excitatus est, ut prorsus admirable esset.' He makes us remark the feet of which these words consist, to which he ascribes the power of the melody; and shows how, by altering the collocation, the whole effect would be lost; as thus: Patris dictum sapiens comprobavit temeritas filii.' Now though it be true that Carbo's sentence is extremely musical, and would be agreeable, at this day, to an audience, yet I cannot believe that an English sentence, equally harmonious, would, by its harmony alone, produce any such effect on a British audience, or excite any such wonderful applause and admiration, as Cicero informs us this of Carbo produced. Our northern ears are too coarse and obtuse. The melody of speech has less power over us; and by our simpler and plainer method of uttering words, speech is, in truth, accompanied with less melody than it was among the Greeks and Romans.*

For these reasons, I am of opinion, that it is in vain to think of bestowing the same attention upon the harmonious structure of our sentences, that was bestowed by these ancient nations. The doctrine of the Greek and Roman critics, on this head, has misled some to imagine, that it might be equally applied to our tongue; and that our prose writing might be regulated by spondees and trochees, and iambus's and pæons, and other metrical feet. But first, our words cannot be measured, or, at least, can be measured very imperfectly by any feet of this kind. For, the quantity, the length, and shortness of our syllables, is far from being so fixed and subjected to rule, as in the Greek and Roman tongues; but very often left arbitrary, and determined by the emphasis, and the sense. Next, though our prose could admit of such metrical regulation, yet, from our plainer method of pronouncing all sorts of discourse, the effect would not be at all so sensible to the ear, nor be relished with so much pleasure, as among the Greeks and Romans : and, lastly, this whole doctrine about the measures and numbers of prose, even as it is delivered by the ancient rhetoricians themselves, is, in truth, in a great measure, loose and uncertain. It appears, indeed, that the melody of discourse was a matter of infinitely more attention to them, than ever it has been to the moderns. But, though they write a great deal about it, they have never been able to reduce it to any rules which could be of real use in practice. If we consult Cicero's Orator, where this point is discussed with the most minuteness, we shall see how much these ancient critics differed from one another, about the feet proper for the conclusion, and other parts of a sentence; and how much, after all, was left to the judgment of the ear. Nor, indeed, is it possible to give precise rules concerning this matter, in any language; as all prose composition must be allowed to run loose in its numbers; and according as the tenour of a discourse varies, the modulation of sentences must vary infinitely.

In versu quidem, theatra tota exclamant si fuit una syllaba aut brevior aut longior. Nec verò multitudo pedes novit, nec ullos numeros tenet; nec illud quod offendit, aut cur, aut in quo offendat, intelligit; et tamen omnium longitudinum et brevitatum in sonis sicut acutarum, graviumque vocum, judicium ipsa natura ir CICERO. Orator. c. 5.

auribus nostris collocavit '

But, although I apprehend that this musical arrangement cannot be reduced into a system, I am far from thinking that it is a quality to be neglected in composition. On the contrary, I hold its effect to be very considerable; and that every one who studies to write with grace, much more, who seeks to pronounce in public with success, will be obliged to attend to it not a little. But it is his ear, cultivated by attention and practice, that must chiefly direct him; for any rules that can be given on this subject, are very general. Some rules, however, there are, which may be of use to form the ear to the proper harmony of discourse. I proceed to mention such as appear to me most material.

There are two things on which the music of a sentence chiefly depends. These are the proper distribution of the several members of it; and, the close or cadence of the whole.

First, I say, the distribution of the several members is to be carefully attended to. It is of importance to observe, that whatever is easy and agreeable to the organs of speech, always sounds grateful to the ear. While a period is going on, the termination of each of its members forms a pause, or rest, in pronouncing: and these rests should be so distributed as to make the course of the breathing easy, and, at the same time, should fall at such distances, as to bear a certain musical proportion to each other. This will be best illustrated by examples. The following sentence is from Archbishop Tillotson: This discourse concerning the easi ness of God's commands, does, all along, suppose and acknowledge the difficulties of the first entrance upon a religious course; except only in those persons who have had the happiness to be trained up to religion by the easy and insensible degrees of a pious and virtuous education.' Here there is no harmony; nay, there is some degree of harshness and unpleasantness; owing principally to this, that there is, properly, no more than one pause or rest in the sentence, falling betwixt the two members into which it is divided, each of which is so long as to occasion a considerable stretch of the breath in pronouncing it.

Observe, now, on the other hand, the ease with which the following sentence, from Sir William Temple, glides along, and the graceful intervals at which the pauses are placed. He is speaking sarcastically of man: But, God be thanked, his pride is greater than his ignorance, and what he wants in knowledge, he supplies by sufficiency. When he has looked about him, as far as he can, he concludes, there is no more to be seen; when he 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

Or this instance. He is addressing himself toLady Essex, upon the death of her child: 'I was once in hope, that what was so violent could not be long: but, when I observed your grief to grow stronger with age, and to increase, like a stream, the farther it ran; when I saw it draw out to such unhappy consequences, and to threaten, no less than your child, your health, and your life, I could no longer forbear this endeavour,

thing is, at once, easy to the breath, and grateful to the ear; and, it is this sort of flowing measure, this regular and proportional division of the members of his sentences which renders Sir William Temple's style always agreeable. I must observe at the same time, that a sentence, with too many rests, and these placed at intervals too apparently measured and regular, is apt to savour of affectation.

The next thing to be attended to, is, the close or cadence of the whole sentence, which, as it is always the part most sensible to the ear, demands the greatest care. So Quintilian; Non igitur durum sit, neque abruptum, quo animi, velut, respirant ac reficiuntur. Hæc est sedes orationis; hoc auditor expectat; hic laus omnis declamat.'* The only important rule that can be given here, is, that when we aim at dignity or elevation, the sound should be made to grow to the last; the longest members of the period, and the fullest and most sonorous words, should be reserved to the conclusion. As an example of this, the following sentence of Mr. Addison's may be given: 'It fills the mind (speaking of sight) 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.' Every reader must be sensible of a beauty here, both in the proper division of the members and pauses, and the manner in which the sentence is rounded, and conducted to a full and harmonious close.

The same holds in melody, that I observe to take place with respect to significancy: that a falling off at the end, always hurts greatly. For this reason, particles, pronouns, and little words, are as ungracious to the ear, at the conclusion, as I formerly showed they were inconsistent with strength of expression. It is more than probable, that the sense and the sound have here a mutual influence on each other. That which hurts the ear seems to mar the strength of the meaning: and that which really degrades the sense, in consequence of this primary effect, appears also to have a bad sound. How disagreeable is the following sentence of an author, speaking of the Trinity! It is a mystery which we firmly believe the truth of, and humbly adore the depth of.' And how easily might it have been mended by this transposition! It is a mystery, the truth of which we firmly believe, and the depth of which we humbly adore.' In general it seems to hold, that a musical close, in our language, requires either the last syllable, or the last but one, to be a long syllable. Words which consist only of short syllables, as, contrary, particular, retrospect, seldom conclude a sentence har

nor end it without begging of you, for God's sake and for your own, for your children and your friends, your country and your family, that you would no longer abandon yourself to a disconsolate passion; but that you would at length awaken your piety, give way to your prudence, or, at least, rouse the invincible spirit of the Percys, that never yet shrunk at any disaster.'

Let there be nothing harsh or abrupt in the conclusion of the sentence, on which the mind pauses and rests. This is the most material part in the structure of discourse. Here every hearer expects to be gratified; here his applause breaks forth.'

moniously, unless a run of long syllables, before, has rendered them agreeable to the ear.

It is necessary, however, to observe, that sentences so constructed as to make the sound always swell and grow towards the end, and to rest either on a long or a penult long syllable, give a discourse the tone of declamation. The ear soon becomes acquainted with the melody, and is apt to be cloyed with it. If we would keep up the attention of the reader or hearer, if we would preserve vivacity and strength in our composition, we must be very attentive to vary our measures. This regards the distribution of the members, as well as the cadence of the period. Sentences constructed in a similar manner, with the pauses falling at equal intervals, should never follow one another. Short sentences should be intermixed with long and swelling ones, to render discourse sprightly, as well as magnificent. Even discords, properly introduced, abrupt sounds, departures from regular cadence, have sometimes a good effect. Monotony is a great fault into which writers are apt to fall, who are fond of harmonious arrangement: and to have only one tune, or measure, is not much better than having none at all. A very vulgar ear will enable a writer to catch some one melody, and to form the run of his sentences according to it; which soon proves disgusting. But a just and correct ear is requisite for varying and diversifying the melody; and hence we so seldom meet with authors, who are remarkably happy in this respect.

Though attention to the music of sentences must not be neglected, yet it must also be kept within proper bounds: for all appearances of an author's affecting harmony, are disagreeable: especially when the love of it betrays him so far, as to sacrifice, in any instance, perspicuity, precision, or strength of sentiment, to sound. All unmeaning words, introduced merely to round the period, or fill up the melody, complementa numerorum, as Cicero calls them, are great blemishes in writing. They are childish and puerile ornaments, by which a sentence always loses more in point of weight, than it can gain by such additions to the beauty of its sound. Sense has its own harmony, as well as sound; and, where the sense of a period is expressed with clearness, force, and dignity, it will seldom happen but the words will strike the ear agreeably; at least, a very moderate attention is all that is requisite for making the cadence of such a period pleasing: and the effect of greater attention is often no other, than to render composition languid and enervated. After all the labour which Quintilian bestows on regulating the measures of prose, he comes at last, with his usual good sense, to this conclusion: In universum, si sit necesse, duram potiùs atque asperam compositionem malim esse, quam effeminatam ac enervem, qualis apud multos. Ideòque, vincta quædam de industria sunt solvenda, ne laborata videantur; neque ullum idoneum aut aptum verbum prætermittamus, gratia lenitatis."* (Lib. ix. c. 4.)

Upon the whole, I would rather choose that composition should appear rough and harsh, if that be necessary, than that it should be enervated and effem

Cicero, as I before observed, is one of the most remarkable patterns of a harmonious style. His love of it, however, is too visible, and the pomp of his numbers sometimes detracts from his strength. That noted close of his, esse videatur, which, in the Oration Pro Lege Manilia, occurs eleven times, exposed him to censure among his contemporaries. We must observe, however, in defence of this great orator, that there is a remarkable union, in his style, of harmony with ease, which is always a great beauty; and if his harmony be studied, that study appears to have cost him little trouble.

Among our English classics, not many are distinguished for musical arrangment. Milton, in some of his prose works, has very finely turned periods; but the writers of his age indulged a liberty of inversion, which now would be reckoned contrary to purity of style; and though this allowed their sentences to be more stately and sonorous, yet it gave them too much of a Latinised construction and order. Of later writers, Shaftesbury is, upon the whole, the most correct in his numbers. As his ear was delicate, he has attended to music in all his sentences; and he is peculiarly happy in this respect, that he has avoided the monotony into which writers, who study the grace of sound, are very apt to fall; having diversified his periods with great variety. Mr. Addison has also much harmony in his style; more easy and smooth, but less varied, than Lord Shaftesbury. Sir William Temple is, in general, very flowing and agreeable. Archbishop Tillotson, is too often careless and languid; and is much outdone by Bishop Atterbury in the music of his periods. Dean Swift despised musical arrangement altogether.

Hitherto I have discoursed of agreeable sound, or modulation, 11 general. It yet remains to treat of a higher beauty of this kind; the sound adapted to the sense. The former was no more than a simple accompaniment, to please the ear; the latter supposes a peculiar expression given to the music. We may remark two degrees of it: First, the current of sound, adapted to the tenour of a discourse; next, a particular resemblance effected between some object and the sounds that are employed in describing it.

First, I say, the current of sound may be adapted to the tenour of a discourse. Sounds have, in many respects, a correspondence with our ideas; partly natural, partly the effect of artificial associations. Hence it happens, that any one modulation of sound continued, imprints on our style a certain character and expression. Sentences constructed with the Ciceronian fulness and swell, produce the impression of what is important, magnificent, sedate: for this is the natural tone which such a course of sentiment assumes. But they suit no violent passion, no eager reasoning, no familiar address. These always require measures brisker, easier, and often more abrupt. And,

inate, such as we find the style of too many. Some sentences, therefore, which we have studiously formed into melody, should be thrown loose, that they may not seem too much laboured: nor ought we ever to omit any proper or expressive word, for the sake of smoothing a period.'