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EXAMPLE.- "If we have nò regard for our own character, we ought to have some regard for the character of others""own" rising, and "others" falling, according to Principle Third. "But," say the advocates for the supposed exception, "the first division requires the falling inflection because it implies concession"-a concession, however, which they must admit is so analogous to supposition, as scarcely to justify a departure from the general rule. Even proceeding upon the principle of concession, why not give it the inflection of the concessive member as expressed in Principle Second? -the rule of the concession, in all systems of elocution, being that of the rising modulation.
But again-The second member of the example, "We ought to have some regard for the character of others," should, it is said, have the rising modulation, because "it points an appeal to the conscience." But, independently of that, is not the clause obviously suggested by the former, arising out of it, like every other second member of the suspension? "If we have nò regard for our own chaówn racter, we ought to have some regard for the character of others."" If we have nó regard for religion in youth, we should have some regard for it in àge." Let the student exercise his own judgment, however, and form his taste accordingly. The exception appears objectionable, first, because it seems unnecessary, and, secondly, because its adoption would rather encumber than simplify the art to the student. It is in this as in every other abstract study-the fewer and more self-evident the principles, the simpler and easier the art becomes. When the reader is distracted by a multiplicity of rules that modify and yet include each other, he is not only perplexed in the practice of the art, but becomes also disagreeably stiff and artificial in the management of his modulations. The art, in reality, suffers by its alleged intricacies, and he by his slavish attention to them.
It may be observed, in connection with Principles Second and Third, that when the negative, concessive, or suspended sense, is not confined to one member, but extends over several, care must be taken to preserve the low monotone throughout the entire series, reserving the strong rising inflection for the concluding member of the negative, concessive, or suspended division. Thus in the Negative—“ Nó mãn is fìtted to excél in conversation whō is exceèdingly resérved; who is háughty and pròud of his knówledge; who is pósitive and dogmàtical in his opínions; who affécts to outshìne all the company; who is frètful and peévish; who affècts wít, and is fùll of púns, and qúirks, and qúibbles; but hé ōnly who is patient to hear, and whóse mìnd is open to conviction." Thus also in the following passage, in which the concessive and negative sense are combined, though destitute of the concessive sign :
"Sweet is the breath of mórn, her rísing sweet,
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sún,
So also in the Suspension-" Supposing the whole body of the earth were a great ball or máss of the fìnest sánd, and
that a single gràin or párticle of this sand should be anníhilated every thousand years; supposing that you had it in your power to be happy all the while this prodígious mass of sand was consuming by this slow méthod, until there was not a gràin of it left, on condition you were to be míserable for ever áfter; or, that you were to be happy for ever after, on condìtion you would be míserable until the whole mass of sand were thus annihilated, at the rate of óne sànd in a thousand years; which of these two cases would you make your choice?" In all such sentences, though there is a continual recurrence to the rising inflection on each negative, concessive, or suspended clause, the reader must observe a continual return also to the low monotone, or, which is the same thing in effect, to a low grade of harmonic inflection, in order to maintain the consistency of the respective rules. The following Extracts exemplify Principle Third. The principal inflections only are marked :—
REFLECTIONS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
When I am in a sèrious húmour, I very often walk by myself in Westminster Abbey, where the gloominess of the pláce, and the ùse to which it is applied, with the solemnity of the building, and the condition of the people who líe in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind of mélancholy, or ràther thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. I yesterday passed a whole afternoòn in the churchyárd, the cloísters, and the church; amúsing myself with the tómbstones and inscriptions which I met with in those several regions of the dèad. Most of them recorded nothing else of the bùried person, but that he was born upon one day and díed upon another; the whole history of his life being comprehended in these twò círcumstances, that are cómmon to all mankind. I could not but look upon those registers of exístence, whether of bràss or márble, as a kind of sàtire upon the departed persons, who had left no other memórial of themselves, than that they were bórn, and that they died.
Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself with the digging of a gràve; and saw in évery shòvelful of it that was
thrown up, the fragment of a bòne or skúll, intermixed with a kind of fresh mòuldering éarth, that, sòme time or other, had a place in the composition of a húman bòdy. Upon thís, I began to consider with myself, what innumerable multitudes of people lay confused together, under the pavement of that áncient cathedral, how men and women, friends and énemies, prièsts and soldiers, mònks and prébendaries, were crumbled amongst one another, and blended together in the same cómmon màss; how beaúty, strength, and yoúth, with old àge, wèakness, and defórmity, lay undistinguished in the same promíscuous heap of màtter.
After having thus surveyed this great magazine of mortality as it were in the lúmp, I examined it more partìcularly by the accounts which I found on several of the mónuments which are raised in every quarter of that áncient fàbric. Some of them were covered with such extravagant épitaphs, that, if it were possible for the dead person to be acquainted with thēm, he would blush at the praises which his friends have bestowed upon him. There are others so excèssively módest, that they deliver the character of the person departed in Gréek or Hèbrew; and by thát means are not understood once in a twèlvemonth. In the poétical quarter, I found there were poets who had no mónuments, and mónuments which had no pòets. I observed, indeed, that the present war had filled the church with many of those uninhabited mónuments, which had been erected to the memory of persons whose bodies were perhaps buried in the plàins of Blénheim, or in the bosom of the ocean.
I could not but be very much delighted with several módern ēpitaphs, which are written with great èlegance of expression and justness of thought, and which therefore do honour to the living as well as to the dèad. As a foreigner is very apt to conceive an idea of the ígnorance or políteness of a nation from the turn of their public monuments and inscríptions, they should be submitted to the perusal of men of learning and génius, before they are put into execution. Sir Cloudsley Shòvel's monument has very often given me great offènce. Instead of the brave rough English ádmiral, which was the distinguishing character of that pláin gallant mán, he is represented on his tomb by the figure of a beau dressed in a lòng périwig, and reposing himself upon velvet cushions under a cánopy of stàte. The inscríption is answerable to the monument; for, instead of celebrating the many remark
able actions he had performed in the sèrvice of his coúntry, it acquaints,us only with the manner of his death, in which it was impossible for him to reap àny honour. The Dutch, whom we are apt to despise for want of génius, show an infinitely greater taste in their buildings and works of this nature, than we meet with in those of our own coùntry. The monuments of their admirals, which have been erected at the pùblic expénse, represent them like themsèlves, and are adorned with ròstral crówns, and nàval órnaments, with beautiful festoons of sea-weed, shells, and còral.
I know that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise dark and dismal thoughts in tìmorous mínds and gloòmy imaginations; but for my own part, though I am àlways sérious, I do not know what it is to be melancholy; and can therefore take a view of nature in her deep and sólemn scenes, with the same pléasure as in her most gáy and delightful ones. By these means, I can impròve myself with objects which others consider with tèrror. When I look upon the tombs of the greát, every emotion of envy dies ìn me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes oùt; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compàssion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those who depósed them; when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men who divided the world with their contests and dispútes; I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, fáctions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dátes of the tombs, of sòme that died yesterday, and sòme six hundred years ago; I consider that great day when we shall all of us be contémporaries, and make our appearance together.-Spectator.
ON TRUTH AND INTEGRITY.
Truth and integrity have all the advantages of appearance, and many more. If the show of any thing be good for any thing, I am sure the reality is better; for why does any man dissemble, or seem to be that which he is not, but because he thinks it good to have the qualities he pretends to? For to counterfeit and dissemble is to put on the appearance of some real excellency. Now,