f176. Criticism may have been abusedyst defended, as of the last Importance to the Cause of Literature. But here was the misfortune of this last species of criticism. The best of things may pass into abuse. There were numerous corruptions in many of the finest authors, which neither ancient editions, nor manuscripts, could heal. What then was to be done?-Were forms so fair to remain disfigured, and be seen for ever under such apparent blemishes?" No (says a critic,) "Conjecture can cure all-Conjecture, "whose performances are for the most "part more certain than any thing that "we can exhibit from the authority of "manuscripts."-We will not ask, upon this wonderful assertion, how, if so certain, can it be called conjecture?-'Tis enough to observe (be it called as it may) that this spirit of conjecture has too often passed into an intemperate excess; and then, whatever it may have boasted, has done more mischief by far than good. Authors have been taken in hand, like anatomical subjects, only to display the skill and abilities of the artist: so that the end of many an edition seems often to have been no more than to exhibit the great sagacity and erudition of an editor. The joy of the task was the honour of mending, while corruptions were sought with a more than common attention, as each of them afforded a testimony to the editor and his art. And here I beg leave, by way of digression, to relate a short story concerning a noted empiric. "Being once in a ball"room crowded with company, he was "asked by a gentleman, what he thought "of such a lady? was it not pity that she "squinted?""Squint! Sir!" replied the doctor, "I wish every lady in the room "squinted; there is not a man in Europe "can cure squinting but myself." But to return to our subject-well indeed would it be for the cause of letters, were this bold conjectural spirit confined. to works of second rate, where, let it change, expunge, or add, as happens, it may be tolerably sure to leave matters as they were; or if not much better, at least not much worse: but when the divine geniuses of higher rank, whom we not only applaud, but in a manner revere, when these come to be attempted by petulant correctors, and to be made the subject of their wanton caprice, how can we but exclaim, with a kind of religious abhorrence procul! O! procul este profani! These sentiments may be applied even to the celebrated Bentley. It would have become that able writer, though in litera ture and natural abilities among the first of his age, had be been more temperate in his criticism upon the Paradise Lost; had he not so repeatedly and injuriously offered violence to its author, from an af fected superiority, to which he had no pretence. But the rage of conjecture seems to have seized him, as that of jealousy did Medea: a rage which she confessed herself unable to resist, although she knew the mischiefs it would prompt her to perpetrate. And now to obviate an unmerited censure, (as if I were an enemy to the thing, from being an enemy to its abuse) I would have it remembered, it is not either with criticism or critics that I presume to find fault. The art, and its professors, while they practise it with temper, I truly ho nour; and think, that were it not for their acute and learned labours, we should be in danger of degenerating into an age of dunces. Indeed critics (if I may be allowed the metaphor) are a sort of masters of the ceremony in the court of letters, through whose assistance we are introduced into some of the first and best company. Should we ever, therefore, by idle prejudices against pedantry, verbal accuracies, and we know not what, come to slight their art, and reject them from our favour, it is well if we do not slight also those Classics with whom criticism converses, becoming con tent to read them in translations, or (what is still worse) in translations of translations, or (what is worse even than that) not to read them at all. And I will be bold to assert, if that should ever happen, we shall speedily return into those days of darkness, out of which we happily emerged upon the revival of ancient literature. Harris. $177. The Epic Writers come first. It appears, that not only in Greece, but in other countries more barbarous, the first writings were in metre, and of an epic cast, recording wars, battles, heroes, ghosts; the marvellous always, and often the incredible. Men seemed to have thought, that the higher they soared the more important they should appear; and that the common life, which they then lived, was a thing too contemptible to merit imitation. Hence it followed, that it was not till this common life was rendered respectable by more refined and polished manners, that men men thought it might be copied, so as to gain them applause. Even in Greece itself, tragedy had attained its maturity many years before comedy, as may be seen by comparing the age of Sophocles and Euripides with that of Philemon and Menander. For ourselves, we shall find most of our first poets prone to a turgid bombast, and most of our first prosaic writers to a pedantic stiffness; which rude styles gradually improved, but reached not a classical purity sooner than Tillotson, Dryden, Addison, Shaftsbury, Prior, Pope, Atterbury, &c. &c. Harris. $178. Nothing excellent in literary Performances happens from Chance. As to what is asserted soon after upon the efficacy of causes in works of ingenuity and art, we think, in general, that the effect must always be proportioned to its cause. It is hard for him, who reasons attentively, to refer to chance any superlative production. Effects indeed strike us, when we are not thinking about the cause; yet may we be assured, if we reflect, that a cause there is, and that too a cause intelligent and rational. Nothing would perhaps more contribute to give us a taste truly critical, than on every occasion to investigate this cause, and to ask ourselves, upon feeling any uncommon effect, why we are thus delighted; why thus affected; why melted into pity; why made to shudder with horror? Till this why is well answered, all is darkness; and our admiration, like that of the vulgar, founded upon ignorance. Ibid. $179. The Causes or Reasons of such Excellence. To explain, by a few examples, that are known to all, and for that reason here alleged, because they are known. I am struck with the night scene in Virgil's fourth Eneid-" The universal "silence throughout the globe-the sweet "rest of its various inhabitants, soothing "their cares and forgetting their labours"the unhappy Dido alone restless; rest"less, agitated with impetuous passions." -En. iv. 522. I am affected with the story of Regulus, as painted by West-" The crowd of "anxious friends, persuading him not to "return-his wife fainting through sensi"bility and fear-persons the least con "nected appearing to feel for him, yet "himself unmoved, inexorable, and stern." Horat. Carm. L. iii. Od. 5. Without referring to these deeply tragic scenes, what charms has music, when a masterly band pass unexpectedly from loud to soft, or from soft to loud!—When the system changes from the greater third to the less; or reciprocally, when it changes from this last to the former. All these effects have a similar and well known cause, the amazing force which contraries acquire, either by juxtaposition, or by quick succession. Ibid. 180. Why Contraries have this Effect. But we ask still farther, why have contraries this force?-We answer, because, of all things which differ, none differ so widely. Sound differs from darkness, but not so much as from silence; darkness differs from sound, but not so much as from light. In the same intense manner differ repose and restlessness; felicity and misery; dubious solicitude and firm resolu tion: the epic and the comic; the sublime and the ludicrous. And why differ contraries thus widely? Because while attributes, simply diffe rent, may co-exist in the same subject, contraries cannot co-exist, but always destroy one another. Thus the same marble may be both white and hard: but the same marble cannot be both white and black. And hence it follows, that as their difference is more intense, so is our recognition of them more vivid, and our impressions more permanent. This effect of contraries is evident even in objects of sense, where imagination and intellect are not in the least concerned. When we pass (for example) from a hothouse, we feel the common air more intensely cool; when we pass from a dark cavern, we feel the common light of the day more intensely glaring. But to proceed to instances of another and a very different kind. Few scenes are more affecting than the taking of Troy, as described in the second Eneid "The apparition of Hector to "Eneas, when asleep, announcing to him "the commencement of that direful event "the distant lamentations, heard by "Eneas as he awakes-his ascending the "house-top, and viewing the city in flames "his friend Pentheus, escaped from de"struction, and relating to him their "wretched and deplorable condition2 E 2 "Eneas, ડેટ 66 "Eneas, with a few friends, rushing in"to the thickest danger their various success till they all perish, but himself and "two more-the affecting scenes of horror "and pity, and Priam's palace-a son "slain at his father's feet; and the imme"diate massacre of the old monarch him"self-Eneas, on seeing this, inspired "with the memory of his own father-his "resolving to return home, having now "lost all his companions---his seeing Helen " in the way, and his design to dispatch so "wicked a woman-Venus interposing, "and shewing him (by removing the film "from his eyes) the most sublime, though "most direful of all sights: the Gods "themselves busied in Troy's destruction; "Neptune at one employ, Juno at another, "Pallas at a third-It is not Helen (says "Venus) but the gods, that are the au"thors of your country's ruin-it is their "inclemency," &c. Not less solemn and awful, though less leading to pity, is the commencement of the sixth Eneid "The Sibyl's cavern "her frantic gestures and prophecy-the "request of Eneas to descend to the shades "her answer, and information about "the loss of one of his friends-the fate of 66 poor Misenus-his funeral-the golden "bough discovered, a preparatory cir"cumstance for the descent-the sacrifice -the ground bellowing under their feet "the woods in motion-the dogs of "Hecate howling-the actual descent, in "all its particulars of the marvellous, and "the terrible." If we pass from an ancient author to a modern, what scene more striking than the first scene in Hamlet?" The solemnity "of the time, a severe and pinching night "the solemnity of the place, a platform "for a guard-the guards themselves; and "their apposite discourse yonder star in such a position; the bell then beating one "when description is exhausted, the "thing itself appears, the Ghost enters." From Shakespeare the transition to Milton is natural. What pieces have ever met a more just, as well as universal applause, than his L'Allegro and Il Penseroso?-The first, a combination of every incident that is lively and cheerful; the second, of every incident that is melancholy and serious: the materials of each collected, according to their character, from rural life, from city life, from music, from poetry; in a word, from every part of nature, and every part of art. To pass from poetry to painting-the Crucifixion of Polycrates by Salvator Rosa, is "a most affecting representation of va "rious human figures, seen under different "modes of horror and pity, as they con 66 template a dreadful spectacle, the cruci "fixion above mentioned." The Aurora of Guido, on the other side, is "one of "those joyous exhibitions, where nothing "is seen but youth and beauty, in every "attitude of elegance and grace." The former picture in poetry would have been a deep Penseroso; the latter, a most pleas ing and animated Allegro. And to what cause are we to refer these last enumerations of striking effects? To a very different one from the former-not to an opposition of contrary incidents, but to a concatenation or accumu lation of many that are similar and conge. nial. And why have concatenation and accumulation such a force?-From these most simple and obvious truths, that many things similar, when added together, will be more in quantity than any of them taken singly;-consequently, that the more things are thus added, the greater will be their effect. We have mentioned, at the same time, both accumulation and concatenation; because in painting, the objects, by existing at once, are accumulated; in poetry, as they exist by succession, they are not accumulated but concatenated. Yet, through memory and imagination, even these also derive an accumulative force, being preserved from passing away by those admirable faculties, till, like many pieces of me. tal melted together, they collectively form one common magnitude. It must be farther remembered, there is an accumulation of things analogous, even when those things are the objects of different faculties. For example-As are pas sionate gestures to the eye, so are passionate tones to the ear: so are passionate ideas to the imagination. To feel the amazing force of an accumulation like this, we must see some capital actor, acting the drama of some capital poet, where all the powers of both are assembled at the same instant. And thus have we endeavoured, by a few obvious and easy examples, to explain what we mean by the words, " seeking the cause 66 or reason, as often as we feel works of "art and ingenuity to affect us."-See § 167. 178. Harris. If I might advise a beginner in this elegant pursuit, it should be, as far as possible, to recur for principles to the most plain and simple truths, and to extend every theorem, as he advances, to its utmost latitude, so as to make it suit, and include, the greatest number of possible cases. I would advise him farther, to avoid subtle and far-fetcht refinement, which as it is for the most part adverse to perspicuity and truth, may serve to make an able Sophist, but never an able Critic. A word more--I would advise a young Critic, in his contemplations, to turn his eye rather to the praise-worthy than the blameable; that is, to investigate the cause of praise, rather than the causes of blame. For though an uninformed beginner may, in a single instance, happen to blame properly, it is more than probable, that in the next he may fail, and incur the censure passed upon the criticising cobler, Ne sutor ultra crepidam. Harris. § 182. On numerous Composition. As numerous Composition arises from 3 just arrangement of words, so is that arrangement just, when formed upon their verbal quantity. Now, if we seek for this verbal quantity in Greek and Latin, we shall find that, while those two languages were in purity, their verbal quantity was in purity also. Every syllable had a measure of time, either long or short, defined with precision either by its constituent vowel, or by the relation of that vowel to other letters adjoining. Syllables thus characterized, when combined, made a foot; and feet thus characterized, when combined, made a verse: so that while a particular harmony existed in every part, a general harmony was diffused through the whole. Pronunciation at this period being, like other things, perfect, accent and quantity were accurately distinguished; of which distinction, familiar then, though now obscure, we venture to suggest the following explanation. We compare quantity to mu sical tones differing in long and short, as upon whatever line they stand, a semibrief differs from a minim. We compare accent to musical tones differing in high and low, as D upon the third line differs from Gupon the first, be its length the same, or be it longer or shorter. sion of centuries, from Homer and Hesiod And thus things continued for a succesto Virgil and Horace, during which interval, if we add a trifle to its end, all the truly classical poets, both Greek and Latin, flourished. Nor was prose at the same time neglected. Penetrating wits discovering this also to be capable of numerous composition, and founded their ideas upon the following reasonings: Though they allowed that prose should not be strictly metrical (for then it would be no longer prose, but poetry); yet at the same time they asserted, if it had no Rhythm at all, such a vague effusion would of course fatigue, and the reader would seek in vain for those returning pauses, so helpful to his reading, and so grateful to his ear. Ibid. f 183. On other Decorations of Prose be sides Prosaic Feet; as Alliteration. Besides the decoration of Prosaic Feet, there are other decorations, admissible into English composition, such as Alliteration, and Sentences, especially the Period. First therefore for the first: I mean Alliteration. Among the classics of old, there is no finer illustration of this figure, than Lucretius's description of those blest abodes, where his gods, detached from providential cares, ever lived in the fruition of divine serenity: Apparet divum numen, sedesque quietæ, bis Cana Cadeus violat, semperque innubilus æther Aspergunt, neque nix acri concreta pruinâ Integit, et large diffuso lumine ridet. Lucret. III. 18. The sublime and accurate Virgil did not contemn this decoration, though he used it with such pure, unaffected simplicity, that we often feel its force without contemplating the cause. Take one instance out, of infinite, with which his works abound; Aurora interea miseris mortalibus almam To Virgil we may add the superior authority of Homer: Πτοι ο καππεδίον το Αλήιον οιος ̓Αλᾶτο, Hermogenes, the rhetorician, when he quotes these lines, quotes them as an example ample of the figure here mentioned, but calls it by a Greek name, ΠΑΡΗΧΗΣΙΣ. Cicero has translated the above verses elegantly, and given us too Alliteration, though not under the same letters. Qui miser in cam pis errabat solus Alæis, Aristotle knew this figure, and called it ПAPOMOINƐIE, a name perhaps not so precise as the other, because it rather expresses resemblance in general, than that which arises from sound in particular. His example is ΑΓΡΟΝ γας ἔλαβεν, ΑΡΓΟΝ παρ' αὐτό. The Latin rhetoricians styled it Annominatio, and give us examples of similar character. But the most singular fact is, that so early in our own history, as the reign of Henry the Second, this decoration was esteemed and cultivated both by the Eng. lish and the Welsh. So we are informed by Giraldus Cambrensis, a contemporary writer, who, having first given the Welsh instance, subjoins the English in the following verse God is together Gammen and Wisedóme. that is, God is at once both joy and wisdom. He calls the figure by the Latin name Annominatio, and adds, "that the two "nations were so attached to this verbal "ornament in every high-finished com"position, that nothing was by them. "esteemed elegantly delivered, no diction "considered but as rude and rustic, if it "were not first amply refined with the "polishing art of this figure." "Tis perhaps from this national taste of ours, that we derive many proverbial similes, which, if we except the sound, seem to have no other merit-Fine as five-pence Round as a Robin-&c. Even Spenser and Shakespeare adopted the practice, but then it was in a manner suitable to such geniuses. Spenser says For not to have been dipt in Lethe lake Could save the son of Thetis from to die; But that blind bard did him immortal make With verses dipt in dew of Castilie. Shakespeare says— Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers, This day might I, hanging on Hotspur's neck, Have talked, &c.-Hen. IVth, Part 2d, Act 2d. Milton followed them. For eloquence, the soul; song charms the sense, P. L. II. 556. And again, Behemoth, biggest born of earth, upheav'd From Dryden we select one example out of many, for no one appears to have employed this figure more frequently, or, like Virgil, with greater simplicity and strength. Better to hunt in fields for health unbought, Pope sings in his Dunciad 'Twas chatt'ring, grinning, mouthing, jabb'ring all; And noise, and Norton; brangling and Brevall; Dennis, and dissonance—— Which lines though truly poetical and humorous, may be suspected by some to shew their art too conspicuously, and too nearly to resemble that verse of old En nlus O! tite, tute, tati, tibi, tanta, tyranne, tulisti. Script. ad Herenn. I. iv. s. 18. Gray begins a sublime Ode, Ruin seize thee, ruthless king, &c. We might quote also Alliterations from prose writers, but those we have alleged we think sufficient. Harris. 184. On the Period. Nor is elegance only to be found in single words, or in single feet; it may be found when we put them together, in our peculiar mode of putting them. 'Tis out of words and feet, thus compounded, that we form sentences, and among sentences none so striking, none so pleasing, as the Period. The reason is, that, while other sentences are indefinite, and (like a geome trical right line) may be produced indefi nitely, the Period (like a circular line) is always circumscribed, returns, and termi nates at a given point. In other words, while other sentences, by the help of com mon copulatives, have a sort of boundless effusion; the constituent parts of a Period have a sort of reflex union, in which union the sentence is so far complete, as neither to require, nor even to admit, a farther extension. Readers find a pleasure in this graceful |