Chapter II: Part 2

Tho’ I have affirmed that our language is more perfect now than in any past period—yet there is still much left in it to be corrected.—Indeed there are some defects in all languages, which have crept in by degrees, and are so sanctified by custom, that they can never be corrected. In English there is no difference in writing, tho’ there is in pronouncing, the present, and preterperfect tenses of the verbs _read_, and _eat_, and some others. Some unsuccessful attempts have been made to distinguish them by writing _redde_ and _ate_. There are more words in Latin of contrary significations which are written the same, than, I believe, in any other language. It is a _defect_ if the pronunciation of different words be alike, and a great _fault_ if such a pronunciation be the consequence of a refinement. We now pronounce _fore_ and _four_, the same; which sometimes makes an odd confusion. “I will come to you at three, I can’t come _before_”—and “I will come to you at three, I can’t come _by four_”—are pronounced just the same way. This we get by affectedly dropping the _u_. In French _au dessous_ and _au dessus_ are too much alike for contrary significations. Nature dictates a difference of sound for different meanings: the adverbs of negation and assent, bear no resemblance to each other in any language; and almost all languages agree in some such sound as _no_ for denial.

The London dialect is the cause of many improprieties, which, if they were only used in conversation, would not much signify; but as they have begun to make part of our written language, they deserve some animadversion. To mention a few. The custom among the common people of adding an _s_ to many words, has, I believe, occasioned its being fixed to some, by writers of rank, who on account of their residence in London did not perceive the impropriety. They speak, and write, _chickens_—_coals_—_acquaintances_—_assistances_, &c. _Chicken_ is itself the plural of _chick_, as _oxen_ is of _ox_, _kine_ (_cowen_) is of _cow_, and many others. _Coal_, _acquaintance_, being aggregate nouns, admit of no plural termination, nor does _assistance_. If I were to say a bag of shots, or sands, the impropriety would be instantly perceived; and yet one is full as good English as the other. A certain author of great credit, who has taken a strict, nay, a verbal review of the English language, uses them as often as they occur.

As the Londoners speak, so they also write _learn_ for _teach_, this is a very old mistake, and occurs frequently in the psalms, _do_ for _does_ (and the contrary), _set_ for _sit_, _see_ for _saw_, _tin_ for _latten_ (which are two different things as well as words), _sulky_ for _sullen_, &c. &c. _’Change_ and _’sample_ have been long admitted denizens.——Even in a dictionary you may find _million_ explained to be a fruit well known—as perhaps in a future edition we shall be told that a _fly_ signifies a _coach_, and _dilly_ a _chaise_.

The London _phraseology_ has also been too hard for English. _I got me up_—_he sets him down_—_I got no sleep_—_I slept none_—such a thing is _a_ doing—_a_ going—_a_ coming—_live_ lobsters—_live_-cattle—I will call _of_ you—do not tell _on_ it. All these are writ without scruple. Our modern comedies, and the London news-papers, abound so much in this language, that they are scarce intelligible to one who has never been in the capital. Nay in books for the use of schools, the London dialect is so predominant, that many of the sentences are not to be understood by a country boy, and impossible to be rendered into Latin even by those who do understand them. “I will go and fetch a walk in the Green Park”—“I will go get me my dinner,” and such jargon is perpetually occurring.

English has also been corrupted by London _emphasis_ and _accent_—I will not tire you by quoting examples, of which a long list might be made to prove the great propensity of the common people to those defects; and would be a farther confirmation of what I just now advanced, that men of learning really commit improprieties, because their ear is familiarized to them.

I have yet something to add on this subject—but I must caution you from imagining that because I find out the faults of others, I pretend to perfection myself. Hogarth says very properly in his Analysis of Beauty, “do not look for good drawing in those examples which I bring of grace and beauty—they are purposely neglected—attend to the precept.”

=LETTER= XII.

I sometimes provoke you by sporting with what you deem sacred matters. Homer I know is one of your divinities—may I venture to tell you that I never could find that scale of heroes in the Iliad which critics admire as such a beauty?

Hector is supposed in valour superior to all but Achilles—upon what authority? Ajax certainly beat him in the single combat between them; and there are some instances, tho’ I cannot recollect the passages, of his inferiority to others of the Greeks.

It is surely a blindness worse than Homerican, not to see many inconsistencies in the Iliad, and it is ridiculous to attempt to make beauties of them. From many which might easily be pointed out, take one or two as they occur to my memory. After describing Mars as the most terrible of beings, and to whom whole armies are as nothing; what _poetical_ belief is strong enough to suppose he could be made to retire by Diomed? If Minerva’s shield is so vast (the shell of a Kraken, I suppose), can one help wondering why she does not use it as the King of Laputa does his island, when his subjects on Terra-firma rebel? I do not recollect parallel instances in Milton.

=LETTER= XIII.

You have not done me justice—read the memoirs I sent you _properly_ before they are condemned:—what is any book if it be not read in that manner by which it may best be understood? A novel, whose merit lies chiefly in the story, should be quickly passed through; for the closer you can bring the several circumstances together, the better. If its merit consists in character and sentiment, it should be read much slower; for the least obvious parts of a character are frequently the most beautiful, and the propriety of a sentiment may easily escape in a hasty perusal. Detached thoughts ought to be dwelt on longer than any other manner of writing; for different subjects following close, do rather confound than instruct; but if we allowed ourselves time to reflect, we should understand the author and perhaps improve ourselves. Each thought should be considered as a text, upon which we ought to make a commentary.

Bayle’s manner of writing by text and note is generally decried, but without reason. When there is a necessity of proving the assertion by quotation, which was his case, no other way can be taken equally perspicuous. The authorities must be produced somewhere—they cannot be in the text, and if they are put at the end of the book, which is the modern fashion, how much more troublesome are they for referring to, than by being at the bottom of the page? The truth is, this is another instance of ignorance in the method of reading. Bayle, Harris, and other writers of this class, should have the text read first, which is quickly dispatched; then, begin again and take in the notes. By this means you preserve a connection, and judge of the proofs of what is asserted.

I might in other respects complain of your treating me rather unfairly; indeed, none judge less favourably of an author than his intimate friends——their personal knowledge of him as a man, destroys a hundred delusions to his advantage as an author.—“Who is a hero to his Valet de Chambre?” said the great Condé, and he might have added, “or to his friends?” Besides the obvious reason for this, it is most likely that an author has in his common conversation made his friends acquainted with his sentiments long before they are communicated to the public. The consequence is, that to _them_ his work is not new; and it is possible that they may take to themselves part of his merit; for I have known many instances, where a person has been told something by way of information, which he himself told to the informer.

I know you will take this to yourself.—Do so, but still think me

Yours, &c.

=LETTER= XIV.

We are got into a custom of mentioning Shakespeare and Jonson together, and many think them of equal merit, tho’ in different ways. In my opinion, Jonson is one of the dullest writers I ever read, and his plays, with some few exceptions, the most unentertaining I ever saw. He has some shining passages now and then, but not enough to make up for his deficiencies. Shakespeare, on the contrary, abundantly recompenses for being sometimes low and trifling. One of his commentators much admires his great art in the construction of his verses—I dare say they are very perfect; but it is as much out of my power to think upon the art of verse-making when I am reading this divine poet, as it is to consider of the best way of making fiddle-strings at a concert. I am not master of myself sufficiently to do any thing that requires deliberation: I am taken up like a leaf in a whirlwind, and dropped at Thebes or Athens, as the poet pleases!

I have seldom any pleasure from the representation of Shakespeare’s plays, unless it be from some scenes of conversation merely, without passion. The speeches which have any thing violent in the expression, are generally so over-acted as to cease to be the “mirror of nature”—but this was always the case—“Oh! it offends me to the soul, to see a robustious perriwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters:”—’tho’ this is a “lamentable thing,” yet it appears to be without remedy. An actor, in a large theatre, is like a picture hung at a distance, if the touches are delicate, they escape the sight: both must be extravagant to be seen at all, and hence the custom of the ancients to make use of the Persona and Buskin. Acting has a very different effect in the stage-box from what it has in the back of the gallery. In the one, every thing appears rough and rude, like a picture of Spagnolet’s near the eye; in the other, it is with difficulty that the play can be made out. Perhaps, the best place is the front of the first gallery; as being sufficiently removed to soften these hardnesses, yet near enough to see and hear with advantage. But there is no place can alter the impropriety of rant and turgid declamation, which the performer naturally runs into by endeavouring to be strong enough to be heard—so that, as I observed, the evil seems to be incurable.

=LETTER= XV.

An acquaintance of ours has corresponded with a writing-master many years, not from any regard to the man, but for the pleasure he takes in seeing fine writing. He preserves his letters carefully, and though he _reads_ them to none, (perhaps they are still unread by himself) he _shews_ them to all who can relish the excellence of a flourish “long drawn out.”——Our friend’s taste may be ridiculed by those who “hold it a baseness to write fair,” but yet it is certain, that the true form of letters, in writing, is understood no where but in England. I never saw a specimen of a correct hand either written or engraved, from any other country, that was upon a right principle. Perhaps it may be objected, that every nation, prejudiced in favour of their own particular manner, will say the same thing. Let us examine this.

Modern writing-hand had its rise from an endeavour to form the true letters as they are printed, with expedition. The first variation from the original, must be an oblique instead of a perpendicular situation, this naturally arises from the position of the hand—the next, a joining of the letters; these two necessarily produce a third, an alteration of the form. So that writing hand differs from printing in this, that the former is an arrangement of _connected_ characters, the latter of distinct ones. The slit in the pen makes the down-strokes full, and the up-strokes slight, so that the body of the letter is strong, and the joinings weak; as they should be. It is most natural and easy also to hold the pen always in the same position, by which means, the full and hair-strokes are always in their right places. So far seems the necessary consequence of endeavouring to make the letters expeditiously with a pen. This being granted, the ornamental part comes next to be considered. For this, it is requisite that the letters should be of the same size and distance, that their leaning should be in the same direction, that the joining be as much as possible uniform, and, lastly, that the superadded ornament of flourishing, should be continued in the same position of the pen in which it was first begun, (generally the reverse of the usual way of holding it), and that the forms be distinct, flowing, and graceful.

These appear to me to be the true principles of writing. Examine the Italian and French hands by these rules, (some of the best specimens are the titles of prints, &c.) and the hand which they use will be found to be unconnected, full of unmeaning twists and curlings generally produced by altering the position of the pen, and upon the whole awkward, stiff, and ungraceful.

As they _now_ write, we _did_, about seventy or eighty years since; so that our present beautiful hand is a new one, and by its being used no where but in England, I must conclude it to be an English invention.

Believe me, in my best writing, and with my best wishes, ever

Yours, &c.

=LETTER= XVI.

I Have often reflected with great grief, that there is scarce any remarkable natural object in the sublime style, of which we have a draught, to be depended on. The cataract of Niagara.—The peak of Teneriffe, we know nothing of but that the one is the greatest waterfall, and the other the highest single mountain in the world. It is true, Condamine says, that the Andes far surpass the peak of Teneriffe; more than a third—but, it should be considered, that the valley of Quito is 1600 fathoms above the sea, and that it is from the foot of the mountain that the eye judges of its height. The peak of Teneriffe rises at once, and has, comparatively, but a small base—so that, in appearance, Teneriffe is the highest of mountains. The cataract of Niagara, indeed, is most excellently _described_ by Mr. Kalm; but all descriptions of visible objects comes so short of a representation, and is necessarily so imperfect, that if ten different painters were to read Mr. Kalm’s account of this amazing fall, and to draw it from his description, we should have as many different draughts as painters. The peak of Teneriffe has been ascended by many, but described by none, for I cannot call those accounts descriptions, which would suit any other high mountain as well. Some travellers give views of what they apprehend to be curious, but all that we can find from them is, that they cannot possibly be like the object described. There must be some amazing scenes in Norway by Pontoppidan’s Descriptions, and in the Alps by Schuchtzer’s, but their draughts cannot bear the least resemblance to what they describe. Nay, those objects which lie in the common road of travellers have just the same fate.—The view of Lombardy from the Alps—the bay of Naples—the appearance of Genoa, from the sea, &c. &c. are much talked of, but never drawn: or if drawn, not published. From this general censure I should except a view of Vesuvius taken by a pupil of Vernet’s, and two views of the Giant’s causeway in Ireland, but above all Gaspar Poussin’s drawings from Tivoli. These have something so characteristic, that we may be sure that they give a proper idea of the scenes from whence they were taken. Of the many thousands that are constantly going to the East-Indies, not one has published a drawing of the Cape of Good Hope, nor of Adam’s peak in Ceylon, nor fifty other remarkable objects which are seen in that voyage.——Even the rock of Gibraltar is as yet undrawn. What I mean by a drawing is a _pictoresque_ view, not a meer outline for the use of navigators, nor the unmeaning marks of a pencil directed by ignorance. I greatly suspect the so much commended draughts in Anson’s voyage to be nothing but outlines filled up at random; and more than suspect, that many designs in a late publication of this sort, are mere inventions at home.

I have been led into this subject by the two admirable descriptions of Ætna by Sir W. Hamilton and Brydone—as much as _words_ can realize objects, they _are_ realized.— But yet, a dozen different views taken by real artists, would have done more in an instant, than any effect within the power of description.

=LETTER= XVII.

Is there not something very fanciful in the analogy which some people have discovered between the arts? I do not deny the _commune quoddam vinculum_, but would keep the principle within its proper bounds. Poetry and painting, I believe, are only allied to music and to each other; but music, besides having the above-named ladies for sisters, has also astronomy and geometry for brothers, and grammar—for a cousin, at least. I am sure I have left out many of the family, though, if I could enumerate what seems at present the whole, it is odds, but there would be a new relation discovered soon by an adept in this business.—Why should not I find out one or two?—I will try.

Let me see—what is there near me? Oh! a standish—music then shall be like my standish. Any thing else?—Yes—like the grate—or like that shirt now hanging by the fire, which makes so excellent a screen.

“How prove you this in your great wisdom?”

Marry! thus—music bears great analogy to my standish; because there is one bottle for the ink, another for the sand, and the third for wafers—these are evidently the unison, third, and fifth, which make a compleat chord; and those three a compleat standish.—The pen is so evidently the plectrum, that it is insulting you to mention it.

“But why like the grate?”

Bless me! did you never see a testudo,—a lyre? The bars are the strings, the back is the belly—need I enlarge? What is the fire but the vis musica?—and here, the poker is the plectrum.

“But how can it possibly be like the shirt?”

Pho! any thing in analogy is possible.—Like my shirt?—Why, the body is the bass, the sleeves are two trebles—the ruffles are shakes and flourishes—the three buttons of the collar are evidently the common chord.—But, a truce with such nonsense.—There are scarce any two things in the world but may be _made_ to resemble each other. Permit me to shew the slightness of another received opinion concerning music.

“What passion cannot music raise or quell?” says Dryden, or Pope, I forget which: and the same thought is so often expressed by other poets, and so generally adopted by all authors upon this subject, that it would be a bold attempt to contradict it, were there not an immediate appeal to general feeling, which I hope is superior to all authority. Thus supported then, I ask in my turn—“What passion _can_ music raise or quell?” Who ever felt himself affected, otherwise than with pleasure, at those strains which are supposed to inspire grief—rage—joy—or pity? and this, in a degree, equal to the goodness of the composition and performance. The effect of music, in this instance, is just the same as of poetry. We attend—are pleased—delighted—transported—and when the heart can bear no more, “glow, tremble, and weep.” All these are but different degrees of pure _pleasure_. When a poet or musician has produced this last effect, he has attained the utmost in the power of poetry or music. Tears being a general expression of grief, pain, and pity; and music, when in its perfection, producing them, has occasioned the mistake, of its raising the passions of grief, &c. But tears, in fact, are nothing but the mechanical effect of every strong affection of the heart, and produced by all the passions; even joy and rage. It is this effect, and the pleasurable sensation together, which Offian (whether ancient or modern I care not) calls the “joy of grief.”——It is this effect, when produced by some grand image, which Dr. Blair, his Critic, styles the “sublime pathetic.”

I have chosen to illustrate these observations from poetry rather than from music, because it is more generally understood, and easier to quote—but the principle is equal in both the arts.

Adieu.

=LETTER= XVIII.

Your pictures came safe—my opinion of them you will in part know from the following observations, which, though made on another occasion, are equally applicable to this.

There is in landscape-painting and novel-writing a fault committed by some of the best artists and authors, which is as yet unnamed, because perhaps unnoticed, permit me to call it _a bad association_.

In a landscape, it is not sufficient that all the objects are such as may well be found together.—In a story, it is not enough that the incidents are such as may well happen—it is necessary in both, that all the circumstances should be of the _same family_.

Suppose a landscape had for its subject one of Gaspar Poussin’s Views of Tivoli—now, tho’ there is nothing more natural than to find mills by running water, yet a mill is not an object that can possibly agree with the other parts of the picture. Suppose in a landscape of Ruysdale there were introduced the ruins of a temple; tho’ a temple may be properly placed in a wood near water, yet it does not suit the rustic simplicity of the pictures of this artist.—Give the mill to Ruysdale and the temple to Gaspar—all will be right. These two painters were the most perfect in their different styles that ever existed. Both formed themselves upon the study of nature, both were correct, both excellent; and yet so totally different from each other, that there are scarce any parts of the pictures of one, that will bear being introduced into those of the other. Claude’s magnificent ideas frequently betrayed him into _a bad association_.——Large grand masses of trees agree but ill with sea and ships, unless they are removed to a distance.—An English painter, who formed himself upon the study of Gaspar, took his trees, rocks, and other circumstances from that master, but his buildings from the Gardiner’s huts at Newington.

A story which proceeds upon a regular circumscribed plan, chiefly consisting of dialogue and sentiment, where the scene is laid in London, and the characters such as are natural to the place; has _a bad association_ if the author goes to Africa in quest of adventures. On the other hand, a novel which sets out upon the principle of variety, and where a frequent change of place is necessary to the execution of the design, has _a bad association_ if the author in any part of it quits adventure for sentiment or satire. And yet, this has been done by Fielding and Smollet, the two best novel-writers of the age.

* * * * *

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

Transcriber’s Notes:

- Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
- Text enclosed by equals is in gesperrt (=gesperrt=).
- Blank pages have been removed.
- Silently corrected typographical errors.
- Spelling and hyphenation variations made consistent.
- Asterisk rows at the start or end of some letters have been
removed as I could not determine any purpose or consistency.