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sundry facts which alike illustrate this, and are explained by it. Climax is one of them. The marked effect obtained by placing last the most striking of any series of images, and the weakness — often ludicrous weakness — produced by reversing this arrangement, depend on the general law indicated. As, immediately after looking at the sun, we can not perceive the light of a fire, whilst by looking at the fire first, and the sun afterwards, we can perceive both; so, after receiving a brilliant or weighty or terrible thought, we can not appreciate a less brilliant, less weighty, or less terrible one, whilst, by reversing the order, we can appreciate each.

42. In Antithesis, again, we may recognize the same general truth. The opposition of two thoughts that are the reverse of each other in some prominent trait insures an impressive effect, and does this by giving a momentary relaxation of the faculties addressed. If, after a series of images of an ordinary character, appealing in a moderate degree to the sentiment of reverence or approbation or beauty, the mind has presented to it a very insignificant, a very unworthy, or a very ugly image, the faculty of reverence or approbation or beauty, as the case may be, having for the time nothing to do, tends to resume its full power, and will immediately afterwards appreciate a vast, admirable, or beautiful image better than it would otherwise do. Improbable as these momentary variations in susceptibility will seem to many, We can not doubt their occurrence when we contemplate the analogous variations in the susceptibility of the senses. Referring once more to phenomena of vision, every one knows that a patch of black on a white ground looks blacker, and a patch of white on a black ground looks whiter, than elsewhere. As the blackness and the whiteness must really be the same, the only assignable cause for this is a difference in their action upon us, dependent upon the different states of our faculties. It is simply a visual antithesis.

43. But this extension of the general principle of economy, this further condition of effect in composition, that the power of the faculties must be continuously husbanded, — includes much more than has been yet hinted. It implies, not only that certain arrangements and certain juxtapositions of connected ideas are best, but that some modes of dividing and presenting the subject will be more effective than others, and that, too, irrespective of its logical cohesion. It shows why we must progress from the less interesting to the more interesting; and why not only the composition as a whole, but each of its successive portions, should tend towards a climax. At the same time, it forbids long continuity of the same species of thought, or repeated production of the same effects. It warns us against the error committed both by Pope in his poems and by Bacon in his essays, — the error, namely, of constantly employing the most effective forms of expression; and it points out, that as the easiest posture by and by becomes fatiguing, and is with pleasure exchanged for one less easy, so the most perfectly constructed sentences will soon weary, and relief will be given by using those of an inferior kind. Further, it involves that not only should we avoid generally combining our words in one manner, however good, or working out our figures and illustrations in one way, however telling, but we should avoid any thing like uniform adherence even to the wider conditions of effect. We should not make every section of our subject progress in interest; we should not always rise to a climax. As we say, that, in single sentences, it is but rarely allowable to fulfill all the conditions of strength; so, in the larger portions of a composition, we must not often conform entirely to the law indicated. We must subordinate the component effects to the total effect.

44. In deciding how practically to carry out the principles of artistic composition, we may derive help by bearing in mind a fact already pointed out, — the fitness of certain verbal arrangements for certain kinds of thought. That constant variety in the mode of presenting ideas which the theory demands will in a great degree result from a skillful adaptation of the form to the matter. We saw how the direct or inverted sentence is spontaneously used by excited people, and how their language is also characterized by figures of speech and by extreme brevity. Hence these may with advantage predominate in emotional passages, and may increase as the emotion rises. On the other hand, for complex ideas, the indirect sentence seems the best vehicle. In conversation, the excitement produced by the near approach to a desired conclusion will often show itself in a series of short, sharp sentences; whilst, in impressing a view already enunciated, we generally make our periods voluminous by piling thought upon thought. These natural modes of procedure may serve as guides in writing. Keen observation and skillful analysis would, in like manner, detect many other peculiarities of expression produced by other attitudes of mind; and, by paying due attention to all such traits, a writer possessed of sufficient versatility might make somne approach to a completely organized work.

45. This species of composition, which the law of effect points out as the perfect one, is the one which high genius tends naturally to produce. As we found that the kinds of sentence which are theoretically best are those generally employed by superior minds, and by inferior minds when excitement has raised them; so we shall find that the ideal form for a poem, essay, or fiction, is that which the ideal writer would evolve spontaneously. One in

whom the powers of expression fully responded to the state of mind would unconsciously use that variety in the mode of presenting his thoughts which Art demands. This constant employment of one species of phraseology, which all have now to strive against, implies an undeveloped faculty of language. To have a specific style is to be poor in speech. If we glance back at the past, and remember that men had once only nouns and verbs to convey their ideas with, and that from then to now the growth has been towards a greater number of implements of thought, and, consequently, towards a greater complexity and variety in their combinations, we may infer that we are now, in our use of sentences, much what the primitive man was in his use of words; and that a continuance of the process that has hitherto gone on must produce increasing heterogeneity in our modes of expression.

46. As, now, in a fine nature, the play of the features, the tones of the voice and its cadences, vary in harmony with every thought uttered; so, in one possessed of a fully-developed power of speech, the mold in which combination of words is cast will similarly vary with, and be appropriate to, the sentiment. That a perfectly endowed man must unconsciously write in all styles, we may infer from considering how styles originate. Why is Addison diffuse, Johnson pompous, Goldsmith simple? Why is one author abrupt, another rhythmical, another concise ? Evidently, in each case, the habitual mode of utterance must depend upon the habitual balance of the nature. The predominant feelings have by use trained the intellect to represent them. But, whilst long though unconscious discipline has made it do this efficiently, it remains, from lack of practice, incapable of doing the same for the less powerful feelings; and, when these are excited, the usual modes of expression undergo but a slight modification. Let the powers of speech be fully developed, however, let the ability of the intellect to convey the emotions be complete, and this fixity of style will disappear. The perfect writer will express himself as Junius, when in the Junius frame of mind; when he feels as Lamb felt, will use a like familiar speech ; and will fall into the ruggedness of Carlyle when in a Carlylean mood. Now he will be rhythmical, and now irregular; here his language will be plain, and there ornate; sometimes his sentences will be balanced, and at other times unsymmetrical; for a while there will be considerable sameness, and then, again, great variety. From his mode of expression naturally responding to his state of feeling, there will flow from his pen a composition changing to the same degree that the aspects of his subject change. He will thus, without effort, conform to what we have seen to be the laws of effect. And, whilst his work presents to the reader that variety

needful to prevent continuous exertion of the same faculties, it will also answer to the description of all highly-organized products both of man and of nature : it will be, not a series of like parts simply placed in juxtaposition, but one whole made up of unlike parts that are mutually dependent.


Born Nov. 3, 1794, CUMMINGTON, MASS.

It is eminently fitting for us to begin the study of English literature with the name of this veteran poet and most accomplished master of pure English.

From 1808, the date of his first published literary effort, to the present time. 1870. a period of more than sixty years, the power and beauty of the language have been almost continuously illustrated by his genius. Combining in the rarest manner in himself the true poet, the careful critic, and the political philosopher, it would be difficult to say in which character he has performed the most distinguished services to humanity. For beauty and purity of thought and expression, his poems, and for sound logic, and lucidity of style, his political writings, place him in the front rank of modern authors.

PRINCIPAL PRODUCTIONS. “ Thanatopsis;" “Inscription for an Entrance into a Wood;" “ Letters of a Traveler;" Second Series of " Letters of a Traveler; ” “ The Waterfowl; " " The Ages ;" three volumes of Poems; Contributions as editor and correspondent of “ 'l'he New-York Evening Post" since 1826; “ Translation of Homer," 1870.

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds
Communion with her visible forins, she speaks
A various language : for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty ; anıl she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad iinages
Of the stern agony, and shroud and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings; while from all around —
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air —
Comes a still voice : “ Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again :
And lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the eleinents;
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain
Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone; nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world, with kings,
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, —
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills,
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between ;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, —
Are but the solemn decorations, all,
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning; traverse Barca's desert sands;
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save its own dashings: yet the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep: the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest. And what it thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone; the solemn brood of care
Plod on; and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom : yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,

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