Chapter IV: Part 4

O rage! ô desespoir! ô vieillesse ennemie!
N’ai je donc tant vecu que pour cette infamie?
Et ne suis-je blanchi dans les travaux guerriers,
Que pour voir en une jour fletrir tant de lauriers?
Mon bras, qu’avec respect toute l’Espagne admire,
Mon bras, qui tant de fois a sauvé cet empire,
Tant de fois affermi le trône de son roi,
Trahit donc ma querelle, et ne fait rien pour moi!
O cruel souvenir de ma gloire passée!
Oeuvre de tant de jours en un jour effacée!
Nouvelle dignité fatale à mon bonheur!
Precipice élevé d’ou tombe mon honneur!
Faut-il de votre éclat voir triompher le Comte,
Et mourir sans vengeance, ou vivre dans la honte?
Comte, fois de mon Prince à present gouverneur,
Ce haut rang n’admet point un homme sans honneur;
Et ton jaloux orgueil par cet affront insigne,
Malgré le choix du Roi, m’en a su rendre indigne.
Et toi, de mes exploits glorieux instrument,
Mais d’un corps tout de glace inutile ornement,
Fer jadis tant a craindre, et qui dans cette offense
M’as servi de parade, et non pas de defense,
Va quitte desormais le dernier des humains,
Passe pour me vanger en de meilleures mains.
_Le Cid, act 1. sc. 4._

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 thoughts upon herself, and wonders her heart does not break.

Ohime, ben son di sasso,
Poi che questa novella non m’uccide.
_Act 4. sc. 2._

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

Oh Jealousy! thou bane of pleasing friendship,
Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms;
How does thy rancour poison all our softness,
And turn our gentle natures into bitterness?
See where she comes! Once my heart’s dearest blessing,
Now my chang’d eyes are blasted with her beauty,
Loathe that known face, and sicken to behold her.
_Act 3. sc. 1._

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.

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:

_Queen._ ‘Would I had never trod this English earth,
Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it!
Ye’ve angels faces, but Heav’n knows your hearts.
What shall become of me now! wretched lady!
I am the most unhappy woman living.
Alas! poor wenches, where are now your fortunes? [_To her women._
Shipwreck’d upon a kingdom, where no pity,
No friends, no hope! no kindred weep for me!
Almost, no grave allow’d me.
_Henry VIII. act 3. sc. 1._

_Othello._ Oh devil, devil! If that the earth could teem with
woman’s tears, Each drop she falls, would prove a crocodile. Out of
my sight.

_Desdemona._ I will not stay t’offend you. [_going._

_Lodovico._ Truly, an obedient lady: I do beseech your Lordship,
call her back.

_Oth._ Mistress----

_Des._ My Lord.

_Oth._ What would you with her, Sir?

_Lod._ Who, I, my Lord?

_Oth._ Ay; you did wish that I would make her turn: Sir, she can
turn and turn, and yet go on; And turn again. And she can weep,
Sir, weep; And she’s obedient: as you say, obedient; Very
obedient--proceed you in your tears--Concerning this, Sir,--oh
well-painted passion!--I am commanded home--get you away, I’ll send
for you anon--Sir, I obey the mandate, And will return to
Venice.---- Hence, avaunt! [_Exit Desdemona._

_Othello, act 4. sc. 6._

_Æmilia._ Oh! my good Lord, I would speak a word with you.

_Othello._ Yes, ’tis Æmilia--by and by--she’s dead. ’Tis like, she
comes to speak of Cassio’s death; The noise was high.--Ha, no more
moving? Still as the grave. Shall she come in? were’t good? I think
she stirs again--No--what’s the best? If she come in, she’ll, sure,
speak to my wife; My wife! my wife! What wife? I have no wife. Oh
insupportable! oh heavy hour!

_Othello, act 5. sc. 7._

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:

Et que l’amour souvent de remors combattu
Paroisse une foiblesse, et non une vertu.
_Boileau, L’art poet. chant. 3. l. 101._

O, they love least that let men know their love.
_Two Gentlemen of Verona, act 1. sc. 3._

Hence a capital rule in the representation of strong passions, that their genuine sentiments 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.

_Antonio._---- What might
Worthy Sebastian--O, what might--no more.
And yet, methinks, I see it in thy face,
What thou should’st be: th’occasion speaks thee, and
My strong imagination sees a crown
Dropping upon thy head.
_Act 2. sc. 1._

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

_K. John._ Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,
We owe thee much; within this wall of flesh
There is a soul counts thee her creditor,
And with advantage means to pay thy love.
And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.
Give me thy hand, I had a thing to say----
But I will fit it with some better time.
By Heaven, Hubert, I’m almost asham’d
To say what good respect I have of thee.

_Hubert._ I am much bounden to your Majesty.

_K. John._ Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet----
But thou shalt have--and creep time ne’er so slow,
Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.
I had a thing to say--but, let it go:
The sun is in the heav’n, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds,
To give me audience. If the midnight-bell
Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth
Sound one into the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit Melancholy
Had bak’d thy blood and made it heavy-thick,
Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,
Making that idiot Laughter keep men’s eyes,
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,
(A passion hateful to my purposes);
Or if that thou could’st see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone,
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sounds of words;
Then, in despight of broad-ey’d watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts.
But ah, I will not--Yet I love thee well;
And, by my troth, I think thou lov’st me well.

_Hubert._ So well, that what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act,
By Heav’n, I’d do’t.

_K. John._ Do not I know, thou would’st?
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy. I’ll tell thee what, my friend;
He is a very serpent in my way.
And, wheresoe’er this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me. Dost thou understand me?
Thou art his keeper.
_King John, act 3. sc. 5._

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 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.

_Othello._---- O my soul’s joy!
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken’d death:
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus high, and duck again as low
As hell’s from heaven!
_Othello, act 2. sc. 6._

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

_Philaster._ Place me, some god, upon a pyramid
Higher than hills of earth, and lend a voice
Loud as your thunder to me, that from thence
I may discourse to all the under-world
The worth that dwells in him.
_Philaster of Beaumont and Fletcher, act 4._

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.

Ah! si je t’avois crû, je n’aurois pas de maître,
Je serois dans le trône où le Ciel m’a fait naître;
Mais c’est une imprudence assez commune aux rois,
D’ecouter trop d’avis, et se tromper au choix.
Le Destin les aveugle au bord du précipice,
Ou si quelque lumiere en leur ame se glisse,
Cette fausse clarté dont il les eblouit,
Le plonge dans une gouffre, et puis s’evanouit.
_La mort de Pompée, act 4. sc. 1._

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 sentiment is grafted upon a painful passion, or the contrary. In the following instances the sentiments are too gay for a serious passion.

No happier talk these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.
_Eloisa to Abelard, l. 47._

Again,

Heav’n first taught letters for some wretch’s aid,
Some banish’d lover, or some captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires;
The virgin’s wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart;
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole.
_Eloisa to Abelard, l. 51._

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

* * * * *

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

Then when I am thy captive talk of chains,
Proud limitary cherub; but ere then
Far heavier load thyself expect to feel
From my prevailing arm, though Heaven’s King
Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy compeers,
Us’d to the yoke, draw’st his triumphant wheels
In progress through the road of heav’n _star-pav’d_.
_Paradise Lost, book 4._

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:

O, Harry, thou hast robb’d me of my growth:
I better brook the loss of brittle life,
Than those proud titles thou hast won of me;
They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my flesh.
But thought’s the slave of life, and life time’s fool;
And time, that takes survey of all the world,
Must have a stop.
_First part, Henry IV. act 5. sc. 9._

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

“In hoc legato vestro, nec hominis quicquam est, Patres Conscripti,
præter figuram et speciem; neque Romani civis, præter habitum
vestitumque, et sonum linguæ Latinæ. Pestis et bellua immanis,
quales fretum, quondam, quo ab Sicilia dividimur, ad perniciem
navigantium circumsedisse, fabulæ ferunt[53].”

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:

_Almeria._ O no! Time gives increase to my afflictions.
The circling hours, that gather all the woes
Which are diffus’d through the revolving year,
Come heavy-laden with th’ oppressing weight
To me; with me, successively, they leave
The sighs, the tears, the groans, the restless cares,
And all the damps of grief, that did retard their flight,
They shake their downy wings, and scatter all
The dire collected dews on my poor head;
Then fly with joy and swiftness from me.
_Act 1. sc. 1._

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:

Had they, or hearts, or eyes, that did this deed?
Could eyes endure to guide such cruel hands?
Are not my eyes guilty alike with theirs,
That thus can gaze, and yet not turn to stone?
--I do not weep! The springs of tears are dry’d,
And of a sudden I am calm, as if
All things were well; and yet my husband’s murder’d!
Yes, yes, I know to mourn! I’ll sluice this heart,
The source of wo, and let the torrent loose.
_Act 5. sc. 11._

_Lady Trueman._ How could you be so cruel to defer giving me that
joy which you knew I must receive from your presence? You have
robb’d my life of some hours of happiness that ought to have been
in it.

_Drummer, act 5._

Pope’s Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady, expresses delicately the most tender concern and sorrow for the deplorable 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.

What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish’d marble emulate thy face?
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow’d dirge be muttered o’er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow’rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o’ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.

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_ 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.

E in lui versò d’inessicabil vena
Lacrime, e voce di sospiri mista.
In che misero punto hor qui me mena
Fortuna? a che veduta amara e trista?
Dopo gran tempo i’ ti ritrovo à pena
Tancredi, e ti riveggio, e non son vista,
Vista non son da te, benche presente
E trovando ti perdo eternamente.
_Cant. 19. st. 105._

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

_Queen._ Give me no help in lamentation,
I am not barren to bring forth complaints:
All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes,
That I, being govern’d by the wat’ry moon,
May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world.
Ah, for my husband, for my dear Lord Edward.
_King Richard III. act 2. sc. 2._

_Jane Shore._ Let me be branded for the public scorn,
Turn’d forth, and driven to wander like a vagabond,
Be friendless and forsaken, seek my bread
Upon the barren wild, and desolate waste,
_Feed on my sighs, and drink my falling tears_;
Ere I consent to teach my lips injustice,
Or wrong the orphan who has none to save him.
_Jane Shore, act 4._

Give me your drops, ye soft-descending rains,
Give me your streams, ye never-ceasing springs,
That my sad eyes may still supply my duty,
And feed an everlasting flood of sorrow.
_Jane Shore, act 5._

Jane Shore utters her last breath in a witty conceit.

Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace----
’Tis very dark, and I have lost you now----
Was there not something I would have bequeath’d you?
But I have nothing left me to bestow,
Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh mercy, Heav’n! [_Dies._
_Act 5._

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

Thou stand’st unmov’d;
Calm temper sits upon thy beauteous brow;
Thy eyes that flow’d so fast for Edward’s loss,
Gaze unconcern’d upon the ruin round thee,
As if thou hadst resolv’d to brave thy fate,
And triumph in the midst of desolation.
Ha! see, it swells, the liquid crystal rises,
It starts in spight of thee---- but I will catch it,
Nor let the earth be wet with dew so rich.
_Lady Jane Gray, act 4. near the end._

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], answering 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.

_Lady Easy._ O the soft treasure! O the dear reward of
long-desiring love---- Thus! thus to have you mine, is something
more than happiness, ’tis double life, and madness of abounding
joy.

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.

Juste Ciel? Tout mon sang dans mes veines se glace.
_Act 1. sc. 3._

Again,

_Aman._ C’en est fait. Mon orgueil est forcé de plier,
L’inexorable Aman est reduit a prier.
_Esther, act 3. sc. 5._

_Athalie._ Quel prodige nouveau me trouble et m’embarrasse?
La douceur de sa voix, son enfance, sa grace,
Font insensiblement à mon inimitié
Succéder---- Je serois sensible a la pitié?
_Athalie, act 2. sc. 7._

_Titus._ O de ma passion fureur desesperée!
_Brutus of Voltaire, act 3. sc. 6._

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.

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.

Canst thou forgive me all my follies past?
I’ll henceforth be indeed a father; never,
Never more thus expose, but cherish thee,
Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life,
Dear as these eyes that weep in fondness o’er thee:
Peace to thy heart.

Immoral sentiments exposed in their native colours, instead of being concealed or disguised, compose the fifth class.

* * * * *

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

---- The raven himself’s not hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come all you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me from the crown to th’ toe, top-full
Of direct cruelty; make thick my blood,
Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose.
_Macbeth, act 1. sc. 7._

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 imagination 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.

Strange things I have in head, that will to hand;
Which must be acted, ere they must be scann’d.
_Act 3. sc. 5._

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.

Seigneur, n’attirez point le tonnerre en ces lieux,
Rangez-vous du parti des destins et des dieux,
Et sans les accuser d’injustice, ou d’outrage,
Puis qu’ils font les heureux, adorez leur ouvrage;
Quels que soient leurs decrets, déclarez-vouz pour eux,
Et pour leur obéir, perdez le malheureux.
Pressé de toutes parts des coléres celestes,
Il en vient dessus vous faire fondre les restes;
Et sa tête qu’à peine il a pû dérober,
Tout prête de choir, cherche avec qui tomber.
Sa retraite chez vous en effet n’est qu’un crime;
Elle marque sa haine, et non pas son estime;
Il ne vient que vous perdre en venant prendre port,
Et vous pouvez douter s’il est digne de mort!
Il devoit mieux remplir nos vœux et notre attente,
Faire voir sur ses nefs la victoire flotante;
Il n’eût ici trouvé que joye et que festins,
Mais puisqu’il est vaincu, qu’il s’en prenne aux destins
J’en veux à sa disgrace et non à sa personne,
J’exécute à regret ce que le ciel ordonne,
Et du même poignard, pour César destiné,
Je perce en soupirant son cœur infortuné.
Vouz ne pouvez enfin qu’aux dépens de sa tête
Mettre à l’abri la vôtre et parer la tempête.
Laissez nommer sa mort un injuste attentat,
La justice n’est pas une vertu d’etat.
Le choix des actions, ou mauvaises, ou bonnes,
Ne fait qu’anéantir la force des couronnes;
Le droit des rois consiste à ne rien épargner;
La timide équité détruit l’art de regner,
Quand on craint d’être injuste on a toûjours à craindre,
Et qui veut tout pouvoir doit oser tout enfraindre,
Fuir comme un deshonneur la vertu qui le pert,
Et voler sans scrupule au crime qui lui fert.

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:

Cynthia, let thy beauty gild my crimes; and whatsoever I commit of
treachery or deceit, shall be imputed to me as a merit.----
Treachery! what treachery? Love cancels all the bonds of
friendship, and sets men right upon their first foundations.

_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.

_Maxime._ Quoi, trahir, mon ami!

_Euphorbe._---- L’amour rend tout permis, Un véritable amant ne
connoît point d’amis.

_Cinna, act 3. sc. 1._

_Cesar._ Reine, tout est paisible, et la ville calmée,
Qu’un trouble assez leger avoit trop alarmée,
N’a plus à redouter le divorce intestin
Du soldat insolent, et du peuple mutin.
Mais, ô Dieux! ce moment que je vous ai quittée,
D’un trouble bien plus grand à mon ame agitée,
Et ces soins importuns qui m’arrachoient de vous
Contre ma grandeur même allumoient mon courroux.
Je lui voulois du mal de m’être si contraire,
De rendre ma presence ailleurs si necessaire.
Mais je lui pardonnois au simple souvenir
Du bonheur qu’a ma flâme elle fait obtenir.
C’est elle dont je tiens cette haute espérance,
Qui flate mes desirs d’une illustre apparence,
Et fait croire à Cesar qu’il peut former de vœux,
Qu’il n’est pas tout-à-fait indigne de vos feux,
Et qu’il peut en pretendre une juste conquête,
N’ayant plus que les Dieux au dessus de sa tête.
Oui, Reine, si quelqu’un dans ce vaste univers
Pouvoit porter plus haut la gloire de vos fers;
S’il étoit quelque trône où vous puissiez paroître
Plus dignement assise en captivant son maître,
J’irois, j’irois à lui, moins pour le lui ravir,
Que pour lui disputer le droit de vous servir;
Et je n’aspirerois au bonheur de vous plaire,
Qu’aprés avoir mis bas un si grand adversaire.
C’etoit pour acquerir un droit si précieux,
Que combatoit par tout mon bras ambitieux,
Et dans Pharsale même il a tiré l’epée
Plus pour le conserver, que pour vaincre Pompée.
Je l’ai vaincu, Princesse, et le Dieu de combats
M’y favorisoit moins que vos divins appas.
Ils conduisoient ma main, ils enfloient mon courage,
Cette pleine victoire est leur dernier ouvrage,
C’est l’effet des ardeurs qu’ils daignoient m’inspirer;
Et vos beaux yeux enfin m’ayant fait soûpirer,
Pour faire que votre ame avec gloire y réponde,
M’ont rendu le premier, et de Rome, et du monde;
C’est ce glorieux titre, à présent effectif,
Que je viens ennoblir par celui de captif;
Heureux, si mon ésprit gagne tant sur le vôtre,
Qu’il en estime l’un, et me permette l’autre.
_Pompée, act 4. sc. 3._

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 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.

_Osmyn._ Yet I behold her--yet--and now no more.
Turn your lights inward, Eyes, and view my thought,
So shall you still behold her--’twill not be.
O impotence of sight! mechanic sense
Which to exterior objects ow’st thy faculty,
Not seeing of election, but necessity.
Thus do our eyes, as do all common mirrors,
Successively reflect succeeding images.
Nor what they would, but must; a star or toad;
Just as the hand of Chance administers!
_Mourning Bride, act 2. sc. 8._

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 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:

Je veux aller querir la justice, et faire donner la question à
toute ma maison; à servantes, à valets, à fils, à fille, et à moi
aussi.

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.

---- Now bid me run
And I will strive with things impossible,
Yea get the better of them.
_Julius Cæsar, act 2. sc. 3._

Vos mains seules ont droit de vaincre un invincible.
_Le Cid, act 5. sc. last._

Que son nom soit beni. Que son nom soit chanté.
Que l’on celebre ses ouvrages
Au de la de l’eternité.

_Esther, act 5. sc. last._
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell: myself am hell:
And in the _lowest_ deep, a _lower_ deep
Still threat’ning to devour me, opens wide;
To which, the hell I suffer seems a heav’n.
_Paradise Lost, book 4._

Of the third branch, take the following samples.

* * * * *

Lucan, talking of Pompey’s sepulchre,

---- Romanum nomen, et omne
Imperium Magno est tumuli modus. Obrue saxa
Crimine plena deûm. Si tota est Herculis Oete,
Et juga tota vacant Bromio Nyseia; quare
Unus in Egypto Magno lapis? Omnia Lagi
Rura tenere potest, si nullo cespite nomen
Hæserit. Erremus populi, cinerumque tuorum,
Magne, metu nullas Nili calcemus arenas.
_L. 8. l. 798._

Thus in Rowe’s translation:

Where there are seas, or air, or earth, or skies,
Where-e’er Rome’s empire stretches, Pompey lies.
Far be the vile memorial then convey’d!
Nor let this stone the partial gods upbraid.
Shall Hercules all Oeta’s heights demand,
And Nysa’s hill for Bacchus only stand;
While one poor pebble is the warrior’s doom
That fought the cause of liberty and Rome?
If fate decrees he must in Egypt lie,
Let the whole fertile realm his grave supply,
Yield the wide country to his awful shade,}
Nor let us dare on any part to tread,}
Fearful we violate the mighty dead.}

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

What is this?
Your knees to me? to your corrected son?
Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach
Fillop the stars: then let the mutinous winds
Strike the proud cedars ’gainst the fiery sun:
Murd’ring impossibility, to make
What cannot be, slight work.
_Coriolanus, act 5. sc. 3._

_Cæsar._---- Danger knows full well,
That Cæsar is more dangerous than he.
We were two lions litter’d in one day,
And I the elder and more terrible.
_Julius Cæsar, act 2. sc. 4._

_Almahide._ This day----
I gave my faith to him, he his to me.

_Almanzor._ Good Heav’n, thy book of fate before me lay
But to tear out the journal of this day.
Or if the order of the world below,}
Will not the gap of one whole day allow,}
Give me that minute when she made that vow.}
That minute ev’n the happy from their bliss might give,
And those who live in grief a shorter time would live.
So small a link if broke, th’ eternal chain
Would like divided waters join again.
_Conquest of Granada, act 3._

_Almanzor._---- I’ll hold it fast
As life; and when life’s gone, I’ll hold this last.
And if thou tak’st it after I am slain,
I’ll send my ghost to fetch it back again.
_Conquest of Granada, part 2. act 3._

_Lynairaxa._ A crown is come, and will not fate allow.
And yet I feel something like death is near.
My guards, my guards----
Let not that ugly skeleton appear.
Sure Destiny mistakes; this death’s not mine;
She doats, and meant to cut another line.
Tell her I am a queen---- but ’tis too late;
Dying, I charge rebellion on my fate;
Bow down, ye slaves----
Bow quickly down and your submission show;
I’m pleas’d to taste an empire ere I go. [_Dies._
_Conquest of Granada, part 2. act. 5._

_Ventidius._ But you, ere love misled your wand’ring eyes,
Were, sure, the chief and best of human race,
Fram’d in the very pride and boast of nature,
So perfect, that the gods who form’d you wonder’d
At their own skill, and cry’d, A lucky hit
Has mended our design.
_Dryden, All for Love, act 1._

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:

Raphael, timuit, quo sospite, vinci
Rerum magna parens, et moriente mori.

Imitated by Pope in his Epitaph on Sir Godfrey Kneller:

Living, great Nature fear’d he might outvie
Her works; and dying, fears herself may die.

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

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:

It is the wretch’s comfort still to have
Some small reserve of near and inward wo,
Some unsuspected hoard of inward grief,
Which they unseen may wail, and weep, and mourn,
And glutton-like alone devour.
_Mourning Bride, act 1. sc. 1._

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, 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 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:

Versibus exponi tragicis res comica non vult.
Indignatur item privatis ac prope Socco
Dignis carminibus narrari cœna Thyestæ.
_Horace, Ars poet. l. 89._

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:

Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri
Telephus et Peleus: cum pauper et exul uterque;
Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba,
Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela.
_Horace, Ars poet. 95._

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:

Think you saw what pass’d at our last parting;
Think you beheld him like a raging lion,
Pacing the earth, and tearing up his steps,
Fate in his eyes, and roaring with the pain
Of burning fury; think you saw his one hand
Fix’d on my throat, while the extended other
Grasp’d a keen threat’ning dagger; oh, ’twas thus
We last embrac’d, when, trembling with revenge,
He dragg’d me to the ground, and at my bosom
Presented horrid death; cry’d out, My friends,
Where are my friends? swore, wept, rag’d, threaten’d, lov’d;
For he yet lov’d, and that dear love preserv’d me
To this last trial of a father’s pity.
I fear not death, but cannot bear a thought
That that dear hand should do th’ unfriendly office;
If I was ever then your care, now hear me;
Fly to the senate, save the promis’d lives
Of his dear friends, ere mine be made the sacrifice.
_Venice preserv’d, act 5._

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:

In those deep solitudes, and awful cells,
Where heav’nly-pensive Contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing Melancholy reigns.
_Pope, Eloisa to Abelard._

To preserve the same resemblance, another 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.

Me, me; adsum qui feci: in me convertite ferrum,
O Rutuli, mea fraus omnis.
_Æneid ix. 427._

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:

---- Thou sun, said I, fair light!
And thou enlighten’d earth, so fresh and gay!
Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains!
And ye that live, and move, fair creatures! tell
Tell, if ye saw, how came I thus, how here.--
_Paradise Lost, b. viii. 273._

---- Both have sinn’d! but thou
Against God only; I, ’gainst God and thee:
And to the place of judgement will return.
There with my cries importune Heav’n; that all
The sentence, from thy head remov’d, may light
On me, sole cause to thee of all this woe;
Me! Me! only just object of his ire.
_Paradise Lost, book x. 930._

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 exaggeration, 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 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, 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.

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, so boldly figurative as not to be excused but by violent perturbation of mind.

Le ciel avec horreur voit ce monstre sauvage,
La terre s’en émeut, l’air en est infecté,
Le flot, qui l’apporta, recule epouvanté.

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.

A peine nous sortions des portes de Trézene, _&c._
_Act 5. sc. 6._

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.

Enfin, c’en est donc fait, _&c._
_Act 5. sc. last._

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 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.

_Hamlet._ Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d
His cannon ’gainst self slaughter? O God! O God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on’t! O fie! ’tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed: things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead, nay not so much; not two--
So excellent a king, that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother,
That he permitted not the winds of heav’n
Visit her face too roughly. Heav’n and earth!
Must I remember,--why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on; yet, within a month----
Let me not think----Frailty, thy name is _Woman_!
A little month, or ere those shoes were old,
With which she follow’d my poor father’s body,
Like Niobe, all tears---- why she, ev’n she----
(O Heav’n! a beast that wants discourse of reason
Would have mourn’d longer----) married with mine uncle,
My father’s brother; but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules---- Within a month----
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her gauled eyes,
She married---- Oh, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
_Hamlet, act 1. sc. 3._

_Ford._ Hum! ha! is this a vision? is this a dream? do I sleep? Mr
Ford, awake; awake Mr Ford; there’s a hole made in your best coat,
Mr Ford! this ’tis to be married! this ’tis to have linen and buck
baskets! Well, I will proclaim myself what I am; I will now take
the leacher; he is at my house, he cannot ’scape me; ’tis
impossible he should; he cannot creep into a halfpenny-purse, nor
into a pepper-box. But lest the devil that guides him should aid
him, I will search impossible places; though what I am I cannot
avoid, yet to be what I would not, shall not make me tame.

_Merry Wives of Windsor, act 3. sc. last._

These soliloquies are accurate copies of nature. In a passionate soliloquy one begins 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.