an imperfection; and that a
representation with proper pauses, is better calculated for moving the
audience, and making the strongest impressions. Representation cannot
very long support an impression of reality: when the spirits are
exhausted by close attention and by the agitation of passion, an
uneasiness ensues, which never fails to banish the waking dream. Now
supposing an act to employ as much time as can easily be given with
strict attention to any incident, a supposition that cannot be far from
the truth; it follows, that the impression of reality would not be
prolonged beyond the space of an act, even supposing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span> a continued
representation. Hence it appears, that a continued representation
without any pause, would be a bad contrivance: it would break the
attention by overstraining it, and produce a total absence of mind. In
this respect, the four pauses have a fine effect. By affording to the
audience a seasonable respite when the impression of reality is gone,
and while nothing material is in agitation, they relieve the mind from
its fatigue; and consequently prevent a wandering of thought at the very
time possibly of the most interesting scenes.</p>

<p>In one article indeed, the Grecian model has greatly the advantage: its
chorus, during an interval, not only preserves alive the impressions
made upon the audience, but also prepares their hearts finely for new
impressions. In our theatres, on the contrary, the audience, at the end
of every act, are in a manner solicited to withdraw their thoughts from
what has been passing, and to trifle away the time the best way they
can. Thus in the intervals betwixt the acts, every warm impression is
banished; and the spectators begin the next act cool and in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span>different,
as at the commencement of the play. Here is a gross malady in our
theatrical representations; but a malady that luckily is not incurable.
To revive the Grecian chorus, would be to revive the Grecian slavery of
place and time. But I can figure a detached chorus coinciding with a
pause in the representation, as the ancient chorus did with a pause in
the principal action. What objection, for example, can there lie against
music betwixt the acts, vocal and instrumental, adapted to the subject?
Such detached chorus, beside admitting the same latitude that we enjoy
at present as to time and place, would have more than one happy effect:
it would recruit the spirits; and it would preserve entire, the tone, if
not the tide, of passion. The music that comes first, ought to accord
with the tone of the preceding passion, and be gradually varied till it
accord with the tone of the passion that is to succeed in the next act.
The music and the representation would both of them be gainers by their
conjunction; which will thus appear. Music that accords with the present
tone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span> of mind, is, upon that account, doubly agreeable; and accordingly,
though music singly hath not power to raise any passion, it tends
greatly to support a passion already raised. Further, music, though it
cannot of itself raise a passion, prepares us for the passion that
follows: by making chearful, tender, melancholy, or animated
impressions, music has power to dispose the heart to various passions.
Of this power, the first scene of the <i>Mourning Bride</i> is a shining
instance: without the preparation of soft music in a melancholy strain,
it would be extremely difficult to enter all at once into Almeria’s deep
distress. In this manner, music and representation support each other
delightfully: the impression made upon the audience by the
representation, is a fine preparation for the music that succeeds; and
the impression made by the music, is a fine preparation for the
representation that succeeds. It appears to me clear, that, by some such
contrivance, the modern drama may be improved, so as to enjoy the
advantage of the ancient chorus without its slavish limitation <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span>of place
and time. And as to music in particular, I cannot figure any plan that
would tend more to its improvement. Composers, those for the stage at
least, would be reduced to the happy necessity of studying and imitating
nature; instead of indulging, according to the present fashion, in wild,
fantastic, and unnatural conceits. But we must return to our subject,
and finish the comparison betwixt the ancient and the modern drama.</p>

<p>The numberless improprieties forc’d upon the Grecian dramatic poets by
the constitution of their drama, are, of themselves one should think, a
sufficient reason for preferring that of the moderns, even abstracting
from the improvement proposed. To prepare the reader for this article,
it must be premised, that as in the ancient drama the place of action
never varies, a place necessarily must be chosen to which every person
may have access without any improbability. This confines the scene to
some open place, generally the court or area before a palace; which
excludes from the Grecian theatre transactions within doors, though
these commonly are the most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span> important. Such cruel restraint is of
itself sufficient to cramp the most pregnant invention; and accordingly
the Grecian writers, in order to preserve unity of place, are reduced to
woful improprieties. In the <i>Hippolytus</i> of Euripides<a name="FNanchor_70_70" id="FNanchor_70_70"></a><a href="#Footnote_70_70" class="fnanchor">[70]</a>, Phedra,
distressed in mind and body, is carried without any pretext from her
palace to the place of action, is there laid upon a couch unable to
support herself upon her limbs, and made to utter many things improper
to be heard by a number of women who form the chorus. What is still
worse, her female attendant uses the strongest intreaties to make her
reveal the secret cause of her anguish; which at last Phedra, contrary
to decency and probability, is prevailed upon to do in presence of this
very chorus<a name="FNanchor_71_71" id="FNanchor_71_71"></a><a href="#Footnote_71_71" class="fnanchor">[71]</a>. Alcestes, in <i>Euripides</i>, at the point of death, is
brought from the palace to the place of action, groaning and lamenting
her untimely fate<a name="FNanchor_72_72" id="FNanchor_72_72"></a><a href="#Footnote_72_72" class="fnanchor">[72]</a>. In the <i>Trachiniens</i> of Sophocles<a name="FNanchor_73_73" id="FNanchor_73_73"></a><a href="#Footnote_73_73" class="fnanchor">[73]</a>, a secret
is imparted to Dejanira, the wife<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span> of Hercules, in presence of the
chorus. In the tragedy of <i>Iphigenia</i>, the messenger employ’d to carry
Clitemnestra the news that Iphigenia was sacrificed, stops short at the
place of action, and with a loud voice calls the Queen from her palace
to hear the news. Again, in the <i>Iphigenia in Tauris</i>, the necessary
presence of the chorus forces Euripides into a gross absurdity, which is
to form a secret plot in their hearing<a name="FNanchor_74_74" id="FNanchor_74_74"></a><a href="#Footnote_74_74" class="fnanchor">[74]</a>; and to disguise the
absurdity, much courtship is bestowed on the chorus, not one woman but a
number, to engage them to secrecy. In the <i>Medea</i> of Euripides, that
princess makes no difficulty, in presence of the chorus, to plot the
death of her husband, of his mistress, and of her father the King of
Corinth, all by poison. It was necessary to bring Medea upon the stage,
and there is but one place of action, which is always occupied by the
chorus. This scene closes the second act; and in the end of the third,
she frankly makes the chorus her confidents in ploting the murder of her
own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span> children. Terence, by identity of place, is often forc’d to make a
conversation within doors be heard on the open street: the cries of a
woman in labour are there heard distinctly.</p>

<p>The Grecian poets are not more happy with respect to time than with
respect to place. In the <i>Hippolytus</i> of Euripides, that prince is
banished at the end of the fourth act. In the first scene of the
following act, a messenger relates to Theseus the whole particulars of
the death of Hippolytus by the sea-monster. This remarkable event must
have employ’d many hours; and yet in the representation it is confined
to the time employ’d by the chorus upon the song at the end of the 4th
act. The inconsistency is still greater in the <i>Iphigenia in
Tauris</i><a name="FNanchor_75_75" id="FNanchor_75_75"></a><a href="#Footnote_75_75" class="fnanchor">[75]</a>. The song could not exhaust half an hour; and yet the
incidents supposed to have happened in that time, could not naturally be
transacted in less than half a day.</p>

<p>The Grecian artists are not less frequently obliged to transgress
another rule, derived<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span> also from a continued representation, which is,
that the place of action must constantly be occupied; for the very least
vacuity is an interruption of the representation. Sophocles, with regard
to this rule as well as others, is generally correct. But Euripides
cannot bear such restraint: he often evacuates the stage, and leaves it
empty for others in succession. <i>Iphigenia in Tauris</i>, after pronouncing
a soliloquy in the first scene, leaves the place of action, and is
succeeded by Orestes and Pylades. They, after some conversation, walk
off; and Iphigenia re-enters, accompanied with the chorus. In the
<i>Alcestes</i>, which is of the same author, the place of action is void at
the end of the third act. It is true, that to cover this irregularity,
and to preserve the representation in motion, Euripides is extremely
careful to fill the stage without loss of time. But this is still an
interruption, and a link of the chain broken: for during the change of
the actors, there must always be a space of time, when we cannot justly
say, that the stage is occupied by either set. It makes indeed a more
remarkable inter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span>ruption, to change the place of action as well as the
actors; but that was not practicable upon the Grecian stage.</p>

<p>It is hard to say upon what model Terence has formed his plays. Having
no chorus, there is a cessation in the representation at the end of
every act. But advantage is not taken of this cessation, even to vary
the place of action. The street is always chosen, where every thing
passing may be seen by every person: and by this choice, the most
sprightly and interesting parts of the action, which commonly pass
within doors, are excluded; witness the last act of the <i>Eunuch</i>. He
hath submitted to the same slavery with respect to time. In a word, a
play with a regular chorus, is not more confined in place and time than
his plays are. Thus a zealous sectary follows implicitly ancient forms
and ceremonies, without once considering whether their introductive
cause be still subsisting. Plautus, of a bolder genius than Terence,
makes good use of the liberty afforded by an interrupted representation:
he varies the place of action upon all occasions, when the variation
suits his purpose.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span></p>

<p>The intelligent reader will by this time understand, that I plead for no
change of place in our plays but after an interval, nor for any latitude
in point of time but what falls in with an interval. The unities of
place and time ought to be strictly observed during each act; for during
the representation, there is no opportunity for the smallest deviation
from either. Hence it is an essential requisite, that during an act the
stage be always occupied; for even a momentary vacuity makes an
interval. Another rule is not less essential: it would be a gross breach
of the unity of action, to exhibit upon the stage two separate actions
at the same time; and therefore to preserve this unity, it is necessary
that each personage introduced during an act, be linked to those in
possession of the stage, so as to join all in one action. These things
follow from the very conception of an act, which admits not the
slightest interruption. The moment the representation is intermitted,
there is an end of that act; and we have no other notion of a new act,
but where after a pause or interval, the representation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span> is again put in
motion. French writers, generally speaking, are extremely correct in
this particular: the English, on the contrary, are so irregular as
scarce to deserve a criticism: actors not only succeed each other in the
same place without connection; but, what is still worse, they frequently
succeed each other in different places. This change of place in the same
act, ought never to be indulged; for, beside breaking the unity of the
act, it has a disagreeable effect. After an interval, the mind can
readily accommodate itself to any place that is necessary, just as
readily as at the commencement of the play; but during the
representation, the mind rejects change of place. From the foregoing
censure must be excepted the <i>Mourning Bride</i> of Congreve, where
regularity concurs with the beauty of sentiment and of language, to make
it one of the most complete pieces England has to boast of. I must
acknowledge, however, that in point of regularity, this elegant
performance is not altogether unexceptionable. In the four first acts,
the unities of place and time are strictly observed;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span> but in the last
act, there is a capital error with respect to unity of place. In the
three first scenes of that act, the place of action is a room of state,
which is changed to a prison in the fourth scene: the chain of the
actors withal is broken; for the persons introduced in the prison, are
different from those who made their appearance in the room of state.
This remarkable interruption of the representation, makes in effect two
acts instead of one: and therefore, if it be a rule, that a play ought
not to consist of more acts than five, this performance is so far
defective in point of regularity. I may add, that even admitting six
acts, the irregularity would not be altogether removed, without a longer
pause in the representation than is allowed in the acting; for it
requires more than a momentary interruption, to enable the imagination
readily to accommodate itself to a new place, or to prorogation of time.
In <i>The Way of the World</i>, of the same author, unity of place is
preserved during every act, and a stricter unity of time during the
whole play than is necessary.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAP_XXIV" id="CHAP_XXIV"></a>CHAP. XXIV.</h2>

<p class="chead">Gardening and Architecture.</p>

<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>H<span class="smcap">e</span> books that have been composed upon architecture and upon
embellishing ground, abound in practical instruction necessary for a
mechanic: but in vain would we rummage them for rational principles to
improve our taste. In a general system, it might be thought sufficient
to have unfolded the principles that govern these and other fine arts,
leaving the application to the reader: but as I would neglect no
opportunity of illustrating these principles, I propose to give a
specimen of their application to gardening and architecture, being
favourite arts, though I profess no peculiar skill in either.</p>

<p>Gardening was at first an useful art: in the garden of Alcinoous,
described by Homer, we find nothing done for pleasure<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span> merely. But
gardening is now improved into a fine art; and when we talk of a garden
without any epithet, a pleasure garden, by way of eminence, is
understood. The garden of Alcinoous, in modern language, was but a
kitchen-garden. Architecture has run the same course. It continued many
ages an useful art merely, before it aspired to be classed with the fine
arts. Architecture therefore and gardening must be handled in a twofold
view, as being useful arts as well as fine arts. The reader however will
not here expect rules for improving any work of art in point of utility.
It is no part of my plan to treat of any useful art as such. But there
is a beauty in utility; and in discoursing of beauty, that of utility
ought not to be neglected. This leads us to consider gardens and
buildings in different views: they may be destined for use solely, for
beauty solely, or for both. Such variety in the destination, bestows
upon gardening and architecture a great command of beauties complex not
less than various, which makes it difficult to form an accurate taste in
these arts. And hence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span> that difference and wavering of taste which is
more remarkable here than in any art that has but a single destination.</p>

<p>Architecture and gardening cannot otherwise entertain the mind, than by
raising certain agreeable emotions or feelings; and before we descend to
particulars, these arts shall be presented in a general view, by showing
what are the emotions or feelings that can be raised by them. Poetry, as
to its power of raising emotions, possesses justly the first place among
the fine arts; for scarce one emotion of human nature is beyond its
reach. Painting and sculpture are more circumscribed, having the command
of no emotions but what are produced by sight. They are peculiarly
successful in expressing painful passions, which are display’d by
external signs extremely legible<a name="FNanchor_76_76" id="FNanchor_76_76"></a><a href="#Footnote_76_76" class="fnanchor">[76]</a>. Gardening, beside the emotions of
beauty by means of regularity, order, proportion, colour, and utility,
can raise emotions of grandeur, of sweetness, of gaiety, melancholy,
wildness, and even of surprise or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span> wonder. In architecture, regularity,
order, and proportion, and the beauties that result from them, are still
more conspicuous than in gardening. But with respect to the beauty of
colour, architecture is far inferior. Grandeur can be expressed in a
building, perhaps more successfully than in a garden; but as to the
other emotions above mentioned, architecture hitherto has not been
brought to the perfection of expressing them distinctly. To balance this
defect, architecture can display the beauty of utility in the highest
perfection.</p>

<p>But gardening possesses one advantage, which never can be equalled in
the other art. A garden may be so contrived, as in various scenes to
raise successively all its different emotions. But to operate this
delicious effect, the garden must be extensive, so as to admit a slow
succession: for a small garden, comprehended at one view, ought to be
confined to one expression<a name="FNanchor_77_77" id="FNanchor_77_77"></a><a href="#Footnote_77_77" class="fnanchor">[77]</a>: it may be gay, it may be sweet, it may
be gloomy; but an attempt to mix these, would create<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span> a jumble of
emotions not a little unpleasant. For the same reason, a building, even
the most magnificent, is necessarily confined to one expression.</p>

<p>Architecture, considered as a fine art, instead of rivaling gardening in
its progress toward perfection, seems not far advanced beyond its
infant-state. To bring it to maturity, two things mainly are wanted.
First, A greater variety of parts and ornaments than it seems provided
with. Gardening here has greatly the advantage: it is provided with such
plenty and such variety of materials, that it must be the fault of the
artists, if the spectator be not entertained with different scenes, and
affected with various emotions. But materials in architecture are so
scanty, that artists hitherto have not been successful in raising
emotions, other than those of beauty and grandeur. With respect to the
former, there are indeed plenty of means, regularity, order, symmetry,
simplicity; and with respect to the latter, the addition of size is
sufficient. But though it be evident, that every building ought to have
a certain character or expres<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span>sion suitable to its destination; yet this
is a refinement which artists have scarce ventured upon. A death’s head
and bones employ’d in monumental buildings, will indeed produce an
emotion of gloom and melancholy: but every ornament of this kind, if
these can be termed so, ought to be rejected, because they are in
themselves disagreeable. The other thing wanted to bring the art to
perfection, is, to ascertain the precise impression made by every single
part and ornament, cupolas, spires, columns, carvings, statues, vases,
&amp;<i>c.</i> For in vain will an artist attempt rules for employing these,
either singly or in combination, until the different emotions or
feelings they produce be distinctly explained. Gardening in this
particular hath also the advantage. The several emotions raised by
trees, rivers, cascades, plains, eminences, and other materials it
employs, are understood; and the nature of each can be described with
some degree of precision, which is done occasionally in the foregoing
parts of this work.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span></p>

<p>In gardening as well as in architecture, simplicity ought to be the
governing taste. Profuse ornament hath no better effect than to confound
the eye, and to prevent the object from making an impression as one
entire whole. An artist destitute of genius for capital beauties, is
naturally prompted to supply the defect by crowding his plan with slight
embellishments. Hence in gardens, triumphal arches, Chinese houses,
temples, obelisks, cascades, fountains, without end; and hence in
buildings, pillars, vases, statues, and a profusion of carved work. Thus
a woman who has no just taste, is apt to overcharge every part of her
dress with ornament. Superfluity of decoration hath another bad effect:
it gives the object a diminutive look. An island in a wide extended
lake, makes it appear larger; but an artificial lake, which must always
be little, appears still less by making an island in it<a name="FNanchor_78_78" id="FNanchor_78_78"></a><a href="#Footnote_78_78" class="fnanchor">[78]</a>.</p>

<p>In forming plans for embellishing a field, an artist void of taste deals
in straight lines,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span> circles, squares; because these show best upon
paper. He perceives not, that to humour and adorn nature is the
perfection of his art; and that nature, neglecting regularity, reacheth
superior beauties by distributing her objects in great variety with a
bold hand. A large field laid out with strict regularity, is stiff and
artificial. Nature indeed, in organized bodies comprehended under one
view, studies regularity; which, for the same reason, ought to be
studied in architecture: but in large objects, which cannot otherwise be
surveyed than in parts and by succession, regularity and uniformity
would be useless properties, because they cannot be discovered by the
eye<a name="FNanchor_79_79" id="FNanchor_79_79"></a><a href="#Footnote_79_79" class="fnanchor">[79]</a>. Nature therefore, in her large works, neglects these
properties; and in copying nature the artist ought to neglect them.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Having thus far carried on a comparison betwixt gardening and
architecture, I proceed to rules peculiar to each; and I begin<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span> with
gardening. The simplest idea of a garden, is that of a spot embellished
with a number of natural objects, trees, walks, polish’d parterres,
flowers, streams, &amp;<i>c.</i> One more complex comprehends statues and
buildings, that nature and art may be mutually ornamental. A third
approaching nearer perfection, is of objects assembled together, in
order to produce, not only an emotion of beauty, essential to gardens of
every kind, but also some other particular emotion, grandeur, for
example, gaiety, or any other of those above mentioned. The most perfect
idea of a garden is an improvement upon the third, requiring the
adjustment of the several parts, in such a manner as to inspire all the
different emotions that can be raised by gardening. In this idea of a
garden, the arrangement is an important circumstance; for it has been
shown, that some emotions figure best in conjunction, and that others
ought always to appear in succession and never in conjunction. I have
had occasion to observe above<a name="FNanchor_80_80" id="FNanchor_80_80"></a><a href="#Footnote_80_80" class="fnanchor">[80]</a>, that when the most opposite
emo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span>tions, such as gloominess and gaiety, stillness and activity, follow
each other in succession, the pleasure on the whole will be the
greatest; but that opposite or dissimilar emotions ought not to be
united, because they produce an unpleasant mixture<a name="FNanchor_81_81" id="FNanchor_81_81"></a><a href="#Footnote_81_81" class="fnanchor">[81]</a>. For that reason,
a ruin, affording a sort of melancholy pleasure, ought not to be seen
from a flower-parterre, which is gay and chearful. But to pass
immediately from an exhilerating object to a ruin, has a glorious
effect; for each of the emotions is the more sensibly felt by being
contrasted with the other. Similar emotions, on the other hand, such as
gaiety and sweetness, stillness and gloominess, motion and grandeur,
ought to be raised together; for their effects upon the mind are greatly
heightened by their conjunction<a name="FNanchor_82_82" id="FNanchor_82_82"></a><a href="#Footnote_82_82" class="fnanchor">[82]</a>.</p>

<p>Kent’s method of embellishing a field, is admirable. It is painting a
field with beautiful objects, natural and artificial, disposed like
colours upon a canvas. It requires indeed more genius to paint in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span>
gardening way. In forming a landscape upon a canvas, no more is required
but to adjust the figures to each other: an artist who lays out ground
in Kent’s manner, has an additional task, which is to adjust his figures
to the several varieties of the field.</p>

<p>One garden must be distinguished from a plurality; and yet it is not
obvious wherein the unity of a garden consists. A notion of unity is
indeed suggested from viewing a garden surrounding a palace, with views
from each window, and walks leading to every corner. But there may be a
garden without a house. In this case, I must pronounce, that what makes
it one garden, is the unity of design, every single spot appearing part
of a whole. The gardens of Versailles, properly expressed in the plural
number, being no fewer than sixteen, are indeed all of them connected
with the palace, but have scarce any mutual connection: they appear not
like parts of one whole, but rather like small gardens in contiguity.
Were these gardens at some distance from each other, they would have a
better effect. Their junction breeds con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span>fusion of ideas, and upon the
whole gives less pleasure than would be felt in a slower succession.</p>

<p>Regularity is required in that part of a garden which joins the
dwelling-house; for being considered as a more immediate accessory, it
ought to partake the regularity of the principal object<a name="FNanchor_83_83" id="FNanchor_83_83"></a><a href="#Footnote_83_83" class="fnanchor">[83]</a>. But in
proportion to the distance from the house considered as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span> the centre,
regularity ought less and less to be studied. In an extensive plan, it
hath a fine effect to lead the mind insensibly from regularity to a bold
variety giving an impression of grandeur. And grandeur ought to be
studied as much as possible, even in a more confined plan, by avoiding a
multiplicity of small parts<a name="FNanchor_84_84" id="FNanchor_84_84"></a><a href="#Footnote_84_84" class="fnanchor">[84]</a>. Nothing contributes more to grandeur,
than a right disposition of trees. Let them be scattered extremely thin
near the dwelling-house, and thickened in proportion to their distance:
distant eminences to be filled with trees, and laid open to view. A
small garden, on the other hand, which admits not grandeur, ought to be
strictly regular.</p>

<p>Milton, describing the garden of Eden, prefers justly the grand taste to
that of regularity.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Flowers worthy of paradise, which not nice art<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In beds and curious knots; but Nature boon<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pour’d forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Both where the morning sun first warmly smote<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">The open field, and where the unpierc’d shade<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Imbrown’d the noontide-bow’rs.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Paradise Lost, b. 4.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>In the manner of planting a wood or thicket, much art may be display’d.
A common centre of walks, termed <i>a star</i>, from whence are seen a number
of remarkable objects, appears too artificial to be agreeable. The
crowding withal so many objects together, lessens the pleasure that
would be felt in a slower succession. Abandoning therefore the star,
being stiff and formal, let us try to substitute some form more natural,
that will lay open all the remarkable objects in the neighbourhood. This
may be done by openings in the wood at various distances, which, in
walking, bring successively under the eye every object as by accident.
Some openings display single objects, some a plurality in a line, and
some a rapid succession of them. In this plan, the mind at intervals is
roused and cheared by agreeable objects; and the scene is greatly
heightened by the surprise it occasions when we stumble,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span> as it were,
upon objects of which we had no expectation.</p>

<p>As gardening is not an inventive art, but an imitation of nature, or
rather nature itself ornamented; it follows necessarily, that every
thing unnatural ought to be rejected with disdain. Statues of wild
beasts vomiting water, a common ornament in gardens, prevails in those
of Versailles. Is this ornament in a good taste? A <i>jet d’eau</i>, being
purely artificial, may, without disgust, be tortured into a thousand
shapes: but a representation of what really exists in nature, admits not
any unnatural circumstance. These statues therefore in the gardens of
Versailles must be condemned: and yet so insensible has the artist been
to just imitation, as to have display’d his vicious taste without the
least colour or disguise. A lifeless statue of an animal pouring out
water, may be endured without much disgust. But here the lions and
wolves are put in violent action: each has seized its prey, a deer or a
lamb, in act to devour. And yet, instead of extended claws and open
mouth, the whole, as by a hocus-pocus trick, is con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span>verted into a
different scene: the lion, forgetting his prey, pours out water
plentifully; and the deer, forgetting its danger, performs the same
operation; a representation not less absurd than that in the opera,
where Alexander the Great, after mounting the wall of a town besieged,
turns about and entertains his army with a song.</p>

<p>In gardening, every lively exhibition of what is beautiful in nature has
a fine effect: on the other hand, distant and faint imitations are
displeasing to every one of taste. The cutting evergreens in the shape
of animals, is a very ancient practice; as appears from the epistles of
Pliny, who seems to be a great admirer of this puerile conceit. The
propensity to imitation gave birth to this practice; and has supported
it wonderfully long, considering how faint and insipid the imitation is.
But the vulgar, great and small, devoid of taste, are entertained with
the oddness and singularity of a resemblance, however distant, betwixt a
tree and an animal. An attempt, in the gardens of Versailles, to
imi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span>tate a grove of trees by a group of <i>jets d’eau</i>, appears, for the
same reason, not less ridiculous.</p>

<p>In laying out a garden, every thing trivial or whimsical ought to be
avoided. Is a labyrinth then to be justified? It is a mere conceit, like
that of composing verses in the shape of an axe or an egg. The walks and
hedges may be agreeable; but in the form of a labyrinth, they serve to
no end but to puzzle. A riddle is a conceit not so mean; because the
solution is a proof of sagacity, which affords no aid in tracing a
labyrinth.</p>

<p>The gardens of Versailles, executed with infinite expence by men at that
time in high repute, are a lasting monument of a taste the most vicious
and depraved. The faults above mentioned, instead of being avoided, are
chosen as beauties, and multiplied without end. Nature, it would seem,
was deemed too vulgar to be imitated in the works of a magnificent
monarch; and for that reason preference was given to things unnatural,
which probably were mistaken for supernatural. I have often a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311">{311}</a></span>mused
myself with a fanciful resemblance betwixt these gardens and the Arabian
tales. Each of them is a performance intended for the amusement of a
great king: in the sixteen gardens of Versailles there is no unity of
design, more than in the thousand and one Arabian tales: and, lastly,
they are equally unnatural; groves of <i>jets d’eau</i>, statues of animals
conversing in the manner of Æsop, water issuing out of the mouths of
wild beasts, give an impression of fairy-land and witchcraft, not less
than diamond-palaces, invisible rings, spells and incantations.</p>

<p>A straight road is the most agreeable, because it shortens the journey.
But in an embellished field, a straight walk has an air of stiffness and
confinement: and at any rate is less agreeable than a winding or waving
walk; for in surveying the beauties of a fine field, we love to roam
from place to place at freedom. Winding walks have another advantage: at
every step they open new views. In short, the walks in a field intended
for entertainment, ought not to have any appearance of a road. My
inten<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312">{312}</a></span>tion is not to make a journey, but to feast my eye with the
beauties of art and nature. This rule excludes not long straight
openings terminating upon distant objects. These, beside variety, never
fail to raise an emotion of grandeur, by extending in appearance the
size of the field. An opening without a terminating object, soon closes
upon the eye: but an object, at whatever distance, continues the
opening; and deludes the spectator into a conviction, that the trees
which confine the view are continued till they join the object. Straight
walks also in recesses do extremely well: they vary the scenery, and are
favourable to meditation.</p>

<p>An avenue ought not to be directed in a straight line upon a
dwelling-house: better far an oblique approach in a waving line, with
single trees and other scattered objects interposed. In a direct
approach, the first appearance continues the same to the end: we see a
house at a distance, and we see it all along in the same spot without
any variety. In an oblique approach, the intervening objects put the
house seemingly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313">{313}</a></span> in motion: it moves with the passenger, and appears to
direct its course so as hospitably to intercept him. An oblique approach
contributes also to variety: the house being seen successively in
different directions, takes on at every step a new figure.</p>

<p>A garden on a flat ought to be highly and variously ornamented, in order
to occupy the mind and prevent its regretting the insipidity of an
uniform plain. Artificial mounts in this view are common: but no person
has thought of an artificial walk elevated high above the plain. Such a
walk is airy, and tends to elevate the mind: it extends and varies the
prospect: and it makes the plain, seen from a height, appear more
agreeable.</p>

<p>Whether should a ruin be in the Gothic or Grecian form? In the former, I
say; because it exhibits the triumph of time over strength, a melancholy
but not unpleasant thought. A Grecian ruin suggests rather the triumph
of barbarity over taste, a gloomy and discouraging thought.</p>

<p>Fountains are seldom in a good taste. Statues of animals vomiting water,
which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314">{314}</a></span> prevail every where, stand condemned. A statue of a whale
spouting water upward from its head, would in one sense be natural, as
whales of a certain species have that power. The design however would
scarce be relished, because its singularity would give it the appearance
of being unnatural. There is another reason against it, that the figure
of a whale is in itself not agreeable. In the many fountains in and
about Rome, statues of fishes are frequently employ’d to support a large
basin of water. This unnatural conceit cannot be otherwise explained,
than by the connection betwixt water and the fish that swim in it; which
by the way is a proof of the influence that even the slighter
connections have on the mind. The only good design for a fountain I have
met with, is what follows. In an artificial rock, rugged and abrupt,
there is a cavity out of sight at the top: the water, convey’d to it by
a pipe, pours or trickles down the broken parts of the rock, and is
collected into a basin at the foot: it is so contrived, as to make the
water fall in sheets or in rills at pleasure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315">{315}</a></span></p>

<p>Hitherto a garden has been treated as a work intended solely for
pleasure, or, in other words, for giving impressions of intrinsic
beauty. What comes next in order is the beauty of a garden destined for
use, termed <i>relative beauty</i><a name="FNanchor_85_85" id="FNanchor_85_85"></a><a href="#Footnote_85_85" class="fnanchor">[85]</a>; and this branch shall be dispatched
in a few words. In gardening, luckily, relative beauty need never stand
in opposition to intrinsic beauty. All the ground that can be requisite
for use, makes but a small proportion of an ornamented field; and may be
put in any corner without obstructing the disposition of the capital
parts. At the same time, a kitchen-garden or an orchard is susceptible
of intrinsic beauty; and may be so artfully disposed among the other
parts, as by variety and contrast to contribute to the beauty of the
whole. In this respect, architecture is far more intricate, as will be
seen immediately: for there, it being often requisite to blend intrinsic
and relative beauty in the same building, it becomes a difficult task to
attain both in any perfection.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316">{316}</a></span></p>

<p>As gardening is brought to greater perfection in China than in any other
known country, an account of the means practised by Chinese artists to
inspire all the various emotions of gardening, will be a fine
illustration of the foregoing doctrine. In general, it is an
indispensable law with them, never to deviate from nature: but in order
to produce that degree of variety which is pleasing, every method is
used that is consistent with nature. Nature is strictly imitated in the
banks of their artificial lakes and rivers; which sometimes are bare and
gravelly, sometimes covered with wood quite to the brink of the water.
To flat spots adorned with flowers and shrubs, are opposed others steep
and rocky. We see meadows covered with cattle; rice-grounds that run
into the lakes; groves into which enter navigable creeks and rivulets.
These generally conduct to some interesting object, a magnificent
building, terraces cut in a mountain, a cascade, a grotto, an artificial
rock, and other such inventions. Their artificial rivers are generally
serpentine; sometimes narrow, noisy, and rapid; sometimes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317">{317}</a></span> deep, broad,
and slow: and to make the scene still more active, mills and other
moving machines are often erected. In the lakes are interspersed
islands; some barren, surrounded with rocks and shoals; others inriched
with every thing that art and nature can furnish. Even in their cascades
they avoid regularity, as forcing nature out of its course: the waters
are seen bursting out from among the caverns and windings of the
artificial rocks; here an impetuous cataract, there many lesser falls:
and in its passage, the water is often impeded by trees and heaps of
stones, that seem brought down by the violence of the current. Straight
lines, generally avoided, are sometimes indulged, in order to take the
advantage of any interesting object at a distance, by directing openings
upon it.</p>

<p>Sensible of the influence of contrast, the Chinese artists deal in
sudden transitions, and in opposing to each other, forms, colours, and
shades. The eye is conducted, from limited to extensive views, and from
lakes and rivers to plains, hills, and woods: to dark and gloomy
colours, are opposed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318">{318}</a></span> the more brilliant: the different masses of light
and shade are disposed in such a manner, as to render the composition
distinct in its parts, and striking on the whole. In plantations, the
trees are artfully mixed according to their shape and colour; those of
spreading branches with the pyramidal, and the light with the deep
green. They even introduce decay’d trees, some erect, and some half out
of the ground<a name="FNanchor_86_86" id="FNanchor_86_86"></a><a href="#Footnote_86_86" class="fnanchor">[86]</a>. In order to heighten contrast, much bolder strokes
are risked. They sometimes introduce rough rocks, dark caverns, trees
ill formed and seemingly rent by tempests, or blasted by lightning, a
building in ruins or half consumed by fire. But to relieve the mind from
the harshness of such objects, they are always succeeded by the sweetest
and most beautiful scenes.</p>

<p>The Chinese study to give play to the imagination. They hide the
termination of their lakes: the view of a cascade is fre<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319">{319}</a></span>quently
interrupted by trees, through which are seen obscurely the waters as
they fall. The imagination once roused, is disposed to magnify every
object.</p>

<p>Nothing is more studied in Chinese gardens than to raise wonder or
surprise. In scenes calculated for that end, every thing appears like
fairy-land; a torrent, for example, convey’d under ground, producing an
uncommon sound that puzzles a stranger to guess what it may be; and, to
increase our wonder by multiplying such uncommon sounds, the rocks and
buildings are contrived with cavities and interstices. Sometimes one is
led insensibly into dark caverns, terminating unexpectedly in a
landscape inriched with all that nature affords the most delicious. At
other times, beautiful walks insensibly conduct us to a rough
uncultivated field, where bushes briers and stones interrupt the
passage: when we look about for an outlet, some rich prospect
unexpectedly opens to view. Another artifice is, to obscure some capital
part by trees or other interposed objects: our curiosity is raised to
know what lies beyond; and after a few<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320">{320}</a></span> steps, we are greatly surprised
with some scene totally different from what was expected.</p>

<p>I close these cursory observations upon gardening, with a remark that
must touch every reader. Rough uncultivated ground, dismal to the eye,
inspires peevishness and discontent. May not this be one cause of the
harsh manners of savages? In a field richly ornamented, are collected
beautiful objects of various kinds. Such a field displays in full
lustre, the goodness of the Deity and the ample provision he has made
for our happiness; which must fill every spectator, with gratitude to
his Maker and with benevolence to his fellow-creatures. Other fine arts
may be perverted to excite irregular, and even vicious, emotions: but
gardening, which inspires the purest and most refined pleasures, cannot
but promote every good affection. The gaiety and harmony of mind it
produceth, must naturally incline the spectator to communicate his
satisfaction to others by acts of humanity and kindness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321">{321}</a></span></p>

<p>Having finished what occurred on gardening, I proceed to rules and
observations that more peculiarly concern architecture. Architecture
being an useful as well as a fine art, buildings and parts of buildings
must be distinguished into three kinds, <i>viz</i>. what are intended for
utility solely, what for ornament solely, and what for both. A building
intended for utility solely, such as detached offices, ought in every
part to correspond precisely to that intention. The least deviation from
use, though contributing to ornament, will be disagreeable. For every
work of use being considered as a means to an end, its perfection as a
means is the capital circumstance; and every other beauty, in
opposition, is neglected as improper and impertinent. In things again
intended for ornament, such as pillars, obelisks, triumphal arches,
beauty solely ought to be regarded. A Heathen temple must be considered
as merely ornamental; for being dedicated to some deity, and not
intended for habitation, it is susceptible of any figure and any
embellishment that fancy can suggest and beauty require. The great
diffi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322">{322}</a></span>culty of contrivance, respects buildings that are intended for
pleasure as well as for use. These ends, employing different and often
opposite means, are with difficulty reconciled. In palaces, and other
buildings sufficiently extensive to admit a variety of useful
contrivance, regularity justly takes the lead. But in dwelling-houses
that are too small for variety of contrivance, utility ought to prevail;
neglecting regularity so far as it stands in opposition to convenience.</p>

<p>Intrinsic and relative beauty being founded on different principles,
must be handled separately; and I begin with relative beauty, as of the
greater importance.</p>

<p>The proportions of a door, are determined by the use to which it is
destined. The door of a dwelling-house, which ought to correspond to the
human size, is confined to seven or eight feet in height, and three or
four in breadth. The proportions proper for the door of a barn or
coach-house, are widely different. Another consideration enters. To
study intrinsic beauty in a coach-house or barn, intended merely for
use, is obviously improper. But a dwell<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323">{323}</a></span>ing-house may admit ornaments;
and the principal door of a palace demands all the grandeur that is
consistent with the foregoing proportions dictated by utility. It ought
to be elevated and approached by steps; and it may be adorned with
pillars supporting an architrave, or in any other beautiful manner. The
door of a church ought to be wide, in order to afford an easy passage
for a multitude. The wideness, at the same time, regulates the height,
as will appear by and by. The size of windows ought to be proportioned
to that of the room they serve with light; for if the apperture be not
sufficiently large to convey light to every corner, the room is dark and
gloomy. Steps of stairs ought to be accommodated to the human figure,
without regarding any other proportion: these steps accordingly are the
same in large and in small buildings, because both are inhabited by men
of the same size.</p>

<p>I proceed to consider intrinsic beauty blended with that which is
relative. A cube in itself is more agreeable than a parallelopipedon,
which will constantly hold in small<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324">{324}</a></span> figures. But a large building in
the form a cube, appears lumpish and heavy; while the other figure, set
on its smaller base, is by its elevation more agreeable: and hence the
beauty of a Gothic tower. But let us suppose this parallelopipedon
destin’d for a dwelling house, to make way for relative beauty. Here
utility prevails over elevation and a parallelopipedon, inconvenient by
its height, is set upon its larger base. The loftiness is gone; but that
loss is more than compensated by additional convenience; and for that
reason the form of a building spread more upon the ground than raised in
height, is always preferred for a dwelling-house, without excepting even
the most sumptuous palace.</p>

<p>With respect to the divisions within, utility requires that the rooms be
rectangular; for otherwise void spaces will be left of no use. A
hexagonal figure leaves no void spaces; but then it determines the rooms
to be all of one size, which is extremely inconvenient. A cube will at
first be pronounced the most agreeable figure; and this may hold in a
room of a moderate size.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325">{325}</a></span> But in a very large room, utility requires a
different figure. The chief convenience of a great room, is unconfined
motion. This directs us to the greatest length that can be obtained. But
a square room of a great size is inconvenient, by removing far from the
hand, chairs and tables, which, when unemploy’d, must be ranged along
the sides of the room. Utility therefore requires a large room to be a
parallelogram. This figure, at the same time, is the best calculated for
receiving light; because, to avoid cross-light, all the windows ought to
be in one wall; and if the opposite wall be at such distance as not to
be fully lighted, the room must be obscure. The height of a room
exceeding nine or ten feet, has little or no relation to utility; and
therefore proportion is the only rule for determining the height when
above that number of feet.</p>

<p>As all artists who deal in the beautiful are naturally prone to
entertain the eye, they have great opportunity to exert their taste upon
palaces and sumptuous buildings, where, as above observed, intrinsic
beauty ought to have the ascendant over that which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326">{326}</a></span> is relative. But
such propensity is unhappy with respect to private dwelling-houses;
because in these, relative beauty cannot be display’d in any perfection,
without abandoning intrinsic beauty. There is no opportunity for great
variety of form in a small house; and in an edifice of this kind,
internal convenience has not hitherto been happily adjusted to external
regularity. I am apt to believe, that an accurate coincidence here, is
beyond the reach of art. And yet architects always split upon this rock;
for they never will give over attempting to reconcile these two
incompatibles. How else should it be accounted for, that of the endless
variety of private dwelling-houses, there is not one to be found, that
is generally agreed upon as a good pattern? The unwearied propensity to
make a house regular as well as convenient, forces the architect, in
some articles, to sacrifice convenience to regularity, and in others,
regularity to convenience. By this means, the house, which turns out
neither regular nor convenient, never fails to displease. The faults are
ob<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327">{327}</a></span>vious, and the difficulty of doing better is known to the artist
only<a name="FNanchor_87_87" id="FNanchor_87_87"></a><a href="#Footnote_87_87" class="fnanchor">[87]</a>.</p>

<p>Nothing can be more evident, than that the form of a dwelling-house
ought to be suited to the climate; and yet no error is more common, than
to copy in Britain the form of Italian houses; not forgetting even those
parts that are purposely contrived for air, and for excluding the sun. I
shall give one or two instances. A colonnade along the front of a
building, hath a fine effect in Greece and Italy, by producing coolness
and obscurity, agreeable properties in warm and luminous climates. The
cold climate of Britain is altogether averse to this ornament. A
colonnade therefore, can never be proper in this country, unless when
employ’d to communicate with a detached building. Again, a logio opening
the house to the north, contrived in Italy for gathering cool air, is,
if possible, still more improper for this climate. Scarce endurable in
summer, it, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328">{328}</a></span> winter, exposes the house to the bitter blasts of the
north, and to every shower of snow and rain.</p>

<p>Having discussed what appeared necessary to be said upon relative
beauty, singly considered, or in combination with intrinsic beauty, the
next step is, to view architecture as one of the fine arts, and to
examine those buildings and parts of buildings that are solely
calculated to please the eye. In the works of nature, grand and
magnificent, variety prevails. The timid hand of art, is guided by rule
and compass. Hence it is, that in works which imitate nature, the great
art is to hide every appearance of art; which is done by avoiding
regularity and indulging variety. But in works of art that are original
and not imitative, such as architecture, strict regularity and
uniformity ought to be studied so far as consistent with utility.</p>

<p>In buildings intended to please the eye, proportion is not less
essential than regularity and uniformity; for we are so framed by
nature, as to be pleased equally with each of these. By many writers it
is taken for granted, that in all the parts of a building<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329">{329}</a></span> there are
certain strict proportions which please the eye; precisely as there are
certain strict proportions of sound which please the ear; and that in
both the slightest deviation is equally disagreeable. Others again seem
to relish more a comparison betwixt proportion in numbers and proportion
in quantity; and hold that the same proportions are agreeable in both.
The proportions, for example, of the numbers 16, 24, and 36 are
agreeable; and so, say they, are the proportions of a room, the height
of which is 16 feet, the breadth 24, and the length 36. This point, with
relation to the present subject, being of importance, the reader will
examine it with attention and impartiality. To refute the notion of a
resemblance betwixt musical proportions and those of architecture, it
might be sufficient to observe in general, that the one is addressed to
the ear, the other to the eye; and that objects of different senses have
no resemblance, nor indeed any relation to each other. But more
particularly, what pleases the ear in harmony, is not the proportion of
the strings of the instrument, but of the sounds that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330">{330}</a></span> these strings
produce. In architecture, on the contrary, it is the proportion of
different quantities that pleases the eye, without the least relation to
sound. Beside, were quantity here to be the sole ground of comparison,
we have no reason to presume, that there is any natural analogy betwixt
the proportions that please in a building and the proportions of strings
that produce concordant sounds. I instance in particular an octave, the
most complete of all concords. An octave is produced by two strings of
the same tension and diameter, and as to length in the proportion of one
to two. I do not know, that this proportion will be agreeable in any two
parts of a building. I add, that concordant notes are produced by wind
instruments, which, as to proportion, appear not to have even the
slightest resemblance to a building.</p>

<p>With respect to the other notion instituting a comparison betwixt
proportion in numbers and proportion in quantity, I urge, that number
and quantity are so distinct from each other, as to afford no
probability of any natural relation betwixt them. Quan<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331">{331}</a></span>tity is a real
quality of every substance or body: number is not a real quality, but
merely a conception that arises upon viewing a plurality of things in
succession. Because an arithmetical proportion is agreeable in numbers,
have we any reason to conclude that it must also be agreeable in
quantity? At this rate, a geometrical proportion and many others, ought
also to be agreeable in both. A certain proportion may coincide in both;
and among an endless variety of proportions, it would be wonderful, if
there never should be a coincidence. One example is given of this
coincidence, in the numbers 16, 24, and 36; but to be convinced that it
is merely accidental, we need but reflect, that the same proportions are
not applicable to the external figure of a house, and far less to a
column.</p>

<p>That we are framed by nature to relish proportion as well as regularity,
is indisputable: but that agreeable proportion, like concord in sounds,
is confined to certain precise measures, is not warranted by experience:
on the contrary, we learn from experience, that various proportions are
e<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332">{332}</a></span>qually agreeable, that proportion is never tied down to precise
measures but admits more and less, and that we are not sensible of
disproportion till the difference betwixt the quantities compared become
the most striking circumstance. Columns evidently admit different
proportions, equally agreeable. The case is the same in houses, rooms,
and other parts of a building. And this opens an interesting reflection.
The foregoing difference betwixt concord and proportion, is an
additional instance of that admirable harmony which subsists among the
several branches of the human frame. The ear is an accurate judge of
sounds and of their smallest differences; and that concord in sounds
should be regulated by accurate measures, is perfectly well suited to
this accuracy of perception. The eye is more uncertain about the size of
a large object, than of one that is small; and in different situations
the same object appears of different sizes. Delicacy of feeling
therefore with respect to proportion in quantities, would be an useless
quality. It is much better ordered, that there should be such a latitude
with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333">{333}</a></span> respect to agreeable proportions, as to correspond to the
uncertainty of the eye with respect to quantity.</p>

<p>But this scene is too interesting to be passed over in a cursory view:
all its beauties are not yet display’d. I proceed to observe, that to
make the eye as delicate with respect to proportion as the ear is with
respect to concord, would not only be an useless quality, but be the
source of continual pain and uneasiness. I need go no farther for a
proof than the very room I possess at present: every step I take, varies
to me, in appearance, the proportion of the length and breadth. At that
rate, I should not be happy but in one precise spot, where the
proportion appears agreeable. Let me further observe, that it would be
singular indeed, to find in the nature of man, any two principles in
perpetual opposition to each other. This would precisely be the case, if
proportion were circumscribed like concord; for it would exclude all but
one of those proportions that utility requires in different buildings,
and in different parts of the same building.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334">{334}</a></span></p>

<p>It is ludicrous to observe all writers acknowledging the necessity of
accurate proportions, and yet differing widely about them. Laying aside
reasoning and philosophy, one fact universally agreed on ought to have
undeceived them, that the same proportions which please in a model are
not agreeable in a large building. A room 48 feet in length and 24 in
breadth and height, is well proportioned; but a room 12 feet wide and
high and 24 long, looks like a gallery.</p>

<p>Perrault, in his comparison of the ancients and moderns<a name="FNanchor_88_88" id="FNanchor_88_88"></a><a href="#Footnote_88_88" class="fnanchor">[88]</a>, is the only
author who runs to the opposite extreme; maintaining, that the different
proportions assigned to each order of columns are arbitrary, and that
the beauty of these proportions is entirely the effect of custom. This
bewrays ignorance of human nature, which evidently delights in
proportion, as well as in regularity, order, and propriety. But without
any acquaintance with human nature, a single reflection might have
convinced him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335">{335}</a></span> of his error; that if these proportions had not
originally been agreeable, they could not have been established by
custom. If a thing be universal, it must be natural.</p>

<p>To illustrate the present point, I shall add a few examples of the
agreeableness of different proportions. In a sumptuous edifice, the
capital rooms ought to be large, for otherwise they will not be
proportioned to the size of the building. On the other hand, a very
large room in a small house, is disproportioned. But in things thus
related, the mind requires not a precise or single proportion, rejecting
all others; on the contrary, many different proportions are made equally
welcome. It is only when a proportion becomes loose and distant, that
the agreeableness abates, and at last vanisheth. In all buildings
accordingly, we find rooms of different proportions equally agreeable,
even where the proportion is not influenced by utility. With respect to
the height of a room, the proportion it ought to bear to the length and
breadth, is extremely arbitrary; and it cannot be otherwise, considering
the uncertainty of the eye as to the height of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336">{336}</a></span> room, when it exceeds
17 or 18 feet. In columns again, even architects must confess, that the
proportion of height and thickness varies betwixt 8 diameters and 10,
and that every proportion betwixt these two extremes is agreeable. But
this is not all. There must certainly be a further variation of
proportion, depending on the size of the column. A row of columns 10
feet high, and a row twice that height, require different proportions.
The intercolumniations must also differ in proportion according to the
height of the row.</p>

<p>Proportion of parts is not only itself a beauty, but is inseparably
connected with a beauty of the first magnitude. Parts that in
conjunction appear proportional, never fail separately to produce
similar emotions; which existing together, are extremely pleasant, as I
have had occasion to show<a name="FNanchor_89_89" id="FNanchor_89_89"></a><a href="#Footnote_89_89" class="fnanchor">[89]</a>. Thus a room of which the parts are all
finely adjusted to each other, strikes us with the beauty of proportion.
It produceth at the same time a pleasure far superior. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337">{337}</a></span> length, the
breadth, the height, the windows, raise each of them separately an
emotion. These emotions are similar; and though faint when felt
separately, they produce in conjunction the emotion of concord or
harmony, which is extremely pleasant. On the other hand, where the
length of a room far exceeds the breadth, the mind comparing together
parts so intimately connected, immediately perceives a disagreement or
disproportion which disgusts. But this is not all. Viewing them
separately, different emotions are produced, that of grandeur from the
great length, and that of meanness or littleness from the small breadth,
which in union are disagreeable by their discordance. Hence it is, that
a long gallery, however convenient for exercise, is not an agreeable
figure of a room. We consider it, like a stable, as destined for use,
and expect not that in any other respect it should be agreeable.</p>

<p>Regularity and proportion are essential in buildings destined chiefly or
solely to please the eye, because they are the means to produce
intrinsic beauty. But a skilful artist<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338">{338}</a></span> will not confine his view to
regularity and proportion. He will also study propriety, which is
perceived when the form and ornaments of a structure are suited to the
purpose for which it is appointed. The sense of propriety dictates the
following rule, That every building ought to have an expression
corresponding to its destination. A palace ought to be sumptuous and
grand; a private dwelling, neat and modest; a playhouse, gay and
splendid; and a monument, gloomy and melancholy. A Heathen temple has a
double destination: it is considered chiefly as a house dedicated to
some divinity; and in that respect it ought to be grand, elevated, and
magnificent: it is considered also as a place of worship; and in that
respect it ought to be somewhat dark or gloomy; because dimness produces
that tone of mind which is suited to humility and devotion. A Christian
church is not considered as a house for the Deity, but merely a place of
worship: it ought therefore to be decent and plain, without much
ornament: a situation ought to be chosen, humble and retired; because
the congregation, during<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339">{339}</a></span> worship, ought to be humble and disengaged
from the world. Columns, beside their chief destination of being
supports, contribute to that peculiar expression which the destination
of a building requires: columns of different proportions, serve to
express loftiness, lightness, &amp;<i>c.</i> as well as strength. Situation also
may contribute to expression: conveniency regulates the situation of a
private dwelling-house; but, as I have had occasion to observe<a name="FNanchor_90_90" id="FNanchor_90_90"></a><a href="#Footnote_90_90" class="fnanchor">[90]</a>, the
situation of a palace ought to be lofty.</p>

<p>And this leads me to examine, whether the situation of a great house,
where the artist is limited in his choice, ought in any measure to
regulate its form. The connection betwixt a great house and the
neighbouring grounds, though not extremely intimate, demands however
some congruity. It would, for instance, displease us to find an elegant
building thrown away upon a wild uncultivated country: congruity
requires a polished field for such a building; and beside the pleasure
of congruity, the spectator<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340">{340}</a></span> is sensible of the pleasure of concordance
from the similarity of the emotions produced by the two objects. The old
Gothic form of building seems well suited to the rough uncultivated
regions where it was invented. The only mistake was, the transferring
this form to the fine plains of France and Italy, better fitted for
buildings in the Grecian taste. But by refining upon the Gothic form,
every thing in the power of invention has been done, to reconcile it to
its new situation. The profuse variety of wild and grand objects about
Inverary, demanded a house in the Gothic form; and every one must
approve the taste of the proprietor, in adjusting so finely, as he has
done, the appearance of his house to that of the country where it is
placed.</p>

<p>The external structure of a great house, leads naturally to its internal
structure. A large and spacious room, receives us commonly upon our
entrance. This seems to me a bad contrivance in several respects. In the
first place, when immediately from the open air we step into such a
room, its size in appearance is diminished by contrast: it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341">{341}</a></span> looks little
compared with the great canopy the sky. In the next place, when it
recovers its grandeur, as it soon doth, it gives a diminutive appearance
to the rest of the house: passing from it, every apartment looks little.
This room therefore may be aptly compared to the swoln commencement of
an epic poem.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Bella per Emathios plusquam civilia campos.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p class="nind">In the third place, by its situation it serves only for a waiting-room,
and a passage to the principal apartments. And yet undoubtedly, the room
of the greatest size ought to be reserved for company. A great room,
which enlarges the mind and gives a certain elevation to the spirits, is
destined by nature for conversation. Rejecting therefore this form, I
take a hint from the climax in writing for another form that appears
more suitable. My plan is, first a handsome portico, proportioned to the
size and fashion of the front: this portico leads into a waiting-room of
a larger size; and this again to the great<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342">{342}</a></span> room, all by a progression
from small to great. If the house be very large, there may be space for
the following suit of rooms; first, a portico; second, a passage within
the house bounded by rows of columns on each side connected by arcades;
third, an octagon room, or of any other figure, about the centre of the
building; and, lastly, the great room.</p>

<p>Of all the emotions that can be raised by architecture, grandeur is that
which has the greatest influence on the mind. It ought therefore to be
the chief study of the artist, to raise this emotion in great buildings.
But it seems unhappy for architecture, that it is necessarily governed
by certain principles opposite to grandeur: the direct effect of
regularity and proportion, is to make a building appear less than it is
in reality. Any invention to reconcile these with grandeur, would be a
capital improvement in architecture.</p>

<p>Next of ornaments, which contribute greatly to give buildings a peculiar
expression. It has been a doubt with me, whether a building can
regularly admit any or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343">{343}</a></span>nament but what is useful, or at least appears to
be useful. But considering the double aim of architecture, a fine as
well as an useful art, there is no good reason why ornaments may not be
added to please the eye without any relation to use. This liberty is
allowed in poetry, painting, and gardening, and why not in architecture
considered as a fine art? A private dwelling-house, it is true, and
other edifices where use is the chief aim, admit not regularly any
ornament but what has the appearance, at least, of use: but temples,
triumphal arches, and other buildings intended chiefly or solely for
show, may be highly ornamented.</p>

<p>This suggests a division of ornaments into three kinds, <i>viz.</i> ornaments
that are beautiful without relation to use, such as statues in niches,
vases, basso or alto relievo: next, things in themselves not beautiful,
but possessing the beauty of utility by imposing on the spectator, and
appearing to be of use, blind windows for example: the third kind is,
where the thing is in itself beautiful, and also takes on the
appearance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344">{344}</a></span> of use; the case of a pilaster. With respect to the second,
it is an egregious blunder, to contrive the ornament so as to make it
appear useless. If a blind window therefore be necessary for regularity,
it ought to be so disguised, as not to be distinguished from the real
windows. If it appear to be a blind window, it is disgustful, as a vain
attempt to supply the want of invention. It shows the irregularity in a
stronger light; by signifying that a window ought to be there in point
of regularity, but that the architect had not skill sufficient to
connect external regularity with internal convenience.</p>

<p>From ornaments in general, we descend to a pillar, the chief ornament in
great buildings. The destination of a pillar is to support, really or in
appearance, another part termed <i>the architrave</i>. With respect to the
form of this ornament, I observe, that a circle is a more agreeable
figure than a square, a globe than a cube, and a cylinder than a
parallelopipedon. This last, in the language of architecture, is saying,
that a column is a more agreeable figure than a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345">{345}</a></span> pilaster. For that
reason, it ought to be preferred, all other circumstances being equal.
Another reason concurs, that a column annexed to a wall, which is a
plain surface, makes a greater variety than a pilaster. There is an
additional reason for rejecting pilasters in the external front of a
building, arising from a principle unfolded above<a name="FNanchor_91_91" id="FNanchor_91_91"></a><a href="#Footnote_91_91" class="fnanchor">[91]</a>, <i>viz.</i> a
remarkable tendency in the mind of man, to advance every thing to its
perfection as well as to its final issue. If I see a thing obscurely in
a dim light, and by disjointed parts, my curiosity is roused, and
prompts me, out of the disjointed parts to compose an entire whole. I
suppose it to be, for example, a horse. My eye-sight being obedient to
this conjecture, I immediately perceive a horse, almost as distinctly as
in day-light. This principle is applicable to the case in hand. The most
superb front, at a great distance, appears a plain surface: approaching
gradually, we begin to perceive inequalities: these inequalities,
advancing a few steps more, take<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346">{346}</a></span> on the appearance of pillars; but
whether round or square, we are uncertain: our curiosity anticipating
our progress, cannot rest in suspense: we naturally suppose the most
complete pillar, or that which is the most agreeable to the eye; and we
immediately perceive, or seem to perceive, a number of columns: if upon
a near approach we find pilasters only, the disappointment makes these
pilasters appear disagreeable; when abstracted from that circumstance,
they would only have appeared somewhat less agreeable. But as this
deception cannot happen in the inner front inclosing a court, I see no
reason for excluding pilasters there, when there is any reason for
preferring them before columns.</p>

<p>With respect now to the parts of a column, a bare uniform cylinder
without base or capital, appears naked and scarce agreeable: it ought
therefore to have some finishing at the top and at the bottom. Hence the
three chief parts of a column, the shaft, the base, and the capital.
Nature undoubtedly requires a certain proportion among these parts, but
not limited within<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347">{347}</a></span> precise bounds. I suspect that the proportions in
use have been influenced in some degree by the human figure; the capital
being conceived as the head, the base as the feet. With respect to the
base indeed, the principle of utility interposes to vary it from the
human figure: the base must be so proportioned to the whole, as to give
the column the appearance of stability.</p>

<p>In architecture as well as in gardening, contradictory expressions ought
to be avoided. Firmness and solidity are the proper expressions of a
pedestal: carved work, on the contrary, ought to be light and delicate.
A pedestal therefore, whether of a column or of a statue, ought to be
sparingly ornamented: the ancients never ventured any bolder ornament
than the basso-relievo.</p>

<p>To succeed in allegorical or emblematic ornaments, is no slight effort
of genius; for it is extremely difficult to dispose them so in a
building as to produce any good effect. The mixing them with realities,
makes a miserable jumble of truth and fiction<a name="FNanchor_92_92" id="FNanchor_92_92"></a><a href="#Footnote_92_92" class="fnanchor">[92]</a>. In a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348">{348}</a></span> basso-relievo
on Antonin’s pillar, rain obtained by the prayers of a Christian legion,
is expressed by joining to the group of soldiers a rainy Jupiter, with
water in abundance running from his head and beard. De Piles, fond of
the conceit, carefully informs his reader, that he must not take this
for a real Jupiter, but for a symbol which among the Pagans signified
rain: an emblem ought not to make a part of the group representing real
objects or real events, but be detached from it, so as even at first
view to appear an emblem. But this is not all, nor the chief point.
Every emblem ought to be rejected that is not clearly expressive of its
meaning: if it be in any degree obscure, it never can be relished. The
temples of Ancient and Modern Virtue in the gardens of Stow, appear not
at first view emblematical; and when we are informed that they are so,
it is not easy to gather their meaning. The spectator sees one temple in
full repair, another in ruins: but without an explanatory inscription,
he may guess, but cannot be certain, that the former being dedicated to
Ancient<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349">{349}</a></span> Virtue, the latter to Modern Virtue, are intended a satire upon
the present times. On the other hand, a trite emblem, like a trite
simile, is disgustful<a name="FNanchor_93_93" id="FNanchor_93_93"></a><a href="#Footnote_93_93" class="fnanchor">[93]</a>. Nor ought an emblem more than a simile to be
founded on low or familiar objects; for if the objects be not agreeable,
as well as their meaning, the emblem upon the whole will not be
relished. A room in a dwelling-house containing a monument to a deceased
friend, is dedicated to Melancholy. Its furniture is a clock that
strikes every minute to signify how swiftly time passes: upon the
monument, weeping figures and other hackney’d ornaments commonly found
upon tomb-stones, with a stuff’d raven in a corner: verses on death, and
other serious subjects, inscribed all around. The objects are too
familiar, and the artifice too apparent, to produce the intended effect.</p>

<p>The statue of Moses striking a rock from which water actually issues, is
also in a false taste; for it is mixing reality with representation:
Moses himself may bring<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350">{350}</a></span> water out of the rock, but this miracle is too
much for his statue. The same objection lies against a cascade where we
see the statue of a water-god pouring out of his urn real water.</p>

<p>It is observed above of gardening, that it contributes to rectitude of
manners, by inspiring gaiety and benevolence. I add another observation,
That both gardening and architecture contribute to the same end, by
inspiring neatness and elegance. It is observed in Scotland, that even a
turnpike-road has some influence of this kind upon the low people in the
neighbourhood. They acquire a taste for regularity and neatness; which
is display’d first upon their yards and little inclosures, and next
within doors. A taste for regularity and neatness thus gathering
strength, comes insensibly to be extended to dress, and even to
behaviour and manners.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351">{351}</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAP_XXV" id="CHAP_XXV"></a>CHAP. XXV.</h2>

<p class="chead">Standard of Taste.</p>

<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“T</span>H<span class="smcap">at</span> there is no disputing about taste”, meaning taste in its most
extensive sense, is a saying so generally received as to have become a
proverb. One thing indeed is evident, that if the proverb hold true with
respect to any one external sense, it must hold true with respect to
all. If the pleasures of the palate disdain a comparative trial and
reject all criticism, the pleasures of touch, of smell, of sound, and
even of sight, must be equally privileged. At this rate, a man is not
within the reach of censure, even where, insensible to beauty, grandeur,
or elegance, he prefers the Saracen’s head upon a sign-post before the
best tablature of Raphael, or a rude Gothic tower before the finest
Grecian building: nor where he prefers the smell of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352">{352}</a></span> rotten carcass
before that of the most odoriferous flower: nor jarring discords before
the most exquisite harmony.</p>

<p>But we must not stop here. If the pleasures of external sense be
exempted from criticism, why not every one of our pleasures, from
whatever source derived? If taste in the proper sense of the word cannot
be disputed, there is as little room for disputing it in its figurative
sense. The proverb accordingly comprehends both; and in that large sense
may be resolved into the following general proposition, That with
respect to the sensitive part of our nature, by which some objects are
agreeable, some disagreeable, there is not such a thing as <i>good</i> or
<i>bad</i>, a <i>right</i> or <i>wrong</i>; that every man’s taste is to himself an
ultimate standard without appeal; and consequently that there is no
ground of censure against any one, if such a one there be, who prefers
Blackmore before Homer, selfishness before benevolence, or cowardice
before magnanimity.</p>

<p>The proverb in the foregoing instances, is indeed carried very far. It
seems difficult,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353">{353}</a></span> however, to sap its foundation, or with success to
attack it from any quarter. For in comparing the various tastes of
individuals, it is not obvious what standard must be appealed to. Is not
every man equally a judge of what is agreeable or disagreeable to
himself? Doth it not seem odd, and perhaps absurd, that a man <i>ought
not</i> to be pleased when he is, or that he <i>ought</i> to be pleased when he
is not?</p>

<p>This reasoning may perplex, but, in contradiction to sense and feeling,
will never afford conviction. A man of taste must necessarily feel the
reasoning to be false, however unqualified to detect the fallacy. At the
same time, though no man of taste will subscribe to the proverb as
holding true in every case, no man will venture to affirm that it holds
true in no case. Subjects there are undoubtedly, that we may like or
dislike indifferently, without any imputation upon our taste. Were a
philosopher to make a scale for human pleasures with many divisions, in
order that the value of each pleasure may be denoted by the place it
occupies, he would not think of making di<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354">{354}</a></span>visions without end, but would
rank together many pleasures arising perhaps from different objects,
either as being equally valuable, or differing so imperceptibly as to
make a separation unnecessary. Nature hath taken this course, so far as
appears to the generality of mankind. There may be subdivisions without
end; but we are only sensible of the grosser divisions, comprehending
each of them many pleasures of various kinds. To these the proverb is
applicable in the strictest sense; for with respect to pleasures of the
same rank, what ground can there be for preferring one before another?
If a preference in fact be given by any individual, it cannot be taste,
but custom, imitation, or some peculiarity of mind.</p>

<p>Nature in her scale of pleasures, has been sparing of divisions: she
hath wisely and benevolently filled every division with many pleasures;
in order that individuals may be contented with their own lot, without
envying the happiness of others: many hands must be employ’d to procure
us the conveniencies of life; and it is necessary that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355">{355}</a></span> different
branches of business, whether more or less agreeable, be filled with
hands. A taste too nice and delicate, would obstruct this plan; for it
would crowd some employments, leaving others, not less useful, totally
neglected. In our present condition, happy it is, that the plurality are
not delicate in their choice. They fall in readily with the occupations,
pleasures, food, and company, that fortune throws in their way; and if
at first there be any displeasing circumstance, custom soon makes it
easy.</p>

<p>The proverb will be admitted so far as it regards the particulars now
explained. But when apply’d in general to every subject of taste, the
difficulties to be encountered are insuperable. What shall we say, in
particular, as to the difficulty that arises from human nature itself?
Do we not talk of a good and a bad taste? of a right and a wrong taste?
and upon that supposition, do we not, with great confidence, censure
writers, painters, architects, and every one who deals in the fine arts?
Are such criticisms absurd and void of foundation? Have the foregoing
expressions, familiar in all lan<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356">{356}</a></span>guages and among all people, no sort of
meaning? This can hardly be: what is universal must have a foundation in
nature. If we can reach this foundation, the standard of taste will no
longer be a secret.</p>

<p>All living creatures are by nature distributed into classes; the
individuals of each, however diversified by slighter differences, having
a wonderful uniformity in their capital parts internal and external.
Each class is distinguishable from others by an external form; and not
less distinguishable by an internal constitution, manifested by certain
powers, feelings, desires, and actions, peculiar to the individuals of
each class. Thus each class may be conceived to have a common nature,
which, in framing the individuals belonging to the class, is taken for a
model or standard.</p>

<p>Independent altogether of experience, men have a sense or conviction of
a common nature or standard, not only in their own species, but in every
species of animals. And hence it is a matter of wonder, to find any
individual deviating from the common nature of the species, whether in
its inter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357">{357}</a></span>nal or external construction: a child born with an aversion to
its mother’s milk, is a matter of wonder, not less than if born without
a mouth, or with more than one<a name="FNanchor_94_94" id="FNanchor_94_94"></a><a href="#Footnote_94_94" class="fnanchor">[94]</a>.</p>

<p>With respect to this common nature or standard, we are so constituted as
to conceive it to be <i>perfect</i> or <i>right</i>; and consequently that
individuals <i>ought</i> to be made conformable to it. Every remarkable
deviation accordingly from the standard, makes an impression upon us of
imperfection, irregularity, or disorder: it is disagreeable and raises
in us a painful emotion: monstrous births, exciting the curiosity of a
philosopher, fail not at the same time to excite aversion in a high
degree.</p>

<p>Lastly, we have a conviction, that the common nature of man is
invariable not less than universal: we conceive that it hath no relation
to time nor to place; but that it will be the same hereafter as at
present, and as it was in time past; the same among all nations and in
all corners of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358">{358}</a></span> earth. Nor are we deceived: giving allowance for the
difference of culture and gradual refinement of manners, the fact
corresponds to our conviction.</p>

<p>This conviction of a common nature or standard, and of its perfection,
is the foundation of morality; and accounts clearly for that remarkable
conception we have, of a right and a wrong taste in morals. It accounts
not less clearly for the conception we have of a right and a wrong taste
in the fine arts. A person who rejects objects generally agreeable, and
delights in objects generally disagreeable, is condemned as a monster:
we disapprove his taste as bad or wrong; and we have a clear conception
that he deviates from the common standard. If man were so framed as not
to have any notion of a common standard, the proverb mentioned in the
beginning would hold universally, not only in the fine arts but in
morals: upon that supposition, the taste of every man, with respect to
both, would to himself be an ultimate standard. But the conviction of a
common standard being made a part of our nature, we intuitively conceive
a taste to be right or good if con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359">{359}</a></span>formable to the common standard, and
wrong or bad if disconformable.</p>

<p>No particular concerning human nature is more universal, than the
uneasiness a man feels when in matters of importance his opinions are
rejected by others. Why should difference in opinion create uneasiness,
more than difference in stature, in countenance, or in dress? The sense
of a common standard is the only principle that can explain this
mystery. Every man, generally speaking, taking it for granted that his
opinions agree with the common sense of mankind, is therefore disgusted
with those of a contrary opinion, not as differing from him, but as
differing from the common standard. Hence in all disputes, we find the
parties, each of them equally, appealing constantly to the common sense
of mankind as the ultimate rule or standard. Were it not for this
standard, of which the conviction is universal, I cannot discover the
slightest foundation for rancor or animosity when persons differ in
essential points more than in points purely indifferent. With respect to
the latter, which are not supposed to be regulated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360">{360}</a></span> by any standard,
individuals are permitted to think for themselves with impunity. The
same liberty is not indulged with respect to the former: for what
reason, other than that the standard by which these are regulated,
ought, as we judge, to produce an uniformity of opinion in all men? In a
word, to this sense of a common standard must be wholly attributed the
pleasure we take in those who espouse the same principles and opinions
with ourselves, as well as the aversion we have at those who differ from
us. In matters left indifferent by the standard, we find nothing of the
same pleasure or pain. A bookish man, unless sway’d by convenience,
relisheth not the contemplative more than the active part of mankind:
his friends and companions are chosen indifferently out of either class.
A painter consorts with a poet or musician, as readily as with those of
his own art; and one is not the more agreeable to me for loving beef, as
I do, nor the less agreeable for preferring mutton.</p>

<p>I have said, that my disgust is raised, not by differing from me, but by
differing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361">{361}</a></span> from what I judge to be the common standard. This point,
being of importance, ought to be firmly established. Men, it is true,
are prone to flatter themselves, by taking it for granted, that their
opinions and their taste are in all respects agreeable to the common
standard. But there may be exceptions, and experience shows there are
some. There are instances without number, of persons who cling to the
grosser amusements of gaming, eating, drinking, without having any
relish for more elegant pleasures, such, for example, as are afforded by
the fine arts. Yet these very persons, talking the same language with
the rest of mankind, pronounce in favour of the more elegant pleasures:
they invariably approve those who have a more refined taste, and are
ashamed of their own as low and sensual. It is in vain to think of
giving a reason for this singular impartiality against self, other than
the authority of the common standard. Every individual of the human
species, the most groveling not excepted, hath a natural sense of the
dignity of human nature<a name="FNanchor_95_95" id="FNanchor_95_95"></a><a href="#Footnote_95_95" class="fnanchor">[95]</a>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362">{362}</a></span> Hence every man is esteemed and respected
in proportion to the dignity of his character, sentiments, and actions.
And from the instances now given we discover, that the sense of the
dignity of human nature is so vigorous, as even to prevail over
self-partiality, and to make us despise our own taste compared with the
more elevated taste of others.</p>

<p>In our sense of a common standard and in the pleasure individuals give
us by their conformity to it, a curious final cause is discovered. An
uniformity of taste and sentiment in matters of importance, forms an
intimate connection among individuals, and is a great blessing in the
social state. With respect to morals in particular, unhappy it would be
for mankind did not this uniformity prevail: it is necessary that the
actions of all men be uniform with respect to right and wrong; and in
order to uniformity of action, it is necessary that all men think the
same way in these particulars: if they differ through any irregular
bias, the common sense of mankind is appealed to as the rule; and it is
the province of judges,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363">{363}</a></span> in matters especially of equity, to apply that
rule. The same uniformity, it is yielded, is not so strictly necessary
in other matters of taste: men, though connected in general as members
of the same state, are, by birth, office, or occupation, separated and
distinguished into different classes; and are thereby qualified for
different amusements: variety of taste, so far, is no obstruction to the
general connection. But with respect to the more capital pleasures, such
as are best enjoy’d in common, uniformity of taste is necessary for two
great ends, first to connect individuals the more intimately in the
social life, and next to advance these pleasures to their highest
perfection. With respect to the first, if instead of a common taste,
every man had a taste peculiar to himself, leading him to place his
happiness upon things indifferent or perhaps disagreeable to others,
these capital pleasures could not be enjoy’d in common: every man would
pursue his own happiness by flying from others; and instead of a natural
tendency to union, remarkable in the human species, union would be our<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364">{364}</a></span>
aversion: man would not be a consistent being: his interest would lead
him to society, and his taste would draw him from it. The other end will
be best explained by entering upon particulars. Uniformity of taste
gives opportunity for sumptuous and elegant buildings, for fine gardens,
and extensive embellishments, which please universally. Works of this
nature could never have reached any degree of perfection, had every man
a taste peculiar to himself: there could not be any suitable reward,
either of profit or honour, to encourage men of genius to labour in such
works. The same uniformity of taste is equally necessary to perfect the
arts of music, sculpture, and painting; and to support the expence they
require after they are brought to perfection. Nature is in every
particular consistent with herself. We are formed by nature to have a
high relish for the fine arts, which are a great source of happiness,
and extremely friendly to virtue. We are, at the same time, formed with
an uniformity of taste, to furnish proper objects for this high relish:
if uniformity of taste did not prevail, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365">{365}</a></span> fine arts could never have
made any figure.</p>

<p>Thus, upon a sense common to the species, is erected a standard of
taste, which without hesitation is apply’d to the taste of every
individual. This standard, ascertaining what actions are right what
wrong, what proper what improper, hath enabled moralists to establish
rules for our conduct from which no person is allowed to swerve. We have
the same standard for ascertaining in all the fine arts, what is
beautiful or ugly, high or low, proper or improper, proportioned or
disproportioned. And here, as in morals, we justly condemn every taste
that swerves from what is thus ascertained by the common standard.</p>

<p>The discovery of a rule or standard for trying the taste of individuals
in the fine arts as well as in morals, is a considerable advance, but
completes not our journey. We have a great way yet to travel. It is made
out that there is a standard: but it is not made out, by what means we
shall prevent mistaking a false standard for that of nature. If from
opinion and practice we endeavour to ascertain the standard of nature,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366">{366}</a></span>
we are betray’d into endless perplexities. Viewing this matter
historically, nothing appears more various and more wavering than taste
in the fine arts. If we judge by numbers, the Gothic taste of
architecture will be preferred before that of Greece; and the Chinese
taste probably before both. It would be endless, to recount the various
tastes of gardening that have prevailed in different ages, and still
prevail in different countries. Despising the modest colouring of
nature, women of fashion in France daub their cheeks with a red powder.
Nay, the unnatural swelling in the neck, a disease peculiar to the
inhabitants of the Alps, is relished by that people. But we ought not to
be discouraged by such untoward instances. For do we not find the like
contradictions with respect to morals? was it not once held lawful, for
a man to expose his infant children, and, when grown up, to sell them
for slaves? was it not held equally lawful, to punish children for the
crime of their parents? was not the murder of an enemy in cold blood an
universal practice? what stronger instance can be gi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367">{367}</a></span>ven, than the
abominable practice of human sacrifices, not less impious than immoral?
Such aberrations from the rules of morality, prove only, that men,
originally savage and brutish, acquire not rationality or any delicacy
of taste, till they be long disciplined in society. To ascertain the
rules of morality, we appeal not to the common sense of savages, but of
men in their more perfect state: and we make the same appeal, in forming
the rules that ought to govern the fine arts. In neither can we safely
rely on a local or transitory taste; but on what is the most universal
and the most lasting among polite nations.</p>

<p>In this very manner, a standard for morals has been established with a
good deal of accuracy; and so well fitted for practice, that in the hand
of able judges it is daily apply’d with general satisfaction. The
standard of taste in the fine arts, is not yet brought to such
perfection. And there is an obvious reason for its slower progress. The
sense of a right and a wrong in action, is conspicuous in the breast of
every individual, almost without exception. The sense of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368">{368}</a></span> right and a
wrong in the fine arts, is more faint and wavering: it is by nature a
tender plant, requiring much culture to bring it to maturity: in a
barren soil it cannot live; and in any soil, without cultivation, it is
weak and sickly. I talk chiefly with relation to its more refined
objects: for some objects make such lively impressions of beauty,
grandeur, and proportion, as without exception to command the general
taste. There appears to me great contrivance, in distinguishing thus the
moral sense from a taste in the fine arts. The former, as a rule of
conduct and as a law we ought to obey, must be clear and authoritative.
The latter is not intitled to the same authority, since it contributes
to our pleasure and amusement only. Were it more strong and lively, it
would usurp upon our duty, and call off the attention from matters of
greater moment. Were it more clear and authoritative, it would banish
all difference of taste: a refined taste would not form a character, nor
be intitled to esteem. This would put an end to rivalship, and
consequently to all improvement.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369">{369}</a></span></p>

<p>But to return to our subject. However languid and cloudy the common
sense of mankind may be with respect to the fine arts, it is yet the
only standard in these as well as in morals. And when the matter is
attentively considered, this standard will be found less imperfect than
it appears to be at first sight. In gathering the common sense of
mankind upon morals, we may safely consult every individual. But with
respect to the fine arts, our method must be different: a wary choice is
necessary; for to collect votes indifferently, will certainly mislead
us: those who depend for food on bodily labour, are totally void of
taste; of such a taste at least as can be of use in the fine arts. This
consideration bars the greater part of mankind; and of the remaining
part, many have their taste corrupted to such a degree as to unqualify
them altogether for voting. The common sense of mankind must then be
confined to the few that fall not under these exceptions. But as such
selection seems to throw matters again into uncertainty, we must be more
explicit upon this branch of our subject.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370">{370}</a></span></p>

<p>Nothing tends more than voluptuousness to corrupt the whole internal
frame, and to vitiate our taste, not only in the fine arts, but even in
morals. It never fails, in course of time, to extinguish all the
sympathetic affections, and to bring on a beastly selfishness which
leaves nothing of man but the shape. About excluding persons of this
stamp there will be no dispute. Let us next bring under trial, the
opulent whose chief pleasure is expence. Riches, coveted by most men for
the sake of superiority and to command respect, are generally bestow’d
upon costly furniture, numerous attendants, a princely dwelling, every
thing superb and gorgeous, to amaze and humble all beholders.
Simplicity, elegance, propriety, and every thing natural, sweet, or
amiable, are despised or neglected; for these are not at the command of
riches, and make no figure in the public eye. In a word, nothing is
relished, but what serves to gratify pride, by an imagined exaltation of
the possessor above those he reckons the vulgar. Such a tenor of life
contracts the heart and makes every principle give way to self-interest.
Benevo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_371" id="page_371">{371}</a></span>lence and public spirit, with all their refined emotions, are
little felt and less regarded. And if these be excluded, there can be no
place for the faint and delicate emotions of the fine arts.</p>

<p>The exclusion of classes so many and various, reduces within a narrow
compass those who are qualified to be judges in the fine arts. Many
circumstances are necessary to form a judge of this sort: there must be
a good natural taste: this taste must be improved by education,
reflection, and experience: it must be preserved alive, by a regular
course of life, by using the goods of fortune with moderation, and by
following the dictates of improved nature which gives welcome to every
rational pleasure without deviating into excess. This is the tenor of
life which of all contributes the most to refinement of taste; and the
same tenor of life contributes the most to happiness in general.</p>

<p>If there appear much uncertainty in a standard that requires so painful
and intricate a selection, we may possibly be reconciled to it by the
following consideration, That,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372">{372}</a></span> with respect to the fine arts, there is
less difference of taste than is commonly imagined. Nature hath marked
all her works with indelible characters of high or low, plain or
elegant, strong or weak. These, if at all perceived, are seldom
misapprehended by any taste; and the same marks are equally perceptible
in works of art. A defective taste is incurable; and it hurts none but
the possessor, because it carries no authority to impose upon others. I
know not if there be such a thing as a taste naturally bad or wrong; a
taste, for example, that prefers a groveling pleasure before one that is
high and elegant. Groveling pleasures are never preferred: they are only
made welcome by those who know no better. Differences about objects of
taste, it is true, are endless: but they generally concern trifles, or
possibly matters of equal rank where the preference may be given either
way with impunity. If, on any occasion, the dispute go deeper and
persons differ where they ought not, a depraved taste will readily be
discovered on one or other side, occasioned by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_373" id="page_373">{373}</a></span> imitation, custom, or
corrupted manners, such as are described above.</p>

<p>If, after all that is said, the standard of taste be thought not yet
sufficiently ascertained, there is still one resource in which I put
great confidence. What I have in view, are the principles that
constitute the sensitive part of our nature. By means of these
principles, common to all men, a wonderful uniformity is preserved among
the emotions and feelings of different individuals; the same object
making upon every person the same impression; the same in kind, at
least, if not in degree. There have been aberrations, as above observed,
from these principles; but soon or late they always prevail, by
restoring the wanderers to the right track. The uniformity of taste here
accounted for, is the very thing that in other words is termed the
common sense of mankind. And this discovery leads us to means for
ascertaining the common sense of mankind or the standard of taste, more
unerringly than the selection above insisted on. Every doubt with
relation to this standard, occasioned by the practice of different
nations<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_374" id="page_374">{374}</a></span> and different times, may be cleared by applying to the
principles that ought to govern the taste of every individual. In a
word, a thorough acquaintance with these principles will enable us to
form the standard of taste; and to lay a foundation for this valuable
branch of knowledge, is the declared purpose of the present
undertaking.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_375" id="page_375">{375}</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="APPENDIX" id="APPENDIX"></a>APPENDIX.</h2>

<p class="chead">Terms defined or explained.</p>

<p class="nind">1. <b><big><big><big>C</big></big></big></b>O<span class="smcap">nsidering</span> the things I am conscious of, some are internal or within
my mind, some external or without. Passion, thinking, volition, are
internal objects. Objects of sight, of hearing, of smell, of touch, of
taste, are external.</p>

<p>2. The faculty by which I discover an internal object, is termed an
internal sense: the faculty by which I discover an external object, is
termed an external sense. This distinction among the senses is made with
reference to their objects merely; for the senses, external and
internal, are equally powers or faculties of the mind.</p>

<p>3. But as self is an object, and the only one that cannot be termed
either external<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_376" id="page_376">{376}</a></span> or internal, the faculty by which I am conscious of
myself, must be distinguished from both the internal and external
senses.</p>

<p>4. By sight we perceive the qualities of figure, colour, motion, &amp;<i>c.</i>:
by the ear we perceive the qualities high, low, loud, soft: by touch we
perceive rough, smooth, hot, cold, &amp;<i>c.</i>: by taste we perceive sweet,
sour, bitter, &amp;<i>c.</i>: by smell we perceive fragrant, stinking, &amp;<i>c.</i>
Qualities, from our very conception of them, are not capable of an
independent existence; but must belong to something of which they are
the qualities. A thing with respect to its qualities is termed a
subject, or <i>substratum</i>; because its qualities rest, as it were, upon
it, or are founded upon it. The subject or <i>substratum</i> of visible
qualities, is termed <i>substance</i>, of audible qualities, <i>sound</i>; of
tangible qualities, <i>body</i>. In like manner, <i>taste</i> is the <i>substratum</i>
of qualities perceived by our sense of tasting; and <i>smell</i> is the
<i>substratum</i> of qualities perceived by our sense of smelling.</p>

<p>5. Substance and sound are perceived existing in a certain place; often
at a consi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_377" id="page_377">{377}</a></span>derable distance from the organ. But smell, touch, and taste,
are perceived at the organs of sense.</p>

<p>6. Objects of internal sense are conceived to be attributes:
deliberation, reasoning, resolution, willing, consenting, are internal
actions: passions and emotions are internal agitations. With regard to
the former, I am conscious of being active; with regard to the latter, I
am conscious of being passive.</p>

<p>7. Again, we are conscious of internal action as in the head; of
passions and emotions as in the heart.</p>

<p>8. Many actions may be exerted internally and many effects produced, of
which we are not conscious. When we investigate the ultimate cause of
animal motions, it is the most probable opinion, that they proceed from
some internal power: and if so, we are, in this particular, unconscious
of our own operations. But consciousness being imply’d in the very
conception of deliberating, reasoning, resolving, willing, consenting,
these operations cannot go on without our knowledge. The same is the
case<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_378" id="page_378">{378}</a></span> of passions and emotions; for no internal agitation is denominated
a passion or emotion, but what we are conscious of.</p>

<p>9. The mind is not always in the same state: it is at times chearful,
melancholy, severe, peevish. These different states may not improperly
be denominated <i>tones</i>. An object, by making an impression, produceth an
emotion or passion, which again gives the mind a certain tone suited to
it.</p>

<p>10. <i>Perception</i> and <i>sensation</i> are commonly reckoned synonymous terms,
signifying the consciousness we have of objects; but, in accurate
language, they are distinguished. The consciousness we have of external
objects, is termed <i>perception</i>. Thus we are said to perceive a certain
animal, a certain colour, sound, taste, smell, &amp;<i>c.</i> The consciousness
we have of pleasure or pain arising from external objects, is termed
<i>sensation</i>. Thus we have a sensation of cold, of heat, of the pain of a
wound, of the pleasure of a landscape, of music, of beauty, of
propriety, of behaviour, &amp;<i>c.</i> The consciousness we have of internal
action, such as deliberation, resolution, choice, is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_379" id="page_379">{379}</a></span> never termed
either a perception or a sensation.</p>

<p>11. <i>Conception</i> ought to be distinguished from perception. External
things and their attributes are objects of perception: relations among
things are objects of conception. I see two men, James and John: the
consciousness I have of them is a perception: but the consciousness I
have of their relation as father and son, is termed a <i>conception</i>.
Again, perception relates to objects really existing: conception to
fictitious objects, or to those framed by the imagination.</p>

<p>12. <i>Feeling</i>, beside denoting one of the external senses, has two
different significations. Of these the most common includes not only
sensation, but also that branch of consciousness which relates to
passions and emotions: it is proper to say, I have a feeling of cold, of
heat, or of pain; and it is not less proper to say, I have a feeling of
love, of hatred, of anger, or of any other passion. But it is not
applied to internal action: for it is not proper to say, that a man
feels himself deliberating or resolving. In a sense less common, feeling
is put for the thing that is felt; and in this sense it is a general<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_380" id="page_380">{380}</a></span>
term for every one of our passions and emotions.</p>

<p>13. That we cannot perceive an external object till an impression be
made upon our body, is probable from reason, and is ascertained by
experience. But it is not necessary that we be made sensible of the
impression. It is true, that in touching, tasting, and smelling, we feel
the impression made at the organ of sense: but in seeing and hearing, we
feel no impression. We know indeed by experience, that before we
perceive a visible object, its image is spread upon the <i>retina tunica</i>;
and that before we perceive a sound, an impression is made upon the drum
of the ear: and yet here, we are not conscious either of the organic
image or the organic impression: nor are we conscious of any other
operation preparatory to the act of perception. All we can say, is, that
we see that river, or hear that trumpet<a name="FNanchor_96_96" id="FNanchor_96_96"></a><a href="#Footnote_96_96" class="fnanchor">[96]</a>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_381" id="page_381">{381}</a></span></p>

<p>14. Objects once perceived may be recalled to the mind by the power of
memory. When I recall an object in this manner, it appears to me the
same as in the original survey, only more faint and obscure. For
example, I saw yesterday a spreading oak growing on the brink of a
river. I endeavour to recall it to my mind. How is this operation
performed? Do I endeavour to form in my mind a picture of it or
representative image? Not so. I transport myself ideally to the place
where I saw the tree yesterday; upon which I have a perception of the
tree and river, similar in all respects to the perception I had of it
when I viewed it with my eyes, only more obscure. And in this
recollection, I am not conscious of a picture or representative image,
more than in the original survey: the perception is of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_382" id="page_382">{382}</a></span> the tree itself,
as at first. I confirm this by another experiment. After attentively
surveying a fine statue, I close my eyes. What follows? The same object
continues, without any difference but that it is less distinct than
formerly. This indistinct secondary perception of an object, is termed
<i>an idea</i>. And therefore the precise and accurate definition of an idea,
in contradistinction to an original perception, is, “That perception or
consciousness of a real object, which a person has by exercising the
power of memory.” Every thing one is conscious of, whether internal or
external, passions, emotions, thinking, resolving, willing, heat, cold,
&amp;<i>c.</i> as well as external objects, may be recalled as above by the power
of memory<a name="FNanchor_97_97" id="FNanchor_97_97"></a><a href="#Footnote_97_97" class="fnanchor">[97]</a>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_383" id="page_383">{383}</a></span></p>

<p>15. The original perceptions of external objects, are either simple or
complex. A sound may be so simple as not to be resolvable into parts: so
may a taste and a smell. A perception of touch, is generally compounded
of the more simple perceptions of hardness or softness, joined with
smoothness or roughness, heat or cold, &amp;<i>c.</i> But of all the perceptions
of external sense, that of a visible object is the most complex; because
the eye takes in more particulars than any other organ. A tree is
composed of its trunk, branches, leaves: it has colour, figure, size:
every one of these separately produceth a perception in the mind of the
spectator, which are all combined into the complex perception of the
tree.</p>

<p>16. The original perception of an object of sight, is more complete,
lively, and distinct, than that of any other external sense: and for
that reason, an idea or secondary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_384" id="page_384">{384}</a></span> perception of a visible object, is
more distinct and lively than that of any other object. A fine passage
in music, may, for a moment, be recalled to the mind with tolerable
accuracy: but the idea of any other object, and also of sound after the
shortest interval, is extremely obscure.</p>

<p>17. As the range of an individual is commonly within narrow bounds of
space, opportunities seldom offer of an enlarged acquaintance with
external objects. Original perceptions therefore, and their
corresponding ideas, are a provision too scanty for the purposes of
life. Language is an admirable contrivance for supplying this
deficiency; for by language, the original perceptions of each individual
may be communicated to all; and the same may be done by painting and
other imitative arts. It is natural to suppose, that the most lively
ideas are the most susceptible of being communicated to others. This
holds more especially when language is the vehicle of communication; for
language hitherto has not arrived at any greater perfection than to
express clear and lively ideas. Hence it is, that poets and o<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_385" id="page_385">{385}</a></span>rators,
who are extremely successful in describing objects of sight, find
objects of the other senses too faint and obscure for language. An idea
thus acquired of an object at second hand, ought to be distinguished
from an idea of memory; though their resemblance has occasioned the same
term to be apply’d to both. This is to be regretted; for when knowledge
is to be communicated by language, ambiguity in the signification of
words is a great obstruction to accuracy of conception. Thus nature hath
furnished the means of multiplying ideas without end, and of providing
every individual with a sufficient stock to answer, not only the
necessities, but even the elegancies of life.</p>

<p>18. Further, man is endued with a sort of creative power: he can
fabricate images of things that have no existence. The materials
employ’d in this operation, are ideas of sight, which may be taken to
pieces and combined into new forms at pleasure: their complexity and
vivacity make them fit materials. But a man has no such power over any
of his other ideas, whether of the external or in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_386" id="page_386">{386}</a></span>ternal senses: he
cannot, after the utmost effort, combine these into new forms: his ideas
of such objects are too obscure for this operation. An image thus
fabricated cannot be called a secondary perception, not being derived
from an original perception: the poverty of language however, as in the
case immediately above mentioned, has occasioned the same term <i>idea</i> to
be apply’d to all. This singular power of fabricating images independent
of real objects, is distinguished by the name <i>imagination</i>.</p>

<p>19. As ideas are the chief materials employ’d in thinking, reasoning,
and reflecting, it is of consequence that their nature and differences
be understood. It appears now, that ideas may be distinguished into
three kinds; first, Ideas or secondary perceptions, properly termed
<i>ideas of memory</i>; second, Ideas communicated by language or other
signs; and, third, Ideas of imagination. These ideas differ from each
other in many respects; but the chief foundation of the distinction is
the difference of their causes. The first kind are derived from real
existences that have been objects of our<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_387" id="page_387">{387}</a></span> senses: language is the cause
of the second, or any other sign that has the same power with language;
and a man’s imagination is to himself the cause of the third. It is
scarce necessary to add, that an idea, originally of imagination, being
convey’d to others by language or any other vehicle, becomes in the mind
of those to whom it is convey’d an idea of the second kind; and again,
that an idea of this kind, being afterward recalled to the mind, becomes
in that circumstance an idea of memory.</p>

<p>20. Human nature is not so constituted, as that its objects are
perceived with indifferency: these, with very few exceptions, raise in
us either pleasant or painful emotions. External objects, at the same
time, appear in themselves agreeable or disagreeable; but with some
difference betwixt those which produce organic impressions, and those
which affect us from a distance. When we touch a soft and smooth body,
we have a pleasant feeling as at the place of contact; and this feeling
we distinguish not, at least not accurately, from the agreeableness of
the body itself. The same holds<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_388" id="page_388">{388}</a></span> in general with regard to all the
organic impressions. It is otherwise in hearing and seeing. A sound is
perceived as in itself agreeable; and, at the same time, raises in the
hearer a pleasant emotion: an object of sight appears in itself
agreeable; and, at the same time, raises in the seer a pleasant emotion.
These are accurately distinguished. The pleasant emotion is felt as
within the mind: the agreeableness of the object is placed upon the
object, and is perceived as one of its qualities or properties. The
agreeable appearance of an object of sight, is termed <i>beauty</i>; and the
disagreeable appearance of such an object is termed <i>ugliness</i>.</p>

<p>21. But though beauty and ugliness, in their proper and genuine
signification, are confined to objects of sight; yet in a more lax and
figurative signification, they are apply’d to objects of the other
senses. They are sometimes apply’d even to abstract terms; for it is not
unusual to say, <i>a beautiful theorem, a beautiful constitution of
government</i>. But I am inclined to think, that we are led to use such
expression by conceiving<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_389" id="page_389">{389}</a></span> the thing as delineated upon paper, and as in
some sort an object of sight.</p>

<p>22. A line composed by a precise rule, is perceived and said to be
regular. A straight line, a parabola, a hyperbola, the circumference of
a circle, and of an ellipse, are all of them regular lines. A figure
composed by a precise rule, is perceived and said to be regular. Thus a
circle, a square, a hexagon, an equilateral triangle, are regular
figures, being composed by a rule that determines the form of each. When
the form of a line or of a figure is ascertained by a rule that leaves
nothing arbitrary, the line and the figure are said to be perfectly
regular: this is the case of the figures now mentioned; and it is the
case of a straight line and of the circumference of a circle. A figure
and a line are not perfectly regular where any part or circumstance is
left arbitrary. A parallelogram and a rhomb are less regular than a
square: the parallelogram is subjected to no rule as to the length of
sides, other than that the opposite sides be equal: the rhomb is
subjected to no rule as to its angles, other than that the opposite
angles be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_390" id="page_390">{390}</a></span> equal. For the same reason, the circumference of an ellipse,
the form of which is susceptible of much variety, is less regular than
that of a circle.</p>

<p>23. Regularity, properly speaking, belongs, like beauty, to objects of
sight: like beauty, it is also apply’d figuratively to other objects.
Thus we say, <i>a regular government, a regular composition of music</i>,
and, <i>regular discipline</i>.</p>

<p>24. When two figures are composed of similar parts, they are said to be
uniform. Perfect uniformity is where the constituent parts of two
figures are precisely similar to each other. Thus two cubes of the same
dimensions are perfectly uniform in all their parts. An imperfect
uniformity is, where the parts mutually correspond, but without being
precisely similar. The uniformity is imperfect betwixt two squares or
cubes of unequal dimensions; and still more so betwixt a square and a
parallelogram.</p>

<p>25. Uniformity is also applicable to the constituent parts of the same
figure. The constituent parts of a square are perfectly uniform: its
sides are equal and its angles<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_391" id="page_391">{391}</a></span> are equal. Wherein then differs
regularity from uniformity? for a figure composed of similar or uniform
parts must undoubtedly be regular. Regularity is predicated of a figure
considered as a whole composed of resembling or uniform parts:
uniformity again is predicated of these parts as related to each other
by resemblance. We say, a square is a regular, not an uniform figure:
but with respect to the constituent parts of a square, we say not that
they are regular, but that they are uniform.</p>

<p>26. In things destined for the same use, as legs, arms, eyes, windows,
spoons, we expect uniformity. Proportion ought to govern parts intended
for different uses. We require a certain proportion betwixt a leg and an
arm; in the base, the shaft, the capital, of a pillar; and in the
length, the breadth, the height, of a room. Some proportion is also
required in different things intimately connected, as betwixt a
dwelling-house, the garden, and the stables. But we require no
proportion among things slightly connected, as betwixt the table a man
writes on and the dog that follows him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_392" id="page_392">{392}</a></span> Proportion and uniformity never
coincide: things perfectly similar are uniform; but proportion is never
applied to them: the four sides and angles of a square are equal and
perfectly uniform; but we say not that they are proportional. Thus,
proportion always implies inequality or difference; but then it implies
it to a certain degree only: the most agreeable proportion resembles a
<i>maximum</i> in mathematics; a greater or less inequality or difference is
less agreeable.</p>

<p>27. Order regards various particulars. First, in tracing or surveying
objects, we are directed by a sense of order: we conceive it to be more
orderly, that we should pass from a principle to its accessories and
from a whole to its parts, than in the contrary direction. Next, with
respect to the position of things, a sense of order directs us to place
together things intimately connected. Thirdly, in placing things that
have no natural connection, that order appears the most perfect, where
the particulars are made to bear the strongest relation to each other
that position can give them. Thus parallelism is the strongest relation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_393" id="page_393">{393}</a></span>
that position can bestow upon straight lines. If they be so placed as by
production to intersect each other, the relation is less perfect. A
large body in the middle and two equal bodies of less size, one on each
side, is an order that produces the strongest relation the bodies are
susceptible of by position. The relation betwixt the two equal bodies
would be stronger by juxtaposition; but they would not both have the
same relation to the third.</p>

<p>28. The beauty or agreeableness of an object, as it enters into the
original perception, enters also into the secondary perception or idea.
An idea of imagination is also agreeable; though in a lower degree than
an idea of memory, where the objects are of the same kind. But this
defect in the ideas of imagination is abundantly supply’d by their
greatness and variety. For the imagination acting without control, can
fabricate ideas of finer visible objects, of more noble and heroic
actions, of greater wickedness, of more surprising events, than ever in
fact existed. And by communicating these ideas in words, painting,
sculpture,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_394" id="page_394">{394}</a></span> &amp;<i>c.</i> the influence of the imagination is not less extensive
than great.</p>

<p>29. In the nature of every man, there is somewhat original, that serves
to distinguish him from others, that tends to form a character, and,
with the concurrence of external accidents, to make him meek or fiery,
candid or deceitful, resolute or timorous, chearful or morose. This
original bent is termed <i>disposition</i>. Which must be distinguished from
a <i>principle</i>: no original bent obtains the latter appellation, but what
belongs to the whole species. A principle makes part of the common
nature of man: a disposition makes part of the nature of this or that
man. A <i>propensity</i> comprehends both; for it signifies indifferently
either a principle or a disposition.</p>

<p>30. <i>Affection</i>, signifying a settled bent of mind toward a particular
being or thing, occupies a middle place betwixt propensity on the one
hand, and passion on the other. A propensity being original, must exist
before any opportunity be offered to exert it: affection can never be
original; because, having a special relation to a particular object,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_395" id="page_395">{395}</a></span> it
cannot exist till the object be presented. Again, passion depends on the
presence of the object, in idea at least, if not in reality: when the
idea vanishes, the passion vanishes with it. Affection, on the contrary,
once settled on a person, is a lasting connection; and, like other
connections, subsists even when we do not think of it. A familiar
example will clear the whole. There may be in the mind a propensity to
gratitude, which, through want of an object, happens never to be
exerted, and which therefore is never discovered even by the person who
has it. Another who has the same propensity, meets with a kindly office
that makes him grateful to his benefactor: an intimate connection is
formed betwixt them, termed <i>affection</i>; which, like other connections,
has a permanent existence, though not always in view. The affection, for
the most part, lies dormant, till an opportunity offer of exerting it:
in this circumstance, it is converted into the passion of gratitude; and
the opportunity is greedily seized for testifying gratitude in the most
complete manner.</p>

<p>31. <i>Aversion</i>, I think, must be opposed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_396" id="page_396">{396}</a></span> to affection, and not to
desire, as it commonly is. We have an affection for one person; we have
an aversion to another: the former disposes us to do good to its object,
the latter to do ill.</p>

<p>32. What is a sentiment? It is not a perception; for a perception
signifies our consciousness of external objects. It is not consciousness
of an internal action; such as thinking, suspending thought, inclining,
resolving, willing, &amp;<i>c.</i> Neither is it a conception of relation amongst
objects or of their differences: a conception of this kind, is termed
<i>opinion</i>. The term <i>sentiment</i> is appropriated to those thoughts that
are suggested by a passion or emotion.</p>

<p>33. <i>Attention</i> is that state of mind which prepares a man to receive
impressions. According to the degree of attention, objects make a
stronger or weaker impression<a name="FNanchor_98_98" id="FNanchor_98_98"></a><a href="#Footnote_98_98" class="fnanchor">[98]</a>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_397" id="page_397">{397}</a></span> In an indolent state, or in a
reverie, objects make but a slight impression; far from what they make
when they command our attention. In a train of perceptions, no single
object makes such a figure as it would do single and apart: for when the
attention is divided among many objects, no single object is intitled to
a large share. Hence the stillness of night contributes to terror, there
being nothing to divert the attention.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Horror ubique animos, simul ipsa silentia terrent.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Æneid.</i> 2.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Zara.</i> Silence and solitude are ev’ry where!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Through all the gloomy ways and iron doors<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That hither lead, nor human face nor voice<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is seen or heard. A dreadful din was wont<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To grate the sense, when enter’d here, from groans<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And howls of slaves condemn’d, from clink of chains,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And crash of rusty bars and creeking hinges:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And ever and anon the sight was dash’d<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With frightful faces and the meagre looks<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of grim and ghastly executioners.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_398" id="page_398">{398}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet more this stillness terrifies my soul<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Than did that scene of complicated horrors.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Mourning Bride, act 5. sc. 8.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>And hence it is, that an object seen at the termination of a confined
view, is more agreeable than when seen in a group with the surrounding
objects.</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When neither is attended; and, I think,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The nightingale, if she should sing by day,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When ev’ry goose is cackling, would be thought<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No better a musician than the wren.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>Merchant of Venice</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>34. In matters of slight importance, attention, in a great measure, is
directed by will; and for that reason, it is our own fault if trifling
objects make any deep impression. Had we power equally to with-hold our
attention from matters of importance, we might be proof against any deep
impression. But our power fails us here: an interesting object seizes
and fixes the attention beyond the possibility of control; and while our
attention is thus forcibly attached by one ob<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_399" id="page_399">{399}</a></span>ject, others may solicit
for admittance; but in vain, for they will not be regarded. Thus a small
misfortune is scarce felt in presence of a greater:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Lear.</i> Thou think’st ’tis much, that this contentious storm<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Invades us to the skin; so ’tis to thee;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But where the greater malady is fix’d,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The lesser is scarce felt. Thou’d’st shun a bear;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But if thy flight lay tow’rd the roaring sea,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thou’d’st meet the bear i’ th’ mouth. When the mind’s free,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The body’s delicate: the tempest in my mind<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Doth from my senses take all feeling else,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Save what beats there.<br /></span>
<span class="i5"><i>King Lear, act 3. sc. 5</i>.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>35. <i>Genus</i>, <i>species</i>, <i>modification</i>, are terms invented to
distinguish beings from each other. Individuals are distinguished by
their qualities: a large class of individuals enjoying qualities in
common, is termed a <i>genus</i>: a subdivision of such class is termed a
<i>species</i>. Again, that circumstance which distinguisheth one genus, one
species, or even one individual, from another, is term<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_400" id="page_400">{400}</a></span>ed a
<i>modification</i>: the same particular that is termed a <i>property</i> or
<i>quality</i> when considered as belonging to an individual or a class of
individuals, is termed a <i>modification</i> when considered as
distinguishing the individual or the class from another. A black skin
and soft curled hair, are properties of a negro: the same circumstances
considered as marks that distinguish a negro from a man of a different
species, are denominated <i>modifications</i>.</p>

<p>36. Objects of sight, being complex, are distinguishable into the
several particulars that enter into the composition: these objects are
all of them coloured; and they all have length, breadth, and thickness.
When I behold a spreading oak, I distinguish in this object, size,
figure, colour, and sometimes motion: viewing a flowing river, I
distinguish colour, figure, and constant motion: a dye has colour, black
spots, six plain surfaces, all equal and uniform. The objects of touch,
have all of them extension. Some of them are felt rough, some smooth:
some of them are hard, some soft. With respect to the other senses, some
of their ob<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_401" id="page_401">{401}</a></span>jects are simple, some complex: a sound, a taste, a smell,
may be so simple as not to be distinguishable into any parts: others are
perceived to be compounded of different sounds, different tastes, and
different smells.</p>

<p>37. The eye at one look can take in a number of objects, as of trees in
a field, or men in a crowd: as these objects are distinct from each
other, each having a separate and independent existence, they are
distinguishable in the mind as well as in reality; and there is nothing
more easy, than to abstract from some and to confine our contemplation
to others. A large oak with its spreading branches, fixes our attention
upon itself, and abstracts us from the shrubs that surround it. In the
same manner, with respect to compounded sounds, tastes, or smells, we
can fix our thoughts upon any one of the component parts, abstracting
our attention from the rest. But the power of abstraction is not
confined to objects that are separable in reality as well as mentally:
it also takes place where there can be no real separation. The size, the
figure, the colour, of a tree, are inseparably connected,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_402" id="page_402">{402}</a></span> and cannot
exist independent of each other: the same of length, breadth, and
thickness: and yet we can mentally confine our observations to one of
these, neglecting or abstracting from the rest. Here abstraction takes
place where there cannot be a real separation.</p>

<p>38. This power of abstraction is of great utility. A carpenter considers
a log of wood, with regard to hardness, firmness, colour, and texture: a
philosopher, neglectting these properties, makes the log undergo a
chymical analysis; and examines its taste, its smell, and its component
principles: the geometrician confines his reasoning to the figure, the
length, breadth, and thickness. In general, every artist, abstracting
from all other properties, confines his observations to those which have
a more immediate connection with his profession.</p>

<p>39. Hence clearly appears the meaning of an <i>abstract term</i>, and
<i>abstract idea</i>. If in viewing an object, we can abstract from some of
its parts or properties, and attach ourselves to others; there must be
the same facility, when we recall this object to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_403" id="page_403">{403}</a></span> mind in idea. This
leads directly to the definition of an abstract idea, <i>viz.</i> “A partial
view of a complex object, limited to one or more of the component parts
or properties, laying aside or abstracting from others.” A word that
denotes an abstract idea, is called an <i>abstract term</i>.</p>

<p>40. The power of abstraction is bestowed upon man, for the purposes
solely of reasoning. It tends greatly to the facility as well as
clearness of any process of reasoning, that, withdrawing from every
other circumstance, we can confine our attention to the single property
we desire to investigate.</p>

<p>41. Abstract ideas, may, I think, be distinguished into three different
kinds, all equally subservient to the reasoning faculty. Individuals
appear to have no end; and did we not possess the faculty of
distributing them into classes, the mind would be lost in an endless
variety, and no progress be made in knowledge. It is by the faculty of
abstraction that we distribute beings into <i>genera</i> and <i>species</i>:
finding a number of individuals connected by certain qualities common to
all, we give a name to these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_404" id="page_404">{404}</a></span> individuals considered as thus connected;
which name, by gathering them together into one class, serves in a curt
manner to express the whole of these individuals as distinct from
others. Thus the word <i>animal</i> serves to denote every being which hath
self-motion; and the words <i>man</i>, <i>horse</i>, <i>lion</i>, &amp;<i>c.</i> answer similar
purposes. This is the first and most common sort of abstraction; and it
is of the most extensive use, by enabling us to comprehend in our
reasoning whole kinds and sorts, instead of individuals without end. The
next sort of abstract ideas and terms comprehends a number of individual
objects considered as connected by some occasional relation. A great
number of persons collected together in one place, without any other
relation but merely that of contiguity, are denominated <i>a crowd</i>: in
forming this term, we abstract from sex, from age, from condition, from
dress, &amp;<i>c.</i> A number of persons connected by being subjected to the
same laws and to the same government, are termed <i>a nation</i>; and a
number of men subjected to the same mili<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_405" id="page_405">{405}</a></span>tary command, are termed <i>an
army</i>. A third sort of abstraction is, where a single property or part,
which may be common to many individuals, is selected to be the subject
of our contemplation; for example, whiteness, heat, beauty, length,
roundness, head, arm.</p>

<p>42. Abstract terms are a happy invention: it is by their means chiefly,
that the particulars which we make the subject of our reasoning, are
brought into close union, and separated from all others however
naturally connected. Without the aid of such terms, the mind could never
be kept steady to its proper subject, but would perpetually be in hazard
of assuming foreign circumstances or neglecting what are essential. In a
word, a general term denotes in a curt manner certain objects
occasionally combined. We can, without the aid of language, compare real
objects by intuition, when these objects are present; and, when absent,
we can compare them by means of the ideas we have of them: but when we
advance farther, and attempt to make inferences, and draw conclusions,
we always employ<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_406" id="page_406">{406}</a></span> abstract terms, even in thinking. It would be as
difficult to reason without them, as to perform operations in algebra
without signs: for there is scarce any reasoning without some degree of
abstraction; and we cannot abstract to purpose without making use of
general terms. Hence it follows, that without language man would scarce
be a rational being.</p>

<p>43. The same thing, in different respects, has different names. With
respect to certain qualities, it is termed a <i>substance</i>; with respect
to other qualities, a <i>body</i>; and with respect to qualities of all
sorts, a <i>subject</i>: it is termed a <i>passive subject</i> with respect to an
action exerted upon it; an <i>object</i> with respect: to a percipient; a
<i>cause</i> with respect to the effect it produces; and an <i>effect</i> with
respect to its cause.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_407" id="page_407">{407}</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="INDEX" id="INDEX"></a>INDEX.</h2>

<p class="c">[The volumes are denoted by numeral letters, the pages by figures.]</p>

<p class="nind">
Abstract idea) defined iii. <a href="#page_402">402</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Abstract ideas of different kinds iii. <a href="#page_403">403</a>.</span><br />

Abstraction) power of iii. <a href="#page_401">401</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its use iii. <a href="#page_402">402</a>. <a href="#page_403">403</a>.</span><br />

Abstract terms) ought to be avoided in poetry i. 294. iii. <a href="#page_198">198</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cannot be compared but by being personified iii. <a href="#page_6">6</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Personified iii. <a href="#page_65">65</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Defined iii. <a href="#page_402">402</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The use of abstract terms iii. <a href="#page_405">405</a>.</span><br />

Accent) defined ii. 361.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The musical accents that are necessary in an hexameter line ii. 376.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A low word must not be accented ii. 405.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rules for accenting English heroic verse ii. 415.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How far affected by the pause ii. 422. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Accent and pause have a mutual influence ii. 428.</span><br />

Action) what feelings are raised by human actions i. 48. 49. 276.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We are impelled to action by desire i. 55.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Some actions are ultimate, some are means leading to an end i. 57.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Actions great and elevated, low and groveling i. 276.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotions occasioned by propriety of action ii. 13.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Occasioned by impropriety of action ii. 14.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Human actions produce a great variety of emotions ii. 28.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Human actions considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 35.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We are conscious of internal action as in the head iii. <a href="#page_377">377</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Internal action may exist without our being conscious of it iii. <a href="#page_377">377</a>.</span><br />

Actor) bombast action i. 308.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An actor ought to feel the passion he represents ii. 153.</span><br />

Admiration) defined i. 320.<br />

Affectation) defined ii. 11.<br />

Affection) to children accounted for i. 82.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To blood-relations accounted for i. 83.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To property accounted for i. 84.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Affection to children endures longer than any other affection i. 150.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Opinion and belief influenced by affection i. 199.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Affection defined ii. 87. iii. <a href="#page_394">394</a>.</span><br />

Agamemnon) of Seneca censured ii. 193.<br />

Agreeable emotions and passions i. 127. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Alcestes) of Euripides censured iii. <a href="#page_286">286</a>. <a href="#page_289">289</a>.<br />

Alexandre of Racine) censured ii. 177.<br />

Allegory iii. <a href="#page_108">108</a>. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">More difficult in painting than in poetry iii. <a href="#page_129">129</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In an historical poem iii. <a href="#page_248">248</a>.</span><br />

All for Love) of Dryden censured ii. 202.<br />

Ambiguity) occasioned by a wrong arrangement ii. 297.<br />

Amynta) of Tasso censured ii. 167.<br />

_Amor patriæ_) accounted for i. 88.<br />

Amphibrachys ii. 460.<br />

Amphimacer ii. 460.<br />

Analytic) and synthetic methods of reasoning compared i. 31.<br />

Anapæstus ii. 460.<br />

Anger) explained i. 95. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sometimes exerted against the innocent i. 191.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And even against things inanimate i. 191.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not infectious i. 221.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Has no dignity in it ii. 33.</span><br />

Animals) distributed by nature into classes iii. <a href="#page_356">356</a>.<br />

Antibacchius ii. 460.<br />

Anticlimax ii. 345.<br />

Antispastus ii. 461.<br />

Antithesis ii. 73. 262.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Verbal antithesis ii. 268.</span><br />

Apostrophe iii. <a href="#page_87">87</a>. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Appearance) in poetry, things ought to be described as they appear, not as they are in reality iii. <a href="#page_172">172</a>.<br />

Appetite) defined i. 59.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Appetites of hunger, thirst, animal love, arise without an object i. 73.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Appetite for fame or esteem i. 237.</span><br />

Architecture ch. 24. iii. <a href="#page_294">294</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grandeur of manner in architecture i. 294.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The situation of a great house ought to be lofty ii. 7.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A playhouse or a music-room susceptible of much ornament ii. 9.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What emotions can be raised by architecture iii. <a href="#page_297">297</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its emotions compared with those of gardening iii. <a href="#page_297">297</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Every building ought to have an expression suited to its destination iii. <a href="#page_298">298</a>. <a href="#page_338">338</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Simplicity ought to be the governing taste iii. <a href="#page_300">300</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Regularity ought to be studied iii. <a href="#page_301">301</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">External form of dwelling-houses iii. <a href="#page_324">324</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Divisions within iii. <a href="#page_324">324</a>. <a href="#page_340">340</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A palace ought to be regular, but in a small house convenience ought chiefly to be studied iii. <a href="#page_326">326</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The form of a dwelling-house ought to be suited to the climate iii. <a href="#page_327">327</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Propriety ought to be studied in architecture iii. <a href="#page_338">338</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Governed by principles which produce opposite effects iii. <a href="#page_342">342</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Different ornaments employed by it iii. <a href="#page_342">342</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Allegorical or emblematic ornaments iii. <a href="#page_347">347</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Architecture inspires a taste for neatness and regularity iii. <a href="#page_350">350</a>.</span><br />

Architrave iii. <a href="#page_344">344</a>.<br />

Ariosto) censured iii. <a href="#page_264">264</a>.<br />

Aristæus) the episode of Aristæus in the Georgics censured ii. 457.<br />

Army) defined iii. <a href="#page_405">405</a>.<br />

Arrangement) the best arrangement of words is to place them as much as possible in an increasing series ii. 251.<br />

Articulate sounds) how far agreeable to the ear ii. 240.<br />

Artificial mount iii. <a href="#page_313">313</a>.<br />

Ascent) pleasant, but descent not painful i. 273.<br />

Athalie) of Racine censured ii. 193.<br />

Attention) defined iii. <a href="#page_396">396</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Impression which objects make depends on the degree of attention iii. <a href="#page_396">396</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Attention not always voluntary iii. <a href="#page_398">398</a>.</span><br />

Attractive emotions ii. 133.<br />

Attractive object i. 226.<br />

Attributes) transferred from one subject: to another iii. <a href="#page_100">100</a>. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Avarice) defined i. 52.<br />

Avenue) to a house iii. <a href="#page_312">312</a>.<br />

Aversion) defined ii. 87. iii. <a href="#page_395">395</a>.<br />

Bacchius ii. 460.<br />

Barren scene) defined iii. <a href="#page_266">266</a>.<br />

Base) of a column iii. <a href="#page_346">346</a>.<br />

Basso-relievo iii. <a href="#page_347">347</a>.<br />

Batrachomuomachia) censured ii. 42.<br />

Beauty, ch. 3. i. 241.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Intrinsic and relative i. 244.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beauty of simplicity i. 247.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of figure i. 248.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of the circle i. 251.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of the square i. 251.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of a regular polygon i. 252.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of a parallelogram i. 252.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of an equilateral triangle i. 253.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beauty, whether a primary or secondary quality of objects i. 260.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Distinguished from congruity ii. 8.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Great beauty seldom produces a constant lover ii. 101.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beauty proper and figurative iii. <a href="#page_388">388</a>.</span><br />

Belief) fortified by a lively narrative or a good historical painting i. 122.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">influenced by passion i. 196. iii. <a href="#page_55">55</a>. 89</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">influenced by propensity i. 199.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">influenced by affection i. 199.</span><br />

Benevolence) joins with self-love to make us happy i. 228.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">inspired by gardening iii. <a href="#page_320">320</a>.</span><br />

Blank verse ii. 381. 435.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its aptitude for inversion ii. 438.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its melody ii. 439. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />

Body) defined iii. <a href="#page_406">406</a>.<br />

Boileau) censured iii. <a href="#page_242">242</a>.<br />

Bombast i. 303.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bombast in action i. 308.</span><br />

Burlesk) machinery does well in a burlesk poem i. 125.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Burlesk distinguished into two kinds ii. 41.</span><br />

Cadence ii. 348. 362.<br />

Capital) of a column iii. <a href="#page_346">346</a>.<br />

Careless Husband) its double plot well contrived iii. <a href="#page_253">253</a>.<br />

Cascade i. 314.<br />

Cause) resembling causes may produce effects that have no resemblance: and causes that have no resemblance may produce resembling effects ii. 337. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cause defined iii. <a href="#page_406">406</a>.</span><br />

Chance) the mind revolts against misfortunes that happen by chance iii. <a href="#page_232">232</a>.<br />

Character) to draw a character is the master-piece of description iii. <a href="#page_182">182</a>.<br />

Characteristics) of Shaftesbury criticised ii. 10. Note.<br />

Children) love to them accounted for i. 82.<br />

Chinese gardens iii. <a href="#page_316">316</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wonder and surprise studied in them iii. <a href="#page_319">319</a>.</span><br />

Choreus ii. 459.<br />

Choriambus ii. 461.<br />

Chorus) an essential part of the Grecian tragedy iii. <a href="#page_270">270</a>.<br />

Church) what ought to be its form and situation iii. <a href="#page_338">338</a>.<br />

Cicero) censured ii. 329. 350.<br />

Cid) of Corneille censured ii. 166. 198.<br />

Cinna) of Corneille censured ii. 11. 161. 194.<br />

Circle) its beauty i. 251.<br />

Circumstances) in a period, how they ought to be arranged ii. 314. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Class) all living creatures distributed into classes iii. <a href="#page_356">356</a>.<br />

Climax) in sense i. 281. ii. 322.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in sound ii. 252.</span><br />

Coephores) of Eschylus censured ii. 114.<br />

Coexistent) emotions and passions i. 151. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Colonnade) where proper iii. <a href="#page_327">327</a>.<br />

Colour) a secondary quality i. 259.<br />

Columns) every column ought to have a base i. 218.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The base ought to be square i. 218. 219.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Columns admit different proportions iii. <a href="#page_332">332</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What emotions they raise iii. <a href="#page_339">339</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Column more beautiful than a pilaster iii. <a href="#page_344">344</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its form iii. <a href="#page_346">346</a>.</span><br />

Comedy) double plot in a comedy iii. <a href="#page_253">253</a>.<br />

Commencement) the commencement of a work ought to be modest and simple iii. <a href="#page_171">171</a>.<br />

Common nature) in every species of animals iii, 356.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We have a conviction that this common nature is perfect or right iii. <a href="#page_357">357</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Also that it is invariable iii. <a href="#page_357">357</a>.</span><br />

Common sense iii. <a href="#page_359">359</a>. <a href="#page_373">373</a>.<br />

Comparison i. 346. &amp;<i>c.</i> Ch. 19. iii. <a href="#page_3">3</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Comparisons that resolve into a play of words iii. <a href="#page_42">42</a>.</span><br />

Complex emotion i. 152. 154. 155.<br />

Complex perception iii. <a href="#page_383">383</a>.<br />

Complexion) white suits with a pale complexion, black with a dark complexion, and scarlet with one that is over-flushed i. 369.<br />

Conception) defined iii. <a href="#page_379">379</a>.<br />

Concord) or harmony in objects of sight i. 156.<br />

Concordant sounds) defined i. 151.<br />

Congreve) censured iii. <a href="#page_258">258</a>.<br />

Congruity and propriety, ch. 10. ii. 3.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Congruity distinguished from beauty ii. 8.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">distinguished from propriety ii. 8.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Congruity coincides with proportion with respect to quantity ii. 19.</span><br />

Connection) necessary in all compositions i. 34.<br />

Conquest of Granada) of Dryden censured ii. 201.<br />

Consonants ii. 239.<br />

Constancy) great beauty the cause generally of inconstancy ii. 101.<br />

Construction) of language explained ii. 285.<br />

Contempt) raised by improper action i. 340.<br />

Contrast i. 345. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its effect in gardening iii. <a href="#page_317">317</a>.</span><br />

Conviction) intuitive. _See_ Intuitive conviction.<br />

Copulative) to drop the copulatives enlivens the expression ii. 281. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Coriolanus) of Shakespear censured ii. 200.<br />

Corneille) censured ii. 159. 216.<br />

Corporeal pleasure i. 1. 2.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">low and sometimes mean ii. 32.</span><br />

Couplet ii. 381.<br />

Courage) of greater dignity than justice. Why? ii. 31.<br />

Creticus ii. 460.<br />

Criminal) the hour of execution seems to him to approach with a swift pace i. 202.<br />

Criticism) its advantages i. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">its terms not accurately defined ii. 139.</span><br />

Crowd) defined iii. <a href="#page_404">404</a>.<br />

Curiosity i. 320. 345. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Custom and habit, ch. 14. ii. 81.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Custom distinguished from habit ii. 82.</span><br />

Dactyle ii. 364. &amp;<i>c.</i> 460.<br />

Declensions) explained ii. 288. 289.<br />

Delicacy) of taste i. 136.<br />

Derision ii. 16.<br />

Descent) not painful i. 273.<br />

Description) it animates a description to represent things past as present i. 118.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The rules which ought to govern it iii. <a href="#page_169">169</a>. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A lively description is agreeable, though the subject described be disagreeable iii. <a href="#page_208">208</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Description cannot reach any object but those of sight iii. <a href="#page_385">385</a>.</span><br />

Descriptive personification iii. <a href="#page_64">64</a>.<br />

Descriptive tragedy ii. 155.<br />

Desire) defined i. 55.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It impels us to action i. 55.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It determines the will i. 222.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Desire in a criminal of self-punishment i. 232.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Desire tends the most to happiness when moderate i. 263.</span><br />

Dialogue) dialogue-writing requires great genius ii. 151. 152. 153.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In dialogue every expression ought to be suited to the character of the speaker iii. <a href="#page_196">196</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rules for its composition iii. <a href="#page_256">256</a>.</span><br />

Dignity and meanness, ch. 11. ii. 27.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dignity of human nature iii. <a href="#page_361">361</a>.</span><br />

Diianibus ii. 461.<br />

Disagreeable emotions and passions i. 127. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Discordant sounds) defined i. 152.<br />

Dispondeus ii. 461.<br />

Disposition) defined iii. <a href="#page_394">394</a>.<br />

Dissimilar emotions i. 153.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their effects when co-existent i. 159. iii. <a href="#page_303">303</a>. <a href="#page_337">337</a>.</span><br />

Dissimilar passions) their effects i. 171.<br />

Dissocial passions i. 62.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dissocial passions all painful i. 131.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">and also disagreeable i. 134.</span><br />

Ditrochæus ii. 461.<br />

Door) its proportion iii. <a href="#page_322">322</a>.<br />

Double action) in an epic poem iii. <a href="#page_264">264</a>.<br />

Double-dealer) of Congreve censured ii. 193. iii. <a href="#page_266">266</a>.<br />

Double plot) in a dramatic composition iii. <a href="#page_251">251</a>.<br />

Drama) ancient and modern drama compared iii. <a href="#page_280">280</a>.<br />

Dramatic poetry iii. <a href="#page_218">218</a>. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Drapery ought to hang loose i. 219.<br />

Dress) rules about dress ii. 10. iii. <a href="#page_300">300</a>.<br />

Dryden) censured iii. <a href="#page_128">128</a>. <a href="#page_257">257</a>. <a href="#page_267">267</a>.<br />

Duties) moral duties of two kinds, respecting ourselves and respecting others ii. 20.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Foundation of duties that respect ourselves ii. 21.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of those that respect others ii. 21.</span><br />

Effects) resembling effects may be produced by causes<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">that have no resemblance ii. 337. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Effect defined iii. <a href="#page_406">406</a>.</span><br />

Electra) of Sophocles censured ii. 115.<br />

Elevation i. 264. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">real and figurative intimately connected i. 279.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Figurative elevation distinguished from figurative grandeur iii. <a href="#page_21">21</a>. <a href="#page_22">22</a>.</span><br />

Emotion) no pleasure of external sense except of seeing and hearing is termed an _emotion_ or _passion_ i. 42.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotions defined i. 46. 47.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">and their causes assigned i. 47. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotion distinguished from passion i. 52. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotions generated by relations i. 76. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Primary, secondary i. 81.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Raised by fiction i. 104. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Division of emotions into pleasant and painful, agreeable and disagreeable i. 127. &amp;<i>c.</i> iii. <a href="#page_387">387</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The interrupted existence of emotions i. 139. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their growth and decay i. 139. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their identity i. 141.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Co-existent emotions i. 151. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotions similar and dissimilar i. 153.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Complex emotion i. 154. 155.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Effects of similar emotions when co-existent i. 155. iii. <a href="#page_336">336</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Effects of dissimilar emotions when co-existent i. 159. iii. <a href="#page_303">303</a>. <a href="#page_337">337</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotions resemble their causes i. 217. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotion of grandeur i. 266. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of sublimity i. 269.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A low emotion i. 276.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotion of laughter i. 337.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of ridicule i. 341.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotions when contrasted ought not to be too slow or too quick in their succession i. 373.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotions raised by the fine arts ought to be contrasted in succession i. 374.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotion of congruity ii. 12.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of propriety ii. 12.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotions produced by human actions ii. 28.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotions ranked according to their dignity ii. 32.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">External signs of emotions ch. 15. ii. 116.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Attractive and repulsive emotions ii. 133.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotion and passions expanded upon related objects i. 76. &amp;<i>c.</i> ii. 312. &amp;<i>c.</i> 336. 372. 415. 416. iii. <a href="#page_60">60</a>. &amp;<i>c.</i> 139. 140.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gratification of emotions i. 183. &amp;<i>c.</i> 203. 358. iii. <a href="#page_98">98</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What emotions do best in succession, what in conjunction iii. <a href="#page_302">302</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Man is passive with regard to his emotions iii. <a href="#page_377">377</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We are conscious of emotions as in the heart iii. <a href="#page_377">377</a>.</span><br />

Emphasis) must not be put upon a low word ii. 405.<br />

Eneid) its unity of action iii. <a href="#page_263">263</a>.<br />

English plays) generally irregular iii. <a href="#page_292">292</a>.<br />

English tongue) too rough ii. 247.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It is peculiarly qualified for personification iii. <a href="#page_63">63</a>. Note.</span><br />

Envy) defined i. 55.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It magnifies every bad quality in its object i. 187.</span><br />

Epic poem) no improbable fact ought to be admitted in it i. 124.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Machinery in it has a bad effect i. 125.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It doth not always reject ludicrous images i. 378.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We pardon many faults in it which are intolerable in a sonnet or epigram i. 299.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its commencement ought to be modest and simple iii. <a href="#page_171">171</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In what respect it differs from a tragedy iii. <a href="#page_218">218</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Distinguished into pathetic and moral iii. <a href="#page_221">221</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its good effects iii. <a href="#page_223">223</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Compared with tragedy as to the subjects proper for each iii. <a href="#page_225">225</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How far it may borrow from history iii. <a href="#page_234">234</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rule for dividing it into parts iii. <a href="#page_236">236</a>.</span><br />

Epic poetry ch. 22. iii. <a href="#page_218">218</a>.<br />

Episode) in an historical poem iii. <a href="#page_250">250</a>.<br />

Epistles dedicatory) censured ii. 6. Note.<br />

Epithets) redundant iii. <a href="#page_206">206</a>.<br />

Epitritus ii. 462.<br />

Esteem) love of i. 237. 286.<br />

Esther) of Racine censured ii. 193. 198.<br />

Evergreens) cut in the shape of animals iii. <a href="#page_309">309</a>.<br />

Expression) elevated, low i. 276.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Expression that has no distinct meaning ii. 232.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Two members of a sentence which express a resemblance betwixt two objects ought to have a resemblance to each other ii. 270. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />

External senses) distinguished into two kinds i. I.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">External sense iii. <a href="#page_375">375</a>.</span><br />

External signs) of emotions and passions ch. 15. ii. 116.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">External signs of passion, what emotions they raise in a spectator ii. 131. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />

Faculty) by which we know passion from its external signs ii. 136.<br />

Fairy Queen) criticised iii. <a href="#page_120">120</a>.<br />

False quantity) painful to the ear ii. 386.<br />

Fame) love of i. 237.<br />

Fashion) its influence accounted for i. 80.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fashion is in a continual flux i. 256.</span><br />

Fear) explained i. 95. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rises often to its utmost pitch in an instant i. 148.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">is infectious i. 221.</span><br />

Feeling) its different significations iii. <a href="#page_379">379</a>.<br />

Fiction) emotions raised by fiction i. 104. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Figure) beauty of i. 248.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Definition of a regular figure iii. <a href="#page_389">389</a>.</span><br />

Figures) some passions favourable to figurative expression ii. 208.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Figures ch. 20. iii. <a href="#page_53">53</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Figure of speech iii. <a href="#page_70">70</a>. <a href="#page_113">113</a>. <a href="#page_136">136</a>. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />

Final cause) of our sense of order and connection i. 41.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of the sympathetic emotion of virtue i. 74.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of the instinctive passion of fear i. 96. 97.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of the instinctive passion of anger i. 103.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of ideal presence i. 121.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of the power that fiction has on the mind i. 126.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of emotions and passions i. 222. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of regularity, uniformity, order, and simplicity i. 249. 251.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of proportion i. 250.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of beauty i. 262.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">why certain objects are neither pleasant nor painful i. 272. 309.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of the pleasure we have in motion and force i. 318.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of curiosity i. 320.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of wonder i. 335.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of surprise i. 336.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of the principle that prompts us to perfect every work i. 366.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of the pleasure or pain that results from the different circumstances of a train of perceptions i. 397. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of congruity and propriety ii. 18. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of dignity and meanness ii. 35. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of habit ii. 106. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of the external signs of passion and emotion ii. 127. 137. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">why articulate sounds singly agreeable are always agreeable in conjunction ii. 241.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of the pleasure we have in language iii. <a href="#page_208">208</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of our relish for various proportions in quantity iii. <a href="#page_333">333</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of our conviction of a common standard in every species of beings iii. <a href="#page_362">362</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of uniformity of taste in the fine arts iii. <a href="#page_363">363</a>. <a href="#page_364">364</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">why the sense of a right and a wrong in the fine arts is less clear and authoritative than the sense of a right and a wrong in actions iii. <a href="#page_368">368</a>.</span><br />

Fine arts) defined i. 6. 7. 16.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a subject of reasoning i. 8.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their emotions ought to be contrasted in succession i. 374.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">considered with respect to dignity ii. 34.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How far they may be regulated by custom ii. 108.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">None of them are imitative but painting and sculpture ii. 234.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Aberrations from a true taste</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in these arts iii. <a href="#page_366">366</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who are qualified to be judges in the fine arts iii. <a href="#page_371">371</a>.</span><br />

Fluid) motion of fluids i. 311.<br />

Foot) a list of verse feet ii. 459.<br />

Force) produces a feeling that resembles it i. 218.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Force i. 309. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Moving force i. 312.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The pleasure of force differs from that of motion i. 313.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It contributes to grandeur i. 315.</span><br />

Foreign) preference given to foreign curiosities i. 331.<br />

Fountains) in what form they ought to be iii. <a href="#page_313">313</a>.<br />

Friendship) considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 33.<br />

Games) public games of the Greeks i. 314.<br />

Gardening) grandeur of manner in gardening i. 294.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its emotions ought to be contrasted in succession i. 375.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A small garden ought to be confined to a single expression i. 376.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A garden near a great city ought to have an air of solitude i. 376.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A garden in a wild country ought to be gay and splendid i. 377.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gardening ch. 24. iii. <a href="#page_294">294</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What emotions can be raised by it iii. <a href="#page_296">296</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its emotions compared with those of architecture iii. <a href="#page_297">297</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Simplicity ought to be the governing taste iii. <a href="#page_300">300</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wherein the unity of a garden consists iii. <a href="#page_304">304</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How far ought regularity to be studied in it iii. <a href="#page_305">305</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Resemblance carried too far in it iii. <a href="#page_305">305</a>. Note.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grandeur in gardening iii. <a href="#page_306">306</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Every unnatural object ought to be rejected iii. <a href="#page_308">308</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Distant and faint imitations displease iii. <a href="#page_309">309</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The effect of giving play to the imagination iii. <a href="#page_318">318</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gardening</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">inspires benevolence iii. <a href="#page_320">320</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">and contributes to rectitude of manners iii. <a href="#page_350">350</a>.</span><br />

General idea) there cannot be such a thing iii. <a href="#page_383">383</a>. Note.<br />

General terms) ought to be avoided in compositions for amusement iii. <a href="#page_198">198</a>.<br />

General theorems) why they are agreeable i. 255.<br />

Generic habit) defined ii. 95.<br />

Generosity) why of greater dignity than justice ii. 31.<br />

Genus) defined iii. <a href="#page_399">399</a>.<br />

Gestures) that accompany the different passions ii. 120. 121. 125.<br />

_Gierusalleme liberata_) censured iii. <a href="#page_242">242</a>. <a href="#page_249">249</a>.<br />

Good nature) why of less dignity than courage or generosity ii. 31.<br />

Gothic tower) its beauty iii. <a href="#page_324">324</a>.<br />

Government) natural foundation of submission to government i. 236.<br />

Grandeur) demands not strict regularity i. 257. 298.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grandeur and sublimity Ch. 4. i. 264.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Real and figurative grandeur intimately connected i. 279.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grandeur of manner i. 288.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grandeur may be employed indirectly to humble the mind i. 300.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Suits ill with wit and ridicule i. 377.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Figurative grandeur distinguished from figurative elevation iii. <a href="#page_21">21</a>. <a href="#page_22">22</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grandeur in gardening iii. <a href="#page_306">306</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Regularity and proportion hide the grandeur of a building iii. <a href="#page_342">342</a>.</span><br />

Gratification) of passion i. 58. 59. 65. 66. 183. _&amp;c._ 203. 358. iii. <a href="#page_98">98</a>.<br />

Gratitude) exerted upon the children of the benefactor i. 187.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Punishment of ingratitude ii. 25.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gratitude</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 33.</span><br />

Grief) magnifies its cause i. 190.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">occasions a false reckoning of time i. 211.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">is infectious i. 220.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">when immoderate is silent ii. 204.</span><br />

Gross pleasure i. 137.<br />

Guido) censured iii. <a href="#page_131">131</a>.<br />

Habit) ch. 14. ii. 81.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">distinguished from custom ii. 82.</span><br />

Harmony) or concord in objects of sight i. 156.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Distinguished from melody ii. 358. Note.</span><br />

Hatred) signifies more commonly affection than passion i. 146.<br />

Hearing) in hearing we feel no impression iii. <a href="#page_380">380</a>.<br />

Henriade) censured iii. <a href="#page_178">178</a>. <a href="#page_236">236</a>. <a href="#page_243">243</a>. <a href="#page_249">249</a>.<br />

Hexameter) Virgils hexameters extremely melodious;<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">those of Horace not always so ii. 357.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Structure of an hexameter line ii. 364.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rules for its structure ii. 367.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Musical pauses in an hexameter line ii. 368.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wherein its melody consists ii. 380.</span><br />

Hippolytus) of Euripides censured ii. 197. iii. <a href="#page_286">286</a>. <a href="#page_288">288</a>.<br />

History) histories of conquerors and heroes singularly agreeable. Why? i. 72. 285.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By what means does history raise our passions i. 115. 118.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It rejects poetical images iii. <a href="#page_170">170</a>.</span><br />

Homer) defective in order and connection i. 35.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His language finely suited to his subject iii. <a href="#page_194">194</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His repetitions defended iii. <a href="#page_204">204</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His poems in a great measure dramatic iii. <a href="#page_220">220</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">censured iii. <a href="#page_246">246</a>.</span><br />

Horace) defective in connection i. 35.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His hexameters not always melodious ii. 358.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their defects pointed out ii. 380.</span><br />

Horror) objects of horror ought to be banished from poetry and painting iii. <a href="#page_213">213</a>.<br />

Humour) defined ii. 44.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Humour in writing distinguished from humour in character ii. 44.</span><br />

Hyperbole iii. <a href="#page_89">89</a>.<br />

Hyppobacchius ii. 460.<br />

Iambic verse) its modulation faint ii. 358.<br />

Iambus ii. 459.<br />

Jane Shore) censured ii. 168.<br />

Idea) succession of ideas i. 381.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Idea of memory defined iii. <a href="#page_382">382</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cannot be innate iii. <a href="#page_382">382</a>. Note.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No general ideas iii. <a href="#page_383">383</a>. Note.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Idea of an object of sight more distinct than of any other object iii. <a href="#page_384">384</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ideas distinguished into three kinds iii. <a href="#page_386">386</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Idea of imagination not so pleasant as an idea of memory iii. <a href="#page_393">393</a>.</span><br />

Ideal presence i. 107. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Identity) of passions and emotions i. 141.<br />

_Jet d’eau_ i. 313. 314. iii. <a href="#page_308">308</a>. <a href="#page_310">310</a>.<br />

Jingle of words ii. 231.<br />

Iliad) criticised iii. <a href="#page_263">263</a>.<br />

Imagination) not always at rest even in sleep i. 337.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Effect in gardening of giving play to it iii. <a href="#page_318">318</a>. Its</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">power of fabricating images iii. <a href="#page_385">385</a>.</span><br />

Imitation) we naturally imitate virtuous actions i. 220.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">not those that are vicious i. 221.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">None of the fine arts imitate nature except painting and sculpture ii. 234.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The agreeableness of imitation overbalances</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the disagreeableness of the subject iii. <a href="#page_208">208</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Distant and faint imitations displease iii. <a href="#page_309">309</a>.</span><br />

Impression) made on the organ of sense iii. <a href="#page_380">380</a>.<br />

Impropriety) in action raises contempt i. 340. Its punishment ii. 15.<br />

Impulse) a strong impulse succeeding a weak, makes a double impression: a weak impulse succeeding a strong, makes scarce any impression ii. 251.<br />

Infinite series) becomes disagreeable when prolonged i. 365. Note.<br />

Innate idea) there cannot be such a thing iii. <a href="#page_382">382</a>. Note.<br />

Instrument) the means or instrument conceived to be the agent iii. <a href="#page_98">98</a>. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Intellectual pleasure i. 2, 3.<br />

Internal sense iii. <a href="#page_375">375</a>.<br />

Intrinsic beauty i. 244.<br />

Intuitive conviction) of the veracity of our senses i. 105.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of the dignity of human nature ii. 29. iii. <a href="#page_361">361</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of a common nature or standard in every species of beings iii. <a href="#page_356">356</a>. and of the perfection of that standard iii. <a href="#page_357">357</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">also that it is invariable iii. <a href="#page_357">357</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Intuitive conviction that the external signs of passion are natural, and the same in all men ii. 135.</span><br />

Inversion) an inverted style described ii. 290. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Inversion gives force and liveliness to the expression by suspending the thought till the close ii. 324.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Inversion how regulated ii. 330. 331. 332.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beauties of inversion ii. 331. 332.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Full scope for it in blank verse ii. 438.</span><br />

Ionicus ii. 461.<br />

Joy) its cause i. 65.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">infectious i. 220.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 33.</span><br />

Iphigenia) of Racine censured ii. 112.<br />

Iphigenia in Tauris) censured iii. <a href="#page_287">287</a>. <a href="#page_288">288</a>. <a href="#page_289">289</a>.<br />

Irony) defined ii. 50.<br />

Italian tongue) too smooth ii. 246. Note.<br />

Judgement) and memory in perfection, seldom united i. 28.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Judgement seldom united with wit i. 28.</span><br />

Julius Cæsar) of Shakespear censured ii. 200.<br />

Justice) of less dignity than generosity or courage ii. 31.<br />

Kent) his skill in gardening iii. <a href="#page_303">303</a>.<br />

Key-note ii. 348. 361.<br />

Kitchen-garden iii. <a href="#page_315">315</a>.<br />

Labyrinth) in a garden iii. <a href="#page_310">310</a>.<br />

Landscape) why it is so agreeable i. 156.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The pleasure it gives explained i. 298.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A landscape in painting ought to be confined to a single expression i. 376.</span><br />

Language) power of language to raise emotions, whence derived i. 112. 121.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Language of passion ch. 17. ii. 204.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">broken and interrupted ii. 206.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of impetuous passion ii. 210.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of languid passion ii. 210.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of calm emotions ii. 211.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of turbulent passion ii. 211.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Language elevated above the tone of the sentiment ii. 224.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">too artificial or too figurative ii. 225.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">too light or airy ii. 227.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Language how far imitative of nature ii. 234.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">its beauty with respect to signification ii. 235. 254. &amp;c.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">its beauty with respect to sound ii. 238.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">it ought to correspond</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">to the subject ii. 258.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">its structure explained ii. 285.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beauty of language from a resemblance betwixt sound and signification ii. 333 &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The force of language proceeds from raising complete images iii. <a href="#page_174">174</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">its power of producing pleasant emotions iii. <a href="#page_208">208</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Without language man would scarce be a rational being iii. <a href="#page_406">406</a>.</span><br />

_L’avare_) of Moliere censured ii 198.<br />

Laughter i. 338.<br />

Laugh of derision or scorn ii. 16.<br />

Law) defined ii. 22.<br />

Laws of human nature) necessary succession of perceptions i. 21. 380.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We never act but through the impulse of desire i. 55. 222.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An object loses its relish by familiarity i. 144.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Passions sudden in their growth are equally sudden in their decay i. 148. ii. 91.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Every passion ceases upon attaining its ultimate end i. 148.</span><br />

Laws of motion) agreeable i. 255.<br />

_Les Freres ennemies_) of Racine censured ii. 177.<br />

_Lex talionis_) upon what principle founded i. 370.<br />

Line) definition of a regular line iii. <a href="#page_389">389</a>.<br />

Littleness) is neither pleasant nor painful i. 272.<br />

Logic) cause of its obscurity and intricacy ii. 138.<br />

_Logio_) improper in this climate iii. <a href="#page_327">327</a>.<br />

Love) to children accounted for i. 82.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The love a man bears to his country explained i. 88.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Love produced by pity i. 93.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It signifies more commonly affection than passion i. 146.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To a lover absence appears long i. 202.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Love assumes the qualities of its object i. 219.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 33.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">seldom constant when founded on exquisite beauty ii. 101.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ill represented in French plays ii. 194.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">when immoderate is silent ii. 205.</span><br />

Love for love) censured iii. <a href="#page_266">266</a>.<br />

Lowness) is neither pleasant nor painful i. 272.<br />

Lucan) too minute in his descriptions i. 292.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">censured iii. <a href="#page_220">220</a>.</span><br />

Ludicrous i. 338.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">may be introduced into an epic poem i. 378.</span><br />

Lutrin) censured for incongruity ii. 9.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">characterized ii. 41.</span><br />

Luxury) corrupts our taste iii. <a href="#page_370">370</a>.<br />

Machinery) ought to be excluded from an epic poem i. 125. iii. <a href="#page_239">239</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">does well in a burlesk poem i. 125.</span><br />

Man) fitted for society i. 237.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Conformity of the nature of man to his external circumstances i. 310. ii. 143.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The different branches of his internal constitution finely suited to each other iii. <a href="#page_332">332</a>. <a href="#page_364">364</a>.</span><br />

Manners) gross and refined i. 1, 8.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The bad tendency of rough and blunt manners ii. 141. Note.</span><br />

Marvellous) in epic poetry iii. <a href="#page_246">246</a>.<br />

Meanness ii. 27. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Means) the means or instrument conceived to be the agent iii. <a href="#page_98">98</a>. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Measure) natural measure of time i. 200. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of space, i. 211 &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />

Medea) of Euripides censured iii. <a href="#page_287">287</a>.<br />

Melody) or modulation defined ii. 355.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">distinguished from harmony ii. 358. Note.</span><br />

Members of a period) have a fine effect placed in an increasing series ii. 252.<br />

Memory) and judgement in perfection seldom united i. 28.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Memory and wit often united i. 28.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Memory iii. <a href="#page_381">381</a>.</span><br />

Merry wives of Windsor) its double plot well contrived iii. <a href="#page_253">253</a>.<br />

Metaphor iii. <a href="#page_108">108</a>. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Metre ii. 381.<br />

Mile) the computed miles are longer in a barren than in a populous country i. 209.<br />

Milton) his style much inverted ii. 439.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The defect of his verification is the want of coincidence betwixt the pauses of the sense and the sound ii. 445.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">the beauty of Milton’s comparisons iii. <a href="#page_16">16</a>.</span><br />

Moderation) in our desires contributes the most to happiness i. 263.<br />

Modern manners) make a poor figure in an epic poem iii. <a href="#page_235">235</a>.<br />

Modification) defined iii. <a href="#page_399">399</a>.<br />

Modulation) defined ii. 355.<br />

Molossus ii. 459.<br />

Monosyllables) English, arbitrary as to quantity ii. 383.<br />

Moral duties) _See_ Duties.<br />

Morality) its foundation iii. <a href="#page_358">358</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Aberrations from its true standard iii. <a href="#page_366">366</a>.</span><br />

Moral tragedy iii. <a href="#page_221">221</a>.<br />

Motion) productive of feelings that resemble it i. 217.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its laws agreeable i. 255.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Motion and force, ch. 5. i. 309. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What motions are the most agreeable i. 310.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Regular motion i. 311.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">accelerated motion i. 311.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">upward motion i. 311.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">undulating motion i. 311.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Motion of fluids i. 311.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A body moved</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">neither agreeable nor disagreeable i. 312.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The pleasure of motion differs from that of force i. 313.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grace of motion i. 317.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Motions of the human body i. 317.</span><br />

Motive) defined i. 58. 59.<br />

Mount) artificial iii. <a href="#page_313">313</a>.<br />

Mourning Bride) censured ii. 180. 197. iii. <a href="#page_279">279</a>. <a href="#page_292">292</a>.<br />

Music) vocal distinguished from instrumental i. 166.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What subjects proper for vocal music i. 166. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Music betwixt the acts of a play, the advantages that may be drawn from it iii. <a href="#page_283">283</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though it cannot raise a passion, it disposes the heart to various passions iii. <a href="#page_284">284</a>.</span><br />

Musical instruments) their different effects upon the mind i. 283.<br />

Musical measure) defined ii. 355.<br />

Narration) it animates a narrative to represent things past as present i. 118.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Narration and description, ch. 21. iii. <a href="#page_169">169</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It animates a narrative, to make it dramatic iii. <a href="#page_197">197</a>. <a href="#page_220">220</a>.</span><br />

Nation) defined iii. <a href="#page_404">404</a>.<br />

Note, a high note and a low note in music i. 278.<br />

Novelty and the unexpected appearance of objects, ch. 6. i. 319.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Novelty a pleasant emotion i. 322. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">distinguished from variety i. 329.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">its different degrees i. 329. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />

Number) defined iii. <a href="#page_331">331</a>.<br />

_Numerus_) defined ii. 355.<br />

Object) of a passion defined i. 56.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An agreeable object produceth a pleasant emotion, and a disagreeable object a painful emotion i. 223.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">attractive object i. 226.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">repulsive object i. 226.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Objects of sight the most complex i. 243.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Objects that are neither pleasant nor painful i. 272. 309. 312.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Objects of external sense in what place they are perceived iii. <a href="#page_370">370</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Objects of internal sense iii. <a href="#page_377">377</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All objects of sight are complex iii. <a href="#page_400">400</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Objects simple and complex iii. <a href="#page_401">401</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Object defined iii. <a href="#page_406">406</a>.</span><br />

Old Bachelor) censured iii. <a href="#page_266">266</a>.<br />

Opera) censured ii. 9.<br />

Opinion) influenced by passion i. 183. &amp;<i>c.</i> iii. <a href="#page_55">55</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">influenced by propensity i. 99.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">influenced by affection i. 199.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">why differing from me in opinion is disagreeable iii. <a href="#page_359">359</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Opinion defined iii. <a href="#page_396">396</a>.</span><br />

Oration) _pro Archia poeta_ censured ii. 329.<br />

Orchard iii. <a href="#page_315">315</a>.<br />

Order) i. 28. &amp;<i>c.</i> iii. <a href="#page_392">392</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pleasure we have in order i. 32.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">necessary in all compositions i. 34.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sense of order has an influence upon our passions i. 81. 89.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">when a list of many particulars is brought into a period, in what order should they be placed? ii. 321.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Order in stating facts iii. <a href="#page_264">264</a>.</span><br />

Organ of sense i. 1.<br />

Organic pleasure i. 1. 2. 3. 4.<br />

Orlando Furioso) censured iii. <a href="#page_264">264</a>.<br />

Ornament) redundant ornaments ought to be avoided iii. <a href="#page_168">168</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ornaments in architecture iii. <a href="#page_342">342</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Allegorical or emblematic ornaments iii. <a href="#page_347">347</a>.</span><br />

Othello) censured iii. <a href="#page_215">215</a>.<br />

Pæon ii. 461.<br />

Pain) cessation of pain extremely pleasant i. 68.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pain lessens by custom ii. 102. iii. <a href="#page_355">355</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Some pains felt internally some externally iii. <a href="#page_387">387</a>.</span><br />

Painful emotions and passions i. 127. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Painting) in grotesque painting the figures ought to be small, in historical painting as great as the life i. 279.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grandeur of manner in painting i. 293.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Painting is an imitation of nature ii. 234.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In history painting the principal figure ought to be in the best light iii. <a href="#page_201">201</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A good picture agreeable, though the subject be disagreeable iii. <a href="#page_208">208</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Objects that strike terror have a fine effect in painting iii. <a href="#page_211">211</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Objects of horror ought not to be represented iii. <a href="#page_213">213</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What emotions can be raised by painting iii. <a href="#page_296">296</a>.</span><br />

Panic i. 221.<br />

Parallelogram) its beauty i. 252.<br />

Parody) defined ii. 52. 160. Note.<br />

Particles ii. 404. not capable of an accent ii. 405. 416.<br />

Passion) no pleasure of external sense denominated a passion except of seeing and hearing i. 42.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Passion distinguished from emotion i. 52. 53. 54.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Passions distinguished into instinctive and deliberative i. 58. 95. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What are selfish, what social i. 59.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What dissocial i. 62.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Passion founded on relations i. 76. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A passion paves the way to others in the same tone i. 92.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Passions considered as pleasant or painful, agreeable or disagreeable i. 127. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">as refined or gross i. 137.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their interrupted existence i. 139. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their growth and decay i. 139.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">&amp;<i>c.</i> The identity of a passion i. 141.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The bulk of our passions are the affections of love or hatred inflamed into a passion i. 146.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Passions swell by opposition i. 146.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A passion sudden in growth is sudden in decay i. 148.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">ceases upon attaining its ultimate end i. 148.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Co-existent passions i. 151. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Passions similar and dissimilar i. 171.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fluctuation of passion i. 178. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its influence upon our opinions and belief i. 183. &amp;<i>c.</i> 203. 358.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its influence upon our perceptions i. 215. 216.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Prone to its gratification i. 238. 239.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">has an influence even upon our eye-sight i. 362. 363.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Passions ranked according to their dignity ii. 32.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No disagreeable passion is attended with dignity ii. 33.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Social passions of greater dignity than selfish ii. 37.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">External signs of passion ch. 15. ii. 116.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Passion generally fluctuates, swelling and subsiding by turns ii. 163. Language of passion ch. 17. ii. 204. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A passion when immoderate is silent ii. 204.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Language of passion broken and interrupted ii. 206.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What passions admit figurative expression ii. 208.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Language proper for impetuous passion ii. 210.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">for melancholy ii. 210.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">for calm emotions ii. 211.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">for turbulent passion ii. 211.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Passions expanded upon related objects i. 76. &amp;<i>c.</i> ii. 312. &amp;<i>c.</i> 336. 372. 415. 416. iii. <a href="#page_60">60</a>. &amp;<i>c.</i> 139. 140.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With regard to passion man is passive iii. <a href="#page_377">377</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We are conscious of passions as in the heart iii. <a href="#page_377">377</a>.</span><br />

Passionate) personification iii. <a href="#page_64">64</a>.<br />

Passive subject) defined iii. <a href="#page_406">406</a>.<br />

Pathetic tragedy iii. <a href="#page_221">221</a>.<br />

Pause) pauses necessary for three different purposes ii. 360.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Musical pauses in an hexameter line ii. 368.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Musical pauses ought to coincide with those in the sense ii. 371. 375.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What musical pauses are essential in English heroic verse ii. 388.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rules concerning them ii. 390. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pause and accent have a mutual influence ii. 428.</span><br />

Pedestal) ought to be sparingly ornamented iii. <a href="#page_347">347</a>.<br />

Perceptions) succession of i. 380.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Perception defined iii. <a href="#page_378">378</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Original and secondary iii. <a href="#page_382">382</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Simple and complex iii. <a href="#page_383">383</a>.</span><br />

Period) has a fine effect when its members proceed in the form of an increasing series ii. 252.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the periods of a discourse variety ought to be studied ii. 253.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Different thoughts ought not to be crowded into one period ii. 263.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The scene ought not to be changed in a period ii. 278.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A period so arranged as to express the sense clearly, seems more musical than where the sense is left doubtful ii. 307.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In what part of the period doth a word make the greatest figure ii. 318.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A period ought to be closed with that word which makes the greatest figure ii. 320.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When there is occasion to mention many particulars, in what order ought they to be placed ii. 321.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A short period is lively and familiar, a long period grave and solemn ii. 328.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A discourse ought not to commence with a long period ii. 329.</span><br />

Personification iii. <a href="#page_54">54</a>. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Passionate and descriptive iii. <a href="#page_64">64</a>.</span><br />

Perspicuity) a capital requisite in writing ii. 256.<br />

Pharsalia) censured iii. <a href="#page_220">220</a>.<br />

Phedra) of Racine censured ii. 113. 216.<br />

Pilaster) less beautiful than a column iii. <a href="#page_345">345</a>.<br />

Pindar) defective in order and connection i. 35.<br />

Pity) defined i. 55.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">apt to produce love i. 93.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">always painful, yet always agreeable i. 134.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">resembles its cause i. 211.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What are the proper subjects for raising pity iii. <a href="#page_226">226</a>.</span><br />

Planetary system) its beauty i. 316.<br />

Play) is a chain of connected facts, each scene making a link iii. <a href="#page_266">266</a>.<br />

Play of words) ii 71. 228 &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Comparisons that resolve into a play of words iii. <a href="#page_42">42</a>.</span><br />

Pleasant emotions and passions i. 127. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pleasant pain explained i. 155.</span><br />

Pleasure) pleasures of seeing and hearing distinguished from those of the other senses i. 1. 2. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pleasure of order i. 32.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of connection i. 32.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pleasures of taste, touch, and smell, not termed _emotions_ or _passions_ i. 42.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pleasures refined and gross i. 137.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Corporeal pleasure low and sometimes mean ii 32.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pleasures of the eye and ear never low or mean ii. 32.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pleasures of the understanding are high in point of dignity ii. 34.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Some pleasures felt internally, some externally iii. <a href="#page_387">387</a>.</span><br />

Poet) the chief talent of a poet who deals in the pathetic ii. 119.<br />

Poetry) objects that strike terror have a fine effect in it iii. <a href="#page_211">211</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Objects of horror ought to be banished from it iii. <a href="#page_213">213</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Poetry has power over all the human affections iii. <a href="#page_296">296</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The most successful in describing objects of sight iii. <a href="#page_385">385</a>.</span><br />

Polite behaviour i. 138.<br />

Polygon) regular its beauty i. 252.<br />

Polysyllables) how far agreeable to the ear ii. 242.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">seldom have place in the construction of English verse ii. 385. 421.</span><br />

Pompey) of Corneille censured ii. 176. 191. 194.<br />

Pope excels in the variety of his melody ii. 411.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His style compared with that of Swift iii. <a href="#page_198">198</a>.</span><br />

Posture) constrained posture disagreeable to the spectator i. 219.<br />

Power of abstraction iii. <a href="#page_401">401</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its use iii. <a href="#page_402">402</a>. <a href="#page_403">403</a>.</span><br />

Prepositions) explained ii. 289.<br />

Pride) incites us to ridicule the blunders and absurdities of others ii 17.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 34.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its external expressions or signs disagreeable ii. 132.</span><br />

Primary and secondary qualities of matter i. 259.<br />

Principle) of order i. 28. 29.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of morality i. 49. 74. ii. 21.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of self-preservation i. 96.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of selfishness i. 227. 229.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of benevolence i. 228. 229.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Principle that makes us fond of esteem i. 237. 286.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of curiosity i. 320. 345. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of habit ii. 105.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Principle that makes us wish others to be of our opinion iii. <a href="#page_57">57</a>. <a href="#page_359">359</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Principle defined iii. <a href="#page_394">394</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">_See_ Propensity.</span><br />

Principles of the fine arts i. 7.<br />

Proceleusmaticus ii. 461.<br />

Prodigies) find ready credit with the vulgar i. 198.<br />

Prologue of the ancient tragedy iii. <a href="#page_271">271</a>.<br />

Pronoun) defined ii. 310.<br />

Pronunciation) rules for it ii. 347. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">distinguished from singing ii. 348.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Singing and pronouncing compared ii. 351.</span><br />

Propensity) opinion and belief influenced by it i. 199.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Propensity to fit objects for the gratification of our</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">passions i. 184. iii. <a href="#page_98">98</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Propensity to justify our passions and actions i. 185.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Propensity to punish guilt and reward virtue i. 231.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Propensity to carry along the good or bad properties of one subject to another i. 76. ii. 235. 307. 312. 372. 415. 416. iii. <a href="#page_101">101</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Propensity to complete every work that is begun and to carry things to perfection i. 364. 365. iii. <a href="#page_262">262</a>. <a href="#page_345">345</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Propensity to communicate to others every thing that affects us ii. 204.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Propensity to place together things mutually connected ii. 308.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Propensity defined iii. <a href="#page_394">394</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">_See_ Principle.</span><br />

Properties) transferred from one subject to another iii. <a href="#page_100">100</a>. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Property) the affection man bears to his property i. 84.<br />

Prophecy) those who believe in prophecies wish the accomplishment i. 239.<br />

Propriety ii. 3. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">distinguished from congruity ii. 8.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">distinguished from proportion ii. 19.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Propriety in buildings iii. <a href="#page_338">338</a>.</span><br />

Proportion) distinguished from propriety ii. 19.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As to quantity coincides with congruity ii. 19.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">examined as applied to architecture iii. <a href="#page_318">318</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Proportion defined iii. <a href="#page_391">391</a>.</span><br />

Prose) distinguished from verse ii. 353.<br />

Prospect) pleasure of a fine prospect i. 298.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An unbounded prospect disagreeable i. 366. Note.</span><br />

Provok’d husband) censured iii. <a href="#page_253">253</a>.<br />

Pun) defined ii. 77.<br />

Punishment) in the place where the crime was committed i. 371.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Punishment of impropriety ii. 15.</span><br />

Public games) of the Greeks i. 314.<br />

Pyrrhichius ii. 459.<br />

Qualities) primary and secondary i. 259.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A quality cannot be conceived independent of the subject to which it belongs ii. 293.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Different qualities perceived by different senses iii. <a href="#page_376">376</a>.</span><br />

Quantity) with respect to melody ii. 363. 383.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Quantity with respect to English verse ii. 383.</span><br />

Quintilian) censured iii. <a href="#page_92">92</a>.<br />

Quintus Curtius) censured ii. 167.<br />

Racine) criticised ii. 216. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Rape of the Lock) characteriz’d ii. 43.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">admirable versification ii. 362.</span><br />

Reading) chief talent of a fine reader ii. 120.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Plaintive passions require a slow pronunciation ii. 161. Note.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rules for reading ii. 347. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">compared with singing ii. 351.</span><br />

Reason) reasons to justify a favourite opinion are always at hand and much relished i. 186.<br />

Refined pleasure i. 137.<br />

Regularity) not essential in grand objects i. 257.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">required in a small work, not so much in one that is extensive i. 299.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">how far to be studied in architecture iii. <a href="#page_301">301</a>. <a href="#page_322">322</a>. <a href="#page_328">328</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">how far to be studied in a garden iii. <a href="#page_305">305</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Regular line defined iii. <a href="#page_389">389</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Regular figure defined iii. <a href="#page_389">389</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Regularity proper and figurative iii. <a href="#page_390">390</a>.</span><br />

Relations i. 22. 23.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">have an influence in generating emotions and passions i. 76. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">are the foundation of congruity and propriety ii. 5.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in what manner are relations expressed in words ii. 286.</span><br />

Relative beauty i. 244.<br />

Remorse) its gratification i. 232.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">is not mean. ii. 34.</span><br />

Repartee ii. 80.<br />

Representation) its perfection lies in hiding itself and producing an impression of reality iii. <a href="#page_279">279</a>.<br />

Repulsive) object i. 226.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Repulsive emotions ii. 133.</span><br />

Resemblance) and contrast, ch. 8. i. 345.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The members of a sentence signifying a resemblance betwixt objects ought to resemble each other ii. 270. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Resembling causes may produce effects that have no resemblance, and causes that have no resemblance may produce resembling effects ii. 337. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Resemblance carried too far in some gardens iii. <a href="#page_305">305</a>. Note.</span><br />

Resentment) explained i. 98. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">disagreeable in excess i. 134.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">extended against relations of the offender i. 190.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">its gratification i. 231.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">when immoderate is silent ii. 205.</span><br />

Rest) neither agreeable nor disagreeable i. 309.<br />

Revenge) animates but doth not elevate the mind i. 283.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">has no dignity in it ii. 33.</span><br />

Reverie) cause of the pleasure we have in it i. 112.<br />

Rhyme) for what subjects it is proper ii. 447. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Melody of rhyme ii. 449.</span><br />

Rhythmus) defined ii. 355.<br />

Riches) love of, corrupts the taste iii. <a href="#page_370">370</a>.<br />

Riddle iii. <a href="#page_310">310</a>.<br />

Ridicule) a gross pleasure i. 138.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">is losing ground in England i. 138.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Emotion of ridicule i. 341.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">not concordant with grandeur i. 377,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ridicule ii. 16. 40. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">whether it be a test of truth ii. 55.</span><br />

Ridiculous) distinguished from risible i. 341.<br />

Risible objects, ch. 7. i. 337.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Risible distinguished from ridiculous i. 341.</span><br />

Rubens) censured iii. <a href="#page_130">130</a>.<br />

Ruin) ought not to be seen from a flower-parterre iii. <a href="#page_303">303</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in what form it ought to be iii. <a href="#page_313">313</a>.</span><br />

Sallust) censured for want of connection i. 37.<br />

Sapphic verse) has a very agreeable modulation ii. 358.<br />

Scorn ii. 16.<br />

Sculpture) imitates nature ii. 234.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">what emotions can be raised by it iii. <a href="#page_296">296</a>.</span><br />

_Secchia rapita_) characterized ii. 41.<br />

Secondary qualities of matter i. 259.<br />

Seeing) in seeing we feel no impression iii. <a href="#page_380">380</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Objects of sight are all of them complex iii. <a href="#page_400">400</a>.</span><br />

Self-deceit i. 185. ii. 190.<br />

Selfish passions i. 59.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">are pleasant i. 131.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">less refined than the social i. 137.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">inferior in dignity to the social ii. 37.</span><br />

Selfishness) promoted by luxury iii. <a href="#page_370">370</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">and also by love of riches iii. <a href="#page_370">370</a>.</span><br />

Self-love) its prevalence accounted for i. 63.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in excess disagreeable i. 134.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">not inconsistent with benevolence i. 228.</span><br />

Semipause) in an hexameter line ii. 369.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">what semipauses are found in an English heroic line ii. 390.</span><br />

Sensation) defined iii. <a href="#page_378">378</a>.<br />

Sense) of order i. 28. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">contributes to generate emotions i. 81.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">and passions i. 89.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sense of right and wrong i. 49.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of the veracity of our senses i. 105.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sense of congruity or propriety ii. 6.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of the dignity of human nature ii. 29. iii. <a href="#page_361">361</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sense by</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">which we discover a passion from its external signs ii. 136.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sense of a common nature in every species of beings iii. <a href="#page_356">356</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sense internal and external iii. <a href="#page_375">375</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In touching, tasting, and smelling, we feel the impression at the organ of sense, not in seeing and hearing iii. <a href="#page_380">380</a>.</span><br />

Sentence) it detracts from neatness to vary the scene in the same sentence ii. 278.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A sentence so arranged as to express the sense clearly, seems always more musical than where the sense is left in any degree doubtful ii. 307.</span><br />

Sentiment) elevated, low i. 276.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sentiments ch. 16. ii. 149.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sentiments expressing the swelling of passion ii. 164.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">expressing the different stages of a passion ii. 165.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">dictated by co-existent passions ii. 169.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sentiments of strong passions are hid or dissembled ii. 171.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sentiments above the tone of the passion ii. 175.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">below the tone of the passion ii. 176.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sentiments too gay for a serious passion ii. 178.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">too artificial for a serious passion ii. 179.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">fanciful or sinical ii. 182.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">discordant with character ii. 186.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">misplaced ii. 189.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Immoral sentiments expressed without disguise ii. 189.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">unnatural ii. 196.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sentiment defined iii. <a href="#page_396">396</a>.</span><br />

Series) from small to great agreeable i. 272.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ascending series i. 274.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Descending series i. 275.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The effect of a number of objects placed in an increasing or decreasing series ii. 249.</span><br />

Serpentine river) its beauty i. 311. iii. <a href="#page_316">316</a>.<br />

Sertorius) of Corneille censured ii. 163.<br />

Shaft) of a column iii. <a href="#page_346">346</a>.<br />

Shakespear) criticised ii. 212<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">deals little in inversion ii. 439.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">excells in drawing characters iii. <a href="#page_182">182</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">his style in what respect excellent iii. <a href="#page_198">198</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">his dialogue excellent iii. <a href="#page_257">257</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">deals not in barren scenes iii. <a href="#page_267">267</a>.</span><br />

Shame) is not mean ii. 34.<br />

Similar emotions i. 153.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">their effects when co-existent i. 155. iii. <a href="#page_336">336</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Similar passions i. 171.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Effects of co-existent similar passions i. 171.</span><br />

Simple perception iii. <a href="#page_383">383</a>.<br />

Simplicity) beauty of i. 247. 254.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">abandoned in the fine arts i. 255.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a great beauty in tragedy iii. <a href="#page_252">252</a>. Note.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ought to be the governing taste in gardening and architecture iii. <a href="#page_300">300</a>.</span><br />

Singing) distinguished from pronouncing or reading ii. 348.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Singing and pronouncing compared ii. 351.</span><br />

Situation) different situations suited to different buildings iii. <a href="#page_339">339</a>.<br />

Smelling) in smelling we feel an impression upon the organ of sense iii. <a href="#page_380">380</a>.<br />

Smoke) the pleasure of ascending smoke accounted for i. 33. 313.<br />

Social passions i. 59.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">more refined than the selfish i. 137.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of greater dignity ii. 37.</span><br />

Society) advantages of i. 237. 238. 240.<br />

Soliloquy) has a foundation in nature ii. 123.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Soliloquies ii. 218. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />

Sorrow) cause of it i. 65.<br />

Sounds) concordant i. 151.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">discordant i. 152.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">produce emotions that resemble them i. 218.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">articulate how far agreeable to the ear ii. 240.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A smooth sound sooths the mind, and a rough sound animates ii. 245.</span><br />

Space) natural computation of space i. 211. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Species) defined iii. <a href="#page_399">399</a>.<br />

Specific habit) defined ii. 95.<br />

Speech) power of speech to raise emotions, whence derived i. 112. 121.<br />

Spondee ii. 364. &amp;<i>c.</i> ii. 459.<br />

Square) its beauty i. 251.<br />

Stairs) their proportion iii. <a href="#page_323">323</a>.<br />

Standard) of taste ch. 25. iii. <a href="#page_351">351</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Standard of morals iii. <a href="#page_367">367</a>.</span><br />

Star) in gardening iii. <a href="#page_307">307</a>.<br />

Statue) the reason why a statue is not coloured i. 372.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An equestrian statue is placed in a centre of streets that it may be seen from many places at once iii. <a href="#page_201">201</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Statue of an animal pouring out water iii. <a href="#page_308">308</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of a water-god pouring water out of his urn iii. <a href="#page_350">350</a>.</span><br />

Strada) censured iii. <a href="#page_170">170</a>.<br />

Style) natural and inverted ii. 290. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The beauties of a natural style ii. 332.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">of an inverted style ii. 332.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Concise style a great ornament iii. <a href="#page_204">204</a>.</span><br />

Subject) may be conceived independent of any particular quality ii. 293.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Subject with respect to its qualities iii. <a href="#page_376">376</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Subject defined iii. <a href="#page_406">406</a>.</span><br />

Sublimity i. 264. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sublime in poetry i. 277.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sublimity may be employed indirectly to sink the mind i. 300.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">False sublime i. 303. 306.</span><br />

Submission) natural foundation of submission to government i. 236.<br />

Substance) defined iii. <a href="#page_406">406</a>.<br />

Substratum) defined iii. <a href="#page_376">376</a>.<br />

Succession) of perceptions and ideas i. 380. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />

Superlatives) inferior writers deal in superlatives iii. <a href="#page_195">195</a>.<br />

Surprise) instantaneous i. 142. 321.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pleasant or painful according to circumstances i. 326. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Surprise is the cause of contrast i. 359.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Surprise a silent passion ii. 205.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">studied in Chinese gardens iii. <a href="#page_319">319</a>.</span><br />

Suspense) an uneasy state i. 205.<br />

Sweet distress) explained i. 155.<br />

Swift) his language always suited to his subject iii. <a href="#page_194">194</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">has a peculiar energy of style iii. <a href="#page_198">198</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">compared with Pope iii. <a href="#page_198">198</a>.</span><br />

Syllable ii. 239.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Syllables long and short ii. 363.</span><br />

Sympathy) sympathetic emotion of virtue i. 70.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sympathy i. 229.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">attractive i. 230.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">never low nor mean ii. 32.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">the cement of society ii. 143.</span><br />

Synthetic) and analytic methods of reasoning compared i. 31.<br />

Tacitus) excells in drawing characters iii. <a href="#page_182">182</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">his style comprehensive iii. <a href="#page_204">204</a>.</span><br />

Tasso) censured iii. <a href="#page_242">242</a>.<br />

Taste) in tasting we feel an impression upon the organ of sense iii. <a href="#page_380">380</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Taste in the fine arts compared with the moral sense i. 7.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">its advantages i. 10. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Delicacy of taste i. 136.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A low taste i. 276.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The foundation of a right and a wrong in taste iii. <a href="#page_358">358</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Taste in the fine arts as well as in morals corrupted by voluptuousness iii. <a href="#page_370">370</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">corrupted by love of riches iii. <a href="#page_370">370</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Taste never naturally bad or wrong iii. <a href="#page_372">372</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Aberrations from a true taste in the fine arts iii. <a href="#page_366">366</a>.</span><br />

Tautology) a blemish in writing iii. <a href="#page_205">205</a>.<br />

Temples) of Ancient and Modern Virtue in the gardens of Stow iii. <a href="#page_348">348</a>.<br />

Terence) censured iii. <a href="#page_288">288</a>. <a href="#page_290">290</a>.<br />

Terror) arises sometimes to its utmost height instantaneously i. 143.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a silent passion ii. 205.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Objects that strike terror have a fine effect in poetry and painting iii. <a href="#page_211">211</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The terror raised by tragedy explained iii. <a href="#page_228">228</a>.</span><br />

Theorem) general theorems agreeable i. 255.<br />

Time) past time expressed as present i. 118.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Natural computation of time i. 200. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />

Tone) of mind iii. <a href="#page_378">378</a>.<br />

Touch) in touching we feel an impression upon the organ of sense iii. <a href="#page_380">380</a>.<br />

Trachiniens) of Sophocles censured iii. <a href="#page_286">286</a>.<br />

Tragedy) modern tragedy censured ii. 155.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">French tragedy censured ii. 159. Note. ii. 194.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Greek tragedy accompanied with musical notes to ascertain the pronunciation ii. 350.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tragedy ch. 22. iii. <a href="#page_218">218</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">in what respect it differs from an epic poem iii. <a href="#page_218">218</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">distinguished into pathetic and moral iii. <a href="#page_221">221</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">its good effects iii. <a href="#page_223">223</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">compared with the epic as to the subjects proper for each iii. <a href="#page_225">225</a>. <a href="#page_226">226</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">how far it may borrow from history iii. <a href="#page_234">234</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">rule for dividing it into acts iii. <a href="#page_236">236</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">double plot in it iii. <a href="#page_251">251</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">admits not supernatural events iii. <a href="#page_254">254</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">its origin iii. <a href="#page_270">270</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ancient tragedy a continued representation without interruption iii. <a href="#page_271">271</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Constitution of the modern drama iii. <a href="#page_273">273</a>.</span><br />

Trees) the best manner of placing them iii. <a href="#page_307">307</a>.<br />

Triangle) equilateral, its beauty i. 253.<br />

Tribrachys ii. 459.<br />

Trochæus ii. 459.<br />

Tropes ch. 20. iii. <a href="#page_53">53</a>.<br />

Ugliness) proper and figurative iii. <a href="#page_388">388</a>.<br />

Unbounded prospect) disagreeable i. 366. Note.<br />

Uniformity) apt to disgust by excess i. 253.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Uniformity and variety ch. 9. i. 380.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The melody ought to be uniform where the things described are uniform ii. 411.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Uniformity defined iii. <a href="#page_390">390</a>.</span><br />

Unity) the three unities ch. 23. iii. <a href="#page_259">259</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of action iii. <a href="#page_260">260</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of time and of place ii. 267.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unities of time and place not required in an epic poem iii. <a href="#page_268">268</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Strictly observed in the Greek tragedy iii. <a href="#page_272">272</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unity of place in the ancient drama iii. <a href="#page_285">285</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unities of place and time ought to be strictly observed</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">in each act of a modern play iii. <a href="#page_291">291</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wherein the unity of a garden consists. iii. <a href="#page_304">304</a>.</span><br />

_Unumquodque eodem modo dissolvitur quo colligatum est_ i. 368.<br />

Vanity) a disagreeable passion i. 134.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">always appears mean ii. 34.</span><br />

Variety) distinguished from novelty i. 329.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Variety ch. 9. i. 380.</span><br />

Verbal antithesis) defined ii. 73. 268.<br />

Versailles) gardens of iii. <a href="#page_310">310</a>.<br />

Verse) distinguished from prose ii. 353<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sapphic verse extremely melodious ii. 358.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Iambic less so ii. 358.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Structure of an hexameter line ii. 364.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Structure of English heroic verse ii. 382. 384.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">English monosyllables arbitrary as to quantity ii. 383.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">English heroic lines distinguished into four sorts ii. 421.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Latin hexameter compared with English rhyme ii. 441.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">compared with blank verse ii. 442.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">French heroic verse compared with hexameter and rhyme ii. 443.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The English language incapable of the melody of hexameter verse ii. 446.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For what subjects is rhyme proper ii. 447. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Melody of rhyme ii. 449.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Melody of verse is so inchanting as to draw a veil over gross imperfections ii. 457.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Verses composed in the shape of an axe or an egg iii. <a href="#page_310">310</a>.</span><br />

Violent action) ought to be excluded from the stage iii. <a href="#page_254">254</a>.<br />

Virgil) censured for want of connection i. 36. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">his verse extremely melodious ii. 357.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">his versification criticised ii. 376.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">censured iii. <a href="#page_179">179</a>. <a href="#page_194">194</a>. <a href="#page_246">246</a>.</span><br />

_Virgil travestie_) characterized ii. 41.<br />

Voltaire) censured iii. <a href="#page_178">178</a>. <a href="#page_236">236</a>. <a href="#page_243">243</a>.<br />

Vowels ii. 238.<br />

Walk) in a garden, whether it ought to be straight or waving iii. <a href="#page_311">311</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">artificial walk elevated above the plain iii. <a href="#page_313">313</a>.</span><br />

Wall) that is not perpendicular occasions an uneasy feeling i. 218.<br />

Water-fall i. 314.<br />

Water-god) statue of, pouring out water iii. <a href="#page_350">350</a>.<br />

Way of the World) censured iii. <a href="#page_266">266</a>.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the unities of place and time strictly observed in it iii. <a href="#page_293">293</a>.</span><br />

Will) how far our train of perceptions can be regulated by it i. 23. 381. 388.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">determined by desire i. 222</span><br />

Windows) their proportions iii. <a href="#page_323">323</a>.<br />

Wish) distinguished from desire i. 55.<br />

Wit) defined i. 28. seldom united with judgement i. 28. but generally with memory i. 28.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">not concordant with grandeur i. 377.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wit ch. 13. ii. 58.</span><br />

Wonder) instantaneous i. 143.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wonders and prodigies find ready credit with the vulgar i. 198.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wonder i. 320.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">studied in Chinese gardens iii. <a href="#page_319">319</a>.</span><br />

Words) play of ii. 228. &amp;<i>c.</i><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">jingle of ii. 231.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">what are their best arrangement in a period ii. 251.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A conjunction or disjunction in the members of the thought ought to be imitated in the expression ii. 260. 265.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Words expressing things connected ought to be placed as near together as possible ii. 307. &amp;<i>c.</i></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In what part of a sentence doth a word make the greatest figure ii. 318.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Words acquire a beauty from their meaning iii. <a href="#page_139">139</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The words ought to accord with the sentiment iii. <a href="#page_188">188</a>.</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A word is often redoubled to add force to the expression iii. <a href="#page_201">201</a>.</span><br />

Writing) a subject intended for amusement may be highly ornamented ii. 9.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A grand subject appears best in a plain dress ii. 10.</span><br />
</p>

<p class="fint">FINIS.</p>

<div class="footnotes"><p class="cb">FOOTNOTES:</p>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Chap. 8.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Dunciad, b. 4. l. 405.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Book 2. l. 111.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Book 2. l. 551.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> See Vidæ Poetic. lib. 2. l. 282.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> See chap. 4.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> Beginning of book 3.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> Book 4. l. 498.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> Guardian No. 153.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> Strada de bello Belgico.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> It is accordingly observed by Longinus, in his treatise of
the Sublime, that the proper time for metaphor, is when the passions are
so swelled as to hurry on like a torrent.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> Chap. 2. part 5.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> Philoctetes of Sophocles, act 4. sc. 2.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> Alcestes of Euripides, act 2. sc. 1.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> See this principle accounted for, chap. 25.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> Philoctetes of Sophocles, at the close.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> The chastity of the English language, which in common
usage distinguishes by genders no words but what signify beings male and
female, gives thus a fine opportunity for the prosopopœia; a beauty
unknown in other languages, where every word is masculine or feminine.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> See appendix, containing definitions and explanation of
terms.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> <i>Æneid.</i> iv. 173.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> Chap. 19.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> Dec. 1. l. 1.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></a> Chap. 31. of his treatise on the sublime.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_23_23" id="Footnote_23_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_23"><span class="label">[23]</span></a> L. 8. cap. 6. in fin.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_24_24" id="Footnote_24_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_24"><span class="label">[24]</span></a> See chap. 2. part 1. sect. 4.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_25_25" id="Footnote_25_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_25"><span class="label">[25]</span></a> See chap. 1.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_26_26" id="Footnote_26_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_26_26"><span class="label">[26]</span></a> L. 8. cap. 6. sect. 2.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_27_27" id="Footnote_27_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_27_27"><span class="label">[27]</span></a> Reflexions sur la Poesie, <i>&amp;c.</i> vol. 1. sect. 24.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_28_28" id="Footnote_28_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_28_28"><span class="label">[28]</span></a> Act 4. sc. 6.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_29_29" id="Footnote_29_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_29_29"><span class="label">[29]</span></a> See chap. 2. part 1. sect. 4.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_30_30" id="Footnote_30_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_30_30"><span class="label">[30]</span></a> I have often regretted, that a factious spirit of
opposition to the reigning family made it necessary in public worship to
distinguish the King by his proper name. One will scarce imagine, who
has not made the trial, how much better it sounds to pray for our
Sovereign Lord the King, without any addition.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_31_31" id="Footnote_31_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_31_31"><span class="label">[31]</span></a> Poet. lib. 2. l. 30.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_32_32" id="Footnote_32_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_32_32"><span class="label">[32]</span></a> Part 1. sect. 6.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_33_33" id="Footnote_33_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_33_33"><span class="label">[33]</span></a> Henry V. act 4. sc. 4.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_34_34" id="Footnote_34_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_34_34"><span class="label">[34]</span></a> Merry Wives of Windsor, act 3. sc. 15.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_35_35" id="Footnote_35_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_35_35"><span class="label">[35]</span></a> Lib. 4. l. 632.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_36_36" id="Footnote_36_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_36_36"><span class="label">[36]</span></a> See Æneid. lib. 1. 188.&mdash;219.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_37_37" id="Footnote_37_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor_37_37"><span class="label">[37]</span></a> Montaigne, reflecting upon the then present modes,
observes, that there never was at any other time so abject and servile
prostitution of words in the addresses made by people of fashion to one
another; the humblest tenders of life and soul, no professions under
that of devotion and adoration; the writer constantly declaring himself
a vassal, nay a slave: so that when any more serious occasion of
friendship or gratitude requires more genuine professions, words are
wanting to express them.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_38_38" id="Footnote_38_38"></a><a href="#FNanchor_38_38"><span class="label">[38]</span></a> Ch. 18. sect. 3.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_39_39" id="Footnote_39_39"></a><a href="#FNanchor_39_39"><span class="label">[39]</span></a> One can scarce avoid smiling at the blindness of a certain
critic, who, with an air of self-sufficiency, condemns this expression
as low and vulgar. A French poet, says he, would express the same
thought in a more sublime manner: “Mais tout dort, et l’armée, et les
vents, et Neptune.” And he adds, “The English poet may please at London,
but the French every where else.”</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_40_40" id="Footnote_40_40"></a><a href="#FNanchor_40_40"><span class="label">[40]</span></a> See chap. 4.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_41_41" id="Footnote_41_41"></a><a href="#FNanchor_41_41"><span class="label">[41]</span></a> Georg. l. ii. 468.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_42_42" id="Footnote_42_42"></a><a href="#FNanchor_42_42"><span class="label">[42]</span></a> Lib. 8. cap. 6. § 2.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_43_43" id="Footnote_43_43"></a><a href="#FNanchor_43_43"><span class="label">[43]</span></a> See chap. 18.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_44_44" id="Footnote_44_44"></a><a href="#FNanchor_44_44"><span class="label">[44]</span></a> See chap 2. part 4.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_45_45" id="Footnote_45_45"></a><a href="#FNanchor_45_45"><span class="label">[45]</span></a> The dialogue in a dramatic composition separates it so
clearly from other compositions, that no writer has thought it necessary
to search for any other distinguishing mark. But much useless labour has
been bestowed, to distinguish an epic poem by some such mark. Bossu
defines this poem to be, “A composition in verse, intended to form the
manners by instructions disguised under the allegories of an important
action,” which will exclude every epic poem founded upon real facts, and
perhaps include several of Esop’s fables. Voltaire reckons verse so
essential, as for that single reason to exclude the adventures of
Telemachus. See his <i>Essay upon Epic Poetry</i>. Others, affected with
substance more than with ornament, hesitate not to pronounce that poem
to be epic. It is not a little diverting, to see so many shallow critics
hunting for what is not to be found. They always take for granted,
without the least foundation, that there must be some precise criterion
to distinguish epic poetry from every other species of writing. Literary
compositions run into each other, precisely like colours: in their
strong tints they are easily distinguished; but are susceptible of so
much variety, and take on so many different forms, that we never can say
where one species ends and another begins. As to the general taste,
there is little reason to doubt, that a work where heroic actions are
related in an elevated style, will, without further requisite, be deemed
an epic poem.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_46_46" id="Footnote_46_46"></a><a href="#FNanchor_46_46"><span class="label">[46]</span></a> Poet. ch. 25. sect. 6.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_47_47" id="Footnote_47_47"></a><a href="#FNanchor_47_47"><span class="label">[47]</span></a> Lib. 7. from line 385. to line 460.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_48_48" id="Footnote_48_48"></a><a href="#FNanchor_48_48"><span class="label">[48]</span></a> The same distinction is applicable to that sort of fable
which is said to be the invention of Æsop. A moral, it is true, is by
all critics considered as essential to such a fable. But nothing is more
common, than to be led blindly by authority. Of the numerous collections
I have seen, the fables that clearly inculcate a moral, make a very
small part. In many fables, indeed, proper pictures of virtue and vice
are exhibited: but the bulk of these collections convey no instruction,
nor afford any amusement beyond what a child receives in reading an
ordinary story.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_49_49" id="Footnote_49_49"></a><a href="#FNanchor_49_49"><span class="label">[49]</span></a> See chap. 2. part 1. sect. 3.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_50_50" id="Footnote_50_50"></a><a href="#FNanchor_50_50"><span class="label">[50]</span></a> In Racine, tender sentiments prevail; in Corneille, grand
and heroic manners. Hence clearly the preference of the former before
the latter, as dramatic poets. Corneille would figure better in an
heroic poem.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_51_51" id="Footnote_51_51"></a><a href="#FNanchor_51_51"><span class="label">[51]</span></a> Part 4.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_52_52" id="Footnote_52_52"></a><a href="#FNanchor_52_52"><span class="label">[52]</span></a> If one can be amused with a grave discourse which
promiseth much and performs nothing, he may see this subject treated by
Brumoy in his <i>Theatre Grec.</i> Preliminary discourse on the origin of
tragedy.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_53_53" id="Footnote_53_53"></a><a href="#FNanchor_53_53"><span class="label">[53]</span></a> See essays on the principles of morality, edit. 2. p.
291.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_54_54" id="Footnote_54_54"></a><a href="#FNanchor_54_54"><span class="label">[54]</span></a> Chap. 2. part 1. sect. 6.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_55_55" id="Footnote_55_55"></a><a href="#FNanchor_55_55"><span class="label">[55]</span></a> I would not from this observation be thought to undervalue
modern manners. The roughness, plainness, and impetuosity of ancient
manners, may show better in an epic poem, without being better fitted
for society. But without regard to this circumstance, it is the
familiarity of modern manners that unqualifies them for a lofty subject.
The dignity of our present manners, will be better understood in future
ages when they have become ancient.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_56_56" id="Footnote_56_56"></a><a href="#FNanchor_56_56"><span class="label">[56]</span></a> Third part of his art of poetry.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_57_57" id="Footnote_57_57"></a><a href="#FNanchor_57_57"><span class="label">[57]</span></a> Chap. 20. sect. 1.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_58_58" id="Footnote_58_58"></a><a href="#FNanchor_58_58"><span class="label">[58]</span></a> Ibid.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_59_59" id="Footnote_59_59"></a><a href="#FNanchor_59_59"><span class="label">[59]</span></a> See chap. 2. part 1. sect. 6.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_60_60" id="Footnote_60_60"></a><a href="#FNanchor_60_60"><span class="label">[60]</span></a> Canto 9.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_61_61" id="Footnote_61_61"></a><a href="#FNanchor_61_61"><span class="label">[61]</span></a> Racine, in his preface to the tragedy of <i>Berenice</i>, is
sensible, that simplicity is a great beauty in tragedy, but mistakes the
cause. “Nothing (says he) but verisimilitude pleases in tragedy: but
where is the verisimilitude, that within the compass of a day, events
should be crowded which commonly are extended through months?” This is
mistaking the accuracy of imitation for the probability or improbability
of future events. I explain myself. The verisimilitude required in
tragedy, is that the actions correspond to the manners, and the manners
to nature. When this resemblance is preserved, the imitation is just,
because it is a true copy of nature. But I deny that the verisimilitude
of future events, meaning the probability of future events, is any rule
in tragedy. A number of extraordinary events, are, it is true, seldom
crowded within the compass of a day: but what seldom happens may happen;
and when such events fall out, they appear not less natural than the
most ordinary accidents. To make verisimilitude in the sense of
probability a governing rule in tragedy, would annihilate this sort of
writing altogether; for it would exclude all extraordinary events, in
which the life of tragedy conflicts. It is very improbable or unlikely,
pitching upon any man at random, that he will sacrifice his life and
fortune for his mistress or for his country: yet when this event
happens, supposing it agreeable to the character, we recognize the
verisimilitude as to nature, whatever want of verisimilitude or of
probability there was <i>a priori</i> that such would be the event.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_62_62" id="Footnote_62_62"></a><a href="#FNanchor_62_62"><span class="label">[62]</span></a> Spectator, No. 44.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_63_63" id="Footnote_63_63"></a><a href="#FNanchor_63_63"><span class="label">[63]</span></a> Poet. cap 6. See also cap. 7.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_64_64" id="Footnote_64_64"></a><a href="#FNanchor_64_64"><span class="label">[64]</span></a> Chap. 8.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_65_65" id="Footnote_65_65"></a><a href="#FNanchor_65_65"><span class="label">[65]</span></a> See chap. 1.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_66_66" id="Footnote_66_66"></a><a href="#FNanchor_66_66"><span class="label">[66]</span></a> See chap. 21.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_67_67" id="Footnote_67_67"></a><a href="#FNanchor_67_67"><span class="label">[67]</span></a> I am sensible that a commencement of this sort is much
relished by certain readers disposed to wonder. Their curiosity is
raised, and they are much tickled in its gratification. But curiosity is
at an end with the first reading, because the personages are no longer
unknown; and therefore at the second reading a commencement so
artificial, loses all its power even over the vulgar. A writer of genius
loves to deal in lasting beauties.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_68_68" id="Footnote_68_68"></a><a href="#FNanchor_68_68"><span class="label">[68]</span></a> Bossu, after observing, with wonderful critical sagacity,
that winter is an improper season for an epic poem, and night not less
improper for tragedy; admits however, that an epic poem may be spread
through the whole summer months, and a tragedy through the whole
sun-shine hours of the longest summer-day. <i>Du poeme epique, l. 3. chap.
12.</i> At this rate an English tragedy may be longer than a French
tragedy; and in Nova Zembla the time of a tragedy and of an epic poem
may be the same.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_69_69" id="Footnote_69_69"></a><a href="#FNanchor_69_69"><span class="label">[69]</span></a> Chap. 2. part 1. sect. 6.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_70_70" id="Footnote_70_70"></a><a href="#FNanchor_70_70"><span class="label">[70]</span></a> Act 1. sc. 6.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_71_71" id="Footnote_71_71"></a><a href="#FNanchor_71_71"><span class="label">[71]</span></a> Act 2. sc. 2.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_72_72" id="Footnote_72_72"></a><a href="#FNanchor_72_72"><span class="label">[72]</span></a> Act 2. sc. 1.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_73_73" id="Footnote_73_73"></a><a href="#FNanchor_73_73"><span class="label">[73]</span></a> Act 2.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_74_74" id="Footnote_74_74"></a><a href="#FNanchor_74_74"><span class="label">[74]</span></a> Act 4. at the close.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_75_75" id="Footnote_75_75"></a><a href="#FNanchor_75_75"><span class="label">[75]</span></a> Act 5. sc. 4.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_76_76" id="Footnote_76_76"></a><a href="#FNanchor_76_76"><span class="label">[76]</span></a> See chap 15.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_77_77" id="Footnote_77_77"></a><a href="#FNanchor_77_77"><span class="label">[77]</span></a> See chap. 8.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_78_78" id="Footnote_78_78"></a><a href="#FNanchor_78_78"><span class="label">[78]</span></a> See appendix to part 5. chap. 2.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_79_79" id="Footnote_79_79"></a><a href="#FNanchor_79_79"><span class="label">[79]</span></a> A square field appears not such to the eye when viewed
from any part of it; and the centre is the only place where a circular
field preserves in appearance its real figure.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_80_80" id="Footnote_80_80"></a><a href="#FNanchor_80_80"><span class="label">[80]</span></a> Chap. 8.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_81_81" id="Footnote_81_81"></a><a href="#FNanchor_81_81"><span class="label">[81]</span></a> Chap. 2. part 4.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_82_82" id="Footnote_82_82"></a><a href="#FNanchor_82_82"><span class="label">[82]</span></a> See the place immediately above cited.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_83_83" id="Footnote_83_83"></a><a href="#FNanchor_83_83"><span class="label">[83]</span></a> The influence of this connection surpassing all bounds, is
visible in many gardens, left in their original form of horizontal
plains forc’d with great labour and expence, perpendicular faces of
earth supported with massy stone walls, terrace-walks in stages one
above another, regular ponds and canals without the least motion, and
the whole surrounded, like a prison, with high walls excluding every
external object. At first view it may puzzle one to account for a taste
running cross to nature in every particular. But nothing happens without
a cause. Perfect regularity and uniformity are required in a house; and
this idea is extended to its accessory the garden, especially if it be a
small spot incapable of grandeur or much variety. The house is regular,
so must the garden be: the floors of the house are horizontal, and the
garden must have the same position: in the house we are protected from
every intruding eye, so must we be in the garden. This, it must be
confessed, is carrying the notion of resemblance very far. But where
reason and taste are laid asleep, nothing is more common than to carry
resemblance beyond proper bounds.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_84_84" id="Footnote_84_84"></a><a href="#FNanchor_84_84"><span class="label">[84]</span></a> See chap. 4.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_85_85" id="Footnote_85_85"></a><a href="#FNanchor_85_85"><span class="label">[85]</span></a> See these terms defined, chap. 3.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_86_86" id="Footnote_86_86"></a><a href="#FNanchor_86_86"><span class="label">[86]</span></a> Taste has suggested to Kent the same artifice. The placing
a decay’d tree properly, contributes to contrast; and also produces a
sort of pity, grounded on an imaginary personification.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_87_87" id="Footnote_87_87"></a><a href="#FNanchor_87_87"><span class="label">[87]</span></a> “Houses are built to live in, and not to look on.
Therefore let use be preferred before uniformity, except where both may
be had.”
</p>

<p class="r"><i>Lo. Verulam, essay 45.</i><br />
</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_88_88" id="Footnote_88_88"></a><a href="#FNanchor_88_88"><span class="label">[88]</span></a> p. 94.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_89_89" id="Footnote_89_89"></a><a href="#FNanchor_89_89"><span class="label">[89]</span></a> Chap. 2. part 4.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_90_90" id="Footnote_90_90"></a><a href="#FNanchor_90_90"><span class="label">[90]</span></a> Chap. 10.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_91_91" id="Footnote_91_91"></a><a href="#FNanchor_91_91"><span class="label">[91]</span></a> Chap. 8.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_92_92" id="Footnote_92_92"></a><a href="#FNanchor_92_92"><span class="label">[92]</span></a> See chap. 20. sect. 5.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_93_93" id="Footnote_93_93"></a><a href="#FNanchor_93_93"><span class="label">[93]</span></a> See chap. 8.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_94_94" id="Footnote_94_94"></a><a href="#FNanchor_94_94"><span class="label">[94]</span></a> See Essays on morality and natural religion, part 1. essay
2. ch. 1.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_95_95" id="Footnote_95_95"></a><a href="#FNanchor_95_95"><span class="label">[95]</span></a> See chap. II.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_96_96" id="Footnote_96_96"></a><a href="#FNanchor_96_96"><span class="label">[96]</span></a> Yet a singular opinion that impressions are the only
objects of perception, has been espoused by some philosophers of no mean
rank; not attending to the foregoing peculiarity in the senses of seeing
and hearing, that we perceive objects without being conscious of an
organic impression or of any impression. See the treatise upon human
nature, where we find the following passage, book 1. p. 4. sect. 2.
“Properly speaking it is not our body we perceive when we regard our
limbs and members; so that the ascribing a real and corporeal existence
to these impressions or to their objects, is an act of the mind as
difficult to explain,” &amp;<i>c.</i></p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_97_97" id="Footnote_97_97"></a><a href="#FNanchor_97_97"><span class="label">[97]</span></a> From this definition of an idea, the following proposition
must be evident, That there can be no such thing as an innate idea. If
the original perception of an object be not innate, which is obvious, it
is not less obvious, that the idea or secondary perception of that
object cannot be innate. And yet to prove this self-evident proposition,
Locke has bestowed a whole book of his treatise upon human
understanding. So necessary it is to give accurate definitions, and so
preventive of dispute are definitions when accurate. Dr Berkeley has
taken great pains to prove another proposition equally evident, That
there can be no such thing as a general idea. All our original
perceptions are of particular objects, and our secondary perceptions or
ideas must be equally so.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_98_98" id="Footnote_98_98"></a><a href="#FNanchor_98_98"><span class="label">[98]</span></a> Bacon, in his natural history, makes the following
observations. Sounds are meliorated by the intension of the sense, where
the common sense is collected most to the particular sense of hearing,
and the sight suspended. Therefore sounds are sweeter, as well as
greater, in the night than in the day: and I suppose they are sweeter to
blind men than to others: and it is manifest that between sleeping and
waking, when all the senses are bound and suspended, music is far
sweeter than when one is fully waking.</p></div>

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