The Online Library of Liberty

A project of Liberty Fund, Inc.

• Introduction
• Editor’s Note
• Acknowledgments
• Elements of Criticism
• Preface to the Second Edition
• Introduction<1>
• Chapter I: Perceptions and Ideas In a Train
• Chapter II: Emotions and Passions
• Chapter III: Beauty
• Chapter IV: Grandeur and Sublimity
• Chapter V: Motion and Force
• Chapter VI: Novelty, and the Unexpected Appearance of Objects
• Chapter VII: Risible Objects
• Chapter VIII: Resemblance and Dissimilitude 1
• Chapter IX: Uniformity and Variety
• Appendix to Chapter IX: Concerning the Works of Nature, Chiefly With Respect to Uniformity and Variety.
• Chapter X: Congruity and Propriety
• Chapter XI: Dignity and Grace 1
• Chapter XII: Ridicule
• Chapter XIII: Wit
• Chapter XIV: Custom and Habit
• Chapter XV: External Signs of Emotions and Passions
• Chapter XVI: Sentiments
• Chapter XVII: Language of Passion

CHAPTER XVII

Language of Passion

Among the particulars that compose the social part of our nature, a propensity to communicate our opinions, our emotions, and every thing that affects us, is remarkable. Bad fortune and injustice affect us greatly; and of these we are so prone to complain, that if we have no friend nor acquaintance to take part in our sufferings, we sometimes utter our complaints aloud, even where there are none to listen.

But this propensity operates not in every state of mind. A man immoderately grieved, seeks to afflict himself, rejecting all consolation: immoderate grief accordingly is mute: complaining is struggling for consolation.

• It is the wretch’s comfort still to have
• Some small reserve of near and inward wo,
• Some unsuspected hoard of inward grief,
• Which they unseen may wail, and weep, and mourn.
• And glutton-like alone devour.

• Mourning Bride, act 1. sc. 1.

When grief subsides, it then and no sooner finds a tongue: we complain, because complaining<495> is an effort to disburden the mind of its distress.*

Surprise and terror are silent passions for a different reason: they agitate the mind so violently as for a time to suspend the exercise of its faculties, and among others the faculty of speech.

Love and revenge, when immoderate, are not more loquacious than immoderate grief. But when these passions become moderate, they set the tongue free, and, like moderate grief, become<496> loquacious: moderate love, when unsuccessful, is vented in complaints; when successful, is full of joy expressed by words and gestures.

As no passion hath any long uninterrupted existence,* nor beats always with an equal pulse, the language suggested by passion is not only unequal but frequently interrupted: and even during an uninterrupted fit of passion, we only express in words the more capital sentiments. In familiar conversation, one who vents every single thought, is justly branded with the character of loquacity; because sensible people express no thoughts but what make some figure: in the same manner, we are only disposed to express the strongest pulses of passion, especially when it returns with impetuosity after interruption.

I formerly had occasion to observe,† that the sentiments ought to be tuned to the passion, and the language to both. Elevated sentiments require elevated language: tender sentiments ought to be clothed in words that are soft and flowing: when the mind is depressed with any passion, the sentiments must be expressed in words that are humble, not low. Words being intimately connected with the ideas they represent, the greatest harmony is required between them: to express, for example, an humble sentiment in high-sounding words, is disagreeable by a discordant mixture<497> of feelings; and the discord is not less when elevated sentiments are dressed in low words:

• Versibus exponi tragicis res comica non vult.
• Indignatur item privatis ac prope socco
• Dignis carminibus narrari coena Thyestae.

• Horace, Ars poet. l. 89.1

This however excludes not figurative expression, which, within moderate bounds, communicates to the sentiment an agreeable elevation. We are sensible of an effect directly opposite, where figurative expression is indulged beyond a just measure: the opposition between the expression and the sentiment, makes the discord appear greater than it is in reality.*

At the same time, figures are not equally the language of every passion: pleasant emotions, which elevate or swell the mind, vent themselves in strong epithets and figurative expression; but humbling and dispiriting passions affect to speak plain:

• Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri
• Telephus et Peleus: cum pauper et exul uterque;
• Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba,
• Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela.

• Horace, Ars poet. l. 95.2

Figurative expression, being the work of an enli-<498>vened imagination, cannot be the language of anguish or distress. Otway, sensible of this, has painted a scene of distress in colours finely adapted to the subject: there is scarce a figure in it, except a short and natural simile with which the speech is introduced. Belvidera talking to her father of her husband:

• Think you saw what past at our last parting;
• Think you beheld him like a raging lion,
• Pacing the earth, and tearing up his steps,
• Fate in his eyes, and roaring with the pain
• Of burning fury; think you saw his one hand
• Fix’d on my throat, while the extended other
• Grasp’d a keen threat’ning dagger; oh, ’twas thus
• We last embrac’d, when, trembling with revenge,
• He dragg’d me to the ground, and at my bosom
• Presented horrid death; cry’d out, My friends!
• Where are my friends? swore, wept, rag’d, threaten’d, lov’d;
• For he yet lov’d, and that dear love preserv’d me
• To this last trial of a father’s pity.
• I fear not death, but cannot bear a thought
• That that dear hand should do th’ unfriendly office;
• If I was ever then your care, now hear me;
• Fly to the senate, save the promis’d lives
• Of his dear friends, ere mine be made the sacrifice.

• Venice preserv’d, act 5.

To preserve the foresaid resemblance between words and their meaning, the sentiments of active and hurrying passions ought to be dressed in words<499> where syllables prevail that are pronounced short or fast; for these make an impression of hurry and precipitation. Emotions, on the other hand, that rest upon their objects, are best expressed by words where syllables prevail that are pronounced long or slow. A person affected with melancholy, has a languid and slow train of perceptions: the expression best suited to that state of mind, is where words, not only of long, but of many syllables, abound in the composition; and for that reason, nothing can be finer than the following passage.

• In those deep solitudes, and awful cells,
• Where heav’nly-pensive Contemplation dwells,
• And ever-musing Melancholy reigns.

• Pope, Eloisa to Abelard.

To preserve the same resemblance, another circumstance is requisite, that the language, like the emotion, be rough or smooth, broken or uniform. Calm and sweet emotions are best expressed by words that glide softly: surprise, fear, and other turbulent passions, require an expression both rough and broken.

It cannot have escaped any diligent inquirer into nature, that in the hurry of passion, one generally expresses that thing first which is most at heart:* which is beautifully done in the following passage.<500>

• Me, me; adsum qui feci: in me convertite ferrum,
• O Rutuli, mea fraus omnis.

• Aeneid ix. 427.3

Passion has often the effect of redoubling words, the better to make them express the strong conception of the mind. This is finely imitated in the following examples.

• ——— ——— Thou sun, said I, fair light!
• And thou enlighten’d earth, so fresh and gay!
• Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains!
• And ye that live, and move, fair creatures! tell,
• Tell, if ye saw, how came I thus, how here.—

• Paradise lost, book viii. 273.

• ——— ——— Both have sinn’d! but thou
• Against God only; I, ’gainst God and thee:
• And to the place of judgement will return.
• There with my cries importune Heaven, that all
• The sentence, from thy head remov’d, may light
• On me, sole cause to thee of all this wo;
• Me! Me! only just object of his ire.

• Paradise lost, book x. 930.

Shakespear is superior to all other writers in delineating passion. It is difficult to say in what<501> part he most excels, whether in moulding every passion to peculiarity of character, in discovering the sentiments that proceed from various tones of passion, or in expressing properly every different sentiment: he disgusts not his reader with general declamation and unmeaning words, too common in other writers: his sentiments are adjusted to the peculiar character and circumstances of the speaker; and the propriety is no less perfect between his sentiments and his diction. That this is no exaggeration, will be evident to every one of taste, upon comparing Shakespear with other writers in similar passages. If upon any occasion he fall below himself, it is in those scenes where passion enters not: by endeavouring in that case to raise his dialogue above the style of ordinary conversation, he sometimes deviates into intricate thought and obscure expression:* sometimes, to<502> throw his language out of the familiar, he employs rhyme. But may it not in some measure excuse Shakespear, I shall not say his works, that he had no pattern, in his own or in any living language, of dialogue fitted for the theatre? At the same time, it ought not to escape observation, that the stream clears in its progress, and that in his later plays he has attained the purity and perfection of dialogue; an observation that, with greater certainty than tradition, will direct us to arrange his plays in the order of time. This ought to be considered, by those who rigidly exaggerate every blemish of the finest genius for the drama ever the world enjoy’d: they ought also for their own sake to consider, that it is easier to discover his blemishes, which lie generally at the surface, than his beauties, which cannot be truly relished but by those who dive deep into human nature. One thing must be evident to the meanest capacity, that where-ever passion is to be display’d, Nature shows itself mighty in him, and is conspicuous<503> by the most delicate propriety of sentiment and expression.*

I return to my subject from a digression I cannot repent of. That perfect harmony which ought to subsist among all the constituent parts of a dialogue, is a beauty, no less rare than conspicuous: as to expression in particular, were I to give instances, where, in one or other of the respects above mentioned, it corresponds not precisely to the characters, passions, and sentiments, I might from different authors collect volumes. Following therefore the method laid down in the chapter of sentiments, I shall confine my quotations to the grosser errors, which every writer ought to avoid.

And, first, of passion expressed in words flowing in an equal course without interruption.

In the chapter above cited, Corneille is censured for the impropriety of his sentiments; and here, for the sake of truth, I am obliged to attack<504> him a second time. Were I to give instances from that author of the fault under consideration, I might transcribe whole tragedies; for he is no less faulty in this particular, than in passing upon us his own thoughts as a spectator, instead of the genuine sentiments of passion. Nor would a comparison between him and Shakespear upon the present article, redound more to his honour, than the former upon the sentiments. Racine is here less incorrect than Corneille; and from him therefore I shall gather a few instances. The first shall be the description of the sea-monster in his Phaedra, given by Theramene, the companion of Hippolytus. Theramene is represented in terrible agitation, which appears from the following passage, so boldly figurative as not to be excused but by violent perturbation of mind:

• Le ciel avec horreur voit ce monstre sauvage,
• Le terre s’en émeut, l’air en est infecté,
• Le flot, qui l’apporta, recule epouvanté.4

Yet Theramene gives a long pompous connected description of that event, dwelling upon every minute circumstance, as if he had been only a cool spectator:

• A peine nous sortions des portes de Trézéne,
• Il étoit sur son char. Ses gardes affligés,
• Imitoient son silence, autour de lui rangés.
• Il suivoit tout pensif le chemin de Mycénes.
• Sa main sur les chevaux laissoit flotter les rênes.<505>
• Ses superbs coursiers qu’on voyoit autrefois
• Pleins d’une ardeur si noble obéir à sa voix,
• L’œil morne maintenant et la tête baissée,
• Sembloient se conformer à sa triste pensée, &c.

• Act 5. sc. 6.5

The last speech of Atalide, in the tragedy of Bajazet, of the same author, is a continued discourse; and but a faint representation of the violent passion which forc’d her to put an end to her own life:

• Enfin, c’en est donc fait. Et par mes artifices,
• Mes injustes soupcons, mes funestes caprices,
• Je suis donc arrivée au doloureux moment,
• Où je vois, par mon crime, expirer mon amant.
• N’étoit-ce pas assez, cruelle destinée,
• Qu’à lui survivre, hélas! je fusse condamnée?
• Et falloit-il encore que, pour comble d’horreurs,
• Je ne pusse imputer sa mort qu’à mes fureurs!
• Oui, c’est moi, cher amant, qui t’arrache la vie;
• Roxane, ou le Sultan, ne te l’ont ravie.
• Moi seule, j’ai tissu le lien malheureux
• Dont tu viens d’éprouver les detestables nœuds.
• Et je puis, sans mourir, en souffrir la pensée?
• Moi, qui n’ai pû tantôt, de ta mort menacée,
• Rétentir mes esprits, prompts à m’abandonner!
• Ah! n’ai-je eu de l’amour que pour t’assassiner?
• Mais c’en est trop. Il faut par un prompt sacrifice,
• Que ma fidelle main te venge, et me punisse.
• Vous, de qui j’ai troublé la gloire et le repos,
• Héros, qui deviez tous revivre en ce héros,
• Toi, mere malheureuse, et qui dès notre enfance,
• Me confias son cœur dans une autre esperance,<506>
• Infortuné Visir, amis désespérés,
• Roxane, venez tous contre moi conjurez,
• Tourmenter à la fois une amante eperdue;[Elle se tue.
• Et prenez la vengeance enfin qui vois est dûe.

• Act 5. sc. last.6

Tho’ 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 that 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 affections, but is a stranger to the genuine 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, tho’ 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.* 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.<507>

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 canon ’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 feed: 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 followed 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. 3.7 <508>

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 half-penny purse, nor into a pepper-box. But lest the devil that guides him should aid him, I will search impossible places; tho’ 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.8

These soliloquies are accurate and bold 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? So far indeed 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 a most curious device in Gothic paintings, that of making every figure explain itself by a written label issuing from its mouth. The description which a parasite, in<509> the Eunuch of Terence,* gives of himself, makes a sprightly soliloquy: but it is not consistent with 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.† 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 are regular harangues, a chain completed in every link, without interruption or interval: that of Antiochus in Berenice‡ resembles a regular pleading, where the parties pro and con display their arguments at full length. The following soliloquies are equally faulty: 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<510> form of a dialogue, the expression must be carried on without break or interruption, as in a dialogue between two persons; which justifies Falstaff’s soliloquy upon honour:

And even without dialogue, a continued discourse may be justified, where a man reasons in a soliloquy upon an important subject; for if in such a case it be at all excusable to think aloud, it is necessary that the reasoning be carried on in a chain; which justifies that admirable soliloquy in Hamlet upon life and immortality, being a serene meditation upon the most interesting of all subjects. And the same consideration will justify the soliloquy that introduces the 5th act of Addison’s Cato.<511>

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;<512>
• Là, soit que le soleil rendît le jour au monde,
• Soit qu’il finît sa course au vaste seine de l’onde,
• Sa voix faisoit redire aux echos attendris,
• Le nom, le triste nom, de son malheureux fils.

• Henriade, chant. viii. 229.10

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

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 battailes,
• 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 recit funeste,
• Mes pleurs et mes soupirs vous diront mieux le reste.11

And again,

• Son flanc étoit ouvert, et, pour mieux m’emouvoir,
• Son sang sur la poussiére écrivoit mon devoir;<513>
• Ou plûtôt 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.12

• 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.

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

Imagery and figurative expression are discordant, in the highest degree, with the agony of a mother, who is deprived of two hopeful sons by abrutal murder. 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.<514>

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. 6.13

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 any degree of elevation: thoughts of this kind make a fifth class.

In the Amynta of Tasso,* 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 premiere épée
• Dont s’est armée Rodrigue a 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, après ce coup funeste,
• Celle que je n’ai plus, sur celle que me reste.

• Cid, act 3. sc. 3.14 <515>

• 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. 3.15

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. 3.16

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. 11.17

• Cruda Amarilli, che col nome ancora
• D’amar, ahi lasso, amaramente insegni.

• Pastor Fido, act 1. sc. 2.18

Antony, speaking of Julius Caesar:

• O world! thou wast the forest of this hart:
• And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee,
• How like a deer, striken by many princes,
• Dost thou here lie!

• Julius Caesar, act 3. sc. 3.19

Playing thus with the sound of words, which is still worse than a pun, is the meanest of all con-<516>ceits. 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 in the following passage:

K. 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. 5.20

A jingle of words is the lowest species of that 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 that puerility:

• And brought into the world a world of woe.
• ——— Begirt th’ Almighty throne<517>
• 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.21

One should think it unnecessary to enter a caveat against an expression that has no meaning, or no distinct meaning; and yet somewhat of that kind may be found even among good writers. Such 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 scattered 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.<518>

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.

[* ]This observation is finely illustrated by a story which Herodotus records, b. 3. Cambyses, when he conquered Egypt, made Psammenitus the King prisoner; and for trying his constancy, ordered his daughter to be dressed in the habit of a slave, and to be employ’d in bringing water from the river; his son also was led to execution with a halter about his neck. The Egyptians vented their sorrow in tears and lamentations; Psammenitus only, with a downcast eye, remained silent. Afterward meeting one of his companions, a man advanced in years, who, being plundered of all, was begging alms, he wept bitterly, calling him by his name. Cambyses, struck with wonder, demanded an answer to the following question: “Psammenitus, thy master Cambyses is desirous to know, why, after thou hadst seen thy daughter so ignominiously treated and thy son led to execution, without exclaiming or weeping, thou shouldst be so highly concerned for a poor man, no way related to thee?” Psammenitus returned the following answer: “Son of Cyrus, the calamities of my family are too great to leave me the power of weeping; but the misfortunes of a companion, reduced in his old age to want of bread, is a fit subject for lamentation.”

[* ]See chap. 2. part 3.

[† ]Chap. 16.

[1. ]“A theme for Comedy refuses to be set forth in verses of Tragedy; likewise the feast of Thyestes scorns to be told in strains of daily life that well nigh befit the comic sock.”

[* ]See this explained more particularly in chap. 8.

[2. ]“So, too, in Tragedy Telephus and Peleus often grieve in the language of prose, when, in poverty and exile, either hero throws aside his bombast and words a foot and a half long, should he want his lament to touch the spectator’s heart.”

[* ]Demetrius Phalereus (of Elocution, sect. 28) justly observes, that an accurate adjustment of the words to the thought, so as to make them correspond in every particular, is only proper for sedate subjects; for that passion speaks plain, and rejects all refinements.

[3. ]

• Me, me, he cry’d, turn all your Swords alone
• On me; the Fact confess’d, the Fault my own.
• (trans. Dryden)

[* ]Of this take the following specimen.

• They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase
• Soil our addition; and, indeed it takes
• From our atchievements, though perform’d at height,
• The pith and marrow of our attribute.
• So, oft it chances in particular men,
• That for some vicious mole of nature in them,
• As, in their birth, (wherein they are not guilty,
• Since Nature cannot chuse his origin),
• By the o’ergrowth of some complexion
• Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason;
• Or by some habit, that too much o’er-leavens
• The form of plausive manners; that these men
• Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,
• (Being Nature’s livery, or Fortune’s fear),
• Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace,
• As infinite as man may undergo,
• Shall in the general censure take corruption
• From that particular fault.
• Hamlet, act 1. sc. 7.

[Act 1, sc. 4. Read “Fortune’s star” for “Fortune’s fear.”]

[* ]The critics seem not perfectly to comprehend the genius of Shakespear. His plays are defective in the mechanical part; which is less the work of genius than of experience, and is not otherwise brought to perfection but by diligently observing the errors of former compositions. Shakespear excels all the ancients and moderns, in knowledge of human nature, and in unfolding even the most obscure and refined emotions. This is a rare faculty, and of the greatest importance in a dramatic author; and it is that faculty which makes him surpass all other writers in the comic as well as tragic vein.

[4. ]

• The heavens beheld the monster, horror-struck;
• It poisoned all the air; it rocked the earth.
• The wave that brought it in recoiled aghast.

[5. ]

• Scarce were we issuing from Troezen’s gates;
• He drove his chariot; round about him ranged,
• Copying his silence, were his cheerless guards.
• Pensive, he followed the Mycenae road,
• And let the reins hang loose upon his steeds.
• These haughty steeds, that once upon a time,
• Noble, high-spirited, obeyed his voice,
• Now dull of eye and with a dejected air
• Seemed to conform to his despondent thoughts.
• (Phaedra, trans. John Cairncross)

[6. ]Racine, Bajazet, end of act 5. “Well, it is all over. Through my pretence, my unjust suspicions, my disastrous whims, I have reached the painful moment when I see my lover die because of my crimes. Cruel fate, was it not enough that I should be condemned to survive him? To complete this horror, did I have to ascribe his death only to my mad passion? Yes, dear love, it is I who took your life. Neither Roxane nor the Sultan took it from you. I alone fashioned the unfortunate tie whose bond has stricken you with misfortune. Can I bear to think of it without dying; I, who, a little while ago, when threatened with your death, did not manage to keep myself from fainting. Did I love you only to stab you? But it is too much: I must sacrifice myself, quickly; let my obedient hand avenge you and punish me. All you others, whose glory and peace I have disturbed, past heroes who should have lived again in this hero; you, unhappy mother, who, from early childhood, entrusted me with his heart, hoping better things for him; unfortunate Vizier; desperate friends; Roxane, all called up, here, before me, come and torment a stricken lover. [She stabs herself.] Take at last what revenge is due you!” (Trans. Y. M. Martin.)

[* ]Soliloquies accounted for, chap. 15.

[7. ]Act 1, sc. 2.

[8. ]Act 3, sc. 5.

[* ]Act 2. sc. 2.

[† ]Act 1. sc. 1.

[‡ ]Act 1. sc. 2.

[9. ]Act 5, sc. 1.

[10. ]Voltaire, Henriade, 8.229: “He ever detests his guilty victory; he renounces the court, his fellow human beings, even glory; and fleeing from himself to the midst of the wilderness, he seeks to hide his sorrows at the farthest ends of the universe; there, whether the sun restores daylight to the world, or sets beneath the vast net of waves, his voice can call out again to the tender echoes, the name, the sad name of his wretched son.”

[11. ]The Cid, act 2, sc. 8.

• My father’s dead. My eyes have seen his blood
• Gush from his great, his noble-hearted side,
• This blood so oft the safeguard of your walls,
• This blood, so oft battle-victorious,
• This blood, though spilt, that reeks with anger still
• At being shed for others than yourself,
• That even war’s hazards did not dare to draw,
• Rodrigo in your court covers the earth
• With it. I hurried thither, pale, distraught.
• I found him lifeless, Sire; forgive my grief.
• My voice fails as I tell this fearful tale.
• My tears, more eloquent, can say the rest.

[12. ]

• His flank was open wide. The more to stir me on,
• His blood had writ my duty in the dust.
• Rather, his valour, now reduced so low,
• Spoke to me through his wound, called for revenge.
• And, to appeal to the most just of kings,
• Borrowed by these unspeaking lips my voice.
• (The Cid)

[13. ]Act 3, sc. 4.

[* ]Act 1. sc. 2.

[14. ]

• My father’s dead, Elvira. The first sword
• Rodrigo wielded cut his thread of life.
• Weep, weep, my eyes, dissolve. Half of my life
• Has sent the other half down to the tomb,
• And forces mee thereafter to avenge
• The one that’s gone on the surviving one.
• (The Cid, trans. John Cairncross)

[15. ]Act 3, sc. 1.

[16. ]Act 3, sc. 2.

[17. ]Act 4, sc. 5.

[18. ]

• O Amarillis, Authresse of my flame,
• (Within my mouth how sweet now is thy name!
• But in my heart how bitter!)

[19. ]Act 3, sc. 1.

[20. ]Act 2, sc. 1.

[21. ]Milton, Paradise Lost: 9.11; 5.868; 1.642; 4.181; 3.346.