NAture hath not more remarkably distinguished us from the other animals by an erect posture, than by a capacious and aspiring mind, inclining us to every thing great and elevated. The ocean, the sky, or any large object, seizes the attention, and makes a strong impression[54]. Robes of state are made large and full to draw respect. We admire elephants and whales for their magnitude, notwithstanding their unwieldiness.

The elevation of an object affects us not less than its magnitude. A high place is chosen for the statue of a deity or hero. A tree growing upon the brink of a precipice viewed from the plain below, affords by that circumstance an additional pleasure. A throne is erected for the chief magistrate, and a chair with a high seat for the president of a court.

In some objects, greatness and elevation concur to make a complicated impression. The Alps and the pike of Teneriff are proper examples; with the following difference, that in the former greatness seems to prevail, elevation in the latter.

The emotions raised by great and by elevated objects, are clearly distinguishable, not only in the internal feeling, but even in their external expressions. A great object dilates the breast, and makes the spectator endeavour to enlarge his bulk. This is remarkable in persons, who, neglecting delicacy in behaviour, give way to nature without reserve. In describing a great object, they naturally expand themselves by drawing in air with all their force. An elevated object produces a different expression. It makes the spectator stretch upward and stand a tiptoe. Great and elevated objects considered with relation to the emotions produced by them, are termed grand and sublime. Grandeur and sublimity have a double signification. They generally signify the quality or circumstance in the objects by which the emotions are produced; sometimes the emotions themselves.

Whether magnitude singly in an object of sight, have the effect to produce an emotion distinguishable from the beauty or deformity of that object; or whether it be only a circumstance modifying the beauty or deformity, is an intricate question. If magnitude produce an emotion of its own distinguishable from others, this emotion must either be pleasant or painful. But this seems to be contradicted by experience; for magnitude, as it would appear, contributes in some instances to beauty, in some to deformity. A hill, for instance, is agreeable, and a great mountain still more so. But an ugly monster, the larger, the more horrid. Greatness in an enemy, great power, great courage, serve but to augment our terror. Hath not this an appearance as if grandeur were not an emotion distinct from all others, but only a circumstance that qualifies beauty and deformity?

I am notwithstanding satisfied, that grandeur is an emotion, not only distinct from all others, but in every circumstance pleasant. These propositions must be examined separately. I begin with the former, and shall endeavour to prove, that magnitude produceth a peculiar emotion distinguishable from all others. Magnitude is undoubtedly a real property of bodies, not less than figure, and more than colour. Figure and colour, even in the same body, produce separate emotions, which are never misapprehended one for the other. Why should not magnitude produce an emotion different from both? That it has this effect, will be evident from a plain experiment of two bodies, one great and one little, which produce different emotions, though they be precisely the same as to figure and colour. There is indeed an obscurity in this matter, occasioned by the following circumstance, that the grandeur and beauty of the same object mix so intimately as scarce to be distinguished. But the beauty of colour comes in happily to enable us to make the distinction. For the emotion of colour unites with that of figure, not less intimately than grandeur does with either. Yet the emotion of colour is distinguishable from that of figure; and so is grandeur, attentively considered: though when these three emotions are blended together, they are scarce felt as different emotions.

Next, that grandeur is an emotion in every circumstance pleasant, appears from the following considerations. Magnitude or greatness, abstracted from all other circumstances, swells the heart and dilates the mind. We feel this to be a pleasant effect; and we feel no such effect in contracting the mind upon little objects. This may be illustrated by considering grandeur in an enemy. Beauty is an agreeable quality, whether in a friend or enemy; and when the emotion it raiseth is mixed with resentment against an enemy, it must have the effect to moderate our resentment. In the same manner, grandeur in an enemy, undoubtedly softens and blunts our resentment. Grandeur indeed may indirectly and by reflection produce an unpleasant effect. Grandeur in an enemy, like courage, may increase our fear, when we consider the advantage he hath over us by this quality. But the same indirect effect may be produced by many other agreeable qualities, such as beauty or wisdom.

The magnitude of an ugly object, serves, it is true, to augment our horror or aversion. But this proceeds not from magnitude separately considered. It proceeds from the following circumstance, that in a large object a great quantity of ugly parts are presented to view.

The same chain of reasoning is so obviously applicable to sublimity, that it would be losing time to show the application. Grandeur therefore and sublimity shall hereafter be considered both of them as pleasant emotions.

The pleasant emotion raised by large objects, has not escaped the poets:

The poets have also made good use of the emotion produced by the elevated situation of an object.

Though the quality of magnitude produceth a pleasant emotion, we must not conclude that the opposite quality of littleness produceth a painful emotion. It would be unhappy for man, were an object disagreeable from its being of a small size merely, when he is surrounded with so many objects of that kind. The same observation is applicable to elevation of place. A body placed high is agreeable; but the same body placed low, is not by that circumstance rendered disagreeable. Littleness, and lowness of place, are precisely similar in the following particular, that they neither give pleasure nor pain. And in this may visibly be discovered peculiar attention in fitting the internal constitution of man to his external circumstances. Were littleness, and lowness of place agreeable, greatness and elevation could not be so. Were littleness, and lowness of place disagreeable, they would occasion uninterrupted uneasiness.

The difference betwixt great and little with respect to agreeableness, is remarkably felt in a series when we pass gradually from the one extreme to the other. A mental progress from the capital to the kingdom, from that to Europe—to the whole earth—to the planetary system—to the universe, is extremely pleasant: the heart swells and the mind is dilated, at every step. The returning in an opposite direction is not positively painful, though our pleasure lessens at every step, till it vanish into indifference. Such a progress may sometimes produce a pleasure of a different sort, which arises from taking a narrower and narrower inspection. The same observation is applicable to a progress upward and downward. Ascent is pleasant because it elevates us. But descent is never painful: it is for the most part pleasant from a different cause, that it is according to the order of nature. The fall of a stone from any height, is extremely agreeable by its accelerated motion. I feel it pleasant to descend from a mountain: the descent is natural and easy. Neither is looking downward painful. On the contrary, to look down upon objects, makes part of the pleasure of elevation. Looking down becomes then only painful when the object is so far below as to create dizziness: and even when that is the case, we feel a sort of pleasure mixt with the pain. Witness Shakespear’s description of Dover cliffs:

An observation is made above, that the emotions of grandeur and sublimity are nearly allied. Hence it is, that the one term is frequently put for the other. I give an example. An increasing series of numbers produceth an emotion similar to that of mounting upward, and for that reason is commonly termed an ascending series. A series of numbers gradually decreasing, produceth an emotion similar to that of going downward, and for that reason is commonly termed a descending series. We talk familiarly of going up to the capital, and of going down to the country. From a lesser kingdom we talk of going up to a greater, whence the anabasis in the Greek language when one travels from Greece to Persia. We discover the same way of speaking in the language even of Japan[55]; and its universality proves it the offspring of a natural feeling.

The foregoing observation leads us naturally to consider grandeur and sublimity in a figurative sense, and as applicable to the fine arts. Hitherto I have considered these terms in their proper meaning, as applicable to objects of sight only: and I thought it of importance, to bestow some pains upon that article; because, generally speaking, the figurative sense of a word is derived from its proper sense; which will be found to hold in the present subject. Beauty in its original signification, is confined to objects of sight. But as many other objects, intellectual as well as moral, raise emotions resembling that of beauty, the resemblance of the effects prompts us naturally to extend the term beauty to these objects. This equally accounts for the terms grandeur and sublimity taken in a figurative sense. Every emotion, from whatever cause proceeding, that resembles an emotion of grandeur or elevation, is called by the same name. Thus generosity is said to be an elevated emotion, as well as great courage; and that firmness of soul which is superior to misfortunes, obtains the peculiar name of magnanimity. On the other hand, every emotion that contracts the mind and fixeth it upon things trivial or of no importance, is termed low, by its resemblance to an emotion produced by a little or low object of sight. Thus an appetite for trifling amusements, is called a low taste. The same terms are applied to characters and actions. We talk familiarly of an elevated genius, of a great man, and equally so of littleness of mind. Some actions are great and elevated, others are low and groveling. Sentiments and even expressions are characterised in the same manner. An expression or sentiment that raises the mind, is denominated great or elevated; and hence the sublime[56] in poetry. In such figurative terms, the distinction is lost that is made betwixt great and elevated in their proper sense; for the resemblance is not so entire, as to preserve these terms distinct in their figurative application. We carry this figure still farther. Elevation in its proper sense, includes superiority of place; and lowness, inferiority of place. Hence a man of superior talents, of superior rank, of inferior parts, of inferior taste, and such like. The veneration we have for our ancestors and for the ancients in general, being similar to the emotion produced by an elevated object of sight, justifies the figurative expression, of the ancients being raised above us, or possessing a superior place. And we may remark by the way, that as words are intimately connected with ideas, many, by this form of expression, are led to conceive their ancestors as really above them in place, and their posterity below them:

The notes of the gamut, proceeding regularly from the blunter or grosser sounds to those which are more acute and piercing, produce in the hearer a feeling somewhat similar to what is produced by mounting upward; and this gives occasion to the figurative expressions, a high note, a low note.

Such is the resemblance in feeling betwixt real and figurative grandeur, that among the nations on the east coast of Afric, who are directed purely by nature, the different dignities of the officers of state are marked by the length of the batoon each carries in his hand. And in Japan, princes and great lords shew their rank by the length and size of their sedan-poles[57]. Again, it is a rule in painting, that figures of a small size are proper for grotesque pieces; but that in an historical subject, which is grand and important, the figures ought to be as great as the life. The resemblance of these feelings is in reality so strong, that elevation in a figurative sense is observed to have the same effect even externally, that real elevation has:

The resemblance in feeling betwixt real and figurative grandeur, is humorously illustrated by Addison in criticising upon the English tragedy. “The ordinary method of making an hero, is to clap a huge plume of feathers upon his head, which rises so high, that there is often a greater length from his chin to the top of his head, than to the sole of his foot. One would believe, that we thought a great man and a tall man the same thing. As these superfluous ornaments upon the head make a great man, a princess generally receives her grandeur from those additional incumbrances that fall into her tail. I mean the broad sweeping train that follows her in all her motions, and finds constant employment for a boy who stands behind her to open and spread it to advantage[58].” The Scythians, impressed with the fame of Alexander, were astonished when they found him a little man.

A gradual progress from small to great, is not less remarkable in figurative than in real grandeur or elevation. Every one must have observed the delightful effect of a number of thoughts or sentiments, artfully disposed like an ascending series, and making impressions stronger and stronger. Such disposition of members in a period, is distinguished by a proper name, being termed a climax.

In order to have a just conception of grandeur and sublimity, it is necessary to be observed, that within certain limits they produce their strongest effects, which lessen by excess as well as by defect. This is remarkable in grandeur and sublimity taken in their proper sense. The strongest emotion of grandeur is raised by an object that can be taken in at one view. An object so immense as not to be comprehended but in parts, tends rather to distract than satisfy the mind[59]. In like manner, the strongest emotion produced by elevation is where the object is seen distinctly. A greater elevation lessens in appearance the object, till it vanish out of sight with its pleasant emotion. The same is equally remarkable in figurative grandeur and elevation, which shall be handled together, because, as observed above, they are scarce distinguishable. Sentiments may be so strained, as to become obscure, or to exceed the capacity of the human mind. Against such licence of imagination, every good writer will be upon his guard. And therefore it is of greater importance to observe, that even the true sublime may be carried beyond that pitch which produces the highest entertainment. We are undoubtedly susceptible of a greater elevation than can be inspired by human actions the most heroic and magnanimous; witness what we feel from Milton’s description of superior beings. Yet every man must be sensible of a more constant and pleasant elevation, when the history of his own species is the subject. He enjoys an elevation equal to that of the greatest hero, of an Alexander or a CÆsar, of a Brutus or an Epaminondas. He accompanies these heroes in their sublimest sentiments and most hazardous exploits, with a magnanimity equal to theirs; and finds it no stretch to preserve the same tone of mind for hours together, without sinking. The case is by no means the same in describing the actions or qualities of superior beings. The reader’s imagination cannot keep pace with that of the poet; and the mind, unable to support itself in a strained elevation, falls as from a height; and the fall is immoderate like the elevation. Where this effect is not felt, it must be prevented by some obscurity in the conception, which frequently attends the description of unknown objects.

On the other hand, objects of sight that are not remarkably great or high, scarce raise any emotion of grandeur or sublimity; and the same holds in other objects. The mind is often roused and animated without being carried to the height of grandeur or sublimity. This difference may be discerned in many sorts of music, as well as in some musical instruments. A kettledrum rouses, and a hautboy is animating; but neither of them inspire an emotion of sublimity. Revenge animates the mind in a considerable degree; but I think it never produceth an emotion that can be termed grand or sublime; and I shall have occasion afterward to observe, that no disagreeable passion ever has this effect. I am willing to put this to the test, by placing before my reader the most spirited picture of revenge ever drawn. It is a speech of Antony wailing over the body of CÆsar.

When the sublime is carried to its due height and circumscribed within proper bounds, it inchants the mind and raises the most delightful of all emotions. The reader, ingrossed by a sublime object, feels himself raised as it were to a higher rank. When such is the case, it is not wonderful that the history of conquerors and heroes should be universally the favourite entertainment. And this fairly accounts for what I once erroneously suspected to be a wrong bias originally in human nature. The grossest acts of oppression and injustice, scarce blemish the character of a great conqueror. We notwithstanding warmly espouse his interest, accompany him in his exploits, and are anxious for his success. The splendor and enthusiasm of the hero transfused into the readers, elevate their minds far above the rules of justice, and render them in a great measure insensible of the wrong that is done:

The attachment we have to things grand or lofty may be thought to proceed from an unwearied inclination we have to be exalted. No desire is more universal than to be respected and honoured. Upon that account chiefly, are we ambitious of power, riches, titles, fame, which would suddenly lose their relish, did they not raise us above others, and command submission and deference[60]. But the preference given to things grand and sublime must have a deeper root in human nature. Many bestow their time upon low and trifling amusements, without showing any desire to be exalted. Yet these very persons talk the same language with the rest of mankind; and at least in their judgement, if not in their taste, prefer the more elevated pleasures. They acknowledge a more refined taste, and are ashamed of their own as low and groveling. This sentiment, constant and universal, must be the work of nature; and it plainly indicates an original attachment in human nature to every object that elevates the mind. Some men may have a greater relish for an object not of the highest rank: but they are conscious of the common nature of man, and that it ought not to be subjected to their peculiar taste.

The irregular influence of grandeur, reaches also to other matters. However good, honest, or useful, a man may be, he is not so much respected, as one of a more elevated character is, though of less integrity; nor do the misfortunes of the former affect us so much as those of the latter. I add, because it cannot be disguised, that the remorse which attends breach of engagement, is in a great measure proportioned to the figure that the injured person makes. The vows and protestations of lovers are an illustrious example of this observation; for these commonly are little regarded when made to women of inferior rank.

What I have said suggests a capital rule for reaching the sublime in such works of art as are susceptible of it; and that is, to put in view those parts or circumstances only which make the greatest figure, keeping out of sight every thing that is low or trivial. Such judicious selection of capital circumstances, is by an eminent critic styled grandeur of manner[61]. The mind, from an elevation inspired by important objects, cannot, without reluctance, be forced down to bestow any share of its attention upon trifles. In none of the fine arts is there so great scope for this rule as in poetry, which, by that means, enjoys a remarkable power of bestowing upon objects and events an air of grandeur. When we are spectators, every minute object presents itself in its order. But in describing at second hand, these are laid aside, and the capital objects are brought close together. A judicious taste in selecting, after this manner, the most interesting incidents to give them an united force, accounts for a fact which at first sight may appear surprising, that we are more moved by a poetical narrative at second hand, than when we are spectators of the event itself in all its circumstanccs.

Longinus exemplifies the foregoing rule by a comparison of two passages[62]. The first from AristÆus is thus translated.

The other from Homer I shall give in Pope’s translation.

In the latter passage, the most striking circumstances are selected to fill the mind with the grand and terrible. The former is a collection of minute and low circumstances, which scatter the thought and make no impression. The passage at the same time is full of verbal antitheses and low conceit, extremely improper in a scene of distress. But this last observation is made occasionally only, as it belongs not to the present subject.

The following passage from the twenty-first book of the Odyssey, deviates widely from the rule above laid down. It concerns that part of the history of Penelope and her suitors, in which she is made to declare in favour of him who should prove the most dexterous in shooting with the bow of Ulysses.

Virgil sometimes errs against this rule. In the following passages minute circumstances are brought into full view; and what is still worse, they are described in all the sublimity of poetical description. Æneid, L. 1. l. 214. to 219. L. 6. l. 176. to 182. L. 6. l. 212. to 231. And the last, which is a description of a funeral, is the less excuseable, as it relates to a man who makes no figure in the poem.

The speech of Clytemnestra, descending from her chariot in the Iphigenia of Euripides, beginning of act 3. is stuffed with a number of low, common, and trivial circumstances.

But of all writers Lucan in this article is the most injudicious. The sea-fight betwixt the Romans and Massilians[63], is described so much in detail without exhibiting any grand or general view, that the reader is quite fatigued with endless circumstances, and never feels any degree of elevation. And yet there are some fine incidents, those for example of the two brothers, and of the old man and his son, which, separated from the rest, would affect us greatly. But Lucan once engaged in a description, knows no bounds. See other passages of the same kind, L. 4. l. 292. to 337. L. 4. l. 750. to 765. The episode of the sorceress Erictho, end of book 6. is intolerably minute and prolix.

To these I venture to oppose a passage from an old historical ballad:

This rule is also applicable to other fine arts. In painting it is established, that the principal figure must be put in the strongest light; that the beauty of attitude consists in placing the nobler parts most in view, and in suppressing the smaller parts as much as possible; that the folds of the drapery must be few and large; that foreshortenings are bad, because they make the parts appear little; and that the muscles ought to be kept as entire as possible, without being divided into small sections. Every one at present is sensible of the importance of this rule when applied to gardening, in opposition to the antiquated taste of parterres split into a thousand small parts in the strictest regularity of figure. Those who have succeeded best in architecture, have governed themselves by this rule in all their models.

Another rule chiefly regards the sublime, though it may be applied to every literary performance intended for amusement; and that is, to avoid as much as possible abstract and general terms. Such terms, perfectly well fitted for reasoning and for conveying instruction, serve but imperfectly the ends of poetry. They stand upon the same footing with mathematical signs, contrived to express our thoughts in a concise manner. But images, which are the life of poetry, cannot be raised in any perfection, otherwise than by introducing particular objects. General terms, that comprehend a number of individuals, must be excepted from this rule. Our kindred, our clan, our country, and words of the like import, though they scarce raise any image, have notwithstanding a wonderful power over our passions. The greatness of the complex object over-balances the obscurity of the image.

What I have further to say upon this subject, shall be comprehended in a few observations. A man is capable of being raised so much above his ordinary pitch by an emotion of grandeur, that it is extremely difficult by a single thought or expression to produce that emotion in perfection. The rise must be gradual and the result of reiterated impressions. The effect of a single expression can be but momentary; and if one feel suddenly somewhat like a swelling or exaltation of mind, the emotion vanisheth as soon as felt. Single expressions, I know, are often justly cited as examples of the sublime. But then their effect is nothing compared with a grand subject displayed in its capital parts. I shall give a few examples, that the reader may judge for himself. In the famous action of ThermopylÆ, where Leonidas the Spartan King with his chosen band fighting for their country, were cut off to the last man, a saying is reported of Dieneces one of the band, which, expressing chearful and undisturbed bravery, is well intitled to the first place in examples of this kind. Talking of the number of their enemies, it was observed, that the arrows shot by such a multitude would intercept the light of the sun. So much the better, says he; for we shall then fight in the shade[65].

Such a sentiment from a man expiring of his wounds, is truly heroic, and must elevate the mind to the greatest height that can be done by a single expression. It will not suffer in a comparison with the famous sentiment Qu’il mourut in Corneille’s Horace. The latter is a sentiment of indignation merely, the former of invincible fortitude.

In opposition to these examples, to cite many a sublime passage, enriched with the finest images, and dressed in the most nervous expressions, would scarce be fair. I shall produce but one instance from Shakespear, which sets a few objects before the eye, without much pomp of language. It works its effect, by representing these objects in a climax, raising the mind higher and higher till it feel the emotion of grandeur in perfection.

The cloud-capt tow’rs produce an elevating emotion, heightened by the gorgeous palaces. And the mind is carried still higher and higher by the images that follow. Successive images, making thus stronger and stronger impressions, must elevate more than any single image can do.

I proceed to another observation. In the chapter of beauty it is remarked, that regularity is required in small figures, and order in small groups; but that in advancing gradually from small to great, regularity and order are less and less required. This remark serves to explain the extreme delight we have in viewing the face of nature, when sufficiently enriched and diversified by objects. The bulk of the objects seen in a natural landscape are beautiful, and some of them grand. A flowing river, a spreading oak, a round hill, an extended plain, are delightful; and even a rugged rock or barren heath, though in themselves disagreeable, contribute by contrast to the beauty of the whole. Joining to these, the verdure of the fields, the mixture of light and shade, and the sublime canopy spread over all; it will not appear wonderful, that so extensive a group of glorious objects should swell the heart to its utmost bounds, and raise the strongest emotion of grandeur. The spectator is conscious of an enthusiasm, which cannot bear confinement nor the strictness of regularity and order. He loves to range at large; and is so inchanted with shining objects, as to neglect slight beauties or defects. Thus it is, that the delightful emotion of grandeur, depends little on order and regularity. And when the emotion is at its height by a survey of the greatest objects, order and regularity are almost totally disregarded.

The same observation is applicable in some measure to works of art. In a small building the slightest irregularity is disagreeable. In a magnificent palace or a large Gothic church, irregularities are less regarded. In an epic poem we pardon many negligences, which would be intolerable in a sonnet or epigram. Notwithstanding such exceptions, it may be justly laid down for a rule, That in all works of art, order and regularity ought to be governing principles. And hence the observation of Longinus[66], “In works of art we have regard to exact proportion; in those of nature, to grandeur and magnificence.”

I shall add but one other observation, That no means can be more successfully employed to sink and depress the mind than grandeur or sublimity. By the artful introduction of an humbling object, the fall is great in proportion to the former elevation. Of this doctrine Shakespear affords us a beautiful illustration, in a passage part of which is cited above for another purpose:

The elevation of the mind in the former part of this beautiful passage, makes the fall great in proportion when the most humbling of all images is introduced, that of an utter dissolution of the earth and its inhabitants. A sentiment makes not the same impression in a cool state, that it does when the mind is warmed; and a depressing or melancholy sentiment makes the strongest impression, when it brings down the mind from its highest state of elevation or chearfulness.

This indirect effect of elevation to sink the mind, is sometimes produced without the intervention of any humbling image. There was occasion above to remark, that in describing superior beings, the reader’s imagination, unable to support itself in a strained elevation, falls often as from a height, and sinks even below its ordinary tone. The following instance comes luckily in view; for a better illustration cannot be given: “God said, Let there be light, and there was light.” Longinus cites this passage from Moses as a shining example of the sublime; and it is scarce possible in fewer words, to convey so clear an image of the infinite power of the Deity. But then it belongs to the present subject to remark, that the emotion of sublimity raised by this image is but momentary; and that the mind, unable to support itself in an elevation so much above nature, immediately sinks down into humility and veneration for a being so far exalted above us groveling mortals. Every one is acquainted with a dispute about this passage betwixt two French critics[67], the one positively affirming, the other as positively denying, it to be sublime. What I have opened, shows that both of them have reached the truth, but neither of them the whole truth. Every one of taste must be sensible, that the primary effect of this passage is an emotion of grandeur. This so far justifies Boileau. But then every one of taste must be equally sensible, that the emotion is merely a flash, which vanisheth instantly, and gives way to the deepest humility and veneration. This indirect effect of sublimity, justifies Huet on the other hand, who being a man of true piety, and perhaps of inferior imagination, felt the humbling passions more sensibly than his antagonist. And even laying aside any peculiarity of character, Huet’s opinion may I think be defended as the more solid; upon the following account, that in such images, the depressing emotions are the more sensibly felt, and have the longer endurance.

The straining an elevated subject beyond due bounds and beyond the reach of an ordinary conception, is not a vice so frequent as to require the correction of criticism. But false sublime is a rock which writers of more fire than judgement generally split on. And therefore a collection of examples may be of use as a beacon to future adventurers. One species of false sublime, known by the name of bon bast, is common among writers of a mean genius. It is a serious endeavour, by strained description, to raise a low or familiar subject above its rank; which instead of being sublime, never fails to be ridiculous. I am extremely sensible how prone the mind is, in some animating passions, to magnify its objects beyond natural bounds. But such hyperbolical description has its limits. If carried beyond the impulse of the propensity, the colouring no longer pleases: it degenerates into the burlesque. Take the following examples.

A writer who has no natural elevation of genius, is extremely apt to deviate into bombast. He strains above his genius; and the violent effort he makes carries him generally beyond the bounds of propriety. Boileau expresses this happily:

The same author Ben Johnson abounds in the bombast:

This is the language of a madman:

Another species of false sublime, is still more faulty than bombast; and that is, to force an elevation by introducing imaginary beings without preserving any propriety in their actions; as if it were lawful to ascribe every extravagance and inconsistence to beings of the poet’s creation. No writers are more licentious in this article than Johnson and Dryden.

I close with the following observation, That an actor upon the stage may be guilty of bombast as well as an author in his closet. A certain manner of acting, which is grand when supported by dignity in the sentiment and force in the expression, is ridiculous where the sentiment is mean, and the expression flat.