is at the end of his line, he is at the bottom of the ocean; when he has shot his best, he is sure none, ever did, or ever can, shoot better, or beyond it. His own reason he holds to be the certain measure of truth; and his own knowledge, of what is possible in. nature." Here every thing is at once easy to the breath, and grateful to the ear. We must, however, cbserve, that if composition abound with sentences. which have too many rests, and these placed at intervals apparently measured and regular, it is apt to savor of affectation.

The next thing which demands attention is, the close or cadence of the period. The only important rule which can here be given, is this: when we aim, at dignity or elevation, the sound should increase to the last; the longest members of the period, and the fullest and most sonorous words should be reserved for the conclusion. As an instance of this, the following sentence of Addison may be given: "It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas; converses with its objects at the greatest distance; and continues the longest in action without being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments." Here every reader must be sensible of beauty in the just distribution of the pauses, and in the manner of rounding the period, and of bringing it to a full and harmonious close.

It may be remarked, that little words in the conclu sion of a sentence are as injurious to melody, as they are inconsistent with strengh of expression. A musical close in our language seems in general, to require either the last syllable, or the last but one, to be a long syllable. Words which consist chiefly of short syllables, as, contrary, particular, retrospect, seldom terminate a sentence harmoniously, unless a previous run of long syllables have rendered them pleasing to the ear.

Sentences, however, which are so constructed as to make the sound always swell toward the end, and rest either on the last or penult syllable, give a discourse the tone of declamation. If melody be not varied,

the ear is soon cloyed with it. Sentences constructed in the same manner, with the pauses at equal intervals, should never succeed each other. Short sentences must be blended with long and swelling ones, to render discourse sprightly as well as magnificent.

We now proceed to treat of a higher species of harmony; the sound adapted to the sense. Of this we may remark two degrees. First the current of sound suited to the tenor of a discourse. Next, a peculiar resemblance effected between some object and the sounds that are employed in describing it.

Sounds have in many respects an intimate correspondence with our ideas, partly natural, partly produced by artificial associations. Hence any one modulation of sound continued, stamps on style a certain character and expression. Sentences constructed with Ciceronian fulness, excite an idea of what is important, magnificent, and sedate; but they suit no violent passion, no eager reasoning, no familiar address. These require measures brisker, easier and often more abrupt. It were as absurd to write a panegyric and an invective in a style of the same cadence, as to set the words of a tender love song to the tune of a warlike march.

Beside the general correspondence of the current of sound with the current of thought, a more particular expression of certain objects, by resembling sounds, may be attempted. In poetry this resemblance is chiefly to be sought. It obtains sometimes, indeed, in prose composition, but there in an inferior degree. The sounds of words may be employed for representing chiefly three classes of objects; first, other sounds; secondly, motions; and, thirdly, the emotions and passions of the mind.

In most languages, the names of many particular sounds are so formed as to bear some resemblance of the sound which they signify; as, with us, the whistling of winds, the buss and hum of insects, the hiss of serpents, and the crash of falling timber, and many other instances, where the name is plainly adapted

to the sound it represents. A remarkable example of this beauty may be taken from two passages in Milton's Paradise Lost: in one of which he describes the sound made by the opening of the gates of hell; in the other, that made by the opening of the gates of heaven. The contrast between the two exhibits to great advantage the art of the poet. the opening of hell's gates

-On a sudden open fly,

With impetuous recoil, and jarring sound,
Th' infernal doors: and on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder-

Observe the smoothness of the other;

-Heaven open'd wide

Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound!
On golden hinges turning.-

The first is

In the second place, the sound of words is frequently employed to imitate motion; as it is swift or slow, violent or gentle, uniform or interrupted, easy or accompanied with effort. Between sound and motion there is no natural affinity; yet in the imagination there is a strong one; as is evident from the connexion between music and dancing. The poet can therefore give us a lively idea of the kind of motion he would describe, by the help of sounds which in our imagination correspond with that motion. Long syllables naturally excite an idea of slow motion; as in this line of Virgil,

Olli inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt.

A succession of short syllables gives the impression of quick motion; as,

Sed fugit interea, fugit irreparabile tempus.

The works of Homer and Virgil abound with instances of this beauty; which are so often quoted, and so well known, that it is unnecessary to produce them.

The third set of objects which the sound of words is capable of representing, consists of emotions and passions of the mind. Between sense and sound there appears to be no natural resemblance. But, if the arrangement of syllables by their sound alone recal one set of ideas more readily than another, and dispose the mind for entering into that affection which the poet intends to raise, such arrangement may with propriety be said to resemble the sense. Thus, when pleasure, joy, and agreeable ubjects are described by one who feels his subject, the language naturally rans in smooth, liquid, and flowing numbers.

-Namque ipsa decoram

Casariem nato genitrix, lumenque juventæ
Purpureum, et letos oculis afflarat honores.

Brisk and lively sensations exact quicker and more animated numbers.

-Juvenum manus emicat ardens

Littus in Hesperium.

Melancholy and gloomy subjects are naturally connected with slow measures and long words.

In those deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heavenly, pensive contemplation dwells.

Abundant instances of this kind are suggested by a moderate acquaintance with good poets, either ancient or modern.

ORIGIN AND NATURE OF FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE.

FIGURES may be described to be that language which is prompted either by the imagination or passions. They are commonly divided by rhetoricians into two great classes, figures of words, and figures of thought. The former are commonly called tropes, and consist in a word's being used to signify something different

from its original meaning. Hence if the word be changed, the figure is destroyed. Thus, for instance, "Light ariseth to the upright in darkness." Here the trope consists in "light and darkness" not being taken literally, but substituted for comfort and adversity; to which conditions of life they are supposed to bear some resemblance. The other class, termed figures of thought, supposes the figures to consist in the sentiment only, while the words are used in their literal sense; as in exclamations, interrogations, apostrophes, and comparisons; where, though the words be varied, or translated from one language into another, the same figure is still preserved. This distinction, however, is of small importance: as practice cannot be assisted by it; nor is it always very perspicuous.

Tropes are derived in part from the barrenness of language; but principally from the influence which the imagination has over all language. The imagination never contemplates any one idea or object as single and alone, but as accompanied by others which may be considered as its accessories. These accessories often operate more forcibly upon the mind than the principal idea itself. They are perhaps in their nature more agreeable; or more familiar to our conceptions; or remind us of a greater variety of important circumstances. Hence the name of the accessory or correspondent idea, is substituted, although the principal has a proper and well known name of its own. Thus, for example, when we design to point out the period in which a state enjoyed most reputation or glory, we might easily employ the proper words for expressing this; but as this in our imagination is readily connected with the flourishing period of a plant or tree, we prefer this correspondent idea, and say, "The Roman empire flourished most under Augustus." The leader of a faction is a plain expression; but, because the head is the principal part of the human body, and is supposed to direct all the animal