Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  As soon as young people have collected a variety of ideas, we can proceed a step in the education of their fancy. We should sometimes in conversation, sometimes in writing or in drawing, show them how a few strokes, or a few words, can suggest or combine various ideas. A single expression from Cæsar, charmed a mutinous army to instant submission. Unless the words “Roman Citizens!” had suggested more than meets the ear, how could they have produced this wonderful effect? The works of Voltaire and Sterne abound with examples of the skilful use of the language of suggestion: on this the wit of Voltaire, and the humour and pathos of Sterne, securely depend for their success. Thus, corporal Trim’s eloquence on the death of his young master, owed its effect upon the whole kitchen, including “the fat scullion, who was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees,” to the well-timed use of the mixed language of action and suggestion.

  “‘Are we not here now?’ continued the corporal (striking the end of his stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and stability) ‘and are we not’ (dropping his hat upon the ground) ‘gone in a moment?’”

  “Are we not here now, and gone in a moment?” continues Sterne, who, in this instance, reveals the secret of his own art. “There was nothing in the sentence; it was one of your self-evident truths we have the advantage of hearing every day; and if Trim had not trusted more to his hat than his head, he had made nothing at all of it.”

  When we point out to our pupils such examples in Sterne, we hope it will not be understood, that we point them out to induce servile imitation. We apprehend, that the imitators of Sterne have failed from not having discovered that the interjections and —— dashes of this author, are not in themselves beauties, but that they affect us by suggesting ideas. To prevent any young writers from the intemperate or absurd use of interjections, we should show them Mr. Horne Tooke’s acute remarks upon this mode of embellishment. We do not, however, entirely agree with this author in his abhorrence of interjections. We do not believe that “where speech can be employed they are totally useless; and are always insufficient for the purpose of communicating our thoughts.” Even if we class them, as Mr. Tooke himself does, amongst “involuntary convulsions with oral sound,” such as groaning, shrieking, &c. yet they may suggest ideas, as well as express animal feelings. Sighing, according to Mr. Tooke, is in the class of interjections, yet the poet acknowledges the superior eloquence of sighs:

  “Persuasive words, and more persuasive sighs.”

  “‘I wish,’ said Uncle Toby, with a deep sigh (after hearing the story of Le Fevre) ‘I wish, Trim, I was asleep.’” The sigh here adds great force to the wish, and it does not mark that Uncle Toby, from vehemence of passion, had returned to the brutal state of a savage who has not learnt the use of speech; but, on the contrary, it suggests to the reader, that Uncle Toby was a man of civilized humanity; not one whose compassion was to be excited merely as an animal feeling by the actual sight of a fellow-creature in pain, but rather by the description of the sufferer’s situation.

  In painting, as well as in writing, the language of suggestion affects the mind, and if any of our pupils should wish to excel in this art, they must early attend to this principle. The picture of Agamemnon hiding his face at the sacrifice of his daughter, expresses little to the eye, but much to the imagination. The usual signs of grief and joy make but slight impression; to laugh and to weep are such common expressions of delight or anguish, that they cannot be mistaken, even by the illiterate; but the imagination must be cultivated to enlarge the sphere of sympathy, and to render a more refined language intelligible. It is said that a Milanese artist painted two peasants, and two country-girls, who laughed so heartily, that no one could look at them without laughing. This is an instance of sympathy unconnected with imagination. The following is an instance of sympathy excited by imagination. When Porcia was to part from Brutus, just before the breaking out of the civil war, “she endeavoured,” says Plutarch, “as well as possible, to conceal the sorrow that oppressed her; but, notwithstanding her magnanimity, a picture betrayed her distress. The subject was the parting of Hector and Andromache. He was represented delivering his son Astyanax into her arms, and the eyes of Andromache were fixed upon him. The resemblance that this picture bore to her own distress, made Porcia burst into tears the moment she beheld it.” If Porcia had never read Homer, Andromache would not have had this power over her imagination and her sympathy.

  The imagination not only heightens the power of sympathy with the emotions of all the passions which a painter would excite, but it is likewise essential to our taste for another class of pleasures. Artists, who like Hogarth would please by humour, wit, and ridicule, must depend upon the imagination of the spectators to supply all the intermediate ideas which they would suggest. The cobweb over the poor box, one of the happiest strokes of satire that Hogarth ever invented, would probably say nothing to the inattentive eye, or the dull imagination. A young person must acquire the language, before he can understand the ideas, of superior minds.

  The taste for poetry must be prepared by the culture of the imagination. The united powers of music and poetry could not have triumphed over Alexander, unless his imagination had assisted “the mighty master.”

  “With downcast looks the joyless victor sat, Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of chance below; And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow.”

  The sigh and the tears were the consequences of Alexander’s own thoughts, which were only recalled by kindred sounds. We are well aware, that savage nations, or those that are imperfectly civilized, are subject to enthusiasm; but we are inclined to think, that the barbarous clamour with which they proclaim their delight in music and poetry, may deceive us as to the degree in which it is felt: the sensations of cultivated minds may be more exquisite, though they are felt in silence. It has been supposed, that ignorance is extremely susceptible of the pleasures of wonder: but wonder and admiration are different feelings: the admiration which a cultivated mind feels for excellence, of which it can fully judge, is surely a higher species of pleasure, than the brute wonder expressed by “a foolish face of praise.” Madame Roland tells us, that once, at a sermon preached by a celebrated Frenchman, she was struck with the earnest attention painted in the countenance of a young woman who was looking up at the preacher. At length the fair enthusiast exclaimed, “My God, how he perspires!” A different sort of admiration was felt by Cæsar, when the scroll dropped from his hand whilst he listened to an oration of Cicero’s.

  There are an infinite variety of associations, by which the orator has power to rouse the imagination of a person of cultivated understanding; there are comparatively few, by which he can amuse the fancy of illiterate auditors. It is not that they have less imagination than others; they have equally the power of raising vivid images; but there are few images which can be recalled to them: the combinations of their ideas are confined to a small number, and words have no poetic or literary associations in their minds: even amongst children, this difference between the power we have over the cultivated and uncultivated mind, early appears. A laurel leaf is to the eye of an illiterate boy nothing more than a shrub with a shining, pale-green, pointed leaf: recall the idea of that shrub by the most exact description, it will affect him with no peculiar pleasure: but associate early in a boy’s mind the ideas of glory, of poetry, of olympic crowns, of Daphne and Apollo; by some of these latent associations the orator may afterwards raise his enthusiasm. We shall not here repeat what has been said upon the choice of literature for young people, but shall once more warn parents to let their pupils read only the best authors, if they wish them to have a fine imagination, or a delicate taste. When their minds are awake and warm, show them excellence; let them hear oratory only when they can feel it; if the impression be vivid, no matter how transient the touch. Ideas which have once struck the imagination, can be recalled by the magic of a word, with all their original, all their associated force. Do not fatigue the eye and ear
of your vivacious pupil with the monotonous sounds and confused images of vulgar poetry. Do not make him repeat the finest passages of Shakespeare and Milton; the effect is lost by repetition; the words, the ideas are profaned. Let your pupils hear eloquence from eloquent lips, and they will own its power. But let a drawling, unimpassioned reader, read a play of Shakespeare’s, or an oration of Demosthenes, and if your pupil is not out of patience, he will never taste the charms of eloquence. If he feels a fine sentiment, or a sublime idea, pause, leave his mind full, leave his imagination elevated. Five minutes afterwards, perhaps, your pupil’s attention is turned to something else, and the sublime idea seems to be forgotten: but do not fear; the idea is not obliterated; it is latent in his memory; it will appear at a proper time, perhaps a month, perhaps twenty years afterwards. Ideas may remain long useless, and almost forgotten in the mind, and may be called forth by some corresponding association from their torpid state.

  Young people, who wish to make themselves orators or eloquent writers, should acquire the habit of attending first to the general impression made upon their own minds by oratory, and afterwards to the cause which produced the effect; hence they will obtain command over the minds of others, by using the knowledge they have acquired of their own. The habit of considering every new idea, or new fact, as a subject for allusion, may also be useful to the young orator. A change from time to time in the nature of his studies, will enlarge and invigorate his imagination. Gibbon says, that, after the publication of his first volume of the Roman history, he gave himself a short holyday. “I indulged my curiosity in some studies of a very different nature: a course of anatomy, which was demonstrated by Dr. Hunter, and some lessons of chemistry, which were delivered by Dr. Higgins. The principles of these sciences, and a taste for books of natural history, contributed to multiply my ideas and images; and the anatomist and chemist may sometimes track me in their own snow.”

  Different degrees of enthusiasm are requisite in different professions; but we are inclined to think, that the imagination might with advantage be cultivated to a much higher degree than is commonly allowed in young men intended for public advocates. We have seen several examples of the advantage of a general taste for the belles lettres in eminent lawyers; and we have lately seen an ingenious treatise called Deinology, or instructions for a Young Barrister, which confirms our opinion upon this subject. An orator, by the judicious preparation of the minds of his audience, may increase the effect of his best arguments. A Grecian painter, before he would produce a picture which he had finished, representing a martial enterprise, ordered martial music to be played, to raise the enthusiasm of the assembled spectators; when their imagination was sufficiently elevated, he uncovered the picture, and it was beheld with sympathetic transports of applause.

  It is usually thought, that persons of extraordinary imagination are deficient in judgment: by proper education, this evil might be prevented. We may observe that persons, who have acquired particular facility in certain exercises of the imagination, can, by voluntary exertion, either excite or suppress certain trains of ideas on which their enthusiasm depends. An actor, who storms and raves whilst he is upon the stage, appears with a mild and peaceable demeanor a moment afterwards behind the scenes. A poet, in his inspired moments, repeats his own verses in his garret with all the emphasis and fervour of enthusiasm; but when he comes down to dine with a mixed convivial company, his poetic fury subsides, a new train of ideas takes place in his imagination. As long as he has sufficient command over himself to lay aside his enthusiasm in company, he is considered as a reasonable, sensible man, and the more imagination he displays in his poems, the better. The same exercise of fancy, which we admire in one case, we ridicule in another. The enthusiasm which characterizes the man of genius, borders upon insanity.

  When Voltaire was teaching mademoiselle Clairon, the celebrated actress, to perform an impassioned part in one of his tragedies, she objected to the violence of his enthusiasm. “Mais, monsieur, on me prendroit pour une possedée!” “Eh, mademoiselle,” replied the philosophic bard, “il faut être un possedé pour réussir en aucun art.”

  The degree of enthusiasm, which makes the painter and poet set, what to more idle, or more busy mortals, appears an imaginary value upon their respective arts, supports the artist under the pressure of disappointment and neglect, stimulates his exertions, and renders him almost insensible to labour and fatigue. Military heroes, or those who are “insane with ambition,” endure all the real miseries of life, and brave the terrors of death, under the invigorating influence of an extravagant imagination. Cure them of their enthusiasm, and they are no longer heroes. We must, therefore, decide in education, what species of characters we would produce, before we can determine what degree, or what habits of imagination, are desirable.

  “Je suis le Dieu de la danse!” exclaimed Vestris; and probably Alexander the Great did not feel more pride in his Apotheosis. Had any cynical philosopher undertaken to cure Vestris of his vanity, it would not have been a charitable action. Vestris might, perhaps, by force of reasoning, have been brought to acknowledge that a dancing-master was not a divinity, but this conviction would not have increased his felicity; on the contrary, he would have become wretched in proportion as he became rational. The felicity of enthusiasts depends upon their being absolutely incapable of reasoning, or of listening to reason upon certain subjects; provided they are resolute in repeating their own train of thoughts without comparing them with that of others, they may defy the malice of wisdom, and in happy ignorance may enjoy perpetual delirium.

  Parents, who value the happiness of their children, will consider exactly what chance there is of their enjoying unmolested any partial enthusiasm; they will consider, that by early excitations, it is very easy to raise any species of ambition in the minds of their pupils. The various species of enthusiasm necessary to make a poet, a painter, an orator, or a military hero, may be inspired, without doubt, by education. How far these are connected with happiness, is another question. Whatever be the object which he pursues, we must, as much as possible, ensure our pupil’s success. Those who have been excited to exertion by enthusiasm, if they do not obtain the reward or admiration which they had been taught to expect, sink into helpless despondency. Whether their object has been great or small, if it has been their favourite object, and they fail of its attainment, their mortification and subsequent languor are unavoidable. The wisest of monarchs exclaimed, that all was vanity and vexation of spirit; he did not, perhaps, feel more weary of the world than the poor juggler felt, who, after educating his hands to the astonishing dexterity of throwing up into the air, and catching as they fell, six eggs successively, without breaking them, received from the emperor, before whom he performed, six eggs to reward the labour of his life!

  This poor man’s ambition appears obviously absurd; and we are under no immediate apprehension, that parents should inspire their children with the enthusiasm necessary to the profession of a juggler: but, unless some precautions are taken, the objects which excite the ambition of numbers, may be placed so as to deceive the eye and imagination of children; and they may labour through life in pursuit of phantoms. If children early hear their parents express violent admiration for riches, rank, power, or fame, they catch a species of enthusiasm for these things, before they can estimate justly their value; from the countenance and manner, they draw very important conclusions. “Felicity is painted on your countenance,” is a polite phrase of salutation in China. The taste for looking happy, is not confined to the Chinese: the rich and great, by every artifice of luxury, endeavour to impress the spectator with the idea of their superior felicity. From experience we know, that the external signs of delight are not always sincere, and that the apparatus of luxury is not necessary to happiness. Children who live with persons of good sense, learn to separate the ideas of happiness and a coach and six; but young people who see their fathers, mothers, and preceptors, all smitten with sudden admiration at the sight of a fine phaeton,
or a fine gentleman, are immediately infected with the same absurd enthusiasm. These parents do not suspect, that they are perverting the imagination of their children, when they call them with foolish eagerness to the windows to look at a fine equipage, a splendid cavalcade, or a military procession; they perhaps summon a boy, who is intended for a merchant, or a lawyer, to hear “the spirit stirring drum;” and they are afterwards surprised, if he says, when he is fifteen or sixteen, that, “if his father pleases, he had rather go into the army, than go to the bar.” The mother is alarmed, perhaps, about the same time, by an unaccountable predilection in her daughter’s fancy for a red coat, and totally forgets having called the child to the window to look at the smart cockades, and to hear the tune of “See the conquering hero comes.”

  “Hear you me, Jessica,” says Shylock to his daughter, “lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum, and the vile squeaking of the wry-necked fife, clamber not you up into the casements then.”