name of a class of birds. See Zoology.

Passions, in moral philosophy, are certain motions of the soul, which make it pursue what appears to be good, and avoid whatever threatens evil. See Metaphysics, n° 31, 32.

On the just regulation and subordination of the passions depends in a great measure the happiness of mankind. See Moral Philosophy, n° 6, 17, 31, 32, 68, 212.

Passions and Emotions, difference between them. See Emotions and Passions.

External Signs of Emotions and Passions. So intimately connected are the soul and body, that every agitation in the former produces a visible effect upon the latter. There is, at the same time, a wonderful uniformity in that operation; each class of emotions and passions being invariably attended with an external appearance peculiar to itself. These external appearances, or signs, may not improperly be considered as a natural language, expressing to all beholders emotions and passions as they arise in the heart. Hope, fear, joy, grief, are displayed externally; the character of a man can be read in his face; and beauty, which makes so deep an impression, is known to result, not so much from regular features and a fine complexion, as from good-nature, good-sense, sprightliness, sweetness, or other mental quality, expressed upon the countenance. Though perfect skill in that language be rare, yet what is generally known is sufficient for the ordinary purposes of life. But by what means we come to understand the language, is a point of some intricacy. It cannot be by sight merely; for upon the most attentive inspection of the human visage, all that can be discerned are figure, colour, and motion, which, singly or combined, never can represent a passion, nor a sentiment: the external sign is indeed visible; but to understand its meaning, we must be able to connect it with the passion that causes it, an operation far beyond the reach of eye-sight. Where then is the instructor to be found that can unveil this secret connection? If we apply to experience, it is yielded, that from long and diligent observation, we may gather, in some measure, in what manner those we are acquainted with express their passions externally: but with respect to strangers, we are left in the dark; and yet we are not puzzled. Puzzled about the meaning of these external expressions in a stranger, more than in a bosom-companion. Further, had we no other means but experience for understanding the external signs of passion, we could not expect any uniformity nor any degree of skill in the bulk of individuals: yet matters are so much better ordered, that the external expressions of passion form a language understood by all, by the young as well as the old, by the ignorant as well as the learned: We talk of the plain and legible characters of that language; for undoubtedly we are much indebted to experience, in deciphering the dark and more delicate expressions. Where then shall we apply for a solution of this intricate problem, which seems to penetrate deep into human nature? Undoubtedly if the meaning of external signs be not derived to us from sight, nor from experience, there is no remaining source whence it can be derived but from nature.

We may then venture to pronounce, with some degree of confidence, that man is provided by nature with a sense or faculty that lays open to him every passion by means of its external expressions. And we cannot entertain any reasonable doubt of this, when we reflect, that the meaning of external signs is not hid even from infants: an infant is remarkably affected with the passions of its nurse expressed on her countenance; a smile cheers it, a frown makes it afraid; but fear cannot be without apprehending danger; and what danger can the infant apprehend, unless it be sensible that its nurse is angry? We must therefore admit, that a child can read anger in its nurse's face; of which it must be sensible intuitively, for it has no other mean of knowledge. We do not affirm, that these particulars are clearly apprehended by the child; for to produce clear and distinct perceptions, reflection and experience are requisite: but that even an infant, when afraid, must have some notion of its being in danger, is evident.

That we should be conscious intuitively of a passion from its external expressions, is conformable to the analogy of nature: the knowledge of that language is of too great importance to be left upon experience; because a foundation so uncertain and precarious, would prove a great obstacle to the formation of societies. Wisely therefore is it ordered, and agreeably to the system of Providence, that we should have nature for our instructor.

Manifold and admirable are the purposes to which the external signs of passion are made subservient by the Author of our nature.

1. The signs of internal agitation displayed externally to every spectator, tend to fix the signification of many words. The only effectual means to ascertain the meaning of any doubtful word, is an appeal to the thing it represents: and hence the ambiguity of words expressive of things that are not objects of external sense; for in that case an appeal is denied. Passion, strictly speaking, is not an object of external sense: but its external signs are; and by means of these signs, passions may be appealed to with tolerable accuracy: thus the words that denote our passions, next to those that denote external objects, have the most distinct meaning. Words signifying internal action and the more delicate feelings, are less distinct. This defect with regard to internal action, is what chiefly occasions the intricacy of logic: the terms of that science are far from being sufficiently ascertained, even after much care and labour bestowed by an eminent writer*; Locke, to whom however the world is greatly indebted, for removing a mountain of rubbish, and moulding the subject into a rational and correct form. The same defect is remarkable in criticism, which has for its object the more delicate feelings; the terms that denote these feelings being not more distinct than those of logic.

2. Society among individuals is greatly promoted by that universal language. Looks and gestures give direct access to the heart; and lead us to feel, with tolerable accuracy, the persons who are worthy of our confidence. It is surprising how quickly, and for the most part how correctly, we judge of character from external appearance.

3. After social intercourse is commenced, these external signs, which diffuse through a whole assembly the feelings of each individual, contribute above all other means to improve the social affections. Language, no doubt, is the most comprehensive vehicle for communicating emotions: but in expedition, as well as in power of conviction, it falls short of the signs under consideration; the involuntary signs especially, which are incapable of deceit. Where the countenance, the tones, the gestures, the actions, join with the words in communicating emotions, these united have a force irresistible: thus all the pleasant emotions of the human heart, with all the social and virtuous affections, are, by means of these external signs, not only perceived, but felt. By this admirable contrivance, conversation becomes that lively and animating amusement, without which life would at best be inert: one joyful countenance spreads cheerfulness instantaneously through a multitude of spectators.

4. Dissocial passions, being hurtful by prompting violence and mischief, are noted by the most conspicuous external signs, in order to put us upon our guard: thus anger and revenge, especially when sudden, display themselves on the countenance in legible character. The external signs, again, of every passion that threatens danger, raise in us the passion of fear; which frequently operating without reason or reflection, moves us by a sudden impulse to avoid the impending danger.

5. These external signs are remarkably subservient to morality. A painful passion, being accompanied with disagreeable external signs, must produce in every spectator a painful emotion: but then, if the passion be social, the emotion it produces is attractive, and connects the spectator with the person who suffers. Dissocial passions only, are productive of repulsive emotions, involving the spectator's aversion, and frequently his indignation. This artful contrivance makes us cling to the virtuous, and abhor the wicked.

6. Of all the external signs of passion, those of affliction or distress are the most illustrious with respect to a final cause, and deservedly merit a place of distinction. They are illustrious by the singularity of their contrivance; and also by inspiring sympathy, a passion to which human society is indebted for its greatest blessing, that of providing relief for the distressed. A subject so interesting, deserves a leisurely and attentive examination. The conformity of the nature Passions. ture of man to his external circumstances, is in every particular wonderful: his nature makes him prone to society; and society is necessary to his well-being, because in a solitary state he is a helpless being, destitute of support, and in his distresses destitute of relief: but mental support, the shining attribute of society, is of too great moment to be left dependent upon cool reason; it is ordered more wisely, and with greater conformity to the analogy of nature, that it should be enforced even instinctively by the passion of sympathy. Here sympathy makes a capital figure; and contributes, more than any other means, to make life easy and comfortable. But however essential the sympathy of others may be to our well-being, one beforehand would not readily conceive how it could be raised by external signs of distress: for considering the analogy of nature, if these signs be agreeable, they must give birth to a pleasant emotion leading every beholder to be pleased with human woes; if disagreeable, as they undoubtedly are, ought they not naturally to repel the spectator from them, in order to be relieved from pain? Such would be the reasoning beforehand; and such would be the effect were man purely a selfish being. But the benevolence of our nature gives a very different direction to the painful passion of sympathy, and to the desire involved in it: instead of avoiding distress, we fly to it in order to afford relief; and our sympathy cannot be otherwise gratified but by giving all the succour in our power. Thus external signs of distress, though disagreeable, are attractive: and the sympathy they inspire is a powerful cause, impelling us to afford relief even to a stranger, as if he were our friend or relation.

It is a noted observation, that the deepest tragedies are the most crowded: which in an overly view will be thought an unaccountable bias in human nature. Love of novelty, desire of occupation, beauty of action, make us fond of theatrical representations; and when once engaged, we must follow the story to the conclusion, whatever distress it may create. But we generally become wise by experience; and when we foresee what pain we shall suffer during the course of the representation, is it not surprising that persons of reflection do not avoid such spectacles altogether? And yet one who has scarce recovered from the distress of a deep tragedy, resolves coolly and deliberately to go to the very next, without the slightest obstruction from self-love. The whole mystery is explained by a single observation: That sympathy, though painful, is attractive; and attaches us to an object in distress, instead of prompting us to fly from it. And by this curious mechanism it is, that persons of any degree of sensibility are attracted by affliction still more than by joy.

To conclude: the external signs of passion are a strong indication, that man, by his very constitution, is framed to be open and sincere. A child, in all things obedient to the impulses of nature, hides none of its emotions; the savage and clown, who have no guide but pure nature, expose their hearts to view, by giving way to all the natural signs. And even when men learn to dissemble their sentiments, and when behaviour degenerates into art, there still remain checks, that keep dissimulation within bounds, and prevent a great part of its mischievous effects; the total suppression of the voluntary signs during any vivid passion, begets the utmost uneasiness, which cannot be endured for any considerable time: this operation becomes indeed less painful by habit; but luckily the involuntary signs cannot, by any effort, be suppressed nor even dissembled. An absolute hypocrisy, by which the character is concealed and a fictitious one assumed, is made impracticable; and nature has thereby prevented much harm to society. We may pronounce, therefore, that Nature, herself sincere and candid, intends that mankind should preserve the same character, by cultivating simplicity and truth, and banishing every sort of dissimulation that tends to mischief.

Influence of Passion with respect to our Perceptions, Opinions, and Belief. So intimately are our perceptions, passions, and actions, connected, it would be wonderful if they should have no mutual influence. That our actions are too much influenced by passion, is a known truth; but it is not less certain, though not so well known, that passion hath also an influence upon our perceptions, opinions, and belief. For example, the opinions we form of men and things are generally directed by affection: an advice given by a man of figure hath great weight; the same advice from one in a low condition is despised or neglected: a man of courage under-rates danger; and to the indolent the slightest obstacle appears unsurmountable.

There is no truth more universally known, than that tranquillity and sedateness are the proper state of mind for accurate perception and cool deliberation; &c., and for that reason, we never regard the opinion even of the wisest man, when we discover prejudice or passion behind the curtain. Passion hath such influence over us, as to give a false light to all its objects. Agreeable passions prepossess the mind in favour of their objects; and disagreeable passions, not less against their objects: A woman is all perfection in her lover's opinion, while in the eye of a rival beauty she is awkward and disagreeable: when the passion of love is gone, beauty vanishes with it;—nothing left of that genteel motion, that sprightly conversation, those numberless graces, which formerly, in the lover's opinion, charmed all hearts. To a zealot every one of his own sect is a saint, while the most upright of a different sect are to him children of perdition: the talent of speaking in a friend, is more regarded than prudent conduct in any other. Nor will this surprise any one acquainted with the world; our opinions, the result frequently of various and complicated views, are commonly so slight and wavering, as readily to be susceptible of a bias from passion.

With that natural bias another circumstance concurs, to give passion an undue influence on our opinions and belief; and that is a strong tendency in our nature to justify our passions as well as our actions, not to others only, but even to ourselves. That tendency is peculiarly remarkable with respect to disagreeable passions: by its influence, objects are magnified or lessened, circumstances supplied or suppressed, every thing coloured and disguised, to answer the end of justification. Hence the foundation of self-deceit, where a man imposes upon himself innocently, and even without suspicion of a bias.

We proceed to illustrate the foregoing observations by proper examples.

Gratitude, Gratitude, when warm, is often exerted upon the children of the benefactor; especially where he is removed out of reach by death or absence. The passion in this case being exerted for the sake of the benefactor, requires no peculiar excellence in his children: but the practice of doing good to these children produces affection for them, which never fails to advance them in our esteem. By such means, strong connections of affection are often formed among individuals, upon the slight foundation now mentioned.

Envy is a passion, which, being altogether unjustifiable, cannot be excused but by disguising it under some plausible name. At the same time, no passion is more eager than envy, to give its object a disagreeable appearance: it magnifies every bad quality, and fixes on the most humbling circumstances:

_Cassius_. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but for my single self, I had as lief not be, as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Cæsar, so were you; We both have fed as well; and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he. For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tyber chafing with his shores, Cæsar says to me, Dar'd thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood, And swim to yonder point?—Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bid him follow; so indeed he did. The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews; throwing it aside, And stemming it with hearts of controversy. But ere we could arrive the point propos'd, Cæsar cry'd, Help me, Cassius, or I sink. I, as Æneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear; so from the waves of Tyber Did I the tired Cæsar: and this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain; And when the fit was on him, I did mark How he did shake. 'Tis true, this god did shake; His coward lips did from their colour fly; And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world, Did lose its lustre; I did hear him groan; Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas! it cry'd—Give me some drink, Titinius,—As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. _Julius Caesar_, act 1. sc. 3.

_Gloster_, inflamed with resentment against his son Edgar, could even force himself into a momentary conviction that they were not related:

_O strange fallen'd villain! Would he deny his letter?—I never got him._

_King Lear_, act 2. sc. 3.

When by great sensibility of heart, or other means, grief becomes immoderate, the mind, in order to justify itself, is prone to magnify the cause; and if the real cause admit not of being magnified, the mind seeks a cause for its grief in imagined future events:

_Buffy_. Madam, your Majesty is much too sad: You promis'd, when you parted with the king, To lay aside self-harming heaviness, And entertain a cheerful disposition.

_Queen_. To please the king, I did; to please myself, I cannot do it. Yet I know no cause Why I should welcome such a guest as grief; Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest As my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks, Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune's womb, Is coming tow'rd me: and my inward soul With something trembles, yet at nothing grieves, More than with parting from my lord the king.

_Richard II_, act 2. sc. 5.

Resentment at first is vented on the relations of the offender, in order to punish him; but as resentment, when so outrageous, is contrary to conscience, the mind, to justify its passion, is disposed to paint these relations in the blackest colours; and it comes at last to be convinced, that they ought to be punished for their own demerits.

Anger raised by an accidental stroke upon a tender part of the body, is sometimes vented upon the un-designing cause. But as the passion in that case is absurd, and as there can be no solid gratification in punishing the innocent, the mind, prone to justify as well as to gratify its passion, deludes itself into a conviction of the action's being voluntary. The conviction, however, is but momentary; the first reflection shows it to be erroneous: and the passion vanishes almost instantaneously with the conviction. But anger, the most violent of all passions, has still greater influence: it sometimes forces the mind to personify a stock or a stone if it happen to occasion bodily pain, and even to believe it a voluntary agent, in order to be a proper object of resentment. And that we have really a momentary conviction of its being a voluntary agent, must be evident from considering, that without such conviction the passion can neither be justified nor gratified: the imagination can give no aid; for a stock or a stone imagined sensible, cannot be an object of punishment, if the mind be conscious that it is an imagination merely without any reality. Of such personification, involving a conviction of reality, there is one illustrious instance. When the first bridge of boats over the Hellespont was destroyed by a storm, Xerxes fell into a transport of rage, so excessive, that he commanded the sea to be punished with 300 stripes; and a pair of fetters to be thrown into it, enjoining the following words to be pronounced: "O thou salt and bitter water! thy master hath condemned thee to this punishment for offending him without cause; and islib. 7. resolved to pass over thee in despight of thy insolence; with reason all men neglect to sacrifice to thee, because thou art both disagreeable and treacherous."

Shakespeare exhibits beautiful examples of the irregular influence of passion in making us believe things to be otherwise than they are. King Lear, in his distresses, personifies the rain, wind, and thunder; and in order to justify his resentment, believes them to be taking part with his daughters:

_Lear_. Rumble thy bellyfull, spit fire, spout rain! Nor Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters. I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness; I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children; You owe me no subscription. Then let fall Your horrible pleasure.—Here I stand, your brave; A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man! But yet I call you servile ministers, That have with two pernicious daughters join'd Your high-engender'd battles, 'gainst a head So old and white as this. Oh! oh! 'tis foul!

Act 3. sc. 2.

King Richard, full of indignation against his favourite horse for carrying Bolingbroke, is led into the conviction of his being rational:

Groom. O, how it yearn'd my heart, when I beheld In London streets, that coronation-day, When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbary, That horse that thou so often hast befriended, That horse that I so carefully have dressed.

K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? tell me, gentle friend, How went he under him?

Groom. So proudly as he had disdain'd the ground.

K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back! That jade had eat bread from my royal hand. This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. Would he not tumble? would he not fall down, (Since pride must have a fall), and break the neck Of that proud man that did surfeit his back?

Richard II. act 5. sc. 11.

Hamlet, swelled with indignation at his mother's second marriage, was strongly inclined to lessen the time of her widowhood, the shortness of the time being a violent circumstance against her; and he deludes himself by degrees into the opinion of an interval shorter than the real one:

Hamlet. ———That it should come to this! But two months dead! nay, not so much; not two— So excellent a king, that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother, That he permitted not the wind of heav'n Visit her face too roughly. Heav'n and earth! Must I remember—why, she would hang on him, As if increas'd of appetite had grown By what it fed on: yet, within a month— Let me not think—Frailty, thy name is Woman! A little month! or ere those shoes were old, With which she follow'd my poor father's body, Like Niobe, all tears—why she, ev'n she— (O heav'n! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Wou'd have mourn'd longer) married with mine uncle, My father's brother; but no more like my father, Than I to Hercules. Within a month!— Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her gauled eyes, She married—Oh, most wicked speed! to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good. But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

Act 1. sc. 3.

The power of passion to falsify the computation of time is remarkable in this instance; because time, which hath an accurate measure, is less obsequious to our desires and wishes, than objects which have no precise standard of less or more.

Good news are greedily swallowed upon very slender evidence; our wishes magnify the probability of the event, as well as the veracity of the relater; and we believe as certain, what at best is doubtful:

Quel, che l'huom vede, amor li fa invisibile E l'invisibil fa veder amore. Questo creduto fu, che l'miser fuole Dar facile credenza a quel, che vuole.

Orland. Furlus. cant. 1. §. 56.

For the same reason, bad news gain also credit upon the slightest evidence: fear, if once alarmed, has the same effect with hope, to magnify every circumstance that tends to conviction. Shakespeare, who shows more knowledge of human nature than any of our philosophers, hath in his Cymbeline represented this bias of the mind; for he makes the person who alone was affected with the bad news, yield to evidence that did not convince any of his companions. And Othello is convinced of his wife's infidelity from circumstances too slight to move any person less interested.

If the news interest us in so low a degree as to give place to reason, the effect will not be altogether the same: judging of the probability or improbability of the story, the mind settles in a rational conviction either that it is true or not. But even in that case, the mind is not allowed to rest in that degree of conviction which is produced by rational evidence: if the news be in any degree favourable, our belief is raised by hope to an improper height; and if unfavourable, by fear.

This observation holds equally with respect to future events: if a future event be either much wished or dreaded, the mind never fails to augment the probability beyond truth.

That easiness of belief with respect to wonders and prodigies, even the most absurd and ridiculous, is a strange phenomenon; because nothing can be more evident than the following proposition, That the more singular any event is, the more evidence is required to produce belief: a familiar event daily occurring, being in itself extremely probable, finds ready credit, and therefore is vouched by the slightest evidence; but to overcome the improbability of a strange and rare event, contrary to the course of nature, the very strongest evidence is required. It is certain, however, that wonders and prodigies are swallowed by the vulgar, upon evidence that would not be sufficient to ascertain the most familiar occurrence. It has been reckoned difficult to explain that irregular bias of mind; but we are now made acquainted with the influence of passion upon opinion and belief: a story of ghosts or fairies, told with an air of gravity and truth, raiseth an emotion of wonder, and perhaps of dread; and these emotions imposing on a weak mind, impress upon it a thorough conviction contrary to reason.

Opinion and belief are influenced by propensity as well as by passion. An innate propensity is all we have to convince us that the operations of nature are uniform: influenced by that propensity, we often rashly think, that good or bad weather will never have an end; and in natural philosophy, writers, influenced by the same propensity, stretch commonly their analogical reasonings beyond just bounds. Opinion and belief are influenced by affection as well as by propensity. The noted story of a fine lady and a curate viewing the moon through a telescope, is a pleasant illustration: "I perceive," says the lady, "two shadows inclining to each other; they are certainly two happy lovers?" "Not at all," replies the curate, "they are two steeples of a cathedral."

Language of Passion. Among the particulars that compose the social part of our nature, a propensity to communicate our opinions, our emotions, and every thing that affects us, is remarkable. Bad fortune and injustice affect us greatly; and of these we are so prone to complain, that if we have no friend nor acquaintance to take part in our sufferings, we sometimes utter our complaints aloud, even where there are none to listen.

But this propensity operates not in every state of mind. A man immoderately grieved, seeks to afflict himself, rejecting all consolation; immoderate grief accordingly is mute; complaining is struggling for consolation.

It is the wretch's comfort still to have Some small reserve of near and inward wo, Some unsuspected hoard of inward grief, Which they unseen may wail, and weep, and mourn, And glutton-like alone devour.

Mourning Bride, act i. sc. i.

When grief subsides, it then, and no sooner, finds a tongue: we complain, because complaining is an effort to disburden the mind of its distresses. This observation is finely illustrated by a story which Herodotus records, b. 3. Cambyse, when he conquered Egypt, made Pflamenitus the king prisoner; and for trying his constancy, ordered his daughter to be dressed in the habit of a slave, and to be employ'd in bringing water from the river; his son also was led to execution with a halter about his neck. The Egyptians vented their sorrow in tears and lamentations: Pflamenitus only, with a downcast eye, remained silent. Afterward meeting one of his companions, a man advanced in years, who, being plundered of all, was begging alms, he wept bitterly, calling him by his name. Cambyse, struck with wonder, demanded an answer to the following question: "Pflamenitus, thy master Cambyse is desirous to know, why, after thou hadst seen thy daughter so ignominiously treated, and thy son led to execution, without exclaiming or weeping, thou shouldest be so highly concerned for a poor man, no way related to thee?" Pflamenitus returned the following answer: "Son of Cyrus, the calamities of my family are too great to leave me the power of weeping; but the misfortunes of a companion, reduced in his old age to want of bread, is a fit subject for lamentation."

Surprise and terror are silent passions, for a different reason: they agitate the mind so violently, as for a time to suspend the exercise of its faculties, and among others the faculty of speech.

Love and revenge, when immoderate, are not more loquacious than immoderate grief. But when these passions become moderate, they set the tongue free, and, like moderate grief, become loquacious. Moderate love, when unsuccessful, is vented in complaints; when successful, is full of joy expressed by words and gestures.

As no passion hath any long uninterrupted existence, nor beats always with an equal pulse, the language suggested by passion is not only unequal but frequently interrupted: and even during an uninterrupted fit of passion, we only express in words the more capital sentiments. In familiar conversation, one who vents every single thought, is justly branded with the character of loquacity; because sensible people express no thoughts but what make some figure: in the same manner, we are only disposed to express the strongest impulses of passion, especially when it returns with impetuosity after interruption.

It is elsewhere observed *, that the sentiments ought * See the article Sentiment to be tuned to the passion, and the language to both. Elevated sentiments require elevated language: tender sentiments ought to be clothed in words that are soft and flowing; when the mind is depressed with any passion, the sentiments must be expressed in words that are humble, not low. Words being intimately connected with the ideas they represent, the greatest harmony is required between them: to express, for example, an humble sentiment in high-founding words, is disagreeable by a discordant mixture of feelings; and the discord is not less when elevated sentiments are dressed in low words:

Versibus exponi tragicis res comica non vult. Indignatur item privatis ac prope focco Dignis carminibus narrari cena Thyreae.

Horat. Ars poet. l. 89.

This, however, excludes not figurative expression, which, within moderate bounds, communicates to the sentiment an agreeable elevation. We are sensible of an effect directly opposite, where figurative expression is indulged beyond a just measure: the opposition between the expression and the sentiment makes the discord appear greater than it is in reality.

At the same time, figures are not equally the language of every passion: pleasant emotions, which elevate or swell the mind, vent themselves in strong epithets and figurative expression; but humbling and dispiriting passions affect to speak plain:

Et tragicus plerumque dolet fermeo pedestri Telephus et Peleus: cum pauper et exul uterque; Proicit ampullas et sefquipedalia verba, Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse quæra.

Horat. Ars poet. 95.

Figurative expression, being the work of an enlivened imagination, cannot be the language of anguish or distress. Otway, sensible of this, has painted a scene of distress in colours finely adapted to the subject: there is scarce a figure in it, except a short and natural smile with which the speech is introduced. Belvidera talking to her father of her husband:

Think you saw what past at our last parting? Think you beheld him like a raging lion, Pacing the earth, and tearing up his steps, Fate in his eyes, and roaring with the pain Of burning fury; think you saw his one hand Fix'd on my throat, while the extended other Grip'd a keen threat'ning dagger: oh, 'twas thus We last embrac'd, when, trembling with revenge, He dragg'd me to the ground, and at my bosom Presented horrid death; cry'd out, My friends! Where are my friends? I swore, wept, rag'd, threaten'd, For he yet lov'd, and that dear love preserv'd me [lov'd]; To this last trial of a father's pity. I fear not death, but cannot bear a thought That that dear hand should do th' unfriendly office. If I was ever then your care, now hear me; Fly to the senate, save the promis'd lives Of his dear friends, ere mine be made the sacrifice.

Venice preserv'd, act 5.

To preserve the foresaid resemblance between words and their meaning, the sentiments of active and hurrying passions ought to be dressed in words where syllables prevail that are pronounced short or fast; for these make an impression of hurry and precipitation. Emotions, on the other hand, that rest upon their objects, are best expressed by words where syllables prevail that are pronounced long or slow. A person affected with melancholy, has a languid and slow train of perceptions. The expression best suited to that state of mind, is where words, not only of long, but of many syllables, abound in the composition; and for that reason, nothing can be finer than the following passage:

In those deep solitudes, and awful cells, Where heav'nly-pensive Contemplation dwells, And ever-musing Melancholy reigns.

Pope, Eloisa to Abelard.

To preserve the same resemblance, another circumstance is requisite, that the language, like the emotion, be rough or smooth, broken or uniform. Calm and sweet emotions are best expressed by words that glide softly: surprise, fear, and other turbulent passions, require an expression both rough and broken.

It cannot have escaped any diligent inquirer into nature, that in the hurry of passion, one generally expresses that thing first which is most at heart; which is beautifully done in the following passage.

Me, me; adsum qui feci; in me convertite ferrum, O Rutuli, mea fraus omnis.

Aeneid. ix. 427.