for when the Spaniards were in doubt as to the lawfulness of their
conquering America, the University of Salamanca gave it as their
opinion, that it was not lawful. Boswell, i. 434.
The untaught eloquence of Indian feeling is well preserved in the
language of Gertrude of Wyoming.
No. 82. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1759.
TO THE IDLER.
Sir,
Discoursing in my last letter on the different practice of the Italian
and Dutch painters, I observed, that "the Italian painter attends only
to the invariable, the great and general ideas which are fixed and
inherent in universal nature."
I was led into the subject of this letter by endeavouring to fix the
original cause of this conduct of the Italian masters. If it can be
proved that by this choice they selected the most beautiful part of the
creation, it will show how much their principles are founded on reason,
and, at the same time, discover the origin of our ideas of beauty.
I suppose it will be easily granted, that no man can judge whether any
animal be beautiful in its kind, or deformed, who has seen only one of
that species: this is as conclusive in regard to the human figure; so
that if a man, born blind, was to recover his sight, and the most
beautiful woman was brought before him, he could not determine whether
she was handsome or not; nor, if the most beautiful and most deformed
were produced, could he any better determine to which he should give the
preference, having seen only those two. To distinguish beauty, then,
implies the having seen many individuals of that species. If it is
asked, how is more skill acquired by the observation of greater numbers?
I answer that, in consequence of having seen many, the power is
acquired, even without seeking after it, of distinguishing between
accidental blemishes and excrescences which are continually varying the
surface of Nature's works, and the invariable general form which Nature
most frequently produces, and always seems to intend in her productions.
Thus, amongst the blades of grass or leaves of the same tree, though no
two can be found exactly alike, yet the general form is invariable: a
naturalist, before he chose one as a sample, would examine many, since,
if he took the first that occurred, it might have, by accident or
otherwise, such a form as that it would scarcely be known to belong to
that species; he selects, as the painter does, the most beautiful, that
is, the most general form of nature.
Every species of the animal, as well as the vegetable creation, may be
said to have a fixed or determinate form towards which nature is
continually inclining, like various lines terminating in the centre; or
it may be compared to pendulums vibrating in different directions over
one central point; and as they all cross the centre, though only one
passes through any other point, so it will be found that perfect beauty
is oftener produced by nature than deformity; I do not mean than
deformity in general, but than any one kind of deformity. To instance in
a particular part of a feature: the line that forms the ridge of the
nose is beautiful when it is straight; this then is the central form,
which is oftener found than either concave, convex or any other
irregular form that shall be proposed. As we are then more accustomed to
beauty than deformity, we may conclude that to be the reason why we
approve and admire it, as we approve and admire customs and fashions of
dress for no other reason than that we are used to them; so that, though
habit and custom cannot be said to be the cause of beauty, it is
certainly the cause of our liking it; and I have no doubt but that, if
we were more used to deformity than beauty, deformity would then lose
the idea now annexed to it, and take that of beauty; as, if the whole
world should agree that _yes_ and _no_ should change their meanings,
_yes_ would then deny, and _no_ would affirm.
Whoever undertakes to proceed further in this argument, and endeavours
to fix a general criterion of beauty respecting different species, or to
show why one species is more beautiful than another, it will be required
from him first to prove that one species is really more beautiful than
another. That we prefer one to the other, and with very good reason,
will be readily granted; but it does not follow from thence that we
think it a more beautiful form; for we have no criterion of form by
which to determine our judgment. He who says a swan is more beautiful
than a dove, means little more than that he has more pleasure in seeing
a swan than a dove, either from the stateliness of its motions, or its
being a more rare bird; and he who gives the preference to the dove,
does it from some association of ideas of innocence that he always
annexes to the dove; but, if he pretends to defend the preference he
gives to one or the other by endeavouring to prove that this more
beautiful form proceeds from a particular gradation of magnitude,
undulation of a curve, or direction of a line, or whatever other conceit
of his imagination he shall fix on as a criterion of form, he will be
continually contradicting himself, and find at last, that the great
Mother of Nature will not be subjected to such narrow rules. Among the
various reasons why we prefer one part of her works to another, the most
general, I believe, is habit and custom; custom makes, in a certain
sense, white black, and black white; it is custom alone determines our
preference of the colour of the Europeans to the Aethiopians; and they,
for the same reason, prefer their own colour to ours. I suppose nobody
will doubt, if one of their painters were to paint the goddess of
beauty, but that he would represent her black, with thick lips, flat
nose, and woolly hair; and, it seems to me, he would act very
unnaturally if he did not; for by what criterion will any one dispute
the propriety of his idea? We, indeed, say, that the form and colour of
the European is preferable to that of the Aethiopian; but I know of no
reason we have for it, but that we are more accustomed to it. It is
absurd to say, that beauty is possessed of attractive powers, which
irresistibly seize the corresponding mind with love and admiration,
since that argument is equally conclusive in favour of the white and the
black philosopher.
The black and white nations must, in respect of beauty, be considered as
of different kinds, at least a different species of the same kind; from
one of which to the other, as I observed, no inference can be drawn.
Novelty is said to be one of the causes of beauty: that novelty is a
very sufficient reason why we should admire, is not denied; but, because
it is uncommon, is it, therefore, beautiful? The beauty that is produced
by colour, as when we prefer one bird to another, though of the same
form, on account of its colour, has nothing to do with this argument,
which reaches only to form. I have here considered the word _beauty_ as
being properly applied to form alone. There is a necessity of fixing
this confined sense; for there can be no argument, if the sense of the
word is extended to every thing that is approved. A rose may as well be
said to be beautiful, because it has a fine smell, as a bird because of
its colour. When we apply the word _beauty_ we do not mean always by it
a more beautiful form, but something valuable on account of its rarity,
usefulness, colour, or any other property. A horse is said to be a
beautiful animal; but, had a horse as few good qualities as a tortoise,
I do not imagine that he would be then esteemed beautiful.
A fitness to the end proposed, is said to be another cause of beauty;
but supposing we were proper judges of what form is the most proper in
an animal to constitute strength or swiftness, we always determine
concerning its beauty, before we exert our understanding to judge of its
fitness.
From what has been said, it may be inferred, that the works of nature,
if we compare one species with another, are all equally beautiful; and
that preference is given from custom, or some association of ideas: and
that, in creatures of the same species, beauty is the medium or centre
of all various forms.
To conclude, then, by way of corollary: If it has been proved, that the
painter, by attending to the invariable and general ideas of nature,
produces beauty, he must, by regarding minute particularities and
accidental discriminations, deviate from the universal rule, and pollute
his canvass with deformity[1].
[1] By Sir Joshua Reynolds.
No. 83. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1759.
TO THE IDLER.
Sir,
I suppose you have forgotten that many weeks ago I promised to send you
an account of my companions at the Wells. You would not deny me a place
among the most faithful votaries of idleness, if you knew how often I
have recollected my engagement, and contented myself to delay the
performance for some reason which I durst not examine because I knew it
to be false; how often I have sat down to write, and rejoiced at
interruption; and how often I have praised the dignity of resolution,
determined at night to write in the morning, and deferred it in the
morning to the quiet hours of night.
I have at last begun what I have long wished at an end, and find it more
easy than I expected to continue my narration.
Our assembly could boast no such constellation of intellects as
Clarendon's band of associates. We had among us no Selden, Falkland or
Waller; but we had men not less important in their own eyes, though less
distinguished by the publick; and many a time have we lamented the
partiality of mankind, and agreed that men of the deepest inquiry
sometimes let their discoveries die away in silence, that the most
comprehensive observers have seldom opportunities of imparting their
remarks, and that modest merit passes in the crowd unknown and unheeded.
One of the greatest men of the society was Sim Scruple, who lives in a
continual equipoise of doubt, and is a constant enemy to confidence and
dogmatism. Sim's favourite topick of conversation is the narrowness of
the human mind, the fallaciousness of our senses, the prevalence of
early prejudice, and the uncertainty of appearances. Sim has many doubts
about the nature of death, and is sometimes inclined to believe that
sensation may survive motion, and that a dead man may feel though he
cannot stir. He has sometimes hinted that man might, perhaps, have been
naturally a quadruped; and thinks it would be very proper, that at the
Foundling Hospital some children should be inclosed in an apartment in
which the nurses should be obliged to walk half upon four and half upon
two legs, that the younglings, being bred without the prejudice of
example, might have no other guide than nature, and might at last come
forth into the world as genius should direct, erect or prone, on two
legs or on four.
The next, in dignity of mien and fluency of talk, was Dick Wormwood,
whose sole delight is to find every thing wrong. Dick never enters a
room but he shows that the door and the chimney are ill-placed. He never
walks into the fields but he finds ground ploughed which is fitter for
pasture. He is always an enemy to the present fashion.
He holds that all the beauty and virtue of women will soon be destroyed
by the use of tea[1]. He triumphs when he talks on the present system of
education, and tells us, with great vehemence, that we are learning
words when we should learn things. He is of opinion that we suck in
errours at the nurse's breast, and thinks it extremely ridiculous that
children should be taught to use the right hand rather than the left.
Bob Sturdy considers it as a point of honour to say again what he has
once said, and wonders how any man, that has been known to alter his
opinion, can look his neighbours in the face. Bob is the most formidable
disputant of the whole company; for, without troubling himself to search
for reasons, he tires his antagonist with repeated affirmations. When
Bob has been attacked for an hour with all the powers of eloquence and
reason, and his position appears to all but himself utterly untenable,
he always closes the debate with his first declaration, introduced by a
stout preface of contemptuous civility. "All this is very judicious; you
may talk, Sir, as you please; but I will still say what I said at
first." Bob deals much in universals, which he has now obliged us to let
pass without exceptions. He lives on an annuity, and holds that _there
are as many thieves as traders_; he is of loyalty unshaken, and always
maintains, that _he who sees a Jacobite sees a rascal_.
Phil Gentle is an enemy to the rudeness of contradiction and the
turbulence of debate. Phil has no notions of his own, and, therefore,
willingly catches from the last speaker such as he shall drop. This
flexibility of ignorance is easily accommodated to any tenet; his only
difficulty is, when the disputants grow zealous, how to be of two
contrary opinions at once. If no appeal is made to his judgment, he has
the art of distributing his attention and his smiles in such a manner,
that each thinks him of his own party; but if he is obliged to speak, he
then observes that the question is difficult; that he never received so
much pleasure from a debate before; that neither of the controvertists
could have found his match in any other company; that Mr. Wormwood's
assertion is very well supported, and yet there is great force in what
Mr. Scruple advanced against it. By this indefinite declaration both are
commonly satisfied; for he that has prevailed is in good humour; and he
that has felt his own weakness is very glad to have escaped so well.
I am, Sir, yours, &c. ROBIN SPRITELY.
[1] Dr. Johnson was, as he has humorously described himself, "a hardened
and shameless tea-drinker." See his amusing Review of a Journal of
Eight Days' Journey and his Reply to a paper in the Gazetteer, May
26, 1757.
No. 84. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1759.
Biography is, of the various kinds of narrative writing, that which is
most eagerly read, and most easily applied to the purposes of life.
In romances, when the wide field of possibility lies open to invention,
the incidents may easily be made more numerous, the vicissitudes more
sudden, and the events more wonderful; but from the time of life when
fancy begins to be overruled by reason and corrected by experience, the
most artful tale raises little curiosity when it is known to be
false[1]; though it may, perhaps, be sometimes read as a model of a neat
or elegant style, not for the sake of knowing what it contains, but how
it is written; or those that are weary of themselves, may have recourse
to it as a pleasing dream, of which, when they awake, they voluntarily
dismiss the images from their minds.
The examples and events of history press, indeed, upon the mind with the
weight of truth; but when they are reposited in the memory, they are
oftener employed for show than use, and rather diversify conversation
than regulate life. Few are engaged in such scenes as give them
opportunities of growing wiser by the downfal of statesmen or the defeat
of generals. The stratagems of war, and the intrigues of courts, are
read by far the greater part of mankind with the same indifference as
the adventures of fabled heroes, or the revolutions of a fairy region.
Between falsehood and useless truth there is little difference. As gold
which he cannot spend will make no man rich, so knowledge which he
cannot apply will make no man wise.
The mischievous consequences of vice and folly, of irregular desires and
predominant passions, are best discovered by those relations which are
levelled with the general surface of life, which tell not how any man
became great, but how he was made happy; not how he lost the favour of
his prince, but how he became discontented with himself.
Those relations are, therefore, commonly of most value in which the
writer tells his own story. He that recounts the life of another,
commonly dwells most upon conspicuous events, lessens the familiarity of
his tale to increase its dignity, shows his favourite at a distance,
decorated and magnified like the ancient actors in their tragick dress,
and endeavours to hide the man that he may produce a hero.
But if it be true, which was said by a French prince, "that no man was a
hero to the servants of his chamber," it is equally true, that every man
is yet less a hero to himself. He that is most elevated above the crowd
by the importance of his employments, or the reputation of his genius,
feels himself affected by fame or business but as they influence his
domestick life. The high and low, as they have the same faculties and
the same senses, have no less similitude in their pains and pleasures.
The sensations are the same in all, though produced by very different
occasions. The prince feels the same pain when an invader seizes a
province, as the farmer when a thief drives away his cow. Men thus equal
in themselves will appear equal in honest and impartial biography; and
those whom fortune or nature places at the greatest distance may afford
instruction to each other.
The writer of his own life has, at least, the first qualification of an
historian, the knowledge of the truth; and though it may be plausibly
objected that his temptations to disguise it are equal to his
opportunities of knowing it, yet I cannot but think that impartiality
may be expected with equal confidence from him that relates the passages
of his own life, as from him that delivers the transactions of another.
Certainty of knowledge not only excludes mistake, but fortifies
veracity. What we collect by conjecture, and by conjecture only, can one
man judge of another's motives or sentiments, is easily modified by
fancy or by desire; as objects imperfectly discerned take forms from the
hope or fear of the beholder. But that which is fully known cannot be
falsified but with reluctance of understanding, and alarm of conscience:
of understanding, the lover of truth; of conscience, the sentinel of
virtue.
He that writes the life of another is either his friend or his enemy,
and wishes either to exalt his praise or aggravate his infamy: many
temptations to falsehood will occur in the disguise of passions, too
specious to fear much resistance. Love of virtue will animate
panegyrick, and hatred of wickedness imbitter censure. The zeal of
gratitude, the ardour of patriotism, fondness for an opinion, or
fidelity to a party, may easily overpower the vigilance of a mind
habitually well disposed, and prevail over unassisted and unfriended
veracity.
But he that speaks of himself has no motive to falsehood or partiality
except self-love, by which all have so often been betrayed, that all are
on the watch against its artifices. He that writes an apology for a
single action, to confute an accusation, to recommend himself to favour,
is, indeed, always to be suspected of favouring his own cause; but he
that sits down calmly and voluntarily to review his life for the
admonition of posterity, or to amuse himself, and leaves this account
unpublished, may be commonly presumed to tell truth, since falsehood
cannot appease his own mind, and fame will not be heard beneath the
tomb.
[1] It is somewhere recorded of a retired citizen, that he was in the
habit of again and again perusing the incomparable story of Robinson
Crusoe without a suspicion of its authenticity. At length a friend
assured him of its being a work of fiction. What you say, replied
the old man mournfully, may be true; but your information has taken
away the only comfort of my age.
--Pol, me occidistis, amici,
Non servastis, ait; cui sic extorta voluptas,
Et demtus per vim mentis gratissimus error. HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. ii. 138.
No. 85. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1759.
One of the peculiarities which distinguish the present age is the
multiplication of books. Every day brings new advertisements of literary
undertakings, and we are flattered with repeated promises of growing
wise on easier terms than our progenitors.
How much either happiness or knowledge is advanced by this multitude of
authors, it is not very easy to decide.
He that teaches us any thing which we knew not before, is undoubtedly to
be reverenced as a master.
He that conveys knowledge by more pleasing ways, may very properly be
loved as a benefactor; and he that supplies life with innocent
amusement, will be certainly caressed as a pleasing companion.
But few of those who fill the world with books have any pretensions to
the hope either of pleasing or instructing. They have often no other
task than to lay two books before them, out of which they compile a
third, without any new materials of their own, and with very little
application of judgment to those which former authors have supplied.
That all compilations are useless, I do not assert. Particles of science
are often very widely scattered. Writers of extensive comprehension have
incidental remarks upon topicks very remote from the principal subject,
which are often more valuable than formal treatises, and which yet are
not known because they are not promised in the title. He that collects
those under proper heads is very laudably employed, for, though he
exerts no great abilities in the work, he facilitates the progress of
others, and by making that easy of attainment which is already written,
may give some mind, more vigorous or more adventurous than his own,
leisure for new thoughts and original designs.
But the collections poured lately from the press have been seldom made
at any great expense of time or inquiry, and, therefore, only serve to
distract choice without supplying any real want.
It is observed that "a corrupt society has many laws;" I know not
whether it is not equally true, that "an ignorant age has many books."
When the treasures of ancient knowledge lie unexamined, and original
authors are neglected and forgotten, compilers and plagiaries are
encouraged, who give us again what we had before, and grow great by
setting before us what our own sloth had hidden from our view.
Yet are not even these writers to be indiscriminately censured and
rejected. Truth like beauty varies its fashions, and is best recommended
by different dresses to different minds; and he that recalls the
attention of mankind to any part of learning which time has left behind
it, may be truly said to advance the literature of his own age. As the
manners of nations vary, new topicks of persuasion become necessary, and
new combinations of imagery are produced; and he that can accommodate
himself to the reigning taste, may always have readers who, perhaps,
would not have looked upon better performances.
To exact of every man who writes, that he should say something new,
would be to reduce authors to a small number; to oblige the most fertile
genius to say only what is new would be to contract his volumes to a few
pages. Yet, surely, there ought to be some bounds to repetition;
libraries ought no more to be heaped for ever with the same thoughts
differently expressed, than with the same books differently decorated.
The good or evil which these secondary writers produce is seldom of any
long duration. As they owe their existence to change of fashion, they
commonly disappear when a new fashion becomes prevalent. The authors
that in any nation last from age to age are very few, because there are
very few that have any other claim to notice than that they catch hold
on present curiosity, and gratify some accidental desire, or produce
some temporary conveniency.
But however the writers of the day may despair of future fame, they
ought at least to forbear any present mischief. Though they cannot
arrive at eminent heights of excellence, they might keep themselves
harmless. They might take care to inform themselves before they attempt
to inform others, and exert the little influence which they have for
honest purposes.
But such is the present state of our literature, that the ancient sage,
who thought _a great book a great evil_, would now think the multitude
of books a multitude of evils. He would consider a bulky writer who
engrossed a year, and a swarm of pamphleteers who stole each an hour, as
equal wasters of human life, and would make no other difference between
them, than between a beast of prey and a flight of locusts.
No. 86. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1759.
TO THE IDLER.
Sir,