to write a familiar epistle and a funeral oration in a style of the same cadence, as to set the words of a tender love-song to the tune of a warlike march.

Besides that general correspondence which the current of sound has with the current of thought, a more particular expression may be attempted, of certain objects, by resembling sounds. In poetry this resemblance is chiefly to be looked for. It obtains sometimes, indeed, in prose composition; but there in a more faint and inferior degree.

The sounds of words may be employed to describe chiefly three classes of objects; first, other sounds; secondly, motion; and thirdly, the emotions and passions of the mind.

In most languages it will be found, that the names of many particular sounds are so formed as to bear some resemblance to the sound which they signify; as with us, the whistling of winds, the buzz and hum of insects, the hiss of serpents, and the crash of falling timber; and many other instances, where the word has been plainly constructed from the sound it represents *. A remarkable example of this beauty we shall produce from Milton, taken from two passages in his Paradise Lost, describing the sound made, in the one, by the opening of the gates of Hell; in the other, by the opening of those of Heaven. The contrast between the two exhibits to great advantage the art of the poet. The first is the

opening Hell's gates:

On a sudden, open fly,

With impetuous recoil, and jarring sound,
Th' infernal doors; and on their hinges grate

Harsh thunder..

*For a fuller explanation of this figure in composition,

See

page

219.

Observe the smoothness of the other;

Heav'n open'd wide

Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound!
On golden hinges turning.

The second class of objects, which the sound of words is frequently employed to imitate, is motion as it is swift or slow, violent or gentle, uniform or interrupted, easy or accompanied with effort. Between sound and motion there is no natural affinity; yet in the imagination there is a strong one, as is evident from the connexion between music and dancing. The poet can, consequently, give us a lively idea of the kind of motion he would describe, by the help of sound, which corresponds, in our imagination, with that motion. Long syllables naturally excite the idea of slow motion; as in this line of Pope:

Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone. A succession of short syllables gives the impression of quick motion: as, in Milton,While on the tawny sands and shelves

Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.

The works of Homer and Virgil abound with instances of this beauty, which are so often quoted, and so well known, that it is unnecessary to produce them.

The third set of objects, which we mentioned the sound of words as capable of representing, consists of the emotions and passions of the mind. Between sense and sound there appears, at first view, to be no natural resemblance. But if the arrangement of syllables, by the sound alone, calls forth one set of ideas more readily than another, and disposes the mind for entering into that affection which the poet intends to raise, such arrangement may, with propriety, be said

to resemble the sense, or be similar and correspondent to it. Thus when pleasure, joy, and agreeable objects, are described by one who sensibly feels his subject, the language naturally runs into smooth, liquid, and flowing numbers:

years

O joy, thou welcome stranger! twice three
I have not felt thy vital beams; but now
It warms my veins and plays around my heart:
A fiery instinct lifts me from the ground,
And I could mount

Young.

Brisk and lively sensations excite quicker and more animated numbers:

The offer likes not, and the nimble gunner

With linstock now the dev'lish cannon touches,
And down goes all before him.

Shakspeare.

Melancholy and gloomy subjects are naturally connected with slow measures and long words:

In those deep solitudes and awful cells,

Where heav'nly pensive contemplation dwells.

Pope.

Abundant instances of this kind will be suggested by a moderate acquaintance with the good poets, either ancient or modern.

General Characters of Style.

Diffuse, Concise, Feeble, Nervous, Dry, Plain, Neat, Elegant, Flowery.

THAT different subjects ought to be treated in different kinds of style, is a position so selfevident, that it requires not illustration. Every one is convinced, that treatises of philosophy should not be composed in the same style with orations. It is equally apparent, that different parts of the same composition require a variation in the style and manner. Yet amidst this va

riety, we still expect to find, in the composition of any one man, some degree of uniformity or consistency with himself, in manner; we expect to find some prevailing character of style impressed on all his writings, which shall be suited to, and shall distinguish, his particular genius and turn of mind. The orations in Livy differ considerably in style, as they ought to do, from the rest of his history. The same thing may be observed in those of Tacitus. Yet in the orations of both these elegant historians, the distinguishing manner of each may be clearly traced; the splendid fulness of the one, and the sententious brevity of the other. Wherever there is real and native genius, it prompts a disposition to one kind of style rather than to another. Where this is wanting, where there is no marked nor peculiar character which appears in the compositions of an author, we are apt to conclude, and not without cause, that he is a vulgar and trivial author, who writes from imitation, and not from the impulse of original genius.

One of the first and most obvious distinctions of the different sorts of style arises from an author's expanding his thoughts more or less. This distinction constitutes what are termed the diffuse and concise styles. A concise writer compresses his ideas into the fewest words; he employs none but the most expressive; he lops off all those which are not a material addition to the sense. Whatever ornament he admits is adopted for the sake of force, rather than of grace. The same thought is never repeated. The utmost precision is studied in his sentences; and they are generally designed to suggest more to the reader's imagination than they immediately express.

A diffuse writer unfolds his idea fully. He

holds it out in a variety of lights, and assists the reader, as much as possible, in comprehending it completely. He is not very anxious to express it at first in its full strength, because he intends repeating the impression; and what he wants in strength he endeavours to supply by copiousness. His periods naturally flow into some length ; and having room for ornament of every kind, he gives it free admittance.

Each of these styles has its peculiar advantages, and each becomes faulty when carried to the extreme. Of conciseness carried as far as propriety will allow, perhaps in some cases farther, Tacitus the historian, and Montesquieu, in "l'Esprit de Loix," are remarkable examples. Of a beautiful and magnificent diffuseness, Cicero is, undoubtedly, the noblest instance which can be given. Addison also, and Sir William Temple, may be ranked in some degree under the same class.

To determine when to adopt the concise, and when the diffuse manner, we must be guided by the nature of the composition. Discourses which are to be spoken require a more diffuse style than books which are to be read. In written compositions, a proper degree of conciseness has great advantages. It is more lively; keeps up attention: makes a stronger impression on the mind; and gratifies the reader by supplying more exercise to his conception. Description, when we wish to have it vivid and animated, should be in a concise strain. Any redundant words or circumstances encumber the fancy, and render the object we present to it confused and indistinct. The strength and vivacity of description, whether in prose or poetry, depend much more upon the happy choice of one or two important circumstances than upon the