Part 10

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.

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

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

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

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

What need I be so forward with Death, that calls not on me? Well, ’tis no matter, Honour pricks me on. But how if Honour prick me off, when I come on? how then? Can Honour set a leg? No: or an arm? No: or take away the grief of a wound? No: Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is Honour? A word.--What is that word _honour_? Air; a trim reckoning.---- Who hath it? He that dy’d a Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No: Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore, I’ll none of it; honour is a mere scutcheon, and so ends my catechism.

_First part Henry IV. act 5. sc. 2._

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

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

_Zara._ Swift as occasion, I Myself will fly; and earlier than the morn Wake thee to freedom. Now ’tis late; and yet Some news few minutes past arriv’d, which seem’d To shake the temper of the King---- Who knows What racking cares disease a monarch’s bed? Or love, that late at night still lights his lamp, And strikes his rays through dusk, and folded lids, Forbidding rest, may stretch his eyes awake, And force their balls abroad at this dead hour. I’ll try. _Mourning Bride, act 3. sc. 4._

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

Il déteste à jamais sa coupable victoire, Il renonce à la cour, aux humains, à la gloire; Et se fuïant lui-même, au milieu des deserts, Il va cacher sa peine au bout de l’univers; La, soit que le soleil rendît le jour au monde, Soit qu’il finît sa course au vaste sein de l’onde, Sa voix faisoit redire aux echos attendris, Le nom, le triste nom, de son malheureux fils. _Henriade, chant. viii. 229._

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

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

Sire, mon pere est mort, mes yeux ont vû son sang Couler à gros bouillons de son généreux flanc; Ce sang qui tant de fois garantit vos murailles, Ce sang qui tant de fois vous gagna des batailles, Ce sang qui, tout sorti fume encore de courroux De se voir répandu pour d’autres que pour vous, Qu’au milieu des hazards n’osoit verser la guerre, Rodrigue en votre cour vient d’en couvrir la terre. J’ai couru sur le lieu sans force, et sans couleur; Je l’ai trouvé sans vie. Excusez ma douleur, Sire; la voix me manque à ce récit funeste, Mes pleurs et mes soupirs vous diront mieux le reste.

And again:

Son flanc etoit ouvert, et, pour mieux m’emouvoir, Son sang sur la poussiére écrivoit mon devoire; Ou plutôt sa valeur en cet état réduite Me parloit par sa plaie, et hâtoit ma pursuite, Et pour se faire entendre au plus juste des Rois, Par cette triste bouche elle empruntoit ma voix. _Act 2. sc. 9._

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

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

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

_Queen._ Ah, my poor princes! ah, my tender babes, My unblown flow’rs, new-appearing sweets! If yet your gentle souls fly in the air, And be not fixt in doom perpetual, Hover about me with your airy wings, And hear your mother’s lamentation. _Richard III. act 4. sc. 4._

Again,

_K. Philip._ You are as fond of grief as of your child.

_Constance._ Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garment with his form; Then have I reason to be fond of grief. _King John, act 3. sc. 6._

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

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

_Chimene._ Mon pere est mort, Elvire, et la premiére épée Dont s’est armé Rodrigue à sa trame coupée. Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez-vous en eau, La moitié de ma vie a mis l’autre au tombeau, Et m’oblige à venger, aprés ce coup funeste, Celle que je n’ai plus, sur celle qui me reste. _Cid, act 3. sc. 3._

To die is to be banish’d from myself: And Sylvia is myself; banish’d from her, Is self from self; a deadly banishment! _Two Gentlemen of Verona, act 3. sc. 3._

_Countess._ I pray thee, Lady, have a better cheer: If thou ingrossest all the griefs as thine, Thou robb’st me of a moiety. _All’s well that ends well, act 3. sc. 3._

_K. Henry._ O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows! When that my care could not with-hold thy riots, What wilt thou do when riot is thy care? O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants. _Second part, Henry IV. act 4. sc. 11._

Cruda Amarilli, che col nome ancora D’amar, ahi lasso, amaramente insegni. _Pastor Fido, act 1. sc. 2._

Antony, speaking of Julius Cæsar:

O world! thou wast the forest of this hart; And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee. How like a deer, stricken by many princes, Dost thou here lie! _Julius Cæsar, act 3. sc. 3._

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

_King Philip._ What say’st thou, boy? look in the lady’s face.

_Lewis._ I do, my Lord, and in her eye I find A wonder, or a wond’rous miracle; The shadow of myself form’d in her eye; Which being but the shadow of your son, Becomes a sun, and makes your son a shadow. I do protest, I never lov’d myself, Till now infixed I beheld myself Drawn in the flatt’ring table of her eye.

_Faulconbridge._ Drawn in the flatt’ring table of her eye! Hang’d in the frowning wrinkle of her brow! And quarter’d in her heart! he doth espy Himself Love’s traitor: this is pity now, That hang’d, and drawn, and quarter’d, there should be, In such a love so vile a lout as he. _King John, act. 2. sc. 5._

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

And brought into the world a world of wo. ---- Begirt th’ almighty throne Beseeching or besieging---- Which tempted our attempt---- At one slight bound high overleap’d all bound, ---- With a shout Loud as from numbers without number.

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

_Sebastian._ I beg no pity for this mould’ring clay. For if you give it burial, there it takes Possession of your earth: If burnt and scatter’d in the air; the winds That strow my dust, diffuse my royalty, And spread me o’er your clime; for where one atom Of mine shall light, know there Sebastian reigns. _Dryden, Don Sebastian King of Portugal, act 1._

_Cleopatra._ Now, what news my Charmion? Will he be kind? and will he not forsake me? Am I to live or die? nay, do I live? Or am I dead? for when he gave his answer, Fate took the word, and then I liv’d or dy’d. _Dryden, All for Love, act 2._

If she be coy, and scorn my noble fire, If her chill heart I cannot move; Why, I’ll enjoy the very love, And make a mistress of my own desire. _Cowley, poem inscribed_, The Request.

His whole poem, inscribed, _My Picture_, is a jargon of the same kind:

---- ’Tis he, they cry, by whom Not men, but war itself is overcome. _Indian Queen._

Such empty expressions are finely ridiculed in the _Rehearsal_:

Was’t not unjust to ravish hence her breath, And in life’s stead to leave us nought but death? _Act 4. sc 1._

CHAP. XVIII.

Beauty of Language.

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

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

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

SECT. I.

_Beauty of language with respect to sound._

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

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

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

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