pretence to a simple, natural style. A man was held unfit to write, who
could not express his thoughts out of the common language; so that it
is possible, there was as much difficulty in understanding them at the
time they lived, as now. If we are to judge of the English they spoke,
by that they writ, we have no reason to complain of the fluctuation
of our tongue. But it is very probable that conversation-language was
much the same two hundred years ago as at present; there are proofs of
this in private letters still existing—I mean from such people as had
no ambition to be thought learned, or from such as felt too much for
affectation. The famous letter of Ann Boleyn to Henry the eighth, is
of this last sort, in which there is scarce an obsolete expression.——I
hope you make a distinction between expression and spelling—for as I
once observed to you, it is but of late that our orthography has been
fixed. In the State-tryals in Elizabeth and James’s reign, we find near
the same language we use at present, and this was taken immediately
from the mouth. In those passages where Shakespeare’s genius had not
its full scope, may be observed his attempts to be thought learned, and
refined; but where the subject was too impetuous to brook restraint,
the language is as perfect as the idea. Upon the whole, tho’ the
colloquial English was much the same as at present, we may safely
pronounce the style of the _authors_ of this period to be barbarous.
The disputes between Charles the first and the Parliament, were
of great use in polishing the language; and tho’ the King’s papers
are thought to be most elegant, yet it is evident that both parties
endeavoured at strength for the good of their cause, and at perspicuity
for the sake of being universally understood—and these two principles
go near towards making a perfect style. Milton’s prose is in general
very nervous, but it is not free from stiffness and affectation.
The other period is that of Addison. He was undoubtedly one of our
smoothest and best writers: he had the skill of uniting ease, strength,
and correctness, and did more towards improving the language than the
united labours of fifty years before him. But yet there were some
little remains of barbarism still left, which are evident enough in his
contemporaries, and may be discovered even in him, by attending to the
style and not to the matter. Will you believe that so elegant a writer
has used _authenticalness_ for _authenticity_?——You may find this
horrid word in his Dialogues on Medals.
Political disputes have produced, among many bad effects, the same
good, now, as formerly—they have improved our language. Those in the
Administration of Sir Robert Walpole, but more particularly these in
our own times, have occasioned some of the most perfect pieces of
writing we have in our tongue. Though, from the nature of the subject,
the pieces themselves can scarce exist longer than the dispute which
gave them being; yet certainly their effect upon the language will be
felt when the quarrel itself is no more, and every thing relating to it
forgotten.
Tho’ I have affirmed that our language is more perfect now than in any
past period—yet there is still much left in it to be corrected.—Indeed
there are some defects in all languages, which have crept in by
degrees, and are so sanctified by custom, that they can never be
corrected. In English there is no difference in writing, tho’ there is
in pronouncing, the present, and preterperfect tenses of the verbs
_read_, and _eat_, and some others. Some unsuccessful attempts have
been made to distinguish them by writing _redde_ and _ate_. There are
more words in Latin of contrary significations which are written the
same, than, I believe, in any other language. It is a _defect_ if the
pronunciation of different words be alike, and a great _fault_ if such
a pronunciation be the consequence of a refinement. We now pronounce
_fore_ and _four_, the same; which sometimes makes an odd confusion. “I
will come to you at three, I can’t come _before_”—and “I will come to
you at three, I can’t come _by four_”—are pronounced just the same way.
This we get by affectedly dropping the _u_. In French _au dessous_
and _au dessus_ are too much alike for contrary significations. Nature
dictates a difference of sound for different meanings: the adverbs of
negation and assent, bear no resemblance to each other in any language;
and almost all languages agree in some such sound as _no_ for denial.
The London dialect is the cause of many improprieties, which, if they
were only used in conversation, would not much signify; but as they
have begun to make part of our written language, they deserve some
animadversion. To mention a few. The custom among the common people
of adding an _s_ to many words, has, I believe, occasioned its being
fixed to some, by writers of rank, who on account of their residence
in London did not perceive the impropriety. They speak, and write,
_chickens_—_coals_—_acquaintances_—_assistances_, &c. _Chicken_ is
itself the plural of _chick_, as _oxen_ is of _ox_, _kine_ (_cowen_)
is of _cow_, and many others. _Coal_, _acquaintance_, being aggregate
nouns, admit of no plural termination, nor does _assistance_. If I were
to say a bag of shots, or sands, the impropriety would be instantly
perceived; and yet one is full as good English as the other. A certain
author of great credit, who has taken a strict, nay, a verbal review of
the English language, uses them as often as they occur.
As the Londoners speak, so they also write _learn_ for _teach_, this
is a very old mistake, and occurs frequently in the psalms, _do_ for
_does_ (and the contrary), _set_ for _sit_, _see_ for _saw_, _tin_ for
_latten_ (which are two different things as well as words), _sulky_
for _sullen_, &c. &c. _’Change_ and _’sample_ have been long admitted
denizens.——Even in a dictionary you may find _million_ explained to be
a fruit well known—as perhaps in a future edition we shall be told that
a _fly_ signifies a _coach_, and _dilly_ a _chaise_.
The London _phraseology_ has also been too hard for English. _I got me
up_—_he sets him down_—_I got no sleep_—_I slept none_—such a thing is
_a_ doing—_a_ going—_a_ coming—_live_ lobsters—_live_-cattle—I will
call _of_ you—do not tell _on_ it. All these are writ without scruple.
Our modern comedies, and the London news-papers, abound so much in this
language, that they are scarce intelligible to one who has never been
in the capital. Nay in books for the use of schools, the London dialect
is so predominant, that many of the sentences are not to be understood
by a country boy, and impossible to be rendered into Latin even by
those who do understand them. “I will go and fetch a walk in the Green
Park”—“I will go get me my dinner,” and such jargon is perpetually
occurring.
English has also been corrupted by London _emphasis_ and _accent_—I
will not tire you by quoting examples, of which a long list might
be made to prove the great propensity of the common people to those
defects; and would be a farther confirmation of what I just now
advanced, that men of learning really commit improprieties, because
their ear is familiarized to them.
I have yet something to add on this subject—but I must caution you
from imagining that because I find out the faults of others, I pretend
to perfection myself. Hogarth says very properly in his Analysis
of Beauty, “do not look for good drawing in those examples which I
bring of grace and beauty—they are purposely neglected—attend to the
precept.”
=LETTER= XII.
I sometimes provoke you by sporting with what you deem sacred matters.
Homer I know is one of your divinities—may I venture to tell you that I
never could find that scale of heroes in the Iliad which critics admire
as such a beauty?
Hector is supposed in valour superior to all but Achilles—upon what
authority? Ajax certainly beat him in the single combat between them;
and there are some instances, tho’ I cannot recollect the passages, of
his inferiority to others of the Greeks.
It is surely a blindness worse than Homerican, not to see many
inconsistencies in the Iliad, and it is ridiculous to attempt to make
beauties of them. From many which might easily be pointed out, take
one or two as they occur to my memory. After describing Mars as the
most terrible of beings, and to whom whole armies are as nothing;
what _poetical_ belief is strong enough to suppose he could be made
to retire by Diomed? If Minerva’s shield is so vast (the shell of a
Kraken, I suppose), can one help wondering why she does not use it as
the King of Laputa does his island, when his subjects on Terra-firma
rebel? I do not recollect parallel instances in Milton.
=LETTER= XIII.
You have not done me justice—read the memoirs I sent you _properly_
before they are condemned:—what is any book if it be not read in that
manner by which it may best be understood? A novel, whose merit lies
chiefly in the story, should be quickly passed through; for the closer
you can bring the several circumstances together, the better. If its
merit consists in character and sentiment, it should be read much
slower; for the least obvious parts of a character are frequently the
most beautiful, and the propriety of a sentiment may easily escape in
a hasty perusal. Detached thoughts ought to be dwelt on longer than
any other manner of writing; for different subjects following close,
do rather confound than instruct; but if we allowed ourselves time to
reflect, we should understand the author and perhaps improve ourselves.
Each thought should be considered as a text, upon which we ought to
make a commentary.
Bayle’s manner of writing by text and note is generally decried, but
without reason. When there is a necessity of proving the assertion
by quotation, which was his case, no other way can be taken equally
perspicuous. The authorities must be produced somewhere—they cannot be
in the text, and if they are put at the end of the book, which is the
modern fashion, how much more troublesome are they for referring to,
than by being at the bottom of the page? The truth is, this is another
instance of ignorance in the method of reading. Bayle, Harris, and
other writers of this class, should have the text read first, which is
quickly dispatched; then, begin again and take in the notes. By this
means you preserve a connection, and judge of the proofs of what is
asserted.
I might in other respects complain of your treating me rather unfairly;
indeed, none judge less favourably of an author than his intimate
friends——their personal knowledge of him as a man, destroys a hundred
delusions to his advantage as an author.—“Who is a hero to his Valet
de Chambre?” said the great Condé, and he might have added, “or to his
friends?” Besides the obvious reason for this, it is most likely that
an author has in his common conversation made his friends acquainted
with his sentiments long before they are communicated to the public.
The consequence is, that to _them_ his work is not new; and it is
possible that they may take to themselves part of his merit; for I have
known many instances, where a person has been told something by way of
information, which he himself told to the informer.
I know you will take this to yourself.—Do so, but still think me
Yours, &c.
=LETTER= XIV.
We are got into a custom of mentioning Shakespeare and Jonson together,
and many think them of equal merit, tho’ in different ways. In my
opinion, Jonson is one of the dullest writers I ever read, and his
plays, with some few exceptions, the most unentertaining I ever saw. He
has some shining passages now and then, but not enough to make up for
his deficiencies. Shakespeare, on the contrary, abundantly recompenses
for being sometimes low and trifling. One of his commentators much
admires his great art in the construction of his verses—I dare say
they are very perfect; but it is as much out of my power to think upon
the art of verse-making when I am reading this divine poet, as it is
to consider of the best way of making fiddle-strings at a concert. I
am not master of myself sufficiently to do any thing that requires
deliberation: I am taken up like a leaf in a whirlwind, and dropped at
Thebes or Athens, as the poet pleases!
I have seldom any pleasure from the representation of Shakespeare’s
plays, unless it be from some scenes of conversation merely,
without passion. The speeches which have any thing violent in the
expression, are generally so over-acted as to cease to be the “mirror
of nature”—but this was always the case—“Oh! it offends me to the
soul, to see a robustious perriwig-pated fellow tear a passion to
tatters:”—’tho’ this is a “lamentable thing,” yet it appears to be
without remedy. An actor, in a large theatre, is like a picture hung
at a distance, if the touches are delicate, they escape the sight:
both must be extravagant to be seen at all, and hence the custom of
the ancients to make use of the Persona and Buskin. Acting has a
very different effect in the stage-box from what it has in the back
of the gallery. In the one, every thing appears rough and rude,
like a picture of Spagnolet’s near the eye; in the other, it is with
difficulty that the play can be made out. Perhaps, the best place is
the front of the first gallery; as being sufficiently removed to soften
these hardnesses, yet near enough to see and hear with advantage.
But there is no place can alter the impropriety of rant and turgid
declamation, which the performer naturally runs into by endeavouring to
be strong enough to be heard—so that, as I observed, the evil seems to
be incurable.
=LETTER= XV.
An acquaintance of ours has corresponded with a writing-master many
years, not from any regard to the man, but for the pleasure he takes
in seeing fine writing. He preserves his letters carefully, and though
he _reads_ them to none, (perhaps they are still unread by himself) he
_shews_ them to all who can relish the excellence of a flourish “long
drawn out.”——Our friend’s taste may be ridiculed by those who “hold
it a baseness to write fair,” but yet it is certain, that the true
form of letters, in writing, is understood no where but in England.
I never saw a specimen of a correct hand either written or engraved,
from any other country, that was upon a right principle. Perhaps it
may be objected, that every nation, prejudiced in favour of their own
particular manner, will say the same thing. Let us examine this.
Modern writing-hand had its rise from an endeavour to form the true
letters as they are printed, with expedition. The first variation from
the original, must be an oblique instead of a perpendicular situation,
this naturally arises from the position of the hand—the next, a joining
of the letters; these two necessarily produce a third, an alteration
of the form. So that writing hand differs from printing in this, that
the former is an arrangement of _connected_ characters, the latter of
distinct ones. The slit in the pen makes the down-strokes full, and
the up-strokes slight, so that the body of the letter is strong, and
the joinings weak; as they should be. It is most natural and easy also
to hold the pen always in the same position, by which means, the full
and hair-strokes are always in their right places. So far seems the
necessary consequence of endeavouring to make the letters expeditiously
with a pen. This being granted, the ornamental part comes next to
be considered. For this, it is requisite that the letters should
be of the same size and distance, that their leaning should be in
the same direction, that the joining be as much as possible uniform,
and, lastly, that the superadded ornament of flourishing, should be
continued in the same position of the pen in which it was first begun,
(generally the reverse of the usual way of holding it), and that the
forms be distinct, flowing, and graceful.
These appear to me to be the true principles of writing. Examine the
Italian and French hands by these rules, (some of the best specimens
are the titles of prints, &c.) and the hand which they use will be
found to be unconnected, full of unmeaning twists and curlings
generally produced by altering the position of the pen, and upon the
whole awkward, stiff, and ungraceful.
As they _now_ write, we _did_, about seventy or eighty years since; so
that our present beautiful hand is a new one, and by its being used no
where but in England, I must conclude it to be an English invention.
Believe me, in my best writing, and with my best wishes, ever
Yours, &c.
=LETTER= XVI.
I Have often reflected with great grief, that there is scarce any
remarkable natural object in the sublime style, of which we have
a draught, to be depended on. The cataract of Niagara.—The peak
of Teneriffe, we know nothing of but that the one is the greatest
waterfall, and the other the highest single mountain in the world.
It is true, Condamine says, that the Andes far surpass the peak of
Teneriffe; more than a third—but, it should be considered, that the
valley of Quito is 1600 fathoms above the sea, and that it is from
the foot of the mountain that the eye judges of its height. The peak
of Teneriffe rises at once, and has, comparatively, but a small
base—so that, in appearance, Teneriffe is the highest of mountains.
The cataract of Niagara, indeed, is most excellently _described_ by
Mr. Kalm; but all descriptions of visible objects comes so short
of a representation, and is necessarily so imperfect, that if ten
different painters were to read Mr. Kalm’s account of this amazing
fall, and to draw it from his description, we should have as many
different draughts as painters. The peak of Teneriffe has been ascended
by many, but described by none, for I cannot call those accounts
descriptions, which would suit any other high mountain as well. Some
travellers give views of what they apprehend to be curious, but all
that we can find from them is, that they cannot possibly be like the
object described. There must be some amazing scenes in Norway by
Pontoppidan’s Descriptions, and in the Alps by Schuchtzer’s, but their
draughts cannot bear the least resemblance to what they describe. Nay,
those objects which lie in the common road of travellers have just the
same fate.—The view of Lombardy from the Alps—the bay of Naples—the
appearance of Genoa, from the sea, &c. &c. are much talked of, but
never drawn: or if drawn, not published. From this general censure
I should except a view of Vesuvius taken by a pupil of Vernet’s, and
two views of the Giant’s causeway in Ireland, but above all Gaspar
Poussin’s drawings from Tivoli. These have something so characteristic,
that we may be sure that they give a proper idea of the scenes from
whence they were taken. Of the many thousands that are constantly going
to the East-Indies, not one has published a drawing of the Cape of Good
Hope, nor of Adam’s peak in Ceylon, nor fifty other remarkable objects
which are seen in that voyage.——Even the rock of Gibraltar is as yet
undrawn. What I mean by a drawing is a _pictoresque_ view, not a meer
outline for the use of navigators, nor the unmeaning marks of a pencil
directed by ignorance. I greatly suspect the so much commended draughts
in Anson’s voyage to be nothing but outlines filled up at random; and
more than suspect, that many designs in a late publication of this
sort, are mere inventions at home.
I have been led into this subject by the two admirable descriptions
of Ætna by Sir W. Hamilton and Brydone—as much as _words_ can realize
objects, they _are_ realized.— But yet, a dozen different views taken
by real artists, would have done more in an instant, than any effect
within the power of description.
=LETTER= XVII.
Is there not something very fanciful in the analogy which some people
have discovered between the arts? I do not deny the _commune quoddam
vinculum_, but would keep the principle within its proper bounds.
Poetry and painting, I believe, are only allied to music and to each
other; but music, besides having the above-named ladies for sisters,
has also astronomy and geometry for brothers, and grammar—for a cousin,
at least. I am sure I have left out many of the family, though, if
I could enumerate what seems at present the whole, it is odds, but
there would be a new relation discovered soon by an adept in this
business.—Why should not I find out one or two?—I will try.
Let me see—what is there near me? Oh! a standish—music then shall be
like my standish. Any thing else?—Yes—like the grate—or like that shirt
now hanging by the fire, which makes so excellent a screen.
“How prove you this in your great wisdom?”
Marry! thus—music bears great analogy to my standish; because there
is one bottle for the ink, another for the sand, and the third for
wafers—these are evidently the unison, third, and fifth, which make a
compleat chord; and those three a compleat standish.—The pen is so
evidently the plectrum, that it is insulting you to mention it.
“But why like the grate?”
Bless me! did you never see a testudo,—a lyre? The bars are the
strings, the back is the belly—need I enlarge? What is the fire but the
vis musica?—and here, the poker is the plectrum.
“But how can it possibly be like the shirt?”
Pho! any thing in analogy is possible.—Like my shirt?—Why, the body
is the bass, the sleeves are two trebles—the ruffles are shakes and
flourishes—the three buttons of the collar are evidently the common
chord.—But, a truce with such nonsense.—There are scarce any two
things in the world but may be _made_ to resemble each other. Permit me
to shew the slightness of another received opinion concerning music.
“What passion cannot music raise or quell?” says Dryden, or Pope, I
forget which: and the same thought is so often expressed by other
poets, and so generally adopted by all authors upon this subject,
that it would be a bold attempt to contradict it, were there not
an immediate appeal to general feeling, which I hope is superior
to all authority. Thus supported then, I ask in my turn—“What
passion _can_ music raise or quell?” Who ever felt himself affected,
otherwise than with pleasure, at those strains which are supposed
to inspire grief—rage—joy—or pity? and this, in a degree, equal
to the goodness of the composition and performance. The effect of
music, in this instance, is just the same as of poetry. We attend—are
pleased—delighted—transported—and when the heart can bear no more,
“glow, tremble, and weep.” All these are but different degrees of pure
_pleasure_. When a poet or musician has produced this last effect, he
has attained the utmost in the power of poetry or music. Tears being
a general expression of grief, pain, and pity; and music, when in its
perfection, producing them, has occasioned the mistake, of its raising
the passions of grief, &c. But tears, in fact, are nothing but the
mechanical effect of every strong affection of the heart, and produced
by all the passions; even joy and rage. It is this effect, and the
pleasurable sensation together, which Offian (whether ancient or modern
I care not) calls the “joy of grief.”——It is this effect, when produced
by some grand image, which Dr. Blair, his Critic, styles the “sublime
pathetic.”
I have chosen to illustrate these observations from poetry rather than
from music, because it is more generally understood, and easier to
quote—but the principle is equal in both the arts.
Adieu.
=LETTER= XVIII.
Your pictures came safe—my opinion of them you will in part know from
the following observations, which, though made on another occasion, are
equally applicable to this.
There is in landscape-painting and novel-writing a fault committed by
some of the best artists and authors, which is as yet unnamed, because
perhaps unnoticed, permit me to call it _a bad association_.
In a landscape, it is not sufficient that all the objects are such
as may well be found together.—In a story, it is not enough that the
incidents are such as may well happen—it is necessary in both, that all
the circumstances should be of the _same family_.