Nine: James Beattie (1735–1802)
Born in the village of Laurencekirk near Aberdeen, Beattie was educated at Marischal College in Aberdeen, where he distinguished himself as one of Alexander Gerard’s students. After taking his degree he became a schoolmaster, first in the village of Fordoun near his birthplace and then at the grammar school in Aberdeen, before eventually being appointed to the Chair of Moral Philosophy at Marischal College in 1760. Throughout this time he had not only been studying philosophy, he was also honing his skills as a poet, and he continued to write poetry throughout his career—indeed it is easy to get the impression he took more pleasure and pride in his poetry, even when it was his philosophy that won him renown. After taking up his position at Marischal he joined a noted society of Aberdeen thinkers that included among its members Reid, Gerard, the philosopher and theologian George Campbell, and the teacher of medicine, John Gregory. Reid in particular provided inspiration for Beattie’s philosophical development, and the latter is usually included in the school of common sense philosophy that Reid founded. His first published work was The Nature and Immutability of Truth (1770), which was an instant success, earning a wide general readership in Britain and abroad, but generally earning him little but scorn from the philosophical community. Beattie’s work had none of Reid’s subtlety and insight, though like Reid, his target is Hume and his scepticism. His argument comes across more as impassioned assertion of common beliefs in place of philosophical defence, or engagement with the real issues. His book did however earn him an honorary degree from Oxford University, an audience with King George III and the commission of a fine portrait by Joshua Reynolds.
In 1783 he published a collection of diverse essays, from which the ‘Illustrations of Sublimity’ is taken. There are some eccentric claims made in the essay, including his derivation of the word sublime from the Latin super limas, meaning ‘above the slime or mud of this world’. Setting that aside, there is little original in Beattie’s study of the sublime, but it does sum up and represent all of the conclusions of the previous two decades of study of the concept. A wholly familiar account of the effects of the sublime in nature is offered, the usual emotions and causes are cited, and these are then transferred by analogy from nature to art and moral excellence. Nevertheless, Beattie’s treatment is interesting because his analysis puts so much emphasis upon horror, and the sort of horror that would soon be associated with gothic literature. Moreover, his poetic sensibility does equip him to find many very fine examples to accompany his discussion.
Further Reading
James Harris, ‘Introduction’ to James Beattie: Selected Philosophical Writings, Exeter: Imprint Academic, 2004.
Everard King, James Beattie, Boston: Twayne, 1997.
Reading XIII: Illustrations Of Sublimity
What we admire, or consider as great, we are apt to speak of in such terms, as if we conceived it to be high in place: and what we look upon as less important we express in words that properly denote low situation. We go up to London; and thence down into the country. The Jews spoke in the same manner of their metropolis, which was to them the object of religious veneration. ‘Jerusalem’, says the Psalmist, ‘is a city, to which the tribes go up’: and the parable of the good Samaritan begins thus, ‘A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho’. Conformably to the same idiom, heaven is supposed to be above, and hell to be beneath; and we say, that generous minds endeavour to reach the summit of excellence, and think it beneath them to do, or design, any thing that is base. The terms base, grovelling, low, &c. and those of opposite import, elevated, aspiring, lofty, as applied in a figurative sense to the energies of mind, do all take their rise from the same modes of thinking. The Latins expressed admiration by a verb which properly signifies to look up (suspicere); and contempt by another (despicere) whose original meaning is to look down. A high feat is erected for a king, or a chief magistrate, and a lofty pedestal for the statue of a hero; partly, no doubt, that they may be seen at the greater distance, and partly also, out of respect to their dignity.
But mere local elevation is not the only source of sublimity. Things that surpass in magnitude; as a spacious building, a great city, a large river, a vast mountain, a wide prospect, the ocean, the expanse of heaven, fill the mind of the beholder with the same agreeable astonishment. And observe, that it is rather the relative magnitude of things, as compared with others of the same kind, that raises this emotion, than their absolute quantity of matter. That may be a sublime edifice, which in real magnitude falls far short of a small hill that is not sublime: and a river two furlongs in breadth is a majestic appearance, though in extent of water it is nothing when compared with the ocean.
Great number, too, when it gives rise to admiration, may be referred to the same class of things. Hence an army, or navy, a long succession of years, eternity, and the like, are sublime, because they at once please and astonish. In contemplating such ideas or objects, we are conscious of something like an expansion of our faculties, as if we were exerting our whole capacity to comprehend the vastness of that which commands our attention. This energy of the mind is pleasing, as all mental energies are when accompanied with pain: and the pleasure is heightened by our admiration of the object itself; for admiration is always agreeable.
In many cases, great number is connected with other grand ideas, which add to its own grandeur. A fleet, or army, makes us think of power, and courage, and danger, and presents a variety of brilliant images. A long succession of years brings to view the vicissitude of human things, and the uncertainty of life, which sooner or later must yield to death, the irresistible destroyer. And eternity reminds of that awful consideration, our own immortality; and is connected with an idea still more sublime, and indeed the most sublime of all, namely, with the idea of Him, who fills immensity with his presence; creates, preserves, and governs all things; and is from everlasting to everlasting.
In general, whatever awakens in us this pleasurable astonishment is accounted sublime, whether it be connected with quantity and number, or not. The harmony of a loud and full organ conveys, no doubt, an idea of expansion and of power; but, independently of this, it overpowers with so sweet a violence, as charms and astonishes at the same time: and we are generally conscious of an elevation of mind when we hear it, even though the ear be not sensible of any melody. Thunder and tempest are still more elevating, when one hears them without fear; because the sound is still more stupendous; and because they fill the imagination with the magnificent idea of the expanse of heaven and earth, through which they direct their terrible career, and of that almighty being, whose will controls all nature. The roar of cannon, in like manner, when considered as harmless, gives a dreadful delight; partly by the overwhelming sensation wherewith it affects the ear, and partly by the ideas of power and danger, triumph and fortitude, which it conveys to the fancy.
Those passions of the soul yield a pleasing astonishment, which discover a high degree of moral excellence, or are in any way connected with great number, or great quantity. Benevolence and piety are sublime affections; for the object of the one is the Deity himself, the greatest, and the best; and that of the other is the whole human race, or the whole system of percipient beings. Fortitude and generosity are sublime emotions: because they discover a degree of virtue, which is not everywhere to be met with; and exert themselves in actions, that are at once difficult, and beneficial to mankind. Great intellectual abilities, as the genius of Homer, or of Newton, we cannot contemplate without wonder and delight; and must therefore refer to that class of things whereof I now speak. Nay great bodily strength is a sublime object; for we are agreeably astonished, when we see it exerted, or hear of its effects. There is even a sublime beauty, which both astonishes and charms: but this will be found in those persons only, or chiefly, who unite fine features with a majestic form; such as we may suppose an ancient statuary would have represented Juno, or Minerva, Achilles, or Apollo.
When great qualities prevail in any person, they form what is called a sublime character. Every good man is a personage of this order: but a character may be sublime, which is not completely good, nay, which is upon the whole very bad. For the test of sublimity is not moral approbation, but that pleasurable astonishment wherewith certain things strike the beholder. Sarpedon, in the Iliad, is a sublime character, and at the same time a good one: to the valour of the hero he joins the benignity of a gracious prince, and the moderation of a wise man. Achilles, though in many respects not virtuous, is yet a most sublime character. We hate his cruelty, passionate temper, and love of vengeance: but we admire him for his valour, strength, swiftness, generosity, beauty, and intellectual accomplishments, for the warmth of his friendship, and for his filial tenderness. In a word, notwithstanding his violent nature, there is in his general conduct a mixture of goodness and of greatness, with which we are both pleased and astonished. Julius Cesar was never considered as a man of strict virtue. But, in reading his Memoirs, it is impossible not to be struck with the sublimity of his character: that strength of mind, which nothing can bear down; that self-command, which is never discomposed; that intrepidity in danger; that address in negotiation; that coolness and recollection in the midst of perplexity; and that unwearied activity, which crowds together in every one of his campaigns as many great actions as would make a hero. Nay even in Satan, as Milton has represented him in Paradise Lost, though there are no qualities that can be called good in a moral view; nay, though every purpose of that wicked spirit is bent to evil, and to that only; yet there is the grandeur of a ruined archangel: there is force able to contend with the most boisterous elements; and there is boldness, which no power, but what is Almighty, can intimidate. These qualities are astonishing: and, though we always detest his malignity, we are often compelled to admire that very greatness by which we are confounded and terrified.
And be not surprised, that we sometimes admire what we cannot approve. These two emotions may, and frequently do, coincide: Sarpedon and Hector, Epaminondas and Aristides, David and Jonathan, we approve and admire. But they do not necessarily coincide: for goodness calls forth the one, and greatness the other; and that which is great is not always good, and that may be good which is not great. Troy in flames, Palmyra in ruins, the ocean in a storm, and Etna in thunder and conflagration, are magnificent appearances, but do not immediately impress our minds with the idea of good: and a clear fountain is not a grand object, though in many parts of the world it would be valued above all treasures. So in the qualities of the mind and body: we admire the strong, the brave, the eloquent, the beautiful, the ingenious, the learned; but the virtuous only we approve. There have been authors indeed, one at least there has been, who, by confounding admiration with approbation, laboured to confound intellectual accomplishments with moral virtues; but it is shameful inaccuracy, and vile sophistry: one might as well endeavour to confound crimes with misfortunes, and strength of body with purity of mind: and say, that to be a knave and to lose a leg are equally worthy of punishment, and that one man deserves as much praise for being born with a healthy constitution, as another does for leading a good life.
But if sublime ideas are known by their power of inspiring agreeable astonishment, and if Satan in Paradise Lost is a sublime idea, does it not follow, that we must be both astonished at his character, and pleased with it? And is it possible to take pleasure in a being, who is the author of evil, and the adversary of God and man?
I answer; that, though we know there is an evil spirit of this name, we know also, that Milton’s Satan is partly imaginary; and we believe, that those qualities are so in particular, which we admire in him as great: for we have no reason to think, that he has really that boldness, irresistible strength, or dignity of form, which the poet ascribes to him. So far, therefore, as we admire him for sublimity of character, we consider him, not as the great enemy of our souls, but as a fictitious being, and a mere poetical hero. Now the human imagination can easily combine ideas in an assemblage, which are not combined in nature; and make the same person the object of admiration in one respect, who in another is detestable: and such inventions are in poetry the more probable, because such persons are to be met with in real life. Achilles and Alexander, for example, we admire for their magnanimity, but abhor for their cruelty. And the poet, whose aim is to please, finds it necessary to give some good qualities to his bad characters; for, if he did not, the reader would not be interested in their fortune, nor, consequently, pleased with the story of it.
In the picture of a burning city, we may admire the splendour of the colours, the undulation of the flames, the arrangements of light and shade, and the other proofs of the painter’s skill; and nothing gives a more exquisite delight of the melancholy kind, than Virgil’s account of the burning of Troy. But this does not imply, that we should, like Nero, take any pleasure in such an event, if it were real and present. Indeed, few appearances are more beautiful, or more sublime, than a mass of flame, rolling in the wind, and blazing to heaven: whence illuminations, bonfires, and fireworks make part of a modern triumph. Yet destruction by fire is of all earthly things the most terrible.
An object more astonishing, both to the eye, and to the ear, there is hardly in nature, than (what is sometimes to be seen in the West Indies) a plantation of sugar-canes on fire, flaming to a vast height, sweeping the whole country, and every moment sending forth a thousand explosions, like those of artillery. A good description of such a scene we should admire as sublime; for a description can neither burn nor destroy. But the planter, who sees it desolating his fields, and ruining all his hopes, can feel no other emotions than horror and sorrow. In a word, the sublime, in order to give pleasing astonishment, must be either imaginary, or not immediately pernicious.
There is a kind of horror, which may be infused into the mind both by natural appearances, and by verbal description; and which, though it make the blood seem to run cold, and produce a momentary fear, is not unpleasing, but may be even agreeable: and therefore, the objects that produce it are justly denominated sublime. Of natural appearances that affect the mind in this manner, are vast caverns, deep and dark woods, overhanging precipices, the agitation of the sea in a storm: and some of the sounds above mentioned have the same effect, as those of cannon and thunder. Verbal descriptions infusing sublime horror are such as convey lively ideas, of the objects of superstition, as ghosts and enchantments; or of the thoughts that haunt the imaginations of the guilty; or of those external things, which are pleasingly terrible, as storms, conflagrations, and the like.
It may seem strange, that horror of any kind should give pleasure. But the fact is certain. Why do people run to see battles, executions and shipwrecks? Is it, as an Epicurean would say, to compare themselves with others, and exult in their own security while they see the distress of those who suffer? No, surely: good minds are swayed by different motives. Is it, that they may be at hand, to give every assistance in their power to their unhappy brethren? This would draw the benevolent, and even the tenderhearted, to a shipwreck; but to a battle, or to an execution, could not bring spectators, because there the humanity of individuals is of no use. It must be, because a sort of gloomy satisfaction, or terrific pleasure, accompanies the gratification of that curiosity which events of this nature are apt to raise in minds of a certain frame.
No parts of Tasso are read with greater relish, than where he describes the darkness, silence, and other horrors, of the enchanted forest: and the poet himself is so sensible of the captivating influence of such ideas over the human imagination, that he makes the catastrophe of the poem in some measure depend upon them. Milton is not less enamoured ‘of forests and enchantments drear’; as appears from the use to which he applies them in Comus ... Forests in every age must have had attractive horrors: otherwise so many nations would not have resorted thither, to celebrate the rites of superstition. And the inventors of what is called the Gothic, but perhaps should rather be called the Saracen, architecture, must have been enraptured with the same imagery, when, in forming and arranging the pillars and aisles of their churches, they were so careful to imitate the rows of lofty trees in a deep grove.
Observe a few children assembled about a fire, and listening to tales of apparitions and witchcraft. You may see them grow pale, and crowd closer and closer through fear: while he who is snug in the chimney corner, and at the greatest distance from the door, considers himself as peculiarly fortunate; because he thinks that, if the ghost should enter, he has a better chance to escape, than if he were in a more exposed situation. And yet, notwithstanding their present, and their apprehension of future, fears, you could not perhaps propose any amusement that would at this time be more acceptable. The same love of such horrors as are not attended with sensible inconvenience continues with us through life: and Aristotle has affirmed, that the end of tragedy is to purify the soul by the operations of pity and terror.
The mind and body of man are so constituted, that, without action, neither can the one be healthy, nor the other happy. And as bodily exercises, though attended with fatigue, as dancing, or with some degree of danger, as hunting, are not on that account the less agreeable; so those things give delight, which rouse the soul, even when they bring along with them horror, anxiety, or sorrow, provided these passions be transient, and their causes rather imaginary than real.
The most perfect models of sublimity are seen in the works of nature. Pyramids, palaces, fireworks, temples, artificial lakes and canals, ships of war, fortifications, hills levelled and caves hollowed by human industry, are mighty efforts, no doubt, and awaken in every beholder a pleasing admiration; but appear as nothing, when we compare them, in respect of magnificence, with mountains, volcanoes, rivers, cataracts, oceans, the expanse of heaven, clouds and storms, thunder and lightening, the sun, moon, and stars. So that, without the study of nature, a true taste in the sublime is absolutely unattainable. And we need not wonder at what is related of Thomson, the author of The Seasons; who, on hearing that a certain learned gentleman of London was writing an epic poem, exclaimed, ‘He write an Epic poem! It is impossible: he never saw a mountain in his life’. This at least is certain, that if we were to strike out of Homer, Virgil, and Milton, those descriptions and sentiments that allude to the grand phenomena of nature, we should deprive these poets of the best part of their sublimity.
And yet, the true sublime may be attained by human art. Music is sublime, when it inspires devotion, courage, or other elevated affections: or when by its mellow and sonorous harmonics it overwhelms the mind with sweet astonishment: or when it infuses that pleasing horror abovementioned; which, when joined to words descriptive of terrible ideas, it sometimes does very effectually.
Architecture is sublime, when it is large and durable, and withal so simple and well-proportioned as that the eye can take in all its greatness at once. For when an edifice is loaded with ornaments, our attention to them prevents our attending to the whole; and the mind, though it may be amused with the beauty or the variety of the little parts, is not struck with that sudden astonishment, which accompanies the contemplation of sublimity. Hence the Gothic style of building, where it abounds in minute decorations, and where greater pains are employed on the parts, than in adjusting the general harmony of the fabric, is less sublime than the Grecian, in which proportion, simplicity, and usefulness, are more studied than ornament. It is true, that Gothic buildings may be very sublime: witness the old cathedral churches. But this is owing, rather to their vast magnitude, to the stamp of antiquity that is impressed on them, and to their having been so long appropriated to religious service, than to those peculiarities that distinguish their architecture from the Grecian.
The Chinese mode of building has no pretensions to sublimity; its decorations being still more trivial than the Gothic; and because it derives no dignity from associated ideas, and has no vastness of magnitude to raise admiration. Yet is it not without its charms. There is an air of neatness in it, and of novelty, which to many is pleasing, and which of late it has been much the fashion to imitate.
Painting is sublime, when it displays men invested with great qualities, as bodily strength, or actuated by sublime passions, as courage, devotion, benevolence. That picture by Guido Rheni, which represents Michael triumphing over the evil spirit, I have always admired for its sublimity, though some critics are not pleased with it. The attitude of the angel, who holds a sword in his right hand in a threatening posture, conveys to me the idea of dignity and grace, as well as of irresistible strength. Nor is the majestic beauty of his person less admirable: and his countenance, though in a slight degree expressive of contempt or indignation, retains that sweet composure, which we think essential to the angelic character. His limbs and wings are, it is true, contrasted: but the contrast is so far from being finical, that, if we consider the action, and the situation, we must allow it to be not only natural, but unavoidable, and such as a winged being might continue in for some time without inconvenience. Guido is not equally fortunate in his delineation of the adversary; who is too mean, and too ludicrous, a figure, to cope with an archangel, or to require, for his overthrow, the twentieth part of that force which appears to be exerted against him. Painting is also sublime, when it imitates grand natural appearances, as mountains, precipices, storms, huge heaps of rocks and ruins, and the like.
At the time when Raphael began to distinguish himself, two styles of painting were cultivated in Italy. His master Pietro Perugino copied nature with an exactness bordering on servility: so that his figures had less dignity and grace than their originals. Michaelangelo ran into the opposite extreme; and, with an imagination fraught with great ideas, and continually aspiring to sublimity, so enlarged the proportions of nature, as to raise his men to giants, and stretch out every form into an extension that might almost be called monstrous. To the penetration of Raphael both styles seemed to be faulty, and both in an equal degree. The one appeared insipid in its accuracy, and the other almost ridiculous in its extravagance. He therefore pursued a middle course; tempering the fire of Michaelangelo with the caution of Perugino: and thus exhibited the true sublime of painting; wherein the graces of nature are heightened, but nothing is gigantic, disproportioned, or improbable. While we study his cartoons, we seem to be conversing with a species of men, like ourselves indeed, but of heroic dignity and size.
This great artist is in painting, what Homer is in poetry. Homer magnifies in like manner; and transforms men into heroes and demigods; and, to give the more grandeur to his narrative, sets it off with marvellous events, which, in his time, though not improbable, were however astonishing. But Ariosto, and the authors of the Old Romance, resemble Michaelangelo in exalting their champions, not into heroes, but into giants and monsters. Achilles, though superior to all men in valour, would not venture to battle without his arms: but a warrior of romance, whether armed or not, could fell a troop of horse to the earth at one blow, tear up trees by the root, and now and then throw a piece of a mountain at the enemy. The true sublime is always natural and credible: but unbounded exaggerations, that surpass all proportion and all belief, are more apt to provoke laughter than astonishment.
Poetry becomes sublime in many ways: and this is the only fine art, which can at present supply us with examples, I shall from it select a specimen or two of the different sorts of sublimity.
1. Poetry is sublime, when it elevates the mind. This indeed is a general character of greatness. But I speak here of sentiments so happily conceived and expressed, as to raise our affections above the low pursuits of sensuality and avarice, and animate us with the love of virtue and of honour. As a specimen, let me recommend the account, which Virgil gives in his eighth book, of the person, family, and kingdom of Evander; an Arcadian prince, who, after being trained up in all the discipline of Greece, established himself and his people in that part of Italy, where a few centuries after was built the great metropolis of the Roman empire. In the midst of poverty, that good old man retains a philosophical and a royal dignity. ‘This habitation (says he, to Aeneas, who had made him a visit) has been honoured with the presence of Hercules himself. Dare, my guest, to despise riches; and do thou also fashion thyself into a likeness of God’ or, as some render it, ‘do thou also make thyself worthy of immortality’.[2] There is strength in the expression, whereof our language is not capable. ‘I despise the world,’ says Dryden, ‘when I read it, and myself when I attempt to translate it’.
2. Poetry is sublime, when it conveys a lively idea of any grand appearance in art or nature. A nobler description of this sort I do not at present remember, than that which Virgil gives, in the first book of the Georgic, of a dark night, with wind, rain, and lightening: where Jupiter appears, encompassed with clouds and storms, darting his thunderbolts, and overturning the mountains, while the ocean is roaring, the earth trembling, the wild beasts fled away, the rain pouring down in torrents, the woods resounding to the tempest, and all mankind overwhelmed with consternation. The following is a ... literal translation: but I know not how to imitate, in modern language, the awful ... simplicity of the original.
High in the midnight storm enthroned, Heaven’s Sire
Hurls from his blazing arm the bolt of fire.
Earth feels with trembling; every beast is fled;
And nations prostrate fall, overwhelmed with dread.
Athos rolls headlong, where his lightnings fly,
The rocks of Rhodope in ruin lie,
Or huge Keraunia. With redoubled rage
The torrent rain and bellowing wind engage;
Loud in the woods afar the tempests roar,
And mountain billows burst in thunder on the shore.
This description astonishes, both by the grandeur, and by the horror, of the scene, which is either wrapt in total darkness, or made visible by the glare of lightning. And the poet has expressed it with the happiest solemnity of style, and a sonorous harmony of numbers. As examples of the same sort of sublimity, namely of great images with a mixture of horror, I might call the reader’s attention to the storm in the beginning of the Aeneid, the death of Cacus in the eighth book, to the account of Tartarus in the sixth, and that of the burning of Troy in the second. But in the style of dreadful magnificence, nothing is superior, and scarce any thing equal, to Milton’s representation of hell and chaos, in the first and second books of Paradise Lost.
In the concluding paragraph of the same work, there is brought together, with uncommon strength of fancy, and rapidity of narrative, a number of circumstances, wonderfully adapted to the purpose of filling the mind with ideas of terrific grandeur: the descent of the cherubim; the flaming sword; the archangel leading in haste our first parents down from the heights of paradise, and then disappearing; and, above all, the scene that presents itself on their looking behind them.
They, looking back, all the eastern cliff beheld
Of Paradise, so late their happy feat,
Waved over by that flaming brand; the gate
With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms.
To which the last verses form the most striking contrast that can be imagined.
Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon.
The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.
They, hand in hand, with wandering steps, and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way.
The final couplet renews our sorrow; by exhibiting, with picturesque accuracy, the most mournful scene in nature; which yet is so prepared, as to raise comfort, and dispose to resignation. And thus, while we are at once melting in tenderness, elevated with pious hope, and overwhelmed with the grandeur of description, the divine poem concludes. What luxury of mental gratification is here! Who would exchange this frame of mind (if nature could support it) for any other! How exquisitely does the faith of a Christian accord with the noblest feelings of humanity!
3. Poetry is sublime, when, without any great pomp of images or of words, it infuses horror by a happy choice of circumstances. When Macbeth (in Shakespeare) goes to consult the witches, he finds them performing rites in a cave; and, upon asking what they were employed about, receives no other answer than this short one, ‘A deed without a name’. One’s blood runs cold at the thought, that their work was of so accursed a nature, that they themselves had no name to express it by, or were afraid to speak of it by any name. Here is no solemnity of style, nor any accumulation of great ideas; yet here is the true sublime; because here is something that astonishes the mind, and fills it, without producing any real inconvenience.
Among other omens, which preceded the death of Dido, Virgil relates, that, when she was making an oblation of wine, milk and incense upon the altar, she observed the milk grow black, and found that the wine was changed into blood. This the poet improves into a circumstance of the utmost horror, when he adds, that she never mentioned it to any person, not even to her sister, who was her confidante on all other occasions: insinuating, that it filled her with so dreadful apprehension, that she had not courage even to attempt to speak of it—perhaps I may be more struck with this, than many others are; as I once knew a young man, who was in the same state of mind, after having been frightened in his sleep, or, as he imagined, by a vision, which he had seen about two years before he told me of it. With much entreaty I prevailed on him to give me some account of his dream: but there was one particular, which he said that he would not, nay that he durst not, mention; and, while he was saying so, his haggard eyes, pale countenance, quivering lips, and faltering voice, presented to me such a picture of horror, as I never saw before or since. I ought to add, that he was, in all other respects, in his perfect mind, cheerful, and active, and not more than twenty years of age.
Horror has long been a powerful, and a favourite, engine in the hands of the tragic poet. Aeschylus employed it more than any other ancient artist. In his play called The Furies, he introduced Orestes haunted by a company of those frightful beings; intending thereby an allegorical representation of the torment which that hero suffered in his mind, in consequence of having slain his mother Clytemnestra, for the part she had taken in the murder of his father. But to raise the greater horror in the spectators, the poet was at pains to describe, with amazing force of expression, the appearance of the Furies; and he brought upon the stage no fewer than fifty of them; whose infernal looks, hideous gestures, and horrible screams, had such effects on the women and children, that, in the subsequent exhibitions of the play, the number of furies was by an express law limited, first to fifteen, and afterwards to twelve. There are, no doubt, sublime strokes in the poet’s account of these furies; and there is something very great in the idea of a person haunted by his own thoughts, in the form of such terrific beings. Yet horror of this kind I would hardly call sublime, because it is addressed rather to the eyes, than to the mind; and because it is easier to disfigure a man so, as to make him have the appearance of an ugly woman, than, by a brief description, or well-chosen sentiment, to alarm and astonish the fancy. Shakespeare has, in my opinion, excited horror of more genuine sublimity, and withal more useful in a moral view, when he makes Macbeth, in short and broken starts of exclamation, and without any pomp of images or of words, give an utterance half-suppressed to those dreadful thoughts that were passing in his mind immediately before and after the murder of Duncan, his guest, kinsman, sovereign, and benefactor. The agonies of a guilty conscience were never more forcibly represented, than in this tragedy; which may indeed be said, in the language of Aristotle, to purify the mind by the operation of terror and pity; and which abounds more in that species of the sublime whereof I now speak, than any other performance in the English tongue...
4. Poetry is sublime, when it awakens in the mind any great and good affection, as piety, or patriotism. This is one of the noblest effects of the art. The Psalms are remarkable, beyond all other writings, for their power of inspiring devout emotions. But it is not in this respect only that they are sublime. Of the divine nature they contain the most magnificent descriptions that the soul of man can comprehend. The hundred and fourth psalm, in particular, displays the power and goodness of providence, in creating and preserving the world, and the various tribes of animals in it, with such majestic brevity and beauty, as it is vain to look for in any human composition. The morning song of Adam and Eve, and many other parts of Paradise Lost, are noble effusions of piety, breathed in the most captivating strains: and Thomson’s Hymn on the Seasons, if we overlook an unguarded word or two, is not inferior.
Of that sublimity which results from the strong expression of patriotic sentiments, many examples might be quoted from the Latin poets, particularly Virgil, Horace, and Lucan: but there is a passage in Homer that suits the present purpose better than any other that now occurs. While Hector is advancing to attack the Greek entrenchments, an eagle lets fall a wounded serpent in the middle of his army. This Polydamas considers as a bad omen, and advises him to order a retreat. Hector rejects the advice with indignation. ‘Shall I be deterred from my duty, (says he) and from executing the commands of Jupiter, by the flight of birds? Let them fly on my right hand or on my left, towards the setting or towards the rising sun, I will obey the counsel of Jove, who is the king of gods and of men’. And then he adds that memorable aphorism, ‘To defend our country is the best of all auguries’, or as Pope has very well expressed it:
Without a sign, his sword the brave man draws,
And asks no omen, but his country’s cause.
If we attend to all the circumstances, and reflect that both Hector and Homer believed in auguries, we must own that the sentiment is wonderfully great.
I might also quote, from the same book of the Iliad, Sarpedon’s speech to Glaucus; which contains the noblest lesson of political wisdom, and the most enlivening motives to magnanimity. I shall not translate it literally, but confine myself to the general scope of the argument; and I shall give it in prose, that it may not seem to derive any part of its dignity from the charm of poetical numbers.
Why, O Glaucus, do we receive from our people in Lycia the honours of sovereignty, and so liberal a provision? Is it not in the hope, that we are to distinguish ourselves by our virtue, as much as we are distinguished by our rank? Let us act accordingly: that, when they see us encountering the greatest perils of war, they may say, we deserve the honours and the dignity which we possess. If indeed (continues he) by declining danger we could secure ourselves against old age and the grave, I should neither fight myself in the front of the battle, nor exhort you to do so. But since death is unavoidable, and may assail us from so many thousand quarters, let us advance, and either gain renown by victory, or by our fall give glory to the conqueror.
The whole is excellent: but the grandeur and generosity of the conclusion can never be too highly applauded.
5. Poetry is also sublime, when it describes in a lively manner the visible effects of any of those passions that give elevation to the character. Such is that passage, in the conclusion of the same twelfth book of the Iliad, which paints the impetuosity and terrible appearance of Hector, storming the entrenchments, and pursuing the enemy to their ships. Extraordinary efforts of magnanimity, valour, or any other virtue, and extraordinary exertions of strength or power, are grand objects, and give sublimity to those pictures or poems, in which they are well represented. All the great poets abound in examples.
Yet in great strength, for example, there may be unwieldiness, or awkwardness, or some other contemptible quality, whereby the sublime is destroyed. Polyphemus is a match for five hundred Greeks; but he is not a grand object. We hate his barbarity, and despise his folly, too much, to allow him a single grain of admiration. Ulysses, who in the hands of Polypheme was nothing, is incomparably more sublime, when, in walking to his palace, disguised like a beggar, he is insulted, and even kicked, by one of his own slaves, who was in the service of those rebels that were tempting his queen, plundering his household, and alienating the affections of his people. Homer tells us, that the hero stood firm, without being moved from his place by the stroke; that he deliberated for a moment, whether he should at one blow fell the traitor to the earth; but that patience and prudential thoughts restrained him. The brutal force of the Cyclops is not near so striking as this picture; which displays bodily strength and magnanimity united. For what we despise we never admire; and therefore despicable greatness cannot be sublime.