forming habits. Moderate pleasures are augmented gradually by
reiteration till they become habitual; and then are at their height.
But they are not long stationary; for from that point they gradually
decay till they vanish altogether. The pain occasioned by the want of
gratification, runs a very different course. This pain increases
uniformly; and at last becomes extreme, when the pleasure of
gratification is reduced to nothing.
---- It so falls out
That what we have we prize not to the worth,
Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack’d and lost,
Why then we rack the value; then we find
The virtue that possession would not shew us
Whilst it was ours.
_Much ado about nothing, act 4. sc. 2._
The effect of custom with relation to a specific habit, is displayed
through all its varieties in the use of tobacco. The taste of this plant
is at first extremely unpleasant. Our disgust lessens gradually till it
vanish altogether; at which period the plant is neither agreeable nor
disagreeable. Continuing the use, we begin to relish it; and our relish
increases by use till it come to its utmost extent. From this state it
gradually decays, while the habit becomes stronger and stronger, and
consequently the pain of want. The result is, that when the habit has
acquired its greatest vigor, the pleasure of gratification is gone. And
hence it is, that we often smoke and take snuff habitually, without so
much as being conscious of the operation. We must except gratification
after the pain of want; because gratification in that case is at the
height when the habit is strongest. It is of the same kind with the joy
one feels upon being delivered from the rack, the cause of which is
explained above[31]. This pleasure however is but occasionally the
effect of habit; and however exquisite, is guarded against as much as
possible, by preventing want.
With regard to the pain of want, I can discover no difference betwixt a
generic and specific habit: the pain is the same in both. But these
habits differ widely with respect to the positive pleasure. I have had
occasion to observe, that the pleasure of a specific habit decays
gradually till it become imperceptible. Not so the pleasure of a
generic habit. So far as I can discover, this pleasure suffers little
or no decay after it comes to its height. The variety of gratification
preserves it entire. However it may be with other generic habits, the
observation I am certain holds with respect to the pleasures of virtue
and of knowledge. The pleasure of doing good has such an unbounded
scope, and may be so variously gratified, that it can never decay.
Science is equally unbounded; and our appetite for knowledge has an
ample range of gratification, where discoveries are recommended by
novelty, by variety, by utility, or by all of them.
Here is a large field of facts and experiments, and several phenomena
unfolded, the causes of which have been occasionally suggested. The
efficient cause of the power of custom over man, a fundamental point in
the present chapter, has unhappily evaded my keenest search; and now I
am reduced to hold it an original branch of the human constitution,
though I have no better reason for my opinion, than that I cannot
resolve it into any other principle. But with respect to the final
cause, a point of still greater importance, I promise myself more
success. It cannot indeed have escaped any thinking person, that the
power of custom is a happy contrivance for our good. Exquisite pleasure
produceth satiety: moderate pleasure becomes stronger by custom.
Business is our province, and pleasure our relaxation only. Hence,
satiety is necessary to check exquisite pleasures, which otherwise would
ingross the mind, and unqualify us for business. On the other hand,
habitual increase of moderate pleasure, and even conversion of pain into
pleasure, are admirably contrived for disappointing the malice of
Fortune, and for reconciling us to whatever course of life may be our
lot:
How use doth breed a habit in a man!
This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns.
Here I can sit alone, unseen of any,
And to the nightingale’s complaining notes
Tune my distresses, and record my woes.
_Two Gentlemen of Verona, act 5. sc. 4._
The foregoing distinction betwixt intense and moderate, holds in
pleasure only, not in pain, every degree of which is softened by time
and custom. Custom is a catholicon for pain and distress of every sort;
and of this regulation the final cause is so evident as to require no
illustration.
Another final cause of custom will be highly relished by every person of
humanity; and yet has in a great measure been overlooked. Custom hath a
greater influence than any other known principle, to put the rich and
poor upon a level. Weak pleasures, which fall to the share of the
latter, become fortunately stronger by custom; while voluptuous
pleasures, the lot of the former, are continually losing ground by
satiety. Men of fortune, who possess palaces, sumptuous gardens, rich
fields, enjoy them less than passengers do. The goods of Fortune are not
unequally distributed: the opulent possess what others enjoy.
And indeed, if it be the effect of habit to produce the pain of want in
a high degree while there is little pleasure in enjoyment, a voluptuous
life is of all the least to be envied. Those who are accustomed to high
feeding, easy vehicles, rich furniture, a crowd of valets, much
deference and flattery, enjoy but a small share of happiness, while they
are exposed to manifold distresses. To such a man, inslaved by ease and
luxury, even the petty inconveniencies of a rough road, bad weather, or
homely fare on a journey, are serious evils. He loses his tone of mind,
becomes peevish, and would wreak his resentment even upon the common
accidents of life. Better far to use the goods of Fortune with
moderation. A man who by temperance and activity has acquired a hardy
constitution, is, on the one hand, guarded against external accidents,
and is, on the other, provided with great variety of enjoyment ever at
command.
I shall close this chapter with the discussion of a question more
delicate than abstruse, _viz._ What authority custom ought to have over
our taste in the fine arts? It is proper to be premised, that we
chearfully abandon to its authority every thing that nature leaves to
our choice, and where the preference we bestow has no foundation other
than whim or fancy. There appears no original difference betwixt the
right and the left hand: custom however has established a difference, so
as to make it aukward and disagreeable to use the left where the right
is commonly used. The various colours, though they affect us
differently, are all of them agreeable in their purity. But custom has
regulated this matter in another manner: a black skin upon a human
creature, is to us disagreeable; and a white skin probably not less so
to a negro. Thus things originally indifferent, become agreeable or
disagreeable by the force of custom. Nor ought this to be surprising
after the discovery made above, that the original agreeableness or
disagreeableness of an object, is, by the influence of custom, often
converted into the opposite quality.
Concerning now those matters of taste where there is naturally a
preference of one thing before another; it is certain, in the first
place, that our faint and more delicate feelings are readily susceptible
of a bias from custom; and therefore that it is no proof of a defective
taste, to find these in some measure under the government of custom.
Dress, and the modes of external behaviour, are justly regulated by
custom in every country. The deep red or vermilion with which the ladies
in France cover their cheeks, appears to them beautiful in spite of
nature; and strangers cannot altogether be justified in condemning this
practice, considering the lawful authority of custom, or of the
_fashion_, as it is called. It is told of the people who inhabit the
skirts of the Alps facing the north, that the swelling they universally
have in the neck is to them agreeable. So far has custom power to change
the nature of things, and to make an object originally disagreeable take
on an opposite appearance.
But as to the emotions of propriety and impropriety, and in general as
to all emotions involving the sense of right or wrong, custom has little
authority, and ought to have none at all. Emotions of this kind, being
qualified with the consciousness of duty, take naturally place of every
other feeling; and it argues a shameful weakness or degeneracy of mind,
to find them in any case so far subdued as to submit to custom.
These few hints may enable us to judge in some measure of foreign
manners, whether exhibited by foreign writers or our own. A comparison
betwixt the ancients and the moderns, was some time ago a favourite
subject. Those who declared for the former, thought it a sufficient
justification of ancient manners, that they were supported by the
authority of custom. Their antagonists, on the other hand, refusing
submission to custom as a standard of taste, condemned ancient manners
in several instances as irrational. In this controversy, an appeal being
made to different principles, without the slightest attempt on either
side to establish a common standard, the dispute could have no end. The
hints above given tend to establish a standard, for judging how far the
lawful authority of custom may be extended, and within what limits it
ought to be confined. For the sake of illustration, we shall apply this
standard in a few instances.
Human sacrifices, the cruellest effect of blind and groveling
superstition, wore gradually out of use by the prevalence of reason and
humanity. In the days of Sophocles and Euripides, the traces of this
savage practice were still recent; and the Athenians, through the
prevalence of custom, could without disgust suffer human sacrifices to
be represented in their theatre. The Iphigenia of Euripides is a proof
of this fact. But a human sacrifice, being altogether inconsistent with
modern manners, as producing horror instead of pity, cannot with any
propriety be introduced upon a modern stage. I must therefore condemn
the Iphigenia of Racine, which, instead of the tender and sympathetic
passions, substitutes disgust and horror. But this is not all. Another
objection occurs against every fable that deviates so remarkably from
improved notions and sentiments. If it should even command our belief,
by the authority of genuine history, its fictitious and unnatural
appearance, however, would prevent its taking such hold of the mind as
to produce a perception of reality[32]. A human sacrifice is so
unnatural, and to us so improbable, that few will be affected with the
representation of it more than with a fairy tale. The objection first
mentioned strikes also against the _Phedra_ of this author. The queen’s
passion for her stepson, being unnatural and beyond all bounds, creates
aversion and horror rather than compassion. The author in his preface
observes, that the queen’s passion, however unnatural, was the effect of
destiny and the wrath of the gods; and he puts the same excuse in her
own mouth. But what is the wrath of a heathen god to us Christians? We
acknowledge no destiny in passion; and if love be unnatural, it never
can be relished. A supposition, like what our author lays hold of, may
possibly cover slight improprieties; but it will never engage our
sympathy for what appears to us frantic or extravagant.
Neither can I relish the catastrophe of this tragedy. A man of taste may
peruse, without disgust, a Grecian performance describing a sea-monster
sent by Neptune to destroy Hippolytus. He considers, that such a story
might agree with the religious creed of Greece; and, entering into
ancient opinions, may be pleased with the story, as what probably had a
strong effect upon a Grecian audience. But he cannot have the same
indulgence for such a representation upon a modern stage; for no story
which carries a violent air of fiction, can ever move us in any
considerable degree.
In the _Coëphores_ of Eschylus[33], Orestes is made to say, that he was
commanded by Apollo to avenge his father’s murder; and yet if he obeyed,
that he was to be delivered to the furies, or be struck with some
horrible malady. The tragedy accordingly concludes with a chorus,
deploring the fate of Orestes, obliged to take vengeance against a
mother, and involved thereby in a crime against his will. It is
impossible for any man at present to accommodate his mind to opinions so
irrational and absurd, which must disgust him in perusing even a Grecian
story. Among the Greeks again, grossly superstitious, it was a common
opinion, that the report of a man’s death was a presage of his death;
and Orestes, in the first act of _Electra_, spreading a report of his
own death in order to blind his mother and her adulterer, is even in
this case affected with the presage. Such imbecility can never find
grace with a modern audience. It may indeed produce some degree of
compassion for a people afflicted to such a degree with absurd terrors,
similar to what is felt in perusing a description of the Hottentotes:
but manners of this kind will not interest our affections, nor excite
any degree of social concern.
CHAP. XV.
External Signs of Emotions and Passions.
So intimately connected are the soul and body, that there is not a
single agitation in the former, but what produceth a visible effect upon
the latter. There is, at the same time, a wonderful uniformity in this
operation; each class of emotions being invariably attended with an
external appearance peculiar to itself[34]. These external appearances
or signs, may not improperly be considered as a natural language,
expressing to all beholders the several emotions and passions as they
arise in the heart. We perceive display’d externally, hope, fear, joy,
grief: we can read the character of a man in his face; and beauty,
which makes so strong an impression, is known to result, not so much
from regular features and a fine complexion, as from good nature, good
sense, sprightliness, sweetness, or other mental quality, expressed some
way upon the countenance. Though perfect skill in this language be rare,
yet so much knowledge of it is diffused through mankind, as to be
sufficient for the ordinary events of life. But by what means we come to
understand this language, is a point of some intricacy. It cannot be by
sight merely; for upon the most attentive inspection of the human
visage, all that can be discerned are figure, colour, and motion; and
yet these, singly or combined, never can represent a passion or a
sentiment. The external sign is indeed visible. But to understand its
meaning, we must be able to connect it with the passion that causes it;
an operation far beyond the reach of eye-sight. Where then is the
instructor to be found, that can unvail this secret connection? If we
apply to experience, it is yielded, that from long and diligent
observation, we may gather in some measure in what manner those we are
acquainted with express their passions externally. But with respect to
strangers, of whom we have no experience, we are left in the dark. And
yet we are not puzzled about the meaning of these external expressions
in a stranger, more than in a bosom-companion[35]. Further, had we no
other means but experience for understanding the external signs of
passion, we could not expect any uniformity or any degree of skill in
the bulk of individuals. But matters are ordered so differently, that
the external expressions of passion form a language understood by all,
by the young as well as the old, by the ignorant as well as the learned.
I talk of the plain and legible characters of this language; for
undoubtedly we are much indebted to experience in deciphering the dark
and more delicate expressions. Where then shall we apply for a solution
of this intricate problem, which seems to penetrate deep into human
nature? In my mind it will be convenient to suspend the inquiry, till
we be better acquainted with the nature of external signs and with their
operations. These articles therefore shall be premised.
The external signs of passion are of two kinds, voluntary and
involuntary. The voluntary signs are also of two kinds: some are
arbitrary and some natural. Words are arbitrary signs, excepting a few
simple sounds expressive of certain internal emotions; and these sounds,
being the same in all languages, must be the work of nature. But though
words are arbitrary, the manner of employing them is not altogether so;
for each passion has by nature peculiar expressions and tones suited to
it. Thus the unpremeditated tones of admiration, are the same in all
men; as also of compassion, resentment, and despair. Dramatic writers
ought to be well acquainted with this natural manner of expressing
passion. The chief talent of a fine writer, is a ready command of the
expressions that nature dictates to every man when any vivid emotion
struggles for utterance; and the chief talent of a fine reader, is a
ready command of the tones suited to these expressions.
The other kind of voluntary signs, comprehends certain attitudes and
gestures that naturally accompany certain emotions with a surprising
uniformity. Thus excessive joy is expressed by leaping, dancing, or some
elevation of the body; and excessive grief by sinking or depressing it.
Thus prostration and kneeling have been employ’d by all nations and in
all ages to signify profound veneration. Another circumstance, still
more than uniformity, demonstrates these gestures to be natural, _viz._
their remarkable conformity or resemblance to the passions that produce
them[36]. Joy, which produceth a chearful elevation of mind, is
expressed by an elevation of body. Pride, magnanimity, courage, and the
whole tribe of elevating passions, are expressed by external gestures
that are the same as to the circumstance of elevation, however
distinguishable in other respects. Hence it comes, that an erect posture
is a sign or expression of dignity:
Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall,
Godlike erect, with native honour clad,
In naked majesty, seem’d lords of all.
_Paradise Lost, book 4._
Grief, on the other hand, as well as respect, which depress the mind,
cannot for that reason be expressed more significantly than by a similar
depression of the body. Hence, _to be cast down_, is a common phrase,
signifying to be grieved or dispirited.
One would not imagine, who has not given peculiar attention, that the
body is susceptible of such a variety of attitude and motion, as readily
to accompany every different emotion with a corresponding gesture.
Humility, for example, is expressed naturally by hanging the head;
arrogance, by its elevation; and langour or despondence, by reclining it
to one side. The expressions of the hands are manifold. By different
attitudes and motions, the hands express desire, hope, fear: they assist
us in promising, in inviting, in keeping one at a distance: they are
made instruments of threatening, of supplication, of praise, and of
horror: they are employ’d in approving, in refusing, in questioning; in
showing our joy, our sorrow, our doubts, our regret, our admiration.
These gestures, so obedient to passion, are extremely difficult to be
imitated in a calm state. The ancients, sensible of the advantage as
well as difficulty of having these expressions at command, bestowed much
time and care, in collecting them from observation, and in digesting
them into a practical art, which was taught in their schools as an
important branch of education.
The foregoing signs, though in a strict sense voluntary, cannot however
be restrained but with the utmost difficulty when they are prompted by
passion. Of this we scarce need a stronger proof, than the gestures of a
keen player at bowls. Observe only how he wreaths his body, in order to
restore a stray bowl to the right track. It is one article of good
breeding, to suppress, as much as possible, these external signs of
passion, that we may not in company appear too warm or too interested.
The same observation holds in speech. A passion, it is true, when in
extreme, is silent[37]; but when less violent, it must be vented in
words, which have a peculiar force, not to be equalled in a sedate
composition. The ease and trust we have in a confident, encourages us no
doubt to talk of ourselves and of our feelings. But the cause is more
general; for it operates when we are alone as well as in company.
Passion is the cause; for in many instances it is no slight
gratification to vent a passion externally by words as well as by
gestures. Some passions, when at a certain height, impel us so strongly
to vent them in words, that we speak with an audible voice even where
there is none to listen. It is this circumstance in passion, that
justifies soliloquies; and it is this circumstance that proves them to
be natural[38]. The mind sometimes favours this impulse of passion, by
bestowing a temporary sensibility upon any object at hand, in order to
make it a confident. Thus in the _Winter’s Tale_[39], Antigonus
addresses himself to an infant whom he was ordered to expose:
Come, poor babe,
I have heard, but not believ’d, the spirits of the dead
May walk again: if such thing be, thy mother
Appear’d to me last night; for ne’er was dream
So like a waking.
The involuntary signs, which are all of them natural, are either
peculiar to one passion or common to many. Every violent passion hath an
external expression peculiar to itself, not excepting pleasant passions:
witness admiration and mirth. The pleasant emotions that are less vivid,
have one common expression; from which we may gather the strength of the
emotion, but scarce the kind: we perceive a chearful or contented look;
and we can make no more of it. Painful passions, being all of them
violent, are distinguishable from each other by their external
expressions. Thus fear, shame, anger, anxiety, dejection, despair, have
each of them peculiar expressions; which are apprehended without the
least confusion. Some of these passions produce violent effects upon the
body, such as trembling, starting, and swooning. But these effects,
depending in a good measure upon singularity of constitution, are not
uniform in all men.
The involuntary signs, such of them as are display’d upon the
countenance, are of two kinds. Some make their appearance occasionally
with the emotions that produce them, and vanish with the emotions:
others are formed gradually by some violent passion often recurring;
and, becoming permanent signs of this prevailing passion, serve to
denote the disposition or temper. The face of an infant indicates no
particular disposition, because it cannot be marked with any character
to which time is necessary. And even the temporary signs are extremely
aukward, being the first rude essays of Nature to discover internal
feelings. Thus the shrieking of a new-born infant, without tears or
sobbings, is plainly an attempt to weep. Some of the temporary signs, as
smiling and frowning, cannot be observed for some months after birth.
The permanent signs, formed in youth while the body is soft and
flexible, are preserved entire by the firmness and solidity which the
body acquires; and are never obliterated even by a change of temper.
Permanent signs are not produced after a certain age when the fibres
become rigid; some violent cases excepted, such as reiterated fits of
the gout or stone through a course of time. But these signs are not so
obstinate as what are produced in youth; for when the cause is removed,
they gradually wear away, and at last vanish.