«Οὐ νέμεσις, Τρώας καὶ ἐϋκνήμιδας Αχαιούς, "They cried, No wonder such celestial charms Here is not one word said of the particulars of her beauty; nothing which can in the least help us to any precise idea of her person; but yet we are much more touched by this manner of mentioning her than by those long and labored descriptions of Helen, whether handed down by tradition or formed by fancy, which are to be met with in some authors. I am sure it affects me much more than the minute description which Spenser has given of Belphebe; though I own that there are parts in that description, as there are in all the descriptions of that excellent writer, extremely fine and poetical. The terrible picture which Lucretius has drawn of religion, in order to display the magnanimity of his philosophical hero in opposing her, is thought to be designed with great boldness and spirit:— "Humana ante oculos fœdê cum vita jaceret, In terris, oppressa gravi sub religione, What idea do you derive from so excellent a picture? None at all, most certainly: neither has the poet said a single word which might in the least serve to mark a single limb or feature of the phantom, which he intended to represent in all the horrors imagination can conceive. In reality, poetry and rhetoric do not succeed in exact description so well as painting does; their business is to affect rather by sympathy than imitation; to display rather the effect of things on the mind of the speaker, or of others, than to present a clear idea of the things themselves. This is their most extensive province, and that in which they succeed the best. Section 5, Part V. H ART IN WORDS ENCE we may observe that poetry, taken in its most general sense, cannot with strict propriety be called an art of imitation. It is, indeed, an imitation so far as it describes the manners and passions of men which their words can express; where animi motus effert interprete lingua. There it is strictly imitation, and all merely dramatic poetry is of this sort. But descriptive poetry operates chiefly by substitution; by the means of sounds, which by custom have the effect of realities. Nothing is an imitation further than as it resembles some other thing, and words undoubtedly have no sort of resemblance to the ideas for which they stand. Section 6, Part V. NOW Ν HOW WORDS INFLUENCE THE PASSIONS ow, as words affect, not by any original power, but by representation, it might be supposed that their influence over the passions should be but light; yet it is quite otherwise; for we find by experience that eloquence and poetry are as capable, nay, indeed, much more capable, of making deep and lively impressions than any other arts, and even than nature itself in very many cases. And this arises chiefly from these three causes: First, that we take an extraordinary part in the passions of others, and that we are easily affected and brought into sympathy by any tokens which are shown of them; and there are no tokens which can express all the circumstances of most passions so fully as words; so that if a person speaks upon any subject he cannot only convey the subject to you, but likewise the manner in which he is himself affected by it. Certain it is that the influence of most things on our passions is not so much from the things themselves as from our opinions concerning them; and these, again, depend very much on the opinions of other men, conveyable for the most part by words only. Secondly, there are many things of a very affecting nature which can seldom occur in the reality, but the words that represent them often do; and thus they have an opportunity of making a deep impression and taking root in the mind, whilst the idea of the reality was transient; and to some, perhaps, never really occurred in any shape, to whom it is notwithstanding very affecting, as war, death, famine, etc. Besides, many ideas have never been at all presented to the senses of any men but by words, as God, angels, devils, heaven, and hell, all of which have, however, a great influence over the passions. Thirdly, by words we have it in our power to make such combinations as we cannot possibly do otherwise. By this power of combining, we are able, by the addition of well-chosen circumstances, to give a new life and force to the simple object. In painting, we may represent any fine figure we please; but we never can give it those enlivening touches which it may receive from words. To represent an angel in a picture, you can only draw a beautiful young man winged; but what painting can furnish out anything so grand as the addition of one word, "the angel of the Lord"? It is true, I have here no clear idea; but these words affect the mind more than the sensible image did; which is all I contend for. A picture of Priam dragged to the altar's foot, and there murdered, if it were well executed, would undoubtedly be very moving; but there are very aggravating circumstances, which it could never represent: "Sanguine fœdantem quos ipse sacraverat ignes.» "Fouling with blood the fires which lately his prayers had hallowed." As a further instance, let us consider those lines of Milton where he describes the travels of the fallen angels through their dismal habitation: «O'er many a dark and dreary vale They passed, and many a region dolorous; O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp; Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death, A universe of death." Here is displayed the force of union in "Rocks, caves, lakes, dens, bogs, fens, and shades," which yet would lose the greatest part of their effect if they were not the "Rocks, caves, lakes, dens, bogs, fens, and shades of Death This idea or this affection caused by a word, which nothing but a word could annex to the others, raises a very great degree of the sublime; and this sublime is raised yet higher by what follows, a "universe of Death.» Here are again two ideas not presentable but by language, and a union of them great and amazing beyond conception; if they may properly be called ideas which present no distinct image to the mind, but still it will be difficult to conceive how words can move the passions which belong to real objects without representing these objects clearly. This is difficult to us, because we do not sufficiently dis tinguish, in our observations upon language, between a clear expression and a strong expression. These are frequently confounded with each other, though they are in reality extremely different. The former regards the understanding; the latter belongs to the passions. The one describes a thing as it is; the latter describes it as it is felt. Now, as there is a moving tone of voice, an impassioned countenance, an agitated gesture, which affect independently of the things about which they are exerted, so there are words, and certain dispositions of words, which being peculiarly devoted to passionate subjects, and always used by those who are under the influence of any passion, touch and move us more than those which far more clearly and distinctly express the subject-matter. We yield to sympathy what we refuse to description. The truth is, all verbal description, merely as naked description, though never so exact, conveys so poor and insufficient an idea of the thing described, that it could scarcely have the smallest effect, if the speaker did not call in to his aid those modes of speech that mark a strong and lively feeling in himself. Then, by the contagion of our passions, we catch a fire already kindled in another, which probably might never have been struck out by the object described. Words, by strongly conveying the passions, by those means which we have already mentioned, fully compensate for their weakness in other respects. It may be observed that very polished languages, and such as are praised for their superior clearness and perspicuity, are generally deficient in strength. The French language has that perfection and that defect, whereas the Oriental tongues, and in general the languages of most unpolished peoples, have a great force and energy of expression; and this is but natural. Uncultivated people are but ordinary observers of things, and not critical in distinguishing them; but, for that reason, they admire more, and are more affected with what they see, and, therefore, express themselves in a warmer and more passionate manner. If the affection be well conveyed, it will work its effect without any clear idea, often without any idea at all, of the thing which has originally given rise to it. It might be expected from the fertility of the subject that I should consider poetry, as it regards the sublime and beautiful, more at large; but it must be observed that in this light it has been often and well handled already. It was not my design to enter into the criticism of the sublime and beautiful in any art, but to attempt to lay down such principles as may tend to ascertain, to distinguish, and to form a sort of standard for them; which purposes I thought might be best effected by an inquiry into the properties of such things in nature as raise love and astonishment in us, and by showing in what manner they operated to produce these passions. Words were only so far to be considered as to show upon what principle they were capable of being the representatives of these natural things, and by what powers they were able to affect us often as strongly as the things they represent, and sometimes much more strongly. Complete. Part V. of the essay "On the Sublime and Beautiful.» JAMES BEATTIE (1735-1803) AMES BEATTIE was born in Laurencekirk, Scotland, October 25th, 1735. He was educated at Aberdeen, and from 1760 to his death, August 18th, 1803, he was professor of Moral Philosophy in Marischal College, Aberdeen. He was a poet of very considerable natural ability, and his perception of the laws of melody underlying expressions in prose as well as in verse, led him to write an essay on expression which is of value to students of oratory. The extract here made is from G ON EXPRESSION OOOD language is determinate and absolute. We know it wherever we meet with it; we may learn to speak and write it from books alone. Whether pronounced by a clown or a hero, a wise man, or an idiot, language is still good, if it be according to rule. But natural language is something not absolute, but relative, and can be estimated by those only who have studied men as well as books, and who attend to the real or supposed character of the speaker as well as to the import of what is spoken. There are several particulars relating to the speaker which we must attend to, before we can judge whether his expression be natural. It is obvious that his temper must be taken into the account. From the fiery and passionate we expect one sort of language, from the calm and moderate, another. That impetuosity which is natural in Achilles would in Sarpedon or Ulysses be quite the contrary, as the mellifluent copiousness of Nestor would ill become the blunt rusticity of Ajax. Those diversities of temper which make men think differently on the same occasion will also make them speak the same thoughts in a different manner. And as the temper of the same man is not always uniform, but is variously affected by youth and old age, and by the prevalence of temporary passions, so neither will that style which is most natural to him be always uniform, but may be energetic or languid, abrupt or equable, figurative or plain, according to the passions or sentiments that may happen to predominate in his mind. And hence, to judge whether his language be natural, we must attend not only to the habitual temper but also to the present passions, and even to the age of the speaker. Nor should we overlook his intellectual peculiarities. If his thoughts be confused or indistinct, his style must be unmethodical and obscure; if the former be much diversified, the latter will be equally copious. The external circumstances of the speaker, his rank and fortune, his education and company, particularly the two last, have no little influence in characterizing his style. A clown and a man of learning, a pedantic and a polite scholar, a husbandman and a soldier, a mechanic and a seaman, reciting the same narrative, will each of them adopt a peculiar mode of expression, suitable to the ideas that occupy his mind and to the language he has been accustomed to speak and hear; and if a poet who had occasion to introduce these characters in a comedy were to give the same uniform color of language to them all, the style of that comedy, however elegant, would be unnatural. Our language is also affected by the very thoughts we utter. When these are lofty or groveling, there is a correspondent elevation or meanness in the language. The style of a great man is generally simple, but seldom fails to partake of the dignity and energy of his sentiments. In Greece and Rome, the corruption of literature was a consequence of the corruption of manners, and the manly simplicity of the old writers disappeared as the nation became effeminate and servile. Horace and Longinus scruple not to ascribe the decline of eloquence in their days to a littleness of mind, the effect of avarice and luxury. The words of Longinus are remarkable: "The truly eloquent," says he, "must possess an exalted and noble mind, for it is not possible for those who have all their lives been employed in servile pursuits to produce anything worthy of immortal renown or general admiration." In fact, our words not only are the signs but may be considered as the pictures of our thoughts. The same glow or faintness of coloring, the same consistency or incoherence, the same proportions of great and little, the same degrees of elevation, the same light and shade that distinguish the one will be found to characterize the other; and from such a character as Achilles or Othello we as naturally expect a bold, nervous, and animated phraseology as a manly voice and commanding gesture May we not infer from what has been said, that "Language is, then, according to nature, when it is suitable to the supposed condition of the speaker"?— meaning by the word "condition» not only the outward circumstances of fortune, rank, employment, sex, age, and nation, but also the internal temperature of the understanding and passions, as well as the peculiar nature of the thoughts that may happen to occupy the mind. Horace seems to have had this in view, when he said, that "if what is spoken on the stage shall be unsuitable to the fortunes of the speaker, both the learned and unlearned part of the audience will be sensible of the impropriety. For that it is of great importance to the poet to consider, whether the person speaking be a slave or a hero; a man of mature age, or warm with the passions of youth; a lady of rank, or a bustling nurse; a luxurious Assyrian, or a cruel native of Colchis; a mercantile traveler, or a stationary husbandman; an acute Argive, or a dull Bœotian.» But Horace's remark, it may be said, refers more immediately to the style of the drama; whereas we would extend it to poetry, and even to composition in general. And it may be thought, that in those writings wherein the imitation of human life is less perfect, as in the epic poem, or wherein the style is uniformly elevated and pure, as in history and tragedy, this rule of language is not attended to. In what respect, for example, can the style of Livy or Homer be said to be suitable to the condition of the speaker? Have we not, in each author, a great variety of speeches, ascribed to men of different nations, ranks, and characters, who are all, notwithstanding, made to utter a language that is not only grammatical, but elegant and harmonious? Yet no reader is offended; and no critic ever said that the style of Homer and Livy is unnatural. The objection is plausible. But a right examination of it will be found not to weaken, but to confirm and illustrate the present doctrine. I say, then, that language is natural, when it is suited to the supposed condition and circumstances of the speaker. Now, in history, the speaker is no other than the historian himself, who claims the privilege of telling his tale in his own way, and of expressing the thoughts of other men, where he has occasion to record them, in his own |