A winking lamp still threatens all the room,
As if the lazy flame just now would die:
Such will the sun’s last light appear at doom.
A tolling bell calls to the temple; and every other circumstance
belonging to it is imagined with great propriety and beauty.
But the poet’s greatest exertions are reserved for his favourite
_temple of Praise_. A general shout of joy is the summons to it. The
building, in its materials and architecture, is gay and splendid beyond
the most sumptuous palace. The front is adorned with figures of all
kinds of musical instruments; all, as he most beautifully expresses it,
That joy did e’er invent, or breath inspir’d,
Or flying fingers touch’d into a voice.
The statues without, the pictures within, the decorations, and the
choir of worshippers, are all suited with nice judgment, and described
with genuine poetry. This distinguished canto concludes with these
noble stanzas, the sum and moral, as it were, of the whole.
Praise is devotion fit for mighty minds;
The diff’ring world’s agreeing sacrifice;
Where heaven divided faiths united finds:
But prayer in various discord upward flies.
For Prayer the ocean is, where diversly
Men steer their course, each to a sev’ral coast;
Where all our interests so discordant be
That half beg winds by which the rest are lost.
By penitence when we ourselves forsake,
’Tis but in wise design on piteous heav’n;
In praise we nobly give what God may take,
And are without a beggar’s blush forgiv’n.
Its utmost force, like powder’s, is unknown;
And tho’ weak kings excess of Praise may fear,
Yet when ’tis here, like powder, dangerous grown,
Heav’n’s vault receives what would the palace tear.
The last thought will be termed, in this cold age, a conceit; and so
may every thing that distinguishes wit and poetry from plain sense and
prose.
The wonders of the _house of Astragon_ are not yet exhausted.
To Astragon heaven for succession gave
One only pledge, and BIRTHA was her name.
This maid, her father’s humble disciple and assistant, educated in the
bosom of rural simplicity, is rendered a more charming object than even
the renowned Rhodalind upon her throne.
Courts she ne’er saw, yet courts could have undone
With untaught looks and an unpractis’d heart;
Her nets the most prepar’d could never shun,
For Nature spread them in the scorn of Art.
But I check my desire of copying more from this exquisitely pleasing
picture. My intention is to excite curiosity, not to gratify it. I
hope I have already done enough for that purpose; and since the rest
of this unfinished story may be comprized in a short compass, I shall
proceed, with but few interruptions, to conclude a paper already
swelled to an unexpected bulk.
That the unpractised Birtha should entertain an unresisted passion for
the noblest of his sex; and that Gondibert, whose want of ambition
alone had secured him from the charms of Rhodalind, should bow to those
of his lovely hostess and handmaid, will be thought a very natural
turn in the story; upon which, however, the reader may foresee the
most interesting events depending. The progress of their love, though
scarcely known to themselves, is soon discovered by the sage Astragon.
This is expressed by the poet with a very fine turn of a common
thought.
When all these symptoms he observ’d, he knows,
From Alga, which is rooted deep in seas,
To the high Cedar that on mountains grows,
No sov’reign herb is found for their disease.
The remainder of this poem, consisting of a third book, written during
the author’s imprisonment, is composed of several detached scenes,
in which the main plot lies ripening for future action. Rivals are
raised to Birtha. Flattering advances from the court, and more open
declarations of love from Rhodalind, are in vain employed to assail
the constancy of Gondibert. Various conflicts of passion arise, and
interesting situations, well imagined, and painted in lively colours.
Much is given, as in the former parts, to the introduction of elevated
sentiment; with one example of which I shall finish my quotations.
Several well-born youths are placed about the person of Gondibert as
his pages, whose education consists of the following great lessons
from their lord:
But with the early sun he rose, and taught
These youths by growing Virtue to grow great,
Shew’d greatness is without it blindly sought,
A desperate charge which ends in base retreat.
He taught them shame, the sudden sense of ill;
Shame, nature’s hasty conscience, which forbids
Weak inclination ere it grows to will,
Or stays rash will before it grows to deeds.
He taught them Honour, Virtue’s bashfulness;
A fort so yieldless that it fears to treat;
Like power it grows to nothing, growing less;
Honour, the moral conscience of the great.
He taught them Kindness; soul’s civility,
In which, nor courts, nor cities have a part;
For theirs is fashion, this from falshood free,
Where love and pleasure know no lust nor art.
And Love he taught; the soul’s stol’n visit made
Tho’ froward age watch hard, and law forbid;
Her walks no spy has trac’d, nor mountain staid;
Her friendship’s cause is as the loadstone hid.
He taught them love of Toil; Toil which does keep
Obstructions from the mind, and quench the blood;
Ease but belongs to us like sleep, and sleep,
Like opium, is our med’cine, not our food.
The plot is at length involved in so many intricate and apparently
unsurmountable difficulties, that it is scarce possible to conceive a
satisfactory termination. Perhaps the poet was sensible of a want of
power to extricate himself, and chose thus to submit to a voluntary
bankruptcy of invention, rather than hazard his reputation by going
further. In his postscript, indeed, he excuses himself on account of
sickness and approaching dissolution. However disappointed we may be by
his abrupt departure from scenes which he has filled with confusion,
we ought not to forget the pleasures already received from them. “If
(says he to his reader, with more than the spirit of a dying man) thou
art one of those who has been warmed with poetic fire, I reverence
thee as my judge.” From such a judicature, this NOBLE FRAGMENT, would,
I doubt not, acquire for him what the critic laments his having lost,
“the possession of that true and permanent glory of which his large
soul appears to have been full[2].”
[2] Disc. on Poetical Imitation.
AN ENQUIRY INTO THOSE KINDS OF DISTRESS
WHICH EXCITE AGREEABLE SENSATIONS.
It is undoubtedly true, though a phænomenon of the human mind difficult
to account for, that the representation of distress frequently gives
pleasure; from which general observation many of our modern writers
of tragedy and romance seem to have drawn this inference, that in
order to please, they have nothing more to do than to paint distress
in natural and striking colours. With this view, they heap together
all the afflicting events and dismal accidents their imagination can
furnish; and when they have half broke the reader’s heart, they expect
he should thank them for his agreeable entertainment. An author of this
class sits down, pretty much like an inquisitor, to compute how much
suffering he can inflict upon the hero of his tale before he makes an
end of him; with this difference, indeed, that the inquisitor only
tortures those who are at least reputed criminals; whereas the writer
generally chooses the most excellent character in his piece for the
subject of his persecution. The great criterion of excellence is placed
in being able to draw tears plentifully; and concluding we shall weep
the more, the more the picture is loaded with doleful events, they go
on, telling
---- of sorrows upon sorrows
Even to a lamentable length of woe.
A monarch once proposed a reward for the discovery of a new pleasure;
but if any one could find out a new torture, or non-descript calamity,
he would be more entitled to the applause of those who fabricated books
of entertainment.
But the springs of pity require to be touched with a more delicate
hand; and it is far from being true that we are agreeably affected
by every thing that excites our sympathy. It shall therefore be the
business of this essay to distinguish those kinds of distress which are
pleasing in the representation, from those which are really painful
and disgusting.
The view or relation of mere misery can never be pleasing. We have,
indeed, a strong sympathy with all kinds of misery; but it is a feeling
of pure unmixed pain, similar in kind, though not equal in degree, to
what we feel for ourselves on the like occasions; and never produces
that melting sorrow, that thrill of tenderness, to which we give
the name of pity. They are two distinct sensations, marked by very
different external expression. One causes the nerves to tingle, the
flesh to shudder, and the whole countenance to be thrown into strong
contractions; the other relaxes the frame, opens the features, and
produces tears. When we crush a noxious or loathsome animal, we may
sympathize strongly with the pain it suffers, but with far different
emotions from the tender sentiment we feel for the dog of Ulysses,
who crawled to meet his long-lost master, looked up, and died at his
feet. Extreme bodily pain is perhaps the most intense suffering we are
capable of, and if the fellow-feeling with misery alone was grateful to
the mind, the exhibition of a man in a fit of the tooth-ach, or under a
chirurgical operation, would have a fine effect in a tragedy. But there
must be some other sentiment combined with this kind of instinctive
sympathy, before it becomes in any degree pleasing, or produces the
sweet emotion of pity. This sentiment is love, esteem, the complacency
we take in the contemplation of beauty, of mental or moral excellence,
called forth and rendered more interesting, by circumstances of pain
and danger. Tenderness is, much more properly than sorrow, the spring
of tears; for it affects us in that manner, whether combined with
joy or grief; perhaps more in the former case than the latter. And
I believe we may venture to assert, that no distress which produces
tears is wholly without a mixture of pleasure. When Joseph’s brethren
were sent to buy corn, if they had perished in the desart by wild
beasts, or been reduced (as in the horrid adventures of a Pierre de
Vaud) to eat one another, we might have shuddered, but we should not
have wept for them. The gush of tears breaks forth when Joseph made
himself known to his brethren, and fell on their neck, and kissed them.
When Hubert prepares to burn out prince Arthur’s eyes, the shocking
circumstance, of itself, would only affect us with horror; it is the
amiable simplicity of the young prince, and his innocent affection to
his intended murderer, that draws our tears, and excites that tender
sorrow which we love to feel, and which refines the heart while we do
feel it.
We see, therefore, from this view of our internal feelings, that
no scenes of misery ought to be exhibited which are not connected
with the display of some moral excellence, or agreeable quality. If
fortitude, power, and strength of mind are called forth, they produce
the sublime feelings of wonder and admiration: if the softer qualities
of gentleness, grace, and beauty, they inspire love and pity. The
management of these latter emotions is our present object.
And let it be remembered, in the first place, that the misfortunes
which excite pity must not be too horrid and overwhelming. The mind
is rather stunned than softened by great calamities. They are little
circumstances that work most sensibly upon the tender feelings. For
this reason, a well-written novel generally draws more tears than a
tragedy. The distresses of tragedy are more calculated to amaze and
terrify, than to move compassion. Battles, torture and death are in
every page. The dignity of the characters, the importance of the
events, the pomp of verse and imagery interest the grander passions,
and raise the mind to an enthusiasm little favourable to the weak and
languid notes of pity. The tragedies of Young are in a fine strain
of poetry, and the situations are worked up with great energy; but
the pictures are in too deep a shade: all his pieces are full of
violent and gloomy passions, and so over-wrought with horror, that
instead of awakening any pleasing sensibility, they leave on the mind
an impression of sadness mixed with terror. Shakespeare is sometimes
guilty of presenting scenes too shocking. Such is the trampling out
of Gloster’s eyes; and such is the whole play of Titus Andronicus. But
Lee, beyond all others, abounds with this kind of images. He delighted
in painting the most daring crimes, and cruel massacres; and though
he has shewn himself extremely capable of raising tenderness, he
continually checks its course by shocking and disagreeable expressions.
His pieces are in the same taste with the pictures of Spagnolet, and
there are many scenes in his tragedies which no one can relish who
would not look with pleasure on the slaying of St. Bartholomew. The
following speech of Marguerite, in the massacre of Paris, was, I
suppose, intended to express the utmost tenderness of affection.
Die for him! that’s too little; I could burn
Piece-meal away, or bleed to death by drops,
Be slay’d alive, then broke upon the wheel,
Yet with a smile endure it all for Guise:
And when let loose from torments, all one wound,
Run with my mangled arms and crush him dead.
Images like these will never excite the softer passions. We are less
moved at the description of an Indian tortured with all the dreadful
ingenuity of that savage people, than with the fatal mistake of the
lover in the Spectator, who pierced an artery in the arm of his
mistress as he was letting her blood. Tragedy and romance-writers
are likewise apt to make too free with the more violent expressions
of passion and distress, by which means they lose their effect. Thus
an ordinary author does not know how to express any strong emotion
otherwise than by swoonings or death; so that a person experienced
in this kind of reading, when a girl faints away at parting with her
lover, or a hero kills himself for the loss of his mistress, considers
it as the established etiquette upon such occasions, and turns
over the pages with the utmost coolness and unconcern; whereas real
sensibility, and a more intimate knowledge of human nature, would have
suggested a thousand little touches of grief, which though slight, are
irresistible. We are too gloomy a people. Some of the French novels are
remarkable for little affecting incidents, imagined with delicacy, and
told with grace. Perhaps they have a better turn than we have for this
kind of writing.
A judicious author will never attempt to raise pity by any thing mean
or disgusting. As we have already observed, there must be a degree of
complacence mixed with our sorrows to produce an agreeable sympathy;
nothing, therefore, must be admitted which destroys the grace and
dignity of suffering; the imagination must have an amiable figure to
dwell upon; there are circumstances so ludicrous or disgusting, that
no character can preserve a proper decorum under them, or appear in an
agreeable light. Who can read the following description of Polypheme
without finding his compassion entirely destroyed by aversion and
loathing?
------------ His bloody hand
Snatch’d two unhappy of my martial band,
And dash’d like dogs against the stony floor,
The pavement swims with brains and mingled gore;
Torn limb from limb, he spreads his horrid feast,
And fierce devours it like a mountain beast,
He sucks the marrow, and the blood he drains,
Nor entrails, flesh, nor solid bone remains.
Or that of Scylla,
In the wide dungeon she devours her food,
And the flesh trembles while she churns the blood.
Deformity is always disgusting, and the imagination cannot reconcile
it with the idea of a favourite character; therefore the poet and
romance-writer are fully justified in giving a larger share of beauty
to their principal figures than is usually met with in common life. A
late genius, indeed, in a whimsical mood, gave us a lady with her nose
crushed for the heroine of his story; but the circumstance spoils the
picture; and though in the course of the story it is kept a good deal
out of sight, whenever it does recur to the imagination we are hurt and
disgusted. It was an heroic instance of virtue in the nuns of a certain
abbey, who cut off their noses and lips to avoid violation; yet this
would make a very bad subject for a poem or a play. Something akin to
this is the representation of any thing unnatural; of which kind is the
famous story of the Roman charity, and for this reason I cannot but
think it an unpleasing subject for either the pen or the pencil.
Poverty, if truly represented, shocks our nicer feelings; therefore,
whenever it is made use of to awaken our compassion, the rags and dirt,
the squalid appearance and mean employments incident to that state must
be kept out of sight, and the distress must arise from the idea of
depression, and the shock of falling from higher fortunes. We do not
pity Belisarius as a poor blind beggar; and a painter would succeed
very ill who should sink him to the meanness of that condition. He must
let us still discover the conqueror of the Vandals, the general of the
imperial armies, or we shall be little interested. Let us look at the
picture of the old woman in Otway:
---- A wrinkled hag with age grown double,
Picking dry sticks, and muttering to herself;
Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall’d and red;
Cold palsie shook her head; her hands seem’d wither’d;
And on her crooked shoulder had she wrapt
The tatter’d remnant of an old strip’d hanging,
Which serv’d to keep her carcase from the cold;
So there was nothing of a piece about her.
Here is the extreme of wretchedness, and instead of melting into pity,
we should turn away with disgust, if we were not pleased with it, as we
are with a Dutch painting, from its exact imitation of nature. Indeed
the author only intended it to strike horror. But how different are
the sentiments we feel for the lovely Belvidera! We see none of those
circumstances which render poverty an unamiable thing. When the goods
are seized by an execution, our attention is turned to _the piles of
massy plate, and all the ancient, most domestic ornaments_, which imply
grandeur and consequence; or to such instances of their hard fortune
as will lead us to pity them as lovers: we are struck and affected
with the general face of ruin; but we are not brought near enough to
discern the ugliness of its features. Belvidera ruined, Belvidera
deprived of friends, without a home, abandoned to the wide world--we
can contemplate with all the pleasing sympathy of pity; but had she
been represented as really sunk into low life, had we seen her employed
in the most servile offices of poverty, our compassion would have given
way to contempt and disgust. Indeed, we may observe in real life, that
poverty is only pitied so long as people can keep themselves from the
effects of it. When in common language we say _a miserable object_,
we mean an object of distress which, if we relieve, we turn away from
at the same time. To make pity pleasing, the object of it must not
in any view be disagreeable to the imagination. How admirably has
the author of Clarissa managed this point? Amidst scenes of suffering
which rend the heart, in poverty, in a prison, under the most shocking
outrages, the grace and delicacy of her character never suffers even
for a moment; there seems to be a charm about her which prevents her
receiving a stain from anything which happens; and Clarissa, abandoned
and undone, is the object not only of complacence, but veneration.
I would likewise observe, that if an author would have us feel a strong
degree of compassion, his characters must not be too perfect. The stern
fortitude and inflexible resolution of a Cato may command esteem, but
does not excite tenderness; and faultless rectitude of conduct, though
no rigour be mixed with it, is of too sublime a nature to inspire
compassion. Virtue has a kind of self-sufficiency; it stands upon its
own basis, and cannot be injured by any violence. It must therefore
be mixed with something of helplessness and imperfection, with an
excessive sensibility, or a simplicity bordering upon weakness, before
it raises, in any great degree, either tenderness or familiar love. If
there be a fault in the masterly performance just now mentioned, it is
that the character of Clarissa is so inflexibly right, her passions
are under such perfect command, and her prudence is so equal to every
occasion, that she seems not to need that sympathy we should bestow
upon one of a less elevated character; and perhaps we should feel a
livelier emotion of tenderness for the innocent girl whom Lovelace
calls his Rose-bud, but that the story of Clarissa is so worked up by
the strength of colouring, and the force of repeated impressions, as to
command all our sorrow.
Pity seems too degrading a sentiment to be offered at the shrine of
faultless excellence. The sufferings of martyrs are rather beheld with
admiration and sympathetic triumph than with tears; and we never feel
much for those whom we consider as themselves raised above common
feelings.
The last rule I shall insist upon is, that scenes of distress should
not be too long continued. All our finer feelings are in a manner
momentary, and no art can carry them beyond a certain point, either
in intenseness or duration. Constant suffering deadens the heart to
tender impressions; as we may observe in sailors, and others who
are grown callous by a life of continual hardships. It is therefore
highly necessary, in a long work, to relieve the mind by scenes of
pleasure and gaiety; and I cannot think it so absurd a practice as
our modern delicacy has represented it, to intermix wit and fancy
with the pathetic, provided care be taken not to check the passions
while they are flowing. The transition from a pleasurable state of
mind to tender sorrow is not so difficult as we imagine. When the mind
is opened by gay and agreeable scenes, every impression is felt more
sensibly. Persons of a lively temper are much more susceptible of that
sudden swell of sensibility which occasions tears, than those of a
grave and saturnine cast: for this reason women are more easily moved
to weeping than men. Those who have touched the springs of pity with
the finest hand, have mingled light strokes of pleasantry and mirth in
their most pathetic passages. Very different is the conduct of many
novel-writers, who, by plunging us into scenes of distress without end
or limit, exhaust the powers, and before the conclusion either render
us insensible to every thing, or fix a real sadness upon the mind. The
uniform stile of tragedies is one reason why they affect so little.
In our old plays, all the force of language is reserved for the more
interesting parts; and in the scenes of common life there is no attempt
to rise above common language: whereas we, by that pompous manner and
affected solemnity which we think it necessary to preserve through the
whole piece, lose the force of an elevated or passionate expression
where the occasion really suggests it.