LECTURES ON RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES.

By HUGH BLAIR, D.D. ONE OF THE MINISTERS OF THE HIGH CHURCH, AND PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND BELLES LETTRES IN THE UNIVERSITY, OF EDINBURGH.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

DUBLIN: Printed for Messrs. WHITESTONE, COLLES, BURNET, MONCRIEFFE, GILBERT, WALKER, EXSHAW, WHITE, BEATTY, BURTON, BYRNE, PARKER, and CASH. M,DCC,LXXXIII.

PREFACE.

THE following LECTURES were read in the University of Edin­burgh, for Twenty-four years. The publication of them, at present, was not altogether a matter of choice. Imperfect Copies of them, in Manu­script, from notes taken by Students who heard them read, were first pri­vately handed about; and afterwards frequently exposed to public sale. When the Author saw them circulate so currently, as even to be quoted in print *, and found himself often threatened with surreptitious publi­cations of them, he judged it to be high time that they should proceed from his own hand, rather than come into public view under some very defective and erroneous form.

[Page iv] THEY were originally designed for the initiation of Youth into the stu­dy of Belles Lettres, and of Compo­sition. With the same intention they are now published; and, therefore, the form of Lectures, in which they were at first composed, is still retain­ed. The Author gives them to the world, neither as a Work wholly ori­ginal, nor as a Compilation from the Writings of others. On every sub­ject contained in them, he has thought for himself. He consulted his own ideas and reflections: and a great part of what will be found in these Lec­tures is entirely his own. At the same time, he availed himself of the ideas and reflections of others, as far as he thought them proper to be adopted. To proceed in this man­ner, was his duty as a Public Professor. It was incumbent on him, to convey to his Pupils all the knowledge that could improve them; to deliver not merely what was new, but what might be useful, from whatever quarter it came. He hopes, that to such as are [Page v] studying to cultivate their Taste, to form their Style, or to prepare them­selves for Public Speaking or Compo­sition, his Lectures will afford a more comprehensive view of what relates to these subjects, than, as far as he knows, is to be received from any one Book in our Language.

IN order to render his Work of greater service, he has generally refer­red to the Books which he consulted, as far as he remembers them; that the Readers might be directed to any far­ther illustration which they afford. But, as such a length of time has elapsed since the first Composition of his Lectures, he may, perhaps, have adopted the sentiments of some Au­thor into whose Writings he had then looked, without now remembering whence he derived them.

IN the opinions which he has deli­vered concerning such a variety of Authors, and of literary matters, as come under his consideration, he [Page vi] cannot expect that all his Readers will concur with him. The subjects are of such a nature; as allow room for much diversity of taste and senti­ment: and the Author will respect­fully submit to the judgment of the Public.

RETAINING the simplicity of the Lecturing Style, as best fitted for conveying instruction, he has aimed, in his Language, at no more than perspicuity. If, after the liberties which it was necessary for him to take, in criticising the Style of the most eminent Writers in our lan­guage, his own Style shall be thought open to reprehension, all that he can say, is, that his Book will add one to the many proofs already afforded to the world, of its being much easier to give instruction, than to set exam­ple.

CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

  • LECT. I. INTRODUCTION. Page 1
  • LECT. II. Taste. 18
  • LECT. III. Criticism—Genius—Pleasures of Taste—Sublimity in Objects. 43
  • LECT. IV. The Sublime in Writing. 68
  • LECT. V. Beauty, and other Pleasures of Taste. 94
  • LECT. VI. Rise and Progress of Language. 114
  • LECT. VII. Rise and Progress of Language, and of Writing. 138
  • LECT. VIII. Structure of Language. 162
  • LECT. IX. Structure of Language—English Tongue. 188
  • LECT. X. Style—Perspicuity and Precision. 217
  • LECT. XI. Structure of Sentences. 242
  • LECT. XII. Structure of Sentences. 268
  • LECT. XIII. Structure of Sentences—Harmony. 294
  • LECT. XIV. Origin and Nature of Figurative Language. 323
  • LECT. XV. Metaphor. 350
  • LECT. XVI. Hyperbole—Personification—Apos­trophe. 376
  • LECT. XVII. Comparison, Antithesis, Interroga­tion, Exclamation, and other Figures of Speech. 404

LECTURE I. INTRODUCTION.

ONE of the most distinguished privileges which Providence has conferred upon mankind, is the power of communicating their thoughts to one another. Destitute of this power, Reason would be a solitary, and, in some measure, an unavailing principle. Speech is the great instrument by which man becomes beneficial to man: and it is to the intercourse and transmission of thought, by means of speech, that we are chiefly indebt­ed for the improvement of thought itself. Small are the advances which a single unas­sisted individual can make towards perfect­ing any of his powers. What we call hu­man reason, is not the effort or ability of one, so much as it is the result of the reason of many, arising from lights mutually com­municated, in consequence of discourse and writing.

[Page 2] IT is obvious, then, that writing and dis­course are objects intitled to the highest atten­tion. Whether the influence of the speaker, or the entertainment of the hearer, be con­sulted; whether utility or pleasure be the principal aim in view, we are prompted, by the strongest motives, to study how we may communicate our thoughts to one another with most advantage. Accordingly we find, that in almost every nation, as soon as lan­guage had extended itself beyond that scanty communication which was requisite for the supply of men's necessities, the improvement of discourse began to attract regard. In the language even of rude uncultivated tribes, we can trace some attention to the grace and force of those expressions which they used, when they sought to persuade or to affect. They were early sensible of a beauty in dis­course, and endeavoured to give it certain decorations which experience had taught them it was capable of receiving, long before the study of those decorations was formed in­to a regular art.

BUT, among nations in a civilized state, no art has been cultivated with more care, than that of language, style, and composition. The attention paid to it may, indeed, be as­sumed as one mark of the progress of society towards its most improved period. For, ac­cording as society improves and flourishes, men acquire more influence over one ano­ther by means of reasoning and discourse; [Page 3] and in proportion as that influence is felt to enlarge, it must follow, as a natural conse­quence, that they will bestow more care up­on the methods of expressing their concepti­ons with propriety and eloquence. Hence we find, that in all the polished nations of Eu­rope, this study has been treated as highly important, and has possessed a considerable place in every plan of liberal education.

INDEED, when the arts of speech and writ­ing are mentioned, I am sensible that preju­dices against them are apt to rise in the minds of many. A sort of art is immediately thought of, that is ostentatious and deceitful; the minute and trifling study of words alone; the pomp of expression; the studied fallacies of rhetoric; ornament substituted in the room of use. We need not wonder, that under such imputations, all study of dis­course as an art, should have suffered in the opinion of men of understanding: and I am far from denying, that rhetoric and criticism have sometimes been so managed as to tend to the corruption, rather than to the im­provement, of good taste and true eloquence. But sure it is equally possible to apply the principles of reason and good sense to this art, as to any other that is cultivated among men. If the following Lectures have any merit, it will consist in an endeavour to sub­stitute the application of these principles in the place of artificial and scholastic rhetoric; in an endeavour to explode false ornament, [Page 4] to direct attention more towards substance than show, to recommend good sense as the foundation of all good composition, and sim­plicity as essential to all true ornament.

WHEN entering on the subject, I may be allowed, on this occasion, to suggest a few thoughts concerning the importance and ad­vantages of such studies, and the rank they are intitled to possess in academical educa­tion *. I am under no temptation, for this purpose, of extolling their importance at the expence of any other department of science. On the contrary, the study of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres supposes and requires a proper acquaintance with the rest of the liberal arts. It embraces them all within its circle, and recommends them to the highest regard. The first care of all such as wish either to write with reputation, or to speak in public so as to command attention, must be, to ex­tend their knowledge; to lay in a rich store of ideas relating to those subjects of which the occasions of life may call them to dis­course or to write. Hence, among the an­cients, it was a fundamental principle, and frequently inculcated, ‘"Quod omnibus dis­ciplinis [Page 5] et artibus debet esse instructus ora­tor;"’ that the orator ought to be an ac­complished scholar, and conversant in every part of learning. It is indeed impossible to contrive an art, and very pernicious it were if it could be contrived, which should give the stamp of merit to any composition rich or splendid in expression, but barren or er­roneous in thought. They are the wretch­ed attempts towards an art of this kind which have so often disgraced oratory, and debased it below its true standard. The graces of composition have been em­ployed to disguise or to supply the want of matter; and the temporary applause of the ignorant has been courted, instead of the lasting approbation of the discerning. But such imposture can never maintain its ground long. Knowledge and science must furnish the materials that form the body and sub­stance of any valuable composition. Rhe­toric serves to add the polish; and we know that none but firm and solid bodies can be polished well.

OF those who peruse the following Lec­tures, some, by the profession to which they addict themselves, or in consequence of their prevailing inclination, may have the view of being employed in composition, or in public speaking. Others, without any prospect of this kind, may wish only to improve their taste with respect to writing and discourse, and to acquire principles which will enable [Page 6] them to judge for themselves in that part of literature called the Belles Lettres.

WITH respect to the former, such as may have occasion to communicate their senti­ments to the Public, it is abundantly clear that some preparation of study is requisite for the end which they have in view. To speak or to write perspicuously and agreea­bly, with purity, with grace and strength, are attainments of the utmost consequence to all who purpose, either by speech or writing, to address the Public. For without being master of those attainments, no man can do justice to his own conceptions; but how rich soever he may be in knowledge and in good sense, will be able to avail himself less of those treasures, than such as possess not half his store, but who can display what they possess with more propriety. Neither are these attainments of that kind for which we are indebted to nature merely. Nature has, indeed, conferred upon some a very favour­able distinction in this respect, beyond others. But in these, as in most other talents she bestows, she has left much to be wrought out by every man's own industry. So conspicu­ous have been the effects of study and im­provement in every part of eloquence; such remarkable examples have appeared of per­sons surmounting, by their diligence, the dis­advantages of the most untoward nature, that among the learned it has long been a con­tested, and remains still an undecided point, [Page 7] whether nature or art confer most towards excelling in writing and discourse.

WITH respect to the manner in which art can most effectually furnish assistance for such a purpose, there may be diversity of opinions. I by no means pretend to say that mere rhetorical rules, how just soever, are sufficient to form an orator. Supposing natural genius to be favourable, more by a great deal will depend upon private applica­tion and study, than upon any system of in­struction that is capable of being publicly communicated. But at the same time, though rules and instructions cannot do all that is requisite, they may, however, do much that is of real use. They cannot, it is true, inspire genius; but they can direct and assist it. They cannot remedy barren­ness; but they may correct redundancy. They point out proper models for imitation. They bring into view the chief beauties that ought to be studied, and the principal faults that ought to be avoided; and thereby tend to enlighten taste, and to lead genius from unnatural deviations, into its proper chan­nel. What would not avail for the produc­tion of great excellencies, may at least serve to prevent the commission of considerable errors.

ALL that regards the study of eloquence and composition, merits the higher attention upon this account, that it is intimately con­nected [Page 8] with the improvement of our intel­lectual powers. For I must be allowed to say, that when we are employed, after a proper manner, in the study of composition, we are cultivating reason itself. True rhe­toric and sound logic are very nearly allied. The study of arranging and expressing our thoughts with propriety, teaches to think, as well as to speak, accurately. By putting our sentiments into words, we always con­ceive them more distinctly. Every one who has the slightest acquaintance with composi­tion knows, that when he expresses himself ill on any subject, when his arrangement becomes loose, and his sentences turn feeble, the defects of his style can, almost on every occasion, be traced back to his indistinct conception of the subject: so close is the connection between thoughts and the words in which they are clothed.

THE study of composition, important in itself at all times, has acquired additional importance from the taste and manners of the present age. It is an age wherein im­provements, in every part of science, have been prosecuted with ardour. To all the liberal arts much attention has been paid; and to none more than to the beauty of lan­guage, and the grace and elegance of every kind of writing. The public ear is become refined. It will not easily bear what is slo­venly and incorrect. Every author must aspire to some merit in expression, as well [Page 9] as in sentiment, if he would not incur the danger of being neglected and despised.

I WILL not deny that the love of minute elegance, and attention to inferior ornaments of composition, may at present have en­grossed too great a degree of the public re­gard. It is indeed my opinion, that we lean to this extreme; often more careful of po­lishing style, than of storing it with thought. Yet hence arises a new reason for the study of just and proper composition. If it be re­quisite not to be deficient in elegance or or­nament in times when they are in such high estimation, it is still more requisite to attain the power of distinguishing false ornament from true, in order to prevent our being carried away by that torrent of false and fri­volous taste, which never fails, when it is prevalent, to sweep along with it the raw and the ignorant. They who have never studied eloquence in its principles, nor have been trained to attend to the genuine and manly beauties of good writing, are always ready to be caught by the mere glare of lan­guage; and when they come to speak in public, or to compose, have no other stan­dard on which to form themselves, except what chances to be fashionable and popular, how corrupted soever, or erroneous, that may be.

BUT as there are many who have no such objects as either composition or public speak­ing [Page 10] in view, let us next consider what ad­vantages may be derived by them, from such studies as form the subject of these Lectures. To them, rhetoric is not so much a practical art as a speculative science; and the same instructions which assist others in composing, will assist them in judging of, and relishing, the beauties of composition. Whatever en­ables genius to execute well, will enable taste to criticise justly.

WHEN we name criticising, prejudices may perhaps arise, of the same kind with those which I mentioned before with respect to rhetoric. As rhetoric has been sometimes thought to signify nothing more than the scholastic study of words, and phrases, and tropes, so criticism has been considered as merely the art of finding faults; as the fri­gid application of certain technical terms, by means of which persons are taught to cavil and censure in a learned manner. But this is the criticism of pedants only. True criti­cism is a liberal and humane art. It is the offspring of good sense and refined taste. It aims at acquiring a just discernment of the real merit of authors. It promotes a lively relish of their beauties, while it preserves us from that blind and implicit veneration which would confound their beauties and faults in our esteem. It teaches us, in a word, to ad­mire and to blame with judgment, and not to follow the crowd blindly.

[Page 11] IN an age when works of genius and lite­rature are so frequently the subjects of dis­course, when every one erects himself into a judge, and when we can hardly mingle in po­lite society without bearing some share in such discussions; studies of this kind, it is not to be doubted, will appear to derive part of their importance from the use to which they may be applied in furnishing materials for those fashionable topics of discourse, and thereby enabling us to support a proper rank in social life.

BUT I should be sorry if we could not rest the merit of such studies on somewhat of so­lid and intrinsical use independent of appear­ance and show. The exercise of taste and of sound criticism, is in truth one of the most improving employments of the understanding. To apply the principles of good sense to com­position and discourse; to examine what is beautiful, and why it is so; to employ our­selves in distinguishing accurately between the specious and the solid, between affected and natural ornament, must certainly im­prove us not a little in the most valuable part of all philosophy, the philosophy of human nature. For such disquisitions are very inti­mately connected with the knowledge of our­selves. They necessarily lead us to reflect on the operations of the imagination, and the movements of the heart; and increase our acquaintance with some of the most refined feelings which belong to our frame.

[Page 12] LOGICAL and Ethical disquisitions move in a higher sphere; and are conversant with objects of a more severe kind; the progress of the understanding in its search after know­ledge, and the direction of the will in the proper pursuit of good. In these they point out to man the improvement of his nature as an intelligent being; and his duties as the subject of moral obligation. Belles Lettres and criticism chiefly consider him as a Being endowed with those powers of taste and ima­gination, which were intended to embellish his mind, and to supply him with rational and useful entertainment. They open a field of investigation peculiar to themselves. All that relates to beauty, harmony, gran­deur, and elegance; all that can sooth the mind, gratify the fancy, or move the affecti­ons, belongs to their province. They pre­sent human nature under a different aspect from that which it assumes to the view of other sciences. They bring to light various springs of action which without their aid might have passed unobserved; and which, though of a delicate nature, frequently exert a powerful influence on several departments of human life.

SUCH studies have also this peculiar advan­tage, that they exercise our reason without fatiguing it. They lead to enquiries acute, but not painful; profound, but not dry nor abstruse. They strew flowers in the path of science; and while they keep the mind bent, [Page 13] in some degree, and active, they relieve it at the same time from that more toilsome labour to which it must submit in the acquisition of necessary erudition, or the investigation of abstract truth.

THE cultivation of taste is farther recom­mended by the happy effects which it natu­rally tends to produce on human life. The most busy man, in the most active sphere, cannot be always occupied by business. Men of serious professions cannot always be on the stretch of serious thought. Neither can the most gay and flourishing situations of fortune afford any man the power of filling all his hours with pleasure. Life must al­ways languish in the hands of the idle. It will frequently languish even in the hands of the busy, if they have not some employment subsidiary to that which forms their main pursuit. How then shall these vacant spaces, those unemployed intervals, which, more or less, occur in the life of every one, be filled up? How can we contrive to dispose of them in any way that shall be more agreeable in itself, or more consonant to the dignity of the human mind, than in the entertainments of taste, and the study of polite literature? He who is so happy as to have acquired a re­lish for these, has always at hand an inno­cent and irreproachable amusement for his leisure hours, to save him from the danger of many a pernicious passion. He is not in ha­zard of being a burden to himself. He is not [Page 14] obliged to fly to low company, or to court the riot of loose pleasures, in order to cure the tediousness of existence.

PROVIDENCE seems plainly to have point­ed out this useful purpose to which the plea­sures of taste may be applied, by interposing them in a middle station between the plea­sures of sense, and those of pure intellect. We were not designed to grovel always among objects so low as the former; nor are we capable of dwelling constantly in so high a region as the latter. The pleasures of taste refresh the mind after the toils of the intel­lect, and the labours of abstract study; and they gradually raise it above the attachments of sense, and prepare it for the enjoyments of virtue.

SO consonant is this to experience, that in the education of youth, no object has in every age appeared more important to wise men, than to tincture them early with a re­lish for the entertainments of taste. The transition is commonly made with ease from these to the discharge of the higher and more important duties of life. Good hopes may be entertained of those whose minds have this liberal and elegant turn. Many virtues may be grafted upon it. Whereas to be en­tirely devoid of relish for eloquence, poetry, or any of the fine arts, is justly constructed to be an unpromising symptom of youth; and raises suspicions of their being prone to [Page 15] low gratifications, or destined to drudge in the more vulgar and illiberal pursuits of life.

THERE are indeed few good dispositions of any kind with which the improvement of taste is not more or less connected. A cul­tivated taste increases sensibility to all the tender and humane passions, by giving them frequent exercise; while it tends to weaken the more violent and fierce emotions.

—Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes
Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros *.

The elevated sentiments and high examples which poetry, eloquence and history are often bringing under our view, naturally tend to nourish in our minds public spirit, the love of glory, contempt of external fortune, and the admiration of what is truly illustrious and great.

I WILL not go so far as to say that the improvement of taste and of virtue is the same; or that they may always be expected to coexist in an equal degree. More power­ful correctives than taste can apply, are ne­cessary for reforming the corrupt propensi­ties which too frequently prevail among man­kind. Elegant speculations are sometimes [Page 16] found to float on the surface of the mind, while bad passions possess the interior regi­ons of the heart. At the same time this cannot but be admitted, that the exercise of taste is, in its native tendency, moral and purifying. From reading the most admired productions of genius, whether in poetry or prose, almost every one rises with some good impressions left on his mind; and though these may not always be durable, they are at least to be ranked among the means of dis­posing the heart to virtue. One thing is certain, and I shall hereafter have occasion to illustrate it more fully, that without pos­sessing the virtuous affections in a strong de­gree, no man can attain eminence in the sublime parts of eloquence. He must feel what a good man feels, if he expects greatly to move or to interest mankind. They are the ardent sentiments of honour, virtue, magnanimity, and publick spirit, that only can kindle that fire of genius, and call up into the mind those high ideas, which attract the admiration of ages; and if this spirit be necessary to produce the most distinguished efforts of eloquence, it must be necessary also to our relishing them with proper taste and feeling.

ON these general topics I shall dwell no longer; but proceed directly to the conside­ration of the subjects which are to employ the following Lectures. They divide them­selves into five parts. First, some introduc­tory [Page 17] dissertations on the nature of taste, and upon the sources of its pleasures. Second­ly, the consideration of language: Thirdly, of style: Fourthly, of eloquence properly so called, or publick speaking in its different kinds. Lastly, a critical examination of the most distinguished species of composition, both in prose and verse.

LECTURE II. TASTE.

THE nature of the present undertaking leads me to begin with some enquiries concerning Taste, as it is this faculty which is always appealed to in disquisitions concern­ing the merit of discourse and writing.

THERE are few subjects on which men talk more loosely and indistinctly than on Taste; few which it is more difficult to ex­plain with precision; and none which in this Course of Lectures will appear more dry or abstract. What I have to say on the subject shall be in the following order. I shall first explain the Nature of Taste as a power or faculty in the human mind. I shall next consider how far it is an improveable faculty. I shall shew the sources of its improvement, and the characters of taste in its most perfect state. I shall then examine the various fluc­tuations to which it is liable, and enquire [Page 19] whether there be any standard to which we can bring the different tastes of men, in or­der to distinguish the corrupted from the true.

TASTE may be defined ‘"The power of receiving pleasure from the beauties of na­ture and of art."’ The first question that occurs concerning it is, whether it is to be considered as an internal sense, or as an exer­tion of reason? Reason is a very general term; but if we understand by it, that pow­er of the mind which in speculative matters discovers truth, and in practical matters judges of the fitness of means to an end, I apprehend the question may be easily an­swered. For nothing can be more clear, than that taste is not resolveable into any such operation of Reason. It is not merely through a discovery of the understanding or a deduc­tion of argument, that the mind receives plea­sure from a beautiful prospect or a fine poem. Such objects often strike us intuitively, and make a strong impression when we are un­able to assign the reasons of our being pleas­ed. They sometimes strike in the same man­ner the philosopher and the peasant; the boy and the man. Hence the faculty by which we relish such beauties, seems more a-kin to a feeling of sense, than to a process of the understanding: and accordingly from an ex­ternal sense it has borrowed its name; that sense by which we receive and distinguish the pleasures of food having, in several lan­guages, [Page 20] given rise to the word Taste in the metaphorical meaning under which we now consider it. However, as in all subjects which regard the operations of the mind, the inac­curate use of words is to be carefully avoid­ed, it must not be inferred from what I have said, that reason is excluded from the exer­tions of taste. Though taste, beyond doubt, be ultimately founded on a certain natural and instinctive sensibility to beauty, yet rea­son, as I shall shew hereafter, assists Taste in many of its operations, and serves to enlarge its power *.

TASTE, in the sense in which I have ex­plained it, is a faculty common in some de­gree to all men. Nothing that belongs to human nature is more universal than the re­lish of beauty of one kind or other; of what is orderly, proportioned, grand, harmonious, new, or sprightly. In children, the rudiments of Taste discover themselves very early in a thousand instances; in their fondness for re­gular bodies, their admiration of pictures and statues, and imitations of all kinds; and their strong attachment to whatever is new or marvellous. The most ignorant peasants are delighted with ballads and tales, and are [Page 21] struck with the beautiful appearances of na­ture in the earth and heavens. Even in the desarts of America, where human nature shews itself in its most uncultivated state, the sa­vages have their ornaments of dress, their war and their death songs, their harangues, and their orators. We must therefore conclude the principles of Taste to be deeply founded in the human mind. It is no less essential to man to have some discernment of beauty, than it is to possess the attributes of reason and of speech *.

[Page 22] BUT although none be wholly devoid of this faculty, yet the degrees in which it is possessed are widely different. In some men only the feeble glimmerings of Taste appear; the beauties which they relish are of the coarsest kind; and of these they have but a weak and confused impression: while in others, Taste rises to an acute discernment, and a lively enjoyment of the most refined beauties. In general, we may observe, that in the powers and pleasures of Taste, there is a more remarkable inequality among men than is usually found in point of common sense, reason, and judgment. The constitu­tion of our nature in this, as in all other res­pects, discovers admirable wisdom. In the distribution of those talents which are neces­sary for man's well-being, Nature hath made less distinction among her children. But in the distribution of those which belong only to the ornamental part of life, she hath bestow­ed her favours with more frugality. She hath both sown the seeds more sparingly; and rendered a higher culture requisite for bringing them to perfection.

THIS inequality of Taste among men is owing, without doubt, in part, to the differ­ent frame of their natures; to nicer organs, and finer internal powers, with which some are endowed beyond others. But, if it be owing in part to nature, it is owing to edu­cation and culture still more. The illustra­tion of this leads to my next remark on this [Page 23] subject, that Taste is a most improveable fa­culty, if there be any such in human nature; a remark which gives great encouragement to such a course of study as we are now pro­posing to pursue. Of the truth of this asser­tion we may easily be convinced, by only reflecting on that immense superiority which education and improvement give to civilized, above barbarous nations, in refinement of Taste; and on the superiority which they give in the same nation to those who have studied the liberal arts, above the rude and untaught vulgar. The difference is so great, that there is perhaps no one particular in which these two classes of men are so far removed from each other, as in respect of the powers and the pleasures of Taste: and assuredly for this difference no other general cause can be assigned, but culture and edu­cation.—I shall now proceed to shew what the means are, by which Taste becomes so remarkably susceptible of cultivation and progress.

REFLECT first upon that great law of our nature, that exercise is the chief source of improvement in all our faculties. This holds both in our bodily, and in our mental powers. It holds even in our external senses; although these be less the subject of cultivation than any of our other faculties. We see how acute the senses become in per­sons whose trade or business leads to nice ex­ertions of them. Touch, for instance, be­comes [Page 24] infinitely more exquisite in men whose employment requires them to examine the polish of bodies, than it is in others. They who deal in microscopical observations, or are accustomed to engrave on precious stones, acquire surprising accuracy of sight in dis­cerning the minutest objects; and practice in attending to different flavours and tastes of liquors, wonderfully improves the power of distinguishing them, and of tracing their composition. Placing internal Taste there­fore on the footing of a simple sense, it can­not be doubted that frequent exercise, and curious attention to its proper objects, must greatly heighten its power. Of this we have one clear proof in that part of Taste, which is called an ear for music. Experience every days shews, that nothing is more improvea­ble. Only the simplest and plainest compo­sitions are relished at first; use and practice extend our pleasure; teach us to relish finer melody, and by degrees enable us to enter into the intricate and compounded pleasures of harmony. So an eye for the beauties of painting is never all at once acquired. It is gradually formed by being conversant among pictures, and studying the works of the best masters.

PRECISELY in the same manner, with re­spect to the beauty of composition and dis­course, attention to the most approved mo­dels, study of the best authors, comparisons of lower and higher degrees of the same [Page 25] beauties, operate towards the refinement of Taste. When one is only beginning his ac­quaintance with works of genius, the senti­ment which attends them is obscure and con­fused. He cannot point out the several ex­cellencies or blemishes of a performance which he peruses; he is at a loss on what to rest his judgment; all that can be expected is, that he should tell in general whether he be pleased or not. But allow him more ex­perience in works of this kind, and his Taste becomes by degrees more exact and enlight­ened. He begins to perceive not only the character of the whole, but the beauties and defects of each part; and is able to describe the peculiar qualities which he praises or blames. The mist dissipates which seemed formerly to hang over the object; and he can at length pronounce firmly, and without hesitation, concerning it. Thus in Taste, considered as mere sensibility, exercise opens a great source of improvement.

BUT although Taste be ultimately found­ed on sensibility, it must not be considered as instinctive sensibility alone. Reason and good sense, as I before hinted, have so ex­tensive an influence on all the operations and decisions of Taste, that a thorough good Taste may well be considered as a power compounded of natural sensibility to beauty, and of improved understanding. In order to be satisfied of this, let us observe, that the greater part of the productions of ge­nius [Page 26] are no other than imitations of nature; representations of the characters, actions, or manners of men. The pleasure we receive from such imitations or representations is founded on mere Taste: but to judge whe­ther they be properly executed, belongs to the understanding, which compares the copy with the original.

IN reading, for instance, such a poem as the Aeneid, a great part of our pleasure arises from the plan or story being well conducted, and all the parts joined together with proba­bility and due connexion; from the charac­ters being taken from nature, the sentiments being suited to the characters, and the style to the sentiments. The pleasure which arises from a poem so conducted, is felt or enjoyed by Taste as an internal sense; but the disco­very of this conduct in the poem is owing to reason; and the more that reason enables us to discover such propriety in the conduct, the greater will be our pleasure. We are pleased, through our natural sense of beau­ty. Reason shews us why, and upon what grounds, we are pleased. Wherever in works of Taste, any resemblance to nature is aimed at; wherever there is any reference of parts to a whole, or of means to an end, as there is indeed in almost every writing and discourse, there the understanding must al­ways have a great part to act.

[Page 27] HERE then is a wide field for reason's ex­erting its powers in relation to the objects of Taste, particularly with respect to composi­tion, and works of genius; and hence arises a second and a very considerable source of the improvement of Taste, from the appli­cation of reason and good sense to such pro­ductions of genius. Spurious beauties, such as unnatural characters, forced sentiments, affected style, may please for a little; but they please only because their opposition to nature and to good sense has not been exa­mined, or attended to. Once shew how na­ture might have been more justly imitated or represented: how the writer might have ma­naged his subject to greater advantage; the illusion will presently be dissipated, and those false beauties will please no more.

FROM these two sources then, first, the frequent exercise of Taste, and next the ap­plication of good sense and reason to the ob­jects of Taste, Taste as a power of the mind receives its improvement. In its perfect state, it is undoubtedly the result both of nature and of art. It supposes our natural sense of beauty to be refined by frequent attention to the most beautiful objects, and at the same time to be guided and improved by the light of the understanding.

I MUST be allowed to add, that as a sound head, so likewise a good heart, is a very ma­terial requisite to just Taste. The moral [Page 28] beauties are not only in themselves superiour to all others, but they exert an influence, either more near or more remote, on a great variety of other objects of Taste. Wherever the affections, characters, or actions of men are concerned (and these certainly afford the noblest subjects to genius), there can be nei­ther any just or affecting description of them, nor any thorough feeling of the beauty of that description, without our possessing the virtuous affections. He whose heart is in­delicate or hard, he who has no admiration of what is truly noble or praiseworthy, nor the proper sympathetic sense of what is soft and tender, must have a very imperfect re­lish of the highest beauties of eloquence and poetry.

THE characters of Taste when brought to its most perfect state are all reducible to two, Delicacy and Correctness.

DELICACY of Taste respects principally the perfection of that natural sensibility on which Taste is founded. It implies those finer organs or powers which enable us to discover beauties that lie hid from a vulgar eye. One may have strong sensibility, and yet be deficient in delicate Taste. He may be deeply impressed by such beauties as he perceives; but he perceives only what is in some degree coarse, what is bold and palpa­ble; while chaster and simpler ornaments escape his notice. In this state Taste gene­rally [Page 29] exists among rude and unrefined nati­ons. But a person of delicate Taste both feels strongly, and feels accurately. He sees distinctions and differences where others see none; the most latent beauty does not escape him, and he is sensible of the smallest ble­mish. Delicacy of Taste is judged of by the same marks that we use in judging of the delicacy of an external sense. As the good­ness of the palate is not tried by strong fla­vours, but by a mixture of ingredients, where, notwithstanding the confusion, we remain sensible of each; in like manner de­licacy of internal Taste appears, by a quick and lively sensibility to its finest, most com­pounded, or most latent objects.

CORRECTNESS of Taste respects chiefly the improvement which that faculty receives through its connexion with the understand­ing. A man of correct Taste is one who is never imposed on by counterfeit beauties; who carries always in his mind that standard of good sense which he employs in judging of every thing. He estimates with propriety the comparative merit of the several beauties which he meets with in any work of genius; refers them to their proper classes; assigns the principles, as far as they can be traced, whence their power of pleasing us flows; and is pleased himself precisely in that de­gree in which he ought, and no more.

[Page 30] IT is true that these two qualities of Taste, Delicacy and Correctness, mutually imply each other. No Taste can be exquisitely de­licate without being correct; nor can be tho­roughly correct without being delicate. But still a predominancy of one or other quality in the mixture is often visible. The power of Delicacy is chiefly seen in discerning the true merit of a work; the power of Correct­ness, in rejecting false pretensions to merit. Delicacy leans more to feeling; Correctness more to reason and judgment. The former is more the gift of nature; the latter, more the product of culture and art. Among the antient critics, Longinus possessed most Deli­cacy; Aristotle, most Correctness. Among the moderns, Mr. Addison is a high example of delicate Taste; Dean Swift, had he writ­ten on the subject of criticism, would per­haps have afforded the example of a correct one.

HAVING viewed Taste in its most improv­ed and perfect state, I come next to consider its deviations from that state, the fluctuati­ons and changes to which it is liable; and to enquire whether, in the midst of these, there be any means of distinguishing a true from a corrupted Taste. This brings us to the most difficult part of our task. For it must be acknowledged, that no principle of the human mind is, in its operations, more fluc­tuating and capricious than Taste. Its vari­ations have been so great and frequent, as to [Page 31] create a suspicion with some, of its being merely arbitrary; grounded on no founda­tion, ascertainable by no standard, but wholly dependent on changing fancy; the conse­quence of which would be, that all studies or regular enquiries concerning the objects of Taste were vain. In architecture, the Grecian models were long esteemed the most perfect. In succeeding ages, the Gothic architecture alone prevailed, and afterwards the Grecian Taste revived in all its vigour, and engrossed the public admiration. In elo­quence and poetry, the Asiatics at no time relished any thing but what was full of orna­ment, and splendid in a degree that we would denominate gawdy; whilst the Greeks ad­mired only chaste and simple beauties, and despised the Asiatic ostentation. In our own country, how many writings that were great­ly extolled two or three centuries ago, are now fallen into entire disrepute and oblivi­on? Without going back to remote instances, how very different is the taste of poetry which prevails in Great Britain now, from what pre­vailed there no longer ago than the reign of king Charles II. which the authors too of that time deemed an Augustan age: when nothing was in vogue but an affected bril­liancy of wit; when the simple majesty of Milton was overlooked, and Paradise Lost almost entirely unknown; when Cowley's laboured and unnatural conceits were ad­mired as the very quintessence of genius; Waller's gay sprightliness was mistaken for [Page 32] the tender spirit of Love poetry; and such writers as Suckling and Etheridge were held in esteem for dramatic composition?

THE question is, what conclusion we are to form from such instances as these? Is there any thing that can be called a standard of Taste, by appealing to which we may distin­guish between a good and a bad Taste? Or, is there in truth no such distinction; and are we to hold that, according to the proverb, there is no disputing of Tastes; but that whatever pleases is right, for that reason that it does please? This is the question, and a very nice and subtile one it is, which we are now to discuss.

I BEGIN by observing, that if there be no such thing as any standard of Taste, this consequence must immediately follow, that all Tastes are equally good; a position, which though it may pass unnoticed in slight mat­ters, and when we speak of the lesser differ­ences among the Tastes of men, yet when we apply it to the extremes, its absurdity presently becomes glaring. For is there any one who will seriously maintain that the Taste of a Hottentot or a Laplander is as delicate and as correct as that of a Longinus or an Addison? or, that he can be charged with no defect or incapacity who thinks a common news-writer as excellent an Histo­rian as Tacitus? As it would be held down­right extravagance to talk in this manner, we [Page 33] are led unavoidably to this conclusion, that there is some foundation for the preference of one man's Taste to that of another; or, that there is a good and a bad, right and a wrong in Taste, as in other things.

BUT to prevent mistakes on this subject, it is necessary to observe next, that the di­versity of Tastes which prevails among man­kind, does not in every case infer corrup­tion of Taste, or oblige us to seek for some standard in order to determine who are in the right. The Tastes of men may differ very considerably as to their object, and yet none of them be wrong. One man relishes Poetry most; another takes pleasure in no­thing but History. One prefers Comedy; another, Tragedy. One admires the simple; another, the ornamented style. The young are amused with gay and sprightly composi­tions. The elderly are more entertained with those of a graver cast. Some nations delight in bold pictures of manners, and strong representations of passion. Others incline to more correct and regular elegance both in description and sentiment. Though all differ, yet all pitch upon some one beau­ty which peculiarly suits their turn of mind; and therefore no one has a title to condemn the rest. It is not in matters of Taste, as in questions of mere reason, where there is but one conclusion that can be true, and all the rest are erroneous. Truth, which is the object of reason, is one; Beauty, which is [Page 34] the object of Taste, is manifold. Taste therefore admits of latitude and diversity of objects, in sufficient consistency with good­ness or justness of Taste.

BUT then, to explain this matter tho­roughly, I must observe farther, that this admissible diversity of Tastes can only have place where the objects of Taste are differ­ent. Where it is with respect to the same object that men disagree, when one con­demns that as ugly, which another admires as highly beautiful; then it is no longer di­versity, but direct opposition of Taste that takes place; and therefore one must be in the right, and another in the wrong, unless that absurd paradox were allowed to hold, that all Tastes are equally good and true. One man prefers Virgil to Homer. Suppose that I, on the other hand, admire Homer more than Virgil. I have as yet no reason to say that our Tastes are contradictory. The other person is most struck with the elegance and tenderness which are the cha­racteristics of Virgil; I, with the simplicity and fire of Homer. As long as neither of us deny that both Homer and Virgil have great beauties, our difference falls within the compass of that diversity of Tastes, which I have shewed to be natural and allowable. But if the other man shall assert that Ho­mer has no beauties whatever; that he holds him to be a dull and spiritless writer, and that he would as soon peruse any old legend [Page 35] of Knight-Errantry as the Iliad; then I ex­claim, that my antagonist either is void of all Taste, or that his Taste is corrupted in a miserable degree; and I appeal to whatever I think the standard of Taste, to shew him that he is in the wrong.

WHAT that standard is, to which, in such opposition of Tastes, we are obliged to have recourse, remains to be traced. A standard properly signifies, that which is of such un­doubted authority as to be the test of other things of the same kind. Thus a standard weight or measure, is that which is appoint­ed by law to regulate all other measures and weights. Thus the court is said to be the standard of good breeding; and the scrip­ture, of theological truth.

WHEN we say that nature is the standard of Taste, we lay down a principle very true and just, as far as it can be applied. There is no doubt, that in all cases where an imita­tion is intended of some object that exists in nature, as in representing human characters or actions, conformity to nature affords a full and distinct criterion of what is truly beautiful. Reason hath in such cases full scope for exerting its authority; for approv­ing or condemning; by comparing the copy with the original. But there are innumera­ble cases in which this rule cannot be at all applied; and conformity to nature, is an expression frequently used, without any dis­tinct [Page 36] or determinate meaning. We must therefore search for somewhat that can be rendered more clear and precise, to be the standard of Taste.

TASTE, as I before explained it, is ulti­mately founded on an internal sense of beau­ty, which is natural to men, and which, in its application to particular objects, is capa­ble of being guided and enlightened by rea­son. Now, were there any one person who possessed in full perfection all the powers of human nature, whose internal senses were in every instance exquisite and just, and whose reason was unerring and sure, the determinations of such a person concerning beauty, would, beyond doubt, be a perfect standard for the Taste of all others. Where­ever their Taste differed from his, it could be imputed only to some imperfection in their natural powers. But as there is no such living standard, no one person to whom all mankind will allow such submission to be due, what is there of sufficient authority to be the standard of the various and opposite Tastes of men? Most certainly there is no­thing but the Taste, as far as it can be ga­thered, of human nature. That which men concur the most in admiring, must be held to be beautiful. His Taste must be esteem­ed just and true, which coincides with the general sentiments of men. In this standard we must rest. To the sense of mankind the ultimate appeal must ever lie, in all works [Page 37] of Taste. If any one should maintain that sugar was bitter and tobacco was sweet, no reasonings could avail to prove it. The Taste of such a person would infallibly be held to be diseased, merely because it differed so widely from the Taste of the species to which he belongs. In like manner, with re­gard to the objects of sentiment or internal Taste, the common feelings of men carry the same authority, and have a title to regulate the Taste of every individual.

BUT have we then, it will be said, no other criterion of what is beautiful, than the appro­bation of the majority? Must we collect the voices of others, before we form any judg­ment for ourselves, of what deserves applause in Eloquence or Poetry? By no means; there are principles of reason and sound judgment which can be applied to matters of Taste, as well as to the subjects of sci­ence and philosophy. He who admires or censures any work of genius, is always rea­dy, if his Taste be in any degree improved, to assign some reasons of his decision. He appeals to principles, and points out the grounds on which he proceeds. Taste is a sort of compound power, in which the light of the understanding always mingles, more or less, with the feelings of sentiment.

BUT, though reason can carry us a cer­tain length in judging concerning works of Taste, it is not to be forgotten that the ulti­mate [Page 38] conclusions to which our reasonings lead, refer at last to sense and perception. We may speculate and argue concerning pro­priety of conduct in a Tragedy, or an Epic Poem. Just reasonings on the subject will correct the caprice of unenlightened Taste, and establish principles for judging of what deserves praise. But, at the same time, these reasonings appeal always, in the last resort, to feeling. The foundation upon which they rest, is what has been found from experience to please mankind most universally. Upon this ground we prefer a simple and natural, to an artificial and affected style; a regular and well-connected story, to loose and scat­tered narratives; a catastrophe which is ten­der and pathetic, to one which leaves us un­moved. It is from consulting our own ima­gination and heart, and from attending to the feelings of others, that any principles are formed which acquire authority in mat­ters of Taste *.

[Page 39] WHEN we refer to the concurring senti­ments of men as the ultimate test of what is to be accounted beautiful in the arts, this is to be always understood of men placed in such situations as are favourable to the pro­per exertions of Taste. Every one must perceive, that among rude and uncivilized nations, and during the ages of ignorance and darkness, any loose notions that are en­tertained concerning such subjects carry no authority. In those states of society, Taste has no materials on which to operate. It is either totally suppressed, or appears in its lowest and most imperfect form. We refer to the sentiments of mankind in polished and flourishing nations; when arts are cul­tivated and manners refined; when works of genius are subjected to free discussion, and Taste is improved by Science and phi­losophy.

EVEN among nations, at such a period of society, I admit, that accidental causes may occasionally warp the proper operations of Taste; sometimes the state of religion, some­times [Page 40] the form of government, may for a while pervert it; a licentious court may in­troduce a taste for false ornaments, and dis­solute writings. The usage of one admired genius may procure approbation for his faults, and even render them fashionable. Some­times envy may have power to bear down, for a little, productions of great merit; while popular humour, or party spirit, may, at other times, exalt to a high, though short-lived, re­putation, what little deserved it. But though such casual circumstances give the appear­ance of caprice to the judgments of Taste, that appearance is easily corrected. In the course of time, the genuine taste of human nature never fails to disclose itself, and to gain the ascendant over any fantastic and corrupt­ed modes of Taste which may chance to have been introduced. These may have currency for a while, and mislead superficial judges; but being subjected to examination, by de­grees they pass away; while that alone re­mains which is founded on sound reason, and tha native feelings of men.

I BY no means pretend, that there is any standard of Taste, to which, in every parti­cular instance, we can resort for clear and immediate determination. Where, indeed, is such a standard to be found for deciding any of those great controversies in reason and philosophy, which perpetually divide mankind? In the present case, there was plainly no occasion for any such strict and [Page 41] absolute provision to be made. In order to judge of what is morally good or evil, of what man ought, or ought not in duty to do, it was fit that the means of clear and precise determination should be afforded us. But to ascertain in every case with the utmost exact­ness what is beautiful or elegant, was not at all necessary to the happiness of man. And therefore some diversity in feeling was here allowed to take place; and room was left for discussion and debate, concerning the degree of approbation to which any work of genius is entitled.

THE conclusion, which it is sufficient for us to rest upon, is, that Taste is far from be­ing an arbitrary principle, which is subject to the fancy of every individual, and which ad­mits of no criterion for determining whether it be false or true. Its foundation is the same in all human minds. It is built upon sentiments and perceptions which belong to our nature; and which, in general, operate with the same uniformity as our other intel­lectual principles. When these sentiments are perverted by ignorance and prejudice, they are capable of being rectified by reason. Their sound and natural state is ultimately determined, by comparing them with the general Taste of mankind. Let men declaim as much as they please, concerning the ca­price and the uncertainty of Taste, it is found, by experience, that there are beauties, which, if they be displayed in a proper light, have [Page 42] power to command lasting and general admi­ration. In every composition, what interests the imagination, and touches the heart, pleases all ages and all nations. There is a certain string, which, being properly struck, the hu­man heart is so made as to answer to it.

HENCE the universal testimony which the most improved nations of the earth have conspired, throughout a long tract of ages, to give to some few works of genius; such as the Iliad of Homer, and the Aeneid of Virgil. Hence the authority which such works have acquired, as standards in some degree of po­etical composition; since from them we are enabled to collect what the sense of mankind is, concerning those beauties which give them the highest pleasure, and which therefore po­etry ought to exhibit. Authority or preju­dice may, in one age or country, give a tem­porary reputation to an indifferent poet, or a bad artist; but when foreigners, or when posterity examine his works, his faults are discerned, and the genuine Taste of human nature appears. ‘"Opinionum commenta de­let dies; naturae judicia confirmat."’ Time overthrows the illusions of opinion, but esta­blishes the decisions of nature.

LECTURE III. CRITICISM.—GENIUS.—PLEASURES OF TASTE.—SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS.

TASTE, Criticism, and Genius, are words currently employed, without distinct ideas annexed to them. In begin­ning a course of Lectures where such words must often occur, it is necessary to ascertain their meaning with some precision. Having in the last Lecture treated of Taste, I pro­ceed to explain the nature and foundation of Criticism. True Criticism is the applica­tion of Taste and of good sense to the seve­ral fine arts. The object which it proposes is, to distinguish what is beautiful and what is faulty in every performance; from parti­cular instances to ascend to general princi­ples; and so to form rules or conclusions concerning the several kinds of beauty in works of Genius.

[Page 44] THE rules of Criticism are not formed by any induction, à priori, as it is called; that is, they are not formed by a train of abstract reasoning, independent of facts and observa­tions. Criticism is an art founded wholly on experience; on the observation of such beau­ties as have come nearest to the standard which I before established: that is, of such beauties as have been found to please man­kind most generally. For example; Aris­totle's rules concerning the unity of action in dramatic and epic composition, were not rules first discovered by logical reasoning, and then applied to poetry; but they were drawn from the practice of Homer and So­phocles: they were founded upon observing the superior pleasure which we receive from the relation of an action which is one and entire, beyond what we receive from the re­lation of scattered and unconnected facts. Such observations taking their rise at first from feeling and experience, were found on examination to be so consonant to reason, and to the principles of human nature, as to pass into established rules, and to be conve­niently applied for judging of the excellency of any performance. This is the most natu­ral account of the origin of Criticism.

A MASTERLY genius, it is true, will of himself, untaught, compose in such a manner as shall be agreeable to the most material rules of Criticism; for as these rules are founded in nature, nature will often suggest [Page 45] them in practice. Homer, it is more than probable, was acquainted with no systems of the art of poetry. Guided by genius alone, he composed in verse a regular story, which all posterity has admired. But this is no argument against the usefulness of Criti­cism as an art. For as no human genius is perfect, there is no writer but may receive assistance from critical observations upon the beauties and faults of those who have gone before him. No observations or rules can indeed supply the defect of genius, or in­spire it where it is wanting. But they may often direct it into its proper channell; they may correct its extravagancies, and point out to it the most just and proper imitation of nature. Critical rules are designed chiefly to shew the faults that ought to be avoided. To nature we must be indebted for the pro­duction of eminent beauties.

FROM what has been said, we are enabled to form a judgment concerning those com­plaints which it has long been fashionable for petty authors to make against Critics and Criticism. Critics have been represented as the great abridgers of the native liberty of genius; as the imposers of unnatural shackles and bonds upon writers, from whose cruel persecution they must fly to the Public, and implore its protection. Such supplicatory prefaces are not calculated to give very fa­vourable ideas of the genius of the author. For every good writer will be pleased to have [Page 46] his work examined by the principles of sound understanding, and true Taste. The decla­mations against Criticism commonly proceed upon this supposition, that Critics are such as judge by rule, not by feeling; which is so far from being true, that they who judge after this manner are pedants, not Critics. For all the rules of genuine Criticism I have shewn to be ultimately founded on feeling; and Taste and Feeling are necessary to guide us in the application of these rules to every particular instance. As there is nothing in which all sorts of persons more readily affect to be judges than in works of Taste, there is no doubt that the number of incompetent Critics will always be great. But this affords no more foundation for a general invective against Criticism, than the number of bad philosophers or reasoners affords against rea­son and philosophy.

AN objection more plausible may be form­ed against Criticism, from the applause that some performances have received from the Public, which, when accurately considered, are found to contradict the rules established by Criticism. Now, according to the princi­ples laid down in the last Lecture, the Public is the supreme judge to whom the last appeal must be made in every work of Taste; as the standard of Taste is founded on the senti­ments that are natural and common to all men. But with respect to this we are to ob­serve, that the sense of the Public is often [Page 47] too hastily judged of. The genuine public Taste does not always appear in the first ap­plause given upon the publication of any new work. There are both a great vulgar and a small, apt to be catched and dazzled by very superficial beauties, the admiration of which in a little time passes away: and sometimes a writer may acquire great tem­porary reputation merely by his compliance with the passions or prejudices, with the party-spirit or superstitious notions, that may chance to rule for a time almost a whole nation. In such cases, though the Public may seem to praise, true Criticism may with reason condemn; and it will in progress of time gain the ascendant: for the judgment of true Criticism, and the voice of the Pub­lic, when once become unprejudiced and dis­passionate, will ever coincide at last.

INSTANCES, I admit, there are, of some works that contain gross transgressions of the laws of Criticism, acquiring, nevertheless, a general, and even a lasting admiration. Such are the plays of Shakespeare, which, con­sidered as dramatic poems, are irregular in the highest degree. But then we are to re­mark, that they have gained the public ad­miration, not by their being irregular, not by their transgressions of the rules of art, but in spite of such transgressions. They possess other beauties which are conformable to just rules; and the force of these beau­ties has been so great as to overpower all cen­sure, [Page 48] and to give the Public a degree of sa­tisfaction superior to the disgust arising from their blemishes. Shakespeare pleases, not by his bringing the transactions of many years into one play; not by his grotesque mixtures of Tragedy and Comedy in one piece, nor by the strained thoughts, and affected witti­cisms, which he sometimes employs. These we consider as blemishes, and impute them to the grossness of the age in which he lived. But he pleases by his animated and masterly representations of characters, by the liveli­ness of his descriptions, the force of his sen­timents, and his possessing, beyond all wri­ters, the natural language of passion: Beau­ties which true Criticism no less teaches us to place in the highest rank, than nature teaches us to feel.—This much it may suffice to have said concerning the origin, office, and im­portance of Criticism.

I PROCEED next to explain the meaning of another term, which there will be fre­quent occasion to employ in these Lectures; that is, Genius.

TASTE and Genius are two words fre­quently joined together; and therefore, by innaccurate thinkers, confounded. They signify however two quite different things. The difference between them can be clearly pointed out; and it is of importance to re­member it. Taste consists in the power of judging: Genius, in the power of executing. [Page 49] One may have a considerable degree of Taste in Poetry, Eloquence, or any of the fine arts, who has little or hardly any Genius for com­position or execution in any of these arts: But Genius cannot be found without includ­ing Taste also. Genius, therefore, deserves to be considered as a higher power of the mind than Taste. Genius always imports something inventive or creative; which does not rest in mere sensibility to beauty where it is perceived, but which can, moreover, produce new beauties, and exhibit them in such a manner as strongly to impress the minds of others. Refined Taste forms a good critic; but Genius is farther necessary to form the poet, or the orator.

IT is proper also to observe, that Genius is a word, which, in common acceptation, extends much farther than to the objects of Taste. It is used to signify that talent or ap­titude which we receive from nature, for ex­celling in any one thing whatever. Thus we speak of a Genius for mathematics, as well as a Genius for poetry; of a Genius for war, for politics, or for any mechanical employment.

THIS talent or aptitude for excelling in some one particular, is, I have said, what we receive from nature. By art and study, no doubt, it may be greatly improved; but by them alone it cannot be acquired. As Ge­nius is a higher faculty than Taste, it is ever, [Page 50] according to the usual frugality of nature, more limited in the sphere of its operations. It is not uncommon to meet with persons who have an excellent Taste in several of the po­lite arts, such as music, poetry, painting, and eloquence, altogether: But, to find one who is an excellent performer in all these arts, is much more rare; or rather, indeed, such an one is not to be looked for. A fort of Uni­versal Genius, or one who is equally and in­differently turned towards several different professions and arts, is not likely to excel in any. Although there may be some few ex­ceptions, yet in general it holds, that when the bent of the mind is wholly directed to­wards some one object, exclusive, in a man­ner, of others, there is the fairest prospect of eminence in that, whatever it be. The rays must converge to a point, in order to glow intensely. This remark I here chuse to make, on account of its great importance to young people; in leading them to examine with care, and to pursue with ardour, the current and pointing of nature towards those exer­tions of Genius in which they are most likely to excel.

A GENIUS for any of the fine arts, as I before observed, always supposes Taste; and it is clear, that the improvement of Taste will serve both to forward and to correct the ope­rations of Genius. In proportion as the Taste of a poet, or orator, becomes more refined with respect to the beauties of composition, [Page 51] it will certainly assist him to produce the more finished beauties in his work. Genius, how­ever, in a Poet or Orator, may sometimes exist in a higher degree than Taste; that is, Genius may be bold and strong, when Taste is neither very delicate, nor very correct. This is often the case in the infancy of arts; a period, when Genius frequently exerts itself with great vigour, and executes with much warmth; while Taste, which requires expe­rience, and improves by slower degrees, hath not yet attained its full growth. Homer and Shakespear are proofs of what I now assert; in whose admirable writings are found in­stances of rudeness and indelicacy, which the more refined Taste of later writers, who had far inferior Genius to them, would have taught them to avoid. As all human perfec­tion is limited, this may very probably be the law of our nature, that it is not given to one man to execute with vigour and fire, and, at the same time, to attend to all the lesser and more refined graces that belong to the exact perfection of his work: While, on the other hand, a thorough Taste for those inferior graces, is, for the most part, accompanied with a diminution of sublimity and force.

HAVING thus explained the nature of Taste, the nature and importance of Criti­cism, and the distinction between Taste and Genius; I am now to enter on considering the sources of the Pleasures of Taste. Here opens a very extensive field; no less than all [Page 52] the pleasures of the imagination, as they are commonly called, whether afforded us by na­tural objects, or by the imitations and de­scriptions of them. But it is not necessary to the purpose of my Lectures, that all these should be examined fully; the pleasure which we receive from discourse, or writing, being the main object of them. All that I purpose is, to give some openings into the Pleasures of Taste in general; and to insist, more par­ticularly, upon Sublimity and Beauty.

WE are far from having yet attained to any system concerning this subject. Mr. Ad­dison was the first who attempted a regular enquiry, in his Essay on the Pleasures of the Imagination, published in the sixth volume of the Spectator. He has reduced these Plea­sures under three heads; Beauty, Grandeur, and Novelty. His speculations on this sub­ject, if not exceedingly profound, are, how­ever, very beautiful and entertaining; and he has the merit of having opened a tract, which was before unbeaten. The advances made since his time in this curious part of philosophical Criticism, are not very consi­derable; though some ingenious writers have pursued the subject. This is owing, doubt­less, to that thinness and subtility which are found to be properties of all the feelings of Taste. They are engaging objects; but when we would lay firm hold of them, and subject them to a regular discussion, they are always ready to elude our grasp. It is difficult to [Page 53] make a full enumeration of the several ob­jects that give pleasure to Taste; it is more difficult to define all those which have been discovered, and to reduce them under proper classes; and, when we would go farther, and investigate the efficient causes of the pleasure which we receive from such objects, here, above all, we find ourselves at a loss. For instance; we all learn by experience, that certain figures of bodies appear to us more beautiful than others. On enquiring farther, we find that the regularity of some figures, and the graceful variety of others, are the foundation of the beauty which we discern in them; but when we attempt to go a step beyond this, and enquire what is the cause of regularity and variety producing in our minds the sensation of Beauty, any reason we can assign is extremely imperfect. Those first principles of internal sensation, nature seems to have covered with an impenetrable veil.

IT is some comfort, however, that although the efficient cause be obscure, the final cause of those sensations lies in many cases more open: And, in entering on this subject, we cannot avoid taking notice of the strong im­pression which the powers of Taste and Ima­gination are calculated to give us of the be­nignity of our Creator. By endowing us with such powers, he hath widely enlarged the sphere of the pleasures of human life; and those, too, of a kind the most pure and [Page 54] innocent. The necessary purposes of life might have been abundantly answered, though our senses of seeing and hearing had only served to distinguish external objects, without conveying to us any of those refined and de­licate sensations of Beauty and Grandeur, with which we are now so much delighted. This additional embellishment and glory, which, for promoting our entertainment, the Author of nature hath poured forth upon his works, is one striking testimony, among many others, of benevolence and goodness. This thought, which Mr. Addison first start­ed, Dr. Akenside, in his Poem on the Plea­sures of the Imagination, has happily pur­sued.

—Not content
With every food of life to nourish man,
By kind illusions of the wondering sense,
Thou mak'st all nature, Beauty to his eye,
Or Music to his ear.—

I SHALL begin with considering the Plea­sure which arises from Sublimity or Gran­deur, of which I propose to treat at some length; both, as this has a character more precise and distinctly marked, than any other, of the Pleasures of the Imagination, and as it coincides more directly with our main subject. For the greater distinctness I shall, first, treat of the Grandeur or Sublimity of external objects themselves, which will em­ploy the rest of this Lecture; and, after­wards, [Page 55] of the description of such objects, or, of what is called the Sublime in Writing, which shall be the subject of a following Lec­ture. I distinguish these two things from one another, the Grandeur of the objects them­selves when they are presented to the eye, and the description of that Grandeur in dis­course or writing; though most Critics, inac­curately I think, blend them together; and I consider Grandeur and Sublimity as terms synonymous, or nearly so. If there be any distinction between them, it arises from Su­blimity's expressing Grandeur in its highest degree *.

IT is not easy to describe, in words, the precise impression which great and sublime objects make upon us, when we behold them; but every one has a conception of it. It consists in a kind of admiration and expan­sion of the mind; it raises the mind much above its ordinary state; and fills it with a degree of wonder and astonishment, which it cannot well express. The emotion is cer­tainly delightful; but it is altogether of the serious kind: a degree of awfulness and so­lemnity, even approaching to severity, com­monly attends it when at its height; very distinguishable from the more gay and brisk emotion raised by beautiful objects.

[Page 56] THE simplest form of external Grandeur appears in the vast and boundless prospects presented to us by nature; such as wide ex­tended plains, to which the eye can see no limits; the firmament of Heaven; or the boundless expanse of the Ocean. All vast­ness produces the impression of Sublimity. It is to be remarked, however, that space, extended in length, makes not so strong an impression as height or depth. Though a boundless plain be a grand object, yet a high mountain, to which we look up, or an awful precipice or tower whence we look down on the objects which lie below, is still more so. The excessive Grandeur of the firmament arises from its height, joined to its boundless extent; and that of the ocean, not from its extent alone, but from the perpetual motion and irresistible force of that mass of waters. Wherever space is concerned, it is clear, that amplitude or greatness of extent, in one di­mension or other, is necessary to Grandeur. Remove all bounds from any object, and you presently render it sublime. Hence infinite space, endless numbers, and eternal duration, fill the mind with great ideas.

FROM this some have imagined, that vast­ness, or amplitude of extent, is the founda­tion of all Sublimity. But I cannot be of this opinion, because many objects appear sublime which have no relation to space at all. Such, for instance, is great loudness of sound. The burst of thunder or of cannon, [Page 57] the roaring of winds, the shouting of multi­tudes, the sound of vast cataracts of water, are all incontestibly grand objects. ‘"I heard the voice of a great multitude, as the sound of many waters, and of mighty thunderings, saying Allelujah."’ In general we may ob­serve, that great power and force exerted, always raise sublime ideas: and perhaps the most copious source of these is derived from this quarter. Hence the grandeur of earth­quakes and burning mountains; of great conflagrations; of the stormy ocean, and overflowing waters; of tempests of wind; of thunder and lightning; and of all the un­common violence of the elements. Nothing is more sublime than mighty power and strength. A stream that runs within its banks, is a beautiful object; but when it rushes down with the impetuosity and noise of a torrent, it presently becomes a sublime one. From lions, and other animals of strength, are drawn sublime comparisons in poets. A race horse is looked upon with pleasure; but it is the war-horse, ‘"whose neck is clothed with thunder,"’ that carries grandeur in its idea. The engagement of two great armies, as it is the highest exertion of human might, combines a variety of sources of the Sublime; and has accordingly been always considered as one of the most striking and magnificent spectacles that can be either presented to the eye, or exhibited to the imagination in description.

[Page 58] FOR the farther illustration of this subject, it is proper to remark, that all ideas of the solemn and awful kind, and even bordering on the terrible, tend greatly to assist the Su­blime; such as darkness, solitude, and silence. What are the scenes of nature that elevate the mind in the highest degree, and produce the sublime sensation? Not the gay land­scape, the flowery field, or the flourishing city; but the hoary mountain, and the solita­ry lake; the aged forest, and the torrent fall­ing over the rock. Hence too, night-scenes are commonly the most sublime. The fir­mament when filled with stars, scattered in such vast numbers, and with such magnifi­cent profusion, strikes the imagination with a more awful grandeur, than when we view it enlightened by all the splendour of the Sun. The deep sound of a great bell, or the strik­ing of a great clock, are at any time grand; but, when heard amid the silence and stillness of the night, they become doubly so. Dark­ness is very commonly applied for adding su­blimity to all our ideas of the Deity. ‘"He maketh darkness his pavilion; he dwelleth in the thick cloud."’ So Milton

—How oft, amidst
Thick clouds and dark, does Heav'ns all-ruling Sire
Chuse to reside, his glory unobscured,
And, with the Majesty of darkness, round
Circles his throne—
BOOK II. 263.

[Page 59] Observe, with how much art Virgil has in­troduced all those ideas of silence, vacuity, and darkness, when he is going to introduce his Hero to the infernal regions, and to dis­close the secrets of the great deep.

Dii quibus imperium est animarum, umbraeque silentes,
Et Chaos, et Phlegethon, loca nocte silentia latè,
Sit mihi fas audita loqui; sit numine vestro
Pandere res altâ terrâ, & caligine mersas.
Ibant obscuri, solâ sub nocte, per umbram,
Perque domos Ditis vacuos, et inania regna;
Quale per incertam lunam, sub luce maligna
Est iter in sylvis— *.

These passages I quote at present, not so much as instances of Sublime Writing, though in themselves they truly are so, as to shew, by the effect of them, that the objects which they present to us, belong to the class of su­blime ones.

[Page 60] OBSCURITY, we are farther to remark, is not unfavourable to the Sublime. Though it render the object indistinct, the impressi­on, however, may be great; for, as an inge­nious Author has well observed, it is one thing to make an idea clear, and another to make it affecting to the imagination; and the imagination may be strongly affected; and, in fact, often is so, by objects of which we have no clear conception. Thus we see, that almost all the descriptions given us of the appearances of supernatural Beings, car­ry some Sublimity, though the conceptions which they afford us be confused and indis­tinct. Their Sublimity arises from the ideas, which they always convey, of superior power and might, joined with an awful obscurity. We may see this fully exemplified in the fol­lowing noble passage of the book of Job. ‘"In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit pass­ed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up: it stood still; but I could not discern the form thereof; an image was before mine eyes; there was silence; and I heard a voice—Shall mortal man be more just than God *?" (Job, iv. 15.) No [Page 61] ideas, it is plain, as are so sublime as those taken from the Supreme Being; the most un­known, but the greatest of all objects; the infinity of whose nature, and the eternity of whose duration, joined with the omnipotence of his power, though they surpass our con­ceptions, yet exalt them to the highest. In general, all objects that are greatly raised above us, or far removed from us, either in space or in time, are apt to strike us as great. Our viewing them, as through the mist of distance or antiquity, is favourable to the impressions of their Sublimity.

AS obscurity, so disorder too, is very com­patible with grandeur; nay, frequently heightens it. Few things that are strictly regular, and methodical, appear sublime. We see the limits on every side; we feel ourselves confined; there is no room for the mind's exerting any great effort. Exact pro­portion of parts, though it enters often into the beautiful, is much disregarded in the Sublime. A great mass of rocks, thrown together by the hand of nature with wild­ness and confusion, strike the mind with [Page 62] more grandeur, than if they had been ad­justed to each other with the most accurate symmetry.

IN the feeble attempts, which human art can make towards producing grand objects (feeble, I mean, in comparison with the pow­ers of nature), greatness of dimensions al­ways constitutes a principal part. No pile of building can convey any idea of Sublimity, unless it be ample and lofty. There is, too, in architecture, what is called Greatness of manner; which seems chiefly to arise, from presenting the object to us in one full point of view; so that it shall make its impression whole, entire, and undivided, upon the mind. A Gothic cathedral raises ideas of grandeur in our minds, by its size, its height, its aw­ful obscurity, its strength, its antiquity, and its durability.

THERE still remains to be mentioned one class of Sublime objects; what may be called the moral, or sentimental Sublime; arising from certain exertions of the human mind; from certain affections, and actions, of our fellow-creatures. These will be found to be all, or chiefly, of that class, which comes under the name of Magnanimity or Hero­ism; and they produce an effect extremely similar to what is produced by the view of grand objects in nature; filling the mind with admiration, and elevating it above it­self. A noted instance of this, quoted by [Page 63] all the French Critics, is the celebrated Qu'il Mourut of Corneille, in the Tragedy of Ho­race. In the famous combat betwixt the Horatii and the Curiatii, the old Horatius, being informed, that two of his sons are slain, and that the third had betaken himself to flight, at first will not believe the report; but being thoroughly assured of the fact, is fired with all the sentiments of high honour and indignation at this supposed unworthy behaviour of his surviving son. He is re­minded, that his son stood alone against three, and asked what he would have had him to have done?— ‘"To have died,"’—he answers. In the same manner Porus, taken prisoner by Alexander, after a gallant defence, and asked in what manner he would be treated? answering, ‘"Like a king;"’ and Caesar chid­ing the pilot who was afraid to set out with him in a storm, ‘"Quid times? Caesarem ve­his;"’ are good instances of this sentimen­tal sublime. Wherever, in some critical and high situation, we behold a man uncommon­ly intrepid, and resting upon himself; supe­rior to passion and to fear; animated by some great principle to the contempt of popular opinion, of selfish interest, of dangers, or of death; there we are struck with a sense of the Sublime *.

[Page 64] HIGH virtue is the most natural and fer­tile source of this moral Sublimity. How­ever, on some occasions, where Virtue either has no place, or is but imperfectly displayed, yet if extraordinary vigour and force of mind be discovered, we are not insensible to a de­gree of grandeur in the character; and from the splendid conqueror, or the daring conspi­rator, whom we are far from approving, we cannot with-hold our admiration *.

[Page 65] I HAVE now enumerated a variety of in­stances, both in inanimate objects and in hu­man life, wherein the Sublime appears. In all these instances, the emotion raised in us is of the same kind, although the objects that produce the emotion be of widely different kinds. A question next arises, whether we are able to discover some one fundamental quality in which all these different objects agree, and which is the cause of their pro­ducing an emotion of the same nature in our minds? Various hypotheses have been formed concerning this; but, as far as appears to me, hitherto unsatisfactory. Some have imagined that amplitude, or great extent, joined with simplicity, is either immediately, or remotely, the fundamental quality of what­ever is sublime; but we have seen that am­plitude is confined to one species of Sublime Objects; and cannot, without violent strain­ing, be applied to them all. The Author of "a Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful," to whom we are indebted for several inge­nious and original thoughts upon this subject, proposes a formal theory upon this founda­tion, That terror is the source of the Su­blime, and that no objects have this charac­ter, but such as produce impressions of pain [Page 66] and danger. It is indeed true, that many terrible objects are highly sublime; and that grandeur does not refuse an alliance with the idea of danger. But though this is very pro­perly illustrated by the Author (many of whose sentiments on that head I have adopt­ed), yet he seems to stretch his theory too far, when he represents the Sublime as con­sisting wholly in modes of danger, or of pain. For the proper sensation of Sublimity, ap­pears to be very distinguishable from the sen­sation of either of those; and, on several oc­casions, to be entirely separated from them. In many grand objects, there is no coincid­ence with terror at all; as in the magnificent prospect of wide extended plains, and of the starry firmament; or in the moral dispositi­ons and sentiments, which we view with high admiration; and in many painful and terrible objects also, it is clear, there is no sort of grandeur. The amputation of a limb, or the bite of a snake, are exceedingly terrible; but are destitute of all claim what­ever to Sublimity. I am inclined to think, that mighty force or power, whether accom­panied with terror or not, whether employed in protecting, or in alarming us, has a bet­ter title, than any thing that has yet been mentioned, to be the fundamental quality of the Sublime; as, after the review which we have taken, there does not occur to me any Sublime Object, into the idea of which, power, strength, and force, either enter not directly, or are not, at least, intimately asso­ciated [Page 67] with the idea, by leading our thoughts to some astonishing power, as concerned in the production of the object. However, I do not insist upon this as sufficient to found a general theory: It is enough, now, to have given this view of the nature and different kinds of Sublime Objects; by which I hope to have laid a proper foundation for discus­sing, with greater accuracy, the Sublime in Writing and Composition.

LECTURE IV. THE SUBLIME IN WRITING.

HAVING treated of Grandeur or Subli­mity in external objects, the way seems now to be cleared, for treating, with more advantage, of the description of such ob­jects; or, of what is called the Sublime in Writing. Though it may appear early to enter on the consideration of this subject; yet, as the Sublime is a species of Writing which depends less than any other on the ar­tificial embellishments of rhetoric, it may be examined with as much propriety here, as in any subsequent part of the Lectures.

MANY critical terms have unfortunately been employed, in a sense too loose and vague; none more so, than that of the Su­blime. Every one is acquainted with the character of Caesar's Commentaries, and of the style in which they are written; a style remarkably pure, simple, and elegant; but [Page 69] the most remote from the Sublime, of any of the classical authors. Yet this author has a German critic, Johannes Gulielmus Ber­gerus, who wrote no longer ago than the year 1720, pitched upon as the perfect model of the Sublime, and has composed a quarto volume, entitled, De naturali pulchritudine Orationis; the express intention of which, is to shew, that Caesar's Commentaries con­tain the most complete exemplification of all Longinus's rules relating to Sublime Writing. This I mention as a strong proof of the con­fused ideas which have prevailed, concern­ing this subject. The true sense of Sublime Writing, undoubtedly, is such a description of objects, or exhibition of sentiments, which are in themselves of a Sublime nature, as shall give us strong impressions of them. But there is another very indefinite, and there­fore very improper, sense, which has been too often put upon it; when it is applied to fignify any remarkable and distinguishing ex­cellency of composition; whether it raise in us the ideas of grandeur, or those of gentle­ness, elegance, or any other sort of beauty. In this sense, Caesar's Commentaries may, in­deed, be termed Sublime, and so may many Sonnets, Pastorals, and Love Elegies, as well as Homer's Iliad. But this evidently con­founds the use of words; and marks no one species, or character, of composition what­ever.

[Page 70] I AM sorry to be obliged to observe, that the Sublime is too often used in this last and improper sense, by the celebrated critic Lon­ginus, in his treatise on this subject. He sets out, indeed, with describing it in its just and proper meaning; as something that elevates the mind above itself, and fills it with high conceptions, and a noble pride. But from this view of it he frequently departs; and substitutes in the place of it, whatever, in any strain of composition, pleases highly. Thus, many of the passages which he pro­duces as instances of the Sublime, are mere­ly elegant, without having the most distant relation to proper Sublimity; witness Sap­pho's famous Ode, on which he descants at considerable length. He points out five sources of the Sublime. The first is, Bold­ness or Grandeur in the Thoughts; the se­cond is, the Pathetic; the third, the proper application of Figures; the fourth, the use of Tropes and beautiful Expressions; the fifth, Musical Structure and Arrangement of Words. This is the plan of one who was writing a treatise of rhetoric, or of the beau­ties of Writing in general; not of the Su­blime in particular. For of these five heads, only the two first have any peculiar relation to the Sublime; Boldness and Grandeur in the Thoughts, and, in some instances, the Pathetic, or strong exertions of Passion: The other three, Tropes, Figures, and Musical Arrangement, have no more relation to the Sublime, than to other kinds of good Writ­ing; [Page 71] perhaps less to the Sublime than to any other species whatever; because it requires less the assistance of ornament. From this it appears, that clear and precise ideas on this head are not to be expected from that writer. I would not, however, be under­stood, as if I meant, by this censure, to re­present his treatise as of small value. I know no critic, antient or modern, that discovers a more lively relish of the beauties of fine writing, than Longinus; and he has also the merit of being himself an excellent, and, in several passages, a truly Sublime, writer. But, as his work has been generally consider­ed as a standard on this subject, it was in­cumbent on me to give my opinion concern­ing the benefit to be derived from it. It de­serves to be consulted, not so much for dis­tinct instruction concerning the Sublime, as for excellent general ideas concerning beauty in writing.

I RETURN now to the proper and natural idea of the Sublime in composition. The foundation of it must always be laid in the nature of the object described. Unless it be such an object as, if presented to our eyes, if exhibited to us in reality, would raise ideas of that elevating, that awful, and magnifi­cent kind, which we call Sublime; the de­scription, however finely drawn, is not en­titled to come under this class. This ex­cludes all objects that are merely beautiful, gay, or elegant. In the next place, the ob­ject [Page 72] must not only, in itself, be Sublime, but it must be set before us in such a light as is most proper to give us a clear and full im­pression of it; it must be described with strength, with conciseness, and simplicity. This depends, principally, upon the lively impression which the poet, or orator has of the object which he exhibits; and upon his being deeply affected, and warmed, by the Sublime idea which he would convey. If his own feeling be languid, he can never in­spire us with any strong emotion. Instances, which are extremely necessary on this sub­ject, will clearly show the importance of all those requisites which I have just now men­tioned.

IT is, generally speaking, among the most antient authors, that we are to look for the most striking instances of the Sublime, I am inclined to think, that the early ages of the world, and the rude unimproved state of so­ciety, are peculiarly favourable to the strong emotions of Sublimity. The genius of men is then much turned to admiration and asto­nishment. Meeting with many objects, to them new and strange, their imagination is kept glowing, and their passions are often raised to the utmost. They think, and ex­press themselves boldly, and without re­straint. In the progress of society, the ge­nius and manners of men undergo a change more favourable to accuracy, than to strength or Sublimity.

[Page 73] OF all writings, antient or modern, the Sacred Scriptures afford us the highest in­stances of the Sublime. The descriptions of the Deity, in them, are wonderfully noble; both from the grandeur of the object, and the manner of representing it. What an as­semblage, for instance, of awful and sublime ideas is presented to us, in that passage of the XVIIIth Psalm, where an appearance of the Almighty is described? ‘"In my distress I called upon the Lord; he heard my voice out of his temple, and my cry came before him. Then, the earth shook and trem­bled; the foundations also of the hills were moved; because he was wroth. He bow­ed the heavens, and came down, and dark­ness was under his feet; and he did ride upon a Cherub, and did fly; yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness his secret place; his pavilion round about him were dark waters, and thick clouds of the sky."’ Here, agreea­bly to the principles established in the last Lecture, we see, with what propriety and success the circumstances of darkness and terror are applied for heightening the Su­blime. So, also, the prophet Habakkuk, in a similar passage: ‘"He stood, and measured the earth; he beheld, and drove asunder the nations. The everlasting mountains were scattered; the perpetual hills did bow; his ways are everlasting. The moun­tains saw thee; and they trembled. The overflowing of the water passed by. The [Page 74] deep uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands on high."’

THE noted instance, given by Longinus, from Moses, ‘"God said, let there be light; and there was light,"’ is not liable to the censure which I passed on some of his in­stances, of being foreign to the subject. It belongs to the true Sublime; and the Su­blimity of it arises from the strong concep­tion it gives, of an exertion of power, pro­ducing its effect with the utmost speed and facility. A thought of the same kind is magnificently amplified in the following pas­sage of Isaiah (chap. xxiv. 24. 27. 28.): ‘"Thus saith the Lord, thy Redeemer, and he that formed thee from the womb: I am the Lord that maketh all things, that stretcheth forth the heavens alone, that spreadeth abroad the earth by myself—that saith to the deep, Be dry, and I will dry up thy rivers; that saith of Cyrus, He is my shepherd, and shall perform all my pleasure; even, saying to Jerusalem, Thou shalt be built; and to the Temple, Thy foundation shall be laid."’ There is a passage in the Psalms, which deserves to be mentioned un­der this head; ‘"God,"’ says the Psalmist, ‘"stilleth the noise of the seas, the noise of their waves, and the tumults of the peo­ple."’ The joining together two such grand objects, as the ragings of the waters, and the tumults of the people, between which there is so much resemblance as to form a very na­tural [Page 75] association in the fancy, and the repre­senting them both as subject, at one mo­ment, to the command of God, produces a noble effect.

HOMER is a poet, who, in all ages, and by all critics, has been greatly admired for Sublimity; and he owes much of his gran­deur to that native and unaffected simplicity which characterises his manner. His descrip­tions of hosts engaging; the animation, the fire, and rapidity, which he throws into his battles, present to every reader of the Iliad, frequent instances of Sublime Writing. His introduction of the Gods, tends often to heighten, in a high degree, the majesty of his warlike scenes. Hence Longinus bestows such high and just commendations on that passage, in the XVth book of the Iliad, where Neptune, when preparing to issue forth into the engagement, is described as shaking the mountains with his steps, and driving his chariot along the ocean. Minerva, arming herself for fight in the Vth book; and Apol­lo, in the XVth, leading on the Trojans, and flashing terror with his Aegis on the face of the Greeks, are similar instances of great Sublimity added to the description of battles, by the appearances of those celestial beings. In the XXth book, where all the Gods take part in the engagement, according as they severally favour either the Grecians, or the Trojans, the poet seems to put forth one of his highest efforts, and the description rises [Page 76] into the most awful magnificence. All na­ture is represented as in commotion. Jupiter thunders in the heavens; Neptune strikes the earth with his Trident; the ships, the city, and the mountains shake; the earth trembles to its centre; Pluto starts from his throne, in dread lest the secrets of the infer­nal region should be laid open to the view of mortals. The passage is worthy of be­ing inserted.

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Iliad, 20. 47. &c.

[Page 77] THE works of Ossian (as I have elsewhere shewn) abound with examples of the Su­blime. The subjects of that Author, and the manner in which he writes, are particu­larly favourable to it. He possesses all the plain and venerable manner of the antient times. He deals in no superfluous or gaudy ornaments; but throws forth his images with a rapid conciseness, which enable them to strike the mind with the greatest force. Among poets of more polished times, we are to look for the graces of correct writing, for just proportion of parts, and skilfully con­ducted narration. In the midst of smiling scenery and pleasurable themes, the gay and the beautiful will appear, undoubtedly, to more advantage. But amidst the rude scenes of nature and of society, such as Ossian de­scribes; amidst rocks, and torrents, and whirlwinds, and battles, dwells the Sublime; and naturally associates itself with that grave [Page 78] and solemn spirit which distinguishes the Au­thor of Fingal. ‘"As autumn's dark storms pour from two echoing hills, so toward each other approached the heroes. As two dark streams from high rocks meet and mix, and roar on the plain; loud, rough, and dark, in battle, met Lochlin and Inisfail: chief mixed his strokes with chief, and man with man. Steel clanging sounded on steel. Helmets are cleft on high; blood bursts, and smokes around. As the troubled noise of the ocean when roll the waves on high; as the last peal of the thunder of heaven; such is the noise of battle. The groan of the people spread over the hills. It was like the thunder of night, when the cloud bursts on Cona, and a thousand ghosts shriek at once on the hollow wind."’ Ne­ver were images of more awful Sublimity em­ployed to heighten the terror of battle.

I HAVE produced these instances, in order to demonstrate how essential conciseness and simplicity are to Sublime Writing. Simpli­city, I place in opposition to studied and pro­fuse ornament; and conciseness, to super­fluous expression. The reason why a defect, either in conciseness or simplicity, is hurtful in a peculiar manner to the Sublime, I shall endeavour to explain. The emotion occasi­oned in the mind by some great or noble ob­ject, raises it considerably above its ordinary pitch. A sort of enthusiasm is produced, extremely agreeable while it lasts; but from [Page 79] which the mind is tending every moment to fall down into its ordinary situation. Now, when an author has brought us, or is at­tempting to bring us, into this state; if he multiplies words unnecessarily, if he decks the Sublime object which he presents to us, round and round, with glittering ornaments; nay, if he throws in any one decoration that sinks in the least below the capital image, that moment he alters the key; he relaxes the tension of the mind; the strength of the feeling is emasculated; the Beautiful may remain, but the Sublime is gone.—When Ju­lius Caesar said to the Pilot who was afraid to put to sea with him in a storm, ‘"Quid times? Caesarem vehis;"’ we are struck with the daring magnanimity of one relying with such confidence on his cause and his fortune. These few words convey every thing neces­sary to give us the impression full. Lucan resolved to amplify and adorn the thought. Observe how every time he twists it round, it departs farther from the Sublime, till it end at last in tumid declamation.

Sperne minas, inquit, pelagi, ventoque furenti
Trade sinum: Italiam, si, coelo auctore, recusas,
Me, pete. Sola tibi causa haec est justa timoris
Victorem non nosse tuum; quem numina nunquam
Destituunt; de quo male tunc Fortuna meretur
Cum post vota venit. Medias perrumpe procellas
Tutelâ secure meâ. Coeli isti fretique
Non puppis nostrae labor est. Hanc Caesare pressam
A fluctu defendet onus; nam proderit undis
Iste ratis.—Quid tanta strage paratur
[Page 80] Ignoras? quaerit pelagi coelique tumultu
Quid praestet fortuna mihi *.—
PHARS. V. 578.

ON account of the great importance of simplicity and conciseness, I conceive rhyme, in English verse, to be, if not inconsistent with the Sublime, at least very unfavourable to it. The constrained elegance of this kind of verse, and studied smoothness of the sounds, answering regularly to each other at the end of the line, though they be quite consistent with gentle emotions, yet weaken the native force of Sublimity; besides, that the superfluous words which the poet is often obliged to introduce, in order to fill up the [Page 81] rhyme, tend farther to enfeeble it. Homer's description of the nod of Jupiter, as shaking the heavens, has been admired, in all ages, as highly Sublime. Literally translated, it runs thus: ‘"He spoke, and bending his sa­ble brows, gave the awful nod; while he shook the celestial locks of his immortal head, all Olympus was shaken."’ Mr. Pope translates it thus:

He spoke; and awful bends his sable brows,
Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod,
The stamp of fate, and sanction of a God.
High Heaven with trembling the dread signal took,
And all Olympus to its centre shook.

THE image is spread out, and attempted to be beautified; but it is, in truth, weak­ened. The third line— ‘"The stamp of fate, and sanction of a God,"’ is merely exple­tive; and introduced for no other reason but to fill up the rhyme; for it interrupts the de­scription, and clogs the image. For the same reason, out of mere compliance with the rhyme, Jupiter is represented as shaking his locks before he gives the nod,— ‘Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod,"’ which is trifling, and without meaning. Whereas, in the original, the hair of his head shaken, is the effect of his nod, and makes a happy picturesque circumstance in the descrip­tion *.

[Page 82] THE boldness, freedom, and variety of our blank verse, is infinitely more favoura­ble than rhyme, to all kinds of Sublime poe­try. The fullest proof of this is afforded by Milton; an author, whose genius led him eminently to the Sublime. The whole first and second books of Paradise Lost, are con­tinued instances of it. Take only, for an example, the following noted description of Satan, after his fall, appearing at the head of the infernal hosts:

—He, above the rest,
In shape and gesture proudly eminent,
Stood like a tower: his form had not yet lost
All her original brightness, nor appeared
Less than archangel ruined; and the excess
Of glory obscured: As when the sun, new risen,
Looks through the horizontal misty air,
Shorn of his beams; or, from behind, the moon,
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs. Darken'd so, yet shone
Above them all th' Archangel.—

Here concur a variety of sources of the Su­blime: The principal object eminently great; a high superior nature, fallen indeed, but erecting itself against distress; the grandeur of the principal object heightened, by asso­ciating it with so noble an idea as that of the sun suffering an eclipse; this picture shaded with all those images of change and trouble, of darkness and terror, which coincide so finely with the Sublime emotion; and the [Page 83] whole expressed in a style and versification, easy, natural, and simple, but magnificent.

I HAVE spoken of simplicity and concise­ness, as essential to Sublime Writing. In my general description of it, I mentioned Strength, as another necessary requisite. The Strength of description arises, in a great measure, from a simple conciseness; but, it supposes also something more; namely, a proper choice of circumstances in the description, so as to ex­hibit the object in its full and most striking point of view. For every object has several faces, so to speak, by which it may be presented to us, according to the circum­stances with which we surround it; and it will appear eminently Sublime, or not, in proportion as all these circumstances are hap­pily chosen, and of a Sublime kind. Here lies the great art of the writer; and indeed, the great difficulty of Sublime description. If the description be too general, and divest­ed of circumstances, the object appears in a faint light; it makes a feeble impression, or no impression at all, on the reader. At the same time, if any trivial or improper circum­stances are mingled, the whole is degraded.

A STORM or tempest, for instance, is a Su­blime object in nature. But, to render it Sublime in description, it is not enough, ei­ther to give us mere general expressions con­cerning the violence of the tempest, or to describe its common, vulgar effects, in over­throwing [Page 84] trees and houses. It must be paint­ed with such circumstances as fill the mind with great and awful ideas. This is very happily done by Virgil, in the following passage:

Ipse Pater, media nimborum in nocte, coruscâ
Fulmina molitur dextrâ; quo maxima motu
Terra tremit; fugere ferae; & mortalia corda,
Per gentes humilis stravit pavor: Ille, flagranti
Aut Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo
Dejicit *.—
GEORG. I.

EVERY circumstance in this noble descrip­tion is the production of an imagination heated and astonished with the grandeur of the object. If there be any defect, it is in the words immediately following those I have quoted; ‘"Ingeminant Austri, et den­sissimus imber;"’ where the transition is made too hastily, I am afraid, from the pre­ceding Sublime images, to a thick shower, and the blowing of the south wind; and [Page 85] shews how difficult it frequently is, to descend with grace, without seeming to fall.

THE high importance of the rule which I have been now giving, concerning the pro­per choice of circumstances, when descrip­tion is meant to be Sublime, seems to me not to have been sufficiently attended to. It has, however, such a foundation in nature, as ren­ders the least deflexion from it fatal. When a writer is aiming at the beautiful only, his descriptions may have improprieties in them, and yet be beautiful still. Some trivial, or misjudged circumstances, can be overlooked by the reader; they make only the difference of more or less; the gay, or pleasing emo­tion, which he has raised, subsists still. But the case is quite different with the Sublime. There, one trifling circumstance, one mean idea, is sufficient to destroy the whole charm. This is owing to the nature of the emotion aimed at by Sublime description, which ad­mits of no mediocrity, and cannot subsist in a middle state; but must either highly tran­sport us, or, if unsuccessful in the execution, leave us greatly disgusted, and displeased. We attempt to rise along with the writer; the imagination is awakened, and put upon the stretch; but it requires to be supported; and if, in the midst of its effort, you desert it unexpectedly, down it comes with a pain­ful shock. When Milton, in his battle of the angels, describes them as tearing up the mountains, and throwing them at one ano­ther; [Page 86] there are, in his description, as Mr. Ad­dison has observed, no circumstances but what are properly Sublime:

From their foundations loos'ning to and fro,
They plucked the seated hills, with all their load,
Rocks, waters, woods; and by the shaggy tops
Uplifting, bore them in their hands.—

Whereas Claudian, in a fragment upon the war of the giants, has contrived to render this idea of their throwing the mountains, which is in itself so grand, burlesque and ri­diculous; by this single circumstance, of one of his giants with the mountain Ida upon his shoulders, and a river, which flowed from the mountain, running down along the gi­ant's back, as he held it up in that posture. There is a description too in Virgil, which, I think, is censurable, though more slightly, in this respect. It is that of the burning moun­tain Aetna; a subject certainly very proper to be worked up by a poet into a Sublime description:

—Horrificis juxta tonat Aetna ruinis.
Interdumque atram prorumpit ad aethera nubem,
Turbine fumantem piceo, & candente favilla;
Attollitque globos flammarum, & sidera lambit.
Interdum scopulos, avulsaque viscera montis
Erigit eructans, liquefactaque saxa sub auras
Cum gemitu glomerat, fundoque exaestuat imo *.
AEN. III. 571.

[Page 87] Here, after several magnificent images, the Poet concludes with personifying the moun­tain under this figure, ‘"eructans viscera cum gemitu,"’ belching up its bowels with a groan; which, by likening the mountain to a sick, or drunk person, degrades the ma­jesty of the description. It is to no purpose to tell us, that the Poet here alludes to the fable of the giant Enceladus lying under mount Aetna; and that he supposes his mo­tions and tossings to have occasioned the fiery eruptions. He intended the description of a Sublime object; and the natural ideas, raised by a burning mountain, are infinitely more lofty, than the belchings of any giant, how huge soever. The debasing effect of the idea which is here presented, will appear in a stronger light, by seeing what figure it makes in a poem of Sir Richard Blackmore's, who, through a monstrous perversity of taste, had chosen this for the capital circumstance in his description, and thereby (as Dr. Arbuthnot humourously observes, in his Treatise on the Art of Sinking) had represented the moun­tain as in a fit of the cholic.

[Page 88]
Aetna, and all the burning mountains find
Their kindled stores with inbred storms of wind
Blown up to rage, and roaring out complain,
As torn with inward gripes and torturing pain;
Labouring, they cast their dreadful vomit round,
And with their melted bowels spread the ground.

Such instances shew how much the Sublime depends upon a just selection of circum­stances; and with how great care every cir­cumstance must be avoided, which, by bor­dering in the least upon the mean, or even upon the gay or the trifling, alters the tone of the emotion.

IF it shall now be enquired, What are the proper sources of the Sublime? My answer is, That they are to be looked for every where in nature. It is not by hunting after tropes, and figures, and rhetorical assistances, that we can expect to produce it. No: it stands clear, for the most part, of these la­boured refinements of art. It must come unsought, if it come at all; and be the na­tural offspring of a strong imagination.

Est Deus in nobis; agitante calescimus illo.

Wherever a great and awful object is pre­sented in nature, or a very magnanimous and exalted affection of the human mind is displayed; thence, if you can catch the im­pression strongly, and exhibit it warm and glowing, you may draw the Sublime. These are its only proper sources. In judging of [Page 89] any striking beauty in composition, whether it is, or is not, to be referred to this class, we must attend to the nature of the emotion which it raises; and only, if it be of that elevating, solemn, and awful kind, which distinguishes this feeling, we can pronounce it Sublime.

FROM the account which I have given of the nature of the Sublime, it clearly follows, that it is an emotion which can never be long protracted. The mind, by no force of genius, can be kept, for any considerable time, so far raised above its common tone; but will, of course, relax into its ordinary situation. Neither are the abilities of any human writer sufficient to supply a continued run of unmixed Sublime conceptions. The utmost we can expect is, that this fire of imagination should sometimes flash upon us like lightning from heaven, and then disap­pear. In Homer and Milton, this effulgence of genius breaks forth more frequently, and with greater lustre than in most authors. Shakespeare also rises often into the true Sublime. But no author whatever is Sublime throughout. Some, indeed, there are, who, by a strength and dignity in their concepti­ons, and a current of high ideas that runs through their whole composition, preserve the reader's mind always in a tone nearly allied to the Sublime; for which reason they may, in a limited sense, merit the name of continued Sublime writers; and, in this [Page 90] class, we may justly place Demosthenes and Plato.

As for what is called the Sublime style, it is, for the most part, a very bad one; and has no relation whatever to the real Sublime. Persons are apt to imagine, that magnificent words, accumulated epithets, and a certain swelling kind of expression, by rising above what is usual or vulgar, contributes to, or even forms, the Sublime. Nothing can be more false. In all the instances of Sublime Writing, which I have given, nothing of this kind appears. ‘"God said, Let there be light, and there was light."’ This is striking and Sublime. But put it into what is commonly called the Sublime style: ‘"The Sovereign Arbiter of nature, by the potent energy of a single word, commanded the light to ex­ist:"’ and, as Boileau has well observed, the style indeed is raised, but the thought is fall­en. In general, in all good writing, the Su­blime lies in the thought, not in the words; and when the thought is truly noble, it will, for the most part, clothe itself in a native dig­nity of language. The Sublime, indeed, re­jects mean, low, or trivial expressions; but it is equally an enemy to such as are turgid. The main secret of being Sublime, is to say great things in few and plain words. It will be found to hold, without exception, that the most Sublime authors are the simplest in their style; and wherever you find a writer, who affects a more than ordinary pomp and parade [Page 91] of words, and is always endeavouring to magnify his subject by epithets, there you may immediately suspect, that, feeble in sen­timent, he is studying to support himself by mere expression.

THE same unfavourable judgment we must pass, on all that laboured apparatus with which some writers introduce a passage, or description, which they intend shall be Su­blime; calling on their readers to attend, in­voking their Muse, or breaking forth into general, unmeaning exclamations, concern­ing the greatness, terribleness, or majesty of the object, which they are to describe. Mr. Addison, in his Campaign, has fallen into an error of this kind, when about to describe the battle of Blenheim.

But O! my Muse! what numbers wilt thou find
To sing the furious troops in battle joined?
Methinks, I hear the drum's tumultuous sound,
The victor's shouts, and dying groans, confound; &c.

Introductions of this kind, are a forced at­tempt in a writer, to spur up himself, and his reader, when he finds his imagination flagging in vigour. It is like taking artificial spirits in order to supply the want of such as are natural. By this observation, however, I do not mean to pass a general censure on Mr. Addison's Campaign, which, in several places, is far from wanting merit; and in particular, the noted comparison of his hero [Page 92] to the angel who rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm, is a truly Sublime image.

THE faults opposite to the Sublime are chiefly two; the Frigid, and the Bombast. The Frigid consists, in degrading an object, or sentiment, which is Sublime in itself, by our mean conception of it; or by our weak, low, and childish description of it. This betrays entire absence, or at least great po­verty of genius. Of this, there are abun­dance of examples, and these commented upon with much humour, in the Treatise on the Art of Sinking, in Dean Swift's works; the instances taken chiefly from Sir Richard Blackmore. One of these, I had occasion already to give, in relation to mount Aetna, and it were needless to produce any more. The Bombast lies, in forcing an ordinary or trivial object out of its rank, and endeavour­ing to raise it into the Sublime; or, in at­tempting to exalt a Sublime object beyond all natural and reasonable bounds. Into this error, which is but too common, writers of genius may sometimes fall, by unluckily los­ing sight of the true point of the Sublime. This is also called Fustian, or Rant. Shakes­peare, a great, but incorrect genius, is not unexceptionable here. Dryden and Lee, in their tragedies, abound with it.

THUS far of the Sublime; of which I have treated fully, because it is so capital an excel­lency in fine writing, and because clear and [Page 93] precise ideas on this head are, as far as I know, not to be met with in critical writers.

BEFORE concluding this Lecture, there is one observation which I chuse to make at this time; I shall make it once for all, and hope it will be afterwards remembered. It is with respect to the instances of faults, or ra­ther blemishes and imperfections, which, as I have done in this Lecture, I shall hereafter continue to take, when I can, from writers of reputation. I have not the least inten­tion thereby to disparage their character in the general. I shall have other occasions of doing equal justice to their beauties. But it is no reflection on any human performance, that it is not absolutely perfect. The task would be much easier for me, to collect in­stances of faults from bad writers. But they would draw no attention, when quoted from books which nobody reads. And I conceive, that the method which I follow, will contri­bute more to make the best authors be read with pleasure, when one properly distin­guishes their beauties from their faults; and is led to imitate and admire only what is worthy of imitation and admiration.

LECTURE V. BEAUTY, AND OTHER PLEASURES OF TASTE.

AS Sublimity constitutes a particular cha­racter of composition, and forms one of the highest excellencies of eloquence and of poetry, it was proper to treat of it at some length. It will not be necessary to discuss so particularly all the other pleasures that arise from Taste, as some of them have less relation to our main subject. On Beauty only I shall make several observations, both as the subject is curious, and as it tends to improve Taste, and to discover the founda­tion of several of the graces of description and of poetry *.

[Page 95] BEAUTY, next to Sublimity, affords, be­yond doubt, the highest pleasure to the ima­gination. The emotion which it raises, is very distinguishable from that of Sublimity. It is of a calmer kind; more gentle and sooth­ing; does not elevate the mind so much, but produces an agreeable serenity. Sublimity raises a feeling, too violent, as I showed, to be lasting; the pleasure arising from Beauty admits of longer continuance. It extends also to a much greater variety of objects than Sublimity; to a variety indeed so great, that the feelings which Beautiful objects pro­duce, differ considerably, not in degree only, but also in kind, from one another. Hence, no word in the language is used in a more vague signification than Beauty. It is ap­plied to almost every external object that pleases the eye, or the ear; to a great num­ber of the graces of writing; to many dis­positions of the mind; nay, to several ob­jects of mere abstract science. We talk cur­rently of a beautiful tree or flower; a beau­tiful poem; a beautiful character; and a beautiful theorem in mathematics.

HENCE we may easily perceive, that, among so great a variety of objects, to find out some one quality in which they all agree, and which is the foundation of that agreea­ble sensation they all raise, must be a very difficult, if not, more probably, a vain at­tempt. Objects, denominated Beautiful, are so different, as to please, not in virtue of any [Page 96] one quality common to them all, but by means of several different principles in hu­man nature. The agreeable emotion which they all raise, is somewhat of the same na­ture; and therefore, has the common name of Beauty given to it; but it is raised by dif­ferent causes.

HYPOTHESES, however, have been framed by ingenious men, for assigning the funda­mental quality of Beauty in all objects. In particular, Uniformity amidst Variety, has been insisted on as this fundamental quality. For the Beauty of many figures, I admit that this accounts in a satisfying manner. But when we endeavour to apply this prin­ciple to Beautiful objects of some other kind, as to Colour for instance, or Motion, we shall soon find that it has no place. And even in external figured objects, it does not hold, that their Beauty is in proportion to their mixture of Variety with Uniformity; seeing many please us as highly beautiful, which have al­most no variety at all; and others, which are various to a degree of intricacy. Laying systems of this kind, therefore, aside, what I now propose is, to give an enumeration of several of those classes of objects in which Beauty most remarkably appears; and to point out, as far as I can, the separate prin­ciples of Beauty in each of them.

COLOUR affords, perhaps, the simplest in­stance of Beauty, and therefore the fittest to [Page 97] begin with. Here, neither Variety, nor U­niformity, nor any other principle that I know, can be assigned, as the foundation of Beauty. We can refer it to no other cause but the structure of the eye, which deter­mines us to receive certain modifications of the rays of light with more pleasure than others. And we see accordingly, that, as the organ of sensation varies in different per­sons, they have their different favourite co­lours. It is probable, that association of ideas has influence, in some cases, on the pleasure which we receive from colours. Green, for instance, may appear more beau­tiful, by being connected in our ideas with rural prospects and scenes; white, with in­nocence; blue, with the serenity of the sky. Independent of associations of this kind, all that we can farther observe concerning co­lours is, that those chosen for Beauty are, generally, delicate, rather than glaring. Such are those paintings with which nature hath ornamented some of her works, and which art strives in vain to imitate; as the feathers of several kinds of birds, the leaves of flow­ers, and the fine variation of colours exhi­bited by the sky at the rising and setting of the sun. These present to us the highest in­stances of the Beauty of colouring; and have accordingly been the favourite subjects of poetical description in all countries.

FROM Colour we proceed to Figure, which opens to us forms of Beauty more complex [Page 98] and diversified. Regularity first occurs to be noticed as a source of Beauty. By a regular figure, is meant, one which we perceive to be formed according to some certain rule, and not left arbitrary, or loose, in the construc­tion of its parts. Thus, a circle, a square, a triangle, or a hexagon, please the eye, by their regularity, as beautiful figures. We must not, however, conclude, that all figures please in proportion to their regularity; or that regularity is the sole, or the chief, foun­dation of Beauty in figure. On the contra­ry, a certain graceful variety is found to be a much more powerful principle of Beauty; and is therefore studied a great deal more than regularity, in all works that are designed merely to please the eye. I am, indeed, in­clined to think, that regularity appears beau­tiful to us, chiefly, if not only, on account of its suggesting the ideas of fitness, propri­ety, and use, which have always a greater connection with orderly and proportioned forms, than with those which appear not constructed according to any certain rule. It is clear, that nature, who is undoubtedly the most graceful artist, hath, in all her orna­mental works, pursued variety, with an ap­parent neglect of regularity. Cabinets, doors, and windows, are made after a regular form, in cubes and parallelograms, with exact pro­portion of parts; and by being so formed they please the eye; for this good reason, that, being works of use, they are, by such figures, the better suited to the ends for which they [Page 99] were designed. But plants, flowers, and leaves are full of variety and diversity. A straight canal is an insipid figure, in compa­rison of the maeanders of rivers. Cones and pyramids are beautiful; but trees growing in their natural wildness, are infinitely more beautiful than when trimmed into pyramids and cones. The apartments of a house must be regular in their disposition, for the conve­niency of its inhabitants; but a garden, which is designed merely for Beauty, would be ex­ceedingly disgusting, if it had as much uni­formity and order in its parts as a dwelling­house.

MR. HOGARTH, in his Analysis of Beauty, has observed, that figures bounded by curve lines are, in general, more beautiful than those bounded by straight lines and angles. He pitches upon two lines, on which, according to him, the Beauty of figure principally de­pends; and he has illustrated, and supported his doctrine, by a surprising number of in­stances. The one is the Waving Line, or a curve bending backwards and forwards, some­what in the form of the letter S. This he calls the Line of Beauty; and shews how often it is found in shells, flowers, and such other ornamental works of nature; as is common also in the figures designed by paint­ers and sculptors, for the purpose of decora­tion. The other Line, which he calls the Line of Grace, is the former waving curve, twisted round some solid body. The curling [Page 100] worm of a common jack is one of the in­stances he gives of it. Twisted pillars, and twisted horns, also exhibit it. In all the in­stances which he mentions, Variety plainly appears to be so material a principle of Beau­ty, that he seems not to err much when he defines the art of drawing pleasing forms, to be the art of varying well. For the curve line, so much the favourite of painters, de­rives, according to him, its chief advantage, from its perpetual bending and variation from the stiff regularity of the straight line.

MOTION furnishes another source of Beau­ty, distinct from Figure. Motion of itself is pleasing; and bodies in motion are, ‘"caete­ris paribus,"’ preferred to those in rest. It is, however, only gentle motion that belongs to the Beautiful; for when it is very swift, or very forcible, such as that of a torrent, it partakes of the Sublime. The motion of a bird gliding through the air, is extremely Beautiful; the swiftness with which light­ning darts through the heavens, is magnifi­cent and astonishing. And here, it is proper to observe, that the sensations of Sublime and Beautiful are not always distinguished by very distant boundaries; but are capable, in several instances, of approaching towards each other. Thus, a smooth running stream, is one of the most beautiful objects in na­ture: as it swells gradually into a great river, the beautiful, by degrees, is lost in the Su­blime. A young tree is a beautiful object; [Page 101] a spreading antient oak, is a venerable and a grand one. The calmness of a fine morn­ing is beautiful; the universal stillness of the evening is highly Sublime. But to return to the Beauty of motion, it will be found, I think, to hold very generally, that motion in a straight line is not so beautiful as in an un­dulating waving direction; and motion up­wards is, commonly too, more agreeable than motion downwards. The easy curling mo­tion of flame and smoke to be instanced, as an object singularly agreeable: and here Mr. Hogarth's waving line recurs upon us as a principle of Beauty. That artist observes very ingeniously, that all the common and necessary motions for the business of life, are performed by men in straight or plain lines; but that all the graceful and ornamental movements are made in waving lines: an observation not unworthy of being attended to, by all who study the grace of gesture and action.

THOUGH Colour, Figure, and Motion, be separate principles of Beauty; yet in many beautiful objects they all meet, and thereby render the Beauty both greater, and more complex. Thus, in flowers, trees, animals, we are entertained at once with the delicacy of the colour, with the gracefulness of the figure, and sometimes also with the motion of the object. Although each of these pro­duce a separate agreeable sensation, yet they are of such a similar nature, as readily to [Page 102] mix and blend in one general perception of Beauty, which we ascribe to the whole ob­ject as its cause: For Beauty is always con­ceived by us, as something residing in the object which raises the pleasant sensation; a sort of glory which dwells upon, and invests it. Perhaps the most complete assemblage of beautiful objects that can any where be found, is presented by a rich natural land­scape, where there is a sufficient variety of objects: fields in verdure, scattered trees and flowers, running water, and animals graz­ing. If to these be joined, some of the pro­ductions of art, which suit such a scene; as a bridge with arches over a river, smoke ris­ing from cottages in the midst of trees, and the distant view of a fine building seen by the rising sun; we then enjoy, in the high­est perfection, that gay, cheerful, and placid sensation which characterises Beauty. To have an eye and a taste formed for catching the peculiar Beauties of such scenes as these, is a necessary requisite for all who attempt poetical description.

THE Beauty of the human countenance is more complex than any that we have yet considered. It includes the Beauty of co­lour, arising from the delicate shades of the complexion; and the Beauty of figure, aris­ing from the lines which form the different features of the face. But the chief Beauty of the countenance depends upon a myste­rious expression, which it conveys of the [Page 103] qualities of the mind; of good sense, or good humour; of sprightliness, candour, benevo­lence, sensibility, or other amiable dispositi­ons. How it comes to pass, that a certain conformation of features is connected in our idea with certain moral qualities; whether we are taught by instinct, or by experience, to form this connection, and to read the mind in the countenance; belongs not to us now to enquire, nor is indeed easy to resolve. The fact is certain, and acknowledged, that what gives the human countenance its most distinguishing Beauty, is what is called its expression; or an image, which it is conceiv­ed to shew of internal moral dispositions.

THIS leads to observe, that there are cer­tain qualities of the mind which, whether expressed in the countenance, or by words, or by actions, always raise in us a feeling si­milar to that of Beauty. There are two great classes of moral qualities; one is of the high and the great virtues, which require extraor­dinary efforts, and turn upon dangers and sufferings; as heroism, magnanimity, con­tempt of pleasures, and contempt of death. These, as I have observed in a former Lec­ture, excite in the spectator an emotion of Sublimity and Grandeur. The other class is generally of the social virtues, and such as are of a softer and gentler kind; as compas­sion, mildness, friendship, and generosity. These raise in the beholder a sensation of pleasure, so much akin to that produced by [Page 104] Beautiful external objects, that, though of a more dignified nature, it may, without im­propriety, be classed under the same head.

A SPECIES of Beauty, distinct from any I have yet mentioned, arises from design or art; or, in other words, from the perception of means being adapted to an end; or the parts of any thing being well fitted to answer the design of the whole. When, in consi­dering the structure of a tree or a plant, we observe, how all the parts, the roots, the stem, the bark, and the leaves, are suited to the growth and nutriment of the whole: much more when we survey all the parts and members of a living animal; or when we examine any of the curious works of art; such as a clock, a ship, or any nice machine; the pleasure which we have in the survey, is wholly founded on this sense of Beauty. It is altogether different from the perception of Beauty produced by colour, figure, variety, or any of the causes formerly mentioned. When I look at a watch, for instance, the case of it, if finely engraved, and of curious workmanship, strikes me as beautiful in the former sense; bright colour, exquisite polish, figures finely raised and turned. But when I examine the construction of the spring and the wheels, and praise the Beauty of the in­ternal machinery; my pleasure then arises wholly from the view of that admirable art, with which so many various and complicated parts are made to unite for one purpose.

[Page 105] THIS sense of Beauty, in fitness and de­sign, has an extensive influence over many of our ideas. It is the foundation of the Beauty which we discover in the proportion of doors, windows, arches, pillars, and all the orders of architecture. Let the orna­ments of a building be ever so fine and ele­gant in themselves, yet if they interfere with this sense of fitness and design, they lose their Beauty, and hurt the eye, like disagreeable objects. Twisted columns, for instance, are undoubtedly ornamental; but as they have an appearance of weakness, they always dis­please when they are made use of to support any part of a building that is massy, and that seemed to require a more substantial prop. We cannot look upon any work whatever, without being led, by a natural association of ideas, to think of its end and design, and of course to examine the propriety of its parts, in relation to this design and end. When their propriety is clearly discerned, the work seems always to have some Beauty; but when there is a total want of propriety, it never fails of appearing deformed. Our sense of fitness and design, therefore, is so powerful, and holds so high a rank among our perceptions, as to regulate, in a great measure, our other ideas of Beauty: An ob­servation which I the rather make, as it is of the utmost importance, that all who study composition should carefully attend to it. For, in an epic poem, a history, an oration, or any work of genius, we always require, as we do [Page 106] in other works, a fitness, or adjustment of means, to the end which the author is sup­posed to have in view. Let his description be ever so rich, or his figures ever so elegant, yet, if they are out of place, if they are not proper parts of that whole, if they suit not the main design, they lose all their Beauty; nay, from Beauties they are converted ino Deformities. Such power has our sense of fitness and congruity, to produce a total transformation of an object whose appear­ance otherwise would have been Beautiful.

AFTER having mentioned so many various species of Beauty, it now only remains to take notice of Beauty as it is applied to writing or discourse; a term commonly used in a sense altogether loose and undetermined. For it is applied to all that pleases, either in style or in sentiment, from whatever principle that pleasure flows; and a Beautiful poem or ora­tion means, in common language, no other than a good one, or one well composed. In this sense, it is plain, the word is altogether indefinite, and points at no particular species or kind of Beauty. There is, however, ano­ther sense, somewhat more definite, in which Beauty of writing characterises a particular manner; when it is used to signify a certain grace and amaenity in the turn either of style or sentiment, for which some authors have been peculiarly distinguished. In this sense, it denotes a manner neither remarkably su­blime, nor vehemently passionate, nor un­commonly [Page 107] sparkling; but such as raises in the reader an emotion of the gentle placid kind, similar to what is raised by the con­templation of beautiful objects in nature; which neither lifts the mind very high, nor agitates it very much, but diffuses over the imagination an agreeable and pleasing sere­nity. Mr. Addison is a writer altogether of this character; and is one of the most pro­per and precise examples that can be given of it. Fenelon, the author of the Adven­tures of Telemachus, may be given as ano­ther example. Virgil too, though very ca­pable of rising on occasions into the Sublime, yet, in his general manner, is distinguished by the character of Beauty and Grace rather than of Sublimity. Among orators, Cicero has more of the Beautiful than Demosthenes, whose genius led him wholly towards vehe­mence and strength.

THIS much it is sufficient to have said up­on the subject of Beauty. We have traced it through a variety of forms; as next to Su­blimity, it is the most copious source of the Pleasures of Taste; and as the consideration of the different appearances, and principles of Beauty, tends to the improvement of Taste in many subjects.

BUT it is not only by appearing under the forms of Sublime or Beautiful, that objects delight the imagination. From several other [Page 108] principles also, they derive their power of giving it pleasure.

NOVELTY, for instance, has been menti­oned by Mr. Addison, and by every writer on this subject. An object which has no merit to recommend it, except its being un­common or new, by means of this quality alone, produces in the mind a vivid and an agreeable emotion. Hence that passion of curiosity, which prevails so generally among mankind. Objects and ideas which have been long familiar, make too faint an impres­sion to give an agreeable exercise to our facul­ties. New and strange objects rouse the mind from its dormant state, by giving it a quick and pleasing impulse. Hence, in a great measure, the entertainment afforded us by fiction and romance. The emotion raised by Novelty is of a more lively and pun­gent nature, than that produced by Beauty; but much shorter in its continuance. For if the object have in itself no charms to hold our attention, the shining gloss thrown upon it by Novelty soon wears off.

BESIDES Novelty, Imitation is another source of Pleasure to Taste. This gives rise to what Mr. Addison terms, the Secondary Pleasures of Imagination; which form, doubt­less, a very extensive class. For all Imitation affords some pleasure; not only the Imitation of beautiful or great objects, by recalling the original ideas of Beauty or Grandeur which [Page 109] such objects themselves exhibited; but even objects which have neither Beauty nor Gran­deur, nay, some which are terrible or deform­ed, please us in a secondary or represented view.

THE Pleasures of Melody and Harmony belong also to Taste. There is no agreeable sensation we receive, either from Beauty or Snblimity, but what is capable of being heightened by the power of musical sound. Whence the delight of poetical numbers; and even of the more concealed and looser measures of prose. Wit, Humour, and Ri­dicule likewise open a variety of pleasures to Taste, quite distinct from any that we have yet considered.

AT present it is not necessary to pursue any farther the subject of the Pleasures of Taste. I have opened some of the general principles; it is time now to make the appli­cation to our chief subject. If the question be put, To what class of those Pleasures of Taste which I have enumerated, that Plea­sure is to be referred, which we receive from poetry, eloquence, or fine writing? My an­swer is, Not to any one, but to them all. This singular advantage, writing and dis­course possess, that they encompass so large and rich a field on all sides, and have power to exhibit, in great perfection, not a single set of objects only, but almost the whole of those which give Pleasure to Taste and Ima­gination; [Page 110] whether that Pleasure arise from Su­blimity, from Beauty in its different forms, from Design and Art, from Moral Sentiment, from Novelty, from Harmony, from Wit, Humour and Ridicule. To whichsoever of these the peculiar bent of a person's Taste lies, from some writer or other, he has it al­ways in his power to receive the gratification of it.

NOW this high power which eloquence and poetry possess, of supplying Taste and Imagination with such a wide circle of plea­sures, they derive altogether from their hav­ing a greater capacity of Imitation and De­scription than is possessed by any other art. Of all the means which human ingenuity has contrived for recalling the images of real ob­jects, and awakening, by representation, si­milar emotions to those which are raised by the original, none is so full and extensive as that which is executed by words and writing. Through the assistance of this happy inven­tion, there is nothing, either in the natural or moral world, but what can be represented and set before the mind, in colours very strong and lively. Hence it is usual among critical writers, to speak of Discourse as the chief of all the imitative or mimetic arts; they compare it with painting and with sculp­ture, and in many respects prefer it justly be­fore them.

[Page 111] THIS style was first introduced by Aristotle in his Poetics; and since his time, has acquir­ed a general currency among modern authors. But, as it is of consequence to introduce as much precision as possible into critical lan­guage, I must observe, that this manner of speaking is not accurate. Neither discourse in general, nor poetry in particular, can be called altogether imitative arts. We must distinguish betwixt Imitation and Description, which are ideas that should not be confound­ed. Imitation is performed by means of somewhat that has a natural likeness and re­semblance to the thing imitated, and of con­sequence is understood by all; such are sta­tues and pictures. Description, again, is the raising in the mind the conception of an ob­ject by means of some arbitrary or instituted symbols, understood only by those who agree in the institution of them; such are words and writing. Words have no natural resem­blance to the ideas or objects which they are employed to signify; but a statue or a picture has a natural likeness to the original. And therefore Imitation and Description differ considerably in their nature from each other.

AS far, indeed, as a poet or a historian in­troduces into his work persons actually speak­ing; and by the words which he puts into their mouths, represents the discourse which they might be supposed to hold; so far his art may more accurately be called Imitative: and this is the case in all dramatic compositi­on. [Page 112] But in Narrative or Descriptive works, it can with no propriety be called so. Who, for instance, would call Virgil's Description of a tempest, in the first Aeneid, an Imitation of a storm? If we heard of the Imitation of a battle, we might naturally think of some mock fight, or representation of a battle on the stage, but would never apprehend, that it meant one of Homer's Descriptions in the Iliad. I admit, at the same time, that Imita­tion and Description agree in their principal effect, of recalling by external signs, the ideas of things which we do not see. But though in this they coincide, yet it should not be forgotten, that the terms themselves are not synonymous; that they import different means of effecting the same end; and of course make different impressions on the mind *.

[Page 113] WHETHER we consider Poetry in particu­lar, and Discourse in general, as Imitative or Descriptive; it is evident, that their whole power, in recalling the impressions of real objects, is derived from the significancy of words. As their excellency flows altogether from this source, we must, in order to make way for further enquiries, begin at this foun­tain head. I shall, therefore, in the next Lec­ture, enter upon the consideration of Lan­guage: of the origin, the progress, and con­struction of which, I purpose to treat at some length.

LECTURE VI. RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE.

HAVING finished my observations on the Pleasures of Taste, which were meant to be introductory to the principal subject of these Lectures, I now begin to treat of Lan­guage; which is the foundation of the whole power of eloquence. This will lead to a considerable discussion; and there are few subjects belonging to polite literature, which more merit such a discussion. I shall first give a History of the Rise and Progress of Language in several particulars, from its early to its more advanced periods; which shall be followed by a similar History of the Rise and Progress of Writing. I shall next give some account of the Construction of Language, or the Principles of Universal Grammar; and shall, lastly, apply these observations more particularly to the English Tongue *.

[Page 115] LANGUAGE, in general, signifies the ex­pression of our ideas by certain articulate sounds, which are used as the signs of those ideas. By articulate sounds, are meant those modulations of simple voice, or of sound emitted from the thorax, which are formed by means of the mouth and its several organs, the teeth, the tongue, the lips, and the pa­late. How far there is any natural connex­ion between the ideas of the mind and the sounds emitted, will appear from what I am afterwards to offer. But as the natural con­nexion can, upon any system, affect only a small part of the fabric of Language; the connexion between words and ideas may, in general, be considered as arbitrary and con­ventional, owing to the agreement of men among themselves; the clear proof of which is, that different nations have different Lan­guages, or a different set of articulate sounds, which they have chosen for communicating their ideas.

THIS artificial method of communicating thought, we now behold carried to the high­est [Page 116] perfection. Language is become a vehi­cle by which the most delicate and refined emotions of one mind can be transmitted, or, if we may so speak, transfused into another. Not only are names given to all objects around us, by which means an easy and speedy intercourse is carried on for provid­ing the necessaries of life, but all the relati­ons and differences among these objects are minutely marked, the invisible sentiments of the mind are described, the most abstract notions and conceptions are rendered intelli­gible; and all the ideas which science can discover, or imagination create, are known by their proper names. Nay, Language has been carried so far, as to be made an instru­ment of the most refined luxury. Not rest­ing in mere perspicuity, we require orna­ment also; not satisfied with having the conceptions of others made known to us, we make a farther demand, to have them so decked and adorned as to entertain our fan­cy; and this demand, it is found very possi­ble to gratify. In this state, we now find Language. In this state, it has been found among many nations for some thousand years. The object is become familiar; and, like the expanse of the firmament, and other great objects, which we are accustomed to behold, we behold it without wonder.

BUT carry your thoughts back to the first dawn of Language among men. Reflect upon the feeble beginnings from which it [Page 117] must have arisen, and upon the many and great obstacles which it must have encoun­tered in its progress; and you will find rea­son for the highest astonishment, on viewing the height which it has now attained. We admire several of the inventions of art; we plume ourselves on some discoveries which have been made in latter ages, serving to ad­vance knowledge, and to render life com­fortable; we speak of them as the boast of human reason. But certainly no invention is entitled to any such degree of admiration as that of Language; which, too must have been the product of the first and rudest ages, if indeed it can be considered as a human in­vention at all.

THINK of the circumstances of mankind when Languages began to be formed. They were a wandering scattered race; no society among them except families; and the family society too very imperfect, as their method of living by hunting or pasturage must have se­parated them frequently from one another. In this situation, when so much divided, and their intercourse so rare, How could any one set of sounds, or words, be generally agreed on as the signs of their ideas? Supposing that a few, whom chance or necessity threw to­gether, agreed by some means upon certain signs, yet by what authority could these be propagated among other tribes or families, so as to spread and grow up into a Language? One would think, that in order to any Lan­guage [Page 118] fixing and extending itself, men must have been previously gathered together in considerable numbers; society must have been already far advanced; and yet, on the other hand, there seems to have been an absolute necessity for Speech, previous to the forma­tion of Society. For, by what bond could any multitude of men be kept together, or be made to join in the prosecution of any common interest, until once, by the inter­vention of Speech, they could communicate their wants and intentions to each other? So that, either how Society could form itself, previously to Language; or how words could rise into a Language, previously to Society formed, seem to be points attended with equal difficulty. And when we consider farther, that curious analogy which prevails in the construction of almost all Languages, and that deep and subtile logic on which they are founded, difficulties increase so much upon us, on all hands, that there seems to be no small reason for referring the first origin of all Language to divine teaching or inspira­tion.

BUT supposing Language to have a Divine original, we cannot, however, suppose, that a perfect system of it was all at once given to man. It is much more natural to think, that God taught our first parents only such Language as suited their present occasions; leaving them, as he did in other things, to enlarge and improve it as their future neces­sities [Page 119] should require. Consequently, those first rudiments of Speech must have been poor and narrow; and we are at full liberty to enquire in what manner, and by what steps, Language advanced to the state in which we now find it. The history which I am to give of this progress, will suggest se­veral things, both curious in themselves, and useful in our future disquisitions.

IF we should suppose a period before any words were invented or known, it is clear, that men could have no other method of communicating to others what they felt, than by the cries of passion, accompanied with such motions and gestures as were farther expressive of passion. For these are the only signs which nature teaches all men, and which are understood by all. One who saw another going into some place where he himself had been frightened, or exposed to danger, and who sought to warn his neighbour of the danger, could contrive no other way of do­ing so, than by uttering those cries, and mak­ing those gestures, which are the signs of fear: just as two men, at this day, would endeavour to make themselves be understood by each other, who should be thrown toge­ther on a desolate island, ignorant of one an­other's Language. Those exclamations, there­fore, which by Grammarians are called Inter­jections, uttered in a strong and passionate manner, were, beyond doubt, the first ele­ments or beginnings of Speech.

[Page 120] WHEN more enlarged communication be­came necessary, and names began to be as­signed to objects, in what manner can we suppose men to have proceeded in this assign­ation of names, or invention of words? Un­doubtedly, by imitating, as much as they could, the nature of the object which they named, by the sound of the name which they gave to it. As a Painter, who would repre­sent grass, must employ a green colour; so, in the beginnings of Language, one giving a name to any thing harsh or boisterous, would of course employ a harsh or boisterous sound. He could not do otherwise, if he meant to excite in the hearer the idea of that thing which he sought to name. To suppose words invented, or names given, to things, in a manner purely arbitrary, without any ground or reason, is to suppose an effect without a cause. There must have always been some motive which led to the assignation of one name rather than another; and we can con­ceive no motive which would more univer­sally operate upon men in their first efforts towards Language, than a desire to paint by Speech, the objects which they named, in a manner more or less complete, according as the vocal organs had it in their power to ef­fect this imitation.

WHEREVER objects were to be named, in which sound, noise, or motion were concern­ed, the imitation by words was abundantly obvious. Nothing was more natural, than [Page 121] to imitate, by the sound of the voice, the quality of the sound or noise which any ex­ternal object made; and to form its name accordingly. Thus, in all Languages, we find a multitude of words that are evidently constructed upon this principle. A certain bird is termed the Cuckoo, from the sound which it emits. When one sort of wind is said to whistle, and another to roar; when a serpent is said to hiss; a fly to buz, and fall­ing timber to crash; when a stream is said to flow, and hail to rattle; the analogy between the word and the thing signified is plainly dis­cernible.

IN the names of objects which address the sight only, where neither noise nor motion are concerned, and still more in the terms appropriated to moral ideas, this analogy ap­pears to fail. Many learned men, however, have been of opinion, that though, in such cases, it becomes more obscure, yet it is not altogether lost; but that throughout the ra­dical words of all Languages, there may be traced some degree of correspondence with the object signified. Witn regard to moral and intellectual ideas, they remark, that, in every Language, the terms significant of them, are derived from the names of sensi­ble objects to which they are conceived to be analogous; and with regard to sensible ob­jects pertaining merely to sight, they remark, that their most distinguishing qualities have certain radical sounds appropriated to the [Page 122] expression of them, in a great variety of Languages. Stability, for instance, fluidity, hollowness, smoothness, gentleness, violence, &c. they imagine to be painted by the sound of certain letters or syllables, which have some relation to those different states of visi­ble objects, on account of an obscure resem­blance which the organs of voice are capa­ble of assuming to such external qualities. By this natural mechanism, they imagine all Languages to have been at first constructed, and the roots of their capital words formed *.

[Page 123] AS far as this system is founded in truth, Language appears to be not altogether arbi­trary in its origin. Among the ancient Stoic and Platonic Philosophers, it was a question much agitated, ‘"Utrum nomina rerum sint naturâ, an impositione?" [...];’ by which they meant, Whether words were merely conventional symbols; of the rise of which no account could be given, except the plea­sure of the first inventors of Language? or, Whether there was some principle in nature that led to the assignation of particular names to particular objects; and those of the Plato­nic school favoured the latter opinion *?

[Page 124] THIS principle, however, of a natural re­lation between words and objects, can only be applied to Language in its most simple and primitive state. Though, in every Tongue, some remains of it, as I have shewn above, can be traced, it were utterly in vain to search for it throughout the whole construction of any modern Language. As the multitude of terms increase in every nation, and the im­mense field of Language is filled up, words, by a thousand fanciful and irregular methods of derivation and composition, come to de­viate widely from the primitive character of their roots, and to lose all analogy or resem­blance in sound to the things signified. In this state we now find Language. Words, as we now employ them, taken in the gene­ral, may be considered as symbols, not as imitations; as arbitrary, or instituted, not natural signs of ideas. But there can be no doubt, I think, that Language, the nearer we remount to its rise among men, will be found to partake more of a natural expressi­on. As it could be originally formed on no­thing but imitation, it would, in its primi­tive state, be more picturesque; much more barren indeed, and narrow in the circle of its terms, than now; but so far as it went, more expressive by sound of the thing signi­fied. This, then, may be assumed as one [Page 125] character of the first state, or beginnings, of Language, among every savage tribe.

A SECOND character of Language, in its early state, is drawn from the manner in which words were at first pronounced, or ut­tered, by men. Interjections, I showed, or passionate exclamations, were the first ele­ments of Speech. Men laboured to com­municate their feelings to one another, by those expressive cries and gestures which na­ture taught them. After words, or names of objects, began to be invented, this mode of speaking, by natural signs, could not be all at once disused. For Language, in its in­fancy, must have been extremely barren; and there certainly was a period, among all rude nations, when conversation was carried on by a very few words, intermixed with many exclamations and earnest gestures. The small stock of words which men as yet pos­sessed, rendered those helps absolutely neces­sary for explaining their conceptions; and rude, uncultivated men, not having always at hand even the few words which they knew, would naturally labour to make themselves understood, by varying their tones of voice, and accompanying their tones with the most significant gesticulations they could make. At this day, when persons attempt to speak in any Language which they possess imper­fectly, they have recourse to all these supple­mental methods, in order to render them­selves more intelligible. The plan too, ac­cording [Page 126] to which I have shown, that Lan­guage was originally constructed, upon re­semblance or analogy, as far as was possible, to the thing signified, would naturally lead men to utter their words with more emphasis and force, as long as Language was a sort of painting by means of sound. For all those reasons this may be assumed as a principle, that the pronunciation of the earliest Lan­guages was accompanied with more gesticu­lation, and with more and greater inflexions of voice, than what we now use; there was more action in it; and it was more upon a crying or singing tone.

To this manner of speaking, necessity first gave rise. But we must observe, that, after this necessity had, in a great measure, ceased, by Language becoming, in process of time, more extensive and copious, the antient man­ner of Speech still subsisted among many na­tions; and what had arisen from necessity, continued to be used for ornament. Where­ver there was much fire and vivacity in the genius of nations, they were naturally inclin­ed to a mode of conversation which gratified the imagination so much; for, an imaginati­on which is warm, is always prone to throw both a great deal of action, and a variety of tones, into discourse. Upon this princi­ple, Dr. Warburton accounts for so much speaking by action, as we find among the Old Testament Prophets; as when Jeremiah breaks the potter's vessel, in sight of the peo­ple; [Page 127] throws a book into the Euphrates; puts on bonds and yokes; and carries out his household stuff; all which, he imagines, might be significant modes of expression, very na­tural in those ages, when men were accustom­ed to explain themselves so much by actions and gestures. In like manner, among the Northern American tribes, certain motions and actions were found to be much used as explanatory of their meaning, on all their great occasions of intercourse with each other; and by the belts and strings of wampum, which they gave and received, they were ac­customed to declare their meaning, as much as by their discourses.

WITH regard to inflexions of voice, these are so natural, that, to some nations, it has appeared easier to express different ideas, by varying the tone with which they pronounced the same word, than to contrive words for all their ideas. This is the practice of the Chinese in particular. The number of words in their Language is said not to be great; but, in speaking, they vary each of their words on no less than five different tones, by which they make the same word signify five different things. This must give a great appearance of music or singing to their Speech. For those inflexions of voice which, in the infancy of Language, were no more than harsh or dissonant cries, must, as Language gradually polishes, pass into more smooth and [Page 128] musical sounds; and hence is formed, what we call, the Prosody of a Language.

IT is remarkable, and deserves attention, that, both in the Greek and Roman Lan­guages, this musical and gesticulating pro­nunciation was retained in a very high de­gree. Without having attended to this, we will be at a loss in understanding several pas­sages of the Classics, which relate to the pub­lic speaking, and the theatrical entertain­ments, of the antients. It appears, from many circumstances, that the prosody both of the Greeks and Romans, was carried much farther than ours; or that they spoke with more, and stronger, inflexions of voice than we use. The quantity of their sylla­bles was much more fixed than in any of the modern Languages, and rendered much more sensible to the ear in pronouncing them. Besides quantities, or the difference of short and long, accents were placed upon most of their syllables, the acute, grave, and circum­flex; the use of which accents we have now entirely lost, but which, we know, determi­ned the speaker's voice to rise or fall. Our modern pronunciation must have appeared to them a lifeless monotony. The declamation of their orators, and the pronunciation of their actors upon the stage, approached to the nature of recitative in music; was capable of being marked in notes, and supported with instruments; as several learned men have fully proved. And if this was the case, as [Page 129] they have shown, among the Romans, the Greeks, it is well known, were still a more musical people than the Romans, and carried their attention to tone and pronunciation much farther in every public exhibition. A­ristotle, in his Poëtics, considers the music of Tragedy as one of its chief and most es­sential parts.

THE case was parallel with regard to ges­tures: for strong tones, and animated ges­tures, we may observe, always go together. Action is treated of by all the antient critics, as the chief quality in every public speaker. The action, both of the orators and the players in Greece and Rome, was far more vehement than what we are accustomed to. Roscius would have seemed a madman to us. Gesture was of such consequence upon the antient stage, that there is reason for believ­ing, that, on some occasions, the speaking and the acting part were divided, which, ac­cording to our ideas, would form a strange exhibition; one player spoke the words in the proper tones, while another performed the corresponding motions and gestures. We learn from Cicero, that it was a contest be­tween him and Roscius, whether he could express a sentiment in a greater variety of phrases, or Roscius in a greater variety of in­telligible significant gestures. At last, ges­ture came to engross the stage wholly; for, under the reigns of Augustus and Tiberius, the favourite entertainment of the Public [Page 130] was the pantomime, which was carried on entirely by mute gesticulation. The people were moved, and wept at it, as much as at tragedies; and the passion for it became so strong, that laws were obliged to be made, for restraining the Senators from studying the pantomime art. Now, though in declama­tions and theatrical exhibitions, both tone and gesture were, doubtless, carried much farther than in common discourse; yet pub­lic speaking, of any kind, must, in every country, bear some proportion to the man­ner that is used in conversation; and such public entertainments as I have now menti­oned, could never have been relished by a nation, whose tones and gestures, in dis­course, were as languid as ours.

WHEN the Barbarians spread themselves over the Roman Empire, these more phleg­matic nations did not retain the accents, the tones and gestures, which necessity at first introduced, and custom and fancy afterwards so long supported, in the Greek and Roman Languages. As the Latin Tongue was lost in their idioms, so the character of speech and pronunciation began to be changed throughout Europe. Nothing of the same attention was paid to the music of Language, or to the pomp of declamation, and theatri­cal action. Both conversation and public speaking became more simple and plain, such as we now find it; without that enthusiastic mixture of tones and gestures, which distin­guished [Page 131] the antient nations. At the restora­tion of letters, the genius of Language was so much altered, and the manners of the people become so different, that it was no easy matter to understand what the Antients had said, concerning their declamations and public spectacles. Our plain manner of speak­ing, in these northern countries, expresses the passions with sufficient energy, to move those who are not accustomed to any more vehement manner. But, undoubtedly, more varied tones, and more animated motions, carry a natural expression of warmer feel­ings. Accordingly, in different modern Lan­guages, the prosody of Speech partakes more of music, in proportion to the liveliness and sensibility of the people. A Frenchman both varies his accents, and gesticulates while he speaks, much more than an Englishman. An Italian, a great deal more than either. Mu­sical pronunciation and expressive gesture are, to this day, the distinction of Italy.

FROM the pronunciation of Language, let us proceed, in the third place, to consider of the Style of Language in its most early state, and of its progress in this respect also. As the manner in which men at first uttered their words, and maintained conversation, was strong and expressive, enforcing their imper­fectly expressed ideas by cries and gestures; so the Language which they used, could be no other than full of figures and meta­phors, [Page 132] not correct indeed, but forcible and picturesque.

WE are apt, upon a superficial view, to imagine, that those modes of expression which are called Figures of Speech, are among the chief refinements of Speech, not invented till after Language had advanced to its later pe­riods, and mankind were brought into a po­lished state; and that, then, they were de­vised by Orators and Rhetoricians. The quite contrary of this is the truth. Mankind ne­ver employed so many figures of Speech, as when they had hardly any words for expres­sing their meaning.

FOR first, the want of proper names for every object, obliged them to use one name for many; and, of course, to express them­selves by comparisons, metaphors, allusions, and all those substituted forms of Speech which render Language figurative. Next, as the objects with which they were most con­versant, were the sensible, material objects around them, names would be given to those objects long before words were invented for signifying the dispositions of the mind, or any sort of moral and intellectual ideas. Hence, the early Language of men being entirely made up of words descriptive of sensible ob­jects, it became, of necessity, extremely me­taphorical. For, to signify any desire or pas­sion, or any act or feeling of the mind, they had no precise expression which was appro­priated [Page 133] to that purpose, but were under a necessity of painting the emotion, or passion, which they felt, by allusion to those sensible objects which had most relation to it, and which could render it, in some sort, visible to others.

BUT it was not necessity alone, that gave rise to this figured style. Other circumstances also, at the commencement of Language, contributed to it. In the infancy of all so­cieties, men are much under the dominion of imagination and passion. They live scat­tered and dispersed; they are unacquainted with the course of things; they are, every day, meeting with new and strange objects. Fear and surprise, wonder and astonishment, are their most frequent passions. Their Lan­guage will necessarily partake of this cha­racter of their minds. They will be prone to exaggeration and hyperbole. They will be given to describe every thing with the strongest colours, and most vehement expres­sions; infinitely more than men living in the advanced and cultivated periods of Society, when their imagination is more chastened, their passions are more tamed, and a wider experience has rendered the objects of life more familiar to them. Even the manner in which I before showed that the first tribes of men uttered their words, would have con­siderable influence on their style. Wherever strong exclamations, tones, and gestures, en­ter much into conversation, the imagination [Page 134] is always more exercised; a greater effort of fancy and passion is excited. Consequently, the fancy kept awake, and rendered more sprightly by this mode of utterance, operates upon style, and enlivens it more.

THESE reasonings are confirmed by un­doubted facts. The style of all the most early Languages, among nations who are in the first and rude periods of Society, is found, without exception, to be full of figures; hy­perbolical and picturesque in a high degree. We have a striking instance of this in the American Languages, which are known, by the most authentic accounts, to be figurative to excess. The Iroquois and Illinois, carry on their treaties and public transactions with bolder metaphors, and greater pomp of style, than we use in our poetical productions *.

[Page 135] ANOTHER remarkable instance is, the style of the Old Testament, which is carried on by constant allusions to sensible objects. In­iquity, or guilt, is expressed by ‘"a spotted garment;"’ misery, by ‘"drinking the cup of astonishment;"’ vain pursuits, by ‘"feed­ing on ashes;"’ a sinful life, by ‘"a crooked path;"’ prosperity, by ‘"the candle of the Lord shining on our head;"’ and the like, in innumerable instances. Hence, we have been accustomed to call this sort of style, the Oriental Style; as fancying it to be peculiar to the nations of the East: Whereas, from the American Style, and from many other instances, it plainly appears not to have been peculiar to any one region or climate; but to have been common to all nations, in certain periods of Society and Language.

HENCE, we may receive some light con­cerning that seeming paradox, that Poetry is more antient than Prose. I shall have occa­sion to discuss this point fully hereafter, when I come to treat of the Nature and Origin of Poetry. At present, it is sufficient to ob­serve, that, from what has been said it plain­ly [Page 136] appears, that the style of all Language must have been originally poetical; strongly tinctured with that enthusiasm, and that de­scriptive, metaphorical expression, which dis­tinguishes Poetry.

AS Language, in its progress, began to grow more copious, it gradually lost that fi­gurative style, which was its early character. When men were furnished with proper and familiar names for every object, both sensible and moral, they were not obliged to use so many circumlocutions. Style became more precise, and, of course, more simple. Ima­gination too, in proportion as Society ad­vanced, had less influence over mankind. The vehement manner of speaking by tones and gestures, became not so universal. The understanding was more exercised; the fan­cy, less. Intercourse among mankind be­coming more extensive and frequent, clear­ness of style, in signifying their meaning to each other, was the chief object of atten­tion. In place of Poets, Philosophers became the instructors of men; and, in their reason­ings on all different subjects, introduced that plainer and simpler style of composition, which we now call Prose. Among the Greeks, Pherecydes of Scyros, the master of Pythagoras, is recorded to have been the first, who, in this sense, composed any writing in prose. The antient metaphorical and poeti­cal dress of Language, was now laid aside from the intercourse of men, and reserved [Page 137] for those occasions only, on which ornament was professedly studied.

THUS I have pursued the History of Lan­guage through some of the variations it has undergone: I have considered it, in the first structure, and composition, of words; in the manner of uttering or pronouncing words; and in the style and character of Speech. I have yet to consider it in another view, re­specting the order and arrangement of words; when we shall find a progress to have taken place, similar to what I have been now il­lustrating.

LECTURE VII. RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE, AND of WRITING.

WHEN we attend to the order in which words are arranged in a sentence, or significant proposition, we find a very re­markable difference between the antient and the modern Tongues. The consideration of this will serve to unfold farther the genius of Language, and to show the causes of those alterations, which it has undergone, in the progress of Society.

IN order to conceive distinctly the nature of that alteration of which I now speak, let us go back, as we did formerly, to the most early period of Language. Let us figure to ourselves a Savage, who beholds some ob­ject, such as fruit, which raises his desire, and who requests another to give it to him. Supposing our Savage to be unacquainted with words, he would, in that case, labour to [Page 139] make himself be understood, by pointing earnestly at the object which he desired, and uttering at the same time a passionate cry. Supposing him to have acquired words, the first word which he uttered would, of course, be the name of that object. He would not express himself, according to our English or­der of construction, ‘"Give me fruit;"’ but according to the Latin order, ‘"Fruit give me;"’ ‘"Fructum da mihi:"’ For this plain reason, that his attention was wholly directed towards fruit, the desired object. This was the exciting idea; the object which moved him to speak; and, of course, would be the first named. Such an arrangement is pre­cisely putting into words the gesture which nature taught the Savage to make, before he was acquainted with words; and therefore it may be depended upon as certain, that he would fall most readily into this arrange­ment.

ACCUSTOMED now to a different method of ordering our words, we call this an inver­sion, and consider it as a forced and unnatu­ral order of Speech. But though not the most logical, it is, however, in one view, the most natural order; because, it is the order suggested by imagination and desire, which always impel us to mention their object in the first place. We might therefore con­clude, a priori, that this would be the order in which words were most commonly ar­ranged at the beginnings of Language; and [Page 140] accordingly we find, in fact, that, in this or­der, words are arranged in most of the anti­ent Tongues; as in the Greek and the La­tin; and it is said also, in the Russian, the the Sclavonic, the Gaëlic, and several of the American Tongues.

IN the Latin Language, the arrangement which most commonly obtains, is, to place first, in the sentence, that word which ex­presses the principal object of the discourse, together with its circumstances; and after­wards, the person, or the thing, that acts upon it. Thus Sallust, comparing together the mind and the body; ‘"Animi imperio, corporis servitio, magis utimur;"’ which order certainly renders the sentence more live­ly and striking, than when it is arranged ac­cording to our English construction; ‘"We make most use of the direction of the soul, and of the service of the body."’ The La­tin order gratifies more the rapidity of the imagination, which naturally runs first to that which is its chief object; and having once named it, carries it in view throughout the rest of the sentence. In the same man­ner in poetry:

Justum & tenacem propositi virum,
Non civium ardor prava jubentium,
Non vultus instantis tyranni,
Mente quatit solida.—

Every person of taste must be sensible, that here the words are arranged with a much [Page 141] greater regard to the figure which the several objects make in the fancy, than our English construction admits; which would require the ‘"Justum & tenacem propositi virum,"’ though, undoubtedly, the capital object in the sentence, to be thrown into the last place.

I HAVE said, that, in the Greek and Ro­man Languages, the most common arrange­ment is, to place that first which strikes the imagination of the speaker most. I do not, however, pretend, that this holds without exception. Sometimes regard to the har­mony of the period requires a different order; and in Languages susceptible of so much mu­sical beauty, and pronounced with so much tone and modulation as were used by those nations, the harmony of periods was an ob­ject carefully studied. Sometimes too, at­tention to the perspicuity, to the force, or to the artful suspension of the speaker's mean­ing, alter this order; and produce such va­rieties in the arrangement, that it is not easy to reduce them to any one principle. But, in general, this was the genius and character of most of the antient Languages, to give such full liberty to the collocation of words, as allowed them to assume whatever order was most agreeable to the speaker's imagina­tion. The Hebrew is, indeed, an excepti­on: which, though not altogether without inversions, yet employs them less frequently, and approaches nearer to the English con­struction, [Page 142] than either the Greek or the La­tin.

ALL the modern Languages of Europe have adopted a different arrangement from the antient. In their prose compositions, very little variety is admitted in the colloca­tion of words; they are mostly fixed to one order; and that order is, what may be called, the Order of the Understanding. They place first in the sentence, the person or thing which speaks or acts; next, its action; and lastly, the object of its action. So that the ideas are made to succeed to one another, not according to the degree of importance which the several objects carry in the imagination, but according to the order of nature and of time.

AN English writer, paying a compliment to a great man, would say thus: ‘"It is im­possible for me to pass over, in silence, such remarkable mildness, such singular and un­heard of clemency, and such unusual mo­deration, in the exercise of supreme pow­er."’ Here we have, first presented to us, the person who speaks. ‘"It is impossible for me;"’ next, what that person is to do, ‘"impossible for him to pass over in silence;"’ and lastly, the object which moves him so to do, ‘"the mildness, clemency, and modera­tion of his patron."’ Cicero, from whom I have translated these words, just reverses this order; beginning with the object, plac­ing [Page 143] that first which was the exciting idea in the speaker's mind, and ending with the speaker and his action. ‘"Tantam mansue­tudinem, tam inusitatam inauditamque cle­mentiam, tantumque in summa potestate rerum omnium modum, tacitus multo modo praeterire possum." (Orat. pro Mar­cell.)

THE Latin order is more animated; the English, more clear and distinct. The Ro­mans generally arranged their words accord­ing to the order in which the ideas rose in the speaker's imagination. We arrange them according to the order in which the under­standing directs those ideas to be exhibited, in succession, to the view of another. Our arrangement, therefore, appears to be the consequence of greater refinement in the art of Speech; as far as clearness in communi­cation is understood to be the end of Speech.

IN poetry, where we are supposed to rise above the ordinary style, and to speak the Language of fancy and passion, our arrange­ment is not altogether so limited; but some greater liberty is allowed for transposition, and inversion. Even there, however, that liberty is confined within narrow bounds, in comparison of the Antient Languages. The different modern Tongues vary from one another, in this respect. The French Lan­guage is, of them all, the most determinate in the order of its words, and admits the [Page 144] least of inversion, either in prose or poetry The English admits it more. But the Itali­an retains the most of the antient transposi­tive character; though one is apt to think, at the expence of a little obscurity in the style of some of their authors, who deal most in these transpositions.

IT is proper, next, to observe, that there is one circumstance in the structure of all the modern Tongues, which, of necessity, limits their arrangement, in a great measure, to one fixed and determinate train. We have disused those differences of termination, which, in the Greek and Latin, distinguished the several cases of nouns, and tenses of verbs; and which, thereby, pointed out the mutual relation of the several words in a sen­tence to one another, though the related words were disjoined, and placed in different parts of the sentence. This is an alteration in the structure of Language, of which I shall have occasion to say more in the next Lecture. One obvious effect of it is, that we have now, for the most part, no way left us to shew the close relation of any two words to one another in meaning, but by placing them close to one another in the pe­riod. For instance; the Romans could, with propriety, express themselves thus;

Extinctum nymphae crudeli funere Daphnim
Flebant.—

[Page 145] Because ‘"Extinctum & Daphnim,"’ being both in the accusative case, this showed, that the adjective and the substantive were related to each other, though placed at the two ex­tremities of the line; and that both were governed by the active verb ‘"Flebant,"’ to which ‘"nymphae"’ plainly appeared to be the nominative. The different terminations here reduced all into order, and made the connec­tion of the several words perfectly clear. But let us translate these words literally into English, according to the Latin arrange­ment; ‘"Dead the nymphs by a cruel fate Daphnis lamented;"’ and they become a perfect riddle, in which it is impossible to find any meaning.

IT was by means of this contrivance, which obtained in almost all the antient Lan­guages, of varying the termination of nouns and verbs, and thereby pointing out the con­cordance and the government of the words, in a sentence, that they enjoyed so much liberty of transposition, and could marshal and arrange their words in any way that gra­tified the imagination, or pleased the ear. When Language came to be modelled by the northern nations who overran the empire, they dropped the cases of nouns, and the different termination of verbs, with the more ease, because they placed no great value upon the advantages arising from such a structure of Language. They were attentive only to clearness, and copiousness of expression. They [Page 146] neither regarded much the harmony of sound, nor sought to gratify the imagination by the collocation of words. They studied solely to express themselves in such a manner as should exhibit their ideas to others in the most distinct and intelligible order. And hence, if our Language, by reason of the simple ar­rangement of its words, possesses less har­mony, less beauty, and less force, than the Greek or Latin; it is, however, in its mean­ing, more obvious and plain.

THUS I have shewn what the natural Pro­gress of Language has been, in several mate­rial articles; and this account of the Genius and Progress of Language, lays a foundation for many observations, both curious and use­ful. From what has been said, in this, and the preceding Lecture, it appears, that Lan­guage was, at first, barren in words, but de­scriptive by the sound of these words; and expressive in the manner of uttering them, by the aid of significant tones and gestures: Style was figurative and poetical: arrange­ment was fanciful and lively. It appears, that, in all the successive changes which Lan­guage has undergone, as the world advanced, the understanding has gained ground on the fancy and imagination. The Progress of Language, in this respect, resembles the pro­gress of age in man. The imagination is most vigorous and predominant in youth; with advancing years, the imagination cools, and the understanding ripens. Thus Lan­guage, [Page 147] proceeding from sterility to copious­ness, hath, at the same time, proceeded from vivacity to accuracy; from fire and enthusi­asm, to coolness and precision. Those cha­racters of early Language, descriptive sound, vehement tones and gestures, figurative style, and inverted arrangement, all hang together, have a mutual influence on each other; and have all gradually given place, to arbitrary sounds, calm pronunciation, simple style, plain arrangement. Language is become, in modern times, more correct, indeed, and ac­curate; but, however, less striking and ani­mated: In its antient state, more favourable to poetry and oratory; in its present, to rea­son and philosophy.

HAVING finished my account of the Pro­gress of Speech, I proceed to give an account of the Progress of Writing, which next de­mands our notice; though it will not require so full a discussion as the former subject.

NEXT to Speech, Writing is, beyond doubt, the most useful art of which men are possess­ed. It is plainly an improvement upon Speech, and therefore must have been poste­rior to it in order of time. At first, men thought of nothing more than communicat­ing their thoughts to one another, when pre­sent, by means of words, or sounds, which they uttered. Afterwards, they devised this further method, of mutual communication with one another, when absent, by means of [Page 148] marks or characters presented to the eye, which we call Writing.

WRITTEN characters are of two sorts. They are either signs for things, or signs for words. Of the former sort, signs of things, are the pictures, hieroglyphics, and symbols, employed by the antient nations; of the lat­ter sort, signs for words, are the alphabetical characters, now employed by all Europeans. These two kinds of Writing are generically, and essentially, distinct.

PICTURES were, undoubtedly, the first essay towards Writing. Imitation is so natu­ral to man, that, in all ages, and among all nations, some methods have obtained, of co­pying or tracing the likeness of sensible ob­jects. Those methods would soon be em­ployed by men for giving some imperfect in­formation to others, at a distance, of what had happened; or, for preserving the memo­ry of facts which they sought to record. Thus, to signify that one man had killed an­other, they drew the figure of one man stretched upon the earth, and of another standing by him with a deadly weapon in his hand. We find, in fact, that, when Ame­rica was first discovered, this was the only sort of Writing known in the kingdom of Mexico. By historical pictures, the Mexi­cans are said to have transmitted the memory of the most important transactions of their em­pire. These, however, must have been ex­tremely [Page 149] imperfect records; and the nations who had no other, must have been very gross and rude. Pictures could do no more than delineate external events. They could nei­ther exhibit the connections of them, nor describe such qualities as were not visible to the eye, nor convey any idea of the disposi­tions, or words, of men.

TO supply, in some degree, this defect, there arose, in process of time, the invention of what are called, Hieroglyphical Charac­ters; which may be considered as the second stage of the Art of Writing. Hieroglyphics consist in certain symbols, which are made to stand for invisible objects, on account of an analogy or resemblance which such symbols were supposed to bear to the objects. Thus, an eye, was the hieroglyphical symbol of knowledge; a circle, of eternity, which has neither beginning, nor end. Hieroglyphics, therefore, were a more refined and extensive species of painting. Pictures delineated the resemblance of external visible objects. Hie­roglyphics painted invisible objects, by analo­gies taken from the external world.

AMONG the Mexicans, were found some traces of hieroglyphical characters, intermix­ed with their historical pictures. But Egypt was the country where this sort of Writing was most studied, and brought into a regular art. In hieroglyphics, was conveyed all the boasted wisdom of their priests. According [Page 150] to the properties which they ascribed to ani­mals, or the qualities with which they sup­posed natural objects to be endowed, they pitched upon them to be the emblems, or hieroglyphics, of moral objects; and em­ployed them in their Writing for that end. Thus, ingratitude was denominated by a viper; imprudence, by a fly; wisdom, by an ant; victory, by a hawk; a dutiful child, by a stork; a man universally shunned, by an eel, which they supposed to be found in company with no other fish. Sometimes they joined together two or more of these hieroglyphical characters; as, a serpent with a hawk's head; to denote nature, with God presiding over it. But, as many of those properties of objects which they assumed for the foundation of their hieroglyphics, were merely imaginary, and the allusions drawn from them were forced and ambiguous; as the conjunction of their characters rendered them still more obscure, and must have ex­pressed very indistinctly the connections and relations of things; this sort of Writing could be no other than aenigmatical, and confused, in the highest degree; and must have been a very imperfect vehicle of knowledge of any kind.

IT has been imagined, that hieroglyphics were an invention of the Egyptian priests, for concealing their learning from common view; and that, upon this account, it was preferred by them to the alphabetical me­thod [Page 151] of Writing. But this is certainly a mistake. Hieroglyphics were, undoubtedly, employed, at first, from necessity, not from choice or refinement; and would never have been thought of, if alphabetical characters had been known. The nature of the in­vention plainly shows it to have been one of those gross and rude essays towards Writing, which were adopted in the early ages of the world; in order to extend some farther the first method which they had employed of simple pictures, or representations of visible objects. Indeed, in after-times, when alpha­betical Writing was introduced into Egypt, and the hieroglyphical was, of course, fallen into disuse, it is known, that the priests still employed the hieroglyphical characters, as a sacred kind of Writing, now become peculiar to themselves, and serving to give an air of mystery to their learning and religion. In this state, the Greeks found hieroglyphical Writing, when they began to have inter­course with Egypt; and some of their writers mistook this use, to which they found it ap­plied, for the cause that had given rise to the invention.

AS Writing advanced, from pictures of visible objects, to hieroglyphics, or symbols of things invisible; from these latter, it ad­vanced, among some nations, to simple ar­bitrary marks which stood for objects, though without any resemblance or analogy to the objects signified. Of this nature was the [Page 152] method of Writing practised among the Pe­ruvians. They made use of small cords, of different colours; and by knots upon these, of various sizes, and differently ranged, they contrived signs for giving information, and communicating their thoughts to one ano­ther.

OF this nature also, are the written cha­racters, which are used to this day, through­out the great empire of China. The Chinese have no alphabet of letters, or simple sounds, which compose their words. But every sin­gle character which they use in Writing, is significant of an idea; it is a mark which stands for some one thing, or object. By consequence, the number of these characters must be immense. It must correspond to the whole number of objects, or ideas, which they have occasion to express; that is, to the whole number of words which they employ in Speech: nay, it must be greater than the number of words; one word, by varying the tone, with which it is spoken, may be made to signify several different things. They are said to have seventy thousand of those writ­ten characters. To read and write them to perfection, is the study of a whole life; which subjects learning, among them, to infinite disadvantage; and must have greatly retard­ed the progress of all science.

CONCERNING the origin of these Chinese characters, there have been different opini­ons, [Page 153] and much controversy. According to the most probable accounts, the Chinese Wri­ting began, like the Egyptian, with pictures, and hieroglyphical figures. These figures being, in progress, abbreviated in their form, for the sake of writing them easily, and great­ly enlarged in their number, passed, at length, into those marks or characters which they now use, and which have spread themselves through several nations of the East. For we are informed, that the Japanese, the Tonqui­nese, and the Coroeans, who speak different languages from one another, and from the inhabitants of China, use, however, the same written characters with them; and, by this means, correspond intelligibly with each other in Writing, though ignorant of the Language spoken in their several countries; a plain proof, that the Chinese characters are, like hieroglyphics, independent of Language; are signs of things, not of words.

WE have one instance of this sort of Wri­ting in Europe. Our cyphers, as they are called, or arithmetical figures, 1, 2, 3, 4, &c. which we have derived from the Arabi­ans, are significant marks, precisely of the same nature with the Chinese characters. They have no dependence on words; but each figure represents an object; represents the number for which it stands; and, ac­cordingly, on being presented to the eye, is equally understood by all the nations who have agreed in the use of these cyphers; by [Page 154] Italians, Spaniards, French, and English, however different the Languages of those nations are from one another, and whatever different names they give, in their respective Languages, to each numerical cypher.

AS far, then, as we have yet advanced, nothing has appeared which resembles our letters, or which can be called Writing, in the sense we now give to that term. What we have hitherto seen, were all direct signs for things, and made no use of the medium of sound, or words; either signs by repre­sentation, as the Mexican pictures; or signs by analogy, as the Egyptian hieroglyphics; or signs by institution, as the Peruvian knots, the Chinese characters, and the A­rabian cyphers.

AT length, in different nations, men be­came sensible of the imperfection, the ambi­guity, and the tediousness of each of these methods of communication with one ano­ther. They began to consider, that by em­ploying signs which should stand not directly for things, but for the words which they used in Speech for naming these things, a consi­derable advantage would be gained. For they reflected farther, that though the num­ber of words in every Language be, indeed, very great, yet the number of articulate sounds, which are used in composing these words, is comparatively small. The same simple sounds are continually recurring and [Page 155] repeated; and are combined together, in va­rious ways, for forming all the variety of words which we utter. They bethought themselves, therefore, of inventing signs, not for each word, by itself, but for each of those simple sounds which we employ in forming our words; and, by joining together a few of those signs, they saw that it would be practi­cable to express, in Writing, the whole com­binations of sounds which our words re­quire.

THE first step, in this new progress, was the invention of an alphabet of syllables, which probably preceded the invention of an alphabet of letters, among some of the an­tient nations; and which is said to be retain­ed, to this day, in Aethiopia, and some coun­tries of India. By fixing upon a particular mark, or character, for every syllable in the Language, the number of characters, neces­sary to be used in Writing, was reduced within a much smaller compass than the number of words in the Language. Still, however, the number of characters was great; and must have continued to render both reading and writing very laborious arts. Till, at last, some happy genius arose; and tracing the sounds made by the human voice, to their most simple elements, reduced them to a very few vowels and consonants; and, by affixing to each of these the signs which we now call Letters, taught men how, by their combinations, to put into Writing all [Page 156] the different words, or combinations of sound, which they employed in Speech. By being reduced to this simplicity, the art of Writing was brought to its highest state of perfection; and, in this state, we now enjoy it in all the countries of Europe.

TO whom we are indebted for this sublime and refined discovery, does not appear. Con­cealed by the darkness of remote antiquity, the great inventor is deprived of those ho­nours which would still be paid to his me­mory, by all the lovers of knowledge and learning. It appears from the books which Moses has written, that, among the Jews, and probably among the Egyptians, letters had been invented prior to his age. The uni­versal tradition among the antients is, that they were first imported into Greece by Cad­mus the Phoenician; who, according to the common system of chronology, was contem­porary with Joshua; according to Sir Isaac Newton's system, contemporary with King David. As the Phoenicians are not known to have been the inventors of any art or sci­ence, though, by means of their extensive commerce, they propagated the discoveries made by other nations, the most probable and natural account of the origin of alpha­betical characters is, that they took rise in Egypt, the first civilized kingdom of which we have any authentic accounts, and the great source of arts and polity among the ancients. In that country, the favourite study [Page 157] of hieroglyphical characters, had directed much attention to the art of Writing. Their hieroglyphics are known to have been inter­mixed with abbreviated symbols, and arbi­trary marks; whence, at last, they caught the idea of contriving marks, not for things merely, but for sounds. Accordingly, Plato (in Phoedro) expressly attributes the invention of letters to Theuth, the Egyptian, who is supposed to have been the Hermes, or Mer­cury, of the Greeks. Cadmus himself, though he passed from Phoenicia to Greece, yet is affirmed, by several of the antients, to have been originally of Thebes in Egypt. Most probably, Moses carried with him the Egyp­tian letters into the land of Canaan; and there being adopted by the Phoenicians, who inhabited part of that country, they were transmitted into Greece.

THE alphabet which Cadmus brought into Greece was imperfect, and is said to have contained only sixteen letters. The rest were afterwards added, according as signs for pro­per sounds were found to be wanting. It is curious to observe, that the letters which we use at this day, can be traced back to this very alphabet of Cadmus. The Roman al­phabet, which obtains with us, and with most of the European nations, is plainly formed on the Greek, with a few variations. And all learned men observe, that the Greek cha­racters, especially according to the manner in which they are formed in the oldest inscrip­tions, [Page 158] have a remarkable conformity with the Hebrew or Samaritan characters, which, it is agreed, are the same with the Phoenician, or the alphabet of Cadmus. Invert the Greek characters from left to right, according to the Phoenician and Hebrew manner of Writing, and they are nearly the same. Besides the conformity of figure, the names or denomi­nations of the letters, alpha, beta, gamma, &c. and the order in which the letters are arranged, in all the several alphabets, Phoe­nician, Hebrew, Greek, and Roman, agree so much, as amounts to a demonstration, that they were all derived originally from the same source. An invention so useful and simple, was greedily received by mankind, and pro­pagated with speed and facility through many different nations.

THE letters were, originally, written from the right hand towards the left; that is, in a contrary order to what we now practise. This manner of Writing obtained among the Assy­rians, Phoenicians, Arabians, and Hebrews; and from some very old inscriptions, appears to have obtained also among the Greeks. Afterwards, the Greeks adopted a new me­thod, writing their lines alternately from the right to the left, and from the left to the right, which was called Boustrophedon; or, writing after the manner in which oxen plow the ground. Of this, several specimens still remain; particularly, the inscription on the famous Sigaean monument; and down to the [Page 159] days of Solon, the legislator of Athens, this continued to be the common method of Wri­ting. At length, the motion from the left hand to the right being found more natural and commodious, the practice of Writing, in this direction, prevailed throughout all the countries of Europe.

WRITING was long a kind of engraving. Pillars, and tables of stone, were first em­ployed for this purpose, and afterwards, plates of the softer metals, such as lead. In pro­portion as Writing became more common, lighter and more portable substances were employed. The leaves, and the bark of cer­tain trees, were used in some countries; and in others, tablets of wood, covered with a thin coat of soft wax, on which the impres­sion was made with a stylus of iron. In later times, the hides of animals, properly prepared and polished into parchment, were the most common materials. Our present method of writing on paper, is an invention of no great­er antiquity than the fourteenth century.

THUS I have given some account of the Progress of these two great arts, Speech and Writing; by which men's thoughts are com­municated, and the foundation laid for all knowledge and improvement. Let us con­clude the subject, with comparing, in a few words, spoken Language, and written Lan­guage; or words uttered in our hearing, with words represented to the eye; where we shall [Page 160] find several advantages and disadvantages to be balanced on both sides.

THE advantages of Writing above Speech are, that Writing is both a more extensive, and a more permanent method of communi­cation. More extensive; as it is not con­fined within the narrow circle of those who hear our words, but, by means of written characters, we can send our thoughts abroad, and propagate them through the world; we can lift our voice, so as to speak to the most distant regions of the earth. More perma­nent also; as it prolongs this voice to the most distant ages; it gives us the means of record­ing our sentiments to futurity, and of perpe­tuating the instructive memory of past tran­sactions. It likewise affords this advantage to such as read, above such as hear, that, having the written characters before their eyes, they can arrest the sense of the writer. They can pause, and revolve, and compare, at their leisure, one passage with another; whereas, the voice is fugitive and passing; you must catch the words the moment they are uttered, or you lose them for ever.

BUT, although these be so great advan­tages of written Language, that Speech, with­out Writing, would have been very inade­quate for the instruction of mankind; yet we must not forget to observe, that spoken Language has a great superiority over written Language, in point of energy or force. The [Page 161] voice of the living Speaker, makes an im­pression on the mind, much stronger than can be made by the perusal of any Writing. The tones of voice, the looks and gesture, which accompany discourse, and which no Writing can convey, render discourse, when it is well managed, infinitely more clear, and more expressive, than the most accurate Writing. For tones, looks, and gestures, are natural interpreters of the sentiments of the mind. They remove ambiguities; they enforce im­pressions; they operate on us by means of sympathy, which is one of the most power­ful instruments of persuasion. Our sympa­thy is always awakened more, by hearing the Speaker, than by reading his works in our closet. Hence, though Writing may answer the purposes of mere instruction, yet all the great and high efforts of eloquence must be made, by means of spoken, not of written, Language.

LECTURE VIII. STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE.

AFTER having given an account of the Rise and Progress of Language, I pro­ceed to treat of its Structure, or of General Grammar. The Structure of Language is extremely artificial; and there are few sci­ences, in which a deeper, or more refined lo­gic, is employed, than in Grammar. It is apt to be slighted by superficial thinkers, as be­longing to those rudiments of knowledge, which were inculcated upon us in our earliest youth. But what was then inculcated before we could comprehend its principles, would abundantly repay our study in maturer years; and to the ignorance of it, must be attribut­ed many of those fundamental defects which appear in writing.

FEW authors have written with philoso­phical accuracy on the principles of General Grammar; and, what is more to be regret­ted, [Page 163] fewer still have thought of applying those principles to the English Language. While the French Tongue has long been an object of attention to many able and ingenious wri­ters of that nation, who have considered its construction, and determined its propriety with great accuracy, the Genius and Gram­mar of the English, to the reproach of the country, have not been studied with equal care, or ascertained with the same precision. Attempts have been made, indeed, of late, towards supplying this defect; and some able writers have entered on the subject; but much remains yet to be done.

I DO not propose to give any system, either of Grammar in general, or of English Gram­mar in particular. A minute discussion of the niceties of Language would carry us too much off from other objects, which demand our attention in this course of Lectures. But I propose to give a general view of the chief principles relating to this subject, in observa­tions on the several parts of which Speech or Language is composed; remarking, as I go along, the peculiarities of our own Tongue. After which, I shall make some more particu­lar remarks on the Genius of the English Language.

THE first thing to be considered, is, the division of the several parts of Speech. The essential parts of Speech are the same in all Languages. There must always be some [Page 164] words which denote the names of objects, or mark the subject of discourse; other words, which denote the qualities of those objects, and express what we affirm concern­ing them; and other words, which point out their connections and relations. Hence, sub­stantives, pronouns, adjectives, verbs, prepo­sitions, and conjunctions, must necessarily be found in all Languages. The most simple and comprehensive division of the parts of Speech is, into substantives, attributives, and connectives *. Substantives, are all the words which express the names of objects, or the subjects of discourse; attributives, are all the words which express any attribute, property, or action of the former; connectives, are what express the connections, relations, and dependencies, which take place among them. The common grammatical division of Speech into eight parts; nouns, pronouns, verbs, par­ticiples, adverbs, prepositions, interjections, and conjunctions, is not very logical, as might be easily shewn; as it comprehends, [Page 165] under the general term of nouns, both sub­stantives and adjectives, which are parts of Speech generically and essentially distinct; while it makes a separate part of speech of participles, which are no other than verbal adjectives. However, as these are the terms to which our ears have been most familiaris­ed, and, as an exact logical division is of no great consequence to our present purpose, it will be better to make use of these known terms than of any other.

WE are naturally led to begin with the consideration of substantive nouns, which are the foundation of all Grammar, and may be considered as the most antient part of Speech. For, assuredly, as soon as men had got beyond simple interjections, or exclama­tions of passion, and began to communicate themselves by discourse, they would be under a necessity of assigning names to the objects they saw around them; which, in Grammati­cal Language, is called, the Invention of substantive nouns *. And here, at our first [Page 166] setting out, somewhat curious occurs. The individual objects which surround us, are infinite in number. A savage, wherever he looked, beheld forests and trees. To give separate names to every one of these trees, would have been an endless and impractica­ble undertaking. His first object was, to give a name to that particular tree, whose fruit relieved his hunger, or whose shade protected him from the sun. But observing, that though other trees were distinguished from this by peculiar qualities of size or ap­pearance, yet, that they also agreed and re­sembled one another, in certain common qualities, such as springing from a root, and bearing branches and leaves, he formed, in his mind, some general idea of those common qualities, and ranging all that possessed them under one class of objects, he called that whole class, a tree. Longer experience [Page 167] taught him to subdivide this genus into the several species of oak, pine, ash, and the rest, according as his observation extended to the several qualities in which these trees agreed or differed.

BUT, still, he made use only of general terms in Speech. For the oak, the pine, and the ash, were names of whole classes of ob­jects; each of which included an immense number of undistinguished individuals. Here then, it appears, that though the formation of abstract, or general conceptions, is sup­posed to be a difficult operation of the mind; such conceptions must have entered into the very first formation of Language. For, if we except only the proper names of persons, such as Caesar, John, Peter, all the other sub­stantive nouns which we employ in discourse, are the names, not of individual objects, but of very extensive genera, or species of ob­jects; as, man, lion, house, river, &c. We are not, however, to imagine, that this in­vention of general, or abstract terms, re­quires any great exertion of metaphysical capacity: For, by whatever steps the mind proceeds in it, it is certain, that, when men have once observed resemblances among ob­jects, they are naturally inclined to call all those which resemble one another, by one common name; and of course, to class them under one species. We may daily observe this practised by children, in their first at­tempts towards acquiring Language.

[Page 168] BUT now, after Language had proceeded as far as I have described, the notification which it made of objects was still very im­perfect: For, when one mentioned to ano­ther, in discourse, any substantive noun; such as, man, lion, or tree, how was it to be known which man, which lion, or which tree he meant, among the many comprehend­ed under one name? Here occurs a very curious, and a very useful contrivance for specifying the individual object intended, by means of that part of Speech called, the Ar­ticle.

THE force of the Article consists, in point­ing, or singling out from the common mass, the individual of which we mean to speak. In English, we have two Articles, a and the; a is more general and unlimited; the more definite and special. A is much the same with one, and marks only any one individual of a species; that individual being either un­known, or left undertermined; as, a lion, a king. The, which possesses more properly the force of the Article, ascertains some known or determined individual of the spe­cies; as, the lion, the king.

ARTICLES are words of great use in Speech. In some Languages, however, they are not found. The Greeks have but one Article, [...] which answers to our definite, or pro­per Article, the. They have no word which answers to our Article a; but they supply its [Page 169] place by the absence of their Article: Thus, [...] signifies, a king; [...], the king The Latins have no Article. In the room of it, they employ pronouns, as, hic, ille, iste, for pointing out the objects which they want to distinguish. ‘"Noster sermo,"’ says Quinc­tilian, ‘"articulos non desiderat, ideoque in alias partes orationis sparguntur."’ This, however, appears to me a defect in the Latin tongue; as Articles contribute much to the clearness and precision of Language.

IN order to illustrate this, remark, what difference there is in the meaning of the fol­lowing expressions in English, depending wholly on the different employment of the Articles: ‘"The son of a king.—The son of the king—A son of the king's"’ Each of these three phrases has an entirely different meaning, which I need not explain, because any one who understands the Language, con­ceives it clearly at first hearing, through the different application of the Articles, a and the. Whereas, in Latin, ‘"Filius regis,"’ is wholly undetermined; and to explain, in which of these three senses it is to be under­stood, for it may bear any of them, a cir­cumlocution of several words must be used. In the same manner, ‘"Are you a king?"’ ‘"Are you the king?"’ are questions of quite separate import; which, however, are con­founded together in the Latin phrase, ‘"esne tu rex?"’ ‘"Thou art a man,"’ is a very general and harmless position; but, ‘"thou [Page 170] art the man,"’ is an assertion, capable, we know, of striking terror and remorse into the heart. These observations illustrate the force and importance of Articles: And, at the same time, I gladly lay hold of any opportu­nity of shewing the advantages of our own Language.

BESIDES this quality of being particularised by the Articie, three affections belong to sub­stantive nouns, number, gender, and case, which require our consideration.

NUMBER distinguishes them as one, or many, of the same kind, called the Singular and Plural; a distinction found in all Lan­guages, and which must, indeed, have been coëval with the very infancy of Language; as there were few things which men had more frequent occasion to express, than the differ­ence between one and many. For the grea­ter facility of expressing it, it has, in all Lan­guages, been marked by some variation made upon the substantive noun; as we see, in English, our plural is commonly formed by the addition of the letter S. In the Hebrew, Greek, and some other antient Languages, we find, not only a plural, but a dual num­ber; the rise of which may very naturally be accounted for, from separate terms of num­bering not being yet invented, and one, two, and many, being all, or, at least, the chief numeral distinctions which men, at first, had any occasion to take notice of.

[Page 171] GENDER, is an affection of substantive nouns, which will lead us into more discus­sion than number. Gender, being founded on the distinction of the two sexes, it is plain, that, in a proper sense, it can only find place in the names of living creatures, which admit the distinction of male and fe­male; and, therefore, can be ranged under the masculine or feminine genders. All other substantive nouns ought to belong, to what grammarians call, the Neuter Gender, which is meant to imply the negation of either sex. But, with respect to this distribution, some­what singular hath obtained in the structure of Language. For, in correspondence to that distinction of male and female sex, which runs through all the classes of animals, men have, in most Languages, ranked a great number of inaminate objects also, under the like distinctions of masculine and feminine. Thus we find it, both in the Greek and La­tin Tongues. Gladius, a sword, for instance, is masculine; sagitta, an arrow, is feminine; and this assignation of sex to inanimate ob­jects, this distinction of them into masculine and feminine, appears often to be entirely capricious; derived from no other principle than the casual structure of the Language, which refers to a certain gender, words of a certain termination. In the Greek and La­tin, however, all inanimate objects are not distributed into masculine and feminine; but many of them are also classed, where all of [Page 172] them ought to have been, under the neuter gender; as, templum, a church; sedile, a seat.

BUT the genius of the French and Italian Tongues differs, in this respect, from the Greek and Latin. In the French and Italian, from whatever cause it has happened, so it is, that the neuter gender is wholly unknown, and that all their names of inanimate objects are put upon the same footing with living creatures; and distributed, without excepti­on, into masculine and feminine. The French have two articles, the masculine le, and the feminine la; and one or other of these is prefixed to all substantive nouns in the Lan­guage, to denote their gender. The Italians make the same universal use of their articles il and lo, for the masculine; and la, for the feminine.

IN the English Language, it is remarkable that there obtains a peculiarity quite oppo­site. In the French and Italian, there is no neuter gender. In the English, when we use common discourse, all substantive nouns, that are not names of living creatures, are neuter, without exception. He, she, and it, are the marks of the three genders; and we always use it, in speaking of any object where there is no sex, or where the sex is not known. The English is, perhaps, the only Language in the known world (except the Chinese, which is said to agree with it in this parti­cular), where the distinction of gender is pro­perly [Page 173] and philosophically applied in the use of words, and confined, as it ought to be, to mark the real distinctions of male and fe­male.

HENCE arises a very great and signal ad­vantage of the English Tongue, which it is of consequence to remark *. Though in common discourse, as I have already observ­ed, we employ only the proper and literal distinction of sexes; yet the genius of the Language permits us, whenever it will add beauty to our discourse, to make the names of inanimate objects masculine or feminine in a metaphorical sense; and when we do so, we are understood to quit the literal style, and to use one of the figures of discourse.

FOR instance; if I am speaking of virtue, in the course of ordinary conversation, or of strict reasoning, I refer the word to no sex or gender; I say, ‘"Virtue is its own reward;"’ or, ‘"it is the law of our nature."’ But if I chuse to rise into a higher tone; if I seek to embellish and animate my discourse, I give a sex to virtue; I say, ‘"She descends from Heaven;"’ ‘"she alone confers true honour upon man;"’ ‘"her gifts are the only dura­ble rewards."’ By this means, we have it in our power to vary our style at pleasure. [Page 174] By making a very slight alteration, we can personify any object that we chuse to intro­duce with dignity; and by this change of manner, we give warning, that we are pas­sing from the strict and logical, to the orna­mented and rhetorical style.

THIS is an advantage which, not only every poet, but every good writer and speak­er in prose, is, on many occasions, glad to lay hold of, and improve: and it is an advantage peculiar to our Tongue; no other Language possesses it. For, in other Languages, every word has one fixed gender, masculine, femi­mine, or neuter, which can, upon no occa­sion, be changed; [...] for instance, in Greek, virtus in Latin, and la vertu in French, are uniformly feminine. She, must always be the pronoun answering to the word, whether you be writing in poetry or prose, whether you be using the style of reasoning, or that of declamation: whereas, in English, we can either express ourselves with the philosophical accuracy of giving no gender to things inani­mate; or by giving them gender, and trans­forming them into persons, we adapt them to the style of poetry, and, when it is proper, we enliven prose.

IT deserves to be further remarked on this subject, that, when we employ that liberty which our Language allows, of ascribing sex to any inanimate object, we have not, how­ever, the liberty of making it of what gender [Page 175] we please, masculine or feminine; but are, in general, subjected to some rule of gender which the currency of Language has fixed to that object. The foundation of that rule is imagined, by Mr. Harris, in his "Philoso­phical Enquiry into the Principles of Gram­mar," to be laid in a certain distant resem­blance, or analogy, to the natural distinction of the two sexes.

THUS, according to him, we commonly give the masculine gender to those substan­tive nouns used figuratively, which are con­spicuous for the attributes of imparting, or communicating; which are by nature strong and efficacious, either to good or evil; or which have a claim to some eminence, whe­ther laudable or not. Those again, he ima­gines, to be generally made feminine, which are conspicuous for the attributes of contain­ing, and of bringing forth; which have more of the passive in their nature, than the ac­tive; which are peculiarly beautiful, or amia­ble; or which have respect to such excesses as are rather feminine than masculine. Upon these principles he takes notice, that the sun is always put in the masculine gender with us; the moon in the feminine, as being the receptacle of the sun's light. The earth is, universally, feminine. A ship, a country, a city, are likewise made feminine, as receiv­ers, or containers. God, in all Languages, is masculine. Time, we make masculine, on account of its mighty efficacy; virtue, femi­nine, [Page 176] from its beauty, and its being the ob­ject of love. Fortune is always feminine. Mr. Harris imagines, that the reasons which determine the gender of such capital words as these, hold in most other Languages, as well as the English. This, however, appears doubtful. A variety of circumstances, which seem casual to us, because we cannot reduce them to principles, must, unquestionably, have influenced the original formation of Languages; and in no article whatever does Language appear to have been more capri­cious, and to have proceeded less according to fixed rule, than in the imposition of gen­der upon things inanimate; especially among such nations as have applied the distinction of masculine and feminine to all substantive nouns.

HAVING discussed gender, I proceed, next, to another remarkable peculiarity of substan­tive nouns, which, in the style of grammar, is called, their declension by cases. Let us, first, consider what cases signify. In order to understand this, it is necessary to observe, that, after men had given names to external objects, had particularised them by means of the article, and distinguished them by num­ber and gender, still their Language remain­ed extremely imperfect, till they had devised some method of expressing the relations which those objects bore, one towards another. They would find it of little use to have a name for man, lion, tree, river, without be­ing [Page 177] able, at the same time, to signify how these stood with respect to each other; whe­ther, as approaching to, receding from, join­ed with, and the like. Indeed, the relations which objects bear to one another, are im­mensely numerous; and therefore, to devise names for them all, must have been among the last and most difficult refinements of Language. But, in its most early periods, it was absolutely necessary to express, in some way or other, such relations as were most important, and as occurred most frequently in common Speech. Hence the genitive, da­tive, and ablative cases of nouns, which ex­press the noun itself, together with those re­lations, of, to, from, with, and by; the rela­tions which, of all others, we have the most frequent occasion to mention. The proper idea then of cases in declension, is no other than an expression of the state, or relation, which one object bears to another, denoted by some variation made upon the name of that object; most commonly in the final let­ters, and by some Languages, in the initial.

ALL Languages, however, do not agree in this mode of expression. The Greek, La­tin, and several other Languages, use declen­sion. The English, French, and Italian, do not; or, at most, use it very imperfectly. In place of the variations of cases, these modern Tongues express the relations of objects, by means of the words called Prepositions, which are the names of those relations, prefixed to [Page 178] the name of the object. English nouns have no case whatever, except a sort of genitive, commonly formed by the addition of the let­ter s to the noun; as when we say ‘"Dryden's Poems,"’ meaning the Poems of Dryden. Our personal pronouns have also a case, which answers to the accusative of the Latin, I, me,—he, him,—who, whom. There is nothing, then, or at least very little, in the Grammar of our Language, which corresponds to de­clension in the antient Languages.

TWO questions, respecting this subject, may be put. First, Which of these methods of expressing relations, whether that by de­clension, or that by prepositions, was the most antient usage in Language? And next, Which of them has the best effect? Both methods, it is plain, are the same as to the sense, and differ only in form. For the sig­nificancy of the Roman Language would not have been altered, though the nouns, like ours, had been without cases, provided they had employed prepositions; and though, to express a disciple of Plato, they had said, ‘"Discipulus de Plato,"’ like the modern Ita­lians, in place of ‘"Discipulus Platonis."’

NOW, with respect to the antiquity of cases, although they may, on first view, seem to constitute a more artificial method than the other, of denoting relations, yet there are strong reasons for thinking that this was the earliest method practised by men. We find, [Page 179] in fact, that declensions and cases are used in most of what are called the Mother Tongues, or Original Languages, as well as in the Greek and Latin. And a very natural and satis­fying account can be given why this usage should have early obtained. Relations are the most abstract and metaphysical ideas of any which men have occasion to form, when they are considered by themselves, and se­parated from the related object. It would puzzle any man, as has been well observed by an Author on this subject, to give a dis­tinct account of what is meant by such a word as of, or from, when it stands by itself, and to explain all that may be included under it. The first rude inventors of Language, therefore, would be long of arriving at such general terms. In place of considering any relation in the abstract, and devising a name for it, they would much more easily conceive it in conjunction with a particular object; and they would express their conceptions of it, by varying the name of that object through all the different cases; hominis, of a man; ho­mini, to a man; homine, with a man, &c.

BUT, though this method of declension was, probably, the only method which men employed, at first, for denoting relations, yet, in progress of time, many other relations be­ing observed, besides those which are signi­fied by the cases of nouns, and men also be­coming more capable of general and meta­physical ideas, separate names were gradually [Page 180] invented for all the relations which occurred, forming that part of Speech which we now call Prepositions. Prepositions being once introduced, they were found to be capable of supplying the place of cases, by being prefix­ed to the nominative of the noun. Hence, it came to pass, that, as nations were inter­mixed by migrations and conquests, and were obliged to learn, and adopt the Languages of one another, prepositions supplanted the use of cases and declensions. When the Italian Tongue, for instance, sprung out of the Ro­man, it was found more easy and simple, by the Gothic nations, to accommodate a few prepositions to the nominative of every noun, and to say, di Roma, al Roma, di Carthago, al Carthago, than to remember all the variety of terminations, Romae, Romam, Carthaginis, Carthaginem, which the use of declensions required in the antient nouns. By this pro­gress we can give a natural account how nouns, in our modern Tongues, come to be so void of declension: A progress which is fully illustrated in Dr. Adam Smith's ingeni­ous Dissertation on the Formation of Lan­guages.

WITH regard to the other question on this subject, Which of these two methods is of the greatest utility and beauty? we shall find advantages and disadvantages to be ba­lanced on both sides. There is no doubt that, by abolishing cases, we have rendered the structure of modern Languages more simple. [Page 181] We have disembarrassed it of all the intricacy which arose from the different forms of de­clension, of which the Romans had no fewer than five; and from all the irregularities in these several declensions. We have thereby rendered our Languages more easy to be ac­quired, and less subject to the perplexity of rules. But, though the simplicity and ease of Language be great and estimable advan­tages, yet there are also such disadvantages attending the modern method, as leave the balance, on the whole, doubtful, or rather incline it to the side of antiquity.

FOR, in the first place, by our constant use of prepositions for expressing the relations of things, we have filled Language with a mul­titude of those little words, which are eter­nally occurring in every sentence, and may be thought thereby to have encumbered Speech, by an addition of terms; and by rendering it more prolix, to have enervated its force. In the second place, we have cer­tainly rendered the sound of Languge less agreeable to the ear, by depriving it of that variety and sweetness, which arose from the length of words, and the change of termina­tions, occasioned by the cases in the Greek and Latin. But, in the third place, the most material disadvantage is, that, by this aboli­tion of cases, and by a similar alteration, of which I am to speak in the next Lecture, in he conjugation of verbs, we have deprived [Page 182] ourselves of that liberty of transposition in the arrangement of words, which the Anti­ent Languages enjoyed.

IN the Antient Tongues, as I formerly ob­served, the different terminations, produced by declension and conjugation, pointed out the reference of the several words of a sentence to one another, without the aid of juxtapositi­on; suffered them to be placed, without am­biguity, in whatever order was most suited to give emphasis to the meaning, or harmo­ny to the sound. But now, having none of those marks of relation incorporated with the words themselves, we have no other way left us, of showing what words in a sentence are most closely connected in meaning, than that of placing them close by one another in thepe­riod. The meaning of the sentence is brought out in separate members and portions; it is broken down and divided. Whereas the structure of the Greek and Roman sentences, by the government of their nouns and verbs, presented the meaning so interwoven and compounded in all its parts, as to make us perceive it in one united view. The closing words of the period ascertained the relation of each member to another; and all that ought to be connected in our idea, appeared connected in the expression. Hence, more brevity, more vivacity, more force. That luggage of particles (as an ingenious Author happily expresses it), which we are obliged [Page 183] always to carry along with us, both clogs style, and enfeebles sentiment *.

PRONOUNS are the class of words most nearly related to substantive nouns; being, as the name imports, representatives, or sub­stitutes, of nouns. I, thou, he, she, and it, are no other than an abridged way of nam­ing the persons, or objects, with which we have immediate intercourse, or to which we are obliged frequently to refer in discourse. Accordingly, they are subject to the same modifications with substantive nouns, of number, gender, and case. Only, with re­spect to gender, we may observe, that the pronouns of the first and second person, as [Page 184] they are called, I and thou, do not appear to have had the distinctions of gender given them in any Language; for this plain reason, that, as they always refer to persons who are present to each other, when they speak, their sex must appear, and therefore needs not be marked by a masculine or feminine pronoun. But, as the third person may be absent, or unknown, the distinction of gender there becomes necessary; and accordingly, in En­glish, it hath all the three genders belonging to it; he, she, it. As to cases; even those Languages which have dropped them in sub­stantive nouns, sometimes retain more of them in pronouns, for the sake of the greater readiness in expressing relations; as pronouns are words of such frequent occurrence in dis­course. In English, most of our grammari­ans hold the personal pronouns to have two cases, besides the nominative; a genitive, and an accusative,— I, mine, me;—thou, thine, thee;—he, his, him;—who, whose, whom.

IN the first stage of Speech, it is probable that the places of those pronouns were sup­plied, by pointing to the object when pre­sent, and naming it when absent. For one can hardly think that pronouns were of early invention; as they are words of such a par­ticular and artificial nature. I, thou, he, it, it is to be observed, are not names peculiar to any single object, but so very general, that they may be applied to all persons, or objects, whatever, in certain circumstances. It, is [Page 185] the most general term that can possibly be conceived, as it may stand for any one thing in the universe, of which we speak. At the same time, these pronouns have this quality, that, in the circumstances in which they are applied, they never denote more than one precise individual; which they ascertain, and specify, much in the same manner as is done by the article. So that pronous are, at once, the most general, and the most particular words in Language. They are commonly the most irregular and troublesome words to the learner, in the Grammar of all Tongues; as being the words most in common use, and subjected thereby to the greatest varieties.

ADJECTIVES, or terms of quality, such as, great, little, black, white, yours, ours, are the plainest and simplest of all that class of words which are termed attributive. They are found in all Languages; and, in all Lan­guages, must have been very early invented; as objects could not be distinguished from each other, nor any intercourse be carried on concerning them, till once names were given to their different qualities.

I HAVE nothing to observe in relation to them, except that singularity which attends them in the Greek and Latin, of having the same form given them with substantive nouns; being declined, like them, by cases, and sub­jected to the like distinctions of number and gender. Whence it has happened, that gram­marians [Page 186] have made them to belong to the same part of Speech, and divided the noun into substantive and adjective; an arrange­ment, founded more on attention to the ex­ternal form of words, than to their nature and force. For adjectives, or terms of qua­lity, have not, by their nature, the least re­semblance to substantive nouns, as they never express any thing which can possibly subsist by itself; which is the very essence of the substantive noun. They are, indeed, more a-kin to verbs, which, like them, express the attribute of some substance.

IT may, at first view, appear somewhat odd and fantastic, that adjectives should, in these antient Languages, have assumed so much the form of substantives; since neither number, nor gender, nor cases, nor relations, have any thing to do, in a proper sense, with mere qualities, such as, good or great, soft or hard. And yet bonus, and magnus, and tener, have their singular and plural, their masculine and feminine, their genitives and datives, like any of the names of substances, or per­sons. But this can be accounted for, from the genius of those Tongues. They avoided, as much as possible, considering qualities se­parately, or in the abstract. They made them a part, or appendage, of the substance which they served to distinguish; they made the adjective depend on its substantive, and re­semble it in termination, in number, and gender, in order that the two might coalesce [Page 187] the more intimately, and be joined in the form of expression, as they were in the na­ture of things. The liberty of transposition, too, which those Languages indulged, requir­ed such a method as this to be followed. For, allowing the related words of a sentence to be placed at a distance from each other, it re­quired the relation of adjectives to their pro­per substantives to be pointed out, by such similar circumstances of form and termina­tion, as, according to the grammatical style, should show their concordance. When I say, in English, the ‘"Beautiful wife of a brave man,"’ the juxtaposition of the words pre­vents all ambiguity. But when I say, in La­tin, ‘"Formosa fortis viri uxor;"’ it is only the agreement, in gender, number, and case, of the adjective ‘" formosa,"’ which is the first word of the sentence, with the substantive ‘" uxor,"’ which is the last word that declares the meaning.

LECTURE IX. STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. ENGLISH TONGUE.

OF the whole class of words that are call­ed attributive, indeed, of all the parts of Speech, the most complex, by far, is the verb. It is chiefly in this part of Speech, that the subtile and profound metaphysic of Language appears; and, therefore, in exa­mining the nature and different variations of the verb, there might be room for ample dis­cussion. But as I am sensible that such gram­matical discussions, when they are pursued far, become intricate and obscure, I shall avoid dwelling any longer on this subject, than seems absolutely necessary.

THE verb is so far of the same nature with the adjective, that it expresses, like it, an attribute, or propriety, of some person or thing. But it does more than this. For, in all verbs, in every Language, there are no [Page 189] less than three things implied at once; the attribute of some substantive, an affirmation concerning that attribute, and time. Thus, when I say, ‘"the sun shineth."’ Shining, is the attribute ascribed to the sun; the present time is marked; and an affirmation is in­cluded, that this property of shining belongs, at that time, to the sun. The participle, ‘"shining,"’ is merely an adjective, which de­notes an attribute, or property, and also ex­presses time; but carries no affirmation. The infinitive mood, ‘"to shine,"’ may be called the name of the verb; it carries neither time nor affirmation; but simply expresses that attribute, action, or state of things, which is to be the subject of the other moods and tenses. Hence the infinitive is often a-kin to a substantive noun; and, both in English and Latin, is sometimes constructed as such. As, ‘"Scire tuum nihil est." Dulce et deco­rum est pro patria mori."’ And, in English, in the same manner. ‘"To write well is difficult; to speak eloquently is still more difficult."’ But as, through all the other tenses and moods, the affirmation runs, and is essential to them; ‘"the sun shineth, was shining, shone, will shine, would have shone," &c.’ the affirmation seems to be that which chiefly distinguishes the verb from the other parts of Speech, and gives it its most conspicuous power. Hence there can be no sentence or complete proposition, with­out a verb either expressed or implied. For, whenever we speak, we always mean to assert, [Page 190] that something is, or is not; and the word which carries this assertion, or affirmation, is a verb. From this sort of eminence belonging to it, this part of Speech hath received its name; verb, from the Latin, verbum, or the word, by way of distinction.

VERBS, therefore, from their importance and necessity in Speech, must have been coë­val with men's first attempts towards the formation of Language: Though, indeed, it must have been the work of long time, to rear them up to that accurate and complex structure, which they now possess. It seems very probable, as Dr. Smith hath suggested, that the radical verb, or the first form of it, in most Languages, would be, what we now call, the Impersonal Verb. ‘"It rains; it thunders; it is light; it is agreeable;"’ and the like; as this is the very simplest form of the verb, and merely affirms the existence of an event, or of a state of things. By de­grees, after pronouns were invented, such verbs became personal, and were branched out into all the variety of tenses and moods.

THE tenses of the verb are contrived to imply the several distinctions of time. Of these, I must take some notice, in order to show the admirable accuracy with which Language is constructed. We think, com­monly, of no more than the three great di­visions of time, into the past, the present, and the future: and we might imagine, that [Page 191] if verbs had been so contrived, as simply to express these, no more was needful. But Language proceeds with much greater sub­tilty. It splits time into its several moments. It considers time as never standing still, but always flowing; things past, as more or less perfectly completed; and things future, as more or less remote, by different gradations. Hence the great variety of tenses in most Tongues.

THE present may, indeed, be always con­sidered as one indivisible point, susceptible of no variety. ‘"I write, or, I am writing; scribo."’ But it is not so with the past. There is no Language so poor, but it hath two or three tenses to express the varieties of it. Ours hath no fewer than four. 1. A past action may be considered as left unfi­nished; which makes the imperfect tense, ‘"I was writing; scribebam."’ 2. As just now finished. This makes the proper perfect tense, which, in English, is always expressed by the help of the auxiliary verb, ‘"I have written."’ 3. It may be considered as fi­nished some time ago; the particular time left indefinite. ‘"I wrote; scripsi;"’ which may either signify, ‘"I wrote yesterday, or I wrote a twelvemonth ago."’ This is what grammarians call an aörist, or indefinite past. 4. It may be considered as finished before something else, which is also past. This is the plusquamperfect. ‘"I had written; scrip­seram. [Page 192] I had written before I received his letter."’

HERE we observe, with some pleasure, that we have an advantage over the Latins, who have only three varieties upon the past time. They have no proper perfect tense, or one which distinguishes an action just now finished, from an action that was finished some time ago. In both these cases, they must say, ‘" scripsi."’ Though there be a ma­nifest difference in the tenses, which our Language expresses, by this variation, ‘"I have written,"’ meaning, I have just now finished writing; and, ‘"I wrote,"’ meaning at some former time, since which, other things have intervened. This difference the Ro­mans have no tense to express; and, there­fore, can only do it by a circumlocution.

THE chief varieties in the future time are two; a simple or indefinite future: ‘"I shall write; scribam:"’ And a future, relating to something else, which is also future. ‘"I shall have written; scripsero."’ I shall have written before he arrives *.

BESIDES tenses, or the power of expres­sing time, verbs admit the distinction of Voices, as they are called, the active and [Page 193] the passive; according as the affirmation re­spects something that is done, or something that is suffered; ‘"I love, or I am loved."’ They admit also the distinction of moods, which are designed to express the affirma­tion, whether active or passive, under differ­ent forms. The indicative mood, for in­stance, simply declares a proposition, ‘"I write; I have written;"’ the imperative re­quires, commands, threatens, ‘"write thou; let him write."’ The subjunctive expresses the proposition under the form of a condi­tion, or in subordination to some other thing, to which a reference is made, ‘"I might write, I could write, I should write, if the case were so and so."’ This manner of expres­sing an affirmation, under so many different forms, together also with the distinction of the three persons, I, thou, and he, constitutes what is called, the conjugation of verbs, which makes so great a part of the grammar of all Languages.

IT now clearly appears, as I before observ­ed, that, of all the parts of Speech, verbs are, by far, the most artificial and complex. Consider only, how many things are denoted by this single Latin word ‘" amavissem, I would have loved."’ First, The person who speaks, ‘"I."’ Secondly, An attribute, or action of that person, ‘"loving."’ Thirdly, An affir­mation concerning that action. Fourthly, The past time denoted in that affirmation, ‘"have loved:"’ and, Fifthly, A condition on [Page 194] which the action is suspended, ‘"would have loved."’ It appears curious and remarkable, that words of this complex import, and with more or less of this artifical structure, are to be found, as far as we know, in all Languages of the world.

INDEED, the form of conjugation, or the manner of expressing all these varieties in the verb, differs greatly in different Tongues. Conjugation is esteemed most perfect in those Languages, which, by varying either the ter­mination or the initial syllable of the verb, express the greatest number of important cir­cumstances, without the help of auxiliary words. In the Oriental Tongues, the verbs are said to have few tenses, or expressions of time; but then their moods are so con­trived, as to express a great variety of cir­cumstances and relations. In the Hebrew, for instance, they say, in one word, without the help of any auxiliary, not only ‘"I have taught,"’ but, ‘"I have taught exactly, or often; I have been commanded to teach; I have taught myself."’ The Greek, which is the most perfect of all the known Tongues, is very regular and complete in all the tenses and moods. The Latin is formed on the same model, but more imperfect; especially in the passive voice, which forms most of the tenses by the help of the auxiliary ‘" sum."’

IN all the modern European Tongues, con­jugation is very defective. They admit few [Page 195] varieties in the termination of the verb itself; but have almost constant recourse to their auxiliary verbs, throughout all the moods and tenses, both active and passive. Lan­guage has undergone a change in conjugation, perfectly similar to that which, I showed in the last Lecture, it underwent with respect to declension. As prepositions, prefixed to the noun, superseded the use of cases; so the two great auxiliary verbs, to have, and to be, with those other auxiliaries which we use in English, do, shall, will, may, and can, pre­fixed to the participle, supersede, in a great measure, the different terminations of moods and tenses, which formed the antient conju­gations.

THE alteration, in both cases, was owing to the same cause, and will be easily under­stood, from reflecting on what was formerly observed. The auxiliary verbs are like pre­positions, words of a very general and ab­stract nature. They imply the different mo­difications of simple existence, considered alone, and without reference to any parti­cular thing. In the early state of Speech, the import of them would be incorporated, so to speak, with every particular verb in its tenses and moods, long before words were invented for denoting such abstract concep­tions of existence, alone, and by themselves. But after those auxiliary verbs came, in the progress of Language, to be invented and known, and to have tenses and moods given [Page 196] to them like other verbs; it was found, that as they carried in their nature the force of that affirmation which distinguishes the verb, they might, by being joined with the parti­ciple which gives the meaning of the verb, supply the place of most of the moods and tenses. Hence, as the modern Tongues be­gan to rise out of the ruins of the antient, this method established itself in the new form­ation of Speech. Such words, for instance; as, am, was, have, shall, being once familiar, it appeared more easy to apply these to any verb whatever; as, I am loved; I was loved; I have loved; than to remember that variety of terminations which were requisite in con­jugating the antient verbs, amor, amabar, amavi, &c. Two or three varieties only, in the termination of the verb, were retained, as, love, loved, loving; and all the rest were dropt. The consequence, however, of this practice, was the same as that of abolishing declensions. It rendered Language more simple and easy in its structure; but withal, more prolix, and less graceful. This finishes all that seemed most necessary to be observed with respect to verbs.

THE remaining parts of Speech, which are called the indeclinable parts, or that admit of no variations, will not detain as long.

ADVERBS are the first that occur. These form a very numerous class of words in eve­ry Language, reducible, in general, to the [Page 197] head of attributives; as they serve to modi­fy, or to denote some circumstance of an action, or of a quality, relative to its time, place, order, degree, and the other proper­ties of it, which we have occasion to specify. They are, for the most part, no more than an abridged mode of Speech, expressing, by one word, what might, by a circumlocution, be resolved into two or more words belong­ing to the other parts of Speech. ‘"Exceed­ingly,"’ for instance, is the same as, ‘"in a high degree;"’ ‘"bravely,"’ the same as, ‘"with bravery or valour;"’ ‘"here,"’ the same as, ‘"in this place;"’ ‘"often, and seldom,"’ the same as, ‘"for many and for few times:"’ and so of the rest. Hence, adverbs may be conceived as of less necessity, and of later introduction into the system of Speech, than many other classes of words; and, accord­ingly, the great body of them are derived from other words formerly established in the Language.

PREPOSITIONS and conjunctions, are words more essential to discourse than the greatest part of adverbs. They form that class of words, called Connectives, without which there could be no Language; serving to ex­press the relations which things bear to one another, their mutual influence, dependen­cies, and coherence; thereby joining words together into intelligible and significant pro­positions. Conjunctions are generally em­ployed for connecting sentences, or members [Page 198] of sentences; as, and, because, although, and the like. Prepositions are employed for con­necting words, by showing the relation which one substantive noun bears to another; as, of, from, to, above, below, &c. Of the force of these I had occasion to speak before, when treating of the cases and declensions of sub­stantive nouns.

IT is abundantly evident, that all these connective particles must be of the greatest use in Speech; seeing they point out the re­lations and transitions by which the mind passes from one idea to another. They are the foundation of all reasoning, which is no other thing than the connection of thoughts. And, therefore, though among barbarous nations, and in the rude uncivilised ages of the world, the stock of these words might be small, it must always have increased, as man­kind advanced in the arts of reasoning and reflection. The more any nation is improv­ed by science, and the more perfect their Language becomes, we may naturally expect, that it will abound the more with connec­tive particles; expressing relations of things, and transitions of thought, which had escaped a grosser view. Accordingly, no Tongue is so full of them as the Greek, in consequence of the acute and subtile genius of that re­fined people. In every Language, much of the beauty and strength of it depends on the proper use of conjunctions, prepositions, and those relative pronouns, which also serve the [Page 199] same purpose of connecting the different parts of discourse. It is the right, or wrong management of these, which chiefly makes discourse appear firm and compacted, or dis­jointed and loose; which causes it to march with a smooth and even pace, or with gouty and hobbling steps.

I SHALL dwell no longer on the general construction of Language. Allow me, only, before I dismiss the subject, to observe, that dry and intricate as it may seem to some, it is, however, of great importance, and very nearly connected with the philosophy of the human mind. For, if Speech be the vehicle, or interpreter of the conceptions of our minds, an examination of its Structure and Progress cannot but unfold many things concerning the nature and progress of our conceptions themselves, and the operations of our facul­ties; a subject that is always instructive to man, ‘"Nequis,"’ says Quinctilian, an au­thor of excellent judgment, ‘"nequis tan­quam parva fastidiat grammatices elementa. Non quia magnae sit operae consonantes a vocalibus discernere, easque in semivoca­lium numerum, mutarumque partiri, sed quia interiora velut sacri hujus adeuntibus, apparebit multa rerum subtilitas, quae non modo acuere ingenia puerilia, sed exercere altissimam quoque eruditionem ac scientiam possit *." 1. 4.

[Page 200] LET us now come nearer to our own Lan­guage. In this, and the preceding Lecture, some observations have already been made on its Structure. But it is proper, that we should be a little more particular in the exa­mination of it.

THE Language which is, at present, spoken throughout Great Britain, is neither the an­tient primitive Speech of the island, nor de­rived from it; but is altogether of foreign origin. The Language of the first inhabi­tants of our island, beyond doubt, was the Celtic, or Gaelic, common to them with Gaul; from which country, it appears, by many circumstances, that Great Britain was peopled. This Celtic Tongue, which is said to be very expressive and copious, and is, pro­bably, one of the most antient Languages in the world, obtained once in most of the west­ern regions of Europe. It was the Language of Gaul, of Great Britain, of Ireland, and, very probably, of Spain also; till, in the course of those revolutions, which, by means of the conquests, first, of the Romans, and afterwards, of the northern nations, changed the government, speech, and, in a manner, [Page 201] the whole face of Europe, this Tongue was gradually obliterated; and now subsists only in the mountains of Wales, in the Highlands of Scotland, and among the wild Irish. For the Irish, the Welch, and the Erse, are no other than different dialects of the same Tongue, the antient Celtic.

THIS, then, was the Language of the pri­mitive Britons, the first inhabitants, that we know of, in our island; and continued so till the arrival of the Saxons in England, in the year of our Lord 450; who, having conquer­ed the Britons, did not intermix with them, but expelled them from their habitations, and drove them, together with their Language, into the mountains of Wales. The Saxons were one of those northern nations that over­ran Europe; and their Tongue, a dialect of the Gothic or Teutonic, altogether distinct from the Celtic, laid the foundation of the present English Tongue. With some inter­mixture of Danish, a Language, probably, from the same root with the Saxon, it con­tinued to be spoken throughout the southern part of the Island, till the time of William the Conqueror. He introduced his Norman or French as the Language of the court, which made a considerable change in the Speech of the nation; and the English, which was spoken afterwards, and continues to be spoken now, is a mixture of the antient Saxon, and this Norman French, together with such new and foreign words as com­merce [Page 202] and learning have, in progress of time, gradually introduced.

THE history of the English Language can, in this manner, be clearly traced. The Lan­guage spoken in the low countries of Scot­land, is now, and has been for many centu­ries, no other than a dialect of the English. How, indeed, or by what steps, the antient Celtic Tongue came to be banished from the Low Country in Scotland, and to make its retreat into the Highlands and Islands, can­not be so well pointed out, as how the like revolution was brought about in England. Whether the southernmost part of Scotland was once subject to the Saxons, and formed a part of the kingdom of Northumberland; or, whether the great number of English exiles that retreated into Scotland, upon the Norman conquest, and upon other occasions, introduced into that country their own Lan­guage, which afterwards, by the mutual in­tercourse of the two nations, prevailed over the Celtic, are uncertain and contested points, the discussion of which would lead us too far from our subject.

FROM what has been said, it appears, that the Teutonic dialect is the basis of our pre­sent Speech. It has been imported among us in three different forms, the Saxon, the Danish, and the Norman; all which have mingled together in our Language. A very great number of our words too, are plainly [Page 203] derived from the Latin. These, we had not directly from the Latin, but most of them, it is probable, entered into our Tongue through the channel of that Norman French, which William the Conqueror introduced. For, as the Romans had long been in full possession of Gaul, the Language spoken in that country, when it was invaded by the Franks and Normans, was a sort of corrupt­ed Latin, mingled with Celtic, to which was given the name of Romanshe: and as the Franks and Normans did not, like the Saxons in England, expel the inhabitants, but, after their victories, mingled with them; the Lan­guage of the country became a compound of the Teutonic dialect imported by these con­querors, and of the former corrupted Latin. Hence, the French Language has always continued to have a very considerable affi­nity with the Latin; and hence, a great number of words of Latin origin, which were in use among the Normans in France, were introduced into our Tongue at the conquest; to which, indeed, many have since been ad­ded, directly from the Latin, in consequence of the great diffusion of Roman literature throughout all Europe.

FROM the influx of so many streams, from the junction of so many dissimilar parts, it naturally follows, that the English, like every compounded Language, must needs be some­what irregular. We cannot expect from it that correspondence of parts, that complete [Page 204] analogy in structure, which may be found in those simpler Languages, which have been formed in a manner within themselves, and built on one foundation. Hence, as I before showed, it has but small remains of conju­gation or declension; and its syntax is nar­row, as there are few marks in the words themselves that can show their relation to each other, or, in the grammatical style, point out either their concordance, or their government, in the sentence. Our words having been brought to us from several dif­ferent regions, straggle, if we may so speak, asunder from each other; and do not coalesce so naturally in the structure of a sentence, as the words in the Greek and Roman Tongues.

BUT these disadvantages, if they be such, of a compound Language, are balanced by other advantages that attend it; particularly, by the number and variety of words with which such a Language is likely to be en­riched. Few Languages are, in fact, more copious than the English. In all grave sub­jects especially, historical, critical, political, and moral, no writer has the least reason to complain of the barrenness of our Tongue. The studious reflecting genius of the people, has brought together great store of expressi­ons, on such subjects, from every quarter. We are rich too in the Language of poetry. Our poetical style differs widely from prose, not in point of numbers only, but in the ve­ry [Page 205] words themselves; which shows what a stock and compass of words we have it in our power to select and employ, suited to those different occasions. Herein we are in­finitely superior to the French, whose poeti­cal Language, if it were not distinguished by rhyme, would not be known to differ from their ordinary prose.

IT is chiefly, indeed, on grave subjects, and with respect to the stronger emotions of the mind, that our Language displays its power of expression. We are said to have thirty words, at least, for denoting all the va­rieties of the passion of anger *. But, in de­scribing the more delicate sentiments and emotions, our Tongue is not so fertile. It must be confessed, that the French Lan­guage surpasses ours, by far, in expressing the nicer shades of character; especially those varieties of manner, temper, and behaviour, which are displayed in our social intercourse with one another. Let any one attempt to translate, into English, only a few pages of one of Marivaux's Novels, and he will soon be sensible of our deficiency of expression on these subjects. Indeed, no Language is so copious as the French for whatever is de­licate, [Page 206] gay, and amusing. It is, perhaps, the happiest Language for conversation in the known world; but, on the higher subjects of composition, the English may be justly esteemed to excel it considerably.

LANGUAGE is generally understood to re­ceive its predominant tincture from the na­tional character of the people who speak it. We must not, indeed, expect, that it will carry an exact and full impression of their genius and manners; for, among all nations, the original stock of words which they re­ceived from their ancestors, remain as the foundation of their Speech throughout many ages, while their manners undergo, perhaps, very great alterations. National character will, however, always have some perceptible influence on the turn of Language; and the gaiety and vivacity of the French, and the gravity and thoughtfulness of the English, are sufficiently impressed on their respective Tongues.

FROM the genius of our Language, and the character of those who speak it, it may be expected to have strength and energy. It is, indeed, naturally prolix; owing to the great number of particles and auxiliary verbs which we are obliged constantly to employ; and this prolixity must, in some degree, en­feeble it. We seldom can express so much by one word as was done by the verbs, and by the nouns, in the Greek and Roman Lan­guages. [Page 207] Our style is less compact; our con­ceptions being spread out among more words, and split, as it were, into more parts, make a fainter impression when we utter them. Notwithstanding this defect, by our abound­ing in terms for expressing all the strong emo­tions of the mind, and by the liberty which we enjoy, in a greater degree than most na­tions, of compounding words, our Language may be esteemed to possess considerable force of expression; comparatively, at least, with the other modern Tongues, though much below the antient. The Style of Milton alone, both in poetry and prose, is a suffici­ent proof, that the English Tongue is far from being destitute of nerves and energy.

THE flexibility of a Language, or its pow­er of accommodation to different styles and manners, so as to be either grave and strong, or easy and flowing, or tender and gentle, or pompous and magnificent, as occasions re­quire, or as an author's genius prompts, is a quality of great importance in speaking and writing. It seems to depend upon three things; the copiousness of a Language; the different arrangements of which its words are susceptible; and the variety and beauty of the sound of those words, so as to correspond to many different subjects. Never did any Tongue possess this quality so eminently as the Greek, which every writer of genius could so mould, as to make the style perfectly ex­pressive of his own manner and peculiar [Page 208] turn. It had all the three requisites, which I have mentioned, as necessary for this pur­pose. It joined to these the graceful variety of its different dialects; and thereby readily assumed every sort of character which an au­thor could wish, from the most simple and most familiar, up to the most majestic. The Latin, though a very beautiful Language, is inferior, in this respect, to the Greek. It has more of a fixed character of stateliness and gravity. It is always firm and masculine in the tenor of its sound; and is supported by a certain senatorial dignity, of which it is difficult for a writer to divest it wholly, on any occasion. Among the modern Tongues, the Italian possesses a great deal more of this flexibility than the French. By its copious­ness, its freedom of arrangement, and the great beauty and harmony of its sounds, it suits itself very happily to most subjects, either in prose or in poetry; is capable of the au­gust and the strong, as well as the tender; and seems to be, on the whole, the most per­fect of all the modern dialects which have arisen out of the ruins of the antient. Our own Language, though not equal to the Ita­lian in flexibility, yet is not destitute of a considerable degree of this quality. If any one will consider the diversity of style which appears in some of our classics; that great difference of manner, for instance, which is marked by the Style of Lord Shaftsbury, and that of Dean Swift; he will see, in our Tongue, such a circle of expression, such a [Page 209] power of accommodation to the different taste of writers, as redounds not a little to its honour.

WHAT the English has been most taxed with, is its deficiency in harmony of sound. But though every native is apt to be partial to the sounds of his own Language, and may, therefore, be suspected of not being a fair judge in this point; yet, I imagine, there are evident grounds on which it may be shown, that this charge against our Tongue has been carried too far. The melody of our versification, its power of supporting poeti­cal numbers, without any assistance from rhyme, is alone a sufficient proof that our Lan­guage is far from being unmusical. Our verse is, after the Italian, the most diversified and harmonious of any of the modern dialects; unquestionably far beyond the French verse, in variety, sweetness, and melody. Mr. She­ridan has shown, in his Lectures, that we abound more in vowel and diphthong sounds, than most Languages; and these too, so di­vided into long and short, as to afford a pro­per diversity in the quantity of our syllables. Our consonants, he observes, which appear so crowded to the eye on paper, often form combinations not disagreeable to the ear in pronouncing; and, in particular, the objec­tion which has been made to the frequent recurrence of the hissing consonant s in our Language, is unjust and ill-founded. For, it has not been attended to, that very common­ly, [Page 210] and in the final syllables especially, this letter loses altogether the hissing sound, and is transformed into a z, which is one of the sounds on which the ear rests with pleasure; as in has, these, those, loves, hears, and innu­merable more, where, though the letter s be retained in writing, it has really the power of z, not of the common s.

AFTER all, however, it must be admitted, that smoothness, or beauty of sound, is none of the distinguishing properties of the English Tongue. Though not incapable of being formed into melodious arrangements, yet strength and expressiveness, more than grace, form its character. We incline, in general, to a short pronunciation of our words, and have shortened the quantity of most of those which we borrow from the Latin, as orator, spectacle, theatre, liberty, and such like. A­greeable to this, is a remarkable peculiarity of English pronunciation, the throwing the accent farther back, that is, nearer the be­ginning of the word, than is done by any other nation. In Greek and Latin, no word is accented farther back than the third sylla­ble from the end, or what is called the ante­penult. But, in English, we have many words accented on the fourth, some on the fifth syllable from the end, as, mêmorable, con­vêniency, âmbulatory, prôfitableness. The ge­neral effect of this practice of hastening the accent, or placing it so near the beginning of a word, is to give a brisk and a spirited, but [Page 211] at the same time, a rapid and hurried, and not very musical, tone to the whole pronun­ciation of a people.

THE English Tongue possesses, undoubt­edly, this property, of being the most sim­ple in its form and construction, of all the European dialects. It is free from all intricacy of cases, declensions, moods and tenses. Its words are subject to fewer variations from their original form than those of any other Language. Its substantives have no distinc­tion of gender, except what nature has made, and but one variation in case. Its adjectives admit of no change at all, except what ex­presses the degree of comparison. Its verbs, instead of running through all the varieties of antient conjugation, suffer no more than four or five changes in termination. By the help of a few prepositions and auxiliary verbs, all the purposes of significancy in meaning are accomplished; while the words, for the most part, preserve their form unchanged. The disadvantages in point of elegance, bre­vity, and force, which follow from this struc­ture of our Language, I have before pointed out. But, at the same time, it must be ad­mitted, that such a structure contributes to facility. It renders the acquisition of our Language less laborious, the arrangement of our words more plain and obvious, the rules of our syntax fewer and more simple.

[Page 212] I AGREE, indeed, with Dr. Lowth (pre­face to his Grammar), in thinking that this very simplicity and facility of our Language proves a cause of its being frequently writ­ten and spoken with less accuracy. It was necessary to study Languages, which were of a more complex and artificial form, with greater care. The marks of gender and case, the varieties of conjugation and declension, the multiplied rules of syntax, were all to be attended to in Speech. Hence Language be­came more an object of art. It was reduced into form; a standard was established; and any departures from the standard became conspicuous. Whereas, among us, Language is hardly considered as an object of gramma­tical rule. We take it for granted, that a competent skill in it may be acquired without any study; and that, in a syntax so narrow and confined as ours, there is nothing which demands attention. Hence arises the habit of writing in a loose and inaccurate manner.

I ADMIT, that no grammatical rules have sufficient authority to controul the firm and established usage of Language. Established custom in speaking and writing, is the stand­ard to which we must at last resort for deter­mining every controverted point in Language and Style. But it will not follow from this, that grammatical rules are superseded as useless. In every Language, which has been in any degree cultivated, there prevails a cer­tain [Page 213] structure and analogy of parts, which is understood to give foundation to the most re­putable usage of Speech; and which, in all cases, when usage is loose or dubious, pos­sesses considerable authority. In every Lan­guage, there are rules of syntax which must be inviolably observed by all who would ei­ther write or speak with any propriety. For syntax is no other than that arrangement of words, in a sentence, which renders the meaning of each word, and the relation of all the words to one another, most clear and intelligible.

ALL the rules of Latin syntax, it is true, cannot be applied to our Language. Many of those rules arose from the particular form of their Language, which occasioned verbs or prepositions to govern, some the genitive, some the dative, some the accusative or abla­tive case. But, abstracting from these pecu­liarities, it is to be always remembered, that the chief and fundamental rules of syntax are common to the English as well as the La­tin Tongue; and, indeed, belong equally to all Languages. For, in all Languages, the parts which compose Speech are essentially the same; substantives, adjectives, verbs, and connecting particles: And wherever these parts of Speech are found, there are certain necessary relations among them, which regu­late their syntax, or the place which they ought to possess in a sentence. Thus, in En­glish, [Page 214] just as much as in Latin, the adjective must, by position, be made to agree with its substantive; and the verb must agree with its nominative in person and number; because, from the nature of things, a word, which expresses either a quality or an action, must correspond as closely as possible with the name of that thing whose quality, or whose action, it expresses. Two or more substan­tives, joined by a copulative, must always require the verbs or pronouns, to which they refer, to be placed in the plural number; otherwise, their common relation to these verbs or pronouns is not pointed out. An active verb must, in every Language, govern the accusative; that is, clearly point out some substantive noun, as the object to which its action is directed. A relative pronoun must, in every form of Speech, agree with its an­tecedent in gender, number, and person; and conjunctions, or connecting particles, ought always to couple like cases and moods; that is, ought to join together words which are of the same form and state with each other. I mention these, as a few exempli­fications of that fundamental regard to syn­tax, which, even in such a Language as ours, is absolutely requisite for writing or speaking with any propriety.

WHATEVER the advantages, or defects of the English Language be, as it is our own Language, it deserves a high degree of our [Page 215] study and attention, both with regard to the choice of words which we employ, and with regard to the syntax, or the arrangement of these words in a sentence. We know how much the Greeks and the Romans, in their most polished and flourishing times, cultivat­ed their own Tongues. We know how much study both the French, and the Itali­ans, have bestowed upon theirs. Whatever knowledge may be acquired by the study of other Languages, it can never be communi­cated with advantage, unless by such as can write and speak their own Language well. Let the matter of an author be ever so good and useful, his compositions will always suf­fer in the public esteem, if his expression be deficient in purity and propriety. At the same time, the attainment of a correct and elegant style, is an object which demands application and labour. If any imagine they can catch it merely by the ear, or acquire it by a slight perusal of some of our good authors, they will find themselves much disappointed. The many errors, even in point of grammer, the many offences against purity of Language, which are committed by writers who are far from being contemptible, demonstrate, that a careful study of the Language is previously requisite, in all who aim at writing it pro­perly *.

LECTURE X. STYLE—PERSPICUITY AND PRECISION.

HAVING finished the subject of Lan­guage, I now enter on the consideration of Style, and the rules that relate to it.

IT is not easy to give a precise idea of what is meant by Style. The best definition I can give of it, is, the peculiar manner in which a man expresses his conceptions, by means of Language. It is different from mere Language or words. The words, which an author employs, may be proper and fault­less; and his Style may, nevertheless, have great faults; it may be dry, or stiff, or fee­ble, or affected. Style has always some re­ference to an author's manner of thinking. It is a picture of the ideas which rise in his mind, and of the manner in which they rise there; and, hence, when we are examining an author's composition, it is, in many cases, [Page 218] extremely difficult to separate the Style from the sentiment. No wonder these two should be so intimately connected, as Style is no­thing else, than that sort of expression which our thoughts most readily assume. Hence, different countries have been noted for pecu­liarities of Style, suited to their different temper and genius. The eastern nations animated their Style with the most strong and hyperbolical figures. The Athenians, a po­lished and acute people, formed a Style ac­curate, clear, and neat. The Asiatics, gay and loose in their manners, affected a Style florid and diffuse. The like sort of charac­teristical differences are commonly remarked in the Style of the French, the English, and the Spaniards. In giving the general charac­ters of Style, it is usual to talk of a nervous, a feeble, or a spirited Style; which are plain­ly the characters of a writer's manner of thinking, as well as of expressing himself: So difficult it is to separate these two things from one another. Of the general characters of Style, I am afterwards to discourse; but it will be necessary to begin with examining the more simple qualities of it; from the as­semblage of which, its more complex deno­minations, in a great measure, result.

ALL the qualities of a good Style may be ranged under two heads, Perspicuity and Or­nament. For all that can possibly be requir­ed of Language, is, to convey our ideas clearly to the minds of others, and, at the [Page 219] same time, in such a dress, as by pleasing and interesting them, shall most effectually strengthen the impressions which we seek to make. When both these ends are answered, we certainly accomplish every purpose for which we use Writing and Discourse.

PERSPICUITY, it will be readily admitted, is the fundamental quality of Style *; a qua­lity so essential in every kind of writing, that, for the want of it, nothing can atone. With­out this, the richest ornaments of Style only glimmer through the dark; and puzzle, in­stead of pleasing, the reader. This, there­fore, must be our first object, to make our meaning clearly and fully understood, and understood without the least difficulty. ‘"O­ratio,"’ says Quinctilian, ‘"debet negligenter quoque audientibus esse aperta; ut in ani­mum audientis, sicut sol in oculos, etiamsi in eum non intendatur, occurrat. Quare, non solum ut intelligere possit, sed ne om­nino possit non intelligere curandum ."’ If we are obliged to follow a writer with much care, to pause, and to read over his sentences a second time, in order to compre­hend [Page 220] them fully, he will never please us long. Mankind are too indolent to relish so much labour. They may pretend to admire the author's depth, after they have discovered his meaning; but they will seldom be inclin­ed to take up his work a second time.

AUTHORS sometimes plead the difficulty of their subject, as an excuse for the want of Perspicuity. But the excuse can rarely, if ever, be sustained. For whatever a man conceives clearly, that, it is in his power, if he will be at the trouble, to put into distinct propositions, or to express clearly to others: and upon no subject ought any man to write, where he cannot think clearly. His ideas, indeed, may, very excusably, be on some subjects incomplete or inadequate; but still, as far as they go, they ought to be clear; and, wherever this is the case, Perspicuity, in expressing them, is always attainable. The obscurity which reigns so much among many metaphysical writers, is, for the most part, owing to the indistinctness of their own con­ceptions. They see the object but in a con­fused light; and, of course, can never exhi­bit it in a clear one to others.

PERSPICUITY in writing, is not to be con­sidered as only a sort of negative virtue, or freedom from defect. It has higher merit: It is a degree of positive beauty. We are pleased with an author, we consider him as deserving praise, who frees us from all fatigue [Page 221] of searching for his meaning; who carries us through his subject without any embarrass­ment or confusion; whose style flows always like a limpid stream, where we see to the very bottom.

THE study of Perspicuity requires atten­tion, first, to single words and phrases, and then to the construction of sentences. I be­gin with treating of the first, and shall con­fine myself to it in this Lecture.

PERSPICUITY, considered with respect to words and phrases, requires these three qua­lities in them; Purity, Propriety, and Preci­sion.

PURITY and Propriety of Language, are often used indiscriminately for each other; and, indeed, they are very nearly allied. A distinction, however, obtains between them. Purity, is the use of such words, and such constructions, as belong to the idiom of the Language which we speak; in opposition to words and phrases that are imported from other Languages, or that are obsolete, or new coined, or used without proper autho­rity. Propriety, is the selection of such words in the Language, as the best and most established usage has appropriated to those ideas which we intend to express by them. It implies the correct and happy application of them, according to that usage, in opposition [Page 222] to vulgarisms, or low expressions; and to words and phrases, which would be less sig­nificant of the ideas that we mean to convey. Style may be pure, that is, it may all be strict­ly English, without Scotticisms or Galli­cisms, or ungrammatical irregular expressions of any kind, and may, nevertheless, be defi­cient in Propriety. The words may be ill chosen; not adapted to the subject, nor fully expressive of the author's sense. He has taken all his words and phrases from the ge­neral mass of English Language; but he has made his selection among these words unhap­pily. Whereas, Style cannot be proper with­out being also pure; and where both Purity and Propriety meet, besides making Style perspicuous, they also render it graceful. There is no standard, either of Purity or of Propriety, but the practice of the best writers and speakers in the country.

WHEN I mentioned obsolete or new-coin­ed words as incongruous with Purity of Style, it will be easily understood, that some excep­tions are to be made. On certain occasions, they may have grace. Poetry admits of greater latitude than prose, with respect to coining, or, at least, new-compounding words; yet, even here, this liberty should be used with a sparing hand. In prose, such innovations are more hazardous, and have a worse effect. They are apt to give Style an affected and conceited air; and should never [Page 223] be ventured upon, except by such, whose established reputation gives them some degree of dictatorial power over Language.

THE introduction of foreign and learned words, unless where necessity requires them, should always be avoided. Barren Lan­guages may need such assistances; but ours is not one of these. Dean Swift, one of our most correct writers, valued himself much on using no words but such as were of native growth: and his Language may, indeed, be considered as a standard of the strictest Pu­rity and Propriety in the choice of words. At present, we seem to be departing from this standard. A multitude of Latin words have, of late, been poured in upon us. On some occasions, they give an appearance of elevation and dignity to Style. But often also, they render it stiff and forced: And, in general, a plain native Style, as it is more intelligible to all readers, so, by a proper ma­nagement of words, it can be made equally strong and expressive with this Latinised English.

LET us now consider the import of Pre­cision in Language, which, as it is the high­est part of the quality denoted by Perspi­cuity, merits a full explication; and the more, because distinct ideas are, perhaps, not com­monly formed about it.

[Page 224] THE exact import of Precision may be drawn from the etymology of the word. It comes from ‘"precidere,"’ to cut off: It im­ports retrenching all superfluities, and prun­ing the expression so, as to exhibit neither more nor less than an exact copy of his idea who uses it. I observed before, that it is often difficult to separate the qualities of Style from the qualities of Thought; and it is found so in this instance. For, in order to write with Precision, though this be properly a quality of Style, one must possess a very considerable degree of distinctness and accu­racy in his manner of thinking.

THE words, which a man uses to express his ideas, may be faulty in three respects: They may either not express that idea which the author intends, but some other which only resembles, or is akin to it; or, they may express that idea, but not quite fully and completely; or, they may express it, to­gether with something more than he intends. Precision stands opposed to all these three faults; but chiefly to the last. In an author's writing with Propriety, his being free of the two former faults seems implied. The words which he uses are proper; that is, they ex­press that idea which he intends, and they express it fully; but to be Precise, signifies, that they express that idea, and no more. There is nothing in his words which intro­duces any foreign idea, any superfluous un­seasonable accessory, so as to mix it con­fusedly [Page 225] with the principal object, and there­by to render our conception of that object loose and indistinct. This requires a writer to have, himself, a very clear apprehension of the object he means to present to us; to have laid fast hold of it in his mind; and never to waver in any one view he takes of it: a perfection to which, indeed, few wri­ters attain.

THE use and importance of Precision, may be deduced from the nature of the human mind. It never can view, clearly and di­stinctly, above one object at a time. If it must look at two or three together, especially objects among which there is resemblance or connection, it finds itself confused and em­barrassed. It cannot clearly perceive in what they agree, and in what they differ. Thus, were any object, suppose some animal, to be presented to me, of whose structure I wanted to form a distinct notion, I would desire all its trappings to be taken off, I would require it to be brought before me by itself, and to stand alone, that there might be nothing to distract my attention. The same is the case with words. If, when you would inform me of your meaning, you also tell me more than what conveys it; if you join foreign circum­stances to the principal object; if, by unne­cessarily varying the expression, you shift the point of view, and make me see sometimes the object itself, and sometimes another thing that is connected with it; you thereby oblige [Page 226] me to look on several objects at once, and I lose sight of the principal. You load the animal, you are showing me, with so many trappings and collars, and bring so many of the same species before me, somewhat re­sembling, and yet somewhat differing, that I see none of them clearly.

This forms what is called a Loose Style; and is the proper opposite to Precision. It generally arises from using a superfluity of words. Feeble writers employ a multitude of words to make themselves understood, as they think, more distinctly; and they only confound the reader. They are sensible of not having caught the precise expression, to convey what they would signify; they do not, indeed, conceive their own meaning very precisely themselves; and, therefore, help it out, as they can, by this and the other word, which may, as they suppose, supply the defect, and bring you somewhat nearer to their idea: They are always going about it, and about it, but never just hit the thing. The image as they set it before you, is al­ways seen double; and no double image is distinct. When an author tells me of his he­ro's courage in the day of battle, the expres­sion is precise, and I understand it fully. But if, from the desire of multiplying words, he will needs praise his courage and fortitude; at the moment he joins these words together, my idea begins to waver. He means to ex­press one quality more strongly; but he is, in [Page 227] truth, expressing two. Courage resists dan­ger; fortitude supports pain. The occasion of exerting each of these qualities is differ­ent; and being led to think of both together, when only one of them should be in my view, my view is rendered unsteady, and my conception of the object indistinct.

FROM what I have said, it appears that an author may, in a qualified sense, be perspi­cuous, while yet he is far from being precise. He uses proper words, and proper arrange­ment; he gives you the idea as clear as he conceives it himself; and so far he is perspi­cuous: but the ideas are not very clear in his own mind; they are loose and general; and, therefore, cannot be expressed with Precision. All subjects do not equally require Precision. It is sufficient, on many occasions, that we have a general view of the meaning. The subject, perhaps, is of the known and fami­liar kind; and we are in no hazard of mis­taking the sense of the author, though every word which he uses be not precise and exact.

FEW authors, for instance, in the English Language, are more clear and perspicuous, on the whole, than Archbishop Tillotson, and Sir William Temple; yet neither of them are remarkable for Precision. They are loose and diffuse; and accustomed to ex­press their meaning by several words, which shew you fully whereabouts it lies, rather than to single out those expressions, which [Page 228] would convey clearly the idea they have in view, and no more. Neither, indeed, is Precision the prevailing character of Mr. Ad­dison's Style; although he is not so deficient in this respect as the other two authors.

LORD SHAFTSBURY'S faults, in point of Precision, are much greater than Mr. Addi­son's; and the more unpardonable, because he is a professed philosophical writer; who, as such, ought, above all things, to have stu­died Precision. His Style has both great beauties, and great faults; and, on the whole, is by no means a safe model for imitation. Lord Shaftsbury was well acquainted with the power of words; those which he employs are generally proper and well sounding; he has great variety of them; and his arrange­ment, as shall be afterwards shown, is com­monly beautiful. His defect, in Precision, is not owing so much to indistinct or confused ideas, as to perpetual affectation. He is fond, to excess, of the pomp and parade of Language; he is never satisfied with expres­sing any thing clearly and simply; he must always give it the dress of state and majesty. Hence perpetual circumlocutions, and many words and phrases employed to describe some­what, that would have been described much better by one of them. If he has occasion to mention any person or author, he very rarely mentions him by his proper name. In the treatise, entitled, Advice to an Author, he descants for two or three pages together [Page 229] upon Aristotle, without once naming him in any other way, than the Master Critic, the Mighty Genius and Judge of Art, the Prince of Critics, the Grand Master of Art, and Consummate Philologist. In the same way, the Grand Poetic Sire, the Philosophical Pa­triarch, and his Disciple of Noble Birth, and lofty Genius, are the only names by which he condescends to distinguish Homer, So­crates, and Plato, in another passage of the same treatise. This method of distinguish­ing persons is extremely affected; but it is not so contrary to Precision, as the frequent circumlocutions he employs for all moral ideas; attentive, on every occasion, more to the pomp of Language, than to the clear­ness which he ought to have studied as a philosopher. The moral sense, for instance, after he had once defined it, was a clear term; but, how vague becomes the idea, when, in the next page, he calls it, ‘"That natural affection, and anticipating fancy, which makes the sense of right and wrong?"’ Self examination, or reflection on our own conduct, is an idea conceived with ease; but when it is wrought into all the forms of, ‘"A man's dividing himself into two parties, becoming a self-dialogist, entering into part­nership with himself, forming the dual number practically within himself;"’ we hardly know what to make of it. On some occasions, he so adorns, or rather loads with words, the plainest and simplest propositions, [Page 230] as, if not to obscure, at least, to enfeeble them.

IN the following paragraph, for example, of the Inquiry concerning Virtue, he means to show, that, by every ill action we hurt our mind, as much as one who should swallow poison, or give himself a wound, would hurt his body. Observe what a redundancy of words he pours forth: ‘"Now, if the fabrick of the mind or temper appeared to us, such as it really is; if we saw it impossible to remove hence any one good or orderly af­fection, or to introduce any ill or disorderly one, without drawing on, in some degree, that dissolute state which, at its height, is confessed to be so miserable; it would then, undoubtedly, be confessed, that since no ill, immoral, or unjust action, can be com­mitted, without either a new inroad and breach on the temper and passions, or a further advancing of that execution already done; whoever did ill, or acted in preju­dice of his integrity, good-nature, or worth, would of necessity, act with greater cru­elty towards himself, than he who scrupled not to swallow what was poisonous, or who, with his own hands, should voluntarily mangle or wound his outward form or con­stitution, natural limbs or body *."’ Here, to commit a bad action, is, first, ‘"To re­move a good and orderly affection, and to [Page 231] introduce an ill or disorderly one;"’ next, it is, ‘"To commit an action that is ill, immo­ral, and unjust;"’ and in the next line, it is, ‘"To do ill, or to act in prejudice of in­tegrity, good-nature, and worth;"’ nay, so very simple a thing as a man's wounding him­self, is, ‘"To mangle, or wound, his out­ward form and constitution, his natural limbs or body."’ Such superfluity of words is disgustful to every reader of correct taste; and serves no purpose but to embarrass and perplex the sense. This sort of Style is ele­gantly described by Quinctilian, ‘"Est in qui­busdam turba inanium verborum, qui dum communem loquendi morem reformidant, ducti specie nitoris, circumeunt omnia co­piosa loquacitate quae dicere volunt *." Lib. vii. cap. 2.

THE great source of a loose Style, in op­position to Precision, is the injudicious use of those words termed Synonymous. They are called Synonymous, because they agree in expressing one principal idea; but, for the most part, if not always, they express it with some diversity in the circumstances. They are varied by some accessory idea which eve­ry word introduces, and which forms the distinction between them. Hardly, in any [Page 232] Language, are there two words that convey precisely the same idea; a person thoroughly conversant in the propriety of the Language, will always be able to observe something that distinguishes them. As they are like different shades of the same colour, an ac­curate writer can employ them to great ad­vantage, by using them, so as to heighten and to finish the picture which he gives us. He supplies by one, what was wanting in the other, to the force, or to the lustre of the image which he means to exhibit. But, in order to this end, he must be extremely at­tentive to the choice which he makes of them. For the bulk of writers are very apt to confound them with each other; and to employ them carelessly, merely for the sake of filling up a period, or of rounding and di­versifying the Language, as if their significa­tion were exactly the same, while, in truth, it is not. Hence a certain mist, and indis­tinctness, is unwarily thrown over Style.

IN the Latin Language, there are no two words we would more readily take to be sy­nonymous, than amare and diligere. Cicero, however, has shewn us, that there is a very clear distinction betwixt them, ‘"Quid ergo,"’ says he, in one of his epistles, ‘"tibi com­mendem eum quem tu ipse diligis? Sed tamen ut scires eum non a me diligi solum, verum etiam amari, ob eam rem tibi haec scribo *."’ In the same manner tutus and [Page 233] securus, are words which we would readily confound; yet their meaning is different. Tutus, signifies out of danger; securus, free from the dread of it. Seneca has elegantly marked this distinction; ‘"Tuta scelera esse possunt, secura non possunt ."’ In our own Language, very many instances might be given of a difference in meaning among words reputed Synonymous; and, as the sub­ject is of importance, I shall now point out some of these. The instances which I am to give, may themselves be of use; and they will serve to shew the necessity of attending, with care and strictness, to the exact import of words, if ever we would write with Pro­priety or Precision.

Austerity, Severity, Rigour. Austerity, re­lates to the manner of living; Severity, of thinking; Rigour, of punishing. To Au­sterity, is opposed Effeminacy; to Severity, Relaxation; to Rigour, Clemency. A Her­mit, is austere in his life; a Casuist, severe in his application of religion or law; a Judge, rigorous in his sentences.

Custom, Habit. Custom, respects the ac­tion; Habit, the actor. By Custom, we mean the frequent repetition of the same act; by Habit, the effect which that repe­tition produces on the mind or body. By the Custom of walking often on the streets, one acquires a Habit of idleness.

[Page 234] Surprised, astonished, amazed, confounded. I am surprised with what is new or unex­pected; I am astonished, at what is vast or great; I am amazed, with what is incompre­hensible; I am confounded, by what is shock­ing or terrible.

Desist, renounce, quit, leave off. Each of these words imply some pursuit or object re­linquished; but from different motives. We desist, from the difficulty of accomplishing. We renounce, on account of the disagreea­bleness of the object, or pursuit. We quit, for the sake of some other thing which in­terests us more; and we leave off, because we are weary of the design. A Politician desists from his designs, when he finds they are impracticable; he renounces the court, because he has been affronted by it; he quits ambition for study or retirement; and leaves off his attendance on the great, as he be­comes old and weary of it.

Pride, Vanity. Pride, makes us esteem ourselves; Vanity, makes us desire the esteem of others. It is just to say, as Dean Swift has done, that a man is too proud to be vain.

Haughtiness, Disdain. Haughtiness, is founded on the high opinion we entertain of ourselves; Disdain, on the low opinion we have of others.

[Page 235] To distinguish, to separate. We distinguish, what we want not to confound with another thing; we separate, what we want to re­move from it. Objects are distinguished from one another, by their qualities. They are separated, by the distance of time or place.

To weary, to fatigue. The continuance of the same thing wearies us; labour fatigues us. I am weary with standing; I am fatigued with walking. A suitor wearies us by his per­severance; fatigues us by his importunity.

To abhor, to detest. To abhor, imports, simply, strong dislike; to detest, imports also strong disapprobation. One abhors being in debt; he detests treachery.

To invent, to discover. We invent things that are new; we discover what was before hidden. Galileo invented the telescope; Harvey discovered the circulation of the blood.

Only, alone. Only, imports that there is no other of the same kind; alone, imports being accompanied by no other. An only child, is one who has neither brother nor sister; a child alone, is one who is left by it­self. There is a difference, therefore, in pre­cise Language, betwixt these two phrases, ‘"Virtue only makes us happy;"’ and, ‘"Vir­tue alone makes us happy."’ Virtue only makes us happy, imports, that nothing else [Page 236] can do it. Virtue alone makes us happy, imports, that virtue, by itself, or unaccom­panied with other advantages, is sufficient to do it.

Entire, Complete. A thing is entire, by wanting none of its parts; complete, by wanting none of the appendages that belong to it. A man may have an entire house to himself; and yet not have one complete apartment.

Tranquillity, Peace, Calm. Tranquillity, respects a situation free from trouble, consi­dered in itself; Peace, the same situation with respect to any causes that might inter­rupt it; Calm, with regard to a disturbed situation going before, or following it. A good man enjoys Tranquillity, in himself; Peace, with others; and Calm, after the storm.

A Difficulty, an Obstacle. A Difficulty, embarrasses; an Obstacle, stops us. We re­move the one; we surmount the other. Generally, the first, expresses somewhat aris­ing from the nature and circumstances of the affair; the second, somewhat arising from a foreign cause. Philip found Difficulty in ma­naging the Athenians from the nature of their dispositions; but the eloquence of De­mosthenes was the greatest obstacle to his designs.

[Page 237] Wisdom, Prudence, Wisdom, leads us to speak and act what is most proper. Pru­dence, prevents our speaking or acting im­properly. A wise man, employs the most proper means for success; a prudent man, the safest means for not being brought into danger.

Enough, Sufficient. Enough, relates to the quantity which one wishes to have of any thing. Sufficient, relates to the use that is to be made of it. Hence, Enough, general­ly imports a greater quantity than Sufficient does. The covetous man never has enough; although he has what is sufficient for nature.

To avow, to acknowledge, to confess. Each of these words imports the affirmation of a fact, but in very different circumstances. To avow, supposes the person to glory in it; to acknowledge, supposes a small degree of faultiness, which the acknowledgment com­pensates; to confess, supposes a higher de­gree of crime. A patriot avows his opposi­tion to a bad minister, and is applauded; a gentleman acknowledges his mistake, and is forgiven; a prisoner confesses the crime he is accused of, and is punished.

To remark, to observe. We remark, in the way of attention, in order to remember; we observe, in the way of examination, in or­der to judge. A traveller remarks the most [Page 238] striking object he sees; a general observes all the motions of his enemy.

Equivocal, Ambiguous. An Equivocal Ex­pression is, one which has one sense open, and designed to be understood; another sense concealed, and understood only by the per­son who uses it. An Ambiguous Expression is, one which has apparently two senses, and leaves us at a loss which of them to give it. An equivocal expression is used with an in­tention to deceive; an ambiguous one, when it is used with design, is, with an intention not to give full information. An honest man will never employ an equivocal expres­sion; a confused man may often utter ambi­guous ones, without any design. I shall give only one instance more.

With, By. Both these particles express the connection between some instrument, or means of effecting an end, and the agent who employs it: but with, expresses a more close and immediate connection; by, a more remote one. We kill a man with a sword; he dies by violence. The criminal is bound with ropes by the executioner. The proper distinction in the use of these particles, is elegantly marked in a passage of Dr. Robert­son's History of Scotland. When one of the old Scottish kings was making an enquiry in­to the tenure by which his nobles held their lands, they started up, and drew their swords: ‘" By these,"’ said they, ‘"we acquired our [Page 239] lands, and with these, we will defend them."’ ‘" By these we acquired our lands;"’ signifies the more remote means of acquisition by force and martial deeds; and, ‘" with these we will defend them;"’ signifies the imme­diate direct instrument, the sword, which they would employ in their defence.

THESE are instances of words, in our Language, which, by careless writers, are apt to be employed as perfectly synonymous, and yet are not so. Their significations ap­proach, but are not precisely the same. The more the distinction in the meaning of such words is weighed, and attended to, the more clearly and forcibly shall we speak or write *.

FROM all that has been said on this head, it will now appear, that, in order to write or speak with Precision, two things are especi­ally requisite; one, that an author's own ideas be clear and distinct; and the other, that he have an exact and full comprehen­sion [Page 240] of the force of those words which he employs. Natural genius is here required; labour and attention still more. Dean Swift is one of the authors, in our Language, most distinguished for Precision of Style. In his writings, we seldom or never find vague ex­pressions, and synonymous words, carelesly thrown together. His meaning is always clear, and strongly marked.

I HAD occasion to observe before, that though all subjects of writing or discourse demand Perspicuity, yet all do not require the same degree of that exact Precision, which I have endeavoured to explain. It is, indeed, in every sort of writing, a great beauty to have, at least, some measure of Precision, in distinction from that loose profusion of words which imprints no clear idea on the reader's mind. But we must, at the same time, be on our guard, lest too great a study of Pre­cision, especially in subjects where it is not strictly requisite, betray us into a dry and barren Style; lest, from the desire of prun­ing too closely, we retrench all copiousness and ornament. Some degree of this failing may, perhaps, be remarked in Dean Swift's serious works. Attentive only to exhibit his ideas clear and exact, resting wholly on his sense and distinctness, he appears to reject, disdainfully, all embellishment which, on some occasions, may be thought to render his manner somewhat hard and dry. To unite together Copiousness and Precision, to [Page 241] be flowing and graceful, and, at the same time, correct and exact in the choice of every word, is, no doubt, one of the highest and most difficult attainments in writing. Some kinds of composition may require more of Copiousness and Ornament; others, more of Precision and Accuracy; nay, in the same composition, the different parts of it may de­mand a proper variation of manner. But we must study never to sacrifice, totally, any one of these qualities to the other; and, by a proper management, both of them may be made fully consistent, if our own ideas be precise, and our knowledge and stock of words be, at the same time, extensive.

LECTURE XI. STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES.

HAVING begun to treat of Style, in the last Lecture I considered its fundamen­tal quality, Perspicuity. What I have said of this, relates chiefly to the choice of Words. From words I proceed to Sentences; and as, in all writing and discourse, the proper com­position and structure of Sentences is of the highest importance, I shall treat of this fully. Though Perspicuity be the general head un­der which I, at present, consider Language, I shall not confine myself to this quality alone, in Sentences, but shall enquire also, what is requisite for their Grace and Beau­ty: that I may bring together, under one view, all that seems necessary to be attended to in the construction and arrangement of words in a Sentence.

IT is not easy to give an exact definition of a Sentence, or Period, farther, than as it [Page 243] always implies some one complete proposition or enunciation of thought. Aristotle's defi­nition is, in the main, a good one: ‘" [...]:"’ ‘"A form of Speech which hath a beginning and an end within itself, and is of such a length as to be easily comprehended at once."’ This, however, admits of great latitude. For a Sentence, or Period, consists always of component parts, which are called its mem­bers; and as these members may be either few or many, and may be connected in seve­ral different ways, the same thought, or men­tal proposition, may often be either brought into one Sentence, or split into two or three, without the material breach of any rule.

THE first variety that occurs in the consi­deration of Sentences, is, the distinction of long and short ones. The precise length of Sentences, as to the number of words, or the number of members, which may enter into them, cannot be ascertained by any definite measure. Only, it is obvious, there may be an extreme on either side. Sentences, im­moderately long, and consisting of too many members, always transgress some one or other of the rules which I shall mention soon, as necessary to be observed in every good Sen­tence. In discourses that are to be spoken, regard must be had to the easiness of pronun­ciation, which is not consistent with too long periods. In compositions where pronuncia­tion has no place, still, however, by using [Page 244] long periods too frequently, an author over­loads the reader's ear, and fatigues his at­tention. For long Periods require, evident­ly, more attention than short ones, in order to perceive clearly the connexion of the se­veral parts, and to take in the whole at one view. At the same time, there may be an excess in too many short Sentences also; by which the sense is split and broken, the con­nexion of thought weakened, and the me­mory burdened, by presenting to it a long succession of minute objects.

WITH regard to the length and constructi­on of Sentences, the French critics make a very just distinction of Style, into Style Pe­riodique, and Style Coupé. The Style Periodi­que is, where the sentences are composed of several members linked together, and hang­ing upon one another, so that the sense of the whole is not brought out till the close. This is the most pompous, musical, and ora­torical manner of composing; as in the fol­lowing sentence of Sir William Temple: ‘"If you look about you, and consider the lives of others as well as your own; if you think how few are born with honour, and how many die without name or children; how little beauty we see, and how few friends we hear of; how many diseases, and how much poverty there is in the world; you will fall down upon your knees, and, instead of repining at one affliction, will admire so many blessings which you have [Page 245] received from the hand of God." (Letter to Lady Essex.) Cicero abounds with Sen­tences constructed after this manner.

THE Style Coupé is, where the sense is form­ed into short independent propositions, each complete within itself; as in the following of Mr. Pope: ‘"I confess, it was want of con­sideration that made me an author. I writ, because it amused me. I corrected, because it was as pleasant to me to correct as to write. I published, because, I was told, I might please such as it was a credit to please." (Preface to his works.) This is very much the French method of writing; and always suits gay and easy subjects. The Style Periodique, gives an air of gravity and dignity to composition. The Style Coupé, is more lively and striking. According to the nature of the composition, therefore, and the general character it ought to bear, the one or other may be predominant. But, in almost every kind of composition, the great rule is to intermix them. For the ear tires of either of them when too long continued: Whereas, by a proper mixture of long and short Periods, the ear is gratified, and a cer­tain sprightliness is joined with majesty in our style. ‘"Non semper,"’ says Cicero (de­scribing very expressively, these two differ­ent kinds of Styles, of which I have been speaking,) ‘"non semper utendum est perpe­tuitate, & quasi conversione verborum; [Page 246] sed saepe carpenda membris minutioribus oratio est *.’

THIS variety is of so great consequence, that it must be studied, not only in the suc­cession of long and short Sentences, but in the structure of our Sentences also. A train of Sentences, constructed in the same man­ner, and with the same number of members, whether long or short, should never be al­lowed to succeed one another. However musical each of them may be, it has a bet­ter effect to introduce even a discord, than to cloy the ear with the repetition of similar sounds: For, nothing is so tiresome as per­petual uniformity. In this article of the construction and distribution of his Sentences, Lord Shaftsbury has shown great art. In the last Lecture, I observed, that he is often guil­ty of sacrificing precision of style to pomp of expression; and that there runs through his whole manner, a stiffness and affectation, which render him very unfit to be considered as a general model. But, as his ear was fine, and as he was extremely attentive to every thing that is elegant, he has studied the pro­per intermixture of long and short Sentences, with variety and harmony in their structure, more than any other English author; and for this part of composition he deserves at­tention.

[Page 247] FROM these general observations, let us now descend to a more particular considera­tion of the qualities that are required to make a Sentence perfect. So much depends upon the proper construction of Sentences, that, in every sort of composition, we cannot be too strict in our attentions to it. For, be the subject what it will, if the Sentences be con­structed in a clumsy, perplexed, or feeble manner, it is impossible that a work, com­posed of such Sentences, can be read with pleasure, or even with profit. Whereas, by giving attention to the rules which relate to this part of style, we acquire the habit of ex­pressing ourselves with Perspicuity and Ele­gance; and, if a disorder chance to arise in some of our Sentences, we immediately see where it lies, and are able to rectify it *.

THE properties most essential to a perfect Sentence, seem to me, the four following: 1. Clearness and Precision. 2. Unity. 3. Strength. 4. Harmony. Each of these I shall illustrate separately, and at some length.

[Page 248] THE first is, Clearness and Precision. The least failure here, the least degree of ambi­guity, which leaves the mind in any sort of suspence as to the meaning, ought to be avoided with the greatest care; nor is it so easy a matter to keep always clear of this, as one might, at first, imagine. Ambiguity arises from two causes: either from a wrong choice of words, or a wrong collocation of them. Of the choice of words, as far as re­gards Perspicuity, I treated fully in the last Lecture. Of the collocation of them, I am now to treat. The first thing to be studied here, is, to observe exactly the rules of gram­mar, as far as these can guide us. But as the grammar of our Language is not exten­sive, there may often be an ambiguous col­location of words, where there is no trans­gression of any grammatical rule. The re­lations which the words, or members of a period, bear to one another, cannot be point­ed out in English, as in the Greek or Latin, by means of termination; it is ascertained only by the position in which they stand. Hence a capital rule in the arrangement of Sentences is, that the words or members most nearly related, should be placed in the Sen­tence, as near to each other as possible; so as to make their mutual relation clearly ap­pear. This is a rule not always observed, even by good writers, as strictly as it ought to be. It will be necessary to produce some instances, which will both show the import­ance [Page 249] of this rule, and make the application of it be understood.

FIRST, In the position of adverbs, which are used to qualify the signification of some­thing which either precedes or follows them, there is often a good deal of nicety. ‘"By greatness,"’ says Mr. Addison, in the Spec­tator, No. 412. ‘"I do not only mean the bulk of any single object, but the largeness of a whole view."’ Here the place of the adverb only, renders it a limitation of the following word, mean. ‘"I do not only mean."’ The question may then be put, What does he more than mean? Had he placed it after bulk, still it would have been wrong. "I do not mean the bulk only of any single object. For we might then ask, What does he mean more than the bulk? Is it the colour? Or any other property? Its proper place, undoubtedly, is, after the word object. ‘"By greatness, I do not mean the bulk of any single object only;"’ for then, when we put the question, What more does he mean than the bulk of a single object? The answer comes out exactly as the author intends, and gives it; ‘"The largeness of a whole view."—’ ‘"Theism,"’ says Lord Shaftsbury, ‘"can only be opposed to poly­theism, or atheism."’ Does he mean that theism is capable of nothing else, except be­ing opposed to polytheism or atheism? This is what his words literally import, through the wrong collocation of only. He should [Page 250] have said, ‘"Theism can be opposed only to polytheism or atheism."’—In like manner, Dean Swift (Project for the advancement of Religion), ‘"The Romans understood liberty, at least, as well as we."’ These words are capable of two different senses, according as the emphasis, in reading them, is laid upon liberty, or upon at least. In the first case, they will signify, that whatever other things we may understand better than the Romans, liberty, at least, was one thing which they understood as well as we. In the second case, they will import, that liberty was un­derstood, at least as well by them as by us; meaning, that by them it was better under­stood. If this last, as I make no doubt, was Dean Swift's own meaning, the ambiguity would have been avoided, and the sense ren­dered independent of the manner of pro­nouncing, by arranging the words thus: ‘"The Romans understood liberty as well, at least, as we."’ The fact is, with respect to such adverbs, as, only, wholly, at least, and the rest of that tribe, that in common dis­course, the tone and emphasis we use in pro­nouncing them, generally serves to show their reference, and to make the meaning clear; and hence, we acquire a habit of throwing them in loosely in the course of a period. But, in writing, where a man speaks to the eye, and not to the ear, he ought to be more accurate; and so to connect those adverbs with the words which they qualify, [Page 251] as to put his meaning out of doubt upon the first inspection.

SECONDLY, When a circumstance is inter­posed in the middle of a Sentence, it some­times requires attention how to place it, so as to divest it of all ambiguity. For instance: ‘"Are these designs"’ (says Lord Bolingbroke, Disser. on Parties, Dedicat.) ‘"Are these de­signs which any man, who is born a Bri­ton, in any circumstances, in any situation, ought to be ashamed or afraid to avow?"’ Here we are left at a loss, whether these words, ‘" in any circumstance, in any situation,"’ are connected with, ‘"a man born in Britain, in any circumstances, or situation,"’ or with that man's ‘"avowing his designs, in any cir­cumstances, or situation, into which he may be brought?"’ If the latter, as seems most probable, was intended to be the mean­ing, the arrangement ought to have been conducted thus: ‘"Are these designs, which any man who is born a Briton, ought to be ashamed or afraid, in any circumstances, in any situation, to avow?"’ But,

THIRDLY, Still more attention is required to the proper disposition of the relative pro­nouns, who, which, what, whose, and of all those particles which express the connection of the parts of Speech with one another. As all reasoning depends upon this connec­tion, we cannot be too accurate and precise here. A small error may overcloud the [Page 252] meaning of the whole Sentence; and even, where the meaning is intelligible, yet where these relative particles are out of their pro­per place, we always find something awk­ward and disjointed in the Structure of the Sentence. Thus, in the Spectator (No. 54.) ‘"This kind of wit,"’ says Mr. Addison, ‘"was very much in vogue among our country­men, about an age or two ago, who did not practise it for any oblique reason, but purely for the sake of being witty."’ We are at no loss about the meaning here; but the construction would evidently be mended by disposing of the circumstance, ‘"about an age or two ago,"’ in such a manner as not to separate the relative who, from its antece­dent our countrymen; in this way: ‘"About an age or two ago, this kind of wit was very much in vogue among our country­men, who did not practise it for any ob­lique reason, but purely for the sake of being witty." Spectator, No. 412.’ ‘"We no where meet with a more glorious and pleasing show in nature, than what ap­pears in the heavens at the rising and set­ting of the sun, which is wholly made up of these different stains of light, that show themselves in clouds of a different situa­tion."’ Which is here designed to connect with the word show, as its antecedent; but it stands so wide from it, that without a careful attention to the sense, we would be naturally led, by the rules of syntax, to re­fer it to the rising and setting of the sun, or [Page 253] to the sun itself; and, hence, an indistinct­ness is thrown over the whole Sentence. The following passage in Bishop Sherlock's Ser­mons (Vol. II. Serm. 15.) is still more cen­surable: ‘"It is folly to pretend to arm our­selves against the accidents of life, by heap­ing up treasures, which nothing can pro­tect us against, but the good providence of our Heavenly Father."’ Which, always re­fers grammatically to the immediately pre­ceding substantive, which here is, ‘"trea­sures;"’ and this would make nonsense of the whole Period. Every one feels this im­propriety. The Sentence ought to have stood thus: ‘"It is folly to pretend, by heaping up treasures, to arm ourselves against the ac­cidents of life, which nothing can protect us against but the good providence of our Heavenly Father."’

OF the like nature is the following inac­curacy of Dean Swift's. He is recommend­ing to young clergymen, to write their ser­mons fully and distinctly. ‘"Many,"’ says he, ‘"act so directly contrary to this method, that, from a habit of saving time and paper, which they acquired at the university, they write in so diminutive a manner, that they can hardly read what they have writ­ten."’ He certainly does not mean, that they had acquired time and paper at the uni­versity, but that they had acquired this habit there; and therefore his words ought to have run thus: ‘"from a habit which they have [Page 254] acquired at the university of saving time and paper, they write in so diminutive a manner."’ In another passage, the same author has left his meaning altogether uncer­tain, by misplacing a relative. It is in the conclusion of his letter to a member of par­liament, concerning the Sacramental Test: ‘"Thus I have fairly given you, Sir, my own opinion, as well as that of a great majority of both houses here, relating to this weigh­ty affair; upon which I am confident you may securely reckon."’ Now I ask, what it is he would have his correspondent to reckon upon, securely? The natural con­struction leads to these words, ‘"this weighty affair."’ But, as it would be difficult to make any sense of this, it is more probable he meant that the majority of both houses might be securely reckoned upon; though certainly this meaning, as the words are arranged, is obscurely expressed. The sen­tence would be amended by arranging thus: ‘"Thus, Sir, I have given you my own opi­nion, relating to this weighty affair, as well as that of a great majerity of both houses here; upon which I am confident you may securely reckon."’

Several other instances might be given; but I reckon those which I have produced sufficient to make the rule understood; that, in the construction of sentences, one of the first things to be attended to, is, the mar­shalling of the words in such order as shall [Page 255] most clearly mark the relation of the several parts of the sentence to one another; parti­cularly, that adverbs shall always be made to adhere closely to the words which they are intended to qualify; that, where a circum­stance is thrown in, it shall never hang loose in the midst of a period, but be determined by its place to one or other member of it; and that every relative word which is used, shall instantly present its antecedent to the mind of the reader, without the least obscu­rity. I have mentioned these three cases, because I think they are the most frequent occasions of ambiguity creeping into sen­tences.

WITH regard to Relatives, I must farther observe, that obscurity often arises from the too frequent repetition of them, particularly of the pronouns who, and they, and them, and theirs, when we have occasion to refer to different persons; as, in the following sen­tence of archbishop Tillotson (vol. I. serm. 42.): ‘"Men look with an evil eye upon the good that is in others; and think that their reputation obscures them, and their com­mendable qualities stand in their light; and therefore they do what they can to cast a cloud over them, that the bright shining of their virtues may not obscure them."’ This is altogether careless writ­ing. It renders style often obscure, always embarrassed and inelegant. When we find these personal pronouns crowding too fast [Page 256] upon us, we have often no method left, but to throw the whole sentence into some other form, which may avoid those frequent refer­ences to persons who have before been men­tioned.

ALL languages are liable to ambiguities. Quinctilian gives us some instances in the Latin, arising from faulty arrangement. A man, he tells us, ordered, by his will, to have erected for him, after his death, ‘"Statuam auream hastam tenentem;"’ upon which arose a dispute at law, whether the whole statue, or the spear only, was to be of gold? The same author observes, very properly, that a sentence is always faulty, when the collocation of the words is ambiguous, though the sense can be gathered. If any one should say, ‘"Chremetem audivi percussisse Demeam,"’ this is ambiguous both in sense and structure, whether Chremes or Demea gave the blow. But if this expression were used, ‘"Se vidisse hominem librum scribentem,"’ although the meaning be clear, yet Quinctilian insists that the arrangement is wrong. ‘"Nam,"’ says he, ‘"etiamsi librum ab homine scribi pateat, non certè hominem a libro, malè tamen compo­suerat, feceratque ambiguum quantum in ipso fuit."’ Indeed, to have the relation of every word and member of a sentence mark­ed in the most proper and distinct manner, gives not clearness only, but grace and beau­ty to a sentence, making the mind pass [Page 257] smoothly and agreeably along all the parts of it.

I PROCEED now to the second quality of a well-arranged sentence, which I termed its Unity. This is a capital property. In eve­ry composition, of whatever kind, some de­gree of unity is required, in order to render it beautiful. There must be always some connecting principle among the parts. Some one object must reign and be predominant. This, as I shall hereafter shew, holds in His­tory, in Epic and Dramatic Poetry, and in all orations. But most of all, in a single sen­tence, is required the strictest unity. For the very nature of a sentence implies one propo­sition to be expressed. It may consist of parts, indeed; but these parts must be so closely bound together, as to make the impression upon the mind, of one object, not of many. Now, in order to preserve this unity of a sen­tence, the following rules must be observed:

IN the first place, during the course of the sentence, the scene should be changed as lit­tle as possible. We should not be hurried by sudden transitions from person to person, nor from subject to subject. There is com­monly, in every sentence, some person or thing, which is the governing word. This should be continued so, if possible, from the beginning to the end of it. Should I express myself thus: ‘"After we came to anchor, they put me on shore, where I was wel­comed [Page 258] by all my friends, who received me with the greatest kindness."’ In this sen­tence, though the objects contained in it have a sufficient connection with each other, yet, by this manner of representing them, by shifting so often both the place and the person, we, and they, and I, and who, they appear in such a disunited view, that the sense of connection is almost lost. The sen­tence is restored to its proper unity, by turn­ing it after the following manner: ‘"Having come to an anchor, I was put on shore, where I was welcomed by all my friends, and received with the greatest kindness."’ Writers who transgress this rule, for the most part transgress, at the same time.

A SECOND rule; never to crowd into one sentence, things which have so little connec­tion, that they could bear to be divided into two or three sentences. The violation of this rule never fails to hurt, and displease a reader. Its effect, indeed, is so bad, that, of the two, it is the safest extreme, to err rather by too many short sentences, than by one that is overloaded and embarrassed. Ex­amples abound in authors. I shall produce some, to justify what I now say. ‘"Arch­bishop Tillotson,"’ says an Author of the History of England, ‘"died in this year. He was exceedingly beloved both by King William and Queen Mary, who nominated Dr. Tennison, Bishop of Lincoln, to suc­ceed him."’ Who would expect the latter [Page 259] part of this sentence to follow, in conse­quence of the former? ‘"He was exceedingly beloved by both King and Queen,"’ is the proposition of the sentence: we look for some proof of this, or at least something re­lated to it, to follow; when we are on a sudden carried off to a new proposition, ‘"who nominated Dr. Tennison to succeed him."’ The following is from Middleton's Life of Cicero: ‘"In this uneasy state, both of his public and private life, Cicero was oppressed by a new and cruel affliction, the death of his beloved daughter Tullia; which happened soon after her divorce from Dolabella; whose manners and hu­mours were entirely disagreeable to her."’ The principal object in this sentence is, the death of Tullia, which was the cause of her father's affliction; the date of it, as happen­ing soon after her divorce from Dolabella, may enter into the sentence with propriety; but the subjunction of Dolabella's character is foreign to the main object; and breaks the unity and compactness of the sentence total­ly, by setting a new picture before the reader. The following sentence, from a translation of Plutarch, is still worse: ‘"Their march,"’ says the Author, speaking of the Greeks un­der Alexander, ‘"their march was through an uncultivated country, whose savage inha­bitants fared hardly, having no other riches than a breed of lean sheep, whose flesh was rank and unsavoury, by reason of their continual feeding upon sea-fish."’ Here [Page 260] the scene is changed upon us again and again. The march of the Greeks, the description of the inhabitants through whose country they travelled, the account of their sheep, and the cause of their sheep being ill-tasted food, form a jumble of objects, slightly related to each other, which the reader cannot, with­out much difficulty, comprehend under one view.

THESE examples have been taken from sentences of no great length, yet over-crowd­ed. Authors who deal in long sentences, are very apt to be faulty in this article. One need only open Lord Clarendon's History, to find examples every where. The long, in­volved, and intricate sentences of that Au­thor, are the greatest blemish of his compo­sition; though, in other respects, as a Histo­rian, he has considerable merit. In later, and more correct writers than Lord Claren­don, we find a period sometimes running out so far, and comprehending so many particu­lars, as to be more properly a discourse than a sentence. Take, for an instance, the fol­lowing from Sir William Temple, in his Es­say upon Poetry: ‘"The usual acceptation takes Profit and Pleasure for two different things; and not only calls the followers or votaries of them by the several names of Busy and Idle Men; but distinguishes the faculties of the mind, that are conversant about them, calling the operations of the first, Wisdom; and of the other, Wit; [Page 261] which is a Saxon word, used to express what the Spaniards and Italians call Inge­nio, and the French, Esprit, both from the Latin; though I think Wit more particu­larly signifies that of Poetry, as may occur in Remarks on the Runic Language."’ When one arrives at the end of such a puz­zled sentence, he is surprised to find himself got to so great a distance from the object with which he at first set out.

LORD SHAFTSBURY, often betrayed into faults by his love of magnificence, shall afford us the next example. It is in his Rhapsody, where he is describing the cold regions: ‘"At length,"’ says he, ‘"the Sun approaching, melts the snow, sets longing men at liber­ty, and affords them means and time to make provision against the next return of Cold."’ This first sentence is correct enough; but he goes on: ‘"It breaks the icy fetters of the main, where vast sea-monsters pierce through floating islands, with arms which can withstand the crystal rock; whilst others, who of themselves seem great as islands, are by their bulk alone armed against all but Man, whose superi­ority over creatures of such stupendous size and force, should make him mindful of his privilege of Reason, and force him humbly to adore the great Composer of these wondrous frames, and the Author of his own superior wisdom."’ Nothing can be more unhappy or embarrassed than this [Page 262] sentence; the worse too, as it is intended to be descriptive, where every thing should be clear. It forms no distinct image whatever. The It, at the beginning, is ambiguous, whe­ther it mean the Sun or the Cold. The ob­ject is changed three times in the sentence; beginning with the Sun, which breaks the icy fetters of the main; then the Sea-mon­sters become the principal personages; and lastly, by a very unexpected transition, Man is brought into view, and receives a long and serious admonition before the sentence closes. I do not at present insist on the impropriety of such expressions as, God's being the Com­poser of Frames; and the Sea-monsters hav­ing arms that withstand rocks. Shaftsbury's strength lay in reasoning and sentiment, more than in description; however much his descriptions have been sometimes admired.

I SHALL only give one instance more on this head, from Dean Swift; in his proposal, too, for correcting the English Language: where, in place of a sentence, he has given a loose dissertation upon several subjects. Speaking of the progress of our language, after the time of Cromwell: ‘"To this suc­ceeded,"’ says he, ‘"that licentiousness, which entered with the Restoration, and, from infecting our religion and morals, fell to corrupt our language; which last was not like to be much improved by those, who at that time made up the court of King Charles the Second; either such as [Page 263] had followed him in his banishment, or who had been altogether conversant in the dialect of these fanatic times; or young men, who had been educated in the same country: so that the Court, which used to be the standard of correctness and pro­priety of speech, was then, and I think has ever since continued, the worst school in England for that accomplishment; and so will remain, till better care be taken in the education of our nobility, that they may set out into the world with some foun­dation of literature, in order to qualify them for patterns of politeness."’ How many different facts, reasonings, and observa­tions, are here presented to the mind at once! and yet so linked together by the Author, that they all make parts of a sentence, which admits of no greater division in pointing, than a semicolon between any of its members? Having mentioned pointing, I shall here take notice, that it is in vain to propose, by arbi­trary punctuation, to amend the defects of a Sentence, to correct its ambiguity, or to pre­vent its confusion. For commas, colons, and points, do not make the proper divisions of thought; but only serve to mark those which arise from the tenor of the Author's expres­sion: and, therefore, they are proper or not, just according as they correspond to the na­tural divisions of the sense. When they are inserted in wrong places, they deserve, and will meet with, no regard.

[Page 264] I PROCEED to a third rule, for preserving the Unity of Sentences; which is, to keep clear of all Parentheses in the middle of them. On some occasions, these may have a spirited appearance; as prompted by a certain viva­city of thought, which can glance happily aside, as it is going along. But, for the most part, their effect is extremely bad; being a sort of wheels within wheels; sentences in the midst of sentences; the perplexed me­thod of disposing of some thought, which a writer wants art to introduce in its proper place. It were needless to give many in­stances, as they occur so often among incor­rect writers. I shall produce one from Lord Bolingbroke, the rapidity of whose genius, and manner of writing, betrays him frequent­ly into inaccuracies of this sort. It is in the Introduction to his Idea of a Patriot King, where he writes thus: ‘"It seems to me, that, in order to maintain the system of the world, at a certain point, far below that of ideal perfection (for we are made capa­ble of conceiving what we are incapable of attaining), but, however, sufficient, up­on the whole, to constitute a state easy and happy, or at the worst, tolerable; I say, it seems to me, that the Author of Nature has thought fit to mingle, from time to time, among the societies of men, a few, and but a few, of those on whom he is graciously pleased to bestow a larger portion of the Ethereal Spirit, than is giv­en, in the ordinary course of his govern­ment, [Page 265] to the sons of men."’ A very bad Sentence this; into which, by the help of a Parenthesis, and other interjected circum­stances, his Lordship had contrived to thrust so many things, that he is forced to begin the construction again with the phrase I say; which, whenever it occurs, may be always assumed as a sure mark of a clumsy ill-con­structed Sentence; excusable in speaking, where the greatest accuracy is not expected, but in polished writing, unpardonable.

I SHALL add only one rule more for the Unity of a Sentence, which is, to bring it always to a full and perfect close. Every thing that is one, should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. I need not take notice, that an unfinished Sentence is no Sentence at all, according to any grammatical rule. But very often we meet with Sentences that are, so to speak, more than finished. When we have arrived at what we expected was to be the conclusion, when we have come to the word on which the mind is naturally led, by what went before, to rest; unexpectedly, some circumstance pops out, which ought to have been omitted, or to have been disposed of elsewhere; but which is left lagging be­hind, like a tail adjected to the Sentence; somewhat that, as Mr. Pope describes the Alexandrine line,

"Like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along."

[Page 266] All these adjections to the proper close, dis­figure a Sentence extremely. They give it a lame ungraceful air, and, in particular, they break its Unity. Dean Swift, for instance, in his Letter to a Young Clergyman, speak­ing of Cicero's writings, expresses himself thus: ‘"With these writings, young divines are more conversant,"’ than with those of Demosthenes, who, by many degrees, ex­celled the other; ‘"at least, as an orator."’ Here the natural close of the Sentence is at these words, ‘"excelled the other."’ These words conclude the proposition; we look for no more; and the circumstance added, ‘"at least, as an orator,"’ comes in with a very halting pace. How much more compact would the Sentence have been, if turned thus: ‘"With these writings, young divines are more conversant, than with those of Demosthenes, who, by many degrees, as an orator at least, excelled the other."’ In the following Sentence, from Sir William Temple, the adjection to the Sentence is al­together foreign to it. Speaking of Burnet's Theory of the Earth, and Fontenelle's Plu­rality of Worlds, ‘"The first,"’ says he, ‘"could not end his learned treatise, without a panegyric of modern learning, in com­parison of the antient; and the other, falls so grossly into the censure of the old poe­try, and preference of the new, that I could not read either of these strains without some indignation; which no quality among [Page 267] men is so apt to raise in me as self-suffici­ency."’ The word ‘"indignation,"’ con­cluded the Sentence; the last member, ‘"which no quality among men is so apt to raise in me as self-sufficiency,"’ is a pro­position altogether new, added after the proper close.

LECTURE XII. STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES.

HAVING treated of Perspicuity and Uni­ty, as necessary to be studied in the Structure of Sentences, I proceed to the third quality of a correct Sentence, which I termed Strength. By this, I mean, such a disposi­tion of the several words and members, as shall bring out the sense to the best advant­age; as shall render the impression, which the Period is designed to make, most full and complete; and give every word, and every member, its due weight and force. The two former qualities of Perspicuity and Unity, are, no doubt, absolutely necessary to the production of this effect; but more is still requisite. For a Sentence may be clear enough; it may also be compact enough, in all its parts, or have the requisite unity; and yet, by some unfavourable circumstance in the structure, it may fail in that strength or [Page 269] liveliness of impression, which a more happy arrangement would have produced.

THE first rule which I shall give, for pro­moting the Strength of a Sentence, is, to prune it of all redundant words. These may, sometimes, be consistent with a consi­derable degree both of Clearness and Unity; but they are always enfeebling. They make the Sentence move along tardy and encum­bered;

Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se
Impediat verbis, lassas onerantibus aures *.

It is a general maxim, that any words, which do not add some importance to the meaning of a Sentence, always spoil it. They cannot be superfluous, without being hurtful. ‘"Ob­stat,"’ says Quinctilian, ‘"quicquid non ad­juvat."’ All that can be easily supplied in the mind, is better left out in the expression. Thus: ‘"Content with deserving a triumph, he refused the honour of it,"’ is better Lan­guage than to say, ‘"Being content with de­serving a triumph, he refused the honour of it."’ I consider it, therefore, as one of the most useful exercises of correction, upon reviewing what we have written or compos­ed, to contract that round-about method of expression, and to lop off those useless ex­crescences [Page 270] which are commonly found in a first draught. Here a severe eye should be employed; and we shall always find our Sentences acquire more vigour and energy when thus retrenched; provided always, that we run not into the extreme of pruning so very close, as to give a hardness and dryness to style. For here, as in all other things, there is a due medium. Some regard, though not the principal, must be had to fullness and swelling of sound. Some leaves must be left to shelter and surround the fruit.

AS Sentences should be cleared of redun­dant words, so also of redundant members. As every word ought to present a new idea, so every member ought to contain a new thought. Opposed to this, stands the fault we sometimes meet with, of the last member of a period, being no other than the echo of the former, or the repetition of it in some­what a different form. For example; speak­ing of Beauty, ‘"The very first discovery of it,"’ says Mr. Addison, ‘"strikes the mind with inward joy, and spreads delight through all its faculties." (No. 412) And elsewhere, ‘"It is impossible for us to behold the divine works with coldness or indifference, or to survey so many beauties, without a secret satisfaction and complacency." (No. 413) In both these instances, little or nothing is added by the second member of the Sentence to what was already expressed in the first: [Page 271] And though the free and flowing manner of such an author as Mr. Addison, and the graceful harmony of his period, may palliate such negligences; yet, in general, it holds, that style, freed from this prolixity, appears both more strong, and more beautiful. The attention becomes remiss, the mind falls into inaction, when words are multiplied without a corresponding multiplication of ideas.

AFTER removing superfluities, the second direction I give, for promoting the Strength of a Sentence, is, to attend particularly to the use of copulatives, relatives, and all the particles employed for transition and connec­tion. These little words, but, and, which, whose, where, &c. are frequently the most important words of any; they are the joints or hinges upon which all Sentences turn, and, of course, much, both of their gracefulness and strength, must depend upon such parti­cles. The varieties in using them are, in­deed, so infinite, that no particular system of rules, respecting them, can be given. At­tention to the practice of the most accurate writers, joined with frequent trials of the different effects, produced by a different usage of those particles, must here direct us *. Some observations, I shall mention, which have occurred to me as useful, without pre­tending to exhaust the subject.

[Page 272] WHAT is called splitting of particles, or separating a preposition from the noun which it governs, is always to be avoided. As if I should say, ‘"Though virtue borrows no as­sistance from, yet it may often be accom­panied by, the advantages of fortune."’ In such instances, we feel a sort of pain, from the revulsion, or violent separation of two things, which, by their nature, should be closely united. We are put to a stand be closely united. We are put to a stand in thought; being obliged to rest for a little on the preposition by itself, which, at the same time, carries no significancy, till it is joined to its proper substantive noun.

SOME writers needlessly multiply demon­strative and relative particles, by the frequent use of such phraseology as this: ‘"There is nothing which disgusts us sooner than the empty pomp of Language."’ In introduc­ing a subject, or laying down a proposition, to which we demand particular attention, this sort of style is very proper; but, in the ordinary current of discourse, it is better to express ourselves more simply and shortly: ‘"Nothing disgusts us sooner than the empty pomp of Language."’

OTHER writers make a practice of omit­ting the Relative, in a phrase of a different kind from the former, where they think the meaning can be understood without it. As, ‘"The man I love."—’ ‘"The dominions we possessed, and the conquests we made."’ [Page 273] But though this elliptical style be intelligible, and is allowable in conversation and episto­lary writing, yet, in all writings of a serious or dignified kind, it is ungraceful. There, the Relative should always be inserted in its proper place, and the construction filled up: ‘"The man whom I love."—’ ‘"The dominions which we possessed, and the conquests which we made."’

WITH regard to the Copulative particle, and, which occurs so frequently in all kinds of composition, several observations are to be made. First, It is evident, that the un­necessary repetition of it enfeebles style. It has the same sort of effect, as the frequent use of the vulgar phrase, and so, when one is telling a story in common conversation. We shall take a Sentence from Sir William Temple, for an instance. He is speaking of the refinement of the French Language: ‘"The academy set up by Cardinal Richlieu, to amuse the wits of that age and country, and divert them from raking into his poli­tics and ministry, brought this into vogue; and the French wits have, for this last age, been wholly turned to the refinement of their Style and Language; and, indeed, with such success, that it can hardly be equalled, and runs equally through their verse and their prose."’ Here are no fewer than eight ands in one sentence. This agree­able writer too often makes his sentences drag in this manner, by a careless multiplication [Page 274] of Copulatives. It is strange how a writer, so accurate as Dean Swift, should have stum­bled on so improper an application of this particle, as he has made in the following sen­tence; Essay on the Fates of Clergymen. ‘"There is no talent so useful towards rising in the world, or which puts men more out of the reach of fortune, than that quality generally possest by the dullest sort of peo­ple, and is, in common language, called Discretion; a species of lower prudence, by the assistance of which, &c."’ By the insertion of, and is, in place of, which is, he has not only clogged the Sentence, but even made it ungrammatical.

BUT, in the next place, it is worthy of observation, that though the natural use of the conjunction, and, be to join objects to­gether, and thereby, as one would think, to make their connexion more close; yet, in fact, by dropping the conjunction, we often mark a closer connexion, a quicker successi­on of objects, than when it is inserted be­tween them. Longinus makes this remark; which from many instances, appears to be just: ‘"Veni, vidi, vici *,"’ expresses with more spirit, the rapidity and quick succession of conquest, than if connecting particles had been used. So, in the following description of a rout in Caesar's Commentaries: ‘"Nos­tri, emissis pilis, gladiis rem gerunt; re­pente [Page 275] post tergum equitatus cernitur; co­hortes aliae appropinquant. Hostes terga vertunt; fugientibus equites occurrunt; sit magna caedes." Bell. Gall. l. 7 *.

HENCE, it follows, that when, on the other hand, we seek to prevent a quick transition from one object to another, when we are making some enumeration, in which we wish that the objects should appear as distinct from each other as possible, and that the mind should rest, for a moment, on each object by itself; in this case, Copulatives may be mul­tiplied with peculiar advantage and grace. As when Lord Bolingbroke says, ‘"Such a man might fall a victim to power; but truth, and reason, and liberty, would fall with him."’ In the same manner, Caesar describes an engagement with the Nervii: ‘"His equitibus facile pulsis ac proturbatis, incredibile celeritate ad flumen decurre­runt; ut pene uno tempore, et ad silvas, et in flumine, et jam in manibus nostris, hostes viderentur." Bell. Gall. l. 2 . Here, although he is describing a quick suc­cession [Page 276] of events, yet, as it is his intention to show in how many places the enemy seem­ed to be at one time, the Copulative is very happily redoubled, in order to paint more strongly the distinction of these several places.

THIS attention to the several cases, when it is proper to emit, and when to redouble the Copulative, is of considerable importance to all who study eloquence. For, it is a re­markable particularity in Language, that the omission of a connecting particle should some­times serve to make objects appear more close­ly connected; and that the repetition of it should distinguish and separate them, in some measure, from each other. Hence, the omis­sion of it is used to denote rapidity; and the repetition of it is designed to retard and to aggravate. The reason seems to be, that, in the former case, the mind is supposed to be hurried so fast through a quick succession of objects, that it has not leisure to point out their connexion; it drops the Copulatives in its hurry; and crowds the whole series toge­ther, as if it were but one object. Whereas, when we enumerate, with a view to aggra­vate, the mind is supposed to proceed with a more slow and solemn pace; it marks fully the relation of each object to that which succeeds it; and, by joining them together with several Copulatives, makes you attend, that the objects, though connected, are yet, in themselves, distinct; that they are many, [Page 277] not one. Observe, for instance, in the fol­lowing enumeration, made by the Apostle Paul, what additional weight and distinctness is given to each particular, by the repetition of a conjunction. ‘"I am perswaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things pre­sent, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God." Rom. viii. 38, 39. So much with regard to the use of Copulatives.

I PROCEED to a third rule, for promoting the strength of a Sentence, which is, to dis­pose of the capital word, or words, in that place of the Sentence, where they will make the fullest impression. That such capital words there are in every Sentence, on which the meaning principally rests, every one must see; and that these words should possess a conspicuous and distinguished place, is equal­ly plain. Indeed, that place of the Sentence where they will make the best figure, whe­ther the beginning, or the end, or, some­times, even the middle, cannot, as far as I know, be ascertained by any precise rule. This must vary with the nature of the Sen­tence. Perspicuity must ever be studied in the first place; and the nature of our Lan­guage allows no great liberty in the choice of collocation. For the most part, with us, the important words are placed in the beginning of the Sentence. So Mr. Addison: ‘"The [Page 278] pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full extent, are not so gross as those of sense, nor so refined as those of the understand­ing."’ And this, indeed, seems the most plain and natural order, to place that in the front which is the chief object of the propo­sition we are laying down. Sometimes, how­ever, when we intend to give weight to a Sentence, it is of advantage to suspend the meaning for a little, and then bring it out full at the close: ‘"Thus,"’ says Mr. Pope, ‘"on whatever side we contemplate Homer, what principally strikes us, is, his wonder­ful invention." (Pref. to Homer.)

THE Greek and Latin writers had a con­siderable advantage above us, in this part of style. By the great liberty of inversion, which their Languages permitted, they could chuse the most advantageous situation for every word; and had it thereby in their pow­er to give their Sentences more force. Mil­ton, in his prose works, and some other of our old English writers, endeavoured to imi­tate them in this. But the forced construc­tions, which they employed, produced ob­scurity; and the genius of our Language, as it is now written and spoken, will not admit such liberties. Mr. Gordon, who followed this inverted style in his Translation of Ta­citus, has, sometimes, done such violence to the Language, as even to appear ridiculous; as in this expression: ‘"Into this hole thrust themselves three Roman senators"’ He has [Page 279] translated so simple a phrase as, ‘"Nullum eâ tempestate bellum,"’ by, ‘"War at that time there was none."’ However, within certain bounds, and to a limited degree, our Language does admit of inversions; and they are practised with success by the best writers. So Mr. Pope, speaking of Homer, ‘"The praise of judgment Virgil has justly contested with him, but his invention remains yet unrival­led."’ It is evident, that, in order to give the Sentence its due force, by contrasting properly the two capital words, ‘"judgment and invention,"’ this is a happier arrange­ment than if he had followed the natural order, which was, ‘"Virgil has justly contest­ed with him the praise of judgment, but his invention remains yet unrivalled."’

SOME writers practise this degree of inver­sion, which our Language bears, much more than others; Lord Shaftsbury, for instance, much more than Mr. Addison; and to this sort of arrangement is owing, in a great mea­sure, that appearance of strength, dignity, and varied harmony, which Lord Shaftsbu­ry's style possesses. This will appear from the following Sentences of his Enquiry into Virtue; where all the words are placed, not strictly in the natural order, but with that artificial construction, which may give the period most emphasis and grace. He is speak­ing of the misery of vice: ‘"This, as to the complete immoral state, is, what of their own accord, men readily remark. Where [Page 280] there is this absolute degeneracy, this total apostacy from all candor, trust, or equity, there are few who do not see and acknow­ledge the misery which is consequent. Seldom is the case misconstrued, when at worst. The misfortune is, that we look not on this depravity, nor consider how it stands, in less degrees. As if, to be abso­lutely immoral, were, indeed, the greatest misery; but, to be so in a little degree, should be no misery or harm at all. Which, to allow, is just as reasonable as to own, that 'tis the greatest ill of a body to be in the utmost manner maimed or distorted; but that, to lose the use only of one limb, or to be impaired in some single organ or member, is no ill worthy the least notice." (Vol. ii. p. [...].) Here is no violence done to the Language, though there are many inver­sions. All is stately, and arranged with art; which is the great characteristic of this au­thor's Style.

WE need only open any page of Mr. Ad­dison, to see quite a different order in the construction of Sentences. ‘"Our sight is the most perfect, and most delightful of all our senses. It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, converses with its objects at the greatest distance, and conti­nues the longest in action, without being tired, or satiated with its proper enjoy­ments. The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us a notion of extension, shape, and [Page 281] all other ideas that enter at the eye, except colours; but, at the same time, it is very much straitened and confined in its opera­tions," &c. (Spectator, No. 411.) In this strain, he always proceeds, following the most natural and obvious order of the Language: and if, by this means, he has less pomp and majesty than Shaftsbury, he has, in return, more nature, more ease and simplicity; which are beauties of a higher order.

BUT whether we practise inversion or not, and in whatever part of the sentence we dis­pose of the capital words, it is always a point of great moment, that these capital words shall stand clear and disentangled from any other words that would clog them. Thus, when there are any circumstances of time, place, or other limitations, which the prin­cipal object of our Sentence requires to have connected with it, we must take especial care to dispose of them, so as not to cloud that principal object, nor to bury it under a load of circumstances. This will be made clearer by an example. Observe the arrangement of the following Sentence, in Lord Shaftsbury's Advice to an Author. He is speaking of modern poets, as compared with the anti­ent: ‘"If, whilst they profess only to please, they secretly advise, and give instruction, they may now, perhaps, as well as former­ly, be esteemed, with justice, the best and most honourable among authors."’ This is a well-constructed Sentence. It contains a [Page 282] great many circumstances and adverbs, ne­cessary to qualify the meaning; only, secretly, as well, perhaps, now, with justice, formerly; yet these are placed with so much art, as neither to embarrass, nor weaken the Sen­tence; while that which is the capital object in it, viz. ‘"Poets being justly esteemed the best and most honourable among authors,"’ comes out in the conclusion clear and detach­ed, and possesses its proper place. See, now, what would have been the effect of a differ­ent arrangement. Suppose him to have placed the members of the Sentence thus: ‘"If, whilst they profess to please only, they advise and give instruction secretly, they may be esteemed the best and most ho­nourable among authors, with justice, per­haps, now, as well as formerly."’ Here we have precisely the same words, and the same sense; but, by means of the circumstances being so intermingled as to clog the capital words, the whole becomes perplexed, with­out grace, and without strength.

A FOURTH rule, for constructing Sentences with proper strength, is, to make the mem­bers of them go on rising and growing in their importance above one another. This sort of arrangement is called a Climax, and is always considered as a beauty in composition. From what cause it pleases, is abundantly evident. In all things, we naturally love to ascend to what is more and more beautiful, rather than to follow the retrograde order. Having had [Page 283] once some considerable object set before us, it is, with pain, we are pulled back to attend to an inferior circumstance. ‘"Cavendum est,"’ says Quinctilian, whose authority I always willingly quote, ‘"ne decrescat oratio, & fortiori subjungatur aliquid infirmius; sicut, sacrilego, fur; aut latroni petulans. Augeri enim debent sententiae & insur­gere *.’ Of this beauty, in the construc­tion of Sentences, the orations of Cicero fur­nish many examples. His pompous manner naturally led him to study it; and, generally, in order to render the climax perfect, he makes both the sense and the sound rise to­gether, with a very magnificent swell. So in his oration for Milo, speaking of a design of Clodius's for assassinating Pompey: ‘"Atqui si res, si vir, si tempus ullum dignum fuit, certè haec in illâ causâ summa omnia fue­runt. Insidiator erat in Foro collocatus, atque in Vestibulo ipso Senatûs; ei' viro autem mors parabatur, cujus in vitâ nite­batur salus civitatis; eo porrò reipublicae tempore, quo si unus ille occidisset, non haec solùm civitas, sed gentes omnes con­cidissent."’ The following instance, from Lord Bolingbroke, is also beautiful: ‘"This decency, this grace, this propriety of man­ners to character, is so essential to princes [Page 284] in particular, that, whenever it is neglect­ed, their virtues lose a great degree of lus­tre, and their defects acquire much aggra­vation. Nay more; by neglecting this de­cency and this grace, and for want of a sufficient regard to appearances, even their virtues may betray them into failings, their failings into vices, and their vices into ha­bits unworthy of princes, and unworthy of men." (Idea of a Patriot King.)

I MUST observe, however, that this sort of full and oratorial climax, can neither be always obtained, nor ought to be always sought after. Only some kinds of writing admit such sentences; and, to study them too frequently, especially if the subject require not so much pomp, is affected and disagree­able. But there is something approaching to a climax, which it is a general rule to study, ‘"ne decrescat oratio,"’ as Quinctilian speaks, ‘"et ne fortiori subjungatur aliquid infirmi­us."’ A weaker assertion or proposition should never come after a stronger one; and when our sentence consists of two members, the longest should, generally, be the con­cluding one. There is a twofold reason for this last direction. Periods, thus divided, are pronounced more easily; and the shortest member being placed first, we carry it more readily in our memory as we proceed to the second, and see the connection of the two more clearly. Thus, to say, ‘"when our passions have forsaken us, we flatter our­selves [Page 285] with the belief that we have forsaken them,"’ is both more graceful and more clear, than to begin with the longest part of the proposition: ‘"We flatter ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken our passions, when they have forsaken us."’ In general, it is always agreeable to find a sentence rising upon us, and growing in its importance to the very last word, when this construction can be managed without affec­tation, or unseasonable pomp. ‘"If we rise yet higher,"’ says Mr. Addison, very beautifully, ‘"and consider the fixed stars as so many oceans of flame, that are each of them attended with a different set of pla­nets; and still discover new firmaments and new lights, that are sunk farther in those unfathomable depths of aether; we are lost in such a labyrinth of suns and worlds, and confounded with the magni­ficence and immensity of Nature" (Spect. No. 420). Hence follows clearly,

A FIFTH rule for the strength of sentences; which is, to avoid concluding them with an adverb, a preposition, or any inconsiderable word. Such conclusions are always enfee­bling and degrading. There are sentences, indeed, where the stress and significancy rest chiefly upon some words of this kind. In this case, they are not to be considered as cir­cumstances, but as the capital figures; and ought, in propriety, to have the principal place allotted them. No fault, for instance, [Page 286] can be found with this sentence of Boling­broke's: ‘"In their prosperity, my friends shall never hear of me; in their adversity, always."’ Where never, and always, being emphatical words, were to be so placed, as to make a strong impression. But I speak now of those inferior parts of speech, when introduced as circumstances, or as qualifica­tions of more important words. In such case, they should always be disposed of in the least conspicuous parts of the period; and so classed with other words of greater dignity, as to be kept in their proper second­ary station.

AGREEABLY to this rule, we should al­ways avoid concluding with any of those particles, which mark the cases of nouns,— of, to, from, with, by. For instance, it is a great deal better to say, ‘"Avarice is a crime of which wise men are often guilty,"’ than to say, ‘"Avarice is a crime which wise men are often guilty of."’ This is a phraseology which all correct writers shun; and with reason. For, besides the want of dignity which arises from those monosyllables at the end, the imagination cannot avoid resting, for a little, on the import of the word which closes the sentence. And, as those prepo­sitions have no import of their own, but on­ly serve to point out the relations of other words, it is disagreeable for the mind to be left pausing on a word, which does not, by [Page 287] itself, produce any idea, nor form any picture in the fancy.

FOR the same reason, verbs which are used in a compound sense, with some of these prepositions, are, though not so bad, yet still not so beautiful conclusions of a period; such as, bring about, lay hold of, come over to, clear up, and many other of this kind: in­stead of which, if we can employ a simple verb, it always terminates the sentence with more strength. Even the pronoun, It, though it has the import of a substantive noun, and indeed often forces itself upon us unavoida­bly, yet, when we want to give dignity to a sentence, should, if possible, be avoided in the conclusion; more especially, when it is joined with some of the prepositions, as, with it, in it, to it. In the following sen­tence of the Spectator, which otherwise is abundantly noble, the bad effect of this close is sensible: ‘"There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and triumphant considera­tion in religion, than this, of the perpetual progress which the soul makes towards the perfection of its nature, without ever ar­riving at a period in it." (No. III.) How much more graceful the sentence, if it had been so constructed as to close with the word, period!

BESIDES particles and pronouns, any phrase, which expresses a circumstance on­ly, always brings up the rear of a sentence [Page 288] with a bad grace. We may judge of this, by the following sentence from Lord Boling­broke (Letter on the State of Parties at the Accession of King George I.): ‘"Let me therefore conclude by repeating, that di­vision has caused all the mischief we la­ment; that union alone can retrieve it; and that a great advance towards this uni­on, was the coalition of parties, so hap­pily begun, so successfully carried on, and of late so unaccountably neglected; to say no worse."’ This last phrase, to say no worse, occasions a sad falling off at the end; so much the more unhappy, as the rest of the period is conducted after the manner of a climax, which we expect to find growing to the last.

THE proper disposition of such circum­stances in a sentence, is often attended with considerable trouble, in order to adjust them so, as shall consist equally with the perspi­cuity and the grace of the period. Though necessary parts, they are, however, like un­shapely stones in a building, which try the skill of an artist, where to place them with the least offence. ‘"Jungantur,"’ says Quinc­tilian, ‘"quo congruunt maximè; sicut in structurâ saxorum rudium, etiam ipsa enor­mitas invenit cui applicari, et in quo possit insistere *."’

[Page 289] THE close is always an unsuitable place for them. When the sense admits it, the sooner they are dispatched, generally speaking, the better; that the more important and signifi­cant words may possess the last place, quite disencumbered. It is a rule, too, never to crowd too many circumstances together, but rather to intersperse them in different parts of the sentence, joined with the capital words on which they depend; provided that care be taken, as I before directed, not to clog those capital words with them. For instance, when Dean Swift says, ‘"What I had the honour of mentioning to your Lordship, some time ago, in conversation, was not a new thought." (Letter to the Earl of Oxford.) These two circumstances, sometime ago, and in conversation, which are here put together, would have had a better effect disjoined, thus: ‘"What I had the honour, sometime ago, of mentioning to your Lordship in conversation."’ And in the following sen­tence of Lord Bolingbroke's (Remarks on the History of England): ‘"A monarchy, limited like ours, may be placed, for aught I know, as it has been often represented, just in the middle point, from whence a deviation leads, on the one hand, to tyranny, and on the other, to anarchy."’ The arrange­ment would have been happier thus: ‘"A [Page 290] monarchy, limited like ours, may, for aught I know, be placed, as it has often been represented, just in the middle point, &c."’

I SHALL give only one rule more, relating to the strength of a sentence, which is, that in the members of a sentence, where two things are compared or contrasted to one an­other; where either a resemblance or an op­position is intended to be expressed; some resemblance, in the language and construc­tion, should be preserved. For when the things themselves correspond to each other, we naturally expect to find the words corre­sponding too. We are disappointed when it is otherwise; and the comparison, or con­trast, appears more imperfect. Thus, when Lord Bolingbroke says, ‘"The laughers will be for those who have most wit; the seri­ous part of mankind, for those who have most reason on their side;" (Dissert. on Parties, Pref.) the opposition would have been more complete, if he had said, ‘"The laughers will be for those who have most wit; the serious, for those who have most reason on their side."’ The following pas­sage from Mr. Pope's Preface to his Homer, fully exemplifies the rule I am now giving: ‘"Homer was the greater genius; Virgil, the better artist: in the one, we most admire the man; in the other, the work. Homer hurries us with a commanding impetuo­sity; Virgil leads us with an attractive [Page 291] majesty. Homer scatters with a generous profusion; Virgil bestows with a careful magnificence. Homer, like the Nile, pours out his riches with a sudden overflow; Vir­gil, like a river in its banks, with a constant stream.—And when we look upon their machines, Homer seems like his own Ju­piter in his terrors, shaking Olympus, scat­tering the lightnings, and firing the hea­vens; Virgil, like the same Power, in his benevolence, counselling with the gods, laying plans for empires, and ordering his whole creation."’—Periods thus construct­ed, when introduced with propriety, and not returning too often, have a sensible beauty. But we must beware of carrying our atten­tion to this beauty too far. It ought only to be occasionally studied, when comparison or opposition of objects naturally leads to it. If such a construction as this be aimed at in all our sentences, it betrays into a disagreeable uniformity; produces a regularly returning clink in the period, which tires the ear; and plainly discovers affectation. Among the an­cients, the style of Isocrates is faulty in this respect; and, on that account, by some of their best critics, particularly by Dionysius of Halicarnassus, he is severely censured.

THIS finishes what I had to say concern­ing Sentences, considered, with respect to their meaning, under the three heads of Per­spicuity, Unity, and Strength. It is a sub­ject on which I have insisted fully, for two [Page 292] reasons: First, because it is a subject, which, by its nature, can be rendered more didactic, and subjected more to precise rule, than many other subjects of criticism; and next, because it appears to me of considerable im­portance and use.

FOR, though many of those attentions, which I have been recommending, may ap­pear minute, yet their effect, upon writing and style, is much greater than might, at first, be imagined. A sentiment which is expressed in a period, clearly, neatly, and happily ar­ranged, makes always a stronger impression on the mind, than one that is any how fee­ble or embarrassed. Every one feels this upon a comparison: and if the effect be sen­sible in one sentence, how much more in a whole discourse, or composition, that is made up of such Sentences?

THE fundamental rule of the construction of Sentences, and into which all others might be resolved, undoubtedly is, to communi­cate, in the clearest and most natural order, the ideas which we mean to transfuse into the minds of others. Every arrangement that does most justice to the sense, and expresses it to most advantage, strikes us as beautiful. To this point have tended all the rules I have given. And, indeed, did men always think clearly, and were they, at the same time, fully masters of the Language in which they write, there would be occasion for few rules. [Page 293] Their Sentences would then, of course, ac­quire all those properties of Precision, Unity, and Strength, which I have recommended. For we may rest assured, that, whenever we express ourselves ill, there is, besides the mis­management of Language, for the most part, some mistake in our manner of conceiving the subject. Embarrassed, obscure, and fee­ble Sentences, are generally, if not always, the result of embarrassed, obscure, and fee­ble thought. Thought and Language act and re-act upon each other mutually. Logic and Rhetoric have here, as in many other cases, a strict connection; and he that is learning to arrange his sentences with accuracy and or­der, is learning, at the same time, to think with accuracy and order; an observation which alone will justify all the care and at­tention we have bestowed on this subject.

LECTURE XIII. STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES.—HARMONY.

HITHERTO we have considered Sen­tences, with respect to their meaning, under the heads of Perspicuity, Unity, and Strength. We are now to consider them, with respect to their sound, their harmony, or agreeableness to the ear; which was the last quality belonging to them that I proposed to treat of.

SOUND is a quality much inferior to sense; yet such as must not be disregarded. For, as long as sounds are the vehicle of convey­ance for our ideas, there will be always a very considerable connection between the idea which is conveyed, and the nature of the sound which conveys it. Pleasing ideas can hardly be transmitted to the mind, by means of harsh and disagreeable sounds. The imagination revolts as soon as it hears them [Page 295] uttered. ‘"Nihil,"’ says Quinctilian, ‘"potest intrare in affectum quod in aure, velut quodam vestibulo statim offendit *."’ Mu­sic has naturally a great power over all men to prompt and facilitate certain emotions: insomuch, that there are hardly any dispositi­ons which we wish to raise in others, but cer­tain sounds may be found concordant to those dispositions, and tending to promote them. Now, Language can, in some de­gree, be rendered capable of this power of music; a circumstance which must needs heighten our idea of Language as a wonder­ful invention. Not content with simply in­terpreting our ideas to others, it can give them those ideas enforced by corresponding sounds; and to the pleasure of communicated thought, can add the new and separate pleasure of me­lody.

IN the Harmony of Periods, two things may be considered. First, Agreeable sound, or modulation in general, without any parti­cular expression: Next, The sound so order­ed, as to become expressive of the sense. The first is the more common; the second, the higher beauty.

FIRST, Let us consider agreeable sound, in general, as the property of a well-con­structed Sentence: and, as it was of prose [Page 296] Sentences we have hitherto treated, we shall confine ourselves to them under this head. This beauty of musical construction in prose, it is plain will depend upon two things; the choice of words, and the arrangement of them.

I BEGIN with the choice of words; on which head, there is not much to be said, unless I were to descend into a tedious and frivolous detail concerning the powers of the several letters, or simple sounds, of which speech is composed. It is evident, that words are most agreeable to the ear which are com­posed of smooth and liquid sounds, where there is a proper intermixture of vowels and consonants; without too many harsh con­sonants rubbing against each other; or too many open vowels in succession, to cause a hiatus, or disagreeable aperture of the mouth. It may always be assumed as a principle, that, whatever sounds are difficult in pronunciati­on, are, in the same proportion, harsh and painful to the ear. Vowels give softness; consonants, strength to the sound of words. The music of Language requires a just pro­portion of both; and will be hurt, will be rendered either grating or effeminate, by an excess of either. Long words are commonly more agreeable to the ear than monosylla­bles. They please it by the composition, or succession of sounds which they present to it; and, accordingly, the most musical Lan­guages abound most in them. Among words [Page 297] of any length, those are the most musical, which do not run wholly either upon long or short syllables, but are composed of an inter­mixture of them; such as, repent, produce, velocity, celerity, independent, impetuosity.

THE next head, respecting the Harmony which results from a proper arrangement of the words and members of a period, is more complex, and of greater nicety. For, let the words themselves be ever so well chosen, and well sounding, yet, if they be ill disposed, the music of the Sentence is utterly lost. In the harmonious structure and disposition of periods, no writer whatever, antient or mo­dern, equals Cicero. He had studied this with care; and was fond, perhaps to excess, of what he calls, the ‘"Plena ac numerosa oratio."’ We need only open his writings, to find instances that will render the effect of musical Language sensible to every ear. What, for example, can be more full, round, and swelling, than the following sentence of the 4th Oration against Catiline? ‘"Cogi­tate quantis laboribus fundatum imperium, quantâ virtute stabilitam libertatem, quan­tâ Deorum benignitate auctas exaggeratas­que fortunas, una nox pene delerit."’ In English, we may take, for an instance of a musical Sentence, the following from Milton, in his Treatise on Education: ‘"We shall conduct you to a hill-side, laborious, in­deed, at the first ascent; but else, so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospects, and [Page 298] melodious sounds on every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming."’ Every thing in this sentence conspires to pro­mote the harmony. The words are happily chosen; full of liquids and soft sounds; la­borious, smooth, green, goodly, melodious, charm­ing: and these words so artfully arranged, that, were we to alter the collocation of any one of them, we should, presently, be sensible of the melody suffering. For, let us observe, how finely the members of the period swell one above another. ‘"So smooth, so green,"—’ ‘"so full of goodly prospects,—and melodi­ous sounds on every side;"’—till the ear, prepared by this gradual rise, is conducted to that full close on which it rests with plea­sure;— ‘"that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming."’

THE structure of periods, then, being sus­ceptible of a melody very sensible to the ear, our next enquiry should be, How this melo­dious structure is formed, what are the prin­ciples of it, and by what laws is it regulated? And, upon this subject, were I to follow the antient rhetoricians, it would be easy to give a great variety of rules. For here they have entered into a minute and particular detail; more particular, indeed, than on any other head that regards Language. They hold, that to prose as well as to verse, there belong certain numbers, less strict, indeed, yet such as can be ascertained by rule. They go so far as to specify the feet, as they are called, [Page 299] that is, the succession of long and short syl­lables, which should enter into the different members of a Sentence, and to show what the effect of each of these will be. Where­ever they treat of the Structure of Sentences, it is always the music of them that makes the principal object. Cicero and Quinctilian are full of this. The other qualities of Precisi­on, Unity, and Strength, which we consider as of chief importance, they handle slightly; but when they come to the ‘" junctura et nu­merus,"’ the modulation and harmony, there they are copious. Dionysius of Halicarnas­sus, one of the most judicious critics of an­tiquity, has written a treatise on the Compo­sition of words in a Sentence, which is altoge­ther confined to their musical effect. He makes the excellency of a Sentence to consist in four things; first, in the sweetness of sin­gle sounds; secondly, in the composition of sounds, that is, the numbers or feet; thirdly, in change or variety of sound; and fourthly, in sound suited to the sense. On all these points he writes with great accuracy and re­finement; and is very worthy of being con­sulted; though, were one now to write a book on the Structure of Sentences, we should ex­pect to find the subject treated of in a more extensive manner.

IN modern times, this whole subject of the musical structure of discourse, it is plain, has been much less studied; and, indeed, for se­veral reasons, can be much less subjected to [Page 300] rule. The reasons, it will be necessary to give, both to justify my not following the tract of the antient rhetoricians on this sub­ject, and to show how it has come to pass, that a part of composition, which once made so conspicuous a figure, now draws much less attention.

IN the first place, the antient Languages, I mean the Greek and the Roman, were much more susceptible than ours, of the graces and the powers of melody. The quan­tities of their syllables were more fixed and determined; their words were longer, and more sonorous; their method of varying the terminations of nouns and verbs, both in­troduced a greater variety of liquid sounds, and freed them from that multiplicity of lit­tle auxiliary words which we are obliged to employ; and, what is of the greatest conse­quence, the inversions which their Languages allowed, gave them the power of placing their words in whatever order was most suit­ed to a musical arrangement. All these were great advantages which they enjoyed above us, for Harmony of Period.

IN the next place, the Greeks and Romans, the former especially, were, in truth, much more musical nations than we; their genius was more turned to delight in the melody of speech. Music is known to have been a more extensive art among them than it is with us, more universally studied, and ap­plied [Page 301] to a greater variety of objects. Se­veral learned men, particularly the Abbé du Bos, in his Reflections on Poetry and Paint­ing, have clearly proved, that the theatrical compositions of the antients, both their tra­gedies and comedies, were set to a kind of music. Whence, the modos fecit, and the Tibiis dextris et sinistris, prefixed to the edi­tions of Terence's Plays. All sort of decla­mation and public speaking, was carried on by them in a much more musical tone than it is among us. It approached to a kind of chanting or recitative. Among the Atheni­ans, there was what was called the Nomic Melody; or a particular measure prescribed to the public officers, in which they were to promulgate the laws to the people; lest, by reading them with improper tones, the laws might be exposed to contempt. Among the Romans, there is a noted story of C. Grac­chus, when he was declaiming in public, having a musician standing at his back, in order to give him the proper tones with a pipe or flute. Even when pronouncing those terrible tribunitial harangues, by which he inflamed the one half of the citizens of Rome against the other, this attention to the music of Speech was, in those times, it seems, thought necessary to success. Quinctilian, though he condemns the excess of this sort of pronunciation, yet allows a ‘"cantus ob­scurior"’ to be a beauty in a public speaker. Hence, that variety of accents, acute, grave, and circumflex, which we find marked upon [Page 302] the Greek syllables, to express, not the quan­tity of them, but the tone in which they were to be spoken: the application of which is now wholly unknown to us. And though the Romans did not mark those accents in their writing, yet it appears, from Quincti­lian, that they used them in pronunciation: ‘" Quantum, quale,"’ says he, ‘"comparantes gravi, interrogantes acuto tenore conclu­dunt."’ As music then, was an object much more attended to in Speech, among the Greeks and Romans, than it is with us; as, in all kinds of public speaking, they employed a much greater variety of notes, of tones, or inflexions of voice, than we use; this is one clear reason of their paying a greater atten­tion to that construction of Sentences, which might best suit this musical pronunciation.

IT is farther known, that, in consequence of the genius of their Languages, and of their manner of pronouncing them, the mu­sical arrangement of Sentences, did, in fact, produce a greater effect in publick speaking among them, than it could possibly do in any modern oration; another reason why it de­served to be more studied. Cicero, in his treatise, intitled, Orator, tells us, ‘"Conciones saepe exclamare vidi, cum verba aptè ceci­dissent. Id enim expectant aures *."’ And [Page 303] he gives a remarkable instance of the effect of a harmonious period upon a whole assem­bly, from a Sentence of one of Carbo's Ora­tions, spoken in his hearing. The Sentence was, ‘"Patris dictum sapiens temeritas filii comprobavit."’ By means of the sound of which, alone, he tells us, ‘"Tantus clamor concionis excitatus est, ut prorsus admira­bile esset."’ He makes us remark the feet of which these words consist, to which he ascribes the power of the melody; and shows how, by altering the collocation, the whole effect would be lost; as thus: ‘"Patris dic­tum sapiens comprobravit temeritas filii."’ Now, though it be true that Carbo's Sen­tence is extremely musical, and would be agreeable, at this day, to any audience, yet I cannot believe that an English Sentence, equally harmonious, would, by its harmony alone, produce any such effect on a British audience, or excite any such wonderful ap­plause and admiration, as Cicero informs us this of Carbo produced. Our northern ears are too coarse and obtuse. The melody of Speech has less power over us; and by our simpler and plainer method of uttering words, Speech is, in truth, accompanied with less melody than it was among the Greeks and Romans *.

[Page 304] FOR these reasons, I am of opinion, that it is in vain to think of bestowing the same attention upon the harmonious structure of our Sentences, that was bestowed by these antient nations. The doctrine of the Greek and Roman critics, on this head, has misled some to imagine, that it might be equally applied to our Tongue; and that our prose writing might be regulated by Spondees and Trochees, and Iambus's and Poeons, and other metrical feet. But, first, our words cannot be measured, or, at least, can be measured very imperfectly by any feet of this kind. For, the quantity, the length and shortness of our syllables, is not, by any means, so fixed and subjected to rule, as in the Greek and Roman Tongues; but very often left arbitrary, and determined by the emphasis, and the sense. Next, though our prose could admit of such metrical regulation, yet, from our plainer method of pronouncing all sort of discourse, the effect would not be at all so sensible to the ear, nor be relished with so much pleasure, as among the Greeks and Romans: And, lastly, This whole doctrine about the measures and numbers of prose, even as it is delivered by the antient rheto­ricians themselves, is, in truth, in a great measure loose and uncertain. It appears, in­deed, that the melody of discourse was a [Page 305] matter of infinitely more attention to them, than ever it has been to the moderns. But, though they write a great deal about it, they have never been able to reduce it to any rules which could be of real use in practice. If we consult Cicero's Orator, where this point is discussed with the most minuteness, we will see how much these antient critics dif­fered from one another, about the feet pro­per for the conclusion, and other parts of a Sentence; and how much, after all, was left to the judgment of the ear. Nor, indeed, is it possible to give precise rules concerning this matter, in any Language; as all prose composition must be allowed to run loose in its numbers; and, according as the tenor of a discourse varies, the modulation of Sentences must vary infinitely.

BUT, although I apprehend, that this mu­sical arrangement cannot be reduced into a system, I am far from thinking, that it is a quality to be neglected in composition. On the contrary, I hold its effect to be very con­siderable; and that every one who studies to write with grace, much more, who seeks to pronounce in public, with success, will be obliged to attend to it not a little. But it is his ear, cultivated by attention and practice, that must chiefly direct him. For any rules that can be given, on this subject, are very general. Some rules, however, there are, which may be of use to form the ear to the proper harmony of discourse. I proceed [Page 306] to mention such as appear to me most mate­rial.

THERE are two things on which the mu­sic of a Sentence chiefly depends. These are, the proper distribution of the several members of it; and, the close or cadence of the whole.

FIRST, I say, the distribution of the se­veral members is to be carefully attended to. It is of importance to observe, that, whatever is easy and agreeable to the organs of Speech. always sounds grateful to the ear. While a period is going on, the termination of each of its members forms a pause, or rest, in pronouncing: and these rests should be so distributed, as to make the course of the breathing easy, and, at the same time, should fall at such distances, as to bear a certain musical proportion to each other. This will be best illustrated by examples. The follow­ing Sentence is from Archbishop Tillotson; ‘"This discourse concerning the easiness of God's commands does, all along, suppose and acknowledge the difficulties of the first entrance upon a religious course; ex­cept, only in those persons who have had the happiness to be trained up to religion by the easy and insensible degrees of a pi­ous and virtuous education."’ Here there is no harmony; nay, there is some degree of harshness and unpleasantness; owing princi­pally to this, that there is, properly, no more [Page 307] than one pause or rest in the Sentence, fall­ing betwixt the two members into which it is divided; each of which is so long as to oc­casion a considerable stretch of the breath in pronouncing it.

OBSERVE, now, on the other hand, the ease with which the following Sentence, from Sir William Temple, glides along, and the graceful intervals at which the pauses are placed. He is speaking sarcastically of man: ‘"But God be thanked, his pride is greater than his ignorance, and what he wants in knowledge, he supplies by sufficiency. When he has looked about him, as far as he can, he concludes, there is no more to be seen; when he is at the end of his line, he is at the bottom of the ocean; when he has shot his best, he is sure none ever did, or ever can, shoot better, or beyond it. His own reason he holds to be the certain measure of truth; and his own knowledge, of what is possible in nature *."’ Here every thing is, at once, [Page 308] easy to the breath, and grateful to the ear; and, it is this sort of flowing measure, this regular and proportional division of the mem­bers of his Sentences, which renders Sir William Temple's style always agreeable. I must observe, at the same time, that a Sen­tence, with too many rests, and these placed at intervals too apparently measured and re­gular, is apt to savour of affectation.

THE next thing to be attended to, is, the close or cadence of the whole Sentence, which, as it is always the part most sensible to the ear, demands the greatest care. So Quinctilian: ‘"Non igitur durum sit, neque abruptum, quo animi, velut respirant ac reficiuntur. Haec est sedes orationis; hoc auditor expectat; his laus omnis decla­mat *."’ The only important rule that can be given here, is, that when we aim at dig­nity or elevation, the sound should be made to grow to the last; the longest members of the period, and the fullest and most sonorous words, should be reserved to the conclusion. As an example of this, the following sentence of Mr. Addison's may be given: ‘"It fills [Page 309] the mind (speaking of sight) with the largest variety of ideas; converses with its objects at the greatest distance; and con­tinues the longest in action, without being tired or satiated with its proper enjoy­ments."’ Every reader must be sensible of a beauty here, both in the proper division of the members and pauses, and the manner in which the Sentence is rounded, and conduct­ed to a full and harmonious close.

THE same holds in melody, that I observ­ed to take place with respect to significancy; that a falling off at the end, always hurts greatly. For this reason, particles, pronouns, and little words, are as ungracious to the ear, at the conclusion, as I formerly shewed they were inconsistent with strength of expression. It is more than probable, that the sense and the sound have here a mutual influence on each other. That which hurts the ear, seems to mar the strength of the meaning; and that which really degrades the sense, in con­sequence of this primary effect, appears also to have a bad sound. How disagreeable is the following sentence of an Author, speak­ing of the Trinity! ‘"It is a mystery which we firmly believe the truth of, and hum­bly adore the depth of."’ And how easily could it have been mended by this transposi­tion! ‘"It is a mystery, the truth of which we firmly believe, and the depth of which we humbly adore."’ In general it seems to hold, that a musical close, in our language, [Page 310] requires either the last syllable, or the penult, that is, the last but one, to be a long syllable. Words which consist mostly of short syllables, as, contrary, particular, retrospect, seldom conclude a sentence harmoniously, unless a run of long syllables, before, has rendered them agreeable to the ear.

IT is necessary, however, to observe, that Sentences, so constructed as to make the sound always swell and grow towards the end, and to rest either on a long or a penult long syllable, give a discourse the tone of decla­mation. The ear soon becomes acquainted with the melody, and is apt to be cloyed with it. If we would keep up the attention of the reader or hearer, if we would preserve vivacity and strength in our composition, we must be very attentive to vary our measures. This regards the distribution of the members, as well as the cadence of the period. Sen­tences constructed in a similar manner, with the pauses falling at equal intervals, should never follow one another. Short Sentences should be intermixed with long and swelling ones, to render discourse sprightly, as well as magnificent. Even discords, properly in­troduced, abrupt sounds, departures from re­gular cadence, have sometimes a good effect. Monotony is the great fault into which wri­ters are apt to fall, who are fond of harmo­nious arrangement: and to have only one tune, or measure, is not much better than having none at all. A very vulgar ear will [Page 311] enable a writer to catch some one melody, and to form the run of his Sentences accord­ing to it; which soon proves disgusting. But a just and correct ear is requisite for varying and diversifying the melody: and hence we so seldom meet with authors, who are re­markably happy in this respect.

THOUGH attention to the music of Sen­tences must not be neglected, yet it must also be kept within proper bounds: for all appearances of an author's affecting harmony, are disagreeable; especially when the love of it betrays him so far, as to sacrifice, in any instance, perspicuity, precision, or strength of sentiment, to sound. All unmeaning words, introduced merely to round the period, or fill up the melody, complementa numerorum, as Cicero calls them, are great blemishes in writ­ing. They are childish and puerile orna­ments, by which a Sentence always loses more in point of weight, than it can gain by such additions to the beauty of its sound Sense has its own harmony, as well as sound; and, where the sense of a period is expressed with clearness, force, and dignity, it will seldom happen but the words will strike the ear agreeably; at least, a very moderate atten­tion is all that is requisite for making the ca­dence of such a period pleasing: and the ef­fect of greater attention is often no other, than to render composition languid and ener­vated. After all the labour which Quinctilian bestows on regulating the measures of prose, [Page 312] he comes at last, with his usual good sense, to this conclusion: ‘"In universum, si sit necesse, duram potiùs atque asperam com­positionem malim esse, quam effeminatam ac enervem, qualis apud multos. Ideòque, vincta quaedam de industria sunt solvenda, ne laborata videantur; neque ullum ido­neum aut aptum verbum praetermittamus, gratiâ lenitatis *." (Lib. ix. c. 4.)

CICERO, as I before observed, is one of the most remarkable patterns of a harmoni­ous style. His love of it, however, is too visible; and the pomp of his numbers some­times detracts from his strength. That noted close of his, esse videatur, which, in the Ora­tion Pro Lege Manilia, occurs eleven times, exposed him to censure among his cotempora­ries. We must observe, hewever, in defence of this great Orator, that there is a remarka­ble union in his style, of harmony with ease, which is always a great beauty; and if his harmony be sometimes thought studied, that study appears to have cost him little trou­ble.

[Page 313] AMONG our English classics, not many are distinguished for musical arrangement. Mil­ton, in some of his prose works, has very finely turned periods; but the writers of his age indulged a liberty of inversion, which now would be reckoned contrary to purity of style: and though this allowed their Sen­tences to be more stately and sonorous, yet it gave them too much of a Latinized con­struction and order. Of later writers, Shafts­bury is, upon the whole, the most correct in his numbers. As his ear was delicate, he has attended to music in all his Sentences; and he is peculiarly happy in this respect, that he has avoided the monotony into which writ­ers, who study the grace of sound, are very apt to fall: having diversified his periods with great variety. Mr. Addison has also much harmony in his style; more easy and smooth, but less varied, than Lord Shaftsbu­ry. Sir William Temple is, in general, very flowing and agreeable. Archbishop Tillotson is too often careless and languid; and is much outdone by Bishop Atterbury in the music of his periods. Dean Swift despised musical ar­rangement altogether.

HITHER TO I have discoursed of agreeable sound, or modulation, in general. It yet re­mains to treat of a higher beauty of this kind; the sound adapted to the sense. The former was no more than a simple accom­paniment, to please the ear; the latter sup­poses a peculiar expression given to the mu­sic. [Page 314] We may remark two degrees of it: First, the current of sound, adapted to the tenor of a discourse; next, a particular resemblance effected between some object, and the sounds that are employed in describing it.

FIRST, I say, the current of sound may be adapted to the tenor of a discourse. Sounds have, in many respects, a correspondence with our ideas; partly natural, partly the effect of artificial associations. Hence it hap­pens, that any one modulation of sound con­tinued, imprints on our Style a certain cha­racter and expression. Sentences construct­ed with the Ciceronian fulness and swell, pro­duce the impression of what is important, magnificent, sedate. For this is the natural tone which such a course of sentiment as­sumes. But they suit no violent passion, no eager reasoning, no familiar address. These always require measures brisker, easier, and often more abrupt. And, therefore, to swell, or to let down the periods, as the subject de­mands, is a very important rule in oratory. No one tenor whatever, supposing it to pro­duce no bad effect from satiety, will answer to all different compositions; nor even to all the parts of the same composition. It were as absurd to write a panegyric, and an invec­tive, in a Style of the same cadence, as to set the words of a tender love-song to the air of a warlike march.

[Page 315] OBSERVE how finely the following sen­tence of Cicero is adapted, to represent the tranquillity and ease of a satisfied state: ‘"Etsi homini nihil est magis optandum quam prospera, aequabilis, perpetuaque fortuna, secundo vitae sine ulla offensione cursu; tamen, si mihi tranquilla et placata omnia fuissent, incredibili quâdam et pene divinâ, quâ nunc vestro beneficio fruor, laetitiae vo­luptate caruissem *."’ Nothing was ever more perfect in its kind: it paints, if we may so speak, to the ear. But, who would not have laughed, if Cicero had employed such periods, or such a cadence as this, in inveighing against Mark Antony, or Cati­line? What is requisite, therefore, is, that we previously fix, in our mind, a just idea of the general tone of sound which suits our subject; that is, which the sentiments we are to express, most naturally assume, and in which they most commonly vent them­selves; whether round and smooth, or state­ly and solemn, or brisk and quick, or inter­rupted and abrupt. This general idea must direct the run of our composition; to speak in the style of music, must give us the key note, must form the ground of the melody; varied and diversified in parts, according as either our sentiments are diversified, or as is requisite for producing a suitable variety to gratify the car.

[Page 316] IT may be proper to remark, that our translators of the Bible have often been hap­py in suiting their numbers to the subject. Grave, solemn, and majestic subjects un­doubtedly require such an arrangement of words as runs much on long syllables; and, particularly, they require the close to rest upon such. The very first verses of the Bi­ble, are remarkable for this melody: ‘"In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth; and the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God moved on the face of the waters."’ Several other passages, particularly some of the Psalms, afford striking examples of this sort of grave, melodious construction. Any composition that rises considerably above the ordinary tone of prose, such as monumental inscripti­ons, and panegyrical characters, naturally runs into numbers of this kind.

BUT, in the next place, besides the gene­ral correspondence of the current of sound with the current of thought, there may be a more particular expression attempted, of certain objects, by means of resembling sounds. This can be, sometimes, accom­plished in prose composition; but there only in a more faint degree; nor is it so much ex­pected there. In poetry, chiefly, it is look­ed for; where attention to sound is more demanded, and where the inversions and li­berties of poetical style give us a greater [Page 317] command of sound; assisted, too, by the ver­sification, and that cantus obscurior, to which we are naturally led in reading poetry. This requires a little more illustration.

THE sounds of words may be employed for representing, chiefly, three classes of ob­jects; first, other sounds; secondly, motion; and, thirdly, the emotions and passions of the mind.

FIRST, I say, by a proper choice of words, we may produce a resemblance of other sounds which we mean to describe, such as, the noise of waters, the roaring of winds, or the murmuring of streams. This is the simplest instance of this sort of beauty. For the medium through which we imitate, here, is a natural one; sounds represented by other sounds; and between ideas of the same sense, it is easy to form a connection. No very great art is required in a poet, when he is describing sweet and soft sounds, to make use of such words as have most liquids and vowels, and glide the softest; or, when he is describing harsh sounds, to throw together a number of harsh syllables which are of difficult pronunciation. Here the common structure of Language assists him; for, it will be found, that, in most Languages, the names of many particular sounds are so form­ed, as to carry some affinity to the sound which they signify; as with us, the whistling of winds, the buz and hum of insects, the [Page 318] hiss of serpents, the crash of falling timber; and many other instances, where the word has been plainly framed upon the sound it represents. I shall produce a remarkable example of this beauty from Milton, taken from two passages in Paradise Lost, describ­ing the sound made, in the one, by the open­ing of the gates of Hell; in the other, by the opening of those of Heaven. The contrast between the two, displays, to great advan­tage, the poet's art. The first is the open­ing of Hell's gates:

—On a sudden, open fly,
With impetuous recoil, and jarring sound,
Th' infernal doors; and on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder.—
B. I.

Observe, now, the smoothness of the other:

—Heaven opened wide
Her ever-during gates, harmonious [...]ound,
On golden hinges turning.—
B. II.

The following beautiful passage from Tasso's Gierusalemme, has been often admired, on account of the imitation effected by sound of the thing represented:

Chiama gli habitator de l'ombre eterne
Il rauco suon de la Tartarea tromba:
Treman le spaciose atre caverne,
Et l'aer cieco a quel rumor rimbomba;
Ni stridendo cosi de la superne.
Regioni dele cielo, il folgor piomba;
[Page 319] Ne si scossa giammai la terra,
Quand i vapori in sen gravida serra.
CANT. IV. Stanz. 4.

THE second class of objects, which the sound of words is often employed to imitate, is, Motion; as it is swift or slow, violent or gentle, equable or interrupted, easy or ac­companied with effort. Though there be no natural affinity between sound, of any kind, and motion, yet, in the imagination, there is a strong one; as appears from the connection between music and dancing. And, there­fore, here it is in the poet's power to give us a lively idea of the kind of motion he would describe, by means of sounds which correspond, in our imagination, with that motion. Long syllables naturally give the impression of slow motion; as in this line of Virgil:

Olli inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt.

A succession of short syllables presents quick motion to the mind; as,

Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum.

BOTH Homer and Virgil are great masters of this beauty; and their works abound with instances of it; most of them, indeed, so often quoted, and so well known, that it is needless to produce them. I shall give one instance, in English, which seems happy. It [Page 320] is the description of a sudden calm on the seas, in a Poem, entitled, The Fleece.

—With easy course
The vessels glide; unless their speed be stopp'd
By dead calms, that often lie on these smooth seas
When ev'ry zephyr sleeps; then the shrouds drop;
The downy feather, on the cordage hung,
Moves not; the flat sea shines like yellow gold
Fus'd in the fire, or like the marble floor
Of some old temple wide.—

THE third set of objects, which I menti­oned the sound of words as capable of re­presenting, consists of the passions and emo­tions of the mind. Sound may, at first view, appear foreign to these; but, that here, also, there is some sort of connection, is sufficient­ly proved by the power which music has to awaken, or to assist certain passions, and, according as its strain is varied, to introduce one train of ideas, rather than another. This, indeed, logically speaking, cannot be called a resemblance between the sense and the sound, seeing long or short syllables have no natural resemblance to any thought or pas­sion. But if the arrangement of syllables, by their sound alone, recal one set of ideas more readily than another, and dispose the mind for entering into that affection which the poet means to raise, such arrangement may, justly enough, be said to resemble the sense, or be similar and correspondent to it. I admit, that, in many instances, which are supposed to display this beauty of accommo­dation [Page 321] of sound to the sense, there is much room for imagination to work; and, accord­ing as a reader is struck by a passage, he will often fancy a resemblance between the sound and the sense, which others cannot discover. He modulates the numbers to his own dispo­sition of mind; and, in effect, makes the music which he imagines himself to hear. However, that there are real instances of this kind, and that poetry is capable of some such expression, cannot be doubted. Dryden's Ode on St. Cecilia's Day, affords a very beau­tiful exemplification of it, in the English Lan­guage. Without much study or reflection, a poet describing pleasure, joy, and agreeable objects, from the feeling of his subject, na­turally runs into smooth, liquid, and flow­ing numbers.

—Namque ipsa decoram
Caesariem nato genetrix, lumenque juventae
Purpureum, et laetos oculis afflarat honores.
AEN. I.

Or,

Devenêre locos laetos & amaena vireta,
Fortunatorum nemorum, sedesque beatas;
Largior hic campos aether, & lumine vestit
Purpureo, solemque suum, sua sidera norant.
AEN. VI.

Brisk and lively sensations, exact quicker and more animated numbers.

—Juvenum manus emicat ardens
Littus in Hesperium.
AEN. VII.

[Page 322] Melancholy and gloomy subjects, naturally express themselves in slow measures, and long words:

In those deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heavenly pensive contemplation dwells.

Et caligantem nigrâ formidine lucum.

I HAVE now given sufficient openings into this subject: a moderate acquaintance with the good poets, either antient or modern, will suggest many instances of the same kind. And with this, I finish the discussion of the Structure of Sentences; having fully consi­dered them under all the heads I mentioned; of Perspicuity, Unity, Strength, and Musi­cal Arrangement.

LECTURE XIV. ORIGIN AND NATURE OF FIGURA­TIVE LANGUAGE.

HAVING now finished what related to the construction of sentences, I proceed to other rules concerning Style. My gene­ral division of the qualities of Style, was in­to Perspicuity and Ornament. Perspicuity, both in single words and in sentences, I have considered. Ornament, as far as it arises from a graceful, strong, or melodious con­struction of words, has also been treated of. Another, and a great branch of the orna­ment of Style, is, Figurative Language; which is now to be the subject of our consi­deration, and will require a full discussion.

Our first enquiry must be, What is meant by Figures of Speech *?

[Page 324] IN general, they always imply some depar­ture from simplicity of expression; the idea which we intend to convey, not only enun­ciated to others, but enunciated, in a parti­cular manner, and with some circumstance, added, which is designed to render the im­pression more strong and vivid. When I say, for instance, ‘"That a good man enjoys com­fort in the midst of adversity;"’ I just ex­press my thought in the simplest manner pos­sible. But when I say, ‘"To the upright there ariseth light in darkness;"’ the same sentiment is expressed in a figurative Style; a new circumstance is introduced; light is put in the place of comfort, and darkness is used to suggest the idea of adversity. In the same manner, to say, ‘"It is impossible, by any search we can make, to explore the divine nature fully,"’ is, to make a simple proposition. But when we say, ‘"Canst thou, by searching, find out God? Canst thou find out the Almighty to perfection? It is high as Heaven, what canst thou do? deeper than Hell, what canst thou know?"’ This introduces a figure into Style; the pro­position being not only expressed, but admi­ration [Page 325] and astonishment being expressed to­gether with it.

BUT, though Figures imply a deviation from what may be reckoned the most simple form of Speech, we are not thence to con­clude, that they imply any thing uncommon, or unnatural. This is so far from being the case, that, on very many occasions, they are both the most natural, and the most common method of uttering our sentiments. It is impossible to compose any discourse without using them often; nay, there are few Sen­tences of any length, in which some expres­sion or other, that may be termed a Figure, does not occur. From what causes this hap­pens, shall be afterwards explained. The fact, in the mean time, shows, that they are to be accounted part of that Language which nature dictates to men. They are not the invention of the schools, nor the mere pro­duct of study: on the contrary, the most il­literate speak in figures, as often as the most learned. Whenever the imaginations of the vulgar are much awakened, or their passions inflamed against one another, they will pour forth a torrent of Figurative Language, as forcible as could be employed by the most artifical declaimer.

WHAT then is it, which has drawn the attention of critics and rhetoricians so much to these forms of Speech? It is this: They remarked, that in them consists much of the [Page 326] beauty and the force of Language; and found them always to bear some characters, or distinguishing marks, by the help of which they could reduce them under separate classes and heads. To this, perhaps, they owe their name of Figures. As the figure, or shape of one body, distinguishes it from another, so these forms of Speech have, each of them, a cast or turn peculiar to itself, which both distinguishes it from the rest, and distinguishes it from Simple Expression. Simple Expression just makes our idea known to others; but Figurative Language, over and above, be­stows a particular dress upon that idea; a dress, which both makes it be remarked, and adorns it. Hence, this sort of Language be­came early a capital object of attention to those who studied the powers of Speech.

FIGURES, in general, may be described to be that Language, which is prompted either by the imagination, or by the passions. The justness of this description will appear, from the more particular account I am afterwards to give of them. Rhetoricians commonly divide them into two great classes; Figures of Words, and Figures of Thought. The former, Figures of Words, are commonly called Tropes, and consist in a word's being employed to signify something that is differ­ent from its original and primitive meaning; so that if you alter the word, you destroy the Figure. Thus, in the instance I gave before; ‘"Light ariseth to the upright, in darkness."’ [Page 327] The Trope consists, in ‘"light and darkness"’ being not meant literally, but substituted for comfort and adversity, on account of some resemblance or analogy, which they are sup­posed to bear to these conditions of life. The other class, termed Figures of Thought, sup­poses the words to be used in their proper and literal meaning, and the figure to consist in the turn of the thought; as is the case in exclamations, interrogations, apostrophes, and comparisons; where, though you vary the words that are used, or translate them from one Language into another, you may, never­theless, still preserve the same Figure in the thought. This distinction, however, is of no great use; as nothing can be built upon it in practice; neither is it always very clear. It is of little importance, whether we give to some particular mode of expression the name of a Trope, or of a Figure; provided we remember, that Figurative Language always imports some colouring of the imagination, or some emotion of passion, expressed in our Style: And, perhaps, figures of imagination, and figures of passion, might be a more use­ful distribution of the subject. But without insisting on any artificial divisions, it will be more useful, that I enquire into the Origin and the Nature of Figures. Only, before proceeding to this, there are two general observations which it may be proper to pre­mise.

[Page 328] THE first is, concerning the use of rules with respect to Figurative Language. I ad­mit, that persons may both speak and write with propriety, who know not the names of any of the Figures of Speech, nor ever stu­died any rules relating to them. Nature, as was before observed, dictates the use of Fi­gures; and, like Mons. Jourdain, in Moliere, who had spoken for forty years in prose, without ever knowing it, many a one uses metaphorical expressions to good purpose, without any idea of what a metaphor is. It will not, however, follow thence, that rules are of no service. All science arises from observations on practice. Practice has al­ways gone before method and rule; but me­thod and rule have afterwards improved and perfected practice, in every art. We, every day, meet with persons who sing agreeably, without knowing one note of the gamut. Yet, it has been found of importance to re­duce these notes to a scale, and to form an art of music; and it would be ridiculous to pretend, that the art is of no advantage, be­cause the practice is founded in nature. Propriety and beauty of Speech, are certain­ly as improveable as the ear or the voice; and to know the principles of this beauty, or the reasons which render one Figure, or one manner of Speech preferable to another, can­not fail to assist and direct a proper choice.

BUT I must observe, in the next place, that, although this part of style merit atten­tion, [Page 329] and be a very proper object of science and rule; although much of the beauty of composition depends on figurative language; yet we must beware of imagining that it de­pends solely, or even chiefly, upon such lan­guage. It is not so. The great place which the doctrine of tropes and figures has occu­pied in systems of rhetoric; the over-anxi­ous care which has been shewn in giving names to a vast variety of them, and in ranging them under different classes, has often led persons to imagine, that, if their compo­sition was well bespangled with a number of these ornaments of speech, it wanted no other beauty; whence has arisen much stiff­ness and affectation. For it is, in truth, the sentiment or passion, which lies under the figured expression, that gives it any merit. The figure is only the dress; the sentiment is the body and the substance. No figures will render a cold or an empty composition interesting; whereas, if a sentiment be su­blime or pathetic, it can support itself per­fectly well, without any borrowed assistance. Hence several of the most affecting and ad­mired passages of the best authors, are ex­pressed in the simplest language. The fol­lowing sentiment from Virgil, for instance, makes its way at once to the heart, without the help of any figure whatever. He is de­scribing an Argive, who falls in battle, in Italy, at a great distance from his native country:

[Page 330]
Sternitur, infelix, alieno vulnere, coelumque
Aspicit, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos *.
Aen. x. 781.

A single stroke of this kind, drawn as by the very pencil of Nature, is worth a thousand figures. In the same manner, the simple style of Scripture: ‘"He spoke, and it was done; he commanded, and it stood fast."—’ ‘"God said, let there be light; and there was light,"’ imports a lofty conception to [Page 331] much greater advantage, than if it had been decorated by the most pompous metaphors. The fact is, that the strong pathetic, and the pure sublime, not only have little dependance on figures of speech, but, generally, reject them. The proper region of these orna­ments is, where a moderate degree of eleva­tion and passion is predominant; and there they contribute to the embellishment of dis­course, only, when there is a basis of solid thought and natural sentiment; when they are inserted in their proper place; and when they rise, of themselves, from the subject, without being sought after.

HAVING premised these observations, I proceed to give an account of the origin and nature of Figures; principally of such as have their dependance on language; including that numerous tribe, which the rhetoricians call Tropes.

AT the first rise of language, men would begin with giving names to the different ob­jects which they discerned, or thought of. This nomenclature would, at the beginning, be very narrow. According as men's ideas multiplied, and their acquaintance with ob­jects increased, their stock of names and words would increase also. But to the infinite variety of objects and ideas, no language is adequate. No language is so copious, as to have a separate word for every separate idea. Men naturally sought to abridge this labour of multiplying [Page 332] words in infinitum; and, in order to lay less bur­den on their memories, made one word, which they had already appropriated to a certain idea or object, stand also for some other idea or object; between which and the primary one, they found, or fancied, some relation. Thus, the preposition, in, was originally in­vented to express the circumstance of place: ‘"The man was killed in the wood."’ In pro­gress of time, words were wanted to express men's being connected with certain conditi­ons of fortune, or certain situations of mind; and some resemblance, or analogy, being fancied between these, and the place of bo­dies, the word, in, was employed to express men's being so circumstanced; as, one's be­ing in health, or in sickness, in prosperity or in adversity, in joy or in grief, in doubt, or in danger, or in safety. Here we see this preposition, in, plainly assuming a tropical signification, or carried off from its original meaning, to signify something else, which relates to, or resembles it.

TROPES of this kind abound in all lan­guages, and are plainly owing to the want of proper words. The operations of the mind and affections, in particular, are, in most languages, described by words taken from sensible objects. The reason is plain. The names of sensible objects, were, in all lan­guages, the words most early introduced; and were, by degrees, extended to those mental objects, of which men had more ob­scure [Page 333] conceptions, and to which they found it more difficult to assign distinct names. They borrowed, therefore, the name of some sensible idea, where their imagination found some affinity. Thus, we speak of, a piercing judgment, and a clear head; a soft or a hard heart; a rough or a smooth behaviour. We say, inflamed by anger, warmed by love, swell­ed with pride, melted into grief; and these are almost the only significant words which we have for such ideas.

BUT, although the barrenness of language, and the want of words, be doubtless one cause of the invention of tropes; yet it is not the only, nor, perhaps, even the princi­pal source of this form of speech. Tropes have arisen more frequently, and spread them­selves wider, from the influence which Ima­gination possesses over all language. The train on which this has proceeded among all nations, I shall endeavour to explain.

EVERY object which makes any impression on the human mind, is constantly accompani­ed with certain circumstances and relations, that strike us at the same time. It never presents itself to our view, isolé, as the French express it; that is, independent on, and se­parated from, every other thing; but always occurs as somehow related to other objects; going before them, or following after them; their effect or their cause; resembling them, or opposed to them; distinguished by certain [Page 334] qualities, or surrounded with certain circum­stances. By this means, every idea or ob­ject carries in its train some other ideas, which may be considered as its accessories. These accessories often strike the imagination more than the principal idea itself. They are, perhaps, more agreeable ideas; or they are more familiar to our conceptions; or they recal to our memory a greater variety of im­portant circumstances. The imagination is more disposed to rest upon some of them; and therefore, instead of using the proper name of the principal idea which it means to express, it employs, in its place, the name of the accessory or correspondent idea; al­though the principal have a proper and well­known name of its own. Hence a vast va­riety of tropical or figurative words obtain currency in all languages, through choice, not necessity; and men of lively imagina­tions are every day adding to their number.

THUS, when we design to intimate the pe­riod, at which a state enjoyed most reputation o [...] glory, it were easy to employ the proper words for expressing this; but as this readily connects, in our imagination, with the flou­rishing period of a plant or a tree, we lay hold of this correspondent idea, and say, ‘"The Roman empire flourished most under Au­gustus."’ The leader of a faction, is plain language; but, because the head is the prin­cipal part of the human body, and is sup­posed to direct all the animal operations, rest­ing [Page 335] upon this resemblance, we say, ‘"Cati­line was the head of the party."’ The word, Voice, was originally invented to sig­nify the articulate sound, formed by the or­gans of the mouth; but, as by means of it men signify their ideas and their intentions to each other, Voice soon assumed a great ma­ny other meanings, all derived from this pri­mary effect. ‘"To give our Voice"’ for any thing, signified, to give our sentiment in fa­vour of it. Not only so; but Voice was trans­ferred to signify any intimation of will or judgment, though given without the least in­terposition of Voice in its literal sense, or any sound uttered at all. Thus we speak of lis­tening to the Voice of Conscience, the Voice of Nature, the Voice of God. This usage takes place, not so much from barrenness of language, or want of a proper word, as from an allusion which we choose to make to Voice, in its primary sense, in order to convey our idea, connected with a circumstance which appears to the fancy to give it more spright­liness and force.

THE account which I have now given, and which seems to be a full and fair one, of the introduction of Tropes into all Languages, coincides with what Cicero shortly hints, in his third book De Oratore. ‘"Modus trans­ferendi verba latè patet; quam necessitas primum genuit, coacta inopia et angustias; post autem delectatio, jucunditasque cele­bravit. Nam ut vestis, frigoris depellendi [Page 336] causâ reperta primo, post adhiberi caepta est ad ornatum etiam corporis et dignita­tem, sic verbi translatio instituta est ino­piae causâ, frequentata, delectationis *."’

FROM what has been said, it clearly ap­pears, how that must come to pass, which I had occasion to mention in a former Lecture, that all Languages are most figurative in their early state. Both the causes to which I ascrib­ed the origin of Figures, concur in produc­ing this effect at the beginnings of society. Language is then most barren; the stock of proper names, which have been invented for things, is small; and, at the same time, ima­gination exerts great influence over the con­ceptions of men, and their method of utter­ing them; so that, both from necessity and from choice, their Speech will, at that period, abound in Tropes. For the savage tribes of men are always much given to wonder and astonishment. Every new object surprises, terrifies, and makes a strong impression on their mind; they are governed by imagina­tion and passion, more than by reason; and, of course, their speech must be deeply tinc­tured by their genius. In fact, we find, that [Page 337] this is the character of the American and In­dian Languages; bold, picturesque, and me­taphorical; full of strong allusions to sensible qualities, and to such objects as struck them most in their wild and solitary life. An In­dian chief makes a harangue to his tribe, in a style full of stronger metaphors than a Eu­ropean would use in an epic poem.

AS Language makes gradual progress to­wards refinement, almost every object comes to have a proper name given to it, and Per­spicuity and Precision are more studied. But still, for the reasons before given, borrowed words, or as rhetoricians call them, Tropes, must continue to occupy a considerable place. In every Language, too, there are a multi­tude of words, which, though they were Figurative in their first application to certain objects, yet, by long use, lose that figurative power wholly, and come to be considered as simple and literal expressions. In this case, are the terms which I remarked before, as transferred from sensible qualities to the ope­rations or qualities of the mind, a piercing judgment, a clear head, a hard heart, and the like. There are other words which re­main in a sort of middle state; which have neither lost wholly their figurative applicati­on, nor yet retain so much of it, as to im­print any remarkable character of figured Lauguage on our style; such as these phrases, ‘"apprehend one's meaning;"’ ‘"enter on a subject;"’ ‘"follow out an argument; [Page 338] stir up strife;"’ and a great many more, of which our Language is full. In the use of such phrases, correct writers will always pre­serve a regard to the figure or allusion on which they are founded, and will be careful not to apply them in any way that is incon­sistent with it. One may be ‘"sheltered un­der the patronage of a great man;"’ but it were wrong to say, ‘"sheltered under the masque of dissimulation,"’ as a masque conceals, but does not shelter. An object, in description, may be ‘"clothed,"’ if you will, ‘"with epithets;"’ but it is not so pro­per to speak of its being ‘"clothed with cir­cumstances;"’ as the word ‘"circumstances,"’ alludes to standing round, not to clothing. Such attentions as these are requisite in the common run of Style.

WHAT has been said on this subject, tends to throw light on the nature of Language in general; and will lead to the reasons, Why Tropes or Figures contribute to the beauty and grace of Style.

FIRST, They enrich Language, and ren­der it more copious. By their means, words and phrases are multiplied for expressing all sorts of ideas; for describing even the minutest differences; the nicest shades and colours of thought; which no Language could possibly do by proper words alone, without assistance from Tropes.

[Page 339] SECONDLY, They bestow dignity upon Style. The familiarity of common words, to which our ears are much accustomed, tends to degrade Style. When we want to adapt our Language to the tone of an elevated sub­ject, we would be greatly at a loss, if we could not borrow assistance from Figures; which, properly employed, have a similar effect on Language, with what is produced by the rich and splendid dress of a person of rank; to create respect, and to give an air of mag­nificence to him who wears it. Assistance of this kind, is often needed in prose compositi­ons; but poetry could not subsist without it. Hence Figures form the constant Language of poetry. To say, that ‘"the sun rises,"’ is trite and common; but it becomes a magni­ficent image when expressed, as Mr. Thom­son has done:

But yonder comes the powerful king of day
Rejoicing in the east.—

To say, that ‘"all men are subject alike to death,"’ presents only a vulgar idea; but it rises and fills the imagination, when paint­ed thus by Horace:

Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede, pauperum tabernas Regumque turres.

Or,

Omnes eodem cogimur; omnium,
Versatur urna, serius, ocyus,
[Page 340] Sors exitura, & nos in eternum
Exilium impositura cymbae *.

IN the third place, Figures give us the pleasure of enjoying two objects presented together to our view, without confusion; the principal idea, which is the subject of the discourse, along with its accessory, which gives it the figurative dress. We see one thing in another, as Aristotle expresses it; which is always agreeable to the mind. For there is nothing with which the fancy is more delighted, than with comparisons, and re­semblances of objects; and all Tropes are founded upon some relation or analogy be­tween one thing and another. When, for instance, in place of ‘"youth,"’ I say, the ‘"morning of life;"’ the fancy is immediately entertained with all the resembling circum­stances which presently occur between these two objects. At one moment, I have in my eye a certain period of human life, and a certain time of the day, so related to each other, that the imagination plays between them with pleasure, and contemplates two similar objects, in one view, without em­barrassment or confusion. Not only so, but,

[Page 341] IN the fourth place, Figures are attended with this farther advantage, of giving us fre­quently a much clearer and more striking view of the principal object, than we could have if it were expressed in simple terms, and divested of its accessory idea. This is, in­deed, their principal advantage, in virtue of which, they are very properly said to illus­trate a subject, or to throw light upon it. For they exhibit the object, on which they are employed, in a picturesque form; they can render an abstract conception, in some degree, an object of sense; they surround it with such circumstances, as enable the mind to lay hold of it steadily, and to contemplate it fully. ‘"Those persons,"’ says one, ‘"who gain the hearts of most people, who are chosen as the companions of their softer hours, and their reliefs from anxiety and care, are seldom persons of shining quali­ties, or strong virtues: it is rather the soft green of the soul, on which we rest our eyes, that are fatigued with beholding more glaring objects."’ Here, by a happy allusi­on to a colour, the whole conception is con­veyed clear and strong to the mind in one word. By a well chosen Figure, even convic­tion is assisted, and the impression of a truth upon the mind, made more lively and forci­ble than it would otherwise be. As in the following illustration of Dr. Young's: ‘"When we dip too deep in pleasure, we always stir a sediment that renders it impure and noxi­ous;"’ or in this, ‘"A heart boiling with [Page 342] violent passions, will always send up infa­tuating fumes to the head."’ An image that presents so much congruity between a moral and a sensible idea, serves like an argument from analogy, to enforce what the author asserts, and to induce belief.

BESIDES, whether we are endeavouring to raise sentiments of pleasure or aversion, we can always heighten the emotion by the figures which we introduce; leading the ima­gination to a train, either of agreeable or dis­agreeable, of exalting or debasing ideas, cor­respondent to the impression which we seek to make. When we want to render an ob­ject beautiful, or magnificent, we borrow images from all the most beautiful or splen­did scenes of nature; we thereby, naturally, throw a lustre over our object; we enliven the reader's mind; and dispose him to go along with us, in the gay and pleasing im­pressions which we give him of the subject. This effect of Figures is happily touched in the following lines of Dr. Akenside, and il­lustrated by a very sublime figure:

—Then the inexpressive strain,
Diffuses its enchantment. Fancy dreams
Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves,
And vales of bliss. The intellectual power
Bends from his awful throne a wond'ring ear,
And smiles.—
Pleas. of Imaginat. I. 124.

[Page 343] WHAT I have now explained, concerning the use and effects of Figures, naturally leads us to reflect on the wonderful power of Lan­guage; and, indeed, we cannot reflect on it without the highest admiration. What a fine vehicle is it now become for all the con­ceptions of the human mind; even for the most subtile and delicate workings of the imagination! What a pliant and flexible in­strument in the hand of one who can em­ploy it skilfully; prepared to take every form which he chuses to give it! Not content with a simple communication of ideas and thoughts, it paints those ideas to the eye; it gives co­louring and relievo, even to the most ab­stract conceptions. In the figures which it uses, it sets mirrors before us, where we may behold objects, a second time, in their like­ness. It entertains us, as with a succession of the most splendid pictures; disposes, in the most artificial manner, of the light and shade, for viewing every thing to the best advantage; in fine, from being a rude and imperfect interpreter of men's wants and ne­cessities, it has now passed into an instrument of the most delicate and refined luxury.

To make these effects of Figurative Lan­guage sensible, there are few authors in the English Language, whom I can refer to with more advantage than Mr. Addison, whose imagination is, at once, remarkably rich, and remarkably correct and chaste. When he is treating, for instance, of the effect which [Page 344] light and colours have to entertain the fancy, considered in Mr. Locke's view of them as secondary qualities, which have no real exist­ence in matter, but are only ideas in the mind, with what beautiful painting has he adorned this philosophic speculation? ‘"Things,"’ says he, ‘"would make but a poor appearance to the eye, if we saw them only in their proper figures and mo­tions. Now, we are every where enter­tained with pleasing shows and apparitions; we discover imaginary glories in the hea­vens, and in the earth, and see some of this visionary beauty poured out upon the whole creation. But what a rough un­sightly sketch of nature should we be en­tertained with, did all her colouring disap­pear, and the several distinctions of light and shade vanish? In short, our souls are, at present, delightfully lost, and bewilder­ed in a pleasing delusion; and we walk about, like the enchanted hero of a ro­mance, who sees beautiful castles, woods, and meadows; and, at the same time, hears the warbling of birds, and the purling of streams; but, upon the finishing of some secret spell, the fantastic scene breaks up, and the disconsolate knight finds himself on a barren heath, or in a solitary desert. It is not improbable, that something like this may be the state of the soul after its first separation, in respect of the images it will receive from matter." No. 413. Spec.

[Page 345] HAVING thus explained, at sufficient length, the Origin, the Nature, and the Effects of Tropes, I should proceed next to the several kinds and divisions of them. But, in treat­ing of these, were I to follow the common tract of the scholastic writers on Rhetoric, I should soon become tedious, and, I appre­hend, useless, at the same time. Their great business has been, with a most patient and frivolous industry, to branch them out under a vast number of divisions, according to all the several modes in which a word may be carried from its literal meaning, into one that is Figurative, without doing any more; as if the mere knowledge of the names and classes of all the Tropes that can be formed, could be of any advantage towards the proper, or graceful use of Language. All that I pur­pose is, to give, in a few words, before finish­ing this Lecture, a general view of the seve­ral sources whence the tropical meaning of words is derived: after which I shall, in sub­sequent Lectures, descend to a more particu­lar consideration of some of the most consi­derable Figures of Speech, and such as are in most frequent use; by treating of which, I shall give all the instruction I can, concern­ing the proper employment of Figurative Language, and point out the errors and abuses which are apt to be committed in this part of style.

ALL Tropes, as I before observed, are founded on the relation which one object [Page 346] bears to another; in virtue of which, the name of the one can be substituted instead of the name of the other; and by such a substitution, the vivacity of the idea is com­monly meant to be increased. These relati­ons, some more, some less intimate, may all give rise to Tropes. One of the first and most obvious relations is, that between a cause and its effect. Hence, in Figurative Language, the cause is, sometimes, put for the effect. Thus, Mr. Addison, writing of Italy:

Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers, together rise,
And the whole year in gay confusion lies.

Where the ‘"whole year"’ is plainly intended, to signify the effects or productions of all the seasons of the year. At other times, again, the effect is put for the cause; as, ‘"grey hairs"’ frequently for old age, which causes grey hairs; and ‘"shade,"’ for trees that produce the shade. The relation between the container and the thing contained, is also so intimate and obvious, as naturally to give rise to Tropes:

—Ille impiger hausit
Spumantem pateram & pleno se proluit auro.

Where every one sees, that the cup and the gold are put for the liquor that was contained in the golden cup. In the same manner, the name of any country, is often used to de­note [Page 347] the inhabitants of that country; and Heaven, very commonly employed to signi­fy God, because he is conceived as dwelling in Heaven. To implore the assistance of Heaven, is the same as to implore the assist­ance of God. The relation betwixt any established sign and the thing signified, is a further source of Tropes. Hence,

Cedant arma togae; concedat laurea linguae.

The ‘"toga,"’ being the badge of the civil professions, and the ‘"laurel,"’ of military ho­nours, the badge of each is put for the civil and military characters themselves. To ‘"as­sume the sceptre,"’ is a common phrase for entering on royal authority. To Tropes, founded on these several relations, of cause and effect, container and contained, sign and thing signified, is given the name of Metonymy.

WHEN the Trope is founded on the rela­tion between an antecedent and a consequent, or what goes before, and immediately follows after, it is then called a Metalepsis; as in the Roman phrase of ‘"Fuit,"’ or ‘"Vixit,"’ to express that one was dead. ‘"Fuit Ilium et ingens gloria Dardanidum,"’ signifies, that the glory of Troy is now no more.

WHEN the whole is put for a part, or a part for the whole; a genus for a species, or a species for a genus; the singular for the [Page 348] plural, or the plural for the singular num­ber; in general, when any thing less, or any thing more, is put for the precise object meant; the figure is then called a Synec­doche. It is very common, for instance, to describe a whole object by some remarkable part of it; as when we say, ‘"A fleet of so many sail,"’ in the place of ‘"ships;"’ when we use the ‘"head"’ for the ‘"person,"’ the ‘"pole"’ for the ‘"earth,"’ the ‘"waves"’ for the ‘"sea."’ In like manner, an attribute may be put for a subject; as, ‘"Youth and Beauty,"’ for ‘"the young and beautiful;"’ and some­times a subject for the attribute. But it is needless to insist longer on this enumeration, which serves little purpose. I have said enough, to give an opening into that great variety of relations between objects, by means of which, the mind is assisted to pass easily from one to another; and, by the name of the one, understands the other to be meant. It is always some accessory idea, which recals the principal to the imagina­tion; and commonly recals it with more force, than if the principal idea had been expressed.

THE relation which, of all others, is by far the most fruitful of Tropes, I have not yet mentioned; that is, the relation of Similitude and Resemblance. On this is founded what is called the Metaphor: when, in place of using the proper name of any object, we em­ploy, in its place, the name of some other [Page 349] which is like it; which is a sort of picture of it, and which thereby awakens the concep­tion of it with more force or grace. This figure is more frequent than all the rest put toge­ther; and the language, both of prose and verse, owes to it much of its elegance and grace. This, therefore, deserves very full and particular consideration; and shall be the subject of the next Lecture.

LECTURE XV. METAPHOR.

AFTER the preliminary observations I have made, relating to Figurative Lan­guage in general, I come now to treat sepa­rately of such Figures of Speech, as occur most frequently, and require particular at­tention: and I begin with Metaphor. This is a figure founded entirely on the resemblance which one object bears to another. Hence, it is much allied to Simile, or Comparison; and is indeed no other than a comparison, expressed in an abridged form. When I say of some great minister, ‘"that he upholds the state, like a pillar which supports the weight of a whole edifice,"’ I fairly make a com­parison; but when I say of such a minister, ‘"that he is the Pillar of the state,"’ it is now beeome a Metaphor. The comparison be­twixt the Minister and a Pillar, is made in the mind; but is expressed without any of the words that denote comparison. The [Page 351] comparison is only insinuated, not expressed: the one object is supposed to be so like the other, that, without formally drawing the comparison, the name of the one may be put in the place of the name of the other. ‘"The minister is the Pillar of the state."’ This, therefore, is a more lively and ani­mated manner of expressing the resemblances which imagination traces among objects. There is nothing which delights the fancy more, than this act of comparing things to­gether, discovering resemblances between them, and describing them by their likeness. The mind thus employed, is exercised with­out being fatigued; and is gratified with the consciousness of its own ingenuity. We need not be surprised, therefore, at finding all Language tinctured strongly with Meta­phor. It insinuates itself even into familiar conversation; and, unsought, rises up of its own accord in the mind. The very words which I have casually employed in describing this, are a proof of what I say; tinctured, insinuates, rises up, are all of them metapho­rical expressions, borrowed from some re­semblance which fancy forms between sen­sible objects, and the internal operations of the mind; and yet the terms are no less clear, and, perhaps, more expressive, than if words had been used, which were to be taken in the strict and literal sense.

THOUGH all Metaphor imports compari­son, and, therefore, is, in that respect, a [Page 352] figure of thought; yet, as the words in a Metaphor are not taken literally, but chang­ed from their proper to a Figurative sense, the Metaphor is commonly ranked among Tropes or Figures of words. But, provided the nature of it be well understood, it signi­fies very little whether we call it a Figure or a Trope. I have confined it to the expression of resemblance between two objects. I must remark, however, that the word Metaphor is sometimes used in a looser and more extend­ed sense; for the application of a term in any figurative signification, whether the figure be founded on resemblance, or on some other relation, which two objects bear to one ano­ther. For instance; when grey hairs are put for old age, as, ‘"to bring one's grey hairs with sorrow to the grave;"’ some writers would call this a Metaphor, though it is not properly one, but what rhetoricians call a Metonymy; that is, the effect put for the cause; ‘"grey hairs"’ being the effect of old age, but not bearing any sort of resemblance to it. Aristotle, in his Poetics, uses Meta­phor in this extended sense, for any figura­tive meaning imposed upon a word; as a whole put for the part, or a part for the whole; a species for the genus, or a genus for the species. But it would be unjust to tax this most acute writer with any inaccu­racy on this account; the minute subdivisi­ons, and various names of Tropes, being un­known in his days, and the invention of later rhetoricians. Now, however, when these [Page 353] divisions are established, it is inaccurate to call every figurative use of terms, promis­cuously, a Metaphor.

OF all the figures of Speech, none comes so near to painting as Metaphor. Its pecu­liar effect is to give light and strength to de­scription; to make intellectual ideas, in some sort, visible to the eye, by giving them co­lour, and substance, and sensible qualities. In order to produce this effect, however, a delicate hand is required; for, by a very lit­tle inaccuracy, we are in hazard of intro­ducing confusion, in place of promoting Per­spicuity. Several rules, therefore, are neces­sary to be given for the proper management of Metaphors. But, before entering on these, I shall give one instance of a very beautiful Metaphor, that I may show the figure to full advantage. I shall take my instance from Lord Bolingbroke's Remarks on the History of England. Just at the conclusion of his work, he is speaking of the behaviour of Charles I. to his last parliament: ‘"In a word,"’ says he, ‘"about a month after their meeting, he dissolved them; he repented; but he re­pented too late of his rashness. Well might he repent; for the vessel was now full, and this last drop made the waters of bitterness overflow."’ ‘"Here,"’ he adds, ‘"we draw the curtain, and put an end to our remarks."’ Nothing could be more happily thrown off. The Metaphor, we see, [Page 354] is continued through several expressions. The vessel is put for the state, or temper of the nation already full, that is, provoked to the highest by former oppressions and wrongs; this last drop, stands for the provocation re­cently received by the abrupt dissolution of the parliament; and the overflowing of the waters of bitterness, beautifully expresses all the effects of resentment let loose by an ex­asperated people.

ON this passage, we may make two remarks in passing. The one, that nothing forms a more spirited and dignified conclusion of a subject, than a figure of this kind happily placed at the close. We see the effect of it, in this instance. The author goes off with a good grace; and leaves a strong and full impression of his subject on the reader's mind. My other remark is, the advantage which a Metaphor frequently has above a formal comparison. How much would the sentiment here have been enfeebled, if it had been expressed in the style of a regular si­mile, thus: ‘"Well might he repent; for the state of the nation, loaded with griev­ances and provocations, resembled a ves­sel that was now full, and this superadded provocation, like the last drop infused, made their rage and resentment, as wa­ters of bitterness, overflow."’ It has infi­nitely more spirit and force as it now stands, in the form of a Metaphor. ‘"Well might he repent; for the vessel was now full; and [Page 355] this last drop made the waters of bitter­ness overflow."’

HAVING mentioned, with applause, this instance from Lord Bolingbroke, I think it incumbent on me here to take notice, that, though I may have recourse to this author, sometimes, for examples of style, it is his style only, and not his sentiments, that de­serve praise. It is, indeed, my opinion, that there are few writings in the English Lan­guage, which, for the matter contained in them, can be read with less profit or fruit, than Lord Bolingbroke's works. His politi­cal writings have the merit of a very lively and eloquent style; but they have no other; being, as to the substance, the mere tempo­rary productions of faction and party; no better, indeed, than pamphlets written for the day. His Posthumous, or, as they are called, his Philosophical Works, wherein he attacks religion, have still less merit; for they are as loose in the style as they are flimsy in the reasoning. An unhappy instance, this author is, of parts and genius so miserably perverted by faction and passion, that, as his memory will descend to posterity with little honour, so his productions will soon pass, and are, indeed, already passing into neglect and oblivion.

RETURNING from this digression to the subject before us, I proceed to lay down the rules to be observed in the conduct of Meta­phors; [Page 356] and which are much the same for Tropes of every kind.

THE first which I shall mention, is, that they be suited to the nature of the subject of which we treat; neither too many, nor too gay, nor too elevated for it; that we neither attempt to force the subject, by means of them, into a degree of elevation which is not congruous to it; nor, on the other hand, al­low it to sink below its proper dignity. This is a direction which belongs to all Figurative Language, and should be ever kept in view. Some Metaphors are allowable, nay beauti­ful, in poetry, which it would be absurd and unnatural to employ in prose; some may be graceful in orations, which would be very improper in historical, or philosophical com­position. We must remember, that figures are the dress of our sentiments. As there is a natural congruity between dress, and the character or rank of the person who wears it, a violation of which congruity never fails to hurt; the same holds precisely as to the ap­plication of figures to sentiment. The ex­cessive, or unseasonable employment of them, is mere foppery in writing. It gives a boyish air to composition; and, instead of raising a subject, in fact, diminishes its dignity. For, as in life, true dignity must be founded on character, not on dress and appearance, so the dignity of composition must arise from sentiment and thought, not from ornament. The affectation and parade of ornament, de­tract [Page 357] as much from an author, as they do from a man. Figures and Metaphors, there­fore, should, on no occasion, be stuck on too profusely; and never should, be such as re­fuse to accord with the strain of our senti­ment. Nothing can be more unnatural, than for a writer to carry on a train of reasoning, in the same sort of Figurative Language, which he would use in description. When he reasons, we look only for perspicuity; when he describes, we expect embellishment; when he divides, or relates, we desire plain­ness and simplicity. One of the greatest se­crets in composition is, to know when to be simple. This always gives a heightening to ornament, in its proper place. The right disposition of the shade, makes the light and colouring strike the more: ‘"Is enim est elo­quens,"’ says Cicero, ‘"qui et humilia sub­tiliter, et magna graviter, et mediocria temperatè potest dicere.—Nam qui nihil potest tranquillè, nihil leniter, nihil defi­nitè, distinctè, potest dicere, is, cum non praeparatis auribus inflammare rem caepit, furere apud sanos, et quasi inter sobrios bacchari temulentus videtur *."’ This ad­monition should be particularly attended to [Page 358] by young practitioners in the art of writing, who are apt to be carried away by an undis­tinguishing admiration of what is showy and florid, whether in its place or not *.

THE second rule, which I give, respects the choice of objects, from whence Meta­phors, and other Figures, are to be drawn. The field for Figurative Language is very wide. All nature, to speak in the style of fi­gures, opens its stores to us, and admits us to gather, from all sensible objects, whatever can illustrate intellectual or moral ideas. Not only the gay and splendid objects of sense, but the grave, the terrifying, and even the gloomy and dismal, can, on different occasi­ons, be introduced into figures with proprie­ty. But we must beware of ever using such allusions as raise in the mind disagreeable, mean, vulgar, or dirty ideas. Even, when Metaphors are chosen in order to vilify and degrade any object, an author should study [Page 359] never to be nauseous in his allusions, Cicero blames an orator of his time, for terming his enemy ‘"Stercus Curiae;"’ ‘"quamvis sit si­mile,"’ says he, ‘"tamen est deformis cogi­tatio similitudinis."’ But, in subjects of dignity, it is an unpardonable fault to intro­duce mean and vulgar Metaphors. In the treatise on the Art of Sinking, in Dean Swift's works, there is a full and humourous collec­tion of instances of this kind, wherein au­thors, instead of exalting, have contrived to degrade, their subjects by the figures they employed. Authors of greater note than those which are there quoted, have, at times, fallen into this error. Archbishop Tillotson, for instance, is sometimes negligent in his choice of Metaphors; as, when speaking of the day of judgment, he describes the world, as ‘"cracking about the sinners ears."’ Shake­speare, whose imagination was rich and bold, in a much greater degree than it was deli­cate, often fails here. The following, for ex­ample, is a gross transgression; in his Henry V. having mentioned a dunghill, he present­ly raises a Metaphor from the steam of it; and on a subject too, that naturally led to much nobler ideas:

And those that leave their valiant bones in France,
Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills
They shall be fam'd; for there the sun shall greet them,
And draw their honours reeking up to heaven.
Act. IV. Sc. 8.

[Page 360] IN the third place, as Metaphors should be drawn from objects of some dignity, so particular care should be taken that the re­semblance, which is the foundation of the Metaphor, be clear and perspicuous, not far-fetched, nor difficult to discover. The transgression of this rule makes, what are called harsh or forced Metaphors, which are always displeasing, because they puzzle the reader, and, instead of illustrating the thought, render it perplexed and intricate. With Me­taphors of this kind, Cowley abounds. He, and some of the writers of his age, seem to have considered it as the perfection of wit, to hit upon likenesses between objects which no other person could have discovered; and, at the same time, to pursue those Metaphors so far, that it requires some ingenuity to fol­low them out, and comprehend them. This makes a Metaphor resemble an aenigma; and is the very reverse of Cicero's rule on this head: ‘"Verecunda debet esse translatio; ut deducta esse in alienum locum non irruisse, atque ut voluntario non vi venisse videa­tur *."’ How forced and obscure, for in­stance, are the following verses of Cowley, speaking of his mistress:

Wo to her stubborn heart, if once mine come
Into the self-same room,
[Page 361] 'Twill tear and blow up all within,
Like a Granada, shot into a magazine.
Then shall love keep the ashes and torn parts,
Of both our broken hearts;
Shall out of both one new one make;
From her's th' alloy, from mine the metal take;
For of her heart, he from the flames will find
But little left behind;
Mine only will remain entire,
No dross was there to perish in the fire.

In this manner he addresses sleep:

In vain, thou drowsy God, I thee invoke,
For thou who dost from fumes arise,
Thou who man's soul dost overshade,
With a thick cloud by vapours made;
Canst have no power to shut his eyes,
Whose flame's so pure, that it sends up no smoke.
Yet how do tears but from some vapours rise?
Tears that bewinter all my year;
The fate of Egypt I sustain,
And never feel the dew of rain,
From clouds which in the head appear:
But all my too much moisture owe
To overflowings of the heart below *.

Trite and common resemblances should in­deed be avoided in our Metaphors. To be new, and not vulgar, is a beauty. But when they are fetched from some likeness too re­mote, and lying too far out of the road of ordinary thought, then, besides their obscu­rity, they have also the disadvantage of ap­pearing [Page 362] laboured, and, as the French call it, ‘"recherché:"’ whereas Metaphor, like every other ornament, loses its whole grace, when it does not seem natural and easy.

IT is but a bad and ungraceful softening, which writers sometimes use for a harsh me­taphor, when they palliate it with the ex­pression, as it were. This is but an awkward parenthesis; and Metaphors, which need this apology of an as it were, had, generally, be better omitted. Metaphors, too, borrow­ed from any of the sciences, especially such of them as belong to particular professions, are almost always faulty by their obscu­rity.

IN the fourth place, it must be carefully attended to, in the conduct of Metaphors, never to jumble metaphorical and plain lan­guage together; never to construct a period so, that part of it must be understood meta­phorically, part literally: which always pro­duces a most disagreeable confusion. In­stances, which are but too frequent, even in good authors, will make this rule, and the reason of it, be clearly understood. In Mr. Pope's translation of the Odyssey, Penelope, bewailing the abrupt departure of her son Telemachus, is made to speak thus:

Long to my joys my dearest Lord is lost,
His country's buckler, and the Grecian boast;
[Page 363] Now from my fond embrace by tempests torn,
Our other column of the state is borne,
Nor took a kind adieu, nor sought consent *.
IV. 962.

Here, in one line, her son is figured as a co­lumn; and in the next, he returns to be a person, to whom it belongs to take adieu, and to ask consent. This is inconsistent. The Poet should either have kept himself to to the idea of a Man, in the literal sense; or, if he figured him by a Column, he should have ascribed nothing to him but what be­longed to it. He was not at liberty to ascribe to that Column the actions and properties of a Man. Such unnatural mixtures render the image indistinct; leaving it to waver, in our conception, between the figurative and the literal sense. Horace's rule, which he applies to Characters, should be observed by all wri­ters who deal in Figures:

—Servetur ad imum,
Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet.

Mr. Pope, elsewhere, addressing himself to the King, says,

[Page 364]
To thee the World its present homage pays,
The harvest early, but mature the praise.

This, though not so gross, is a fault, how­ever, of the same kind. It is plain, that, had not the rhyme misled him to the choice of an improper phrase, he would have said,

The Harvest early, but mature the crop:

And so would have continued the figure which he had begun. Whereas, by drop­ping it unfinished, and by employing the li­teral word, praise, when we were expecting something that related to the Harvest, the figure is broken, and the two members of the sentence have no proper correspondent with each other:

The Harvest early, but mature the Praise.

THE Works of Ossian abound with beau­tiful and correct Metaphors; such as that on a Hero: ‘"In peace, thou art the Gate of Spring; in war, the Mountain Storm."’ Or this, on a Woman: ‘"She was covered with the Light of Beauty; but her heart was the House of Pride."’ They afford, however, one instance of the fault we are now censuring: ‘"Trothal went forth with the Stream of his people, but they met a Rock: for Fingal stood unmoved; broken they rolled back from his side. Nor did they roll in safety; the spear of the King [Page 365] pursued their flight."’ At the beginning, the Metaphor is very beautiful. The Stream, the unmoved Rock, the Waves rolling back broken, are expressions employed in the pro­per and consistent language of Figure; but, in the end, when we are told, ‘"they did not roll in safety, because the spear of the King pursued their flight,"’ the literal mean­ing is improperly mixed with the Meta­phor: they are, at one and the same time, presented to us as waves that roll, and men that may be pursued and wounded with a spear. If it be faulty to jumble together, in this manner, metaphorical and plain language, it is still more so,

IN the fifth place, to make two different Metaphors meet on one object. This is what is called mixed Metaphor, and is indeed one of the grossest abuses of this figure; such as Shakespeare's expression, ‘"to take arms against a sea of troubles."’ This makes a most unnatural medley, and confounds the imagination entirely. Quinctilian has suffi­ciently guarded us against it. ‘"Id imprimis est custodiendum, ut quo genere coeperis translationis, hoc finias. Multi autem cùm initium a tempestate sumserunt, incendio aut ruina finiunt; quae est inconsequentia rerum foedissima *."’ Observe, for instance, [Page 366] what an inconsistent groupe of objects is brought together by Shakespeare, in the fol­lowing passage of the Tempest; speaking of persons recovering their judgment after the enchantment, which held them, was dissol­ved:

—The charm dissolves apace,
And as the morning steals upon the night
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle
Their clearer reason.—

So many ill-sorted things are here joined, that the mind can see nothing clearly; the morn­ing stealing upon the darkness, and at the same time melting it; the senses of men chasing fumes, ignorant fumes, and fumes that mantle. So again in Romeo and Juliet:

—as glorious,
As is a winged messenger from heaven,
Unto the white upturned wondering eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the lazy pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

Here, the Angel is represented, as, at one moment, bestriding the clouds, and sailing upon the air; and upon the bosom of the air too; which forms such a confused picture, that it is impossible for any imagination to comprehend it.

MORE correct writers than Shakespeare, sometimes fall into this error of mixing Me­taphors. [Page 367] It is surprising how the following inaccuracy should have escaped Mr. Addison, in his Letter from Italy:

I bridle in my struggling muse with pain,
That longs to launch into a bolder strain *.

The muse, figured as a horse, may be bri­dled; but when we speak of launching, we make it a ship; and, by no force of imagina­tion, can it be supposed both a horse and a ship at one moment; bridled, to hinder it from launching. The same Author, in one of his numbers in the Spectator, says, ‘"There is not a single view of human nature, which is not sufficient to extinguish the seeds of pride."’ Observe the incoherence of the things here joined together, making ‘"a view extinguish, and extinguish seeds."’

HORACE also, is incorrect, in the follow­ing passage:

Urit enim fulgore suo qui pregravat artes
Infra se positas.—

Urit qui pregravat.—He dazzles who bears down with his weight; makes plainly an in­consistent mixture of metaphorical ideas. Neither can this other passage be altogether vindicated:

[Page 368]
Ah! quantâ laboras in Charybdi,
Digne puer, meliore flammâ!

Where a whirlpool of water, Charybdis, is said to be a flame, not good enough for this young man; meaning, that he was unfortu­nate in the object of his passion. Flame is, indeed, become almost a literal word for the passion of love; but as it still retains, in some degree, its figurative power, it should never have been used as synonymous with water, and mixed with it in the same Metaphor. When Mr. Pope (Eloisa to Abelard) says,

All then is full, possessing and possest,
No craving void left aking in the breast;

A void may, metaphorically, be said to crave; but can a void be said to ake?

A GOOD rule has been given for examin­ing the propriety of Metaphors, when we doubt whether or not they be of the mixed kind; namely, that we should try to form a picture upon them, and consider how the parts would agree, and what sort of figure the whole would present, when delineated with a pencil. By this means, we should become sensible, whether inconsistent circum­stances were mixed, and a monstrous image thereby produced, as in all those faulty in­stances, I have now been giving; or whether the object was, all along, presented in one natural and consistent point of view.

[Page 369] As Metaphors ought never to be mixed, so, in the sixth place, we should avoid crowd­ing them together on the same object. Sup­posing each of the Metaphors to be preserv­ed distinct, yet, if they be heaped on one another, they produce a confusion somewhat of the same kind with the mixed Metaphor. We may judge of this by the following pas­sage from Horace:

Motum ex Metello consule civicum,
Bellique causas, et vitia, et modos,
Ludumque fortunae, gravesque
Principum amicitias, & arma
Nondum expiatis uncta cruoribus,
Periculosae plenum opus aleae,
Tractas, et incedis per ignes
Suppositos cineri doloso *.
Lib. 2. I.

This passage, though very poetical, is, how­ever, harsh and obscure; owing to no other cause but this, that three distinct Metaphors are crowded together, to describe the difficul­ty of Pollio's writing a history of the civil [Page 370] wars. First, ‘"Tractas arma uncta cruoribus nondum expiatis;"’ next, ‘"Opus plenum periculosae aleae;"’ and then; ‘"Incedis per ignes suppositos doloso cineri."’ The mind has difficulty in passing readily through so many different views given it, in quick suc­cession, of the same object.

THE only other rule concerning Metaphors which I shall add, in the seventh place, is, that they be not too far pursued. If the re­semblance, on which the figure is founded, be long dwelt upon, and carried into all its minute circumstances, we make an allegory instead of a metaphor; we tire the reader, who soon wearies of this play of fancy; and we render our discourse obscure. This is call­ed, straining a Metaphor. Cowley deals in this to excess; and to this error is owing, in a great measure, that intricacy and harshness, in his figurative Language, which I before remarked. Lord Shaftsbury, is sometimes guilty of pursuing his Metaphors too far. Fond, to a high degree, of every decoration of style, when once he had hit upon a figure that pleased him, he was extremely loth to part with it. Thus, in his advice to an au­thor, having taken up soliloquy, or medita­tion, under the Metaphor of a proper me­thod of evacuation for an author, he pursues this Metaphor through several pages, under all the forms ‘"of discharging crudities, throw­ing off froth and scum, bodily operation, taking physic, curing indigestion, giving [Page 371] vent to choler, bile, flatulencies, and tu­mours;"’ till at last, the idea becomes nau­seous. Dr. Young also often trespasses in the same way. The merit, however, of this writer, in figurative Language, is great, and deserves to be remarked. No writer, anti­ent or modern, had a stronger imagination than Dr. Young, or one more fertile in figures of every kind. His Metaphors are often new, and often natural and beautiful. But, as his imagination was strong and rich, rather than delicate and correct, he sometimes gives it too loose reins. Hence, in his Night Thoughts, there prevails an obscurity, and a hardness in his style. The Metaphors are frequently too bold, and frequently too far pursued; the reader is dazzled rather than enlightened; and kept constantly on the stretch to com­prehend, and keep pace with, the author. We may observe, for instance, how the fol­lowing Metaphor is spun out:

Thy thoughts are vagabonds; all outward bound,
Midst sands and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure,
If gained, dear bought; and better miss'd than gain'd.
Fancy and sense, from an infected shore,
Thy cargo brings; and pestilence the prize;
Then such the thirst, insatiable thirst,
By fond indulgence but inflam'd the more,
Fancy still cruizes, when poor sense is tired.

[Page 372] Speaking of old age, he says, it should

Walk thoughtful on the silent solemn shore
Of that vast ocean, it must sail so soon;
And put good works on board; and wait the wind
That shortly blows us into worlds unknown.

THE two first lines are uncommonly beau­tiful; ‘"walk thoughtful on the silent, &c."’ but when he continues the Metaphor, ‘"to putting good works on board, and waiting the wind,"’ it plainly becomes strained, and sinks in dignity. Of all the English authors, I know none so happy in his Metaphors as Mr. Addison. His imagination was neither so rich nor so strong as Dr. Young's; but far more chaste and delicate. Perspicuity, na­tural grace and ease, always distinguish his figures. They are neither harsh nor strain­ed; they never appear to have been studied or sought after; but seem to rise of their own accord from the subject, and constantly embellish it.

I HAVE now treated fully of the Metaphor, and the rules that should govern it, a part of the doctrine of style so important, that it required particular illustration. I have only to add a few words concerning Allegory.

AN Allegory may be regarded as a conti­nued Metaphor; as it is the representation of some one thing by another that resembles it, and that is made to stand for it. Thus, [Page 373] in Prior's Henry and Emma, Emma in the following allegorical manner describes her constancy to Henry:

Did I but purpose to embark with thee
On the smooth surface of a summer's sea,
While gentle zephyrs play with prosperous gales,
And fortune's favour fills the swelling sails;
But would forsake the ship, and make the shore,
When the winds whistle, and the tempests roar?

WE may take also from the Scriptures a very fine example of an Allegory, in the 80th Psalm; where the people of Israel are repre­sented under the image of a vine, and the figure is supported throughout with great correctness and beauty; ‘"Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt, thou hast cast out the heathen, and planted it. Thou pre­paredst room before it, and didst cause it to take deep root, and it filled the land. The hills were covered with the shadow of it; and the boughs thereof were like the goodly cedars. She sent out her boughs into the sea, and her branches into the river. Why hast thou broken down her hedges, so that all they which pass by the way do pluck her? The boar out of the wood doth waste it; and the wild beast of the field doth devour it. Return, we be­seech thee, O God of Hosts, look down from Heaven, and behold, and visit this vine!"’ Here there is no circumstance (ex­cept perhaps one phrase at the beginning, ‘"thou hast cast out the heathen,")’ that does [Page 374] not strictly agree to a vine, whilst, at the same time, the whole quadrates happily with the Jewish state represented by this figure. This is the first and principal requisite in the con­duct of an Allegory, that the figurative and the literal meaning be not mixed inconsist­ently together. For instance, instead of de­scribing the vine, as wasted by the boar from the wood, and devoured by the wild beast of the field, had the Psalmist said, it was afflict­ed by heathens, or overcome by enemies (which is the real meaning), this would have ruined the Allegory, and produced the same confusion, of which I gave examples in Me­taphors, when the figurative and literal sense are mixed and jumbled together. Indeed, the same rules that were given for Meta­phors, may also be applied to Allegories, on account of the affinity they bear to each other. The only material difference between them, besides the one being short, and the other being prolonged, is, that a Metaphor always explains itself by the words that are connected with it in their proper and natural meaning; as when I say, ‘"Achilles was a Lion;"’ an ‘"able Minister is the Pillar of the State."’ My Lion and my Pillar are sufficiently interpreted by the mention of Achilles and the Minister, which I join to them; but an Allegory is, or may be, allow­ed to stand more disconnected with the literal meaning; the interpretation not so directly pointed out, but left to our own reflection.

[Page 375] ALLEGORIES were a favourite method of delivering instructions in ancient times; for what we call Fables or Parables are no other than Allegories; where, by words and acti­ons attributed to beasts or inanimate objects, the dispositions of men are figured; and what we call the moral, is the unfigured sense or meaning of the Allegory. An Aenigma or Riddle is also a species of Allegory; one thing represented or imaged by another; but pur­posely wrapt up under so many circumstances, as to be rendered obscure. Where a riddle is not intended, it is always a fault in Alle­gory to be too dark. The meaning should be easily seen through the figure employed to shadow it. However the proper mixture of light and shade in such compositions, the exact adjustment of all the figurative circum­stances with the literal sense, so as neither to lay the meaning too bare and open, nor to cover and wrap it up too much, has ever been found an affair of great nicety; and there are few species of composition in which it is more difficult to write so as to please and command attention, than in Allegories. In some of the visions of the Spectator, we have examples of Allegories very happily executed.

LECTURE XVI. HYPERBOLE—PERSONIFICATION—APOSTROPHE.

THE next figure concerning which I am to treat, is called Hyperbole, or Exag­geration. It consists in magnifying an object beyond its natural bounds. It may be con­sidered sometimes as a trope, and sometimes as a figure of thought: and here indeed the distinction between these two classes begins not to be clear, nor is it of any importance that we should have recourse to metaphysi­cal subtilties, in order to keep them distinct. Whether we call it trope or figure, it is plain that it is a mode of speech which hath some foundation in nature. For in all languages, even in common conversation, hyperbolical expressions very frequently occur; as swift as the wind; as white as the snow, and the like; and our common forms of compliment are almost all of them extravagant Hyper­boles. If any thing be remarkably good or [Page 377] great in its kind, we are instantly ready to add to it some exaggerating epithet; and to make it the greatest or best we ever saw. The imagination has always a tendency to gratify itself, by magnifying its present ob­ject, and carrying it to excess. More or less of this hyperbolical turn will prevail in lan­guage, according to the liveliness of imagina­tion among the people who speak it. Hence young people deal always much in Hyper­boles. Hence the language of the Orientals was far more hyperbolical than that of the Europeans, who are of more phlegmatic, or, if you please, of more correct imagination. Hence, among all writers in early times, and in the rude periods of society, we may expect this figure to abound. Greater experience, and more cultivated society, abate the warmth of imagination, and chasten the manner of expression.

THE exaggerated expressions to which our ears are accustomed in conversation, scarcely strike us as Hyperboles. In an instant we make the proper abatement, and understand them according to their just value. But when there is something striking and unusual in the form of a hyperbolical expression, it then rises into a figure of speech which draws our attention: and here it is necessary to ob­serve, that unless the reader's imagination be in such a state as disposes it to rise and swell along with the hyperbolical expression, he is always hurt and offended by it. For a sort [Page 378] of disagreeable force is put upon him; he is required to strain and exert his fancy, when he feels no inclination to make any such ef­fort. Hence the Hyperbole is a figure of difficult management; and ought neither to be frequently used, nor long dwelt upon. On some occasions, it is undoubtedly pro­per; being, as was before observed, the na­tural style of a sprightly and heated imagin­ation, but when Hyperboles are unseasona­ble, or too frequent, they render a composi­tion frigid and unaffecting. They are the resource of an author of feeble imagination; of one, describing objects which either want native dignity in themselves; or whose dig­nity he cannot show by describing them sim­ply, and in their just proportions, and is therefore obliged to rest upon tumid and ex­aggerated expressions.

HYPERBOLES are of two kinds; either such as are employed in description, or such as are suggested by the warmth of passion. The best by far, are those which are the ef­fect of passion: for if the imagination has a tendency to magnify its objects beyond their natural proportion, passion possesses this ten­dency in a vastly stronger degree; and there­fore not only excuses the most daring figures, but very often renders them natural and just. All passions, without exception, love, terror, amazement, indignation, anger, and even grief, throw the mind into confusion, aggra­vate their objects, and of course prompt a [Page 379] hyperbolical style. Hence the following sen­timents of Satan in Milton, as strongly as they are described, contain nothing but what is natural and proper; exhibiting the picture of a mind agitated with rage and despair:

Me miserable! which way shall I flie
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I flie is Hell, myself am Hell;
And in the lowest depth, a lower deep
Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.
B. iv. l. 73.

IN simple description, though Hyperboles are not excluded, yet they must be used with more caution, and require more preparation, in order to make the mind relish them. Ei­ther the object described must be of that kind, which of itself seizes the fancy strong­ly, and disposes it to run beyond bounds; something vast, surprising, and new; or the writer's art must be exerted in heating the fancy gradually, and preparing it to think highly of the object which he intends to ex­aggerate. When a Poet is describing an earthquake or a storm, or when he has brought us into the midst of a battle, we can bear strong Hyperboles without displeasure. But when he is describing only a woman in grief, it is impossible not to be disgusted with such wild exaggeration as the following, in one of our dramatic Poets:

[Page 380]
—I found her on the floor
In all the storm of grief, yet beautiful;
Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate,
That were the world on fire, they might have drown'd
The wrath of Heaven, and quench'd the migh­ty ruin.
LEE.

THIS is mere bombast. The person herself who was under the distracting agitations of grief, might be permitted to hyperbolize strongly; but the spectator describing her, cannot be allowed an equal liberty: for this plain reason, that the one is supposed to ut­ter the sentiments of passion, the other speaks only the language of description, which is al­ways, according to the dictates of nature, on a lower tone: a distinction, which how­ever obvious, has not been attended to by many writers.

HOW far a Hyperbole, supposing it pro­perly introduced, may be safely carried with­out overstretching it; what is the proper measure and boundary of this figure, cannot, as far as I know, be ascertained by any pre­cise rule. Good sense and just taste must determine the point, beyond which, if we pass, we become extravagant. Lucan may be pointed out as an author apt to be exces­sive in his Hyperboles. Among the compli­ments paid by the Roman Poets to their Em­perors, it had become fashionable to ask them, what part of the heavens they would chuse [Page 381] for their habitation, after they should have become Gods? Virgil had already carried this sufficiently far in his address to Augustus:

—Tibi brachia contrahit ingens
Scorpius, & Coeli justa plus parte relinquit *."
Georg. I.

But this did not suffice Lucan. Resolved to outdo all his predecessors, in a like address to Nero, he very gravely beseeches him not to choose his place near either of the poles, but to be sure to occupy just the middle of the heavens, lest, by going either to one side or other, his weight should overset the uni­verse:

Sed neque in Arctoo sedem tibi legeris orbe
Nec polus adversi calidus qua mergitur austri;
Aetheris immensi partem si presseris unam
Sentiet axis onus. Librati pondera Coeli
Orbe tene medio .—
PHARS. I. 53.

[Page 382] Such thoughts as these, are what the French call outrés, and always proceed from a false fire of genius. The Spanish and African writers, as Tertullian, Cyprian, Augustin, are remarked for being fond of them. As in that epitaph on Charles V. by a Spanish writer:

Pro tumulo ponas orbem, pro tegmine coelum,
Sidera pro facibus, pro lacrymis maria.

Sometimes they dazzle and impose by their boldness; but wherever reason and good sense are so much violated, there can be no true beauty. Epigrammatic writers are frequent­ly guilty in this respect; resting the whole merit of their epigrams on some extravagant hyperbolical turn; such as the following of Dr. Pitcairn's, upon Holland's being gained from the ocean:

Tellurem fecere Dii; sua littora Belgae;
Immensaeque molis opus utrumque fuit;
Dii vacuo sparsas glomerarunt aethere terras,
Nil ibi quod operi possit obesse fuit.
At Belgis, maria & coeli naturaque rerum
Obstitit; obstantes hi domuêre Deos.

So much for the Hyperbole. We proceed now to those figures which lie altogether in the thought; where the words are taken in their common and literal sense.

Among these, the first place is unquesti­onably due to Personification, or that figure [Page 383] by which we attribute life and action to ina­nimate objects. The technical term for this is Prosopopoia; but as Personification is of the same import, and more allied to our own language, it will be better to use this word.

IT is a figure, the use of which is very extensive, and its foundation laid deep in human nature. At first view, and when considered abstractly, it would appear to be a figure of the utmost boldness, and to bor­der on the extravagant and ridiculous. For what can seem more remote from the tract of reasonable thought, than to speak of stones and trees, and fields and rivers, as if they were living creatures, and to attribute to them thought and sensation, affections and actions? One might imagine this to be no more than childish conceit, which no person of taste could relish. In fact, however, the case is very different. No such ridiculous effect is produced by Personification, when properly employed; on the contrary, it is found to be natural and agreeable; nor is any very uncommon degree of passion required, in order to make us relish it. All poetry, even in its most gentle and humble forms, abounds with it. From prose, it is far from being excluded; nay, in common conversa­tion, very frequent approaches are made to it. When we say, the ground thirsts for rain, or the earth smiles with plenty; when we speak of ambitions being restless, or a disease being deceitful, such expressions show the [Page 384] facility with which the mind can accommo­date the properties of living creatures to things that are inanimate, or to abstract con­ceptions of its own forming.

INDEED, it is very remarkable, that there is a wonderful proneness in human nature to animate all objects. Whether this arises from a sort of assimilating principle, from a pro­pension to spread a resemblance of ourselves over all other things, or from whatever other cause it arises, so it is, that almost every emotion, which in the least agitates the mind, bestows upon its object a momentary idea of life. Let a man, by an unwary step, sprain his ankle, or hurt his foot upon a stone, and, in the ruffled discomposed moment, he will, sometimes, feel himself disposed to break the stone in pieces, or to utter passionate expres­sions against it, as if it had done him an in­jury. If one has been long accustomed to a certain set of objects, which have made a strong impression on his imagination; as to a house, where he has passed many agreeable years; or to fields, and trees, and mountains, among which he has often walked with the greatest delight; when he is obliged to part with them, especially if he has no prospect of ever seeing them again, he can scarce avoid having somewhat of the same feeling as when he is leaving old friends. They seem endow­ed with life. They become objects of his affection; and, in the moment of his part­ing, it scarce seems absurd to him, to give [Page 385] vent to his feeling in words, and to take a formal adieu.

So strong is that impression of life which is made upon us, by the more magnificent and striking objects of nature especially, that I doubt not, in the least, of this having been one cause of the multiplication of divinities in the Heathen world. Dryads and Naiads, the Genius of the wood, and the God of the river, were, in men of lively imaginations, in the early ages of the world, easily grafted upon this turn of mind. When their favou­rite rural objects had often been animated in their fancy, it was an easy transition to at­tribute to them some real divinity, some un­seen power or genius which inhabited them, or in some peculiar manner belonged to them. Imagination was highly gratified, by thus gaining somewhat to rest upon with more sta­bility; and when belief coincided so much with imagination, very slight causes would be sufficient to establish it.

FROM this deduction, may be easily seen how it comes to pass, that personification makes so great a figure in all compositions, where imagination or passion have any con­cern. On innumerable occasions, it is the very Language of imagination and passion, and, therefore, deserves to be attended to, and examined with peculiar care. There are three different degrees of this figure; which it is necessary to remark and distinguish, in [Page 386] order to determine the propriety of its use. The first is, when some of the properties or qualities of living creatures are ascribed to in­animate objects; the second, when those in­animate objects are introduced as acting like such as have life; and the third, when they are represented, either as speaking to us, or as listening to what we say to them.

THE first, and lowest degree of this figure, consists in ascribing to inanimate objects some of the qualities of living creatures. Where this is done, as is most commonly the case, in a word, or two, and by way of an epi­thet added to the object, as, ‘"a raging storm, a deceitful disease, a cruel disaster," &c.’ it raises the style so little, that the hum­blest discourse will admit it without any force. This, indeed, is such an obscure de­gree of Personification, that one may doubt whether it deserves the name, and might not be classed with simple Metaphors, which escape in a manner unnoticed. Happily em­ployed, however, it sometimes adds beauty and sprightliness to an expression; as in this line of Virgil:

Aut conjurato descendens Dacus ab Istro.
Geor. II. 474.

Where the personal epithet, conjurato, applied to the river Istro, is infinitely more poetical than if it had been applied to the person, thus:

[Page 387]
Aut conjuratus descendens Dacus ab Istro.

A very little taste will make any one feel the difference between these two lines.

THE next degree of this figure is, when we introduce inanimate objects acting like those that have life. Here we rise a step higher, and the Personification becomes sen­sible. According to the nature of the action, which we attribute to those inanimate ob­jects, and the particularity with which we describe it, such is the strength of the figure. When pursued to any length, it belongs only to studied harangues, to highly figured and eloquent discourse; when slightly touched, it may be admitted into subjects of less eleva­tion. Cicero, for instance, speaking of the cases where killing another is lawful in self­defence, uses the following words: ‘"Aliquan­do nobis gladius ad occidendum hominem ab ipsis porrigitur legibus." (Orat. pro Milone.) The expression is happy. The laws are personified, as reaching forth their hand to give us a sword for putting one to death. Such short personifications as these may be admitted, even into moral treatises, or works of cool reasoning; and, provided they be easy and not strained, and that we be not cloyed with too frequent returns of them, they have a good effect on style, and render it both strong and lively.

[Page 388] THE genius of our Language gives us an advantage in the use of this figure. As, with us, no substantive nouns have gender, or are masculine and feminine, except the proper names of male and female creatures; by giving a gender to any inanimate object, or abstract idea, that is, in place of the pronoun it, using the personal pronouns, he or she, we presently raise the style, and begin per­sonification. In solemn discourse, this can often be done to good purpose, when speak­ing of religion, or virtue, or our country, or any such object of dignity. I shall give a remarkably fine example, from a sermon of Bishop Sherlock's, where we shall see natu­ral religion beautifully personified, and be able to judge from it, of the spirit and grace which this figure, when well conducted, be­stows on a discourse. I must take notice, at the same time, that it is an instance of this figure, carried as far as prose, even in its highest elevation, will admit, and, there­fore, suited only to compositions where the great efforts of eloquence are allowed. The Author is comparing together our Saviour and Mahomet: ‘"Go,"’ says he, ‘"to your natural Religion; lay before her Mahomet, and his disciples, arrayed in armour and blood, riding in triumph over the spoils of thousands who fell by his victorious sword. Shew her the cities which he set in flames, the countries which he ravaged and de­stroyed, and the miserable distress of all the inhabitants of the earth. When she [Page 389] has viewed him in this scene, carry her in­to his retirement; shew her the Prophet's chamber; his concubines and his wives; and let her hear him allege revelation, and a divine commission, to justify his adultery and lust. When she is tired with this pro­spect, then shew her the blessed Jesus, humble and meek, doing good to all the sons of men. Let her see him in his most retired privacies; let her follow him to the mount, and hear his devotions and sup­plications to God. Carry her to his table, to view his poor fare; and hear his heaven­ly discourse. Let her attend him to the tribunal, and consider the patience with which he endured the scoffs and reproaches of his enemies. Lead her to his cross; let her view him in the agony of death, and hear his last prayer for his persecutors; Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!—When Natural Religion has thus viewed both, ask, her, Which is the Prophet of God? But her answer we have already had, when she saw part of this scene, through the eyes of the Centu­rion, who attended at the cross. By him she spoke, and said, Truly, this man was the Son of God *."’ This is more than ele­gant; it is truly sublime. The whole pas­sage is animated; and the figure rises at the conclusion, when Natural Religion, who, before was only a spectator, is introduced as [Page 390] speaking by the Centurion's voice. It has the better effect too, that it occurs at the conclusion of a discourse, where we natural­ly look for most warmth and dignity. Did Bishop Sherlock's sermons, or, indeed, any English sermons whatever, afford us many passages equal to this, we should oftner have recourse to them for instances of the beauty of Composition.

HITHER TO we have spoken of prose; in poetry, Personifications of this kind are ex­tremely frequent, and are, indeed, the life and soul of it. We expect to find every thing animated in the descriptions of a poet who has a lively fancy. Accordingly Homer, the father and prince of poets, is remarkable for the use of this figure. War, peace, darts, spears, towns, rivers, every thing, in short, is alive in his writings. The same is the case with Milton and Shakespeare. No Personi­fication, in any author, is more striking, or introduced on a more proper occasion, than the following of Milton's, on occasion of Eve's eating the forbidden fruit:

So saying, her rash hand, in evil hour
Forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck'd, she eat;
Earth felt the wound; and nature, from her seat
Sighing, through all her works, gave signs of woe,
That all was lost.—
ix. 780.

All the circumstances and ages of men, po­verty, riches, youth, old age, all the disposi­tions [Page 391] and passions, melancholy, love, grief, contentment, are capable of being personifi­ed in poetry, with great propriety. Of this, we meet with frequent examples in Milton's Allegro and Penseroso, Parnell's Hymn to Contentment, Thomson's Seasons, and all the good poets: nor, indeed, is it easy to set any bounds to Personifications of this kind, in poetry.

ONE of the greatest pleasures we receive from poetry, is, to find ourselves always in the midst of our fellows; and to see every thing thinking, feeling, and acting, as we ourselves do. This is, perhaps, the principal charm of this sort of figured style, that it in­troduces us into society with all nature, and interests us, even in inanimate objects, by forming a connection between them and us, through that sensibility which it ascribes to them. This is exemplified in the following beautiful passage of Thomson's Summer, wherein the life which he bestows upon all nature, when describing the effects of the rising sun, renders the scenery uncommonly gay and interesting:

But yonder comes the powerful king of day
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud,
The kindling azure and the mountain's brim
Tipt with aethereal gold, his near approach
Betoken glad.—
—By thee refined,
In brisker measures, the relucent stream
Frisks o'er the mead. The precipice abrupt,
[Page 392] Projecting horror on the blacken'd flood,
Softens at thy return. The desart joys,
Wildly, through all his melancholy bounds.
Rude ruins glitter; and the briny deep,
Seen from some pointed promontory's top,
Reflects from every fluctuating wave,
A glance extensive as the day.—

The same effect is remarkable in that fine passage of Milton:

—To the nuptial bower,
I led her blushing like the morn. All heaven
And happy constellations, on that hour,
Shed their selectest influence. The earth
Gave signs of gratulation, and each hill.
Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs
Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings
Flung rose, flung odour from the spicy shrub,
Disporting.—

THE third and highest degree of this fi­gure remains to be mentioned, when inani­mate objects are introduced, not only as feeling and acting, but as speaking to us, or hearing and listening when we address our­selves to them. This, though on several oc­casions far from being unnatural, is, how­ever, more difficult in the execution, than the other kinds of Personification. For this is plainly the boldest of all rhetorical figures; it is the style of a strong passion only; and, therefore, never to be attempted, unless when the mind is considerably heated and agitated. A slight Personification of some inanimate thing, acting as if it had life, can be relished [Page 393] by the mind, in the midst of cool description, and when its ideas are going on in the ordi­nary train. But it must be in a state of vio­lent emotion, and have departed considera­bly from its common tract of thought, be­fore it can so far realise the Personification of an insensible object, as to conceive it listen­ing to what we say, or making any return to us. All strong passions, however, have a tendency to use this figure; not only love, anger, and indignation, but even those which are seemingly more dispiriting, such as, grief, remorse, and melancholy. For all passions struggle for vent, and if they can find no other object, will, rather than be silent, pour themselves forth to woods, and rocks, and the most insensible things; especially, if these be any how connected with the causes and objects that have thrown the mind into this agitation. Hence, in poetry, where the great­est liberty is allowed to the Language of pas­sion, it is easy to produce many beautiful examples of this figure. Milton affords us an extremely fine one, in that moving and ten­der address which Eve makes to Paradise, just before she is compelled to leave it.

Oh! unexpected stroke, worse than of death!
Must I thus leave thee, Paradise! thus leave
Thee, native soil, these happy walks, and shades,
Fit haunt of Gods! where I had hope to spend
Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day,
Which must be mortal to us both. O flowers!
That never will in other climate grow,
My early visitation, and my last
[Page 394] At ev'n, which I bred up with tender hand,
From your first op'ning buds, and gave you names!
Who now shall rear you to the sun, or rank
Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount?
Book II. l. 268.

This is altogether the language of nature, and of female passion. It is observable, that all plaintive passions are peculiarly prone to the use of this figure. The complaints which Philoctetes, in Sophocles, pours out to the rocks and caves of Lemnos, amidst the ex­cess of his grief and despair, are remarkably fine examples of it *. And there are fre­quent examples, not in poetry only, but in real life, of persons, when just about to suf­fer death, taking a passionate farewell of the sun, moon, and stars, or other sensible ob­jects around them.

THERE are two great rules for the manage­ment of this sort of Personification. The first rule is, never to attempt it, unless when prompted by strong passion, and never to con­tinue it when the passion begins to flag. It is one of those high ornaments, which can [Page 395] only find place in the most warm and spirited parts of composition; and there, too, must be employed with moderation.

THE second rule is, never to personify any object in this way, but such as has some dig­nity in itself, and can make a proper figure in this elevation to which we raise it. The ob­servance of this rule is required, even in the lower degrees of Personification; but still more, when an address is made to the personified object. To address the corpse of a deceased friend, is natural; but to address the clothes which he wore, introduces mean and degrad­ing ideas. So also, addressing the several parts of one's body, as if they were animat­ed, is not congruous to the dignity of passi­on. For this reason, I must condemn the following passage, in a very beautiful Poem of Mr. Pope's, Eloisa to Abelard.

Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips in holy silence sealed.
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where, mixed with Gods, his lov'd idea lies:
Oh! write it not, my hand!—his name appears
Already written—Blot it out, my tears!

Here are several different objects and parts of the body personified; and each of them are addressed or spoken to; let us consider with what propriety. The first is, the name of Abelard: ‘"Dear fatal name! rest ever," &c.’ To this, no reasonable objection can be made. For, as the name of a person often stands [Page 396] for the person himself, and suggests the same ideas, it can bear this Personification with sufficient dignity. Next, Eloisa speaks to herself; and personifies her heart for this pur­pose: ‘"Hide it, my heart, within that close," &c.’ As the heart is a dignified part of the human frame, and is often put for the mind, or affections, this also may pass without blame. But, when from her heart she passes to her hand, and tells her hand not to write his name, this is forced and unnatural; a per­sonified hand is low, and not in the style of true passion: and the figure becomes still worse, when, in the last place, she exhorts her tears to blot out what her hand had written: ‘"Oh! write it not," &c.’ There is, in these two lines, an air of epigrammatic conceit, which native passion never suggests; and which is altogether unsuitable to the tender­ness which breathes through the rest of that exellent Poem.

IN prose compositions, this figure requires to be used with still greater moderation and delicacy. The same liberty is not allowed to the imagination there, as in poetry. The same assistances cannot be obtained for raising passion to its proper height by the force of numbers, and the glow of style. However, addresses to inanimate objects are not ex­cluded from prose; but have their place only in the higher species of oratory. A public Speaker may on some occasions very properly address religion or virtue; or his native coun­try, [Page 397] or some city or province, which has suf­fered perhaps great calamities, or been the scene of some memorable action. But we must remember, that as such addresses are among the highest efforts of eloquence, they should never be attempted, unless by persons of more than ordinary genius. For if the orator fails in his design of moving our pas­sions by them, he is sure of being laughed at. Of all frigid things, the most frigid, are the awkward and unseasonable attempts some­times made towards such kinds of Personifi­cation, especially if they be long continued. We see the writer or speaker toiling and la­bouring, to express the language of some pas­sion, which he neither feels himself, nor can make us feel. We remain not only cold, but frozen; and are at full leisure to criticise on the ridiculous figure which the personified object makes, when we ought to have been transported with a glow of enthusiasm. Some of the French writers, particularly Bossuet and Flechier, in their sermons and funeral orations, have attempted and executed this figure, not without warmth and dignity. Their works are exceedingly worthy of being consulted, for instances of this, and of several other ornaments of style. Indeed the viva­city and ardour of the French genius is more suited to this animated kind of oratory, than the more correct but more phlegmatic genius of the British, who in their prose works very rarely attempt any of the high figures of elo­quence *. [Page 398] So much for Personifications or Prosopopoeia, in all its different forms.

[Page 399] APOSTROPHE is a figure so much of the same kind, that it will not require many words. It is an address to a real person; but one who is either absent or dead, as if he were present, and listening to us. It is so much allied to an address to inanimate objects per­sonified, that both these figures are sometimes called apostrophes. However, the proper Apostrophe is in boldness one degree lower than the address to personified objects; for it certainly requires a less effort of imagina­tion to suppose persons present who are dead or absent, than to animate insensible beings, and direct our discourse to them. Both fi­gures are subject to the same rule of being prompted by passion, in order to render them natural; for both are the language of passion or strong emotions only. Among the poets Apostrophe is frequent; as in Virgil:

—Pereunt Hypanisque Dymasque
Confixi a sociis; nec te, tua plurima, Pantheu
Labentem pietas, nec Apollinis infula texit *!

The poems of Ossian are full of the most beautiful instances of this figure: ‘"Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid of Inistore! bend thy fair head over the waves, thou fairer than the ghost of the hills, when it moves in a sunbeam at noon over the silence of Morven! He is fallen! Thy youth is low; pale beneath the sword of [Page 400] Cuchullin! *"’ Quinctilian affords us a ve­ry fine example in prose; when in the be­ginning of his sixth book, deploring the un­timely death of his son, which had happened during the course of the work, he makes a very moving and tender Apostrophe to him. ‘"Nam quo ille animo, qua medicorum ad­miratione, mensium octo valetudinem tulit? ut me in supremis consolatus est? quam etiam jam deficiens, jamque non noster, ipsum illum alienatae mentis errorem circa solas literas habuit? Tuosne ergo, O meae spes inanes! labentes oculos, tuum fugien­tem spiritum vidi? Tuum corpus frigidum, exangue complexus, animam recipere, au­ramque communem haurire amplius potui? Tene, consulari nuper adoptione ad om­nium spes honorum patris admotum, te, avunculo praetori generum destinatum; te, omnium spe Atticae eloquentiae candida­tum, parens superstes tantum ad poenas amisi !"’ In this passage, Quinctilian shews [Page 401] the true genius of an orator, as much as he does elsewhere that of the critic.

FOR such bold figures of discourse as strong Personifications, addresses to personified ob­jects, and Apostrophes, the glowing imagi­nation of the ancient Oriental nations was particularly fitted. Hence, in the sacred scriptures, we find some very remarkable in­stances: ‘"O thou sword of the Lord! how long will it be ere thou be quiet? put thy­self up into thy scabbard, rest and be still! How can it be quiet, seeing the Lord hath given it a charge against Ashkelon, and against the sea-shore? there hath he ap­pointed it *."’ There is one passage in par­ticular, which I must not omit to mention, because it contains a greater assemblage of sublime ideas, of bold and daring figures, than is perhaps any where to be met with. It is in the fourteenth chapter of Isaiah, where the prophet thus describes the fall of the As­syrian empire: ‘"Thou shalt take up this proverb against the king of Babylon, and say, how hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased! The Lord hath broken the staff of the wicked, and the sceptre of the rulers. He who smote the people in wrath with a continual stroke: he that ruled the nations in anger, is persecuted, [Page 402] and none hindereth. The whole earth is at rest, and is quiet: they break forth into singing. Yea, the fir-trees rejoice at thee, and the cedars of Lebanon, saying, since thou art laid down, no feller is come up against us. Hell from beneath is moved for thee to meet thee at thy coming: it stir­reth up the dead for thee, even all the chief ones of the earth: it hath raised up from their thrones all the kings of the nations. All they shall speak, and say unto thee, art thou also become weak as we? art thou be­come like unto us? Thy pomp is brought down to the grave, and the noise of thy viols: the worm is spread under thee, and the worms cover thee. How art thou fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! how art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations! For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into Heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God: I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the north. I will ascend above the heights of the clouds, I will be like the Most High. Yet thou shalt be brought down to Hell, to the sides of the pit. They that see thee shall narrowly look up­on thee, and consider thee, saying, Is this the man that made the earth to tremble, that did shake kingdoms? That made the world as a wilderness, and destroyed the cities thereof? that opened not the house of his prisoners? All the Kings of the na­tions, [Page 403] even all of them lie in glory, every one in his own house. But thou art cast out of thy grave, like an abominable branch: and as the raiment of those that are slain, thrust through with a sword, that go down to the stones of the pit, as a carcase trodden under feet."’ This whole passage is full of sublimity. Every object is animated; a va­riety of personages are introduced: we hear the Jews, the fir-trees, and cedars of Leba­non, the ghosts of departed Kings, the King of Babylon himself, and those who look upon his body, all speaking in their order, and act­ing their different parts without confusion.

LECTURE XVII. COMPARISON, ANTITHESIS, INTER­ROGATION, EXCLAMATION, AND OTHER FIGURES OF SPEECH.

WE are still engaged in the consideration of figures of speech; which, as they add much to the beauty of style when pro­perly employed, and are at the same time liable to be greatly abused, require a careful discussion. As it would be tedious to dwell on all the variety of figurative expressions which rhetoricians have enumerated, I chose to select the capital figures, such as occur most frequently, and to make my remarks on these; the principles and rules laid down con­cerning them, will sufficiently direct as to the use of the rest, either in prose or poetry. Of Metaphor, which is the most common of them all, I treated fully; and in the last Lecture I discoursed of Hyperbole, Personification, and Apostrophe. This Lecture will nearly finish what remains on the head of Figures.

[Page 405] COMPARISON, or simile, is what I am to treat of first: a Figure frequently employed both by Poets and Prose writers, for the or­nament of Composition. In a former Lec­ture, I explained fully the difference betwixt this and Metaphor. A Metaphor is a com­parised implied, but not expressed as such; as when I say, ‘"Achilles is a Lion,"’ mean­ing, that he resembles one in courage or strength. A Comparison is, when the re­semblance between two objects is expressed in form, and generally pursued more fully than the nature of a Metaphor admits; as when I say, ‘"The actions of princes are like those great rivers, the course of which eve­ry one beholds, but their springs have been seen by few."’ This slight instance will show, that a happy Comparison is a kind of sparkling ornament, which adds not a little lustre and beauty to discourse; and hence such figures are termed by Cicero, ‘"Oratio­nis lumina."’

THE pleasure we take in comparisons is just and natural. We may remark three dif­ferent sources whence it arises. First, from the pleasure which nature has annexed to that act of the mind by which we compare any two objects together, trace resemblances among those that are different, and differ­ences among those that resemble each other; a pleasure, the final cause of which is, to prompt us to remark and observe, and there­by [Page 406] to make us advance in useful knowledge. This operation of the mind is naturally and universally agreeable; as appears from the delight which even children have in compar­ing things together, as soon as they are ca­pable of attending to the objects that sur­round them. Secondly, The pleasure of Com­parison arises from the illustration which the simile employed gives to the principal object; from the clearer view of it which it presents; or the more strong impression of it which it stamps upon the mind: and, thirdly, It arises from the introduction of a new, and com­monly a splendid object, associated to the principal one of which we treat; and from the agreeable picture which that object pre­sents to the fancy; new scenes being there­by brought into view, which, without the assistance of this figure, we could not have enjoyed.

ALL Comparisons whatever may be re­duced under two heads, Explaining and Em­bellishing Comparisons. For when a writer likens the object of which he treats to any other thing, it always is, or at least always should be, with a view either to make us un­derstand that object more distinctly, or to dress it up, and adorn it. All manner of subjects admit of Explaining Comparisons. Let an author be reasoning ever so strictly, or treating the most abstruse point in philo­sophy, he may very properly introduce a [Page 407] Comparison, merely with a view to make his subject be better understood. Of this nature, is the following in Mr. Harris's Hermes, employed to explain a very abstract point, the distinction between the powers of sense and imagination in the human mind. ‘"As wax,"’ says he, ‘"would not be adequate to the purpose of signatures, if it had not the power to retain as well as to receive the impression, the same holds of the soul with respect to sense and imagination. Sense is its receptive power; imagination its retentive. Had it sense without ima­gination, it would not be as wax, but as water, where, though all impressions be instantly made, yet as soon as they are made, they are instantly lost."’ In Com­parisons of this nature, the understanding is concerned much more than the fancy: and therefore the only rules to be observed, with respect to them, are, that they be clear, and that they be useful; that they tend to ren­der our conception of the principal object more distinct; and that they do not lead our view aside, and bewilder it with any false light.

BUT embellishing Comparisons, introduced not so much with a view to inform and in­struct, as to adorn the subject of which we treat, are those with which we are chiefly concerned at present, as figures of speech; and those, indeed, which most frequently [Page 408] occur. Resemblance, as I before mentioned, is the foundation of this Figure. We must not, however, take Resemblance, in too strict a sense, for actual similitude or likeness of appearance. Two objects may sometimes be very happily compared to one another, though they resemble each other, strictly speaking, in nothing; only, because they agree in the effects which they produce upon the mind; because they raise a train of similar, or, what may be called, concordant ideas; so that the remembrance of the one, when recalled, serves to strengthen the impression made by the other. For example, to describe the na­ture of soft and melancholy music, Ossian says, ‘"The music of Carryl was, like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul."’ This is happy and delicate. Yet, surely, no kind of music has any resemblance to a feeling of the mind, such as the memory of past joys. Had it been compared to the voice of the nightin­gale, or the murmur of the stream, as it would have been by some ordinary poet, the likeness would have been more strict; but, by founding his simile upon the effect which Carryl's music produced, the Poet, while he conveys a very tender image, gives us, at the same time, a much stronger impression of the nature and strain of that music: ‘"Like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul."’

[Page 409] IN general, whether Comparisons be found­ed on the similitude of the two objects com­pared, or on some analogy and agreement in their effects, the fundamental requisite of a comparison is, that it shall serve to illustrate the object, for the sake of which it is intro­duced, and to give us a stronger conception of it. Some little excursions of Fancy may be permitted, in pursuing the simile; but they must never deviate far from the princi­pal object. If it be a great and noble one, every circumstance in the comparison must tend to aggrandise it; if it be a beautiful one, to render it more amiable; if terrible, to fill us with more awe. But to be a little more particular: The rules to be given con­cerning Comparisons, respect chiefly two ar­ticles; the propriety of their introduction, and the nature of the objects whence they are taken.

FIRST, the propriety of their introduction. From what has been already said of Compa­risons, it appears, that they are not, like the Figures of which I treated in the last Lec­ture, the language of strong passion. No; they are the language of imagination rather than of passion; of an imagination sprightly, indeed, and warmed; but undisturbed by any violent or agitating emotion. Strong passion is too severe to admit this play of Fancy. It has no leisure to cast about for resembling objects; it dwells on that object [Page 410] which has seized and taken possession of the soul. It is too much occupied and filled by it, to turn its view aside, or to fix its atten­tion on any other thing. An author, there­fore, can scarcely commit a greater fault, than, in the midst of passion, to introduce a Simile. Metaphorical expression may be al­lowable in such a situation; though even this may be carried too far: but the pomp and solemnity of a formal Comparison is altoge­ther a stranger to passion. It changes the key in a moment; relaxes and brings down the mind; and shews us a writer perfectly at his ease, while he is personating some other, who is supposed to be under the torment of agi­tation. Our writers of tragedies are very apt to err here. In some of Mr. Rowe's plays, these flowers of similes have been strewed unseasonably. Mr. Addison's Cato, too, is justly censurable in this respect; as, when Portius, just after Lucia had bid him farewel for ever, and when he should naturally have been represented as in the most violent an­guish, makes his reply in a studied and af­fected comparison:

Thus o'er the dying lamp th' unsteady flame
Hangs quiv'ring on a point, leaps off by fits,
And falls again, as loth to quit its hold.
Thou must not go; my soul still hovers o'er thee,
And can't get loose.

[Page 411] Every one must be sensible, that this is quite remote from the language of Nature on such occasions.

HOWEVER, as Comparison is not the style of strong passion, so neither, when employed for embellishment, is it the language of a mind wholly unmoved. It is a figure of dig­nity, and always requires some elevation in the subject, in order to make it proper: for it supposes the imagination to be uncom­monly enlivened, though the heart be not agitated by passion. In a word, the proper place of comparisons lies in the middle re­gion between the highly pathetic, and the very humble style. This is a wide field, and gives ample range to the Figure. But even this field we must take care not to overstock with it. For, as was before said, it is a sparkling ornament; and all things that spar­kle, dazzle and fatigue, if they recur too often. Similies should, even in poetry, be used with moderation; but, in prose writ­ings, much more: otherwise, the style will become disgustingly luscious, and the orna­ment lose its virtue and effect.

I PROCEED, next, to the rules that relate to objects, whence Comparisons should be drawn; supposing them introduced in their proper place.

[Page 412] IN the first place, they must not be drawn from things, which have too near and obvi­ous a resemblance to the object with which we compare them. The great pleasure of the act of comparing lies, in discovering likenesses among things of different species, where we would not, at the first glance, ex­pect a resemblance. There is little art or in­genuity in pointing out the resemblance of two objects, that are so much a-kin, or lie so near to one another in nature, that every one sees they must be like. When Milton compares Satan's appearance, after his fall, to that of the Sun suffering an eclipse, and affrighting the nations with portentous dark­ness, we are struck with the happiness and the dignity of the similitude. But, when he compares Eve's bower in Paradise, to the arbour of Pomona; or Eve herself, to a Dryad, or Wood-nymph, we receive little entertainment: as every one sees, that one arbour must, of course, in several respects, resemble another arbour, and one beautiful woman another beautiful woman.

AMONG Similies faulty through too great obviousness of the likeness, we must like­wise rank those which are taken from objects become trite and familiar in poetical Lan­guage. Such are the Similies of a hero to a lion, of a person in sorrow to a flower droop­ing its head, of violent passion to a tempest, of chastity to snow, of virtue to the sun or [Page 413] the stars, and many more of this kind, with which we are sure to find modern writers, of second rate genius, abounding plentifully; handed down from every writer of verses to another, as by hereditary right. These com­parisons were, at first, perhaps, very proper for the purposes to which they are applied. In the antient original poets, who took them directly from nature, not from their prede­cessors, they had beauty. But they are now beaten; our ears are so accustomed to them, that they give no amusement to the fancy. There is, indeed, no mark by which we can more readily distinguish a poet of true geni­us, from one of a barren imagination, than by the strain of their comparisons. All who call themselves poets affect them: but, where­as a mere versifier copies no new image from nature, which appears, to his uninventive genius, exhausted by those who have gone before him, and, therefore, contents himself with humbly following their tract; to an author of real fancy, nature seems to un­lock, spontaneously, her hidden stores; and the eye ‘"quick glancing from earth to hea­ven,"’ discovers new shapes and forms, new likenesses between objects unobserved before, which render his Similies original, expressive, and lively.

BUT, in the second place, as Comparisons ought not to be founded on likenesses too ob­vious, still less ought they to be founded on [Page 414] those which are too faint and remote. For these, in place of assisting, strain the fancy to comprehend them, and throw no light upon the subject. It is also to be observed, that a Comparison which, in the principal circumstances, carries a sufficiently near re­semblance, may become unnatural and ob­scure, if pushed too far. Nothing is more opposite to the design of this figure, than to hunt after a great number of coincidences in minute points, merely to show how far the poet's wit can stretch the resemblance. This is Mr. Cowley's common fault; whose com­parisons generally run out so far, as to become rather a studied exercise of wit, than an illus­tration of the principal object. We need only open his works, his odes especially, to find instances every where.

IN the third place, the object from which a Comparison is drawn, should never be an unknown object, or one of which few people can form clear ideas: ‘"Ad inferendam rebus lucem,"’ says Quinctilian, ‘"repertae sunt similitudines. Praecipuè, igitur, est cus­todiendum ne id quod similitudinis gratiâ ascivimus, aut obscurum sit, aut ignotum. Debet enim id quod illustrandae alterius rei gratiâ assumitur, ipsum esse clarius eo quod illuminatur *."’ Comparisons, therefore, [Page 415] founded on philosophical discoveries, or on any thing which persons of a certain trade only, or a certain profession, are conversant, at­tain not their proper effect. They should be taken from those illustrious, noted objects, which most of the readers either have seen, or can strongly conceive. This leads me to remark a fault of which modern poets are very apt to be guilty. The antients took their similies from that face of nature, and that class of objects, with which they and their readers were acquainted. Hence lions, and wolves, and serpents, were fruitful, and very proper sources of Similies amongst them; and these having become a sort of consecrat­ed, classical images, are very commonly adopt­ed by the moderns; injudiciously however, for the propriety of them is now in a great measure lost. It is only at second hand, and by description, that we are acquainted with many of those objects; and, to most readers of poetry, it were more to the purpose, to describe lions, or serpents, by Similies taken from men, than to describe men by lions. Now-a-days, we can much easier form the conception of a fierce combat between two men, than between a bull and a tyger. Eve­ry country has a scenery peculiar to itself; and the imagery of every good poet will ex­hibit [Page 416] it. The introduction of unknown ob­jects, or of a foreign scenery, betrays a poet copying, not after nature, but from other writers. I have only to observe further,

IN the fourth place, that, in compositions of a serious or elevated kind, Similies should never be taken from low or mean objects. These are degrading; whereas, Similies are commonly intended to embellish, and to dig­nify: and, therefore, unless in burlesque writ­ings, or where Similies are introduced pur­posely to vilify and diminish an object, mean ideas should never be presented to us. Some of Homer's Comparisons have been taxed without reason, on this account. For it is to be remembered, that the meanness or dignity of objects, depends, in a great degree, on the ideas and manners of the age wherein we live. Many Similies, therefore, drawn from the in­cidents of rural life, which appear low to us, had abundance of dignity in those simpler ages of antiquity.

I HAVE now considered such of the figures of Speech as seemed most to merit a full and particular discussion: Metaphor, Hyperbole, Personification, Apostrophe, and Comparison. A few more yet remain to be mentioned; the proper use and conduct of which will be easily understood from the principles already laid down.

[Page 417] AS Comparison is founded on the resem­blance, so Antithesis on the contrast or oppo­sition of two objects. Contrast has always this effect, to make each of the contrasted ob­jects appear in the stronger light. White, for instance, never appears so bright as when it is opposed to black; and when both are viewed together. Antithesis, therefore, may, on many occasions, be employed to advan­tage, in order to strengthen the impression which we intend that any object should make. Thus Cicero, in his oration for Milo, representing the improbability of Milo's form­ing a design to take away the life of Clodius, at a time when all circumstances were unfa­vourable to such a design, and after he had let other opp [...]unities slip when he could have executed the same design, if he had formed it, with much more ease and safety, heightens our conviction of this improbability by a skilful use of this figure: ‘"Quem igitur cum omnium gratiâ interficere noluit, hunc voluit cum aliquorum querelâ? Quem jure, quem loco, quem tempore, quem impune, non est ausus, hunc injuriâ, iniquo loco, alieno tempore, periculo capitis, non dubi­tavit occidere *?"’ In order to render an [Page 418] Antithesis more complete, it is always of ad­vantage, that the words and members of the sentence, expressing the contrasted objects, be, as in this instance of Cicero's, similarly con­structed, and made to correspond to each other. This leads us to remark the contrast more, by setting the things which we oppose more clearly over against each other; in the same manner as when we contrast a black and a white object, in order to perceive the full difference of their colour, we would chuse to have both objects of the same bulk, and placed in the same light. Their resemblance to each other, in certain circumstances, makes their disagreement in others more palpable.

AT the same time, I must observe, that the frequent use of Antithesis, [...]pecially where the opposition in the words is nice and quaint, is apt to render style disagreeable. Such a sentence as the following, from Seneca, does very well, where it stands alone: ‘"Si quem volueris esse divitem, non est quod augeas divitias, sed minuas cupiditates *."’ Or this: ‘"Si ad naturam vives, nunquam eris pauper; si ad opinionem, nunquam dives ."’ A max­im, or moral saying, properly enough receives this form; both because it is supposed to be the fruit of meditation, and because it is de­signed to be engraven on the memory, which recalls it more easily by the help of such con­trasted [Page 419] expressions. But where a string of such sentences succeed each other; where this be­comes an author's favourite and prevailing manner of expressing himself, his style is faul­ty; and it is upon this account Seneca has been often, and justly, censured. Such a style appears too studied and laboured; it gives us the impression of an author attending more to his manner of saying things, than to the things themselves which he says. Dr. Young, though a writer of real genius, was too fond of Antitheses. In his Estimate of Human Life, we find whole pages that run in such a strain as this: ‘"The peasant complains aloud; the courtier in secret repines. In want, what distress? in affluence, what satiety? The great are under as much difficulty to expend with pleasure, as the mean to labour with success. The ignorant, through ill­grounded hope, are disappointed; the knowing, through knowledge, despond. Ig­norance, occasions mistake; mistake, disap­pointment; and disappointment is misery. Knowledge, on the other hand, gives true judgment; and true judgment of human things, gives a demonstration of their insuf­ficiency to our peace."’ There is too much glitter in such a style as this to please long. We are fatigued, by attending to such quaint and artificial sentences often repeated.

THERE is another sort of Antithesis, the beauty of which consists, in surprising us by [Page 420] the unexpected contrasts of things which it brings together. Much wit may be shewn in this; but it belongs wholly to pieces of professed wit and humour, and can find no place in grave compositions. Mr. Pope, who is remarkably fond of Antithesis, is often happy in this use of the figure. So, in his Rape of the Lock:

Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law,
Or some frail china jar receive a flaw;
Or stain her honour, or her new brocade;
Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade;
Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball,
Or whether heaven has doomed that Shock must fall.

What is called the point of an epigram, con­sists, for most part, in some Antithesis of this kind; surprising us with the smart and un­expected turn, which it gives to the thought; and in the fewer words it is brought out, it is always the happier.

COMPARISONS and Antitheses are figures of a cool nature; the productions of imagi­nation, not of passion. Interrogations and Exclamations, of which I am next to speak, are passionate figures. They are, indeed, on so many occasions, the native language of passion, that their use is extremely frequent; and, in ordinary conversation, when men are heated, they prevail as much as in the most sublime oratory. The unfigured, lite­ral [Page 421] use of Interrogation, is, to ask a question; but when men are prompted by passion, whatever they would affirm, or deny, with great vehemence, they naturally put in the form of a question; expressing thereby the strongest confidence of the truth of their own sentiment, and appealing to their hear­ers for the impossibility of the contrary. Thus, in Scripture: ‘"God is not a man that he should lie, neither the son of man that he should repent. Hath he said it? And shall he not do it? Hath he spoken it? and shall he not make it good *?"’ So Demost­henes, addressing himself to the Athenians: ‘"Tell me, will you still go about and ask one another, what news? What can be more astonishing news than this, that the man of Macedon makes war upon the Athenians, and disposes of the affairs of Greece?—Is Philip dead? No, but he is sick. What signifies it to you whether he be dead or alive? For, if any thing hap­pens to this Philip, you will immediately raise up another."’ All this delivered with­out interrogation, had been faint and ineffec­tual; but the warmth and eagerness which this questioning method expresses, awakens the hearers, and strikes them with much greater force.

[Page 422] INTERROGATIONS may often be employ­ed with propriety, in the course of no higher emotions than naturally arise in pursuing some close and earnest reasoning. But Ex­clamations belong only to stronger emotions of the mind; to surprise, admiration, anger, joy, grief, and the like:

Heu pietas! heu prisca fides! invictaque bello
Dextera!

Both Interrogation and Exclamation, and, indeed, all passionate figures of speech, ope­rate upon us by means of sympathy. Sym­pathy is a very powerful and extensive prin­ciple in our nature, disposing us to enter in­to every feeling and passion, which we be­hold expressed by others. Hence, a single person coming into company with strong marks, either of melancholy or joy, upon his countenance, will diffuse that passion, in a moment, through the whole circle. Hence, in a great crowd, passions are so easily caught, and so fast spread, by that powerful conta­gion which the animated looks, cries, and gestures of a multitude never fail to carry. Now, Interrogations and Exclamations, be­ing natural signs of a moved and agitated mind, always, when they are properly used, dispose us to sympathise with the dispositions of those who use them, and to feel as they feel.

[Page 423] FROM this it follows, that the great rule with regard to the conduct of such figures is, that the writer attend to the manner in which nature dictates to us to express any emotion or passion, and that he give his lan­guage that turn, and no other; above all, that he never affect the style of a passion which he does not feel. With Interrogations he may use a good deal of freedom; these, as above observed, falling in so much with the ordinary course of language and reason­ing, even when no great vehemence is sup­posed to have place in the mind. But, with respect to Exclamations, he must be more reserved. Nothing has a worse effect than the frequent and unseasonable use of them. Raw, juvenile writers imagine, that, by pouring them forth often, they render their compositions warm and animated. Whereas quite the contrary follows. They render it frigid to excess. When an author is always calling upon us to enter into transports which he has said nothing to inspire, we are both disgusted and enraged at him. He raises no sympathy, for he gives us no passion of his own, in which we can take part. He gives us words, and not passion; and of course, can raise no passion, unless that of indigna­tion. Hence, I incline to think, he was not much mistaken, who said, that when, on looking into a book, he found the pages thick bespangled with the point which is call­ed, ‘"Punctum admirationis,"’ he judged this [Page 424] to be a sufficient reason for his laying it aside. And, indeed, were it not for the help of this ‘"punctum admirationis,"’ with which many writers of the rapturous kind so much abound, one would be often at a loss to discover, whe­ther or not it was Exclamation which they aimed at. For, it has now become a fashion, among these writers, to subjoin points of ad­miration to sentences, which contain nothing but simple affirmations, or propositions; as if, by an affected method of pointing, they could transform them in the reader's mind into high figures of eloquence. Much a-kin to this, is another contrivance practised by some writers, of separating, almost all the members of their sentences from each other, by blank lines; as if, by setting them thus asunder, they bestowed some special import­ance upon them; and required us, in going along, to make a pause at every other word, and weigh it well. This, I think, may be called a Typographical Figure of Speech. Neither, indeed, since we have been led to mention the arts of writers for increasing the importance of their words, does another custom, which prevailed very much some time ago, seem worthy of imitation; I mean that of distinguishing the significant words, in every sentence, by Italick characters. On some occasions, it is very proper to use such distinctions. But when we carry them so far, as to mark with them every supposed em­phatical word, these words are apt to mul­tiply [Page 425] so fast in the author's imagination, that every page is crowded with Italicks; which can produce no effect whatever, but to hurt the eye, and create confusion. Indeed, if the sense point out the most emphatical ex­pressions, a variation in the type, especially when occurring so frequently, will give small aid. And, accordingly, the most masterly writers, of late, have, with good reason, laid aside all those feeble props of significancy, and trusted wholly to the weight of their sentiments for commanding attention. But to return from this digression:

ANOTHER Figure of Speech, proper only to animated and warm Composition, is what some critical writers call Vision; when, in place of relating something that is past, we use the present tense, and describe it as actu­ally passing before our eyes. Thus Cicero, in his fourth oration against Catiline: ‘"Vi­deor enim mihi hanc urbem videre, lucem orbis terrarum atque arcem omnium gen­tium, subito uno incendio concidentem; cerno animo sepulta in patria miseros at­que insepultos acervos civium; versatur mihi ante oculos aspectus Cethegi, et furor, in vestra caede bacchantis *."’ This man­ner [Page 426] of description supposes a sort of enthu­siasm, which carries the person who describes in some measure out of himself; and, when well executed, must needs impress the reader or hearer strongly, by the force of that sym­pathy which I have before explained. But, in order to a successful execution, it requires an uncommonly warm imagination, and such a happy selection of circumstances, as shall make us think we see before our eyes the scene that is described. Otherwise, it shares the same fate with all feeble attempts towards passionate figures; that of throwing ridicule upon the author, and leaving the reader more cool and uninterested than he was before. The same observations are to be applied to Repetition, Suspension, Correction, and ma­ny more of those figurative forms of Speech, which rhetoricians have enumerated among the Beauties of Eloquence. They are beau­tiful, or not, exactly in proportion as they are native expressions of the sentiment or passion intended to be heightened by them. Let nature and passion always speak their own language, and they will suggest figures in abundance. But when we seek to coun­terfeit a warmth which we do not feel, no figures will either supply the defect, or con­ceal the imposture.

[Page 427] THERE is one Figure (and I shall mention no more) of frequent use among all public speakers, particularly at the bar, which Quinc­tilian insists upon considerably, and calls Am­plification. It consists in an artful exagge­ration of all the circumstances of some ob­ject or action which we want to place in a strong light, either a good or a bad one. It is not so properly one Figure, as the skilful management of several which we make to tend to one point. It may be carried on by a proper use of magnifying or extenuating terms, by a regular enumeration of particu­lars, or by throwing together, as into one mass, a crowd of circumstances; by suggest­ing comparisons also with things of a like na­ture. But the principal instrument by which it works, is by a Climax, or a gradual rise of one circumstance above another, till our idea be raised to the utmost. I spoke formerly of a Climax in sound; a Climax in sense, when well carried on, is a figure which never fails to amplify strongly. The common example of this, is that noted passage in Cicero which every schoolboy knows: ‘"Facinus est vincire civem Romanum; scelus verberare, prope parricidium, necare; quid dicam in cru­cem tollere *?"’ I shall give an instance from a printed pleading of a famous Scotch [Page 428] Lawyer, Sir George M'Kenzie. It is in a charge to the jury, in the case of a woman accused of murdering her own child. ‘"Gen­tlemen, if one man had any how slain an­other, if an adversary had killed his op­poser, or a woman occasioned the death of her enemy, even these criminals would have been capitally punished by the Cor­nelian law: but, if this guiltless infant, who could make no enemy, had been mur­dered by its own nurse, What punishments would not then the mother have demand­ed? With what cries and exclamations would she have stunned your ears? What shall we say then, when a woman, guilty of homicide, a mother, of the murder of her innocent child, hath comprised all those misdeeds in one single crime; a crime, in its own nature, detestable; in a woman, prodigious; in a mother, incredible; and perpetrated against one whose age called for compassion, whose near relation claim­ed affection, and whose innocence deserv­ed the highest favour?"’ I must take notice, however, that such regular Climaxes as these, though they have considerable beauty, have, at the same time, no small appearance of art and study; and, therefore, though they may be admitted into formal harangues, yet they speak not the language of great earnestness and passion, which seldom proceed by steps so regular. Nor, indeed, for the purposes of effectual persuasion, are they likely to be [Page 429] so successful, as an arrangement of circum­stances in a less artificial order. For, when much art appears, we are always put on our guard against the deceits of eloquence; but when a speaker has reasoned strongly, and, by force of argument, has made good his main point, he may then, taking advantage of the favourable bent of our minds, make use of such artificial figures to confirm our belief, and to warm our minds.

END OF VOL. I.

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