CAUSE OF THE PLEASURE RECEIVED FROM REPRESENTATIONS EXCITING PITY.
Many hypotheses have been proposed to explain this cause.
According to the Abbé Du Bos,[19] in order to get rid of listlessness, the
mind seeks for emotions; and the stronger these are the better. Hence, the
passions which in themselves are the most distressing, are, for this
purpose, preferable to the pleasant, because they most effectually relieve
the mind from the less endurable languor which preys upon it during
inaction.
The sophistry of this explanation is evident. Pleasant passions, as Dr.
Campbell has shown, ought in every respect to have the advantage, because,
while they preserve the mind from this state of inaction, they convey a
feeling which is agreeable. Nor is it true that the stronger the emotion
is, so much the fitter for this purpose; for if we exceed a certain
measure, instead of a sympathetic and delightful sorrow, we excite only
horror and aversion. The most, therefore, that can be concluded from the
Abbé's premises, is, that it is useful to excite passion of some kind or
other, but not that the distressing ones are the fittest.
According to Fontenelle,[20] theatrical representation has almost the
effect of reality: but yet not altogether. We have still a certain idea of
falsehood in the whole of what we see. We weep for the misfortunes of a
hero to whom we are attached. In the same instant, we comfort ourselves by
reflecting, that it is nothing but a fiction.
The short answer to this is, that we are conscious of no such alternation
as that here described.
According to David Hume, whose hypothesis is a kind of supplement to the
former two, that which "when the sorrow is not softened by fiction, raises
a pleasure from the bosom of uneasiness, a pleasure which still retains
all the features and outward symptoms of distress and sorrow, is that very
eloquence with which the melancholy scene is represented."
In reply, Dr. Campbell has shown that the aggravating of all the
circumstances of misery in the representation, cannot make it be
contemplated with pleasure, but must be the most effectual method for
making it give greater pain; that the detection of the speaker's talents
and address, which Hume's hypothesis implies, is in direct opposition to
the fundamental maxim, that "it is essential to the art to conceal the
art;" and that the supposition that there are two distinct effects
produced by the eloquence on the hearers, one the sentiment of beauty, or
of the harmony of oratorical numbers, the other the passion which the
speaker purposes to raise in their minds, and that when the first
predominates, the mixture of the two effects becomes exceedingly pleasant,
and the reverse when the second is superior, is altogether imaginary.
According to Hawkesworth,[21] the compassion in question may be "resolved
into that power of imagination, by which we apply the misfortunes of
others to ourselves;" and we are said "to pity no longer than we fancy
ourselves to suffer, and to be pleased only by reflecting that our
sufferings are not real; thus indulging a dream of distress, from which we
can awake whenever we please, to exult in our security, and enjoy the
comparison of the fiction with the truth."
This hypothesis is evidently too gross to need reply.
Dr. Campbell has answered the preceding hypotheses at great length, and
quite satisfactorily. I regret to say that his own is as worthless, as
well as remarkably confused and unintelligible.
To Burke, who wrote at a later period, it falls to my lot to reply at
greater length.
"To examine this point concerning the effect of tragedy in a proper
manner," says that writer, "we must previously consider how we are
affected by the feelings of our fellow-creatures in circumstances of real
distress. I am convinced we have a degree of delight, and that no small
one, in the real misfortunes and pains of others; for, let the affection
be what it will in appearance, if it does not make us shun such objects,
if on the contrary it induces us to approach them, if it makes us dwell
upon them, in this case I conceive we must have a delight or pleasure of
some species or other in contemplating objects of this kind.... Our
delight in cases of this kind is very greatly heightened, if the sufferer
be some excellent person who sinks under an unworthy fortune.... The
delight we have in such things hinders us from shunning scenes of misery;
and the pains we feel, prompt us to relieve ourselves, in relieving those
who suffer.... In imitated distress, the only difference is the pleasure
resulting from the effects of imitation."
A more monstrous doctrine than this was never perhaps enunciated. A very
little analysis will expose its fallacy.
In relation to events of this kind, there are three very distinct
cases--real occurrence, subsequent inspection or historical narration, and
dramatic representation; in each, the affection of the mind is very
different; and nearly all the errors on this subject seem to have occurred
from confounding them. Burke has done this in the greatest degree.
The real occurrence of unmerited suffering is beheld with no delight, but
with unmixed pain, by every well-constituted mind. Hume,[22] therefore,
justly observes, that "the same object of distress, which pleases in a
tragedy, were it really set before us, would give the most unfeigned
uneasiness." It is only by confounding this with the next case, of
subsequent inspection or historical narration, that Burke gets into error
here.
"We do not," says Burke, "sufficiently distinguish what we would by no
means choose to do [or _to see done_--he should have added] from what we
should be eager enough to see if it was once done. We delight in seeing
things [_after they are done_--he should have added], which, so far from
doing, our heartiest wishes would be to see redressed."
That the additions I have made, more truly state the case, seems as
evident, as it is, that they afford a very different conclusion from
Burke's, of our beholding unmerited suffering with delight. But he himself
proves this by the very instance which he gives in illustration of his
doctrine.
"This noble capital," he says, "the pride of England and of Europe, I
believe _no man is so strangely wicked as to desire to see destroyed_ by a
conflagration or an earthquake, though he should be removed himself to the
greatest distance from the danger. But _suppose such a fatal accident to
have happened_, what numbers from all parts would crowd to behold the
ruins, and among them many who would have been content never to have seen
London in its glory!"
Here the words which I have put in italics clearly show that I was right
in the additions I suggested in his previous statement, and that he there
confounded delight in seeing the infliction of unmerited suffering, with
delight in seeing it after infliction, or of seeing it historically
narrated; for, in this his illustration, it is the latter, and not the
former, that he supposes--nay he now says "no man is so strangely wicked
as to desire to see destroyed!" &c. Indeed, it is quite plain that,
supposing an attempt made to destroy London, so far would every one be
from being delighted to see it done, that he would eagerly prevent it.
There is here, therefore, on the part of this writer, only his common and
characteristic confusion of ideas.
"Choose a day," he says, "on which to represent the most sublime and
affecting tragedy we have; appoint the most favorite actors; spare no cost
upon the scenes and decorations; unite the greatest efforts of poetry,
painting, and music; and when you have collected your audience, just at
the moment when their minds are erect with expectation, let it be reported
that a state-criminal, of high rank, is on the point of being executed in
the adjoining square; in a moment the emptiness of the theatre would
demonstrate the comparative weakness of the imitative arts, and proclaim
the triumph of the real sympathy."
This presents only another instance of want of discrimination. If the
"state-criminal, of high rank," were not a real criminal--if he were an
unmerited sufferer, the place of execution, supposing his rescue
impossible, would assuredly be fled from by every person of feeling and
honor; as we read of in the public papers, lately, when a murder of that
kind was perpetrating by some one of the base little jailor-princes of
Germany. And we know that, in the case of legal perpetrations of that kind
in England, even upon real criminals, none but the most degraded wretches
go to witness such scenes.
In tragic representation, then, we know that the suffering is not real,
else should we fly. There have, indeed, in such cases, been instances of a
sort of momentary deception, but it is only children, and very simple
people, utter strangers to theatrical amusements, who are apt to be so
deceived; and as their case always excites the surprise and laughter of
every one, it clearly proves that others are under no sort of deception.
Even Burke, notwithstanding his want of discrimination, and his monstrous
hypothesis, says: "Imitated distress is never so perfect, but we can
perceive it is imitation, and on that principle are somewhat pleased with
it." And his case of desertion of the theatre, if it occur under any
circumstances, illustrates this.
Burke adds, indeed: "But then I imagine we shall be much _mistaken_ if we
attribute any considerable part of our satisfaction in tragedy to the
consideration that tragedy is _a deceit_, and its representations _no
realities_. [We seek no satisfaction of the kind: we know it to be a
deceit throughout!] The nearer it approaches the reality, and the farther
it removes us from all idea of fiction, the more perfect is its power."
The nearest possible _approach_ to reality, is only necessary to the
success of fiction, to the pleasure of imagination. He himself has said:
"Imitated distress is never so perfect, but we can perceive it is
imitation!" Again, therefore, here is only Burke's characteristic
confusion of ideas.
My own doctrine on this subject is already obvious from the remarks made
on others. _We never cease to know that tragic representation is a mere
deception; our reason is never imposed upon; our imagination is alone
engaged; we are perfectly conscious that it is so; and we have all the
sensibility, fine feeling, and generosity of pity, as well as the
satisfaction of being thereby raised wonderfully in our own esteem, at the
small cost of three shillings!_
It is not a little curious, that this should not have been evident to
those who have written so much about it. Dr. Campbell, alone, has
approached it. "So great," he says, "is the anomaly which sometimes
displays itself in human characters, that it is not impossible to find
persons who are quickly made to cry at seeing a tragedy, or reading a
romance, which they know to be fictions, and yet are both inattentive and
unfeeling in respect of the actual objects of compassion who live in their
neighborhood, and are daily under their eye.... Men may be of a selfish,
contracted, and even avaricious disposition, who are not what we should
denominate hard-hearted, or unsusceptible of sympathetic feeling. Such
will gladly enjoy the luxury of pity (as Hawkesworth terms it) when it
nowise interferes with their more powerful passions; that is, when it
comes unaccompanied with a demand upon their pockets."--This should have
led him to the simple truth, and should have prevented his framing the
most confused, unintelligible, and worthless hypothesis upon this
subject.