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is true that no language more readily admits of terms borrowed from different languages, but this is no proof that it is a compound of these languages, for it impresses its own character upon all the terms which it adopts. Instead, therefore, of conforming to the languages to which it is indebted, it makes them conform to it, a proof that it has only one individual character. Without entering, however, into the origin of the Italian, which is foreign to our purpose, without inquiring whether it be the offspring of barbarian grossness or elegant refinement; it is certain, at least, that whatever be its origin, no language can be more distinct in its articulation, more tender, delicate, and melodious in its sounds. It is, therefore, a language made altogether for pleasure, and admirably adapted to the portraiture of soft and enchanting images; but what it gains in delicacy, it loses in strength, nerve, robustness, energy, sublimity, and ardour. The Italian poet, however, may conceive as bold and sublime images, may indulge in as warm and enthusiastic feelings as the English poet; but in attempting to embody them in language, he can never make "the sound an echo to the sense.' The Italian reader, however, from his intimacy with the language, can enter into the spirit of the poet, and perceive the glowing ardor of his conceptions, though his language has not a single trait of strength or energy. Having never been in the habit of associating strong, loud, boisterous, and rugged sounds, with boldness, greatness, and sublimity of conception, or difficulty of action, he possesses a power of abstracting himself in all such instances from the influence of sounds, of seizing the naked and original conception of the poet, and of identifying himself with the enthusiasm of his feelings; but the English reader, whose language possesses a versatility of power, and an adaptation to all the purposes of poetry, of which no other language is equally capable, can never follow him, can never enter into that "soul of soul" by which he is animated and inspired. He is so accustomed to find bold and daring images expressed in sounds that are an "echo to the sense," that he can never reconcile soft, soothing, and delicate sounds with bold, lofty, and aspiring conceptions-not reflecting that the Italian language has no other sound to express them, and that whatever be the images or sentiments which the Italian poet wishes to convey, he has no sounds or words to convey them in but what are of a soft and delicate character. The English language is of all languages in the world the best adapted to the expression of all the various associations, modes, and shades of feeling; which rouse, agitate, or tranquillize the human breast; and it is in the expression of such feelings that poetry consists. Beyond this its dominion does not extend, for though the wide range of ideal being is

laid open to its excursions, yet that ideal creation which is not the immediate offspring of feeling, is a mere brutum fulmen.Whatever be the passion or affection that exercises its influence over the English poet, he writes in a language that not only yields to him at once, but which would seem to be better adapted to the expression of such feelings than any other. Dr. Johnson says of Goldsmith, "that he always seemed to write that best on which he was immediately employed, as if his genius were not so well adapted to any other." The same may be said of the English language. Is the poet languishing in love? It would seem the language purposely intended to express his passion. To give instances would be needless all our readers can recollect instances without number. Does love lead the victim of passion to associate its languishing and moody feelings with kindred images in nature? What language can keep passion and imagination in closer harmony?—

"In these lone walls (their days' eternal bound),

These moss-grown domes, with spiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noon-day night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light,
Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,

And beams of glory brighten'd all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears-
'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears;
The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclined
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind-

The wandering streams that shine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze.
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid.”

It is not merely because these images are in unison with the feelings of the unhappy Eloisa that we quote this passage, but because the very measure and cadence of the verse, abstracted from the ideas, are in unison with them also. Long and heavy syllables have an indescribable solemnity that admirably accords with doleful, melancholy feelings. What language,

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then, can supply words so peculiarly suited to these feelings as the "lone walls," "moss-grown domes," "solemn light," "darksome pines," "hollow wind," wandering streams," dying gales." All these sounds are an echo to the sense. But while the English language is thus exquisitely adapted to the softer and tenderer affections, it seems still more peculiarly

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adapted to express the stronger and sterner passions of the soul. Indeed it is in the expression of these passions that it excels all languages whatever. To quote instances of pure and unmixed sublimity would be as unnecessary as to quote instances of pure love. We shall therefore, as in the last passage, quote an instance of mixed sublimity. The pure sublime is a simple emotion of the mind; but where it is mingled with terror, it loses a portion of its sublime character, and produces a grating, painful sensation on the organs of sense. Thus, a man viewing an extensive prospect from the summit of a lofty mountain, is filled with great and sublime emotions-emotions that affect the mind alone; but place him on the summit of a precipice, the emotion passes from the mind to the organical senses, and produces a painful and uneasy sensation. This feeling, consequently, is partly of a mental, partly of a sensible or physical character; but though real causes will produce this mixed feeling, how difficult is it to produce it by mere words, particularly in a language so capable of expressing the softer affections of the soul as the language in which we write. And yet who can read Milton's description of the opening of hell's gates without feeling a certain painful, grating sensation, arising from the mere sound of the words accompanying the sublime emotion which it excites in the mind.

"On a sudden open fly,

With impetuous recoil and jarring sound,
The infernal doors; and on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook
Of Erebus."

This organical sensation owes no part of its existence to the circumstance described, for the circumstance itself affects only the mind, but the very sound of the words in which it is expressed so peculiarly accords with the nature of the circumstance, that we cannot pronounce them without feeling that painful and grating sensation which we have described. Had an Italian poet described a similar circumstance, his language could not supply him with words to produce an effect of a similar character. He would affect the mind alone, but could exercise no influence over the physical part of our nature. The poetical effect, however, is never so powerful as when the mind' and body are affected at the same moment; nor is any language so well adapted to the various purposes of poetry as that which enables the poet to produce this two-fold effect, or in other words, the language in which the sound may be made an echo to the sense.

So far, then, as regards the mere style of Ariosto, it is cer

tain that the soft and delicate character of the Italian language rendered it impossible for him to make the sound and sense always harmonize with each other. He had frequently to paint bold and imposing scenes, to describe daring and heroic actions; and though he had words to convey an image of these scenes, and a minute description of these actions, to the mind, he had no words that could prove an echo to the sense. The Italian language is incapable of " the hoarse rough verse." It wants that ruggedness, that nerve, that infinite variety of sound that accords with all the various passions and emotions of the mind, for there is no passion or emotion but what expresses itself in a tone or modulation of sound peculiarly its own. is what may properly be called the language of nature; and the more the language of poetry approximates to it the more pow erful is its effect,-the more it approaches to that nature of which it ought to be an imitation.

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On this subject Dr. Johnson has some very erroneous ideas. Indeed, his essay on the accommodation of sound to sense seems to have been written through a mere spirit of opposition to the prevailing opinion that such a harmony .should be always observed by the poet.-It seldom happens, however, that a general opinion is found to be erroneous, if it has its origin in feeling, though erroneous metaphysical opinions may be adopted by all mankind, as the doctrine of innate ideas had been antecedent to Locke.. Accordingly, the opinion that a certain harmony should exist between sound and sense is not only founded in truth and nature, but there is no instance whatever, in which the poet has it not in his power to make the one an echo of the other, if he write in a language that possesses a sufficient variety of vowel and consonant sounds. This, Dr. Johnson thinks impossible, and labours to prove that the resemblance between sense and sound is frequently fanciful. "The representative power," he says, "of poetic harmony consists of sound and measure; of the force of the syllables singly considered, and of the time in which they are pronounced. Sound can resemble nothing but sound, and time can measure nothing but motion and duration." Now we very readily admit, that sound can resemble nothing but sound, but what is a sound? The Doctor does not tell us, and seems to take it for granted that it is too simple to require explanation. We think differently, and we are the more inclined to think so from consulting his own dictionary, and finding that he can neither explain nor define_it. A sound, according to him, is "any thing audible." This is his first definition; and if it be true a sound is every thing, and every thing is a sound. When we hear a bull roar he is audible, and consequently if every thing audible be sound the bull is a sound.

The nightingale is a sound while she continues to sing; and two stones are metamorphosed into two sounds if we only knock them together. Accordingly, every thing in nature may be converted into a sound. His second definition of sound is "a noise," but if we turn over to the word noise, we are told it is " any kind of sound." To tell us that sound is a noise and noise is a sound is telling us nothing, so that we must travel farther in search of its meaning. His next and last definition of sound is, "that which is perceived by the ear." According to this definition, he who puts a pin into his ear converts it into a sound, not because the ear perceives, but because it feels it, for it is the mind only that perceives, though custom authorizes us in applying the term perception to sensible vision.If these definitions of Dr. Johnson were true, they would prove that sound resembles almost every thing; for as almost every thing may be rendered audible, so almost every thing may be a sound, and therefore a sound may resemble almost every thing. The fact is, that a sound, so far from being any thing audible, is not even a quality in any thing audible, it being a mere sensation produced in us by a percussion of air. A sound can have no abstract existence of its own, for it is no sound till it reaches. the ear,—and consequently if there were no ears to hear it, there would be no body in nature capable of emitting a sound. This is so true, that a deaf man cannot be even made to understand what is meant by a sound. When the bull roars he emits no sound, but he causes a percussion of air that produces a sensation in our ears which we call a sound. It is evident, then, that all sounds are sensations in us, and that the infinite variety that exists in sound is only an infinite variety in our modes of feeling, or rather infinite modes of feeling. Admitting, then, with Dr. Johnson, that "sound can resemble nothing but sound," it is still evident, that every sound can resemble some particular sensation or mode of feeling, as every sound is only a particular sensation or feeling. To say that sounds resemble feelings, is, in fact, only saying that feelings resemble feelings, as sounds are nothing else but feelings or sensations in us, and have no existence beyond us.

From these observations it is obvious, that sound may be always rendered an "echo to the sense," in poetry; for, as every sentence we read is calculated to produce some sensation in us, this sensation may be imitated by a sound whatever be its nature or character. Is the sensation gentle? a soft sound will harmonize with it, because a soft sound is, in itself, unaccompanied by words, a gentle and pleasing sensation. But it will be said that there are different degrees or modes of pleasing sensations imparted by the images and associations of the poet, and that, consequently, soft sounds cannot

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