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"retain as well as to receive the impression, the same "holds of the soul with respect to sense and imagin"ation. Sense is its receptive power; imagination "its retentive. Had it sense without imagination, "it would not be as wax, but as water, where though "all impressions be instantly made, yet as soon as they are made they are instantly lost." In Comparisons of this nature, the understanding is concerned much more than the fancy: and therefore the only rules to be observed, with respect to them, are, that they be clear, and that they be useful; that they tend to render our conception of the principal object more distinct; and that they do not lead our view aside, and bewilder it with any false light.

But Embellishing Comparisons, introduced not so much with a view to inform and instruct, as to adorn the subject of which we treat, are those with which we are chiefly concerned at present, as Figures of Speech; and those, indeed, which most frequently occur. Resemblance, as I before mentioned, is the foundation of this Figure. We must not, however, take Resemblance, in too strict a sense, for actual similitude and likeness of appearance. Two objects may sometimes be very happily compared to one another, though they resemble each other, strictly speaking, in nothing; only, because they agree in the effects which they produce upon the mind; because they raise a train of similar, or, what may be called, concordant ideas; so that the remembrance of the one, when recalled, serves to strengthen the impression made by the other. For example, to describe the nature of soft and melancholy music, Ossian says, "The music of Carryl was, like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and

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mournful to the soul." This is happy and delicate. Yet surely, no kind of music has any resemblance to a feeling of the mind, such as the memory of past joys. Had it been compared to the voice of the nightingale, or the murmur of the stream, as it would have been by some ordinary poet, the likeness would have been more strict; but, by founding his Simile upon the effect which Carryl's music produced, the Poet, while he conveys a very tender image, gives us, at the same time, a much stronger impression of the nature and strain of that music: "Like the "memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful "to the soul."

In general, whether Comparisons be founded on the similitude of the two objects compared, or on some analogy and agreement in their effects, the fundamental requisite of a Comparison is, that it shall serve to illustrate the object for the sake of which it is introduced, and to give us a stronger conception of it. Some little excursions of fancy may be permitted, in pursuing the Simile; but they must never deviate far from the principal object. If it be a great and noble one, every circumstance in the Comparison must tend to aggrandize it; if it be a beautiful one, to render it more amiable; if terrible, to fill us with more awe. But to be a little more particular: The rules to be given concerning Comparisons, respect chiefly two articles; the propriety of their introduction, and the nature of the objects whence they are taken.

First, the propriety of their Introduction. From what has been already said of Comparisons, it appears that they are not, like the figures of which I treated in the last Lecture, the language of strong passion.

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No; they are the language of imagination rather than of passion; of an imagination sprightly, indeed, and warmed; but undisturbed by any violent or agitating emotion. Strong passion is too severe to admit this play of fancy. It has no leisure to cast about for resembling objects; it dwells on that object which has seized and taken possession of the soul. It is too much occupied and filled by it, to turn its view aside, or to fix its attention on any other thing. An author, therefore, can scarcely commit a greater fault, than, in the midst of passion, to introduce a Simile. Metaphorical expression may be allowable in such a situation; though even this may be carried too far: but the pomp and solemnity of a formal Comparison is altogether a stranger to passion. It changes the key in a moment; relaxes and brings down the mind; and shews us a writer perfectly at his ease, while he is personating some other, who is supposed to be under the torment of agitation. Our writers of tragedies are very apt to err here. In some of Mr. Rowe's plays, these flowers of Similies have been strewed unseasonably. Mr. Addison's Cato, too, is justly censurable in this respect; as, when Portius, just after Lucia had bid him farewell for ever, and when he should naturally have been represented as in the most violent anguish, makes his reply in a studied and affected Comparison.

Thus o'er the dying lamp, th' unsteady flame
Hangs quivering on a point, leaps off by fits;
And falls again, as loth to quit its hold.

Thou must not go; my soul still hovers o'er thee,
And can't get loose.

Every one must be sensible, that this is quite remote

from the language of Nature on such occasions.

However, as Comparison is not the style of strong passion, so neither, when employed for embellishment, is it the language of a mind wholly unmoved. It is a figure of dignity, and always requires some elevation in the subject, in order to make it proper; for it supposes the imagination to be uncommonly enlivened, though the heart be not agitated by passion. In a word, the proper place of Comparisons lies in the middle region between the highly pathetic, and the very humble style. This is a wide field, and gives ample range to the Figure. But even this field we must take care not to overstock with it. For, as we before said, it is a sparkling ornament, and all things that sparkle, dazzle and fatigue, if they recur too often. Similies should, even in poetry, be used with moderation; but, in prose writings, much more: otherwise, the style will become disagreeably florid, and the ornament lose its virtue and effect.

I proceed, next, to the rules that relate to objects whence Comparisons should be drawn; supposing them introduced in their proper place.

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 a Driad, 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 Similies 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 Similies 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 every 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 add 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 hid

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