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the feveral energies of their proper arts? How little do even the rigid laws of verfe obtruct a genius truly poetic? How little did they cramp a Milton, a Dryden, or a Pope? Cicero writes, that Antipater the Sidonian could pour forth Hexameters extempore, and that, whenever he chose to verfify, words followed him of course. We may add to Antipater the ancient Rhapfodifts of the Greeks, and the modern Improvifatori of the Italians. If this then be practicable in verfe, how much more fo in profe? In profe, the laws of which fo far differ from thofe of poetry, that we can at any time relax them as we find expedient? Nay more, where to relax them is not only expedient, but even neceffary, because, though numerous compofition may be a requifite, yet regularly returning rhythm is a thing we should avoid.

Harris.

189. In every Whole, the conftituent Parts, and the Facility of their Coincidence, merit our Regard.

These we are affured were the fentiments of Cicero, whom we must allow to have been a mafter in his art, and who has amply and accurately treated verbal decoration and numerous compofition, in no less than two capital treatifes, (his Orator, and his De Oratore) ftrengthening withal his own authority with that of Ariftotle and Theophraftus; to whom, if more were wanting, we might add the names of Demetrius Phalereus, Dionyfius of Halicarnaffus, Dionyfius Longinus, and Quinctilian. Ibid.

$191. Advice to Readers.

Whoever reads a perfect or finished compofition, whatever be the language, whatever the fubject, should read it, even if alone, both audibly and distinctly.

In a compofition of this character, not only precife words are admitted, but words metaphorical and ornamental. And farther as every fentence contains a latent harmony, fo is that harmony derived from the rhythm of its conftituent parts.

A compofition then like this, fhould (as I faid before) be read both distinctly and audibly; with due regard to ftops and paufes; with occafional elevations and depreffions of the voice, and whatever elfe conftitutes just and accurate pronunciation. He who, defpifing or neglecting, or knowing nothing of all this, reads a work of fuch character as he would read a feffionspaper, will not only mifs many beauties of the style, but will probably mifs (which is worfe) a large proportion of the sense.

In every whole, whether natural or artificial, the conftituent parts well merit our regard, and in nothing more than in the facility of their coincidence. If we view a landkip, how pleafing the harmony between hills and woods, between rivers and lawns! If we felect from this landfkip a tree, how well does the trunk correfpond with its branches, and the whole of its form with its beautiful verdure! If we take an animal, for example a fine horse, what a union in his colour, his figure and his motions! If one of human race, what more pleasingly congenial, than when virtue and genius appear to animate a grace-§ ful figure?

-pulchro veniens e corpore virtus? The charm increafes, if to a graceful figure we add a graceful elocution. Ele cution too is heightened ftill, if it convey elegant fentiments; and thefe again are heightened, if cloathed with graceful diction, that is, with words which are pure, precife, and well arranged. Ibid.

$ 190. Verbal Decorations not to be called Minutia.

We must not call these verbal decorations, minutia. They are effential to the beauty, nay to the completion, of the whole. Without them the compofition, though its fentiments may be juft, is like a picture with good drawing, but with bad and defective colouring.

Ibid.

192. Every whole should have a Beginning, a Middle, and an End. The Theory exemplified in the Georgics of Virgil.

Let us take for an example the most highly finished performance among the Romans, and that in their most polifhed period, I mean the Georgics of Virgil.

Quid faciat lætas fegetes, quo fidere terram
Vertere, Mæcenas, (11) ulmifque adjungere vites
Conveniat; (111) quæ cura boum, qui cultus
habendo

Sit pecori; (iv) apibus quanta experientia parcis,

Hinc canere incipiam, &c.-Virg. Georg. I.
In these lines, and so on (if we confult the
original) for forty-two lines inclufive, we
have the beginning; which beginning in-
cludes two things, the plan, and the invo-
cation.

In the four first verses we have the plan, which plan gradually opens and becomes

the whole work, as an acorn, when developed, becomes a perfect oak. After this comes the invocation, which extends to the last of the forty-two verfes above mentioned. The two together give us the true character of a beginning, which, as above described, nothing can precede, and which it is neceffary that fomething should follow.

The remaining part of the first book, together with the three books following, to verfe the 458th of book the fourth, make the middle, which also has its true character, that of fucceeding the beginning, where we expect fomething farther; and that of preceding the end, where we expect nothing more.

The eight laft verfes of the poem make The eight laft verfes of the poem make the end, which, like the beginning, is fhort, and which preferves its real character by fatisfying the reader that all is complete, and that nothing is to follow. The performance is even dated. It finishes like an epistle, giving us the place and time of writing; but then giving them in such a manner, as they ought to come from Virgil. But to open our thoughts into a farther

detail.

As the poem, from its very name, refpects various matters relative to land, (Georgica) and which are either immediately or mediately connected with it; among the variety of these matters the poem begins from the lowest, and thence advances gradually from higher to higher, till, having reached the highest, it there properly ftops.

The first book begins from the fimple culture of the earth, and from its humbleft progeny, corn, legumes, flowers, &c.

It is a nobler fpecies of vegetables which employs the fecond book, where we are taught the culture of trees, and, among others, of that important pair, the olive and the vine. Yet it must be remembered, that all this is nothing more than the culture of mere vegetable and inanimate na

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for fuch is the character of his bees, thofe truly focial and political animals. It is here he first mentions arts, and memory, and laws, and families. It is here (their great fagacity confidered) he fuppofes a portion imparted of a fublimer principle. It is here that every thing vegetable or merely brutal feems forgotten, while all appears at leaft human, and fometimes even divine.

His quidam fignis, atque hæc exempla fecuti, Effe apibus partem divinæ mentis, et hauftus Ætherios dixere: deum namque ire per omnes Terrafque tractufque maris, &c.

Georg. IV. 219.

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This is not only a fublime conclusion to the fourth book, but naturally leads to the conclufion of the whole work; for he does no more after this than fhortly recapitulate, and elegantly blend his recapitulating with a compliment to Auguftus.

But even this is not all.

The dry, didactic character of the Georgics, made it neceffary they should be enlivened by epifodes and digreffions. It has been the art of the poet, that these epifodes and digreffions fhould be homogeneous: that is, fhould fo connect with the fubject, as to become, as it were, parts of it. On thefe principles every book has for its end, what I call an epilogue; for middle, the feveral precepts relative to its its beginning, an invocation; and for its fubject, I mean hufbandry. Having a beitself becomes a fmaller whole, though, with ginning, a middle, and an end, every part refpect to the general plan, it is nothing more than a part. Thus the human arm, with a view to its elbow, its hands, its fingers, &c. is as clearly a whole, as it is fimply but a part with a view to the entire body.

The smaller wholes of this divine poem may merit fome attention; by these I mean each particular book.

Each book has an invocation. The firft invokes the fun, the moon, the various rural deities, and lastly Auguftus; the fecond invokes Bacchus; the third, Pales and Apollo; the fourth his patron Mæce

nas. I do not dwell on thefe invocations, much lefs on the parts which follow, for this in fact would be writing a comment upon the poem. But the Epilogues, befides

their

their own intrinfic beauty, are too much to our purpose to be paffed in filence.

In the arrangement of them the poet feems to have purfued fuch an order, as that alternate affections fhould be alternately excited; and this he has done, well knowing the importance of that generally acknowledged truth," the force derived to contraries by their juxta-pofition or fucceffion." The first book ends with thofe portents and prodigies, both upon earth and in the heavens, which preceded the death of the dictator Cæfar. To thefe direful fcenes the epilogue of the fecond book oppofes the tranquillity and felicity of the rural life, which (as he informs us) faction and civil difcord do not ufually impair

Non res Romanæ, perituraque regna

In the ending of the third book we read of a peftilence, and of nature in devaftation; in the fourth, of nature restored, and, by help of the gods, replenished.

As this concluding epilogue (I mean the fable of Ariftaus) occupies the most important place; fo is it decorated accordingly with language, events, places, and perfonages.

No language was ever more polished and harmonious. The defcent of Ariftæus to his mother, and of Orpheus to the fhades, are events; the watery palace of the Nereides, the cavern of Proteus, and the fcene of the infernal regions, are places; Ariftæus, old Proteus, Orpheus, Eurydice, Cyllene, and her nymphs, are perfonages; all great, all ftriking, all fublime.

Let us view thefe epilogues in the poet's order,

I. Civil Horrors.
II. Rural Tranquillity.
III. Nature laid wafte.
IV. Nature restored.

Here, as we have faid already, different paffions are, by the fubjects being alternate, alternately excited; and yet withal excited fo judiciously, that when the poem concludes, and all is at an end, the reader leaves off with tranquillity and joy.

Harris.

5193. Exemplified again in the Menexenus of PLATO.

From the Georgics of Virgil we proceed to the Menexenus of Plato; the firft being the most finished form of a didactic See before, § 179.

poem, the latter the moft confummate mo. del of a panegyric oration.

The Menexenus is a funeral oration in praise of thofe brave Athenians, who had fallen in battle by generously afferting the caufe of their country. Like the Georgics, and every other juft compofition, this oration has a beginning, a mid dle, and an end.

The beginning is a folemn account of the deceafed having received all the legitimate rights of burial, and of the propriety of doing them honour not only by deeds, but by words; that is, not only by funeral ceremonies, but by a speech, to perpetuate the memory of their magnanimity, and to recommend it to their pofterity, as an object of imitation.

As the deceafed were brave and galthey came to poffefs their character, and lant men, we are fhewn by what means what noble exploits they perform in confequence.

Hence the middle of the oration contains first their origin; next their education and form of government; and lait of and education; their heroic atchievements all, the confequence of fuch an origin from the earliest days to the time ther prefent.

The middle part being thus complete, we come to the conclufion, which is perhaps the most fublime piece of oratory, is extant, of any age, or in any lanboth for the plan and execution, which guage.

By an awful profopopeia, the deceafed are called up to addrefs the living; and fathers flain in battle, to exhort their living children; the children flain in battle, to confole their living fathers; and this with every idea of manly confolation, with every generous incentive to a contempt of death, and a love of their country, that the powers of nature or of art could fuggeft.

"Tis here this oration concludes, being (as we have fhewn) a perfect whole, executed with all the ftrength of a sublime language, under the management of a great and a fublime genius.

If thefe fpeculations appear too dry, they may be rendered more pleasing, if the reader would perufe the two pieces criticized. His labour, he might be affured, would not be loft, as he would perufe two of the finest pieces which the two fineft ages of antiquity produced. Ibid. Сс

§ 194.

§ 194. The Theory of Whole and Parts Concerns Small Works as well as great. We cannot however quit this theory concerning whole and parts, without obferving, that it regards alike both fmall works and great; and that it defcends even to an effay, to a fonnet, to an ode. These minuter efforts of genius, unlefs they poffefs (if I may be pardoned the expreffion) a certain character of Totality, lofe a capital pleasure derived from their union; from an union which, collected in a few pertinent ideas, combines them all happily under one amicable form. Without this union, the production is no better than a fort of vague effufion, where sentences follow fentences, and stanzas follow ftanzas, with no apparent reason why they fhould be two rather than twenty, or twenty rather than two.

If we want another argument for this minuter Totality, we may refer to nature, which art is faid to imitate. Not only this universe is one ftupendous whole, but fuch alfo is a tree, a fhrub, a flower; fuch thofe beings which, without the aid of glaffes, even efcape our perception. And fo much for Totality (I venture to familiarize the term) that common and effential character to every legitimate compofition.' Harris.

$195. On Accuracy.

There is another character left, which, though foreign to the prefent purpose, I venture to mention; and that is the character of Accuracy. Every work ought to be as accurate as poffible. And yet, though this apply to works of every kind, there is a difference whether the work be great or fmall. In greater works (fuch as hiftories, epic poems, and the like) their very magnitude excufes incidental defects; and their authors, according to Horace, may be allowed to flumber. It is otherwife in smaller works, for the very reafon that they are smaller. Such, through every part, both in fentiment and diction, hould be perfpicuous, pure, fimple, and precife.

$196. On Diction.

Ibid.

As every fentiment must be expreft by words; the theory of fentiment naturally leads to that of Diction. Indeed, the connestion between them is fo intimate, that the fame fentiment, where the diction dif. fers, is as different in appearance, as the

fame perfon, dreft like a peafant, or dreft like a gentleman. And hence we see how much diction merits a ferious attention.

But this perhaps will be better underflood by an example. Take then the fol lowing-"Don't let a lucky hit flip; if you do, be-like you mayn't any more get at it." The fentiment (we must confefs) is expreft clearly, but the diction furely is rather vulgar and low. Take it another way" Opportune moments are few and fleeting; feize them with avidity, or your progreffion will be impeded." Here the diction, though not low, is rather obfcure. The words are unusual, pedantic, and affected. But what fays Shakspeare?

There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in fhallows-

Here the diction is elegant, without being vulgar or affected; the words, though com mon, being taken under a metaphor, are fo far eftranged by this metaphorical use, that they acquire, through the change, a competent dignity, and yet, without becoming vulgar, remain intelligible and clear. Ibid.

$197. On the Metaphor.

Knowing the ftrefs laid by the ancient critics on the Metaphor, and viewing its admirable effects in the decorating of Diction, we think it may merit a farther regard.

There is not perhaps any figure of fpecch fo pleafing as the Metaphor. It is at times the language of every individual, but, above all, is peculiar to the man of genius. His fagacity difcerns not only common analogies, but those others more remote, which efcape the vulgar, and which, though they feldom invent, they feldom fail to recognize, when they hear them from perfons more ingenious than themselves.

It has been ingenioufly obferved, that the Metaphor took its rife from the poverty of language. Men, not finding upon every occafion words ready made for their ideas, were compelled to have recourfe to words analogous, and transfer them from their original meaning to the meaning then required. But though the Metaphor began in poverty, it did not end there. When the analogy was juft (and this often happened) there was fomething peculiarly pleafing in what was both new, and yet familiar; fo that the Metaphor was then cultivated, not out of neceflity, but for or

nament.

nament. It is thus that cloaths were firft afsumed to defend us against the cold, but came afterwards to be worn for diftinction and decoration.

It must be obferved, there is a force in the united words, new and familiar. What is new, but not familiar, is often unintelligible; what is familiar, but not new, is no better than common-place. It is in the union of the two, that the obfcure and the vulgar are happily removed; and it is in this union, that we view the character of a just Metaphor.

But after we have fo praised the Metaphor,it is fit at length we should explain what it is; and this we fhall attempt, as well by a defcription, as by examples.

For

"A Metaphor is the transferring of a "word from its ufual meaning to an ana"logous meaning, and then the employ"ing it agreeably to fuch transfer.” example, the ufual meaning of evening is the conclufion of the day. But age too is a conclufion; the conclufion of human life. Now there being an analogy in all conclufions, we arrange in order the two we have alledged, and fay, that, as evening is to the day, fo is age to human life. Hence, by an eafy permutation, (which furnishes at once two metaphors) we fay alternately, that evening is the age of the day; and that age is the evening of life.

There are other metaphors equally pleafing, but which we only mention, as their analogy cannot be mistaken. It is thus that old men have been called ftubble; and the ftage, or theatre, the mirror of human life.

In language of this fort there is a double fatisfaction: it is ftrikingly clear; and yet raised, though clear, above the low and valgar idiom. It is a praife too of fuch metaphors, to be quickly comprehended. The fimilitude and the thing illuftrated are commonly dispatched in a fingle word, and comprehended by an immediate and inftantaneous intuition.

Thus a perfon of wit, being dangeroudly ill,was told by his friends, two more phyficians were called in. So many! fays be-do they fire then in platoons ?

Harris.

§ 198. What Metaphors the best. Thefe inftances may affift us to discover what metaphors may be called the best.

They ought not, in an elegant and polite ftyle (the style of which we are speaking) to be derived from meanings too fublime;

for then the diction would be turgid and bombaft. Such was the language of that poet who, defcribing the footman's flambeaux at the end of an opera, fung or faid,

Now blaz'd a thousand flaming funs, and bade
Grim night retire▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Nor ought a metaphor to be far-fetched, for then it becomes an enigma. It was thus a gentleman once puzzled his country friend, in telling him, by way of compliment, that he was become a perfect centaur. His honeft friend knew nothing of centaurs, but being fond of riding, was hardly ever off his horse.

Another extreme remains, the reverse of the too fublime, and that is, the transferring from fubjects too contemptible. Such was the cafe of that poet quoted by Horace, who to defcribe winter, wroteJupiter hybernas canâ nive confpuit Alpes.

(Hor. L. II. Sat. 5.) O'er the cold Alps Jove fpits his hoary fnow. Nor was that modern poet more fortunate, whom Dryden quotes, and who, trying his genius upon the fame fubject, fuppofed winter

To periwig with fnow the baldpate woods.

With the fame clafs of wits we may arrange that pleafant fellow, who, fpeaking of an old lady whom he had affronted, gave us in one fhort fentence no less than three choice metaphors. I perceive (faid he) her back is up;-I muft curry favour-or the fat will be in the fire.

Nor can we omit that the fame word, when transferred to different fubjects, produces metaphors very different, as to propriety or impropriety.

It is with propriety that we transfer the words to embrace, from human beings to things purely ideal. The metaphor appears juft, when we fay, to embrace a propofition; to embrace an offer; to embrace an opportunity. Its application perhaps was not quite fo elegant, when the old fteward wrote to his lord, upon the subject of his farın, that, " if he met any oxen, he « would not fail to embrace them."

If then we are to avoid the turgid, the enigmatic, and the bafe or ridiculous, no other metaphors are left, but fuch as may be defcribed by negatives; fuch as are neither turgid, nor enigmatic, nor base and ridiculous.

Such is the character of many metaphors already alledged; among others that of Shakespeare's,where tides are transferred to fpeedy and determined conduct.

CG 2

Nor

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