the life, that it would scarce appear more distinct to a real spectator; and it is the manner of description that contributes greatly to the sublimity of the passage.

He spake; and to confirm his words, out flew
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs
Of mighty cherubim; the sudden blaze
Far round illumin'd hell: highly they rag'd
Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms
Clash'd on their sounding shields the din of war,
Hurling defiance toward the vault of heav'n.

Milton, b. i.

A passage I am to cite from Shakspeare, falls not much short of that now mentioned in particularity of description:

O you hard hearts! you cruel men of Rome!
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms; and there have sat
The live-long day with patient expectation
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome;
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tyber trembled underneath his banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in his concave shores?

Julius Cæsar, Act I. Sc. 1.

The following passage is scarce inferior to either

of those mentioned:

Far before the rest the son of Ossian comes; bright in the smiles of youth, fair as the first beams of the sun. His long hair waves on his back: his dark brow is half beneath his helmet. The sword hangs loose on the hero's side; and his apear glitters as he moves. I fled from his terrible eye, King of high Temora.

Fingal.

The Henriade of Voltaire errs greatly against the foregoing rule: every incident is touched in a sum

mary way, without ever descending to circumstances. This manner is good in a general history, the purpose of which is to record important transactions: but in a fable it is cold and uninteresting; because it is impracticable to form distinct images of persons or things represented in a manner so superficial.

It is observed above, that every useless circumstance ought to be suppressed. The crowding such circumstances, is, on the one hand, no less to be avoided, than the conciseness for which Voltaire is blamed, on the other. In the Eneid,* Barce, the nurse of Sichæus, whom we never hear of before nor after, is introduced for a purpose not more important than to call Anna to her sister Dido and that it might not be thought unjust in Dido, even in this trivial circumstance, to prefer her husband's nurse before her own, the poet takes care to inform his reader, that Dido's nurse was dead. To this I must oppose a beautiful passage in the same book, where, after Dido's last speech, the poet, without detaining his readers by describing the manner of her death, hastens to the lamentation of her attendants:

Dixerat: atque illam media inter talia ferro
Collapsam aspiciunt comites, ensemque cruore
Spumantem, sparsasque manus. It clamor ad alta
Atria, concussam bacchatur fama per urbem;
Lamentis gemituque et fæmineo ululatu
Tecta fremunt, resonat magnis plangoribus æther.
Lib. iv. 1. 663.

As an appendix to the foregoing rule, 1 add the following observation, That to make a sudden and strong impression, some single circumstance happily selected, has more power than the most laboured description. Macbeth, mentioning to his lady some voices he heard while he was murdering the King, says,

Lib. iv. 1. 632.

There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cry'd Murder!
They wak'd each other; and I stood and heard them;
But they did say their prayers, and address them
Again to sleep.

Lady. There are two lodg'd together.

Macbeth. One cry'd, God bless us! and Amen the other; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Listening their fear, I could not say Amen,

When they did say, God bless us.

Lady. Consider it not so deeply.

Macbeth. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen? I had most need of blessing, and Amen

Stuck in my throat.

Lady. These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad. Macbeth. Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more!

Macbeth doth murder sleep, &c.

Act II. Sc. 3.

Alphonso, in the Mourning Bride, shut up in the same prison where his father had been confined:

In a dark corner of my cell I found

This paper, what it is this light will shew.

-Ha!

"If my Alphonso live, restore him, Heav'n;

"If my Alphonso"

[Reading.

"Give me more weight, crush my declining years "With bolts, with chains, imprisonment and want; "But bless my son, visit not him for me."

[Reading.

It is his hand; this was his pray'r-Yet more:
"Let ev'ry hair, which sorrow by the roots
"Tears from my hoary and devoted head,
"Be doubled in thy mercies to my son :
"Not for myself, but him, hear me, all-gracious"-
"Tis wanting what should follow-

Heav'n should follow,

But 'tis torn off-Why should that word alone

Be torn from his petition? 'Twas to Heav'n,

But Heav'n was deaf, Heav'n heard him not; but thus,

Thus as the name of Heav'n from this is torn,

So did it tear the ears of mercy from

His voice, shutting the gates of pray'r against him..

If piety be thus debarr'd access

On high, and of good men the very best

Is singled out to bleed, and bear the scourge,

1

What is reward? or what is punishment?
But who shall dare to tax eternal justice?

Mourning Bride, Act III. Sc. 1,

This incident is a happy invention, and a mark of uncommon genius.

Describing Prince Henry:

I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd,
Rise from the ground like feather'd Mercury;
And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
As if an angel dropt down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,

And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

First Part, Henry VI. Act IV. Sc. 2.

King Henry. Lord Cardinal, if thou think'st on Heaven's

bliss,

Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.

He dies, and makes no sign!

Second Part, Henry VI. Act III. Sc. 10.

The same author, speaking ludicrously of an army debilitated with diseases, says,

Half of them dare not shake the snow from off their cassocks, lest they shake themselves to pieces.

I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The flames had resounded in the halls; and the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook there its lonely head: the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows: and the rank grass of the wall waved round his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Morna: silence is in the house of her fathers.

Fingal.

To draw a character is the master-stroke of description. In this Tacitus excels: bis portraits are natural and lively, not a feature wanting nor misplaced. Shakspeare, however, exceeds Tacitus in liveliness, some characteristical circumstance being generally invented or laid hold of, which

paints more to the life than many words. The following instances will explain my meaning, and at the same time prove my observation to be just:

Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?

Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice,
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Anthonio,
(I love thee, and it is my love that speaks),
There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond;
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, I am Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!
O my Anthonio, I do know of those,
That therefore only are reputed wise,
For saying nothing.

Again :

Merchant of Venice, Act I. Sc. 2

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice his reasons are two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them they are not worth the search.

Ibid.

In the following passage a character is completed by a single stroke.

Shallow. O the mad days that I have spent; and to see how many of mine old acquaintance are dead.

Silence. We shall all follow, Cousin.

Shallow. Certain, 'tis certain, very sure, very sure; Death (as the Psalmist saith) is certain to all: all shall die. How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair?

Slender. Truly, Cousin, I was not there.

Shallow. Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet?

Silence. Dead Sir.

Shallow. Dead! see, see; he drew a good bow: and dead. He shot a fine shoot. How a score of ewes now?