rem vehis," are good instances of the sentimental sublime.

The sublime in natural, and in moral objects, is presented to us in one view, and compared together in the following beautiful passage of Akenside's Pleasures of the imagination.

Look then abroad through nature to the range
Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres,
Wheeling, unshaken, through the void immense!
And speak, O Man; does this capacious scene,
With half that kindling majesty, dilate
Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose
Refulgent from the stroke of Cesar's fate
Amid the crowd of patriots; and his arm
Aloft extending, like eternal Jove,

When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud
On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel,
And bade the father of his country hail!
For lo! the tyrant prostrate on the dust;
And Rome again is free.

It has been imagined by an ingenious author, that terror is the source of the sublime; and that no objects have this character, but such, as produce impressions of pain and danger. Many terrible objects are indeed highly sublime; nor does grandeur refuse alliance with the idea of danger. But the sublime does not consist wholly in modes of danger and pain. In many grand objects there is not the least coincidence with terror; as in the magnificent prospect of widely extended plains, and of the starry firmament; or

in the moral dispositions and sentiments, which we contemplate with high admiration. In many painful and terrible objects also, it is evident, there is no sort of grandeur. The amputation of a limb, or the bite of a snake, is in the highest degree terrible; but they are destitute of all claim whatever to sublimity. It seems just to allow that mighty force or power, whether attended by terror or not, whether employed in protecting or alarming us, has a better title, than any thing yet mentioned, to be the fundamental quality of the sublime. There appears to be no sublime object, into the idea of which strength and force either enter not directly, or are not at least intimately associated, by conducting our thoughts to some astonishing power, as concerned in the production of the object.

SUBLIMITY IN WRITING.

THE foundation of the sublime in composition must always be laid in the nature of the object described. Unless it be such an object, as, if presented to our sight, if exhibited to us in reality, would excite ideas of that elevating, that awful, and magnificent kind, which we call sublime, the description, however finely drawn, is not entitled to be placed under this

class. This excludes all objects, which are merely beautiful, gay, or elegant. Beside, the object must not only in itself be sublime, but it must be placed before us in such a light, as is best calculated to give us a clear and full impression of it; it must be described with strength, conciseness, and simplicity. This depends chiefly upon the lively impression, which the poct or orator bas of the object, which he exhibits; and upon his being deeply affected and animated by the sublime idea, which he would convey. If his own feeling be languid, he can never inspire his reader with any strong emotion. Instances, which on this subject, are extremely necessary, will clearly show the importance of all these requisites.

The

It is chiefly among ancient authors, that we are to look for the most striking instances of the sublime. The early ages of the world, and the uncultivated state of society were peculiarly favourable to the emotions of sublimity. genius of men was then very prone to admiration and astonishment. Meeting continually new and strange objects, their imagination was kept glowing, and their passions were often raised to the utmost. They thought and expressed themselves boldly without restraint. In the progress of society the genius and manners of men have undergone a change more favourable to accuracy, than to strength or sublimity.

Of all writings, ancient or modern, the Sacred Scriptures afford the most striking instances of the sublime. In them the descrip

tions of the Supreme Being are wonderfully noble, both from the grandeur of the object, and the manner of representing it. What an assemblage of awful and sublime ideas is presented to us in that passage of the eighteenth Psalm, where an appearance of the Almighty is described ! "In my distress I called upon the Lord; he heard my voice out of his temple, and my cry came before him. Then the earth

shook and trembled; the foundations of the hills were moved; because he was wroth. He bowed the heavens, and came down, and darkness was under his feet; and he did ride upon a cherub, and did fly; yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind, He made darkness his secret place; his pavilion round about him were dark waters and thick clouds of the sky." The circumstances of darkness and terror are here applied with propriety and success for heightening the sublime.

The celebrated instance, given by Longinus; from Moses, "God said, let there be light; and there was light," belongs to the true sublime; and its sublimity arises from the strong conception, it conveys, of an effort of power producing its effect with the utmost speed and facility. A similar thought is magnificently expanded in the following passage of Isaiah; Chap. xxiv. 24, 27, 28. "Thus saith the Lord, thy Redeemer, and he, that formed thee from the womb; I am the Lord, that maketh all things; that stretcheth forth the heavens alone that spreadeth abroad the earth by

myself; that saith to the deep, be dry, and I will dry up thy rivers; that saith of Cyrus, he is my shepherd, and shall perform all my pleasure; even saying to Jerusalem, thou shalt be built; and to the temple, thy foundation shall be

laid."

Homer has in all ages been universally admired for sublimity; and he is indebted for much of his grandeur to that native and unaffected simplicity which characterizes his manner. His descriptions of conflicting armies; the spirit, the fire, the rapidity, which he throws into his battles, present to every reader of the Iliad frequent instances of sublime writing. The majesty of his warlike scenes is often heightened in a high degree by the introduction of the gods. In the twentieth book, where all the gods take part in the engagement, according as they severally favour either the Grecians or the Trojans, the poet appears to put forth one of his highest efforts, and the description rises into the most awful magnificence. All nature appears in commotion. Jupiter thunders in the heavens; Neptune strikes the earth with his trident; the ships, the city, and the mountains shake; the earth trembles to its centre; Pluto starts from his throne, fearing, lest the secrets of the infernal regions should be laid open to the view of mortals. We shall transcribe Mr. Pope's translation of this passage; which, though inferior to the original, is highly animated and sublime.