of the literal sense, and the literal sense is the sign of the figurative. Perspicuity in the style, which exhibits only the literal sense, is so far from being to be dispensed with here, that it is even more requisite in this kind of composition than in any other. Accordingly, you will, perhaps, nowhere find more perfect models both of simplicity and of perspicuity of style than in the parables of the Gospel. Indeed, in every sort of composition of a figurative character, more attention is always and justly considered as due to this circumstance than in any other sort of writing. Æsop's fables are a noted example of this remark. In farther confirmation of it, we may observe, that no pieces are commonly translated with greater ease and exactness than the allegorical, and that even by those who apprehend nothing of the mystical sense. surely could never be the case if the obscurity were chargeable on the language.

This

The same thing holds here as in painting emblems or graving devices. It may, without any fault in the painter or engraver, puzzle you to discover what the visible figure of the sun for example, which you observe in the emblem or the device, was intended to signify; but if you are at a loss to know whether it be the figure of the sun or the figure of the moon that you are looking at, he must have undoubtedly been a bungling artist. The body, therefore, if I may so express myself, of the emblem or of the device, and precisely for the same reason, of the riddle or of the allegory, must be distinctly exhibited, so as scarcely to leave room for a possibility of mistake. The exercise that in any of these performances is given to ingenuity, ought wholly to consist in reading the soul.

I know no style to which darkness of a certain sort is more suited than to the prophetical. Many reasons might be assigned which render it improper that prophecy should be perfectly understood before it be accomplished. Besides, we are certain that a prediction may be very dark before the accomplishment, and yet so plain afterward as scarcely to admit a doubt in regard to the events suggested. It does not belong to critics to give laws to prophets, nor does it fall within the confines of any human art to lay down rules for a species of composition so far above art. Thus far, however we may warrantably observe, that when the prophetic style is imitated in poetry, the piece ought, as much as possible, to possess the character above mentioned. This character, in my opinion, is possessed in a very eminent degree by Mr. Gray's ode called The Bard. It is all darkness to one who knows nothing of the English history posterior to the reign of Edward the First, and all light to one who is well acquainted with that history. But this is a kind of writing whose peculiarities can scarcely be considered as exceptions from or dinary rules.

In

But, farther, may not a little obscurity be sometimes very suitable in dramatic composition? Sometimes, indeed, but very seldom; else the purpose of the exhibition would be lost. The drama is a sort of moral painting, and characters must be painted as they are. A blunderer cannot properly be introduced conversing with all the perspicuity and precision of a critic, no more than a clown can be justly represented expressing himself in the polished style of a courtier. like manner, when the mind is in confusion and perplexity, arising from the sudden conflict of violent passions, the language will of necessity partake of the perturbation. Incoherent hints, precipitate sallies, vehement exclamations, interrupted, perhaps, by feeble checks from religion or philosophy-in short, everything imperfect, abrupt, and desultory, are the natural expressions of a soul overwhelmed in such a tumult. But even here it may be said with truth, that to one skilled in reading Nature there will arise a light out of the darkness, which will enable him to penetrate farther into the spirit than he could have done by the help of the most just most perspicuous, and most elaborate description. This might be illustrated, were it necessary; but a case so singular is hardly called an exception. The dramatist, then, can but rarely claim to be indulged in obscurity of language, the fabulist never

CHAPTER IX.

MAY THERE NOT BE AN EXCESS OF PERSPICUITY?

I SHALL Conclude this subject with inquiring whether it be possible that perspicuity should be carried to excess. It hath been said that too much of it has a tendency to cloy the reader, and, as it gives no play to the rational and active powers of the mind, will soon grow irksome through excess of facility. In this manner some able critics have expressed themselves on this point, who will be found not to differ in sentiment, but only in expression, from the principles above laid down.

The objection ariseth manifestly from the confounding of two objects, the common and the clear, and thence very naturally their contraries, the new and the dark, that are widely different. If you entertain your reader solely or chiefly with thoughts that are either trite or obvious, you cannot fail soon to tire him. You introduce few or no new sentiments into his mind, you give him little or no information, and, consequently, afford neither exercise to his reason nor entertain

ment to his fancy. In what we read and what we hear, we always seek for something in one respect or other new, which we did not know, or, at least, attend to before. The less we find of this, the sooner we are tired. Such a trifling minuteness, therefore, in narration, description, or argument, as an ordinary apprehension would render superfluous, is apt quick.y to disgust us. The reason is, not because anything is said too perspicuously, but because many things are said which ought not to be said at all. Nay, if those very things had been expressed obscurely (and the most obvious things may be expressed obscurely), the fault would have been much greater, because it would have required a good deal of attention to discover what, after we had discovered it, we should perceive not to be of sufficient value for requiting our pains. To an author of this kind we should be apt to apply the character which Bassanio in the play gives of Gratiano's conversation: "He speaks an infinite deal of nothing. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them they are not worth the search."* It is therefore futility in the thought, and not perspicuity in the language, which is the fault of such performances. There is as little hazard that a piece shall be faulty in this respect, as that a mirror shall be too faithful in reflecting the images o objects, or that the glasses of a telescope shall be too transparent.

At the same time, it is not to be dissembled that, with inattentive readers, a pretty numerous class, darkness frequently passes for depth. To be perspicuous, on the contrary, and to be superficial, are regarded by them as synonymous. But it is not surely to their absurd notions that our language ought to be adapted.

It is proper, however, before I dismiss this subject, to observe, that every kind of style doth not admit an equal degree of perspicuity. In the ode, for instance, it is difficult, sometimes perhaps impossible, to reconcile the utmost perspicuity with that force and vivacity which the species of composition requires. But even in this case, though we may justly say that the genius of the performance renders obscurity to a certain degree excusable, nothing can ever constitute it an excellence. Nay, it may still be affirmed with truth, that the more a writer can reconcile this quality of perspicuity with that which is the distinguishing excellence of the species of composition, his success will be the greater.

* Shakspeare's Merchant of Venice.

BOOK III.

THE DISCRIMINATING PROPERTIES OF ELOCUTION.

CHAPTER I.

UF VIVACITY AS DEPENDING ON THE CHOICE OF WOrds.

HAVING discussed the subject of perspicuity, by which the discourse is fitted to inform the understanding, I come now to those qualities of style by which it is adapted to please the imagination, and, consequently, to awaken and fix the attention. These I have already denominated vivacity and elegance, which correspond to the two sources whence, as was observed in the beginning of this inquiry,* the merit of an address to the fancy immediately results. By vivacity of expression, resemblance is attained, as far as language can contribute to the attainment; by elegance, dignity of manner.

I begin with vivacity, whose nature (though perhaps the word is rarely used in a signification so extensive) will be best understood by considering the several principles from which it arises. There are three things in a style on which its vivacity depends, the choice of words, their number, and their arrangement.

The first thing, then, that comes to be examined is the words chosen. Words are either proper terms or rhetorical tropes; and whether the one or the other, they may be regarded not only as signs, but as sounds; and, consequently, as capable, in certain cases, of bearing in some degree a natural resemblance or affinity to the things signified. These three articles, therefore, proper terms, rhetorical tropes, and the relation which the sound may be made to bear to the sense, I shall, on the first topic, the choice of words, consider severally, as far as concerns the subject of vivacity.

SECTION I.

PROPER TERMS.

I BEGIN with proper terms, and observe that the quality of chief importance in these for producing the end proposed is their speciality. Nothing can contribute more to enliven the expression than that all the words employed be as particular and determinate in their signification as will suit with the nature and the scope of the discourse. The more general the * Book i., chap. i.

terms are, the picture is the fainter; the more special they are, it is the brighter. The same sentiments may be expressed with equal justness, and even perspicuity, in the former way as in the latter; but as the colouring will in that case be more languid, it cannot give equal pleasure to the fancy, and, by consequence, will not contribute so much either to fix the attention or to impress the memory. I shall illustrate this doctrine by some examples.

In the song of Moses, occasioned by the miraculous passage of the Israelites through the Red Sea, the inspired poet, speaking of the Egyptians, says, “They sank as lead in the mighty waters."* Make but a small alteration on the expression, and say, “They fell as metal in the mighty waters," and the difference in the effect will be quite astonishing. Yet the sentiment will be equally just, and in either way the meaning of the author can hardly be mistaken. Nor is there another alteration made upon the sentence but that the terms are rendered more comprehensive or generical. To this alone, therefore, the difference of the effect must be ascribed. To sink is, as it were, the species, as it implies only "falling or moving downward in a liquid element;" to fall answers to the genus; in like manner, lead is the species, metal is the genus.

"Consider," says our Lord, "the lilies how they grow they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. If, then, God so clothe the grass which to-day is in the field and tomorrow is cast into the oven, how much more will he clothe you?" Let us here adopt a little of the tasteless manner of modern paraphrasts, by the substitution of more general terms, one of their many expedients of infrigidating, and let us observe the effect produced by this change. "Consider the flowers how they gradually increase in their size; they do no manner of work, and yet I declare to you that no king whatever, in his most splendid habit, is dressed up like them. If, then, God in his providence doth so adorn the vegetable productions which continue but a little time on the land, and are afterward put into the fire, how much more will he provide clothing for you?" How spiritless is the same sentiment rendered by these small variations! The very partic

Exod., xv., 10.

+ I am sensible that genus and species are not usually, and perhaps cannot be so properly, applied to verbs; yet there is in the reference which the meanings of two verbs sometimes bear to each other what nearly resembles this relation. It is only when to fall means to move downward, as a brick from a chimney-top or a pear from the tree, that it may be denominated a genus in respect of the verb to sink. Sometimes, indeed, the former denotes merely a sudden change of posture from erect to prostrate, as when a man who stands upon the ground is said to fall, though he remain still on the ground. In this way we speak of the fall of a tower, of a house, or of a wall. Luke, xii., 27 and 28.