Chapter X

Let us now consider whether there is anything further which conduces to
the Sublime in writing. It is a law of Nature that in all things there
are certain constituent parts, coexistent with their substance. It
necessarily follows, therefore, that one cause of sublimity is the
choice of the most striking circumstances involved in whatever we are
describing, and, further, the power of afterwards combining them into
one animate whole. The reader is attracted partly by the selection of
the incidents, partly by the skill which has welded them together. For
instance, Sappho, in dealing with the passionate manifestations
attending on the frenzy of lovers, always chooses her strokes from the
signs which she has observed to be actually exhibited in such cases. But
her peculiar excellence lies in the felicity with which she chooses and
unites together the most striking and powerful features.

"I deem that man divinely blest
Who sits, and, gazing on thy face,
Hears thee discourse with eloquent lips,
And marks thy lovely smile.
This, this it is that made my heart
So wildly flutter in my breast;
Whene'er I look on thee, my voice
Falters, and faints, and fails;
My tongue's benumbed; a subtle fire
Through all my body inly steals;
Mine eyes in darkness reel and swim;
Strange murmurs drown my ears;
With dewy damps my limbs are chilled;
An icy shiver shakes my frame;
Paler than ashes grows my cheek;
And Death seems nigh at hand."

Is it not wonderful how at the same moment soul, body, ears, tongue,
eyes, colour, all fail her, and are lost to her as completely as if they
were not her own? Observe too how her sensations contradict one
another--she freezes, she burns, she raves, she reasons, and all at the
same instant. And this description is designed to show that she is
assailed, not by any particular emotion, but by a tumult of different
emotions. All these tokens belong to the passion of love; but it is in
the choice, as I said, of the most striking features, and in the
combination of them into one picture, that the perfection of this Ode of
Sappho's lies. Similarly Homer in his descriptions of tempests always
picks out the most terrific circumstances.

The poet of the "Arimaspeia" intended the following lines to be grand--

"Herein I find a wonder passing strange,
That men should make their dwelling on the deep,
Who far from land essaying bold to range
With anxious heart their toilsome vigils keep;
Their eyes are fixed on heaven's starry steep;
The ravening billows hunger for their lives;
And oft each shivering wretch, constrained to weep,
With suppliant hands to move heaven's pity strives,
While many a direful qualm his very vitals rives."

All must see that there is more of ornament than of terror in the
description. Now let us turn to Homer.

One passage will suffice to show the contrast.

"On them he leaped, as leaps a raging wave,
Child of the winds, under the darkening clouds,
On a swift ship, and buries her in foam;
Then cracks the sail beneath the roaring blast,
And quakes the breathless seamen's shuddering heart
In terror dire: death lours on every wave."

Aratus has tried to give a new turn to this last thought--

"But one frail timber shields them from their doom,"--

banishing by this feeble piece of subtlety all the terror from his
description; setting limits, moreover, to the peril described by saying
"shields them"; for so long as it shields them it matters not whether
the "timber" be "frail" or stout. But Homer does not set any fixed limit
to the danger, but gives us a vivid picture of men a thousand times on
the brink of destruction, every wave threatening them with instant
death. Moreover, by his bold and forcible combination of prepositions of
opposite meaning he tortures his language to imitate the agony of the
scene, the constraint which is put on the words accurately reflecting
the anxiety of the sailors' minds, and the diction being stamped, as it
were, with the peculiar terror of the situation.

Similarly Archilochus in his description of the shipwreck, and similarly
Demosthenes when he describes how the news came of the taking of
Elatea--"It was evening," etc. Each of these authors fastidiously
rejects whatever is not essential to the subject, and in putting
together the most vivid features is careful to guard against the
interposition of anything frivolous, unbecoming, or tiresome. Such
blemishes mar the general effect, and give a patched and gaping
appearance to the edifice of sublimity, which ought to be built up in a
solid and uniform structure.