In the first place, they must not be drawn from things, which have too near and obvious a resemblance to the object with which we compare them. The great pleasure of the act of comparing lies, in discovering likenesses among things of different species, where we would not, at the first glance, expect a resemblance. There is little art or ingenuity in pointing out the resemblance of two objects, that are so much akin, or lie so near to one another in nature, that every one sees they must be alike. When Milton compares Satan's appearance, after his fall, to that of the sun suffering an eclipse, and affrighting the nations with portentous darkness, we are struck with the happiness and the dignity of the similitude. But when he compares Eve's bower in Paradise, to the arbour of Pomona; or Eve herself, to adriad, or wood-nymph, we receive little entertainment; as every one sees, that one arbour must, of course, in several respects, resemble another arbour, and one beautiful woman another beautiful woman. Among similes, faulty through too great obviousness of the likeness, we must likewise rank those which are taken from objects become trite and familiar in poetical language. Such are the similes of a hero to a lion, of a person in sorrow to a flower drooping its head, of violent passion to a tempest, of chastity to snow, of virtue to the sun or the stars, and many more of this kind, with which we are sure to find modern writers, of second rate genius, abounding plentifully; handed down from one writer of verses to another, as by hereditary right. These comparisons were, at first, perhaps, very proper for the purposes to which they are applied. In the ancient original poets, who took them directly from nature, not from their predecessors, they had beauty. But they are now beaten; our ears are so accustomed to them, that they give no amusement to the fancy. There is, indeed, no mark by which we can more readily distinguish a poet of true genius, from one of a barren imagination, than by the strain of their comparisons. All who call themselves poets, affect them: but, whereas, a mere versifier copies no new image from nature, which appears, to his uninventive genius, exhausted by those who have gone before him, and, therefore, contents himself with humbly following their track; to an author of real fancy, nature seems to unlock, spontaneously, her hidden stores; and the eye, 'quick glancing from earth to Heaven,' discovers new shapes and forms, new likenesses between objects unobserved before, which render his similes original, expressive, and lively. But in the second place, as comparisons ought not to be founded on likenesses too obvious, still less ought they to be founded on those which are too faint and remote. For these, in place of assisting, strain the fancy to comprehend them, and throw no light upon the subject. It is also to be observed, that a comparison, which, in the principal circumstances, carries a sufficiently near resemblance, may become unnatural and obscure, if pushed too far. Nothing is more opposite to the design of this figure, than to hunt after a great number of coincidences in minute points, merely to show how far the poet's wit can stretch the resemblance. This is Mr. Cowley's common fault; whose comparisons generally run out so far, as to become rather a studied exercise of wit, than an illustration of the principal object. We need only open his works, his odes especially, to find instances every where. In the third place, the object from which a comparison is drawn, should never be an unknown object, or one of which few people can form clear ideas: Ad inferendam rebus lucem,' says Quintilian, 'repertæ sunt similitudines. Præcipue, igitur, est custodiendum ne id quod similitudinis gratiâ ascivimus, aut obscurum sit, aut ignotum. Debet enim id quod illustrandæ alterius rei gratiâ assumitur, ipsum esse clarius eo quod illuminatur.'* Comparisons, therefore, founded on philosophical discoveries, or on any thing with which persons of a certain trade only, or a certain profession, are conversant, attain not their proper effect. They should be taken from those illustrious, noted objects, which most of the readers either have seen, or can strongly conceive. This leads me to remark a fault of which modern poets are very apt to be guilty. The ancients took their similes from that face of nature, and that class of objects, with which they and their readers were acquainted. Hence,lions, and wolves, and serpents, were fruitful, and very proper sources of similes amongst them; and these having become a sort of consecrated, classical images, are very commonly adopted by the moderns; injudiciously, however, for the propriety of them is now in a great measure lost. It is only at second hand, and by description, that we are acquainted with many of those objects; and, to most readers of poetry, it were more to the purpose, to describe lions or serpents, by similes taken from men, than to describe men by lions. Now-a-days, we can more easily form the conception of a fierce combat between two men, than between a bull and a tiger. Every country has a scenery peculiar to itself, and the imagery of every good poet will exhibit it. The introduction of unknown objects,or of a foreign scenery, betrays a poet copying not after nature, but from other writers. I have only to observe further, In the fourth place, that, in compositions of a serious or elevated kind, similes should never be taken from low or mean objects. These are degrading: whereas, similes are commonly intended to embellish, and to dignify: and therefore, unless in burlesque writings, or where similes are introduced purposely to vilify and diminish an object, mean ideas should never be presented to us. Some of Homer's comparisons have been taxed, without reason, on this account. For it is to be remembered, that the meanness or dignity of objects depends, in a great degree, on the ideas and manners of the age wherein we live. Many similes, therefore, drawn from the incidents of rural life, which appear low to us, had abundance of dignity in those simpler ages of antiquity. * Comparisons have been introduced into discourse, for the sake of throwing light on the subject. We must, therefore, be much on our guard, not to employ, as the ground of our simile, any object which is either obscure or unknown. That, surely, which is used for the purpose of illustrating some other thing, ought to be more obvious and plain, than the thing intended to be illustrated.' I have now considered such of the figures of speech as seemed most to merit a full and particular discussion: metaphor, hyperbole, personification, apostrophe, and comparison. A few more yet remain to be mentioned; the proper use and conduct of which will be easily understood from the principles already laid down. As comparison is founded on the resemblance, so antithesis on the contrast or opposition of two objects. Contrast has always this effect, to make each of the contrasted objects appear in the stronger light. White, for instance, never appears so bright, as when it is opposed to black; and when both are viewed together. Antithesis, therefore, may, on many occasions, be employed to advantage, in order to strengthen the impression which we intend that any object should make. Thus Cicero, in his oration for Milo, representing the improbability of Milo's forming a design to take away the life of Clodius, at a time when all circumstances were unfavourable to such a design, and after he had let other opportunities slip when he could have executed the same design, if he had formed it, with much more ease and safety, heightens our conviction of this improbability by a skilful use of this figure: Quem igitur cum omnium gratiâ interficere noluit, hunc voluit cum aliquorum querelâ? Quem jure, quem loco, quem tempore, quem impune, non est ausus, hunc injurio, iniquo loco, alieno tempore, periculo capitis, non dubitavit occidere ?'* In order to render an antithesis more complete, it is always of advantage, that the words and members of the sentence, expressing the contrasted objects, be, as in this instance of Cicero's, similarly constructed, and made to correspond to each other. This leads us to remark the contrast more, by setting the things which we oppose more clearly over against each other; in the same manner as when we contrast a black and a white object, in order to perceive the full difference of their colour, we would choose to have both objects of the same bulk, and placed in the same light. Their resemblance to each other, in certain circumstances, makes their disagreement in others more palpable. At the same time, I must observe, that the frequent use of antithesis, especially where the opposition in the words is nice and quaint, is apt to render style disagreeable. Such a sentence as the following, from Seneca, does very well, where it stands alone: 'Si quem volueris esse divitem, non est quod augeas divitias, sed minuas cupiditates.'t Or this: 'Si ad naturam vives, nunquam eris pauper; si ad opinionem, nunquam dives.' A maxim or moral saying, properly enough receives this form; both because it is supposed 'Is it credible that, when he declined putting Clodius to death with the consent of all, he would choose to do it with the disapprobation of many? Can you believe that the person whom he scrupled to slay, when he might have done so with full justice, in a convenient place, at a proper time, with secure impunity, he made no scruple to murder against justice, in an unfavourable place, at an unseasonable time, and at the risk of capital condemnation?' 'If you seek to make one rich, study not to increase his stores, but to diminish his desires.' If you regulate your desires according to the standard of nature, you will never be poor; if according to the standard of opinion, you will never be rich.' to be the fruit of meditation, and because it is designed to be engraven on the memory, which recalls it more easily by the help of such contrasted expressions. But where a string of such sentences succeed each other; where this becomes an author's favourite and prevailing manner of expressing himself, his style is faulty; and it is upon this account Seneca has been often, and justly, censured. Such a style appears too studied and laboured; it gives us the impression of an author attending more to his manner of saying things, than to the things themselves which he says. Dr. Young, though a writer of real genius, was too fond of antithesis. In his Estimate of Human Life, we find whole passages that run in such a strain as this: 'The peasant complains aloud; the courtier in secret repines. In want, what distress? in affluence, what satiety? The great are under as much difficulty to expend with pleasure, as the mean to labour with success. The ignorant, through ill-grounded hope, are disappointed; the knowing, through knowledge, despond. Ignorance occasions mistake; mistake disappointment; and disappointment is misery. Knowledge, on the other hand, gives true judgment; and true judgment of human things, gives a demonstration of their insufficiency to our peace.' There is too much glitter in such a style as this, to please long. We are fatigued, by attending to such quaint and artificial sentences often repeated. There is another sort of antithesis, the beauty of which consists in surprising us by the unexpected contrast of things which it brings together. Much wit may be shown in this: but it belongs wholly to pieces of professed wit and humour, and can find no place in grave compositions. Mr. Pope, who is remarkably fond of antithesis, is often happy in this use of the figure. So, in his Rape of the Lock: Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; Or whether Heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall. What is called the point of an epigram, consists, for the most part, in some antithesis of this kind; surprising us with the smart and unexpected turn which it gives to the thought; and in the fewer words it is brought out, it is always the happier. Comparisons and antitheses are figures of a cool nature; productions of imagination, not of passion. Interrogations and exclamations, of which I am next to speak, are passionate figures. They are, indeed, on so many occasions, the native language of passion, that their use is extremely frequent; and in ordinary conversation, when men are heated, they prevail as much as in the most sublime oratory. The unfigured literal use of interrogation, is to ask a question; but when men are prompted by passion, whatever they would affirm or deny, with great vehemence, they naturally put in the form of a question; expressing thereby the strongest confidence of the truth of their own sentiment, and appealing to their hearers for the impossibility of the contrary. Thus in scripture: 'God is not a man that he should lie, neither the son of man, that he should repent. Hath he said it, and shall he not do it? Hath he spoken it, and shall he not make it good?" So Demosthenes, addressing himself to the Athenians: 'Tell me, will you still go about and ask one another, what news? What can be more astonishing news than this, that the man of Macedon makes war upon the Athenians, and disposes of the affairs of Greece? Is Philip dead? No, but he is sick. What signifies it to you whether he be dead or alive? For, if any thing happens to this Philip, you will immediately raise up another.' All this, delivered without interrogation, had been faint and ineffectual; but the warmth and eagerness which this questioning method expresses, awakens the hearers, and strikes them with much greater force. Interrogation may often be applied with propriety, in the course of no higher emotions than naturally arise in pursuing some close and earnest reasoning. But exclamations belong only to stronger emotions of the mind; to surprise, admiration, anger, joy, grief, and the like: Heu pietas! heu prisca fides! invictaque bello Dextra! Both interrogation and exclamation, and, indeed, all passionate figures of speech, operate upon us by means of sympathy. Sympathy is a very powerful and extensive principle in our nature, disposing us to enter into every feeling and passion, which we behold expressed by others. Hence, a single person coming into company with strong marks, either of melancholy or joy, upon his countenance, will diffuse that passion, in a moment, through the whole circle. Hence, in a great crowd, passions are so easily caught, and so fast spread, by that powerful contagion which the animated looks, cries, and gestures of a multitude, never fail to carry. Now, interrogations and exclamations, being natural signs of a moved and agitated mind, always, when they are properly used, dispose us to sympathize with the dispositions of those who use them, and to feel as they feel. From this it follows, that the great rule with regard to the conduct of such figures is, that the writer attend to the manner in which nature dictates to us to express any emotion or passion, and that he give his language that turn, and no other; above all, that he never affect the style of a passion which he does no feel. With interrogations he may use a good deal of freedom; these, as above observed, falling in so much with the ordinary course of language and reasoning, even when no great vehemence is supposed to have place in the mind. But, with respect to exclamations, he must be more reserved. Nothing has a worse effect than the frequent and unseasonable use of them. Raw, juvenile writers, imagine, that by pouring them forth often, they render their compositions warm and animated. Whereas quite the contrary follows. They render it frigid to excess. When an author is always calling upon us to enter into transports which he has said nothing to inspire, we are both Numbers, chap. xxiii. v. 19. |