clear and distinct at once; the mind is immediately conscious of itself and its own emotions; it feels and suffers in itself a sensation, either the same or similar to that which is described. Hence that sublimity which arises from the vehement agitation of the passions, and the imitation of them, possesses a superior influence over the human mind; whatever is exhibited to it from without, may well be supposed to move and agitate it less than what it internally perceives, of the magnitude and force of which it is previously conscious. And as the imitation or delineation of the passions is the most perfect production of poetry, so by exciting them it most completely effects its purpose. The intent of poetry is to profit while it entertains us; and the agitation of the passions, by the force of imitation, is in the highest degree both useful and pleasant. : This method of exciting the passions is in the first place useful, when properly and lawfully exercised; that is, when these passions are directed to their proper end, and rendered subservient to the dictates of nature and truth; when an aversion to evil, and a love of goodness, is excited and if the poet deviate on any occasion from this great end and aim, he is guilty of a most scandalous abuse and perversion of his art. For, the passions and affections are the elements and principles of human action; they are all in themselves good, useful, and virtuous; and, when fairly and naturally employed, not only lead to useful ends and purposes, but actually prompt and stimulate to virtue. It is the office of poetry to incite, to direct, to temper the passions, and not to extinguish them. It professes to exercise, to amend, to discipline the affections: it is this which is strictly meant by Aristotle, when he speaks of the pruning of the passions, though certain commentators have strangely perverted his meaning. But this operation on the passions is also more immediately useful, because it is productive of pleasure. Every emotion of the mind (not excepting even those which in themselves are allied to pain,) when excited through the agency of the imitative arts, is ever accompanied with an exquisite sensation of pleasure. This arises partly from the contemplation of the imitation itself; partly from the consciousness of our own felicity, when compared with the miseries of others; but principally from the moral sense.1 Nature has endued man with a certain Social and generous spirit; and commands him not to confine his cares to himself alone, but to extend them to all his fellow-creatures; to look upon nothing which relates to mankind as foreign to himself. Thus, "to rejoice with them that do rejoice, and to weep with them that weep;" to love and to respect piety and benevolence; to cherish and retain an indignant hatred of cruelty and injustice; that is, to obey the dictates of nature, is right, is honest, is becoming, is pleasant. The sublime and the pathetic are intrinsically very different; and yet have in some respects a kind of affinity or connexion. The pathetic 1 See Lord KAMES's Elements of Criticism, Vol. I. ch. ii.; Dr. PRIESTLEY'S Lectures on Oratory, p. 137; and HARTLEY on the Human Mind, § iv. prop. 49. sublime; but when it becomes excessive, and predominates in the mind, it rises to a bolder tone, and becomes heated to fury and madness We have a fine example of this from the hand of Jeremiah, when he exaggerates the miseries of Sion: He hath bent his bow as an enemy, he hath fixed his right hand as an adversary; He hath poured out his anger like fire on the tents of the daughter of Sion.1 But nothing of this kind can equal the grief of Job, which is acute, vehement, fervid; always in the deepest afflictions breathing an animated and lofty strain; -for in the conscious bosom flame Virtue, and grief, and soul-depressing shame. His fury rendeth me; he teareth me to pieces; They smite me reproachfully on the cheek, God hath delivered me over bound to the wicked; Yea, he hath tumbled me headlong in perdition at the discretion of the impious. I was in tranquillity, and he rent me asunder; Yea, he seized me by the neck, and dashed me in pieces; He hath even set me up as a mark for him. His arches encompassed me round; He pierceth through my reins, and spareth not; He poureth out my gall on the ground. He breaketh me up breach after breach; He rusheth upon me like a mighty man.2 In the same author, with what magnificence and sublimity are sorrow and desperation expressed! O might thy suppliant urge one poor request! Thy wrath, O God! should loose at once thy arm, (Thy vengeful arm, which blasting lightnings wields,) And crush thy suffering creature into nothing.1 The whole poem of Job is no less excellent in the expression and excitation of terror, as the example just now quoted sufficiently demonstrates. To this commendation, however, the prophetic writings seem to have the fairest claim; it being, indeed, their peculiar province to denounce the Divine judgments upon guilty nations. Almost the whole book of Ezekiel is occupied with this passion: Isaiah is also excellent in this respect, although he be in general the harbinger of joy and salvation. See his terrific denunciation directed against the enemies of Jerusalem: ch. xiii. 6—13. Jeremiah is scarcely inferior, though perhaps his talents are better suited in common to the exciting of the softer affections. As an example, we only refer to that remarkable vision, in which the impending slaughter and destruction of Judea is exhibited with wonderful force and enthusiasm: ch. iv. 19, &c.2 [To be concluded in our next.] Poetry. HUMAN LIFE. LIFE! what is life? a sum of real ills Of disappointments, expectations, schemes A tissue of vexations and of cares That mar our rest, and in the fretted heart Foster the gnawing worm of misery: A tablet, on which mem'ry loves to trace The chequer'd hours gone by, and hope to sketch A bright ideal future.-"Tis a game Of chance we all must play, a fitful game, Where rests, betwixt our failure and success, VOL. IV. 1 Job vi. 2, 3, 4, 8, 9. 2 Lowth on the Poetry of the Hebrews, Lect. 17. R Life is a tantalizing, specious bliss, A never-ceasing mockery, a boon That tempts our wishes, yet but tempts to nip Its stunted trunk trench'd by the lightning storms An oft told tale, begun and mutter'd o'er 'Mid groans, and sighs, and tears, and if a smile Brighten the gloom, 'tis like a wand'ring star That thro' th' empyrean shoots, on whose bright track The dun air closes, leaving not a trace Of its coruscant flight. Life too provides A constant banquet, where that shadowy form, Whose touch shall crumble worlds and quench the sun, Presides and never cloys; for nothing short Of universal nature shall suffice To gorge the craving tyrant. Mighty Pow'r! Trace we here awhile Upon how frail a hinge our life revolves; How many accidents encompass all Our moments, hours, and years. The very air, On which the fleeting breath of life is fed, Is loaded with its bane.-The pestilence Back'd by the crashing thunder. These unite, In the last hush of death. The fierce Sirocco thro' the desert sweeps From the charg'd earth, th' insidious fire-damps rise Gracious God! Mid what a mass of perils do we live ! A breath, a cough, a sigh, may prostrate all T.H.C. |