performed to the time and measure of Music, will not alone make a
Dance, yet almost any sort of sound, provided it is repeated with a
distinct rhythmus, or according to a distinct time and measure, though
without any variation as to gravity or acuteness, will make a sort of
Music, no doubt indeed, an imperfect one. Drums, cymbals, and, so far
as I have observed, all other instruments of percussion, have only one
note; this note, however, when repeated with a certain rhythmus, or
according to a certain time and measure, and sometimes, in order to
mark more distinctly that time and measure, with some little variation
as to loudness and lowness, though without any as to acuteness and
gravity, does certainly make a sort of Music, which is frequently far
from being disagreeable, and which even sometimes produces
considerable effects. The simple note of such instruments, it is true,
is generally a very clear, or what is called a melodious, sound. It
does not however seem indispensably necessary that it should be so.
The sound of the muffled drum, when it beats the dead march, is far
from being either clear or melodious, and yet it certainly produces a
species of Music which is sometimes affecting. Even in the performance
of the most humble of all artists, of the man who drums upon the table
with his fingers, we may sometimes distinguish the measure, and
perhaps a little of the humour, of some favourite song; and we must
allow that even he makes some sort of Music. Without a proper step and
motion, the observation of tune alone will not make a Dance; time
alone, without tune, will make some sort of Music.
That exact observation of tune, or of the proper intervals of gravity
and acuteness, which constitutes the great beauty of all perfect
Music, constitutes likewise its great difficulty. The time, or measure
of a song are simple matters, which even a coarse and unpractised ear
is capable of distinguishing and comprehending: but to distinguish and
comprehend all the variations of the tune, and to conceive with
precision the exact proportion of every note, is what the finest and
most cultivated {437} ear is frequently no more than capable of
performing. In the singing of the common people we may generally
remark a distinct enough observation of time, but a very imperfect one
of tune. To discover and to distinguish with precision the proper
intervals of tune, must have been a work of long experience and much
observation. In the theoretical treatises upon Music, what the authors
have to say upon time is commonly discussed in a single chapter of no
great length or difficulty. The theory of tune fills commonly all the
rest of the volume, and has long ago become both an extensive and an
abstruse science, which is often but imperfectly comprehended, even by
intelligent artists. In the first rude efforts of uncivilized nations
towards singing, the niceties of tune could be but little attended to:
I have, upon this account, been frequently disposed to doubt of the
great antiquity of those national songs, which it is pretended have
been delivered down from age to age by a sort of oral tradition,
without having been ever noted or distinctly recorded for many
successive generations. The measure, the humour of the song, might
perhaps have been delivered down in this manner, but it seems scarcely
possible that the precise notes of the tune should have been so
preserved. The method of singing some of what we reckon our old Scotch
songs, has undergone great alterations within the compass of my
memory, and it may have undergone still greater before.
The distinction between the sounds or tones of singing and those of
speaking seems to be of the same kind with that between the steps,
gestures, and motions of Dancing, and those of any other ordinary
action; though in speaking, a person may show a very agreeable tone of
voice, yet if he seems to intend to show it, if he appears to listen
to the sound of his own voice, and as it were to tune it into a
pleasing modulation, he never fails to offend, as guilty of a most
disagreeable affectation. In speaking, as in every other ordinary
action, we expect and require that the speaker should attend only to
the proper purpose of the action, the clear and distinct expression of
what he has to say. In singing, on the contrary, every person
professes the intention to please by the tone and cadence of his
voice; and he not only appears to be guilty of no disagreeable
affectation in doing so, but we expect and require that he should do
so. To please by the choice and arrangement of agreeable sounds is the
proper purpose of all Music, vocal as well as instrumental; and we
always expect and require, that every person should attend to the
proper purpose of whatever action he is performing. A person may
appear to sing, as well as to dance, affectedly; he may endeavour to
please by sounds and tones which are unsuitable to the nature of the
song, or he may dwell too much on those which are suitable to it, or
in some other way he may show an overweening conceit of his own
abilities, beyond what seems to be warranted by his performance. The
disagreeable affectation appears {438} to consist always, not in
attempting to please by a proper, but by some improper modulation of
the voice. It was early discovered that the vibrations of chords or
strings, which either in their lengths, or in their densities, or in
their degrees of tension, bear a certain proportion to one another,
produce sounds which correspond exactly, or, as the musicians say, are
the unisons of those sounds or tones of the human voice which the ear
approves of in singing. This discovery has enabled musicians to speak
with distinctness and precision concerning the musical sounds or tones
of the human voice; they can always precisely ascertain what are the
particular sounds or tones which they mean, by ascertaining what are
the proportions of the strings of which the vibrations produce the
unisons of those sounds or tones. What are called the intervals; that
is, the differences, in point of gravity and acuteness, between the
sounds or tones of a singing voice, are much greater and more distinct
than those of the speaking voice. Though the former, therefore, can be
measured and appreciated by the proportions of chords or strings, the
latter cannot. The nicest instruments cannot express the extreme
minuteness of these intervals. The heptamerede of Mr. _Sauveur_
could express an interval so small as the seventh part of what is
called a comma, the smallest interval that is admitted in modern
Music. Yet even this instrument, we are informed by Mr. _Duclos_,
could not express the minuteness of the intervals in the pronunciation
of the Chinese language; of all the languages in the world, that of
which the pronunciation is said to approach the nearest to singing, or
in which the intervals are said to be the greatest.
As the sounds or tones of the singing voice, therefore, can be
ascertained or appropriated, while those of the speaking voice cannot;
the former are capable of being noted or recorded, while the latter
are not.
----------
ADAM SMITH
ON THE
EXTERNAL SENSES;
THE Senses, by which we perceive external objects, are commonly
reckoned Five in Number; viz. Seeing, Hearing, Smelling, Tasting, and
Touching.
Of these, the four first mentioned are each of them confined to
particular parts or organs of the body; the Sense of Seeing is
confined to the Eyes; that of Hearing to the Ears; that of Smelling to
the Nostrils; and that of Tasting to the Palate. The Sense of Touching
alone {439} seems not to be confined to any particular organ, but to
be diffused through almost every part of the body; if we except the
hair and the nails of the fingers and toes, I believe through every
part of it. I shall say a few words concerning each of these Senses;
beginning with the last, proceeding backwards in the opposite order to
that in which they are commonly enumerated.
_Of the Sense of_ TOUCHING.
The objects of Touch always present themselves as pressing upon, or as
resisting the particular part of the body which perceives them, or by
which we perceive them. When I lay my hand upon the table, the table
presses upon my hand, or resists the further motion of my hand, in the
same manner as my hand presses upon the table. But pressure or
resistance necessarily supposes externality in the thing which presses
or resists. The table could not press upon, or resist the further
motion of my hand, if it was not external to my hand. I feel it
accordingly as something which is not merely an affection of the hand,
but altogether external to and independent of my hand. The agreeable,
indifferent, or painful sensation of pressure, accordingly as I happen
to press hardly or softly, I feel, no doubt, as affections of my hand;
but the thing which presses and which resists I feel as something
altogether different from those affections, as external to my hand,
and as being altogether independent of it.
In moving my hand along the table it soon comes, in every direction,
to a place where this pressure or resistance ceases. This place we
call the boundary, or end of the table; of which the extent and figure
are determined by the extent and direction of the lines or surfaces
which constitute this boundary or end.
It is in this manner that a man born blind, or who has lost his sight
so early that he has no remembrance of visible objects, may form the
most distinct idea of the extent and figure of all the different parts
of his own body, and of every other tangible object which he has an
opportunity of handling and examining. When he lays his hand upon his
foot, as his hand feels the pressure or resistance of his foot, so his
foot feels that of his hand. They are both external to one another,
but they are, neither of them, altogether so external to him. He feels
in both, and he naturally considers them as parts of himself, or at
least as something which belongs to him, and which, for his own
comfort, it is necessary that he should take some care of.
When he lays his hand upon the table, though his hand feels the
pressure of the table, the table does not feel, at least he does not
know that it feels, the pressure of his hand. He feels it therefore as
something external, not only to his hand, but to himself, as something
which makes no part of himself, and in the state and condition of
which he has not necessarily any concern.
{440} When he lays his hand upon the body either of another man, or of
any other animal, though he knows, or at least may know, that they
feel the pressure of his hand as much as he feels that of their body:
yet as this feeling is altogether external to him, he frequently gives
no attention to it, and at no time takes any further concern in it
than he is obliged to do by that fellow-feeling which Nature has, for
the wisest purposes, implanted in man, not only towards all other men,
but (though no doubt in a much weaker degree) towards all other
animals. Having destined him to be the governing animal in this world,
it seems to have been her benevolent intention to inspire him with
some degree of respect, even for the meanest and weakest of his
subjects.
This power or quality of resistance we call Solidity; and the thing
which possesses it, the Solid Body or Thing. As we feel it as
something altogether external to us, so we necessarily conceive it as
something altogether independent of us. We consider it, therefore, as
what we call a Substance, or as a thing that subsists by itself, and
independent of any other thing. Solid and substantial, accordingly,
are two words which, in common language, are considered either as
altogether or as nearly synonymous.
Solidity necessarily supposes some degree of extension, and that in
all the three directions of length, breadth, and thickness. All the
solid bodies, of which we have any experience, have some degree of
such bulk or magnitude. It seems to be essential to their nature, and
without it, we cannot even conceive how they should be capable of
pressure or resistance; are are the powers by which they are made
known to us, and by which alone they are capable of acting upon our
own, and upon all other bodies.
Extension, at least any sensible extension, supposes divisibility. The
body may be so hard, that our strength is not sufficient to break it;
we still suppose, however, that if a sufficient force were applied, it
might be so broken; and, at any rate, we can always, in fancy at
least, imagine it to be divided into two or more parts.
Every solid and extended body, if it be not infinite, (as the universe
may be conceived to be,) must have some shape or figure, or be bounded
by certain lines and surfaces.
Every such body must likewise be conceived as capable both of motion
and of rest; both of altering its situation with regard to other
surrounding bodies, and of remaining in the same situation. That
bodies of small or moderate bulk, are capable of both motion and rest
we have constant experience. Great masses, perhaps, are according to
the ordinary habits of the imagination, supposed to be more fitted for
rest than for motion. Provided a sufficient force could be applied,
however, we have no difficulty in conceiving that the greatest and
most unwieldy masses might be made capable of motion. Philosophy
teaches us, (and by reasons too to which it is scarcely possible to
{441} refuse our assent,) that the earth itself, and bodies much
larger than the earth, are not only movable, but are at all times
actually in motion, and continually altering their situation, in
respect to other surrounding bodies, with a rapidity that almost
passes all human comprehension. In the system of the universe, at
least according to the imperfect notions which we have hitherto been
able to attain concerning it, the great difficulty seems to be, not to
find the most enormous masses in motion, but to find the smallest
particle of matter that is perfectly at rest with regard to all other
surrounding bodies.
These four qualities, or attributes of extension, divisibility,
figure, and mobility, or the capacity of motion or rest, seem
necessarily involved in the idea or conception of a solid substance.
They are, in reality, inseparable from that idea or conception, and
the solid substance cannot possibly be conceived to exist without
them. No other qualities or attributes seem to be involved, in the
same manner, in this our idea or conception of solidity. It would,
however, be rash from thence to conclude that the solid substance can,
as such, possess no other qualities or attributes. This rash
conclusion, notwithstanding, has been not only drawn, but insisted
upon, as an axiom of indubitable certainty, by philosophers of very
eminent reputation.
Of these external and resisting substances, some yield easily, and
change their figure, at least in some degree, in consequence of the
pressure of our hand: others neither yield nor change their figure, in
any respect, in consequence of the utmost pressure which our hand
alone is capable of giving them. The former we call soft, the latter
hard, bodies. In some bodies the parts are so very easily separable,
that they not only yield to a very moderate pressure, but easily
receive the pressing body within them, and without much resistance
allow it to traverse their extent in every possible direction. These
are called Fluid, in contradistinction to those of which the parts not
being so easily separable, are upon that account peculiarly called
Solid Bodies; as if they possessed, in a more distinct and perceptible
manner, the characteristical quality of solidity or the power of
resistance. Water, however (one of the fluids with which we are most
familiar), when confined on all sides (as in a hollow globe of metal,
which is first filled with it, and then sealed hermetically), has been
found to resist pressure as much as the very hardest, or what we
commonly call the most solid bodies.
Some fluids yield so very easily to the slightest pressure, that upon,
ordinary occasions we are scarcely sensible of their resistance; and
are upon that account little disposed to conceive them as bodies, or
as things capable of pressure and resistance. There was a time, as we
may learn from Aristotle and Lucretius, when it was supposed to
require some degree of philosophy to demonstrate that air was a real
solid body, or capable of pressure and resistance. What, in ancient
{442} times, and in vulgar apprehensions, was supposed to be doubtful
with regard to air, still continues to be so with regard to light, of
which the rays, however condensed or concentrated, have never appeared
capable of making the smallest resistance to the motion of other
bodies, the characteristical power or quality of what are called
bodies, or solid substances. Some philosophers accordingly doubt, and
some even deny, that light is a material or corporeal substance.
Though all bodies or solid substances resist, yet all those with which
we are acquainted appear to be more or less compressible, or capable
of having, without any diminution in the quantity of their matter,
their bulk more or less reduced within a smaller space than that which
they usually occupy. An experiment of the Florentine academy was
supposed to have fully demonstrated that water was absolutely
incompressible. The same experiment, however, having been repeated
with more care and accuracy, it appears, that water, though it
strongly resists compression, is, however, when a sufficient force is
applied, like all other bodies, in some degree liable to it. Air, on
the contrary, by the application of a very moderate force, is easily
reducible within a much smaller portion of space than that which it
usually occupies. The condensing engine, and what is founded upon it,
the wind-gun, sufficiently demonstrate this: and even without the help
of such ingenious and expensive machines, we may easily satisfy
ourselves of the truth of this proportion, by squeezing a full-blown
bladder of which the neck is well tied.
The hardness or softness of bodies, or the greater or smaller force
with which they resist any change of shape, seems to depend altogether
upon the stronger or weaker degree of cohesion with which their parts
are mutually attracted to one another. The greater or smaller force
with which they resist compression may, upon many occasions, be owing
partly to the same cause: but it may likewise be owing to the greater
or smaller proportion of empty space comprehended within their
dimensions, or intermixed with the solid parts which compose them. A
body which comprehended no empty space within its dimensions, which,
through all its parts, was completely filled with the resisting
substance, we are naturally disposed to conceive as something which
would be absolutely incompressible, and which would resist, with
unconquerable force, every attempt to reduce it within narrower
dimensions. If the solid and resisting substance, without moving out
of its place, should admit into the same place another solid and
resisting substance, it would from that moment, in our apprehension,
cease to be a solid and resisting substance, and would no longer
appear to possess that quality, by which alone it is made known to us,
and which we therefore consider as constituting its nature and
essence, and as altogether inseparable from it. Hence our notion of
what has been called impenetrability of matter; or of the absolute
impossibility that two {443} solid resisting substances should occupy
the same place at the same time.
This doctrine, which is as old as Leucippus, Democritus, and Epicurus,
was in the last century revived by Gassendi, and has since been
adopted by Newton and the far greater part of his followers. It may at
present be considered as the established system, or as the system that
is most in fashion, and most approved of by the greater part of the
philosophers of Europe. Though it has been opposed by several puzzling
arguments, drawn from that species of metaphysics which confounds
every thing and explains nothing, it seems upon the whole to be the
most simple, the most distinct, and the most comprehensible account
that has yet been given of the phenomena which are meant to be
explained by it. I shall only observe, that whatever system may be
adopted concerning the hardness or softness, the fluidity or solidity,
the compressibility or incompressibility of the resisting substance,
the certainty of our distinct sense and feeling of its Externality, or
of its entire independency upon the organ which perceives it, or by
which we perceive it, cannot in the smallest degree be affected by any
such system. I shall not therefore attempt to give any further account
of such systems.
Heat and cold being felt by almost every part of the human body, have
commonly been ranked along with solidity and resistance, among the
qualities which are the objects of Touch. It is not, however, I think,
in our language proper to say that we touch, but that we feel the
qualities of heat and cold. The word _feeling_, though in many
cases we use it as synonymous to _touching_, has, however, a much
more extensive signification, and is frequently employed to denote our
internal, as well as our external, affections. We feel hunger and
thirst, we feel joy and sorrow, we feel love and hatred.
Heat and cold, in reality, though they may frequently be perceived by
the same parts of the human body, constitute an order of sensations
altogether different from those which are the proper objects of Touch.
They are naturally felt, not as pressing upon the organ, but as in the
organ. What we feel while we stand in the sunshine during a hot, or in
the shade during a frosty, day, is evidently felt, not as pressing
upon the body, but as in the body. It does not necessarily suggest the
presence of any external object, nor could we from thence alone infer
the existence of any such object. It is a sensation which neither does
nor can exist any where but either in the organ which feels it, or in
the unknown principle of perception, whatever that may be, which feels
in that organ, or by means of that organ. When we lay our hand upon a
table, which is either heated or cooled a good deal beyond the actual
temperature of our hand, we have two distinct perceptions: first, that
of the solid or resisting table, which is necessarily felt as
something external to, and independent of, the hand which feels it;
and secondly, {444} that of the heat or cold, which by the contact of
the table is excited in our hand, and which is naturally felt as
nowhere but in our hand, or in the principle of perception which feels
in our hand.
But though the sensations of heat and cold do not necessarily suggest
the presence of any external object, we soon learn from experience
that they are commonly excited by some such object: sometimes by the
temperature of some external body immediately in contact with our own
body, and sometimes by some body at either a moderate or a great
distance from us; as by the fire in a chamber, or by the sun in a
summer's day. By the frequency and uniformity of this experience, by
the custom and habit of thought which that frequency and uniformity
necessarily occasion, the Internal Sensation, and the External Cause
of that Sensation, come in our conception to be so strictly connected,
that in our ordinary and careless way of thinking, we are apt to
consider them as almost one and the same thing, and therefore denote
them by one and the same word. The confusion, however, is in this case
more in the word than in the thought; for in reality we still retain
some notion of the distinction, though we do not always evolve it with
that accuracy which a very slight degree of attention might enable us
to do. When we move our hand, for example, along the surface of a very
hot or of a very cold table, though we say that the table is hot or
cold in every part of it, we never mean that, in any part of it, it
feels the sensations either of heat or of cold, but that in every part
of it, it possesses the power of exciting one or other of those
sensations in our bodies. The philosophers who have taken so much
pains to prove that there is no heat in the fire, meaning that the
sensation or feeling of heat is not in the fire, have laboured to
refute an opinion which the most ignorant of mankind never
entertained. But the same word being, in common language, employed to
signify both the sensation and the power of exciting that sensation,
they, without knowing it perhaps, or intending it, have taken
advantage of this ambiguity, and have triumphed in their own
superiority, when by irresistible arguments they establish an opinion
which, in words indeed, is diametrically opposite to the most obvious
judgments of mankind, but which in reality is perfectly agreeable to
those judgments.
_Of the Sense of_ TASTING.
WHEN we taste any solid or liquid substance, we have always two
distinct perceptions: first, that of the solid or liquid body, which
is naturally felt as pressing upon, and therefore as external to, and
independent of, the organ which feels it; and secondly, that of
particular taste, relish, or savour which it excites in the palate or
organ of Tasting, and which is naturally felt, not as pressing upon,
as external to, or as independent of, that organ; but as altogether in
the organ, and nowhere but in the organ, or in the principle of
perception which feels in {445} that organ. When we say that the food
which we eat has an agreeable or disagreeable taste in every part of
it, we do not thereby mean that it has the feeling or sensation of
taste in any part of it, but that in every part of it, it has the
power of exciting that feeling or sensation in our palates. Though in
this case we denote by the same word (in the same manner, and for the
same reason, as in the case of heat and cold) both the sensation and
the power of exciting that sensation, this ambiguity of language
misleads the natural judgments of mankind in the one case as little as
in the other. Nobody ever fancies that our food feels its own
agreeable or disagreeable taste.
_Of the Sense of_ SMELLING.
EVERY smell or odour is naturally felt as in the nostrils; not as
pressing upon or resisting the organ, not as in any respect external
to, or independent of, the organ, but as altogether in the organ, and
nowhere else but in the organ, or in the principle of perception which
feels in that organ. We soon learn from experience, however, that this
sensation is commonly excited by some external body; by a flower, for
example, of which the absence removes, and the presence brings back,
the sensation. This external body we consider as the cause of this
sensation, and we denominate by the same words both the sensation and
the power by which the external body produces this sensation. But when
we say that the smell is in the flower, we do not thereby mean that
the flower itself has any feeling of the sensation which we feel; but
that it has the power of exciting this sensation in our nostrils, or
in the principle of perception which feels in our nostrils. Though
this sensation, and the power by which it is excited, are thus denoted
by the same word, this ambiguity of language misleads, in this case,
the natural judgments of mankind as little as in the two preceding.
_Of the Sense of_ HEARING.
EVERY sound is naturally felt as in the Ear, the organ of Hearing.
Sound is not naturally felt as resisting or pressing upon the organ,
or as in any respect external to, or independent of, the organ. We
naturally feel it as an affection of our Ear, as something which is
altogether in our Ear, and nowhere but in our Ear, or in the principle
of perception which feels in our Ear. We soon learn from experience,
indeed, that the sensation is frequently excited by bodies at a
considerable distance from us; often at a much greater distance, than
those ever are which excite the sensation of Smelling. We learn too
from experience that this sound or sensation in our Ears receives
different modifications, according to the distance and direction of
the body which originally causes it. The sensation is stronger, the
sound is louder, when that body is near. The sensation is weaker, the
sound is lower, when that body is at a distance. The sound, or
sensation, too undergoes some {446} variation according as the body is
placed on the right hand or on the left, before or behind us. In
common language we frequently say, that the sound seems to come from a
great or from a small distance, from the right hand or from the left,
from before or from behind us. We frequently say too that we hear a
sound at a great or small distance, on our right hand or on our left.
The real sound, however, the sensation in our ear, can never be heard
or felt any where but in our ear, it can never change its place, it is
incapable of motion, and can come, therefore, neither from the right
nor from the left, neither from before nor from behind us. The Ear can
feel or hear nowhere but where it is, and cannot stretch out its
powers of perception, either to a great or to a small distance, either
to the right or to the left. By all such phrases we in reality mean
nothing but to express our opinion concerning either the distance or
the direction of the body which excites the sensation of sound. When
we say that the sound is in the bell, we do not mean that the bell
hears its own sound, or that any thing like our sensation is in the
bell, but that it possesses the power of exciting that sensation in
our organ of Hearing. Though in this, as well as in some other cases,
we express by the same word, both the Sensation, and the Power of
exciting that Sensation; this ambiguity of language occasions scarce
any confusion in the thought, and when the different meanings of the
word are properly distinguished, the opinions of the vulgar, and those
of the philosopher, though apparently opposite, on examination turn
out to be exactly the same.
These four classes of secondary qualities, as philosophers have called
them, or to speak more properly, these four classes of Sensations;
Heat and Cold, Taste, Smell, and Sound; being felt, not as resisting
or pressing upon the organ, but as in the organ, are not naturally
perceived as external and independent substances; or even as qualities
of such substances; but as mere affections of the organ, and what can
exist nowhere but in the organ.
They do not possess, nor can we even conceive them as capable of
possessing, any one of the qualities, which we consider as essential
to, and inseparable from, external solid and independent substances.
First, They have no extension. They are neither long nor short; they
are neither broad nor narrow; they are neither deep nor shallow. The
bodies which excite them, the spaces within which they may be
perceived, may possess any of those dimensions; but the Sensations
themselves can possess none of them. When we say of a Note in Music,
that it is long or short, we mean that it is so in point of duration.
In point of extension we cannot even conceive, that it should be
either the one or the other.
Secondly, Those Sensations have no figure. They are neither round nor
square, though the bodies which excite them, though the spaces within
which they may be perceived, may be either the one or the other.
{447} Thirdly, Those Sensations are incapable of motion. The bodies
which excite them may be moved to a greater or to a smaller distance.
The Sensations become fainter in the one case, and stronger in the
other. Those bodies may change their direction with regard to the
organ of Sensation. If the change be considerable, the Sensations
undergo some sensible variation in consequence of it. But still we
never ascribe motion to the Sensations. Even when the person who feels
any of those Sensations, and consequently the organ by which he feels
them, changes his situation, we never, even in this case, say, that
the Sensation moves, or is moved. It seems to exist always, where
alone it is capable of existing, in the organ which feels it. We never
even ascribe to those Sensations the attribute of rest; because we
never say that any thing is at rest, unless we suppose it capable of
motion. We never say that any thing does not change its situation with
regard to other things, unless we can suppose it to be capable of
changing that situation.
Fourthly, Those Sensations, as they have no extension, so they can
have no divisibility. We cannot even conceive that a degree of Heat or
Cold, that a Smell, a Taste, or a Sound, should be divided (in the
same manner as the solid and extended substance may be divided) into
two halves, or into four quarters, or into any number of parts.
But though all these Sensations are equally incapable of division;
there are three of them, Taste, Smell, and Sound; which seem capable
of a certain composition and decomposition. A skilful cook will, by
his taste, perhaps, sometimes distinguish the different ingredients,
which enter into the composition of a new sauce, and of which the
simple tastes make up the compound one of the sauce. A skilful
perfumer may, perhaps, sometimes be able to do the same thing with
regard to a new scent. In a concert of vocal and instrumental music,
an acute and experienced Ear readily distinguishes all the different
sounds which strike upon it at the same time, and which may,
therefore, be considered as making up one compound sound.
Is it by nature, or by experience, that we learn to distinguish
between simple and compound Sensations of this kind? I am disposed to
believe that it is altogether by experience; and that naturally all
Tastes, Smells, and Sounds, which affect the organ of Sensation at the
same time, are felt as simple and uncompounded Sensations. It is
altogether by experience, I think, that we learn to observe the
different affinities and resemblances which the compound Sensation
bears to the different simple ones, which compose it, and to judge
that the different causes, which excite those different simple
Sensations, enter into the composition of that cause which excites the
compounded one.
It is sufficiently evident that this composition and decomposition is
altogether different from that union and separation of parts, which
constitutes the divisibility of solid extension.
{448} The Sensations of Heat and Cold seem incapable even of this
species of composition and decomposition. The Sensations of Heat and
Cold may be stronger at one time and weaker at another. They may
differ in degree, but they cannot differ in kind. The Sensations of
Taste, Smell, and Sound, frequently differ, not only in degree, but in
kind. They are not only stronger and weaker, but some Tastes are sweet
and some bitter; some Smells are agreeable, and some offensive; some
Sounds are acute, and some grave; and each of these different kinds or
qualities, too, is capable of an immense variety of modifications. It
is the combination of such simple Sensations, as differ not only in
degree but in kind, which constitutes the compounded Sensation.
These four classes of Sensations, therefore, having none of the
qualities which are essential to, and inseparable from, the solid,
external, and independent substances which excite them, cannot be
qualities or modifications of those substances. In reality we do not
naturally consider them as such; though in the way in which we express
ourselves on the subject, there is frequently a good deal of ambiguity
and confusion. When the different meanings of words, however, are
fairly distinguished, these Sensations are, even by the most ignorant
and illiterate, understood to be, not the qualities, but merely the
effects of the solid, external, and independent substances upon the
sensible and living organ, or upon the principle of perception which
feels in that organ.
Philosophers, however, have not in general supposed that those
exciting bodies produce those Sensations immediately, but by the
intervention of one, two, or more intermediate causes.
In the Sensation of Taste, for example, though the exciting body
presses upon the organ of Sensation, this pressure is not supposed to
be the immediate cause of the Sensation of Taste. Certain juices of
the exciting body are supposed to enter the pores of the palate, and
to excite, in the irritable and sensible fibres of that organ, certain
motions or vibrations, which produce there the Sensation of Taste. But
how those juices should excite such motions, or how such motions
should produce, either in the organ, or in the principle of
perception which feels in the organ, the Sensation of Taste; or a
Sensation, which not only does not bear the smallest resemblance to
any motion, but which itself seems incapable of all motion, no
philosopher has yet attempted, nor probably ever will attempt, to
explain to us.
The Sensations of Heat and Cold, of Smell and Sound, are frequently
excited by bodies at a distance, sometimes at a great distance, from
the organ which feels them. But it is a very ancient and
well-established axiom in metaphysics, that nothing can act where it
is not; and this axiom, it must, I think, be acknowledged, is at
least perfectly agreeable to our natural and usual habits of thinking.
The Sun, the great source of both Heat and Light, is at an immense
{449} distance from us. His rays, however (traversing, with
inconceivable rapidity, the immensity of the intervening regions), as
they convey the Sensation of Light to our eyes, so they convey that of
Heat to all the sensible parts of our body. They even convey the power
of exciting that Sensation to all the other bodies that surround us.
They warm the earth and air, we say; that is, they convey to the earth
and the air the power of exciting that Sensation in our bodies. A
common fire produces, in the same manner, all the same effects; though
the sphere of its action is confined within much narrower limits.
The odoriferous body, which is generally too at some distance from us,
is supposed to act upon our organs by means of certain small particles
of matter, called Effluvia, which being sent forth in all possible
directions, and drawn into our nostrils by the inspiration of
breathing, produce there the Sensation of Smell. The minuteness of
those small particles of matter, however, must surpass all human
comprehension. Inclose in a gold box, for a few hours, a small
quantity of musk. Take out the musk, and clean the box with soap and
water as carefully as it is possible. Nothing can be supposed to
remain in the box, but such effluvia as, having penetrated into its
interior pores, may have escaped the effects of this cleansing. The
box, however, will retain the smell of musk for many, I do not know
for how many years; and these effluvia, how minute soever we may
suppose them, must have had the powers of subdividing themselves, and
of emitting other effluvia of the same kind, continually, and without
any interruption, during so long a period. The nicest balance,
however, which human art has ever been able to invent, will not show
the smallest increase of weight in the gold box immediately after it
has been thus carefully cleaned.
The Sensation of Sound is frequently felt at a much greater distance
from the sounding, than that of Smell ever is from the odoriferous
body. The vibrations of the sounding body, however, are supposed to
produce certain correspondent vibrations and pulses in the surrounding
atmosphere, which being propagated in all directions, reach our organ
of Hearing, and produce there the Sensation of Sound. There are not
many philosophical doctrines, perhaps, established upon a more
probable foundation, than that of the propagation of Sound by means of
the pulses or vibrations of the air. The experiment of the bell,
which, in an exhausted receiver, produces no sensible Sound, would
alone render this doctrine somewhat more than probable. But this great
probability is still further confirmed by the computations of Sir
Isaac Newton, who has shown that, what is called the velocity of
Sound, or the time which passes between the commencement of the action
of the sounding body, and that of the Sensation in our ear, is
perfectly suitable to the velocity with which the pulses and
vibrations of an elastic fluid of the same density with the air, are
naturally propagated. Dr. {450} Benjamin Franklin has made objections
to this doctrine, but, I think, without success.
Such are the intermediate causes by which philosophers have
endeavoured to connect the Sensation in our organs, with the distant
bodies which excite them. How those intermediate causes, by the
different motions and vibrations which they may be supposed to excite
on our organs, produce there those different Sensations, none of which
bear the smallest resemblance to vibration or motion of any kind, no
philosopher has yet attempted to explain to us.
_Of the Sense of_ SEEING.
DR. BERKLEY, in his New Theory of Vision, one of the finest examples
of philosophical analysis that is to be found, either in our own, or
in any other language, has explained, so very distinctly, the nature
of the objects of Sight: their dissimilitude to, as well as their
correspondence and connection with those of Touch, that I have
scarcely any thing to add to what he has already done. It is only in
order to render some things, which I shall have occasion to say
hereafter, intelligible to such readers as may not have had an
opportunity of studying his book, that I have presumed to treat of the
same subject, after so great a master. Whatever I shall say upon it,
if not directly borrowed from Dr. Berkley, has at least been suggested
by what he has already said.
That the objects of Sight are not perceived as resisting or pressing
upon the organ which perceives them, is sufficiently obvious. They
cannot therefore suggest, at least in the same manner as the objects
of Touch, their externality and independency of existence.
We are apt, however, to imagine that we see objects at a distance from
us, and that consequently the externality of their existence is
immediately perceived by our sight. But if we consider that the
distance of any object from the eye, is a line turned endways to it;
and that this line must consequently appear to it, but as one point;
we shall be sensible that distance from the eye cannot be the
immediate object of Sight, but that all visible objects must naturally
be perceived as close upon the organ, or more properly, perhaps, like
all other Sensations, as in the organ which perceives them. That the
objects of Sight are all painted in the bottom of the eye, upon a
membrane called the _retina_, pretty much in the same manner as
the like objects are painted in a Camera Obscura, is well known to
whoever has the slightest tincture of the science of Optics: and the
principle of perception, it is probable, originally perceives them, as
existing in that part of the organ, and nowhere but in that part of
the organ. No optician, accordingly, no person who has ever bestowed
any moderate degree of attention upon the nature of Vision, has ever
pretended that distance from the eye was the immediate object of
Sight. How it is that, by {451} means of our Sight we learn to judge
of such distances Opticians have endeavoured to explain in several
different ways. I shall not, however, at present, stop to examine
their systems.
The objects of Touch are solidity, and those modifications of solidity
which we consider as essential to it, and inseparable from it; solid
extension, figure, divisibility, and mobility.
The objects of Sight are colour, and those modifications of colour
which, in the same manner, we consider as essential to it, and
inseparable from it; coloured extension, figure, divisibility, and
mobility. When we open our eyes, the sensible coloured objects, which
present themselves to us, must all have a certain extension, or must
occupy a certain portion of the visible surface which appears before
us. They must too have all a certain figure, or must be bounded by
certain visible lines, which mark upon that surface the extent of
their respective dimensions. Every sensible portion of this visible or
coloured extension must be conceived as divisible, or as separable
into two, three, or more parts. Every portion too of this visible or
coloured surface must be conceived as moveable, or as capable of
changing its situation, and of assuming a different arrangement with
regard to the other portions of the same surface.
Colour, the visible, bears no resemblance to solidity, the tangible
object. A man born blind, or who has lost his sight so early as to
have no remembrance of visible objects, can form no idea or conception
of colour. Touch alone can never help him to it. I have heard, indeed,
of some persons who had lost their sight after the age of manhood, and
who had learned to distinguish by the touch alone, the different
colours of cloths or silks, the goods which it happened to be their
business to deal in. The powers by which different bodies excite in
the organs of Sight the Sensations of different colours, probably
depend upon some difference in the nature, configuration, and
arrangement of the parts which compose their respective surfaces. This
difference may, to a very nice and delicate touch, make some
difference in the feeling, sufficient to enable a person, much
interested in the case, to make this distinction in some degree,
though probably in a very imperfect and inaccurate one. A man born
blind might possibly be taught to make the same distinctions. But
though he might thus be able to name the different colours, which
those different surfaces reflected, though he might thus have some
imperfect notion of the remote causes of the Sensations, he could have
no better idea of the Sensations themselves, than that other blind
man, mentioned by Mr. Locke, had, who said that he imagined the Colour
of Scarlet resembled the Sound of a Trumpet. A man born deaf may, in
the same manner, be taught to speak articulately. He is taught how to
shape and dispose of his organs, so as to pronounce each letter,
syllable, and word. But still, though he may have some imperfect idea
of the remote causes of {452} the Sounds which he himself utters, of
the remote causes of the Sensations which he himself excites in other
people; he can have none of those Sounds or Sensations themselves.
If it were possible, in the same manner, that a man could be born
without the Sense of Touching, that of Seeing could never alone
suggest to him the idea of Solidity, or enable him to form any notion
of the external and resisting substance. It is probable, however, not
only that no man, but that no animal was ever born without the Sense
of Touching, which seems essential to, and inseparable from, the
nature of animal life and existence. It is unnecessary, therefore, to
throw away any reasoning, or to hazard any conjectures, about what
might be the effects of what I look upon as altogether an impossible
supposition. The eye when pressed upon by any external and solid
substance, feels, no doubt, that pressure and resistance, and suggests
to us (in the same manner as every other feeling part of the body) the
external and independent existence of that solid substance. But in
this case, the eye acts, not as the organ of Sight, but as an organ of
Touch; for the eye possesses the Sense of Touching in common with
almost all the other parts of the body.
The extension, figure, divisibility, and mobility of Colour, the sole
object of Sight, though, on account of their correspondence and
connection with the extension, figure, divisibility, and mobility of
Solidity, they are called by the same name, yet seem to bear no sort
of resemblance to their namesakes. As Colour and Solidity bear no sort
of resemblance to one another, so neither can their respective
modifications. Dr. Berkley very justly observes, that though we can
conceive either a coloured or a solid line to be prolonged
indefinitely, yet we cannot conceive the one to be added to the other.
We cannot, even in imagination, conceive an object of Touch to be
prolonged into an object of Sight, or an object of Sight into an
object of Touch. The objects of Sight and those of Touch constitute
two worlds, which, though they have a most important correspondence
and connection with one another, bear no sort of resemblance to one
another. The tangible world, as well as all the different parts which
compose it, has three dimensions, Length, Breadth, and Depth. The
visible world, as well as all the different parts which compose it,
has only two, Length and Breadth. It presents to us only a plain or
surface, which, by certain shades and combinations of Colour, suggests
and represents to us (in the same manner as a picture does) certain
tangible objects which have no Colour, and which therefore can bear no
resemblance to those shades and combinations of Colour. Those shades
and combinations suggest those different tangible objects as at
different distances, according to certain rules of Perspective, which
it is, perhaps, not very easy to say how it is that we learn, whether
by some particular instinct, or by some application of either reason
or experience, which {453} has become so perfectly habitual to us,
that we are scarcely sensible when we make use of it.
The distinctness of this Perspective, the precision and accuracy with
which, by means of it, we are capable of judging concerning the
distance of different tangible objects, is greater or less, exactly in
proportion as this distinctness, as this precision and accuracy, are
of more or less importance to us. We can judge of the distance of near
objects, of the chairs and tables for example, in the chamber where we
are sitting, with the most perfect precision and accuracy; and if in
broad daylight we ever stumble over any of them, it must be, not from
any error in the Sight, but from some defect in the attention. The
precision and accuracy of our judgment concerning such near objects
are of the utmost importance to us, and constitute the great advantage
which a man who sees has over one who is unfortunately blind. As the
distance increases, the distinctness of this Perspective, the
precision and accuracy of our judgment gradually diminish. Of the
tangible objects which are even at the moderate distance of one, two,
or three miles from the eye, we are frequently at a loss to determine
which is nearest, and which remotest. It is seldom of much importance
to us to judge with precision concerning the situation of the tangible
objects which are even at this moderate distance. As the distance
increases, our judgments become more and more uncertain; and at a very
great distance, such as that of the fixed stars, it becomes altogether
uncertain. The most precise knowledge of the relative situation of
such objects could be of no other use to the enquirer than to satisfy
the most unnecessary curiosity.
The distances at which different men can by Sight distinguish, with
some degree of precision, the situation of the tangible objects which
the visible ones represent, is very different; and this difference,
though it, no doubt, may sometimes depend upon some difference in the
original configuration of their eyes, yet seems frequently to arise
altogether from the different customs and habits which their
respective occupations have led them to contract. Men of letters, who
live much in their closets, and have seldom occasion to look at very
distant objects, are seldom far-sighted. Mariners, on the contrary,
almost always are; those especially who have made many distant
voyages, in which they have been the greater part of their time out of
sight of land, and have in daylight been constantly looking out
towards the horizon for the appearance of some ship, or of some
distant shore. It often astonishes a landsman to observe with what
precision a sailor can distinguish in the offing, not only the
appearance of a ship which is altogether invisible to the landsman,
but the number of her masts, the direction of her course, and the rate
of her sailing. If she is a ship of his acquaintance, he frequently
can tell her name, before the landsman has been able to discover even
the appearance of a ship.
{454} Visible objects, Colour, and all its different modifications,
are in themselves mere shadows or pictures, which seem to float, as it
were, before the organ of Sight. In themselves, and independent of
their connection with the tangible objects which they represent, they
are of no importance to us, and can essentially neither benefit us
nor hurt us. Even while we see them we are seldom thinking of them.
Even when we appear to be looking at them with the greatest
earnestness, our whole attention is frequently employed, not upon
them, but upon the tangible objects represented by them.
It is because almost our whole attention is employed, not upon the
visible and representing, but upon the tangible and represented
objects, that in our imaginations we arc apt to ascribe to the former
a degree of magnitude which does not belong to them, but which belongs
altogether to the latter. If you shut one eye, and hold immediately
before the other a small circle of plain glass, of not more than half
an inch in diameter, you may see through that circle the most
extensive prospects; lawns and woods, and arms of the sea, and distant
mountains. You are apt to imagine that the Landscape which is thus
presented to you, that the visible Picture which you thus see, is
immensely great and extensive. The tangible objects which this visible
Picture represents, undoubtedly are so. But the visible Picture which
represents them can be no greater than the little visible circle
through which you see it. If while you are looking through this
circle, you could conceive a fairy hand and a fairy pencil to come
between your eye and the glass, that pencil could delineate upon that
little glass the outline of all those extensive lawns and woods, and
arms of the sea, and distant mountains, in the full and the exact
dimensions with which they are really seen by the naked eye.
Every visible object which covers from the eye any other visible
object, must appear at least as large as that other visible object. It
must occupy at least an equal portion of that visible plain or surface
which is at that time presented to the eye. Opticians accordingly tell
us, that all the visible objects which are seen under equal angles
must to the eye appear equally large. But the visible object, which
covers from the eye any other visible object, must necessarily be seen
under angles at least equally large as those under which that other
object is seen. When I hold up my finger, however, before my eye, it
appears to cover the greater part of the visible chamber in which I am
sitting. It should therefore appear as large as the greater part of
that visible chamber. But because I know that the tangible finger
bears but a very small proportion to the greater part of the tangible
chamber, I am apt to fancy that the visible finger bears but a like
proportion to the greater part of the visible chamber. My judgment
corrects my eyesight, and, in my fancy, reduces the visible object,
which represents the little tangible one, below its real visible
dimensions; and, on the {455} contrary, it augments the visible object
which represents the great tangible one a good deal beyond those
dimensions. My attention being generally altogether occupied about the
tangible and represented, and not at all about the visible and
representing objects, my careless fancy bestows upon the latter a
proportion which does not in the least belong to them, but which
belongs altogether to the former.
It is because the visible object which covers any other visible object
must always appear at least as large as that other object, that
opticians tell us that the sphere of our vision appears to the eye
always equally large; and that when we hold our hand before our eye in
such a manner that we see nothing but the inside of the hand, we still
see precisely the same number of visible points, the sphere of our
vision is still as completely filled, the retina of the eye is as
entirely covered with the object which is thus presented to it, as
when we survey the most extensive horizon.
A young gentleman who was born with a cataract upon each of his eyes,
was, in one thousand seven hundred and twenty-eight, couched by Mr.
Cheselden, and by that means for the first time made to see
distinctly. 'At first,' says the operator, 'he could bear but very
little sight, and the things he saw he thought extremely large; but
upon seeing things larger, those first seen he conceived less, never
being able to imagine any lines beyond the bounds he saw; the room he
was in, he said, he knew to be but part of the house, yet he could not
conceive that the whole house would look bigger.' It was unavoidable
that he should at first conceive, that no visible object could be
greater, could present to his eye a greater number of visible points,
or could more completely fill the comprehension of that organ, than
the narrowest sphere of his vision. And when that sphere came to be
enlarged, he still could not conceive that the visible objects which
it presented could be larger than those which he had first seen. He
must probably by this time have been in some degree habituated to the
connection between visible and tangible objects, and enabled to
conceive that visible object to be small which represented a small
tangible object; and that to be great, which represented a great one.
The great objects did not appear to his sight greater than the small
ones had done before; but the small ones, which, having filled the
whole sphere of his vision, had before appeared as large as possible,
being now known to represent much smaller tangible objects, seemed in
his conception to grow smaller. He had begun now to employ his
attention more about the tangible and represented, than about the
visible and representing objects; and he was beginning to ascribe to
the latter the proportions and dimensions which properly belonged
altogether to the former.
As we frequently ascribe to the objects of Sight a magnitude and
proportion which does not really belong to them, but to the objects of
{456} Touch which they represent, so we likewise ascribe to them a
steadiness of appearance, which as little belongs to them, but which
they derive altogether from their connection with the same objects of
Touch. The chair which now stands at the farther end of the room, I am
apt to imagine, appears to my eye as large as it did when it stood
close by me, when it was seen under angles at least four times larger
than those under which it is seen at present, and when it must have
occupied, at least, sixteen times that portion which it occupies at
present, of the visible plain or surface which is now before my eyes.
But as I know that the magnitude of the tangible and represented
chair, the principal object of my attention, is the same in both
situations, I ascribe to the visible and representing chair (though
now reduced to less than the sixteenth part of its former dimensions)
a steadiness of appearance, which certainly belongs not in any respect
to it, but altogether to the tangible and represented one. As we
approach to, or retire from, the tangible object which any visible one
represents, the visible object gradually augments in the one case, and
diminishes in the other. To speak accurately, it is not the same
visible object which we see at different distances, but a succession
of visible objects, which, though they all resemble one another, those
especially which follow near after one another; yet are all really
different and distinct. But as we know that the tangible object which
they represent remains always the same, we ascribe to them too a
sameness which belongs altogether to it: and we fancy that we see the
same tree at a mile, at half a mile, and at a few yards distance. At
those different distances, however, the visible objects are so very
widely different, that we are sensible of a change in their
appearance. But still, as the tangible objects which they represent
remain invariably the same, we ascribe a sort of sameness even to them
too.
It has been said, that no man ever saw the same visible object twice;
and this, though, no doubt, an exaggeration, is, in reality, much less
so than at first view it appears to be. Though I am apt to fancy that
all the chairs and tables, and other little pieces of furniture in the
room where I am sitting, appear to my eye always the same, yet their
appearance is in reality continually varying, not only according to
every variation in their situation and distance with regard to where I
am sitting, but according to every, even the most insensible variation
in the altitude of my body, in the movement of my head, or even in
that of my eyes. The perspective necessarily varies according to all
even the smallest of these variations; and consequently the appearance
of the objects which that perspective presents to me. Observe what
difficulty a portrait painter finds, in getting the person who sits
for his picture to present to him precisely that view of the
countenance from which the first outline was drawn. The painter is
scarce ever completely satisfied with the situation of the face which
is presented to {457} him, and finds that it is scarcely ever
precisely the same with that from which he rapidly sketched the first
outline. He endeavours, as well as he can, to correct the difference
from memory, from fancy, and from a sort of art of approximation, by
which he strives to express as nearly as he can, the ordinary effect
of the look, air, and character of the person whose picture he is
drawing. The person who draws from a statue, which is altogether
immovable, feels a difficulty, though, no doubt, in a less degree, of
the same kind. It arises altogether from the difficulty which he finds
in placing his own eye precisely in the same situation during the
whole time which he employs in completing his drawing. This difficulty
is more than doubled upon the painter who draws from a living subject.
The statue never is the cause of any variation or unsteadiness in its
own appearance. The living subject frequently is.
The benevolent purpose of nature in bestowing upon us the sense of
seeing, is evidently to inform us concerning the situation and
distance of the tangible objects which surround us. Upon the knowledge
of this distance and situation depends the whole conduct of human
life, in the most trifling as well as in the most important
transactions. Even animal motion depends upon it; and without it we
could neither move, nor even sit still, with complete security. The
objects of sight, as Dr. Berkley finely observes, constitute a sort of
language which the Author of Nature addresses to our eyes, and by
which he informs us of many things, which it is of the utmost
importance to us to know. As, in common language, the words or sounds
bear no resemblance to the thing which they denote, so, in this other
language, the visible objects bear no sort of resemblance to the
tangible object which they represent, and of whose relative situation,
with regard both to ourselves and to one another, they inform us.
He acknowledges, however, that though scarcely any word be by nature
better fitted to express one meaning than any other meaning, yet that
certain visible objects are better fitted than others to represent
certain tangible objects. A visible square, for example, is better
fitted than a visible circle to represent a tangible square. There is,
perhaps, strictly speaking, no such thing as either a visible cube, or
a visible globe, the objects of sight being all naturally presented to
the eye as upon one surface. But still there are certain combinations
of colours which are fitted to represent to the eye, both the near and
the distant, both the advancing and the receding lines, angles, and
surfaces of the tangible cube; and there are others fitted to
represent, in the same manner, both the near and the receding surface
of the tangible globe. The combination which represents the tangible
cube, would not be fit to represent the tangible globe; and that which
represents the tangible globe, would not be fit to represent the
tangible cube. Though there may, therefore, be no resemblance between
visible and tangible {458} objects, there seems to be some affinity or
correspondence between them sufficient to make each visible object
fitter to represent a certain precise tangible object than any other
tangible object. But the greater part of words seem to have no sort of
affinity or correspondence with the meanings or ideas which they
express; and if custom had so ordered it, they might with equal
propriety have been made use of to express any other meanings or
ideas.
Dr. Berkley, with that happiness of illustration which scarcely ever
deserts him, remarks, that this in reality is no more than what
happens in common language; and that though letters bear no sort of
resemblance to the words which they denote, yet that the same
combination of letters which represents one word, would not always be
fit to represent another; and that each word is always best
represented by its own proper combination of letters. The comparison,
however, it must be observed, is here totally changed. The connection
between visible and tangible objects was first illustrated by
comparing it with that between spoken language and the meanings or
ideas which spoken language suggests to us; and it is now illustrated
by the connection between written language and spoken language, which
is altogether different. Even this second illustration, besides, will
not apply perfectly to the case. When custom, indeed has perfectly
ascertained the powers of each letter; when it has ascertained, for
example, that the first letter of the alphabet shall always represent
such a sound, and the second letter such another sound; each word
comes then to be more properly represented by one certain combination
of written letters or characters, than it could be by any other
combination. But still the characters themselves are altogether
arbitrary, and have no sort of affinity or correspondence with the
articulate sounds which they denote. The character which marks the
first letter of the alphabet, for example, if custom had so ordered
it, might, with perfect propriety, have been made use of to express
the sound which we now annex to the second, and the character of the
second to express that which we now annex to the first. But the
visible characters which represent to our eyes the tangible globe,
could not so well represent the tangible cube; nor could those which
represent the tangible cube, so properly represent the tangible globe.
There is evidently, therefore, a certain affinity and correspondence
between each visible object and the precise tangible object
represented by it, much superior to what takes place either between
written and spoken language, or between spoken language and the ideas
or meanings which it suggests. The language which nature addresses to
our eyes, has evidently a fitness of representation, an aptitude for
signifying the precise things which it denotes, much superior to that
of any of the artificial languages which human art and ingenuity have
ever been able to invent.
{459} That this affinity and correspondence, however, between visible
and tangible objects could not alone, and without the assistance of
observation and experience, teach us, by any effort of reason, to
infer what was the precise tangible object which each visible one
represented, if it is not sufficiently evident from what has been
already said, it must be completely so from the remarks of Mr.
Cheselden upon the young gentleman above-mentioned, whom he had
couched for a cataract. 'Though we say of this gentleman, that he was
blind,' observes Mr. Cheselden, 'as we do of all people who have ripe
cataracts; yet they are never so blind from that cause but that they
can discern day from night; and for the most part, in a strong light,
distinguish black, white, and scarlet; but they cannot perceive the
shape of any thing; for the light by which these perceptions are made,
being let in obliquely through aqueous humour, or the anterior surface
of the crystalline, (by which the rays cannot be brought into a focus
upon the retina,) they can discern in no other manner than a sound
eye can through a glass of broken jelly, where a great variety of
surfaces so differently refract the light, that the several distinct
pencils of rays cannot be collected by the eye into their proper foci;
wherefore the shape of an object in such a case cannot be at all
discerned though the colour may: and thus it was with this young
gentleman, who, though he knew those colours asunder in a good light,
yet when he saw them after he was couched, the faint ideas he had of
them before were not sufficient for him to know them by afterwards;
and therefore he did not think them the same which he had before known
by those names.' This young gentleman, therefore, had some advantage
over one who from a state of total blindness had been made for the
first time to see. He had some imperfect notion of the distinction of
colours; and he must have known that those colours had some sort of
connection with the tangible objects which he had been accustomed to
feel. But had he emerged from total blindness, he could have learnt
this connection only from a very long course of observation and
experience. How little this advantage availed him, however, we may
learn partly from the passages of Mr. Cheselden's narrative, already
quoted, and still more from the following:
'When he first saw,' says that ingenious operator, 'he was so far from
making any judgment about distances, that he thought all objects
whatever touched his eyes (as he expressed) as what he felt did his
skin; and thought no objects so agreeable as those which were smooth
and regular, though he could form no judgment of their shape, or guess
what it was in any object that was pleasing to him. He knew not the
shape of any thing, nor any one thing from another, however different
in shape or magnitude; but upon being told what things were, whose
form he before knew from feeling, he would carefully observe, that he
might know them again; but having too many {460} objects to learn at
once, he forgot many of them; and (as he said) at first learned to
know, and again forgot a thousand things in a day. One particular only
(though it may appear trifling) I will relate: Having often forgot
which was the cat and which was the dog, he was ashamed to ask; but
catching the cat (which he knew by feeling) he was observed to look at
her steadfastly, and then setting her down, said, So, puss! I shall
know you another time.'
When the young gentleman said, that the objects which he saw touched
his eyes, he certainly could not mean that they pressed upon or
resisted his eyes; for the objects of sight never act upon the organ
in any way that resembles pressure or resistance. He could mean no
more than that they were close upon his eyes, or, to speak more
properly, perhaps, that they were in his eyes. A deaf man, who was
made all at once to hear, might in the same manner naturally enough
say, that the sounds which he heard touched his ears, meaning that he
felt them as close upon his ears, or, to speak perhaps more properly,
as in his ears.
Mr. Cheselden adds afterwards: 'We thought he soon knew what pictures
represented which were showed to him, but we found afterwards we were
mistaken; for about two months after he was couched, he discovered at
once they represented solid bodies, when to that time, he considered
them only as party-coloured planes, or surfaces diversified with
variety of paints; but even then he was no less surprised, expecting
the pictures would feel like the things they represented, and was
amazed when he found those parts, which by their light and shadow
appeared now round and uneven, felt only flat like the rest; and asked
which was the lying sense, feeling or seeing?'
Painting, though, by combinations of light and shade, similar to those
which Nature makes use of in the visible objects which she presents to
our eyes, it endeavours to imitate those objects; yet it never has
been able to equal the perspective of Nature, or to give to its
productions that force and distinctness of relief and rejection which
Nature bestows upon hers. When the young gentleman was just beginning
to understand the strong and distinct perspective of Nature, the faint
and feeble perspective of Painting made no impression upon him, and
the picture appeared to him what it really was, a plain surface
bedaubed with different colours. When he became more familiar with the
perspective of Nature, the inferiority of that of Painting did not
hinder him from discovering its resemblance to that of Nature. In the
perspective of Nature, he had always found that the situation and
distance of the tangible and represented objects, corresponded exactly
to what the visible and representing ones suggested to him. He
expected to find the same thing in the similar, though inferior
perspective of Painting, and was disappointed when he found that the
visible and tangible objects had not, in this case, their usual
correspondence.
{461} 'In a year after seeing,' adds Mr. Cheselden, 'the young
gentleman being carried upon Epsom-downs, and observing a large
prospect, he was exceedingly delighted with it, and called it a new
kind of seeing.' He had now, it is evident, come to understand
completely the language of Vision. The visible objects which this
noble prospect presented to him did not now appear as touching, or as
close upon his eye. They did not now appear of the same magnitude with
those small objects to which, for some time after the operation, he
had been accustomed, in the little chamber where he was confined.
Those new visible objects at once, and as it were of their own accord,
assumed both the distance and the magnitude of the great tangible
objects which they represented. He had now, therefore, it would seem,
become completely master of the language of Vision, and he had become
so in the course of a year; a much shorter period than that in which
any person, arrived at the age of manhood, could completely acquire
any foreign language. It would appear too, that he had made very
considerable progress even in the two first months. He began at that
early period to understand even the feeble perspective of Painting;
and though at first he could not distinguish it from the strong
perspective of Nature, yet he could not have been thus imposed upon by
so imperfect an imitation, if the great principles of Vision had not
beforehand been deeply impressed upon his mind, and if he had not,
either by the association of ideas, or by some other unknown
principle, been strongly determined to expect certain tangible objects
in consequence of the visible ones which had been presented to him.
This rapid progress, however, may, perhaps, be accounted for from that
fitness of representation, which has already been taken notice of,
between visible and tangible objects. In this language of Nature, it
may be said, the analogies are more perfect; the etymologies, the
declensions, and conjugations, if one may say so, are more regular
than those of any human language. The rules are fewer, and those rules
admit of no exceptions.
But though it may have been altogether by the slow paces of
observation and experience that this young gentleman acquired the
knowledge of the connection between visible and tangible objects; we
cannot from thence with certainty infer, that young children have not
some instinctive perception of the same kind. In him this instinctive
power, not having been exerted at the proper season, may, from disuse,
have gone gradually to decay, and at last have been completely
obliterated. Or, perhaps (what seems likewise very possible), some
feeble and unobserved remains of it may have somewhat facilitated his
acquisition of what he might otherwise have found it much more
difficult to acquire a knowledge of.
That, antecedent to all experience, the young of at least the greater
part of animals possess some instinctive perception of this kind,
seems abundantly evident. The hen never feeds her young by dropping
the {462} food into their bills, as the linnet and thrush feed theirs.
Almost as soon as her chickens are hatched, she does not feed them,
but carries them to the field to feed, where they walk about at their
ease, it would seem, and appear to have the most distinct perception
of all the tangible objects which surround them. We may often see
them, accordingly, by the straightest road, run to and pick up any
little grains which she shows them, even at the distance of several
yards; and they no sooner come into the light than they seem to
understand this language of Vision as well as they ever do afterwards.
The young of the partridge and of the grouse seem to have, at the same
early period, the most distinct perceptions of the same kind. The
young partridge, almost as soon as it comes from the shell, runs about
among long grass and corn; the young grouse among long heath, and
would both most essentially hurt themselves if they had not the most
acute, as well as distinct perception of the tangible objects which
not only surround them but press upon them on all sides. This is the
case too with the young of the goose, of the duck, and, so far as I
have been able to observe, with those of at least the greater part of
the birds which make their nests upon the ground, with the greater
part of those which are ranked by Linnæus in the orders of the hen and
the goose, and of many of those long-shanked and wading birds which he
places in the order that he distinguishes by the name of Grallæ.
The young of those birds that build their nests in bushes, upon trees,
in the holes and crevices of high walls, upon high rocks and
precipices, and other places of difficult access; of the greater part
of those ranked by Linnæus in the orders of the hawk, the magpie, and
the sparrow, seem to come blind from the shell, and to continue so for
at least some days thereafter. Till they are able to fly they are fed
by the joint labour of both parents. As soon as that period arrives,
however, and probably for some time before, they evidently enjoy all
the powers of Vision in the most complete perfection, and can
distinguish with most exact precision the shape and proportion of the
tangible objects which every visible one represents. In so short a
period they cannot be supposed to have acquired those powers from
experience, and must therefore derive them from some instinctive
suggestion. The sight of birds seems to be both more prompt and more
acute than that of any other animals. Without hurting themselves they
dart into the thickest and most thorny bushes, fly with the utmost
rapidity through the most intricate forests, and while they are
soaring aloft in the air, discover upon the ground the insects and
grains upon which they feed.
The young of several sorts of quadrupeds seem, like those of the
greater part of birds which make their nests upon the ground, to enjoy
as soon as they come into the world the faculty of seeing as
completely as they ever do afterwards. The day, or the day after they
are dropped, the calf follows the cow, and the foal the mare, to the
field; and though {463} from timidity they seldom remove far from the
mother, yet they seem to walk about at their ease; which they could
not do unless they could distinguish, with some degree of precision,
the shape and proportion of the tangible objects which each visible
one represents. The degree of precision, however, with which the horse
is capable of making this distinction, seems at no period of his life
to be very complete. He is at all times apt to startle at many visible
objects, which, if they distinctly suggested to him the real shape and
proportion of the tangible objects which they represent, could not be
the objects of fear; at the trunk or root of an old tree, for example,
which happens to be laid by the roadside, at a great stone, or the
fragment of a rock which happens to lie near the way where he is
going. To reconcile him, even to a single object of this kind, which
has once alarmed him, frequently requires some skill, as well as much
patience and good temper in the rider. Such powers of sight, however,
as Nature has thought proper to render him capable of acquiring, he
seems to enjoy from the beginning, in as great perfection as he ever
does afterwards.
The young of other quadrupeds, like those of the birds which make
their nests in places of difficult access, come blind into the world.
Their sight, however, soon opens, and as soon as it does so, they seem
to enjoy it in the most complete perfection, as we may all observe in
the puppy and the kitten. The same thing, I believe, may be said of
all other beasts of prey, at least of all those concerning which I
have been able to collect any distinct information. They come blind
into the world; but as soon as their sight opens, they appear to enjoy
it in the most complete perfection.
It seems difficult to suppose that man is the only animal of which the
young are not endowed with some instinctive perception of this kind.
The young of the human species, however, continue so long in a state
of entire dependency, they must be so long carried about in the arms
of their mothers or of their nurses, that such an instinctive
perception may seem less necessary to them than to any other race of
animals. Before it could be of any use to them, observation and
experience may, by the known principle of the association of ideas,
have sufficiently connected in their young minds each visible object
with the corresponding tangible one which it is fitted to represent.
Nature, it may be said, never bestows upon any animal any faculty
which is not either necessary or useful, and an instinct of this kind
would be altogether useless to an animal which must necessarily
acquire the knowledge which the instinct is given to supply, long
before that instinct could be of any use to it. Children, however,
appear at so very early a period to know the distance, the shape, and
magnitude of the different tangible objects which are presented to
them, that I am disposed to believe that even they may have some
instinctive perception of this kind; though possibly in a much weaker
degree than the greater part {464} of other animals. A child that is
scarcely a month old, stretches out its hands to feel any little
plaything that is presented to it. It distinguishes its nurse, and the
other people who are much about it, from strangers. It clings to the
former, and turns away from the latter. Hold a small looking-glass
before a child of not more than two or three months old, and it will
stretch out its little arms behind the glass, in order to feel the
child which it sees, and which it imagines is at the back of the
glass. It is deceived, no doubt; but even this sort of deception
sufficiently demonstrates that it has a tolerably distinct
apprehension of the ordinary perspective of Vision, which it cannot
well have learnt from observation and experience.
Do any of our other senses, antecedently to such observation and
experience, instinctively suggest to us some conception of the solid
and resisting substances which excite their respective sensations,
though these sensations bear no sort of resemblance to those
substances?
The sense of Tasting certainly does not. Before we can feel the
sensation, the solid and resisting substance which excites it must be
pressed against the organs of Taste, and must consequently be
perceived by them. Antecedently to observation and experience,
therefore, the sense of Tasting can never be said instinctively to
suggest some conception of that substance.
It may, perhaps, be otherwise with the sense of Smelling. The young of
all suckling animals, (of the Mammalia of Linnæus,) whether they are
born with sight or without it, yet as soon as they come into the world
apply to the nipple of the mother in order to suck. In doing this they
are evidently directed by the Smell. The Smell appears either to
excite the appetite for the proper food, or at least to direct the
new-born animal to the place where that food is to be found. It may
perhaps do both the one and the other.
That when the stomach is empty, the Smell of agreeable food excites
and irritates the appetite, is what we all must have frequently
experienced. But the stomach of every new-born animal is necessarily
empty. While in the womb it is nourished, not by the mouth, but by the
navel-string. Children have been born apparently in the most perfect
health and vigour, and have applied to suck in the usual manner; but
immediately, or soon after, have thrown up the milk, and in the course
of a few hours have died vomiting and in convulsions. Upon opening
their bodies it has been found that the intestinal tube or canal had
never been opened or pierced in the whole extent of its length; but,
like a sack, admitted of no passage beyond a particular place. It
could not have been in any respect by the mouth, therefore, but
altogether by the navel-string, that such children had been nourished
and fed up to the degree of health and vigour in which they were born.
Every animal, while in the womb, seems to draw its nourishment, more
like a vegetable, from the root, than like an animal {465} from the
mouth; and that nourishment seems to be conveyed to all the different
parts of the body by tubes and canals in many respects different from
those which afterwards perform the same function. As soon as it comes
into the world, this new set of tubes and canals which the
providential care of Nature had for a long time before been gradually
preparing, is all at once and instantaneously opened. They are all
empty, and they require to be filled. An uneasy sensation accompanies
the one situation, and an agreeable one the other. The smell of the
substance which is fitted for filling them, increases and irritates
that uneasy sensation, and produces in the infant hunger, or the
appetite for food.
But all the appetites which take their origin from a certain state of
the body, seem to suggest the means of their own gratification; and,
even long before experience, some anticipation or preconception of the
pleasure which attends that gratification. In the appetite for sex,
which frequently, I am disposed to believe almost always, comes a long
time before the age of puberty, this is perfectly and distinctly
evident. The appetite for food suggests to the new-born infant the
operation of sucking, the only means by which it can possibly
gratifying that appetite. It is continually sucking. It sucks whatever
is presented to its mouth. It sucks even when there is nothing
presented to its mouth, and some anticipation or preconception of the
pleasure which it is to enjoy in sucking, seems to make it delight in
putting its mouth into the shape and configuration by which it alone
can enjoy that pleasure. There are other appetites in which the most
unexperienced imagination produces a similar effect upon the organs
which Nature has provided for their gratification.
The smell not only excites the appetite, but directs to the object
which can alone gratify that appetite. But by suggesting the direction
towards that object, the Smell must necessarily suggest some notion of
distance and externality, which are necessarily involved in the idea
of direction; in the idea of the line of motion by which the distance
can best be overcome, and the mouth brought into contact with the
unknown substance which is the object of the appetite. That the Smell
should alone suggest any preconception of the shape or magnitude of
the external body to which it directs, seems not very probable. The
sensation of Smell seems to have no sort of affinity or correspondence
with shape or magnitude; and whatever preconception the infant may
have of these, (and it may very probably have some such
preconception,) is likely to be suggested, not so much directly by the
Smell, and indirectly by the appetite excited by that Smell; as by the
principle which teaches the child to mould its mouth into the
conformation and action of sucking, even before it reaches the object
to which alone that conformation and action can be usefully applied.
The Smell, however, as it suggests the direction by which the external
{466} body must be approached, must suggest at least some vague idea
or preconception of the existence of that body; of the thing to which
it directs, though not perhaps of the precise shape and magnitude of
that thing. The infant, too, feeling its mouth attracted and drawn as
it were towards that external body, must conceive the Smell which thus
draws and attracts it, as something belonging to or proceeding from
that body, or what is afterwards denominated and obscurely understood
to be as a sort of quality or attribute of that body.
The Smell, too, may very probably suggest some even tolerably distinct
perception of the Taste of the food to which it directs. The
respective objects of our different external senses seem, indeed, the
greater part of them, to bear no sort of resemblance to one another.
Colour bears no sort of resemblance to Solidity, nor to Heat, nor to
Cold, nor to Sound, nor to Smell, nor to Taste. To this general rule,
however, there seems to be one, and perhaps but one exception. The
sensations of Smell and Taste seem evidently to bear some sort of
resemblance to one another. Smell appears to have been given to us by
Nature as the director of Taste. It announces, as it were, before
trial, what is likely to be the Taste of the food which is set before
us. Though perceived by a different organ, it seems in many cases to
be but a weaker sensation nearly of the same kind with that of the
Taste which that announces. It is very natural to suppose, therefore,
that the Smell may suggest to the infant some tolerably distinct
preconception of the Taste of the food which it announces, and may,
even before experience, make its mouth, as we say, water for that
food.
That numerous division of animals which Linnæus ranks under the class
of _worms_, have, scarcely any of them, any head. They neither
see nor hear, have neither eyes nor ears; but many of them have the
power of self-motion, and appear to move about in search of their
food. They can be directed in this search by no other sense than that
of Smelling. The most accurate microscopical observations, however,
have never been able to discover in such animals any distinct organ of
Smell. They have a mouth and a stomach, but no nostrils. The organ of
Taste, it is probable, has in them a sensibility of the same kind with
that which the olfactory nerves have in more perfect animals. They
may, as it were, taste at a distance, and be attracted to their food
by an affection of the same organ by which they afterwards enjoy it;
and Smell and Taste may in them be no otherwise distinguished than as
weaker or stronger sensations derived from the same organ.
The sensations of Heat and Cold, when excited by the pressure of some
body either heated or cooled beyond the actual temperature of our own
organs, cannot be said, antecedently to observation and experience,
instinctively to suggest any conception of the solid and resisting
substance which excites them. What was said of the sense of Taste may
very properly be said here. Before we can feel those sensations, {467}
the pressure of the external body which excites them must necessarily
suggest, not only some conception, but the most distinct conviction of
its own external and independent existence.
It may be otherwise, perhaps, when those sensations are either of them
excited by the temperature of the external air. In a calm day when
there is no wind, we scarcely perceive the external air as a solid
body; and the sensations of Heat and Cold, it may be thought, are then
felt merely as affections of our own body, without any reference to
any thing external. Several cases, however, may be conceived, in which
it must be allowed, I imagine, that those sensations, even when
excited in this manner, must suggest some vague notion of some
external thing or substance which excites them. A new-born animal,
which had the power of self-motion, and which felt its body, either
agreeably or disagreeably, more heated or more cooled on the one side
than on the other, would, I imagine, instinctively and antecedently to
all observation and experience, endeavour to move towards the side in
which it felt the agreeable, and to withdraw from that in which it
felt the disagreeable sensation. But the very desire of motion
supposes some notion or preconception of externality; and the desire
to move towards the side of the agreeable, or from that of the
disagreeable sensation, supposes at least some vague notion of some
external thing or place which is the cause of those respective
sensations.
The degrees of Heat and Cold which are agreeable, it has been found
from experience, are likewise healthful; and those which are
disagreeable, unwholesome. The degree of their unwholesomeness, too,
seems to be pretty much in proportion to that of their
disagreeableness. If either of them is so disagreeable as to be
painful, it is generally destructive; and, that, too, in a very short
period of time. Those sensations appear to have been given us for the
preservation of our own bodies. They necessarily excite the desire of
changing our situation when it is unwholesome or destructive; and when
it is healthy, they allow us, or rather they entice us, to remain in
it. But the desire of changing our situation necessarily supposes some
idea of externality; or of motion into a place different from that in
which we actually are; and even the desire of remaining in the same
place supposes some idea of at least the possibility of changing.
Those sensations could not well have answered the intention of Nature,
had they not thus instinctively suggested some vague notion of
external existence.
That Sound, the object of the sense of Hearing, though perceived
itself as in the ear, and nowhere but in the ear, may likewise,
instinctively, and antecedently to all observation and experience,
obscurely suggest some vague notion of some external substance or
thing which excites it, I am much disposed to believe. I acknowledge,
however, that I have not been able to recollect any one instance in
which this sense seems so distinctly to produce this effect, as that
of Seeing, that {468} of Smelling, and even that of Heat and Cold,
appear to do in some particular cases. Unusual and unexpected Sound
alarms always, and disposes us to look about for some external
substance or thing as the cause which excites it, or from which it
proceeds. Sound, however, considered merely as a sensation, or as an
affection of the organ of Hearing, can in most cases neither benefit
nor hurt us. It may be agreeable or disagreeable, but in its own
nature it does not seem to announce any thing beyond the immediate
feeling. It should not therefore excite any alarm. Alarm is always the
fear of some uncertain evil beyond what is immediately felt, and from
some unknown and external cause. But all animals, and men among the
rest, feel some degree of this alarm, start, are roused and rendered
circumspect and attentive by unusual and unexpected Sound. This
effect, too, is produced so readily and so instantaneously that it
bears every mark of an instinctive suggestion of an impression
immediately struck by the hand of Nature, which does not wait for any
recollection of past observation and experience. The hare, and all
those other timid animals to whom flight is the only defence, are
supposed to possess the sense of Hearing in the highest degree of
activeness. It seems to be the sense in which cowards are very likely
to excel.
The three senses of Seeing, Hearing, and Smelling, seem to be given to
us by Nature, not so much in order to inform us concerning the actual
situation of our bodies, as concerning that of those other external
bodies, which, though at some distance from us, may sooner or later
affect the actual situation, and eventually either benefit or hurt us.
----------
OF THE AFFINITY
BETWEEN CERTAIN
ENGLISH AND ITALIAN VERSES.
-----
THE measure of the verses, of which the octave of the Italians, their
terzetti, and the greater part of their sonnets, are composed, seems
to be as nearly the same with that of the English Heroic Rhyme, as the
different genius and pronunciation of the two languages will permit.
The English Heroic Rhyme is supposed to consist sometimes of ten, and
sometimes of eleven syllables: of ten, when the verse ends with a
single, and of eleven, when it ends with a double rhyme.
The correspondent Italian verse is supposed to consist sometimes of
{469} ten, sometimes of eleven, and sometimes of twelve syllables,
according as it happens to end with a single, a double, or a triple
rhyme.
The rhyme ought naturally to fall upon the last syllable of the verse;
it is proper likewise that it should fall upon an accented syllable,
in order to render it more sensible. When, therefore, the accent
happens to fall, not upon the last syllable, but upon that immediately
before it, the rhyme must fall both upon the accented syllable and
upon that which is not accented. It must be a double rhyme.
In the Italian language, when the accent falls neither upon the last
syllable, nor upon that immediately before it, but upon the third
syllable from the end, the rhyme must fall upon all the three. It must
be a triple rhyme, and the verse is supposed to consist of twelve
syllables:
_Forsè era ver, non però credìbile,_ &c.
Triple rhymes are not admitted into English Heroic Verse.
In the Italian language the accent falls much more rarely, either upon
the third syllable from the end of a word, or upon the last syllable,
than it does upon the one immediately before the last. In reality,
this second syllable from the end seems, in that language, to be its
most common and natural place. The Italian Heroic Poetry, therefore,
is composed principally of double rhymes, or of verses supposed to
consist of eleven syllables. Triple rhymes occur but seldom, and
single rhymes still more seldom.
In the English language the accent falls frequently upon the last
syllable of the word. Our language, besides, abounds in words of one
syllable, the greater part of which do (for there are few which do
not) admit of being accented. Words of one syllable are most
frequently the concluding words of English rhymes. For both these
reasons, English Heroic Rhyme is principally composed of single
rhymes, or of verses supposed to consist of ten syllables. Double
Rhymes occur almost as rarely in it, as either single or triple do in
the Italian.
The rarity of double rhymes in English Heroic Verse makes them appear
odd, and awkward, and even ludicrous, when they occur. By the best
writers, therefore, they are reserved for light and ludicrous
occasions; when, in order to humour their subject, they stoop to a
more familiar style than usual. When Mr. Pope says;
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow;
The rest is all but leather or prunello;
he means, in compliance with his subject, to condescend a good deal
below the stateliness of his diction on the Essay on Man. Double
rhymes abound more in Dryden than in Pope, and in Butler's Hudibras
more than in Dryden.
The rarity both of single and of triple rhyme in Italian Heroic Verse,
gives them the same odd and ludicrous air which double rhymes have
{470} in English Verse. In Italian, triple rhymes occur more
frequently than single rhymes. The slippery, or if I may be allowed to
use a very low, but a very expressive word, the glib pronunciation of
the triple rhyme (_verso sotrucciolo_) seems to depart less from
the ordinary movement of the double rhyme, than the abrupt ending of
the single rhyme (_verso tronco e cadente_), of the verse that
appears to be cut off and to fall short of the usual measure. Single
rhymes accordingly appear in Italian verse much more burlesque than
triple rhymes. Single rhymes occur very rarely in Ariosto; but
frequently in the more burlesque poem of Ricciardetto. Triple rhymes
occur much oftener in all the best writers. It is thus, that what in
English appears to be the verse of the greatest gravity and dignity,
appears in Italian to be the most burlesque and ludicrous; for no
other reason, I apprehend, but because in the one language it is the
ordinary verse, whereas in the other it departs most from the
movements of ordinary verse.
The common Italian Heroic Poetry being composed of double rhymes, it
can admit both of single and of triple rhymes; which seem to recede
from the common movement on opposite sides to nearly equal distances.
The common English Heroic Poetry, consisting of single rhymes, it can
admit of double; but it cannot admit of triple rhymes, which would
recede so far from the common movements as to appear perfectly
burlesque and ridiculous. In English, when a word accented upon the
third syllable from the end happens to make the last word of a verse,
the rhyme falls upon the last syllable only. It is a single rhyme, and
the verse consists of no more than ten syllables: but as the last
syllable is not accented, it is an imperfect rhyme, which, however,
when confined to the second verse of the couplet, and even there
introduced but rarely, may have a very agreeable grace, and the line
may even seem to run more easy and natural by means of it:
Bùt of this fràme, the beàrings, and the tìes.
The strìct connèctions, nìce depèndencies, &c.
When by a well accented syllable in the end of the first line of a
couplet, it has once been clearly ascertained what the rhyme is to be,
a very slight allusion to it, such as can be made by a syllable of the
same termination that is not accented, may often be sufficient to mark
the coincidence in the second line; a word of this kind in the end of
the first line seldom succeeds so well:
Th' inhabitants of old Jerusalem
Were Jebusites; the town so called from them.
A couplet in which both verses were terminated in this manner, would
be extremely disagreeable and offensive.
In counting the syllables, even of verses which to the ear appear
sufficiently correct, a considerable indulgence must frequently be
given, {471} before they can, in either language, be reduced to the
precise number of ten, eleven, or twelve, according to the nature of
the rhyme. In the following couplet, for example, there are, strictly
speaking, fourteen syllables in the first line, and twelve in the
second.
And many a h[)u]mo[)u]rous, many an amorous lay,
Was sung by many a bard, on many a day.
By the rapidity, however, or, if I may use a very low word a second
time, by the glibness of the pronunciation, those fourteen syllables
in the first line, and those twelve in the second, appear to take up
the time but of ten ordinary syllables. The words _many a_, though
they plainly consist of three distinct syllables, or sounds, which are
all pronounced successively, or the one after the other, yet pass as
but two syllables; as do likewise these words, _h[)u]mo[)u]ro[)u]s_,
and _amorous_. The words _heaven_ and _given_, in the same manner,
consist each of them of two syllables, which, how rapidly so ever they
may be pronounced, cannot be pronounced but successively, or the one
after the other. In verse, however, they are considered as consisting
but of one syllable.
In counting the syllables of the Italian Heroic Verse, still greater
indulgences must be allowed: three vowels must there frequently be
counted as making but one syllable, though they are all pronounced,
rapidly indeed, but in succession, or the one after the other, and
though no two of them are supposed to make a diphthong. In these
licenses too, the Italians seem not to be very regular, and the same
concourse of vowels which in one place makes but one syllable, will in
another sometimes make two. There are even some words which in the end
of a verse are constantly counted for two syllables, but which in any
other part of it are never counted for more than one; such as the
words _suo_, _tuo_, _suoi_, _tuoi_.
Ruscelli observes, that in the Italian Heroic Verse the accent ought
to fall upon the fourth, the sixth, the eighth, and the tenth
syllables; and that if it falls upon the third, the fifth, the
seventh, or the ninth syllables, it will spoil the verse.
In English, if the accent falls upon any of the above-mentioned odd
syllables, it equally spoils the verse.
Bow'd their stiff necks, loaden with stormy blasts,
though a line of Milton, has not the ordinary movement of an English
Heroic Verse, the accent falls upon the third and sixth syllables.
In Italian frequently, and in English sometimes, an accent is with
great grace thrown upon the first syllable, in which case it seldom
happens that any other syllable is accented before the fourth;
_Cánto l'armé pietóse e'l capitáno._
Fírst in these fiélds I trý the sýlvan stráins.
Both in English and in Italian the second syllable may be accented
{472} with great grace, and it generally is so when the first syllable
is not accented:
_E in van l' inferno a' lui s' oppose; e in vano
S' armó d' Asia, e di Libia il popol misto,_ &c.
Let us, since life can little more supply
Than just to look about us, and to die, &c.
Both in English and in Italian Verse, an accent, though it must never
be misplaced, may sometimes be omitted with great grace. In the last
of the above-quoted English Verses there is no accent upon the eighth
syllable; the conjunction _and_ not admitting of any. In the
following Italian Verse there is no accent upon the sixth syllable:
_O Musa, tu, che di caduchi allori,_ &c.
The preposition _di_ will as little admit of an accent as the
conjunction _and_. In this case, however, when the even syllable
is not accented, neither of the odd syllables immediately before or
behind it must be accented.
Neither in English nor in Italian can two accents running be omitted.
It must be observed, that in Italian there are two accents, the grave
and the acute: the grave accent is always marked by a slight stroke
over the syllable to which it belongs; the acute accent has no mark.
The English language knows no distinction between the grave and the
acute accents.
The same author observes, that in the Italian Verse the Pause, or what
the grammarians call the Cesura, may with propriety be introduced
after either the third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, or the
seventh syllables. The like observations have been made by several
different writers upon the English Heroic Verse. Dobie admires
particularly the verse in which there are two pauses; one after the
fifth, and another after the ninth syllable. The example he gives is
from Petrarch:
_Nel dolce tempo de la prima etade,_ &c.
In this verse, the second pause, which he says comes after the ninth
syllable, in reality comes in between the two vowels, which, in the
Italian way of counting syllables, compose the ninth syllable. It may
be doubtful, therefore, whether this pause may not be considered as
coming after the eighth syllable. I do not recollect any good English
Verse in which the pause comes in after the ninth syllable. We have
many in which it comes in after the eighth:
Yet oft, before his infant eyes, would run, &c.
In which verse there are two pauses; one after the second, and the
other after the eighth syllable. I have observed many Italian Verses
in which the pause comes after the second syllable.
Both the English and the Italian Heroic Verse, perhaps, are not so
{473} properly composed of a certain number of syllables, which vary
according to the nature of the rhyme; as of a certain number of
intervals, (of five invariably,) each of which is equal in length, or
time, to two ordinary distinct syllables, though it may sometimes
contain more, of which the extraordinary shortness compensates the
extraordinary number. The close frequently of each of those intervals,
but always of every second interval, is marked by a distinct accent.
This accent may frequently, with great grace, fall upon the beginning
of the first interval; after which, it cannot, without spoiling the
verse, fall any where but upon the close of an interval. The syllable
or syllables which come after the accent that closes the fifth
interval are never accented. They make no distinct interval, but are
considered as a sort of excrescence of the verse, and are in a manner
counted for nothing.
THE END.
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
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Transcriber's Note
Page numbers
Page numbers printed in the text are given within {}.
Footnotes
Most footnotes in the text are indicated by an asterisk. Here they are
numbered within each work and placed at the end of paragraph in which
they occur. One footnote in the first essay is numbered; it is here
given as 1*.
Diacritics
The only sign needing special mention is the breve used in the last
essay to indicate short syllables. On a "u", it is transcribed [)u].
Spelling Corrections
The following changes have been made to the printed text (usually with
reference to earlier editions). Corrected words are marked with two
asterisks preceding.
Page Printed text Correction
Biographical Notice
1757 1759 (by reference to
Stewart's full note)
8 The page numbers for the first essay are out by two (so e.g.
327-328 325-326 [not marked in text]
Of the Affinity etc. begins on 435, not 434 as in printed text
55 advantange advantage
88 acomplish accomplish
190 resposibility responsibility
224 the the the
243 acccording according
272 unpon upon
281 suppposed supposed
318 object objects
319 insteads instead
319 venisitis venistis
335 dis-disposed disposed
342 Democratus Democritus
343 such sphere such a sphere
353 same fame
356 perfector perfecter