E

14

tion in truth.

Of the of Lord Kames. His lordship holds that it is essential Epopee and to a good tragedy, that its principal facts be borrowed Drama. from history; because a mixture of known truth with the fable tends to delude us into a conviction of the re87 Whether ality of the whole. The Doctor considers this as a matthe subject ter of no great consequence; for "it is proved by expeVL of tragedy rience, that a fictitious tale, if properly conducted, will is should have melt the heart as much as any real history;" this obits founda servation is verified in the Robbers. It is indeed a very irregular drama, and perhaps could not be acted on a British theatre. But although the whole is known to be a fiction, we believe there are few effusions of human genius which more powerfully excite the emotions of terror and pity. Truth is indeed congenial to the mind; and when a subject proper for tragedy occurs in history or tradition, it is perhaps better to adopt it than to invent one which has no such foundation. But in choosing a subject which makes a figure in history, greater precaution is necessary than where the whole is a fiction. In the latter case the author is under no restraint other than that the characters and incidents be just copies of nature. But where the story is founded on truth, no circumstances must be added, but such as connect naturally with what are known to be true; history may be supplied, but must not be contradicted. Further, the subject chosen must be distant in time, or at least in place; for the familiarity of recent persons and events ought to be avoided. Familiarity ought more especially to be avoided in an epic poem, the peculiar character of which is dignity and elevation: modern manners make but a poor figure in such a poem. Their familiarity unqualifies them for a lofty subject. The dignity of them will be better understood in future ages, when they are no longer familiar.

88

How a tragedy should be divided into acts; and how

many acts it should have.

After Voltaire, no writer, it is probable, will think of rearing an epic poem upon a recent event in the history of his own country. But an event of that kind is perhaps not altogether unqualified for tragedy: it was admitted in Greece; and Shakespeare has employed it successfully in several of his pieces. One advantage it possesses above fiction, that of more readily engaging our belief, which tends above any other particular to raise our sympathy. The scene of comedy is generally laid at home: familiarity is no objection; and we are peculiarly sensible of the ridicule of our own manners.

After a proper subject is chosen, the dividing it into parts requires some art. The conclusion of a book in an epic poem, or of an act in a play, cannot be altogether arbitrary; nor be intended for so slight a purpose as to make the parts of equal length. The supposed pause at the end of every book, and the real pause at the end of every act, ought always to coincide with some pause in Elem. of the action. In this respect, a dramatic or epic poem Criticism, ought to resemble a sentence or period in language, divided into members that are distinguished from each other by proper pauses; or it ought to resemble a piece of music, having a full close at the end, preceded by im

ch. xxii.

Drama.

perfect closes that contribute to the melody. The divi- of the sion of every play into five acts has no other foundation Epopee and than common practice, and the authority of Horace (D). It is a division purely arbitrary; there is nothing in the nature of the composition which fixes this number rather than any other; and it had been much better if no such number had been ascertained. But, since it is ascertained, every act in a dramatic poem ought to close with some incident that makes a pause in the action; for otherwise there can be no pretext for interrupting the representation. It would be absurd to break off in the very heat of action; against which every one would exclaim: the absurdity still remains where the action relents, if it be not actually suspended for some time. This rule is also applicable to an epic poem: though in it a deviation from the rule is less remarkable; because it is in the reader's power to hide the absurdity, by proceeding instantly to another book. The first book of Paradise Lost ends without any close, perfect or imperfect: it breaks off abruptly, where Satan, seated on his throne, is prepared to harangue the convocated host of the fallen angels; and the second book begins with the speech. Milton seems to have copied the Eneid, of which the two first books are divided much in the same manner. Neither is there any proper pause at the end of the seventh book of Paradise Lost, nor at the end of the eleventh. In the Iliad little attention is given to this rule.

89

Besides tragedy, dramatic poetry comprehends co- The object medy and farce. These are sufficiently distinguished of comedy. from tragedy by their general spirit and strain. "While pity and terror, and the other strong passions, form the province of the tragic muse, the chief or rather sole instrument of comedy and farce is ridicule." These two species of composition are so perpetually running into each other, that we shall not treat of them separately; since what is now known by the name of farce differs in nothing essential from what was called the old comedy among the Greeks. "Comedy proposes for its object** Blair's neither the great sufferings nor the great crimes of men; Lectures. but their follies and slighter vices, those parts of their character which raise in beholders a sense of impropriety, which expose them to be censured and laughed at by others, or which render them troublesome in civil society.

"The subjects of tragedy are not limited to any age or country; but the scene and subject of comedy should always be laid in our own country, and in our own times. The reason is obvious: those decorums of behaviour, those lesser discriminations of character, which afford subject for comedy, change with the differences of countries and times; and can never be so well understood by foreigners as by natives. The comic poet, who aims at correcting improprieties and follies of behaviour, should catch the manners living as they rise.' It is not his business to amuse us with a tale of other times; but to give us pictures taken from among ourselves; to satirize 5 G 2 reigning

Of the reigning and present vices; to exhibit to the age a faithEpopee and ful copy of itself, with its humours, its follies, and its extravagancies.

Drama.

دو

"Comedy may be divided into two kinds : comedy Comedy of of character, and comedy of intrigue. The former is the two kinds. more valuable species; because it is the business of comedy to exhibit the prevailing manners which mark the character of the age in which the scene is laid: yet there should be always as much intrigue as to give us something to wish and something to fear. The incidents should so succeed one another, as to produce striking situations, and to fix our attention; while they afford at the same time a proper field for the exhibition of character. The action in comedy, though it demands the poet's care in order to render it animated and natural, is a less significant and important part of the performance than the action in tragedy: as in comedy it is what men say, and how they behave, that draws our attention, rather than what they perform or what they suffer.

91

The common faults of comedy.

Hurd,

94

"In the management of characters, one of the most common faults of comic writers is the carrying of them too far beyond life. Wherever ridicule is concerned, it is indeed extremely difficult to hit the precise point where true wit ends and buffoonery begins. When the miser in Plautus, searching the person whom he suspects of having stolen his casket, after examining first his right hand and then his left, cries out, ostende etiam tertiam➡ show me your third hand,' there is no one but must be sensible of the extravagance. Certain degrees of exaggeration are allowed to the comedian, but there are limits set to it by nature and good taste; and supposing the miser to be ever so much engrossed by his jealousy and his suspicions, it is impossible to conceive any man in his wits suspecting another of having more than two hands."

It appears from the plays of Aristophanes which remain, that the characters in the old comedy of Athens were almost always overcharged. They were likewise direct and avowed satires against particular persons, who were brought upon the stage by name. "The ridicule employed in them is extravagant, the wit for the most part buffoonish and farcical, the raillery biting and cruel, and the obscenity that reigns in them is gross and intolerable. They seem to have been composed merely for the mob." Yet of these abominable dramas, an excellent eritic has affirmed, with too much truth, that what is now called farce is nothing more than the shadow. The characters in genuine comedy are not those of particular and known persons, but the general characters of the age and nation; which it requires no small skill to distinguish clearly and naturally from each other. In attempt ing this, poets are too apt to contrast characters and introduce them always in pairs; which gives an affected air to the whole piece. The perfection of art is to conceal art. "A masterly writer will give us his characters distinguished rather by such shades of diversity as are commonly found in society, than marked with such strong oppositions as are rarely brought into actual contrast in any of the circumstances of real life."

The style The style of comedy ought to be pure, elegant, of comedy. and lively, very seldom rising higher than the ordinary tone of polite conversation; and upon no occasion descending into vulgar, mean, and gross expressions; and in one word, action and character being the fundamental parts of every epic and dramatic composition,

the sentiments and tone of language ought to be subser- of the vient to these, so as to appear natural and proper for the Epopee. occasion.

nor

93

04

$2. Respective peculiarities of the Epopee and Drama. In a theatrical entertainment, which employs both Machinery the eye and the ear, it would be a gross absurdity to in- can have troduce upon the stage superior beings in a visible shape. no place There is no place for such objection in an epic poem ; a drama, and Boileau, with many other critics, declares strong.' ly for that sort of machinery in an epic poem. But waving authority, which is apt to impose upon the judgement, let us draw what light we can from reason. We may in the first place observe, that this matter is but indistinctly handled by critics: the poetical privilege of animating insensible objects for enlivening a description, is very different from what is termed machinery, where deities, angels, devils, or other supernatural powers, are introduced as real personages, mixing in the action, and contributing to the catastrophe; and yet these two things are constantly jumbled together in reasoning. The former is founded on a natural principle but nothing is more unnatural than the latter. Its effects, at the same time, are deplorable. First, it gives an air of fiction to the whole; and prevents that impression of reality which is requisite to interest our affections, and to move our passions; which of itself is sufficient to explode machinery, whatever entertainment it may afford to readers of a fantastic taste or irregular imagination. And next, were it possible, by disguising the fiction, to has it a delude us into a notion of reality, an insuperable objec-good effect tion would still remain, which is, that the aim or end in the highof an epic poem can never be attained in any perfection er epic. where machinery is introduced; for an evident reason, that virtuous emotions cannot be raised successfully but by the actions of those who are endued with passions and affections like our own, that is, by human actions; and as for moral instruction, it is clear, that none can be drawn from beings who act not upon the same principles with us. A fable in Æsop's manner is no objection to this reasoning: his lions, bulls, and goats, are truly men under disguise; they act and feel in every respect as human beings; and the moral we draw is founded on that supposition. Homer, it is true, introduces the gods into his fable: but the religion of his country authorized that liberty; it being an article in the Grecian creed, that the gods often interpose visibly and bodily in human affairs. It must however be ob served, that Homer's deities do no honour to his poems: fictions that transgress the bounds of nature, seldom have a good effect; they may inflame the imagination for a moment, but will not be relished by any person of a correct taste. They may be of some use to the lower rank of writers; but an author of genius has much finer materials, of Nature's production, for elevating his subject, and making it interesting.

One would be apt to think, that Boileau, declaring for the Heathen deities, intended them only for embellishing the diction: but unluckily he banishes angels and devils, who undoubtedly make a figure in poetic language, equal to the Heathen deities. Boileau, therefore, by pleading for the latter in opposition to the former, certainly meant, if he had any distinct meaning that the Heathen deities may be introduced as actors. And, in fact, he himself is guilty of that glaring absurdity,

where

where it is not so pardonable as in an epic poem: In his Epopee. ode upon the taking of Namur, he demands with a most serious countenance, whether the walls were built by Apollo or Neptune and in relating the passage of the Rhine, anno 1672, he describes the god of that river as fighting with all his might to oppose the French monarch; which is confounding fiction with reality at a strange rate. The French writers in general run into this error: wonderful the effect of custom entirely to hide from them how ridiculous such fictions are!

That this is a capital error in Gierusalemme Liberata, Tasso's greatest admirers must acknowledge: a situation can never be intricate, nor the reader even in pain about the catastrophe, so long as there is an angel, devil, or magician, to lend a helping hand. Voltaire, in his essay upon epic poetry, talking of the Pharsalia, observes judiciously, "That the proximity of time, the notoriety of events, the character of the age, enlightened and political, joined with the solidity of Lucan's subject, deprived him of poetical fiction." Is it not amazing, that a critic who reasons so justly with respect to others, can be so blind with respect to himself? Voltaire, not satisfied to enrich his language with images drawn from invisible and superior beings, introduces them into the action: in the sixth canto of the Henriade, St Louis appears in person, and terrifies the soldiers; in the seventh canto, St Louis sends the god of Sleep to Henry; and in the tenth, the Demons of Discord, Fanaticism, War, &c. assist Aumale in a single combat with Turenne, and are driven away by a good angel brandishing the sword of God. To blend such fictitious personages in the same action with mortals, makes a bad figure at any rate; and is intolerable in a history so recent as that of Henry IV. But perfection, is not the lot of man.

But perhaps the most successful weapon that can be employed upon this subject is ridicule. Addison has applied this in an elegant manner: "Whereas the time of a general peace is, in all appearance, drawing near; being informed that there are several ingenious persons who intend to show their talents on so happy an oecasion, and being willing, as much as in me lies, to prevent that effusion of nonsense which we have good cause to apprehend; I do hereby strictly require every person who shall write on this subject, to remember that he is a Christian, and not to sacrifice his catechism to his poetry. In order to it, I do expect of him, in the first place, to make his own poem, without depending upon Phoebus for any part of it, or calling out for aid upon any of the muses by name. I do likewise positively forbid the sending of Mercury with any particular message or dispatch relating to the peace; and shall by no means suffer Minerva to take upon her the shape of any plenipotentiary concerned in this great work. I do further declare, that I shall not allow the Destinies to have had a hand in the deaths of the several thousands who have been slain in the late war, being of opinion that all such deaths may be well accounted for by the Christian system of powder and ball. I do therefore strictly forbid the Fates to cut the thread of man's life upon any pretence whatsoever, unless it be for the sake of rhyme. And whereas I have good reason to fear, that Neptune will have a great deal of business on his hands in several poems which we may now suppose are upon the anvil, I do also prohibit his appearance, unless it be done in

Of the

metaphor, simile, or any very short allusion; and that even here he may not be permitted to enter, but with Epopee. great caution and circumspection. I desire that the same rule may be extended to his whole fraternity of Heathen gods; it being my design to condemn every poem to the flames in which Jupiter thunders, or exercises any other act of authority which does not belong to him. In short I expect that no pagan agent shall be introduced, or any fact related which a man cannot give credit to with a good conscience. Provided always that nothing herein contained shall extend, or be construed to extend to several of the female poets in this nation, who shall still be left in full possession of their gods and goddesses, in the same manner as if this paper had never been written." Spect. No 523.

The marvellous is indeed so much promoted by machinery, that it is not wonderful to find it embraced by the bulk of writers, and perhaps of readers. If indulged at all, it is generally indulged to excess. Homer introduceth his deities with no greater ceremony than his mortals; and Virgil has still less moderation: a pilot spent with watching cannot fall asleep and drop into the sea by natural means: one bed cannot receive the two lovers Æneas and Dido, without the immediate interposition of superior powers. The ridiculous in such fictions must appear even through the thickest veil of gravity and solemnity.

Angels and devils serve equal with Heathen deities : as materials for figurative language; perhaps better among Christians, because we believe in them, and not in Heathen deities. But every one is sensible, as well as Boileau, that the invisible powers in our creed make a much worse figure as actors in a modern poem than the invisible powers in the Heathen creed did in ancient poems; the cause of which is not far to seek. The Heathen deities, in the opinion of their votaries, were beings elevated one step only above mankind, subject to the same passions, and directed by the same motives; therefore not altogether improper to mix with men in an important action. In our creed superior beings are placed at such a mighty distance from us, and are of a nature so different, that with no propriety can we appear with them: upon the same stage: man, a creature much inferior, loses all dignity in the comparison.

95

There can be no doubt that an historical poem admits An historithe embellishment of allegory as well as of metaphor, cal poem simile, or other figure. Moral truth, in particular, is admits of allegory, finely illustrated in the allegorical manner: it amuses the &c. under fancy to find abstract terms, by a sort of magic, meta- proper remorphosed into active beings; and it is delightful to strictions. trace a general proposition in a pictured event. But allegorical beings should be confined within their own sphere, and never be admitted to mix in the principal action, nor to co-operate in retarding or advancing the catastrophe; which would have a still worse effect than invisible powers: for the impression of real existence, essential to an epic poem, is inconsistent with that figu rative existence which is essential to an allegory; and therefore no method can more effectually prevent the impression of reality than the introduction of allegorical beings co-operating with those whom we conceive to be really existing. The love episode in the Henriade (canto 9.), insufferable by the discordant mixture of allegory with real life, is copied from that of Rinaldo and Armida in the Gierusalemme Liberata, which hath no

merit

Of the merit to entitle it to be copied. An allegorical object, Epopee. such as Fame in the Æneid, and the Temple of Love in the Henriade, may find place in a description: but to introduce Discord as a real personage, imploring the assistance of Love as another real personage, to enervate the courage of the hero, is making these figurative beings act beyond their sphere, and creating a strange jumble of truth and fiction. The allegory of Sin and Death in the Paradise Lost is possibly not generally relished, though it is not entirely of the same nature with what we have been condemning; in a work comprehending the achievements of superior beings there is more room for fancy than where it is confined to human actions.

fined.

96

What is the true notion of an episode? or how is it to be distinguished from the principal action? Every incident that promotes or retards the catastrophe must be part of the principal action. This clears the nature of an episode; which may be defined, “An incident connected with the principal action, but contributing Episode de- neither to advance nor retard it." The descent of Æneas into hell does not advance or retard the catastrophe, and therefore is an episode. The story of Nisus and Euryalus, producing an alteration in the affairs of the contending parties, is a part of the principal action. The family-scene in the sixth book of the Iliad is of the same nature for by Hector's retiring from the field of battle to visit his wife, the Grecians had opportunity to breathe, and even to turn upon the Trojans. The unavoidable effect of an episode according to this definition must be, to break the unity of action; and thereWhat con- fore it ought never to be indulged unless to unbend the stitutes a mind after the fatigue of a long narration. An episode, good epiwhen such is its purpose, requires the following conditions it ought to be well connected with the principal action; it ought to be lively and interesting; it ought to be short; and a time ought to be chosen when the principal action relents (E).

sode.

97

In the following beautiful episode, which closes the second book of Fingal, all these conditions are united.

"Comal was a son of Albion; the chief of an hundred hills. His deer drunk of a thousand streams; and a thousand rocks replied to the voice of his dogs. His face was the mildness of youth; but his hand the death of heroes. One was his love, and fair was she! the daughter of mighty Conloch. She appeared like a sunbeam among women, and her hair was like the wing of the raven. Her soul was fixed on Comal, and she was his companion in the chase. Often met their eyes of love, and happy were their words in secret. But Gormal loved the maid, the chief of gloomy Ardven. He watched her lone steps on the heath, the foe of unhappy Comal.

"One day, tired of the chace, when the mist had concealed their friends, Comal and the daughter of Conloch met in the cave of Ronan. It was the wonted haunt of Comal. It sides were hung with his arms; a hundred shields of thongs were there, a hundred helms of sounding steel. Rest here, said he, my love Galvina,

Of the

thou light of the cave of Ronan: a deer appears on Mora's brow; I go, but soon will return. I fear, said Epopee. she, dark Gormal my fee: I will rest here; but soon return, my love.

"He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of Conloch, to try his love, clothed her white side with his armour, and strode from the cave of Ronan. Thinking her his foe, his heart beat high, and his colour changed. He drew the bow: the arrow flew: Galvina fell in blood. He ran to the cave with hasty steps, and called the daughter of Conloch. Where art thou, my love? but no answer. He marked, at length, her heaving heart beating against the mortal arrow. 0 Conloch's daughter, is it thou!-he sunk upon her breast.

"The hunters found the hapless pair. Many and silent were his steps round the dark dwelling of his love. The fleet of the ocean came he fought, and the strangers fell: he searched for death over the field; but who could kill the mighty Comal? Throwing away his shield, an arrow found his manly breast. He sleeps with his Galvina: their green tombs are seen by the mariner when he bounds on the waves of the north."

دو

Next, upon the peculiarities of a dramatic poem. And Double plot the first we shall mention is a double plot: one of which in a drama must resemble an episode in an epic poem ; for it would seldom distract the spectator, instead of entertaining him, if he successful. were forced to attend at the same time to two capital plots equally interesting. And even supposing it an under-plot like an episode, it seldom hath a good effect in tragedy, of which simplicity is a chief property; for an interesting subject that engages our affections, occupies our whole attention, and leaves no room for any separate concern. Variety is more tolerable in comedy; which pretends only to amuse, without totally occupying the mind. But even there, to make a double plot agreeable, is no slight effort of art: the under plot ought not to vary greatly in its tone from the principal; for discordant emotions are unpleasant when jumbled together; which, by the way, is an insuperable objection to tragi-comedy. Upon that account the Provok'd Husband deserves censure; all the scenes that bring the family of the Wrongheads into action, being ludicrous and farcical, are in a very different tone from the principal scenes, displaying severe and bitter expostulations between Lord Townley and his lady. The same objection touches not the double plot of the Careless Husband; the different subjects being sweetly connected, and having only so much variety as to resemble shades of colours harmoniously mixed. But this is not all. The under-plot ought to be connected with that which is principal, so much at least as to employ the same persons; the under-plot ought to occupy the intervals or pauses of the principal action; and both ought to be concluded together. This is the case of the Merry Wives of Windsor.

99

Violent action ought never to be represented on the Violent eestage. While the dialogue goes on, a thousand parti- tion ought culars not to be

represent

ed.

shepherds in a pastoral excited by a prize to pronounce verses alternately, each in praise of his own mistress.

culars concur to delude us into an impression of reality; Drama. genuine sentiments, passionate language, and persuasive gesture; the spectator, once engaged, is willing to be deceived, loses sight of himself, and without scruple enjoys the spectacle as a reality. From this absent state he is roused by violent action; he wakes as from a pleasing dream; and, gathering his senses about him, finds all to be a fiction. Horace delivers the same rule; and founds it upon the same reason:

Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet;

Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus; Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem: Quodcumque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. The French critics join with Horace in excluding blood from the stage; but overlooking the most substantial objection, they urge only that it is barbarous and shocking to a polite audience. The Greeks had no notion of such delicacy, or rather effeminacy; witness the murder of Clytemnestra by her son Orestes, passing behind the scene, as represented by Sophocles: her voice is heard calling out for mercy, bitter expostulations on his part, loud shrieks upon her being stabbed, and then a deep silence. An appeal may be made to every person of feeling, whether this scene be not more horrible than if the deed had been committed in sight of the spectators upon a sudden gust of passion. If Corneille, in representing the affair between Horatius and his sister, upon which the murder ensues behind the scene, had no other view but to remove from the spectators a shocking action, he was guilty of a capital mistake: for murder in cold blood, which in some measure was the case as represented, is more shocking to a polite audience, even where the conclusive stab is not seen, than the same act performed in their presence by violent and unpremeditated passion, as suddenly repented of as committed. *Spectator, Addison's observation is just *, That no part of this incident ought to have been represented, but reserved for a narrative, with every alleviating circumstance in favour of the hero.

N° 43.

100

the dialogue.

This manner of dialogue-writing, besides an unnatural air, has another bad effect; it stays the course of the action, because it is not productive of any consequence. In Congreve's comedies, the action is often suspended to make way for a play of wit.

No fault is more common among writers than to prolong a speech after the impatience of the person to whom it is addressed ought to prompt him or her to break in. Consider only how the impatient actor is to behave in the mean time. To express his impatience in violent action without interrupting would be unnatural; and yet to dissemble his impatience, by appearing cool where he ought to be highly inflamed, would be no less so.

The proper A few words upon the dialogue, which ought to be conduct of so conducted as to be a true representation of nature. We talk not here of the sentiments nor of the language (which are treated elsewhere); but of what properly belongs to dialogue-writing; where every single speech, short or long, ought to arise from what is said by the former speaker, and furnish matter for what comes after till the end of the scene. In this view, all the speeches from first to last represent so many links of one regular chain. No author, ancient or modern, possesses the art of dialogue equal to Shakespeare. Dryden, in that particular, may justly be placed as his opposite. He frequently introduces three or four persons speaking upon the same subject, each throwing out his own notions separately, without regarding what is said by the rest : take for an example the first scene of Aurenzebe. Sometimes he makes a number club in relating an event, not to a stranger, supposed ignorant of it, but to one another, for the sake merely of speaking; of which notable sort of dialogue we have a specimen in the first scene of the first part of the Conquest of Grenada. In the second part of the same tragedy, scene second, the King, Abenamar, and Zulema, make their separate observations, like so many soliloquies, upon the fluctuating temper of the mob; a dialogue so uncouth puts one in mind of two

3.

Rhyme being unnatural and disgustful in dialogue, is happily banished from our theatre: the only wonder is that it ever found admittance, especially among a people accustomed to the more manly freedom of Shakespeare's dialogue. By banishing rhyme, we have gained so much as never once to dream that there can be any further improvement. And yet, however suitable blank verse may be to elevated characters and warm passions, it must appear improper and affected in the mouths of the lower sort. Why then should it be a rule, That every scene in tragedy must be in blank verse? Shakespeare, with great judgment, has followed a different rule; which is, to intermix prose with verse, and only to employ the latter where it is required by the importance or dignity of the subject. Familiar thoughts and ordinary facts ought to be expressed in plain language: to hear, for example a footman deliver a simple message in blank verse must appear ridiculous to every one who is not biassed by custom. In short, that variety of characters and of situations, which is the life of a play, requires not only a suitable variety in the sentiments, but also in the diction.

$3. The Three Unities.

of the

Drama.

When we consider the chain of causes and effects in the material world, independent of purpose, design, or thought, we find a number of incidents in succession, without beginning, middle, or end: every thing that happens is both a cause and an effect; being the effect of what goes before, and the cause of what follows: one incident may affect us more, another less; but all of them are links in the universal chain: the mind, in viewing these incidents, cannot rest or settle ultimately upon any one; but is carried along in the train without any close.

sists.

101

But when the intellectual world is taken under view, In what the in conjunction with the material, the scene is varied, unity of Man acts with deliberation, will, and choice: he aims action conat some end; glory, for example, or riches, or conquest, the procuring happiness to individuals, or to his country in general: he proposes means, and lays plans to attain the end proposed. Here are a number of facts or incidents leading to the end in view, the whole composing one chain by the relation of cause and effect. In running over a series of such facts or incidents, we cannot rest upon any one; because they are presented to us as means only, leading to some end; but we rest with satisfaction upon the end or ultimate event; because there the purpose or aim of the chief person or persons is accomplished. This indicates the beginning, the middle,

and