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Title: Thirty Letters on Various Subjects, Vol. 1 (of 2)

Author: William Jackson

Release date: June 9, 2019 [eBook #59710]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Sonya Schermann, Robert Tonsing, and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
        file was produced from images generously made available
        by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THIRTY LETTERS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS, VOL. 1 (OF 2) ***




Produced by Sonya Schermann, Robert Tonsing, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)









                                THIRTY
                                LETTERS
                                  ON
                           VARIOUS SUBJECTS.
                            IN TWO VOLUMES.
                                VOL. I.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                                LONDON:

          Printed for T. CADELL, and T. EVANS, in the Strand;
                   and B. THORN and SON, in EXETER.

                             MDCCLXXXIII.




                               CONTENTS
                                OF THE
                             FIRST VOLUME.

                   *       *       *       *       *

    LETTER                                                     PAGE

    I.     _The Force of Custom_                                  1

    II.    _On Riches, Cards, and Duelling_                       5

    III.   _On Languages_                                        16

    IV.    _On judging by the Perceptions of others_             29

    V.     _On Painting_                                         32

    VI.    _On Painting_                                         39

    VII.   _On temporary Taste_                                  46

    VIII.  _On musical Expression_                               49

    IX.    _On the Parenthesis, and Anticipation_                56

    X.     _On Catches_                                          63

    XI.    _On the English Language_                             78

    XII.   _On Homer’s Scale of Heroes_                          91

    XIII.  _On the different Manners of Reading_                 94

    XIV.   _On Shakespeare_                                      99

    XV.    _On Writing-hand_                                    103

    XVI.   _On the want of accurate Views_                      108

    XVII.  _On the Analogy of the Arts_                         114

    XVIII. _On bad Association_                                 120




                            ADVERTISEMENT.


Whether these are real letters, or whether the author chose to throw
his observations into the epistolary form, is a point of no great
consequence. The invention of a story to shew how they came into the
editor’s hands is by no means difficult.—A parcel of papers rescued
from the trunk-maker or pastry-cook, has saved many an author from
perishing. =CERVANTES= and =STERNE= were not above such shifts; but
they have served so often, that now, even the truth, tho’ without the
least mixture of the marvellous, passes for invention.

Should these little volumes contain any new and useful observations on
men and things, it is a sufficient reason for their publication—if the
physic be wholesome, it is no matter under what form it is administered.




                               LETTERS.




                              =LETTER= I.


Since you request that our correspondence should be out of the beaten
track, be it so. My retirement from the world will naturally give an
air of peculiarity to my sentiments, which perhaps may entertain where
it does not convince. In justice to myself, let me observe, that truth
sometimes does not strike us without the assistance of custom; but
so great is the force of custom, that, unassisted by truth, it has
worked the greatest miracles. Need I bring for proof the quantity of
nonsense in all the arts, sciences, and even religion itself, which
it has sanctified? As possibly in the course of my letters to you I
may attack some received doctrines on each of these subjects, let not
what I advance be instantly rejected, because contrary to an opinion
founded on prejudice; but, as much as possible, divest yourself of the
partiality acquired by habit, and if at last you should not agree with
me, I shall suspect my sentiments to be peculiar and not just.

Tho’ truth may want the assistance of use before we feel its force,
yet when it is really felt, we detest what custom only made us like.
The difficulty is to procure for truth a fair examination. The
multitude is always against it. The first discovery in any thing is
considered as an encroachment upon property, a property become sacred
by possession. Discoverers are accordingly treated as criminals, and
must have good luck to escape execution.

I mean not to rank myself with such bold adventurers; I am neither
ambitious of the honour, or the danger, of enlightening the world, but,
if I can soften prejudices which I cannot remove—if I can loosen the
fetters of custom where I cannot altogether unbind them, and engage
you to think for yourself—my end will be answered, and my trouble fully
repaid.

                                                         Adieu! &c.




                              =LETTER= II.


It is natural to suppose, that people originally judged of things
by their senses and immediate perceptions. By degrees they found
that their senses were not infallible, and that things frequently
contradicted their first appearance. This, at last, was pushed to an
extravagance; and certain philosophers endeavoured to persuade mankind,
that the senses deceive us so often, that we can never depend on
them—that we cannot tell whether we are in motion or at rest, asleep or
awake, with many other such absurdities. They used the same ingenuity
with the mental sense. Some ancient sage was asked, “Who is the
richest man?” if he had replied “He that has most money,” the answer
would have been natural and just—what he did say, every one knows. We
have suffered ourselves to be imposed on so long, that at last we begin
to impose on ourselves.

Riches, cards, and duelling, have been constantly abused, written,
and preached against; and yet men will still hoard, play, and fight.
Why should they? All universal passions we may fairly pronounce to
be natural, and should be treated with respect. The gratification
of our passions are our greatest pleasures, and he that has most
gratifications is of course the happiest man. This, as a general
assertion, is true, and it is true also in particulars, provided we pay
no more for pleasure than it is worth.

Every man should endeavour to be rich. He that has money may possess
every thing that is transferable—this is a sufficient inducement to
procure it. Nay, if he possesses nothing but his money, if he considers
it as the end, as well as the means, it is still right to be rich: for,
knowing that he has it in his power to procure every thing, he is as
well satisfied as is the thing itself was in his possession. This is
the true source of the miser’s pleasure; and a great pleasure it is!
A moral philosopher may tell him, “that man does not live for himself
alone, and that he hurts the community by withholding what would
be of use to it”—this he thinks to be weak reasoning. The sneers of
wits signify as little; for he knows they would be glad to be rich if
they could. He feels that the pleasure arising from the possession of
riches, whether used or not, is too great to be given up for all the
wit, or even the strongest arguments that can be brought against it.

It seems to be agreed, that card-playing proceeds entirely from
avarice—tho’ this may sometimes be the motive, yet it may with more
probability be derived from other, and more general principles.

The mind of man naturally requires employment, and that employment
is most agreeable, which engages, without fatiguing the attention.
There is nothing for this purpose of such universal attraction as
cards. The fine arts and belles lettres can only be enjoyed by those
who have a genius for them—other studies and amusements have their
particular charm, but cards are the universal amusement in every
country where they are known. The alternate changes in the play, the
hope upon the taking up a new hand, and the triumph of getting a game,
made more compleat from the fear of losing it, keep the mind in a
perpetual agitation, which is found by experience to be too agreeable
to be quitted for any other consideration. The stake played for is a
quickener of these sensations, but not the cause. Children who play for
nothing feel what I have been describing perhaps in a more exquisite
degree than he who engages for thousands. A state of inaction is of
all others the most dreadful! and it is to avoid this inaction that we
seek employment, though at the expence of health, temper, and fortune.
This subject is finely touched by Abbé du Bos, in his reflexions upon
poetry, &c. indeed he carries it so far as to say, that the pleasure
arising from an extraordinary agitation of the mind, is frequently so
great as to stifle humanity; and from hence arises the entertainment of
the common people at executions, and of the better sort at tragedies.
Tho’ in this last instance he may be mistaken; yet, the delight we
feel in reading the actions of a hero may be referred to this cause.
The moralist censures the taste of those who can be pleased with the
actions of an Alexander or a Nadir Shah—the Truth is, we do not approve
the actions; but the relation of them causes that agitation of the
mind which we find to be pleasant. The reign of Henry the seventh,
tho’ of the greatest consequence to this nation, does not interest us
like the contentions of York and Lancaster by which the kingdom was
ruined.—It is in vain that we are told that scenes of war and bloodshed
can give no pleasure to a good mind, and that the true hero is he who
cultivates the arts of peace, he by whom men are benefited not he by
whom they are destroyed—it is to no purpose—we sleep over the actions
of quiet goodness, while aspiring, destroying greatness, claims and
commands our attention.

Duelling has in many countries a law against it—but can never be
prevented. The law can inflict no greater penalty for any breach of it
than death; which the duellist contemns.—There are also some cases of
injury which the law cannot prevent, nor punish when committed—these
must be redressed by the man who suffers, and by him _only_. He is
prompted to do this by something antecedent, and superior to all law,
and by a desire as eager as hunger or lust; so that it is as easy
for law to prevent or restrain the two latter as the former. Very
luckily for us, occasions for the gratifications of this passion occur
but seldom: and tho’ a man may be restrained from a duel by personal
fear, which is its only counteractor, there are very few instances,
perhaps none, of its being prevented by considering it so a breach of
the law. In the beginning of the last century duels were as frequent,
particularly in France, as to occasion a severe edict to prevent
them—indeed by their frequency, they were by degrees improved into
combats of two, three, and sometimes more of a side.—In those days
a French nobleman was making up his party to decide a quarrel with
another man of equal rank, it came to the King’s ears, who sent to him
one of the most rising men at court with a command to desist, assuring
him of the strict execution of the edict in case of disobedience.—Every
one knows the attachment of the French to their sovereign, but yet it
proved weak when set against this all-powerful passion. The nobleman
not only refused to obey the king, but actually engaged the messenger
to be one of his party.

The above seem to be the principal reasons why riches, cards, and
duelling have so deep a root in the mind of man—but there are others
which come in aid. The desire of superiority is of itself almost
sufficient to produce this great effect.

                                         Believe me ever yours, &c.




                          =LETTER= III.


I Cannot comply with your desire—a regular dissertation is above
me——but if you will take my thoughts as they occur, the honour of
methodizing them shall be yours.

Languages are termed rough and smooth, weak or expressive, frequently
without reason.—As these are comparative terms, they change their
application according to circumstances. The French is said to be a
smooth or rough language, when compared with the German or Italian.
Perhaps this is true, and yet we should not determine too hastily.
In appearance, there are more vowels in the Italian language than in
the French; but in pronunciation the French lose many Consonants, and
the Italians none: and yet in French, so great is the irregularity
of that language, many consonants are pronounced which are not
written——smoothness or roughness must therefore depend on the ear
alone, yet how far a Language is weak or expressive, may be treated of
and determined with precision.

Every sentence may be considered as the picture of an idea; the quicker
that picture is presented to the mind, the stronger is its Impression.
That language then which is shortest, is the most expressive. If
we should fix on any language as being in general the most concise,
yet, if in some instances it is more diffuse than another, then, in
those instances the latter is most expressive. This, I believe, is an
universal rule, and without exception.

Let us for the present suppose Latin to be more expressive, because
shorter, than any modern language, and compare it with English in some
examples, just as they occur. _Captus oculis_ and _cœcus_—are used for
the same thing—the last is more expressive than the first, and both
less so than blind: a single syllable does the office of many. How much
more forcibly does it strike us to be told that our friend is dead,
than _mortuus est_, or _Mors continuo ipsum occupavit_? This last is
indeed poetical, if we suppose death a person. Tho’ I just now said
that Latin was closer in its expression than any modern language, it
was only in compliance with common opinion; for I have great reason to
believe that it yields in this respect to English: The latin hexameter
and Terence’s line being with ease included in our heroic verse,
which is not so long by many syllables. There have been many pieces
of English poetry translated into Latin, and, in general nothing can
read more dead and unanimated. In the eighth volume of the Spectator
is a translation of the famous soliloquy in the Play of Cato—compare
it with the original, and observe how the same thought is strong in
English and weak in Latin, occasioned entirely by its being close in
one language, and diffuse in the other: for, as much as one sentence
exceeds another in length, in the same proportion does it fail in
expression.

Translations, most commonly, are more verbose than their original,
which is one reason for their weakness; whenever they are less so, they
are stronger. Suppose we should find in a French author these phrases,
_Un Canon de neuf livres de Balle_—_Un Vaisseau du Roi du quatre
vingt dix Pieces du Canon_; and they were rendered into English by _a
nine-pounder_—_A ninety-gun ship_—is not the translation more spirited
than the original? I purposely chose a phrase with as little matter in
it as possible, where the meaning could not be mistaken, and in which
there was no variety of expression, that the trial might be fairer. I
have heard that the German is an expressive language—it may be so, I
do not understand it; but I can perceive that, for the most part, the
words are very long, which makes against its being so. French, and
Italian particularly, are much more diffuse than English. Translations
from these languages have often a force that the originals wanted; and
this not owing to the English being a stronger language in _sound_, as
some have imagined, but to strength occasioned by brevity.

Perhaps it may be imagined, that those words which carry their
signification with them should be most expressive, whether long or
short; that is, when they are derived from, or compounded of known
words, which express that signification. But this is not so. When we
say _adieu_, _farewell_—we mean no more than a ceremony at parting.—No
one considers _adieu_ as a recommendation to God, or _farewell_ as
a wish for happiness.—Frequent use destroys all idea of derivation.
But if we speak a compound or self-significative word that is not
common, we perceive the derivation of it. Thus if a Londoner says
_butter-milk_, he has an idea of something compounded of butter and
milk; but to an Irishman or Hollander, it is as simple an idea as
either of the words taken separately, is to us.

It is but late that our orthography was fixed even in the most common
words. Two hundred years ago, every person spelt as he liked: a
privilege enjoyed still later than that period by “royal and noble
authors,” who seem, in this instance, to claim the liberty enjoyed by
their ancestors. Since the time orthography has been thought of some
consequence, we have attended partly to pronunciation, tho’ chiefly
to derivation. But, in some cases, where we should altogether have
spelt according to derivation, we have taken pronunciation for our
guide. And this has occasioned some confusion; for instance _naught_
is _bad_—_nought_ is _nothing_; these terms were long confounded, and
even now are not kept perfectly distinct, which has occasioned _ought_
to be written _aught_. _Wrapt_ is envelloped—_rapt_ is hurried away,
or totally possessed: the first of these is frequently used for the
last, by some of our modern poets. _Marry_ is an asseveration—_marry_,
to give in marriage—the spelling these words the same, confounds
them together; we should have preserved for the first, the real word
_mary_. It was a common thing formerly to swear by _Mary_, the _a_ in
which was pronounced broad, as the Priests of that time did the Latin
_Maria_, from whom the common people took the pronunciation. In one
of the pieces in the first volume of the collection of old plays, it
frequently occurs, and is spelt as a proper name, _Marie_. Permit me
to observe, that the Editor, by modernizing the spelling in the other
volumes, has prevented their being made this use of, as they might have
shewed the progress of orthography as well as of dramatic poetry.

In the reign of James the first were many attempts to reduce
orthography altogether to pronunciation. In our time we have seen some
attempts to bring it altogether from derivation—but surely both were
wrong. Whoever reads Howel’s letters, or Dr. Newton’s Milton, will
see, that by a partial principle too generally adopted, they have
made of the English language “a very fantastical banquet—just so many
strange dishes!”

There are many inversions of phrases used in poetry which are contrary
to the genius of our language. In the translation of the Iliad
there frequently occurs “thunders the sky”——“totters the ground,”
meaning that “the sky thunders” and “the ground totters.” This change
of position has the authority of some of our best poets, tho’ it
frequently obscures the sense, and sometimes makes it directly contrary
to what is intended to be expressed. Our language does not, with
ease, admit of the nominative after the verb. If we read, tho’ in
poetry, “shakes the ground” we do not readily understand that “the
ground shakes,” but rather refer to some antecedent nominative that
has produced this effect. To adopt the construction of the ancient
languages is as awkward as to adopt their measures. You will understand
this to be meant as a general observation, the truth of which is not
destroyed by a few exceptions where the inversion may be happily
used. The sense in these verses of Pope “halts” as much by Roman
construction, as the Rhythmus in Sidney does by “Roman feet.”

In reading Latin and Greek we are obliged to keep the sense suspended
until we come to the end of the period, but it is not so in any modern
language that I know of, except now and then in Italian poetry; so that
there is a sameness of construction in all of them when compared with
the ancient languages. Now, this suspension of the sense is surely no
advantage, therefore if it were possible to make English like Latin and
Greek in this respect, it would hurt the language.

In another letter I may possibly resume this subject.

                                                          I am, &c.




                           =LETTER= IV.


Our greatest mistake in the pursuit of happiness as well as of science,
is to judge by the perceptions of others, and not by our own. This
perversion is admirably ridiculed in some comedy, in which a young
fellow naturally sober, gives into debaucheries merely because they are
fashionable. “I am horrid sick”—says he—“I am tired to death—I hate
cards—but it is _life_ for all that!”

My friend, examine your heart—You yourself are the best judge of
what contributes to your own happiness. Is the pleasure of shooting
equal to the fatigue?... Put down the gun. Is the cry of the hounds a
sufficient charm to remove the fear of breaking your neck?... Come off
your horse.—And in pure charity let me advise the “_im_patient fisher”
to convert his rod into a walking stick, jemmy, and switch. “For what?
Do not gentlemen love country diversions?” But if _you_ do not, why
should you be governed by _their_ inclinations?

Mr. Connoisseur, do not pretend raptures at music, you know you have no
ear.—Stare not at that picture, you are sensible you have no eye.—Close
that book, let others weep; you have no heart. “Sir, it is the taste to
admire music, painting, and fine writing.”—I am very glad of it.—But
it is not _your_ taste, here

                    ————hinc Vos,
    Vos hinc, mutatis discedite partibus—

Now confess honestly Mr. Sportsman, that you have more pleasure in
Snyder’s pictures, than from hunting in propriâ personâ—that the
French horns at a concert have more harmony than in a wood. And, Mr.
Connoisseur, you are now in your element.—Is it not better to “join the
jovial chace” than the insipid crew of the dilettanti?

Let us remember and practice the old maxim.

    ————trahit _sua_ quemque Voluptas.




                           =LETTER= V.


Dear Sir,

I am glad you go on with your painting. Though you should never arrive
at any great degree of excellence yourself, it will infallibly make
you a better judge of the excellencies of others. You tell me, what
indeed every Connoisseur says by rote, that the great painters painted
above, beyond nature! That they painted beyond nature I grant, but not
above, if by above we are to understand something more excellent than
what we find in nature. I have long been sick of the cant of writers
and talkers upon this subject. If it be possible, let us speak a little
common-sense—endeavour to shew what seems by our feelings to be the
truth, and then prevent a wrong application of it.

The great painters, it is agreed, painted beyond nature—but how? Why,
if I may venture to say it, by drawing and colouring extravagantly. But
were they right or wrong in doing so? This depends upon circumstances.
I remember seeing at a Painter’s a head taken from nature, another
copied from Hans Holbein, and a third from Giulio Romano—upon which
the artist made a dissertation.—He first produced the portrait from
nature, and asked me how I liked it? I told him that there appeared
to me great simplicity and elegance in it, and an excellence which
I thought essential to a good picture—a proper ballance between the
light and shade of every part. (I meant that the shade of the white was
lighter than that of blue—of blue fainter than of black, &c. so that
each colour was as perceivable in the shadows as lights.) Ay, says he,
that is true, but I will shew you a style preferable to it—Upon which
he produced the copy from Holbein.—I agreed, that it was stronger, and
such as nature might appear in many instances.——But here, says he, is
something _beyond_ nature; this I call the sublime style of painting,
and this I will try to bring my heads to.—Then he discovered the
copy from Giulio—there is strength, says he—see how faint the others
are.—Now, acknowledge that the picture I painted from nature is nothing
to it. It must be confessed, I replied, that the extravagance of the
last picture does for a moment dazzle our eyes—yours seems weak by
the comparison, it is like looking upon white paper after staring at
the sun.—On the contrary, if I pass from yours to this, I am hurt at
seeing every thing so extravagant, and so far _beyond the modesty of
nature_!—“It is not intended to be strictly natural, it is the _fine
ideal_, it is something above, beyond nature!” “I must own that I
have no idea of any beauty beyond what may be found in nature—indeed,
whence is the idea to be taken? But do not think I rate Giulio or any
of the sublime painters lightly; I am so sensible of their merit,
that, contrary perhaps to your expectation, I am about to defend their
practice. They generally painted for churches, where the picture is
seen in a bad light, or at a distance; so that it could not be seen
at all if the manner was not violent: both the drawing and colouring
must be extravagant to strike—for which reason, they overcharged their
attitudes, blackened their shadows, reddened their carnations, and
whitened their lights; and all this with the greatest propriety. But
if you apply this practice to closet or portrait painting, what is an
excellence in them, becomes a defect in you. This picture which you
have copied with so much success, I dare say has an admirable effect
where it hangs; but near the eye or in a strong light, it is hard and
over-done. On the other hand, if your portrait was to be hung at a
great distance, or in an obscure place, the delicate touches I now
admire would escape the sight. The style proper for the church is
improper for the closet, and the contrary. The great painters were in
the right then, in painting _beyond nature_; but let us not imagine
that such figures and characters are therefore the most beautiful.
No painter can invent a figure surpassing the _finest_ of nature: for
character and form, nature is the _just_ and _only_ standard. He shews
his genius more by properly associating natural objects, and expressing
natural characters, than by exaggerating them or by inventing new
ones.”

When I receive the picture you have promised me, I will criticise it
with as much sincerity as

                                              I am your Friend, &c.




                           =LETTER= VI.


You have turned my thoughts much towards painting of late—I have been
trying to solve this question.

What is the reason that those objects which displease us, or at best,
that pass unnoticed, in nature, please us most in painting?

A deep road, a puddle of water, a bank covered with docks and
briars, and an old tree or two, are all the circumstances in many a
fine landscape. As clowns and half starved cattle are the figures a
landscape-painter chuses for his pictures; so, rough-looking fellows
wrapt up in sheets and blankets, are chosen by the history-painter, to
express the greatest personages, and in the most dignified actions of
their lives.

Let the following observations have what weight they may—tho’ they do
not clearly answer, they seem to throw some light on this difficult
question.

1. While we are uncultivated, like the Irish Oscar, if we are to
be awakened, it must be by having a great stone thrown against our
heads. The man of the utmost elegance and refinement may remember the
time when, in reading, nothing moved him but the marvellous, and in
painting, nothing pleased him but the glaring. While he was in this
state, he delighted in books of chivalry and Chinese pictures—these
gave place to less extravagant representations of life; and at last
by much converse with men of taste, reading purer authors, and seeing
better pictures, he is taught how to feel, and finds a perfect
revolution even in his sensations. Those objects which once delighted
him, he now despises—these, on the contrary, he formerly took no notice
of, he now sees with rapture; and even goes so far as to admire the
objects in nature, _he has learnt_ to like in representation.—Now, it
is this improved, tho’ artificial state of the mind that constitutes
the judge of painting—and it is the judge the painter is sollicitous
to please.—He is to attain this end then, by departing as much as
possible from what is our natural barbarous taste, and by conforming to
that we have acquired.

2. It is most certain that in all the arts we make difficulties in
order to shew our skill in conquering them.—Some French writer calls
this principle _la difficultè vaincue_; and this conquest is the source
of much pleasure. What is it but this that induces the novellist
and play-writer to embarrass their characters with difficulties and
troubles? What is there but this that can make a musical canon to be
thought fine in composition, or extravagant execution in performance
agreeable, when the mind cannot comprehend the one, nor the ear follow
the other? and, to bring it to the present subject—what is it but this
that induces the painter to make use of the most unpromising objects,
and produce beauty where you might expect nothing but deformity?

3. It is necessary that a painter should chuse such objects as are
capable of variety either from shape or arrangement. Regular formal
objects admit but little, especially those where art has the greatest
share in their production, unless they are capable of motion, as ships,
windmills, &c. and then they become pictoresque by a proper choice
of attitude. It is curious to observe the shifts to which artists
are reduced, when they are obliged to paint such objects as are in
themselves unpictoresque—suppose a fine house with avenues of trees.
They will vary the tint of the stones in the one, and of the leaves in
the other, or by throwing in accidental shades and lights produce a
variety. In like manner, portrait-painters undress the hair, loosen the
coat, and wrinkle the stockings that they may produce a variety in the
_manner_ of _treating_ a subject which wanted it in form.

Those objects which have no set form have of course most variety. A
road or river may wind in any direction—trees are of all sizes and
shapes, may stand here or there—loose drapery admits of a thousand
folds and dispositions which the stiff modern dress is incapable of. So
that the painter by taking these has ample materials for shewing his
judgment in form, or skill in arrangement——for making, and overcoming
difficulties—and lastly, by the uniting both these he conforms to the
principles by which the cultivated taste is pleased—the ultimate end of
all the fine arts.

If you are not satisfied with this solution, help me to a better—but
give a fair reading to this of

                                           Your sincere friend, &c.




                          =LETTER= VII.


I do not admit your excuse.—A genius should never comply with _local_
or _temporary_ taste—instead of debasing himself to the people, he
should elevate the people to him. When Milton subtilizes divinity, and
Shakespeare “cracks the wind of a poor phrase;” who but wishes that
those great poets had not descended from their sphere?

Your allusions to incidents which must soon be forgot, are only worthy
of a writer who expects but a short existence. It is true our plays
abound with such allusions. When Foigard, in the Beaux Stratagem,
says he is a subject of the King of Spain—they ask him in a fury
“which King of Spain?” This did very well at the time; but these two
Kings of Spain are now of much less consequence than their brother
monarchs of Brentford. I think it is in the same play where one of the
characters is asked “when he was at church last?” he should answer “at
the coronation;” but it is a point to give a reply that shall suit
the time when the play is performed, forgetting that there are many
expressions which remove you back into the last century when the play
was written. I remember in the late King’s reign the reply used to be
“at the installation;” at the accession of his present Majesty an
actor thought he had a good opportunity of returning to “coronation,”
but unluckily it was before the King was crowned.

Allusions of this sort soon become obscure, and yet they will not bear
being altered. “Pray you avoid them.”

                                                         Adieu, &c.




                          =LETTER= VIII.


True, my friend, musicians do commit strange absurdities by way of
expression—but fanciful people make them commit others which they never
thought of.

The most common mistake of composers is to express words and not ideas.
This is generally the case with Purcel, and frequently with Handel. I
believe there is not a single piece existing of the former, if it has
a word to be played upon, but will prove my assertion: and the latter,
if the impetuosity of the musical subject will give him leave, will
at any time quit it for a pun. There is no trap so likely to catch
composers as the words _high_ and _low_, _down_ and _up_. “By G— (as
Quin says) they must bite.” In what raptures was Purcel when he set
“They that _go down_ to the sea in ships.” How lucky a circumstance,
that there was a singer at that time, who could _go down_ to DD, and
_go up_ two Octaves above? for there is in other parts of the anthem a
going _up_ as well as _down_. The whole is a constellation of beauties
of this kind. Handel had leisure, at the conclusion of an excellent
movement, to endeavour at an imitation of the rocking of a cradle (See
the end of the anthem “My heart is inditing”), and has his _ups_ and
_downs_ too in plenty. If many examples of this may be found in these
great geniuses, it would be endless to enumerate the instances in
those of the lower order. Let it suffice to observe, that all operas
without exception, the greatest part of church-music, and particularly
Marcello’s psalms, abound in this ridiculous imitative expression.

This is trifling with the words and neglecting the sentiment; but the
fault is much increased when a word is expressed in contradiction to
the sentiment. A most flagrant instance of this is in Boyce’s Solomon,
in the song of “Arise my Fair One come away.”—The hero of the piece is
inviting his mistress to come to him, and to tempt her the more, in
describing the beauty of the spring, he tells her that

    “Stern winter’s _gone_ with all its train
    “Of chilling frosts and dropping rain,”

but it is _come_ in the music—the unlucky words of _winter_, _frost_,
and _rain_, made the composer set the lover a shivering, when he was
full of the feelings of the “genial ray!”

But sometimes expression of the sentiment is blameable, if such
expression is improper for the general subject of the piece. Religious
solemnity should not appear at the theatre, nor theatrical levity at
the church. In the _Stabat Mater_ of Pergolesi, and in the _Messiah_
of Handel, there is an expression of whipping attempted, which, if
it is understood at all, conveys either a ludicrous or prophane idea,
according to the disposition of the hearer. Permit me to suspend my
subject a moment just to observe, that there is sometimes mention
made in plays, of providence, God, and other subjects, which are as
incompatible with a place of public entertainment, as the common
sentiments of plays are with the church. If we are disgusted at a
theatrical preacher, we are not less offended when an actor heightens
all these ill-placed sentiments—forcing them upon your notice by an
affectation of a deep sense of religion, and most solemnly preaching
the sermon which the poet so improperly wrote.

All these, and many more, are faults which musicians _really_
commit; but a connoisseur will make them guilty of others, by way of
compliment, which the composers never dreamt of. The introduction of
the Coronation anthem, _Zadok the Priest_, is an arpeggio, which Handel
probably took from his own performance at the harpsichord; but a great
judge says, it is to express the murmurs of the people assembled in the
abbey. “All we like sheep are gone astray” in the Messiah is considered
as most excellently expressing the breaking out of sheep from a
field.—— But out of pity to the connoisseurs, virtuosi, and the most
respectable _Conoscenti_, I will not increase my instances—God forbid
I should rob any man of his criticism!

Lest I should encroach upon _your_ premises, I will quit such dangerous
ground, and leave you with more celerity than ceremony.




                           =LETTER= IX.


I like every part of your poem except the parenthesis towards the
conclusion. In the midst of a rapid description, or tender sentiment;
or any thing that commands the attention, or attaches the heart; what
is more disgustful than to have the image cut in two, for the sake
of explaining a word, or removing an objection, which the reader may
possibly make?

Milton and Shakespeare frequently interrupt the most lively and ardent
passages—take some instances as they occur.

    Their arms away they threw, and to the hills
    (For earth hath this variety from heav’n
    Of pleasure situate in hill or dale)
    Light as the lightning’s glimpse they ran, they flew.

                                                  PAR. LOST. B. VI.

                  ————when on a day
    (For time, though in eternity, apply’d
    To motion, measures all things durable
    By present, past, and future) on such a day
    As heaven’s great year brings forth.

                                                   PAR. LOST. B. V.

            ————evening now approach’d
    (For we have also our evening and our morn,
    We ours for change delectable, not need)
    Forthwith from dance to sweet repast they turn
    Desirous; &c.

Upon the mention of _hills_ in the first quotation, and of _day_ and
_evening_ in the second and last—he knew that he had some objections
to answer, and accordingly set about doing it for fear of the
consequences—I wish they had remained in their full force.

You have often read the Midsummer Night’s Dream—do you recollect this
passage?

      _Lys._  _Hermia_, for ought that ever I could read,
    Could ever hear by tale or history,
    The course of true love never did run smooth;
    But, either it was different in blood——

      _Her._  O cross! too high, to be enthrall’d to low!——

      _Lys._  Or else misgrafted in respect of years—

      _Her._  O spite! too old, to be engag’d to young!

      _Lys._  Or else it stood upon the choice of friends—

      _Her._  O hell! to chuse love by another’s eye!

      _Lys._  Or if there were a sympathy in choice—
      War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.

Read it without Hermia’s interruptions and it becomes one of the finest
parts of the author—but it is miserably mangled as it stands.

You will remember that it is the improper use of the parenthesis I
object to and not to the thing itself. “This figure of composition,”
says a late ingenious author, “which is hardly ever used in common
discourse, is much employed by the best writers of antiquity, in order
to give a cast and colour to their style different from common idiom,
and by Demosthenes particularly; and not only by the orators, but the
poets.”

I would recommend to your consideration whether you had not better
avoid giving any hint how the story of your poem is to conclude?
Anticipation frequently spoils a fine incident. When Æneas is reciting
to Dido what past at Troy, says he,

    Arduus armatos mediis in mænibus astans
    Fundit equus.

                                                            ÆN. II.

The first mention of the Horse’s having armed men within, should have
been reserved for this place. There is something truly terrible and
sublime in Æneas’s being waked by such a variety of horrid sounds,
and ignorant of the cause; the reader also should have been ignorant
until Pantheus explained the mystery. See the whole passage in Æn. II.
beginning at the 298th verse, and if possible, forget that this went
before.

    Delecta virum fortiti corpora furtim
    Includunt cæco lateri, &c.

One of the finest parts of Don Quixote is also spoiled by mentioning
a circumstance which should have been delayed. The Knight and his
’Squire, at the close of the day, hear the clank of chains, and
dreadful blows, which would have puzzled the reader as much as it
frightened them, had not the author unluckily said “that the strokes
were in _time_ and _measure_,” which is telling us very plainly that it
was a mill. The whole scene is highly pictoresque and beautiful.

If these hints will be of any service to you it will be a great
pleasure to

                                                         Yours, &c.




                           =LETTER= X.


The productions of genius require some ages to be brought to
perfection. The liberal arts have their infancy, youth and manhood;
and, to carry on the allusion, continue sometime in a state of
strength, and then verge by degrees to a decline, which at last ends in
a total extinction. The English language, poetry, and music, exhibit
proofs of this observation, as far as they have as yet gone: with the
two former I have at present nothing to do, but shall confine what I
have to say on this subject to the latter.

What the music of the times preceding Harry the eighth was, I confess
myself ignorant, nor indeed is the knowledge of it necessary: we may
conclude that it was more barbarous than that of the sixteenth century,
as the times in which it was used were less enlightened. Some masses,
mottets, and madrigals are what have reached us. The whole consists
of a succession of chords without art or meaning, and perfectly
destitute of air. In Elizabeth’s reign appeared some composers, Tallis,
Bird, Morley, and Farrant, which improved the barren style of their
predecessors: they had more choice in their harmony, and made some
little advances in melody. There are some pieces of instrumental
music composed at this time which still exist: particularly a book
of lessons, for the virginals, which was the Queen’s.—Whether the
composers thought that her sacred Majesty excelled in musical abilities
as much as in rank, or as she wished to do in beauty, I know not; but
this is certain, that these pieces are so crowded with parts, and so
aukwardly barbarous, as to render the performance of them impossible—so
natural is it, even in the infancy of art, to mistake difficulty for
beauty.

I do not recollect any composer that really improved music for the
first half of the seventeenth century, except Orlando Gibbons; of
whom, a service for the church, and two or three anthems remain, the
harmony of which is good, and the melody pleasing. In the Gloria Patri
of the Nunc Dimittis is the best canon, in my judgment, that was ever
made. Gibbons was also a composer for the virginals, but in no respect
better than his predecessors. I believe it was about this time that
the species of canon called the catch, was produced. The intent of my
making this short recapitulation of the former state of music is purely
prefatory to what I have to say upon the subject of catches.

This odd species of composition, whenever invented, was brought to its
perfection by Purcel. Real music was as yet in its childhood; but the
reign of Charles the second carried every kind of vulgar debauchery
to its height. The proper æra for the birth of such pieces as “when
quartered, have ever three parts obscenity, and one part music.”

The definition of a catch is a piece for three or more voices, one of
which leads, and the others follow in the same notes. It must be so
contrived, that rests (which are made for that purpose) in the music of
one line be filled up with a word or two from another line; these form
a cross-purpose or catch, from whence the name. Now, this piece of wit
is not judged perfect, if the result be not the rankest indecency.

Perhaps this definition may be objected to, and I may be told that
there are catches perfectly harmless. It is true that some pieces are
called catches that have nothing to offend, and others that may justly
pretend to please; but they want what is absolutely necessary for a
catch—the break, and cross-purpose.

It may also be said that the result of the break, is not always
indecency. I confess there are catches upon other subjects, drunkenness
is a favourite one; which, though good, is not so _very_ good as the
other: and there may possibly be found one or two upon other topicks
which might be heard without disgust; but these are not sufficient to
contradict a general rule, or make me retract what I have advanced.

I will next examine their musical merit.—And this as compositions
must consist either in their harmony, or melody; or their effect in
performance.

The harmony of a catch is nothing more than the common result of
filling up a chord.—There is not contrivance enough to make it esteemed
as a piece of ingenuity. “What! they are all canons!” So is every
tune in the world, if you will set it in three or more parts, and
sing those parts in succession as a catch—but a _real_ canon is not
so easily produced: it is one of those difficult trifles which costs
an infinite deal of labour, and after all is worth nothing. I do not
except the famous _Non nobis_ of Bird, in which are some passages not
to be endured. The excellence in the composition of a catch consists in
making the breaks, and filling them up properly. The melody is, for the
most part, the unimproved vulgar drawl of the times of ignorance.

Let us next attend to the manner of performance. One voice leads, a
second follows, and a third, &c. succeeds, unaccompanied with any
instrument to keep them in tune together. The consequence is, that the
voices are always sinking, but not equally, for the best singer will
keep nearest the pitch, and the others depart farthest from it. If
the parts are doubled, which is sometimes the case, all these defects
are multiplied. To this let there be added the imperfect scale of an
uncultivated voice, the _departing_ from the real sound by way of
humour, the noise of so many people striving to outsing each other,
the confusion of speaking different words at the same time, and all
this heightened by the laughing and other accompaniments of the
audience—it presents such a scene of savage folly as would not disgrace
the Hottentots indeed, but is not much to the credit of a company of
civilized people.

As the catch in a manner owed its existence to a drunken club, of which
some musicians were members; upon their dying, it languished for years,
and was scarce known except among choir-men, who now and then kept
up the spirit of their forefathers. As the age grew more polished, a
better style of music appeared. Corelli gave a new turn to instrumental
music, and was successfully followed by Geminiani and Handel; the last
excelled in vocal as well as instrumental music.

There have been refinements and confessed improvements upon all these
great men since; and no doubt but at this time there are much better
performers, and more elegant, tho’ less solid composers. This is the
united effect of the labours of the whole together, for there is no
_one man_ to be compared with either of the above-mentioned.

Now, if this were speculation only, is it credible that taste should
revert to barbarism? Its natural death is, to be frittered away in
false refinement; and yet, contrary to experience in every other
instance, we have gone back a century, and catches flourish in the
reign of George the third. There is a club composed of some of the
first people in the kingdom which meet professedly to hear this species
of composition: they cultivate it and encourage it with premiums. To
obtain which, many composers, who ought to be above such nonsense,
become candidates, and produce such things

    ——“one knows not what to call,
    “Their generation’s so equivocal.”

Sometimes a piece makes its appearance that was lately found by
accident after a concealment of a hundred and fifty years. When it
is approved, and declared too excellent for these degenerate days,
the author smiles and owns it. I scarce ever saw one of these things
that did not betray itself, within three bars, to be modern. It is as
difficult to imitate ancient music as ancient poetry; a few square
notes are not sufficient for the one, nor will two or three _whiloms_
and _ekes_ do for the other. And yet in this last instance a few
affected antiquated spellings have been thought by one half of the
world, sufficient to weigh against modern phraseology, modern manners,
and even modern facts. Surely it requires no great discernment to
discover that what has existed may be imitated, but nothing less than
the gift of Prescience can dive into futurity. If it is _improbable_
that an uneducated boy should be able to produce what are called
Rowley’s Poems, it is _impossible_ that Rowley could write in a style
and allude to facts of after times. Forgive me this digression, but
indeed I have nearly finished my subject and letter.

I profess that I never heard a catch sung, but I felt more ashamed
than I can express. I pretend to no more delicacy than that of the
age I live in, which is very properly too refined to endure such
barbarisms—I was ashamed for myself—for my company—and if a foreigner
was present—for my country.

It has just occurred to me that you like catches, and frequently help
to sing them—revenge yourself for the liberties I have taken, by
compelling me to hear some of these pleasant ditties, when perhaps I
may be forced to sing in my own defence.

                                                             Adieu.

P. S. If you should have a design to convert me—take me to the
catch-club.—I confess, and honour, the superior excellence of its
performance, while I lament that so noble a subscription should be
lavished for so poor a purpose as keeping alive musical false-wit,
when it might so powerfully support and encourage the best style
of composition; and rather advance our taste by anticipating the
improvements of the coming age, than force it back to times of
barbarism, from which it has cost us such pains to emerge.




                           =LETTER= XI.


I know that you are one of those who consider our language as past its
meridian. Some think it was in its highest lustre in the age of Sidney;
others, in that of Addison. Perhaps, upon an impartial review of it, we
shall find it more perfect now than ever.

In the authors before the reign of Elizabeth, there seems not the least
pretence to a simple, natural style. A man was held unfit to write, who
could not express his thoughts out of the common language; so that it
is possible, there was as much difficulty in understanding them at the
time they lived, as now. If we are to judge of the English they spoke,
by that they writ, we have no reason to complain of the fluctuation
of our tongue. But it is very probable that conversation-language was
much the same two hundred years ago as at present; there are proofs of
this in private letters still existing—I mean from such people as had
no ambition to be thought learned, or from such as felt too much for
affectation. The famous letter of Ann Boleyn to Henry the eighth, is
of this last sort, in which there is scarce an obsolete expression.——I
hope you make a distinction between expression and spelling—for as I
once observed to you, it is but of late that our orthography has been
fixed. In the State-tryals in Elizabeth and James’s reign, we find near
the same language we use at present, and this was taken immediately
from the mouth. In those passages where Shakespeare’s genius had not
its full scope, may be observed his attempts to be thought learned, and
refined; but where the subject was too impetuous to brook restraint,
the language is as perfect as the idea. Upon the whole, tho’ the
colloquial English was much the same as at present, we may safely
pronounce the style of the _authors_ of this period to be barbarous.

The disputes between Charles the first and the Parliament, were
of great use in polishing the language; and tho’ the King’s papers
are thought to be most elegant, yet it is evident that both parties
endeavoured at strength for the good of their cause, and at perspicuity
for the sake of being universally understood—and these two principles
go near towards making a perfect style. Milton’s prose is in general
very nervous, but it is not free from stiffness and affectation.

The other period is that of Addison. He was undoubtedly one of our
smoothest and best writers: he had the skill of uniting ease, strength,
and correctness, and did more towards improving the language than the
united labours of fifty years before him. But yet there were some
little remains of barbarism still left, which are evident enough in his
contemporaries, and may be discovered even in him, by attending to the
style and not to the matter. Will you believe that so elegant a writer
has used _authenticalness_ for _authenticity_?——You may find this
horrid word in his Dialogues on Medals.

Political disputes have produced, among many bad effects, the same
good, now, as formerly—they have improved our language. Those in the
Administration of Sir Robert Walpole, but more particularly these in
our own times, have occasioned some of the most perfect pieces of
writing we have in our tongue. Though, from the nature of the subject,
the pieces themselves can scarce exist longer than the dispute which
gave them being; yet certainly their effect upon the language will be
felt when the quarrel itself is no more, and every thing relating to it
forgotten.

Tho’ I have affirmed that our language is more perfect now than in any
past period—yet there is still much left in it to be corrected.—Indeed
there are some defects in all languages, which have crept in by
degrees, and are so sanctified by custom, that they can never be
corrected. In English there is no difference in writing, tho’ there is
in pronouncing, the present, and preterperfect tenses of the verbs
_read_, and _eat_, and some others. Some unsuccessful attempts have
been made to distinguish them by writing _redde_ and _ate_. There are
more words in Latin of contrary significations which are written the
same, than, I believe, in any other language. It is a _defect_ if the
pronunciation of different words be alike, and a great _fault_ if such
a pronunciation be the consequence of a refinement. We now pronounce
_fore_ and _four_, the same; which sometimes makes an odd confusion. “I
will come to you at three, I can’t come _before_”—and “I will come to
you at three, I can’t come _by four_”—are pronounced just the same way.
This we get by affectedly dropping the _u_. In French _au dessous_
and _au dessus_ are too much alike for contrary significations. Nature
dictates a difference of sound for different meanings: the adverbs of
negation and assent, bear no resemblance to each other in any language;
and almost all languages agree in some such sound as _no_ for denial.

The London dialect is the cause of many improprieties, which, if they
were only used in conversation, would not much signify; but as they
have begun to make part of our written language, they deserve some
animadversion. To mention a few. The custom among the common people
of adding an _s_ to many words, has, I believe, occasioned its being
fixed to some, by writers of rank, who on account of their residence
in London did not perceive the impropriety. They speak, and write,
_chickens_—_coals_—_acquaintances_—_assistances_, &c. _Chicken_ is
itself the plural of _chick_, as _oxen_ is of _ox_, _kine_ (_cowen_)
is of _cow_, and many others. _Coal_, _acquaintance_, being aggregate
nouns, admit of no plural termination, nor does _assistance_. If I were
to say a bag of shots, or sands, the impropriety would be instantly
perceived; and yet one is full as good English as the other. A certain
author of great credit, who has taken a strict, nay, a verbal review of
the English language, uses them as often as they occur.

As the Londoners speak, so they also write _learn_ for _teach_, this
is a very old mistake, and occurs frequently in the psalms, _do_ for
_does_ (and the contrary), _set_ for _sit_, _see_ for _saw_, _tin_ for
_latten_ (which are two different things as well as words), _sulky_
for _sullen_, &c. &c. _’Change_ and _’sample_ have been long admitted
denizens.——Even in a dictionary you may find _million_ explained to be
a fruit well known—as perhaps in a future edition we shall be told that
a _fly_ signifies a _coach_, and _dilly_ a _chaise_.

The London _phraseology_ has also been too hard for English. _I got me
up_—_he sets him down_—_I got no sleep_—_I slept none_—such a thing is
_a_ doing—_a_ going—_a_ coming—_live_ lobsters—_live_-cattle—I will
call _of_ you—do not tell _on_ it. All these are writ without scruple.
Our modern comedies, and the London news-papers, abound so much in this
language, that they are scarce intelligible to one who has never been
in the capital. Nay in books for the use of schools, the London dialect
is so predominant, that many of the sentences are not to be understood
by a country boy, and impossible to be rendered into Latin even by
those who do understand them. “I will go and fetch a walk in the Green
Park”—“I will go get me my dinner,” and such jargon is perpetually
occurring.

English has also been corrupted by London _emphasis_ and _accent_—I
will not tire you by quoting examples, of which a long list might
be made to prove the great propensity of the common people to those
defects; and would be a farther confirmation of what I just now
advanced, that men of learning really commit improprieties, because
their ear is familiarized to them.

I have yet something to add on this subject—but I must caution you
from imagining that because I find out the faults of others, I pretend
to perfection myself. Hogarth says very properly in his Analysis
of Beauty, “do not look for good drawing in those examples which I
bring of grace and beauty—they are purposely neglected—attend to the
precept.”




                          =LETTER= XII.


I sometimes provoke you by sporting with what you deem sacred matters.
Homer I know is one of your divinities—may I venture to tell you that I
never could find that scale of heroes in the Iliad which critics admire
as such a beauty?

Hector is supposed in valour superior to all but Achilles—upon what
authority? Ajax certainly beat him in the single combat between them;
and there are some instances, tho’ I cannot recollect the passages, of
his inferiority to others of the Greeks.

It is surely a blindness worse than Homerican, not to see many
inconsistencies in the Iliad, and it is ridiculous to attempt to make
beauties of them. From many which might easily be pointed out, take
one or two as they occur to my memory. After describing Mars as the
most terrible of beings, and to whom whole armies are as nothing;
what _poetical_ belief is strong enough to suppose he could be made
to retire by Diomed? If Minerva’s shield is so vast (the shell of a
Kraken, I suppose), can one help wondering why she does not use it as
the King of Laputa does his island, when his subjects on Terra-firma
rebel? I do not recollect parallel instances in Milton.




                          =LETTER= XIII.


You have not done me justice—read the memoirs I sent you _properly_
before they are condemned:—what is any book if it be not read in that
manner by which it may best be understood? A novel, whose merit lies
chiefly in the story, should be quickly passed through; for the closer
you can bring the several circumstances together, the better. If its
merit consists in character and sentiment, it should be read much
slower; for the least obvious parts of a character are frequently the
most beautiful, and the propriety of a sentiment may easily escape in
a hasty perusal. Detached thoughts ought to be dwelt on longer than
any other manner of writing; for different subjects following close,
do rather confound than instruct; but if we allowed ourselves time to
reflect, we should understand the author and perhaps improve ourselves.
Each thought should be considered as a text, upon which we ought to
make a commentary.

Bayle’s manner of writing by text and note is generally decried, but
without reason. When there is a necessity of proving the assertion
by quotation, which was his case, no other way can be taken equally
perspicuous. The authorities must be produced somewhere—they cannot be
in the text, and if they are put at the end of the book, which is the
modern fashion, how much more troublesome are they for referring to,
than by being at the bottom of the page? The truth is, this is another
instance of ignorance in the method of reading. Bayle, Harris, and
other writers of this class, should have the text read first, which is
quickly dispatched; then, begin again and take in the notes. By this
means you preserve a connection, and judge of the proofs of what is
asserted.

I might in other respects complain of your treating me rather unfairly;
indeed, none judge less favourably of an author than his intimate
friends——their personal knowledge of him as a man, destroys a hundred
delusions to his advantage as an author.—“Who is a hero to his Valet
de Chambre?” said the great Condé, and he might have added, “or to his
friends?” Besides the obvious reason for this, it is most likely that
an author has in his common conversation made his friends acquainted
with his sentiments long before they are communicated to the public.
The consequence is, that to _them_ his work is not new; and it is
possible that they may take to themselves part of his merit; for I have
known many instances, where a person has been told something by way of
information, which he himself told to the informer.

I know you will take this to yourself.—Do so, but still think me

                                                           Yours, &c.




                          =LETTER= XIV.


We are got into a custom of mentioning Shakespeare and Jonson together,
and many think them of equal merit, tho’ in different ways. In my
opinion, Jonson is one of the dullest writers I ever read, and his
plays, with some few exceptions, the most unentertaining I ever saw. He
has some shining passages now and then, but not enough to make up for
his deficiencies. Shakespeare, on the contrary, abundantly recompenses
for being sometimes low and trifling. One of his commentators much
admires his great art in the construction of his verses—I dare say
they are very perfect; but it is as much out of my power to think upon
the art of verse-making when I am reading this divine poet, as it is
to consider of the best way of making fiddle-strings at a concert. I
am not master of myself sufficiently to do any thing that requires
deliberation: I am taken up like a leaf in a whirlwind, and dropped at
Thebes or Athens, as the poet pleases!

I have seldom any pleasure from the representation of Shakespeare’s
plays, unless it be from some scenes of conversation merely,
without passion. The speeches which have any thing violent in the
expression, are generally so over-acted as to cease to be the “mirror
of nature”—but this was always the case—“Oh! it offends me to the
soul, to see a robustious perriwig-pated fellow tear a passion to
tatters:”—’tho’ this is a “lamentable thing,” yet it appears to be
without remedy. An actor, in a large theatre, is like a picture hung
at a distance, if the touches are delicate, they escape the sight:
both must be extravagant to be seen at all, and hence the custom of
the ancients to make use of the Persona and Buskin. Acting has a
very different effect in the stage-box from what it has in the back
of the gallery. In the one, every thing appears rough and rude,
like a picture of Spagnolet’s near the eye; in the other, it is with
difficulty that the play can be made out. Perhaps, the best place is
the front of the first gallery; as being sufficiently removed to soften
these hardnesses, yet near enough to see and hear with advantage.
But there is no place can alter the impropriety of rant and turgid
declamation, which the performer naturally runs into by endeavouring to
be strong enough to be heard—so that, as I observed, the evil seems to
be incurable.




                           =LETTER= XV.


An acquaintance of ours has corresponded with a writing-master many
years, not from any regard to the man, but for the pleasure he takes
in seeing fine writing. He preserves his letters carefully, and though
he _reads_ them to none, (perhaps they are still unread by himself) he
_shews_ them to all who can relish the excellence of a flourish “long
drawn out.”——Our friend’s taste may be ridiculed by those who “hold
it a baseness to write fair,” but yet it is certain, that the true
form of letters, in writing, is understood no where but in England.
I never saw a specimen of a correct hand either written or engraved,
from any other country, that was upon a right principle. Perhaps it
may be objected, that every nation, prejudiced in favour of their own
particular manner, will say the same thing. Let us examine this.

Modern writing-hand had its rise from an endeavour to form the true
letters as they are printed, with expedition. The first variation from
the original, must be an oblique instead of a perpendicular situation,
this naturally arises from the position of the hand—the next, a joining
of the letters; these two necessarily produce a third, an alteration
of the form. So that writing hand differs from printing in this, that
the former is an arrangement of _connected_ characters, the latter of
distinct ones. The slit in the pen makes the down-strokes full, and
the up-strokes slight, so that the body of the letter is strong, and
the joinings weak; as they should be. It is most natural and easy also
to hold the pen always in the same position, by which means, the full
and hair-strokes are always in their right places. So far seems the
necessary consequence of endeavouring to make the letters expeditiously
with a pen. This being granted, the ornamental part comes next to
be considered. For this, it is requisite that the letters should
be of the same size and distance, that their leaning should be in
the same direction, that the joining be as much as possible uniform,
and, lastly, that the superadded ornament of flourishing, should be
continued in the same position of the pen in which it was first begun,
(generally the reverse of the usual way of holding it), and that the
forms be distinct, flowing, and graceful.

These appear to me to be the true principles of writing. Examine the
Italian and French hands by these rules, (some of the best specimens
are the titles of prints, &c.) and the hand which they use will be
found to be unconnected, full of unmeaning twists and curlings
generally produced by altering the position of the pen, and upon the
whole awkward, stiff, and ungraceful.

As they _now_ write, we _did_, about seventy or eighty years since; so
that our present beautiful hand is a new one, and by its being used no
where but in England, I must conclude it to be an English invention.

Believe me, in my best writing, and with my best wishes, ever

                                                         Yours, &c.




                          =LETTER= XVI.


I Have often reflected with great grief, that there is scarce any
remarkable natural object in the sublime style, of which we have
a draught, to be depended on. The cataract of Niagara.—The peak
of Teneriffe, we know nothing of but that the one is the greatest
waterfall, and the other the highest single mountain in the world.
It is true, Condamine says, that the Andes far surpass the peak of
Teneriffe; more than a third—but, it should be considered, that the
valley of Quito is 1600 fathoms above the sea, and that it is from
the foot of the mountain that the eye judges of its height. The peak
of Teneriffe rises at once, and has, comparatively, but a small
base—so that, in appearance, Teneriffe is the highest of mountains.
The cataract of Niagara, indeed, is most excellently _described_ by
Mr. Kalm; but all descriptions of visible objects comes so short
of a representation, and is necessarily so imperfect, that if ten
different painters were to read Mr. Kalm’s account of this amazing
fall, and to draw it from his description, we should have as many
different draughts as painters. The peak of Teneriffe has been ascended
by many, but described by none, for I cannot call those accounts
descriptions, which would suit any other high mountain as well. Some
travellers give views of what they apprehend to be curious, but all
that we can find from them is, that they cannot possibly be like the
object described. There must be some amazing scenes in Norway by
Pontoppidan’s Descriptions, and in the Alps by Schuchtzer’s, but their
draughts cannot bear the least resemblance to what they describe. Nay,
those objects which lie in the common road of travellers have just the
same fate.—The view of Lombardy from the Alps—the bay of Naples—the
appearance of Genoa, from the sea, &c. &c. are much talked of, but
never drawn: or if drawn, not published. From this general censure
I should except a view of Vesuvius taken by a pupil of Vernet’s, and
two views of the Giant’s causeway in Ireland, but above all Gaspar
Poussin’s drawings from Tivoli. These have something so characteristic,
that we may be sure that they give a proper idea of the scenes from
whence they were taken. Of the many thousands that are constantly going
to the East-Indies, not one has published a drawing of the Cape of Good
Hope, nor of Adam’s peak in Ceylon, nor fifty other remarkable objects
which are seen in that voyage.——Even the rock of Gibraltar is as yet
undrawn. What I mean by a drawing is a _pictoresque_ view, not a meer
outline for the use of navigators, nor the unmeaning marks of a pencil
directed by ignorance. I greatly suspect the so much commended draughts
in Anson’s voyage to be nothing but outlines filled up at random; and
more than suspect, that many designs in a late publication of this
sort, are mere inventions at home.

I have been led into this subject by the two admirable descriptions
of Ætna by Sir W. Hamilton and Brydone—as much as _words_ can realize
objects, they _are_ realized.— But yet, a dozen different views taken
by real artists, would have done more in an instant, than any effect
within the power of description.




                          =LETTER= XVII.


Is there not something very fanciful in the analogy which some people
have discovered between the arts? I do not deny the _commune quoddam
vinculum_, but would keep the principle within its proper bounds.
Poetry and painting, I believe, are only allied to music and to each
other; but music, besides having the above-named ladies for sisters,
has also astronomy and geometry for brothers, and grammar—for a cousin,
at least. I am sure I have left out many of the family, though, if
I could enumerate what seems at present the whole, it is odds, but
there would be a new relation discovered soon by an adept in this
business.—Why should not I find out one or two?—I will try.

Let me see—what is there near me? Oh! a standish—music then shall be
like my standish. Any thing else?—Yes—like the grate—or like that shirt
now hanging by the fire, which makes so excellent a screen.

“How prove you this in your great wisdom?”

Marry! thus—music bears great analogy to my standish; because there
is one bottle for the ink, another for the sand, and the third for
wafers—these are evidently the unison, third, and fifth, which make a
compleat chord; and those three a compleat standish.—The pen is so
evidently the plectrum, that it is insulting you to mention it.

“But why like the grate?”

Bless me! did you never see a testudo,—a lyre? The bars are the
strings, the back is the belly—need I enlarge? What is the fire but the
vis musica?—and here, the poker is the plectrum.

“But how can it possibly be like the shirt?”

Pho! any thing in analogy is possible.—Like my shirt?—Why, the body
is the bass, the sleeves are two trebles—the ruffles are shakes and
flourishes—the three buttons of the collar are evidently the common
chord.—But, a truce with such nonsense.—There are scarce any two
things in the world but may be _made_ to resemble each other. Permit me
to shew the slightness of another received opinion concerning music.

“What passion cannot music raise or quell?” says Dryden, or Pope, I
forget which: and the same thought is so often expressed by other
poets, and so generally adopted by all authors upon this subject,
that it would be a bold attempt to contradict it, were there not
an immediate appeal to general feeling, which I hope is superior
to all authority. Thus supported then, I ask in my turn—“What
passion _can_ music raise or quell?” Who ever felt himself affected,
otherwise than with pleasure, at those strains which are supposed
to inspire grief—rage—joy—or pity? and this, in a degree, equal
to the goodness of the composition and performance. The effect of
music, in this instance, is just the same as of poetry. We attend—are
pleased—delighted—transported—and when the heart can bear no more,
“glow, tremble, and weep.” All these are but different degrees of pure
_pleasure_. When a poet or musician has produced this last effect, he
has attained the utmost in the power of poetry or music. Tears being
a general expression of grief, pain, and pity; and music, when in its
perfection, producing them, has occasioned the mistake, of its raising
the passions of grief, &c. But tears, in fact, are nothing but the
mechanical effect of every strong affection of the heart, and produced
by all the passions; even joy and rage. It is this effect, and the
pleasurable sensation together, which Offian (whether ancient or modern
I care not) calls the “joy of grief.”——It is this effect, when produced
by some grand image, which Dr. Blair, his Critic, styles the “sublime
pathetic.”

I have chosen to illustrate these observations from poetry rather than
from music, because it is more generally understood, and easier to
quote—but the principle is equal in both the arts.

                                                             Adieu.




                         =LETTER= XVIII.


Your pictures came safe—my opinion of them you will in part know from
the following observations, which, though made on another occasion, are
equally applicable to this.

There is in landscape-painting and novel-writing a fault committed by
some of the best artists and authors, which is as yet unnamed, because
perhaps unnoticed, permit me to call it _a bad association_.

In a landscape, it is not sufficient that all the objects are such
as may well be found together.—In a story, it is not enough that the
incidents are such as may well happen—it is necessary in both, that all
the circumstances should be of the _same family_.

Suppose a landscape had for its subject one of Gaspar Poussin’s Views
of Tivoli—now, tho’ there is nothing more natural than to find mills
by running water, yet a mill is not an object that can possibly agree
with the other parts of the picture. Suppose in a landscape of Ruysdale
there were introduced the ruins of a temple; tho’ a temple may be
properly placed in a wood near water, yet it does not suit the rustic
simplicity of the pictures of this artist.—Give the mill to Ruysdale
and the temple to Gaspar—all will be right. These two painters were the
most perfect in their different styles that ever existed. Both formed
themselves upon the study of nature, both were correct, both excellent;
and yet so totally different from each other, that there are scarce
any parts of the pictures of one, that will bear being introduced into
those of the other. Claude’s magnificent ideas frequently betrayed him
into _a bad association_.——Large grand masses of trees agree but ill
with sea and ships, unless they are removed to a distance.—An English
painter, who formed himself upon the study of Gaspar, took his trees,
rocks, and other circumstances from that master, but his buildings
from the Gardiner’s huts at Newington.

A story which proceeds upon a regular circumscribed plan, chiefly
consisting of dialogue and sentiment, where the scene is laid in
London, and the characters such as are natural to the place; has _a bad
association_ if the author goes to Africa in quest of adventures. On
the other hand, a novel which sets out upon the principle of variety,
and where a frequent change of place is necessary to the execution of
the design, has _a bad association_ if the author in any part of it
quits adventure for sentiment or satire. And yet, this has been done by
Fielding and Smollet, the two best novel-writers of the age.

                   *       *       *       *       *


                       END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.




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