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:<228> 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 sinking. 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 description of unknown objects. Hence the St. Francises, 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.<229>
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 immensum coelo venit agmen aquarum,
Et foedam glomerant tempestatem imbribus atris
Conlectae ex alto nubes. Ruit arduus aether,
Et pluvia ingenti sata laeta boumque labores
Diluit. Inplentur fossae, et cava flumina crescunt
Cum sonitu, fervetque fretis spirantibus aequor.
Ipse Pater, media nimborum in nocte, coruscâ
Fulmina molitur dextra. Quo maxima motu
Terra tremit: fugêre ferae! et mortalia corda
Per gentes humilis stravit pavor. Ille flagranti
Aut Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo
Dejicit: ingeminant austri, et densissimus imber.
Virg. Georg. l. 1.11
In the description of a storm, to figure Jupiter throwing down huge mountains with his thunderbolts, is hyperbolically sublime, if I 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;<230> 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 kettledrum rouses, and a hautboy12 is animating; but neither of them inspires an emotion of sublimity: revenge animates the mind in a considerable degree; but I think it never produceth an emotion that can be termed grand or sublime; and I shall have occasion afterward to observe, that no disagreeable passion ever has that effect. I am willing to put this to the test, by placing before my reader a most spirited picture of revenge: it is a speech of Antony wailing over the body of Caesar:
Wo to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,
(Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue),
A curse shall light upon the kind of men;
Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife,
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use,
And dreadful objects so familiar,
That mothers shall but smile, when they behold
Their infants quarter’d by the hands of war,
All pity chok’d with custom of fell deeds,
And Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Atè by his side come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines, with a monarch’s voice,
Cry, Havock! and let slip the dogs of war.
Julius Caesar, act 3. sc. 4.13<231>
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 passion. 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 bestow 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<232> 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 every thing low or trivial; for the mind, elevated by an important object, cannot, without reluctance, be forc’d 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 a spirited narrative at second hand,<233> than by being spectators of the event itself, in all its circumstances.
Longinus exemplifies the foregoing rule by a comparison of two passages.* The first, from Aristaeus, is thus translated:
Ye pow’rs, what madness! how on ships so frail
(Tremendous
