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Of this second branch the following are exam


-Now bid me run,

And I will strive with things impossible,
Yea get the better of them.

Julius Cæsar, Act II. Sc. 3.

Vos mains seules ont droit de vaincre un invincible.
Le Cid, Act V. Sc. last.

Que son nom soit beni. Que son nom soit chanté,
Que l'on celebre ses ouvrages
Au de la de l'eternité.

Esther, Act V. Sc. last.

Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell: myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me, opens wide;
To which the hell I suffer seems a heav'n.

Paradise Lost, Book IV.

Of the third branch, take the following samples.

Lucan, talking of Pompey's sepulchre,

-Romanum nomen, et omne
Imperium Magno est tumuli modus. Obrue saxa
Crimine plena deum. Si tota est Herculis Oete,
Et juga tota vacant Bromio Nyseia; quare
Unus in Egypto Magno lapis? Omnia Lagi
Rura tenere potest, si nullo cespite nomen
Hæserit. Erremus populi, cinerumque tuorum,
Magne, metu nullas Nili calcemus arenas. L. viii. 7. 798.

Thus in Row's translation:

Where there are seas, or air, or earth, or skies,
Where-e'er Rome's empire stretches, Pompey lies.
Far be the vile memorial then convey'd!
Nor let this stone the partial gods upbraid.
Shall Hercules all Oeta's heights demand,
And Nysa's hill for Bacchus only stand;

While one poor pebble is the warrior's doom
That fought the cause of liberty and Rome?
If Fate decrees he must in Egypt lie,
Let the whole fertile realm his grave supply,
Yield the wide country to his awful shade
Nor let us dare on any part to tread,
Fearful we violate the mighty dead.

The following passages are pure rant. Coriola nus, speaking to his mother,

What is this?

Your knees to me? to your corrected son?
Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach
Fillop the stars: then let the mutinous winds
Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun:
Murd'ring impossibility, to make
What cannot be, slight work,

Coriolanus, Act V. Sc. 3.

Danger knows full well,
That Cæsar is more dangerous than he.
We were two lions litter'd in one day,
And I the elder and more terrible.

Julius Casar, Act II. Sc. 4.

Almahide. This day

I gave my faith, to him, he his to me.

Almanzor. Good Heav'n, thy book of fate before me lay But to tear out the journal of this day. Or if the order of the world below,


Will not the gap of one whole day allow,
Give me that minute when she made that vow,
That minute ev'n the happy from their bliss might give,
And those who live in grief a shorter time would live,
So small a link if broke, th' eternal chain,
Would like divided waters join again.

Conquest of Grenada, Act III,


I'll hold it fast

As life and when life's gone, I'll hold this last.
And if thou takʼst after I am slain,

I'll send my ghost to fetch it back again.

Conquest of Grenada, Part II, Act 3.

Lyndirata. A crown is come, and will not fate allow,
And yet I feel something like death is near.
My guards, my guards

Let not that ugly skeleton appear.

Sure Destiny mistakes; this death's not mine;
She doats, and means to cut another line.
Tell her I am a queen-but 'tis too late;
Dying, I charge rebellion on my fate;
Bow down, ye slaves

Bow quickly down, and your submission show;
I'm pleas'd to taste an empire ere I go.


Conquest of Grenada, Part II. Act V.

Ventidius. But you, ere love misled your wand'ring eyes, Were, sure, the chief and best of human race, Fram'd in the very pride and boast of nature, So perfect, that the gods who form'd you wonder'd At their own skill, and cry'd, A lucky hit Has mended our design.

Dryden, All for Love, Act I.

Not to talk of the impiety of this sentiment, it is ludicrous instead of being lofty.

The famous epitaph on Raphael is no less absurd than any of the foregoing passages:

Raphael, timuit, quo sospite, vinci
Rerum magna parens, et moriente mori.

Imitated by Pope in his Epitaph on Sir Godfrey Kneller:

Living, great Nature fear'd he might outvie
Her works; and dying, fears herself might die.

Such is the force of imitation; for Pope of himself would never have been guilty of a thought sơ extravagant.

So much upon sentiments; the language proper for expressing them, comes next in order.


Language of Passion.

AMONG the particulars that compose the social part of our nature, a propensity to communicate our opinions, our emotions, and every thing that affects us, is remarkable. Bad fortune and injustice affect us greatly; and of these we are so prone to complain, that if we have no friend nor acquaintance to take part in our sufferings, we sometimes utter our complaints aloud, even where there are none to listen.

But this propensity operates not in every state of mind. A man immoderately grieved, seeks to afflict himself, rejecting all consolation: immoderate grief accordingly is mute: complaining is struggling for consolation.

It is the wretch's comfort still to have
Some small reserve of near and inward wo,
Some unsuspected hoard of inward grief,
Which they unseen may wail, and weep, and mourn,
And glutton-like alone devour.

Mourning Bride, Act I. Sc. 1.

When grief subsides, it then and no sooner finds a tongue we complain, because complaining is an effort to disburden the mind of its distress.*

* This observation is finely illustrated by a story which Herodotus records, b. iii. Cambyses, when he conquered Egypt, made Psammenitus the king prisoner; and for trying his constancy, ordered his daughter to be dressed in the habit of a slave, and to be employed in bringing water from the river; his son also was led to execution with a halter about his neck. The Egyptians vented their sorrow in

Surprise and terror are silent passions for a different reason they agitate the mind so violently as for a time to suspend the exercise of its faculties, and among others the faculty of speech.

Love and revenge, when immoderate, are not more loquacious than immoderate grief. But when these passions become moderate, they set the tongue free, and, like moderate grief, become loquacious moderate love, when unsuccessful, is vented in complaints; when successful, is full of joy expressed by words and gestures.

As no passion hath any long uninterrupted existence, nor beats away with an equal pulse, the language suggested by passion is not only unequal, but frequently interrupted: and even during an uninterrupted fit of passion, we only express in words the more capital sentiments. In familiar conversation, one who vents every single thought is justly branded with the character of loquacity; because sensible people express no thoughts but what make some figure: in the same manner, we are only disposed to express the strongest pulses of passion, especially when it returns with impetuo sity after interruption.

I formerly had occasion to observe,† that the sentiments ought to be tuned to the passion, and the

tears and lamentations; Psammenitus only, with a downcast eye, remained silent. Afterward meeting one of his companions, a man advanced in years, who, being plundered of all, was begging alms, he wept bitterly, calling him by his name. Cambyses, struck with wonder, demanded an answer to the following question: "Psammenitus, "thy master, Cambyses, is desirous to know, why, after thou hadst "seen thy daughter so ignominiously treated, and thy son led to exe"cution, without exclaiming or weeping, thou shouldst be so highly "concerned for a poor man, no way related to thee?" Psammenitus returned the following answer: "Son of Cyrus, the calamities of my "family are too great to leave me the power of weeping; but the "misfortunes of a companion, reduced in his old age to want of "bread, is a fit subject for lamentation."

* See Chapter II. Part iii.

† Chapter XVI,

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