From “On the Sublime.” Chapter xiii. and xiv. complete. From the text of Morley.

THE SUBLIMITY of Demosthenes is, for the most part, sudden and concise; that of Cicero, diffuse and consecutive. Again, our countryman, by reason of the force, nay the rapidity, strength, and impetuosity with which he, in a manner, burns and bears down at once all before him, may be likened to a tornado or a thunderbolt; but Cicero, to my thinking, like some wide-spreading conflagration, rolls on devouring on all sides, with fires exhaustless, incessant, and abiding, dealt out, now here, now there, from their own central stores, and drawing fresh vigor from successive advances. But of these matters you can better judge than I can. Now the proper season for applying a sublimity so intense as that of Demosthenes is when things are to be portrayed in the deepest colors; where vehement passion is to be expressed; and where it is expedient to strike the hearer with astonishment all at once; but the season for employing the diffuse kind is when it is required to pour a shower of gentler influences upon the hearer. For the latter is adapted to the discussion of commonplaces, the generality of perorations, digressions, all narratives and panegyrical orations, histories, physiological dissertations, and no few other kinds.

  That Plato, indeed,—for I will return to him,—though his eloquence is as the noiseless lapse of a mighty river, is nevertheless sublime, you cannot be ignorant when you have read the following specimen in his “Republic”: “They,” says he, “that are unprincipled in the lore of wisdom and virtue, and give themselves wholly to feasting and the like, are urged, as it seems, by a downward impulse, and thus pass their whole life under a delusion. For they have never lifted up their eyes to look on Truth, nor been moved by any aspirations after her, nor have experienced the taste of durable and unpolluted pleasure, but, like the beasts, with eyes forever downward bent, stooping towards the earth and bending over tables, they feed their appetites and lusts; and to obtain a larger share of these things, so insatiable are their desires, they kick, and gore, and slay each other with horns and hoofs of iron.” And this man instructs us, if we would but listen to him, that there is also some other way, besides those already mentioned, which leads to things sublime. And what way is this, and what is its nature? It is to imitate and emulate the great historians and poets of former days. And be this, my dearest friend, our fixed and steadfast aim. For many are they that are moved to a divine enthusiasm by another’s spirit, in the same manner as fame records, that when the pythoness draws nigh the sacred tripod (where, as they say, the cleft earth breathes an inspiring exhalation) she is thereby impregnated with the divine influence, and forthwith breaks out in strains of prophecy, according as the Deity inspires her. Thus it is that from the sublime geniuses of the Ancients certain effluvia are wafted to the souls of those that emulate them, as from the sacred caverns; by whose inspiration, even such as are not over-gifted of Phœbus catch enthusiasm from the sublimities of others. Was Herodotus the only devoted imitator of Homer? Stesichorus was so before him, and so was Archilochus; but more than all of them, Plato, who from the famed Homeric fountain has drawn water by ten thousand by-streams to irrigate his own genius. And, perhaps, it were needful for me to point out instances, had not Ammonius and his disciples given a classified list of them. Nor is this plagiarism; but to take a hint from models of poetic fiction or works of art is as defensible as to copy good manners. Neither do I think that Plato would have displayed so much vigor in delivering his philosophical doctrines, and so often have soared to the matter and diction of poetry, had he not strenuously entered the lists, even with Homer, and disputed the palm with him, like some undistinguished champion that matches himself with one who has already engrossed the admiration of the world. The attack was perhaps too rash, the opposition perhaps had too much the air of enmity, but yet it could not fail of some advantage, for, as Hesiod says:—

  And, assuredly, glorious are the efforts, worthy our highest ambition the crown in this contest for pre-eminence of fame, wherein even to be worsted by the heroes of former days is unattended with dishonor.

  Wherefore, whenever we, too, are engaged in a work which requires grandeur of style and exalted sentiments, it were good to raise in ourselves such reflections as these:—How in this matter would Homer, as the case may be, or Plato, or Demosthenes have raised their thoughts? Or, if it be historical, how would Thucydides? For these persons, being set before us, and appearing, as it were, in bright array, as patterns for our imitation, will in some degree raise our souls to the standard we have pictured to our imaginations. It will be yet of greater use if to the preceding reflections we add these: What would Homer or Demosthenes have thought of this piece; or how would they have been affected by it? For of a truth it is no light contest we engage in when we set before us such a tribunal and such an auditory to adjudicate upon our own performances; and are possessed with the idea, though but in imagination, that we are submitting our writings to the scrutiny of such distinguished characters, who are at once both our judges and witnesses. There is yet another motive which may yield still more powerful incitements, if we ask ourselves, “What would all posterity think of me if they heard these writings of mine recited?” But if any one, in the moments of composing, should apprehend that his performance may not be able to survive him and endure, the conceptions of a soul so affected must needs be crude and imperfect, like things born out of due season, so that they can never attain to the praise of future ages.