perhaps, consecrated in the opinion of mankind some of its own caprices. Many of the ornaments of art," says Sir Joshua Reynolds, "those at least for which no reason can be given, are transmitted to us, are adopted, and acquire their consequence from the company in which we have been used to see them. As Greece and Rome are the fountains from whence have flowed all kinds of excellence, to that veneration which they have a right to claim for the pleasure and knowledge which they have afforded us, we voluntarily add our approbation of every ornament and every custom that belonged to them, even to the fashion of their dress. For it may be observed that, not satisfied with them in their own place, we make no difficulty of dressing statues of modern heroes or senators in the fashion of the Roman armour, or peaceful robe, and even go so far as hardly to bear a statue in any other drapery. "The figures of the great men of those nations have come down to us in sculpture. In sculpture remain almost all the excellent specimens of ancient art. We have so far associated personal dignity to the persons thus represented, and the truth of art to their manner of representation, that it is not in our power any longer to separate them. This is not so in painting, because having no excellent ancient portraits, that connexion was never formed. Indeed, we could no more venture to paint a general officer in a Roman military habit than we could make a statue in the present uniform. But since we have no ancient portraits to show how ready we are to adopt those kind of prejudices, we make the best authority among the moderns serve the same purpose. The great variety of excellent portraits with which Vandyke has enriched this nation, we are not content to admire for their real excellence, but extend our approbation even to the dress which happened to be the fashion of that age. By this means, it must be acknowledged, very ordinary pictures acquired something of the air and effect of the works of Vandyke, and appeared therefore, at first sight, better pictures than they really were. They appeared so, however, to those only who had the means of making this association."-(Reynold's Discourses, p. 313, et seq.) The influence of association on our notions concerning language, is still more strongly exemplified in poetry than in prose. As it is one great object of the poet, in his serious productions, to elevate the imagination of his readers, above the grossness of sensible objects, and the vulgarity of common life, it becomes peculiarly necessary for him to reject the use of all words and phrases which are trivial and hackneyed. Among those which are equally pure and equally perspicuous, he, in general, finds it expedient to adopt that which is the least common. Milton prefers the words Rhene and Danaw to the more common words Rhine and Danube : 30 "A multitude, like which the populous North Rhene or the Danaw."-Paradise Lost, book i., 1. 351. In the following line, "Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme," how much more suitable to the poetical style does the expression appear, than if the author had said, Things unattempted yet in prose or verse." In another passage, where, for the sake of variety, he has made use of the last phrase, he adds an epithet, to remove it a little from the familiarity of ordinary discourse. "in prose or numerous verse." Paradise Lost, book i. 1. 150. See Newton's Edit. In consequence of this circumstance, there arises gradually in every language a poetical diction, which differs widely from the common diction of prose. It is much less subject to the vicissitudes of fashion, than the polite modes of expression in familiar conversation; because, when it has once been adopted by the poet, it is avoided by good prose writers, as being too elevated for that species of composition. It may therefore retain its charm, as long as the language exists; nay, the charm may increase, as the language grows older. Indeed, the charm of poetical diction must increase to a certain degree, as polite literature advances. For when once a set of words has been consecrated to poetry, the very sound of them, independently of the ideas they convey, awakens every time we hear it, the agreeable impressions which were connected with it when we met with them in the performances of our favorite authors. Even when strung together in sentences which convey no meaning, they produce some effect on the mind of a reader of sensibility; an effect, at least, extremely different from that of an unmeaning sentence in prose. Languages differ from each other widely in the copiousness of their poetical diction. Our own possesses, in this respect, important advantages over the French: not that in this language there are no words appropriated to poetry, but because their number is, comparatively speaking, extremely limited. The scantiness of the French poetical diction is, probably, attended with the less inconvenience, that the phrases which occur in good prose writing are less degraded by vulgar application than in English, in consequence of the line being more distinctly and more strongly drawn between polite and low expressions in that language than in ours. Our poets, indeed, by having a language appropriated to their own purposes, not only can preserve dignity of expres sion, but can connect with the perusal of their compositions, the pleasing impressions which have been produced by those of their predecessors. And hence, in the higher sorts of poetry, where their object is to kindle, as much as possible, the enthusiasm of their readers, they not only avoid, studiously, all expressions which are vulgar, but all such as are borrowed from fashionable life. This certainly cannot be done in an equal degree by a poet who writes in the French language. In English, the poetical diction is so extremely copious, that it is liable to be abused; as it puts it in the power of authors of no genius, merely by ringing changes on the poetical vocabulary, to give a certain degree of currency to the most unmeaning compositions. In Pope's Song by a Person of Quality, the incoherence of ideas is scarcely greater than what is to be found in some admired passages of our fashionable poetry. Nor is it merely by a difference of words, that the language of poetry is distinguished from that of prose. When a poetical arrangement of words has once been established by authors of reputation, the most common expressions, by being presented in this consectated order, may serve to excite poetical associations. On the other hand, nothing more completely destroys the charm of poetry, than a string of words which the custom of ordinary discourse has arranged in so invariable an order, that the whole phrase may be anticipated from hearing its commencement. A single word frequently strikes us as flat and prosaic, in consequence of its familiarity but two such words coupled together in the order of conversation, can scarcely be introduced into serious poetry without appearing ludicrous. No poet in our language has shown so strikingly, as Milton, the wonderful elevation which style may derive from an arrangement of words, which, while it is perfectly intelligible, departs widely from that to which we are in general accustomed. Many of his most sublime periods, when the order of the words is altered, are reduced nearly to the level of prose. To copy this artifice with success is a much more difficult attainment than is commonly imagined; and, of consequence, when it is acquired, it secures an author, to a great degree, from that crowd of imitators who spoil the effect of whatever is not beyond their reach. To the poet who uses blank verse, it is an acquisition of still more essential consequence than to him who expresses himself in rhyme; for the more that the structure of the verse approaches to prose, the more it is necessary to give novelty and dignity to the composition. And accordingly, among our magazine poets, ten thousand catch the structure of Pope's versification, for one who approaches to the manner of Milton or of Thomson. The facility, however, of this imitation, like every other, increases with the number of those who have studied it with success ; for the more numerous the authors who have employed their genius in any one direction, the more copious are the materials out of which mediocrity may select and combine, so as to escape the charge of plagiarism. And, in fact, in our own language, this, as well as the other great resource of poetical expression, the employment of appropriated words, has had its effect so much impaired by the abuse which has been made of it, that a few of our best poets of late have endeavored to strike out a new path for themselves, by resting the elevation for their composition chiefly on a singular, and, to an ordinary writer, an unattainable union of harmonious versification, with a natural arrangement of words, and a simple elegance of expression. It is this union which seems to form the distinguishing charm of the poetry of Goldsmith. From the remarks which have been made on the influence of the association of ideas on our judgments in matters of taste, it is obvious how much the opinions of a nation with respect to merit in the fine arts, are likely to be influenced by the form of their government, and the state of their manners. Voltaire, in his discourse pronounced at his reception into the French academy, gives several reasons why the poets of that country have not succeeded in describing rural scenes and employments. The principal one is, the ideas of meanness, and poverty, and wretchedness, which the French are accustomed to associate with the profession of husbandry. The same thing is alluded to by the Abbé de Lille, in the preliminary discourse prefixed to his translation of the Georgics. "A translation," says he, " of this poem, if it had been undertaken by an author of genius, would have been better calculated than any other work, for adding to the riches of our language. A version of the Eneid itself, however well executed, would, in this respect be of less utility; inasmuch, as the genius of our tongue accommodates itself more easily to the description of heroic achievements, than to the details of natural phenomena, and of the operations of husbandry. To force it to express these with suitable dignity, would have been a real conquest over that false delicacy, which it has contracted from our unfortunate prejudices." How different must have been the emotions with which this divine performance of Virgil was read by an ancient Roman, while he recollected that period in the history of his country, when dictators were called from the plough to the defence of the state, and after having led monarchs in triumph, returned again to the same happy and independent occupation. A state of manners to which a Roman author of a later age looked back with such enthusiasm, that he ascribes, by a bold poetical figure, the flourishing state of agriculture under the republic, to the grateful returns which the earth then made to the illustrious hands by which she was cultivated. "Gaudente terra vomere laureato, et triumphali aratore." (Plin. Nat. Hist. xviii. 4.) SECTION. III. Of the Influence of Association on our active Principles, and on our moral Judgments. In order to illustrate a little farther the influence of the association of ideas on the human mind, I shall add a few remarks on some of its effects on our active and moral principles. In stating these remarks, I shall endeavor to avoid, as much as possible, every occasion of controversy, by confining myself to such general views of the subject, as do not presuppose any particular enumeration of our original principles of action, or any particular system concerning the nature of the moral faculty. If my health and leisure enable me to carry my plans into execution, I propose, in the sequel of this work, to resume these inquiries, and to examine the various opinions to which they have given rise. The manner in which the association of ideas operates in producing new principles of action, has been explained very distinctly by different writers. Whatever conduces to the gratification of any natural appetite, or of any natural desire, is itself desired on account of the end to which it is subservient; and by being thus habitually associated in our apprehension with agreeable objects, it frequently comes, in process of time to be regarded as valuable in itself, independently of its utility. It is thus that wealth becomes, with many an ultimate object of pursuit; although, at first, it is undoubtedly valued merely on account of its subserviency to the attainment of other objects. In like manner, men are led to desire dress, equipage, retinue, furniture, on account of the estimation in which they are supposed to be held by the public. Such desires are called by Dr. Hutcheson (see his Essay on the Nature and Conduct of the Passions,) secondary desires and their origin is explained by him in the way which I have mentioned. "Since we are capable," says he," of reflection, memory, observation, and reasoning about the distant tendencies of objects and actions, and not confined to things present, there must arise, in consequence of our original desires, secondary desires of everything imagined useful to gratify any of the primary desires; and that with strength proportioned to the several original desires, and imagined usefulness or necessity of the advantageous object." "Thus," he continues, Thus," he continues, "as soon as we come to apprehend the use of wealth or power to gratify any of our original desires, we must also desire them; and hence arises the universality of these desires of wealth and power, since they are the means of gratifying all other desires." The only thing that appears to me exceptionable in the foregoing passage is, that the author classes the desire of power with that of wealth; whereas I apprehend it to be clear, (for reasons which I shall state in another part of this work,) that the former is a primary desire, and the latter a secondary one. |