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The vaulting ambition of "fine" diction too often overleaps itself, and falls o' the other side. Professus grandia turget. Modern critics retain Horace's distrust of the purpureus pannus, latè qui splendeat. "Brilliant speakers and writers,” says Archdeacon Hare, "should remember that coach-wheels are better than Catherine-wheels to travel on."[1] Tickling the fancy may be an amusing operation—occasionally; but tickling of any kind soon wears out the energies, and be the tickler never so accomplished and unwearying, the ticklee will speedily sicken of his attentions, Painted roses, and violets with a superadded artificial perfume, are not "the thing." My Lord Noodle, indeed, may admire, in flowing lyrics,
Mighty Mr. Sol,
So tilted out, so glorious,
Glittering like a bean in a new birthday embroidery;[2]
but weaker eyes are fain to put up with a lesser light than that demanded, by the sun-gazers of Noodledom. Mr. Lockhart figuratively remarks, in reference to bravura displays of conversational prowess, that in passing from a gas-lit hall into a room with wax-candles, the guests sometimes complain that they have left splendour for gloom; but let them try by what sort of a light it is most satisfactory to read, write, or embroider, or consider at leisure under which of tho two, either men or women look their best.[3] Which things are an allegory. In the long run, no "splendid" writer will find his panni respected (except in Rag-fair), be they never so purpurei. Profusion of epithets does not always betoken opulence of thought;—for though an epithet is an addition, an addition (as a witty author observes) may easily be an encumbrance, as even a dog finds out, when a kettle is tied to his tail, "Stuff a man into a feather bed, and he will not move so lightly or nimbly. Yet many writers cram their thoughts into what might not inappropriately be called a feather bed of words.[4] This is one of the splendid sins of splendid writers. And all bookworms have a deep interest in inserting into any revision of the liturgy, should it come to pass, a litanical deprecation (libera nos!) of illud genus omne. If dissenters and Scotchmen—to speak generally—or if certain sections of them—to speak more accurately—are to be credited, British literature is at this present enriched with a "splendid" writer, in the person of Mr. George Gilfillan, of Dundee. "Waverley" enjoys no monopoly of the Gifted Gilfillan. Again and again have-we perused lowing panegyrics, ostreperous eulogies, hyperbolic laudations of this gentleman's literary performances. How could bookworm, resist appeals calculated to stir him as with the sound of a trumpet—though it be a penny one, and that cracked? And how, having read what he was
- ↑ "Guesses at Truth." Second Series.
- ↑ Fielding's "Tom Thumb."
- ↑ "Life of Scott." Chap. xli.
- ↑ J. C. Hare.
