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or indirectly alluded to, and thus the people were prepared for the occurrences which we have to relate." But our incomparable Shakspeare produces an assemblage of imagery, which while it entertains and engages, leaves a strong impression on the mind:

"Old men, and beldams, in the streets

"Do prophesy upon it dangerously:

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Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths;
"And when they talk of him they shake their heads,
"And whisper one another in the ear; "

"And he, that speaks, doth gripe the hearer's wrist;
"Whilst he, that hears, makes fearful action
"With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.
"I saw a smith stand with his hammer thus,
"The whilst his iron did on his anvil cool,
"With open mouth swallowing a taylor's news;
"Who with his shears and measure in his hand,
"Standing on slippers (which his nimble haste
"Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet)
"Told of a many thousand warlike French,
"That were embatteled and rank'd in Kent;
"Another lean unwash'd artificer

"Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death."

Much of the satire conveyed in Hogarth's incomparable prints is found in the minute circumstances which he introduces. I need only mention the coronet, which is so carefully displayed on the crutches of the gouty peer in Marriage A-la-mode. I think therefore I may advance as an admitted truth, that a style is interesting and impressive in proportion to the variety of vivid images it presents, provided they are strictly connected with the subject, and calculated to excite corresponding emotions in the mind.

You must carry in your mind that I am now speaking of that style which pleases, and not of that which instructs. The work which engages our attention by its matter is extremely different from that which is extolled for its elegance of style. I will not pretend to assert that there is not a certain degree of beauty consistent with the utmost plainness and simplicity, but this is a beauty of a different kind; and productions which pos

sess it will, as I stated, be only read for their matter. I am speaking at present of those sources whence the ornaments or decorations of style are derived.

One, who was himself a philosopher,* has very justly remarked, that "One reason why philosophers seldom succeed in poetry may be that abstract ideas are too familiar to their minds. They are perpetually employed in reducing particular to general propositions, a turn of thinking very unfavourable to poetry." And you will observe that all ornamented diction, every thing that is called eloquence, approaches more or less to the nature of poetry.

* Dr. Priestley.




METAPHYSICAL writers have generalized and classed the various sources whence the pleasures of the imagination, and the ornaments of style are derived. They are all to be traced into the human passions, for, as I observed, it is by exciting correspondent emotions in their minds that the imagery employed by any writer affects and interests his readers. The same philosophers have endeavoured to explain why the excitement of moderate emotions, such as are produced by the sight of a tragedy, should be a source of pleasure. The best cause I can assign for this is, that life itself consists chiefly in action, and it is only when in some degree occupied or engaged, that we feel the pleasure of living. Violent action or agitation, on the contrary, pains and fatigues. Hence the moderate excitement of the passions on the sight of a tragedy, or the hearing of a pathetic narrative, gives pleasure, whereas the same event in real life is productive of pain. Whether this account, however, is consistent with truth and nature or not, will make little difference as to the practical part of our subject. It is enough that pleasure is derivable from the following sources, and that what is captivating in writers may in general be traced to one or other of them: 1st, The marvellous; 2d, the new; 3d, the sublime; 4th, the pathetic; 5th, the ridiculous.

I. Our taste for the marvellous is chiefly to be referred to that general principle of our nature, which is so strong a principle of action, the passion of admiration. It may also be increased by the same cause from which I have accounted for the pleasurable sensations excited




by tragedy. Almost every thing wonderful is connected with something of the terrific, and we know that terror moderately excited, or I should perhaps say, rather excited by association than reality, is not less productive of pleasure than the pathetic. You must well remember the pleasure which you, but a very few years since, derived from the "Fairy Tales," the "Arabian Nights,' the "Tales of the Genii," &c. and that in general the more you were terrified the greater was your enjoyment of the book.

You will always find pleasure from similar productions, but less as you advance in life. Your mind was more fervid, and less informed when you read them first than it will be at the period to which I refer. You will then be more shocked with their improbability, for the more this kind of imagery is believed in, the more vivid is the impression which it makes. Hence an obsolete system of mythology, such as that of the heathen poets, has less effect upon our minds than a modern well-wrought tale of witchcraft or apparitions, which are more connected with the faith that we profess; and even these had more effect, I dare believe, with our ancestors than with us.

The taste which all mankind naturally entertain for the marvellous is proved by the avidity with which any extraordinary story, even in the newspapers, is received, and the credit which is given to such. People are desirous of their proving true, and almost displeased to be undeceived.

A great part of the entertainment of our rural ancestors used to consist in hearing such wonderful stories related while assembled in a social circle round a warm hearth. The tales and ballads related or sung by the minstrels of old, were chiefly of this description:

"Be mine to read the visions old,
"Which thy awakening bards have told;
"And lest thou meet my blasted view,
"Hold each strange tale devoutly true."

The effect of the marvellous on the human mind is charmingly depicted by that incomparable judge of hu



man nature, Shakspeare, in describing the manner in which Desdemona was induced to love Othello.

"Her father lov'd me; oft invited me ;
"Still question'd me the story of my life,
"From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,
"That I have pass'd:

"I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
"To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
"Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
"Of moving accidents, by flood, and field ;


"Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach; "Of being taken by the insolent foe,

"And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,

"And 'portance in my travel's history,

"Wherein of antres vast, and desarts wild,


Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch

"It was my hint to speak, such was the process;
"And of the cannibals that each other eat,

"The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads

"Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear,
"Would Desdemona seriously incline:

"But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
"Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,

"She'd come again, and with a greedy ear

"Devour up my discourse," &c.

II. The love of novelty is nearly allied to the principle we have been discussing, and it will be easily conceived to be a powerful instrument in the hands of a skilful writer or speaker, when we remember how strong and how general a passion curiosity is. The world itself has supplied a name to a very voluminous class of literary productions, the professed object of which is to gratify their readers with something novel or new. This passion seems indeed natural to creatures, who are in constant pursuit of happiness, and to whom possession brings only disappointment; and perhaps it may not be unphilosophically accounted for upon this principle. The pleasure we derive from novelty is something analogous to that which we derive from wit, and the more unexpected the greater our pleasure.

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