SENTIMENTS

SENTIMENTS, in poetry. To talk in the language of music, each passion hath a certain tone, to which every sentiment proceeding from it ought to be tuned with the greatest accuracy: which is no easy work, especially where such harmony ought to be supported during the course of a long theatrical representation. In order to reach such delicacy of execution, it is necessary that a writer assume the precise character and passion of the personage represented; which requires an uncommon genius. But it is the only difficulty; for the writer, who, annihilating himself, can thus become another person, need be in no pain about the sentiments that belong to the assumed character: these will flow without the least study, or even preconception; and will frequently be as delightfully new to himself as to his reader. But if a lively picture even of a single emotion, require an effort of genius, how much greater the effort to compose a passionate dialogue with as many different tones of passion as there are speakers? With what ductility of feeling must that writer be endowed, who approaches perfection in such a work; when it is necessary to assume different and even opposite characters and passions, in the quickest succession? Yet this work, difficult as it is, yields to that of composing a dialogue in genteel comedy, exhibiting characters without passion. The reason is, that the different tones of character are more delicate, and less insight, than those of passion; and, accordingly, many writers, who have no genius for drawing characters, make a shift to represent, tolerably well, an ordinary passion in its simple movements. But of all works of this kind, what is truly the most difficult, is a characteristical dialogue upon any philosophical subject: to interweave characters with reasoning, by suiting to the character of each speaker a peculiarity not only of thought but of expression, requires the perfection of genius, taste, and judgment. How hard dialogue-writing is, will be evident, even without reasoning, from the miserable compositions of Sentiments. that kind found without number in all languages. The art of mimicking any singularity in gesture or in voice, is a rare talent, though directed by sight and hearing, the acutest and most lively of our external senses: how much more rare must that talent be, of imitating characters and internal emotions, tracing all their different tints, and representing them in a lively manner by natural sentiments properly expressed? The truth is, such execution is too delicate for an ordinary genius; and for that reason the bulk of writers, instead of expressing a passion as one does who feels it, content themselves with describing it in the language of a spectator. To awake passion by an internal effort merely, without any external cause, requires great sensibility; and yet that operation is necessary, not less to the writer than to the actor: because none but those who actually feel a passion can represent it to the life. The writer's part is the more complicated: he must add composition to passion; and must, in the quickest succession, adopt every different character. But a very humble flight of imagination may serve to convert a writer into a spectator, so as to figure, in some obscure manner, an action as passing in his sight and hearing. In that figured situation, being led naturally to write like a spectator, he entertains his readers with his own reflections, with cool description, and florid declamation; instead of making them eye-witnesses, as it were, to a real event, and to every movement of genuine passion. Thus most of our plays appear to be cast in the same mould; personages without character, the mere outlines of passion, a tiresome monotony, and a pompous declamatory style. This descriptive manner of representing passion is a very cold entertainment; our sympathy is not raised by description; we must first be lulled into a dream of reality, and every thing must appear as passing in our sight. Unhappy is the player of genius who acts a part in what may be termed a descriptive tragedy: after assuming the very passion that is to be represented, how is he cramped in action, when he must utter, not the sentiments of the passion he feels, but a cold description in the language of a bystander? It is that imperfection, undoubtedly, in the bulk of our plays, which confines our stage almost entirely to Shakespeare, notwithstanding his many irregularities. In our late English tragedies, we sometimes find sentiments tolerably well adapted to a plain passion: but we must not in any of them expect a sentiment expressive of character; and, upon that very account, our late performances of the dramatic kind are for the most part intolerably insipid. But it may be proper to illustrate this subject by examples. The first examples shall be of sentiments that appear the legitimate offspring of passion; to which shall be opposed what are descriptive only, and illegitimate: and in making this comparison, the instances shall be borrowed from Shakespeare and Corneille, who for genius in dramatic composition stand uppermost in the rolls of fame. I. Shakspear shall furnish the first example, being of sentiments dictated by a violent and perturbed passion: Lear. ————— Filial ingratitude! It Sentiments. Is it not as if this mouth should tear this handFor lifting food to't?—But I'll punish home;No, I will weep no more.—In such a night,To shut me out!—Pour on, I will endure.In such a night as this! O Regan, Gonerill,Your old kind father, whole frank heart gave all—O! that way madness lies; let me shun that;No more of that. Kent. Good, my lord, enter here. Lear. Pr'ythee, go in thyself, seek thine own ease,This tempest will not give me leave to ponderOn things would hurt me more:—but I'll go in;In, boy, go first. You houseless poverty—Nay, get thee in; I'll pray, and then I'll sleep—Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are,That hide the pelting of this pitiless storm!How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,Your loop'd and window'd raggedness defend youFrom seasons such as these?—O I have ta'enToo little care of this! take physic, Pomp;Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,That thou may'st shake the superfluous to them,And show the heavens more just. King Lear, act 3. sc. 5. The following is an example of the same kind, expres-sing sentiments arising from remorse and despair: Othello. Lo! I have a weapon: A better never did itself sustainUpon a soldier's thigh. I've seen the day,That with this little arm, and this good sword,I've made my way through more impedimentsThan twenty times your stop. But, oh vain boast!Who can controul his fate? 'tis not so now.Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon'd;Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,The very sea-mark of my utmost fail.Do you go back dismay'd? 'tis a lost fear.Man but a rush against Othello's breast,And he retires. Where should Othello go?Now—how dost thou look now! Oh ill-starr'd wench!Pale as thy snook! when we shall meet at compt,This look of thine will hurl my soul from heav'n,And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl;Ev'n like thy chastity. O cursed slave!Whip me, ye devils,From the possession of this heavenly fight:Blow me about in winds, roast me in sulphur,Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire—Oh, Desdemona! Desdemona! dead! dead! oh! oh! Othello, act 5. sc. 9. The sentiments here displayed flow so naturally fromthe passions represented, that we cannot conceive anyimitation more perfect. With regard to the French author, truth obliges usto acknowledge, that he describes in the style of a spec-tator, instead of expressing passion like one who feelsit; which naturally betrays him into a tiresome mono-tony, and a pompous declamatory style. It is scarcenecessary to give examples, for he never varies fromthat tone. We shall, however, take two passages at aventure, in order to be confronted with those transcrib-ed above. In the tragedy of Cinna, Emilia, afterthe conspiracy was discovered, having nothing in viewbut racks and death to herself and her lover, receives a pardon from Augustus, attended with the brightest Sentiments.circumstances of magnanimity and tenderness. This isa lucky situation for representing the passions of sur-prise and gratitude in their different stages, which seemnaturally to be what follow. These passions, raised atonce to the utmost pitch, and being at first too big forutterance, must, for some moments, be expressed byviolent gestures only: so soon as there is vent for words,the first expressions are broken and interrupted: at last,we ought to expect a tide of intermingled sentiments,occasioned by the fluctuation of the mind between thetwo passions. Emilia is made to behave in a very dif-ferent manner: with extreme coolness she describes herown situation, as if she were merely a spectator; or rat-her the poet takes the task off her hands: Et je me sens, Seigneur, à ces hautes bontés:Je recouvre la vue auprès de leurs clartés.Je connois mon forfait qui me sembloit justice;Et ce que n'avoit pu la terreur du supplice,Je sens naître en mon ame un repentir puissant,Et mon cœur en secret me dit, qu'il y consent.Le ciel a résolu votre grandeur suprême;Et pour preuve, Seigneur, je n'en veux que moi-même.J'ose avec vanité me donner cet éclat,Puisqu'il change mon cœur, qu'il veut changer l'état.Ma haine va mourir, que j'ai crue immortelle;Elle est morte, et ce cœur devient sujet fidèle;Et prenant désormais cette haine en horreur,L'ardeur de vous servir succède à sa fureur. Act 5. sc. 3. In the tragedy of Sertorius, the queen, surprised withthe news that her lover was assassinated, instead of vent-ing any passion, degenerates into a cool spectator, andundertakes to instruct the bystanders how a queen oughtto behave on such an occasion. Viriate. Il m'en fait voir ensemble, et l'auteur, et lacause. Par cet assassinat c'est de moi qu'on dispose,C'est mon trône, c'est moi qu'on pretend conquérir;Et c'est mon juste choix qui seul l'a fait perir.Madame, apres sa perte, et parmi ces alarmes,N'attendez point de moi de soupirs, ni de larmes;Ce sont amusemens que dédaigne aisementLe prompt et noble orgueil d'un vis ressentiment.Qui pleure, l'affoiblit; qui soupire, l'exhale:Il faut plus de fierté dans une ame royale;Et ma douleur foudroie aux soins de le venger, &c. Act 5. sc. 3. So much in general upon the genuine sentiments ofpassion. We proceed to particular observations. And,first, passions seldom continue uniform any considerabletime: they generally fluctuate, swelling and subsidingby turns, often in a quick succession; and the senti-ments cannot be just unless they correspond to such fluc-tuation. Accordingly, a climax never shows better thanin expressing a swelling passion: the following passagesmay suffice for an illustration. Orosoko. ————Can you raise the dead?Pursue and overtake the wings of time?And bring about again the hours, the days,The years, that made me happy! Orosoko, act 2. sc. 2. Almeria. ————How hast thou charm'd Sentiments. The wildness of the waves and rocks to this; That thus relenting they have giv'n thee back To earth, to light and life, to love and me? Mourning Bride, act 1. sc. 7. I would not be the villain that thou think'st For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp. And the rich earth to boot. Macbeth, act 4. sc. 4. The following passage expresses finely the progress of conviction. Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve That tender, lovely form, of painted air, So like Almeria. Ho! it sinks, it falls; I'll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade. 'Tis life! 'tis warm! 'tis she! 'tis she herself! It is Almeria! 'tis, it is my wife! Mourning Bride, act 2. sc. 6. In the progress of thought, our resolutions become more vigorous as well as our passions. If ever I do yield or give consent, By any action, word, or thought, to wed Another lord; may then just heav'n show'r down, &c. Mourning Bride, act 1. sc. 1. And this leads to a second observation, That the different stages of a passion, and its different directions, from birth to extinction, must be carefully represented in their order; because otherwise the sentiments, by being misplaced, will appear forced and unnatural. Resentment, for example, when provoked by an atrocious injury, discharges itself first upon the author: sentiments therefore of revenge come always first, and must in some measure be exhausted before the person injured think of grieving for himself. In the Cid of Corneille, Don Diegue having been affronted in a cruel manner, expresses scarce any sentiment of revenge, but is totally occupied in contemplating the low situation to which he is reduced by the affront: O rage! ô desespoir! ô vieillesse ennemie! N'ai-je donc tant veu que pour cette infamie? Et ne suis-je blanchi dans les travaux guerriers, Que pour voir en un jour flettrir tant de lauriers? Mon bras, qu'avec respect tout l'Espagne admire, Mon bras, qui tant de fois a sauvé cet empire, Tant de fois affermi le trône de son Roi, Trahit donc ma querelle, et ne fait rien pour moi! O cruel souvenir de ma gloire passée! Oeuvre de tant de jours en un jour effacée! Nouvelle dignité fatale à mon bonheur! Precipice élevé d'où tombe mon honneur! Faut-il de votre éclat voir triompher le comte, Et mourir sans vengeance, ou vivre dans la honte? Comte, fois de mon prince à présent gouverneur, Ce haut rang n'admet point un homme sans honneur; Et ton jaloux orgueil par cet affront infigne, Malgré le choux du Roi, m'en a su rendre indigne. Et toi, de mes exploits glorieux instrument, Mais d'un corps tout de glace inutile ornement, Fer jadis tant à craindre, et qui dans cette offense, M'a servi de parade, et non pas de défense, Va, quitte désormais le dernier des humains, Passe pour me venger en de meilleures mains. Le Cid, act 1. sc. 7. These sentiments are certainly not the first that are suggested by the passion of resentment. As the first Sentiments of resentment are always directed to its object, the very same is the case of grief. Yet with relation to the sudden and severe distemper that seized Alexander bathing in the river Cydnus, Quintus Curtius describes the first emotions of the army as directed to themselves, lamenting that they were left without a leader, far from home, and had scarce any hopes of returning in safety: their king's distress, which must naturally have been their first concern, occupies them but in the second place according to that author. In the Aminta of Tasso, Sylvia, upon a report of her lover's death, which she believed certain, instead of bemoaning the loss of her beloved, turns her thoughts upon herself, and wonders her heart does not break: Ohime, ben son di fasso, Poi che questa novella non m'uccide. Act 4. sc. 2. In the tragedy of Jane Shore, Alicia, in the full purpose of destroying her rival, has the following reflection: Oh Jealousy! thou bane of pleasing friendship, Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms; How does thy rancour poison all our softness, And turn our gentle nature into bitterness! See where she comes! Once my heart's dearest blessing, Now my chang'd eyes are blasted with her beauty, Loathe that known face, and sicken to behold her. Act 3. sc. 1. These are the reflections of a cool spectator. A passion, while it has the ascendancy, and is freely indulged, suggests not to the person who feels it any sentiment to its own prejudice: reflections like the foregoing occur not readily till the passion has spent its vigour. A person sometimes is agitated at once by different passions; and the mind in that case, vibrating like a pendulum, vents itself in sentiments that partake of the same vibration. This we give as a third observation: Queen. Would I had never trod this English earth, Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it! Ye've angels faces, but heav'n knows your hearts. What shall become of me now? wretched lady! I am the most unhappy woman living. Alas! poor wenches, where are now your fortunes? [To her women.] Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity, No friends, no hope, no kindred, weep for me! Almoit, no grave allow'd me. Henry VIII. act 3. sc. 1. Othello. Oh devil, devil! If that the earth could teem with woman's tears, Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. Out of my sight! Desdemona. I will not stay t'offend you. [Going.] Lodovico. Truly, an obedient lady: I do beseech your lordship, call her back. Oth. Mistress— Des. My lord. Oth. What would you with her, Sir? Lod. Who, I, my lord? Oth. Ay; you did wish that I would make her turn: Sir, she can turn and turn, and yet go on; And turn again. And she can weep, Sir, weep; And she's obedient: as you say, obedient: Very Sentiments. Very obedient—proceed you in your tears—Concerning this, Sir,—oh well-painted passion!—I am commanded home—get you away,I'll send for you anon—Sir, I obey the mandate,And will return to Venice.—Hence, avaunt! [Exit Desdemona. Othello, act 4. sc. 6. Emilia. Oh! my good lord, I would speak a word with you. Othello. Yes, 'tis Emilia—By and by.—She's dead.'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death;The noise was high.—Ha! no more moving?Still as the grave. Shall she come in? were't good?I think she stirs again—No—what's the best?If she come in, she'll, sure, speak to my wife:My wife! my wife! What wife? I have no wife;Oh insupportable! oh heavy hour! Othello, act 5. sc. 7. A fourth observation is, That nature, which gave us passions, and made them extremely beneficial when moderate, intended undoubtedly that they should be subjected to the government of reason and conscience. It is therefore against the order of nature, that passion in any case should take the lead in contradiction to reason and conscience: such a state of mind is a sort of anarchy which every one is ashamed of, and endeavours to hide or dissemble. Even love, however laudable, is attended with a conscious shame when it becomes immoderate: it is covered from the world, and disclosed only to the beloved object: Et que l'amour souvent de remors combattuParoisse une foiblesse, et non une vertu. Boileau, l'Art poet. chant. 3. l. 101. O, they love least that let men know they love. Two Gentlemen of Verona, act 1. sc. 3. Hence a capital rule in the representation of immoderate passions, that they ought to be hid or dissembled as much as possible. And this holds in an especial manner with respect to criminal passions: one never counsels the commission of a crime in plain terms; guilt must not appear in its native colours, even in thought; the proposal must be made by hints, and by representing the action in some favourable light. Of the propriety of sentiment upon such an occasion, Shakespeare, in the Tempest, has given us a beautiful example, in a speech by the usurping duke of Milan, advising Sebastian to murder his brother the king of Naples: Antonio. ————What might,Worthy Sebastian,—O, what might—no more.And yet, methinks, I see it in thy faceWhat thou shouldst be: the occasion speaks thee, andMy strong imagination sees a crownDropping upon thy head. Act 2. sc. 1. There cannot be a finer picture of this kind, than that of king John soliciting Hubert to murder the young prince Arthur: K. John. Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,We owe thee much; within this wall of fleshThere is a soul counts thee her creditor,And with advantage means to pay thy love.And, my good freind, thy voluntary oathLives in this bosom, dearly cherished. Give me thy hand, I had a thing to say—But I will fit it with some better time.By heav'n, Hubert, I'm almost ashamedTo say what good respect I have of thee. Hubert. I am much bounden to your majesty. K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet— But thou shalt have—and creep time ne'er so slow,Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.I had a thing to say—but, let it go:The sun is in the heav'n, and the proud day,Attended with the pleasures of the world,Is all too wanton and too full of gawdsTo give me audience. If the midnight-bellDid with his iron-tongue and brazen mouthSound one into the drowsy race of night;If this same were a church-yard where we stand,And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;Or if that surly spirit Melancholy Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy-thick,Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,Making that idiot Laughter keep mens' eyes,And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,(A passion hateful to my purposes);Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,Hear me without thine ears, and make replyWithout a tongue, using conceit alone,Without eyes, ears, and harmful sounds of words;Then, in despite of broad-ey'd watchful day,I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts.But ah, I will not.—Yet I love thee well;And, by my troth, I think thou lov'st me well. Hubert. So well, that what you bid me undertake,Though that my death were adjunct to my act,By heav'n, I'd do't. K. John. Do not I know thou would'st?Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eyeOn yon young boy. I'll tell thee what, my friend;He is a very serpent in my way.And, wherefoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,He lies before me. Dost thou understand me?Thou art his keeper. King John, act 3. sc. 5. II. As things are best illustrated by their contraries, we proceed to faulty sentiments, disdaining to be indebted for examples to any but the most approved authors. The first class shall consist of sentiments that accord not with the passion; or, in other words, sentiments that the passion does not naturally suggest. In the second class, shall be ranged sentiments that may belong to an ordinary passion, but unsuitable to it as tinctured by a singular character. Thoughts that properly are not sentiments, but rather descriptions, make a third. Sentiments that belong to the passion represented, but are faulty as being introduced too early or too late, make a fourth. Vicious sentiments exposed in their native dress, instead of being concealed or disguised, make a fifth. And in the last class shall be collected sentiments suited to no character nor passion, and therefore unnatural. The first class contains faulty sentiments of various kinds, which we shall endeavour to distinguish from each other. 1. Sentiments that are faulty by being above the tone of the passion: If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death: And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas Olympus high, and duck again as low As hell's from heaven? Othello, act. 2. sc. 6. This sentiment may be suggested by violent and inflamed passion; but is not suited to the satisfaction, however great, that one feels upon escaping danger. Philaster. Place me, some god, upon a pyramid Higher than hills of earth, and lend a voice Loud as your thunder to me, that from thence I may discourse to all the under-world The worth that dwells in him. 2. Sentiments below the tone of the passion. Prolemy, by putting Pompey to death, having incurred the displeasure of Cæsar, was in the utmost dread of being dethroned: in that agitating situation, Corneille makes him utter a speech full of cool reflection, that is in no degree expressive of the passion. Ah! si je t'avois cru, je n'aurois pas de maître, Je serois dans le trône où le ciel m'a fait naître; Mais c'est une imprudence assez commune aux rois, D'écouter trop d'avis, et se tromper au choix. Le Destin les aveugle au bord du précipice, Ou si quelque lumière en leur âme se glisse, Cette fausse clarté dont il les éblouit, Le plonge dans une goulfe, et puis s'évanouit. In Les Freres Ennemis of Racine, the second act is opened with a love-scene: Hemon talks to his mistress of the torments of absence, of the lustre of her eyes, that he ought to die nowhere but at her feet, and that one moment of absence is a thousand years. Antigone on her part acts the coquette; pretends that she must be gone to wait on her mother and brother, and cannot stay to listen to his courtship. This is odious French gallantry, below the dignity of the passion of love: it would scarce be excusable in painting modern French manners; and is insufferable where the ancients are brought upon the stage. The manners painted in the Alexandre of the same author are not more just: French gallantry prevails there throughout. 3. Sentiments that agree not with the tone of the passion; as where a pleasant sentiment is grafted upon a painful passion, or the contrary. In the following instances the sentiments are too gay for a serious passion. No happier task these faded eyes pursue; To read and weep is all they now can do. Again, Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid, Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid: They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires; The virgin's wish without her fears impart, Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart; Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole. These thoughts are pretty: they suit Pope, but not Sentiments. Eloisa. Satan, enraged by a threatening of the angel Gabriel, answers thus: Then when I am thy captive, talk of chains, Proud liminary cherub; but ere then Far heavier load thyself expect to feel From my prevailing arm, though heaven's King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy compeers, Us'd to the yoke, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress thro' the road of heav'n star-pav'd. The concluding epithet forms a grand and delightful image, which cannot be the genuine offspring of rage. 4. Sentiments too artificial for a serious passion. The first example is a speech of Piercy expiring. O, Harry, thou hast robb'd me of my growth: I better brook the loss of brittle life, Than those proud titles thou hast won of me; [flesh. They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool; And time, that takes survey of all the world, Must have a stop. Livy inserts the following passage in a plaintive oration of the Locrenses, accusing Plinius the Roman legate of oppression. In hoc legato vestro, nec hominis quicquam est, Patres Conscripti, præter figuram et speciem; neque Romani civis, præter habitum vestitumque, et sonum linguæ Latine. Pestis et bellua immanis, quales fretum, quondam, quo ab Sicilia dividimur, ad perniciem, nigantium circumsedisse, fabulæ ferunt. The sentiments of the Mourning Bride are for the most part no less delicate than just copies of nature: in the following exception the picture is beautiful, but too artful to be suggested by severe grief. Almeria. O no! Time gives increase to my afflictions. The circling hours, that gather all the woes Which are diffus'd through the revolving year, Come heavy laden with th' oppressive weight To me; with me, successively, they leave The sighs, the tears, the groans, the restless cares, And all the damps of grief, that did retard their flight; They shake their downy wings, and scatter all The dire collected dews on my poor head; Then fly with joy and swiftness from me. Act 1. sc. 1. In the same play, Almeria seeing a dead body, which she took to be Alphonso's, expresses sentiments strained and artificial, which nature suggests not to any person upon such an occasion: Had they or hearts or eyes, that did this deed? Could eyes endure to guide such cruel hands? Are not my eyes guilty alike with theirs, That thus can gaze, and yet not turn to stone? —I do not weep! The springs of tears are dry'd, And of a sudden I am calm, as if [der'd! All things were well; and yet my husband's mur- Sentiments. Sentiments. Yes, yes, I know to mourn: I'll fluce this heart,The source of wo, and let the torrent in. Act 5. sc. 11. Lady Traeman. How could you be so cruel to de-fer giving me that joy which you knew I must receivefrom your presence? You have robb'd my life of somehours of happiness that ought to have been in it. Drummer, act 5. Pope's elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady,expresses delicately the most tender concern and sor-row that one can feel for the deplorable fate of a per-son of worth. Such a poem, deeply serious and pa-thetic, rejects with disdain all fiction. Upon that ac-count, the following passage deserves no quarter; forit is not the language of the heart, but of the imagi-nation indulging its flights at ease, and by thatmeans is eminently discordant with the subject. Itwould be a still more severe censure, if it should beascribed to imitation, copying indiscrimately what hasbeen said by others: What tho' no weeping loves thy ashes grace,Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?What though no sacred earth allow thee room,Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dress'd,And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,There the first roses of the year shall blow;While angels with their silver wings o'ershadeThe ground, now sacred by thy relics made. 5. Fanciful or finical sentiments. Sentiments thatdegenerate into point or conceit, however they mayamuse in an idle hour, can never be the offspring ofany serious or important passion. In the Jerusalem ofTasso, Tancred, after a single combat, spent with fati-gue and loss of blood, falls into a swoon; in whichsituation, understood to be dead, he is discovered byErminia, who was in love with him to distraction. Amore happy situation cannot be imagined, to raisegrief in an instant to its highest pitch; and yet, inventing her sorrow, she descends most abominably intoantithesis and conceit, even of the lowest kind: E in lui versò d'ineffabil venaLacrime, e voce di sospiri mista.In che misero punto hor qui me menaFortuna? a che veduta amara e trista?Dopo gran tempo i' ti ritrovo à penaTancredi, e ti riveggio, e non son vistaVista non son da te, benché presenteT trovando ti perdo eternamente. Canto 19. st. 105. Armida's lamentation respecting her lover Rinaldo isin the same vicious taste. Vid. canto 20. stan. 124,125, 126. Queen. Give me no help in lamentation,I am not barren to bring forth complaints:All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes,That I, being govern'd by the wat'ry moon,May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world,Ah, for my husband, for my dear lord Edward. King Richard III. act 2. sc. 2. Jane Shore. Let me be branded for the public scorn, Turn'd forth, and driven to wander like a vagabond,Be friendless and forsaken, seek my breadUpon the barren wild and desolate waste,Feed on my sighs, and drink my falling tears;Ere I content to teach my lips injustice,Or wrong the orphan who has none to save him. Jane Shore, act 4. Give me your drops, ye soft-defecing rains;Give me your streams, ye never ceasing springs;That my sad eyes may still supply my duty,And feed an everlasting flood of sorrow. Ibid. act 5. Jane Shore utters her last breath in a witty conceit:Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace—'Tis very dark, and I have lost you now—Was there not something I would have bequeath'd you?But I have nothing left me to bestow,Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh mercy, Heav'n! [Dies.Act 5.] Gilford to Lady Jane Gray, when both were con-demned to die: Thou stand'st, unmov'd;Calm temper fits upon thy beauteous brow;Thy eyes that flow'd so fast for Edward's loss,Gaze unconcern'd upon the ruin round thee,As if thou hadst resolv'd to brave thy fate,And triumph in the midst of desolation.Ha! see, it swells, the liquid crystal rises,It starts in spite of thee—but I will catch it,Nor let the earth be wet with dew so rich. Lady Jane Gray, act 4. near the end. The concluding sentiment is altogether finical, unsuit-able to the importance of the occasion, and even to thedignity of the passion of love. Corneille, in his Examen of the Cid, answering anobjection, That his sentiments are sometimes too muchrefined for persons in deep distress, observes, that if poetsdid not indulge sentiments more ingenious or refined thanare prompted by passion, their performances would of-ten be low, and extreme grief would never suggest butexclamations merely. This is in plain language to assert,that fore'd thoughts are more agreeable than those thatare natural, and ought to be preferred. The second class is of sentiments that may belong toan ordinary passion, but are not perfectly concordantwith it, as instructed by a singular character. In the last act of that excellent comedy, The Care-less Husband, Lady Eafy, upon Sir Charles's reforma-tion, is made to express more violent and turbulentsentiments of joy than are consistent with the mildnessof her character: Lady Eafy. O the soft treasure! O the dear re-ward of long-desiring love.—Thus! thus to haveyou mine, is something more than happiness; 'tisdouble life, and madness of abounding joy. If the sentiments of a passion ought to be suited toa peculiar character, it is still more necessary that actionbe suited to the character. In the 5th act of the Drum-mer, Addison makes his gardener act even below thecharacter of an ignorant credulous rustic: he gives himthe behaviour of a gaping idiot. The following instances are descriptions rather thansentiments, which compose a third class. Of this descriptive manner of painting the passions, there is in the Hippolytus of Euripides, act 5. an illustrious instance, viz. the speech of Theseus, upon hearing of his son's dismal exit. In Racine's tragedy of Esther, the queen hearing of the decree issued against her people, instead of expressing sentiments suitable to the occasion, turns her attention upon herself, and describes with accuracy her own situation: Juste ciel ! tout mon sang dans mes veines se glace. Esther, act 1. sc. 3. Again, Aman. C'en est fait. Mon orgueil est forcé de plier.L'inexorable Aman est réduit à prier. Esther, act 3. sc. 5. Athalie. Quel prodige nouveau me trouble et m'embarrasse ? La douceur de sa voix, son enfance, sa grace, Font insensiblement à mon inimitié Succeder—Je serois sensible à la pitié ? Athalie, act 2. sc. 7. Titus. O de ma passion fureur détessé ! Brutus of Voltaire, act 3. sc. 6. What other are the foregoing instances but describing the passion another feels ? Captain Flash, in a farce composed by Garrick, endeavours to hide his fear by saying, "What a damn'd passion I am in." An example is given above of remorse and despair expressed by genuine and natural sentiments. In the fourth book of Paradise Lost, Satan is made to express his remorse and despair in sentiments which, tho' beautiful, are not altogether natural: they are rather the sentiments of a spectator than of a person who actually is tormented with these passions. The fourth class is of sentiments expressed too early or too late. Some examples mentioned above belong to this class. Add the following from Venice Preserv'd, act 5. at the close of the scene between Belvidera and her father Priuli. The account given by Belvidera of the danger she was in, and of her husband's threatening to murder her, ought naturally to have alarmed her relenting father, and to have made him express the most perturbed sentiments. Instead of which, he dissolves into tenderness and love for his daughter, as if he had already delivered her from danger, and as if there were a perfect tranquillity: Canst thou forgive me all my follies past !I'll henceforth be indeed a father; never,Never more thus expose, but cherish thee,Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life,Dear as those eyes that weep in fondness o'er thee:Peace to thy heart. Immoral sentiments exposed in their native colours, instead of being concealed or disguised, compose the fifth class. The Lady Macbeth, projecting the death of the king, has the following soliloquy. — The raven himself's not hoarseThat croaks the fatal entrance of DuncanUnder my battlements. Come, all you spiritsThat tend on mortal thoughts, unfex me here,And fill me from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direct cruelty; make thick my blood,Stop up th' access and passage to remorse,That no compunctionous visitings of natureShake my fell purpose. Macbeth, act 1. sc. 7. This speech is not natural. A treacherous murder was never perpetrated even by the most hardened miscreant without compunction: and that the lady here must have been in horrible agitation, appears from her invoking the infernal spirits to fill her with cruelty, and to stop up all avenues to remorse. But in that state of mind, it is a never-failing artifice of self-deceit to draw the thickest veil over the wicked action, and to extenuate it by all the circumstances that imagination can suggest: and if the crime cannot bear disguise, the next attempt is to thrust it out of mind altogether, and to rush on to action without thought. This last was the husband's method. Strange things I have in head, that will to hand;Which must be acted ere they must be seann'd. Act 3. sc. 5. The lady follows neither of these courses, but in a deliberate manner endeavours to fortify her heart in the commission of an execrable crime, without even attempting to colour it. This, we think, is not natural; we hope there is no such wretch to be found as is here represented. In the Pompey of Corneille, Photine counsels a wicked action in the plainest terms without disguise; act 1. sc. 1. In the tragedy of Esther, (act 2. sc. 1.) Haman acknowledges without disguise his cruelty, insolence, and pride. And there is another example of the same kind in the Agamemnon of Seneca (beginning of act 2.) In the tragedy of Athalie, Mathan, in cool blood, relates to his friend many black crimes he had been guilty of, to satisfy his ambition. (Act 2. close of sc. 3.) In Congreve's Double-dealer, Maskwell, instead of disguising or colouring his crimes, values himself upon them in a soliloquy: Cynthia, let thy beauty gild my crimes; and whatsoever I commit of treachery or deceit, shall be imputed to me as a merit. — Treachery ! what treachery ? Love cancels all the bonds of friendship, and sets men right upon their first foundations. Act 2. sc. 8. In French plays, love, instead of being hid or disguised, is treated as a serious concern, and of greater importance than fortune, family, or dignity. The reason may be, that, in the capital of France, love, by the easiness of intercourse, has dwindled down from a real passion, to be a connection that is regulated entirely by the mode or fashion. This may in some measure excuse their writers, but will never make their plays be relished among foreigners. The last class comprehends sentiments that are unnatural, as being suited to no character nor passion. These may be subdivided into three branches: first, sentiments unsuitable to the constitution of man, and to the laws of his nature; second, inconsistent sentiments; third, sentiments that are pure rant and extravagance. When the fable is of human affairs, every event, every incident, and every circumstance, ought to be natural, otherwise the imitation is imperfect. But an imperfect imitation is a venial fault, compared with that Sentiments. that of running cross to nature. In the Hippolytus of Euripides, (act iv. sc. 5.) Hippolytus, wishing for another self in his own situation, "How much (says he) should I be touched with his misfortune!" as if it were natural to grieve more for the misfortunes of another than for one's own. Osym. Yet I behold her—yet—and now no more. Turn your lights inward, Eyes, and view my thought; So shall you still behold her—'Twill not be. O impotence of sight! mechanic sense, Which to exterior objects ow'it thy faculty, Not seeing of election, but necessity. Thus do our eyes, as do all common mirrors, Successively reflect succeeding images. Nor what they would, but must; a star or toad; Just as the hand of chance administers! Mourning Bride, act 2. sc. 8. No man, in his senses, ever thought of applying his eyes to discover what passes in his mind; far less of blaming his eyes for not seeing a thought or idea. In Moliere's P'Avare, (act iv. sc. 7.) Harpagon being robbed of his money, seizes himself by the arm, mistaking it for that of the robber. And again he expresses himself as follows: Je veux aller querir la justice, et faire donner la question à toute ma maison; à servantes, à valets, à fils, à fille, et à moi aussi. This is so absurd as scarce to provoke a smile, if it be not at the author. Of the second branch the following are examples. Now bid me run, And I will strive with things impossible, Yea, get the better of them. Julius Caesar, act 2. sc. 3. Vos mains seules ont droit de vaincre un invincible. Le Cid, act 5. sc. last. Que son nom soit beni. Que son nom soit chanté. Que l'on celebre ses ouvrages Au de la de l'éternité. Esther, act 5. sc. last. Me miserable! which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell: myself am hell; And in the lowest deep, a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide; To which the hell I suffer seems a heav'n. Paradise Lost, book 4. Of the third branch, take the following samples. Lucan talking of Pompey's sepulchre, Romanum nomen, et omne Imperium magno est tumuli modus. Obvire saxa Crimine plena deum. Si tota est Herculis Oete, Et juga tota vacant Bromio Nyseis; quare Unus in Egypto Magno lapis? Omnia Lagi Rura tenere potest, si nullo cespite nomen Haerit. Erremus populi, cinerumque tuorum, Magne, metu nullas Nili calcemus arenas. L. viii. l. 798. Thus, in Rowe's translation: Where there are seas, or air, or earth, or skies, Where-e'er Rome's empire stretches, Pompey lies. Far be the vile memorial then convey'd! Nor let this stone the partial gods upbraid. Shall Hercules all Oeta's heights demand, And Nyssa's hill for Bacchus only stand; While one poor pebble is the warrior's doom That fought the cause of liberty and Rome? If Fate decrees he must in Egypt lie, Let the whole fertile realm his grave supply, Yield the wide country to his awful shade, Nor let us dare on any part to tread, Fearful we violate the mighty dead. The following passages are pure rant. Coriolanus, speaking to his mother, What is this? Your knees to me? to your corrected son? Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillop the stars: then let the mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun: Murd'ring impossibility, to make What cannot be, slight work. Coriolanus, act 5. sc. 3. Cæsar. — Danger knows full well, That Cæsar is more dangerous than he. We were two lions litter'd in one day, And I the elder and more terrible. Julius Cæsar, act 2. sc. 4. Almabide. This day I gave my faith to him, he his to me. Almazor. Good Heaven, thy book of fate before me lay But to tear out the journal of this day. Or if the order of the world below, Will not the gap of one whole day allow, Give me that minute when she made that vow. That minute ev'n the happy from their bliss might give, And those who live in grief a shorter time would live, So small a link, if broke, th' eternal chain Would like divided waters join again. Conquest of Granada, act 3. Almazor. — I'll hold it fast As life; and when life's gone, I'll hold this last. And if thou tak'it it after I am slain, I'll send my ghost to fetch it back again. Conquest of Granada, part 2. act 3. Lyndiraxa. A crown is come, and will not fate allow, And yet I feel something like death is near. My guards, my guards — Let not that ugly skeleton appear. Sure Destiny mistakes; this death's not mine; She doats, and meant to cut another line. Tell her I am a queen—but 'tis too late; Dying, I charge rebellion on my fate; Bow down, ye slaves — Bow quickly down, and your submission show; I'm pleased to taste an empire ere I go. [Dies.] Conquest of Granada, part 2. act 5. Ventidius. But you, ere love misled your wand'ring eyes, Were sure the chief and best of human race, Fram'd in the very pride and boast of nature, So perfect, that the gods who form'd you wonder'd At their own skill, and cry'd, A lucky hit Has mended our design. Dryden, All for Love, act 1. Not to talk of the impiety of this sentiment, it is ludicrous instead of being lofty. The The famous epitaph on Raphael is not less absurd than any of the foregoing passages: Raphael, timuit, quo sospite, vinci,Rerum magna parens, et moriente mori. Imitated by Pope, in his epitaph on Sir Godfrey Kneller: Living, great Nature fear'd he might outvieHer works; and dying, fears herself may die. Such is the force of imitation; for Pope of himself would never have been guilty of a thought so extravagant.