"God?" (Job iv. 15.) no ideas, it is plain, are so sublime as those taken from the supreme being; the most unknown, but the greatest of all objects; the infinity of whose nature, and the eternity of whose duration, joined with the omnipotence of his power, though they surpass our conceptions, yet exalt them to the highest. In general, all objects that are greatly raised above us, or far removed from us, either in space or in time, are apt to strike us as great. Our viewing them, as through the mist of distance or antiquity, is favourable to the impressions of their sublimity.

As obscurity, so disorder too, is very compatible with grandeur; nay, frequently heightens it. Few things that are strictly regular and methodical, appear sublime. We see the limits on every side; we feel ourselves confined; there is no room for the mind's exerting any great effort. Exact proportion of parts, though it enters often into the beautiful, is much disregarded in the sublime. A great mass of rocks, thrown together by the hand of nature with wildness and confusion, strike the mind with more grandeur, than if they had been adjusted to each other with the most accurate symmetry

In the feeble attempts, which human art can make towards producing grand objects, (feeble I mean, in comparison with the powers of nature) greatness of dimensions always constitutes a principal part. No pile of building can convey any idea of sublimity, unless it be ample and lofty. There is, too, in architecture, what is called greatness of manner; which seems chiefly to arise, from presenting the object to us in one full point of view; so that it shall make its impression whole, entire, and undivided upon the mind. A Gothic cathedral raises ideas of grandeur in our minds, by its size, its height, its awful obscurity, its strength, its antiquity, and its durability.

There still remains to be mentioned one class of sublime objects, which may be called the moral, or sentimental sublime; arising from certain exertions of the human mind; from certain affections, and actions, of our fellow-creatures. These will be found to be all, or chiefly, of that class, which comes under the name of magnanimity or heroism; and they produce an effect extremely similar to what is produced by the view of grand objects in nature; filling the mind with admiration, and elevating it above itself. A noted instance of this, quoted by all the French critics, is the celebrated Qu'il Mourut of Corneille, in the tragedy of Horace. In the famous combat between the Horatii and the Curiatii, the old Horatius being informed that two of his sons are slain, and that the third had betaken himself to flight, at first will not believe the report; but being thoroughly assured of the fact, is fired with all the sentiments of high honour and indignation at this supposed unworthy behaviour of his surviv ing son. He is reminded, that his son stood alone against three, and

†The picture which Lucretius has drawn of the dominion of superstition over mankind, representing it as a portentous spectre showing its head from the clouds, and dismaying the whole human race with its countenance together with the magnanimity of Epicurus in raising himself up against it, carries all the grandeur of a sublime, obscure, and awful image.

Humana ante oculos fœde cum vita jaceret
In terris, oppressa gravi sub religione,
Que caput cœli regionibus ostendebat,
Horribilis super aspectu mortalibus instans,
Primum Graius homo mortales tollere contra
Est oculos ausus...........

LIB. I.

asked what he would have had him to have done?" To have died," he answers. In the same manner Porus, taken prisoner by Alexander, after a gallant defence, and asked in what manner he would be treated? answering, "Like a king;" and Cæsar chiding the pilot who was afraid to set out with him in the storm, "Quid times? Cæsarem vehis;" are good instances of this sentimental sublime. Wherever, in some critical and high situation, we behold a man uncommonly intrepid, and resting upon himself; superior to passion and to fear; animated by some great principle to the contempt of popular opinion, of selfish interest, of dangers or of death; there we are struck with a sense of the sublime.*

High virtue is the most natural and fertile source of this moral sublimity. However, on some occasions, where virtue either has no place, or is but imperfectly displayed, yet if extraordinary vigour and force of mind be discovered, we are not insensible to a degree of grandeur in the charac ter; and from the splendid conqueror, or the daring conspirator, whom we are far from approving, we cannot withhold our admiration.†

I have now enumerated a variety of instances, both in inanimate objects and in human life, wherein the sublime appears. In all these instances, the emotion raised in us is of the same kind, although the objects that produce the emotion be of widely different kinds. A question next arises, whether we are able to discover some one fundamental quality in which all these different objects agree, and which is the cause of their producing an emotion of the same nature in our minds? Various hypothesis have been formed concerning this; but, as far as appears to me, hitherto unsatisfactory. Some have imagined that amplitude, or great extent, joined with simplicity, is either immediately, or remotely, the fundamental

The sublime, in natural and in moral objects, is brought before us in one view, and compared together, in the following beautiful passage of Akenside's Pleasures of the Imagination: Look then abroad through nature, to the range

Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres,
Wheeling, unshaken, thro' the void immense;
And speak, O man! does this capacious scene,
With half that kindling majesty dilate

Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose,
Refulgent, from the stroke of Cesar's fate,
Amid the crowd of patriots; and his arm
Aloft extending, like eternal Jove,

When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud-
On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel,
And bade the father of his country hail!

For, lo! the tyrant prostrate on the dust

And Rome again is free.

Book I.

Silius Italicus has studied to give an august idea of Hannibal, by representing him as surrounded with all his victories, in the place of guards. One who had formed a design of assassinating him in the midst of a feast, is thus addressed:

Fallit te, mensas, inter quod credis inermem;

Tot bellis quæsita viro, tot cædibus, armat
Majestas æterna ducem. Si admoveris ora

Cannas et Trebiam ante oculos, Trasymenaque busta

Et Pauli stare ingentem miraberis umbram.

A thought somewhat of the same nature occurs in a French author, "Il se cache; mais “sa reputation le decouvre; Il marche sans suite & sans equipage; mais chacun, dans ❝son esprit, le met sur un char de triomphe. On compte en le voiant, les ennemis qu'il "a vaincus, non pas les serviteurs qui le suivent. Tout seul qu'il est, on se figure, autour "de lai, ses vertus, et ses victoires qui l'accompagnent. Moins il est superbe, plus il de"vient venerable." Oraison funebre de M. de Turrenne, par M. Flechier. Both these passages are splended, rather than sublime. In the first, there is a want of justness in the thought: in the second, of simplicity in the expression. E

quality of whatever is sublime; but we have seen that amplitude is confined to one species of sublime objects, and cannot, without violent straining, be applied to them all. The author of "a Philosophical Inquiry into "the origin of our ideas of the sublime and beautiful," to whom we are indebted for several ingenious and original thoughts upon this subject, proposes a formal theory upon this foundation, that terror is the source of the sublime, and that no objects have this character, but such as produce impressions of pain and danger. It is indeed true, that many terrible objects are highly sublime; and that grandeur does not refuse an alliance with the idea of danger. But though this is very properly illustrated by the author (many of whose sentiments on that head I have adopted) yet he seems to stretch his theory too far, when he represents the sublime as consisting wholly in modes of danger, or of pain. For the proper sensation of sublimity appears to be very distinguishable from the sensation of either of these; and on several occasions, to be entirely separated from them. In many grand objects, there is no coincidence with terror at all; as in the magnificent prospect of wide extended plains, and of the starry firmament; or in the moral dispositions and sentiments, which we view with high admiration; and in many painful and terrible objects also, it is clear, there is no sort of grandeur. The amputation of a limb, or the bite of a snake, are exceedingly terrible; but are destitute of all claim whatever to sublimity. I am inclined to think, that mighty force or power, whether accompanied with terror or not, whether employed in protecting, or in alarming us, has a better title, than any thing that has yet been mentioned, to be the fundamental quality of the sublime; as, after the review which we have taken, there does not occur to me any sublime object, into the idea of which, power, strength, and force, either enter not directly, or are not, at least intimately associated with the idea by leading our thoughts to some astonishing power, as concerned in the production of the object. However, I do not insist upon this as sufficient to found a general theory: it is enough, now, to have given this view of the nature and different kinds of sublime objects; by which I hope to have laid a proper foundation for discussing, with greater accuracy, the sublime in writing and composition.

LECTURE IV.

THE SUBLIME IN WRITING.

HAVING treated of grandeur and sublimity in external objects, the way seems now to be cleared, for treating, with more advantage, of the descriptions of such objects; or, of what is called the sublime in writing. Though I may appear early to enter on the consideration of this subject; yet, as the sublime is a species of writing which depends less than any other on the artificial embellishments of rhetoric, it may be examined with as much propriety here, as in any subsequent part of the lectures. Many critical terms have unfortunately been employed in a sense too

loose and vague; none more so, than that of the sublime. Every one is acquainted with the character of Cæsar's Commentaries, and of the style in which they are written: a style, remarkably pure, simple, and elegant; but the most remote from the sublime, of any of the classical authors. Yet this author has a German critic, Johannes Gulielmus Bergerus, who wrote no longer ago than the year 1720, pitched upon as the perfect model of the sublime, and has composed a quarto volume, entitled De naturali pulchritudine Orachionis; the express intention of which is to shew, that Cæsar's Commentaries contain the most complete exemplification of all Longinus's rules relating to sublime writing. This I mention as a strong proof of the confused ideas which have prevailed, concerning this subject. The true sense of sublime writing, undoubtedly, is such a description of objects, or exhibition of sentiments, which are in themselves of a sublime nature, as shall give us strong impressions of them. But there is another very indefinite, and therefore very improper, sense, which has been too often put upon it; when it is applied to signify any remarkable and distinguishing excellency of composition; whether it raise in us the ideas of grandeur, or those of gentleness, elegance, or any other sort of beauty. In this sense, Cæsar's Commentaries may indeed, be termed sublime, and so may many sonnets, pastorals, and love elegies, as well as Homer's Iliad. But this evidently confounds the use of words, and marks no one species, or character, of composition whatever.

I am sorry to be obliged to observe, that the sublime is too often used in this last and improper sense, by the celebrated critic Longinus, in his treatise on this subject. He sets out, indeed, with describing it in its just and proper meaning; as something that elevates the mind above itself, and fills it with high conceptions, and a noble pride. But from this view of it he frequently departs; and substitutes in the place of it, whatever, in any strain of composition, pleases highly. Thus, many of the passages which he produces as instances of the sublime, are merely elegant, without having the most distant relation to proper sublimity; witness Sappho's famous ode, on which he descants at considerable length. He points out five sources of the sublime. The first is boldness or grandeur in the thoughts; the second is, the pathetic; the third, the proper application of figures; the fourth, the use of tropes and beautiful expressions; the fifth, musical structure and arrangement of words. This is the plan of one who was writing a treatise of rhetoric, or of the beauties of writing in general; not of the sublime in particular. For of these five heads, only the two first have any particular relation to the sublime; boldness and grandeur in the thoughts, and in some instances, the pathetic, or strong exertions of passion; the other three, tropes, figures, and musical arrangements, have no more relation to the sublime, than to other kinds of good writing; perhaps less to the sublime, than to any other species whatever; because it requires less the assistance of ornament. From this it appears, that clear and precise ideas on this head are not to be expected from that writer. I would not, however, be understood, as if I meant, by this censure, to represent his treatise as of small value. I know no critic, ancient or modern, that discovers a more lively relish of the beauties of fine writing, than Longinus; and he has also the merit of being himself an excellent, and, in several passages, a truly sublime, writer. But as his work has been generally considered as a standard on this subject, it was incumbent on me to give my opinion concerning the benefit to be derived from it. It deserves to be consulted, not so much for distinct in

struction concerning the sublime, as for excellent general ideas concerning beauty in writing.

I return now to the proper and natural idea of the sublime in composition. The foundation of it must always be laid in the nature of the object described. Unless it be such an object as, if presented to our eyes, if exhibited to us in reality, would raise ideas of that elevating, that awful, and magnificent kind, which we call sublime; the description, however anely drawn, is not entitled to come under this class. This excludes all objects that are merely beautiful, gay or elegant. In the next place, the object must not only, in itself be sublime, but it must be set before us in such a light as is most proper to give us a clear and full impression of it; it must be described with strength, with conciseness, and simplicity. This depends principally, upon the lively impression which the poet, or orator, has of the object which he exhibits; and upon his being deeply affected, and warmed, by the sublime idea which he would convey. If his own feeling be languid, he can never inspire us with any strong emotion. Instances, which are extremely necessary on this subject, will clearly show the importance of all those requisites which I have just now mentioned.

It is, generally speaking, among the most ancient authors, that we are to look for the most striking instances of the sublime. I am inclined to think that the early ages of the world, and the rude unimproved state of society, are peculiarly favourable to the strong emotions of sublimity. The genius of men is then much turned to admiration and astonishment. Meeting with many objects, to them new and strange, their imagination is kept glowing, and their passions are often raised to the utmost. They think and express themselves boldly, and without restraint. In the progress of society, the genius and manners of men undergo a change more favourable to accuracy, than to strength or sublimity.

Of all writings, ancient or modern, the sacred Scriptures afford us the highest instances of the sublime. The descriptions of the Deity, in them, are wonderfully noble; both from the grandeur of the object and the manner of representing it. What an assemblage, for instance, of awful and sublime ideas is presented to us, in that passage of the xviiith psalm, where an appearance of the Almighty is described? "In "my distress I called upon the Lord, he heard my voice out of his "temple, and my cry came before him. Then, the earth shook " and trembled; the foundations also of the hills were moved; be"cause he was wroth. He bowed the heavens, and came down, and "darkness was under his feet; and he did ride upon a Cherub, and did "fly; yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind. He made dark"ness his secret place; his pavilion round about him were dark waters, "and thick clouds of the sky." Here, agreeably to the principles established in the last lecture, we see with what propriety and success the circumstances of darkness and terror are applied for heightening the sublime. So, also, the prophet Habakkuk, in a similar passage: "stood and measured the earth: he beheld, and drove asunder the na"tions. The everlasting mountains were scattered; the perpetual "hills did bow; his ways are everlasting. The mountains saw thee; "and they trembled. The overflowing of the water passed by. The "deep uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands on high."

"He

The noted instance gived by Longinus, from Moses, "God said, let "there be light; and there was light;" is not liable to the censure which I