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is supposed to have place in the mind. But, with respect to exclamations, he must be more reserved. Nothing has a worse effect than the frequent and unseasonable use of them. Raw, juvenile writers imagine, that by pouring them forth often, they render their compositions warm and animated. Whereas quite the contrary follows. They render it frigid to excess. When an author is always calling upon us to enter into transports which he has said nothing to inspire, we are both disgusted and enraged at him. He raises no sympathy, for he gives us no passion of his own, in which we can take part. He gives us words and not passion; and, of course, can raise no passion, unless that of indignation. Hence I am inclined to think, he was not much mistaken, who said, that when, on looking into a book, he found the pages thick bespangled with the point which is called "punctum admirationis," he judged this to be a sufficient reason for his laying it aside. And, indeed, were it not for the help of this "punctum admirationis," with which many writers of the rapturous kind so much abound, one would be often at a loss to discover, whether or not it was exclamation which they aimed at. For, it has now become a fashion, among these writers, to subjoin points of admiration to sentences, which contain nothing but simple affirmations, or propositions; as if, by an affected method of pointing, they could transform them in the reader's mind into high figures of eloquence. Much akin to this, is another contrivance practised by some writers, of separating almost all the members of their sentences from each other, by blank lines; as if, by setting them thus asunder, they bestowed some special importance upon them; and required us, in going along, to make a pause at every other word, and weigh it well. This, I think, may be called a typographical figure of speech. Neither, indeed, since we have been led to mention the arts of writers for increasing the importance of their words, does another custom, which prevailed very much some time ago, seem worthy of imitation; I mean that of distinguishing the significant words, in every sentence, by italic characters. On some occasions, it is very proper to use such distinctions. But when we carry them so far, as to mark with them every supposed emphatical word, these words are apt to multiply so fast in the author's imagination, that every page is crowded with italics; which can produce no effect whatever, but to hurt the eye and create confusion. Indeed, if the sense point not out the most emphatical expressions, a variation in the type, especially when occuring so frequently, will give small aid. And, accordingly, the most

masterly writers, of late, have, with good reason, laid aside all those feeble props of significancy, and trusted wholly to the weight of their sentiments for commanding attention. But to return from this digression:

Another figure of speech, proper only to animated and warm composition, is what some critical writers call Vision; when, in place of relating something that is past, we use the present tense, and describe it as actually passing before our eyes. Thus Cicero, in his fourth oration against Catiline: "Videor enim mihi hanc urbem videre, lucem orbis terrarum atque arcem omnium gentium, subito uno incendio concidentem; cerno animo sepulta in patria miseros atque insepultos acervos civium; versatur mihi ante oculos adspectus Cethegi, et furor, in vestra cæde bacchantis." This manner of description supposes a sort of enthusiasm, which carries the person who describes in some measure out of himself; and, when well executed, must needs impress the reader or hearer strongly, by the force of that sympathy which I have before explained. But, in order to a successful execution, it requires an uncommonly warm imagination, and such a happy selection of circumstances, as shall make us think we see before our eyes the scene that is described. Otherwise, it shares the same fate with all feeble attempts towards passionate figures; that of throwing ridicule upon the author and leaving the reader more cool and uninterested than he was before. The same observations are to be applied to repetition, suspension, correction, and many more of those figurative forms of speech, which rhetoricians have enumerated among the beauties of eloquence. They are beautiful, or not, exactly in proportion as they are native expressions of the sentiment or passion intended to be heightened by them. Let nature and passion always speak their own language, and they will suggest figures in abundance. But, when we seek to counterfeit a warmth which we do not feel, no figures will either supply the defect, or conceal the imposture.

There is one figure (and I shall mention no more) of frequent use among all public speakers, particularly at the bar, which Quintilian insists upon considerably, and calls Amplification. It consists in an artful exaggeration of all the circumstances of some object or action which we want to place in a strong light,

"I seem to myself to behold this city, the ornament of the earth, and the capital of all nations, suddenly involved in one conflagration. I see before me the slaughtered heaps of citizens lying unburied in the midst of their ruined country. The furious countenance of Cethegus rises to my view, while with a savage joy he is triumphing in your miseries.”

Q

c. 6.

either a good or a bad one. It is not so properly one figure, as the skilful management of several which we make to tend to one point. It may be carried on by a proper use of magnifying or extenuating terms, by a regular enumeration of particulars, or by throwing together, as into one mass, a crowd of circumstances; by suggesting comparisons also with things of a like nature. But the principal instrument by which it works, is by a climax, or a gradual rise of one circumstance above another, till our idea be raised to the utmost. I spoke formerly of a climax in sound ; a climax in sense, when well carried on, is a figure which never fails to amplify strongly. The common example of this is, that noted passage in Cicero, which every school-boy knows : "Facinus est vincire civem Romanum; scelus verberare, prope parricidium, necare; quid dicam in crucem tollere ?"* I shall give an instance from a printed pleading of a famous Scotch lawyer, Sir George M'Kenzie. It is in a charge to the jury, in the case of a woman accused of murdering her own child. "Gentlemen, if one man had any how slain another, if an adversary had killed his opposer, or a woman occasioned the death of her enemy, even these criminals would have been capitally punished by the Cornelian law: but, if this guiltless infant, who could make no enemy, had been murdered by its own nurse, what punishments would not then the mother have demanded? With what cries and exclamations would she have stunned your ears? What shall we say then, when a woman, guilty of homicide, a mother of the murder of her innocent child, hath comprised all those misdeeds in one single crime; a crime, in its own nature detestable; in a woman, prodigious; in a mother, incredible; and perpetrated against one whose age called for compassion, whose near relation claimed affection, and whose innocence deserved the highest favour?" I must take notice, however, that such regular climaxes as these, though they have considerable beauty, have, at the same time, no small appearance of art and study; and, therefore, though they may be admitted into formal harangues, yet they speak not the language of great earnestness and passion, which seldom proceed by steps so regular. Nor, indeed, for the purposes of effectual persuasion, are they likely to be so successful, as an arrangement of circumstances in a less artificial order. For, when much art appears, we are always put on our guard against the deceits of eloquence; but

“It is a crime to put a Roman citizen in bonds; it is the height of guilt to Scourge him; little less than parricide to put him to death; what name then shall I give to crucifying him?"

when a speaker has reasoned strongly, and by force of argument has made good his main point, he may then, taking advantage of the favourable bent of our minds, make use of such artificial figures to confirm our belief and to warm our minds.

LECTURE XVIII.

FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE-GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLEDIFFUSE, CONCISE-FEEBLE, NERVOUS-DRY, PLAIN, NEAT, ELEGANT, FLOWERY.

HAVING treated, at considerable length, of the figures of speech, of their origin, of their nature, and of the management of such of them as are important enough to require a particular discussion, before finally dismissing this subject, I think it incumbent on me, to make some observations concerning the proper use of figurative language in general. These, indeed, I have in part already anticipated. But, as great errors are often committed in this part of style, especially by young writers, it may be of use that I bring together, under one view, the most material directions on this head.

I begin with repeating an observation formerly made, that neither all the beauties, nor even the chief-beauties, of composition depend upon tropes and figures. Some of the most sublime and most pathetic passages of the most admired authors, both in prose and poetry, are expressed in the most simple style, without any figure at all; instances of which I have before given. On the other hand, a composition may abound with these studied ornaments; the language may be artful, splendid, and highly figured, and yet the composition be on the whole frigid and unaffecting. Not to speak of sentiment and thought, which constitute the real and lasting merit of any work, if the style be stiff and affected, if it be deficient in perspicuity or precision, or in ease and neatness, all the figures that can be employed will never render it agreeable: they may dazzle a vulgar, but will never please a judicious eye.

In the second place, figures, in order to be beautiful, must always rise naturally from the subject. I have shown that all of them are the language either of imagination, or of passion; some of them suggested by imagination, when it is awakened and sprightly, such as metaphors and comparisons; others by passion or more heated emotion, such as personifications and

apostrophes. Of course they are beautiful then only, when they are prompted by fancy or by passion. They must rise of their own accord; they must flow from a mind warmed by the object which it seeks to describe; we should never interrupt the course of thought to cast about for figures. If they be sought after coolly, and fastened on as designed ornaments, they will have a miserable effect. It is a very erroneous idea, which many have of the ornaments of style, as if they were things detached from the subject, and that could be stuck to it, like lace upon a coat this is, indeed,

Purpureus, late qui splendeat, unus et alter
Assuitur pannus.*-

Ars Poet. v. 15.

And it is this false idea which has often brought attention to the beauties of writing into disrepute. Whereas, the real and proper ornaments of style arise from sentiment. They flow in the same stream with the current of thought. A writer of genius conceives his subject strongly; his imagination is filled and impressed with it; and pours itself forth in that figurative language which imagination naturally speaks. He puts on no emotion which his subject does not raise in him; he speaks as he feels; but his style will be beautiful, because his feelings are lively. On occasions, when fancy is languid, or finds nothing to rouse it, we should never attempt to hunt for figures. We then work, as it is said, "invita Minerva ;" supposing figures invented, they will have the appearance of being forced; and, in this case, they had much better be omitted.

In the third place, even when imagination prompts, and the subject naturally gives rise to figures, they must, however, not be employed too frequently. In all beauty," simplex munditiis" is a capital quality. Nothing derogates more from the weight and dignity of any composition, than too great attention to ornament. When the ornaments cost labour, that labour always appears; though they should cost us none, still the reader or hearer may be surfeited with them; and when they come too thick, they give the impression of a light and frothy genius, that evaporates in show, rather than brings forth what is solid. The directions of the ancient critics, on this head, are full of good sense, and deserve careful attention. "Voluptatibus maximis," says Cicero, de Orat. lib. iii., "fastidium finitimum est in rebus omnibus; quo hoc minus in oratione miremur. In qua, vel ex

"Shreds of purple with broad lustre shine,
Sew'd on your poem.”—

FRANCIS.

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