Hugh Blair, answered from the texts and cited to the page.
Sublimity is the effect upon the mind of whatever is great — great in extent, in power, in duration, or in the force of its impression upon the senses. I distinguish carefully between two things that critics commonly run together: the grandeur of objects as they appear to the eye, and the description of that grandeur in discourse or writing.1
The first is prior; the second depends upon it entirely. What the sublime object does to the mind is not easily put into words, yet every man who has stood at the edge of a precipice or heard the burst of thunder knows the experience from within. It produces a kind of internal elevation and expansion; it raises the mind well above its ordinary state and fills it with wonder and astonishment that it cannot readily put aside.2
The emotion is serious, even solemn — altogether different in character from the brisk, gay pleasure raised by what is merely beautiful. Vastness is one great source. Wide extended plains, the firmament of heaven, the boundless expanse of the ocean — all these produce the impression, because amplitude of extent, in one dimension or another, is necessary to grandeur.3
Height and depth act upon us more powerfully than length: we are more moved by looking up at a mountain or down from a tower than by gazing across a flat plain, however unlimited. Yet vastness alone cannot be the whole account, since many objects are sublime that have no relation to space at all — the burst of cannon, the roaring of winds.4
Power is a second source, and it mingles with vastness in the most striking cases. The war-horse whose neck is clothed with thunder carries grandeur in its idea; the engagement of two great armies, as the highest exertion of human might, combines a variety of sources of the sublime at once.5 And ideas bordering on the terrible — darkness, solitude, silence — tend greatly to assist the effect.
The hoary mountain and the solitary lake, the aged forest and the torrent falling over the rock: these elevate the mind in a way the gay landscape and the flourishing city never can.6 Obscurity, far from being an obstacle, is often an ally. An idea may be indistinct and yet powerfully affecting, because the imagination is frequently moved most by what it cannot fully compass.7
Hence the sublimity of almost every description of supernatural beings — their power is felt precisely because their form is not seen. The passage from the book of Job makes this plain: a spirit passes, the hair of the flesh stands up, and yet the form cannot be discerned.8 No ideas reach higher than those taken from the Supreme Being, whose infinity of nature and eternity of duration surpass our conceptions while they exalt our minds.
In writing, the rule that follows from all of this is severe. The foundation must always be laid in the nature of the object: unless the thing described would, if presented to the eye in reality, raise ideas of that elevating and awful kind, no description, however finely drawn, can claim the name.9 And once the object is rightly chosen, it must be set before the reader with strength, conciseness, and simplicity — never with ornament, which substitutes the writer's ingenuity for the object's own power.
If the writer's own feeling be languid, he can never inspire us with any strong emotion.10 It is among the most ancient authors that we find the most striking instances, and I am inclined to think the early ages of the world peculiarly favourable to sublimity. Men then met objects new and strange; their imaginations glowed; they thought and expressed themselves boldly and without restraint.
In the progress of society the genius of men changes, more favourable to accuracy than to strength.11 Of all writings, ancient or modern, the sacred Scriptures afford the highest instances — the descriptions of the Deity in them are wonderfully noble, both from the grandeur of the object and the manner of representing it.12
I distinguish these two things from one another, the grandeur of the objects themselves when they are presented to the eye, and the description of that grandeur in discourse or writing; though most critics, inaccurately I think, blend them together.Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres
It produces a sort of internal elevation and expansion; it raises the mind much above its ordinary state, and fills it with a degree of wonder and astonishment, which it cannot well depress.Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres
The simplest form of external grandeur appears in the vast and boundless prospects presented to us by nature; such as wide extended plains, to which the eye can see no limits; the firmament of heaven; or the boundless expanse of the ocean. All vastness produces the impression of sublimity.Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres
many objects appear sublime which have no relation to space at all. Such, for instance, is great loudness of sound. The burst of thunder or of cannon, the roaring of winds.Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres
The war-horse, 'whose neck is clothed with thunder,' carries grandeur in its idea. The engagement of two great armies, as it is the highest exertion of human might, combines a variety of sources of the sublime.Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres
What are the scenes of nature that elevate the mind in the highest degree, and produce the sublime sensation? Not the gay landscape, the flowery field, or the flourishing city; but the hoary mountain, and the solitary lake; the aged forest, and the torrent falling over the rock.Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres
Obscurity, we are farther to remark, is not unfavourable to the sublime. Though it render the object indistinct, the impression, however, may be great; for as an ingenious author has well observed, it is one thing to make an idea clear, and another to make it affecting to the imagination.Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres
In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up: it stood still; but I could not discern the form thereof.Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres
The foundation of it must always be laid in the nature of the object described. Unless it be such an object as, if presented to our eyes, if exhibited to us in reality, would raise ideas of that elevating, that awful and magnificent kind, which we call sublime; the description, however finely drawn, is not entitled to come under this class.Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres
it must be described with strength, with conciseness, and simplicity. This depends, principally, upon the lively impression which the poet, or orator, has of the object which he exhibits; and upon his being deeply affected, and warmed, by the sublime idea which he would convey. If his own feeling be languid, he can never inspire us with any strong emotion.Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres
I am inclined to think that the early ages of the world, and the rude unimproved state of society, are peculiarly favourable to the strong emotions of sublimity. In the progress of society, the genius and manners of men undergo a change more favourable to accuracy than to strength or sublimity.Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres
Of all writings, ancient or modern, the sacred Scriptures afford us the highest instances of the sublime. The descriptions of the Deity, in them, are wonderfully noble; both from the grandeur of the object and the manner of representing it.Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres