nd Sublimity. These terms Double figures have a double signification: they commonly signify the nihilation, quality or circumstance in objects by which the emotions of grandeur and sublimity are produced; sometimes the emotions themselves.

In handling the present subject, it is necessary that the impression made on the mind by the magnitude of an object, abstracting from its other qualities, should be ascertained. And because abstraction is a mental operation of some difficulty, the safest method for judging is, to choose a plain object that is neither beautiful nor deformed, if such a one can be found. The plainest that occurs, is a huge mass of rubbish, the ruins perhaps of some extensive building; or a large heap of stones, such as are collected together for keeping in memory a battle or other remarkable event. Such an object, which in miniature would be perfectly indifferent, makes an impression by its magnitude, and appears agreeable. And supposing it so large as to fill the eye, and to prevent the attention from wandering upon other objects, the impression it makes will be so much the deeper. See Attention.

But though a plain object of that kind be agreeable, it is not termed grand: it is not entitled to that character, unless, together with its size, it be possessed of other qualities that contribute to beauty, such as regularity, proportion, order, or colour: and according to the number of such qualities combined with magnitude, it is more or less grand. Thus St Peter's church at Rome, the great pyramid of Egypt, the Alps towering above the clouds, a great arm of the sea, and above all a clear and serene sky, are grand; because, beside their size, they are beautiful in an eminent degree. On the other hand, an overgrown whale, having a disagreeable appearance, is not grand. A large building agreeable by its regularity and proportions, is grand; and yet a much larger building destitute of regularity, has not the least tincture of grandeur. A single regiment in battle-array, makes a grand appearance; which the surrounding crowd does not, though perhaps ten for one in number. And a regiment where the men are all in one livery, and the horses of one colour, makes a grander appearance, and consequently strikes more terror, than where there is confusion of colour and dress.

Thus greatness or magnitude is the circumstance that distinguishes grandeur from beauty: agreeableness is derived from the genus, of which beauty and grandeur are species. beauty.

The emotion of grandeur, duly examined, will be found an additional proof of the foregoing doctrine. That this emotion is pleasant in a high degree, requires no other evidence but once to have seen a grand object; and if an emotion of grandeur be pleasant, its cause or object, as observed above, must infallibly be agreeable in proportion.

The qualities of grandeur and beauty are not more distinct, than the emotions are which these qualities produce in a spectator. It is observed in the article Beauty, that all the various emotions of beauty have one common character, that of sweetness and gaiety. The emotion of grandeur has a different character: Grandeur rather: a large object that is agreeable, occupies the whole attention, and swells the heart into a vivid emotion, which, though extremely pleasant, is rather serious than gay. And this affords a good reason for distinguishing in language these different emotions. The emotions raised by colour, by regularity, by proportion, and by order, have such a resemblance to each other, as readily to come under one general term, viz. the emotion of beauty; but the emotion of grandeur is so different from those mentioned, as to merit a peculiar name.

Though regularity, proportion, order, and colour, contribute to grandeur as well as to beauty, yet these qualities are not by far so essential to the former as to the latter. To make out that proposition, some preliminaries are requisite. In the first place, the mind, not being totally occupied with a small object, can give its attention at the same time to every minute part; but in a great or extensive object, the mind, being totally occupied with the capital and striking parts, has no attention left for those that are little or indifferent. In the next place, two similar objects appear not similar when viewed at different distances: the similar parts of a very large object, cannot be seen but at different distances; and for that reason, its regularity, and the proportion of its parts, are in some measure lost to the eye; neither are the irregularities of a very large object so conspicuous as of one that is small. Hence it is, that a large object is not so agreeable by its regularity, as a small object; nor so disagreeable by its irregularities.

These considerations make it evident, that grandeur is satisfied with a less degree of regularity, and of the other qualities mentioned, than is requisite for beauty; which may be illustrated by the following experiment. Approaching to a small conical hill, we take an accurate survey of every part, and are sensible of the slightest deviation from regularity and proportion. Supposing the hill to be considerably enlarged, so as to make us less sensible of its regularity, it will upon that account appear less beautiful. It will not, however, appear less agreeable, because some slight emotion of grandeur comes in place of what is lost in beauty. And at last, when the hill is enlarged to a great mountain, the small degree of beauty that is left, is sunk in its grandeur. Hence it is, that a towering hill is delightful, if it have but the slightest resemblance of a cone; and a chain of mountains not less so, though deficient in the accuracy of order and proportion. We require a small surface to be smooth; but in an extensive plain, considerable inequalities are overlooked. In a word, regularity, proportion, order, and colour, contribute to grandeur as well as to beauty; but with a remarkable difference, that in passing from small to great, they are not required in the same degree of perfection. This remark serves to explain the extreme delight we have in viewing the face of nature, when sufficiently enriched and diversified with objects. The bulk of the objects in a natural landscape are beautiful, and some of them grand: a flowing river, a spreading oak, a round hill, an extended plain, are delightful; and even a rugged rock, or barren heath, though in themselves disagreeable, contribute by contrast to the beauty of the whole; joining to these the verdure of the fields, the mixture of light and shade, and the sublime canopy spread over all; it will not appear wonderful, that so extensive a group of splendid objects should swell the heart to its utmost bounds, and raise the strongest emotion of grandeur. The spectator is conscious of an enthusiasm which cannot bear confinement, nor the strictness of regularity and order: he loves to range at large; and is so enchanted with magnificent objects, as to overlook slight beauties or deformities.

The same observation is applicable in some measure to works of art. In a small building, the slightest irregularity is disagreeable; but in a magnificent palace, or a large Gothic church, irregularities are less regarded. In an epic poem, we pardon many negligences that would not be permitted in a sonnet or epigram. Notwithstanding such exceptions, it may be justly laid down as a rule, That in works of art, order and regularity ought to be governing principles; and hence the observation of Longinus, "In works of art we have regard to exact proportion; in those of nature, to grandeur and magnificence."

The same reflections are in a good measure applicable to sublimity: particularly that, like grandeur, it is a species of agreeableness; that a beautiful object placed high, appearing more agreeable than formerly, produces in the spectator a new emotion, termed the emotion of sublimity; and that the perfection of order, regularity, and proportion, is less required in objects placed high, or at a distance, than at hand.

The pleasant emotion raised by large objects, has not escaped the poets:

He doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus; and we petty men Walk under his huge legs. Julius Cæsar, act 1, sc. 3.

Cleopatra. I dreamt there was an emp'ror Antony: Oh such another sleep, that I might see But such an other man! His face was as the heavens: and therein fluck A sun and moon, which kept their course, and lighted The little O's o' th' earth. His legs belird the ocean, his rear'd arm Crested the world. Antony and Cleopatra, act 5, sc. 3.

Majesty Does nor alone; but, like a gush, doth draw What's a' a' it with it. It's a maffy wheel Fix'd on the summit of the high't mount; To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are norri'd and adjoin'd; which when it falls, Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends the boisterous ruin. Hamlet, act 3, sc. 2.

The poets have also made good use of the emotion produced by the elevated situation of an object:

Quod si me lyricis vatibus inferes, Sublinit feriunt sidera vertice. Horat. Carm. l. 2. ode 1.

Oh thou! the earthly author of my blood, Whole youthful spirit, in me regenerate, Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up, To reach at victory above my head. Richard II., act 1, sc. 4.

Northumberland, thy ladder wherewithal Thy mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne. Richard II., act 3, sc. 2.

Antony. Why was I rais'd the meteor of the world, Hung in the skies; and blazing as I travel'd, Till all my fires were spent; and then call downward To be trod out by Cæsar? Dryden, All for Love, act 1.

The description of Paradise in the fourth book of Paradise Paradise Lost, is a fine illustration of the impression made by elevated objects:

So on he fares, and to the border comes Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, Now nearer, crowns with her inclosure green, As with a rural mound, the charm'ain head With a steep wilderness; whose hairy sides Of thicker overgrown, grotesque and wild, Acceds deny'd; and as the head up grew Inuperable height of loftiest flame, Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, A Sylvan scene; and as the ranks ascend, Shade above shade, a mighty theatre Of stately view, yet higher than their tops The verd'rous wall of Paradise up sprung; Which to our general fire gave prospect large Into his nearest ire, neigh'ring round And higher than that wall a circling row Of goodliest trees, laden with fairest fruit, Blooms and fruits at once of golden hue, Appear'd, with gay enamell'd colours mix'd.

Though a grand object is agreeable, we must not infer that a little object is disagreeable; which would be unhappy for man, considering that he is surrounded with so many objects of that kind. The same holds with respect to place: a body placed high is agreeable; but the same body placed low, is not by that circumstance rendered disagreeable. Littleness and lowness of place are precisely similar in the following particular, that they neither give pleasure nor pain. And in this may visibly be discovered peculiar attention in fitting the internal constitution of man to his external circumstances. Were littleness and lowness of place agreeable, greatness and elevation could not be so: were littleness and lowness of place disagreeable, they would occasion uninterrupted uneasiness.

The difference between great and little with respect to agreeableness, is remarkably felt in a series when we pass gradually from the one extreme to the other. A mental progress from the capital to the kingdom, from that to Europe—to the whole earth—to the planetary system—to the universe, is extremely pleasant: the heart swells, and the mind is dilated at every step. The returning in an opposite direction is not positively painful, though our pleasure lessens at every step, till it vanishes into indifference: such a progress may sometimes produce pleasure of a different sort, which arises from taking a narrower and narrower inspection. The same observation holds in a progress upward and downward. Ascend is pleasant because it elevates us; but descend is never painful: it is for the most part pleasant from a different cause, that it is according to the order of nature. The fall of a stone from any height, is extremely agreeable by its accelerated motion. We feel it pleasant to descend from a mountain, because the descent is natural and easy. Neither is looking downward painful; on the contrary, to look down upon objects, makes part of the pleasure of elevation: looking down becomes then only painful when the object is so far below as to create dizziness; and even when that is the case, we feel a sort of pleasure mixed with the pain: witness Shakespeare's description of Dover cliffs:

How fearful And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eye so low! The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half-way down Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head.

The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight. The murm'ring surge, That on th' unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more, Left my brain turn, and the delicious sight Dopple down headlong.

King Lear, act 4. sc. 6.

A remark is made above, that the emotions of grandeur and sublimity are nearly allied. And hence it is, that the one term is frequently put for the other: an increasing series of numbers, for example, producing an emotion similar to that of mounting upward, is commonly termed an ascending series: a series of numbers gradually decreasing, producing an emotion similar to that of going downward, is commonly termed a descending series: we talk familiarly of going up to the capital, and of going down to the country: from a lesser kingdom we talk of going up to a greater; whence the anabasis in the Greek language, when one travels from Greece to Persia. We discover the same way of speaking in the language even of Japan; and its universality proves it the offspring of a natural feeling.

The foregoing observation leads us to consider grandeur and sublimity in a figurative sense, and as applicable to the fine arts. Hitherto these terms figurative have been taken in their proper sense as applicable to objects of sight only: and it was of importance to bestow some pains upon that article; because, generally speaking, the figurative sense of a word is derived from its proper sense, which holds remarkably at present. Beauty, in its original signification, is confined to objects of sight; but as many other objects, intellectual as well as moral, raise emotions resembling that of beauty, the resemblance of the effects prompts us to extend the term beauty to these objects. This equally accounts for the terms grandeur and sublimity taken in a figurative sense. Every emotion, from whatever cause proceeding, that resembles an emotion of grandeur or elevation, is called by the same name: thus generosity is said to be an elevated emotion, as well as great courage; and that firmness of soul which is superior to misfortunes obtains the peculiar name of magnanimity. On the other hand, every emotion that contracts the mind, and fixeth it upon things trivial or of no importance, is termed low, by its resemblance to an emotion produced by a little or low object of sight: thus an appetite for trifling amusements is called a low taste. The same terms are applied to characters and actions: we talk familiarly of an elevated genius, of a great man, and equally so of littleness of mind: some actions are great and elevated, and others are little and groveling. Sentiments, and even expressions, are characterized in the same manner: an expression or line in sentiment that raises the mind is denominated great or poetry elevated; and hence the SUBLIME in poetry. In such figurative terms, we lose the distinction between great and elevated in their proper sense; for the resemblance is not so entire as to preserve these terms distinct in their figurative application. We carry this figure still farther. Elevation, in its proper sense, imports superiority of place; and lowness, inferiority of place: and hence a man of superior talents, of superior rank; of inferior parts, of inferior taste, and such like. The veneration we have for our ancestors, and for the ancients in general, being similar to the emotion produced by an elevated object of sight, justifies the figurative expression of the ancients being raised above us, or possessing a superior place. The notes of the gamut, proceeding regularly from the blunter or groffer sounds to the more acute and piercing, produce in the hearer a feeling somewhat similar to what is produced by mounting upward; and this gives occasion to the figurative expressions a high note, a low note.

Such is the resemblance in feeling between real and figurative grandeur, that among the nations on the east coast of Africa, who are directed purely by nature, the officers of state are, with respect to rank, distinguished by the length of the baton each carries in his hand; and in Japan, princes and great lords show their rank by the length and size of their sedan-poles. Again, it is a rule in painting, that figures of a small size are proper for grotesque pieces; but that an historical subject, grand and important, requires figures as great as the life. The resemblance of these feelings is in reality so strong, that elevation in a figurative sense is observed to have the same effect, even externally, with real elevation:

K. Henry. This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

Henry V. act 4. sc. 8.

The resemblance in feeling between real and figurative grandeur is humorously illustrated by Addison in criticizing upon English tragedy. "The ordinary method of making an hero is to clap a huge plume of feathers upon his head, which rises so high, that there is often a greater length from his chin to the top of his head than to the sole of his foot. One would believe, that we thought a great man and a tall man the same thing. As these superfluous ornaments upon the head make a great man, a princess generally receives her grandeur from those additional incumbrances that fall into her tail: I mean the broad sweeping train that follows her in all her motions, and finds constant employment for a boy who stands behind her to open and spread it to advantage." The Scythians, impressed with the fame of Alexander, were astonished when they found him a little man.

A gradual progress from small to great is not less remarkable in figurative than in real grandeur or elevation. Every one must have observed the delightful effect of a number of thoughts or sentiments, artfully disposed like an ascending series, and making impressions deeper and deeper: such disposition of members in a period is termed a climax.

Within certain limits grandeur and sublimity produce their strongest effects, which lessen by excess as well as by defect. This is remarkable in grandeur and sublimity taken in their proper sense: the greatest emotion that can be raised by a visible object is where the object can be taken in at one view; if so immense as not to be comprehended but in parts, it tends rather to distract than satisfy the mind (a): in like manner, the strongest emotions produced by elevation is where the object is seen distinctly; a greater elevation lessens in appearance the object, till it vanishes out of sight with its pleasant emotions. The fame is equally remarkable in figurative grandeur and figurative elevation; which shall be handled together, because, as grandeur, observed above, they are scarce distinguishable. Sentiments may be so strained as to become obscure, or to exceed the capacity of the human mind: against such licence of imagination, every good writer will be upon his guard. And therefore it is of greater importance to observe, that even the true sublime may be carried beyond that pitch which produces the highest entertainment. We are undoubtedly susceptible of a greater elevation than can be inspired by human actions the most heroic and magnanimous: witness what we feel from Milton's description of superior beings: yet every man must be sensible of a more constant and sweet elevation when the history of his own species is the subject: he enjoys an elevation equal to that of the greatest hero, of an Alexander or a Caesar, of a Brutus or an Epaminondas: he accompanies these heroes in their sublimest sentiments and most hazardous exploits, with a magnanimity equal to theirs; and finds it no stretch to preserve the same tone of mind for hours together without tiring. The case is not the same in describing the actions or qualities of superior beings: the reader's imagination cannot keep pace with that of the poet; the mind, unable to support itself in a strained elevation, falls as from a height; and the fall is immoderate like the elevation: where that effect is not felt, it must be prevented by some obscurity in the conception, which frequently attends the descriptions of unknown objects. Hence the St Francis, St Dominics, and other tutelary saints among the Roman Catholics. A mind unable to raise itself to the Supreme Being self-existent and eternal, or to support itself in a strained elevation, finds itself more at ease in using the intercession of some saint whose piety and penances while on earth are supposed to have made him a favourite in heaven.

A strained elevation is attended with another inconvenience, that the author is apt to fall suddenly as well as the reader; because it is not a little difficult to descend, sweetly and easily, from such elevation to the ordinary tone of the subject. The following passage is a good illustration of that observation:

Saepe etiam immensus caelo venit agmen aquarum, Et sedam glomerat tempestatem imbribus atri. Conlecta ex alto nubes. Ruit ardua aether, Et pluvia ingenti lata lacte boumque labores Diluit. Implentur fossa, et cava humina crecunt Cum fontu, fervetque trevis spirantibus aquor. Ipsa pater, media nimborum in nocte, conusa Fulmina molitur dextra. Quo maxima movi Terra tremit: fugere fere, et mortalia corda Per gentes humilis stravit pavor. Ille flagrant Ant Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo Dejicit: ingeminant Aupiri, et densifimus imber.

Virg. Georg. i. i.

(a) It is justly observed by Addison, that perhaps a man would have been more astonished with the majestic air that appeared in one of Lysippus's statues of Alexander, though no bigger than the life, than he might have been with Mount Athos, had it been cut into the figure of the hero, according to the proposal of Phidias, with a river in one hand and a city in the other. Spectator, No. 415. In the description of a storm, to figure Jupiter throwing down huge mountains with his thunderbolts, is hyperbolically sublime, if we may use the expression: the tone of mind produced by that image is so distant from the tone produced by a thick shower of rain, that the sudden transition must be unpleasant.

Objects of sight that are not remarkably great nor high, scarce raise any emotion of grandeur or of sublimity; and the same holds in other objects; for we often find the mind roused and animated, without being carried to that height. This difference may be discerned in many sorts of music, as well as in some musical instruments: a kettle-drum rouses, and a hautboy is animating; but neither of them inspires an emotion of sublimity: revenge animates the mind in a considerable degree; but it never produces an emotion that can be termed grand or sublime; and perhaps no disagreeable passion ever has that effect.

No desire is more universal than to be exalted and honoured; and upon that account, chiefly, are we ambitious of power, riches, titles, fame, which would suddenly lose their relish did they not raise us above others, and command submission and deference: and it may be thought, that our attachment to things grand and lofty, proceeds from their connection with our favourite passions. This connection has undoubtedly an effect; but that the preference given to things grand and lofty must have a deeper root in human nature, will appear from considering, that many below their time upon low and trifling amusements, without having the least tincture of this favourite passion: yet these very persons talk the same language with the rest of mankind; and prefer the more elevated pleasures: they acknowledge a more refined taste, and are ashamed of their own as low and groveling. This sentiment, constant and universal, must be the work of nature; and it plainly indicates an original attachment in human nature to every object that elevates the mind: some men may have a greater relish for an object not of the highest rank; but they are conscious of the preference given by mankind in general to things grand and sublime, and they are sensible that their peculiar taste ought to yield to the general taste.

What is said above suggests a capital rule for reaching the sublime in such works of art as are susceptible of it; and that is, to present those parts or circumstances only which make the greatest figure, keeping out of view everything low or trivial; for the mind, elevated by an important object, cannot, without reluctance, be forced down to bestow any share of its attention upon trifles. Such judicious selection of capital circumstances, is by an eminent critic styled grandeur of manner*. In none of the fine arts is there so great scope for that rule as in poetry; which, by that means, enjoys a remarkable power of bestowing upon objects and events an air of grandeur: when we are spectators, every minute object presents itself in its order; but in describing at second hand, these are laid aside, and the capital objects are brought close together. A judicious taste in thus selecting the most interesting incidents, to give them an united force, accounts for a fact that may appear surprising; which is, that we are more moved by spirited narrative at second hand, than by being spectators of the event itself, in all its circumstances.

Longinus† exemplifies the foregoing rule by a comparison of two passages.

Ye pow'rs, what madness! how on ships so frail (Tremendous thought!) can thoughts of mortals fail? For stormy seas they quit the pleasing plain, Plant woods in waves, and dwell amidst the main. Far o'er the deep (a trackless path) they go, And wander oceans in pursuit of woe. No eale their hearts, no feet their eyes can find, On heaven their looks, and on the waves their mind; Sunk are their spirits, while their arms they rear, And gods are wearied with their fruitless prayer.

Burst as a wave that from the cloud impends, And swell'd with tempests on the ship descends. White are the decks with foam: the winds aloud Howl o'er the masts, and sing through every shroud. Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears, And instant death on every wave appears.

In the latter passage, the most striking circumstances are selected to fill the mind with terror and astonishment. The former is a collection of minute and low circumstances, which scatter the thought, and make no impression: it is at the same time full of verbal antitheses and low conceit, extremely improper in a scene of distress.

The following description of a battle is remarkably sublime, by collecting together, in the fewest words, those circumstances which make the greatest figure.

"Like autumn's dark storms pouring from two echoing hills, toward each other approached the heroes; as two dark streams from high rocks meet and roar on the plain, loud, rough, and dark in battle, meet Lochlin and Inisfail. Chief mixes his strokes with chief, and man with man: steel founders on steel, and helmets are clef't on high: blood bursts and smoakes around: strings murmur on the polish'd yew: darts rush along the sky: spears fall like sparks of flame that gild the stormy face of night.

"As the noise of the troubled ocean when roll the waves on high, as the last peal of thundering heaven, such is the noise of battle. Though Cormac's hundred bards were there, feeble were the voice of a hundred bards to send the deaths to future times; for many were the deaths of the heroes, and wide poured the blood of the valiant." FINGAL.

The following passage in the 4th book of the Iliad is a description of a battle wonderfully ardent.

"When now gathered on either side, the hosts plunged together in fight; shield is harshly laid to shield; spears crash on the brazen corslets; boffy buckler with buckler meets; loud tumult rages over all; groans are mixed with boasts of men; the slain and slayer join in noise; the earth is floating round with blood. As when two rushing streams from two mountains come roaring down, and throw together their rapid waters below, they roar along the gulphy vale; the startled shepherd hears the sound as he stalks o'er the distant hills: fo, as they mixed in fight, from both armies clamour with loud terror arose." But such general descriptions are not frequent in Homer. Even his single combats are rare. The fifth book is the longest account of a battle that is in the Iliad; and yet contains nothing but a long catalogue of chiefs killing chiefs. more fire than judgment commonly split on; and therefore a collection of examples may be of use as a beacon to future adventurers. One species of false sublime, known by the name of bombast, is common among writers of a mean genius: it is a serious endeavor, by strained description, to raise a low or familiar subject above its rank; which, instead of being sublime, fails not to be ridiculous. The mind, indeed, is extremely prone, in some animating passions, to magnify its objects beyond natural bounds: but such hyperbolical description has its limits; and when carried beyond the impulse of the propensity, it degenerates into burlesque. Take the following examples:

Sofusus, Great and high The world knows only two, that's Rome and I. My roof receives me not: 'tis air I tread, And at each step I feel my advance'd head Knock out a star in heav'n.

Sofusus, Ben Jonson, act 5.

A writer who has no natural elevation of mind deviates readily into bombast: he strains above his natural powers; and the violent effort carries him beyond the bounds of propriety.

Gulliver. Give way, and let the rushing torrent come; Behold the tears we bring to swell the deluge, Till the flood rise upon the guilty world, And make the ruin common.

Lady Jane Grey, act 4, near the end.

Another species of false sublime is still more faulty than bombast: and that is, to force elevation by introducing imaginary beings without preserving any propriety in their actions; as if it were lawful to ascribe every extravagance and inconsequence to beings of the poet's creation. No writers are more licentious in that article than Johnson and Dryden:

Methinks I see Death and the Furies waiting What we will do, and all the heaven at leisure For the great spectacle. Draw then your swords: And if our daring envy our virtue The honour of the day, yet let us care To fell ourselves at such a price, as may Undo the world to buy us, and make Fate, While she tempts ours, to fear her own estate

Cortina, act 5.

The Furies flood on hills Circling the place, and trembled to see men Do more than they: whilst Pity left the field, Griev'd for that side, that in so bad a cause They knew not what a time their valour was. The Sun stood full, and was behind the cloud The battle made, feet sweating to drive up His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward.

Ibid., act 3.

Ozymandias. While we indulge our common happiness, He is forgot by whom we all possess, The brave Almazor, to whose arms we owe All that we did, and all that we shall do; Who like a remnant that outrides the wind, Made a just battle ere the bodies join'd.

Adalalla. His victories we scarce could keep in view, Or polish 'em so fast as he rough drew.

Aldemontec. Fate after him below with pain did move, And Victory could scarce keep pace above. Death did at length so many slain forget, And left the tale, and took 'em by the great.

Conquest of Graecia, act 2, at beginning.

An actor on the stage may be guilty of bombast as well as an author in his closet: a certain manner of acting, which is grand when supported by dignity in the sentiment and force in the expression, is ridiculous where the sentiment is mean and the expression flat.

GARNETT. GRANDGOR is used in Scotland for the pox. In the Philosophical Transactions, no 469, sect. 5, we have a proclamation of king James IV. of Scotland, ordering all who had this disease, or who had attended others under it, forthwith to repair to an island in the Firth of Forth. If the grandgor was the pox, and this distemper came into Europe at the siege of Naples in 1495, it must have made a very quick progress to cause such an alarm at Edinburgh in 1497.