• His account in short is, "That the force of imagination, the energy ' of expression, the power of numbers, the charms of imitation, are ' all naturally of themselves delightful to the mind; that these senti. ⚫ments of beauty, being the predominant emotions, seize the whole mind, and convert the uneasy melancholy passions into themselves. In a word, that the sentiments of beauty, excited by a good tragedy, are the superior prevailing movements, and transform the subordinate 'impressions arising from grief, compassion, indignation, and terror, ' into one uniform and strong enjoyment."*

I have but two objections to this ingenious theory. One is, that ⚫it supposes the impression of grief or terror, excited by a well written 'tragedy, to be weaker than that which arises from our observation of the faculties of the writer, the power of numbers, and imitation; 'which to me is much the same thing as saying, that the sight of a 'precipice hanging over our heads makes a fainter impression on the eye, than the shrubs and wild flowers with which it happens to be ' covered. The fact is so far otherwise, that, if the tragedy be well ' written, I will venture to say, the faculties of the writer, the charms 6 of poetry, or even the thoughts of imitation, never came into the 'spectator's head '+

This is undoubtedly true, but then it is no more than is true of all other poetry, which should always so bring it's subject home to the reader, and so interest him therein, that his thoughts should not descend to such a being as the poet. The reader is for a while transported into another world; to give him a glimpse of the labours of verse-making and rhyme-tagging, is to bring him back to this in a moment. Good poetry is a medium like the air; no one recollects, when looking at an object in nature, that he sees it through any thing. The same may be said of painting. The same has been said, indeed, by one who wrote almost as well as he painted. Hurd's reasoning, therefore, (and it is in the true taste of the Warburtonian school,) proves nothing at all to the purpose. The critic, however, goes on :

* See four dissertations by D. Hume, Esq. p. 185, &c.

+ Hurd's notes on v. 103, of Horace's Art of Poetry.

Figures must have a ground whereon to stand; they must be • clothed: there must be a back ground; there must be light and shadow: but none of these ought to appear to have taken up any 'part of the artist's attention. They should be so managed as not even to catch that of the spectator. We know well enough, when we analyze a piece, the difficulty and the subtlety with which an ar ⚫tist adjusts the back ground, drapery, and masses of light; we know ⚫ that a considerable part of the grace and effect of his picture depends upon them; but this art is so much concealed, even to a judicious eye, that no remains of any of these subordinate parts occur to the memory when the picture is not present.'-Sir J. Reynolds's Works. Vol. I. pp. 83, 84.

But he may feel the effect of them, it will be said, for all that. 'True: but unluckily the whole effect of these things is (and that was my other objection) to deepen the impressions of grief and terror, They are out of place, and altogether impertinent if they contribute 'to any other end. So that to say, the impressions of grief and ter'ror from any magic story, strong as, it is in itself, and made still 'stronger by the art of the poet, is a weaker impression, than the mere pleasure arising from that art, is methinks to account for one mystery by another ten times greater, and to make the poet a verier magician than Horace ever intended to represent him.'*

Let us be judged by any of our readers, whether such passages as Othello's history of his courtship, or the account of Antony's first meeting with Cleopatra be out of place and al'together impertinent." Granting, however, what we safely may grant, that the most touching scenes are the most poetical, what does this prove? Simply, we think, this, that poetry is the language of passion---of the feelings unbridled by reason; and that to write this poetry, and to taste this poetry, the bard and his reader must for a while put on the affections and afflictions of those who are supposed to utter it.

We foresee a much simpler objection to all this than the subtleties of Hurd. What is the difference, it may be said, be tween real misery, and the faithful representation of misery, to make the one so harrowing to the feelings, the other so agree, able? We answer,---that the poet's, the painter's, the sculp tor's, the actor's, is not, never can be, never ought to be, a faithful representation of nature. We have spoken of this on another occasion; and shall only observe at present, how much of what is mean and disgusting, which necessarily accompanies real misery, is kept back in poetry, and how much of what is dignified and imposing is there addressed to the imagination. A company of strolling players, wishing upon some occasion to call forth the tears of their audience by the distresses of King Lear, were brought to a complete nonplus by the difficulties attending the representation of the storm. Thunder and lightning might be managed by the help of a large stone or two, and a small quantity of powdered rosin but what was to be done for rain? Rain was indispensable; for it comes over and over again in Shakespeare; but the storehouse of the company furnished nothing in any degree resembling rain. At length one of the players, more ingenious than the rest, bethought himself of an expedient: an expanded umbrella is a certain indication of rain: and if the old king should be introduced holding one over his head, the rain might be supplied by the imagination of the audience. The expedient, says tradition, was adopted, and the success was unparalleled. Now had umbrellas been in use in the

* Hurd's Notes on Horace.

time of Lear, even his daughters might have granted him that accommodation, or at any rate the kind-hearted Gloucester would have furnished him with one, and the old king might have attempted to parry, in some degree, the pelting of the pitiless storm;' yet who does not find how much the imagination is offended with this useful appendage, and how ill it agrees with his thin grey locks, and the poetical effect of his situation.

Let it be added, too, that if, as is sometimes the case, the pathos of the poet should grow too powerful, the reader can always throw off the excess of his grief, by the reflection that the whole story is a fiction.

This account of the matter seems to us to come much nearer the truth, than the hypothesis which Burke has adopted, and which Akenside has so poetically drest in his Pleasures of the Imagination. We confess candidly for ourselves that we have never been able to understand this hypothesis, and have always suspected in secret that, when stript of its poetical and oratorical graces, it would be found, in plain prose, to assert that pain is pleasure. Surely an unbiassed reader must be somewhat startled with opinions like the following:

• To examine this point concerning the effect of tragedy in a proper manner, we must previously consider how we are affected by the feelings of our fellow-creatures in circumstances of real distress. I am • convinced we have a degree of delight, and that no small one, in the "real misfortunes and pains of others."*

Ask the crowd
'Which flies impatient from the village walk
To climb the neighbouring cliffs, when far below
• The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coast
'Some helpless bark; while sacred pity melts
The general eye, or terror's icy hand

'Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair;
;
While every mother closer to her breast
"Catches her child, and, pointing where the waves
Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud
As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms
• For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge,
'As now another, dash'd against the rock,
Drops lifeless down: O! deemest thou indeed
No kind endearment here by nature given

To mutual terror and compassion's tears?'+

Let us hear, however, how Burke supports his theory.

Choose a day on which to represent the most sublime and affecting tragedy we have; appoint the most favourite actors; spare no cost unite the greatest efforts of poetry, the scenes and decorations;

upon

Burke on the Sublime and Beautiful. Part I. § 14. +Pleasures of Imagination. Book II.

painting, and music: and when you have collected your audience, just at the moment when their minds are erect with expectation, let it 'be reported that a state criminal of high rank is on the point of being 'executed in the adjoining square; in a moment the emptiness of the ⚫ theatre would demonstrate the comparative weakness of the imitative 'arts, and proclaim the triumph of the real sympathy.'*

Now we think that the fact may be granted, and yet the inference denied. If, of all those who poured from the theatre to the execution, any could give an account why they did so, it would not be, surely, that they took a strange and savage delight in the convulsions and dying agonies of the criminal, but that they wished to see his behaviour, and to conjecture his feelings in those awful moments. 6 Homo sum; humani nil a me alienum.' The actions and the motives and the feelings of our fellow-creatures, in every situation, are ever the objects of our most lively curiosity, and our most industrious scrutiny. Upon this disposition Miss B. founds the pleasure derived from tragedy. She has illustrated her doctrine so ably, that a quotation or two from her shall finish our discussion of this trite, yet not uninteresting, question.

• If man is an object of so much attention to man, engaged in the ordinary occurrences of life, how much more does he excite his cu riosity and interest when placed in extraordinary situations of difficulty and distress? It cannot be any pleasure we receive from the sufferings of a fellow-creature which attracts such multitudes of people to a public execution, though it is the horror we conceive for such a spectacle that keeps so many more away. To see a human being bearing himself up under such circumstances, or struggling with the terrible apprehensions which such a situation impresses, must be the powerful incentive, that makes us press forward to behold what we shrink from, and wait with trembling expectation for what we dread. For though few at such a spectacle can get near enough to distinguish the expression of face, or the minuter parts of a criminal's behaviour, yet, from a considerable distance will, they eagerly mark, whether he steps firmly; whether the motions of his body denote agitation or calmness; and if the wind does but ruffle his garment, they will, even from that change upon the outline of his distant figure, read some expression connected with his dreadful situation. Though there is a greater proportion of people in whom this strong curiosity will be overcome by other dispositions and motives; though there are many more who will stay away from such a sight than will go to it; yet there are very few who will not be eager to converse with a person who has beheld it; and to learn, very minutely, every circumstance connected with it, except the very act itself of inflicting death. To lift up the roof of his dungeon like the aiable boiteux, and look upon a criminal the night before he suffers, in his still hours of privacy, when all that disguise is removed which is imposed by respect for the

* Burke on the Sublime and Beautiful, Part I. § 15.

we

opinion of others, the strong motive by which even the lowest and wickedest of men still continue to be actuated, would present an object to the mind of every person, not withheld from it by great timidity of character, more powerfully attractive than almost any other.' How sensible are we of this strong propensity within us, when behold any person under the pressure of great and uncommon calamity! Delicacy and respect for the afflicted will, indeed, make us turn ourselves aside from observing him, and cast down our eyes in his presence; but the first glance we direct to him will involuntarily be one of the keenest observation, how hastily soever it may be checked; and often will a returning look of inquiry mix itself by stealth with our sympathy and reserve.'

What human creature is there, who can behold a being like himself under the violent agitation of those passions which all have, in some degree, experienced, without feeling himself most powerfully excited by the sight? I say, all have experienced: for the bravest man on earth knows what fear is as well as the coward; and will not refuse to be interested for one under the dominion of this passion, provided there be nothing in the circumstances attending it to create contempt. Anger is a passion that attracts less sympathy than any other, yet the unpleasing and distorted features of an angry man will be more eagerly gazed upon, by those who are no wise concerned with his fury or the objects of it, than the most amiable placid countenance in the world. Every eye is directed to him; every voice hushed to silence in his presence: even children will leave off their gambols as he passes, and gaze after him more eagerly than the gau diest equipage. The wild tossings of despair; the gnashing of hatred and revenge; the yearnings of affection, and the softened mien of love; all the language of the agitated soul, which every age and nation understand, is never addressed to the dull or inattentive.

It is not merely under the dull agitations of passion, that man so rouses and interests us; even the smallest indications of an unquiet mind, the restless eye, the muttering lip, the half checked excla. mation, and the hasty start, will set our attention as anxiously upon the watch, as the first distant flashes of a gathering storm. When some great explosion of passion bursts forth, and some consequent catastrophe happens, if we are at all acquainted with the unhappy perpetrator, how minutely should we endeavour to remember every circumstance of his past behaviour! and with what avidity shall we seize every recollected word or gesture, that is in the smallest degree indicative of the supposed state of his mind, at the time when they took place. If we are not acquainted with him, how eagerly shall we meet with similar recollections from another! Let us understand, from observation or report, that any person harbours in his breast, concealed from the world's eye, some powerful rankling passion, of what kind soever it may be, we shall observe every word, every motion, every look, even the distant gait of such a man, with a constancy and attention bestowed upon no other, Nay, should we meet him unexpectedly on our way, a feeling will pass across our minds as though we found ourselves in the neighbourhood of some secret and fearful thing. If invisible, would we not follow him in to his lonely