the same import, and more allied to our own language, it will be better to use this word. It is a figure, the use of which is very extensive, and its foundation laid deep in human nature. At first view, and when considered abstractly, it would appear to be a figure of the utmost boldness, and to border on the extravagant and ridiculous. For what can seem more remote from the track of reasonable thought, than to speak of stones and trees, and fields and rivers, as if they were living creatures, and to attribute to them thought and sensation, affections and actions? One might imagine this to be no more than childish conceit, which no person of taste could relish. In fact, however, the case is very different. No such ridiculous effect is produced by personification, when properly employed; on the contrary, it is found to be natural and agreeable, nor is any very uncommon degree of passion required, in order to make us relish it. All poetry, even in its most gentle and humble forms, abounds with it. From prose, it is far from being excluded; nay, in common conversation, very frequent approaches are made to it. When we say, the ground thirsts for rain, or the earth smiles with plenty; when we speak of ambition's being restless, or a disease being deceitful, such expressions shew the facility with which the mind can accommodate the properties of living creatures to things that are inanimate, or to abstract conceptions of its own forming. Indeed, it is very remarkable, that there is a wonderful proneness in human nature to animate all objects. Whether this arises from a sort of assimilating principle, from a propension to spread a resemblance of ourselves over all other things, or from whatever other cause it arises, so it is, that almost every emotion, which in the least agitates the mind, bestows upon its object a momentary idea of life. Let a man by an unwary step, sprain his ankle, or hurt his foot upon a stone, and, in the ruffled discomposed moment, he will, sometimes, feel himself disposed to break the stone in pieces, or to utter passionate expressions against it, as if it had done him an injury. If one has been long accustomed to a certain set of objects, which have made a strong impression on his imagination; as to a house where he has passed many agreeable years; or to fields, and trees, and mountains, among which he has often walked with the greatest delight; when he is obliged to part with them, especially if he has no prospect of ever seeing them again, he can scarce avoid having somewhat of the same feeling as when he is leaving old friends. They seem endowed with life. They become objects of his affection; and in the moment of his parting, it scarce seems absurd to him, to give vent to his feeling in words, and to take a formal adieu. So strong is that impression of life which is made upon us, by the more magnificent and striking objects of nature especially, that I doubt not, in the least, of this having been one cause of the multiplication of divinities in the heathen world. Dryads and Naiads, the genius of the wood, and the god of the river, were, in men of lively imaginations, in the early ages of the world, easily grafted upon this turn of mind. When their favourite rural objects had often been animated in their fancy, it was an easy transition to attribute to them some real divinity, some unseen power or genius which inhabited them, or in some peculiar manner belonged to them. Imagination was highly gratified, by thus gaining somewhat to rest upon with more stability; and when belief coincided so much with imagination, very slight causes would be sufficient to establish it. From this deduction, may be easily seen how it comes to pass, that personification makes so great a figure in all compositions, where imagination or passion have any concern. On innumerable occasions, it is the very language of imagination and passion, and therefore deserves to be attended to, and examined with peculiar care. There are three different degrees of this figure; which it is necessary to remark and distinguish, in order to determine the propriety of its use. The first is, when some of the properties or qualities of living creatures are ascribed to inanimate objects: the second, when those inanimate objects are introduced as acting like such as have life; and the third, when they are represented either as speaking to us, or as listening to what we say to them. The first and lowest degree of this figure, consists in ascribing to inanimate objects some of the qualities of living creatures. Where this is done, as is most commonly the case, in a word or two, and by way of an epithet added to the object, as, 'a raging storm, a deceitful disease, a cruel disaster,' &c. it raises the style so little, that the humblest discourse will admit it without any force. This, indeed, is such an obscure degree of personification, that one may doubt whether it deserves the name, and might not be classed with simple metaphors, which escape in a manner unnoticed Happily employed, however, it sometimes adds beauty and sprightliness to an expression: as in this line of Virgil: GEOR. II. 474. Aut conjurato descendens Dacus ab Istro. Where the personal epithet conjurato, applied to the river Istro, is infinitely more poetical than if it had been applied to the person thus: Aut conjuratus descendens Dacus ab Istro. A very little taste will make any one feel the difference between these two lines. The next degree of this figure is, when we introduce inanimate objects acting like those that have life. Here we rise a step higher, and the personification becomes sensible. According to the nature of the action, which we attribute to those inanimate objects, and the particularity with which we describe it, suck is the strength of the figure. When pursued to any length, it belongs only to studied harangues, to highly figured and eloquent discourse; when slightly touched, it may be admitted into subjects of less elevation. Cicero, for instance, speaking of the cases where killing another is lawful in self defence, uses the following words: Aliquaudo nobis gladius ad occidendum hominem ab ipsis porrigitur legibus.' (Orat. pro Milone.) The expression is happy. The laws are personified, as reaching forth their hand to give us a sword for putting one to death. Such short personifications as these may be admitted even into moral treatises, or works of cool reasoning; and provided they be easy and not strained, and that we be not cloyed with too frequent returns of them, they have a good effect on style, and render it both strong and lively. The genius of our language gives us an advantage in the use of this figure. As, with us, no substantive nouns have gender, or are masculine and feminine, except the proper names of male and female creatures; by giving a gender to any inanimate object, or abstract idea, that is, in place of the pronoun it, using the personal pronouns, he or she, we presently raise the style, and begin personification. In solemn discourse, this may often be done to good purpose, when speaking of religion, or virtue, or our country, or any such object of dignity. I shall give a remarkably fine example, from a sermon of Bishop Sherlock's, where we shall see natural religion beautifully personified, and be able to judge from it, of the spirit and grace which this figure, when well conducted, bestows on a discourse. I must take notice, at the same time, that it is an instance of this figure, carried as far as prose, even in its highest elevation, will admit, and therefore, suited only to compositions where the great efforts of eloquence are allowed. The author is comparing together our Saviour and Mahomet: Go,' says he, 'to your natural religion; lay before her Mahomet, and his disciples, arrayed in armour and blood, riding in triumph over the spoils of thousands who fell by his victorious sword. Shew her the cities which he set in flames, the countries which he ravaged and destroyed, and the miserable distress of all the inhabitants of the earth. When she has viewed him in this scene, carry her into his retirement; shew her the prophet's chamber; his concubines and his wives; and let her hear him allege revelation, and a divine commission, to justify his adultery, and lust. When she is tired with this prospect, then shew her the blessed Jesus, humble and meek, doing good to all the sons of men. Let her see him in his most retired privacies: let her follow him to the mount and hear his devotions and supplications to God. Carry her to his table, to view his poor fare, and hear his heavenly discourse. Let her attend him to the tribunal, and consider the patience with which he endured the scoffs and reproaches of his enemies. Lead her to his cross; let her view him in the agony of death, and hear his last prayer for his persecutors: Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do! When natural religion has thus viewed both, ask her, which is the Prophet of God? But her answer we have already had, when she saw part of this scene, through the eyes of the centurion, who attended at the cross. By him she spoke, and said, Truly, this man was the son of God."* This is more than elegant; it is truly sublime. The whole passage is animated; and the figure rises at the conclusion, when natural religion, who, before was only a spectator, is introduced as speaking by the centurion's voice. It has the better effect too, that it occurs at the conclusion of a discourse, where we naturally look for most warmth and dignity. Did Bishop Sherlock's sermons, or, indeed any English sermons whatever, afford us many passages equal to this, we should oftener have recourse to them for instances of the beauty of composition. Hitherto we have spoken of prose; in poetry, personifications of this kind are extremely frequent, and are, indeed, the life and soul of it. We expect to find every thing animated in the descriptions of a poet who has a lively fancy. Accordingly Homer, the father and prince of poets, is remarkable for the use of this figure. War, peace, darts, spears, towns, rivers, every thing, in short, is alive in his writings. The same is the case with Milton and Shakspeare. No personification, in any author, is more striking or introduced on a more proper occasion, than the following of Milton's on occasion of Eve's eating the forbid den fruit: So saying, her rash hand, in evil hour Forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck'd, she ate; *Bishop Sherlock's Sermons, Vol. I Disc. ix. ix. 780. All the circumstances and ages of men, poverty, riches, youth, old age, all the dispositions and passions, melancholy, love, grief, contentment, are capable of being personified in poetry, with great propriety. Of this we meet with frequent examples in Milton's Allegro and Penseroso, Parnell's Hymn to Contentment, Thomson's Seasons, and all the good poets: nor, indeed, is it easy to set any bounds to personifications, of this kind, in poetry. One of the greatest pleasures we receive from poetry, is, to find ourselves always in the midst of our fellows; and to see every thing thinking, feeling and acting, as we ourselves do. This is, perhaps, the principal charm of this sort of figured style, that it introduces us into society with all nature, and interests us, even in inanimate objects, by forming a connexion between them and us, through that sensibility which it ascribes to them. This is exemplified in the following beautiful passage of Thomson's Summer, wherein the life which he bestows upon all nature, when describing the effects of the rising sun, renders the scenery uncommonly gay and interesting: But yonder comes the powerful king of day -By thee refin'd, In brisker measures, the relucent stream A glance extensive as the day The same effect is remarkable in that fine passage of Milton : -To the nuptial bower, I led her blushing like the morn. All heaven Gave signs of gratulation, and each hill. Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs The third and highest degree of this figure remains to be mentioned, when inanimate objects are introduced, not only as feeling and acting, but as speaking to us, or hearing and listening when we address ourselves to them. This, though on several occasions far from being unnatural, is, however, more difficult in the execution, than the other kinds of personification. For this is plainly the boldest of all rhetorical figures; it is the style of strong passion only; and, therefore, never to be attempted, unless when the mind is considerably heated and agitated. A slight personification of some inanimate thing, acting as if it had life, can be relished by the mind, in the midst of cool description, and when its ideas are going on in the ordinary train. But it must be in a state of violent emotion, and have departed considerably from its common track of thought, before it can so far realize the personification of an insensible object, as to conceive it listening to what we say, or making any return to All strong passions, however, have a tendency to use this figure; us. not only love, anger, and indignation, but even those which are seemingly more dispiriting, such as grief, remorse, and melancholy. For all passions struggle for vent, and if they can find no other object, will, rather than be silent, pour themselves forth to woods, and rocks, and the most insensible things; especially if these be any how connected with the causes and objects that have thrown the mind into this agitation. Hence, in poetry, where the greatest liberty is allowed to the language of passion, it is easy to produce many beautiful examples of this figure. Milton affords us an extremely fine one, in that moving and tender address which Eve makes to Paradise, just before she is compelled to leave it. Oh! unexpected stroke, worse than of death! Book II. 1. 268. At ev'n, which I bred up with tender hand, From your first op'ning buds, and gave you names! Who now shall rear you to the sun, or rank Your tribes, and water from th' ambrosial fount? This is altogether the language of nature, and of female passion. It is observable, that all plaintive passions are peculiarly prone to the use of this figure. The complaints which Philoctetes, in Sophocles, pours out to the rocks and caves of Lemnos, amidst the excess of his grief and despair, are remarkably fine examples of it. And there are frequent examples, not in poetry only, but in real life, of persons when just about to suffer death, taking a passionate farewell of the sun, moon and stars, or other sensible objects around them. There are two great rules for the management of this sort of personification. The first rule is, never to attempt it, unless when prompted by strong passion, and never to continue it when the passion begins to flag. It is one of those high ornaments, which can only find place in the most warm and spirited parts of composition; and there, too, must be employed with moderation. The second rule is, never to personify any object in this way, but such as has some dignity in itself, and can make a proper figure in this elevation to which we raise it. The observance of this rule is required, even in the lower degrees of personification: but still more, when an address is made to the personified object. To address the corps of a deceased friend, is natural; but to address the clothes which he wore, introduces mean and degrading ideas. So also, addressing the several parts of one's body, as if they were animated, is not congruous to the dignity of passion. For this reason, I must condemn the following passage, in a very beautiful poem of Mr. Pope's Eloisa to Abelard. * Ω λιμένες ο προβλητες, ω ξυνουσίας 'O mountains, rivers, rocks, and savage herds, 'Must breathe my sorrows! you are wont to hear That I have suffered from Achilles' son!' FRANKLIN. |