grateful circuit, which leads them so agree ably to an acquisition of knowledge. The author, if he may be permitted, would refer, by way of illustration, to the beginnings of his Hermes, and his philosophical arrangements, where some attempts have been made in this periodical style. He would refer also, for much more illustrious examples, to the opening of Cicero's Offices; to that of the capital Oration of Demosthenes concerning the Crown, and to that of the celebrated Panegyric, made (if he may be so called) by the father of Periods, Isocrates. Again-every compound sentence is compounded of other sentences more simple, which, compared to one another, have a certain proportion of length. Now it is in general a good rule, that among these constituent sentences, the last (if possible) should be equal to the first; or if not equal, then rather longer than shorter. The reason is, that without a special cause, abrupt conclusions are offensive, and the reader, like a traveller quietly pursuing his journey, finds an unexpected precipice, where he is disagreeably stopt. Harris. $ 185. On Monosyllables. It has been called a fault in our language, that it abounds in Monosyllables. As these, in too lengthened a suite, disgrace a composition, Lord Shaftesbury, (who studied purity of style with great attention) limited their number to nine; and was careful in his Characteristics, to conform to his own law. Even in Latin too many of them were condemned by Quinctilian. Above all, care should be had, that a sentence end not with a crowd of them, those especially of the vulgar, untunable sort, such as, " to set it up," to "get by and by at it," &c. for these disgrace a sentence that may be otherwise laudable, and are like the rabble at the close of some pompous cavalcade. Ibid. 186. Authorities alleged. 'Twas by these, and other arts of similar sort, that authors in distant ages have cultivated their style. Looking upon know ledge (if I may be allowed the allusion) to pass into the mansions of the mind through language, they were careful (if I may pursue the metaphor) not to offend in the vestibule. They did not esteem it pardonable to despise the public ear, when they saw the love of numbers so universally diffused. Nor were they discouraged, as if they thought their labour would be lost. In these more refined but yet popular arts, they knew the amazing difference between the power to execute, and the power to judge:-that to execute was the joint effort of genius and of habit: a painful acquisition, only attainable by the few ;-to judge, the simple effort of that plain but common sense, imparted by Providence in some degree to every one. Ibid. 187. Objectors answered. But here methinks an objector demands "And are authors then to compose, and "form their treatises by rule?-Are they "to balance periods?-To scan pæans "and cretics?-To affect alliterations ?— "To enumerate monosyllables?" &c. If, in answer to this objector, it should be said, They ought; the permission should at least be tempered with much caution. These arts are to be so blended with a pure but common style, that the reader, as he proceeds, may only feel their latent force. If ever they become glaring, they degenerate into affectation; an extreme more disgusting, because less natural, than even the vulgar language of an unpolished clown. 'Tis in writing, as in actingThe best writers are like our late admired Garrick-And how did that able genius employ his art?-Not by a vain ostentation of any one of his powers, but by a latent use of them all in such an exhibition of nature, that while we were present in a theatre, and only beholding an actor, we could not help thinking ourselves in Denmark with Hamlet, or in Bosworth field with Richard. Ibid. § 188. When the Habit is once gained, nothing so easy as Practice. There is another objection still.-These speculations may be called minutiæ; things partaking at best more of the elegant than of the solid; and attended with difficulties beyond the value of the labour. To answer this, it may be observed, that when habit is once gained, nothing so easy as practice. When the ear is once habituated to these verbal rhythms, it forms them spontaneously, without attention or labour. If we call for instances, what more easy to every smith, to every carpenter, to every common mechanic, than the the several energies of their proper arts? How little do even the rigid laws of verse obstruct 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 versify, words followed him of course. We may add to Antipater the ancient Rhapsodists of the Greeks, and the modern Improvisatori of the Italians. If this then be practicable in verse, how much more so in prose? In prose, the laws of which so far differ from those 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 necessary, because, though numerous composition may be a requisite, yet regularly returning rhythm is a thing we should avoid. Harris. $ 189. In every Whole, the constituent Parts, and the facility of their Coincidence, merit our Regard. In every whole, whether natural or arti ficial, the constituent parts well merit our regard, and in nothing more than in the facility of their coincidence. If we view tween hills and woods, between rivers and a landskip, how pleasing the harmony belawns! If we select from this landskip a tree, how well does the trunk correspond 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 graceful figure? pulchro veniens e corpore virtus? The charm increases, if to a graceful figure we add a graceful elocution. Elocution too is heightened still, if it convey elegant sentiments; and these again are heightened, if clothed with graceful dic tion, that is, with words which are pure, precise, and well arranged. Ibid. $ 190. Verbal Decorations not to be called Minutia. We must not call these verbal decora. tions, minutia. They are essential to the beauty, nay, to the completion of the whole. Without them the composition, though its sentiments may be just, is like a picture with good drawing, but with bad and defective colouring. These we are assured were the senti ments of Cicero, whom we must allow to have been a master in his art, and who has amply and accurately treated verbal decora tion and numerous composition, in no less than two capital treatises, (his Orator, and his De Oratore) strengthening withal his own authority with that of Aristotle and Theophrastus; to whom, if more were wanting, we might add the names of Demetrics Phalereus, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Dionysius Longinus, and Quinctilian. Ibid. $191. Advice to Readers. Whoever reads a perfect or finished composition, whatever be the language, whatever the subject, should read it, even if alone, both audibly and distinctly. In a composition of this character, not only precise words are admitted, but words metaphorical and ornamental. And farther -as every sentence contains a latent harmony, so is that harmony derived from the rhythm of its constituent parts. I said before) be read both distinctly and A composition then like this, should (as audibly; with due regard to stops and constitutes just and accurate pronunciation. pressions of the voice, and whatever else pauses; with occasional elevations and deHe who, despising or neglecting, or know. ing nothing of all this, reads a work of such character as he would read a sessions-paper, will not only miss many beauties of the style, but will probably miss (which is worse) a large proportion of the sense. Ibid. f 192. Every Whole should have a Begin $192. ning, 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 polished period, I mean the Georgics of Virgil. Quid faciat lætas segetes quo sidere terram Vertere, Mæcenas, (11) ulmisque adjungere vites Conveniat; (1) quæ cura boum, qui cultus habendo sit pecori; (1) apibus quanta experientia pareis Hinc canere incipiam, &c. VIRG. Georg 1. In these lines, and so on (if we consult the original) for forty two lines inclusive, we have the beginning; which beginning includes two things, the plan, and the invocation. In the four first verses we have the plan, which plan gradually opens and becomes the the whole work, as an acorn, when deve loped, becomes a perfect oak. After this comes the invocation, which extends to the last of the forty-two verses above mentioned. The two together give us the true character of a beginning, which, as above described, nothing can precede, and which it is necessary that something should follow. The remaining part of the first book, together with the three books following, to verse the 458th of book the fourth, make the middle, which also has its true character, that of succeeding the beginning, where we expect something farther; and that of preceding the end, where we expect nothing more. The eight last verses of the poem make the end, which, like the beginning, is short, and which preserves its real character, by satisfying 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, respects 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 stops. The first book begins from the simple culture of the earth, and from its humblest progeny, corn, legumes, flowers, &c. It is a nobler species of vegetables which employs the second 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 nature. It is in the third book that the poet rises to nature sensitive and animated, when he gives us precepts about cattle, horses, sheep, &c. At length in the fourth book, when matters draw to a conclusion, then it is he treats his subject in a moral and political way. He no longer pursues the culture of the mere brute nature; he then describes, as he tells us, for such is the character of his bees, those Ese apibus partem divinæ mentis, et haustus Georg. IV. 219. When the subject will not permit him to proceed farther, he suddenly conveys his reader, by the fable of Aristæus, among nymphs, heroes, demi-gods, and gods, and thus leaves him in company supposed more than mortal. This is not only a sublime conclusion to the fourth book, but naturally leads to the conclusion of the whole work; for he does no more after this than shortly recapitulate, and elegantly blend his recapitulating with a compliment to Augustus. But even this is not all. The dry, didactic character of the Geor gics, made it necessary they should be enlivened by episodes and digressions. It has been the art of the poet, that these episodes and digressions should be homogeneous: that is, should so connect with the subject, as to become, as it were, parts of it. On these principles every book has for its end, what I call an epilogue; for its beginning, an invocation; and for its middle, the several precepts relative to its subject, I mean husbandry. Having a beginning, a middle, and an end, every part itself be comes a smaller whole, though with respect 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 simply but a part with a view to the entire body. The smaller wholes of this divine poem may merit some attention; by these I mean each particular book. Each book has an invocation. The first invokes the sun, the moon, the various rural deities, and lastly Augustus; the second invokes Bacchus; the third, Pales and Apollo; the fourth his patron Macenas. I do not dwell on these invocations, much less on the parts which follow, for this in fact would be writing a comment Mores, et studia, et populos, et prælia, &c. upon the poem. But the epilogues, besides their own intrinsic beauty, are too much to our purpose to be passed in silence. In the arrangement of them the poet seems to have pursued such an order, as that alternate affections should 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-position or succession *. The first book ends with those portents and prodigies, both upon earth and in the heavens, which preceded the death of the dictator Cæsar. To these direful scenes the epilogue of the second book opposes the tranquillity and felicity of the rural life, which (as he informs us) faction and civil discord do not usually impair Non res Romanæ, perituraque regna— In the ending of the third book we read of a pestilence, and of nature in devastation; in the fourth, of nature restored, and, by help of the gods, replenished. As this concluding epilogue (I mean the fable of Aristaus) occupies the most important place; so is it decorated accordingly with language, events, places, and personages. No language was ever more polished and harmonious. The descent of Aristaus to his mother, and of Orpheus to the shades, are events; the watery palace of the Ne. reides, the cavern of Proteus, and the scene of the infernal regions, are places; Aristaus, Old Proteus, Orpheus, Eurydice, Cyllene, and her nymphs, are personages; all great, all striking, all sublime. Let us view these epilogues in the poet's order. The beginning is a solemn account of the deceased having received all the legiti mate 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 perpe tuate the memory of their magnanimity, and to recommend it to their posterity, as an object of imitation. As the deceased were brave and gallant men, we are shewn by what means they came to possess their character, and what noble exploits they perform in con sequence. Hence the middle of the oration contains first their origin; next their education and form of government; and last of and education; their heroic achievements all, the consequence of such an origin from the earliest days to the time then present. The middle part being thus complete, we come to the conclusion, which is per haps the most sublime piece of oratory, both for the plan and execution, which is extant, of any age, or in any lan guage. By an awful prosopopeia, the deceased fathers slain in battle, to exhort their liv are called up to address the living; and ing children; the children slain in battle, to console their living fathers; and this with every idea of manly consolation, with every generous incentive to a contempt of death, and a love of their country, that the powers of nature or of art could suggest. 'Tis here this oration concludes, being (as we have shewn) a perfect whole, executed with all the strength of a sublime language, under the management of a great and a sublime genius. If these speculations appear too dry, they may be rendered more pleasing, if the reader would peruse the two pieces criticised. His labour, he might be assured, would not be lost, as he would peruse two of the finest pieces which the two finest ages of antiquity produced. Ibid. 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 observing that it regards alike both small works and great; and that it descends even to an essay, to a sonnet, to an ode. These minuter efforts of genius, unless they possess (if I may be pardoned the expression) a certain character of Totality, lose a capital pleasure derived from their union; from a union which, collected in a few pertinent ideas, combines them all happily under one amicable form. With out this union the production is no better than a sort of vague effusion, where sentences follow sentences, and stanzas follow stanzas, with no apparent reason why they should 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 said to imitate. Not only this universe is one stupendous whole, but such also is a tree, a shrub, a flower; such those beings which, without the aid of glasses, even escape our perception. And so much for Totality (I venture to familiarize the term) that common and essential character to every legitimate composition. Harris. 195. On Accuracy. same person, drest like a peasant, or drest like a gentleman. And hence we see how There is another character left, which, though foreign to the present purpose, I venture to mention; and that is the character of Accuracy. Every work ought to be as accurate as possible. And yet, though this apply to works of every kind, there is a difference whether the work be great or small. In greater works (such as histories, epic poems, and the like) their very magnitude excuses incidental defects; and their authors, according to Horace, may be allowed to slumber. It is otherwise in smaller works, for the very reason that they are smaller. Such, through every part, both in sentiment and diction, should be perspicuous, pure, simple, and precise. $196. On Diction. Ibid. As every sentiment must be exprest by words; the theory of sentiment naturally leads to that of Diction. Indeed, the connection between them is so intimate, that the same sentiment, where the diction differs, is as different in appearance, as the much diction merits a serious attention. But this perhaps will be better understood by an example. Take then the following" Don't let a lucky hit slip; if you do, be like you mayn't any more get at it." The sentiment (we must confess) is exprest clearly, but the diction surely is rather vulgar and low. Take it another way-"Opportune moments are few and fleeting; seize them with avidity, or your progression will be impeded." Here the diction, though not low, is rather obscure, the words are unusual, pedantic, and affected. But what says Shakespeare?— There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Here the diction is elegant, without being vulgar or affected; the words, though common, being taken under a metaphor, are so far estranged 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 stress 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 speech so pleasing as the Metaphor. It is at times the language of every individual, but above all, is peculiar to the man of genius. His sagacity discerns not only common analogies, but those others more remote, which escape the vulgar, and which, though they seldom invent, they seldom fail to recognize, when they hear them from persons more ingenious than themselves. It has been ingeniously observed, that the Metaphor took its rise from the poverty of language. Men, not finding upon every occasion words ready made for their ideas, were compelled to have recourse 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 just and this often happened) there was something peculiarly pleasing in what was both new, and yet familiar; so that the Metaphor was then cultivated, not out of necessity, but for or 8 nament, |