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inform, he addresses the understanding only as a vehicle of pleasure if he makes an appeal to the passions, it is only to passions which it is pleasing to indulge. The philosopher, in like manner, in order to accomplish his end of instruction, may find it expedient occasionally to amuse the imagination, or to make an appeal to the passions: the orator may, at one time, state to his hearers a process of reasoning; at another, a calm narrative of facts; and at a third, he may give the reins to poetical fancy. But still the ultimate end of the philosopher is to instruct, and of the orator to persuade; and whatever means they make use of, which are not subservient to this purpose, are out of place, and obstruct the effect of their labours.

The measured composition in which the poet expresses himself, is only one of the means which he employs to please. As the delight which he conveys to the imagination is heightened by the other agreeable impressions which he can unite in the mind at the same time, he studies to bestow upon the medium of communication which he employs, all the various beauties of which it is susceptible. Among these beauties, the harmony of numbers is not the least powerful, for its effect is constant, and does not interfere with any of the other pleasures which language produces. A succession of agreeable perceptions is kept up by the organical effect of words upon the ear; while they inform the understanding by their perspicuity and precision, or please the imagination by the pictures they suggest, or touch the heart by the associations they awaken. Of all these charms of language the poet may avail himself; and they are all so many instruments of his art. To the philosopher and the orator they may occasionally be of use; and to both they must be constantly so far an object of attention, that nothing may occur in their compositions which may distract the thoughts by offending either the ear or the taste; but the

1 [Gray seems to have had the same idea, although he has expressed himself on the subject somewhat loosely. "I remember," says he in a letter to Mason, "you insulted me when I saw you last,

and affected to call that which delighted my imagination nonsense. Now, I insist that sense is nothing in poetry, but according to the dress she wears, and the scene she appears in."]

poet must not rest satisfied with this negative praise. Pleasure is the end of his art; and the more numerous the sources of it which he can open, the greater will be the effect produced by the efforts of his genius.

The province of the poet is limited only by the variety of human enjoyments. Whatever is in the reality subservient to our happiness, is a source of pleasure when presented to our conceptions, and may sometimes derive from the heightenings of imagination a momentary charm, which we exchange with reluctance for the substantial gratifications of the senses. The province of the painter, and of the statuary, is confined to the imitation of visible objects, and to the exhibition of such intellectual and moral qualities as the human body is fitted to express. In ornamental architecture, and in ornamental gardening, the sole aim of the artist is to give pleasure to the eye, by the beauty or sublimity of material forms. But to the poet, all the glories of external nature, all that is amiable or interesting, or respectable in human character; all that excites and engages our benevolent affections; all those truths which make the heart feel itself better and more happy; all these supply materials, out of which he forms and peoples a world of his own, where no inconveniences damp our enjoyments, and where no clouds darken our prospects.

That the pleasures of poetry arise chiefly from the agreeable feelings which it conveys to the mind by awakening the imagination, is a proposition which may seem too obvious to stand in need of proof. As the ingenious inquirer, however, into "the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful,” has disputed the common notions upon this subject, I shall consider some of the principal arguments by which he has supported his opinion.

The leading principle of the theory which I am now to examine is, "That the common effect of poetry is not to raise ideas of things;" or, as I would rather choose to express it, its common effect is not to give exercise to the powers of conception and imagination. That I may not be accused of misrepresentation, I shall state the doctrine at length in the words

of the author. "If words have all their possible extent of power, three effects arise in the mind of the hearer. The first is the sound; the second the picture, or representation of the thing signified by the sound; the third is, the affection of the soul produced by one or by both of the foregoing. Compounded abstract words, (honour, justice, liberty, and the like,) produce the first and the last of these effects, but not the second. Simple abstracts are used to signify some one simple idea, without much adverting to others which may chance to attend it, as blue, green, hot, cold, and the like; these are capable of effecting all three of the purposes of words; as the aggregate words, man, castle, horse, &c., are in a yet higher degree. But I am of opinion, that the most general effect even of these words, does not arise from their forming pictures of the several things they would represent in the imagination; because, on a very diligent examination of my own mind, and getting others to consider theirs, I do not find that once in twenty times any such picture is formed; and when it is, there is most commonly a particular effort of the imagination for that purpose. But the aggregate words operate, as I said of the compound abstracts, not by presenting any image to the mind, but by having from use the same effect on being mentioned, that their original has when it is seen. Suppose we were to read a passage to this effect,- The river Danube rises in a moist and mountainous soil in the heart of Germany, where, winding to and fro, it waters several principalities, until turning into Austria, and leaving the walls of Vienna, it passes into Hungary; there with a vast flood, augmented by the Saave and the Drave, it quits Christendom, and rolling through the barbarous countries which border on Tartary, it enters by many mouths into the Black Sea.' In this description many things are mentioned; as mountains, rivers, cities, the sea, &c. But let anybody examine himself, and see whether he has had impressed on his imagination any pictures of a river, mountain, watery soil, Germany, &c. Indeed, it is impossible, in the rapidity and quick succession of words in conversation, to have ideas both of the sound of the word and of the thing repre

sented; besides some words expressing real essences, are so mixed with others of a general and nominal import, that it is impracticable to jump from sense to thought, from particulars to generals, from things to words, in such a manner as to answer the purposes of life; nor is it necessary that we should."

In farther confirmation of this doctrine, Mr. Burke refers to the poetical works of the late amiable and ingenious Dr. Blacklock. "Here," says he, "is a poet, doubtless as much affected by his own descriptions, as any that reads them can be; and yet he is affected with this strong enthusiasm, by things of which he neither has, nor can possibly have, any idea, farther than that of a bare sound; and why may not those who read his works be affected in the same manner that he was, with as little of any real ideas of the things described."

Before I proceed to make any remarks on these passages, I must observe in general, that I perfectly agree with Mr. Burke, in thinking that a very great proportion of the words which we habitually employ, have no effect to "raise ideas in the mind,” or to exercise the powers of conception and imagination. My notions on this subject I have already sufficiently explained in treating of Abstraction.

I agree with him farther, that a great proportion of the words which are used in poetry and eloquence, [more especially I think in the latter,] produce very powerful effects on the mind, by exciting emotions which we have been accustomed to associate with particular sounds, without leading the imagination to form to itself any pictures or representations; and his account of the manner in which such words operate, appears to me satisfactory. "Such words are in reality but mere sounds; but they are sounds, which, being used on particular occasions, wherein we receive some good, or suffer some evil; or see others affected with good or evil; or which we hear applied to other interesting things or events; and being applied in such a variety of cases, that we know readily by habit to what things they belong, they produce in the mind, whenever they are afterwards mentioned, effects similar to those of their occasions.

The sounds being often used without reference to any particular occasion, and carrying still their first impressions, they at last utterly lose their connexion with the particular occasions that gave rise to them, yet the sound, without any annexed motion, continues to operate as before."

Notwithstanding, however, these concessions, I cannot admit that it is in this way poetry produces its principal effect. Whence is it that general and abstract expressions are so tame and lifeless, in comparison of those which are particular and figurative? Is it not because the former do not give any exercise to the imagination, like the latter? Whence the distinction, acknowledged by all critics, ancient and modern, between that charm of words which evaporates in the process of translation, and those permanent beauties, which, presenting to the mind the distinctness of a picture, may impart pleasure to the most remote regions and ages? Is it not, that in the one case the poet addresses himself to associations which are local and temporary; in the other, to those essential principles of human nature, from which poetry and painting derive their common attractions? Hence, among the various sources of the sublime, the peculiar stress laid by Longinus on what he calls Visions, (Φαντασίαι)- ὅταν ἃ λέγῃς, ὑπ ̓ ἐνθουσιασμοῦ καὶ πάθους à βλέπειν δοκῇς, καὶ ὑπ ̓ ὄψιν τιπῇς τοῖς ἀκούουσιν.

1

In treating of abstraction I formerly remarked, that the perfection of philosophical style is to approach as nearly as possible to that species of language we employ in Algebra, and to exclude every expression which has a tendency to divert the attention by exciting the imagination, or to bias the judgment by casual associations. For this purpose the philosopher ought to be sparing in the employment of figurative words, and to convey his notions by general terms which have been accurately defined. To the orator, on the other hand, when he wishes to prevent the cool exercise of the understanding, it may, on the same account, be frequently useful to delight or to agitate his

1 De Sublim. sect. xv.- -“Quas Parraía; Græci vocant, nos sanè Visiones appellamus; per quas imagines rerum

absentium ita repræsentantur animo, ut eas cernere oculis ac præsentes habere videamur."-Quintil. Inst. Orat. vi. 2.

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