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ELEMENTS
OF
CRITICISM.
VOLUME II.
EDINBURGH:
Printed for A. MILLAR, London;
AND
A. KINCAID & J. BELL, Edinburgh.
MDCCLXII.
ELEMENTS
OF
CRITICISM.
CHAP. X.
Congruity and Propriety.
Man is distinguished from the brute creation, not more remarkably by the
superiority of his rational faculties, than by the greater delicacy of
his perceptions and feelings. With respect to the gross pleasures of
sense, man probably has little superiority over other animals. Some
obscure perception of beauty may also fall to their share. But they are
probably not acquainted with the more delicate conceptions of
regularity, order, uniformity, or congruity. Such refined conceptions,
being connected with morality and religion, are reserved to dignify the
chief of the terrestrial creation. Upon this account, no discipline is
more suitable to man, or more _congruous_ to the dignity of his nature,
than that by which his taste is refined, to distinguish in every
subject, what is regular, what is orderly, what is suitable, and what is
fit and proper[1].
No discerning person can be at a loss about the meaning of the terms
_congruity_ and _propriety_, when applied to dress, behaviour, or
language; that a decent garb, for example, is proper for a judge, modest
behaviour for a young woman, and a lofty style for an epic poem. In the
following examples every one is sensible of an unsuitableness or
incongruity: a little woman sunk in an overgrown farthingale, a coat
richly embroidered covering coarse and dirty linen, a mean subject in an
elevated style, or an elevated subject in a mean style, a first minister
darning his wife’s stocking, or a reverend prelate in lawn sleeves
dancing a hornpipe.
But it is not sufficient that these terms be understood in practice; the
critical art requires, that their meaning be traced to its foundation in
human nature. The relations that connect objects together, have been
examined in more than one view. Their influence in directing the train
of our perceptions, is handled in the first chapter; and in the second,
their influence in generating passion. Here they must be handled in a
new view; for they are clearly the occasion of congruity and propriety.
We are so framed by nature, as to require a certain suitableness or
correspondence among things connected by any relation. This suitableness
or correspondence is termed _congruity_ or _propriety_; and the want of
it, _incongruity_ or _impropriety_. Among the many principles that
compose the nature of man, a sense of congruity or propriety is one.
Destitute of this sense, we could have no notion of congruity or
propriety: the terms to us would be unintelligible[2].
As this sense is displayed upon relations, it is reasonable beforehand
to expect, that we should be so formed, as to require among connected
objects a degree of congruity proportioned to the degree of the
relation. And upon examination we find this to hold in fact. Where the
relation is strong and intimate as betwixt a cause and its effect, a
body and its members, we require that the things be suited to each other
in the strictest manner. On the other hand, where the relation is
slight, or accidental, as among things jumbled together in the same
place, we demand little or no congruity. The strictest propriety is
required in behaviour and manner of living; because a man is connected
with these by the relation of cause and effect. The situation of a great
house ought to be lofty; for the relation betwixt an edifice and the
ground it stands upon, is of the most intimate kind. Its relation to
neighbouring hills, rivers, plains, being that of propinquity only,
demands but a small share of congruity. Among members of the same club,
the congruity ought to be considerable, as well as among things placed
for show in the same niche. Among passengers in a stage-coach, we
require very little congruity; and less still at a public spectacle.
Congruity is so nearly allied to beauty, as commonly to be held a
species of it. And yet they differ so essentially, as never to coincide.
Beauty, like colour, is placed upon a single subject; congruity upon a
plurality. Further, a thing beautiful in itself, may, with relation to
other things, produce the strongest sense of incongruity.
Congruity and propriety are commonly reckoned synonymous terms; and
hitherto in opening the subject they are used indifferently. But they
are distinguishable; and the precise meaning of each must be
ascertained. Congruity is the genus, of which propriety is a species.
For we call nothing propriety, but that congruity or suitableness which
ought to subsist betwixt sensible beings and their thoughts, words, and
actions.
In order to give a full view of this subject, I shall trace it through
some of the most considerable relations. The relation of a part to the
whole, being extremely intimate, demands the utmost degree of congruity.
For that reason, the slightest deviation is disgustful. Every one must
be sensible of a gross incongruity in the _Lutrin_, a burlesque poem,
being closed with a serious and warm panegyric on Lamoignon, one of the
King’s judges:
---- Amphora cœpit
Institui; currente rota, cur urceus exit?
No relation affords more examples of congruity and incongruity, than
that betwixt a subject and its ornaments. A literary performance
intended merely for amusement, is susceptible of much ornament, as well
as a music-room or a play-house. In gaiety, the mind hath a peculiar
relish for show and decoration. The most gorgeous apparel, however
unsuitable to an actor in a regular tragedy, disgusts not at an opera.
The truth is, an opera, in its present form, is a mighty fine thing; but
as it deviates from nature in its capital circumstances, we look not for
any thing natural in those which are accessory. On the other hand, a
serious and important subject, admits not much ornament[3]: nor a
subject that of itself is extremely beautiful. And a subject that fills
the mind with its loftiness and grandeur, appears best in a dress
altogether plain.
To a person of a mean appearance, gorgeous apparel is unsuitable: which,
beside the incongruity, has a bad effect; for by contrast it shows the
meanness of appearance in the strongest light. Sweetness of look and
manner, requires simplicity of dress joined with the greatest elegance.
A stately and majestic air requires sumptuous apparel, which ought not
to be gaudy, or crowded with little ornaments. A woman of consummate
beauty can bear to be highly adorned, and yet shows best in a plain
dress:
----For loveliness
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is when unadorn’d, adorn’d the most.
_Thomson’s Autumn_, 208.
In judging of the propriety of ornament, we must attend, not only to the
nature of the subject that is to be adorned, but also to the
circumstances in which it is placed. The ornaments that are proper for a
ball, will appear not altogether so decent at public worship; and the
same person ought to dress differently for a marriage-feast and for a
burial.
Nothing is more intimately related to a man, than his sentiments, words,
and actions; and therefore we require here the strictest conformity.
When we find what we thus require, we have a lively sense of propriety:
when we find the contrary, our sense of impropriety is not less lively.
Hence the universal distaste of affectation, which consists in making a
shew of greater delicacy and refinement than is suited either to the
character or circumstances of the person. Nothing hath a worse effect in
a story than impropriety of manners. In Corneille’s tragedy of _Cinna_,
Æmilia, a favourite of Augustus, receives daily marks of his affection,
and is loaded with benefits; yet all the while is laying plots to
assassinate her benefactor, directed by no other motive but to avenge
her father’s death[4]. Revenge against a benefactor founded solely upon
filial piety, will never suggest unlawful means; because it can never
exceed the bounds of justice. And yet the crime here attempted, murder
under trust reposed, is what even a miscreant will scarce attempt
against his bitterest enemy.
What is said may be thought sufficient to explain the qualities of
congruity and propriety. But the subject is not exhausted. On the
contrary, the prospect enlarges upon us, when we take under view the
effects these qualities produce in the mind. Congruity and propriety,
where-ever perceived, appear agreeable; and every agreeable object
produceth in the mind a pleasant emotion. Incongruity and impropriety,
on the other hand, are disagreeable; and consequently produce painful
emotions. An emotion of this kind sometimes vanisheth without any
consequence; but more frequently is the occasion of other emotions.
When any slight incongruity is perceived in an accidental combination of
persons or things, as of passengers in a stage-coach or of individuals
dining at an ordinary, the emotion of incongruity, after a momentary
existence, vanisheth without producing any effect. But this is not the
case of propriety and impropriety. Voluntary acts, whether words or
deeds, are imputed to the author: when proper, we reward him with our
esteem: when improper, we punish him with our contempt. Let us suppose,
for example, an heroic action suitable to the character of the author,
which raises in him and in every spectator the pleasant emotion of
propriety. This emotion generates in the author both self-esteem and
joy; the former when he considers his relation to the action, and the
latter when he considers the good opinion that others will entertain of
him. The same emotion of propriety, produceth in the spectators, esteem
for the author of the action: and when they think of themselves, it also
produceth, by means of contrast, an emotion of humility. To discover the
effects of an unsuitable action, we must invert each of these
circumstances. The painful emotion of impropriety, generates in the
author of the action both humility and shame; the former when he
considers his relation to the action, and the latter when he considers
what others will think of him. The same emotion of impropriety,
produceth in the spectators, contempt for the author of the action; and
it also produceth, by means of contrast when they think of themselves,
an emotion of self-esteem. Here then are many different emotions,
derived from the same action considered in different views by different
persons; a machine provided with many springs, and not a little
complicated. Propriety of action, it would seem, is a chief favourite of
nature, or of the author of nature, when such care and solicitude is
bestowed upon it. It is not left to our own choice; but, like justice,
is required at our hands; and, like justice, inforced by natural rewards
and punishments. A man cannot, with impunity, do any thing unbecoming or
improper. He suffers the chastisement of contempt inflicted by others,
and of shame inflicted by himself. An apparatus so complicated and so
singular, ought to rouse our attention. Nature doth nothing in vain; and
we may conclude with great certainty, that this curious branch of the
human constitution is intended for some valuable purpose. To the
discovery of this purpose I shall with ardor apply my thoughts, after
discoursing a little more at large upon the punishment, for I may now
call it so, that Nature hath provided for indecent or unbecoming
behaviour. This, at any rate, is necessary, in order to give a full view
of the subject; and who knows whether it may not, over and above, open
some track that will lead us to what we are in quest of?
A gross impropriety is punished with contempt and indignation, which are
vented against the offender by every external expression that can
gratify these passions. And even the slightest impropriety raises some
degree of contempt. But there are improprieties, generally of the
slighter kind, that provoke laughter; of which we have examples without
end in the blunders and absurdities of our own species. Such
improprieties receive a different punishment, as will appear by what
follows. The emotions of contempt and of laughter occasioned by an
impropriety of this kind, uniting intimately in the mind of the
spectator, are expressed externally by a peculiar sort of laugh, termed
_a laugh of derision_ or _scorn_[5]. An impropriety that thus moves not
only contempt but laughter, is distinguished by the epithet of
_ridiculous_; and a laugh of derision or scorn is the punishment
provided for it by nature. Nor ought it to escape observation, that we
are so fond of inflicting this punishment, as sometimes to exert it even
against creatures of an inferior species; witness a Turkycock swelling
with pride, and strutting with displayed feathers. This object appears
ridiculous, and in a gay mood is apt to provoke a laugh of derision.
We must not expect that the improprieties to which these different
punishments are adapted, can be separated by any precise boundaries. Of
improprieties, from the slightest to the most gross, from the most
risible to the most serious, a scale may be formed ascending by degrees
almost imperceptible. Hence it is, that in viewing some unbecoming
actions, too risible for anger and too serious for derision, the
spectator feels a sort of mixt emotion partaking both of derision and of
anger. This accounts for an expression, common with respect to the
impropriety of some actions, That we know not whether to laugh or be
angry.
It cannot fail to be observed, that in the case of a risible
impropriety, which is always slight, the contempt we have for the
offender is extremely faint, though derision, its gratification, is
extremely pleasant. This disproportion betwixt a passion and its
gratification, seems not conformable to the analogy of nature. In
looking about for a solution, I reflect upon what is laid down above,
that an improper action, not only moves our contempt for the author, but
also, by means of contrast, swells the good opinion we have of
ourselves. This contributes, more than any other article, to the
pleasure we feel in ridiculing the follies and absurdities of others.
And accordingly, it is well known, that they who put the greatest value
upon themselves, are the most prone to laugh at others. Pride is a vivid
passion, as all are which have self for their object. It is extremely
pleasant in itself, and not less so in its gratification. This passion
singly would be sufficient to account for the pleasure of ridicule,
without borrowing any aid from contempt. Hence appears the reason of a
noted observation, That we are the most disposed to ridicule the
blunders and absurdities of others, when we are in high spirits; for in
high spirits, self-conceit displays itself with more than ordinary
vigor.
Having with wary steps traced an intricate road, not without danger of
wandering; what remains to complete our journey, is to account for the
final cause of congruity and propriety, which make so great a figure in
the human constitution. One final cause, regarding congruity, is pretty
obvious. The sense of congruity, as one of the principles of the fine
arts, contributes in a remarkable degree to our entertainment. This is
the final cause assigned above for our sense of proportion[6], and need
not be enlarged upon here. Congruity indeed with respect to quantity,
coincides with proportion. When the parts of a building are nicely
adjusted to each other, it may be said indifferently, that it is
agreeable by the congruity of its parts, or by the proportion of its
parts. But propriety, which regards voluntary agents only, can never in
any instance be the same with proportion. A very long nose is
disproportioned, but cannot be termed _improper_. In some instances, it
is true, impropriety coincides with disproportion in the same subject,
but never in the same respect. I give for an example a very little man
buckled to a long toledo. Considering the man and the sword with respect
to size, we perceive a disproportion. Considering the sword as the
choice of the man, we perceive an impropriety.
The sense of impropriety with respect to mistakes, blunders, and
absurdities, is happily contrived for the good of mankind. In the
spectators it is productive of mirth and laughter, excellent recreation
in an interval from business. The benefit is still more extensive. It is
not agreeable to be the subject of ridicule; and to punish with ridicule
the man who is guilty of an absurdity, tends to put him more upon his
guard in time coming. Thus even the most innocent blunder is not
committed with impunity; because, were errors licensed where they do no
hurt, inattention would grow into a habit, and be the occasion of much
hurt.
The final cause of propriety as to moral duties, is of all the most
illustrious. To have a just notion of it, the two sorts of moral duties
must be kept in view, _viz._ those that respect others, and those that
respect ourselves. Fidelity, gratitude, and the forbearing injury, are
examples of the first sort; temperance, modesty, firmness of mind, are
examples of the other. The former are made duties by means of the moral
sense; the latter, by means of the sense of propriety. Here is a final
cause of the sense of propriety, that must rouse our attention. It is
undoubtedly the interest of every man, to regulate his behaviour
suitably to the dignity of his nature, and to the station allotted him
by Providence. Such rational conduct contributes in every respect to
happiness: it contributes to health and plenty: it gains the esteem of
others: and, which is of all the greatest blessing, it gains a
justly-founded self-esteem. But in a matter so essential to our
well-being, even self-interest is not relied on. The sense of propriety
superadds the powerful authority of duty to the motive of interest. The
God of nature, in all things essential to our happiness, hath observed
one uniform method. To keep us steady in our conduct, he hath fortified
us with natural principles and feelings. These prevent many aberrations,
which would daily happen were we totally surrendered to so fallible a
guide as is human reason. The sense of propriety cannot justly be
considered in another light, than as the natural law that regulates our
conduct with respect to ourselves; as the sense of justice is the
natural law that regulates our conduct with respect to others. I call
the sense of propriety a law, because it really is so, not less than
the sense of justice. If by law be meant a rule of conduct that we are
conscious ought to be obeyed, this definition, which I conceive to be
strictly accurate, is applicable undoubtedly to both. The sense of
propriety includes this consciousness; for to say an action is proper,
is, in other words, to say, that it _ought_ to be performed; and to say
it is improper, is, in other words, to say, that it _ought_ to be
forborn. It is this very consciousness of _ought_ and _should_ included
in the moral sense, that makes justice a law to us. This consciousness
of duty, when applied to propriety, is perhaps not so vigorous or strong
as when applied to justice: but the difference is in degree only, not in
kind: and we ought, without hesitation or reluctance, to submit equally
to the government of both.
But I have more to urge upon this head. It must, in the next place, be
observed, that to the sense of propriety as well as of justice are
annexed the sanctions of rewards and punishments; which evidently prove
the one to be a law as well as the other. The satisfaction a man hath
in doing his duty, joined with the esteem and good-will of others, is
the reward that belongs to both equally. The punishments also, though
not the same, are nearly allied; and differ in degree more than in
quality. Disobedience to the law of justice, is punished with remorse;
disobedience to the law of propriety, with shame, which is remorse in a
lower degree. Every transgression of the law of justice raises
indignation in the beholder; and so doth every flagrant transgression of
the law of propriety. Slighter improprieties receive a milder
punishment: they are always rebuked with some degree of contempt, and
frequently with derision. In general, it is true, that the rewards and
punishments annexed to the sense of propriety are slighter in degree
than those annexed to the sense of justice. And that this is wisely
ordered, will appear from considering, that to the well-being of
society, duty to others is still more essential than duty to ourselves;
for society could not subsist a moment, were individuals not protected
from the headstrong and turbulent passions of their neighbours.
Reflecting coolly and carefully upon the subject under consideration,
the constitution of man, admirable in all its parts, appears here in a
fine light. The final cause now unfolded of the sense of propriety,
must, to every discerning eye, appear delightful; and yet hitherto we
have given but a partial view of it. The sense of propriety reaches
another illustrious end; which is, to co-operate with the sense of
justice in inforcing the performance of social duties. In fact, the
sanctions visibly contrived to compel a man to be just to himself, are
equally serviceable to compel him to be just to others. This will be
evident from a single reflection, That an action, by being unjust,
ceases not to be improper. An action never appears more eminently
improper, than when it is unjust. It is obviously becoming and suitable
to human nature, that each man do his duty to others; and accordingly
every transgression of duty with respect to others, is at the same time
a transgression of duty with respect to self. This is an undisguised
truth without exaggeration; and it opens a new and delightful view in
the moral landscape. The prospect is greatly enriched, by the
multiplication of agreeable objects. It appears now, that nothing is
overlooked, nothing left undone, that can possibly contribute to the
enforcing social duty. For to all the sanctions that belong to it
singly, are superadded the sanctions of self-duty. A familiar example
shall suffice for illustration. An act of ingratitude considered in
itself, is to the author disagreeable as well as to every spectator:
considered by the author with relation to himself, it raises
self-contempt: considered by him with relation to the world, it makes
him ashamed. Again, considered by others, it raises their contempt and
indignation against the author. These feelings are all of them
occasioned by the impropriety of the action. When the action is
considered as unjust, it occasions another set of feelings. In the
author it produces remorse, and a dread of merited punishment; and in
others, the benefactor chiefly, indignation and hatred directed upon the
ungrateful person. Thus shame and remorse united in the ungrateful
person, and indignation united with hatred in the hearts of others, are
the punishments provided by nature for injustice. Stupid and insensible
must he be in extreme, who, in a contrivance so exquisite, perceives not
the hand of the Sovereign Architect.
CHAP. XI
Of Dignity and Meanness.
These terms are applied to man in point of character, sentiment, and
behaviour. We say, for example, of one man, that he hath a natural
dignity in his air and manner; of another, that he makes a mean figure.
There is a dignity in every action and sentiment of some persons: the
actions and sentiments of others are mean and vulgar. With respect to
the fine arts, some performances are said to be manly and suitable to
the dignity of human nature: others are termed low, mean, trivial. Such
expressions are common, though they have not always a precise meaning.
With respect to the art of criticism, it must be a real acquisition to
ascertain what these terms truly import; which possibly may enable us to
rank every performance in the fine arts according to its dignity.
Inquiring first to what subjects the terms _dignity_ and _meanness_ are
appropriated, we soon discover, that they are not applicable to any
thing inanimate. The most magnificent palace ever built, may be lofty,
may be grand, but it has no relation to dignity. The most diminutive
shrub may be little, but it is not mean. These terms must belong to
sensitive beings, probably to man only; which will be evident when we
advance in the inquiry.
Of all objects, human actions produce in a spectator the greatest
variety of feelings. They are in themselves grand or little: with
respect to the author, they are proper or improper: with respect to
those affected by them, just or unjust. And I must now add, that they
are also distinguished by dignity and meanness. It may possibly be
thought, that with respect to human actions, dignity coincides with
grandeur, and meanness with littleness. But the difference will be
evident upon reflecting, that we never attribute dignity to any action
but what is virtuous, nor meanness to any but what in some degree is
faulty. But an action may be grand without being virtuous, or little
without being faulty. Every action of dignity creates respect and esteem
for the author; and a mean action draws upon him contempt. A man is
always admired for a grand action, but frequently is neither loved nor
esteemed for it: neither is a man always contemned for a low or little
action.
As it appears to me, dignity and meanness are founded on a natural
principle not hitherto mentioned. Man is endued with a sense of the
worth and excellence of his nature. He deems it to be more perfect than
that of the other beings around him; and he feels that the perfection of
his nature consists in virtue, particularly in virtue of the highest
rank. To express this sense, the term _dignity_ is appropriated.
Further, to behave with dignity, and to refrain from all mean actions,
is felt to be, not a virtue only, but a duty: it is a duty every man
owes to himself. By acting in this manner, he attracts love and esteem.
By acting meanly or below himself, he is disapproved and contemned.
According to the description here given of dignity and meanness, they
will be found to be a species of propriety and impropriety. Many actions
may be proper or improper, to which dignity or meanness cannot be
applied. To eat when one is hungry is proper, but there is no dignity in
this action. Revenge fairly taken, if against law, is improper, but it
is not mean. But every action of dignity is also proper, and every mean
action is also improper.
This sense of the dignity of human nature, reaches even our pleasures
and amusements. If they enlarge the mind by raising grand or elevated
emotions, or if they humanize the mind by exercising our sympathy, they
are approved as suited to our nature: if they contract the mind by
fixing it on trivial objects, they are contemned as low and mean. Hence
in general, every occupation, whether of use or amusement, that
corresponds to the dignity of man, obtains the epithet of _manly_; and
every occupation below his nature, obtains the epithet of _childish_.
To those who study human nature, there is a point which has always
appeared intricate. How comes it that generosity and courage are more
valued and bestow more dignity, than good-nature, or even justice,
though the latter contribute more than the former, to private as well as
to public happiness? This question bluntly proposed, might puzzle a
cunning philosopher; but by means of the foregoing observations will
easily be solved. Human virtues, like other objects, obtain a rank in
our estimation, not from their utility, which is a subject of
reflection, but from the direct impression they make on us. Justice and
good-nature are a sort of negative virtues, that make no figure unless
when they are transgressed. Courage and generosity producing elevated
emotions, enliven greatly the sense of a man’s dignity, both in himself
and in others; and for that reason, courage and generosity are in higher
regard than the other virtues mentioned. We describe them as grand and
elevated, as of greater dignity, and more praise-worthy.
This leads us to examine more directly emotions and passions with
respect to the present subject. And it will not be difficult to form a
scale of them, beginning at the meanest, and ascending gradually to
those of the highest rank and dignity. Pleasure felt as at the organ of
sense, named _corporeal pleasure_, is perceived to be low; and when
indulged to excess, beyond what nature demands, is perceived also to be
mean. Persons therefore of any delicacy, dissemble the pleasure they
have in eating and drinking. The pleasures of the eye and ear, which
have no organic feeling[7], are free from any sense of meanness; and for
that reason are indulged without any shame. They even arise to a certain
degree of dignity, when their objects are grand or elevated. The same is
the case of the sympathetic passions. They raise the character
considerably, when their objects are of importance. A virtuous person
behaving with fortitude and dignity under the most cruel misfortunes,
makes a capital figure; and the sympathising spectator feels in himself
the same dignity. Sympathetic distress at the same time never is mean:
on the contrary, it is agreeable to the nature of a social being, and
has the general approbation. The rank that love possesses in this scale,
depends in a great measure on its object. It possesses a low place when
founded on external properties merely; and is mean when bestowed upon a
person of a rank much inferior without any extraordinary qualification.
But when founded on the more elevated internal properties, it assumes a
considerable degree of dignity. The same is the case of friendship. When
gratitude is warm, it animates the mind; but it scarce rises to dignity.
Joy bestows dignity when it proceeds from an elevated cause.
So far as I can gather from induction, dignity is not a property of any
disagreeable passion. One is slight another severe, one depresses the
mind another rouses and animates it; but there is no elevation, far less
dignity, in any of them. Revenge, in particular, though it inflame and
swell the mind, is not accompanied with dignity, not even with
elevation. It is not however felt as mean or groveling, unless when it
takes indirect measures for its gratification. Shame and remorse, though
they sink the spirits, are not mean. Pride, a disagreeable passion,
bestows no dignity in the eye of a spectator. Vanity always appears
mean; and extremely so where founded, as commonly happens, on trivial
qualifications.
I proceed to the pleasures of the understanding, which possess a high
rank in point of dignity. Of this every one will be sensible, when he
considers the important truths that have been laid open by science; such
as general theorems, and the general laws that govern the material and
moral worlds. The pleasures of the understanding are suited to man as a
rational and contemplative being; and they tend not a little to ennoble
his nature. Even to the Deity he stretches his contemplations, which, in
the discovery of infinite power wisdom and benevolence, afford delight
of the most exalted kind. Hence it appears, that the fine arts studied
as a rational science, afford entertainment of great dignity; superior
far to what they afford as a subject of taste merely.
But contemplation, though in itself valuable, is chiefly respected as
subservient to action; for man is intended to be more an active than a
contemplative being. He accordingly shows more dignity in action than in
contemplation. Generosity, magnanimity, heroism, raise his character to
the highest pitch. These best express the dignity of his nature, and
advance him nearer to divinity than any other of his attributes.
By every production that shows art and contrivance, our curiosity is
excited upon two points; first how it was made, and next to what end. Of
the two, the latter is the more important inquiry, because the means are
ever subordinate to the end; and in fact our curiosity is always more
inflamed by the final than by the efficient cause. This preference is no
where more visible, than in contemplating the works of nature. If in the
efficient cause, wisdom and power be displayed, wisdom is not less
conspicuous in the final cause; and from it only can we infer
benevolence, which of all the divine attributes is to man the most
important. Having endeavoured to assign the efficient cause of dignity
and meanness, and to unfold the principle on which they are founded, we
proceed to explain the final cause of the dignity or meanness bestowed
upon the several particulars above mentioned, beginning with corporeal
pleasures. These, so far as useful, are like justice fenced with
sufficient sanctions to prevent their being neglected. Hunger and thirst
are painful sensations; and we are incited to animal love by a vigorous
propensity. Were they dignified over and above with a place in a high
class, they would infallibly overturn the balance of the mind, by
outweighing the social affections. This is a satisfactory final cause
for refusing to corporeal pleasures any degree of dignity. And the final
cause is not less evident of their meanness, when they are indulged to
excess. The more refined pleasures of external sense, conveyed by the
eye and the ear from natural objects and from the fine arts, deserve a
high place in our esteem, because of their singular and extensive
utility. In some cases they arise to a considerable dignity. The very
lowest pleasures of the kind, are never esteemed mean or groveling. The
pleasure arising from wit, humour, ridicule, or from what is simply
ludicrous, is useful, by relaxing the mind after the fatigue of more
manly occupation. But the mind, when it surrenders itself to pleasure of
this kind, loses its vigor, and sinks gradually into sloth. The place
this pleasure occupies in point of dignity, is adjusted to these views.
To make it useful as a relaxation, it is not branded with meanness. To
prevent its usurpation, it is removed from this place but a single
degree. No man values himself upon this pleasure, even during the
gratification; and if more time have been given to it than is requisite
for relaxation, a man looks back with some degree of shame.
In point of dignity, the social passions rise above the selfish, and
much above the pleasures of the eye and ear. Man is by his nature a
social being; and to qualify him for society, it is wisely contrived,
that he should value himself more for being social than selfish.
The excellency of man is chiefly discernible in the great improvements
he is susceptible of in society. These, by perseverance, may be carried
on progressively to higher and higher degrees of perfection, above any
assignable limits; and, even abstracting from revelation, there is great
probability, that the progress begun in this life will be completed in
some future state. Now, as all valuable improvements proceed from the
exercise of our rational faculties, the author of our nature, in order
to excite us to a due use of these faculties, hath assigned a high rank
to the pleasures of the understanding. Their utility, with respect to
this life as well as a future, intitles them to this rank.
But as action is the end of all our improvements, virtuous actions
justly possess the highest of all the ranks. These, I find, are by
nature distributed into different classes, and the first in point of
dignity assigned to actions which appear not the first in point of use.
Generosity, for example, in the sense of mankind, is more respected than
justice, though the latter is undoubtedly more essential to society. And
magnanimity, heroism, undaunted courage, rise still higher in our
esteem. One would readily think, that the moral virtues should be
esteemed according to their importance. Nature has here deviated from
her ordinary path, and great wisdom is shown in the deviation. The
efficient cause is explained above; and the final cause is explained in
the Essays of morality and natural religion[8].
CHAP. XII.
RIDICULE.
This subject has puzzled and vexed all the critics. Aristotle gives a
definition of ridicule, obscure and imperfect[9]. Cicero handles it at
great length[10]; but without giving any satisfaction. He wanders in the
dark, and misses the distinction betwixt risible and ridiculous.
Quintilian is sensible of this distinction[11]; but has not attempted to
explain it. Luckily this subject lies no longer in obscurity. A risible
object produceth an emotion of laughter merely[12]. A ridiculous object
is improper as well as risible; and produceth a mixt emotion, which is
vented by a laugh of derision or scorn[13].
Having therefore happily unravelled the abstruse and knotty part, I
proceed to what may be thought further necessary upon this subject.
Burlesque is one great engine of ridicule. But it is not confined to
that subject; for it is clearly distinguishable into burlesque that
excites laughter merely, and burlesque that provokes derision or
ridicule. A grave subject in which there is no impropriety, may be
brought down by a certain colouring so as to be risible. This is the
case of _Virgil Travestie_[14]. And it is the case of the _Secchia
Rapita_[15]. The authors laugh first at every turn, in order to make
their readers laugh. The _Lutrin_ is a burlesque poem of the other sort.
The author Boileau, lays hold of a low and trifling incident to expose
the luxury, indolence, and contentious spirit of a set of monks. He
turns the subject into ridicule by dressing it in the heroic style, and
affecting to consider it as of the utmost dignity and importance; and
though ridicule is the poet’s aim, he himself carries all along a grave
face, and never once bewrays a smile. The opposition betwixt the subject
and the manner of handling it, is what produces the ridicule. In a
composition of this kind, no image professedly ludicrous ought to have
quarter; because such images destroy the contrast.
Though the burlesque that aims at ridicule, produces its effect by
elevating the style far above the subject, yet it has limits beyond
which the elevation ought not to be carried. The poet, consulting the
imagination of his readers, ought to confine himself to such images as
are lively and readily apprehended. A strained elevation, soaring above
an ordinary reach of fancy, makes not a pleasant impression. The mind
fatigued with being always upon the stretch, is soon disgusted; and if
it perseveres, becomes thoughtless and indifferent. Further, a fiction
gives no pleasure, unless where painted in so lively colours as to
produce some perception of reality; which never can be done effectually
where the images are formed with labour or difficulty. For these
reasons, I cannot avoid condemning the _Batrachomuomachia_ said to be
the composition of Homer. It is beyond the power of imagination, to form
a clear and lively image of frogs and mice acting with the dignity of
the highest of our species: nor can we form a conception of the reality
of such an action, in any manner so distinct as to interest our
affections even in the slightest degree.
The _Rape of the Lock_ is of a character clearly distinguishable from
those now mentioned. It is not properly a burlesque performance, but
what may rather be termed _an heroi-comical poem_. It treats a gay and
familiar subject, with pleasantry and with a moderate degree of dignity.
The author puts not on a mask like Boileau, nor professes to make us
laugh like Tassoni. The _Rape of the Lock_ is a genteel and gay species
of writing, less strained than the others mentioned; and is pleasant or
ludicrous without having ridicule for its chief aim; giving way however
to ridicule where it arises naturally from a particular character, such
as that of Sir Plume. Addison’s _Spectator_ upon the exercise of the
fan[16] is extremely gay and ludicrous, resembling in its subject the
_Rape of the Lock_.
Humour belongs to the present chapter, because it is undoubtedly
connected with ridicule. Congreve defines humour to be “a singular and
unavoidable manner of doing or saying any thing, peculiar and natural to
one man only, by which his speech and actions are distinguished from
those of other men.” Were this definition just, a majestic and
commanding air, which is a singular property, is humour; as also that
natural flow of eloquence and correct elocution which is a rare talent.
Nothing just or proper is denominated humour; nor any singularity of
character, words, or actions, that is valued or respected. When we
attend to the character of an humorist, we find that the peculiarity of
this character lessens the man in our esteem: we find that this
character arises from circumstances both risible and improper, and
therefore in some measure ridiculous.
Humour in writing is very different from humour in character. When an
author insists upon ludicrous subjects with a professed purpose to make
his readers laugh, he may be styled _a ludicrous writer_; but is scarce
intitled to be styled _a writer of humour_. This quality belongs to an
author, who, affecting to be grave and serious, paints his objects in
such colours as to provoke mirth and laughter. A writer that is really
an humorist in character, does this without design. If not, he must
affect the character in order to succeed. Swift and Fontaine were
humorists in character, and their writings are full of humour. Addison
was not an humorist in character; and yet in his prose writings a most
delicate and refined humour prevails. Arbuthnot exceeds them all in
drollery and humorous painting; which shows a great genius, because, if
I am not misinformed, he had nothing of this peculiarity in his
character.
There remains to show, by examples, the manner of treating subjects so
as to give them a ridiculous appearance.
Il ne dit jamais, je vous donne, mais, je vous
prete le bon jour.
_Moliere._
_Orleans._ I know him to be valiant.
_Constable._ I was told that by one that knows him better than you.
_Orleans._ What’s he?
_Constable._ Marry, he told me so himself; and he said, he car’d
not who knew it.
_Henry_ V. _Shakespear._
He never broke any man’s head but his own, and
that was against a post when he was drunk.
_Ibid._
_Millament._ Sententious Mirabell! pr’ythee don’t look with that
violent and inflexible wise face, like Solomon at the dividing of
the child in an old tapestry hanging.
_Way of the world._
A true critic in the perusal of a book, is like a dog at a feast,
whose thoughts and stomach are wholly set upon what the guests
fling away, and consequently is apt to snarl most when there are
the fewest bones.
_Tale of a Tub._
In the following instances the ridicule is made to appear from the
behaviour of the persons introduced.
_Mascarille._ Te souvient-il, vicomte, de cette demi-lune, que nous
emportâmes sur les ennemis au siege d’Arras?
_Jedelet._ Que veux tu dire avec ta demi-lune? c’etoit bien une
lune toute entiere.
_Moliere les Precieuses Ridicules, sc. 11._
_Slender._ I came yonder at Eaton to marry Mrs. Anne Page; and
she’s a great lubberly boy.
_Page._ Upon my life then you took the wrong.
_Slender._ What need you tell me that? I think so, when I took a
boy for a girl: if I had been marry’d to him, for all he was in
woman’s apparel, I would not have had him.
_Merry Wives of Windsor._
_Valentine._ Your blessing, Sir.
_Sir Sampson._ You’ve had it already, Sir: I think I sent it you
to-day in a bill for four thousand pound; a great deal of money,
Brother Foresight.
_Foresight._ Ay indeed, Sir Sampson, a great deal of money for a
young man; I wonder what can he do with it.
_Love for Love, act 2. sc. 7._
_Millamant._ I nauseate walking; ’tis a country-diversion; I lothe
the country, and every thing that relates to it.
_Sir Wilful._ Indeed! hah! look ye, look ye, you do? nay, ’tis like
you may---- here are choice of pastimes here in town, as plays and
the like; that must be confess’d indeed.
_Millamant._ Ah l’etourdie! I hate the town too.
_Sir Wilful._ Dear heart, that’s much---- hah! that you should hate
’em both! hah! ’tis like you may; there are some can’t relish the
town, and others can’t away with the country---- ’tis like you may
be one of those, Cousine.
_Way of the world, act 4. sc. 4._
_Lord Froth._ I assure you, Sir Paul, I laugh at no body’s jest but
my own, or a lady’s: I assure you, Sir Paul.
_Brisk._ How? how, my Lord? what, affront my wit! Let me perish, do
I never say any thing worthy to be laugh’d at?
_Lord Froth._ O foy, don’t misapprehend me, I don’t say so, for I
often smile at your conceptions. But there is nothing more
unbecoming a man of quality, than to laugh; ’tis such a vulgar
expression of the passion! every body can laugh. Then especially to
laugh at the jest of an inferior person, or when any body else of
the same quality does not laugh with one; ridiculous! To be pleas’d
with what pleases the crowd! Now, when I laugh I always laugh
alone.
_Double Dealer, act 1. sc. 4._
So sharp-sighted is pride in blemishes, and so willing to be gratified,
that it will take up with the very slightest improprieties; such as a
blunder by a foreigner in speaking our language, especially if the
blunder can bear a sense that reflects upon the speaker:
_Quickly._ The young man is an honest man.
_Caius._ What shall de honest man do in my closet? dere is no
honest man dat shall come in my closet.
_Merry Wives of Windsor._
Love-speeches are finely ridiculed in the following passage.
Quoth he, My faith as adamantine,
As chains of destiny, I’ll maintain;
True as Apollo ever spoke,
Or oracle from heart of oak;
And if you’ll give my flame but vent,
Now in close hugger-mugger pent,
And shine upon me but benignly,
With that one, and that other pigsneye,
The sun and day shall sooner part,
Than love, or you, shake off my heart;
The sun that shall no more dispense
His own, but your bright influence:
I’ll carve your name on barks of trees,
With true love knots, and flourishes;
That shall infuse eternal spring,
And everlasting flourishing:
Drink ev’ry letter on’t in stum,
And make it brisk champaign become.
Where-e’er you tread, your foot shall set
The primrose and the violet;
All spices, perfumes, and sweet powders,
Shall borrow from your breath their odours;
Nature her charter shall renew
And take all lives of things from you;
The world depend upon your eye,
And when you frown upon it, die.
Only our loves shall still survive,
New worlds and natures to outlive;
And, like to herald’s moons, remain
All crescents, without change or wane.
_Hudibras, part 2. canto 1._
Irony turns things into ridicule in a peculiar manner. It consists in
laughing at a man under disguise, by appearing to praise or speak well
of him. Swift affords us many illustrious examples of this species of
ridicule. Take the following example. “By these methods, in a few weeks,
there starts up many a writer, capable of managing the profoundest and
most universal subjects. For what though his head be empty, provided
his commonplace book be full? And if you will bate him but the
circumstances of method, and style, and grammar, and invention; allow
him but the common privileges of transcribing from others, and
digressing from himself, as often as he shall see occasion; he will
desire no more ingredients towards fitting up a treatise that shall make
a very comely figure on a bookseller’s shelf, there to be preserved neat
and clean, for a long eternity, adorned with the heraldry of its title,
fairly inscribed on a label; never to be thumbed or greased by students,
nor bound to everlasting chains of darkness in a library; but when the
fullness of time is come, shall happily undergo the trial of purgatory,
in order to ascend the sky[17].” The following passage from Arbuthnot is
not less ironical. “If the Reverend clergy showed more concern than
others, I charitably impute it to their great charge of souls; and what
confirmed me in this opinion was, that the degrees of apprehension and
terror could be distinguished to be greater or less, according to their
ranks and degrees in the church[18].”