Chapter IV: Part 4

_Old Lady._ ’Tis strange: a three-pence bow’d
would hire me, old as I am, to queen it.
_Henry VIII. act 2. sc. 5._

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

He spake; and to confirm his words, out-flew
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs
Of mighty cherubim: the sudden blaze
Far round illumin’d hell: highly they rag’d
Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms,
Clash’d on their sounding shields the din of war,
Hurling defiance toward the vault of heav’n.
_Milton, b. I._

A passage I am to cite from Shakespear, falls not much short of that now mentioned in particularity of description:

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

The _Henriade_ of Voltaire errs greatly against the foregoing rule: every thing is touched in a summary way, without ever descending to the circumstances of an event. This manner is good in a general history, the purpose of which is to record important transactions: but in a fable, which hath a very different aim, it is cold and uninteresting; because it is impracticable to form distinct images of persons or things represented in a manner so superficial.

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

Dixerat: atque illam media inter talia ferro
Collapsam aspiciunt comites, ensemque cruore
Spumantem, sparsasque manus. It clamor ad alta
Atria, concussam bacchatur fama per urbem;
Lamentis gemituque et fœmineo ululatu
Tecta fremunt, resonat magnis plangoribus æther.
_Lib. 4. l. 663._

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

There’s one did laugh in’s sleep, and one cry’d Murder!
They wak’d each other; and I stood and heard them;
But they did say their prayers, and address them
Again to sleep.

_Lady._ There are two lodg’d together.

_Macbeth._ One cry’d, God bless us! and, Amen! the other;
As they had seen me with these hangman’s hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say, Amen,
When they did say, God bless us.

_Lady._ Consider it not so deeply.

_Macbeth._ But wherefore could not I pronounce, Amen?
I had most need of blessing, and Amen
Stuck in my throat.

_Lady._ These deeds must not be thought
After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

_Macbeth._ Methought, I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more!
Macbeth doth murder sleep, _&c_.
_Act 2. sc. 3._

Describing Prince Henry:

I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm’d,
Rise from the ground like feather’d Mercury;
And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
As if an angel dropt down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship.
_First Part Henry IV. act 4. sc. 2._

_King Henry._ Lord Cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss,
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no sign!
_Second Part Henry VI. act 3. sc. 10._

The same author, speaking ludicrously of an army debilitated with diseases, says,

Half of them dare not shake the snow from off their cassocks, lest
they shake themselves to pieces.

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

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

Again,

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

_Ibid_.

In the following passage a character is completed by a single stroke.

_Shallow._ O the mad days that I have spent; and to see how many of
mine old acquaintance are dead.

_Silence._ We shall all follow, Cousin.

_Shallow._ Certain, ’tis certain, very sure, very sure; Death (as
the Psalmist saith) is certain to all: all shall die. How a good
yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair?

_Slender._ Truly, Cousin, I was not there.

_Shallow._ Death is certain. Is old _Double_ of your town living
yet.

_Silence._ Dead, Sir.

_Shallow._ Dead! see, see; he drew a good bow: and dead? He shot a
fine shoot. How a score of ewes now?

_Silence._ Thereafter as they be. A score of good ewes may be worth
ten pounds.

_Shallow._ And is old _Double_ dead?

_Second Part Henry IV. act 3. sc. 3._

Describing a jealous husband:

Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an
abstract for the remembrance of such places, and goes to them by
his note. There is no hiding you in the house.

_Merry Wives of Windsor, act 4. sc. 3._

Congreve has an inimitable stroke of this kind in his comedy of _Love for Love_:

_Ben Legend._ Well, father, and how do all at home? how does
brother Dick, and brother Val?

_Sir Sampson._ Dick, body o’ me, Dick has been dead these two
years, I writ you word, when you were at Leghorn.

_Ben._ Mess, that’s true; marry, I had forgot. Dick’s dead, as you
say.

_Act 3. sc. 6._

Falstaff speaking of Ancient Pistol,

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

_Second Part Henry_ IV. _act 2. sc. 9_.

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

Interea magno misceri murmure pontum
Emissamque hyemem sensit Neptunus, et imis
Stagna refusa vadis: _graviter commotus_, et alto
Prospiciens, summâ _placidum_ caput extulit undâ.
_Æneid._ i. 128.

Again,

When first young Maro, in his boundless mind,
A work t’outlast immortal Rome design’d.
_Essay on Criticism, l. 130._

The following examples are of downright inconsistencies.

Alii pulsis e tormento catenis discerpti sectique, dimidiato
corpore pugnabant sibi superstites, ac peremptæ partis ultores.

_Strada, Dec. 2. L. 2._

Il povér huomo, che non sen’ era accorto,
Andava combattendo, ed era morto. _Berni._

He fled, but flying, left his life behind. _Iliad_ xi. 443.

Full through his neck the weighty falchion sped;
Along the pavement roll’d the mutt’ring head.
_Odyssey_ xxii. 365.

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

---- Welcome, thou kind deceiver,
Thou best of thieves; who, with an easy key,
Do’st open life, and unperceiv’d by us
Ev’n steal us from ourselves; discharging so
Death’s dreadful office, better than himself,
Touching our limbs so gently into slumber,
That Death stands by, deceiv’d by his own image,
And thinks himself but Sleep.
_Dryden, All for Love, act 5._

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

Jam in conspectu, sed extra teli jactum, utraque acies erat; quum
priores Persæ inconditum et trucem sustulere clamorem. Redditur et
a Macedonibus major, exercitus impar numero, sed jugis montium
vastisque saltibus repercussus: _quippe semper circumjecta nemora
petræque, quantamcumque accepere vocem, multiplicato sono
referunt._

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

I shall give a few examples of the foregoing doctrine. A poet of any genius will not readily dress a high subject in low words; and yet blemishes of this kind are found even in some classical works. Horace observing that men, perfectly satisfied with themselves, are seldom so with their condition, introduces Jupiter indulging to each his own choice:

Jam faciam quod vultis: eris tu, qui modo miles,
Mercator: tu, consultus modo, rusticus: hinc vos,
Vos hinc mutatis discedite partibus: eia,
Quid? statis? nolint: atqui licet esse beatis.
Quid causæ est, merito quin illis Jupiter ambas
Iratus buccas inflet? neque se fore posthac
Tam facilem dicat, votis ut præbeat aurem?
_Serm, lib. 1. sat. 1. l. 16._

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

Not one looks backward, onward still he goes,
Yet ne’er looks forward farther than his nose.
_Essay on Man_, _ep._ iv. 223.

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

Orcan le plus fidéle à server ses desseins,
Né sous le ciel brûlant des plus noirs Affricains.
_Bajazet, act 3. sc. 8._

Les ombres par trois fois ont obscurci les cieux
Depuis que le sommeil n’est entré dans vos yeux;
Et le jour a trois fois chassé la nuit obscure
Depuis que votre corps languit sans nourriture.
_Phedra, act 1. sc. 3._

_Assuerus._ Ce mortel, qui montra tant de zéle pour moi,
Vit-il encore?

_Asaph._---- Il voit l’astre qui vous éclaire.
_Esther, act 2. sc. 3._

Oui, c’est Agamemnon, c’est ton Roi qui t’eveille;
Viens, reconnois la voix qui frape ton oreille.
_Iphigenie._

---------------- In the inner room
I spy a winking lamp, that weakly strikes
The ambient air, scarce kindling into light.
_Southerne, Fate of Capua, act 3._

In the funeral orations of the Bishop of Meaux, the following passages are raised far above the tone of the subject.

L’Ocean etonné de se voir traversé tant de fois en des appareils si
divers, et pour des causes si differentes, &_c._

_p. 6._

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

_p. 32._

Montesquieu, in a didactic work, _L’esprit des Loix_, gives too great indulgence to imagination: the tone of his language swells frequently above his subject. I give an example:

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

_L. ch. 10._

The following passage, intended, one would imagine, as a receipt to boil water, is altogether burlesque by the laboured elevation of the diction.

A massy caldron of stupendous frame
They brought, and plac’d it o’er the rising flame:
Then heap the lighted wood; the flame divides
Beneath the vase, and climbs around the sides:
In its wide womb they pour the rushing stream;
The boiling water bubbles to the brim.

_Pope’s Homer_, _book_ xviii. 405.

In a passage near the beginning of the 4th book of Telamachus, one feels a sudden bound upward without preparation, which accords not with the subject:

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

This obviously is copied from a similar passage in the Æneid, which ought not to have been copied, because it lies open to the same censure: but the force of authority is great.

At regina gravi jamdudum saucia cura,
Vulnus alit venis, & cæco carpitur igni.
Multa viri virtus animo, multusque recursat
Gentis honos: hærent infixi pectore vultus,
Verbaque: nec placidam membris dat cura quietem.
_Postera Phœbea lustrabat lampade terras,
Humentemque Aurora polo dimoverat umbram_;
Cum sic unanimem alloquitur malesana sororem:

_Lib._ iv. 1.

Take another example where the words rise above the subject:

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

_Telemaque, l. 12._

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

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

The power that language possesses to imitate thought, goes farther than to the capital circumstances above mentioned: it reacheth even the slighter modifications. Slow action, for example, is imitated by words pronounced slow; labour or toil, by words harsh or rough in their sound. But this subject has been already handled[38].

In dialogue-writing, the condition of the speaker is chiefly to be regarded in framing the expression. The centinel in _Hamlet_, interrogated about the ghost, whether his watch had been quiet? answers with great propriety for a man in his station, “Not a mouse stirring[39].”

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

Abstract or general terms have no good effect in any competition for amusement; because it is only of particular objects that images can be formed[40]. Shakespear’s style in that respect is excellent. Every article in his descriptions is particular, as in nature; and if accidentally a vague expression slip in, the blemish is extremely discernible by the bluntness of its impression. Take the following example. Falstaff, excusing himself for running away at a robbery, says,

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

_First Part Henry IV. act 2. sc. 9._

The particular words I object to are, _instinct is a great matter_, which make but a poor figure, compared with the liveliness of the rest of the speech. It was one of Homer’s advantages, that he wrote before general terms were multiplied: the superior genius of Shakespear displays itself in avoiding them after they were multiplied. Addison describes the family of Sir Roger de Coverley in the following words.

You would take his valet de chambre for his brother, his butler is
gray-headed, his groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever
seen, and his coachman has the looks of a privy counsellor.

_Spectator_, Nº 106.

The description of the groom is less lively than of the others; plainly because the expression, being vague and general, tends not to form any image. “Dives opum variarum[41],” is an expression still more vague; and so are the following.

-------- Mæcenas, mearum
Grande decus, columenque rerum.
_Horat. Carm. l. 2. ode 17._

---------------- et fide Teia
Dices laborantes in uno
Penelopen, vitreamque Circen.
_Horat. Carm. l. 1. ode 17._

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

-------- Sequitur pulcherrimus Astur,
Astur equo fidens et versicoloribus armis.
_Æneid._ x. 180.

------------Full many a lady
I’ve ey’d with best regard, and many a time
Th’ harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear, for several virtues
Have I lik’d several women, never any
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow’d,
And put it to the foil. But you, O you,
So perfect, and so peerless, are created
Of every creature’s best.
_The Tempest, act 3. sc. 1._

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

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

_Ezekiel_ xviii.

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

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

Crebra hinc prælia, et sæpius in modum latrocinii: per saltus, per
paludes; ut cuique sors aut virtus: temere, proviso, ob iram, ob
prædam, jussu, et aliquando ignaris ducibus.

_Annal. lib._ 12. § 39.

If a concise or nervous style be a beauty, tautology must be a blemish. And yet writers, fettered by verse, are not sufficiently careful to avoid this slovenly practice: they may be pitied, but they cannot be justified. Take for a specimen the following instances, from the best poet, for versification at least, that England has to boast of:

High on his helm celestial lightnings play,
His beamy shield emits a living ray,
Th’ unweary’d blaze incessant streams supplies,
Like the red star that fires th’ autumnal skies.
_Iliad_ v. 5.

Strength and omnipotence invest thy throne.
_Iliad_ viii. 576.

So silent fountains, from a rock’s tall head,
In sable streams soft-trickling waters shed.
_Iliad_ ix. 19.

His clanging armour rung.
_Iliad_ xii. 94.

Fear on their cheek, and horror in their eye.
_Iliad_ xv. 4.

The blaze of armour flash’d against the day.
_Iliad_ xvii. 736.

As when the piercing blasts of Boreas blow.
_Iliad_ xix. 380.

And like the moon, the broad refulgent shield
Blaz’d with long rays, and gleam’d athwart the field.
_Iliad_ xix. 402.

No--could our swiftness o’er the winds prevail,
Or beat the pinions of the western gale,
All were in vain----
_Iliad_ xix. 460.

The humid sweat from ev’ry pore descends.
_Iliad_ xxiii. 829.

Redundant epithets, such as _humid_, in the last citation, are by Quintilian disallowed to orators, but indulged to poets[42]; because his favourite poets, in a few instances, are reduced to such epithets for the sake of versification. For instance, _Prata canis albicant pruinis_, of Horace, and _liquidos fontes_, of Virgil.

As an apology for such careless expressions, it may well suffice, that Pope, in submitting to be a translator, acts below his genius. In a translation, it is hard to require the same spirit or accuracy, that is chearfully bestowed on an original work. And to support the reputation of this author, I shall give some instances from Virgil and Horace, more faulty by redundancy than any of those above mentioned:

Sæpe etiam immensum cœlo venit agmen aquarum,
Et fœdam glomerant tempestatem imbribus atris
Collectæ ex alto nubes: ruit arduus æther,
Et pluviâ ingenti sata læta, boumque labores
Diluit.
_Georg. lib._ i. 322.

Postquam altum tenuere rates, nec jam amplius ullæ
Apparent terræ; cœlum undique et undique pontus:
Tum mihi cœruleus supra caput astitit imber,
Noctem hyememque ferens: et inhorruit unda tenebris.
_Æneid. lib._ iii. 191.

---------------- Hinc tibi copia
Manabit ad plenum benigno
Ruris honorum opulenta cornu.
_Horat. Carm. lib. 1. ode 17._

Videre fessos vomerem inversum boves
Collo trahentes languido.
_Horat. Epod._ ii. 63.

Here I can luckily apply Horace’s rule against himself:

Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se
Impediat verbis lassas onerantibus aures.
_Serm. lib. 1. sat. x. 9._

I close this chapter with a curious inquiry. An object, however ugly to the sight, is far from being so when represented by colours or by words. What is the cause of this difference? The cause with respect to painting is obvious. A good picture, whatever the subject be, is agreeable, because of the pleasure we take in imitation: the agreeableness of imitation overbalances the disagreeableness of the subject; and the picture upon the whole is agreeable. It requires a greater compass to explain the cause with respect to the description of an ugly object. To connect individuals in the social state, no one particular contributes more than language, by the power it possesses of an expeditious communication of thought and a lively representation of transactions. But nature hath not been satisfied to recommend language by its utility merely: it is made susceptible of many beauties that have no relation to utility, which are directly felt without the intervention of any reflection[43]. And this unfolds the mystery; for the pleasure of language is so great, as in a lively description to overbalance the disagreeableness of the image raised by it[44]. This however is no encouragement to deal in disagreeable subjects; for the pleasure is out of sight greater where the subject and the description are both of them agreeable.

The following description is upon the whole agreeable, though the subject described is in itself dismal.

Nine times the space that measures day and night
To mortal men, he with his horrid crew
Lay vanquish’d, rowling in the fiery gulf
Confounded though immortal: but his doom
Reserv’d him to more wrath; for now the thought
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes
That witness’d huge affliction and dismay,
Mix’d with obdurate pride and stedfast hate:
At once as far as angels ken he views
The dismal situation waste and wild:
A dungeon horrible, on all sides round
As one great furnace flam’d; yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible
Serv’d only to discover sights of wo,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever burning sulphur unconsum’d:
Such place eternal justice had prepar’d
For those rebellious.
_Paradise Lost, book 1. l. 50_.

An unmanly depression of spirits in time of danger is not an agreeable sight; and yet a fine description or representation of it will be relished:

_K. Richard_. What must the King do now? must he submit?
The King shall do it: must he be depos’d?
The King shall be contented: must he lose
The name of King? O’ God’s name, let it go:
I’ll give my jewels for a set of beads;
My gorgeous palace, for a hermitage;
My gay apparel, for an almsman’s gown;
My figur’d goblets, for a dish of wood;
My sceptre, for a palmer’s walking staff;
My subjects, for a pair of carved saints;
And my large kingdom, for a little grave;
A little, little grave;---- an obscure grave.
Or I’ll be bury’d in the King’s highway;
Some way of common tread, where subjects feet
May hourly trample on their sovereign’s head:
For on my heart they tread now, whilst I live;
And, bury’d once, why not upon my head?
_Richard II. act 3. sc. 6._

Objects that strike terror in a spectator, have in poetry and painting a fine effect. The picture, by raising a slight emotion of terror, agitates the mind; and in that condition every beauty makes a deep impression. May not contrast heighten the pleasure, by opposing our present security to the danger we would be in by encountering the object represented?

-------------------- The other shape,
If shape it might be call’d, that shape had none
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb;
Or substance might be call’d that shadow seem’d,
For each seem’d either; black it stood as night,
Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell,
And shook a dreadful dart.
_Paradise Lost, book 2. l. 666._

------------ Now storming fury rose,
And clamour such as heard in heav’n till now
Was never, arms on armour clashing bray’d
Horrible discord, and the madding wheels
Of brazen chariots rag’d; dire was the noise
Of conflict; over-head the dismal hiss
Of fiery darts in flaming vollies flew,
And flying vaulted either host with fire.
So under fiery cope together rush’d
Both battles main, with ruinous assault
And inextinguishable rage; all heav’n
Resounded, and had earth been then, all earth
Had to her centre shook.
_Paradise Lost, book 6. l. 207._

_Ghost._-------- But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,
Thy knotty and combined locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand on end
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine:
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood.
_Hamlet, act 1. sc. 8._

_Gratiano._ Poor Desdemona! I’m glad thy father’s dead:
Thy match was mortal to him; and pure grief
Shore his old thread in twain. Did he live now,
This sight would make him do a desp’rate turn:
Yea, curse his better angel from his side,
And fall to reprobation.
_Othello, act 5. sc. 8._

Objects of horror must be excepted from the foregoing theory; for no description, however masterly, is sufficient to overbalance the disgust raised even by the idea of such an object. Every thing horrible ought therefore to be avoided in a description. Nor is this a severe law: the poet will avoid such scenes for his own sake, as well as for that of his reader; and to vary his descriptions, nature affords plenty of objects that disgust us in some degree without raising horror. I am obliged therefore to condemn the picture of sin in the second book of _Paradise Lost_, though drawn with a masterly hand. The original would be a horrible spectacle; and the horror is not much softened in the copy.

------------ Pensive here I sat
Alone, but long I sat not, till my womb
Pregnant by thee, and now excessive grown
Prodigious motion felt and rueful throes.
At last this odious offspring whom thou seest,
Thine own begotten, breaking violent way,
Tore through my intrails, that with fear and pain
Distorted, all my nether shape thus grew
Transform’d; but he my inbred enemy
Forth issu’d, brandishing his fatal dart,
Made to destroy: I fled, and cry’d out Death;
Hell trembl’d at the hideous name, and sigh’d
From all her caves, and back resounded Death.
I fled, but he pursu’d, (though more, it seems,
Inflam’d with lust than rage), and swifter far,
Me overtook, his mother all dismay’d,
And in embraces forcible and foul
Ingendring with me, of that rape begot
These yelling monsters that with ceaseless cry
Surround me, as thou saw’st, hourly conceiv’d
And hourly born, with sorrow infinite
To me; for when they list, into the womb
That bred them they return, and howl and gnaw
My bowels, their repast; then bursting forth
A fresh with conscious terrors vex me round,
That rest or intermission none I find.
Before mine eyes in opposition sits
Grim Death, my son and foe, who sets them on,
And me his parent would full soon devour
For want of other prey, but that he knows
His end with mine involv’d; and knows that I
Should prove a bitter morsel, and his bane,
Whenever that shall be.
_Book 2. l. 777._

Iago’s character in the tragedy of _Othello_, is so monstrous and satanical, as not to be sufferable in a representation: not even Shakespear’s masterly hand can make the picture agreeable.

* * * * *

Though the objects introduced in the following scenes, are not altogether so horrible as Sin is in Milton’s picture; yet with every person of taste, disgust will be the prevailing emotion.

---- Strophades Graio stant nomine dictæ
Insulæ Ionio in magno: quas dira Celæno,
Harpyiæque colunt aliæ: Phineia postquam
Clausa domus, mensasque metu liquere priores.
Tristius haud illis monstrum, nec sævior ulla
Pestis et ira Deûm Stygiis sese extulit undis.
Virginei volucrum vultus, fœdissima ventris
Proluvies, uncæque manus, et pallida semper.
Ora fame.
Huc ubi delati portus intravimus: ecce
Læta boum passim campis armenta videmus,
Caprigenumque pecus, nullo custode, per herbas.
Irruimus ferro, et Divos ipsumque vocamus
In prædam partemque Jovem: tunc littore curvo
Extruimusque toros, dapibusque epulamur opimis.
At subitæ horrifico lapsu de montibus adsunt
Harpyiæ: et magnis quatiunt clangoribus alas:
Diripiuntque dapes, contactuque omnia fœdant
Immundo: tum vox tetrum dira inter odorem.

_Æneid. lib_. iii. 210.

Sum patria ex Ithaca, comes infelicis Ulyssei,
Nomen Achemenides: Trojam, genitore Adamasto
Paupere (mansissetque utinam fortuna!) profectus.
Hic me, dum trepidi crudelia limina linquunt,
Immemores socii vasto Cyclopis in antro
Deseruere. Domus sanie dapibusque cruentis,
Intus opaca, ingens: ipse arduus, altaque pulsat
Sidera: (Dii, talem terris avertite pestem)
Nec visu facilis, nec dictu affabilis ulli.
Visceribus miserorum, et sanguine vescitur atro.
Vidi egomet, duo de numero cum corpora nostro,
Prensa manu magna, medio resupinus in antro,
Frangeret ad saxum, sanieque aspersa natarent
Limina: vidi, atro cum membra fluentia tabo
Manderet, et tepidi tremerent sub dentibus artus.
Haud impune quidem: nec talia passus Ulysses,
Oblitusve sui est Ithacus discrimine tanto.
Nam simul expletus dapibus, vinoque sepultus
Cervicem inflexam posuit, jacuitque per antrum
Immensus, saniem eructans, ac frusta cruento
Per somnum commixta mero; nos, magna precati
Numina, sortitique vices, unà undique circum
Fundimur, et telo lumen terebramus acuto
Ingens, quod torva solum sub fronte latebat.

_Æneid. lib._. iii 613.

CHAP. XXII.

Epic and Dramatic Compositions.

Tragedy differs from the epic more in form than in substance. The ends proposed by each are instruction and amusement; and each of them copy human actions as means to bring about these ends. They differ in the manner only of copying. Epic poetry deals in narration: Tragedy represents its facts as transacted in our sight. In the former, the poet introduces himself as an historian: in the latter he presents his actors and never himself[45].

This difference, regarding form only, may be thought slight; but the effects it occasions, are by no means so. What we see, makes a stronger impression than what we learn from others. A narrative poem is a story told by another: facts and incidents passing upon the stage, come under our own observation; and are beside much enlivened by action and gesture, expressive of many sentiments beyond the reach of language.

A dramatic composition has another property, independent altogether of action. A dialogue makes a deeper impression than a narration: because in the former persons express their own sentiments; whereas in the latter sentiments are related at second hand. For that reason, Aristotle, the father of critics, lays it down as a rule, That in an epic poem the author ought to take every opportunity to introduce his actors, and to confine the narrative part within the narrowest bounds[46]. Homer understood perfectly the advantage of this method; and his poems are both of them in a great measure dramatic. Lucan runs to the opposite extreme; and is guilty of a still greater fault: the _Pharsalia_ is stuffed with cold and languid reflections; the merit of which the author assumes to himself, and deigns not to share with his personages. Nothing can be more impertinent, than a chain of such reflections, which suspend the battle of Pharsalia after the leaders had made their speeches, and the two armies are ready to engage[47].

Aristotle, from the nature of the fable, divides tragedy into simple and complex. But it is of greater moment, with respect to dramatic as well as epic poetry, to found a distinction upon the different ends attained by such compositions. A poem, whether dramatic or epic, that hath no tendency beyond moving the passions and exhibiting pictures of virtue and vice, may be distinguished by the name of _pathetic_. But where a story is purposely contrived to illustrate some important lesson of morality, by showing the natural connection betwixt disorderly passions and external misfortunes, such composition may be denominated _moral_[48]. It indeed conveys moral instruction with a perspicuity that is not exceeded by the most accurate reasoning; and makes a deeper impression than any moral discourse can do. To be satisfied of this, we need but reflect, that a man whose affections are justly balanced, hath a better chance to escape misfortunes, than one who is a slave to every passion. Indeed, nothing is more evident, than the natural connection that vice hath with misery, and virtue with happiness; and such connection may be illustrated, by stating a fact as well as by urging an argument. Let us assume, for example, the following moral truths, That discord among the chiefs, renders ineffectual all common measures; and that the consequences of a slightly-founded quarrel, fostered by pride and arrogance, are not less fatal than those of the grossest injury. These truths may be inculcated, by the quarrel betwixt Agamemnon and Achilles at the siege of Troy. In this view, it ought to be the poet’s chief aim, to invent proper circumstances, presenting to our view the natural consequences of such discord. These circumstances must seem to arise in the common course of human affairs: no accidental or unaccountable event ought to be indulged; for the necessary or probable connection betwixt vice and misery, is learned from no events but what are governed by the characters and passions of the persons represented. A real event of which we see no cause, may be a lesson to us; because what hath happened may again happen: but this cannot be inferred from a story that is known to be fictitious.

Many are the good effects of such compositions. A pathetic composition, whether epic or dramatic, tends to a habit of virtue, by exciting emotions that produce good actions, and avert us from those that are vicious or irregular[49]. It likewise, by its frequent pictures of human woes, humanizes the mind, and fortifies us in bearing our own misfortunes. A moral composition must obviously produce the same good effects, because by being moral it doth not cease to be pathetic. It enjoys beside an excellence peculiar to itself: for it not only improves the heart, as above mentioned, but instructs the head by the moral it contains. For my part, I cannot imagine any entertainment more suited to a rational being, than a work thus happily illustrating some moral truth; where a number of persons of different characters are engaged in an important action, some retarding, others promoting, the great catastrophe; and where there is dignity of style as well as of matter. A work of this kind, has our sympathy at command, and can put in motion the whole train of the social affections. We have at the same time great mental enjoyment, in perceiving every event and every subordinate incident connected with its proper cause. Our curiosity is by turns excited and gratified; and our delight is consummated at the close, upon finding, from the characters and situations exhibited at the commencement, that every circumstance down to the final catastrophe is natural, and that the whole in conjunction make a regular chain of causes and effects.

Considering an epic and dramatic poem as the same in substance, and having the same aim or end, it might be thought that they are equally fitted for the same subjects. But considering their difference as to form, there will be found reason to correct that thought, at least in some degree. Many subjects may indeed be treated with equal advantage in either form; but the subjects are still more numerous for which one of the forms is better qualified than the other; and there are subjects proper for the one and not for the other. To give some slight notion of the difference, as there is no room here for enlarging upon every article, I observe, that dialogue is better qualified for expressing sentiments, and narrative for displaying facts. These peculiarities tend to confine each within certain limits. Heroism, magnanimity, undaunted courage, and the whole tribe of the elevated virtues, figure best in action: tender passions and the whole tribe of sympathetic affections, figure best in sentiment. What we feel is the most remarkable in the latter: what we perform is the most remarkable in the former. It clearly follows, that tender passions are more peculiarly the province of tragedy, grand and heroic actions of epic poetry[50].

I have no occasion to say more upon the epic, considered as peculiarly adapted to certain subjects. But as dramatic subjects are more complex, I must take a narrower view of them; which I do the more willingly, in order to clear a point thrown into great obscurity by critics.

In the chapter of emotions and passions[51], it is occasionally shown, that the subject best fitted for tragedy is the story of a man who has himself been the cause of his misfortune. But this man must neither be deeply guilty nor altogether innocent. The misfortune must be occasioned by a fault incident to human nature, and therefore venial. Misfortunes of this kind, call forth the whole force of the social affections, and interest the spectator in the warmest manner. An accidental misfortune, if not extremely singular, doth not greatly move our pity. The person who suffers, being innocent, is freed from the greatest of all torments, _viz_. the anguish of mind occasioned by remorse:

Poco é funesta
Laltrui fortuna,
Quando non resta
Ragione alcuna
Ne di pentirsi, né darrossir.
_Metastasio._

A criminal, on the other hand, who brings misfortunes upon himself, excites little pity, for a different reason. His remorse, it is true, aggravates his distress, and swells the first emotions of pity: but then our hatred to the criminal blending with pity, blunts its edge considerably. Misfortunes that are not innocent nor highly criminal, partake the advantages of each extreme: they are attended with remorse to embitter the distress, which raises our pity to a great height; and the slight indignation we have at a venial fault, detracts not sensibly from our pity. For this reason, the happiest of all subjects for tragedy, if such a one could be invented, would be where a man of integrity falls into a great misfortune by doing an innocent action, but which by some singular means he conceives to be criminal. His remorse aggravates his distress; and our compassion, unrestrained by indignation, rises to its highest pitch. Pity comes thus to be the ruling passion of a pathetic tragedy; and by proper representation, may be raised to a height scarce exceeded by any thing felt in real life. A moral tragedy takes in a larger field; for, beside exercising our pity, it raises another passion, selfish indeed, but which deserves to be cherished equally with the social affections. When a misfortune is the natural consequence of some wrong bias in the temper, every spectator who is conscious of some such defect in himself, takes the alarm, and considers that he is liable to the same misfortune. This consideration raises in him an emotion of fear or terror; and it is by this emotion, frequently reiterated in a variety of moral tragedies, that the spectators are put upon their guard against the disorders of passion.

The commentators upon Aristotle and other critics, have been much graveled about the account given of tragedy by this author, “That by means of pity and terror it refines in us all sorts of passion.” But no one who has a clear conception of the end and effects of a good tragedy, can have any difficulty about Aristotle’s meaning. Our pity is engaged for the persons represented, and our terror is upon our own account. Pity indeed is here made to stand for all the sympathetic emotions, because of these it is the capital. There can be no doubt, that our sympathetic emotions are refined or improved by daily exercise; and in what manner our other passions are refined by terror I have just now said. One thing is certain, that no other meaning can justly be given to the foregoing doctrine than that now mentioned; and that it was really Aristotle’s meaning, appears from his 13th chapter, where he delivers several propositions agreeable to the doctrine as here explained. These, at the same time, I the rather chuse to mention; because, so far as authority can go, they confirm the foregoing reasoning about the proper subjects for tragedy. His first proposition is, That it being the province of tragedy to excite pity and terror, an innocent person falling into adversity ought never to be the subject. This proposition is a necessary consequence of his doctrine as explained: a subject of this nature may indeed excite pity and terror; but the former in an inferior degree, and the latter in no degree for moral instruction. The second proposition is, That we must not represent a wicked person emerging from misery to good fortune. This excites neither terror nor compassion, nor is agreeable in any respect. The third is, That the misfortunes of a wicked person ought not to be represented. Such representation may be agreeable in some measure upon a principle of justice: but it will not move our pity; or any degree of terror, except in those of the same vicious disposition with the person represented. His last proposition is, That the only character fit for representation lies in the middle, neither eminently good nor eminently bad; where the misfortune is not the effect of deliberate vice, but of some involuntary fault, as our author expresses it[52]. The only objection I find to Aristotle’s account of tragedy, is, that he confines it within too narrow bounds, by refusing admittance to the pathetic kind. For if terror be essential to tragedy, no representation deserves that name, but where the misfortunes exhibited are caused by a wrong balance of mind, or some disorder in the internal constitution. Such misfortunes always suggest moral instruction; and by such misfortunes only can terror be excited for our improvement.