as often the effect of redoubling words, the better to make them express the strong conception of the mind. This is finely imitated in the following examples.

Thou sun, said I, fair light! And thou enlighten'd earth, so fresh and gay! Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains! And ye that live, and move, fair creatures! tell, Tell, if ye saw, how came I thus, how here.

Paradise Lost, b. viii. 273.

Both have sinn'd! but thou Against God only; I, 'gainst God and thee: And to the place of judgment will return; There with my cries importune Heaven, that all The sentence, from thy head remov'd, may light On me, sole cause to thee of all this wo; Me! me! only just object of his ire.

Paradise Lost, b. x. 930.

1. In general, the language of violent passion ought to be broken and interrupted. Soliloquies ought to be so in a peculiar manner: language is intended by nature for society; and a man when alone, though he always clothes his thoughts in words, seldom gives his words utterance, unless when prompted by some strong emotion; and even then by starts and intervals only. Shakespeare's soliloquies may be justly established as a model; for it is not easy to conceive any model more perfect. Of his many incomparable soliloquies, the two following only shall be quoted, being different in their manner.

Hamlet. Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed: things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely.—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 winds of heav'n Visit her face too roughly. Heav'n and earth! Must I remember—why, she would hang on him, As if increase 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, Would 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 galled 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

Hamlet, act i. sc. 3.

"Ford. Hum! ha! is this a vision? is this a dream? "do I sleep? Mr Ford, awake; awake, Mr Ford; "there's a hole made in your best coat, Mr Ford! "this 'tis to be married! this 'tis to have linen and "buck baskets? Well, I will proclaim myself what "I am; I will now take the lecher; he is at my "house; he cannot 'scape me; 'tis impossible he "should; he cannot creep into a half-penny purse, "nor into a pepper-box. But lest the devil that "guides him should aid him, I will search impossible "places; tho' what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be "what I would not, shall not make me tame."

Merry Wives of Windsor, act 3. sc. last.

These soliloquies are accurate and bold copies of nature: in a passionate soliloquy one begins with thinking aloud; and the strongest feelings only, are expressed; as the speaker warms, he begins to imagine one listening, and gradually slides into a connected discourse.

How far distant are soliloquies generally from these models? So far indeed as to give disgust instead of pleasure. The first scene of Iphigenia in Tauris discovers that princess, in a soliloquy, gravely reporting to herself her own history. There is the same impro- priety in the first scene of Alcestes, and in the other introductions of Euripides, almost without exception. Nothing can be more ridiculous: it puts one in mind of a most curious device in Gothic paintings, that of making every figure explain itself by a written label issuing from its mouth. The description which a parasite, in the eunuch of Terence (act 2. sc. 2.) gives of himself, makes a sprightly soliloquy; but it is not consistent with the rules of propriety; for no man, in his ordinary state of mind and upon a familiar subject, ever thinks of talking aloud to himself. The same objection lies against a soliloquy in the Adelphi of the same author, (act 1. sc. 1.) The soliloquy which makes the third scene act third of his Heicyna, is insufficient; for there Pamphilus, soberly and circumstantially, relates to himself an adventure which had happened to him a moment before.

Corneille is unhappy in his soliloquies: Take for a specimen the first scene of Cinna.

Racine is extremely faulty in the same respect. His soliloquies are regular harangues, a chain completed in every link, without interruption or interval; that of Antiochus in Berenice (act 1. sc. 2.) resembles a regular pleading, where the parties pro and con display their arguments at full length. The following soliloquies are equally faulty: Bajazet, act 3. sc. 7; Mithridate, act. 3. sc. 4. and act. 4. sc. 5.; Iphigenia, act. 4. sc. 8.

Soliloquies upon lively or interesting subjects, but without any turbulence of passion, may be carried on in a continued chain of thought. If, for example, the nature and sprightliness of the subject prompt a man to speak his thoughts in the form of a dialogue, the expression must be carried on without break or interruption, as in a dialogue between two persons; which justifies Falstaff's soliloquy upon honour:

"What need I be so forward with Death, that calls not on me? Well, 'tis no matter, Honour pricks me on. But how if Honour prick me off, when I come on? how then? Can Honour fit a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound! No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is Honour? A word.—What is that word bo. nour?" Ah; a trim reckoning.—Who hath it? He that dy'd a Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none of it; honour is a mere scutcheon: and so ends my catechism.

First Part, Henry IV. act 5. sc. 2.

And even without dialogue, a continued discourse may be justified, where a man reasons in a soliloquy upon an important subject; for in such a case it be at all excusable to think aloud, it is necessary that the reasoning be carried on in a chain; which justifies that admirable soliloquy in Hamlet upon life and immortality, being a serene meditation upon the most interesting of all subjects. And the same consideration will justify the soliloquy that introduces the 5th act of Addison's Cato.

2. Language ought not to be elevated above the tone of the sentiment.

Zara. Swift as occasion, I myself will fly; and earlier than the morn Wake thee to freedom. Now 'tis late; and yet Some news few minutes past arriv'd, which seem'd To shake the temper of the king—Who knows What racking cares disease a monarch's bed? Or love, that late at night still lights his lamp, And strikes his rays through duff, and folded lids, Forbidding rest, may stretch his eyes awake, And force their balls abroad at this dead hour. I'll try.

Morning Bride, act 3. sc. 4.

The language here is undoubtedly too pompous and laboured for describing so simple a circumstance as absence of sleep. In the following passage, the tone of the language, warm and plaintive, is well suited to the passion, which is recent grief: but every one will be sensible, that in the last couplet save one the tone is changed, and the mind suddenly elevated to be let fall as suddenly in the last couplet:

Il déteste à jamais sa coupable victoire, Il renonce à la cour, aux humains, à la gloire; Et se fuyant lui-même, au milieu des déserts, Il va cacher sa peine au bout de l'univers; Là, soit que le soleil rendit le jour au monde, Soit qu'il finit sa course au vase fainé de Ponde, Sa voix faiblit redire aux échos attendris, Le nom, le triste nom, de son malheureux fils.

Heuriade, chant. viii. 229.

3. Light and airy language is unsuitable to a feverish passion.

Imagery and figurative expression are discordant, in the highest degree, with the agony of a mother, who is deprived of two hopeful sons by a brutal murder. Therefore the following passage is undoubtedly in a bad taste:

Queen. Ah, my poor princes! ah, my tender babes! My unblown flowers, new appearing sweets! If yet your gentle souls fly in the air, And be not fixt in doom perpetual, Hover about me with your airy wings, And hear your mother's lamentation.

Richard III. act 4. sc. 4.

Again,

K. Phillip. You are as fond of grief as of your child. Constance. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garment with his form; Then have I reason to be fond of grief.

King John, act 3. sc. 9.

4. Thoughts that turn upon the expression instead of the subject, commonly called a play of words, being low and childish, are unworthy of any composition, whether gay or serious, that pretends to any degree of elevation.

In the Aminta of Tasso, the lover falls into a mere play of words, demanding how he who had lost himself, could find a mistress. And for the same reason, the following passage in Corneille has been generally condemned:

Chimene. Mon père est mort, Elvire, et la première épée Dont s'est armée Rodrigue a fa trame coupée.

Pleurez Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez-vous en eau, La moitié de ma vie a mis l’autre au tombeau, Et m’oblige à venger, après ce coup funeste, Celle que je n’ai plus, sur celle que me reste.

_Cid_, act 3. sc. 3.

To die is to be banish’d from myself: And Sylvia is myself: banish’d from her, Is self from self; a deadly banishment?

_Two Gentlemen of Verona_, act 3. sc. 3.

_Countess_. I pray thee, Lady, have a better cheer: If thou engrossest all the griefs as thine, Thou robb’st me of a moiety.

_All’s well that ends well_, act 3. sc. 3.

_K. Henry_. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows! When that my care could not with-hold thy riots, What wilt thou do when riot is thy care? O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants.

_Second Part, Henry IV_, act 4. sc. II.

_Cruda Amarilli_, che col nome ancora D’amor, ahi lasso, amaramente insegni.

_Pastor Fido_, act 1. sc. 2.

_Antony_, speaking of Julius Cæsar:

_O world! thou wast the forest of this hart; And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee. How like a deer, striken by many princes, Dost thou here lie!_

_Julius Cæsar_, act 3. sc. 3.

Playing thus with the sound of words, which is still worse than a pun, is the meanest of all conceits. But Shakespeare, when he descends to a play of words, is not always in the wrong; for it is done sometimes to denote a peculiar character, as in the following passage:

_K. Philip_. What say’st thou, boy? look in the lady’s face.

_Lewis_. I do, my Lord, and in her eye I find A wonder, or a wond’rous miracle; The shadow of myself form’d in her eye; Which being but the shadow of your son, Becomes a fun, and makes your son a shadow. I do protest, I never lov’d myself Till now infixed I beheld myself Drawn in the flatter’ring table of her eye.

_Faulconbridge_. Drawn in the flatter’ring table of her eye! Hang’d in the frowning wrinkle of her brow! And quarter’d in her heart! he doth effy Himself Love’s traitor: this is pity now, That hang’d, and drawn, and quarter’d, there should be, In such a love so vile a lout as he.

_King John_, act 2. sc. 5.

A jingle of words is the lowest species of that low wit; which is scarce sufferable in any case, and least of all in an heroic poem: and yet Milton in some instances has descended to that puerility:

And brought into the world a world of wo.

_Begirt th’Almighty throne_ _Beseeching or besieging_ _Which tempted our attempt_ _At one flight bound high overlap’d all bound._

With a shout Loud as from numbers without number.

5. One should think it unnecessary to enter a caveat against an expression that has no meaning, or no distinct meaning; and yet somewhat of that kind may be found even among good writers.

_Sebastian_. I beg no pity for this mould’ring clay. For if you give it burial, there it takes Possession of your earth: If burnt and scatter’d in the air; the winds That strow my dust, diffuse my royalty, And spread me o’er your clime; for where one atom Of mine shall light, know there Sebastian reigns.

_Dryden_, Don Sebastian king of Portugal, act 1.

_Cleopatra_. Now; what news, my Charmion? Will he be kind? and will he not forsake me? Am I to live or die? nay, do I live? Or am I dead? for when he gave his answer, Fate took the word, and then I liv’d or dy’d.

_Dryden_, All for love, act 2.

If she be coy, and scorn my noble fire, If her chill heart I cannot move; Why, I’ll enjoy the very love, And make a mistress of my own desire.

_Cowley_, poem inscribed, “The Request.”

His whole poem, inscribed, My picture, is a jargon of the same kind.

’Tis he, they cry, by whom Not men, but war itself is overcome.

Indian Queen.

Such empty expressions are finely ridiculed in the Rehearsal.

Was’t not unjust to ravish hence her breath, And in life’s stead to leave us nought but death?

Act 4. sc. 1.

Passions, in Medicine, make one of the non-naturals, and produce very sensible effects. Joy, anger, and fear, are the principal. In the two first, the spirits are hurried with too great vivacity; whereas, in fear or dread, they are as it were curbed and concentrated: whence we may conclude, that they have a very bad effect upon health; and therefore it will be best to keep them within bounds as much as possible, and to preserve an inward serenity, calmness, and tranquillity.

Passions, in Painting, are the external expressions of the different dispositions and affections of the mind; but particularly their different effects upon the several features of the face: for though the arms, and indeed every part of the body *, serve likewise, by their * See Oratquick, languid, and variously diversified motions, to vary, no. 25 express the passions of the soul; yet, in painting, this difference is most conspicuous in the face. See PAINTING, no. 15, and DRAWING, art. 9.

In sorrow, joy, love, shame, and compassion, the eyes swell all of a sudden, are covered with a superabundant moisture, and drop tears; and, in grief especially, the corners of the mouth hang down, the eyelids are half shut, and the pupil of the eye is elevated and half covered; and all the other muscles of the face are relaxed, so that the visage appears longer than ordinary. In fear, terror, fright, and horror, the eye-brows are greatly elevated; the eye-lids are expanded as wide as possible, so as to discover the white of the eye; and the pupil is depressed, and half covered by the lower eye-lid: the hair stands on end; the mouth is at the same time wide open; and the lips are so far drawn back, that the teeth both of the upper and under jaw appear.

Contempt is expressed by raising one side of the upper lip, so as to discover the teeth, whilst the other side has a movement like that in laughter; the eye, on that side where the teeth appear, is half shut, whilst the other remains open; however, both the pupils are depressed.

In jealousy, envy, hatred, and malice, the eyebrows are knit; and, in laughter, all the parts agree, tending as it were towards the centre of the face. See Plates XC. XCVIII.

PASSION-Flower. See PASSIFLORA.