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Title: Elements of Criticism, Volume II.

Author: Henry Home

Release Date: August 12, 2018 [EBook #57679]

Language: English

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ELEMENTS

OF

CRITICISM.

In THREE VOLUMES.

VOLUME II.

EDINBURGH:
Printed for A. Millar, London;
AND
A. Kincaid & J. Bell, Edinburgh,
MDCCLXII.

CONTENTS.

CHAP. X.

Congruity and Propriety.

MAn is distinguished from the brute creation, not more remarkably by the superiority of his rational faculties, than by the greater delicacy of his perceptions and feelings. With respect to the gross pleasures of sense, man probably has little superiority over other animals. Some obscure perception of beauty may also fall to their share. But they are probably not acquainted with the more delicate conceptions of {4}regularity, order, uniformity, or congruity. Such refined conceptions, being connected with morality and religion, are reserved to dignify the chief of the terrestrial creation. Upon this account, no discipline is more suitable to man, or more congruous to the dignity of his nature, than that by which his taste is refined, to distinguish in every subject, what is regular, what is orderly, what is suitable, and what is fit and proper[1].

No discerning person can be at a loss about the meaning of the terms congruity and propriety, when applied to dress, behaviour, or language; that a decent garb, for example, is proper for a judge, modest {5}behaviour for a young woman, and a lofty style for an epic poem. In the following examples every one is sensible of an unsuitableness or incongruity: a little woman sunk in an overgrown farthingale, a coat richly embroidered covering coarse and dirty linen, a mean subject in an elevated style, or an elevated subject in a mean style, a first minister darning his wife’s stocking, or a reverend prelate in lawn sleeves dancing a hornpipe.

But it is not sufficient that these terms be understood in practice; the critical art requires, that their meaning be traced to its foundation in human nature. The relations that connect objects together, have been examined in more than one view. Their influence in directing the train of our perceptions, is handled in the first chapter; and in the second, their influence in generating passion. Here they must be handled in a new view; for they are clearly the occasion of congruity and propriety. We are so framed by nature, as to require a certain suitableness or correspondence among things connected by any relation. This suitableness {6}or correspondence is termed congruity or propriety; and the want of it, incongruity or impropriety. Among the many principles that compose the nature of man, a sense of congruity or propriety is one. Destitute of this sense, we could have no notion of congruity or propriety: the terms to us would be unintelligible[2].

As this sense is displayed upon relations, it is reasonable beforehand {7}to expect, that we should be so formed, as to require among connected objects a degree of congruity proportioned to the degree of the relation. And upon examination we find this to hold in fact. Where the relation is strong and intimate as betwixt a cause and its effect, a body and its members, we require that the things be suited to each other in the strictest manner. On the other hand, where the relation is slight, or accidental, as among things jumbled together in the same place, we demand little or no congruity. The strictest propriety is required in behaviour and manner of living; because a man is connected with these by the relation of cause and effect. The situation of a great house ought to be lofty; for the relation betwixt an edifice and the ground it stands upon, is of the most intimate kind. Its relation to neighbouring hills, rivers, plains, being that of propinquity only, demands but a small share of congruity. Among members of the same club, the congruity ought to be considerable, as well as among things placed for show in the same niche. Among passengers in a stage-coach, we {8}require very little congruity; and less still at a public spectacle.

Congruity is so nearly allied to beauty, as commonly to be held a species of it. And yet they differ so essentially, as never to coincide. Beauty, like colour, is placed upon a single subject; congruity upon a plurality. Further, a thing beautiful in itself, may, with relation to other things, produce the strongest sense of incongruity.

Congruity and propriety are commonly reckoned synonymous terms; and hitherto in opening the subject they are used indifferently. But they are distinguishable; and the precise meaning of each must be ascertained. Congruity is the genus, of which propriety is a species. For we call nothing propriety, but that congruity or suitableness which ought to subsist betwixt sensible beings and their thoughts, words, and actions.

In order to give a full view of this subject, I shall trace it through some of the most considerable relations. The relation of a part to the whole, being extremely intimate, demands the utmost degree of congruity. For that reason, the slightest devia{9}tion is disgustful. Every one must be sensible of a gross incongruity in the Lutrin, a burlesque poem, being closed with a serious and warm panegyric on Lamoignon, one of the King’s judges:

No relation affords more examples of congruity and incongruity, than that betwixt a subject and its ornaments. A literary performance intended merely for amusement, is susceptible of much ornament, as well as a music-room or a play-house. In gaiety, the mind hath a peculiar relish for show and decoration. The most gorgeous apparel, however unsuitable to an actor in a regular tragedy, disgusts not at an opera. The truth is, an opera, in its present form, is a mighty fine thing; but as it deviates from nature in its capital circumstances, we look not for any thing natural in those which are accessory. On the other hand, a serious and important subject, admits not much or{10}nament[3]: nor a subject that of itself is extremely beautiful. And a subject that fills the mind with its loftiness and grandeur, appears best in a dress altogether plain.

To a person of a mean appearance, gorgeous apparel is unsuitable: which, beside the incongruity, has a bad effect; for by contrast it shows the meanness of appearance in the strongest light. Sweetness of look and manner, requires simplicity of dress joined with the greatest elegance. A stately and majestic air requires sumptuous apparel, which ought not to be gaudy, or crowded with little ornaments. A woman of consummate beauty can bear to be highly adorned, and yet shows best in a plain dress:

In judging of the propriety of ornament, we must attend, not only to the nature of the subject that is to be adorned, but also to the circumstances in which it is placed. The ornaments that are proper for a ball, will appear not altogether so decent at public worship; and the same person ought to dress differently for a marriage-feast and for a burial.

Nothing is more intimately related to a man, than his sentiments, words, and actions; and therefore we require here the strictest conformity. When we find what we thus require, we have a lively sense of propriety: when we find the contrary, our sense of impropriety is not less lively. Hence the universal distaste of affectation, which consists in making a shew of greater delicacy and refinement than is suited either to the character or circumstances of the person. Nothing hath a worse effect in a story than impropriety of manners. In Corneille’s tragedy of Cinna, Æmilia, a favourite of Augustus, receives daily marks of his affection, and is loaded with benefits; yet all the while is laying plots to assassinate her be{12}nefactor, directed by no other motive but to avenge her father’s death[4]. Revenge against a benefactor founded solely upon filial piety, will never suggest unlawful means; because it can never exceed the bounds of justice. And yet the crime here attempted, murder under trust reposed, is what even a miscreant will scarce attempt against his bitterest enemy.

What is said may be thought sufficient to explain the qualities of congruity and propriety. But the subject is not exhausted. On the contrary, the prospect enlarges upon us, when we take under view the effects these qualities produce in the mind. Congruity and propriety, where-ever perceived, appear agreeable; and every agreeable object produceth in the mind a pleasant emotion. Incongruity and impropriety, on the other hand, are disagreeable; and consequently produce painful emotions. An emotion of this kind sometimes vanisheth without any consequence; but more frequently is the occasion of other emotions.{13} When any slight incongruity is perceived in an accidental combination of persons or things, as of passengers in a stage-coach or of individuals dining at an ordinary, the emotion of incongruity, after a momentary existence, vanisheth without producing any effect. But this is not the case of propriety and impropriety. Voluntary acts, whether words or deeds, are imputed to the author: when proper, we reward him with our esteem: when improper, we punish him with our contempt. Let us suppose, for example, an heroic action suitable to the character of the author, which raises in him and in every spectator the pleasant emotion of propriety. This emotion generates in the author both self-esteem and joy; the former when he considers his relation to the action, and the latter when he considers the good opinion that others will entertain of him. The same emotion of propriety, produceth in the spectators, esteem for the author of the action: and when they think of themselves, it also produceth, by means of contrast, an emotion of humility. To discover the effects of an unsuitable action,{14} we must invert each of these circumstances. The painful emotion of impropriety, generates in the author of the action both humility and shame; the former when he considers his relation to the action, and the latter when he considers what others will think of him. The same emotion of impropriety, produceth in the spectators, contempt for the author of the action; and it also produceth, by means of contrast when they think of themselves, an emotion of self-esteem. Here then are many different emotions, derived from the same action considered in different views by different persons; a machine provided with many springs, and not a little complicated. Propriety of action, it would seem, is a chief favourite of nature, or of the author of nature, when such care and solicitude is bestowed upon it. It is not left to our own choice; but, like justice, is required at our hands; and, like justice, inforced by natural rewards and punishments. A man cannot, with impunity, do any thing unbecoming or improper. He suffers the chastisement of contempt inflicted by others, and of shame inflicted by himself. An ap{15}paratus so complicated and so singular, ought to rouse our attention. Nature doth nothing in vain; and we may conclude with great certainty, that this curious branch of the human constitution is intended for some valuable purpose. To the discovery of this purpose I shall with ardor apply my thoughts, after discoursing a little more at large upon the punishment, for I may now call it so, that Nature hath provided for indecent or unbecoming behaviour. This, at any rate, is necessary, in order to give a full view of the subject; and who knows whether it may not, over and above, open some track that will lead us to what we are in quest of?

A gross impropriety is punished with contempt and indignation, which are vented against the offender by every external expression that can gratify these passions. And even the slightest impropriety raises some degree of contempt. But there are improprieties, generally of the slighter kind, that provoke laughter; of which we have examples without end in the blunders and absurdities of our own species. Such{16} improprieties receive a different punishment, as will appear by what follows. The emotions of contempt and of laughter occasioned by an impropriety of this kind, uniting intimately in the mind of the spectator, are expressed externally by a peculiar sort of laugh, termed a laugh of derision or scorn[5]. An impropriety that thus moves not only contempt but laughter, is distinguished by the epithet of ridiculous; and a laugh of derision or scorn is the punishment provided for it by nature. Nor ought it to escape observation, that we are so fond of inflicting this punishment, as sometimes to exert it even against creatures of an inferior species; witness a Turkycock swelling with pride, and strutting with displayed feathers. This object appears ridiculous, and in a gay mood is apt to provoke a laugh of derision.

We must not expect that the improprieties to which these different punishments are adapted, can be separated by any precise boundaries. Of improprieties, from the{17} slightest to the most gross, from the most risible to the most serious, a scale may be formed ascending by degrees almost imperceptible. Hence it is, that in viewing some unbecoming actions, too risible for anger and too serious for derision, the spectator feels a sort of mixt emotion partaking both of derision and of anger. This accounts for an expression, common with respect to the impropriety of some actions, That we know not whether to laugh or be angry.

It cannot fail to be observed, that in the case of a risible impropriety, which is always slight, the contempt we have for the offender is extremely faint, though derision, its gratification, is extremely pleasant. This disproportion betwixt a passion and its gratification, seems not conformable to the analogy of nature. In looking about for a solution, I reflect upon what is laid down above, that an improper action, not only moves our contempt for the author, but also, by means of contrast, swells the good opinion we have of ourselves. This contributes, more than any other article, to the pleasure we feel in ridiculing the follies and{18} absurdities of others. And accordingly, it is well known, that they who put the greatest value upon themselves, are the most prone to laugh at others. Pride is a vivid passion, as all are which have self for their object. It is extremely pleasant in itself, and not less so in its gratification. This passion singly would be sufficient to account for the pleasure of ridicule, without borrowing any aid from contempt. Hence appears the reason of a noted observation, That we are the most disposed to ridicule the blunders and absurdities of others, when we are in high spirits; for in high spirits, self-conceit displays itself with more than ordinary vigor.

Having with wary steps traced an intricate road, not without danger of wandering; what remains to complete our journey, is to account for the final cause of congruity and propriety, which make so great a figure in the human constitution. One final cause, regarding congruity, is pretty obvious. The sense of congruity, as one of the principles of the fine arts, contributes in a remarkable degree to our entertainment.{19} This is the final cause assigned above for our sense of proportion[6], and need not be enlarged upon here. Congruity indeed with respect to quantity, coincides with proportion. When the parts of a building are nicely adjusted to each other, it may be said indifferently, that it is agreeable by the congruity of its parts, or by the proportion of its parts. But propriety, which regards voluntary agents only, can never in any instance be the same with proportion. A very long nose is disproportioned, but cannot be termed improper. In some instances, it is true, impropriety coincides with disproportion in the same subject, but never in the same respect. I give for an example a very little man buckled to a long toledo. Considering the man and the sword with respect to size, we perceive a disproportion. Considering the sword as the choice of the man, we perceive an impropriety.

The sense of impropriety with respect to mistakes, blunders, and absurdities, is happily contrived for the good of mankind.{20} In the spectators it is productive of mirth and laughter, excellent recreation in an interval from business. The benefit is still more extensive. It is not agreeable to be the subject of ridicule; and to punish with ridicule the man who is guilty of an absurdity, tends to put him more upon his guard in time coming. Thus even the most innocent blunder is not committed with impunity; because, were errors licensed where they do no hurt, inattention would grow into a habit, and be the occasion of much hurt.

The final cause of propriety as to moral duties, is of all the most illustrious. To have a just notion of it, the two sorts of moral duties must be kept in view, viz. those that respect others, and those that respect ourselves. Fidelity, gratitude, and the forbearing injury, are examples of the first sort; temperance, modesty, firmness of mind, are examples of the other. The former are made duties by means of the moral sense; the latter, by means of the sense of propriety. Here is a final cause of the sense of propriety, that must rouse our attention.{21} It is undoubtedly the interest of every man, to regulate his behaviour suitably to the dignity of his nature, and to the station allotted him by Providence. Such rational conduct contributes in every respect to happiness: it contributes to health and plenty: it gains the esteem of others: and, which is of all the greatest blessing, it gains a justly-founded self-esteem. But in a matter so essential to our well-being, even self-interest is not relied on. The sense of propriety superadds the powerful authority of duty to the motive of interest. The God of nature, in all things essential to our happiness, hath observed one uniform method. To keep us steady in our conduct, he hath fortified us with natural principles and feelings. These prevent many aberrations, which would daily happen were we totally surrendered to so fallible a guide as is human reason. The sense of propriety cannot justly be considered in another light, than as the natural law that regulates our conduct with respect to ourselves; as the sense of justice is the natural law that regulates our conduct with respect to others. I call the sense of{22} propriety a law, because it really is so, not less than the sense of justice. If by law be meant a rule of conduct that we are conscious ought to be obeyed, this definition, which I conceive to be strictly accurate, is applicable undoubtedly to both. The sense of propriety includes this consciousness; for to say an action is proper, is, in other words, to say, that it ought to be performed; and to say it is improper, is, in other words, to say, that it ought to be forborn. It is this very consciousness of ought and should included in the moral sense, that makes justice a law to us. This consciousness of duty, when applied to propriety, is perhaps not so vigorous or strong as when applied to justice: but the difference is in degree only, not in kind: and we ought, without hesitation or reluctance, to submit equally to the government of both.

But I have more to urge upon this head. It must, in the next place, be observed, that to the sense of propriety as well as of justice are annexed the sanctions of rewards and punishments; which evidently prove the one to be a law as well as the other. The{23} satisfaction a man hath in doing his duty, joined with the esteem and good-will of others, is the reward that belongs to both equally. The punishments also, though not the same, are nearly allied; and differ in degree more than in quality. Disobedience to the law of justice, is punished with remorse; disobedience to the law of propriety, with shame, which is remorse in a lower degree. Every transgression of the law of justice raises indignation in the beholder; and so doth every flagrant transgression of the law of propriety. Slighter improprieties receive a milder punishment: they are always rebuked with some degree of contempt, and frequently with derision. In general, it is true, that the rewards and punishments annexed to the sense of propriety are slighter in degree than those annexed to the sense of justice. And that this is wisely ordered, will appear from considering, that to the well-being of society, duty to others is still more essential than duty to ourselves; for society could not subsist a moment, were individuals not protected from the headstrong and turbulent passions of their neighbours.{24}

Reflecting coolly and carefully upon the subject under consideration, the constitution of man, admirable in all its parts, appears here in a fine light. The final cause now unfolded of the sense of propriety, must, to every discerning eye, appear delightful; and yet hitherto we have given but a partial view of it. The sense of propriety reaches another illustrious end; which is, to co-operate with the sense of justice in inforcing the performance of social duties. In fact, the sanctions visibly contrived to compel a man to be just to himself, are equally serviceable to compel him to be just to others. This will be evident from a single reflection, That an action, by being unjust, ceases not to be improper. An action never appears more eminently improper, than when it is unjust. It is obviously becoming and suitable to human nature, that each man do his duty to others; and accordingly every transgression of duty with respect to others, is at the same time a transgression of duty with respect to self. This is an undisguised truth without exaggeration; and it opens a new and delightful view in the moral land{25}scape. The prospect is greatly enriched, by the multiplication of agreeable objects. It appears now, that nothing is overlooked, nothing left undone, that can possibly contribute to the enforcing social duty. For to all the sanctions that belong to it singly, are superadded the sanctions of self-duty. A familiar example shall suffice for illustration. An act of ingratitude considered in itself, is to the author disagreeable as well as to every spectator: considered by the author with relation to himself, it raises self-contempt: considered by him with relation to the world, it makes him ashamed. Again, considered by others, it raises their contempt and indignation against the author. These feelings are all of them occasioned by the impropriety of the action. When the action is considered as unjust, it occasions another set of feelings. In the author it produces remorse, and a dread of merited punishment; and in others, the benefactor chiefly, indignation and hatred directed upon the ungrateful person. Thus shame and remorse united in the ungrateful{26} person, and indignation united with hatred in the hearts of others, are the punishments provided by nature for injustice. Stupid and insensible must he be in extreme, who, in a contrivance so exquisite, perceives not the hand of the Sovereign Architect.{27}

CHAP. XI

Of Dignity and Meanness.

THese terms are applied to man in point of character, sentiment, and behaviour. We say, for example, of one man, that he hath a natural dignity in his air and manner; of another, that he makes a mean figure. There is a dignity in every action and sentiment of some persons: the actions and sentiments of others are mean and vulgar. With respect to the fine arts, some performances are said to be manly and suitable to the dignity of human nature: others are termed low, mean, trivial. Such expressions are common, though they have not always a precise meaning. With respect to the art of criticism, it must be a real acquisition to ascertain what these terms truly import; which possibly may enable us to rank every performance in the fine arts according to its dignity.{28}

Inquiring first to what subjects the terms dignity and meanness are appropriated, we soon discover, that they are not applicable to any thing inanimate. The most magnificent palace ever built, may be lofty, may be grand, but it has no relation to dignity. The most diminutive shrub may be little, but it is not mean. These terms must belong to sensitive beings, probably to man only; which will be evident when we advance in the inquiry.

Of all objects, human actions produce in a spectator the greatest variety of feelings. They are in themselves grand or little: with respect to the author, they are proper or improper: with respect to those affected by them, just or unjust. And I must now add, that they are also distinguished by dignity and meanness. It may possibly be thought, that with respect to human actions, dignity coincides with grandeur, and meanness with littleness. But the difference will be evident upon reflecting, that we never attribute dignity to any action but what is virtuous, nor meanness to any but what in some degree is faulty. But an ac{29}tion may be grand without being virtuous, or little without being faulty. Every action of dignity creates respect and esteem for the author; and a mean action draws upon him contempt. A man is always admired for a grand action, but frequently is neither loved nor esteemed for it: neither is a man always contemned for a low or little action.

As it appears to me, dignity and meanness are founded on a natural principle not hitherto mentioned. Man is endued with a sense of the worth and excellence of his nature. He deems it to be more perfect than that of the other beings around him; and he feels that the perfection of his nature consists in virtue, particularly in virtue of the highest rank. To express this sense, the term dignity is appropriated. Further, to behave with dignity, and to refrain from all mean actions, is felt to be, not a virtue only, but a duty: it is a duty every man owes to himself. By acting in this manner, he attracts love and esteem. By acting meanly or below himself, he is disapproved and contemned.{30}

According to the description here given of dignity and meanness, they will be found to be a species of propriety and impropriety. Many actions may be proper or improper, to which dignity or meanness cannot be applied. To eat when one is hungry is proper, but there is no dignity in this action. Revenge fairly taken, if against law, is improper, but it is not mean. But every action of dignity is also proper, and every mean action is also improper.

This sense of the dignity of human nature, reaches even our pleasures and amusements. If they enlarge the mind by raising grand or elevated emotions, or if they humanize the mind by exercising our sympathy, they are approved as suited to our nature: if they contract the mind by fixing it on trivial objects, they are contemned as low and mean. Hence in general, every occupation, whether of use or amusement, that corresponds to the dignity of man, obtains the epithet of manly; and every occupation below his nature, obtains the epithet of childish.

To those who study human nature, there{31} is a point which has always appeared intricate. How comes it that generosity and courage are more valued and bestow more dignity, than good-nature, or even justice, though the latter contribute more than the former, to private as well as to public happiness? This question bluntly proposed, might puzzle a cunning philosopher; but by means of the foregoing observations will easily be solved. Human virtues, like other objects, obtain a rank in our estimation, not from their utility, which is a subject of reflection, but from the direct impression they make on us. Justice and good-nature are a sort of negative virtues, that make no figure unless when they are transgressed. Courage and generosity producing elevated emotions, enliven greatly the sense of a man’s dignity, both in himself and in others; and for that reason, courage and generosity are in higher regard than the other virtues mentioned. We describe them as grand and elevated, as of greater dignity, and more praise-worthy.

This leads us to examine more directly emotions and passions with respect to the{32} present subject. And it will not be difficult to form a scale of them, beginning at the meanest, and ascending gradually to those of the highest rank and dignity. Pleasure felt as at the organ of sense, named corporeal pleasure, is perceived to be low; and when indulged to excess, beyond what nature demands, is perceived also to be mean. Persons therefore of any delicacy, dissemble the pleasure they have in eating and drinking. The pleasures of the eye and ear, which have no organic feeling[7], are free from any sense of meanness; and for that reason are indulged without any shame. They even arise to a certain degree of dignity, when their objects are grand or elevated. The same is the case of the sympathetic passions. They raise the character considerably, when their objects are of importance. A virtuous person behaving with fortitude and dignity under the most cruel misfortunes, makes a capital figure; and the sympathising spectator feels in himself the same dignity. Sympathetic distress at{33} the same time never is mean: on the contrary, it is agreeable to the nature of a social being, and has the general approbation. The rank that love possesses in this scale, depends in a great measure on its object. It possesses a low place when founded on external properties merely; and is mean when bestowed upon a person of a rank much inferior without any extraordinary qualification. But when founded on the more elevated internal properties, it assumes a considerable degree of dignity. The same is the case of friendship. When gratitude is warm, it animates the mind; but it scarce rises to dignity. Joy bestows dignity when it proceeds from an elevated cause.

So far as I can gather from induction, dignity is not a property of any disagreeable passion. One is slight another severe, one depresses the mind another rouses and animates it; but there is no elevation, far less dignity, in any of them. Revenge, in particular, though it inflame and swell the mind, is not accompanied with dignity, not even with elevation. It is not however felt{34} as mean or groveling, unless when it takes indirect measures for its gratification. Shame and remorse, though they sink the spirits, are not mean. Pride, a disagreeable passion, bestows no dignity in the eye of a spectator. Vanity always appears mean; and extremely so where founded, as commonly happens, on trivial qualifications.

I proceed to the pleasures of the understanding, which possess a high rank in point of dignity. Of this every one will be sensible, when he considers the important truths that have been laid open by science; such as general theorems, and the general laws that govern the material and moral worlds. The pleasures of the understanding are suited to man as a rational and contemplative being; and they tend not a little to ennoble his nature. Even to the Deity he stretches his contemplations, which, in the discovery of infinite power wisdom and benevolence, afford delight of the most exalted kind. Hence it appears, that the fine arts studied as a rational science, afford entertainment of great dignity; superior far to what they afford as a subject of taste merely.{35}

But contemplation, though in itself valuable, is chiefly respected as subservient to action; for man is intended to be more an active than a contemplative being. He accordingly shows more dignity in action than in contemplation. Generosity, magnanimity, heroism, raise his character to the highest pitch. These best express the dignity of his nature, and advance him nearer to divinity than any other of his attributes.

By every production that shows art and contrivance, our curiosity is excited upon two points; first how it was made, and next to what end. Of the two, the latter is the more important inquiry, because the means are ever subordinate to the end; and in fact our curiosity is always more inflamed by the final than by the efficient cause. This preference is no where more visible, than in contemplating the works of nature. If in the efficient cause, wisdom and power be displayed, wisdom is not less conspicuous in the final cause; and from it only can we infer benevolence, which of all the divine attributes is to man the most{36} important. Having endeavoured to assign the efficient cause of dignity and meanness, and to unfold the principle on which they are founded, we proceed to explain the final cause of the dignity or meanness bestowed upon the several particulars above mentioned, beginning with corporeal pleasures. These, so far as useful, are like justice fenced with sufficient sanctions to prevent their being neglected. Hunger and thirst are painful sensations; and we are incited to animal love by a vigorous propensity. Were they dignified over and above with a place in a high class, they would infallibly overturn the balance of the mind, by outweighing the social affections. This is a satisfactory final cause for refusing to corporeal pleasures any degree of dignity. And the final cause is not less evident of their meanness, when they are indulged to excess. The more refined pleasures of external sense, conveyed by the eye and the ear from natural objects and from the fine arts, deserve a high place in our esteem, because of their singular and extensive utility. In some cases they arise to a considerable dig{37}nity. The very lowest pleasures of the kind, are never esteemed mean or groveling. The pleasure arising from wit, humour, ridicule, or from what is simply ludicrous, is useful, by relaxing the mind after the fatigue of more manly occupation. But the mind, when it surrenders itself to pleasure of this kind, loses its vigor, and sinks gradually into sloth. The place this pleasure occupies in point of dignity, is adjusted to these views. To make it useful as a relaxation, it is not branded with meanness. To prevent its usurpation, it is removed from this place but a single degree. No man values himself upon this pleasure, even during the gratification; and if more time have been given to it than is requisite for relaxation, a man looks back with some degree of shame.

In point of dignity, the social passions rise above the selfish, and much above the pleasures of the eye and ear. Man is by his nature a social being; and to qualify him for society, it is wisely contrived, that he should value himself more for being social than selfish.{38}

The excellency of man is chiefly discernible in the great improvements he is susceptible of in society. These, by perseverance, may be carried on progressively to higher and higher degrees of perfection, above any assignable limits; and, even abstracting from revelation, there is great probability, that the progress begun in this life will be completed in some future state. Now, as all valuable improvements proceed from the exercise of our rational faculties, the author of our nature, in order to excite us to a due use of these faculties, hath assigned a high rank to the pleasures of the understanding. Their utility, with respect to this life as well as a future, intitles them to this rank.

But as action is the end of all our improvements, virtuous actions justly possess the highest of all the ranks. These, I find, are by nature distributed into different classes, and the first in point of dignity assigned to actions which appear not the first in point of use. Generosity, for example, in the sense of mankind, is more respected than justice, though the latter is undoubtedly more essential to society. And magnanimi{39}ty, heroism, undaunted courage, rise still higher in our esteem. One would readily think, that the moral virtues should be esteemed according to their importance. Nature has here deviated from her ordinary path, and great wisdom is shown in the deviation. The efficient cause is explained above; and the final cause is explained in the Essays of morality and natural religion[8].{40}

CHAP. XII.

RIDICULE.

THis subject has puzzled and vexed all the critics. Aristotle gives a definition of ridicule, obscure and imperfect[9]. Cicero handles it at great length[10]; but without giving any satisfaction. He wanders in the dark, and misses the distinction betwixt risible and ridiculous. Quintilian is sensible of this distinction[11]; but has not attempted to explain it. Luckily this subject lies no longer in obscurity. A risible object produceth an emotion of laughter merely[12]. A ridiculous object is improper as well as risible; and produceth a mixt emotion, which is vented by a laugh of derision or scorn[13].{41}

Having therefore happily unravelled the abstruse and knotty part, I proceed to what may be thought further necessary upon this subject.

Burlesque is one great engine of ridicule. But it is not confined to that subject; for it is clearly distinguishable into burlesque that excites laughter merely, and burlesque that provokes derision or ridicule. A grave subject in which there is no impropriety, may be brought down by a certain colouring so as to be risible. This is the case of Virgil Travestie[14]. And it is the case of the Secchia Rapita[15]. The authors laugh first at every turn, in order to make their readers laugh. The Lutrin is a burlesque poem of the other sort. The author Boileau, lays hold of a low and trifling incident to expose the luxury, indolence, and contentious spirit of a set of monks. He turns the subject into ridicule by dressing it in the heroic style, and affecting to consider it as of the utmost dignity and importance; and though ridicule is the poet’s aim, he himself carries{42} all along a grave face, and never once bewrays a smile. The opposition betwixt the subject and the manner of handling it, is what produces the ridicule. In a composition of this kind, no image professedly ludicrous ought to have quarter; because such images destroy the contrast.

Though the burlesque that aims at ridicule, produces its effect by elevating the style far above the subject, yet it has limits beyond which the elevation ought not to be carried. The poet, consulting the imagination of his readers, ought to confine himself to such images as are lively and readily apprehended. A strained elevation, soaring above an ordinary reach of fancy, makes not a pleasant impression. The mind fatigued with being always upon the stretch, is soon disgusted; and if it perseveres, becomes thoughtless and indifferent. Further, a fiction gives no pleasure, unless where painted in so lively colours as to produce some perception of reality; which never can be done effectually where the images are formed with labour or difficulty. For these reasons, I cannot avoid condemning the Batrachomuo{43}machia said to be the composition of Homer. It is beyond the power of imagination, to form a clear and lively image of frogs and mice acting with the dignity of the highest of our species: nor can we form a conception of the reality of such an action, in any manner so distinct as to interest our affections even in the slightest degree.

The Rape of the Lock is of a character clearly distinguishable from those now mentioned. It is not properly a burlesque performance, but what may rather be termed an heroi-comical poem. It treats a gay and familiar subject, with pleasantry and with a moderate degree of dignity. The author puts not on a mask like Boileau, nor professes to make us laugh like Tassoni. The Rape of the Lock is a genteel and gay species of writing, less strained than the others mentioned; and is pleasant or ludicrous without having ridicule for its chief aim; giving way however to ridicule where it arises naturally from a particular character, such as that of Sir Plume. Addison’s Spectator upon the exercise of the fan[16] is ex{44}tremely gay and ludicrous, resembling in its subject the Rape of the Lock.

Humour belongs to the present chapter, because it is undoubtedly connected with ridicule. Congreve defines humour to be “a singular and unavoidable manner of doing or saying any thing, peculiar and natural to one man only, by which his speech and actions are distinguished from those of other men.” Were this definition just, a majestic and commanding air, which is a singular property, is humour; as also that natural flow of eloquence and correct elocution which is a rare talent. Nothing just or proper is denominated humour; nor any singularity of character, words, or actions, that is valued or respected. When we attend to the character of an humorist, we find that the peculiarity of this character lessens the man in our esteem: we find that this character arises from circumstances both risible and improper, and therefore in some measure ridiculous.

Humour in writing is very different from humour in character. When an author insists upon ludicrous subjects with a profess{45}ed purpose to make his readers laugh, he may be styled a ludicrous writer; but is scarce intitled to be styled a writer of humour. This quality belongs to an author, who, affecting to be grave and serious, paints his objects in such colours as to provoke mirth and laughter. A writer that is really an humorist in character, does this without design. If not, he must affect the character in order to succeed. Swift and Fontaine were humorists in character, and their writings are full of humour. Addison was not an humorist in character; and yet in his prose writings a most delicate and refined humour prevails. Arbuthnot exceeds them all in drollery and humorous painting; which shows a great genius, because, if I am not misinformed, he had nothing of this peculiarity in his character.

There remains to show, by examples, the manner of treating subjects so as to give them a ridiculous appearance.

In the following instances the ridicule is made to appear from the behaviour of the persons introduced.{47}

{49}

So sharp-sighted is pride in blemishes, and so willing to be gratified, that it will take up with the very slightest improprieties; such as a blunder by a foreigner in speaking our language, especially if the blunder can bear a sense that reflects upon the speaker:

Love-speeches are finely ridiculed in the following passage.

Irony turns things into ridicule in a peculiar manner. It consists in laughing at a man under disguise, by appearing to praise or speak well of him. Swift affords us many illustrious examples of this species of ridicule. Take the following example. “By these methods, in a few weeks, there starts up many a writer, capable of managing the profoundest and most{51} universal subjects. For what though his head be empty, provided his commonplace book be full? And if you will bate him but the circumstances of method, and style, and grammar, and invention; allow him but the common privileges of transcribing from others, and digressing from himself, as often as he shall see occasion; he will desire no more ingredients towards fitting up a treatise that shall make a very comely figure on a bookseller’s shelf, there to be preserved neat and clean, for a long eternity, adorned with the heraldry of its title, fairly inscribed on a label; never to be thumbed or greased by students, nor bound to everlasting chains of darkness in a library; but when the fullness of time is come, shall happily undergo the trial of purgatory, in order to ascend the sky[17].” The following passage from Arbuthnot is not less ironical. “If the Reverend clergy showed more concern than others, I charitably impute it to their great charge of souls; and what confirmed me in this{52} opinion was, that the degrees of apprehension and terror could be distinguished to be greater or less, according to their ranks and degrees in the church[18].”

A parody must be distinguished from every species of ridicule. It enlivens a gay subject by imitating some important incident that is serious. It is ludicrous, and may be risible. But ridicule is not a necessary ingredient. Take the following examples, the first of which refers to an expression of Moses.

The next is an imitation of Achilles’s oath in Homer.

The following imitates the history of Agamemnon’s sceptre in Homer.

Ridicule, as observed above, is no necessary ingredient in a parody. But I did not intend to say, that there is any opposition betwixt them. A parody, no doubt, may be successfully employed to promote ridi{54}cule; witness the following example, in which the goddess of Dullness is addressed upon the subject of modern education.

The interposition of the gods in the manner of Homer and Virgil, ought to be confined to ludicrous subjects, which are much enlivened by such interposition handled in the form of a parody; witness the cave of Spleen, Rape of the Lock, canto 4.; the goddess of Discord; Lutrin, canto 1.; and the goddess of Indolence, canto 2.

Those who have a talent for ridicule, which is seldom united with a taste for delicate and refined beauties, are quick-sighted in improprieties; and these they eagerly{55} lay hold of, in order to gratify their favourite propensity. The persons galled have no other refuge but to maintain, that ridicule ought not to be applied to grave subjects. It is yielded, on the other hand, that subjects really grave and important, are by no means fit for ridicule: but then it is urged, that ridicule is the only proper test for discovering whether a subject be really grave, or be made so artificially by custom and fashion. This dispute has produced a celebrated question, Whether ridicule be or be not a test of truth? I give this question a place here, because it tends to illustrate the nature of ridicule.

The question stated in accurate terms is, Whether the sense of ridicule be the proper test for distinguishing ridiculous objects from those that are not so? To answer this question with precision, I must premise, that ridicule is not a subject of reasoning, but of sense or taste[20]. This being taken for granted, I proceed thus. No person doubts that our sense of beauty is the true test of what{56} is beautiful, and our sense of grandeur, of what is great or sublime. Is it more doubtful whether our sense of ridicule be the true test of what is ridiculous? It is not only the true test, but indeed the only test. For this is a subject that comes not, more than beauty or grandeur, under the province of reason. If any subject, by the influence of fashion or custom, have acquired a degree of veneration or esteem to which naturally it is not intitled, what are the proper means for wiping off the artificial colouring, and displaying the subject in its true light? Reasoning, as observed, cannot be applied. And therefore the only means is to judge by taste. The test of ridicule which separates it from its artificial connections, exposes it naked with all its native improprieties.

But it is urged, that the gravest and most serious matters may be set in a ridiculous light. Hardly so; for where an object is neither risible nor improper, it lies not open in any quarter to an attack from ridicule. But supposing the fact, I foresee not any harmful consequence. By the same sort of reasoning, a talent for wit ought to be condemned, because it may be employed to{57} burlesque a great or lofty subject. Such irregular use made of a talent for wit or ridicule, cannot long impose upon mankind. It cannot stand the test of correct and delicate taste; and truth will at last prevail even with the vulgar. To condemn a talent for ridicule because it may be perverted to wrong purposes, is not a little ridiculous. Could one forbear to smile, if a talent for reasoning were condemned because it also may be perverted? And yet the conclusion in the latter case, would be not less just than in the former; perhaps more just, for no talent is so often perverted as that of reason.

We had best leave Nature to her own operations. The most valuable talents may be abused, and so may that of ridicule. Let us bring it under proper culture if we can, without endeavouring to pull it up by the root. Were we destitute of this test of truth, I know not what might be the consequences: I see not what rule would be left us to prevent splendid trifles passing for matters of importance, show and form for substance, and superstition or enthusiasm for pure religion.{58}

CHAP. XIII.

WIT.

WIt is a quality of certain thoughts and expressions. The term is never applied to an action or a passion, and as little to an external object.

However difficult it may be in every particular instance to distinguish a witty thought or expression from one that is not so, yet in general it may be laid down, that the term wit is appropriated to such thoughts and expressions as are ludicrous, and also occasion some degree of surprise by their singularity. Wit also in a figurative sense expresses that talent which some men have of inventing ludicrous thoughts or expressions. We say commonly, a witty man, or a man of wit.

Wit in its proper sense, as suggested above, is distinguishable into two kinds; wit in the thought, and wit in the words or expression. Again, wit in the thought is of{59} two kinds; ludicrous images, and ludicrous combinations of things that have little or no natural relation.

Ludicrous images that occasion surprise by their singularity, as having little or no foundation in nature, are fabricated by the imagination. And the imagination is well qualified for the office; being of all our faculties the most active, and the least under restraint. Take the following example.

The image here is undoubtedly witty. It is ludicrous: and it must occasion surprise; for having no natural foundation, it is altogether unexpected.

The other branch of wit in the thought, is that only which is taken notice of by Addison, following Locke, who defines it “to lie in the assemblage of ideas; and putting those together with quickness and variety, wherein can be found any resem{60}blance or congruity, thereby to make up pleasant pictures and agreeable visions in the fancy[21].” It may be defined more curtly, and perhaps more accurately, “A junction of things by distant and fanciful relations, which surprise because they are unexpected[22].” The following is a proper example.

Wit is of all the most elegant recreation. The image enters the mind with gaiety, and gives a sudden flash which is extremely pleasant. Wit thereby gently elevates without straining, raises mirth without dissoluteness, and relaxes while it entertains.

Wit in the expression, commonly called a play of words, being a bastard sort of wit,{61} is reserved for the last place. I proceed to examples of wit in the thought. And first of ludicrous images.

Falstaff, speaking of his taking Sir John Colevile of the Dale:

{62}

The other branch of wit in the thought, viz. ludicrous combinations and oppositions, may be traced through various ramifica{63}tions. And, first, fanciful causes assigned that have no natural relation to the effects produced.

Speaking of physicians,

To account for effects by such fantastical causes, being highly ludicrous, is quite im{66}proper in any serious composition. Therefore the following passage from Cowley, in his poem on the death of Sir Henry Wooton, is in a bad taste.

Fanciful reasoning,

{67}

Ludicrous junction of small things with great, as of equal importance.

Joining things that in appearance are opposite. As for example, where Sir Roger de Coverley, in the Spectator, speaking of his widow, “That he would have given her a coal-pit to have kept her in clean linen; and that her finger should have sparkled with one hundred of his richest acres.”

Premisses that promise much and perform nothing. Cicero upon this article says,{70} “Sed scitis esse notissimum ridiculi genus, cum aliud expectamus, aliud dicitur: hic nobismetipsis noster error risum movet[23].”

Again,

Again,

Having discussed wit in the thought, we proceed to what is verbal only, commonly called a play of words. This sort of wit depends for the most part upon chusing words that have different significations. By this artifice, hocus-pocus tricks are played in language; and thoughts plain and simple take on a very different appearance. Play is necessary for man, in order to refresh him after labour; and accordingly man loves play. He even relisheth a play of{72} words; and it is happy for us, that words can be employed, not only for useful purposes, but also for our amusement. This amusement accordingly, though humble and low, is relished by some at all times, and by all at some times, in order to unbend the mind.

It is remarkable, that this low species of wit, has, at one time or other, made a figure in most civilized nations, and has gradually gone into disrepute. So soon as a language is formed into a system, and the meaning of words are ascertained with tolerable accuracy, opportunity is afforded for expressions, which, by the double meaning of some words, give a familiar thought the appearance of being new. And the penetration of the reader or hearer, is gratified in detecting the true sense disguised under the double meaning. That this sort of wit was in England deemed a reputable amusement, during the reigns of Elisabeth and James I. is vouched by the works of Shakespear, and even by the writings of grave divines. But it cannot have any long endurance: for as language ripens, and the meaning of{73} words is more and more ascertained, words held to be synonymous diminish daily; and when those that remain have been more than once employed, the pleasure vanisheth with the novelty.

I proceed to examples, which, as in the former case, shall be distributed into different classes.

A seeming resemblance from the double meaning of a word.

A seeming contrast from the same cause, termed a verbal antithesis, which hath no despicable effect in ludicrous subjects.

Other seeming connections from the same cause.

A seeming inconsistency from the same cause.

Again,

Again,

Wit of this kind is unsuitable in a serious poem; witness the following line in Pop{76}e’s Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady:

This sort of writing is finely burlesqued by Swift:

Taking a word in a different sense from what is meant, comes under wit, because it occasions some slight degree of surprise.

An assertion that bears a double meaning, one right, one wrong; but so connected with other matters as to direct us to the wrong meaning. This species of bastard wit is distinguished from all others by the name pun. For example,

The pun is in the close. The word disarm has a double meaning. It signifies to take off a man’s armour, and also to subdue him in fight. We are directed to the latter sense by the context. But with regard to Helen the word holds only true in the former sense. I go on with other examples.

N. B. Jocondus was a monk.

{79}

The seventh satire of the first book of Horace, is purposely contrived to introduce at the close a most execrable pun. Talking of some infamous wretch whose name was Rex Rupilius.

Though playing with words is a mark of a mind at ease, and disposed for any sort of amusement, we must not thence conclude that playing with words is always ludicrous. Words are so intimately connected with{80} thought, that if the subject be really grave, it will not appear ludicrous even in this fantastic dress. I am, however, far from recommending it in any serious performance. On the contrary, the discordance betwixt the thought and expression must be disagreeable; witness the following specimen.

A smart repartee may be considered as a species of wit. A certain petulant Greek, objecting to Anacharsis that he was a Scythian: True, says Anacharsis, my country disgraces me, but you disgrace your country.{81}

CHAP. XIV.

Custom and Habit.

INquiring into the nature of man as a sensitive being, and finding him affected in a high degree with novelty, would any one conjecture that he is equally affected with custom? Yet these frequently take place, not only in the same person, but even with relation to the same subject: when new, it is inchanting; familiarity renders it indifferent; and custom, after a longer familiarity, makes it again desirable. Human nature, diversified with many and various springs of action, is wonderfully, and, indulging the expression, intricately constructed.

Custom hath such influence upon many of our feelings, by warping and varying them, that we must attend to its operations if we would be acquainted with human na{82}ture. This subject, in itself obscure, has been much neglected; and to give a complete analysis of it will be no easy task. I pretend only to touch it cursorily; hoping, however, that what is here laid down, will dispose more diligent inquirers to attempt further discoveries.

Custom respects the action, habit the actor. By custom we mean, a frequent reiteration of the same act; and by habit, the effect that custom has on the mind or body. This effect may be either active, witness the dexterity produced by custom in performing certain exercises; or passive, as when, by custom, a peculiar connection is formed betwixt a man and some agreeable object, which acquires thereby a greater power to raise emotions in him than it hath naturally. Active habits come not under the present undertaking; and therefore I confine myself to those that are passive.

This subject is thorny and intricate. Some pleasures are fortified by custom; and yet custom begets familiarity, and consequently{83} indifference[24]. In many instances, satiety and disgust are the consequences of reiteration. Again, though custom blunts the edge of distress and of pain; yet the want of any thing to which we have long been accustomed, is a sort of torture. A clue to guide us through all the intricacies of this labyrinth, would be an acceptable present.

Whatever be the cause, it is an established fact, that we are much influenced by custom. It hath an effect upon our pleasures, upon our actions, and even upon our thoughts and sentiments. Habit makes no figure during the vivacity of youth; in middle age it gains ground; and in old age it governs without control. In that period of life, generally speaking, we eat at a certain hour, take exercise at a certain hour, go to rest at a certain hour, all by the direction of habit. Nay a particular seat, table, bed, comes to be essential. And a habit in{84} any of these, cannot be contradicted without uneasiness.

Any slight or moderate pleasure frequently reiterated for a long time, forms a connection betwixt us and the thing that causes the pleasure. This connection, termed habit, has the effect to raise our desire or appetite for that thing when it returns not as usual. During the course of enjoyment, the pleasure grows insensibly stronger till a habit be established; at which time the pleasure is at its height. It continues not however stationary. The same customary reiteration which carried it to its height, brings it down again by insensible degrees, even lower than it was at first. But of this circumstance afterward. What at present we have in view, is to prove by experiments, that those things which at first are but moderately agreeable, are the aptest to become habitual. Spirituous liquors, at first scarce agreeable, readily produce an habitual appetite; and custom prevails so far, as even to make us fond of things originally disagreeable, such as coffee, assa-sœtida, and{85} tobacco. This is pleasantly illustrated by Congreve:

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A walk upon the quarterdeck, though intolerably confined, becomes however so agreeable by custom, that a sailor in his walk on shore, confines himself commonly within the same bounds. I knew a man who had relinquished the sea for a country-life. In the corner of his garden he reared an artificial mount with a level summit, resembling most accurately a quarterdeck, not only in shape but in size; and this was his choice walk. Play or gaming, at first barely amusing by the occupation it affords, becomes in time extremely agreeable; and is frequently prosecuted with avidity, as if it were the chief business of life. The same observation is applicable to the pleasures of the internal senses, those of knowledge and virtue in particular. Children have scarce any sense of these pleasures; and men very little, who are in the state of nature without culture. Our taste for virtue and knowledge improves slowly; but is capable of growing stronger than any other appetite in human nature.

To introduce a habit, frequency of acts is not alone sufficient: length of time is al{87}so necessary. The quickest succession of acts in a short time, is not sufficient; nor a slow succession in the longest time. The effect must be produced by a moderate soft action, and a long series of easy touches removed from each other by short intervals. Nor are these sufficient, without regularity in the time, place, and other circumstances of the action. The more uniform any operation is, the sooner it becomes habitual; and this holds equally in a passive habit. Variety in any remarkable degree, prevents the effect. Thus any particular food will scarce ever become habitual, where the manner of dressing is varied. The circumstances then requisite to augment any pleasure and at the long run to form a habit, are weak uniform acts, reiterated during a long course of time without any considerable interruption. Every agreeable cause which operates in this manner, will grow habitual.

Affection and aversion, as distinguished from passion on the one hand, and on the other from original disposition, are in reality habits respecting particular objects, acquired in the manner above set forth. The{88} pleasure of social intercourse with any person, must originally be faint, and frequently reiterated, in order to establish the habit of affection. Affection thus generated, whether it be friendship or love, seldom swells into any tumultuous or vigorous passion; but is however the strongest cement that can bind together two individuals of the human species. In like manner, a slight degree of disgust often reiterated with any degree of regularity, grows into the habit of aversion, which generally subsists for life.

Those objects of taste that are the most agreeable, are so far from having a tendency to become habitual, that too great indulgence fails not to produce satiety and disgust. No man contracts a habit of taking sugar, honey, or sweet-meats, as he doth of tobacco:

The same holds in the causes of all violent pleasures: these causes are not naturally susceptible of habit. Great passions suddenly raised are incompatible with a habit of any sort. In particular they never produce affection or aversion. A man who at first sight falls violently in love, has a strong desire of enjoyment, but no affection for the woman[25]. A man who is surprised{90} with an unexpected savour, burns for an opportunity to exert his gratitude, without having any affection for his benefactor. Neither does desire of vengeance for an atrocious injury involve aversion.

It is perhaps not easy to say why moderate pleasures gather strength by custom. But two causes concur to prevent this effect{91} in the more intense pleasures. These, by an original law in our nature, increase quickly to their full growth, and decay with no less precipitation[26]; and custom is too slow in its operation to overcome this law. Another cause is not less powerful. The mind is exhausted with pleasure as well as with pain. Exquisite pleasure is extremely fatiguing; occasioning, as a naturalist would say, great expence of animal spirits[27]. And therefore, of such the mind cannot bear so frequent gratification as to superinduce a habit. If the thing which raises the pleasure return before the mind have recovered its tone and relish, disgust ensues instead of pleasure.

A habit never fails to admonish us of the wonted time of gratification, by raising a pain for want of the object, and a desire to have it. The pain of want is always first felt; the desire naturally follows; and upon{92} presenting the object, both vanish instantaneously. Thus a man accustomed to tobacco, feels, at the end of the usual interval, a confused pain of want, which in its first appearance points at nothing in particular, though it soon settles upon its accustomed object. The same may be observed in persons addicted to drinking, who are often in an uneasy restless state before they think of their bottle. In pleasures indulged regularly and at equal intervals, the appetite, remarkably obsequious to custom, returns regularly with the usual time of gratification; and a sight of the object in the interim, has scarce any power to move it. This pain of want arising from habit, seems directly opposite to that of satiety. Singular it must appear, that frequency of gratification should produce effects so opposite as are the pains of excess and of want.

The appetites that respect the preservation and propagation of our species, are attended with a pain of want similar to that occasioned by habit. Hunger and thirst are uneasy sensations of want, which always precede the desire of eating or drink{93}ing: and a pain for want of carnal enjoyment precedes the desire of a proper object. The pain being thus felt independent of an object, cannot be cured but by gratification. An ordinary passion, in which desire precedes the pain of want, is in a different condition. It is never felt but while the object is in view; and therefore by removing the object out of thought, it vanisheth with its desire and pain of want[28].

These natural appetites above mentioned, differ from habit in the following particular, They have an undetermined direction toward all objects of gratification in general; whereas an habitual appetite is directed upon a particular object. The attachment we have by habit to a particular woman, differs widely from the natural passion which comprehends the whole sex; and the habitual relish for a particular dish, is far from being the same with a vague appetite for food. Notwithstanding this difference, it is still remarkable, that nature hath inforced the gratification of certain natural{94} appetites essential to the species, by a pain of the same sort with that which habit produceth.

The pain of habit is less under our power, than any other pain for want of gratification. Hunger and thirst are more easily endured, especially at first, than an unusual intermission of any habitual pleasure. We often hear persons declaring, they would forego sleep or food, rather than snuff or any other habitual trifle. We must not however conclude, that the gratification of an habitual appetite affords the same delight with the gratification of one that is natural. Far from it: the pain of want only is greater.

The slow and reiterated acts that produce a habit, strengthen the mind to enjoy the habitual pleasure in greater quantity and more frequency than originally; and by this means a habit of intemperate gratification is often formed. After unbounded acts of intemperance, the habitual relish is soon restored, and the pain for want of enjoyment returns with fresh vigor.

The causes of the pleasant emotions hitherto in view, are either an individual, such{95} as a companion, a certain dwelling-place, certain amusements, &c.; or a particular species, such as coffee, mutton, or any particular food. But habit is not confined to these. A constant train of trifling diversions, may form such a habit in the mind, as that it cannot be easy a moment without amusement. Variety in the objects prevents a habit as to any one in particular; but as the train is uniform with respect to amusement in general, the habit is formed accordingly; and this sort of habit may be denominated a generic habit, in opposition to the former, which may be called a specific habit. A habit of a town-life, of country-sports, of solitude, of reading, or of business, where sufficiently varied, are instances of generic habits. It ought to be remarked, that every specific habit hath a mixture of the generic. The habit of one particular sort of food, makes the taste agreeable; and we are fond of this taste where-ever found. A man deprived of an habitual object, takes up with what most resembles it: deprived of tobacco, any bitter herb will do, rather than want. The habit of drinking punch,{96} makes wine a good resource. A man accustomed to the sweet society and comforts of matrimony, being unhappily deprived of his beloved object, inclines the sooner to a second choice. In general, the quality which the most affects us in an habitual object, produceth, when we are deprived of it, a strong appetite for that quality in any other object.

The reasons are assigned above, why the causes of intense pleasure become not readily habitual. But now I must observe, that these reasons conclude only against specific habits. With regard to any particular object that is the cause of a weak pleasure, a habit is formed by frequency and uniformity of reiteration, which in the case of an intense pleasure cannot obtain without satiety and disgust. But it is remarkable, that satiety and disgust have no effect, except as to that thing which occasions them. A surfeit of honey produceth not a loathing of sugar; and intemperance with one woman, produceth no disrelish of the same pleasure with others. Hence it is easy to account for a generic habit in any strong pleasure.{97} The disgust of intemperance, is confined to the object by which it is produced. The delight we had in the gratification of the appetite, inflames the imagination, and makes us, with avidity, search for the same gratification in whatever other object it can be found. And thus frequency and uniformity in gratifying the same passion upon different objects, produceth at the longrun a habit. In this manner, a man acquires an habitual delight in high and poignant sauces, rich dress, fine equipage, crowds of company, and in whatever is commonly termed pleasure. There concurs at the same time to introduce this habit, a peculiarity observed above, that reiteration of acts enlarges the capacity of the mind, to admit a more plentiful gratification than originally, with regard to frequency as well as quantity.

Hence it appears, that though a specific habit can only take place in the case of a moderate pleasure, yet that a generic habit may be formed with respect to every sort of pleasure, moderate or immoderate, that can be gratified by a variety of objects indifferently. The only difference is, that any par{98}ticular object which causes a weak pleasure, runs naturally into a specific habit; whereas a particular object that causes an intense pleasure, is altogether incapable of such a habit. In a word, it is but in singular cases that a moderate pleasure produces a generic habit: an intense pleasure, on the other hand, cannot produce any other habit.

The appetites that respect the preservation and propagation of the species, are formed into habit in a peculiar manner. The time as well as measure of their gratification, are much under the power of custom; which, by introducing a change upon the body, occasions a proportional change in the appetites. Thus, if the body be gradually formed to a certain quantity of food at regular times, the appetite is regulated accordingly; and the appetite is again changed when a different habit of body is introduced by a different practice. Here it would seem, that the change is not made upon the mind, which is commonly the case in passive habits, but only upon the body.

When rich food is brought down by ingredients of a plainer taste, the composition{99} is susceptible of a specific habit. Thus the sweet taste of sugar, rendered less poignant in a mixture, may, in course of time, produce a specific habit for such mixture. As moderate pleasures, by becoming more intense, tend to generic habits; so intense pleasures, by becoming more moderate, tend to specific habits.

The beauty of the human figure, by a special recommendation of nature, appears to us supreme, amid the great variety of beauteous forms bestowed upon animals. The various degrees in which individuals enjoy this property, render it an object sometimes of a moderate sometimes of an intense passion. The moderate passion, admitting frequent reiteration without diminution, and occupying the mind without exhausting it, becomes gradually stronger till it settle in a habit. So true this is, that instances are not wanting, of an ugly face, at first disagreeable, afterward rendered indifferent by familiarity, and at the longrun agreeable. On the other hand, consummate beauty, at the very first view, fills the mind so as to admit no increase. En{100}joyment in this case lessens the pleasure[29]; and if often repeated, ends commonly in satiety and disgust. Constant experience shows, that the emotions created by great beauty become weaker by familiarity. The impressions made successively by such an object, strong at first and lessening by degrees, constitute a series opposite to that of the weak and increasing emotions, which grow into a specific habit. But the mind, when accustomed to beauty, contracts a relish for it in general, though often repelled from particular objects by the pain of satiety. Thus a generic habit is formed, of which inconstancy in love is the necessary consequence. For a generic habit, comprehending every beautiful object, is an invincible obstruction to a specific habit, which is confined to one.

But a matter which is of great importance to the youth of both sexes, deserves more than a cursory view. Though the pleasant emotion of beauty differs widely from the corporeal appetite, yet both may{101} concur upon the same object. When this is the case, they inflame the imagination; and produce a very strong complex passion[30], which is incapable of increase, because the mind as to pleasure is limited rather more than as to pain. Enjoyment in this case must be exquisite, and therefore more apt to produce satiety than in any other case whatever. This is a never-failing effect, where consummate beauty on the one side, meets with a warm imagination and great sensibility on the other. What I am here explaining, is the naked truth without exaggeration. They must be insensible upon whom this doctrine makes no impression; and it deserves well to be pondered by the young and the amorous, who in forming a society which is not dissolvable, are too often blindly impelled by the animal pleasure merely, inflamed by beauty. It may indeed happen after this pleasure is gone, and go it must with a swift pace, that a new connection is formed upon more dignified and more lasting principles. But{102} this is a dangerous experiment. For even supposing good sense, good temper, and internal merit of every sort, which is a very favourable supposition, yet a new connection upon these qualifications is rarely formed. It generally or rather always happens, that such qualifications, the only solid foundation of an indissoluble connection, are rendered altogether invisible by satiety of enjoyment creating disgust.

One effect of custom, different from any that have been explained, must not be omitted, because it makes a great figure in human nature. Custom augments moderate pleasures, and diminishes those that are intense. It has a different effect with respect to pain; for it blunts the edge of every sort of pain and distress great and small. Uninterrupted misery therefore is attended with one good effect. If its torments be incessant, custom hardens us to bear them.

It is extremely curious, to remark the gradual changes that are made in forming habits. Moderate pleasures are augmented gradually by reiteration till they become{103} habitual; and then are at their height. But they are not long stationary; for from that point they gradually decay till they vanish altogether. The pain occasioned by the want of gratification, runs a very different course. This pain increases uniformly; and at last becomes extreme, when the pleasure of gratification is reduced to nothing.

The effect of custom with relation to a specific habit, is displayed through all its varieties in the use of tobacco. The taste of this plant is at first extremely unpleasant. Our disgust lessens gradually till it vanish altogether; at which period the plant is neither agreeable nor disagreeable. Continuing the use, we begin to relish it; and our relish increases by use till it come to its utmost extent. From this state it gradually decays, while the habit becomes stronger{104} and stronger, and consequently the pain of want. The result is, that when the habit has acquired its greatest vigor, the pleasure of gratification is gone. And hence it is, that we often smoke and take snuff habitually, without so much as being conscious of the operation. We must except gratification after the pain of want; because gratification in that case is at the height when the habit is strongest. It is of the same kind with the joy one feels upon being delivered from the rack, the cause of which is explained above[31]. This pleasure however is but occasionally the effect of habit; and however exquisite, is guarded against as much as possible, by preventing want.

With regard to the pain of want, I can discover no difference betwixt a generic and specific habit: the pain is the same in both. But these habits differ widely with respect to the positive pleasure. I have had occasion to observe, that the pleasure of a specific habit decays gradually till it become imperceptible. Not so the pleasure of a ge{105}neric habit. So far as I can discover, this pleasure suffers little or no decay after it comes to its height. The variety of gratification preserves it entire. However it may be with other generic habits, the observation I am certain holds with respect to the pleasures of virtue and of knowledge. The pleasure of doing good has such an unbounded scope, and may be so variously gratified, that it can never decay. Science is equally unbounded; and our appetite for knowledge has an ample range of gratification, where discoveries are recommended by novelty, by variety, by utility, or by all of them.

Here is a large field of facts and experiments, and several phenomena unfolded, the causes of which have been occasionally suggested. The efficient cause of the power of custom over man, a fundamental point in the present chapter, has unhappily evaded my keenest search; and now I am reduced to hold it an original branch of the human constitution, though I have no better reason for my opinion, than that I cannot resolve it into any other principle. But with respect{106} to the final cause, a point of still greater importance, I promise myself more success. It cannot indeed have escaped any thinking person, that the power of custom is a happy contrivance for our good. Exquisite pleasure produceth satiety: moderate pleasure becomes stronger by custom. Business is our province, and pleasure our relaxation only. Hence, satiety is necessary to check exquisite pleasures, which otherwise would ingross the mind, and unqualify us for business. On the other hand, habitual increase of moderate pleasure, and even conversion of pain into pleasure, are admirably contrived for disappointing the malice of Fortune, and for reconciling us to whatever course of life may be our lot:

The foregoing distinction betwixt intense{107} and moderate, holds in pleasure only, not in pain, every degree of which is softened by time and custom. Custom is a catholicon for pain and distress of every sort; and of this regulation the final cause is so evident as to require no illustration.

Another final cause of custom will be highly relished by every person of humanity; and yet has in a great measure been overlooked. Custom hath a greater influence than any other known principle, to put the rich and poor upon a level. Weak pleasures, which fall to the share of the latter, become fortunately stronger by custom; while voluptuous pleasures, the lot of the former, are continually losing ground by satiety. Men of fortune, who possess palaces, sumptuous gardens, rich fields, enjoy them less than passengers do. The goods of Fortune are not unequally distributed: the opulent possess what others enjoy.

And indeed, if it be the effect of habit to produce the pain of want in a high degree while there is little pleasure in enjoyment, a voluptuous life is of all the least to be envied. Those who are accustomed{108} to high feeding, easy vehicles, rich furniture, a crowd of valets, much deference and flattery, enjoy but a small share of happiness, while they are exposed to manifold distresses. To such a man, inslaved by ease and luxury, even the petty inconveniencies of a rough road, bad weather, or homely fare on a journey, are serious evils. He loses his tone of mind, becomes peevish, and would wreak his resentment even upon the common accidents of life. Better far to use the goods of Fortune with moderation. A man who by temperance and activity has acquired a hardy constitution, is, on the one hand, guarded against external accidents, and is, on the other, provided with great variety of enjoyment ever at command.

I shall close this chapter with the discussion of a question more delicate than abstruse, viz. What authority custom ought to have over our taste in the fine arts? It is proper to be premised, that we chearfully abandon to its authority every thing that nature leaves to our choice, and where the preference we bestow has no foundation other than whim or fancy. There appears{109} no original difference betwixt the right and the left hand: custom however has established a difference, so as to make it aukward and disagreeable to use the left where the right is commonly used. The various colours, though they affect us differently, are all of them agreeable in their purity. But custom has regulated this matter in another manner: a black skin upon a human creature, is to us disagreeable; and a white skin probably not less so to a negro. Thus things originally indifferent, become agreeable or disagreeable by the force of custom. Nor ought this to be surprising after the discovery made above, that the original agreeableness or disagreeableness of an object, is, by the influence of custom, often converted into the opposite quality.

Concerning now those matters of taste where there is naturally a preference of one thing before another; it is certain, in the first place, that our faint and more delicate feelings are readily susceptible of a bias from custom; and therefore that it is no proof of a defective taste, to find these in some measure under the government of custom.{110} Dress, and the modes of external behaviour, are justly regulated by custom in every country. The deep red or vermilion with which the ladies in France cover their cheeks, appears to them beautiful in spite of nature; and strangers cannot altogether be justified in condemning this practice, considering the lawful authority of custom, or of the fashion, as it is called. It is told of the people who inhabit the skirts of the Alps facing the north, that the swelling they universally have in the neck is to them agreeable. So far has custom power to change the nature of things, and to make an object originally disagreeable take on an opposite appearance.

But as to the emotions of propriety and impropriety, and in general as to all emotions involving the sense of right or wrong, custom has little authority, and ought to have none at all. Emotions of this kind, being qualified with the consciousness of duty, take naturally place of every other feeling; and it argues a shameful weakness or degeneracy of mind, to find them in any case so far subdued as to submit to custom.{111}

These few hints may enable us to judge in some measure of foreign manners, whether exhibited by foreign writers or our own. A comparison betwixt the ancients and the moderns, was some time ago a favourite subject. Those who declared for the former, thought it a sufficient justification of ancient manners, that they were supported by the authority of custom. Their antagonists, on the other hand, refusing submission to custom as a standard of taste, condemned ancient manners in several instances as irrational. In this controversy, an appeal being made to different principles, without the slightest attempt on either side to establish a common standard, the dispute could have no end. The hints above given tend to establish a standard, for judging how far the lawful authority of custom may be extended, and within what limits it ought to be confined. For the sake of illustration, we shall apply this standard in a few instances.

Human sacrifices, the cruellest effect of blind and groveling superstition, wore gradually out of use by the prevalence of rea{112}son and humanity. In the days of Sophocles and Euripides, the traces of this savage practice were still recent; and the Athenians, through the prevalence of custom, could without disgust suffer human sacrifices to be represented in their theatre. The Iphigenia of Euripides is a proof of this fact. But a human sacrifice, being altogether inconsistent with modern manners, as producing horror instead of pity, cannot with any propriety be introduced upon a modern stage. I must therefore condemn the Iphigenia of Racine, which, instead of the tender and sympathetic passions, substitutes disgust and horror. But this is not all. Another objection occurs against every fable that deviates so remarkably from improved notions and sentiments. If it should even command our belief, by the authority of genuine history, its fictitious and unnatural appearance, however, would prevent its taking such hold of the mind as to produce a perception of reality[32]. A human sacrifice is so unnatural, and to us so improbable,{113} that few will be affected with the representation of it more than with a fairy tale. The objection first mentioned strikes also against the Phedra of this author. The queen’s passion for her stepson, being unnatural and beyond all bounds, creates aversion and horror rather than compassion. The author in his preface observes, that the queen’s passion, however unnatural, was the effect of destiny and the wrath of the gods; and he puts the same excuse in her own mouth. But what is the wrath of a heathen god to us Christians? We acknowledge no destiny in passion; and if love be unnatural, it never can be relished. A supposition, like what our author lays hold of, may possibly cover slight improprieties; but it will never engage our sympathy for what appears to us frantic or extravagant.

Neither can I relish the catastrophe of this tragedy. A man of taste may peruse, without disgust, a Grecian performance describing a sea-monster sent by Neptune to destroy Hippolytus. He considers, that such a story might agree with the religious creed of Greece; and, entering into ancient opi{114}nions, may be pleased with the story, as what probably had a strong effect upon a Grecian audience. But he cannot have the same indulgence for such a representation upon a modern stage; for no story which carries a violent air of fiction, can ever move us in any considerable degree.

In the Coëphores of Eschylus[33], Orestes is made to say, that he was commanded by Apollo to avenge his father’s murder; and yet if he obeyed, that he was to be delivered to the furies, or be struck with some horrible malady. The tragedy accordingly concludes with a chorus, deploring the fate of Orestes, obliged to take vengeance against a mother, and involved thereby in a crime against his will. It is impossible for any man at present to accommodate his mind to opinions so irrational and absurd, which must disgust him in perusing even a Grecian story. Among the Greeks again, grossly superstitious, it was a common opinion, that the report of a man’s death was a presage of his death; and Orestes, in{115} the first act of Electra, spreading a report of his own death in order to blind his mother and her adulterer, is even in this case affected with the presage. Such imbecility can never find grace with a modern audience. It may indeed produce some degree of compassion for a people afflicted to such a degree with absurd terrors, similar to what is felt in perusing a description of the Hottentotes: but manners of this kind will not interest our affections, nor excite any degree of social concern.{116}

CHAP. XV.

External Signs of Emotions and Passions.

SO intimately connected are the soul and body, that there is not a single agitation in the former, but what produceth a visible effect upon the latter. There is, at the same time, a wonderful uniformity in this operation; each class of emotions being invariably attended with an external appearance peculiar to itself[34]. These external appearances or signs, may not improperly be considered as a natural language, expressing to all beholders the several emotions and passions as they arise in the heart. We perceive display’d externally, hope, fear, joy, grief: we can read the character of a man in his face; and{117} beauty, which makes so strong an impression, is known to result, not so much from regular features and a fine complexion, as from good nature, good sense, sprightliness, sweetness, or other mental quality, expressed some way upon the countenance. Though perfect skill in this language be rare, yet so much knowledge of it is diffused through mankind, as to be sufficient for the ordinary events of life. But by what means we come to understand this language, is a point of some intricacy. It cannot be by sight merely; for upon the most attentive inspection of the human visage, all that can be discerned are figure, colour, and motion; and yet these, singly or combined, never can represent a passion or a sentiment. The external sign is indeed visible. But to understand its meaning, we must be able to connect it with the passion that causes it; an operation far beyond the reach of eye-sight. Where then is the instructor to be found, that can unvail this secret connection? If we apply to experience, it is yielded, that from long and diligent observation, we may gather in some{118} measure in what manner those we are acquainted with express their passions externally. But with respect to strangers, of whom we have no experience, we are left in the dark. And yet we are not puzzled about the meaning of these external expressions in a stranger, more than in a bosom-companion[35]. Further, had we no other means but experience for understanding the external signs of passion, we could not expect any uniformity or any degree of skill in the bulk of individuals. But matters are ordered so differently, that the external expressions of passion form a language understood by all, by the young as well as the old, by the ignorant as well as the learned. I talk of the plain and legible characters of this language; for undoubtedly we are much indebted to experience in deciphering the dark and more delicate expressions. Where then shall we apply for a solution of this intricate problem, which seems to penetrate deep into human nature? In my{119} mind it will be convenient to suspend the inquiry, till we be better acquainted with the nature of external signs and with their operations. These articles therefore shall be premised.

The external signs of passion are of two kinds, voluntary and involuntary. The voluntary signs are also of two kinds: some are arbitrary and some natural. Words are arbitrary signs, excepting a few simple sounds expressive of certain internal emotions; and these sounds, being the same in all languages, must be the work of nature. But though words are arbitrary, the manner of employing them is not altogether so; for each passion has by nature peculiar expressions and tones suited to it. Thus the unpremeditated tones of admiration, are the same in all men; as also of compassion, resentment, and despair. Dramatic writers ought to be well acquainted with this natural manner of expressing passion. The chief talent of a fine writer, is a ready command of the expressions that nature dictates to every man when any vivid emotion struggles for utterance; and the chief ta{120}lent of a fine reader, is a ready command of the tones suited to these expressions.

The other kind of voluntary signs, comprehends certain attitudes and gestures that naturally accompany certain emotions with a surprising uniformity. Thus excessive joy is expressed by leaping, dancing, or some elevation of the body; and excessive grief by sinking or depressing it. Thus prostration and kneeling have been employ’d by all nations and in all ages to signify profound veneration. Another circumstance, still more than uniformity, demonstrates these gestures to be natural, viz. their remarkable conformity or resemblance to the passions that produce them[36]. Joy, which produceth a chearful elevation of mind, is expressed by an elevation of body. Pride, magnanimity, courage, and the whole tribe of elevating passions, are expressed by external gestures that are the same as to the circumstance of elevation, however distinguishable in other respects. Hence it comes, that an erect posture is a sign or expression of dignity:{121}

Grief, on the other hand, as well as respect, which depress the mind, cannot for that reason be expressed more significantly than by a similar depression of the body. Hence, to be cast down, is a common phrase, signifying to be grieved or dispirited.

One would not imagine, who has not given peculiar attention, that the body is susceptible of such a variety of attitude and motion, as readily to accompany every different emotion with a corresponding gesture. Humility, for example, is expressed naturally by hanging the head; arrogance, by its elevation; and langour or despondence, by reclining it to one side. The expressions of the hands are manifold. By different attitudes and motions, the hands express desire, hope, fear: they assist us in promising, in inviting, in keeping one at a distance: they are made instruments of threatening, of supplication, of praise, and of{122} horror: they are employ’d in approving, in refusing, in questioning; in showing our joy, our sorrow, our doubts, our regret, our admiration. These gestures, so obedient to passion, are extremely difficult to be imitated in a calm state. The ancients, sensible of the advantage as well as difficulty of having these expressions at command, bestowed much time and care, in collecting them from observation, and in digesting them into a practical art, which was taught in their schools as an important branch of education.

The foregoing signs, though in a strict sense voluntary, cannot however be restrained but with the utmost difficulty when they are prompted by passion. Of this we scarce need a stronger proof, than the gestures of a keen player at bowls. Observe only how he wreaths his body, in order to restore a stray bowl to the right track. It is one article of good breeding, to suppress, as much as possible, these external signs of passion, that we may not in company appear too warm or too interested. The same observation holds in speech. A{123} passion, it is true, when in extreme, is silent[37]; but when less violent, it must be vented in words, which have a peculiar force, not to be equalled in a sedate composition. The ease and trust we have in a confident, encourages us no doubt to talk of ourselves and of our feelings. But the cause is more general; for it operates when we are alone as well as in company. Passion is the cause; for in many instances it is no slight gratification to vent a passion externally by words as well as by gestures. Some passions, when at a certain height, impel us so strongly to vent them in words, that we speak with an audible voice even where there is none to listen. It is this circumstance in passion, that justifies soliloquies; and it is this circumstance that proves them to be natural[38]. The mind{124} sometimes favours this impulse of passion, by bestowing a temporary sensibility upon any object at hand, in order to make it a confident. Thus in the Winter’s Tale[39], Antigonus addresses himself to an infant whom he was ordered to expose:

The involuntary signs, which are all of them natural, are either peculiar to one passion or common to many. Every violent passion hath an external expression peculiar to itself, not excepting pleasant passions: witness admiration and mirth. The pleasant emotions that are less vivid, have one common expression; from which we may gather the strength of the emotion, but scarce the kind: we perceive a chearful or contented look; and we can make no more of it. Painful passions, being all of them violent, are distinguishable from each other by their external expressions. Thus fear, shame, anger, anxiety, dejection, despair, have each of them peculiar expressions; which are apprehended without the least confusion. Some of these passions produce violent effects upon the body, such as trembling, starting, and swooning. But these effects, depending in a good measure upon singularity of constitution, are not uniform in all men.

The involuntary signs, such of them as are display’d upon the countenance, are of two kinds. Some make their appearance{126} occasionally with the emotions that produce them, and vanish with the emotions: others are formed gradually by some violent passion often recurring; and, becoming permanent signs of this prevailing passion, serve to denote the disposition or temper. The face of an infant indicates no particular disposition, because it cannot be marked with any character to which time is necessary. And even the temporary signs are extremely aukward, being the first rude essays of Nature to discover internal feelings. Thus the shrieking of a new-born infant, without tears or sobbings, is plainly an attempt to weep. Some of the temporary signs, as smiling and frowning, cannot be observed for some months after birth. The permanent signs, formed in youth while the body is soft and flexible, are preserved entire by the firmness and solidity which the body acquires; and are never obliterated even by a change of temper. Permanent signs are not produced after a certain age when the fibres become rigid; some violent cases excepted, such as reiterated fits of the gout or stone through a course of{127} time. But these signs are not so obstinate as what are produced in youth; for when the cause is removed, they gradually wear away, and at last vanish.

The natural signs of emotions, voluntary and involuntary, being nearly the same in all men, form an universal language, which no distance of place, no difference of tribe, no diversity of tongue, can darken or render doubtful. Education, though of mighty influence, hath not power to vary or sophisticate, far less to destroy, their signification. This is a wise appointment of Providence. For if these signs were, like words, arbitrary and variable, it would be an intricate science to decipher the actions and motives of our own species, which would prove a great or rather invincible obstruction to the formation of societies. But as matters are ordered, the external appearances of joy, grief, anger, fear, shame, and of the other passions, forming an universal language, open a direct avenue to the heart. As the arbitrary signs vary in every country, there could be no communication of thoughts among different nations, were it not for the{128} natural signs in which all agree. Words are sufficient for the communication of science, and of all mental conceptions: but the discovering passions instantly as they arise, being essential to our well-being and often necessary for self-preservation, the author of our nature, attentive to our wants, hath provided a passage to the heart, which never can be obstructed while our external senses remain entire.

In an inquiry concerning the external signs of passion, actions ought not altogether to be overlooked: for though singly they afford no clear light, they are upon the whole the best interpreters of the heart[40]. By ob{129}serving a man’s conduct for a course of time, we discover unerringly the various passions that move him to action, what he loves and what he hates. In our younger years, every single action is a mark not at all ambiguous of the temper; for in childhood there is little or no disguise. The subject becomes more intricate in advanced age; but even there, dissimulation is seldom carried on for any length of time. And thus the conduct of life is the most perfect expression of the internal disposition. It merits not indeed the title of an universal language; because it is not thoroughly understood but by those who either have a penetrating genius or extensive observation. It is a language, however, which every one can decipher in some measure; and which, joined with the other external signs, affords sufficient means for the direction of our conduct with regard to others. If we commit any mistake when such light is afforded, it never can be the effect of unavoidable ignorance, but of rashness or inadvertence.

In reflecting upon the various expressions of our emotions, voluntary and involuntary,{130} we must recognise the anxious care of Nature to discover men to each other. Strong emotions, as above hinted, beget an impatience to express them externally by speech and other voluntary signs, which cannot be suppressed without a painful effort. Thus a sudden fit of passion is a common excuse for indecent behaviour or harsh words. As to the involuntary signs, these are altogether unavoidable. No volition or effort can prevent the shaking of the limbs or a pale visage, when one is agitated with a violent fit of terror. The blood flies to the face upon a sudden emotion of shame, in spite of all opposition:

Emotions indeed properly so called, which are quiescent, produce no remarkable signs externally; nor is it necessary that the more deliberate passions should, because the operation of such passions is neither sudden nor violent. These however remain not alto{131}gether in the dark. Being more frequent than violent passion, the bulk of our actions are directed by them. Actions therefore display, with sufficient evidence, the more deliberate passions, and complete the admirable system of external signs, by which we become skilful in human nature.

Next in order comes an article of great importance, which is, to examine the effects produced upon a spectator by external signs of passion. None of these signs are beheld with indifference: they are productive of various emotions tending all of them to ends wise and good. This curious article makes a capital branch of human nature. It is peculiarly useful to writers who deal in the pathetic; and with respect to history-painters, it is altogether indispensable.

When we enter upon this article, we gather from experience, that each passion, or class of passions, hath its peculiar signs; and that these invariably make certain impressions on a spectator. The external signs of joy, for example, produce a chearful emotion, the external signs of grief produce pity, and the external signs of rage produce a{132} sort of terror even in those who are not aimed at.

Secondly, it is natural to think, that pleasant passions should express themselves externally by signs that appear agreeable, and painful passions by signs that appear disagreeable. This conjecture, which Nature suggests, is confirmed by experience. Pride seems to be an exception; its external signs being disagreeable, though it be commonly reckoned a pleasant passion. But pride is not an exception; for in reality it is a mixed passion, partly pleasant partly painful. When a proud man confines his thoughts to himself, and to his own dignity or importance, the passion is pleasant, and its external signs agreeable: but as pride chiefly consists in undervaluing or contemning others, it is so far painful, and its external signs disagreeable.

Thirdly, it is laid down above, that an agreeable object produceth always a pleasant emotion, and a disagreeable object one that is painful[41]. According to this law, the{133} external signs of a pleasant passion, being agreeable, must produce in the spectator a pleasant emotion; and the external signs of a painful passion, being disagreeable, must produce in him a painful emotion.

Fourthly, in the present chapter it is observed, that pleasant passions are, for the most part, expressed externally in one uniform manner; and that only the painful passions are distinguishable from each other by their external expressions. In the emotions accordingly raised by external signs of pleasant passions, there is little variety. They are pleasant or chearful, and we have not words to reach a more particular description. But the external signs of painful passions produce in the spectator emotions of different kinds: the emotions, for example, raised by external signs of grief, of remorse, of anger, of envy, of malice, are clearly distinguishable from each other.

Fifthly, emotions raised by the external signs of painful passions, are some of them attractive, some repulsive. Every painful{134} passion that is also disagreeable[42], raises by its external signs a repulsive emotion, repelling the spectator from the object. Thus the emotions raised by external signs of envy and rage, are repulsive. But this is not the case of painful passions that are agreeable. Their external signs, it is true, are disagreeable, and raise in the spectator a painful emotion. But this painful emotion is not repulsive. On the contrary, it is attractive; and produceth in the spectator good-will to the man who is moved by the passion, and a desire to relieve or comfort him. This cannot be better exemplified than by distress painted on the countenance, which instantaneously inspires the spectator with pity, and impels him to afford relief. The cause of this difference among the painful emotions raised by external signs of passion, may be readily gathered from what is laid down chapter Emotions and passions, part 7.

It is now time to look back to the question proposed in the beginning, How we come to understand external signs, so as{135} readily to ascribe each sign to its proper passion? We have seen that this branch of knowledge, cannot be derived originally from sight, nor from experience. Is it then implanted in us by nature? The following considerations will help us to answer this question in the affirmative. In the first place, the external signs of passion must be natural; for they are invariably the same in every country, and among the different tribes of men. Pride, for example, is always expressed by an erect posture, reverence by prostration, and sorrow by a dejected look. Secondly, we are not even indebted to experience for the knowledge that these expressions are natural and universal. We are so framed as to have an innate conviction of the fact. Let a man change his habitation to the other side of the globe; he will, from the accustomed signs, infer the passion of fear among his new neighbours, with as little hesitation as he did at home. And upon second thoughts, the question may be answered without any preliminaries. If the branch of knowledge we have been inquiring about be{136} not derived from sight nor from experience, there is no remaining source from whence it can be derived but from nature.

We may then venture to pronounce, with some degree of confidence, that man is provided by nature with a sense or faculty which lays open to him every passion by means of its external expressions. And I imagine that we cannot entertain any reasonable doubt of this fact, when we reflect, that even infants are not ignorant of the meaning of external signs. An infant is remarkably affected with the passions of its nurse expressed on her countenance: a smile chears it, and a frown makes it afraid. Fear thus generated in the infant, must, like every other passion, have an object. What is the object of this passion? Surely not the frown considered abstractly, for a child never abstracts. The nurse who frowns is evidently the object. Fear, at the same time, cannot arise but from apprehending danger. But what danger can a child apprehend, if it be not sensible that the person who frowns is angry? We must therefore admit, that a child can read anger{137} in its nurse’s face; and it must be sensible of this intuitively, for it has no other means of knowledge. I have no occasion to affirm, that these particulars are clearly apprehended by the child. To produce clear and distinct perceptions, reflection and experience are requisite. But that even an infant, when afraid, must have some notion of its being in danger, is extremely evident.

That we should be conscious intuitively of a passion from its external expressions, is conformable to the analogy of nature. The knowledge of this language is of too great importance to be left upon experience. To rest it upon a foundation so uncertain and precarious, would prove a great obstacle to the formation of societies. Wisely therefore is it ordered, and agreeably to the system of Providence, that we should have Nature for our instructor.

Manifold and admirable are the purposes to which the external signs of passion are made subservient by the author of our nature. What are occasionally mentioned{138} above, make but a part. Several final causes remain to be unfolded; and to this task I apply myself with alacrity. In the first place, the signs of internal agitation that are displayed externally to every spectator, tend to fix the signification of many terms. The only effectual means to ascertain the meaning of any doubtful word, is an appeal to the thing it represents. Hence the ambiguity of words expressive of things that are not objects of external sense; for in that case an appeal is denied. Passion, strictly speaking, is not an object of external sense: but its external signs are; and by means of these signs, passions may be appealed to, with tolerable accuracy. Thus the words that denote our passions, next to those that denote external objects, have the most distinct meaning. Words signifying internal action and the more delicate feelings, are less distinct. This defect with respect to internal action, is what chiefly occasions the intricacy of logic. The terms of that science are far from being sufficiently ascertained, even after the care and la{139}bour bestowed by an eminent writer[43]: to whom however the world is greatly indebted, for removing a mountain of rubbish, and moulding the subject into a rational and correct form. The same defect is remarkable in criticism, which has for its object the more delicate feelings. The terms that denote these feelings, are not more distinct than those of logic. To reduce this science of criticism to any regular form, has never once been attempted. However rich the ore may be, no critical chymist has been found to give us a regular analysis of its constituent parts, and to distinguish each by its own name.

In the second place, society among individuals is greatly promoted by this universal language. The distance and reserve that strangers naturally discover, show its utility. Looks and gestures give direct access to the heart; and lead us to select with tolerable accuracy the persons who may be trusted. It is surprising how quickly, and{140} for the most part how correctly, we judge of character from external appearances.

Thirdly, after social intercourse is commenced, these external signs contribute above all other means to the strictest union, by diffusing through a whole assembly the feelings of each individual. Language no doubt is the most comprehensive vehicle for communicating emotions: but in expedition, as well as in the power of conviction, it falls short of the signs under consideration; the involuntary signs especially, which are incapable of deceit. Where the countenance, the tones, the gestures, the actions, join with the words, in communicating emotions, these united have a force irresistible. Thus all the agreeable emotions of the human heart, with all the social and virtuous affections, are, by means of these external signs, not only perceived but felt. By this admirable contrivance, social intercourse becomes that lively and animating amusement, without which life would at best be insipid. One joyful countenance spreads chearfulness instantaneously through a multitude of spectators.{141}

Fourthly, dissocial passions being hurtful by prompting violence and mischief, are noted by the most conspicuous external signs, in order to put us upon our guard. Thus anger and revenge, especially when suddenly provoked, display themselves on the countenance in legible characters[44]. The external signs again of every passion that threatens danger, raise in us the passion of fear. Nor is this passion occasioned by consciousness of danger, though it may be infla{142}med by such consciousness. It is an instinctive passion, which operating without reason or reflection, moves us by a sudden impulse to avoid the impending danger[45].

In the fifth place, these external signs are made subservient in a curious manner to the cause of virtue. The external signs of a painful passion that is virtuous or innocent, and consequently agreeable, produce indeed a painful emotion. But this emotion is attractive, and connects the spectator with the person who suffers. Disagreeable passions only, are productive of repulsive emotions involving the spectator’s aversion, and frequently his indignation. This artful contrivance makes us cling to the virtuous and abhor the wicked.

Sixthly, of all the external signs of passion, those of affliction or distress are the most illustrious with respect to a final cause; and deservedly merit a place of distinction. They are illustrious by the singularity of their contrivance; and they are still more illustrious by the sympathy they inspire, a passion to{143} which human society is indebted for its greatest blessing, that of securing relief in all cases of distress. A subject so interesting, ought to be examined with leisure and attention. The conformity of the nature of man to his external circumstances, is in every particular wonderful. His nature makes him prone to society; and his situation makes it necessary for him. In a solitary state he is the most helpless of beings; destitute of support, and in his manifold distresses destitute of relief. Mutual support, the shining attribute of society, being essential to the well-being of man, is not left upon reason, but is inforced even instinctively by the passion of sympathy. Here sympathy makes a capital figure; and contributes, more than any other means, to make life easy and comfortable. But however essential sympathy be to comfortable existence, one thinking of it beforehand, would find difficulty in conjecturing how it could be raised by external signs of distress. For considering the analogy of nature, if these signs be agreeable, they must give birth to a pleasant emotion leading every beholder to be{144} pleased with human misfortunes. If they be disagreeable, as they undoubtedly are, ought not the painful emotion they produce to repel the spectator from them, in order to be relieved from pain? Such would be the conjecture, in thinking of this matter beforehand; and such would be the effect, were man purely a selfish being. But the benevolence of our nature gives a very different direction to the painful passion of sympathy, and to the desire involved in it. Far from flying from distress, we fly to it in order to afford relief; and our sympathy cannot be otherwise gratified than by giving all the succour in our power[46]. Thus external signs of distress, though disagreeable, are attractive; and the sympathy they inspire us with is a powerful cause, impelling us to afford relief even to a stranger as if he were our friend or blood-relation.

This branch of human nature concerning the external signs of passion, is so finely adjusted to answer its end, that those who understand it the best will admire it the{145} most. These external signs, being all of them resolvable into colour, figure, and motion, should not naturally make any deep impression on a spectator. And supposing them qualified for making deep impressions, we have seen above, that the effects they produce are not what would be expected. We cannot therefore account otherwise for the operation of these external signs, than by ascribing it to the original constitution of human nature. To improve the social state, by making us instinctively rejoice with the glad of heart, weep with the mourner, and shun those who threaten danger, is a contrivance illustrious for its wisdom as well as benevolence. With respect to the external signs of distress in particular, to judge of the excellency of their contrivance, we need only reflect upon several other means seemingly more natural, that would not have answered the end proposed. I am attracted by this amusing speculation, and will not ask pardon for indulging in it. We shall in the first place reverse the truth, by putting the case that the external signs of joy were disagreeable, and the external signs of distress{146} agreeable. This is no whimsical supposition; for these external signs, so far as can be gathered from their nature, seem indifferent to the production of pleasure or pain. Admitting then the supposition, the question is, How would our sympathy operate? There is no occasion to deliberate for an answer. Sympathy, upon that supposition, would be not less destructive, than according to the real case it is beneficial. We should be incited, to cross the happiness of others if its external signs were disagreeable to us, and to augment their distress if its external signs were agreeable. I make a second supposition, That the external signs of distress were indifferent to us, and productive neither of pleasure nor pain. This would annihilate the strongest branch of sympathy, that which is raised by means of sight. And it is evident, that reflective sympathy, felt by those only who have more than an ordinary share of sensibility, would be far from being sufficient to fulfil the ends of the social state. I shall approach nearer truth in a third supposition, That the external signs of distress being disagreeable, were{147} productive of a painful repulsive emotion. Sympathy upon this supposition would not be annihilated; but it would be rendered useless. For it would be gratified by flying from or avoiding the object, instead of clinging to it, and affording relief. The condition of man would in reality be worse than if sympathy were totally eradicated; because sympathy would only serve to plague those who feel it, without producing any good to the afflicted.

Loath to quit so interesting a subject, I add a reflection, with which I shall conclude. The external signs of passion are a strong indication, that man, by his very constitution, is framed to be open and sincere. A child, in all things obedient to the impulses of nature, hides none of its emotions: the savage and clown, who have no guide other than pure nature, expose their hearts to view by giving way to all the natural signs: and even when men learn to dissemble their sentiments, and when behaviour degenerates into art, there still remain checks, which keep dissimulation within bounds, and prevent a great part of its mischievous effects.{148} The total suppression of the voluntary signs during any vivid passion, begets the utmost uneasiness, which cannot be endured for any considerable time. This operation becomes indeed less painful by habit: but luckily the involuntary signs, cannot by any effort be suppressed or even dissembled. An absolute hypocrisy, by which the character is concealed and a fictitious one assumed, is made impracticable; and nature has thereby prevented much harm to society. We may pronounce therefore, that nature, herself sincere and candid, intends that mankind should preserve the same character, by cultivating simplicity and truth, and banishing every sort of dissimulation that tends to mischief.{149}

CHAP. XVI.

SENTIMENTS.

EVery thought suggested by a passion or emotion, is termed a sentiment[47].

The knowledge of the sentiments peculiar to each passion considered abstractly, will not alone enable an artist to make a just representation of nature. He ought, over and above, to be acquainted with the various appearances of the same passion in different persons. Passions, it is certain, receive a tincture from every peculiarity of character; and for that reason, it rarely happens that any two persons vent their passions precisely in the same manner. Hence the following rule concerning dramatic and epic compositions, That a passion be adjusted to the character, the sentiments to the passion, and the language to the sentiments.{150} If nature be not faithfully copied in each of these, a defect in execution is perceived. There may appear some resemblance; but the picture upon the whole will be insipid, through want of grace and delicacy. A painter, in order to represent the various attitudes of the body, ought to be intimately acquainted with muscular motion: not less intimately acquainted with emotions and characters ought a writer to be, in order to represent the various attitudes of the mind. A general notion of the passions, in their grosser differences of strong and weak, elevated and humble, severe and gay, is far from being sufficient. Pictures formed so superficially, have little resemblance, and no expression. And yet it will appear by and by, that in many instances our reputed masters are deficient even in this superficial knowledge.

In handling the present subject, it would be endless to trace even the ordinary passions through their nicer and more minute differences. Mine shall be an humbler task; which is, to select from the best writers instances of faulty sentiments, after pa{151}ving the way by some general observations.

To talk in the language of music, each passion hath a certain tone, to which every sentiment proceeding from it ought to be tuned with the greatest accuracy. This is no easy work, especially where such harmony is to be supported during the course of a long theatrical representation. In order to reach such delicacy of execution, it is necessary that a writer assume the precise character and passion of the personage represented. This requires an uncommon genius. But it is the only difficulty; for the writer, who, forgetting himself, can thus personate another, so as to feel truly and distinctly the various agitations of the passion, need be in no pain about the sentiments: these will flow without the least study, or even preconception; and will frequently be as delightfully new to himself as afterward to his reader. But if a lively picture even of a single emotion require an effort of genius; how much greater must the effort be, to compose a passionate dialogue, in which there are as many different tones of passion as there are speakers? With what{152} ductility of feeling ought a writer to be endued who aims at perfection in such a work; when, to execute it correctly, it is necessary to assume different and even opposite characters and passions, in the quickest succession? And yet this work, difficult as it is, yields to that of composing a dialogue in genteel comedy devoid of passion; where the sentiments must be tuned to the nicer and more delicate tones of different characters. That the latter is the more difficult task, appears from considering, that a character is greatly more complex than a passion, and that passions are more distinguishable from each other than characters are. Many writers accordingly who have no genius for characters, make a shift to represent, tolerably well, an ordinary passion in its plain movements. But of all works of this kind, what is truly the most difficult, is a characteristical dialogue upon any philosophical subject. To interweave characters with reasoning, by adapting to the peculiar character of each speaker a peculiarity not only of thought but of expression, requires the perfection of genius, taste, and judgement.{153}

How hard dialogue-writing is, will be evident, even without reasoning, from the imperfect compositions of this kind found without number in all languages. The art of mimicking any singularity in voice or gesture, is a rare talent, though directed by sight and hearing, the acutest and most lively of our external senses: how much more rare must the talent be of imitating characters and internal emotions, tracing all their different tints, and representing them in a lively manner by natural sentiments properly expressed? The truth is, such execution is too delicate for an ordinary genius; and for that reason, the bulk of writers, instead of expressing a passion like one who is under its power, content themselves with describing it like a spectator. To awake passion by an internal effort merely, without any external cause, requires great sensibility; and yet this operation is necessary not less to the writer than to the actor; because none but they who actually feel a passion, can represent it to the life. The writer’s part is much more complicated: he must join composi{154}tion with action; and, in the quickest succession, be able to adopt every different character introduced in his work. But a very humble flight of imagination, may serve to convert a writer into a spectator, so as to figure, in some obscure manner, an action as passing in his sight and hearing. In this figured situation, he is led naturally to describe as a spectator, and at second hand to entertain his readers with his own observations, with cool description and florid declamation; instead of making them eye-witnesses, as it were, to a real event, and to every movement of genuine passion[48]. Thus, in the bulk of plays, a{155} tiresome monotony prevails, a pompous declamatory style, without entering into different characters or passions.

This descriptive manner of expressing passion, has a very unhappy effect. Our sympathy is not raised by description: we must be lulled first into a dream of reality; and every thing must appear as actually present and passing in our sight[49]. Unhappy is the player of genius who acts a capital part in what may be termed a descriptive tragedy. After he has assumed the very passion that is to be represented, how must he be cramped in his action, when he is forced to utter, not the sentiments of the passion he feels, but a cold description in the language of a by-stander? It is this imperfection, I am persuaded, in the bulk of our plays, that confines our stage almost entirely to Shakespear, his many irregularities notwithstanding. In our latest English tragedies, we sometimes find sentiments tolerably well adapted to a plain passion. But it would be fruitless labour, to{156} search in any of them for a sentiment expressive of character; and, upon that very account, all our modern performances of the dramatic kind, are intolerably insipid.

Looking back upon the foregoing observation, I am uncertain whether it will be sufficiently apprehended; for, upon this complicated subject, I find some difficulty to express myself with perspicuity. I despair not however to place this matter in the clearest light, by adding example to precept. In the front shall be set one or two examples of sentiments that appear the legitimate offspring of passion; and to them shall be opposed a few others that are descriptive only, and illegitimate. In making this comparison, I shall borrow my instances from Shakespear and Corneille, who for genius in dramatic composition stand uppermost in the rolls of fame.

Shakespear shall furnish the first instance, being of sentiments dictated by a violent and perturbed passion.

To illustrate the foregoing doctrine, one other instance of the same kind may suffice,{158} expressing sentiments arising from remorse and despair.

The sentiments here display’d flow so naturally from the passions represented, and are such genuine expressions of these passions, that it is not possible to conceive any imitation more perfect.

With regard to the French author, truth obliges me to acknowledge, that he describes in the style of a spectator, instead of expressing passion like one who feels it; and also that he is thereby betray’d into the other faults above mentioned, a tiresome monotony, and a pompous declamatory style[50]. It is scarce necessary to pro{160}duce particular instances; for he never varies from this tone. I shall however take two passages at a venture, in order to be{161} confronted with those transcribed above. In the tragedy of Cinna, Æmilia, after the conspiracy was discovered, having nothing in view but racks and death to herself and her lover, receives a pardon from Augustus, attended with the brightest circumstances of magnanimity and tenderness. This is a happy situation for representing the passions of surprise and gratitude in their different stages. These passions, raised at once to the utmost pitch, are at first too big for utterance; and Æmilia’s feelings must, for some moments, have been expressed by violent gestures only. So soon as there is a vent for words, the{162} first expressions are naturally broken and interrupted. At last we ought to expect a tide of intermingled sentiments, occasioned by the fluctuation of the mind betwixt the two passions. Æmilia is made to behave in a very different manner. With extreme coolness she describes her own situation, as if she were merely a spectator; or rather the poet takes the task off her hands.

In the tragedy of Sertorius, the Queen, surprised with the news that her lover was assassinated, instead of venting any passion, degenerates into a cool spectator, even so much as to instruct the by-standers how a queen ought to behave on such an occasion.

So much in general upon the genuine sentiments of passion. I proceed now to particular observations. And, first, Passions are seldom uniform for any considerable time: they generally fluctuate, swelling and subsiding by turns, often in a quick{164} succession[51]. This fluctuation, in the case of a real passion, will be expressed externally by proper sentiments; and ought to be imitated in writing and acting. Accordingly, a climax shows never better than in expressing a swelling passion. The following passages shall suffice for an illustration.

The following passage expresses finely the progress of conviction.

In the progress of thought, our resolutions become more vigorous as well as our passions.

And this leads to a second observation, That the different stages of a passion, and its different directions, from its birth to its extinction, ought to be carefully represented in the sentiments, which otherwise will often be misplaced. Resentment, for example, when provoked by an atrocious injury, discharges itself first upon the{166} author. Sentiments therefore of revenge take place of all others, and must in some measure be exhausted before the person injured think of pitying himself, or of grieving for his present distress. In the Cid of Corneille, Don Diegue having been affronted in a cruel manner, expresses scarce any sentiment of revenge, but is totally occupied in contemplating the low situation to which he was reduced by the affront.

These sentiments are certainly not what occur to the mind in the first movements of the passion. In the same manner as in resentment, the first movements of grief are always directed upon its object. Yet with relation to the hidden and severe distemper that seized Alexander bathing in the river Cydnus, Quintus Curtius describes the first emotions of the army as directed upon themselves, lamenting that they were left without a leader far from home, and had scarce any hopes of returning in safety. Their King’s distress, which must naturally have been their first concern, occupies them but in the second place according to that author. In the Aminta of Tasso, Sylvia, upon a report of her lover’s death, which she believed certain, instead of bemoaning the loss of a beloved object, turns her{168} thoughts upon herself, and wonders her heart does not break.

In the tragedy of Jane Shore, Alicia, in the full purpose of destroying her rival, has the following reflection:

These are the reflections of a cool spectator. A passion while it has the ascendant, and is freely indulged, suggests not to the man who feels it any sentiment to its own prejudice. Reflections like the foregoing, occur not to him readily till the passion have spent its vigor.{169}

A person sometimes is agitated at once by different passions. The mind in this case vibrating like a pendulum, vents itself in sentiments which partake of the same vibration. This I give as a third observation:

A fourth observation is, that nature, which gave us passions, and made them extremely beneficial when moderate, intended undoubtedly that they should be subjected to the government of reason and conscience[52]. It is therefore against the order of nature, that passion in any case should take the lead in contradiction to reason and conscience. Such a state of mind is a sort of anarchy, which every one is ashamed of, and endeavours to hide or dissemble. Even love, however laudable, is attended with a conscious shame when it becomes immoderate: it is covered from the world, and disclosed only to the beloved object:

Hence a capital rule in the representation of strong passions, that their genuine sentiments{172} ought to be hid or dissembled as much as possible. And this holds in an especial manner with respect to criminal passions. One never counsels the commission of a crime in plain terms. Guilt must not appear in its native colours, even in thought: the proposal must be made by hints, and by representing the action in some favourable light. Of the propriety of sentiment upon such an occasion, Shakespear, in the Tempest, has given us a beautiful example. The subject is a proposal made by the usurping Duke of Milan to Sebastian, to murder his brother the King of Naples.

There cannot be a finer picture of this sort, than that of King John soliciting Hubert to murder the young Prince Arthur.{173}

As things are best illustrated by their contraries, I proceed to collect from classical authors, sentiments that appear faulty. The first class shall consist of sentiments that{175} accord not with the passion; or, in other words, sentiments that the passion represented does not naturally suggest. In the second class, shall be ranged sentiments that may belong to an ordinary passion, but unsuitable to it as tinctured by a singular character. Thoughts that properly are not sentiments, but rather descriptions, make a third. Sentiments that belong to the passion represented, but are faulty as being introduced too early or too late, make a fourth. Vicious sentiments exposed in their native dress, instead of being concealed or disguised, make a fifth. And in the last class, shall be collected sentiments suited to no character or passion, and therefore unnatural.

The first class contains faulty sentiments of various kinds, which I shall endeavour to distinguish from each other. And first sentiments that are faulty by being above the tone of the passion.

This sentiment is too strong to be suggested by so slight a joy as that of meeting after a storm at sea.

Secondly, Sentiments below the tone of the passion. Ptolemy, by putting Pompey to death, having incurred the displeasure of Cæsar, was in the utmost dread of being dethroned. In this agitating situation, Corneille makes him utter a speech full of cool reflection, that is in no degree expressive of the passion.

In Les Freres ennemies of Racine, the second act is opened with a love-scene. Hemon talks to his mistress of the torments of absence, of the lustre of her eyes, that he ought to die no where but at her feet, and that one moment of absence was a thousand years. Antigone on her part acts the coquette, and pretends she must be gone to wait on her mother and brother, and cannot stay to listen to his courtship. This is odious French gallantry, below the dignity of the passion of love. It would scarce be excusable in painting modern French manners; and is insufferable where the ancients are brought upon the stage. The manners painted in the Alexandre of the same author are not more just. French gallantry prevails there throughout.

Third. Sentiments that agree not with the tone of the passion; as where a pleasant sen{178}timent is grafted upon a painful passion, or the contrary. In the following instances the sentiments are too gay for a serious passion.

Again,

These thoughts are pretty; they suit Pope extremely, but not Eloisa.

Satan, enraged by a threatening of the angel Gabriel, answers thus:

The concluding epithet forms a grand and delightful image, which cannot be the genuine offspring of rage.

Fourth. Sentiments too artificial for a serious passion. I give for the first example a speech of Piercy expiring:

Livy inserts the following passage in a plaintive oration of the Locrenses accusing Pleminius the Roman legate of oppression.{180}

Congreve shows a fine taste in the sentiments of the Mourning Bride. But in the following passage the picture is too artful to be suggested by severe grief:

In the same play, Almeria seeing a dead body, which she took to be Alphonso’s, expresses sentiments strained and artificial, which nature suggests not to any person upon such an occasion:

Pope’s Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady, expresses delicately the most tender concern and sorrow for the deplorable{182} fate of a person of worth. A poem of this kind, deeply serious and pathetic, rejects all fiction with disdain. We therefore can give no quarter to the following passage, which is eminently discordant with the subject. It is not the language of the heart, but of the imagination indulging its flights at ease. It would be a still more severe censure, if it should be ascribed to imitation, copying indiscreetly what has been said by others.

Fifth. Fanciful or sinical sentiments, sentiments that degenerate into point or conceit, however they may amuse in an idle hour, can never be the offspring of any serious or important passion. In the Ierusalem{183} of Tasso, Tancred, after a single combat, spent with fatigue and loss of blood, falls into a swoon. In this situation, understood to be dead, he is discovered by Erminia, who was in love with him to distraction. A more happy situation cannot be imagined, to raise grief in an instant to its highest pitch; and yet, in venting her sorrow, she descends most abominably to antithesis and conceit, even of the lowest kind.

Armida’s lamentation respecting her lover Rinaldo[54], is in the same vitious taste.

Jane Shore utters her last breath in a witty conceit.

Gilford to Lady Jane Gray, when both were condemned to die:

The concluding sentiment is altogether sinical, unsuitable to the importance of the occasion, and even to the dignity of the passion of love.

Corneille, in his Examen of the Cid[55], an{186}swering an objection, that his sentiments are sometimes too much refined for persons in deep distress, observes, that if poets did not indulge sentiments more ingenious or refined than are prompted by passion, their performances would often be low; and extreme grief would never suggest but exclamations merely. This is in plain language to assert, That forced thoughts are more relished than such as are natural, and therefore ought to be preferred.

The second class is of sentiments that may belong to an ordinary passion, but are not perfectly concordant with it, as tinctured by a singular character. In the last act of that excellent comedy, The Careless Husband, Lady Easy, upon Sir Charles’s reformation, is made to express more violent and turbulent sentiments of joy, than are consistent with the mildness of her character.

{187}

If the sentiments of a passion ought to be suited to a peculiar character, it is still more necessary that sentiments devoid of passion be suited to the character. In the 5th act of the Drummer, Addison makes his gardener act even below the character of an ignorant credulous rustic: he gives him the behaviour of a gaping idiot.

The following instances are descriptions rather than sentiments, which compose a third class.

Of this descriptive manner of painting the passions, there is in the Hippolytus of Euripides, act 5. an illustrious instance, viz. the speech of Theseus, upon hearing of his son’s dismal exit. In Racine’s tragedy of Esther, the Queen hearing of the decree issued against her people, instead of expressing sentiments suitable to the occasion, turns her attention upon herself, and describes with accuracy her own situation.

Again,

What other are the foregoing instances than describing the passion another feels?

An example is given above of remorse and despair expressed by genuine and natural sentiments. In the fourth book of Paradise Lost, Satan is made to express his remorse and despair in sentiments, which though beautiful, are not altogether natural. They are rather the sentiments of a spectator, than of a person who actually is tormented with these passions.{189}

The fourth class is of sentiments introduced too early or too late.

Some examples mentioned above belong to this class. Add the following from Venice preserv’d, act 5. at the close of the scene betwixt Belvidera and her father Priuli. The account given by Belvidera of the danger she was in, and of her husband’s threatening to murder her, ought naturally to have alarmed her relenting father, and to have made him express the most perturbed sentiments. Instead of which he dissolves into tenderness and love for his daughter, as if he had already delivered her from danger, and as if there were a perfect tranquillity.

Immoral sentiments exposed in their na{190}tive colours, instead of being concealed or disguised, compose the fifth class.

The Lady Macbeth projecting the death of the King, has the following soliloquy:

This speech is not natural. Murder under trust was never perpetrated even by the most hardened miscreant without compunction. And that the lady here must have been in horrible agitation appears, from her invoking the infernal spirits to fill her with cruelty, and to stop up all avenues to remorse. But in this state of mind, it is a never-failing device of self-deceit, to draw the thickest veil over the wicked action, and to extenuate it by all circumstances that ima{191}gination can suggest. And if the crime cannot bear disguise, the next attempt is, to thrust it out of mind altogether, and to rush on to action without thought. This last was the husband’s method.

The lady follows neither of these courses, but in a deliberate manner endeavours to fortify her heart in the commission of an execrable crime, without even attempting a disguise. This I think is not natural. I hope there is no such wretch to be found, as is here represented. In the Pompey of Corneille[56], Photine counsels a wicked action in the plainest terms without disguise.

In the tragedy of Esther[57], Haman acknowledges, without disguise, his cruelty, insolence, and pride. And there is another example of the same kind in the Agamemnon of Seneca[58]. In the tragedy of Athalie[59], Mathan, in cool blood, relates to his friend many black crimes he had been guilty of to satisfy his ambition.

In Congreve’s Double-dealer, Maskwell, instead of disguising or colouring his crimes, values himself upon them in a soliloquy:

{194}

Act 2. sc. 8.

In French plays, love, instead of being hid or disguised, is treated as a serious concern, and of greater importance than fortune, family, or dignity. I suspect the reason to be, that in the capital of France, love, by the easiness of intercourse, has dwindled down from a real passion to be a connection that is regulated entirely by the mode or fashion[60]. This may in some measure excuse their writers, but will never make their plays be relished among foreigners.

The last class comprehends sentiments that are unnatural, as being suited to no character nor passion. These may be subdivided into three branches: first, sentiments unsuitable to the constitution of man and the laws of his nature; second, inconsistent sentiments; third, sentiments that are pure rant and extravagance.

When the fable is of human affairs, every event, every incident, and every circumstance, ought to be natural, otherwise the imitation is imperfect. But an imperfect{197} imitation is a venial fault, compared with that of running cross to nature. In the Hippolytus of Euripides[61], Hippolytus, wishing for another self in his own situation, How much (says he) should I be touched with his misfortune! as if it were natural to grieve more for the misfortunes of another than for one’s own.

No man, in his senses, ever thought of applying his eyes to discover what passes in his mind; far less of blaming his eyes for not{198} seeing a thought or idea. In Moliere’s L’Avare[62], Harpagon being robbed of his money, seizes himself by the arm, mistaking it for that of the robber. And again he expresses himself as follows:

This is so absurd as scarce to provoke a smile if it be not at the author.

Of the second branch the following are examples.

Of the third branch, take the following samples.

Lucan, talking of Pompey’s sepulchre,

Thus in Rowe’s translation:

The following passages are pure rant. Coriolanus speaking to his mother,

Not to talk of the impiety of this sentiment, it is ludicrous instead of being lofty.

The famous Epitaph on Raphael is not less absurd than any of the foregoing passages:

Imitated by Pope in his Epitaph on Sir Godfrey Kneller:{203}

Such is the force of imitation; for Pope of himself would never have been guilty of a thought so extravagant.{204}

CHAP. XVII.

Language of Passion.

AMong the particulars that compose the social part of our nature, a propensity to communicate our opinions, our emotions, and every thing that affects us, is remarkable. Bad fortune and injustice affect every one greatly; and of these we are so prone to complain, that if we have no friend or acquaintance to take part in our sufferings, we sometimes utter our complaints aloud even where there are none to listen.

But this propensity, though natural, operates not in every state of mind. A man immoderately grieved, seeks to afflict himself; and self-affliction is the gratification of the passion. Immoderate grief is therefore mute; because complaining is struggling for relief:

When grief subsides, it then and no sooner finds a tongue. We complain, because complaining is an effort to disburden the mind of its distress[63].

Surprise and terror are silent passions for a different reason: they agitate the mind so violently, as for a time to suspend the exercise of its faculties, and in particular that of speech.

Love and revenge, when immoderate,{206} are not more loquacious than immoderate grief. But when these passions become moderate, they set the tongue free, and, like moderate grief, become loquacious. Moderate love, when unsuccessful, is vented in complaints; when successful, is full of joy expressed both in words and gestures.

As no passion hath any long uninterrupted existence[64] nor beats always with an equal pulse, the language suggested by passion is also unequal and interrupted. And even during an uninterrupted fit of passion, we only express in words the more capital sentiments. In familiar conversation, one who vents every single thought is justly branded with{207} the character of loquacity. Sensible persons express no thoughts but what make some figure. In the same manner, we are only disposed to express the strongest impulses of passion, especially when it returns with impetuosity after some interruption.

I already have had occasion to observe[65], that the sentiments ought to be tuned to the passion, and the language to both. Elevated sentiments require elevated language: tender sentiments ought to be clothed in words that are soft and flowing: when the mind is depressed with any passion, the sentiments must be expressed in words that are humble, not low. Words have an intimate connection with the ideas they represent; and the representation must be imperfect, if the words correspond not precisely to the ideas. An elevated tone of language to express a plain or humble sentiment, has a bad effect by a discordant mixture of feeling. There is not less discord when elevated sentiments are dressed in low words:{208}

This however excludes not figurative expression, which, within moderate bounds, communicates to the sentiment an agreeable elevation. We are sensible of an effect directly opposite, where figurative expression is indulged beyond a just measure. The opposition betwixt the expression and the sentiment, makes the discord appear greater than it is in reality[66].

At the same time, all passions admit not equally of figures. Pleasant emotions, which elevate or swell the mind, vent themselves in strong epithets and figurative expression. Humbling and dispiriting passions, on the contrary, affect to speak plain:

Figurative expression is the work of an enlivened imagination, and for that reason cannot be the language of anguish or distress. A scene of this kind is painted by Otway in colours finely adapted to the subject. There is scarce a figure in it, except a short and natural simile with which the speech is introduced.

Belvidera talking to her father of her husband:

To preserve this resemblance betwixt words and their meaning, the sentiments of active and hurrying passions ought to be dressed in words where syllables prevail that are pronounced short or fast; for these make an impression of hurry and precipitation. Emotions, on the other hand, that rest upon their objects, are best expressed by words where syllables prevail that are pronounced long or slow. A person affected with melancholy has a languid and slow train of perceptions. The expression best suited to this state of mind, is where words not only of long but of many syllables abound in the composition. For that reason, nothing can be finer than the following passage:

To preserve the same resemblance, another{211} circumstance is requisite, that the language conformable to the emotion, be rough or smooth, broken or uniform. Calm and sweet emotions are best expressed by words that glide softly; surprise, fear, and other turbulent passions, require an expression both rough and broken.

It cannot have escaped any diligent inquirer into nature, that in the hurry of passion, one generally expresses that thing first which is most at heart. This is beautifully done in the following passage.

Passion has often the effect of redoubling words, the better to make them express the strong conception of the mind. This is finely represented in the following examples:

Shakespear is superior to all other writers in delineating passion. It is difficult to say in what part he most excels, whether in moulding every passion to peculiarity of character, in discovering the sentiments that proceed from various tones of passion, or in expressing properly every different sentiment. He imposes not upon his reader, general declamation and the false coin of unmeaning words, which the bulk of writers deal in. His sentiments are adjusted, with the greatest propriety, to the peculiar character and circumstances of the speaker; and the propriety is not less perfect betwixt his sentiments and his diction. That this is no ex{213}aggeration, will be evident to every one of taste, upon comparing Shakespear with other writers, in similar passages. If upon any occasion he fall below himself, it is in those scenes where passion enters not. By endeavouring in this case to raise his dialogue above the style of ordinary conversation, he sometimes deviates into intricate thought and obscure expression[67]. Sometimes, to{214} throw his language out of the familiar, he employs rhyme. But may it not in some measure excuse Shakespear, I shall not say his works, that he had no pattern, in his own or in any living language, of dialogue fitted for the theatre? At the same time, it ought not to escape observation, that the stream clears in its progress, and that in his later plays he has attained the purity and perfection of dialogue; an observation that, with greater certainty than tradition, will direct us to arrange his plays in the order of time. This ought to be considered by those who magnify every blemish that is discovered in the finest genius for the drama ever the world enjoy’d. They ought also for their own sake to consider, that it is easier to discover his blemishes, which lie generally at the surface, than his beauties, of which none can have a thorough relish but those who dive deep into human nature. One thing must be evident to the meanest capacity, that where-ever passion is to be display’d, Nature shows itself strong in him,{215} and is conspicuous by the most delicate propriety of sentiment and expression[68].

I return to my subject from a digression I cannot repent of. That perfect harmony which ought to subsist among all the constituent parts of a dialogue, is a beauty, not less rare than conspicuous. As to expression in particular, were I to give instances, where, in one or other of the respects above mentioned, it corresponds not precisely to the characters, passions, and sentiments, I might from different authors collect volumes. Following therefore the method laid down in the chapter of sentiments, I shall confine my citations to the grosser errors, which every writer ought to avoid.{216}

And, first, of passion expressed in words flowing in an equal course without interruption.

In the chapter above cited, Corneille is censured for the impropriety of his sentiments; and here, for the sake of truth, I am obliged to attack him a second time. Were I to give instances from that author of the fault under consideration, I might copy whole tragedies; for he is not less faulty in this particular, than in passing upon us his own thoughts as a spectator, instead of the genuine sentiments of passion. Nor would a comparison betwixt him and Shakespear upon the present point, redound more to his honour, than the former upon the sentiments. Racine here is less incorrect than Corneille, though many degrees inferior to the English author. From Racine I shall gather a few instances. The first shall be the description of the sea-monster in his Phædra, given by Theramene the companion of Hippolytus, and an eye-witness to the disaster. Theramene is represented in terrible agitation, which appears from the following passage,{217} so boldly figurative as not to be excused but by violent perturbation of mind.

Yet Theramene gives a long pompous connected description of this event, dwelling upon every minute circumstance, as if he had been only a cool spectator.

The last speech of Atalide, in the tragedy of Bajazet, of the same author, is a continued discourse, and but a faint representation of the violent passion which forc’d her to put an end to her own life.

Though works, not authors, are the professed subject of this critical undertaking, I am tempted by the present speculation, to transgress once again the limits{218} prescribed, and to venture a cursory reflection upon this justly-celebrated author, That he is always sensible, generally correct, never falls low, maintains a moderate degree of dignity without reaching the sublime, paints delicately the tender passions, but is a stranger to the true language of enthusiastic or fervid passion.

If in general the language of violent passion ought to be broken and interrupted, soliloquies ought to be so in a peculiar manner. Language is intended by nature for society; and a man when alone, though he always clothes his thoughts in words, seldom gives his words utterance unless when prompted by some strong emotion; and even then by starts and intervals only[69]. Shakespear’s soliloquies may be justly established as a model; for it is not easy to conceive any model more perfect. Of his many incomparable soliloquies, I confine myself to the two following, being different in their manner.{219}

These soliloquies are accurate copies of nature. In a passionate soliloquy one begins{221} with thinking aloud; and the strongest feelings only, are expressed. As the speaker warms, he begins to imagine one listening, and gradually slides into a connected discourse.

How far distant are soliloquies generally from these models? They are indeed for the most part so unhappily executed, as to give disgust instead of pleasure. The first scene of Iphigenia in Tauris discovers that princess, in a soliloquy, gravely reporting to herself her own history. There is the same impropriety in the first scene of Alcestes, and in the other introductions of Euripides, almost without exception. Nothing can be more ridiculous. It puts one in mind of that ingenious device in Gothic paintings, of making every figure explain itself by a written label issuing from its mouth. The description a parasite, in the Eunuch of Terence[70], gives of himself in the form of a soliloquy, is lively; but against all the rules of propriety; for no man, in his ordinary state of mind, and upon a familiar{222} subject, ever thinks of talking aloud to himself. The same objection lies against a soliloquy in the Adelphi of the same author[71]. The soliloquy which makes the third scene, act third, of his Heicyra, is insufferable; for there Pamphilus, soberly and circumstantially, relates to himself an adventure which had happened to him a moment before.

Corneille is not more happy in his soliloquies than in his dialogue. Take for a specimen the first scene of Cinna.

Racine also is extremely faulty in the same respect. His soliloquies, almost without exception, are regular harangues, a chain completed in every link, without interruption or interval. That of Antiochus in Berenice[72] resembles a regular pleading, where the parties pro and con display their arguments at full length. The following soliloquies are equally destitute of propriety: Bajazet, act 3. sc. 7. Mithridate, act 3. sc. 4. & act 4. sc. 5. Iphigenia, act 4. sc. 8.

Soliloquies upon lively or interesting sub{223}jects, but without any turbulence of passion, may be carried on in a continued chain of thought. If, for example, the nature and sprightliness of the subject prompt a man to speak his thoughts in the form of a dialogue, the expression must be carried on without break or interruption, as in a dialogue betwixt two persons. This justifies Falstaff’s soliloquy upon honour:

And even without dialogue, a continued discourse may be justified, where the solilo{224}quy is upon an important subject that makes a strong impression, but without much agitation. For if it be at all excusable to think aloud, it is necessary that the language with the reasoning be carried on in a chain without a broken link. In this view that admirable soliloquy in Hamlet upon life and immortality, being a serene meditation upon the most interesting of all subjects, ought to escape censure. And the same consideration will justify the soliloquy that introduces the 5th act of Addison’s Cato.

The next class of the grosser errors which all writers ought to avoid, shall be of language elevated above the tone of the sentiment; of which take the following instances.

The language here is undoubtedly too pompous and laboured for describing so simple a circumstance as absence of sleep. In the following passage, the tone of the language, warm and plaintive, is well suited to the passion, which is recent grief. But every one will be sensible, that in the last couplet save one, the tone is changed, and the mind suddenly elevated to be let fall as suddenly in the last couplet.

Language too artificial or too figurative{226} for the gravity, dignity, or importance, of the occasion, may be put in a third class.

Chimene demanding justice against Rodrigue who killed her father, instead of a plain and pathetic expostulation, makes a speech stuffed with the most artificial flowers of rhetoric:

And again:

Nothing can be contrived in language more averse to the tone of the passion than this florid speech. I should imagine it more apt to provoke laughter than to inspire concern or pity.

In a fourth class shall be given specimens of language too light or airy for a severe passion.

The agony a mother must feel upon the savage murder of two hopeful sons, rejects all imagery and figurative expression, as discordant in the highest degree. Therefore the following passage is undoubtedly in a bad taste:

Again,

A thought that turns upon the expression instead of the subject, commonly called a play of words, being low and childish, is unworthy of any composition, whether gay or serious, that pretends to the smallest share of dignity. Thoughts of this kind make a fifth class.

In the Aminta of Tasso[73] the lover falls into a mere play of words, demanding how{229} he who had lost himself, could find a mistress. And for the same reason, the following passage in Corneille has been generally condemned:

Antony, speaking of Julius Cæsar:

Playing thus with the sound of words, which is still worse than a pun, is the meanest of all conceits. But Shakespear, when he descends to a play of words, is not always in the wrong; for it is done sometimes to denote a peculiar character; as is the following passage.

A jingle of words is the lowest species of this low wit; which is scarce sufferable in any case, and least of all in an heroic poem. And yet Milton in some instances has descended to this puerility:

One should think it unnecessary to enter a caveat against an expression that has no meaning, or no distinct meaning; and yet somewhat of this kind may be found even among good writers. These make a sixth class.

His whole poem, inscribed, My Picture, is a jargon of the same kind:

Such empty expressions are finely ridiculed in the Rehearsal:

CHAP. XVIII.

Beauty of Language.

OF all the fine arts, painting only and sculpture are in their nature imitative. A field laid out with taste, is not, properly speaking, a copy or imitation of nature, but nature itself embellished. Architecture deals in originals, and copies not from nature. Sound and motion may in some measure be imitated by music; but for the most part music, like architecture, deals in originals. Language has no archetype in nature, more than music or architecture; unless where, like music, it is imitative of sound or motion. In the description of particular sounds, language sometimes happily furnisheth words, which, beside their customary power of exciting ideas, resemble by their softness or harshness the sound described: and there are words, which, by the celerity or slowness of pronunciation, have some resemblance{235} to the motion they signify. This imitative power of words goes one step farther. The loftiness of some words, makes them proper symbols of lofty ideas: a rough subject is imitated by harsh-sounding words; and words of many syllables pronounced slow and smooth, are naturally expressive of grief and melancholy. Words have a separate effect on the mind, abstracting from their signification and from their imitative power. They are more or less agreeable to the ear, by the roundness, sweetness, faintness, or roughness, of their tones.

These are beauties, but not of the first rank: They are relished by those only, who have more delicacy of sensation than belongs to the bulk of mankind. Language possesseth a beauty superior greatly in degree, of which we are eminently conscious when a thought is communicated in a strong and lively manner. This beauty of language, arising from its power of expressing thought, is apt to be confounded with the beauty of the thought expressed; which beauty, by a natural transition of feeling among things intimately connected, is con{236}vey’d to the expression, and makes it appear more beautiful[74]. But these beauties, if we wish to think accurately, must be carefully distinguished from each other. They are indeed so distinct, that we sometimes are conscious of the highest pleasure language can afford, when the subject expressed is disagreeable. A thing that is loathsome, or a scene of horror to make one’s hair stand on end, may be described in the liveliest manner. In this case, the disagreeableness of the subject, doth not even obscure the agreeableness of the description. The causes of the original beauty of language considered as significant, which is a branch of the present subject, will be explained in their order. I shall only at present observe, that this beauty is the beauty of means fitted to an end, viz. the communication of thought. And hence it evidently appears, that of several expressions all conveying the same thought, the most beautiful, in the sense now mentioned, is that{237} which in the most perfect manner answers its end.

The several beauties of language above mentioned, being of different kinds and distinguishable from each other, ought to be handled separately. I shall begin with those beauties of language which arise from sound; after which will follow the beauties of language considered as significant. This order appears natural; for the sound of a word is attended to, before we consider its signification. In a third section come those singular beauties of language that are derived from a resemblance betwixt sound and signification. The beauties of verse I propose to handle in the last section. For though the foregoing beauties are found in verse as well as in prose; yet verse has many peculiar beauties, which for the sake of perspicuity must be brought under one view. And versification, at any rate, is a subject of so great importance, as to deserve a place by itself.{238}

SECT. I.

Beauty of language with respect to sound.

I Propose to handle this subject in the following order, which appears the most natural. The sounds of the different letters come first. Next, these sounds as united in syllables. Third, syllables united in words. Fourth, words united in a period. And in the last place, periods united in a discourse.

With respect to the first article, every vowel is sounded by a single expiration of air from the wind-pipe through the cavity of the mouth; and by varying this cavity, the different vowels are sounded. The air in passing through cavities differing in size, produceth various sounds, some high or sharp, some low or flat. A small cavity occasions a high sound, a large cavity a low sound. The five vowels accordingly, pronounced with the same extension of the{239} wind-pipe, but with different openings of the mouth, form a regular series of sounds, descending from high to low, in the following order, i, e, a[75], o, u. Each of these sounds is agreeable to the ear. And if it be inquired which of them is the most agreeable, it is perhaps the safest side to hold, that there is no universal preference of any one before the rest. Probably those vowels which are farthest removed from the extremes, will generally be the most relished. This is all I have to remark upon the first article. For consonants being letters which of themselves have no sound, have no other power but to form articulate sounds in conjunction with vowels; and every such articulate sound being a syllable, consonants come naturally under the second article. To which therefore we proceed.

All consonants are pronounced with a less cavity than any of the vowels; and consequently they contribute to form a sound still more sharp than the sharpest vowel pronounced single. Hence it follows, that{240} every articulate sound into which a consonant enters, must necessarily be double, though pronounced with one expiration of air, or with one breath as commonly expressed. The reason is, that though two sounds readily unite; yet where they differ in tone, both of them must be heard if neither of them be suppressed. For the same reason, every syllable must be composed of as many sounds as there are letters, supposing every letter to be distinctly pronounced.

We next inquire, how far articulate sounds into which consonants enter, are agreeable to the ear. With respect to this point, there is a noted observation, that all sounds of difficult pronunciation are to the ear harsh in proportion. Few tongues are so polished as entirely to have rejected sounds that are pronounced with difficulty; and such sounds must in some measure be disagreeable. But with respect to agreeable sounds, it appears, that a double sound is always more agreeable than a single sound. Every one who has an ear must be sensible, that the diphthongs oi or ai are more agreeable than any of these vowels pronounced singly.{241} And the same holds where a consonant enters into the double sound. The syllable le has a more agreeable sound than the vowel e or than any vowel. And in support of experience, a satisfactory argument may be drawn from the wisdom of Providence. Speech is bestowed upon man, to qualify him for society. The provision he hath of articulate sounds, is proportioned to the use he hath for them. But if sounds that are agreeable singly were not also agreeable in conjunction, the necessity of a painful selection would render language intricate and difficult to be attained in any perfection. And this selection, at the same time, would tend to abridge the number of useful sounds, so as perhaps not to leave sufficient for answering the different ends of language.

In this view, the harmony of pronunciation differs widely from that of music properly so called. In the latter are discovered many sounds singly agreeable, that in conjunction are extremely disagreeable; none but what are called concordant sounds having a good effect in conjunction. In the former, all sounds singly agreeable are in con{242}junction concordant; and ought to be, in order to fulfil the purposes of language.

Having discussed syllables, we proceed to words; which make a third article. Monosyllables belong to the former head. Polysyllables open a different scene. In a cursory view, one will readily imagine, that the effect a word hath upon the ear, must depend entirely upon the agreeableness or disagreeableness of its component syllables. In part it doth; but not entirely; for we must also take under consideration the effect that a number of syllables composing a word have in succession. In the first place, syllables in immediate succession, pronounced, each of them, with the same or nearly the same aperture of the mouth, produce a weak and imperfect sound; witness the French words détêté (detested), dit-il (says he), patetique (pathetic). On the other hand, a syllable of the greatest aperture succeeding one of the smallest, or the opposite, makes a succession, which, because of its remarkable disagreeableness, is distinguished by a proper name, viz. hiatus. The most agreeable succession, is, where the{243} cavity is increased and diminished alternately by moderate intervals. Secondly, words consisting wholly of syllables pronounced slow or of syllables pronounced quick, commonly called long and short syllables, have little melody in them. Witness the words petitioner, fruiterer, dizziness. On the other hand, the intermixture of long and short syllables is remarkably agreeable; for example, degree, repent, wonderful, altitude, rapidity, independent, impetuosity. The cause will be explained afterward, in treating of versification.

Distinguishable from the beauties above mentioned, there is a beauty of some words which arises from their signification. When the emotion raised by the length or shortness, the roughness or smoothness, of the sound, resembles in any degree what is raised by the sense, we feel a very remarkable pleasure. But this subject belongs to the third section.

The foregoing observations afford a standard to every nation, for estimating, pretty accurately, the comparative merit of the words that enter into their own language.{244} And though at first view they may be thought equally useful for estimating the comparative merit of different languages; yet this holds not in fact, because no person can readily be found who is sufficiently qualified to apply the standard. What I mean is, that different nations judge differently of the harshness or smoothness of articulate sounds: a sound, harsh and disagreeable to an Italian, may be abundantly smooth to a northern ear. Where are we to find a judge to determine this controversy? and supposing a judge, upon what principle is his decision to be founded? The case here is precisely the same as in behaviour and manners. Plain-dealing and sincerity, liberty in words and actions, form the character of one people. Politeness, reserve, and a total disguise of every sentiment that can give offence, form the character of another people. To each the manners of the other are disagreeable. An effeminate mind cannot bear the least of that roughness and severity, which is generally esteemed manly when exerted upon proper occasions. Neither can an effeminate ear{245} bear the least harshness in words that are deemed nervous and sounding by those accustomed to a rougher tone of language. Must we then relinquish all thoughts of comparing languages in the point of roughness and smoothness, as a fruitless inquiry? Not altogether so; for we may proceed a certain length, though without hope of an ultimate decision. A language with difficulty pronounced even by natives, must yield the preference to a smoother language. Again, supposing two languages pronounced with equal facility by natives, the preference, in my judgement, ought to be in favour of the rougher language; provided it be also stored with a competent share of more mellow sounds. This will be evident from attending to the different effects that articulate sound hath upon the mind. A smooth gliding sound is agreeable, by smoothing the mind and lulling it to rest. A rough bold sound, on the contrary, animates the mind. The effort perceived in pronouncing, is communicated to the hearers: they feel in their own minds a similar effort,{246} which rouses their attention and disposes them to action. I must add another consideration. The agreeableness of contrast in the rougher language, for which the great variety of sounds gives ample opportunity, must, even in an effeminate ear, prevail over the more uniform sounds of the smoother language[76]. This appears to me all that can be safely determined upon the present point. With respect to the other circumstances that constitute the beauty of words, the standard above mentioned is infallible when apply’d to foreign languages as well as to our own. For every man, whatever be his mother-tongue, is equally capable to judge of the length or shortness of words, of the alternate opening and closing of the mouth in speaking, and of the relation which the sound bears to the sense. In these particulars, the judgement is susceptible of no prejudice from custom, at least of no invincible prejudice.{247}

That the English tongue, originally harsh, is at present much softened by dropping in the pronunciation many redundant consonants, is undoubtedly true. That it is not capable of being farther mellowed, without suffering in its force and energy, will scarce be thought by any one who possesses an ear. And yet such in Britain is the propensity for dispatch, that overlooking the majesty of words composed of many syllables aptly connected, the prevailing taste is, to shorten words, even at the expence of making them disagreeable to the ear and harsh in the pronunciation. But I have no occasion to insist upon this article, being prevented by an excellent writer, who possessed, if any man ever did, the true genius of the English tongue[77]. I cannot however forbear urging one observation borrowed from that author. Several tenses of our verbs are formed by adding the final syllable ed, which, being a weak sound, has remarkably the worse ef{248}fect by possessing the most conspicuous place in the word. Upon that account, the vowel is in common speech generally suppressed, and the consonant is added to the foregoing syllable. Hence the following rugged sounds, drudg’d, disturb’d, rebuk’d, fledg’d. It is still less excuseable to follow this practice in writing; for the hurry of speaking may excuse what is altogether improper in a composition of any value. The syllable ed, it is true, makes but a poor figure at the end of a word: but we ought to submit to that defect, rather than multiply the number of harsh words, which, after all that has been done, bear an over-proportion in our tongue. The author above mentioned, by showing a good example, did all in his power to restore that syllable; and he well deserves to be imitated. Some exceptions however I would make. A word which signifies labour, or any thing harsh or rugged, ought not to be smooth. Therefore forc’d, with an apostrophe, is better than forced, without it. Another exception is, where the penult syllable ends with a vowel. In that case{249} the final syllable ed may be apostrophized without making the word harsh. Examples, betray’d, carry’d, destroy’d, employ’d.

The article next in order, is to consider the music of words as united in a period. And as the arrangement of words in succession so as to afford the greatest pleasure to the ear, depends on principles pretty remote from common view, it will be necessary to premise some general observations upon the effect that a number of objects have upon the mind when they are placed in an increasing or decreasing series. The effect of such a series will be very different, according as resemblance or contrast prevails. Where the members of a series vary by small differences, resemblance prevails; which, in ascending, makes us conceive the second object of no greater size than the first, the third of no greater size than the second, and so of the rest. This diminisheth in appearance the size of the whole. Again, when beginning at the largest object, we proceed gradually to the least, resemblance makes us imagine the second as large as the first, and the third as{250} large as the second; which in appearance magnifies every object of the series except the first. On the other hand, in a series varying by great differences, where contrast prevails, the effects are directly opposite. A large object succeeding a small one of the same kind, appears by the opposition larger than usual: and a small object, for the same reason, succeeding one that is large, appears less than usual[78]. Hence a remarkable pleasure in viewing a series ascending by large intervals; directly opposite to what we feel when the intervals are small. Beginning at the smallest object of a series where contrast prevails, this object has the same effect upon the mind as if it stood single without making a part of the series. But this is not the case of the second object, which by means of contrast makes a much greater figure than when viewed singly and apart; and the same effect is perceived in ascending progressively, till we arrive at the last object. The direct contrary effect is produced in descending; for in this direc{251}tion, every object, except the first, makes a less figure than when viewed separately and independent of the series. We may then lay down as a maxim, which will hold in the composition of language as well as of other subjects, That a strong impulse succeeding a weak, makes a double impression on the mind; and that a weak impulse succeeding a strong, makes scarce any impression.

After establishing this maxim, we can be at no loss about its application to the subject in hand. The following rule is laid down by Diomedes[79]. “In verbis observandum est, ne a majoribus ad minora descendat oratio; melius enim dicitur, Vir est optimus, quam, Vir optimus est.” This rule is applicable not only to single words, but equally to entire members of a period, which, according to our author’s expression, ought not more than single words to proceed from the greater to the less, but from the less to the greater. In arranging the members of a period, no wri{252}ter equals Cicero. The beauty of the following examples out of many, will not suffer me to slur them over by a reference.

Again:

Again:

This order of words or members gradually increasing in length, may, so far as concerns the pleasure of sound singly, be denominated a climax in sound.{253}

The last article is the music of periods as united in a discourse; which shall be dispatched in a very few words. By no other human means is it possible to present to the mind, such a number of objects and in so swift a succession, as by speaking or writing. And for that reason, variety ought more to be studied in these, than in any other sort of composition. Hence a rule regarding the arrangement of the members of different periods with relation to each other, That to avoid a tedious uniformity of sound and cadence, the arrangement, the cadence, and the length of these members, ought to be diversified as much as possible. And if the members of different periods be sufficiently diversified, the periods themselves will be equally so.{254}

SECT. II.

Beauty of language with respect to signification.

It is well said by a noted writer[80], “That by means of speech we can divert our sorrows, mingle our mirth, impart our secrets, communicate our counsels, and make mutual compacts and agreements to supply and assist each other.” Considering speech as contributing thus to so many good purposes, it follows, that the chusing words which have an accurate meaning, and tend to convey clear and distinct ideas, must be one of its capital beauties. This cause of beauty, is too extensive to be handled as a branch of any other subject. To ascertain with accuracy even the proper meaning of words, not to talk of their figurative power, would require a large volume; an useful work indeed; but not to be attempted without a large stock of time, study, and reflec{255}tion. This branch therefore of the subject I must humbly decline. Nor do I propose to exhaust all the other beauties of language with respect to signification. The reader, in a work like the present, cannot fairly expect more than a slight sketch of those that make the greatest figure. This is a task which I attempt the more willingly, as it appears to be connected with some principles in human nature; and the rules I shall have occasion to lay down, will, if I judge aright, be agreeable illustrations of these principles. Every subject must be of importance that tends in any measure to unfold the human heart; for what other science is more worthy of human beings?

The present subject is so extensive, that, to prevent confusion, it must be divided into parts; and what follows suggests a division into two parts. In every period, two things are to be regarded, equally capital; first, the words of which the period is composed; next, the arrangement of these words. The former resemble the stones that compose a building; and the latter resembles the order in which these stones are placed.{256} Hence the beauty of language with respect to its meaning, may not improperly be distinguished into two kinds. The first consists in a right choice of words or materials for constructing the period; and the other consists in a due arrangement of these words or materials. I shall begin with rules that direct us to a right choice of words, and then proceed to rules that concern their arrangement.

And with respect to the former, communication of thought being the principal end of language, it is a rule, That perspicuity ought not to be sacrificed to any other beauty whatever. If it should be doubted whether perspicuity be a positive beauty, it cannot be doubted, that the want of it is the greatest defect. Nothing therefore in the structure of language ought more to be studied, than to prevent all obscurity in the expression; for to have no meaning, is but one degree worse than to express it so as not to be understood. Want of perspicuity from a wrong arrangement, belongs to the next branch. I shall give a few examples where the obscurity arises from a wrong choice of{257} words; and as this defect is so common in ordinary writers as to make examples from them unnecessary, I confine myself to the most celebrated authors.

Livy, speaking of a rout after a battle,

There is want of neatness even in an ambiguity so slight as that is which arises from the construction merely; as where the period commences with a member which is conceived to be in the nominative case, and which afterward is found to be in the accusative. Example: “Some emotions more peculiarly connected with the fine arts, I propose to handle in separate chapters[81].” Better thus: “Some emotions more peculiarly connected with the fine arts, are proposed to be handled in separate chapters.”

The rule next in order, because next in importance, is, That the language ought to correspond to the subject. Grand or heroic actions or sentiments require elevated language: tender sentiments ought to be ex{259}pressed in words soft and flowing; and plain language devoid of ornament, is adapted to subjects grave and didactic. Language may be considered as the dress of thought; and where the one is not suited to the other, we are sensible of incongruity, in the same manner as where a judge is dressed like a fop, or a peasant like a man of quality. The intimate connection that words have with their meaning, requires that both be in the same tone. Or, to express the thing more plainly, the impression made by the words ought as nearly as possible to resemble the impression made by the thought. The similar emotions mix sweetly in the mind, and augment the pleasure[82]. On the other hand, where the impressions made by the thought and the words are dissimilar, they are forc’d into a sort of unnatural union, which is disagreeable[83].

In the preceding chapter, concerning the language of passion, I had occasion to give many examples of deviations from this{260} rule with regard to the manner of expressing passions and their sentiments. But as the rule concerns the manner of expressing thoughts and ideas of all kinds, it has an extensive influence in directing us to the choice of proper materials. In that view it must be branched out into several particulars. And I must observe, in the first place, that to write with elegance, it is not sufficient to express barely the conjunction or disjunction of the members of the thought. It is a beauty to find a similar conjunction or disjunction in the words. This may be illustrated by a familiar example. When we have occasion to mention the intimate connection that the soul has with the body, the expression ought to be the soul and body; because the particle the, relative to both, makes a connection in the expression, which resembles in some degree the connection in the thought. But when the soul is distinguished from the body, it is better to say the soul and the body, because the disjunction in the words resembles the disjunction in the thought. In the follow{261}ing examples the connection in the thought is happily imitated in the expression.

Again:

The following passage of Tacitus appears to me not so happy. It approaches to wit by connecting in the foregoing manner things but slightly related, which is not altogether suitable to the dignity or gravity of history.

{262}

I am more doubtful about this other instance:

I shall add some other examples where the opposition in the thought is imitated in the words; an imitation that is distinguished by the name of antithesis.

Speaking of Coriolanus soliciting the people to be made consul:

This rule may be extended to govern the construction of sentences or periods. A sentence or period in language ought to express one entire thought or mental proposition; and different thoughts ought to be separated in the expression by placing them in different sentences or periods. It is therefore offending against neatness, to crowd into one period entire thoughts which require more than one; for this is conjoining in language things that are separated in reality; and consequently rejecting that uniformity which ought to be preserved betwixt thought and expression. Of errors against this rule take the following examples.

Cæsar, describing the Suevi:

Burnet, in the history of his own times, giving Lord Sunderland’s character, says,

Lord Bolingbroke, speaking of Strada:

To crowd into a single member of a period, different subjects, is still worse than to crowd them into one period.

Where two things are so connected as to require but a copulative, it is pleasant to find a resemblance in the members of the period, were it even so slight as where both begin with the same letter:

There is obviously a sensible defect in neatness when uniformity is in this case totally neglected[84]; witness the following example, where the construction of two members connected by a copulative is unnecessarily varied.

It is even unpleasant to find a negative and affirmative proposition connected by a copulative.{268}

An artificial connection among the words, is undoubtedly a beauty when it represents any peculiar connection among the constituent parts of the thought; but where there is no such connection, it is a positive deformity, because it makes a discordance betwixt the thought and expression. For the same reason, we ought also to avoid every artificial opposition of words where there is none in the thought. This last, termed verbal antithesis, is studied by writers of no taste; and is relished by readers of the same stamp, because of a certain degree of liveliness in it. They do not consider how incongruous it is, in a grave composition, to cheat the reader, and to make him ex{269}pect a contrast in the thought, which upon examination is not found there.

Here is a studied opposition in the words, not only without any opposition in the sense, but even where there is a very intimate connection, that of cause and effect; for it is the levity of the wife that vexes the husband.

To conjoin by a copulative, members that signify things opposed in the thought, is an error too gross to be commonly practi{270}sed. And yet writers are guilty of this fault in some degree, when they conjoin by a copulative things transacted at different periods of time. Hence a want of neatness in the following expression.

In periods of this kind, it appears more neat to express the past time by the participle passive, thus:

So much upon conjunction and disjunction in general. I proceed to apply the rule to comparisons in particular. Where a resemblance betwixt two objects is described, the writer ought to study a resemblance betwixt the two members that express these{271} objects. For it makes the resemblance the more entire to find it extended even to the words. To illustrate this rule, I shall give various examples of deviations from it. I begin with the words that express the resemblance.

This, instead of studying the resemblance of words in a period that expresses a comparison, is going out of one’s road to avoid it. Instead of productions which resemble not ministers great or small, the proper word is writers or authors.

Here the subject plainly demands uniformity in expression instead of variety; and{272} therefore it is submitted whether the period would not do better in the following manner:

{273}

Titus Livius, concerning the people of Enna demanding the keys from the Roman garrison, makes the governor say,

Quintus Curtius, speaking of Porus mounted on an elephant, and leading his army to battle:

It is a still greater deviation from congruity, to affect not only variety in the words, but also in the construction. Describing Thermopylæ, Titus Livius says,

{274}

Speaking of Shakespear:

This is studying variety in a period where the beauty lies in uniformity. Better thus:

Next as to the length of the members that signify the resembling objects. To produce a resemblance betwixt such members, they ought not only to be constructed in the same manner, but as nearly as possible be equal in length. By neglecting this circumstance, the following example is defective in neatness.

In the following passage all the errors are accumulated that a period expressing a resemblance can well admit:

The same rule obtains in a comparison where things are opposed to each other. Objects contrasted, not less than what are similar, require a resemblance in the members of the period that express them. The reason is, that contrast has no effect upon the mind, except where the things compared have a resemblance in their capital parts[87]. Therefore, in opposing two cir{276}cumstances to each other, it remarkably heightens the contrast, to make as entire as possible the resemblance betwixt the other parts, and in particular betwixt the members expressing the two circumstances contrasted. As things are often best illustrated by their contraries, I shall also give examples of deviations from the rule in this case.

Addison says,

Would it not be neater to study uniformity instead of variety? as thus:

For here the contrast is only betwixt a friend and an enemy; and betwixt all the other circumstances, including the members of the period, the resemblance ought to be preserved as entire as possible.

Speaking of a lady’s head-dress:

{277}

It should be,

Better:

Sallust, in his history of Catiline’s conspiracy:

We proceed to a rule of a different kind. During the course of a period, the same scene ought to be continued without variation. The changing from person to person, from subject to subject, or from person to subject, within the bounds of a single period, distracts the mind, and affords no time for a solid impression. I illustrate this rule by giving examples of deviations from it.

Speaking of the distemper contracted by Alexander bathing in the river Cydnus and of the cure offered by Philip the physician:

{279}

Hook, in his Roman history, speaking of Eumenes, who had been beat down to the ground with a stone, says,

I give another example of a period which is unpleasant, even by a very slight deviation from the rule.

This expression includes two persons, one acquiring, and one inculcating; and the scene is changed without necessity. To avoid this blemish, the thought may be expressed thus:

The bad effect of this change of person is remarkable in the following passage.{280}

Letter to the Lord High Treasurer. Swift.

The following example is a change from subject to persons.

Guardian, Nº 4.

Even so slight a change as to vary the construction in the same period, is unpleasant:

Tit. Liv. l. 22. § 46.

Speaking of Hannibal’s elephants drove back by the enemy upon his own army:

This passage is also faulty in a different respect, that there is no resemblance betwixt the members of the expression, though they import a comparison.

The present head, which relates to the choice of materials, shall be closed with a rule concerning the use of copulatives. Longinus observes, that it animates a period to drop the copulatives; and he gives the following example from Xenophon.{282}

The reason I take to be what follows. A continued sound, if not strong, tends to lay us asleep. An interrupted sound rouses and animates by its repeated impulses. Hence it is, that syllables collected into feet, being pronounced with a sensible interval betwixt each, make more lively impressions than can be made by a continued sound. A period, the members of which are connected by copulatives, produceth an effect upon the mind approaching to that of a continued sound: and therefore to suppress the copulatives must animate a description. To suppress the copulatives hath another good effect. The members of a period connected by the proper copulatives, glide smoothly and gently along; and are a proof of sedateness and leisure in the speaker. On the other hand, a man in the hurry of passion, neglecting copulatives and other particles, expresses the principal image only. Hence it is, that{283} hurry or quick action is best expressed without copulatives:

In this view Longinus[88] justly compares copulatives in a period to strait tying, which in a race obstructs the freedom of motion.

It follows from the same premisses, that to multiply copulatives in the same period ought to be avoided. For if the laying aside copulatives give force and liveliness, a redundancy of them must render the period languid. I appeal to the following instance, though there are not more than two copulatives.

{284}

I except the case where the words are intended to express the coldness of the speaker; for there the redundancy of copulatives is a beauty.

And the author shows great taste in varying the expression in the mouth of Peter, who is represented more animated.

We proceed to the second kind of beauty, which consists in a due arrangement of the words or materials. This branch of the subject is not less nice than extensive; and{285} I despair to put it in a clear light, until a sketch be given of the general principles that govern the structure or composition of language.

Every thought, generally speaking, contains one capital object considered as acting or as suffering. This object is expressed by a substantive noun. Its action is expressed by an active verb; and the thing affected by the action is expressed by another substantive noun. Its suffering or passive state is expressed by a passive verb, and the thing which acts upon it, by a substantive noun. Beside these, which are the capital parts of a sentence or period, there are generally under-parts. Each of the substantives as well as the verb, may be qualified. Time, place, purpose, motive, means, instrument, and a thousand other circumstances, may be necessary to complete the thought. And in what manner these several parts are connected together in the expression, will appear from what follows.

In a complete thought or mental proposition, all the members and parts are mutually related, some slightly, some more inti{286}mately. In communicating such a thought, it is not sufficient that the component ideas be clearly expressed: it is also necessary, that all the relations contained in the thought be expressed according to their different degrees of intimacy. To annex a certain meaning to a certain sound or word, requires no art. The great nicety in all languages is, to express the various relations that connect together the parts of the thought. Could we suppose this branch of language to be still a secret, it would puzzle, I am apt to think, the greatest grammarian ever existed, to invent an expeditious method. And yet, by the guidance merely of nature, the rude and illiterate have been led to a method so perfect, that it appears not susceptible of any improvement. Without a clear conception of the manner of expressing relations, one at every turn must be at a loss about the beauties of language; and upon that subject therefore I find it necessary to say a few words.

Words that import a relation, must be distinguished from those that do not. Substantives commonly imply no relation, such{287} as animal, man, tree, river. Adjectives, verbs, and adverbs, imply a relation. The adjective good must be connected with some substantive, some being possessed of that quality. The verb write must be applied to some person who writes; and the adverbs moderately, diligently, have plainly a reference to some action which they modify. When in language a relative term is introduced, all that is necessary to complete the expression, is, to ascertain that thing to which the term relates. For answering this purpose, I observe in Greek and Latin two different methods. Adjectives are declined as well as substantives; and declension serves to ascertain the connection that is betwixt them. If the word that expresses the subject be, for example, in the nominative case, so also must the word be that expresses its quality. Example, vir bonus. Again, verbs are related, on the one hand, to the agent; and, on the other, to the subject upon which the action is exerted. A contrivance similar to that now mentioned, serves to express this double relation. The nominative case is appropriated to the agent, the accu{288}sative to the passive subject; and the verb is put in the first second or third person, to correspond the more intimately with both. Examples: Ego amo Tulliam; tu amas Semproniam; Brutus amat Portiam. The other method is by juxtaposition, which is necessary with respect to words only that are not declined, adverbs for example, articles, prepositions, and conjunctions. In the English language there are few declensions; and therefore juxtaposition is our chief resource. Adjectives accompany their substantives[89]; an adverb accompanies the word it qualifies; and the verb occupies the middle place betwixt the active and passive subjects to which it relates.

It must be obvious, that those terms which have nothing relative in their signification,{289} cannot be connected in so easy a manner. When two substantives happen to be connected, as cause and effect, as principal and accessory, or in any other manner, such connection cannot be expressed by contiguity solely; for words must often in a period be placed together which are not thus related. The relation betwixt substantives, therefore, cannot otherwise be expressed than by particles denoting the relation. Latin indeed and Greek, by their declensions, go a certain length to express such relations, without the aid of particles. The relation of property, for example, betwixt Cæsar and his horse is, expressed by putting the latter in the nominative case, the former in the genitive; equus Cæsaris. The like in English, Cæsar’s horse. But in other instances, declensions not being used in the English language, relations of this kind are commonly expressed by prepositions.

This form of connecting by prepositions, is not confined to substantives. Qualities, attributes, manner of existing or acting, and all other circumstances, may in the same manner be connected with the substantives{290} to which they relate. This is done artificially by converting the circumstance into a substantive, in which condition it is qualified to be connected with the principal subject by a preposition, in the manner above described. For example, the adjective wise being converted into the substantive wisdom, gives opportunity for the expression “a man of wisdom,” instead of the more simple expression, a wise man. This variety in the expression, enriches language. I observe beside, that the using a preposition in this case, is not always a matter of choice. It is indispensable with respect to every circumstance that cannot be expressed by a single adjective or adverb.

To pave the way for the rules of arrangement, one other preliminary must be discussed, which is, to explain the difference betwixt a natural style, and that where transposition or inversion prevails. There are, it is true, no precise boundaries betwixt these two; for they run into each other, like the shades of different colours. No person however is at a loss to distinguish them in their extremes: and it is necessary to make{291} the distinction; because though some of the rules I shall have occasion to mention are common to both, yet each has rules peculiar to itself. In a natural style, relative words are by juxtaposition connected with those to which they relate, going before or after, according to the peculiar genius of the language. Again, a circumstance connected by a preposition, follows naturally the word with which it is connected. But this arrangement may be varied, when a different order is more beautiful. A circumstance may be placed before the word with which it is connected by a preposition; and may be interjected even betwixt a relative word and that to which it relates. When such liberties are frequently taken, the style becomes inverted or transposed.

But as the liberty of inversion is a capital point in handling the present subject, it will be necessary to examine it more narrowly, and in particular to trace the several degrees in which an inverted style recedes more and more from that which is natural. And first, as to the placing a circumstance before the word with which it is connected, I observe,{292} that it is the easiest of all inversion, even so easy as to be consistent with a style that is properly termed natural. Witness the following examples.

The interjecting a circumstance betwixt a relative word and that to which it relates, is more properly termed inversion; because, by a violent disjunction of words intimately connected, it recedes farther from a natural style. But this liberty has also degrees; for the disjunction is more violent in some cases than in others. This I must also explain: and to give a just notion of the difference, I must crave liberty of my reader to enter a{293} little more into an abstract subject, than would otherwise be my choice.

In nature, though a substance cannot exist without its qualities, nor a quality without a substance; yet in our conception of these, a material difference may be remarked. I cannot conceive a quality but as belonging to some subject: it makes indeed a part of the idea which is formed of the subject. But the opposite holds not. Though I cannot form a conception of a subject devoid of all qualities, a partial conception may however be formed of it, laying aside or abstracting from any particular quality. I can, for example, form the idea of a fine Arabian horse without regard to his colour, or of a white horse without regard to his size. Such partial conception of a subject, is still more easy with respect to action or motion; which is an occasional attribute only, and has not the same permanency with colour or figure. I cannot form an idea of motion independent of a body; but there is nothing more easy than to form an idea of a body at rest. Hence it appears, that the degree of inversion depends greatly{294} on the order in which the related words are placed. When a substantive occupies the first place, we cannot foresee what is to be said of it. The idea therefore which this word suggests, must subsist in the mind at least for a moment, independent of the relative words afterward introduced; and if it can so subsist, that moment may without difficulty be prolonged by interjecting a circumstance betwixt the substantive and its connections. Examples therefore of this kind, will scarce alone be sufficient to denominate a style inverted. The case is very different, where the word that occupies the first place, denotes a quality or an action; for as these cannot be conceived without a subject, they cannot without greater violence be separated from the subject that follows. And for that reason, every such separation by means of an interjected circumstance belongs to an inverted style.

To illustrate this doctrine examples being necessary, I shall begin with those where the word first introduced does not imply a relation.{295}

In the following examples, where the word first introduced imports a relation, the disjunction will be found more violent.

Language would have no great power, were it confined to the natural order of ideas. A thousand beauties may be compassed by inversion, that must be relinquished in a natural arrangement. I shall soon have an opportunity to make this evident. In the mean time, it ought not to escape observation, that the mind of man is happily so constituted as to relish inversion, though in one respect unnatural; and to relish it so much, as in many cases to admit a violent disjunction of words that by the sense are intimately connected. I scarce can say that inversion has any limits; though I may venture to pronounce, that the disjunction of articles, conjunctions, or prepositions,{297} from the words to which they belong, never has a good effect. The following example with relation to a preposition, is perhaps as tolerable as any of the kind.

I give notice to the reader, that I am now ready to enter upon the rules of arrangement; beginning with a natural style, and proceeding gradually to what is the most inverted. And in the arrangement of a period, as well as in a right choice of words, the first and great object being perspicuity, it is above laid down as a rule, That perspicuity ought not to be sacrificed to any other beauty whatever. Ambiguities occasioned by a wrong arrangement are of two sorts; one where the arrangement leads to a wrong sense, and one where the sense is left doubtful. The first being the more culpable, shall take the lead, beginning with examples of words put in a wrong place.

This arrangement leads to a wrong sense: The adverb merely seems by its position to affect the preceding word; whereas it is intended to affect the following words an ordinary presence; and therefore the arrangement ought to be thus.

The term only is intended to qualify the noun degeneracy, and not the participle discontinued; and therefore the arrangement ought to be as follows.{299}

The expression here leads evidently to a wrong sense. The adverb at least, ought not to be connected with the substantive books, but with collector, thus:

Speaking of Lewis XIV.

Better thus:

This arrangement removes the wrong sense occasioned by the juxtaposition of majesty and at least.{300}

The following examples are of the wrong arrangement of members.

The structure of this period leads to a meaning which is not the author’s, viz. power limited by a strict execution of the laws. This wrong sense is removed by the following arrangement.

The wrong sense occasioned by this arrangement, may be easily prevented by varying it thus:{301}

One would think that the search was confined to the sea-shore; but as the meaning is, that the great stone was found by the sea-shore, the period ought to be arranged thus:

Next of a wrong arrangement where the sense is left doubtful; beginning, as in the former sort, with examples of the wrong arrangement of words in a member.

{302}

Here it is left doubtful whether the modification by degrees relate to the preceding member or to what follows. It should be,

The ambiguity is removed by the following arrangement.

The ambiguity may be removed thus:

In the following examples the sense is left{303} doubtful by a wrong arrangement of members.

Here, so far as can be gathered from the arrangement, it is doubtful, whether the object introduced by way of simile, relate to what goes before or to what follows. The ambiguity is removed by the following arrangement.

Better thus:

{304}

Speaking of the superstitious practice of locking up the room where a person of distinction dies:

Better thus:

Speaking of some indecencies in conversation:

The ambiguity vanishes in the following arrangement.

{305}

Speaking of a discovery in natural philosophy, that colour is not a quality of matter:

Better thus:

Better thus:

Better thus:

From these examples, the following observation will readily occur, that a circumstance ought never to be placed betwixt two capital members of a period; for by such situation it must always be doubtful, so far as we gather from the arrangement, to which of the two members it belongs. Where it is interjected, as it ought to be, betwixt parts of the member to which it belongs, the ambiguity is removed, and the capital members are kept distinct, which is a great beauty in composition. In general, to preserve members distinct which signify things distinguished in the thought,{307} the sure method is, to place first in the consequent member some word that cannot connect with what precedes it.

If by any one it shall be thought, that the objections here are too scrupulous, and that the defect of perspicuity is easily supplied by accurate punctuation; the answer is, That punctuation may remove an ambiguity, but will never produce that peculiar beauty which is felt when the sense comes out clearly and distinctly by means of a happy arrangement. Such influence has this beauty, that by a natural transition of feeling, it is communicated to the very sound of the words, so as in appearance to improve the music of the period. But as this curious subject comes in more properly afterward, it is sufficient at present to appeal to experience, that a period so arranged as to bring out the sense clear, seems always more musical than where the sense is left in any degree doubtful.

A rule deservedly occupying the second place, is, That words expressing things connected in the thought, ought to be placed as near together as possible. This rule is{308} derived immediately from human nature, in which there is discovered a remarkable propensity to place together things that are in any manner connected[90]. Where things are arranged according to their connections, we have a sense of order: otherwise we have a sense of disorder, as of things placed by chance. And we naturally place words in the same order in which we would place the things they signify. The bad effect of a violent separation of words or members thus intimately connected, will appear from the following examples.

Here the verb or assertion is, by a pretty long circumstance, violently separated from the subject to which it refers. This makes a harsh arrangement; the less excusable that{309} the fault is easily prevented by placing the circumstance before the verb or assertion, after the following manner:

Better thus:

If any one have a curiosity for more specimens of this kind, they will be found without number in the works of the same author.

A pronoun, which saves the naming a person or thing a second time, ought to be placed as near as possible to the name of that person or thing. This is a branch of{311} the foregoing rule; and with the reason there given, another concurs, viz. That if other ideas intervene, it is difficult to recal the person or thing by reference.

Better thus:

Better:

The arrangement here leads to a wrong sense, as if the ground were taken up, not the paper. Better thus:

The following rule depends on the communication of emotions or feelings to related objects, a principle in human nature we have had more than one occasion to mention. We find this operation, even where the objects are not otherwise related than by the juxtaposition of the words that express them. Hence to elevate or depress an object, one method is, to join it in the ar{313}rangement to another that is naturally high or low. Witness the following speech of Eumenes to the Roman senate.

To join the Romans with the gods in the same enunciation, is an artful stroke of flattery, because it tacitly puts them on a level. On the other hand, when the purpose is to degrade or vilify an object, this is done successfully by ranking it with one that is really low:

Circumstances in a period resemble small stones in a building employ’d to fill up vacancies among those of a larger size. In the arrangement of a period, such under-parts crowded together make a poor figure; and never are graceful but when interspersed among the capital parts. I shall illustrate this rule by the following example.{315}

Here two circumstances, viz. by computation and in this kingdom, are crowded together unnecessarily. They make a better appearance separated in the following manner.

If there be room for a choice, the sooner a circumstance be introduced, the better. Circumstances are proper for that coolness of mind, with which a period as well as a work is commenced. In the progress, the mind warms, and has a greater relish for matters of importance. When a circumstance is placed at the beginning or near the beginning of the period, the transition from it to the principal subject is agreeable: it is like ascending or mounting upward. On the other hand, to place it late in the period has a bad effect; for after being engaged in{316} the principal subject, one is with reluctance brought down to give attention to a circumstance. Hence evidently the preference of the following arrangement,

before this other,

For this reason the following period is exceptionable in point of arrangement:

which, with a slight alteration, may be improved thus:

The bad effect of placing a circumstance{317} last or late in a period, will appear from the following examples.

Better thus:

Better thus:

{318}

Better thus:

In arranging a period, it is of importance to determine in what part of it a word makes the greatest figure, whether in the beginning, during the currency, or at the close. The breaking silence rouses the attention to what is said; and therefore deeper impression is made at the beginning than during the currency. The beginning, however, must yield to the close; which being succeeded by a pause, affords time for a word to make its deepest impression. Hence the following rule, That to give the utmost force to a period, it ought if possible to be closed with that word which makes the greatest figure. The opportunity of a pause should not be thrown away upon accessories, but reserved for the principal object, in order that it may make a full impression. This is an additional reason against closing a period with a circumstance. There are however periods that admit not this structure;{319} and in that case, the capital word ought if possible to be placed in the front, which next to the close is the most advantageous for making an impression. Hence, in directing our discourse to any man, we ought to begin with his name; and one will be sensible of a degradation, when this rule is neglected, as it frequently is for the sake of verse. I give the following examples.

In these examples the name of the person addressed to makes a mean figure, being like a circumstance slipt into a corner. That this criticism is well founded, we need no other proof than Addison’s translation of the last example.{320}

Every one must be sensible of a dignity in the invocation at the beginning, which that in the middle is far from reaching. I mean not however to censure this expression. On the contrary it appears beautiful, by distinguishing the respect due to a father and to a son.

The substance of what is said in this and the foregoing section, upon the method of arranging the words of a period so as to make the strongest impression with respect to sound as well as signification, is comprehended in the following observation. That order of the words in a period will always be the most agreeable, where, without obscuring the sense, the most important i{321}mages, the most sonorous words, and the longest members, bring up the rear.

Hitherto of arranging single words, single members, and single circumstances. But the enumeration of many particulars in the same period is often necessary; and the question is, In what order they should be placed. It does not seem easy at first view to bring a subject apparently so loose under any general rules. But luckily reflecting upon what is said in the first chapter about order, we find rules laid down to our hand, so as to leave us no harder task than their application to the present question. And, first, with respect to the enumerating a number of particulars of equal rank, it is laid down in the place cited, that as there is no foundation for preferring any one before the rest, it is indifferent to the mind in what order they be viewed. And it is only necessary to be added here, that for the same reason, it is indifferent in what order they be named. 2dly, If a number of objects of the same kind, differing only in size, are to be ranged along a straight{322} line, the most agreeable order to the eye is that of an increasing series. In surveying a number of such objects, beginning at the least and proceeding to greater and greater, the mind swells gradually with the successive objects, and in its progress has a very sensible pleasure. Precisely for the same reason, the words expressive of such objects ought to be placed in the same order. The beauty of this figure, which may be termed a climax in sense, has escaped Lord Bolingbroke in the first member of the following period.

The following arrangement has sensibly a better effect.

Whether the same rule ought to be followed in enumerating men of different ranks, seems doubtful. On the one hand, a pro{323}cession of a number of persons, presenting the lowest class first, and rising upon the eye in succession till it terminate upon the highest, is undoubtedly the most agreeable order. On the other hand, in every list of names, it is customary to set the person of the greatest dignity at the top, and to descend gradually through his inferiors. Where the purpose is to honour the persons named according to their rank, the latter order ought to be followed; but every one who regards himself only, or his reader, will chuse the former order. 3dly, As the sense of order directs the eye to descend from the principal to its greatest accessory, and from the whole to its greatest part, and in the same order through all the parts and accessories till we arrive at the minutest; the same order ought to be followed in the enumeration of such particulars. I shall give one familiar example. Talking of the parts of a column, viz. the base, the shaft, the capital, these are capable of six different arrangements, and the question is, Which is the best? When one has in view the erection of a column, he will na{324}turally be led to express the parts in the order above mentioned; which at the same time is agreeable by mounting upward. But considering the column as it stands without reference to its erection, the sense of order, as observed above, requires the chief part to be named first. For that reason we begin with the shaft; and the base comes next in order, that we may ascend from it to the capital. Lastly, In tracing the particulars of any natural operation, order requires that we follow the course of nature. Historical facts are related in the order of time. We begin at the founder of a family, and proceed from him to his descendents. But in describing a lofty oak, we begin with the trunk, and ascend to the branches.

When force and liveliness of expression are aimed at, the rule is, to suspend the thought as much as possible, and to bring it out full and entire at the close. This cannot be done but by inverting the natural arrangement, and by introducing a word or member before its time. By such inversion our curiosity is raised about what is{325} to follow; and it is agreeable to have our curiosity gratified at the close of the period. Such arrangement produceth on the mind an effect similar to a stroke exerted upon the body by the whole collected force of the agent. On the other hand, where a period is so constructed as to admit more than one complete close in the sense, the curiosity of the reader is exhausted at the first close, and what follows appears languid or superfluous. His disappointment contributes also to this appearance, when he finds, that, contrary to his expectation, the period is not yet finished. Cicero, and after him Quintilian, recommend the verb to the last place. This method evidently tends to suspend the sense till the close of the period; for without the verb the sense cannot be complete. And when the verb happens to be the capital word, which is frequently the case, it ought at any rate to be put last, according to another rule, above laid down. I proceed as usual to illustrate this rule by examples. The following period is placed in its natural order.{326}

The period thus arranged admits a full close upon the word composition; after which it goes on languidly, and closes without force. This blemish will be avoided by the following arrangement.

Better thus:

{327}

Better:

Better:

Better:

{328}

None of the rules for the composition of periods are more liable to be abused, than those last mentioned: witness many Latin writers, among the moderns especially, whose style, by inversions too violent, is rendered harsh and obscure. Suspension of the thought till the close of the period, ought never to be preferred before perspicuity. Neither ought such suspension to be attempted in a long period; because in that case the mind is bewildered among a profusion of words. A traveller, while he is puzzled about the road, relishes not the finest prospects.

The foregoing rules concern the arrangement of a single period. I shall add one rule more concerning the distribution of a discourse into different periods. A short period is lively and familiar. A long pe{329}riod, requiring more attention, makes an impression grave and solemn. In general, a writer ought to study a mixture of long and short periods, which prevents an irksome uniformity, and entertains the mind with variety of impressions. In particular, long periods ought to be avoided till the reader’s attention be thoroughly engaged; and therefore a discourse, especially of the familiar kind, ought never to be introduced with a long period. For that reason, the commencement of a letter to a very young lady on her marriage is faulty.

See a stronger example in the commencement of Cicero’s oration, Pro Archia poeta.

Before we proceed farther, it may be proper to take a review of the rules laid{330} down in this and the preceding section, in order to make some general observations. The natural order of the words and members of a period, is undoubtedly the same with the natural order of the ideas that compose the thought. The tendency of many of the foregoing rules, is to substitute an artificial arrangement, in order to reach some beauty either of sound or meaning that cannot be reached in the natural order. But seldom it happens, that in the same period there is place for a plurality of these rules. If one beauty can be catched, another must be relinquished. The only question is, Which ought to be preferred? This is a question that cannot be resolved by any general rule. But practice, supported by a good taste, will in most instances make the choice easy. The component words and members of a period, are ascertained by the subject. If the natural order be not relished, a few trials will discover that artificial order which has the best effect. All that can be said in general is, that in making a choice, sound ought to yield to signification.{331}

The transposing words and members out of their natural order, so remarkable in the learned languages, has been the subject of much speculation. It is agreed on all hands, that such transposition or inversion bestows upon a period a very sensible degree of force and elevation; and yet writers seem to be at a loss in what manner to account for this effect. Cerçeau[91] ascribes so much power to inversion, as to make it the characteristic of French verse, and the single circumstance which in that language distinguishes verse from prose. And yet he pretends not to say, that it hath any other power but to raise surprise; he must mean curiosity; which is done by suspending the thought during the period, and bringing it out entire at the close. This indeed is one power of inversion; but neither its sole power, nor even that which is the most remarkable, as is made plain above. But waving censure, which is not an agreeable task, I enter into the matter. And I begin with observing, that if a conformity betwixt words and their{332} meaning be agreeable, it must of course be agreeable to find the same order or arrangement in both. Hence the beauty of a plain or natural style, where the order of the words corresponds precisely to the order of the ideas. Nor is this the single beauty of a natural style: it is also agreeable upon account of its simplicity and perspicuity. This observation throws light upon the subject. For if a natural style be in itself agreeable, a transposed style cannot be so. And therefore, it cannot otherwise be agreeable, but as contributing to some positive beauty which is excluded in a natural style. To be confirmed in this opinion, we need but reflect upon some of the foregoing rules, which make it evident, that language, by means of inversion, is susceptible of many beauties that are totally excluded in a natural arrangement of words. From these premisses it clearly follows, that inversion ought not to be indulged, unless in order to reach some beauty superior to that of a natural style. It may with great certainty be pronounced, that every inversion which is not governed by{333} this rule, will appear harsh and strained, and be disrelished by every one of taste. Hence the beauty of inversion when happily conducted; the beauty, not of an end, but of means, as furnishing opportunity for numberless ornaments that find no place in a natural style. Hence the force, the elevation, the harmony, the cadence, of some compositions. Hence the manifold beauties of the Greek and Roman tongues, of which living languages afford but faint imitations.

SECT. III.

Beauty of language from a resemblance betwixt sound and signification.

THE resemblance betwixt the sound and signification of certain words, is a beauty, which has escaped no critical writer, and yet is not handled with accuracy by any of them. They have probably been erroneously of opinion, that a beauty so obvious in the feeling, requires no ex{334}planation in the understanding. In order to supply this defect, I shall give examples of the various resemblances betwixt sound and signification; and at the same time shall endeavour to explain why such resemblances are beautiful. I begin with examples where the resemblance betwixt the sound and signification is the most entire; proceeding to others, where the resemblance is less and less so.

There being frequently a strong resemblance betwixt different sounds, it will not be surprising to find a natural sound imitated by one that is articulate. Thus the sound of a bow-string is imitated by the words that express it.

The sound of felling trees in a wood:

No person can be at a loss about the cause of this beauty. It is obviously that of imitation.

That there is any other natural resemblance betwixt sound and signification, must not be taken for granted. There is evidently no resemblance betwixt sound and motion, nor betwixt sound and sentiment. In this matter, we are apt to be deceived by artful reading or pronouncing. The same passage may be pronounced in many different tones, elevated or humble, sweet or harsh, brisk or melancholy, so as to accord with the thought or sentiment. Such concord, depending on artful pronunciation, must be distinguished from that concord betwixt sound and sense, which is perceived in some expressions independent of artful pronun{336}ciation. The latter is the poet’s work: the former must be attributed to the reader. Another thing contributes still more to the deceit. In language, sound and sense are so intimately connected, as that the properties of the one are readily communicated to the other. An emotion of grandeur, of sweetness, of melancholy, or of compassion, though occasioned by the thought solely, is transferred upon the words, which by that means resemble in appearance the thought that is expressed by them[92]. I have great reason to recommend these observations to my reader, considering how inaccurately the present subject is handled by critics. Not one of them distinguishes the natural resemblance of sound and signification, from the artificial resemblance now described. Witness Vida in particular, who in a very long passage has given very few examples, but what are of the latter kind[93].

That there may be a resemblance betwixt natural and artificial sounds, is self-evident;{337} and that in fact there exist such resemblances successfully employ’d by writers of genius, is clear from the foregoing examples, and many others that might be given. But we may safely pronounce, that this natural resemblance can be carried no farther. The objects of the several senses, differ so widely from each other as to exclude any resemblance. Sound in particular, whether articulate or inarticulate, resembles not in any degree taste, smell, or motion; and as little can it resemble any internal sentiment, feeling, or emotion. But must we then agree, that nothing but natural sound can be imitated by that which is articulate? Taking imitation in its proper sense, as involving a resemblance betwixt two objects, the proposition must be admitted. And yet in many passages that are not descriptive of natural sound, every one must be sensible of a peculiar concord betwixt the sound of the words and their meaning. As there can be no doubt of the fact, what remains is, to inquire into its cause.

Resembling causes may produce effects that have no resemblance; and causes that{338} have no resemblance may produce resembling effects. A magnificent building, for example, resembles not in any degree an heroic action; and yet the emotions they produce, being concordant, bear a resemblance to each other. We are still more sensible of this resemblance, in a song where the music is properly adjusted to the sentiment. There is no resemblance betwixt thought and sound; but there is the strongest resemblance betwixt the emotion raised by music tender and pathetic, and that raised by the complaint of an unsuccessful lover. To apply these examples to the present subject, I observe, that the sound even of a single word makes, in some instances, an impression resembling that which is made by the thing it signifies; witness the word running, composed of two short syllables; and more remarkably the words rapidity, impetuosity, precipitation. Brutal manners produce in the spectator, an emotion not unlike what is produced by a harsh and rough sound. Hence the figurative expression, rugged manners; an expression peculiarly agreeable by the relation of the sound to the sense.{339} Again, the word little, being pronounced with a very small aperture of the mouth, has a weak and faint sound, which makes an impression resembling that made by any diminutive object. This resemblance of effects, is still more remarkable where a number of words are connected together in a period. Words pronounced in succession make often a strong impression; and when this impression happens to accord with that made by the sense, a peculiar pleasure arises. The thought or sentiment produces one pleasant emotion: the melody or tone of the words produces another. But the chief pleasure proceeds from having these two concordant emotions combined in perfect harmony, and carried on in the mind to a full close[94]. Except in the single case where sound is described, all the examples given by critics of sense being imitated in sound, resolve into a resemblance of effects. Emotions raised by sound and signification may have a resemblance; but sound itself cannot have a resemblance to any thing but sound.{340}

Proceeding now to particulars, and beginning with those cases where the emotions have the strongest resemblance, I observe, first, That in pronouncing a number of syllables in succession, an emotion is sometimes raised extremely similar to that raised by successive motion. This may be made evident even to those who are defective in taste, by the following fact, that the term movement in all languages is equally apply’d to both. In this manner, successive motion, such as walking, running, galloping, can be imitated by a succession of long or short syllables, or by a due mixture of both. For example, slow motion may be aptly imitated in a verse where long syllables prevail; especially when aided by a slow pronunciation:

On the other hand, swift motion is imitated by a succession of short syllables:

Again:

Thirdly, a line composed of monosyllables, makes an impression, by the frequency of its pauses, similar to what is made by laborious interrupted motion:

Fourthly, the impression made by rough sounds in succession, resembles that made by rough or tumultuous motion. On the other hand, the impression of smooth sounds resembles that of gentle motion. The following is an example of both.

Another example of the latter:

Fifthly, prolonged motion is expressed in an Alexandrine line. The first example shall be of slow motion prolonged:

The next example is of forcible motion prolonged:

The last shall be of rapid motion prolonged:{343}

Again, speaking of a rock torn from the brow of a mountain,

Sixthly, a period consisting mostly of long syllables, that is, of syllables pronounced slow, produceth an emotion resembling faintly that which is produced by gravity and solemnity. Hence the beauty of the following verse.

Seventhly, a slow succession of ideas is a circumstance that belongs equally to settled melancholy, and to a period composed of polysyllables pronounced slow. Hence, by similarity of emotions, the latter is imitative of the former:{344}

Eighthly, a long syllable made short, or a short syllable made long, raises, by the difficulty of pronouncing contrary to custom, a feeling similar to that of hard labour:

Ninthly, harsh or rough words pronounced with difficulty, excite a feeling resembling that which proceeds from the labour of thought to a dull writer:

I shall close with one other example, which of all makes the finest figure. In the first section mention is made of a climax in sound, and in the second of a climax in{345} sense. It belongs to the present subject to observe, that when these coincide in the same passage, the concordance of sound and sense is delightful. The reader is conscious not only of pleasure from the two climaxes separately, but of an additional pleasure from their concordance, and from finding the sense so justly imitated by the sound. In this respect, no periods are more perfect than those borrowed from Cicero in the first section.

The concord betwixt sense and sound is not less agreeable in what may be termed an anticlimax, where the progress is from great to little; for this has the effect to make diminutive objects appear still more diminutive. Horace affords a striking example:

The arrangement here is singularly artful. The first place is occupied by the verb, which is the capital word by its sense as well as sound. The close is reserved for the word that is the meanest in sense as well as in sound. And it must not be overlooked,{346} that the resembling sounds of the two last syllables give a ludicrous air to the whole.

Reviewing the foregoing examples, it appears to me, contrary to expectation, that in passing from the strongest resemblances to those that are fainter, the pleasure rises gradually in proportion. Can this be accounted for? or shall I renounce my taste as capricious? When I renew the experiment again and again, I feel no wavering, but the greatest pleasure constantly from the faintest resemblances. And yet how can this be? for if the pleasure lie in imitation, must not the strongest resemblance afford the greatest pleasure? From this vexing dilemma, I am happily relieved, by reflecting on a doctrine established in the chapter of resemblance and contrast, that the pleasure of resemblance is the greatest, where it is least expected, and where the objects compared are in their capital circumstances widely different. Nor will this appear surprising, when we descend to familiar examples. It raiseth not wonder in the smallest degree, to find the most perfect resemblance betwixt two eggs of the same animal. It is{347} more rare to find such resemblance betwixt two human faces; and upon that account such an appearance raises some degree of wonder. But this emotion rises to a still greater height, when we find in a pebble, an aggat, or any natural production, a perfect resemblance to a tree or other organised body. We cannot hesitate a moment, in applying these observations to the present subject. What occasion of wonder can it be to find one sound resembling another, where both are of the same kind? It is not so common to find a resemblance betwixt an articulate sound and one not articulate; and accordingly the imitation here affords some slight pleasure. But the pleasure swells greatly, when we employ sound to imitate things it resembles not otherwise than by the effects produced in the mind.

I have had occasion to observe, that to complete the resemblance betwixt sound and sense, artful pronunciation contributes not a little. Pronunciation therefore may be considered as a branch of the present subject; and with some observations upon it I shall conclude the section.{348}

In order to give a just idea of pronunciation, it must be distinguished from singing. The latter is carried on by notes, requiring each of them a different aperture of the windpipe. The notes properly belonging to the former, are expressed by different apertures of the mouth, without varying the aperture of the windpipe. This however doth not hinder pronunciation to borrow from singing, as a man sometimes is naturally led to do, in expressing a vehement passion.

In reading, as in singing, there is a key-note. Above this note the voice is frequently elevated, to make the sound correspond to the elevation of the subject. But the mind in an elevated state, is disposed to action. Therefore in order to a rest, it must be brought down to the key-note. Hence the term cadence.

The only general rule that can be given for directing the pronunciation, is, To sound the words in such a manner as to imitate the things they represent, or of which they are the symbols. The ideas which make the greatest figure, ought to be expressed{349} with a peculiar emphasis. In expressing an elevated subject, the voice ought to be raised above its ordinary pitch; and words signifying dejection of mind, ought to be pronounced in a low note. A succession of sounds gradually ascending from low to high notes, represents an ascending series of objects. An opposite succession of sounds, is fitted for objects or sentiments that descend gradually. In Dryden’s ode of Alexander’s feast, the line, Faln, faln, faln, faln, ought to be pronounced with a falling voice; and is pronounced in that manner, by every one of taste, without instruction. Another circumstance contributes to the resemblance betwixt sense and sound, which is slow or quick pronunciation. For though the length or shortness of the syllables with relation to each other, be in prose ascertained in some measure, and in verse always; yet taking a whole line or period together, it is arbitrary to pronounce it slow or fast. Hence it is, that a period expressing what is solemn or deliberate, ought to be pronounced slow; and ought to be pronounced quick, when it ex{350}presses any thing brisk, lively, or impetuous.

The art of pronouncing with propriety and grace, being calculated to make the sound an echo to the sense, scarce admits of any other general rule than that above mentioned. This rule may indeed be branched out into many particular rules and observations: but these belong not properly to the present undertaking, because they cannot be explained in words. We have not words to signify the different degrees of high and low, loud and soft, fast and slow; and before these differences can be made the subject of regular instruction, notes must be invented resembling those employ’d in music. We have reason to believe, that in Greece every tragedy was accompanied with such notes, in order to ascertain the pronunciation. But the moderns hitherto have not thought of this refinement. Cicero indeed[95], without the help of notes, pretends to give rules for ascertaining the several tones of voice that are proper in ex{351}pressing the several passions; and it must be acknowledged, that in this attempt he has exhausted the whole power of language. At the same time, every person of judgement must see, that these rules avail little in point of instruction. The very words he employs, are scarce intelligible, except to those who beforehand are acquainted with the subject.

To vary the scene a little, I propose to close with a slight comparison betwixt singing and pronouncing. In this comparison the five following circumstances relative to articulate sound, must be kept in view. 1st, It is harsh or smooth. 2d, A sound or syllable, is long or short. 3d, It is pronounced high or low. 4th, It is pronounced loud or soft. And, lastly, a number of words in succession constituting a period or member of a period, are pronounced slow or quick. Of these five, the first depending on the component letters, and the second being ascertained by custom, admit not any variety in pronouncing. The three last are arbitrary, depending on the will of the person who pronounces;{352} and it is chiefly in the artful management of these, that just pronunciation consists. With respect to the first circumstance, music has evidently the advantage; for all its notes are agreeable to the ear, which is not always the case of articulate sound. With respect to the second, long and short syllables variously combined, produce a great variety of feet; yet far inferior to the variety which is found in the multiplied combinations of musical notes. With respect to high and low notes, pronunciation is still more inferior to singing. For it is observed by Dionysius of Halicarnassus[96], that in pronouncing, i.e. without altering the aperture of the windpipe, the voice is confined within three notes and a half. Singing has a much greater compass. With respect to the two last circumstances, pronunciation equals singing.

In this discourse, I have mentioned none of the beauties of language, but what arise{353} from words taken in their proper sense. Those beauties that depend on the metaphorical and figurative power of words, are reserved to be treated in chap. 20.

SECT. IV.

VERSIFICATION.

THE music of verse, though handled by every grammarian, merits more attention than has been given it. The subject is intimately connected with human nature; and to explain it thoroughly, several nice and delicate feelings must be employ’d. Entering upon this subject, it occurs as a preliminary point, By what mark is verse distinguished from prose? The discussion of this point is necessary, were it for no other purpose but to ascertain the nature and limits of our subject. To produce this distinguishing mark, is a task not perhaps so easy as may at first be apprehended. Verse of every sort, has, it is true, rules for{354} its construction. It is composed of feet, the number and variety of which are ascertained. Prose, though also composed of feet, is more loose and scarce subjected to any rules. But many are ignorant of these rules: Are such left without means to make the distinction? And even with respect to the learned, must they apply the rule before they can with certainty pronounce whether the composition be prose or verse? This will hardly be maintained; and therefore, instead of rules, the ear must be appealed to as the proper judge. But what gain we by being thus referred to another standard? It still recurs, by what mark does the ear distinguish verse from prose? The proper and satisfactory answer is, That these make different impressions, which are readily distinguishable by every one who hath an ear. This advances us one step in our inquiry.

Taking it then for granted, that verse makes upon the ear a different impression from that of prose; nothing remains but to explain this difference, and to assign its cause. To these ends, I must call to my{355} aid an observation made above in treating of the sound of words, that they are more agreeable to the ear when composed of long and short syllables than when all the syllables are of the same sort. A continued sound in the same tone, makes an impression that comes not up to any idea we have of music. The same note successively renewed by intervals, is more agreeable; but still makes not a musical impression. To produce this impression, variety is necessary as well as number. The successive sounds or syllables, must be some of them long, some of them short; and if also high and low, the music is the more perfect. Now if this impression can be made by single words, much more by a plurality in an orderly succession. The musical impression made by a period consisting of long and short syllables arranged in a certain order, is what the Greeks call rhythmus, the Latins, numerus, and we modulation or measure. Cicero justly observes, that in one continued sound there is no modulation: “Numerus in continuatione nullus est.” But in what follows he is wide of the truth,{356} if by numerus he means modulation or musical measure. “Distinctio, et æqualium et sæpe variorum intervallorum percussio, numerum conficit; quem in cadentibus guttis, quod intervallis distinguuntur, notare possumus.” Falling drops, whether with equal or unequal intervals, are certainly not musical. We begin then only to be sensible of a musical expression, when the notes are varied. And this also was probably the opinion of the author cited, though his expression be a little unguarded[97].

It will probably occur, that modulation, so far as connected with long and short syllables combined in a sentence, may be found in prose as well as in verse; considering especially, that in both, particular words are accented or pronounced in a{357} higher tone than ordinary; and therefore that the difference betwixt them cannot consist in modulation merely. The observation is just; and it follows, that the distinction betwixt prose and verse, since it depends not on modulation merely, must arise from the difference of the modulation. This is precisely the case, though the difference cannot with any accuracy be explained in words. Verse is more musical than prose; and of the former, the modulation is more perfect than of the latter. The difference betwixt verse and prose, resembles the difference in music properly so called betwixt the song and the recitative. And the resemblance is not the less complete, that these differences, like the shades of colours, approximate sometimes so nearly as scarce to be discernible. A recitative in its movement approaches sometimes to the liveliness of a song; which on the other hand degenerates sometimes toward a plain recitative. Nothing is more distinguishable from prose, than the bulk of Virgil’s hexameters. Many of those com{358}posed by Horace, are very little removed from prose. Sapphic verse has a very sensible modulation. That on the other hand of an Iambic, is extremely faint[98].

This more perfect modulation of articulate sounds, is what distinguisheth verse from prose. Verse is subjected to certain inflexible laws. The number and variety of the component syllables are ascertained, and in some measure the order of succession. Such restraint makes it a matter of difficulty to compose in verse; a difficulty that is not to be surmounted but by a singular genius. Useful lessons of every sort convey’d to us in verse, are agreeable by the union of music with instruction. But are we for that reason to reject knowledge offered in a plainer dress? This would be ridiculous; for knowledge may be acquired without music, and music is entertaining independent of knowledge. Many there are, not less will{359}ing than capable to instruct us, who have no genius for verse. Hence the use of prose, which, for the reason now given, is not confined to precise rules. There belongs to it, a certain modulation of an inferior kind, which, being extremely ornamental, ought to be the aim of every writer. But to succeed in it, practice is necessary more than genius. Nor are we rigid on this article. Provided the work answer its chief end of instruction, we are the less solicitous about its dress.

Having ascertained the nature and limits of our subject, I proceed to the laws by which it is regulated. These would be endless, were verse of all different kinds to be taken under consideration. I propose therefore to confine the inquiry, to Latin or Greek hexameter, and to French and English heroic verse; which perhaps will carry me farther than the reader may chuse to follow. The observations I shall have occasion to make, will at any rate be sufficient for a specimen; and these with proper variations may easily be transferred to the composition of other sorts of verse.

Before I enter upon particulars, it must{360} be premised in general, that to verse of every kind, five things are of importance. 1st, The number of syllables that compose a verse. 2d, The different lengths of syllables, i.e. the difference of time taken in pronouncing. 3d, The arrangement of these syllables combined in words. 4th, The pauses or stops in pronouncing. 5th, Pronouncing syllables in a high or low tone. The three first mentioned are obviously essential to verse. If any of them be wanting, there cannot be that higher degree of modulation which distinguisheth verse from prose. To give a just notion of the fourth, it must be observed, that pauses are necessary for three different purposes. One is, to separate periods and members of the same period according to the sense: another is, to improve the modulation of verse: and the last is, to afford opportunity for drawing breath in reading. A pause of the first kind is variable, being long or short, frequent or less frequent, as the sense requires. A pause of the second kind, is in no degree arbitrary; its place being determined by the modulation. The last sort again is in a{361} measure arbitrary, depending on the reader’s command of breath. This sort ought always to coincide with the first or second; for one cannot read with grace, unless, for drawing breath, opportunity be taken of a pause in the sense or in the melody; and for that reason this pause may be neglected. With respect then to the pauses of sense and of melody, it may be affirmed without hesitation, that their coincidence in verse is a capital beauty. But as it cannot be expected, in a long work especially, that every line should be so perfect; we shall afterward have occasion to see, that the pause necessary for sense must often, in some degree, be sacrificed to the verse-pause; and the latter sometimes to the former.

The pronouncing syllables in a high or low tone, contributes also to melody. In reading, whether verse or prose, a certain tone is assumed, which may be called the key-note; and in this tone the bulk of the words are sounded. Sometimes to humour the sense and sometimes the melody, a particular syllable is sounded in a higher tone; and this is termed accenting a syllable, or gracing{362} it with an accent. Opposed to the accent, is the cadence, which I have not mentioned as one of the requisites of verse, because it is entirely regulated by the sense, and hath no peculiar relation to verse. The cadence is a falling of the voice below the key-note at the close of every period; and so little is it essential to verse, that in correct reading the final syllable of every line is accented, that syllable only excepted which closes the period, where the sense requires a cadence. The reader may be satisfied of this by experiments; and for that purpose I recommend to him the Rape of the Lock, which, in point of versification, is the most complete performance in the English language. Let him consult in particular a period canto 2. beginning at line 47. and closed line 52. with the word gay, which only of the whole final syllables is pronounced with a cadence. He may also examine another period in the 5th canto, which runs from line 45. to line 52.

Though the five requisites above mentioned, enter the composition of every species of verse, they are however governed by differ{363}ent rules, peculiar to each species. Upon quantity only, one general observation may be premised, because it is applicable to every species of verse. Syllables, with respect to the time taken in pronouncing, are distinguished into long and short; two short syllables, with respect to time, being precisely equal to one long. These two lengths are essential to verse of all kinds; and to no verse, so far as I know, is a greater variety of time necessary in pronouncing syllables. The voice indeed is frequently made to rest longer than commonly, upon a word that bears an important signification. But this is done to humour the sense, and is not necessary for the modulation. A thing not more necessary occurs with respect to accenting, similar to that now mentioned. A word signifying any thing humble, low, or dejected, is naturally, in prose as well as in verse, pronounced in a tone below the key-note.

We are now sufficiently prepared for entering upon particulars; and Latin or Greek Hexameter, which are the same, coming first in order, I shall exhaust what I have to{364} say upon this species of verse, under the four following heads; of number, arrangement, pause, and accent; for as to quantity, so far as concerns the present point, what is observed above may suffice.

Hexameter lines are, with respect to time, all of the same length. A line may consist of seventeen syllables; and when regular and not Spondaic, it never has fewer than thirteen. Hence it is plain, that where the syllables are many, the plurality must be short; where few, the plurality must be long. And upon the whole, the number of syllables in every line with respect to the time taken in pronouncing, are equivalent to twelve long syllables, or twenty-four short.

With regard to arrangement, this line is susceptible of much variety. The succession of long and short syllables, may be greatly varied without injuring the melody. It is subjected however to laws, that confine its variety within certain limits. For trying the arrangement, and for determining whether it be perfect or faulty, grammarians have invented a rule by Dactyles and Spon{365}dees, which they denominate feet. One at first view is led to think, that these feet are also intended to regulate the pronunciation. But this is far from being the case. It will appear by and by, that the rules of pronunciation are very different. And indeed were one to pronounce according to these feet, the melody of a Hexameter line would be destroy’d, or at best be much inferior to what it is when properly pronounced[99]. These feet then must be confined to their{366} sole province of regulating the arrangement, for they serve no other purpose. They are withal so artificial and complex, that, neglecting them altogether, I am tempted to substitute in their room, other rules, more simple and of more easy application; for example, the following. 1st, The line must always commence with a long syllable, and close with two long preceded by two short. 2d, More than two short can never be{367} found in any part of the line, nor fewer than two if any. And, 3d, Two long syllables which have been preceded by two short, cannot also be followed by two short. These few rules fulfil all the conditions of a Hexameter line, with relation to order or arrangement. To these again a single rule may be substituted, for which I have a still greater relish, as it regulates more affirmatively the construction of every part. That I may put this rule into words with the{368} greater facility, I take a hint from the twelve long syllables that compose an Hexameter line, to divide it into twelve equal parts or portions, being each of them one long syllable or two short. This preliminary being established, the rule is shortly what follows. The 1st, 3d, 5th, 7th, 9th, 11th, and 12th portions, must each of them be one long syllable; the 10th must always be two short syllables; the 2d, 4th, 6th, and 8th, may indifferently be one long or two short. Or to express the thing still more curtly, The 2d, 4th, 6th, and 8th portions may be one long syllable or two short; the 10th must be two short syllables; all the rest must consist of one long syllable. This fulfils all the conditions of an Hexameter line, and comprehends all the combinations of Dactyles and Spondees that this line admits.

Next in order comes the pause. At the end of every Hexameter line, no ear but must be sensible of a complete close or full pause. This effect is produced by the fol{369}lowing means. Every line invariably is finished with two long syllables preceded by two short; a fine preparation for a full close. Syllables pronounced slow, resemble a slow and languid motion tending to rest. The mind put in the same tone by the pronunciation, is naturally disposed to a pause. And to this disposition the two preceding short syllables contribute; for these, by contrast, make the slow pronunciation of the final syllables the more conspicuous. Beside this complete close or full pause at the end, others are also requisite for the sake of melody. I discover two clearly, and perhaps there may be more. The longest and most remarkable, succeeds the 5th portion, according to the foregoing measure. The other, which being more faint, may be called the semipause, succeeds the 8th portion. So striking is the pause first mentioned, as to be distinguished even by the rudest ear. The monkish rhymes are evidently built upon it. In these, it is an invariable rule, to make the final word chime with that which immediately precedes the pause:{370}

The difference of time in the pause and semipause, occasions another difference not less remarkable. The pause ought regularly to be at the end of a word; but it is lawful to divide a word by a semipause. The bad effect of dividing a word by the pause, is sensibly felt in the following examples.

Again,

Again,

The dividing a word by a semipause has not the same bad effect:

Again,

Again,

Lines, however, where words are left entire to be pronounced as they ought to be, without being divided even by a semipause, run by that means much the more sweetly.

Again,

Again,

The reason of these observations, will be evident upon the slightest reflection. Betwixt things so intimately connected as sense and sound in pronunciation, to find discordance is unpleasant to the ear; and for that reason, it is a matter of importance, to make the musical pauses coincide as much as possible with those of the sense. This is requisite, more especially, with respect{372} to the pause. A deviation from the rule is less remarkable in a semipause, which makes but a slight impression. Considering the matter as to modulation solely, it is indifferent whether the pauses be at the end of words or in the middle. But when we carry the sense along, nothing is more disagreeable than to find a word split into two parts, neither of which separately have any meaning. This bad effect, though it regard the sense only, is by an easy transition of ideas transferred to the sound, with which the sense is intimately connected; and by this means, we conceive a line to be harsh and grating to the ear, which in reality is only so to the understanding[100].

To the rule which places the pause after the 5th portion, there is one exception, and no more. If the syllable succeeding the 5th portion be short, the pause is sometimes postponed to it:

Again,

Again,

This contributes to diversify the melody; and where the words are smooth and liquid, is not ungraceful; as in the following examples.

Again,

If this pause, postponed as aforesaid to the short syllable, happen also to divide a word, the melody by these circumstances is totally annihilated: witness the following line of Ennius, which is plain prose.

Hitherto the arrangement of the long and short syllables of an Hexameter line and{374} its different pauses, have been considered with respect to melody. But to have a just notion of Hexameter verse, these particulars must also be considered with respect to sense. There is not perhaps in any other sort of verse, such a latitude in the long and short syllables. This circumstance contributes greatly to that richness of modulation which is remarkable in Hexameter verse; and which makes Aristotle pronounce, that an epic poem in any other sort would not succeed[101]. One defect however must not be dissembled. The same means that contribute to the richness of the melody, render it less fit than several other sorts for a narrative poem. With regard to the melody, as above observed, there cannot be a more artful contrivance than to close an Hexameter line with two long syllables preceded by two short. But unhappily this construction proves a great imbarrassment to the sense; as will be evident from what follows. As in general there ought to be a strict concordance betwixt every thought{375} and the words in which it is dressed, so in particular, every close in the sense, complete and incomplete, ought to be accompanied with a similar close in the sound. In the composition of prose, there is sufficient latitude for applying this rule in the strictest manner. But the same strictness in verse, would occasion insuperable difficulties. Some share of the concordance betwixt thought and expression, may be justly sacrificed to the melody of verse; and therefore during the course of a line, we freely excuse the want of coincidence of the musical pause with that of the sense. But the close of an Hexameter line is too conspicuous to admit a total neglect of this coincidence. And hence it follows, that there ought to be always some pause in the sense at the end of every Hexameter line, were it but such a pause as is marked with a comma. It follows also, for the same reason, that there ought never to be a full close in the sense but at the end of a line, because there the modulation is closed. An Hexameter line, to preserve its melody, cannot well permit any greater relaxation;{376} and yet in a narrative poem, it is extremely difficult to keep up to the rule even with these indulgences. Virgil, the greatest poet for versification that ever existed, is forc’d often to end a line without any close in the sense, and as often to close the sense during the running of a line: though a close in the melody during the movement of the thought, or a close in the thought during the movement of the melody, cannot fail to be disagreeable.

The accent, to which we proceed, is not less essential than the other circumstances above handled. By a good ear it will be discerned, that in every line there is one syllable distinguishable from the rest by a strong accent. This syllable making the 7th portion, is invariably long; and in point of time occupies a place nearly at an equal distance from the pause which succeeds the 5th portion, and the semipause, which succeeds the 8th:

Again,

Again,

In these examples, the accent is laid upon the last syllable of a word. And that this is a favourable circumstance for the melody, will appear from the following consideration. In reading, there must be some pause after every word, to separate it from what follows; and this pause, however short, supports the accent. Hence it is, that a line thus accented, has a more spirited air, than where the accent is placed on any other syllable. Compare the foregoing lines with the following.

Again,

Again,

In lines where the pause comes after the short syllable succeeding the 5th portion, the accent is displaced and rendered less sensible. It seems to be split into two, and to be laid partly on the 5th portion, and partly on the 7th, its usual place; as in

Again,

Beside this capital accent, slighter accents are laid upon other portions; particularly upon the 4th, unless where it consists of two short syllables; upon the 9th, which is always a long syllable; and upon the 11th, where the line concludes with a monosyllable. Such conclusion, by the by, lessens the melody, and for that reason is not to be indulged unless where it is expressive of the sense. The following lines are marked with all the accents.

Again,

Again,

Inquiring into the melody of Hexameter verse, we soon discover, that order or arrangement doth not constitute the whole of it. Comparing different lines, equally regular as to the succession of long and short syllables, the melody is found in very different degrees of perfection. Nor does the difference arise from any particular combination of Dactyles and Spondees, or of long and short syllables. On the contrary, we find lines where Dactyles prevail and lines where Spondees prevail, equally melodious. Of the former take the following instance:

Of the latter:

What can be more different as to melody{380} than the two following lines, which, however, as to the succession of long and short syllables, are constructed precisely in the same manner?

In the former, the pause falls in the middle of a word, which is a great blemish, and the accent is disturbed by a harsh elision of the vowel a upon the particle et. In the latter the pauses and the accent are all of them distinct and full: there is no elision: and the words are more liquid and sounding. In these particulars consists the beauty of an Hexameter line with respect to melody; and by neglecting these, many lines in the Satires and Epistles of Horace are less agreeable than plain prose; for they are neither the one nor the other in perfection. To make these lines sound, they must be pronounced without relation to the sense. It must not be regarded, that words are di{381}vided by pauses, nor that harsh elisions are multiplied. To add to the account, prosaic low sounding words are introduced; and which is still worse, accents are laid on them. Of such faulty lines take the following instances.

Next in order comes English heroic verse, which shall be examined under the whole five heads, of number, quantity, arrangement, pause, and accent. This verse sometimes employs rhymes and sometimes not, which distinguishes it into two kinds; one named metre, and one blank verse. In the former, the lines are connected two and two by similarity of sound in the final syllables; and such connected lines are termed couplets. Similarity of sound being avoided in the latter, banishes couplets. These two sorts must be handled separately, because there{382} are many peculiarities in each. The first article with respect to rhyme or metre, shall be discussed in a few words. Every line consists of ten syllables, five short and five long. There are but two exceptions, both of them rare. A couplet can bear to be drawn out, by adding a short syllable at the end of each of the two lines:

This licence is sufferable in a single couplet; but if frequent would soon become disgustful.

The other exception concerns the second line of a couplet, which is sometimes stretched out to twelve syllables, termed an Alexandrine line.

It doth extremely well when employ’d to close a period with a certain pomp and solemnity suitable to the subject.

With regard to the second article, it is unnecessary to mention a second time, that the quantities employ’d in verse are but two, the one double of the other; that every syllable is reducible to one or other of these standards; and that a syllable of the larger quantity is termed long, and of the lesser quantity short. It belongs more to the present article, to examine what peculiarities there may be in the English language as to long and short syllables. In every language, there are syllables that may be pronounced long or short at pleasure; but the English above all abounds in syllables of that kind. In words of three or more syllables, the quantity for the most part is invariable. The exceptions are more frequent in dissyllables; but as to monosyllables, they may without many exceptions be pronounced either long or short. Nor is the ear hurt by this liberty; being accustomed to the variation of quantity in the same word. This shows that the melody of Eng{384}lish verse must depend less upon quantity, than upon other circumstances. In that particular it differs widely from Latin verse. There, every syllable having but one sound, strikes the ear constantly with its accustomed impression; and a reader must be delighted to find a number of such syllables, disposed so artfully as to raise a lively sense of melody. Syllables variable in quantity cannot possess this power. Custom may render familiar, both a long and short pronunciation of the same word; but the mind constantly wavering betwixt the two sounds, cannot be so much affected with a syllable of this kind as with one which bears always the same sound. What I have further to say upon quantity, will come in more properly under the following head, of arrangement.

And with respect to arrangement, which may be brought within a narrow compass, the English heroic line is commonly Iambic, the first syllable short, the second long, and so on alternately through the whole line. One exception there is, pretty frequent. Many lines commence with a{385} Trochæus, viz. a long and a short syllable. But this affects not the order of the following syllables. These go on alternately as usual, one short and one long. The following couplet affords an example of each kind:

It is unhappy in the construction of English verse, that it excludes the bulk of polysyllables, though the most sounding words in our language; for upon examination it will be found, that very few of them are composed of such alternation of long and short syllables as to correspond to either of the arrangements mentioned. English verse accordingly is almost totally reduced to dissyllables and monosyllables. Magnanimity is a sounding word totally excluded. Impetuosity is still a finer word by the resemblance of the sound and sense; and yet a negative is put upon it, as well as upon numberless words of the same kind. Polysyllables composed of syllables long and short alternately, make a good figure in{386} verse; for example, observance, opponent, ostensive, pindaric, productive, prolific, and such others of three syllables. Imitation, imperfection, misdemeanour, mitigation, moderation, observator, ornamental, regulator, and others similar of four syllables, beginning with two short syllables, the third long, and the fourth short, may find a place in a line commencing with a Trochæus. I know not if there be any of five syllables. One I know of six, viz. misinterpretation. But words so composed are not frequent in our language.

One would not imagine without trial, how uncouth false quantity appears in verse; not less than a provincial tone or idiom. The article the is one of the few monosyllables that is invariably short. See how harsh it makes a line where it must be pronounced long:

Again:

Let the article be pronounced short, and it reduces the melody almost to nothing. Better so however than a false quantity. In the following examples we perceive the same defect.

The great variety of modulation conspicuous in English verse, will be found upon trial to arise chiefly from the pauses and accents; and therefore these circumstances are of greater importance than is commonly thought. There is a degree of intricacy in this branch of our subject, and it will require some pains to give a distinct view of it. But we must not be discouraged by difficulties. The pause, which paves the way to the accent, offers itself first to our examination. From a very short trial, the fol{388}lowing facts will be verified. 1st, A line admits but one capital pause. 2d, In different lines, we find this pause after the fourth syllable, after the fifth, after the sixth, and after the seventh. These particulars lay a solid foundation for dividing English heroic lines into four sorts, distinguished by the different places of the pause. Nor is this an idle distinction. On the contrary, unless it be kept in view, we cannot have any just notion of the richness and variety of English versification. Each sort or order hath a melody peculiar to itself, readily distinguishable by a good ear; and, in the sequel, I am not without hopes to make the cause of this peculiarity sufficiently evident. It must be observed, at the same time, that the pause cannot be made indifferently at any of the places mentioned. It is the sense that regulates the pause, as will be seen more fully afterward; and consequently, it is the sense that determines of what order every line must be. There can be but one capital musical pause in a line; and this pause ought to coincide, if possible,{389} with a pause in the sense; in order that the sound may accord with the sense.

What is said must be illustrated by examples of each sort or order. And first of the pause after the fourth syllable:

Again,

After the 5th:

After the 6th:

Again,

After the 7th:

Again,

Beside the capital pause now mentioned, other inferior or semipauses will be discovered by a nice ear. Of these there are commonly two in each line; one before the capital pause, and one after it. The former is invariably placed after the first long syllable, whether the line begin with a long syllable or a short. The other in its variety imitates the capital pause. In some lines it follows the 6th syllable, in some the 7th, and in some the 8th. Of these semipauses take the following examples.

Even from these few examples, it appears, that the place of the last semipause, like that of the full pause, is directed in a good measure by the sense. Its proper place with respect to the melody is after the eighth syllable, so as to finish the line with an Iambus distinctly pronounced, which, by a long syllable after a short, is a preparation for rest. If this hold, the placing this semipause after the 6th or after the 7th syllable, must be directed by the sense, in order to avoid a pause in the middle of a word, or betwixt two words intimately connected; and so far melody is justly sacrificed to sense.

In discoursing of the full pause in a Hexameter line, it is laid down as a rule, That it ought never to divide a word. Such licence deviates too far from the connection{392} that ought to be betwixt the pauses of sense and of melody. And in an English line, it is for the same reason equally wrong to divide a word by a full pause. Let us justify this reason by experiments.

Are these lines distinguishable from prose? Scarcely, I think.

The same rule is not applicable to a semipause, which being short and faint, is not sensibly disagreeable when it divides a word.

It must however be acknowledged, that the melody here suffers in some degree. A word ought to be pronounced without any rest betwixt its component syllables. The{393} semipause must bend to this rule, and thereby vanisheth almost altogether.

With regard to the capital pause, it is so essential to the melody, that a poet cannot be too nice in the choice of its place, in order to have it full, clear, and distinct. It cannot be placed more happily than with a pause in the sense; and if the sense require but a comma after the fourth, fifth, sixth, or seventh syllable, there can be no difficulty about this musical pause. But to make such coincidence essential, would cramp versification too much; and we have experience for our authority, that there may be a pause in the melody where the sense requires none. We must not however imagine, that a musical pause may be placed at the end of any word indifferently. Some words, like syllables of the same word, are so intimately connected as not to bear a separation even by a pause. No good poet ever attempted to separate a substantive from its article: the dividing such intimate companions, would be harsh and unpleasant. The following line, for example,{394} cannot be pronounced with a pause as marked.

But ought to be pronounced in the following manner.

If then it be not a matter of indifferency where to make the pause, there ought to be rules for determining what words may be separated by a pause and what are incapable of such separation. I shall endeavour to unfold these rules; not chiefly for their utility, but in order to exemplify some latent principles that tend to regulate our taste even where we are scarce sensible of them. And to that end, it seems the eligible method to run over the verbal relations, beginning with the most intimate. The first that presents itself, is that of adjective and substantive, being the relation of substance and quality, the most intimate of all. A quality cannot exist independent of a substance, nor is it separable from it even in imagination, because they{395} make parts of the same idea; and for that reason, it must, with regard to melody, be disagreeable, to bestow upon the adjective a sort of independent existence, by interjecting a pause betwixt it and its substantive. I cannot therefore approve the following lines, nor any of the sort; for to my taste they are harsh and unpleasant.

I have upon this article multiplied examples, that in a case where I have the misfortune to dislike what passes current in practice, every man upon the spot may judge by his own taste. The foregoing reasoning, it is true, appears to me just: it is however too subtile, to afford conviction in opposition to taste.

Considering this matter in a superficial view, one might be apt to imagine, that it must be the same, whether the adjective go first, which is the natural order, or the substantive, which is indulged by the laws of inversion. But we soon discover this to be a mistake. Colour cannot be conceived independent of the surface coloured; but a tree may be conceived, as growing in a certain spot, as of a cer{397}tain kind, and as spreading its extended branches all around, without ever thinking of the colour. In a word, qualities, though related all to one subject, may be considered separately, and the subject may be considered with some of its qualities independent of others; though we cannot form an image of any single quality independent of the subject. Thus then, though an adjective named first be inseparable from the substantive, the proposition does not reciprocate. An image can be formed of the substantive independent of the adjective; and for this reason, they may be separated by a pause, when the former is introduced before the latter:

The verb and adverb are precisely in the same condition with the substantive and adjective. An adverb, which expresses a certain modification of the action expressed by the verb, is not separable from it even in imagination. And therefore I must also give up the following lines.{398}

But an action may be conceived leaving out a particular modification, precisely as a subject may be conceived leaving out a particular quality; and therefore when by inversion the verb is first introduced, it has no bad effect to interject a pause betwixt it and the adverb which follows. This may be done at the close of a line, where the pause is at least as full as that is which divides the line:

The agent and its action come next, expressed in grammar by the active substantive and its verb. Betwixt these, placed in their natural order, there is no difficulty of interjecting a pause. An active being is not always in motion, and therefore it is easily separable in idea from its action. When in a sentence the substantive takes the lead, we know not that action is to follow; and{399} as rest must precede the commencement of motion, this interval is a proper opportunity for a pause.

On the other hand, when by inversion the verb is placed first, is it lawful to separate it by a pause from the active substantive? I answer not, because an action is not in idea separable from the agent, more than a quality from the substance to which it belongs. Two lines of the first rate for beauty have always appeared to me exceptionable, upon account of the pause thus interjected betwixt the verb and the consequent substantive; and I have now discovered a reason to support my taste:

The point of the greatest delicacy regards the active verb and the passive substantive placed in their natural order. On the one side it will be observed, that these words signify things which are not separable in idea. Killing cannot be conceived with{400}out some being that is put to death, nor painting without a surface upon which the colours are spread. On the other side, an action and the thing on which it is exerted, are not, like substance and quality, united in one individual subject. The active subject is perfectly distinct from that which is passive; and they are connected by one circumstance only, that the action exerted by the former, is exerted upon the latter. This makes it possible to take the action to pieces, and to consider it first with relation to the agent, and next with relation to the patient. But after all, so intimately connected are the parts of the thought, that it requires an effort to make a separation even for a moment. The subtilising to such a degree is not agreeable, especially in works of imagination. The best poets however, taking advantage of this subtilty, scruple not to separate by a pause an active verb from its passive subject. Such pauses in a long work may be indulged; but taken singly, they certainly are not agreeable. I appeal to the following examples.{401}

On the other hand, when the passive subject by inversion is first named, there is no difficulty of interjecting a pause betwixt it and the verb, more than when the active subject is first named. The same reason holds in both, that though a verb cannot be separated in idea from the substantive which governs it, and scarcely from the substantive it governs; yet a substantive{402} may always be conceived independent of the verb. When the passive subject is introduced before the verb, we know not that an action is to be exerted upon it; therefore we may rest till the action commences. For the sake of illustration take the following examples.

What is said about placing the pause, leads to a general observation, which I shall have occasion for afterwards. The natural order of placing the active substantive and its verb, is more friendly to a pause than the inverted order. But in all the other connections, inversion affords by far a better opportunity for a pause. Upon this depends one of the great advantages that blank verse hath over rhyme. The privilege of inversion, in which it far excels rhyme, gives it a much greater choice of pauses, than can be had in the natural order of arrangement.{403}

We now proceed to the slighter connections, which shall be discussed in one general article. Words connected by conjunctions and prepositions freely admit a pause betwixt them, which will be clear from the following instances.

Connecting particles were invented to unite in a period two substantives signifying things occasionally united in the thought, but which have no natural union. And betwixt two things not only separable in idea, but really distinct, the mind, for the sake of melody, chearfully admits by a pause a momentary disjunction of their occasional union.

One capital branch of the subject is still upon hand, to which I am directed by what is just now said. It concerns those parts of speech which singly represent no idea, and which become not significant till they be joined to other words. I mean conjunctions,{404} prepositions, articles, and such like accessories, passing under the name of particles. Upon these the question occurs, Whether they can be separated by a pause from the words that make them significant? Whether, for example, in the following lines, the separation of the accessory preposition from the principal substantive, be according to rule?

Or separating the conjunction from the word it connects with what goes before:

It will be obvious at the first glance, that the foregoing reasoning upon objects natu{405}rally connected, are not applicable to words which of themselves are mere ciphers. We must therefore have recourse to some other principle for solving the present question. These particles out of their place are totally insignificant. To give them a meaning, they must be joined to certain words. The necessity of this junction, together with custom, forms an artificial connection, which has a strong influence upon the mind. It cannot bear even a momentary separation, which destroys the sense, and is at the same time contradictory to practice. Another circumstance tends still more to make this separation disagreeable. The long syllable immediately preceding the full pause, must be accented; for this is required by the melody, as will afterward appear. But it is ridiculous to accent or put an emphasis upon a low word that raises no idea, and is confined to the humble province of connecting words that raise ideas. And for that reason, a line must be disagreeable where a particle immediately precedes the full pause; for such construction{406} of a line makes the melody discord with the sense.

Hitherto we have discoursed upon that pause only which divides the line. Are the same rules applicable to the concluding pause? This must be answered by making a distinction. In the first line of a couplet, the concluding pause differs little, if at all, from the pause which divides the line; and for that reason, the rules are applicable to both equally. The concluding pause of the couplet, is in a different condition: it resembles greatly the concluding pause in a Hexameter line. Both of them indeed are so remarkable, that they never can be graceful, unless when they accompany a pause in the sense. Hence it follows, that a couplet ought always to be finished with some close in the sense; if not a point, at least a comma. The truth is, that this rule is seldom transgressed. In Pope’s works, upon a cursory search indeed, I found but the following deviations from the rule.{407}

Another:

But now, supposing the connection to be so slender as to admit a pause, it follows not that a pause may always be put. There is one rule to which every other ought to bend, That the sense must never be wounded or obscured by the music; and upon that account, I condemn the following lines:

And,

With respect to inversion, it appears both from reason and experiments, that many words which cannot bear a separation in their natural order, admit a pause when inverted. And it may be added, that when{408} two words, or two members of a sentence, in their natural order, can be separated by a pause, such separation can never be amiss in an inverted order. An inverted period, which runs cross to the natural train of ideas, requires to be marked in some measure even by pauses in the sense, that the parts may be distinctly known. Take the following examples.

The same where the separation is made at the close of the first line of the couplet:

The pause is tolerable even at the close of the couplet, for the reason just now suggest{409}ed, that inverted members require some slight pause in the sense:

Thus a train of reasoning hath insensibly led us to conclusions with regard to the musical pause, very different from those in the first section, concerning the separating by an interjected circumstance words intimately connected. One would conjecture, that where-ever words are separable by interjecting a circumstance, they should be equally separable by interjecting a pause. But, upon a more narrow inspection, the appearance of analogy vanisheth. To make this evident, I need only premise, that a pause in the sense distinguishes the different members of a period from each other; that two words of the same member may be separated by a circumstance, all the three making still but one member; and therefore that a pause in the sense has no connection with the separation of words by interjected{410} circumstances. This sets the matter in a clear light. It is observed above, that the musical pause is intimately connected with the pause in the sense; so intimately indeed, that regularly they ought to coincide. As this would be too great a restraint, a licence is indulged, to place pauses for the sake of the music where they are not necessary for the sense. But this licence must be kept within bounds. And a musical pause ought never to be placed where a pause is excluded by the sense; as, for example, betwixt the adjective and following substantive which make parts of the same idea, and still less betwixt a particle and the word which makes it significant.

Abstracting at present from the peculiarity of modulation arising from the different pauses, it cannot fail to be observed in general, that they introduce into our verse no slight degree of variety. Nothing more fatigues the ear, than a number of uniform lines having all the same pause, which is extremely remarkable in the French versification. This imperfection will be discerned by a fine ear even in the shortest succes{411}sion, and becomes intolerable in a long poem. Pope excels all the world in the variety of his modulation, which indeed is not less perfect of its kind than that of Virgil.

From what is now said, there ought to be one exception. Uniformity in the members of a thought, demands equal uniformity in the members of the period which expresses that thought. When therefore resembling objects or things are expressed in a plurality of verse-lines, these lines in their structure ought to be as uniform as possible, and the pauses in particular ought all of them to have the same place. Take the following examples.

Again,

Speaking of Nature, or the God of Nature:

Pauses are like to dwell longer upon hand than I imagined; for the subject is not yet exhausted. It is laid down above, that English heroic verse, considering melody only, admits no more than four capital pauses; and that the capital pause of every line is determined by the sense to be after the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, or seventh syllable. And that this doctrine holds true so far as melody alone is concerned, every good ear will bear testimony. At the same time, examples are not unfrequent, in Milton especially, of the capital pause being after the first, the second, or the third syllable. And that this licence may be taken, even gracefully, when it adds vigour to the expression, I readily admit. So far the sound may be justly sacrificed to the sense or expression. That this licence may be successfully taken,{413} will be clear from the following example. Pope, in his translation of Homer, describes a rock broke off from a mountain, and hurling to the plain, in the following words.

In the penult line the proper place of the musical pause is at the end of the fifth syllable; but it enlivens the expression by its coincidence with that of the sense at the end of the second syllable. The stopping short before the usual pause in the melody, aids the impression that is made by the description of the stone’s stopping short. And what is lost to the melody by this artifice, is more than compensated by the force that is added to the description.{414} Milton makes a happy use of this licence; witness the following examples from his Paradise Lost.

If we consider the foregoing passages with respect to melody singly, the pauses are undoubtedly out of their proper place. But being united with those of the sense, they inforce the expression and enliven it greatly. And the beauty of expression is communicated to the sound, which, by a natural deception, makes even the melody appear more perfect than if the musical pauses were regular.

To explain the rules of accenting, two general observations must be premised. The first is, That accents have a double effect. They contribute to the melody, by giving it air and spirit: they contribute not less to the sense, by distinguishing important words from others. These two effects ought never to be separated. If a musical accent be put where the sense rejects it, we feel a discordance betwixt the thought and{416} the melody. An accent, for example, placed on a word that makes no figure, has the effect to burlesk it, by giving it an unnatural elevation. The injury thus done to the sense, is communicated to the melody by the intimacy of connection, and both seem to be wounded. This rule is applicable in a peculiar manner to particles. It is indeed ridiculous to put an emphasis on a word which of itself has no meaning, and like cement serves only to unite words significant. The other general observation is, That a word of whatever number of syllables, is not accented upon more than one of them. Nor is this an arbitrary practice. The object represented by the word, is set in its best light by a single accent: reiterated accents on different syllables in succession, make not the emphasis stronger; but have an air, as if the sound only of the accented syllables were regarded, and not the sense of the word.

Keeping in view the foregoing observations, the doctrine of accenting English heroic verse, is extremely simple. In the first place, accenting is confined to the long{417} syllables; for the melody admits not an accent upon any short syllable. In the next place, as the melody is inriched in proportion to the number of accents, every word that has a long syllable ought to be accented, unless where the accent is rejected by the sense: a word, as observed, that makes no figure by its signification, cannot bear an accent. According to this rule, a line may admit five accents; a case by no means rare.

But supposing every long syllable to be accented, there is constantly, in every line, one accent which makes a greater figure than the rest. This capital accent is that which precedes the capital pause. Hence it is distinguishable into two kinds; one that is immediately succeeded by the pause, and one that is divided from the pause by a short syllable. The former belongs to lines of the first and third order: the latter to those of the second and fourth. Examples of the first kind.

Examples of the second.

These accents make different impressions on the mind, which will be the subject of a following speculation. In the mean time, it may be safely pronounced a capital defect in the composition of verse, to put a low word, incapable of an accent, in the place where this accent should be. This bars the accent altogether; and I know no other fault more subversive of the melody, if it be not that of barring a pause altogether. I may add affirmatively, that it is a capital beauty in the composition of verse, to have the most important word of the sentence, so placed as that this capital accent may be laid upon it. No single circumstance contributes more to the energy of verse, than to{419} have this accent on a word, that, by the importance of its meaning, is intitled to a peculiar emphasis. To show the bad effect of excluding the capital accent, I refer the reader to some instances given above, p. ooo, where particles are separated by a pause from the capital words that make them significant, and which particles ought, for the sake of the melody, to be accented, were they capable of an accent. Add to these the following instances from the Essay on Criticism.

When this fault is at the end of the line that closes a couplet, it leaves not the least trace of melody:

In a line expressive of what is humble or dejected, it improves the resemblance betwixt the sound and sense, to exclude the capital accent. This, to my taste, is a beauty in the following lines.

To conclude this article, the accents are not, like the syllables, confined to a certain number. Some lines have no fewer than{421} five, and there are lines that admit not above one. This variety, as we have seen, depends entirely on the different powers of the component words. Particles, even where they are long by position, cannot be accented; and polysyllables, whatever space they occupy, admit but one accent. Polysyllables have another defect, that they generally exclude the full pause. I have shown above, that few polysyllables can find place in the construction of English verse. Here are reasons for excluding them, could they find place.

I am now prepared to fulfil a promise concerning the four sorts of lines that enter into English heroic verse. That these have, each of them, a peculiar melody distinguishable by a good ear, I ventured to suggest, and promised to account for: and though this subject is extremely delicate, I am not without hopes of making good my engagement. First, however, like a wary general, I take all advantages the ground will permit. I do not aver, that this peculiarity of modulation is in every instance per{422}ceptible. Far from it. The impression made by a period, whether it be verse or prose, is occasioned chiefly by the thought, and in an inferior degree by the words; and these articles are so intimately united with the melody, that they have each of them a strong influence upon the others. With respect to the melody in particular, instances are without number, of melody, in itself poor and weak, passing for rich and spirited where it is supported by the thought and expression. I am therefore intitled to insist, that this experiment be tried upon lines of equal rank. And to avoid the perplexity of various cases, I must also insist, that the lines chosen for a trial be regularly accented before the pause: for upon a matter abundantly refined in itself, I would not willingly be imbarrassed with faulty and irregular lines. These preliminaries being adjusted, I begin with some general observations, that will save repeating the same thing over and over upon each particular case. And, first, an accent succeeded by a pause, makes sensibly a deeper impression than where the voice goes on with{423}out a stop: to make an impression requires time; and there is no time where there is no pause. The fact is so certain, that in running over a few lines, there is scarce an ear so dull as not readily to distinguish from others, that particular accent which immediately precedes the full pause. In the next place, the elevation of an accenting tone, produceth in the mind a similar elevation, which is continued during the pause. Every circumstance is different where the pause is separated from the accent by a short syllable. The impression made by the accent is more slight when there is no stop; and the elevation of the accent is gone in a moment by the falling of the voice in pronouncing the short syllable that follows. The pause also is sensibly affected by the position of the accent. In lines of the first and third order, the close conjunction of the accent and pause, occasions a sudden stop without preparation, which rouses the mind, and bestows on the melody a spirited air. When, on the other hand, the pause is separated from the accent by a short syllable, which always happens in{424} lines of the second and fourth order, the pause is soft and gentle. This short unaccented syllable succeeding one that is accented, must of course be pronounced with a falling voice, which naturally prepares for a pause. The mind falls gently from the accented syllable, and slides into rest as it were insensibly. Further, the lines themselves, derive different powers from the position of the pause. A pause after the fourth syllable divides the line into two unequal portions, of which the largest comes last. This circumstance resolving the line into an ascending series, makes an impression in pronouncing like that of mounting upward. And to this impression contributes the redoubled effort in pronouncing the largest portion, which is last in order. The mind has a different feeling when the pause succeeds the fifth syllable. The line being divided into two equal parts by this pause, these parts, pronounced with equal effort, are agreeable by their uniformity. A line divided by a pause after the sixth syllable, makes an impression opposite to that first mentioned. Being divided into two une{425}qual portions, of which the shortest is last in order, it appears like a slow descending series; and the second portion being pronounced with less effort than the first, the diminished effort prepares the mind for rest. And this preparation for rest is still more sensibly felt where the pause is after the seventh syllable, as in lines of the fourth order.

No person can be at a loss in applying these observations. A line of the first order is of all the most spirited and lively. To produce this effect, several of the circumstances above mentioned concur. The accent, being followed instantly by a pause, makes an illustrious figure: the elevated tone of the accent elevates the mind: the mind is supported in its elevation by the sudden unprepared pause which rouses and animates: and the line itself, representing by its unequal division an ascending series, carries the mind still higher, making an impression similar to that of mounting upward. The second order has a modulation sensibly sweet, soft, and flowing. The accent is not so sprightly as in the former, because a{426} short syllable intervenes betwixt it and the pause: its elevation, by the same means, vanisheth instantaneously: the mind, by a falling voice, is gently prepared for a stop: and the pleasure of uniformity from the division of the line into two equal parts, is calm and sweet. The third order has a modulation not so easily expressed in words. It in part resembles the first order, by the liveliness of an accent succeeded instantly by a full pause. But then the elevation occasioned by this circumstance, is balanced in some degree by the remitted effort in pronouncing the second portion, which remitted effort has a tendency to rest. Another circumstance distinguisheth it remarkably. Its capital accent comes late, being placed on the sixth syllable; and this circumstance bestows on it an air of gravity and solemnity. The last order resembles the second in the mildness of its accent and softness of its pause. It is still more solemn than the third, by the lateness of its capital accent. It also possesses in a higher degree than the third, the tendency to rest; and by that circumstance is of all the best qua{427}lified for closing a period in the completest manner.

But these are not all the distinguishing characters of the different orders. Each order also, by means of its final accent and pause, makes a peculiar impression; so peculiar as to produce a melody clearly distinguishable from that of the others. This peculiarity is occasioned by the division which the capital pause makes in a line. By an unequal division in the first order, the mind has an impression of ascending; and is left at the close in the highest elevation, which is display’d on the concluding syllable. By this means, a strong emphasis is naturally laid upon the concluding syllable, whether by raising the voice to a sharper tone, or by expressing the word in a fuller tone. This order accordingly is of all the least proper for concluding a period, where a cadence is proper, and not an accent. In the second order, the final accent makes not so capital a figure. There is nothing singular in its being marked by a pause, for this is common to all the orders; and this order, being destitute of the im{428}pression of ascent, cannot rival the first order in the elevation of its accent, nor consequently in the dignity of its pause; for these always have a mutual influence. This order, however, with respect to its close, maintains a superiority over the third and fourth orders. In these the close is more humble, being brought down by the impression of descent, and by the remitted effort in pronouncing; considerably in the third order, and still more considerably in the last. According to this description, the concluding accents and pauses of the four orders being reduced to a scale, will form a descending series probably in an arithmetical progression.

After what is said, will it be thought refining too much to suggest, that the different orders are qualified for different purposes, and that a poet of genius will be naturally led to make a choice accordingly? I cannot think this altogether chimerical. It appears to me, that the first order is proper for a sentiment that is bold, lively, or impetuous; that the third order is proper for subjects grave, solemn, or lofty; the second for{429} what is tender, delicate, or melancholy, and in general for all the sympathetic emotions; and the last for subjects of the same kind, when tempered with any degree of solemnity. I do not contend, that any one order is fitted for no other talk, than that assigned it. At that rate, no sort of modulation would be left for accompanying ordinary thoughts, that have nothing peculiar in them. I only venture to suggest, and I do it with diffidence, that one order is peculiarly adapted to certain subjects, and better qualified than the others for expressing such subjects. The best way to judge is by experiment; and to avoid the imputation of a partial search, I shall confine my instances to a single poem, beginning with the first order.

In accounting for the remarkable liveliness of this passage, it will be acknowledged by every one who has an ear, that the modulation must come in for a share. The lines, all of them, are of the first order; a very unusual circumstance in the author of this poem, so eminent for variety in his versification. Who can doubt, that, in this passage, he has been led by delicacy of taste to employ the first order preferably to the others?

Second order.

Again,

Third order.

Again,

A plurality of lines of the fourth order, would not have a good effect in succession; because, by a remarkable tendency to rest, its proper office is to close a period. The reader, therefore, must be satisfied with instances where this order is mixed with others.

Again,

Again,

Again,

And this suggests another experiment, which is, to set the different orders more directly in opposition, by giving examples where they are mixed in the same passage.

First and second orders.

Again,

First and third.

Again,

Again,

Again,

Second and third.

Again,

Musing on the foregoing subject, I begin to doubt whether I have not been all this while in a reverie. Here unexpectedly a sort of fairy-scene opens, where every object is new and singular. Is there any truth in the appearance, or is it merely a work of imagination? The scene seems to be a reality; and if it can bear examination, it must exalt greatly the melody of English heroic verse. If uniformity prevail, in the arrangement, in the equality of the lines, and in the resemblance of the final sounds; variety is still more conspicuous in the pauses and accents,{435} which are diversified in a surprising manner. The beauty that results from combined objects, is justly observed to consist in a due mixture of uniformity and variety[102]. Of this beauty many instances have already occurred, but none more illustrious than English versification. However rude it may be by the simplicity of arrangement, it is highly melodious by its pauses and accents, so as already to rival the most perfect species known in Greece or Rome. And it is no disagreeable prospect to find it susceptible of still greater refinement.

We proceed to blank verse, which hath so many circumstances in common with rhyme, that what is necessary to be said upon it may be brought within a narrow compass. With respect to form, it differs not from rhyme farther than in rejecting the jingle of similar sounds. But let us not think this difference a trifle, or that we gain nothing by it but the purifying our{436} verse from a pleasure so childish. In truth, our verse is extremely cramped by rhyme; and the great advantage of blank verse is, that, being free from the fetters of rhyme, it is at liberty to attend the imagination in its boldest flights. Rhyme necessarily divides verse into couplets: each couplet makes a complete musical period; the parts of which are divided by pauses, and the whole summed up by a full close at the end: the modulation begins anew with the next couplet: and in this manner a composition in rhyme proceeds couplet after couplet. I have more than once had occasion to observe the influence that sound and sense have upon each other by their intimate union. If a couplet be a complete period with regard to the melody, it ought regularly to be so also with regard to the sense. This, it is true, proves too great a cramp upon composition; and licences are indulged, as explained above. These however must be used with discretion, so as to preserve some degree of uniformity betwixt the sense and the music.{437} There ought never to be a full close in the sense but at the end of a couplet; and there ought always to be some pause in the sense at the end of every couplet. The same period as to sense may be extended through several couplets; but in this case each couplet ought to contain a distinct member, distinguished by a pause in the sense as well as in the sound; and the whole ought to be closed with a complete cadence. Rules such as these, must confine rhyme within very narrow bounds. A thought of any extent, cannot be reduced within its compass. The sense must be curtailed and broken into pieces, to make it square with the curtness of melody: and it is obvious, that short periods afford no latitude for inversion. I have examined this point with the greater accuracy, in order to give a just notion of blank verse; and to show that a slight difference in form may produce a very great difference in substance. Blank verse has the same pauses and accents with rhyme; and a pause at the end of every line, like what concludes the first line of a couplet. In a word, the rules of{438} melody in blank verse, are the same that obtain with respect to the first line of a couplet. But luckily, being disengaged from rhyme, or, in other words, from couplets, there is access to make every line run into another, precisely as the first line of a couplet may run into the second. There must be a musical pause at the end of every line; but it is not necessary that it be accompanied with a pause in the sense. The sense may be carried on through different lines; till a period of the utmost extent be completed, by a full close both in the sense and the sound. There is no restraint, other than that this full close be at the end of a line. This restraint is necessary in order to preserve a coincidence betwixt sense and sound; which ought to be aimed at in general, and is indispensable in the case of a full close, because it has a striking effect. Hence the aptitude of blank verse for inversion; and consequently the lustre of its pauses and accents; for which, as observed above, there is greater scope in inversion, than when words run in their natural order.{439}

In the second section of this chapter it is shown, that nothing contributes more than inversion to the force and elevation of language. The couplets of rhyme confine inversion within narrow limits. Nor would the elevation of inversion, were there access for it in rhyme, be extremely concordant with the humbler tone of that sort of verse. It is universally agreed, that the loftiness of Milton’s style supports admirably the sublimity of his subject; and it is not less certain, that the loftiness of his style arises chiefly from inversion. Shakespear deals little in inversion. But his blank verse, being a sort of measured prose, is perfectly well adapted to the stage. Laboured inversion is there extremely improper, because in dialogue it never can appear natural.

Hitherto I have considered the advantage of laying aside rhyme, with respect to that superior power of expression which verse acquires thereby. But this is not the only advantage of blank verse. It has another not less signal of its kind; and that is, of a more extensive and more complete melody.{440} Its music is not, like that of rhyme, confined to a single couplet; but takes in a great compass, so as in some measure to rival music properly so called. The intervals betwixt its cadences may be long or short at pleasure; and, by this means, its modulation, with respect both to richness and variety, is superior far to that of rhyme; and superior even to that of the Greek and Latin Hexameter. Of this observation no person can doubt who is acquainted with the Paradise Lost. In that work there are indeed many careless lines; but at every turn it shines out in the richest melody as well as in the sublimest sentiments. Take the following specimen.

Comparing the Latin Hexameter and English heroic rhyme, the former has obviously the advantage in the following particulars. It is greatly preferable as to arrangement, by the latitude it admits in placing the long and short syllables. Secondly, the length of an Hexameter line hath a majestic air: ours, by its shortness, is indeed more brisk and lively, but much less fitted for the sublime. And, thirdly, the long high-sound{442}ing words that Hexameter admits, add greatly to its majesty. To compensate these advantages, English rhyme possesses a greater number and greater variety both of pauses and of accents. These two sorts of verse stand indeed pretty much in opposition: in the Hexameter, great variety of arrangement, none in the pauses or accents: in the English rhyme, great variety in the pauses and accents, very little in the arrangement.

In blank verse are united, in a good measure, the several properties of Latin Hexameter and English rhyme; and it possesses beside many signal properties of its own. If is not confined, like a Hexameter, by a full close at the end of every line; nor, like rhyme, by a full close at the end of every couplet. This form of construction, which admits the lines to run into each other, gives it a still greater majesty than arises from the length of a Hexameter line. By the same means, it admits inversion even beyond the Latin or Greek Hexameter, which suffer some confinement by the regular closes at the end of every line. In{443} its music it is illustrious above all. The melody of Hexameter verse, is circumscribed to a line; and of English rhyme, to a couplet. The melody of blank verse is under no confinement, but enjoys the utmost privilege of which the melody of verse is susceptible, and that is to run hand in hand with the sense. In a word, blank verse is superior to the Hexameter in many articles; and inferior to it in none, save in the latitude of arrangement, and in the use of long words.

In the French heroic verse, there are found, on the contrary, all the defects of the Latin Hexameter and English rhyme, without the beauties of either. Subjected to the bondage of rhyme, and to the full close at the end of each couplet, it is further peculiarly disgustful by the uniformity of its pauses and accents. The line invariably is divided by the pause into two equal parts, and the accent is invariably placed before the pause.

Here every circumstance contributes to a most tedious uniformity. A constant return of the same pause and of the same accent, as well as an equal division of every line; by which the latter part always answers to the former, and fatigues the ear without intermission or change. I cannot set this matter in a better light, than by presenting to the reader a French translation of the following passage of Milton.

Were the pauses of the sense and sound in this passage, but a little better assorted, nothing in verse could be more melodious. In{445} general, the great defect of Milton’s versification, in other respects admirable, is the want of coincidence betwixt the pauses of the sense and sound.

The translation is in the following words.

Here the sense is fairly translated, the words are of equal power, and yet how inferior the melody!{446}

I take the liberty to add here a speculation, which, though collateral only, arises naturally from the subject, and shall be discussed in a few words. Many attempts have been made to introduce Hexameter verse into the living languages, but without success. The English language, I am inclined to believe, is not susceptible of this melody; and my reasons are these. First, the polysyllables in Latin and Greek are finely diversified by long and short syllables, a circumstance that qualifies them for the melody of Hexameter verse. Ours are extremely ill qualified for this service, because they superabound in short syllables. Secondly, the bulk of our monosyllables are arbitrary with regard to length, which is an unlucky circumstance in Hexameter. Custom, as observed above, may render familiar a long or short pronunciation of the same word: but the mind wavering betwixt the two sounds, cannot be so much arrested with either, as with a word that hath always the same sound; and for that reason, arbitrary sounds are ill fitted for a melody which is chiefly supported{447} by quantity. In Latin and Greek Hexameter, invariable sounds direct and ascertain the melody: English Hexameter would be destitute of melody, unless by artful pronunciation; because of necessity the bulk of its sounds must be arbitrary. The pronunciation is easy in a simple movement of alternate short and long syllables; but would be perplexing and unpleasant in the diversified movement of Hexameter verse.

Rhyme makes so great a figure in modern poetry, as to deserve a solemn trial. I have for that reason reserved it to be examined with some deliberation; in order to discover, if possible, its peculiar beauties, and the degree of merit it is intitled to. The first view of this subject leads naturally to the following reflection, “That rhyme having no relation to sentiment, nor any effect upon the ear other than a mere jingle, ought to be banished all compositions of any dignity, as affording but a trifling and childish pleasure.” It will also be observed, “That a jingle of words{448} hath in some measure a ludicrous effect; witness the celebrated poem of Hudibras, the double rhymes of which contribute no small share to its drollery; that this effect would be equally remarkable in a serious work, were it not obscured by the nature of the subject; that having however a constant tendency to give a ludicrous air to the composition, it requires more than ordinary fire to support the dignity of the sentiments against such an undermining antagonist[103].”

These arguments are specious, and have undoubtedly some weight. Yet, on the other hand, it ought to be considered, that rhyme, in later times, has become universal among men as well as children; and that to give it a currency, it must have some foundation in human nature. In fact, it has been successfully employ’d by poets of genius, in their serious and grave compositions, as well as in those which are more light and airy. Here, in weighing autho{449}rity against argument, the balance seems to hang pretty even; and therefore, to come at any thing decisive, we must pierce a little deeper.

Music has great power over the soul; and may be successfully employ’d to inflame or sooth our passions, if not actually to raise them. A single sound, however sweet, is not music; but a single sound repeated after proper intervals, may have an effect upon the mind, by rousing the attention and keeping the hearer awake. A variety of similar sounds, succeeding each other after regular intervals, must have a still stronger effect. This is applicable to rhyme, which consists in the connection that two verse-lines have by closing with two words similar in sound. And considering deliberately the effect that this may have; we find, that it rouses the attention, and produceth an emotion moderately gay without dignity or elevation. Like the murmurings of a brook gliding through pebbles, it calms the mind when perturbed, and gently raises it when sunk. These effects are scarce perceived when the whole{450} poem is in rhyme; but are extremely remarkable by contrast, in the couplets which close the several acts of our later tragedies. The tone of the mind is sensibly varied by them, from anguish, distress, or melancholy, to some degree of ease and alacrity. For the truth of this observation, I appeal to the speech of Jane Shore in the fourth act, when her doom was pronounced by Glo’ster; to the speech of Lady Jane Gray at the end of the first act; and to that of Calista, in the Fair Penitent, when she leaves the stage, about the middle of the third act. The speech of Alicia, at the close of the fourth act of Jane Shore, puts the matter beyond doubt. In a scene of deep distress, the rhymes which finish the act, produce a certain gaiety and chearfulness, far from according with the tone of the passion.

Having described, the best way I can, the impression that rhyme makes on the mind; I proceed to examine whether rhyme be proper for any subject, and to what subjects in particular it is best suited. Great and elevated subjects, which have a powerful influence, claim justly the precedence in this inquiry. In the chapter of grandeur and sublimity, it is established, that a grand or sublime object, inspires a warm enthusiastic emotion disdaining strict regularity and order. This observation is applicable to the present point. The moderately-enlivening music of rhyme, gives a tone to the mind very different from that of grandeur and sublimity. Supposing then{452} an elevated subject to be expressed in rhyme, what must be the effect? The intimate union of the music with the subject, produces an intimate union of their emotions; one inspired by the subject, which tends to elevate and expand the mind; and one inspired by the music, which, confining the mind within the narrow limits of regular cadency and similar sound, tends to prevent all elevation above its own pitch. Emotions so little concordant, cannot in union have a happy effect.

But it is scarce necessary to reason upon a case, that never did, and probably never will happen, viz. an important subject clothed in rhyme, and yet supported in its utmost elevation. A happy thought or warm expression, may at times give a sudden bound upward; but it requires a genius greater than has hitherto existed, to support a poem of any length in a tone much more elevated than that of the melody. Tasso and Ariosto ought not to be made exceptions, and still less Voltaire. And after all, where the poet has the dead weight of rhyme constantly to struggle with, how{453} can we expect an uniform elevation in a high pitch; when such elevation, with all the support it can receive from language, requires the utmost effort of the human genius?

But now, admitting rhyme to be an unfit dress for grand and lofty images; it has one advantage however, which is, to raise a low subject to its own degree of elevation. Addison[104] observes, “That rhyme, without any other assistance, throws the language off from prose, and very often makes an indifferent phrase pass unregarded; but where the verse is not built upon rhymes, there, pomp of sound and energy of expression are indispensably necessary, to support the style and keep it from falling into the flatness of prose.” This effect of rhyme is remarkable in the French verse, which, being simple and natural and in a good measure unqualified for inversion, readily sinks down to prose where it is not artificially supported. Rhyme, by rousing the mind, raises it somewhat above the{454} tone of ordinary language: rhyme therefore is indispensable in the French tragedy; and may be proper even for their comedy. Voltaire[105] assigns this very reason for adhering to rhyme in these compositions. He indeed candidly owns, that even with the support of rhyme, the tragedies of his country are little better than conversation-pieces. This shows, that the French language is weak, and an improper dress for any grand subject. Voltaire was sensible of this imperfection; and yet Voltaire attempted an epic poem in that language.

The chearing and enlivening power of rhyme, is still more remarkable in poems of short lines, where the rhymes return upon the ear in a quick succession. And for that reason, rhyme is perfectly well adapted to gay, light, and airy subjects. Witness the following.

For this reason, such frequent rhymes are very improper for any severe or serious passion: the dissonance betwixt the subject and the modulation, is very sensibly felt. Witness the following.

Rhyme is not less unfit for deep distress, than for subjects elevated and lofty; and for that reason has been long disused in the English and Italian tragedy. In a work, where the subject is serious though not elevated, it has not a good effect; because the airiness of the modulation agrees not with the gravity of the subject. The Essay on Man, which treats a subject great and important, would show much better in blank verse. Sportive love, mirth, gaiety, humour, and ridicule, are the province of rhyme. The boundaries assigned it by nature, were extended in barbarous and illiterate ages, and in its usurpations it has long been protected by custom. But taste in the fine arts, as well as in morals, improves daily; and makes a progress, slowly indeed, but uniformly, towards perfection: and there is no reason to doubt, that rhyme in Britain will in time be forc’d to abandon its unjust conquests, and to confine itself within its natural limits.

Having thrown out what occurred upon rhyme, I close the section with a general{457} observation. The melody of articulate sound so powerfully inchants the mind, as to draw a vail over very gross faults and imperfections. Of this power a stronger example cannot be given, than the episode of Aristæus, which closes the fourth book of the Georgics. To renew a stock of bees when the former is lost, Virgil asserts, that they will be produced in the intrails of a bullock, slain and managed in a certain manner. This leads him to say, how this strange receipt was invented; which is as follows. Aristæus having lost his bees by disease and famine, never dreams of employing the ordinary means for obtaining a new stock; but, like a froward child, complains heavily of his misfortune to his mother Cyrene, a water-nymph. She advises him to consult Proteus, a sea-god, not how he was to obtain a new stock, but only by what fatality he had lost his former stock; adding, that violence was necessary, because Proteus would say nothing voluntarily. Aristæus, satisfied with this advice, though it gave him no prospect of repairing his loss, proceeds to execution. Proteus is catched sleeping,{458} bound with cords, and compelled to speak. He declares, that Aristæus was punished with the loss of his bees, for attempting the chastity of Euridice, the wife of Orpheus; she having got her death by the sting of a serpent in flying his embraces. Proteus, whose sullenness ought to have been converted into wrath by the rough treatment he met with, becomes on a sudden courteous and communicative. He gives the whole history of Orpheus’s expedition to hell in order to recover his spouse; a very entertaining story indeed, but without the least relation to the affair on hand. Aristæus returning to his mother, is advised to deprecate by sacrifices the wrath of Orpheus, who was now dead. A bullock is sacrificed, and out of the intrails spring miraculously a swarm of bees. How should this have led any mortal to think, that, without a miracle, the same might be obtained naturally, as is supposed in the receipt?{459}

A list of the different FEET, and of their NAMES.

N. B. Every word may be considered as a prose foot, because every word is distinguished by a pause; and every foot in verse may be considered as a verse word, composed of syllables pronounced at once without a pause.

End of the Second Volume.

INDEX to Volume II.

[The volumes are denoted by numeral letters, the pages by figures.]

Abstract idea) defined iii. 402.
Abstract ideas of different kinds iii. 403.
Abstraction) power of iii. 401.
Its use iii. 402. 403.
Abstract terms) ought to be avoided in poetry i. 294. iii. 198.
Cannot be compared but by being personified iii. 6.
Personified iii. 65.
Defined iii. 402.
The use of abstract terms iii. 405.
Accent) defined ii. 361.
The musical accents that are necessary in an hexameter line ii. 376.
A low word must not be accented ii. 405.
Rules for accenting English heroic verse ii. 415.
How far affected by the pause ii. 422. &
Accent and pause have a mutual influence ii. 428.
Action) what feelings are raised by human actions i. 48. 49. 276.
We are impelled to action by desire i. 55.
Some actions are ultimate, some are means leading to an end i. 57.
Actions great and elevated, low and groveling i. 276.
Emotions occasioned by propriety of action ii. 13.
Occasioned by impropriety of action ii. 14.
Human actions produce a great variety of emotions ii. 28.
Human actions considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 35.
We are conscious of internal action as in the head iii. 377.
Internal action may exist without our being conscious of it iii. 377.
Actor) bombast action i. 308.
An actor ought to feel the passion he represents ii. 153.
Admiration) defined i. 320.
Affectation) defined ii. 11.
Affection) to children accounted for i. 82.
To blood-relations accounted for i. 83.
To property accounted for i. 84.
Affection to children endures longer than any other affection i. 150.
Opinion and belief influenced by affection i. 199.
Affection defined ii. 87. iii. 394.
Agamemnon) of Seneca censured ii. 193.
Agreeable emotions and passions i. 127. &
Alcestes) of Euripides censured iii. 286. 289.
Alexandre of Racine) censured ii. 177.
Allegory iii. 108. &c.
More difficult in painting than in poetry iii. 129.
In an historical poem iii. 248.
All for Love) of Dryden censured ii. 202.
Ambiguity) occasioned by a wrong arrangement ii. 297.
Amynta) of Tasso censured ii. 167.
_Amor patriæ_) accounted for i. 88.
Amphibrachys ii. 460.
Amphimacer ii. 460.
Analytic) and synthetic methods of reasoning compared i. 31.
Anapæstus ii. 460.
Anger) explained i. 95. &c.
Sometimes exerted against the innocent i. 191.
And even against things inanimate i. 191.
Not infectious i. 221.
Has no dignity in it ii. 33.
Animals) distributed by nature into classes iii. 356.
Antibacchius ii. 460.
Anticlimax ii. 345.
Antispastus ii. 461.
Antithesis ii. 73. 262.
Verbal antithesis ii. 268.
Apostrophe iii. 87. &c.
Appearance) in poetry, things ought to be described as they appear,
not as they are in reality iii. 172.
Appetite) defined i. 59.
Appetites of hunger, thirst, animal love, arise without an object i. 73.
Appetite for fame or esteem i. 237.
Architecture ch. 24. iii. 294.
Grandeur of manner in architecture i. 294.
The situation of a great house ought to be lofty ii. 7.
A playhouse or a music-room susceptible of much ornament ii. 9.
What emotions can be raised by architecture iii. 297.
Its emotions compared with those of gardening iii. 297.
Every building ought to have an expression suited to its
destination iii. 298. 338.
Simplicity ought to be the governing taste iii. 300.
Regularity ought to be studied iii. 301.
External form of dwelling-houses iii. 324.
Divisions within iii. 324. 340.
A palace ought to be regular, but in a small house convenience ought chiefly
to be studied iii. 326.
The form of a dwelling-house ought to be suited to the climate iii. 327.
Propriety ought to be studied in architecture iii. 338.
Governed by principles which produce opposite effects iii. 342.
Different ornaments employed by it iii. 342.
Allegorical or emblematic ornaments iii. 347.
Architecture inspires a taste for neatness and regularity iii. 350.
Architrave iii. 344.
Ariosto) censured iii. 264.
Aristæus) the episode of Aristæus in the Georgics censured ii. 457.
Army) defined iii. 405.
Arrangement) the best arrangement of words is to place them as
much as possible in an increasing series ii. 251.
Articulate sounds) how far agreeable to the ear ii. 240.
Artificial mount iii. 313.
Ascent) pleasant, but descent not painful i. 273.
Athalie) of Racine censured ii. 193.
Attention) defined iii. 396.
Impression which objects make depends on the degree of attention iii. 396.
Attention not always voluntary iii. 398.
Attractive emotions ii. 133.
Attractive object i. 226.
Attributes) transferred from one subject: to another iii. 100. &c.
Avarice) defined i. 52.
Avenue) to a house iii. 312.
Aversion) defined ii. 87. iii. 395.
Bacchius ii. 460.
Barren scene) defined iii. 266.
Base) of a column iii. 346.
Basso-relievo iii. 347.
Batrachomuomachia) censured ii. 42.
Beauty, ch. 3. i. 241.
Intrinsic and relative i. 244.
Beauty of simplicity i. 247.
of figure i. 248.
of the circle i. 251.
of the square i. 251.
of a regular polygon i. 252.
of a parallelogram i. 252.
of an equilateral triangle i. 253.
Beauty, whether a primary or secondary quality of objects i. 260.
Distinguished from congruity ii. 8.
Great beauty seldom produces a constant lover ii. 101.
Beauty proper and figurative iii. 388.
Belief) fortified by a lively narrative or a good historical painting i. 122.
influenced by passion i. 196. iii. 55. 89
influenced by propensity i. 199.
influenced by affection i. 199.
Benevolence) joins with self-love to make us happy i. 228.
inspired by gardening iii. 320.
Blank verse ii. 381. 435.
Its aptitude for inversion ii. 438.
Its melody ii. 439. &c.
Body) defined iii. 406.
Boileau) censured iii. 242.
Bombast i. 303.
Bombast in action i. 308.
Burlesk) machinery does well in a burlesk poem i. 125.
Burlesk distinguished into two kinds ii. 41.
Cadence ii. 348. 362.
Capital) of a column iii. 346.
Careless Husband) its double plot well contrived iii. 253.
Cascade i. 314.
Cause) resembling causes may produce effects that have
no resemblance: and causes that have no
resemblance may produce resembling effects ii. 337. &c.
Cause defined iii. 406.
Chance) the mind revolts against misfortunes that happen by chance iii. 232.
Character) to draw a character is the master-piece of description iii. 182.
Characteristics) of Shaftesbury criticised ii. 10. Note.
Children) love to them accounted for i. 82.
Chinese gardens iii. 316.
Wonder and surprise studied in them iii. 319.
Choreus ii. 459.
Choriambus ii. 461.
Chorus) an essential part of the Grecian tragedy iii. 270.
Church) what ought to be its form and situation iii. 338.
Cicero) censured ii. 329. 350.
Cid) of Corneille censured ii. 166. 198.
Cinna) of Corneille censured ii. 11. 161. 194.
Circle) its beauty i. 251.
Circumstances) in a period, how they ought to be arranged ii. 314. &c.
Class) all living creatures distributed into classes iii. 356.
Climax) in sense i. 281. ii. 322.
in sound ii. 252.
Coephores) of Eschylus censured ii. 114.
Coexistent) emotions and passions i. 151. &c.
Colonnade) where proper iii. 327.
Colour) a secondary quality i. 259.
Columns) every column ought to have a base i. 218.
The base ought to be square i. 218. 219.
Columns admit different proportions iii. 332.
What emotions they raise iii. 339.
Column more beautiful than a pilaster iii. 344.
Its form iii. 346.
Comedy) double plot in a comedy iii. 253.
Commencement) the commencement of a work ought
to be modest and simple iii. 171.
Common nature) in every species of animals iii, 356.
We have a conviction that this common nature is perfect or right iii. 357.
Also that it is invariable iii. 357.
Common sense iii. 359. 373.
Comparison i. 346. &c. Ch. 19. iii. 3.
Comparisons that resolve into a play of words iii. 42.
Complex emotion i. 152. 154. 155.
Complex perception iii. 383.
Complexion) white suits with a pale complexion,
black with a dark complexion, and scarlet
with one that is over-flushed i. 369.
Conception) defined iii. 379.
Concord) or harmony in objects of sight i. 156.
Concordant sounds) defined i. 151.
Congreve) censured iii. 258.
Congruity and propriety, ch. 10. ii. 3.
Congruity distinguished from beauty ii. 8.
distinguished from propriety ii. 8.
Congruity coincides with proportion with respect to quantity ii. 19.
Connection) necessary in all compositions i. 34.
Conquest of Granada) of Dryden censured ii. 201.
Consonants ii. 239.
Constancy) great beauty the cause generally of inconstancy ii. 101.
Construction) of language explained ii. 285.
Contempt) raised by improper action i. 340.
Contrast i. 345. &c.
Its effect in gardening iii. 317.
Conviction) intuitive. _See_ Intuitive conviction.
Copulative) to drop the copulatives enlivens the expression ii. 281. &c.
Coriolanus) of Shakespear censured ii. 200.
Corneille) censured ii. 159. 216.
Corporeal pleasure i. 1. 2.
low and sometimes mean ii. 32.
Couplet ii. 381.
Courage) of greater dignity than justice. Why? ii. 31.
Creticus ii. 460.
Criminal) the hour of execution seems to him
to approach with a swift pace i. 202.
Criticism) its advantages i. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.
its terms not accurately defined ii. 139.
Crowd) defined iii. 404.
Curiosity i. 320. 345. &c.
Custom and habit, ch. 14. ii. 81.
Custom distinguished from habit ii. 82.
Dactyle ii. 364. &c. 460.
Declensions) explained ii. 288. 289.
Delicacy) of taste i. 136.
Derision ii. 16.
Descent) not painful i. 273.
Description) it animates a description to
represent things past as present i. 118.
The rules which ought to govern it iii. 169. &c.
A lively description is agreeable, though
the subject described be disagreeable iii. 208.
Description cannot reach any object but
those of sight iii. 385.
Descriptive personification iii. 64.
Descriptive tragedy ii. 155.
Desire) defined i. 55.
It impels us to action i. 55.
It determines the will i. 222.
Desire in a criminal of self-punishment i. 232.
Desire tends the most to happiness when moderate i. 263.
Dialogue) dialogue-writing requires great genius ii. 151. 152. 153.
In dialogue every expression ought to be suited
to the character of the speaker iii. 196.
Rules for its composition iii. 256.
Dignity and meanness, ch. 11. ii. 27.
Dignity of human nature iii. 361.
Diianibus ii. 461.
Disagreeable emotions and passions i. 127. &c.
Discordant sounds) defined i. 152.
Dispondeus ii. 461.
Disposition) defined iii. 394.
Dissimilar emotions i. 153.
Their effects when co-existent i. 159. iii. 303. 337.
Dissimilar passions) their effects i. 171.
Dissocial passions i. 62.
Dissocial passions all painful i. 131.
and also disagreeable i. 134.
Ditrochæus ii. 461.
Door) its proportion iii. 322.
Double action) in an epic poem iii. 264.
Double-dealer) of Congreve censured ii. 193. iii. 266.
Double plot) in a dramatic composition iii. 251.
Drama) ancient and modern drama compared iii. 280.
Dramatic poetry iii. 218. &c.
Drapery ought to hang loose i. 219.
Dress) rules about dress ii. 10. iii. 300.
Dryden) censured iii. 128. 257. 267.
Duties) moral duties of two kinds, respecting
ourselves and respecting others ii. 20.
Foundation of duties that respect ourselves ii. 21.
Of those that respect others ii. 21.
Effects) resembling effects may be produced by causes
that have no resemblance ii. 337. &c.
Effect defined iii. 406.
Electra) of Sophocles censured ii. 115.
Elevation i. 264. &c.
real and figurative intimately connected i. 279.
Figurative elevation distinguished from figurative grandeur iii. 21. 22.
Emotion) no pleasure of external sense except
of seeing and hearing is termed an _emotion_ or _passion_ i. 42.
Emotions defined i. 46. 47.
and their causes assigned i. 47. &c.
Emotion distinguished from passion i. 52. &c.
Emotions generated by relations i. 76. &c.
Primary, secondary i. 81.
Raised by fiction i. 104. &c.
Division of emotions into pleasant and painful,
agreeable and disagreeable i. 127. &c. iii. 387.
The interrupted existence of emotions i. 139. &c.
Their growth and decay i. 139. &c.
Their identity i. 141.
Co-existent emotions i. 151. &c.
Emotions similar and dissimilar i. 153.
Complex emotion i. 154. 155.
Effects of similar emotions when co-existent i. 155. iii. 336.
Effects of dissimilar emotions when co-existent i. 159. iii. 303. 337.
Emotions resemble their causes i. 217. &c.
Emotion of grandeur i. 266. &c.
of sublimity i. 269.
A low emotion i. 276.
Emotion of laughter i. 337.
of ridicule i. 341.
Emotions when contrasted ought not to be too slow
or too quick in their succession i. 373.
Emotions raised by the fine arts ought to be
contrasted in succession i. 374.
Emotion of congruity ii. 12.
of propriety ii. 12.
Emotions produced by human actions ii. 28.
Emotions ranked according to their dignity ii. 32.
External signs of emotions ch. 15. ii. 116.
Attractive and repulsive emotions ii. 133.
Emotion and passions expanded upon related objects
i. 76. &c. ii. 312. &c. 336. 372. 415. 416. iii. 60. &c. 139. 140.
Gratification of emotions i. 183. &c. 203. 358. iii. 98.
What emotions do best in succession, what in conjunction iii. 302.
Man is passive with regard to his emotions iii. 377.
We are conscious of emotions as in the heart iii. 377.
Emphasis) must not be put upon a low word ii. 405.
Eneid) its unity of action iii. 263.
English plays) generally irregular iii. 292.
English tongue) too rough ii. 247.
It is peculiarly qualified for personification iii. 63. Note.
Envy) defined i. 55.
It magnifies every bad quality in its object i. 187.
Epic poem) no improbable fact ought to be admitted in it i. 124.
Machinery in it has a bad effect i. 125.
It doth not always reject ludicrous images i. 378.
We pardon many faults in it which are intolerable
in a sonnet or epigram i. 299.
Its commencement ought to be modest and simple iii. 171.
In what respect it differs from a tragedy iii. 218.
Distinguished into pathetic and moral iii. 221.
Its good effects iii. 223.
Compared with tragedy as to the subjects proper for each iii. 225.
How far it may borrow from history iii. 234.
Rule for dividing it into parts iii. 236.
Epic poetry ch. 22. iii. 218.
Episode) in an historical poem iii. 250.
Epistles dedicatory) censured ii. 6. Note.
Epithets) redundant iii. 206.
Epitritus ii. 462.
Esteem) love of i. 237. 286.
Esther) of Racine censured ii. 193. 198.
Evergreens) cut in the shape of animals iii. 309.
Expression) elevated, low i. 276.
Expression that has no distinct meaning ii. 232.
Two members of a sentence which express a resemblance
betwixt two objects ought to have a resemblance to
each other ii. 270. &c.
External senses) distinguished into two kinds i. I.
External sense iii. 375.
External signs) of emotions and passions ch. 15. ii. 116.
External signs of passion, what emotions they
raise in a spectator ii. 131. &c.
Faculty) by which we know passion from its external signs ii. 136.
Fairy Queen) criticised iii. 120.
False quantity) painful to the ear ii. 386.
Fame) love of i. 237.
Fashion) its influence accounted for i. 80.
Fashion is in a continual flux i. 256.
Fear) explained i. 95. &c.
rises often to its utmost pitch in an instant i. 148.
is infectious i. 221.
Feeling) its different significations iii. 379.
Fiction) emotions raised by fiction i. 104. &c.
Figure) beauty of i. 248.
Definition of a regular figure iii. 389.
Figures) some passions favourable to figurative expression ii. 208.
Figures ch. 20. iii. 53.
Figure of speech iii. 70. 113. 136. &c.
Final cause) of our sense of order and connection i. 41.
of the sympathetic emotion of virtue i. 74.
of the instinctive passion of fear i. 96. 97.
of the instinctive passion of anger i. 103.
of ideal presence i. 121.
of the power that fiction has on the mind i. 126.
of emotions and passions i. 222. &c.
of regularity, uniformity, order, and simplicity i. 249. 251.
of proportion i. 250.
of beauty i. 262.
why certain objects are neither pleasant nor painful i. 272. 309.
of the pleasure we have in motion and force i. 318.
of curiosity i. 320.
of wonder i. 335.
of surprise i. 336.
of the principle that prompts us to perfect every work i. 366.
of the pleasure or pain that results from the different
circumstances of a train of perceptions i. 397. &c.
of congruity and propriety ii. 18. &c.
of dignity and meanness ii. 35. &c.
of habit ii. 106. &c.
of the external signs of passion and emotion ii. 127. 137. &c.
why articulate sounds singly agreeable are always
agreeable in conjunction ii. 241.
of the pleasure we have in language iii. 208.
of our relish for various proportions in quantity iii. 333.
of our conviction of a common standard in every species of beings iii. 362.
of uniformity of taste in the fine arts iii. 363. 364.
why the sense of a right and a wrong in the fine arts is less
clear and authoritative than the sense of a
right and a wrong in actions iii. 368.
Fine arts) defined i. 6. 7. 16.
a subject of reasoning i. 8.
Their emotions ought to be contrasted in succession i. 374.
considered with respect to dignity ii. 34.
How far they may be regulated by custom ii. 108.
None of them are imitative but painting and sculpture ii. 234.
Aberrations from a true taste
in these arts iii. 366.
Who are qualified to be judges in the fine arts iii. 371.
Fluid) motion of fluids i. 311.
Foot) a list of verse feet ii. 459.
Force) produces a feeling that resembles it i. 218.
Force i. 309. &c.
Moving force i. 312.
The pleasure of force differs from that of motion i. 313.
It contributes to grandeur i. 315.
Foreign) preference given to foreign curiosities i. 331.
Fountains) in what form they ought to be iii. 313.
Friendship) considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 33.
Games) public games of the Greeks i. 314.
Gardening) grandeur of manner in gardening i. 294.
Its emotions ought to be contrasted in succession i. 375.
A small garden ought to be confined to a single expression i. 376.
A garden near a great city ought to have an air of solitude i. 376.
A garden in a wild country ought to be gay and splendid i. 377.
Gardening ch. 24. iii. 294.
What emotions can be raised by it iii. 296.
Its emotions compared with those of architecture iii. 297.
Simplicity ought to be the governing taste iii. 300.
Wherein the unity of a garden consists iii. 304.
How far ought regularity to be studied in it iii. 305.
Resemblance carried too far in it iii. 305. Note.
Grandeur in gardening iii. 306.
Every unnatural object ought to be rejected iii. 308.
Distant and faint imitations displease iii. 309.
The effect of giving play to the imagination iii. 318.
Gardening
inspires benevolence iii. 320.
and contributes to rectitude of manners iii. 350.
General idea) there cannot be such a thing iii. 383. Note.
General terms) ought to be avoided in compositions for amusement iii. 198.
General theorems) why they are agreeable i. 255.
Generic habit) defined ii. 95.
Generosity) why of greater dignity than justice ii. 31.
Genus) defined iii. 399.
Gestures) that accompany the different passions ii. 120. 121. 125.
_Gierusalleme liberata_) censured iii. 242. 249.
Good nature) why of less dignity than courage or generosity ii. 31.
Gothic tower) its beauty iii. 324.
Government) natural foundation of submission to government i. 236.
Grandeur) demands not strict regularity i. 257. 298.
Grandeur and sublimity Ch. 4. i. 264.
Real and figurative grandeur intimately connected i. 279.
Grandeur of manner i. 288.
Grandeur may be employed indirectly to humble the mind i. 300.
Suits ill with wit and ridicule i. 377.
Figurative grandeur distinguished from figurative elevation iii. 21. 22.
Grandeur in gardening iii. 306.
Regularity and proportion hide the grandeur of a building iii. 342.
Gratification) of passion i. 58. 59. 65. 66. 183. _&c._ 203. 358. iii. 98.
Gratitude) exerted upon the children of the benefactor i. 187.
Punishment of ingratitude ii. 25.
Gratitude
considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 33.
Grief) magnifies its cause i. 190.
occasions a false reckoning of time i. 211.
is infectious i. 220.
when immoderate is silent ii. 204.
Gross pleasure i. 137.
Guido) censured iii. 131.
Habit) ch. 14. ii. 81.
distinguished from custom ii. 82.
Harmony) or concord in objects of sight i. 156.
Distinguished from melody ii. 358. Note.
Hatred) signifies more commonly affection than passion i. 146.
Hearing) in hearing we feel no impression iii. 380.
Henriade) censured iii. 178. 236. 243. 249.
Hexameter) Virgils hexameters extremely melodious;
those of Horace not always so ii. 357.
Structure of an hexameter line ii. 364.
Rules for its structure ii. 367.
Musical pauses in an hexameter line ii. 368.
Wherein its melody consists ii. 380.
Hippolytus) of Euripides censured ii. 197. iii. 286. 288.
History) histories of conquerors and heroes singularly
agreeable. Why? i. 72. 285.
By what means does history raise our passions i. 115. 118.
It rejects poetical images iii. 170.
Homer) defective in order and connection i. 35.
His language finely suited to his subject iii. 194.
His repetitions defended iii. 204.
His poems in a great measure dramatic iii. 220.
censured iii. 246.
Horace) defective in connection i. 35.
His hexameters not always melodious ii. 358.
Their defects pointed out ii. 380.
Horror) objects of horror ought to be banished from
poetry and painting iii. 213.
Humour) defined ii. 44.
Humour in writing distinguished from humour in character ii. 44.
Hyperbole iii. 89.
Hyppobacchius ii. 460.
Iambic verse) its modulation faint ii. 358.
Iambus ii. 459.
Jane Shore) censured ii. 168.
Idea) succession of ideas i. 381.
Idea of memory defined iii. 382.
cannot be innate iii. 382. Note.
No general ideas iii. 383. Note.
Idea of an object of sight more distinct than of any other object iii. 384.
Ideas distinguished into three kinds iii. 386.
Idea of imagination not so pleasant as an idea of memory iii. 393.
Ideal presence i. 107. &c.
Identity) of passions and emotions i. 141.
_Jet d’eau_ i. 313. 314. iii. 308. 310.
Jingle of words ii. 231.
Iliad) criticised iii. 263.
Imagination) not always at rest even in sleep i. 337.
Effect in gardening of giving play to it iii. 318. Its
power of fabricating images iii. 385.
Imitation) we naturally imitate virtuous actions i. 220.
not those that are vicious i. 221.
None of the fine arts imitate nature except painting and sculpture ii. 234.
The agreeableness of imitation overbalances
the disagreeableness of the subject iii. 208.
Distant and faint imitations displease iii. 309.
Impression) made on the organ of sense iii. 380.
Impropriety) in action raises contempt i. 340. Its punishment ii. 15.
Impulse) a strong impulse succeeding a weak, makes a double
impression: a weak impulse succeeding a strong,
makes scarce any impression ii. 251.
Infinite series) becomes disagreeable when prolonged i. 365. Note.
Innate idea) there cannot be such a thing iii. 382. Note.
Instrument) the means or instrument conceived to be the agent iii. 98. &c.
Intellectual pleasure i. 2, 3.
Internal sense iii. 375.
Intrinsic beauty i. 244.
Intuitive conviction) of the veracity of our senses i. 105.
of the dignity of human nature ii. 29. iii. 361.
of a common nature or standard in every species of beings
iii. 356. and of the perfection of that standard iii. 357.
also that it is invariable iii. 357.
Intuitive conviction that the external signs of passion
are natural, and the same in all men ii. 135.
Inversion) an inverted style described ii. 290. &c.
Inversion gives force and liveliness to the expression
by suspending the thought till the close ii. 324.
Inversion how regulated ii. 330. 331. 332.
Beauties of inversion ii. 331. 332.
Full scope for it in blank verse ii. 438.
Ionicus ii. 461.
Joy) its cause i. 65.
infectious i. 220.
considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 33.
Iphigenia) of Racine censured ii. 112.
Iphigenia in Tauris) censured iii. 287. 288. 289.
Irony) defined ii. 50.
Italian tongue) too smooth ii. 246. Note.
Judgement) and memory in perfection, seldom united i. 28.
Judgement seldom united with wit i. 28.
Julius Cæsar) of Shakespear censured ii. 200.
Justice) of less dignity than generosity or courage ii. 31.
Kent) his skill in gardening iii. 303.
Key-note ii. 348. 361.
Kitchen-garden iii. 315.
Labyrinth) in a garden iii. 310.
Landscape) why it is so agreeable i. 156.
The pleasure it gives explained i. 298.
A landscape in painting ought to be confined to a single expression i. 376.
Language) power of language to raise emotions, whence derived i. 112. 121.
Language of passion ch. 17. ii. 204.
broken and interrupted ii. 206.
of impetuous passion ii. 210.
of languid passion ii. 210.
of calm emotions ii. 211.
of turbulent passion ii. 211.
Language elevated above the tone of the sentiment ii. 224.
too artificial or too figurative ii. 225.
too light or airy ii. 227.
Language how far imitative of nature ii. 234.
its beauty with respect to signification ii. 235. 254. &c.
its beauty with respect to sound ii. 238.
it ought to correspond
to the subject ii. 258.
its structure explained ii. 285.
Beauty of language from a resemblance betwixt sound
and signification ii. 333 &c.
The force of language proceeds from raising complete images iii. 174.
its power of producing pleasant emotions iii. 208.
Without language man would scarce be a rational being iii. 406.
_L’avare_) of Moliere censured ii 198.
Laughter i. 338.
Laugh of derision or scorn ii. 16.
Law) defined ii. 22.
Laws of human nature) necessary succession of perceptions i. 21. 380.
We never act but through the impulse of desire i. 55. 222.
An object loses its relish by familiarity i. 144.
Passions sudden in their growth are equally sudden
in their decay i. 148. ii. 91.
Every passion ceases upon attaining its ultimate end i. 148.
Laws of motion) agreeable i. 255.
_Les Freres ennemies_) of Racine censured ii. 177.
_Lex talionis_) upon what principle founded i. 370.
Line) definition of a regular line iii. 389.
Littleness) is neither pleasant nor painful i. 272.
Logic) cause of its obscurity and intricacy ii. 138.
_Logio_) improper in this climate iii. 327.
Love) to children accounted for i. 82.
The love a man bears to his country explained i. 88.
Love produced by pity i. 93.
It signifies more commonly affection than passion i. 146.
To a lover absence appears long i. 202.
Love assumes the qualities of its object i. 219.
considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 33.
seldom constant when founded on exquisite beauty ii. 101.
ill represented in French plays ii. 194.
when immoderate is silent ii. 205.
Love for love) censured iii. 266.
Lowness) is neither pleasant nor painful i. 272.
Lucan) too minute in his descriptions i. 292.
censured iii. 220.
Ludicrous i. 338.
may be introduced into an epic poem i. 378.
Lutrin) censured for incongruity ii. 9.
characterized ii. 41.
Luxury) corrupts our taste iii. 370.
Machinery) ought to be excluded from an epic poem i. 125. iii. 239.
does well in a burlesk poem i. 125.
Man) fitted for society i. 237.
Conformity of the nature of man to his external
circumstances i. 310. ii. 143.
The different branches of his internal constitution
finely suited to each other iii. 332. 364.
Manners) gross and refined i. 1, 8.
The bad tendency of rough and blunt manners ii. 141. Note.
Marvellous) in epic poetry iii. 246.
Meanness ii. 27. &c.
Means) the means or instrument conceived to be the agent iii. 98. &c.
Measure) natural measure of time i. 200. &c.
of space, i. 211 &c.
Medea) of Euripides censured iii. 287.
Melody) or modulation defined ii. 355.
distinguished from harmony ii. 358. Note.
Members of a period) have a fine effect placed in
an increasing series ii. 252.
Memory) and judgement in perfection seldom united i. 28.
Memory and wit often united i. 28.
Memory iii. 381.
Merry wives of Windsor) its double plot well contrived iii. 253.
Metaphor iii. 108. &c.
Metre ii. 381.
Mile) the computed miles are longer in a barren
than in a populous country i. 209.
Milton) his style much inverted ii. 439.
The defect of his verification is the want of
coincidence betwixt the pauses of the sense
and the sound ii. 445.
the beauty of Milton’s comparisons iii. 16.
Moderation) in our desires contributes the most to happiness i. 263.
Modern manners) make a poor figure in an epic poem iii. 235.
Modification) defined iii. 399.
Modulation) defined ii. 355.
Molossus ii. 459.
Monosyllables) English, arbitrary as to quantity ii. 383.
Moral duties) _See_ Duties.
Morality) its foundation iii. 358.
Aberrations from its true standard iii. 366.
Moral tragedy iii. 221.
Motion) productive of feelings that resemble it i. 217.
Its laws agreeable i. 255.
Motion and force, ch. 5. i. 309. &c.
What motions are the most agreeable i. 310.
Regular motion i. 311.
accelerated motion i. 311.
upward motion i. 311.
undulating motion i. 311.
Motion of fluids i. 311.
A body moved
neither agreeable nor disagreeable i. 312.
The pleasure of motion differs from that of force i. 313.
Grace of motion i. 317.
Motions of the human body i. 317.
Motive) defined i. 58. 59.
Mount) artificial iii. 313.
Mourning Bride) censured ii. 180. 197. iii. 279. 292.
Music) vocal distinguished from instrumental i. 166.
What subjects proper for vocal music i. 166. &c.
Music betwixt the acts of a play, the advantages
that may be drawn from it iii. 283.
Though it cannot raise a passion, it disposes
the heart to various passions iii. 284.
Musical instruments) their different effects upon the mind i. 283.
Musical measure) defined ii. 355.
Narration) it animates a narrative to represent things past as present i. 118.
Narration and description, ch. 21. iii. 169.
It animates a narrative, to make it dramatic iii. 197. 220.
Nation) defined iii. 404.
Note, a high note and a low note in music i. 278.
Novelty and the unexpected appearance of objects, ch. 6. i. 319.
Novelty a pleasant emotion i. 322. &c.
distinguished from variety i. 329.
its different degrees i. 329. &c.
Number) defined iii. 331.
_Numerus_) defined ii. 355.
Object) of a passion defined i. 56.
An agreeable object produceth a pleasant emotion,
and a disagreeable object a painful emotion i. 223.
attractive object i. 226.
repulsive object i. 226.
Objects of sight the most complex i. 243.
Objects that are neither pleasant nor painful i. 272. 309. 312.
Objects of external sense in what place they are perceived iii. 370.
Objects of internal sense iii. 377.
All objects of sight are complex iii. 400.
Objects simple and complex iii. 401.
Object defined iii. 406.
Old Bachelor) censured iii. 266.
Opera) censured ii. 9.
Opinion) influenced by passion i. 183. &c. iii. 55.
influenced by propensity i. 99.
influenced by affection i. 199.
why differing from me in opinion is disagreeable iii. 359.
Opinion defined iii. 396.
Oration) _pro Archia poeta_ censured ii. 329.
Orchard iii. 315.
Order) i. 28. &c. iii. 392.
pleasure we have in order i. 32.
necessary in all compositions i. 34.
Sense of order has an influence upon our passions i. 81. 89.
when a list of many particulars is brought into
a period, in what order should they be placed? ii. 321.
Order in stating facts iii. 264.
Organ of sense i. 1.
Organic pleasure i. 1. 2. 3. 4.
Orlando Furioso) censured iii. 264.
Ornament) redundant ornaments ought to be avoided iii. 168.
Ornaments in architecture iii. 342.
Allegorical or emblematic ornaments iii. 347.
Othello) censured iii. 215.
Pæon ii. 461.
Pain) cessation of pain extremely pleasant i. 68.
Pain lessens by custom ii. 102. iii. 355.
Some pains felt internally some externally iii. 387.
Painful emotions and passions i. 127. &c.
Painting) in grotesque painting the figures ought
to be small, in historical painting as great
as the life i. 279.
Grandeur of manner in painting i. 293.
Painting is an imitation of nature ii. 234.
In history painting the principal figure ought
to be in the best light iii. 201.
A good picture agreeable, though the subject be disagreeable iii. 208.
Objects that strike terror have a fine effect in painting iii. 211.
Objects of horror ought not to be represented iii. 213.
What emotions can be raised by painting iii. 296.
Panic i. 221.
Parallelogram) its beauty i. 252.
Parody) defined ii. 52. 160. Note.
Particles ii. 404. not capable of an accent ii. 405. 416.
Passion) no pleasure of external sense denominated
a passion except of seeing and hearing i. 42.
Passion distinguished from emotion i. 52. 53. 54.
Passions distinguished into instinctive and deliberative i. 58. 95. &c.
What are selfish, what social i. 59.
What dissocial i. 62.
Passion founded on relations i. 76. &c.
A passion paves the way to others in the same tone i. 92.
Passions considered as pleasant or painful, agreeable
or disagreeable i. 127. &c.
as refined or gross i. 137.
Their interrupted existence i. 139. &c.
Their growth and decay i. 139.
&c. The identity of a passion i. 141.
The bulk of our passions are the affections of
love or hatred inflamed into a passion i. 146.
Passions swell by opposition i. 146.
A passion sudden in growth is sudden in decay i. 148.
ceases upon attaining its ultimate end i. 148.
Co-existent passions i. 151. &c.
Passions similar and dissimilar i. 171.
Fluctuation of passion i. 178. &c.
Its influence upon our opinions and belief i. 183. &c. 203. 358.
Its influence upon our perceptions i. 215. 216.
Prone to its gratification i. 238. 239.
has an influence even upon our eye-sight i. 362. 363.
Passions ranked according to their dignity ii. 32.
No disagreeable passion is attended with dignity ii. 33.
Social passions of greater dignity than selfish ii. 37.
External signs of passion ch. 15. ii. 116.
Passion generally fluctuates, swelling and
subsiding by turns ii. 163. Language of
passion ch. 17. ii. 204. &c.
A passion when immoderate is silent ii. 204.
Language of passion broken and interrupted ii. 206.
What passions admit figurative expression ii. 208.
Language proper for impetuous passion ii. 210.
for melancholy ii. 210.
for calm emotions ii. 211.
for turbulent passion ii. 211.
Passions expanded upon related objects i. 76. &c.
ii. 312. &c. 336. 372. 415. 416. iii. 60. &c. 139. 140.
With regard to passion man is passive iii. 377.
We are conscious of passions as in the heart iii. 377.
Passionate) personification iii. 64.
Passive subject) defined iii. 406.
Pathetic tragedy iii. 221.
Pause) pauses necessary for three different purposes ii. 360.
Musical pauses in an hexameter line ii. 368.
Musical pauses ought to coincide with those in the sense ii. 371. 375.
What musical pauses are essential in English heroic verse ii. 388.
Rules concerning them ii. 390. &c.
Pause and accent have a mutual influence ii. 428.
Pedestal) ought to be sparingly ornamented iii. 347.
Perceptions) succession of i. 380.
Perception defined iii. 378.
Original and secondary iii. 382.
Simple and complex iii. 383.
Period) has a fine effect when its members proceed
in the form of an increasing series ii. 252.
In the periods of a discourse variety ought to be studied ii. 253.
Different thoughts ought not to be crowded into one period ii. 263.
The scene ought not to be changed in a period ii. 278.
A period so arranged as to express the sense clearly,
seems more musical than where the sense is left
doubtful ii. 307.
In what part of the period doth a word make the greatest figure ii. 318.
A period ought to be closed with that word which
makes the greatest figure ii. 320.
When there is occasion to mention many particulars,
in what order ought they to be placed ii. 321.
A short period is lively and familiar, a long period
grave and solemn ii. 328.
A discourse ought not to commence with a long period ii. 329.
Personification iii. 54. &c.
Passionate and descriptive iii. 64.
Perspicuity) a capital requisite in writing ii. 256.
Pharsalia) censured iii. 220.
Phedra) of Racine censured ii. 113. 216.
Pilaster) less beautiful than a column iii. 345.
Pindar) defective in order and connection i. 35.
Pity) defined i. 55.
apt to produce love i. 93.
always painful, yet always agreeable i. 134.
resembles its cause i. 211.
What are the proper subjects for raising pity iii. 226.
Planetary system) its beauty i. 316.
Play) is a chain of connected facts, each scene making a link iii. 266.
Play of words) ii 71. 228 &c.
Comparisons that resolve into a play of words iii. 42.
Pleasant emotions and passions i. 127. &c.
Pleasant pain explained i. 155.
Pleasure) pleasures of seeing and hearing
distinguished from those of the other senses i. 1. 2. &c.
Pleasure of order i. 32.
of connection i. 32.
Pleasures of taste, touch, and smell, not termed
_emotions_ or _passions_ i. 42.
Pleasures refined and gross i. 137.
Corporeal pleasure low and sometimes mean ii 32.
Pleasures of the eye and ear never low or mean ii. 32.
Pleasures of the understanding are high in point of dignity ii. 34.
Some pleasures felt internally, some externally iii. 387.
Poet) the chief talent of a poet who deals in the pathetic ii. 119.
Poetry) objects that strike terror have a fine effect in it iii. 211.
Objects of horror ought to be banished from it iii. 213.
Poetry has power over all the human affections iii. 296.
The most successful in describing objects of sight iii. 385.
Polite behaviour i. 138.
Polygon) regular its beauty i. 252.
Polysyllables) how far agreeable to the ear ii. 242.
seldom have place in the construction of English verse ii. 385. 421.
Pompey) of Corneille censured ii. 176. 191. 194.
Pope excels in the variety of his melody ii. 411.
His style compared with that of Swift iii. 198.
Posture) constrained posture disagreeable to the spectator i. 219.
Power of abstraction iii. 401.
Its use iii. 402. 403.
Prepositions) explained ii. 289.
Pride) incites us to ridicule the blunders and absurdities of others ii 17.
Considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 34.
Its external expressions or signs disagreeable ii. 132.
Primary and secondary qualities of matter i. 259.
Principle) of order i. 28. 29.
of morality i. 49. 74. ii. 21.
of self-preservation i. 96.
of selfishness i. 227. 229.
of benevolence i. 228. 229.
Principle that makes us fond of esteem i. 237. 286.
of curiosity i. 320. 345. &c.
of habit ii. 105.
Principle that makes us wish others to be of our opinion iii. 57. 359.
Principle defined iii. 394.
_See_ Propensity.
Principles of the fine arts i. 7.
Proceleusmaticus ii. 461.
Prodigies) find ready credit with the vulgar i. 198.
Prologue of the ancient tragedy iii. 271.
Pronoun) defined ii. 310.
Pronunciation) rules for it ii. 347. &c.
distinguished from singing ii. 348.
Singing and pronouncing compared ii. 351.
Propensity) opinion and belief influenced by it i. 199.
Propensity to fit objects for the gratification of our
passions i. 184. iii. 98.
Propensity to justify our passions and actions i. 185.
Propensity to punish guilt and reward virtue i. 231.
Propensity to carry along the good or bad properties
of one subject to another i. 76. ii. 235. 307.
312. 372. 415. 416. iii. 101.
Propensity to complete every work that is begun
and to carry things to perfection i. 364. 365.
iii. 262. 345.
Propensity to communicate to others every thing that affects us ii. 204.
Propensity to place together things mutually connected ii. 308.
Propensity defined iii. 394.
_See_ Principle.
Properties) transferred from one subject to another iii. 100. &c.
Property) the affection man bears to his property i. 84.
Prophecy) those who believe in prophecies wish the accomplishment i. 239.
Propriety ii. 3. &c.
distinguished from congruity ii. 8.
distinguished from proportion ii. 19.
Propriety in buildings iii. 338.
Proportion) distinguished from propriety ii. 19.
As to quantity coincides with congruity ii. 19.
examined as applied to architecture iii. 318.
Proportion defined iii. 391.
Prose) distinguished from verse ii. 353.
Prospect) pleasure of a fine prospect i. 298.
An unbounded prospect disagreeable i. 366. Note.
Provok’d husband) censured iii. 253.
Pun) defined ii. 77.
Punishment) in the place where the crime was committed i. 371.
Punishment of impropriety ii. 15.
Public games) of the Greeks i. 314.
Pyrrhichius ii. 459.
Qualities) primary and secondary i. 259.
A quality cannot be conceived independent of
the subject to which it belongs ii. 293.
Different qualities perceived by different senses iii. 376.
Quantity) with respect to melody ii. 363. 383.
Quantity with respect to English verse ii. 383.
Quintilian) censured iii. 92.
Quintus Curtius) censured ii. 167.
Racine) criticised ii. 216. &c.
Rape of the Lock) characteriz’d ii. 43.
admirable versification ii. 362.
Reading) chief talent of a fine reader ii. 120.
Plaintive passions require a slow pronunciation ii. 161. Note.
Rules for reading ii. 347. &c.
compared with singing ii. 351.
Reason) reasons to justify a favourite opinion are
always at hand and much relished i. 186.
Refined pleasure i. 137.
Regularity) not essential in grand objects i. 257.
required in a small work, not so much in one that is extensive i. 299.
how far to be studied in architecture iii. 301. 322. 328.
how far to be studied in a garden iii. 305.
Regular line defined iii. 389.
Regular figure defined iii. 389.
Regularity proper and figurative iii. 390.
Relations i. 22. 23.
have an influence in generating emotions and passions i. 76. &c.
are the foundation of congruity and propriety ii. 5.
in what manner are relations expressed in words ii. 286.
Relative beauty i. 244.
Remorse) its gratification i. 232.
is not mean. ii. 34.
Repartee ii. 80.
Representation) its perfection lies in hiding
itself and producing an impression of reality iii. 279.
Repulsive) object i. 226.
Repulsive emotions ii. 133.
Resemblance) and contrast, ch. 8. i. 345.
The members of a sentence signifying a resemblance
betwixt objects ought to resemble each other
ii. 270. &c.
Resembling causes may produce effects that have
no resemblance, and causes that have no resemblance
may produce resembling effects ii. 337. &c.
Resemblance carried too far in some gardens iii. 305. Note.
Resentment) explained i. 98. &c.
disagreeable in excess i. 134.
extended against relations of the offender i. 190.
its gratification i. 231.
when immoderate is silent ii. 205.
Rest) neither agreeable nor disagreeable i. 309.
Revenge) animates but doth not elevate the mind i. 283.
has no dignity in it ii. 33.
Reverie) cause of the pleasure we have in it i. 112.
Rhyme) for what subjects it is proper ii. 447. &c.
Melody of rhyme ii. 449.
Rhythmus) defined ii. 355.
Riches) love of, corrupts the taste iii. 370.
Riddle iii. 310.
Ridicule) a gross pleasure i. 138.
is losing ground in England i. 138.
Emotion of ridicule i. 341.
not concordant with grandeur i. 377,
Ridicule ii. 16. 40. &c.
whether it be a test of truth ii. 55.
Ridiculous) distinguished from risible i. 341.
Risible objects, ch. 7. i. 337.
Risible distinguished from ridiculous i. 341.
Rubens) censured iii. 130.
Ruin) ought not to be seen from a flower-parterre iii. 303.
in what form it ought to be iii. 313.
Sallust) censured for want of connection i. 37.
Sapphic verse) has a very agreeable modulation ii. 358.
Scorn ii. 16.
Sculpture) imitates nature ii. 234.
what emotions can be raised by it iii. 296.
_Secchia rapita_) characterized ii. 41.
Secondary qualities of matter i. 259.
Seeing) in seeing we feel no impression iii. 380.
Objects of sight are all of them complex iii. 400.
Self-deceit i. 185. ii. 190.
Selfish passions i. 59.
are pleasant i. 131.
less refined than the social i. 137.
inferior in dignity to the social ii. 37.
Selfishness) promoted by luxury iii. 370.
and also by love of riches iii. 370.
Self-love) its prevalence accounted for i. 63.
in excess disagreeable i. 134.
not inconsistent with benevolence i. 228.
Semipause) in an hexameter line ii. 369.
what semipauses are found in an English heroic line ii. 390.
Sensation) defined iii. 378.
Sense) of order i. 28. &c.
contributes to generate emotions i. 81.
and passions i. 89.
Sense of right and wrong i. 49.
of the veracity of our senses i. 105.
Sense of congruity or propriety ii. 6.
of the dignity of human nature ii. 29. iii. 361.
Sense by
which we discover a passion from its external signs ii. 136.
Sense of a common nature in every species of beings iii. 356.
Sense internal and external iii. 375.
In touching, tasting, and smelling, we feel the
impression at the organ of sense, not in seeing
and hearing iii. 380.
Sentence) it detracts from neatness to vary the scene
in the same sentence ii. 278.
A sentence so arranged as to express the sense
clearly, seems always more musical than where
the sense is left in any degree doubtful ii. 307.
Sentiment) elevated, low i. 276.
Sentiments ch. 16. ii. 149.
Sentiments expressing the swelling of passion ii. 164.
expressing the different stages of a passion ii. 165.
dictated by co-existent passions ii. 169.
Sentiments of strong passions are hid or dissembled ii. 171.
Sentiments above the tone of the passion ii. 175.
below the tone of the passion ii. 176.
Sentiments too gay for a serious passion ii. 178.
too artificial for a serious passion ii. 179.
fanciful or sinical ii. 182.
discordant with character ii. 186.
misplaced ii. 189.
Immoral sentiments expressed without disguise ii. 189.
unnatural ii. 196.
Sentiment defined iii. 396.
Series) from small to great agreeable i. 272.
Ascending series i. 274.
Descending series i. 275.
The effect of a number of objects placed in an
increasing or decreasing series ii. 249.
Serpentine river) its beauty i. 311. iii. 316.
Sertorius) of Corneille censured ii. 163.
Shaft) of a column iii. 346.
Shakespear) criticised ii. 212
deals little in inversion ii. 439.
excells in drawing characters iii. 182.
his style in what respect excellent iii. 198.
his dialogue excellent iii. 257.
deals not in barren scenes iii. 267.
Shame) is not mean ii. 34.
Similar emotions i. 153.
their effects when co-existent i. 155. iii. 336.
Similar passions i. 171.
Effects of co-existent similar passions i. 171.
Simple perception iii. 383.
Simplicity) beauty of i. 247. 254.
abandoned in the fine arts i. 255.
a great beauty in tragedy iii. 252. Note.
ought to be the governing taste in gardening and architecture iii. 300.
Singing) distinguished from pronouncing or reading ii. 348.
Singing and pronouncing compared ii. 351.
Situation) different situations suited to different buildings iii. 339.
Smelling) in smelling we feel an impression upon the organ of sense iii. 380.
Smoke) the pleasure of ascending smoke accounted for i. 33. 313.
Social passions i. 59.
more refined than the selfish i. 137.
of greater dignity ii. 37.
Society) advantages of i. 237. 238. 240.
Soliloquy) has a foundation in nature ii. 123.
Soliloquies ii. 218. &c.
Sorrow) cause of it i. 65.
Sounds) concordant i. 151.
discordant i. 152.
produce emotions that resemble them i. 218.
articulate how far agreeable to the ear ii. 240.
A smooth sound sooths the mind, and a rough sound animates ii. 245.
Space) natural computation of space i. 211. &c.
Species) defined iii. 399.
Specific habit) defined ii. 95.
Speech) power of speech to raise emotions, whence derived i. 112. 121.
Spondee ii. 364. &c. ii. 459.
Square) its beauty i. 251.
Stairs) their proportion iii. 323.
Standard) of taste ch. 25. iii. 351.
Standard of morals iii. 367.
Star) in gardening iii. 307.
Statue) the reason why a statue is not coloured i. 372.
An equestrian statue is placed in a centre of streets
that it may be seen from many places at once iii. 201.
Statue of an animal pouring out water iii. 308.
of a water-god pouring water out of his urn iii. 350.
Strada) censured iii. 170.
Style) natural and inverted ii. 290. &c.
The beauties of a natural style ii. 332.
of an inverted style ii. 332.
Concise style a great ornament iii. 204.
Subject) may be conceived independent of any particular quality ii. 293.
Subject with respect to its qualities iii. 376.
Subject defined iii. 406.
Sublimity i. 264. &c.
Sublime in poetry i. 277.
Sublimity may be employed indirectly to sink the mind i. 300.
False sublime i. 303. 306.
Submission) natural foundation of submission to government i. 236.
Substance) defined iii. 406.
Substratum) defined iii. 376.
Succession) of perceptions and ideas i. 380. &c.
Superlatives) inferior writers deal in superlatives iii. 195.
Surprise) instantaneous i. 142. 321.
pleasant or painful according to circumstances i. 326. &c.
Surprise is the cause of contrast i. 359.
Surprise a silent passion ii. 205.
studied in Chinese gardens iii. 319.
Suspense) an uneasy state i. 205.
Sweet distress) explained i. 155.
Swift) his language always suited to his subject iii. 194.
has a peculiar energy of style iii. 198.
compared with Pope iii. 198.
Syllable ii. 239.
Syllables long and short ii. 363.
Sympathy) sympathetic emotion of virtue i. 70.
Sympathy i. 229.
attractive i. 230.
never low nor mean ii. 32.
the cement of society ii. 143.
Synthetic) and analytic methods of reasoning compared i. 31.
Tacitus) excells in drawing characters iii. 182.
his style comprehensive iii. 204.
Tasso) censured iii. 242.
Taste) in tasting we feel an impression upon the organ of sense iii. 380.
Taste in the fine arts compared with the moral sense i. 7.
its advantages i. 10. &c.
Delicacy of taste i. 136.
A low taste i. 276.
The foundation of a right and a wrong in taste iii. 358.
Taste in the fine arts as well as in morals
corrupted by voluptuousness iii. 370.
corrupted by love of riches iii. 370.
Taste never naturally bad or wrong iii. 372.
Aberrations from a true taste in the fine arts iii. 366.
Tautology) a blemish in writing iii. 205.
Temples) of Ancient and Modern Virtue in the gardens of Stow iii. 348.
Terence) censured iii. 288. 290.
Terror) arises sometimes to its utmost height instantaneously i. 143.
a silent passion ii. 205.
Objects that strike terror have a fine effect
in poetry and painting iii. 211.
The terror raised by tragedy explained iii. 228.
Theorem) general theorems agreeable i. 255.
Time) past time expressed as present i. 118.
Natural computation of time i. 200. &c.
Tone) of mind iii. 378.
Touch) in touching we feel an impression upon the organ of sense iii. 380.
Trachiniens) of Sophocles censured iii. 286.
Tragedy) modern tragedy censured ii. 155.
French tragedy censured ii. 159. Note. ii. 194.
The Greek tragedy accompanied with musical notes
to ascertain the pronunciation ii. 350.
Tragedy ch. 22. iii. 218.
in what respect it differs from an epic poem iii. 218.
distinguished into pathetic and moral iii. 221.
its good effects iii. 223.
compared with the epic as to the subjects proper for each iii. 225. 226.
how far it may borrow from history iii. 234.
rule for dividing it into acts iii. 236.
double plot in it iii. 251.
admits not supernatural events iii. 254.
its origin iii. 270.
Ancient tragedy a continued representation without interruption iii. 271.
Constitution of the modern drama iii. 273.
Trees) the best manner of placing them iii. 307.
Triangle) equilateral, its beauty i. 253.
Tribrachys ii. 459.
Trochæus ii. 459.
Tropes ch. 20. iii. 53.
Ugliness) proper and figurative iii. 388.
Unbounded prospect) disagreeable i. 366. Note.
Uniformity) apt to disgust by excess i. 253.
Uniformity and variety ch. 9. i. 380.
The melody ought to be uniform where the things
described are uniform ii. 411.
Uniformity defined iii. 390.
Unity) the three unities ch. 23. iii. 259.
of action iii. 260.
of time and of place ii. 267.
Unities of time and place not required in an epic poem iii. 268.
Strictly observed in the Greek tragedy iii. 272.
Unity of place in the ancient drama iii. 285.
Unities of place and time ought to be strictly observed
in each act of a modern play iii. 291.
Wherein the unity of a garden consists. iii. 304.
_Unumquodque eodem modo dissolvitur quo colligatum est_ i. 368.
Vanity) a disagreeable passion i. 134.
always appears mean ii. 34.
Variety) distinguished from novelty i. 329.
Variety ch. 9. i. 380.
Verbal antithesis) defined ii. 73. 268.
Versailles) gardens of iii. 310.
Verse) distinguished from prose ii. 353
Sapphic verse extremely melodious ii. 358.
Iambic less so ii. 358.
Structure of an hexameter line ii. 364.
Structure of English heroic verse ii. 382. 384.
English monosyllables arbitrary as to quantity ii. 383.
English heroic lines distinguished into four sorts ii. 421.
Latin hexameter compared with English rhyme ii. 441.
compared with blank verse ii. 442.
French heroic verse compared with hexameter and rhyme ii. 443.
The English language incapable of the melody of hexameter verse ii. 446.
For what subjects is rhyme proper ii. 447. &c.
Melody of rhyme ii. 449.
Melody of verse is so inchanting as to draw a veil
over gross imperfections ii. 457.
Verses composed in the shape of an axe or an egg iii. 310.
Violent action) ought to be excluded from the stage iii. 254.
Virgil) censured for want of connection i. 36. &c.
his verse extremely melodious ii. 357.
his versification criticised ii. 376.
censured iii. 179. 194. 246.
_Virgil travestie_) characterized ii. 41.
Voltaire) censured iii. 178. 236. 243.
Vowels ii. 238.
Walk) in a garden, whether it ought to be straight or waving iii. 311.
artificial walk elevated above the plain iii. 313.
Wall) that is not perpendicular occasions an uneasy feeling i. 218.
Water-fall i. 314.
Water-god) statue of, pouring out water iii. 350.
Way of the World) censured iii. 266.
the unities of place and time strictly observed in it iii. 293.
Will) how far our train of perceptions can be regulated by it i. 23. 381. 388.
determined by desire i. 222
Windows) their proportions iii. 323.
Wish) distinguished from desire i. 55.
Wit) defined i. 28. seldom united with judgement
i. 28. but generally with memory i. 28.
not concordant with grandeur i. 377.
Wit ch. 13. ii. 58.
Wonder) instantaneous i. 143.
Wonders and prodigies find ready credit with the vulgar i. 198.
Wonder i. 320.
studied in Chinese gardens iii. 319.
Words) play of ii. 228. &c.
jingle of ii. 231.
what are their best arrangement in a period ii. 251.
A conjunction or disjunction in the members of
the thought ought to be imitated in the expression ii. 260. 265.
Words expressing things connected ought to be
placed as near together as possible ii. 307. &c.
In what part of a sentence doth a word make the greatest figure ii. 318.
Words acquire a beauty from their meaning iii. 139.
The words ought to accord with the sentiment iii. 188.
A word is often redoubled to add force to the expression iii. 201.
Writing) a subject intended for amusement may be highly ornamented ii. 9.
A grand subject appears best in a plain dress ii. 10.