been guilty of a thought so extravagant.
CHAP. XVII.
Language of Passion.
Among the particulars that compose the social part of our nature, a
propensity to communicate our opinions, our emotions, and every thing
that affects us, is remarkable. Bad fortune and injustice affect every
one greatly; and of these we are so prone to complain, that if we have
no friend or acquaintance to take part in our sufferings, we sometimes
utter our complaints aloud even where there are none to listen.
But this propensity, though natural, operates not in every state of
mind. A man immoderately grieved, seeks to afflict himself; and
self-affliction is the gratification of the passion. Immoderate grief is
therefore mute; because complaining is struggling for relief:
It is the wretch’s comfort still to have
Some small reserve of near and inward wo,
Some unsuspected hoard of inward grief,
Which they unseen may wail, and weep, and mourn,
And glutton-like alone devour.
_Mourning Bride, act 1. sc. 1._
When grief subsides, it then and no sooner finds a tongue. We complain,
because complaining is an effort to disburden the mind of its
distress[63].
Surprise and terror are silent passions for a different reason: they
agitate the mind so violently, as for a time to suspend the exercise of
its faculties, and in particular that of speech.
Love and revenge, when immoderate, are not more loquacious than
immoderate grief. But when these passions become moderate, they set the
tongue free, and, like moderate grief, become loquacious. Moderate love,
when unsuccessful, is vented in complaints; when successful, is full of
joy expressed both in words and gestures.
As no passion hath any long uninterrupted existence[64] nor beats always
with an equal pulse, the language suggested by passion is also unequal
and interrupted. And even during an uninterrupted fit of passion, we
only express in words the more capital sentiments. In familiar
conversation, one who vents every single thought is justly branded with
the character of _loquacity_. Sensible persons express no thoughts but
what make some figure. In the same manner, we are only disposed to
express the strongest impulses of passion, especially when it returns
with impetuosity after some interruption.
I already have had occasion to observe[65], that the sentiments ought to
be tuned to the passion, and the language to both. Elevated sentiments
require elevated language: tender sentiments ought to be clothed in
words that are soft and flowing: when the mind is depressed with any
passion, the sentiments must be expressed in words that are humble, not
low. Words have an intimate connection with the ideas they represent;
and the representation must be imperfect, if the words correspond not
precisely to the ideas. An elevated tone of language to express a plain
or humble sentiment, has a bad effect by a discordant mixture of
feeling. There is not less discord when elevated sentiments are dressed
in low words:
Versibus exponi tragicis res comica non vult.
Indignatur item privatis ac prope Socco
Dignis carminibus narrari cœna Thyestæ.
_Horace, Ars poet. l. 89._
This however excludes not figurative expression, which, within moderate
bounds, communicates to the sentiment an agreeable elevation. We are
sensible of an effect directly opposite, where figurative expression is
indulged beyond a just measure. The opposition betwixt the expression
and the sentiment, makes the discord appear greater than it is in
reality[66].
At the same time, all passions admit not equally of figures. Pleasant
emotions, which elevate or swell the mind, vent themselves in strong
epithets and figurative expression. Humbling and dispiriting passions,
on the contrary, affect to speak plain:
Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri
Telephus et Peleus: cum pauper et exul uterque;
Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba,
Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela.
_Horace, Ars poet. 95._
Figurative expression is the work of an enlivened imagination, and for
that reason cannot be the language of anguish or distress. A scene of
this kind is painted by Otway in colours finely adapted to the subject.
There is scarce a figure in it, except a short and natural simile with
which the speech is introduced.
Belvidera talking to her father of her husband:
Think you saw what pass’d at our last parting;
Think you beheld him like a raging lion,
Pacing the earth, and tearing up his steps,
Fate in his eyes, and roaring with the pain
Of burning fury; think you saw his one hand
Fix’d on my throat, while the extended other
Grasp’d a keen threat’ning dagger; oh, ’twas thus
We last embrac’d, when, trembling with revenge,
He dragg’d me to the ground, and at my bosom
Presented horrid death; cry’d out, My friends,
Where are my friends? swore, wept, rag’d, threaten’d, lov’d;
For he yet lov’d, and that dear love preserv’d me
To this last trial of a father’s pity.
I fear not death, but cannot bear a thought
That that dear hand should do th’ unfriendly office;
If I was ever then your care, now hear me;
Fly to the senate, save the promis’d lives
Of his dear friends, ere mine be made the sacrifice.
_Venice preserv’d, act 5._
To preserve this resemblance betwixt words and their meaning, the
sentiments of active and hurrying passions ought to be dressed in words
where syllables prevail that are pronounced short or fast; for these
make an impression of hurry and precipitation. Emotions, on the other
hand, that rest upon their objects, are best expressed by words where
syllables prevail that are pronounced long or slow. A person affected
with melancholy has a languid and slow train of perceptions. The
expression best suited to this state of mind, is where words not only of
long but of many syllables abound in the composition. For that reason,
nothing can be finer than the following passage:
In those deep solitudes, and awful cells,
Where heav’nly-pensive Contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing Melancholy reigns.
_Pope, Eloisa to Abelard._
To preserve the same resemblance, another circumstance is requisite,
that the language conformable to the emotion, be rough or smooth, broken
or uniform. Calm and sweet emotions are best expressed by words that
glide softly; surprise, fear, and other turbulent passions, require an
expression both rough and broken.
It cannot have escaped any diligent inquirer into nature, that in the
hurry of passion, one generally expresses that thing first which is most
at heart. This is beautifully done in the following passage.
Me, me; adsum qui feci: in me convertite ferrum,
O Rutuli, mea fraus omnis.
_Æneid ix. 427._
Passion has often the effect of redoubling words, the better to make
them express the strong conception of the mind. This is finely
represented in the following examples:
---- Thou sun, said I, fair light!
And thou enlighten’d earth, so fresh and gay!
Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains!
And ye that live, and move, fair creatures! tell
Tell, if ye saw, how came I thus, how here.--
_Paradise Lost, b. viii. 273._
---- Both have sinn’d! but thou
Against God only; I, ’gainst God and thee:
And to the place of judgement will return.
There with my cries importune Heav’n; that all
The sentence, from thy head remov’d, may light
On me, sole cause to thee of all this woe;
Me! Me! only just object of his ire.
_Paradise Lost, book x. 930._
Shakespear is superior to all other writers in delineating passion. It
is difficult to say in what part he most excels, whether in moulding
every passion to peculiarity of character, in discovering the sentiments
that proceed from various tones of passion, or in expressing properly
every different sentiment. He imposes not upon his reader, general
declamation and the false coin of unmeaning words, which the bulk of
writers deal in. His sentiments are adjusted, with the greatest
propriety, to the peculiar character and circumstances of the speaker;
and the propriety is not less perfect betwixt his sentiments and his
diction. That this is no exaggeration, will be evident to every one of
taste, upon comparing Shakespear with other writers, in similar
passages. If upon any occasion he fall below himself, it is in those
scenes where passion enters not. By endeavouring in this case to raise
his dialogue above the style of ordinary conversation, he sometimes
deviates into intricate thought and obscure expression[67]. Sometimes,
to throw his language out of the familiar, he employs rhyme. But may it
not in some measure excuse Shakespear, I shall not say his works, that
he had no pattern, in his own or in any living language, of dialogue
fitted for the theatre? At the same time, it ought not to escape
observation, that the stream clears in its progress, and that in his
later plays he has attained the purity and perfection of dialogue; an
observation that, with greater certainty than tradition, will direct us
to arrange his plays in the order of time. This ought to be considered
by those who magnify every blemish that is discovered in the finest
genius for the drama ever the world enjoy’d. They ought also for their
own sake to consider, that it is easier to discover his blemishes, which
lie generally at the surface, than his beauties, of which none can have
a thorough relish but those who dive deep into human nature. One thing
must be evident to the meanest capacity, that where-ever passion is to
be display’d, Nature shows itself strong in him, and is conspicuous by
the most delicate propriety of sentiment and expression[68].
I return to my subject from a digression I cannot repent of. That
perfect harmony which ought to subsist among all the constituent parts
of a dialogue, is a beauty, not less rare than conspicuous. As to
expression in particular, were I to give instances, where, in one or
other of the respects above mentioned, it corresponds not precisely to
the characters, passions, and sentiments, I might from different authors
collect volumes. Following therefore the method laid down in the chapter
of sentiments, I shall confine my citations to the grosser errors, which
every writer ought to avoid.
And, first, of passion expressed in words flowing in an equal course
without interruption.
In the chapter above cited, Corneille is censured for the impropriety of
his sentiments; and here, for the sake of truth, I am obliged to attack
him a second time. Were I to give instances from that author of the
fault under consideration, I might copy whole tragedies; for he is not
less faulty in this particular, than in passing upon us his own thoughts
as a spectator, instead of the genuine sentiments of passion. Nor would
a comparison betwixt him and Shakespear upon the present point, redound
more to his honour, than the former upon the sentiments. Racine here is
less incorrect than Corneille, though many degrees inferior to the
English author. From Racine I shall gather a few instances. The first
shall be the description of the sea-monster in his _Phædra_, given by
Theramene the companion of Hippolytus, and an eye-witness to the
disaster. Theramene is represented in terrible agitation, which appears
from the following passage, so boldly figurative as not to be excused
but by violent perturbation of mind.
Le ciel avec horreur voit ce monstre sauvage,
La terre s’en émeut, l’air en est infecté,
Le flot, qui l’apporta, recule epouvanté.
Yet Theramene gives a long pompous connected description of this event,
dwelling upon every minute circumstance, as if he had been only a cool
spectator.
A peine nous sortions des portes de Trézene, _&c._
_Act 5. sc. 6._
The last speech of Atalide, in the tragedy of _Bajazet_, of the same
author, is a continued discourse, and but a faint representation of the
violent passion which forc’d her to put an end to her own life.
Enfin, c’en est donc fait, _&c._
_Act 5. sc. last._
Though works, not authors, are the professed subject of this critical
undertaking, I am tempted by the present speculation, to transgress once
again the limits prescribed, and to venture a cursory reflection upon
this justly-celebrated author, That he is always sensible, generally
correct, never falls low, maintains a moderate degree of dignity without
reaching the sublime, paints delicately the tender passions, but is a
stranger to the true language of enthusiastic or fervid passion.
If in general the language of violent passion ought to be broken and
interrupted, soliloquies ought to be so in a peculiar manner. Language
is intended by nature for society; and a man when alone, though he
always clothes his thoughts in words, seldom gives his words utterance
unless when prompted by some strong emotion; and even then by starts and
intervals only[69]. Shakespear’s soliloquies may be justly established
as a model; for it is not easy to conceive any model more perfect. Of
his many incomparable soliloquies, I confine myself to the two
following, being different in their manner.
_Hamlet._ Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d
His cannon ’gainst self slaughter? O God! O God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on’t! O fie! ’tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed: things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead, nay not so much; not two--
So excellent a king, that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother,
That he permitted not the winds of heav’n
Visit her face too roughly. Heav’n and earth!
Must I remember,--why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on; yet, within a month----
Let me not think----Frailty, thy name is _Woman_!
A little month, or ere those shoes were old,
With which she follow’d my poor father’s body,
Like Niobe, all tears---- why she, ev’n she----
(O Heav’n! a beast that wants discourse of reason
Would have mourn’d longer----) married with mine uncle,
My father’s brother; but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules---- Within a month----
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her gauled eyes,
She married---- Oh, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
_Hamlet, act 1. sc. 3._
_Ford._ Hum! ha! is this a vision? is this a dream? do I sleep? Mr
Ford, awake; awake Mr Ford; there’s a hole made in your best coat,
Mr Ford! this ’tis to be married! this ’tis to have linen and buck
baskets! Well, I will proclaim myself what I am; I will now take
the leacher; he is at my house, he cannot ’scape me; ’tis
impossible he should; he cannot creep into a halfpenny-purse, nor
into a pepper-box. But lest the devil that guides him should aid
him, I will search impossible places; though what I am I cannot
avoid, yet to be what I would not, shall not make me tame.
_Merry Wives of Windsor, act 3. sc. last._
These soliloquies are accurate copies of nature. In a passionate
soliloquy one begins with thinking aloud; and the strongest feelings
only, are expressed. As the speaker warms, he begins to imagine one
listening, and gradually slides into a connected discourse.
How far distant are soliloquies generally from these models? They are
indeed for the most part so unhappily executed, as to give disgust
instead of pleasure. The first scene of _Iphigenia_ in Tauris discovers
that princess, in a soliloquy, gravely reporting to herself her own
history. There is the same impropriety in the first scene of Alcestes,
and in the other introductions of Euripides, almost without exception.
Nothing can be more ridiculous. It puts one in mind of that ingenious
device in Gothic paintings, of making every figure explain itself by a
written label issuing from its mouth. The description a parasite, in the
_Eunuch_ of Terence[70], gives of himself in the form of a soliloquy, is
lively; but against all the rules of propriety; for no man, in his
ordinary state of mind, and upon a familiar subject, ever thinks of
talking aloud to himself. The same objection lies against a soliloquy in
the _Adelphi_ of the same author[71]. The soliloquy which makes the
third scene, act third, of his _Heicyra_, is insufferable; for there
Pamphilus, soberly and circumstantially, relates to himself an adventure
which had happened to him a moment before.
Corneille is not more happy in his soliloquies than in his dialogue.
Take for a specimen the first scene of _Cinna_.
Racine also is extremely faulty in the same respect. His soliloquies,
almost without exception, are regular harangues, a chain completed in
every link, without interruption or interval. That of Antiochus in
_Berenice_[72] resembles a regular pleading, where the parties _pro_ and
_con_ display their arguments at full length. The following soliloquies
are equally destitute of propriety: _Bajazet_, act 3. sc. 7.
_Mithridate_, act 3. sc. 4. & act 4. sc. 5. _Iphigenia_, act 4. sc. 8.
Soliloquies upon lively or interesting subjects, but without any
turbulence of passion, may be carried on in a continued chain of
thought. If, for example, the nature and sprightliness of the subject
prompt a man to speak his thoughts in the form of a dialogue, the
expression must be carried on without break or interruption, as in a
dialogue betwixt two persons. This justifies Falstaff’s soliloquy upon
honour:
What need I be so forward with Death, that calls not on me? Well,
’tis no matter, Honour pricks me on. But how if Honour prick me
off, when I come on? how then? Can Honour set a leg? No: or an arm?
No: or take away the grief of a wound? No: Honour hath no skill in
surgery then? No. What is Honour? A word.--What is that word
_honour_? Air; a trim reckoning.---- Who hath it? He that dy’d a
Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it
insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the
living? No: Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore, I’ll
none of it; honour is a mere scutcheon, and so ends my catechism.
_First part Henry IV. act 5. sc. 2._
And even without dialogue, a continued discourse may be justified, where
the soliloquy is upon an important subject that makes a strong
impression, but without much agitation. For if it be at all excusable to
think aloud, it is necessary that the language with the reasoning be
carried on in a chain without a broken link. In this view that admirable
soliloquy in _Hamlet_ upon life and immortality, being a serene
meditation upon the most interesting of all subjects, ought to escape
censure. And the same consideration will justify the soliloquy that
introduces the 5th act of Addison’s _Cato_.
* * * * *
The next class of the grosser errors which all writers ought to avoid,
shall be of language elevated above the tone of the sentiment; of which
take the following instances.
_Zara._ Swift as occasion, I
Myself will fly; and earlier than the morn
Wake thee to freedom. Now ’tis late; and yet
Some news few minutes past arriv’d, which seem’d
To shake the temper of the King---- Who knows
What racking cares disease a monarch’s bed?
Or love, that late at night still lights his lamp,
And strikes his rays through dusk, and folded lids,
Forbidding rest, may stretch his eyes awake,
And force their balls abroad at this dead hour.
I’ll try.
_Mourning Bride, act 3. sc. 4._
The language here is undoubtedly too pompous and laboured for describing
so simple a circumstance as absence of sleep. In the following passage,
the tone of the language, warm and plaintive, is well suited to the
passion, which is recent grief. But every one will be sensible, that in
the last couplet save one, the tone is changed, and the mind suddenly
elevated to be let fall as suddenly in the last couplet.
Il déteste à jamais sa coupable victoire,
Il renonce à la cour, aux humains, à la gloire;
Et se fuïant lui-même, au milieu des deserts,
Il va cacher sa peine au bout de l’univers;
La, soit que le soleil rendît le jour au monde,
Soit qu’il finît sa course au vaste sein de l’onde,
Sa voix faisoit redire aux echos attendris,
Le nom, le triste nom, de son malheureux fils.
_Henriade, chant. viii. 229._
Language too artificial or too figurative for the gravity, dignity, or
importance, of the occasion, may be put in a third class.
* * * * *
Chimene demanding justice against Rodrigue who killed her father,
instead of a plain and pathetic expostulation, makes a speech stuffed
with the most artificial flowers of rhetoric:
Sire, mon pere est mort, mes yeux ont vû son sang
Couler à gros bouillons de son généreux flanc;
Ce sang qui tant de fois garantit vos murailles,
Ce sang qui tant de fois vous gagna des batailles,
Ce sang qui, tout sorti fume encore de courroux
De se voir répandu pour d’autres que pour vous,
Qu’au milieu des hazards n’osoit verser la guerre,
Rodrigue en votre cour vient d’en couvrir la terre.
J’ai couru sur le lieu sans force, et sans couleur;
Je l’ai trouvé sans vie. Excusez ma douleur,
Sire; la voix me manque à ce récit funeste,
Mes pleurs et mes soupirs vous diront mieux le reste.
And again:
Son flanc etoit ouvert, et, pour mieux m’emouvoir,
Son sang sur la poussiére écrivoit mon devoire;
Ou plutôt sa valeur en cet état réduite
Me parloit par sa plaie, et hâtoit ma pursuite,
Et pour se faire entendre au plus juste des Rois,
Par cette triste bouche elle empruntoit ma voix.
_Act 2. sc. 9._
Nothing can be contrived in language more averse to the tone of the
passion than this florid speech. I should imagine it more apt to provoke
laughter than to inspire concern or pity.
* * * * *
In a fourth class shall be given specimens of language too light or airy
for a severe passion.
* * * * *
The agony a mother must feel upon the savage murder of two hopeful sons,
rejects all imagery and figurative expression, as discordant in the
highest degree. Therefore the following passage is undoubtedly in a bad
taste:
_Queen._ Ah, my poor princes! ah, my tender babes,
My unblown flow’rs, new-appearing sweets!
If yet your gentle souls fly in the air,
And be not fixt in doom perpetual,
Hover about me with your airy wings,
And hear your mother’s lamentation.
_Richard III. act 4. sc. 4._
Again,
_K. Philip._ You are as fond of grief as of your child.
_Constance._ Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garment with his form;
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.
_King John, act 3. sc. 6._
A thought that turns upon the expression instead of the subject,
commonly called _a play of words_, being low and childish, is unworthy
of any composition, whether gay or serious, that pretends to the
smallest share of dignity. Thoughts of this kind make a fifth class.
* * * * *
In the _Aminta_ of Tasso[73] the lover falls into a mere play of words,
demanding how he who had lost himself, could find a mistress. And for
the same reason, the following passage in Corneille has been generally
condemned:
_Chimene._ Mon pere est mort, Elvire, et la premiére épée
Dont s’est armé Rodrigue à sa trame coupée.
Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez-vous en eau,
La moitié de ma vie a mis l’autre au tombeau,
Et m’oblige à venger, aprés ce coup funeste,
Celle que je n’ai plus, sur celle qui me reste.
_Cid, act 3. sc. 3._
To die is to be banish’d from myself:
And Sylvia is myself; banish’d from her,
Is self from self; a deadly banishment!
_Two Gentlemen of Verona, act 3. sc. 3._
_Countess._ I pray thee, Lady, have a better cheer:
If thou ingrossest all the griefs as thine,
Thou robb’st me of a moiety.
_All’s well that ends well, act 3. sc. 3._
_K. Henry._ O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows!
When that my care could not with-hold thy riots,
What wilt thou do when riot is thy care?
O, thou wilt be a wilderness again,
Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants.
_Second part, Henry IV. act 4. sc. 11._
Cruda Amarilli, che col nome ancora
D’amar, ahi lasso, amaramente insegni.
_Pastor Fido, act 1. sc. 2._
Antony, speaking of Julius Cæsar: