an infinite variety of tropes or turns of expression, occasionally
disseminated through works of genius, which serve to animate the whole,
and distinguish the glowing effusions of real inspiration from the cold
efforts of mere science. These tropes consist of a certain happy choice
and arrangement of words, by which ideas are artfully disclosed in a
great variety of attitudes; of epithets, and compound epithets; of
sounds collected in order to echo the sense conveyed; of apostrophes;
and above all, the enchanting use of the prosopopœia, which is a kind of
magic, by which the poet gives life and motion to every inanimate part of
nature. Homer, describing the wrath of Agamemnon, in the first book of
the Iliad, strikes off a glowing image in two words:
——οσσε δ’ οἱ πυρι λαμπετοωντι εικτην.
—And from his eye-balls _flash’d the living fire_.
This indeed is a figure, which has been copied by Virgil, and almost all
the poets of every age—_oculis_ micat _acribus ignis_—ignescunt iræ:
_duris dolor ossibus_ ardet. Milton, describing Satan in hell, says,
With head uplift above the wave, and eye
That _sparkling blazed_!—
—He spake: and to confirm his words outflew
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs
Of mighty cherubims. The sudden _blaze_
Far round _illumined_ hell—
There are certain words in every language particularly adapted to the
poetical expression; some from the image or idea they convey to the
imagination, and some from the effect they have upon the ear. The first
are truly _figurative_; the others may be called _emphatical_.—Rollin
observes, that Virgil has upon many occasions poetized (if we may be
allowed the expression) a whole sentence by means of the same word, which
is _pendere_.
Ite meæ, felix quondam pecus, ite capellæ.
Non ego vos posthac, viridi projectus in antro,
Dumosâ pendere procul de rupe videbo.
At ease reclined beneath the verdant shade,
No more shall I behold my happy flock
Aloft _hang_ browsing on the tufted rock.
Here the word _pendere_ wonderfully improves the landscape, and renders
the whole passage beautifully picturesque. The same figurative verb we
meet with in many different parts of the Æneid.
Hi summo in fluctu _pendent_, his unda _dehiscens_
Terram inter fluctus aperit.
These on the mountain billow _hung_; to those
The _yawning waves_ the yellow sand disclose.
In this instance, the words _pendent_ and _dehiscens_, _hung_ and
_yawning_, are equally poetical. Addison seems to have had this passage
in his eye, when he wrote his hymn, which is inserted in the Spectator.
—For though in dreadful worlds we _hung_,
High on the broken wave.
And in another piece of a like nature, in the same collection:
Thy Providence my life sustain’d,
And all my wants redress’d,
When in the silent womb I lay,
And _hung_ upon the breast.
Shakespeare, in his admired description of Dover cliff, uses the same
expression:
——half way down
_Hangs_ one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade!
Nothing can be more beautiful than the following picture, in which Milton
has introduced the same expressive tint:
——he, on his side
Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love
_Hung_ over her enamour’d——
We shall give one example more from Virgil, to show in what a variety
of scenes it may appear with propriety and effect. In describing the
progress of Dido’s passion for Æneas, the poet says,
Iliacos iterum demens audire labores
Exposcit, _pendetque_ iterum narrantis ab ore.
The woes of Troy once more she begg’d to hear;
Once more the mournful tale employ’d his tongue,
While in fond rapture on his lips she _hung_.
The reader will perceive in all these instances that no other word could
be substituted with equal energy; indeed no other word could be used
without degrading the sense, and defacing the image.
There are many other verbs of poetical import fetched from nature,
and from art, which the poet uses to advantage both in a literal and
metaphorical sense; and these have been always translated for the same
purpose from one language to another; such as _quasso_, _concutio_,
_cio_, _suscito_, _lenio_, _sævio_, _mano_, _fluo_, _ardeo_, _mico_,
_aro_, to shake, to wake, to rouse, to soothe, to rage, to flow, to
shine or blaze, to plough.—Quassantia _tectum limina Æneas, casu_
concussus _acerbo_—_Ære_ ciere _viros, Martemque accendere
cantu_—_Æneas acuit Martem et se_ suscitat _irâ_—_Impium_ lenite
_clamorem_. Lenibant _curas_—_Ne_ sævi _magna sacerdos_—_Sudor ad
imos_ manabat _solos_—_Suspensæque diu lacrymæ_ fluxêre _per
ora_—_Juvenali_ ardebat _amore_—Micat _æreus ensis_—_Nullum maris
æquor_ arandum. It will be unnecessary to insert examples of the
same nature from the English poets.
The words we term _emphatical_, are such as by their sound express the
sense they are intended to convey; and with these the Greek abounds,
above all other languages, not only from its natural copiousness,
flexibility, and significance, but also from the variety of its dialects,
which enables a writer to vary his terminations occasionally as the
nature of the subject requires, without offending the most delicate ear,
or incurring the imputation of adopting vulgar provincial expressions.
Every smatterer in Greek can repeat
Βη δ’ ακεων παρα θινα πολυφλοισβοιο θαλασσης.
in which the two last words wonderfully echo to the sense, conveying the
idea of the sea dashing on the shore. How much more significant in sound
than that beautiful image of Shakspeare—
“The sea that on the unnumber’d pebbles beats.”
And yet, if we consider the strictness of propriety, this last expression
would seem to have been selected on purpose to concur with the other
circumstances which are brought together to ascertain the vast height
of Dover cliff: for the poet adds, “cannot be heard so high.” The
place where Gloster stood was so high above the surface of the sea,
that the φλοισβος, or _dashing_, could not be heard; and therefore an
enthusiastic admirer of Shakspeare might with some plausibility affirm,
the poet had chosen an expression in which that sound is not at all
conveyed.
In the very same page of Homer’s Iliad, we meet with two other striking
instances of the same sort of beauty. Apollo, incensed at the insults his
priest had sustained, descends from the top of Olympus, with his bow and
quiver rattling on his shoulder as he moved along:
Εκλαγξαν δ’ αρ’ οιστοι επ’ ωμων.
Here the sound of the word Εκλαγξαν admirably expresses the clanking of
armour; as the third line after this surprisingly imitates the twanging
of a bow.
Δεινη δε κλαγγη γεννετ’ αργυρεοιο βιοιο.
In shrill-toned murmurs sung the twanging bow.
Many beauties of the same kind are scattered through Homer, Pindar, and
Theocritus, such as the βομβευσα μελισσα, _susurrans apicula_; the ἁδυ
ψιθυρισμα, _dulcem susurrum_; and the μελισδεται for the sighing of the
pine.
The Latin language teems with sounds adapted to every situation, and
the English is not destitute of this significant energy. We have the
_cooing_ turtle, the _sighing_ reed, the _warbling_ rivulet, the
_sliding_ stream, the _whispering_ breeze, the glance, the gleam, the
flash, the _bickering_ flame, the _dashing_ wave, the _gushing_ spring,
the _howling_ blast, the _rattling_ storm, the _pattering_ shower, the
_crimp_ earth, the _mouldering_ tower, the _twanging_ bow-string, the
_clanging_ arms, the _clanking_ chains, the _twinkling_ stars, the
_tinkling_ chords, the _trickling_ drops, the _twittering_ swallow, the
_cawing_ rook, the _screeching_ owl; and a thousand other words and
epithets wonderfully suited to the sense they imply.
Among the select passages of poetry which we shall insert by way of
illustration, the reader will find instances of all the different tropes
and figures, which the best authors have adopted in the variety of
their poetical works, as well as of the apostrophe, abrupt transition,
repetition, and prosopopœia.
In the mean time it will be necessary still further to analyse those
principles, which constitute the essence of poetical merit; to display
those delightful parterres, that teem with the fairest flowers of
imagination, and distinguish between the gaudy offspring of a cold
insipid fancy, and the glowing progeny, diffusing sweets, produced and
invigorated by the sun of genius.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] Namque ad his (scilicet poëtis) et in rebus spiritus, et in verbis
sublimitas, et in affectibus motus omnis, et in personis decor petitur.
_Quintilian_, l. x.
[10] Quæ regio, quæ ora, quæ species formæ, quæ pugna, qui malus hominum,
qui ferarum, non ita expictus est, ut quæ ipse non viderit, nos ut
videremus, effecerit!
XVI.
ON METAPHOR.
Of all the implements of poetry the metaphor is the most generally and
successfully used, and indeed may be termed the muse’s caduceus, by the
power of which she enchants all nature. The metaphor is a shorter simile,
or rather a kind of magical coat, by which the same idea assumes a
thousand different appearances. Thus the word _plough_, which originally
belongs to agriculture, being metaphorically used, represents the motion
of a ship at sea, and the effects of old age upon the human countenance—
—Plough’d the bosom of the deep—
And Time had plough’d his venerable front.
Almost every verb, noun substantive, or term of art in any language, may
be in this manner applied to a variety of subjects with admirable effect;
but the danger is in sowing metaphors too thick, so as to distract
the imagination of the reader, and incur the imputation of deserting
nature, in order to hunt after conceits. Every day produces poems of all
kinds so inflated with metaphor, that they may be compared to the gaudy
bubbles blown up from a solution of soap. Longinus is of opinion, that
a multitude of metaphors is never excusable, except in those cases when
the passions are roused, and like a winter torrent, rush down impetuous,
sweeping them with collective force along. He brings an instance of
the following quotation from Demosthenes. “Men (says he) profligates,
miscreants, and flatterers, who, having severally preyed upon the bowels
of their country, at length betrayed her liberty, first to Philip, and
now again to Alexander: who, placing the chief felicity of life in the
indulgence of infamous lusts and appetites, overturned in the dust that
freedom and independence, which was the chief aim and end of all our
worthy ancestors—.”[11]
Aristotle and Theophrastus seem to think it is rather too bold and
hazardous to use metaphors so freely, without interposing some mitigating
phrase; such as, “if I may be allowed the expression,” or some
equivalent excuse. At the same time, Longinus finds fault with Plato for
hazarding some metaphors, which indeed appear to be equally affected
and extravagant, when he says, “the government of a state should not
resemble a bowl of hot fermenting wine, but a cool and moderate beverage,
_chastised by the sober deity_”—a metaphor that signifies nothing more
than “mixed or lowered with water.” Demetrius Phalereus justly observes,
that though a judicious use of metaphors wonderfully raises, sublimes,
and adorns oratory or elocution, yet they should seem to flow naturally
from the subject; and too great a redundancy of them inflates the
discourse to a mere rhapsody. The same observation will hold in poetry;
and the more liberal or sparing use of them will depend in a great
measure on the nature of the subject.
Passion itself is very figurative, and often bursts out into metaphors;
but in touching the pathos, the poet must be perfectly well acquainted
with the emotions of the human soul, and carefully distinguish between
those metaphors which rise glowing from the heart, and those cold
conceits, which are engendered in the fancy. Should one of these last
unfortunately intervene, it will be apt to destroy the whole effect
of the most pathetical incident or situation. Indeed it requires the
most delicate taste, and a consummate knowledge of propriety, to employ
metaphors in such a manner, as to avoid what the ancients called the
το ψυχρον the _frigid_, or false sublime. Instances of this kind were
frequent even among the correct ancients. Sappho herself is blamed for
using the hyperbole λευκοτεροι χιονος, _whiter than snow_. Demetrius
is so nice as to be disgusted at the simile of _swift as the wind_;
though, in speaking of a race-horse, we know from experience that this
is not even an hyperbole. He would have had more reason to censure that
kind of metaphor, which Aristotle styles κατ’ ενεργειαν, exhibiting
things inanimate as endued with sense and reason; such as that of the
sharp-pointed arrow _eager_ to take wing among the crowd. “Οξυβελης καθ’
ὁμιλον ἐπιπτεσθαι μενεαινων.” Not but that in descriptive poetry this
figure is often allowed and admired. The _cruel_ sword, the _ruthless_
dagger, the _ruffian_ blast, are epithets which frequently occur. The
_faithful_ bosom of the earth, the _joyous_ boughs, the trees that
_admire their images_ reflected in the stream, and many other examples of
this kind, are found disseminated through the works of our best modern
poets; yet still they must be sheltered under the privilege of the
_poetica licentia_; and, except in poetry, they would give offence.
More chaste metaphors are freely used in all kinds of writing; more
sparingly in history, and more abundantly in rhetoric: we have seen that
Plato indulges in them even to excess. The orations of Demosthenes are
animated, and even inflamed with metaphors, some of them so bold as even
to entail upon him the censure of the critics. Τοτε τῳ Πυθωνι τῳ ῥητορι
ῥεοντι καθ’ ὑμων.—“then I did not yield to Python the orator, when he
_overflowed_ you with a tide of eloquence.” Cicero is still more liberal
in the use of them; he ransacks all nature, and pours forth a redundancy
of figures, even with a lavish hand. Even the chaste Xenophon, who
generally illustrates his subject by way of simile, sometimes ventures to
produce an expressive metaphor, such as part of the phalanx _fluctuated_
in the march: and indeed nothing can be more significant than this
word εξεκυμηνε, to represent a body of men staggered, and on the point
of giving way. Armstrong has used the word _fluctuate_ with admirable
efficacy, in his philosophical poem intituled _the Art of Preserving
Health_.
O! when the growling winds contend, and all
The sounding forest _fluctuates_ in the storm,
To sink in warm repose, and hear the din
Howl o’er the steady battlements——
The word _fluctuate_ on this occasion not only exhibits an idea of
struggling, but also echoes to the sense like the εφριξεν δε μαχη of
Homer; which, by the bye, it is impossible to render into English: for
the verb φρισσω signifies not only to stand erect like prickles, as a
grove of lances, but also to make a noise like the crashing of armour,
the hissing of javelins, and the splinters of spears.
Over and above an excess of figures, a young author is apt to run into
a confusion of mixed metaphors, which leave the sense disjointed,
and distract the imagination: Shakspeare himself is often guilty of
these irregularities. The soliloquy in Hamlet, which we have so often
heard extolled in terms of admiration, is, in our opinion, a heap of
absurdities, whether we consider the situation, the sentiment, the
argumentation, or the poetry. Hamlet is informed by the ghost, that his
father was murdered, and therefore he is tempted to murder himself, even
after he had promised to take vengeance on the usurper, and expressed
the utmost eagerness to achieve this enterprize. It does not appear that
he had the least reason to wish for death; but every motive, which may
be supposed to influence the mind of a young prince, concurred to render
life desirable—revenge towards the usurper; love for the fair Ophelia;
and the ambition of reigning. Besides, when he had an opportunity of
dying without being accessary to his own death; when he had nothing to do
but, in obedience to his uncle’s command, to allow himself to be conveyed
quietly to England, where he was sure of suffering death; instead of
amusing himself with meditations on mortality, he very wisely consulted
the means of self-preservation, turned the tables upon his attendants,
and returned to Denmark. But granting him to have been reduced to the
lowest state of despondence, surrounded with nothing but horror and
despair, sick of this life, and eager to tempt futurity, we shall see how
far he argues like a philosopher.
In order to support this general charge against an author so universally
held in veneration, whose very errors have helped to sanctify his
character among the multitude, we will descend to particulars, and
analyse this famous soliloquy.
Hamlet, having assumed the disguise of madness, as a cloak, under which
he might the more effectually revenge his father’s death upon the
murderer and usurper, appears alone upon the stage in a pensive and
melancholy attitude, and communes with himself in these words:
To be, or not to be? That is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them?—To die—to sleep—
No more; and by a sleep, to say, we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to; ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d.—To die—to sleep—
To sleep! perchance to dream; ay, there’s the rub—
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.——There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his _quietus_ make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardles bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death
(That undiscover’d country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns) puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprizes of great pith and moment,
With this regard their currents turn away,
And lose the name of action.
We have already observed that there is not any apparent circumstance
in the fate or situation of Hamlet, that should prompt him to harbour
one thought of self-murder; and therefore these expressions of despair
imply an impropriety in point of character. But supposing his condition
was truly desperate, and he saw no possibility of repose but in the
uncertain harbour of death, let us see in what manner he argues on that
subject. The question is, “To be, or not to be?” to die by my own hand,
or live and suffer the miseries of life. He proceeds to explain the
alternative in these terms, “Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer,
or endure the frowns of fortune, or to take arms, and by opposing,
end them.” Here he deviates from his first proposition, and death is
no longer the question. The only doubt is, whether he will stoop to
misfortune, or exert his faculties in order to surmount it. This surely
is the obvious meaning, and indeed the only meaning that can be implied
in these words,
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them.
He now drops this idea, and reverts to his reasoning on death, in the
course of which he owns himself deterred from suicide by the thoughts of
what may follow death;
——the dread of something after death
(That undiscover’d country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns.)
This might be a good argument in a Heathen or Pagan, and such indeed
Hamlet really was; but Shakspeare has already represented him as a good
Catholic, who must have been acquainted with the truths of revealed
religion, and says expressly in this very play,
——Had not the Everlasting fix’d
His canon ’gainst self-murder.
Moreover, he had just been conversing with his father’s spirit, piping
hot from purgatory, which we presume is not within the _bourne_ of this
world. The dread of what may happen after death (says he)
Makes us rather bear those _ills_ we have,
Than fly to _others_ that we know not of.
This declaration at least implies some knowledge of the other world,
and expressly asserts, that there must be _ills_ in that world, though
what kind of _ills_ they are, we do not know. The argument therefore may
be reduced to this lemma: this world abounds with _ills_ which I feel;
the other world abounds with _ills_, the nature of which I do not know:
therefore, I will rather bear those _ills_ I have, “than fly to _others_
which I know not of:” a deduction amounting to a certainty with respect
to the only circumstance that could create a doubt, namely, whether in
death he should rest from his misery; and if he was certain there were
evils in the next world, as well as in this, he had no room to reason
at all about the matter. What alone could justify his thinking on this
subject, would have been the hope of flying from the ills of this world,
without encountering any _others_ in the next.
Nor is Hamlet more accurate in the following reflection:
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.
A bad conscience will make us cowards; but a good conscience will make
us brave. It does not appear that any thing lay heavy on his conscience;
and from the premises we cannot help inferring, that conscience in this
case was entirely out of the question. Hamlet was deterred from suicide
by a full conviction, that in flying from one sea of troubles which he
did know, he should fall into _another_ which he did not know.
His whole chain of reasoning, therefore, seems inconsistent and
incongruous. “I am doubtful whether I should live or do violence upon my
own life: for I know not whether it is more honourable to bear misfortune
patiently, than to exert myself in opposing misfortune, and by opposing,
end it.” Let us throw it into the form of a syllogism, it will stand
thus: “I am oppressed with ills: I know not whether it is more honourable
to bear those ills patiently, or to end them by taking arms against them;
_ergo_, I am doubtful whether I should slay myself or live. To die is no
more than to sleep; and to _say_ that by a sleep we end the heart-ache,
&c. “’tis a consummation devoutly to be wish’d.” Now, to _say it_ was of
no consequence unless it had been true. “I am afraid of the dreams that
may happen in that sleep of death; and I choose rather to bear those
ills I have in this life than fly to _other ills_ in that undiscovered
country, from whose bourne no traveller ever returns. I have ills that
are almost insupportable in this life. I know not what is in the next,
because it is an undiscovered country: _ergo_, I’d rather bear those ills
I have, than fly to others which I know not of.” Here the conclusion is
by no means warranted by the premises. “I am sore afflicted in this life;
but I will rather bear the afflictions of this life than plunge myself in
the afflictions of another life: _ergo_, conscience makes cowards of us
all.” But this conclusion would justify the logician in saying, _negatur
consequens_; for it is entirely detached both from the major and minor
proposition.
The soliloquy is not less exceptionable in the propriety of expression
than in the chain of argumentation.—“To die—to sleep—no more,” contains
an ambiguity which all the art of punctuation cannot remove; for it may
signify that “to die is to sleep no more;” or the expression “no more”
may be considered as an abrupt apostrophe in thinking, as if he meant to
say—“no more of that reflection.”
“Ay, there’s the rub”—is a vulgarism beneath the dignity of Hamlet’s
character, and the words that follow leave the sense imperfect;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.
Not the dreams that might come, but the fear of what dreams might come,
occasioned the pause or hesitation. _Respect_ in the same line may be
allowed to pass for consideration: but
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
according to the invariable acceptation of the words _wrong_ and
_contumely_, can signify nothing but the wrongs sustained by the
oppressor, and the contumely or abuse thrown upon the proud man; though
it is plain that Shakspeare used them in a different sense: neither is
the word _spurn_ a substantive! yet as such he has inserted it in these
lines:
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes.