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Passion. resolved to pass over thee in despite of thy insolence: with reason all men neglect to sacrifice to thee, because thou art both disagreeable and treacherous."

Shakespeare exhibits beautiful examples of the irregular influence of passion in making us believe things to be otherwise than they are. King Lear, in his distress, personifies the rain, wind, and thunder; and in order to justify his resentment, believes them to be taking part with his daughters:

Lear. Rumble thy bellyful, spit fire, spout rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters.
I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children;
You owe me no subscription. Then let fall
Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand, your brave;
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man!
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters join'd
Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head

So old and white as this. Oh! oh! 'tis foul!

Act iii. sc. 2.

King Richard, full of indignation against his favourite horse for carrying Bolingbroke, is led into the conviction of his being rational :

Groom. O, how it yearn'd my heart, when I beheld In London streets, that coronation-day, When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbary, That horse that thou so often hast bestrid, That horse that I so carefully have dressed.

K. Rich. Rod he on Barbary? tell me, gentle friend, How went he under him?

Groom. So proudly as he had disdain'd the ground. K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back! That jade had eat bread from my royal hand. This band bath made him proud with clapping him. Would he not stumble? would be not fall down, (Since pride must have a fall), and break the neck Of that proud man that did usurp his back?

Richard II. act v. sc. II. Hamlet, swelled with indignation at his mother's second marriage, was strongly inclined to lessen the time of her widowhood, the shortness of the time being a violent circumstance against her; and he deludes himself by degrees into the opinion of an interval shorter than the real one:

Hamlet.

-That it should come to this! But two months dead! nay, not so much; not twoSo excellent a king, that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother, Thot he permitted not the wind 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 monthLet 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, Wou'd 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!

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The power of passion to falsify the computation of time is remarkable in this instance; because time, having an accurate measure, is less obsequious to our de sires and wishes, than objects which have no precise standard of magnitude.

Good news are greedily swallowed upon very slender evidence; our wishes magnify the probability of the event, as well as the veracity of the relater; and we believe as certain what at best is doubtful:

Quel, che l'huom vede, amor li fa invisible
E l'invisibil fa veder amore.

Questo credute fu, che l' miser suole
Dar facile credenza a' quel, che vuole.

Orland. Furios. cant. 1st. 56.

For the same reason, bad news gain also credit upon the slightest evidence: fear, if once alarmed, has the same effect with hope, to magnify every circumstance that tends to conviction. Shakespeare, who shows more knowledge of human nature than any of our philosophers, hath in his Cymbeline represented this bias of the mind; for he makes the person who alone was affected with the bad news, yield to evidence that did not convince any of his companions. And Othello is convinced of his wife's infidelity from circumstances too slight to move any person less interested.

If the news interest us in so low a degree as to give place to reason, the effect will not be altogether the same judging of the probability or improbability of the story, the mind settles in a rational conviction either that it is true or not. But even in that case, the mind is not allowed to rest in that degree of conviction which is produced by rational evidence: if the news be in any degree favourable, our belief is raised by hope to an improper height; and if unfavourable, by fear.

This observation holds equally with respect to future events: if a future event be either much wished or dreaded, the mind never fails to augment the probability beyond truth.

That easiness of belief, with respect to wonders and prodigies, even the most absurd and ridiculous, is a strange phenomenon; because nothing can be more evident than the following proposition, That the more singular any event is, the more evidence is required to produce belief: a familiar event daily occurring, being in itself extremely probable, finds ready credit, and therefore is vouched by the slightest evidence; but to overcome the improbability of a strange and rare event, contrary to the course of nature, the very strongest evidence is required. It is certain, however, that wonders and prodigies are swallowed by the vulgar, upon evidence that would not be sufficient to ascertain the most familiar occurrence. It has been reckoned difficult to explain that irregular bias of mind; but we are now made acquainted with the influence of passion upon opinion and belief; a story of ghosts or fairies, told D 2 with

Passion.

nion, reduced in his old age to want of bread, is a fit subject for lamentation."

Passion. with an air of gravity and truth, raiseth an emotion of wonder, and perhaps of dread; and these emotions imposing on a weak mind, impress upon it a thorough conviction contrary to reason.

Opinion and belief are influenced by propensity as well as by passion. An innate propensity is all we have to convince us that the operations of nature are uniform influenced by that propensity, we often rashly think, that good or bad weather will never have an end; and in natural philosophy, writers, influenced by the same propensity, stretch commonly their analogical reasonings beyond just bounds. See METAPHYSICS, N° 133, 134.

Opinion and belief are influenced by affection as well as by propensity. The noted story of a fine lady and a curate viewing the moon through a telescope is a pleasant illustration: "I perceive (says the lady) two shadows inclining to each other; they are certainly two happy lovers:" "Not at all (replies the curate), they are two steeples of a cathedral.”

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 us 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 when there are none to listen.

But this propensity operates not in every state of mind. A man immoderately grieved, seeks to afflict himself, rejecting all consolation: immoderate grief accordingly is mute; complaining is struggling for consolation.

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 i. sc. I. 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. This observation is finely illustrated by a story which Herodotus records, book iii. Cambyses, when he conquered Egypt, made Psammeticus the king prisoner; and for trying his constancy, ordered his daughter to be dressed in the habit of a slave, and to be employed in bringing water from the river; his son also was led to execution with a halter about his neck. The Egyptians vented their sorrow in tears and lamentations: Psammeticus only, with a downcast eye, remained silent. Afterward meeting one of his companions, a man advanced in years, who, being plundered of all, was begging alms, he wept bitterly, calling him by his name. Cambyses, struck with wonder, demanded an answer to the following question: "Psammeticus, thy master Cambyses is desirous to know, why, after thou hadst seen thy daughter se ignominiously treated, and thy son led to execution, without exclaiming or weeping, thou shouldst be so highly concerned for a poor man noway related to thee?" Psammeticus returned the following answer: "Son of Cyrus, the calamities of my family are too great to leave me the power of weeping; but the misfortunes of a compa

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 among others the faculty 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 by words and ges

tures.

As no passion bath any long uninterrupted existence, nor beats always with an equal pulse, the language suggested by passion is not only unequal but frequently 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; because sensible people 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 interruption.

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It is elsewhere observed that the sentiments ought* See th to be tuned to the passion, and the language to both. article s Elevated sentiments require elevated language: tender timents. 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 being intimately connected with the ideas they represent, the greatest barmony is required between them to express, for example, an humble sentiment in high-sounding words, is disagreeable by a discordant mixture of feelings; and the discord is not less 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.

HORAT. Ars Poet. 1. 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 between the expression and the sentiment makes the discord appear greater than it is in reality.

At the same time, figures are not equally the language of every passion: pleasant emotions, which elevate or swell the mind, vent themselves in strong epithets and figurative expression; but humbling and dispiriting passions affect to speak plain :

Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri.
Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque,
Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba,
Si ourat cor spectantis tetigisse querela.

HORAT, Ars Poet. 95.

Figurative expression, being the work of an enlivened imagination, cannot be the language of anguish or distress. Otway, sensible of this, has painted a scene of distress in colours finely adapted to the subject: there is

scarcely

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Think you saw what past 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: ob, '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 Preserved, Act v.

To preserve the foresaid resemblance between 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 that state of mind, is where words, not only of long, but of many syllables, abound in the composition; and 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, like the emotion, be
Calm and sweet
rough or smooth, broken or uniform.
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; which is beautifully done in the following passage:

Me, Me; adsum qui feci: in me convertite ferrum,
O Rutuli, mea fraus omnis. Eneid, 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 imitated 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, viii. 273.

Both have sinn'd! but thou

Against God only; I, 'gainst God and thee;
And to the place of judgment 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 wo;
Me! me! only just object of his ire.

Paradise Lost, x. 939.

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. Shakespeare'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, the two following only shall be quoted, 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 canon '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, even 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 galled 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 i. 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;

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How far distant are soliloquies generally from these models? So far indeed 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 a most curious device in Gothic paintings, that of making every figure explain itself by a written label issuing from its mouth. The description which a parasite, in the Eunuch of Terence (act ii. sc. 2.) gives of himself, makes a sprightly soliloquy but it is not consistent with 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 (act i. sc. 1.). 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 unhappy in his soliloquies: Take for a specimen the first scene of Cinna.

Racine is extremely faulty in the same respect. His soliloquies are regular harangues, a chain completed in every link, without interruption or interval: that of Antiochus in Berenice (act i. sc. 2.) resembles a regular pleading, where the parties pro and con display their arguments at full length. The following soliloquies are equally faulty: Bajazet, act iii. sc. 7.; Mithridate, act iii. sc. 4. and act iv. sc. 5.; Iphigenia, act iv. 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 between two persons; which justifies Falstaff's soliloquy upon honour:

66

on.

"What need I be so forward with Death, that calls "not on me? Well, 'tis no matter, Honour pricks me 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 an wound? "No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. "What is Honour? A word.-What is that word ho"nour? 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 v. sc. 2.

And even without dialogue a continued discourse may be justified, where a man reasons in a soliloquy upon an important subject: for if in such a case it be at all excusáble to think aloud, it is necessary, that the reasoning be carried on in a chain; which justifies that admirable soliloquy in Hamlet upon life and immortality, being a serene meditation upon the most interesting of all subjects. And the same consideration will justify the soliloquy that introduces the 5th act of Addison's Cato. Language ought not to be elevated above the tone of the sentiment.

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 iii. 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 renounce à la cour, aux humains, à la gloire
Et se fuiant lui-même, au milieu des deserts,
Il va cacher sa peine au bout de l'univers ;
Là, soit
le soleil rendit le jour au monde,
que
Soit qu'il finit sa course au vaste sein de l'onde,
Savoix faisoit redire aux echos attendris,
Le nom, le triste nom, de son malheureux fils.

Henriade, chant. viii. 229.

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Passion. 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,
Stuff's out his vacant garment with his form;
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.

K. John, act iii. sc. 9.

Thoughts that turn upon the expression instead of the subject, commonly called a play of words, being low and childish, are unworthy of any composition, whether gay or serious, that pretends to any degree of elevation.

In the Amynta of Tasso, 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 coudemned:

Chimene. Mon pere est mort, Elvire, et la premiere

épée

Dont s'est armée Rodrigue a sa trame coupée.
Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez-vous en eaux,
La moietié de ma vie a mis l'autre au tombeau,
Et m'oblige à venger, après ce coup funeste,
Celle que je n'ai plus, sur celle que me reste.

I do protest, I never lov'd myself

Till now infixed I beheld myself
Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye.

Faulconbridge. Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her
eye!

Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow!
And quarter'd in her heart! he doth espy
Himself Love's traitor: this is pity now,
That hang'd and drawn, and quarter'd there should be,.
In such a love so vile a lout as he.
King John, act ii. sc. 5.

A jingle of words is the lowest species of that low
wit, which is scarcely sufferable in any case, and least
of all in an heroic poem: and yet Milton in some in-
stances has descended to that puerility:

And brought into the world a world of wo.
-Begirth th' Almighty throne
Beseeching or besieging-
Which tempted our attempt-

At one slight bound high overleap'd all bound.
With a shout

Loud as from numbers without number.

One should think it unnecessary to enter a caveat Cid, act iii. sc. 3. against an expression that has no meaning, or no distinctmeaning; and yet somewhat of that kind may be found even among good writers.

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 iii. sc. 3.
Countess. I pray thee, Lady, have a better cheer:
If thou engrossest all the griefs as thine,
Thou robb'st me of a moiety.

All's well that ends well, act ii. se. 3.
K. Henry. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil
blows!

When that my care could not withhold 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 iv. sc. 11.
Cruda Amarilli, che col nome ancora
D'amar, ahi lasso, amaramente insegni.

Pastor Fido, act i. sc. 2.

Antony, speaking of Julius Cæsar:

your

Sebastian. I beg no pity for this mould'ring clay.
For if you give it burial, there it takes
Possession of earth:
If burnt and scatter'd in the air; the winds
That strow my dust, diffuse my royalty,
And spread me o'er your clime; for where one atom
Of mine shall light, know there Sebastian reigns.
DRYDEN, Don Sebastian King of Portugal, act. i.

Cleopatra. Now, what news, my Charmion?
Will he be kind; and will he not forsake me?
Am I to live or die? nay, do I live?
Or am I dead? for when he gave his answer,
Fate took the word, and then I liv'd or dy'd.

DRYDEN, All for Love, act. ii.

If she be coy, and scorn my noble fire,
If her chill heart I cannot move;
Why, I'll enjoy the very love,

And make a mistress of my own desire.

O world! thou wast the forest of this hart;
And this, indeed, O world, the beart of thee.
How like a deer, stricken by many princes,
Dost thou here lie! Julius Cæsar, act iii. sc. 3.
Playing thus with the sound of words, which is still
'Tis he, they cry, by whom
worse than a pun, is the meanest of all conceits. But Not men but war itself is overcome.
Shakespeare, when he descends to a play of words
is not always in the wrong; for it is done sometimes to
denote a peculiar character, as in the following pas-
sage:

COWLEY, poem inscribed "The Request." His whole poem inscribed My Picture is a jargon of the same kind.

K. Philip. What say'st thou, boy? look in the lady's

face.

Lewis. I do, my Lord, and in her eye I find

A wonder, or a wond'rous miracle;

The shadow of myself form'd in her eye;
Which being but the shadow of your son,
Becomes a son, and makes your son a shadow.

Indian Queen.

Such empty expressions are finely ridiculed in the Re-
hearsal.

And in life's stead to leave us nonght but death?
Was't not unjust to ravish hence her breath,

Act iv. sc. I.

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