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ELEMENTS
OF
CRITICISM.
In THREE VOLUMES.
VOLUME I.
EDINBURGH:
Printed for A. MILLAR, London;
AND
A. KINCAID & J. BELL, Edinburgh,
TO THE
KING.
SIR,
The fine arts have ever been encouraged by wise princes, not singly for
private amusement, but for their beneficial influence in society. By
uniting different ranks in the same elegant pleasures, they promote
benevolence: by cherishing love of order, they inforce submission to
government: and by inspiring delicacy of feeling, they make regular
government a double blessing.
THESE considerations embolden me to hope for your Majesty’s patronage in
behalf of the following work, which treats of the fine arts, and
attempts to form a standard of taste by unfolding those principles that
ought to govern the taste of every individual.
IT is rare to find one born with such delicacy of feeling, as not to
need instruction: it is equally rare to find one so low in feeling, as
not to be capable of instruction. And yet, to refine our taste with
respect to beauties of art or of nature, is scarce endeavoured in any
seminary of learning; a lamentable defect, considering how early in life
taste is susceptible of culture, and how difficult to reform it if
unhappily perverted. To furnish materials for supplying that defect, was
an additional motive for the present undertaking.
TO promote the fine arts in Britain, has become of greater importance
than is generally imagined. A flourishing commerce begets opulence; and
opulence, inflaming our appetite for pleasure, is commonly vented on
luxury and on every sensual gratification: Selfishness rears its head;
becomes fashionable; and infecting all ranks, extinguishes the _amor
patriæ_ and every spark of public spirit. To prevent or to retard such
fatal corruption, the genius of an Alfred cannot devise any means more
efficacious, than venting opulence upon the fine arts. Riches so
employ’d, instead of encouraging vice, will excite both public and
private virtue. Of this happy effect, ancient Greece furnishes one
shining instance; and why should we despair of another in Britain?
IN the commencement of an auspicious reign, and even in that early
period of life when pleasure commonly is the sole pursuit, your Majesty
has uniformly display’d to a delighted people, the noblest principles,
ripened by early culture; and for that reason, you will be the more
disposed to favour every rational plan for advancing the art of training
up youth. Among the many branches of education, that which tends to make
deep impressions of virtue, ought to be a fundamental measure in a
well-regulated government: for depravity of manners will render
ineffectual the most salutary laws; and in the midst of opulence, what
other means to prevent such depravity but early and virtuous discipline?
The British discipline is susceptible of great improvements; and if we
can hope for them, it must be from a young and accomplished Prince,
eminently sensible of their importance. To establish a complete system
of education, seems reserved by providence for a Sovereign who commands
the hearts of his subjects. Success will crown the undertaking, and
endear GEORGE THE THIRD to our latest posterity.
The most elevated and most refined pleasure of human nature, is enjoy’d
by a virtuous prince governing a virtuous people; and that, by
perfecting the great system of education, your Majesty may very long
enjoy this pleasure, is the ardent wish of
Your Majesty’s
Devoted Subject,
HENRY HOME.
CONTENTS.
_Vol. Pag._
_Introduction_, 1 1
Ch. 1. _Perceptions and ideas in a
train_, 1 21
Ch. 2. _Emotions and passions_, 1 42
Ch. 3. _Beauty_, 1 241
Ch. 4. _Grandeur and sublimity_, 1 264
Ch. 5. _Motion and force_, 1 309
Ch. 6. _Novelty, and the unexpected
appearance of objects_, 1 319
Ch. 7. _Risible objects_, 1 337
Ch. 8. _Resemblance and contrast_, 1 345
Ch. 9. _Uniformity and variety_, 1 380
Ch. 10. _Congruity and propriety_, 2 3
Ch. 11. _Dignity and meanness_, 2 27
Ch. 12. _Ridicule_, 2 40
Ch. 13. _Wit_, 2 58
Ch. 14. _Custom and habit_, 2 80
Ch. 15. _External signs of emotions
and passions_, 2 116
Ch. 16. _Sentiments_, 2 149
Ch. 17. _Language of passion_, 2 204
Ch. 18. _Beauty of language_, 2 234
Ch. 19. _Comparisons_, 3 3
Ch. 20. _Figures_, 3 53
Ch. 21. _Narration and description_, 3 169
Ch. 22. _Epic and dramatic compositions_, 3 218
Ch. 23. _The three unities_, 3 259
Ch. 24. _Gardening and architecture_, 3 294
Ch. 25. _Standard of taste_, 3 351
_Appendix_, 3 375
In describing the scale of sounds made in pronouncing the five vowels,
_vol._ 2. _p._ 239. it ought to have been mentioned, that the letter _i_
must be pronounced as in the word _interest_, and other words beginning
with the syllable _in_; the letter _e_ as in _persuasion_; and the
letter _u_ as in _number_.
The reference intended, _vol._ 2. _p._ 419. is to _p._ 404. of the same
volume.
INTRODUCTION.
The five senses agree in the following particular, that nothing external
is perceived till it first make an impression upon the organ of sense;
the impression, for example, made upon the hand by a stone, upon the
palate by sugar, and upon the nostrils by a rose. But there is a
difference as to our consciousness of that impression. In touching,
tasting, and smelling, we are conscious of the impression. Not so in
seeing and hearing. When I behold a tree, I am not sensible of the
impression made upon my eye; nor of the impression made upon my ear,
when I listen to a song[1]. This difference in the manner of perception,
distinguishes remarkably hearing and seeing from the other senses; and
distinguishes still more remarkably the feelings of the former from
those of the latter. A feeling pleasant or painful cannot exist but in
the mind; and yet because in tasting, touching, and smelling, we are
conscious of the impression made upon the organ, we naturally place
there also, the pleasant or painful feeling caused by that impression.
And because such feelings seem to be placed externally at the organ of
sense, we, for that reason, conceive them to be merely corporeal. We
have a different apprehension of the pleasant and painful feelings
derived from seeing and hearing. Being insensible here of the organic
impression, we are not misled to assign a wrong place to these feelings;
and therefore we naturally place them in the mind, where they really
exist. Upon that account, they are conceived to be more refined and
spiritual, than what are derived from tasting, touching, and smelling.
The pleasures of the eye and ear being thus elevated above those of the
other external senses, acquire so much dignity as to make them a
laudable entertainment. They are not, however, set upon a level with
those that are purely intellectual; being not less inferior in dignity
to intellectual pleasures, than superior to the organic or corporeal.
They indeed resemble the latter, being like them produced by external
objects: but they also resemble the former, being like them produced
without any sensible organic impression. Their mixt nature and middle
place betwixt organic and intellectual pleasures, qualify them to
associate with either. Beauty heightens all the organic feelings, as
well as those that are intellectual. Harmony, though it aspires to
inflame devotion, disdains not to improve the relish of a banquet.
The pleasures of the eye and ear have other valuable properties beside
those of dignity and elevation. Being sweet and moderately exhilerating,
they are in their tone equally distant from the turbulence of passion,
and languor of inaction; and by that tone are perfectly well qualified,
not only to revive the spirits when sunk by sensual gratification, but
also to relax them when overstrained in any violent pursuit. Here is a
remedy provided for many distresses. And to be convinced of its salutary
effects, it will be sufficient to run over the following particulars.
Organic pleasures have naturally a short duration: when continued too
long, or indulged to excess, they lose their relish, and beget satiety
and disgust. To relieve us from that uneasiness, nothing can be more
happily contrived than the exhilerating pleasures of the eye and ear,
which take place imperceptibly, without much varying the tone of mind.
On the other hand, any intense exercise of the intellectual powers,
becomes painful by overstraining the mind. Cessation from such exercise
gives not instant relief: it is necessary that the void be filled with
some amusement, gently relaxing the spirits[2]. Organic pleasure, which
hath no relish but while we are in vigour, is ill qualified for that
office: but the finer pleasures of sense, which occupy without
exhausting the mind, are excellently well qualified to restore its usual
tone after severe application to study or business, as well as after
satiety from sensual gratification.
Our first perceptions are of external objects, and our first
attachments are to them. Organic pleasures take the lead. But the mind,
gradually ripening, relisheth more and more the pleasures of the eye and
ear; which approach the purely mental, without exhausting the spirits;
and exceed the purely sensual, without danger of satiety. The pleasures
of the eye and ear have accordingly a natural aptitude to attract us
from the immoderate gratification of sensual appetite. For the mind,
once accustomed to enjoy a variety of external objects without being
conscious of the organic impression, is prepared for enjoying internal
objects where there cannot be an organic impression. Thus the author of
nature, by qualifying the human mind for a succession of enjoyments from
the lowest to the highest, leads it by gentle steps from the most
groveling corporeal pleasures, for which solely it is fitted in the
beginning of life, to those refined and sublime pleasures which are
suited to its maturity.
This succession, however, is not governed by unavoidable necessity. The
God of nature offers it to us, in order to advance our happiness; and
it is sufficient, that he hath enabled us to complete the succession.
Nor has he made our task disagreeable or difficult. On the contrary, the
transition is sweet and easy, from corporeal pleasures to the more
refined pleasures of sense; and not less so, from these to the exalted
pleasures of morality and religion. We stand therefore engaged in
honour, as well as interest, to second the purposes of nature, by
cultivating the pleasures of the eye and ear, those especially that
require extraordinary culture[3], such as are inspired by poetry,
painting, sculpture, music, gardening, and architecture. This chiefly is
the duty of the opulent, who have leisure to improve their minds and
their feelings. The fine arts are contrived to give pleasure to the eye
and the ear, disregarding the inferior senses. A taste for these arts is
a plant that grows naturally in many soils; but, without culture, scarce
to perfection in any soil. It is susceptible of much refinement; and is,
by proper care, greatly improved. In this respect, a taste in the fine
arts goes hand in hand with the moral sense, to which indeed it is
nearly allied. Both of them discover what is right and what is wrong.
Fashion, temper, and education, have an influence upon both, to vitiate
them, or to preserve them pure and untainted. Neither of them are
arbitrary or local. They are rooted in human nature, and are governed by
principles common to all men. The principles of morality belong not to
the present undertaking. But as to the principles of the fine arts, they
are evolved, by studying the sensitive part of human nature, and by
learning what objects are naturally agreeable, and what are naturally
disagreeable. The man who aspires to be a critic in these arts, must
pierce still deeper. He must clearly perceive what objects are lofty,
what low, what are proper or improper, what are manly, and what are
mean or trivial. Hence a foundation for judging of taste, and for
reasoning upon it. Where it is conformable to principles, we can
pronounce with certainty, that it is correct; otherwise, that it is
incorrect, and perhaps whimsical. Thus the fine arts, like morals,
become a rational science; and, like morals, may be cultivated to a high
degree of refinement.
Manifold are the advantages of criticism, when thus studied as a
rational science. In the first place, a thorough acquaintance with the
principles of the fine arts, redoubles the entertainment these arts
afford. To the man who resigns himself entirely to sentiment or feeling,
without interposing any sort of judgment, poetry, music, painting, are
mere pastime. In the prime of life, indeed, they are delightful, being
supported by the force of novelty, and the heat of imagination. But they
lose their relish gradually with their novelty; and are generally
neglected in the maturity of life, which disposes to more serious and
more important occupations. To those who deal in criticism as a regular
science, governed by just principles, and giving scope to judgment as
well as to fancy, the fine arts are a favourite entertainment; and in
old age maintain that relish which they produce in the morning of
life[4].
In the next place, a philosophic inquiry into the principles of the fine
arts, inures the reflecting mind to the most enticing sort of logic.
Reasoning upon subjects so agreeable tends to a habit; and a habit,
strengthening the reasoning faculties, prepares the mind for entering
into subjects more difficult and abstract. To have, in this respect, a
just conception of the importance of criticism, we need but reflect upon
the common method of education; which, after some years spent in
acquiring languages, hurries us, without the least preparatory
discipline, into the most profound philosophy. A more effectual method
to alienate the tender mind from abstract science, is beyond the reach
of invention. With respect to such speculations, the bulk of our youth
contrast a sort of hobgoblin terror, which is seldom, if ever, subdued.
Those who apply to the arts, are trained in a very different manner.
They are led, step by step, from the easier parts of the operation, to
what are more difficult; and are not permitted to make a new motion,
till they be perfected in those which regularly precede it. The science
of criticism appears then to be an intermediate link, finely qualified
for connecting the different parts of education into a regular chain.
This science furnisheth an inviting opportunity to exercise the
judgement: we delight to reason upon subjects that are equally pleasant
and familiar: we proceed gradually from the simpler to the more involved
cases: and in a due course of discipline, custom, which improves all our
faculties, bestows acuteness upon those of reason, sufficient to unravel
all the intricacies of philosophy.
Nor ought it to be overlooked, that the reasonings employed upon the
fine arts are of the same kind with those which regulate our conduct.
Mathematical and metaphysical reasonings have no tendency to improve
social intercourse: nor are they applicable to the common affairs of
life. But a just taste in the fine arts, derived from rational
principles, is a fine preparation for acting in the social state with
dignity and propriety.
The science of criticism tends to improve the heart not less than the
understanding. I observe, in the first place, that it hath a fine effect
in moderating the selfish affections. A just taste in the fine arts, by
sweetening and harmonizing the temper, is a strong antidote to the
turbulence of passion and violence of pursuit. Elegance of taste
procures to a man so much enjoyment at home, or easily within reach,
that in order to be occupied, he is, in youth, under no temptation to
precipitate into hunting, gaming, drinking; nor, in middle age, to
deliver himself over to ambition; nor, in old age, to avarice. Pride, a
disgustful selfish passion, exerts itself without control, when
accompanied with a bad taste. A man of this stamp, upon whom the most
striking beauty makes but a faint impression, feels no joy but in
gratifying his ruling passion by the discovery of errors and blemishes.
Pride, on the other hand, finds in the constitution no enemy more
formidable than a delicate and discerning taste. The man upon whom
nature and culture have bestowed this blessing, feels great delight in
the virtuous dispositions and actions of others. He loves to cherish
them, and to publish them to the world. Faults and failings, it is true,
are to him not less obvious: but these he avoids, or removes out of
sight, because they give him pain. In a word, there may be other
passions, which, for a season, disturb the peace of society more than
pride: but no other passion is so unwearied an antagonist to the sweets
of social intercourse. Pride, tending assiduously to its gratification,
puts a man perpetually in opposition to others; and disposes him more to
relish bad than good qualities, even in a bosom friend. How different
that disposition of mind, where every virtue in a companion or
neighbour, is, by refinement of taste, set in its strongest light; and
defects or blemishes, natural to all, are suppressed, or kept out of
view?
In the next place, delicacy of taste tends not less to invigorate the
social affections, than to moderate those that are selfish. To be
convinced of this tendency, we need only reflect, that delicacy of taste
necessarily heightens our sensibility of pain and pleasure, and of
course our sympathy, which is the capital branch of every social
passion. Sympathy in particular invites a communication of joys and
sorrows, hopes and fears. Such exercise, soothing and satisfactory in
itself, is productive necessarily of mutual good-will and affection.
One other advantage of criticism is reserved to the last place, being of
all the most important, that it is a great support to morality. I insist
on it with entire satisfaction, that no occupation attaches a man more
to his duty than that of cultivating a taste in the fine arts. A just
relish of what is beautiful, proper, elegant, and ornamental, in writing
or painting, in architecture or gardening, is a fine preparation for
discerning what is beautiful, just, elegant, or magnanimous, in
character and behaviour. To the man who has acquired a taste so acute
and accomplished, every action, wrong or improper, must be highly
disgustful. If, in any instance, the overbearing power of passion sway
him from his duty, he returns to it upon the first reflection, with
redoubled resolution never to be swayed a second time. He has now an
additional motive to virtue, a conviction derived from experience, that
happiness depends on regularity and order, and that a disregard to
justice or propriety never fails to be punished with shame and
remorse[5].
Rude ages exhibit the triumph of authority over reason. Philosophers
anciently were divided into sects: they were either Epicureans,
Platonists, Stoics, Pythagoreans, or Sceptics. Men relied no farther
upon their own judgement than to chuse a leader, whom they implicitly
followed. In later times, happily, reason hath obtained the ascendant.
Men now assert their native privilege of thinking for themselves, and
disdain to be ranked in any sect, whatever be the science. I must except
criticism, which, by what fatality I know not, continues to be not less
slavish in its principles, nor less submissive to authority, than it was
originally. Bossu, a celebrated French critic, gives many rules; but can
discover no better foundation for any of them, than the practice merely
of Homer and Virgil, supported by the authority of Aristotle. Strange,
that in so long a work, the concordance or discordance of these rules
with human nature, should never once have entered his thoughts! It could
not surely be his opinion, that these poets, however eminent for genius,
were intitled to give laws to mankind, and that nothing now remains but
blind obedience to their arbitrary will. If in writing they followed no
rule, why should they be imitated? If they studied nature, and were
obsequious to rational principles, why should these be concealed from
us?
With respect to the present undertaking, it is not the author’s
intention to give a regular treatise upon each of the fine arts in
particular; but only, in general, to apply to them some remarks and
observations drawn from human nature, the true source of criticism. The
fine arts are calculated for our entertainment, or for making agreeable
impressions; and, by that circumstance, are distinguished from the
useful arts. In order then to be a critic in the fine arts, it is
necessary, as above hinted, to know what objects are naturally
agreeable, and what naturally disagreeable. A complete treatise on that
subject would be a field by far too extensive to be thoroughly
cultivated by any one hand. The author pretends only to have entered
upon the subject so far as necessary for supporting his critical
remarks. And he assumes no merit from his performance, but that of
evincing, perhaps more distinctly than hitherto has been done, that the
genuine rules of criticism are all of them derived from the human heart.
The sensitive part of our nature is a delightful speculation. What the
author hath discovered or collected upon that subject, he chuses to
impart in the gay and agreeable form of criticism; because he imagines,
that this form will be more relished, and perhaps be not less
instructive, than a regular and laboured disquisition. His plan is, to
ascend gradually to principles, from facts and experiments, instead of
beginning with the former, handled abstractly, and descending to the
latter. But though criticism be thus his only declared aim, he will not
disown, that all along he had it in view, to explain the nature of man,
considered as a sensitive being, capable of pleasure and pain. And
though he flatters himself with having made some progress in that
important science, he is however too sensible of its extent and
difficulty, to undertake it professedly, or to avow it as the chief
purpose of the present work.
To censure works, not men, is the just prerogative of criticism; and
accordingly all personal censure is here avoided, unless where necessary
to illustrate some general proposition. No praise is claimed on that
account; because censuring with a view merely to find fault, is an
entertainment that humanity never relishes. Writers, one would imagine,
should, above all others, be reserved upon that article, when they lie
so open to retaliation. The author of this treatise, far from being
confident of meriting no censure, entertains not even the slightest hope
of such perfection. Amusement was at first the sole aim of his
inquiries. Proceeding from one particular to another, the subject grew
under his hand; and he was far advanced before the thought struck him,
that his private meditations might be publicly useful. In public,
however, he would not appear in a slovenly dress; and therefore he
pretends not otherwise to apologise for his errors, than by observing,
that, in a new subject, not less nice than extensive, errors are in some
measure unavoidable. Neither pretends he to justify his taste in every
particular. That point must be extremely clear, which admits not variety
of opinion; and in some matters susceptible of great refinement, time
is perhaps the only infallible touch-stone of taste. To this he appeals,
and to this he chearfully submits.
* * * * *
_N. B._ THE ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM, meaning the whole, is a title too
assuming for this work. A number of these elements or principles are
here evolved: but as the author is far from imagining, that he has
completed the list, a more humble title is proper, such as may express
any undetermined number of parts less than the whole. This he thinks is
signified by the title he has chosen, _viz._ ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM.
ELEMENTS
OF
CRITICISM.
CHAPTER I.
Perceptions and ideas in a train.
A man while awake is sensible of a continued train of objects passing in
his mind. It requires no activity on his part to carry on the train: nor
has he power to vary it by calling up an object at will[6]. At the same
time we learn from daily experience, that a train of thought is not
merely casual. And if it depend not upon will, nor upon chance, we must
try to evolve by what law it is governed. The subject is of importance
in the science of human nature; and I promise beforehand, that it will
be found of great importance in the fine arts.
It appears that the relations by which things are linked together, have
a great influence in directing the train of thought; and we find by
experience, that objects are connected in the mind precisely as they are
externally. Beginning then with things external, we find that they are
not more remarkable by their inherent properties than by their various
relations. We cannot any where extend our view without perceiving things
connected together by certain relations. One thing perceived to be a
cause, is connected with its several effects; some things are connected
by contiguity in time, others by contiguity in place; some are connected
by resemblance, some by contrast; some go before, some follow. Not a
single thing appears solitary, and altogether devoid of connection. The
only difference is, that some are intimately connected, some more
slightly; some near, some at a distance.
Experience as well as reason may satisfy us, that the train of mental
perceptions is in a great measure regulated by the foregoing relations.
Where a number of things are linked together, the idea of any one
suggests the rest; and in this manner is a train of thoughts composed.
Such is the law of succession; whether an original law, or whether
directed by some latent principle, is doubtful; and probably will for
ever remain so. This law, however, is not inviolable. It sometimes
happens, though rarely, that an idea presents itself to the mind without
any connection, so far at least as can be discovered.
But though we have not the absolute command of ideas, yet the Will hath
a considerable influence in directing the order of connected ideas.
There are few things but what are connected with many others. By this
means, when any thing becomes an object, whether in a direct survey, or
ideally only, it generally suggests many of its connections. Among these
a choice is afforded. We can insist upon one, rejecting others; and we
can even insist upon what has the slightest connection. Where ideas are
left to their natural course, they are generally continued through the
strongest connections. The mind extends its view to a son more readily
than to a servant, and more readily to a neighbour than to one living at
a distance. This order may be varied by Will, but still within the
limits of connected objects. In short, every train of ideas must be a
chain, in which the particular ideas are linked to each other. We may
vary the order of a natural train; but not so as to dissolve it
altogether, by carrying on our thoughts in a loose manner without any
connection. So far doth our power extend; and that power is sufficient
for all useful purposes. To give us more power, would probably be
detrimental instead of being salutary.
Will is not the only cause that prevents a train of thought from being
continued through the strongest connections. Much depends on the present
tone of mind; for a subject that accords with this tone is always
welcome. Thus, in good spirits, a chearful subject will be introduced by
the slightest connection; and one that is melancholy, not less readily
in low spirits. Again, an interesting subject is recalled, from time to
time, by any connection indifferently, strong or weak. This is finely
touched by Shakespear, with relation to a rich cargo at sea.
My wind, cooling my broth,
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea.
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,
But I should think of shallows and of flats;
And see my wealthy Andrew dock’d in sand,
Vailing her high top lower than her ribs,
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church,
And see the holy edifice of stone,
And not bethink me strait of dangerous rocks?
Which touching but my gentle vessel’s side,
Would scatter all the spices on the stream,
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks,
And, in a word, but now worth this,
And now worth nothing.
_Merchant of Venice_, _act_ 1. _sc._ 1.
Another cause clearly distinguishable from that now mentioned, hath also
a considerable influence over the train of ideas. In some minds of a
singular frame, thoughts and circumstances crowd upon each other by the
slightest connection. I ascribe this to a defect in the faculty of
discernment. A person who cannot accurately distinguish betwixt a slight
connection and one that is more solid, is equally affected with both.
Such a person must necessarily have a great command of ideas, because
they are introduced by any relation indifferently; and the slighter
relations, being without number, must furnish ideas without end. This
doctrine is, in a lively manner, illustrated by Shakespear.
_Falstaff._ What is the gross sum that I owe thee?
_Hostess._ Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and thy
money too. Thou didst swear to me on a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting
in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on
Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the Prince broke thy head for
likening him to a singing man of Windsor, thou didst swear to me
then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my Lady
thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not Goodwife Keech, the butcher’s
wife, come in then, and call me Gossip Quickly? Coming in to borrow
a mess of vinegar; telling us she had a good dish of prawns;
whereby thou didst desire to eat some; whereby I told thee they
were ill for a green wound? And didst not thou, when she was gone
down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity with such poor
people, saying, that ere long they should call me Madam? And didst
thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee thirty shillings? I put
thee now to thy book-oath, deny it if thou canst.
_Second part_, _Henry_ IV. _act_ 2. _sc._ 2.
On the other hand, a man, of accurate judgement cannot have a great flow
of ideas. The slighter relations making no figure in his mind, have no
power to introduce ideas. And hence it is, that accurate judgement is
not friendly to declamation or copious eloquence. This reasoning is
confirmed by experience; for it is a noted observation, That a great or
comprehensive memory is seldom connected with a good judgement.
As an additional confirmation, I appeal to another noted observation,
That wit and judgement are seldom united. Wit consists chiefly in
joining things by distant and fanciful relations, which surprise because
they are unexpected. Such relations being of the slightest kind, readily
occur to that person only who makes every relation equally welcome. Wit,
upon that account, is, in a good measure, incompatible with solid
judgement; which, neglecting trivial relations, adheres to what are
substantial and permanent. Thus memory and wit are often conjoined:
solid judgement seldom with either.
The train of thought depends not entirely upon relations: another cause
comes in for a share; and that is the sense of order and arrangement. To
things of equal rank, where there is no room for a preference, order
cannot be applied; and it must be indifferent in what manner they be
surveyed; witness the sheep that make a flock, or the trees in a wood.
But in things of unequal rank, order is a governing principle. Thus our
tendency is, to view the principal subject before we descend to its
accessories or ornaments, and the superior before the inferior or
dependent. We are equally averse to enter into a minute consideration of
constituent parts, till the thing be first surveyed as a whole. In
passing from a part to the whole, and from an accessory to its
principal, the connection is the same as in the opposite direction. But
a sense of order aids the transition in the latter case, and a sense of
disorder obstructs it in the former. It needs scarce be added, that in
thinking or reflecting on any of these particulars, and in passing from
one to another ideally, we are sensible of easiness or difficulty
precisely as when they are set before our eyes.
Our sense of order is conspicuous with respect to natural operations;
for it always coincides with the order of nature. Thinking upon a body
in motion, we follow its natural course. The mind falls with a heavy
body, descends with a river, and ascends with flame and smoke. In
tracing out a family, we incline to begin at the founder, and to descend
gradually to his latest posterity. On the contrary, musing on a lofty
oak, we begin at the trunk, and mount from it to the branches. As to
historical facts, we love to proceed in the order of time; or, which
comes to the same, to proceed along the chain of causes and effects.
But though, in following out a historical chain, our bent is to proceed
orderly from causes to their effects, we find not the same bent in
matters of science. There we seem rather disposed to proceed from
effects to their causes, and from particular propositions to those which
are more general. Why this difference in matters that appear so nearly
related? The cases are similar in appearance only, not in reality. In a
historical chain, every event is particular, the effect of some former
event, and the cause of others that follow. In such a chain, there is
nothing to bias the mind from the order of nature. Widely different is
the case of science, when we endeavour to trace out causes and their
effects. Many experiments are commonly reduced under one cause; and
again, many of these under some one still more general and
comprehensive. In our progress from particular effects to general
causes, and from particular propositions to the more comprehensive, we
feel a gradual dilatation or expansion of mind, like what is felt in
proceeding along an ascending series, which is extremely delightful. The
pleasure here exceeds what arises from following the course of nature;
and it is this pleasure which regulates our train of thought in the case
now mentioned, and in others that are similar. These observations, by
the way, furnish materials for instituting a comparison betwixt the
synthetic and analytic methods of reasoning. The synthetic method
descending regularly from principles to their consequences, is more
agreeable to the strictness of order. But in following the opposite
course in the analytic method, we have a sensible pleasure, like
mounting upward, which is not felt in the other. The analytic method is
more agreeable to the imagination. The other method will be preferred
by those only who with rigidity adhere to order, and give no indulgence
to natural emotions[7].
It appears then that we are framed by nature to relish order and
connection. When an object is introduced by a proper connection, we are
conscious of a certain pleasure arising from that circumstance. Among
objects of equal rank, the pleasure is proportioned to the degree of
connection; but among unequal objects, where we require a certain order,
the pleasure arises chiefly from an orderly arrangement. Of this one may
be made sensible, in tracing objects contrary to the course of nature,
or contrary to our sense of order. The mind proceeds with alacrity from
a whole to its parts, and from a principal to its accessories; but in
the contrary direction, it is sensible of a sort of retrograde motion,
which is unpleasant. And here may be remarked the great influence of
order upon the mind of man. Grandeur, which makes a deep impression,
inclines us, in running over any series, to proceed from small to great,
rather than from great to small. But order prevails over this tendency;
and in parting from the whole to its parts, and from a subject to its
ornaments, affords pleasure as well as facility, which are not felt in
the opposite course. Elevation touches the mind not less than grandeur
doth; and in raising the mind to elevated objects, there is a sensible
pleasure. But the course of nature hath still a greater influence than
elevation; and therefore the pleasure of falling with rain, and
descending gradually with a river, prevails over that of mounting
upward. Hence the agreeableness of smoke ascending in a calm morning.
Elevation concurs with the course of nature, to make this object
delightful.
I am extremely sensible of the disgust men generally have at abstract
speculation; and for that reason I would avoid it altogether, were it
possible in a work which professes to draw the rules of criticism from
human nature, their true source. There is indeed no choice, other than
to continue for some time in the same track, or to abandon the
undertaking altogether. Candor obliges me to notify this to my readers,
that such of them whose aversion to abstract speculation is invincible,
may stop short here; for till principles be explained, I can promise no
entertainment to those who shun thinking. But I flatter myself with a
different taste in the bulk of readers. Some few, I imagine, will relish
the abstract part for its own sake; and many for the useful purposes to
which it may be applied. For encouraging the latter to proceed with
alacrity, I assure them beforehand that the foregoing speculation leads
to many important rules of criticism, which shall be unfolded in the
course of this work. In the mean time, for instant satisfaction in part,
they will be pleased to accept the following specimen.
It is required in every work of art, that, like an organic system, the
constituent parts be mutually connected, and bear each of them a
relation to the whole, some more intimate, some less, according to their
destination. Order is not less essential than connection; and when due
regard is paid to these, we have a sense of just composition, and so
far are pleased with the performance. Homer is defective in order and
connection; and Pindar more remarkably. Regularity, order, and
connection, are painful restraints on a bold and fertile imagination;
and are not patiently submitted to, but after much culture and
discipline. In Horace there is no fault more eminent than want of
connection. Instances are without number. In the first fourteen lines of
ode 7. lib. 1. he mentions several towns and districts which by some
were relished more than by others. In the remainder of the ode, Plancus
is exhorted to drown his cares in wine. Having narrowly escaped death by
the fall of a tree, this poet[8] takes occasion properly to observe,
that while we guard against some dangers, we are exposed to others we
cannot foresee. He ends with displaying the power of music. The parts of
ode 16. lib. 2. are so loosely connected as to disfigure a poem
otherwise extremely beautiful. The 1st, 2d, 3d, 4th, 11th, 24th, 27th
odes of the 3d book, lie open all of them to the same censure. The 1st
satire, book 1. is so deformed by want of unity and connection of parts,
as upon the whole to be scarce agreeable. It commences with an important
question, How it happens that persons who are so much satisfied with
themselves, are generally so little with their condition? After
illustrating the observation in a sprightly manner by several examples,
the author, forgetting his subject, enters upon a declamation against
avarice, which he pursues till the line 108. There he makes an apology
for wandering, and promises to return to his subject. But avarice having
got possession of his mind, he follows out that theme to the end, and
never returns to the question proposed in the beginning.
In the Georgics of Virgil, though esteemed the most finished work of
that author, the parts are ill connected, and the transitions far from
being sweet and easy. In the first book[9] he deviates from his subject
to give a description of the five zones. The want of connection here is
remarkable, as well as in the description of the prodigies that
accompanied the death of Cæsar, with which the same book is concluded. A
digression upon the praises of Italy in the second book[10], is not more
happily introduced. And in the midst of a declamation upon the pleasures
of husbandry, that makes part of the same book[11], the author appears
personally upon the stage without the slightest connection. The two
prefaces of Sallust look as if they had been prefixed by some blunder to
his two histories. They will suit any other history as well, or any
subject as well as history. Even the members of these prefaces are but
loosely connected. They look more like a number of maxims or
observations than a connected discourse.
An episode in a narrative poem being in effect an accessory, demands not
that strict union with the principal subject which is requisite betwixt
a whole and its constituent parts. The relation however of principal
and accessory being pretty intimate, an episode loosely connected with
the principal subject will never be graceful. I give for an example the
descent of Æneas into hell, which employs the sixth book of the Æneid.
The reader is not prepared for this important event. No cause is
assigned, that can make it appear necessary or even natural, to suspend,
for so long a time, the principal action in its most interesting period.
To engage Æneas to wander from his course in search of an adventure so
extraordinary, the poet can find no better pretext, than the hero’s
longing to visit the ghost of his father recently dead. In the mean time
the story is interrupted, and the reader loses his ardor. An episode so
extremely beautiful is not at any rate to be dispensed with. It is pity
however, that it doth not arise more naturally from the subject. I must
observe at the same time, that full justice is done to this incident, by
considering it to be an episode; for if it be a constituent part of the
principal action, the connection ought to be still more intimate. The
same objection lies against that elaborate description of Fame in the
Æneid[12]. Any other book of that heroic poem, or of any heroic poem,
has as good a title to that description as the book where it is placed.
In a natural landscape, we every day perceive a multitude of objects
connected by contiguity solely. Objects of sight make an impression so
lively, as that a relation, even of the slightest kind, is relished.
This however ought not to be imitated in description. Words are so far
short of the eye in liveliness of impression, that in a description the
connection of objects ought to be carefully studied, in order to make
the deeper impression. For it is a known fact, the reason of which is
suggested above, that it is easier by words to introduce into the mind a
related object, than one which is not connected with the preceding
train. In the following passage, different things are brought together
without the slightest connection, if it be not what may be called
verbal, _i. e._ taking the same word in different meanings.
Surgamus: solet esse gravis cantantibus umbra.
Juniperi gravis umbra: nocent et frugibus umbræ.
Ite domum saturæ, venit Hesperus, ite capellæ.
_Virg. Buc._ 10. 75.
The metaphorical or figurative appearance of an object, is no good cause
for introducing that object in its real and natural appearance. A
relation so slight can never be relished.
Distrust in lovers is too warm a sun;
But yet ’tis night in love when that is gone.
And in those climes which most his scorching know,
He makes the noblest fruits and metals grow.
_Part_ 2. _Conquest of Granada_, _act_ 3.
The relations among objects have a considerable influence in the
gratification of our passions, and even in their production. But this
subject is reserved to be treated in the chapter of emotions and
passions[13].
There is perhaps not another instance of a building so great erected
upon a foundation so slight in appearance, as that which is erected
upon the relations of objects and their arrangement. Relations make no
capital figure in the mind: the bulk of them are transitory, and some
extremely trivial. They are however the links that, uniting our
perceptions into one connected chain, produce connection of action,
because perceptions and actions have an intimate correspondence. But it
is not sufficient for the conduct of life that our actions be linked
together, however intimately: it is beside necessary that they proceed
in a certain order; and this also is provided for by an original
propensity. Thus order and connection, while they admit sufficient
variety, introduce a method in the management of affairs. Without them
our conduct would be fluctuating and desultory; and we would be hurried
from thought to thought, and from action to action, entirely at the
mercy of chance.
CHAP. II.
Emotions and Passions.
The fine arts, as observed above[14], are all of them calculated to give
pleasure to the eye or the ear; and they never descend to gratify the
taste, touch, or smell. At the same time, the feelings of the eye and
ear, are of all the feelings of external sense, those only which are
honoured with the name of _emotions_ or _passions_. It is also observed
above[15], that the principles of the fine arts are unfolded by studying
the sensitive part of human nature, in order to know what objects of the
eye and ear are agreeable, what disagreeable. These observations show
the use of the present chapter. We evidently must be acquainted with the
nature and causes of emotions and passions, before we can judge with any
accuracy how far they are under the power of the fine arts. The
critical art is thus set in a fine point of view. The inquisitive mind
beginning with criticism the most agreeable of all amusements, and
finding no obstruction in its progress, advances far into the sensitive
part of our nature; and gains insensibly a thorough knowledge of the
human heart, of its desires, and of every motive to action; a science
which of all that can be reached by man, is to him of the greatest
importance.
Upon a subject so extensive, all that can be expected here, is a general
or slight survey. Some emotions indeed more peculiarly connected with
the fine arts, I propose to handle in separate chapters; a method that
will shorten the general survey considerably. And yet, after this
circumscription, so much matter comes under even a general view of the
passions and emotions, that, to avoid confusion, I find it necessary to
divide this chapter into many parts: in the first of which are handled
the causes of those emotions and passions that are the most common and
familiar; for to explain every passion and emotion, however singular,
would be an endless work. And though I could not well take up less
ground, without separating things intimately connected; yet, upon
examination, I find the causes of our emotions and passions to be so
numerous and various, as to make a subdivision also necessary by
splitting this first part into several sections. Human nature is a
complicated machine, and must be so to answer all its purposes. There
have indeed been published to the world, many a system of human nature,
that flatter the mind by their simplicity. But these, unluckily, deviate
far from truth and reality. According to some writers, man is entirely a
selfish being: according to others, universal benevolence is his duty.
One founds morality upon sympathy solely, and one upon utility. If any
of these systems were of nature’s production, the present subject might
be soon discussed. But the variety of nature is not so easily reached;
and for confuting such Utopian systems without the intricacy of
reasoning, it appears the best method to enter into human nature, and
to set before the eye, plainly and candidly, facts as they really exist.
PART I.
_Causes evolved of the emotions and passions._
SECT. I.
_Difference betwixt emotion and passion.---- Causes that are the
most common and the most extensive.---- Passion considered as
productive of action._
These branches are so interwoven, as to make it necessary that they be
handled together. It is a fact universally admitted, that no emotion nor
passion ever starts up in the mind, without a known cause. If I love a
person, it is for good qualities or good offices: if I have resentment
against a man, it must be for some injury he has done me; and I cannot
pity any one, who is under no distress of body or of mind.
The circumstances now mentioned, if they cause or occasion a passion,
cannot be entirely indifferent: if they were, they could not move us in
any degree. And we find upon examination, that they are not indifferent.
Looking back upon the foregoing examples, the good qualities or good
offices that attract my love, are antecedently agreeable. If an injury
were not disagreeable, it would not occasion any resentment against the
author; nor would the passion of pity be raised by an object in
distress, if that object did not give us pain. These feelings antecedent
to passion, and which seem to be the causes of passion, shall be
distinguished by the name of _emotions_.
What is now said about the production of passion, resolves into a very
simple proposition, That we love what is pleasant, and hate what is
painful. And indeed it is evident, that without antecedent emotions we
could not have any passions; for a thing must be pleasant or painful,
before it can be the object either of love or of hatred.
As it appears from this short sketch, that passions are generated by
means of prior emotions, it will be necessary to take first under
consideration emotions and their causes.
Such is the constitution of our nature, that upon perceiving certain
external objects, we are instantaneously conscious of pleasure or pain.
A flowing river, a smooth extended plain, a spreading oak, a towering
hill, are objects of sight that raise pleasant emotions. A barren heath,
a dirty marsh, a rotten carcass, raise painful emotions. Of the emotions
thus produced, we inquire for no other cause but merely the presence of
the object.
It must further be observed, that the things now mentioned, raise
emotions by means of their properties and qualities. To the emotion
raised by a large river, its size, its force, and its fluency,
contribute each a share. The pleasures of regularity, propriety,
convenience, compose the emotion raised by a fine building.
If external properties make a being or thing agreeable, we have reason
to expect the same effect from those which are internal; and accordingly
power, discernment, wit, mildness, sympathy, courage, benevolence,
render the possessor agreeable in a high degree. So soon as these
qualities are perceived in any person, we instantaneously feel pleasant
emotions, without the slightest act of reflection or of attention to
consequences. It is almost unnecessary to add, that certain qualities
opposite to the former, such as dullness, peevishness, inhumanity,
cowardice, occasion in the same manner painful emotions.
Sensible beings affect us remarkably by their actions. Some actions so
soon as perceived, raise pleasant emotions in the spectator, without the
least reflection; such as graceful motion and genteel behaviour. But as
the intention of the agent is a capital circumstance in the bulk of
human actions, it requires reflection to discover their true character.
If I see one delivering a purse of money to another, I can make nothing
of this action, till I discover with what intention the money is given.
If it be given to extinguish a debt, the action is agreeable in a slight
degree. If it be a grateful return, I feel a stronger emotion; and the
pleasurable emotion rises to a great height when it is the intention of
the giver to relieve a virtuous family from want. Actions are thus
qualified by the intention of the agent. But they are not qualified by
the event; for an action well intended is agreeable, whatever be the
consequence. The pleasant or painful emotion that ariseth from
contemplating human actions, is of a peculiar kind. Human actions are
perceived to be _right_ or _wrong_; and this perception qualifies the
pleasure or pain that results from them[16].
Not only are emotions raised in us by the qualities and actions of
others, but also by their feelings. I cannot behold a man in distress,
without partaking of his pain; nor in joy, without partaking of his
pleasure.
The beings or things above described, occasion emotions in us, not only
in the original survey, but when they are recalled to the memory in
idea. A field laid out with taste, is pleasant in the recollection, as
well as when under our eye. A generous action described in words or
colours, occasions a sensible emotion, as well as when we see it
performed. And when we reflect upon the distress of any person, our pain
is of the same kind with what we felt when eye-witnesses. In a word, an
agreeable or disagreeable object recalled to the mind in idea, is the
occasion of a pleasant or painful emotion, of the same kind with that
produced when the object was present. The only difference is, that an
idea being fainter than an original perception, the pleasure or pain
produced by the former, is proportionably fainter than that produced by
the latter.
Having explained the nature of an emotion and mentioned several causes
by which it is produced, we proceed to an observation of considerable
importance in the science of human nature, that some emotions are
accompanied with desire, and that others, after a short existence, pass
away without producing desire of any sort. The emotion raised by a fine
landscape or a magnificent building, vanisheth generally without
attaching our hearts to the object; which also happens with relation to
a number of fine faces in a crowded assembly. But the bulk of emotions
are accompanied with desire of one sort or other, provided only a fit
object for desire be suggested. This is remarkably the case of emotions
raised by human actions and qualities. A virtuous action raiseth in
every spectator a pleasant emotion, which is generally attended with a
desire to do good to the author of the action. A vicious action, on the
other hand, produceth a painful emotion; and of consequence a desire to
have the author punished. Even things inanimate often raise desire. The
goods of fortune are objects of desire almost universally; and the
desire, when more than commonly vigorous, obtains the name of _avarice_.
The pleasant emotion produced in a spectator by a capital picture in the
possession of a prince, seldom raiseth desire. But if such a picture be
exposed to sale, desire of having or possessing is the natural
consequence of the emotion.
If now an emotion be sometimes productive of desire, somtimes not, it
comes to be a material inquiry, in what respect a passion differs from
an emotion. Is passion in its nature or feeling distinguishable from
emotion? I have been apt to think that there must be a distinction,
when the emotion seems in all cases to precede the passion, and to be
the cause or occasion of it. But after the strictest examination, I
cannot perceive any such distinction betwixt emotion and passion. What
is love to a mistress, for example, but a pleasant emotion raised by a
sight or idea of the person beloved, joined with desire of enjoyment? In
what else consists the passion of resentment, but in a painful emotion
occasioned by the injury, accompanied with desire to chastise the author
of the injury? In general, as to every sort of passion, we find no more
in the composition, but the particulars now mentioned, an emotion
pleasant or painful accompanied with desire. What then shall we say upon
this subject? Are _passion_ and _emotion_ synonymous terms? This cannot
be averred. No feeling nor agitation of the mind void of desire, is
termed a passion; and we have discovered that there are many emotions
which pass away without raising desire of any kind. How is the
difficulty to be solved? There appears to me but one solution, which I
relish the more, as it renders the doctrine of the passions and
emotions simple and perspicuous. The solution follows. An internal
motion or agitation of the mind, when it passeth away without raising
desire, is denominated _an emotion_: when desire is raised, the motion
or agitation is denominated _a passion_. A fine face, for example,
raiseth in me a pleasant feeling. If this feeling vanish without
producing any effect, it is in proper language an emotion. But if such
feeling, by reiterated views of the object, become sufficiently strong
to raise desire, it is no longer termed an emotion, but a passion. The
same holds in all the other passions. The painful feeling raised in a
spectator by a slight injury done to a stranger, being accompanied with
no desire of revenge, is termed an emotion. But this injury raiseth in
the stranger a stronger emotion, which being accompanied with desire of
revenge, is a passion. Again, external expressions of distress, produce
in the spectator a painful feeling. This feeling is sometimes so slight
as to pass away without any effect, in which case it is an emotion. But
if the feeling be so strong as to prompt desire of affording relief, it
is a passion, and is termed _pity_. Envy is emulation in excess. If the
exaltation of a competitor be barely disagreeable, the painful feeling
is reckoned an emotion. If it produce desire to depress him, it is
reckoned a passion.
To prevent mistakes, it must be observed, that desire here is taken in
its proper sense, _viz._ that internal impulse which makes us proceed to
action. Desire in a lax sense respects also actions and events that
depend not on us, as when I desire that my friend may have a son to
represent him, or that my country may flourish in arts and sciences. But
such internal act is more properly termed a _wish_ than a _desire_.
Having distinguished passion from emotion, we proceed to consider
passion more at large, with respect especially to its power of producing
action.
We have daily and constant experience for our authority, that no man
ever proceeds to action but through the impulse of some antecedent
desire. So well established is this observation, and so deeply rooted
in the mind, that we can scarce imagine a different system of action.
Even a child will say familiarly, What should make me do this or that
when I have no inclination to it? Taking it then for granted, that the
existence of action depends on antecedent desire; it follows, that where
there is no desire there can be no action. This opens another shining
distinction betwixt emotions and passions. The former, being without
desire, are in their nature quiescent: the latter, involving desire,
have a tendency to action, and always produce action where they meet
with no obstruction.
Hence it follows, that every passion must have an object, _viz._ that
being or thing to which our desire is directed, and with a view to which
every action prompted by that desire is performed. The object of every
passion is that being or thing which produced it. This will be evident
from induction. A fine woman, by her beauty, causes in me the passion of
love, which is directed upon her as its object. A man by injuring me,
raises my resentment; and becomes thereby the object of my resentment.
Thus the cause of a passion, and its object, are the same in different
views. An emotion, on the other hand, being in its nature quiescent and
merely a passive feeling, must have a cause; but cannot be said properly
speaking to have an object.
As the desire involved in every passion leads to action, this action is
either ultimate, or it is done as a means to some end. Where the action
is ultimate, reason and reflection bear no part. The action is performed
blindly by the impulse of passion, without any view. Thus one in extreme
hunger snatches at food, without the slightest reflection whether it be
salutary or not: Avarice prompts to accumulate wealth without the least
view of use; and thereby absurdly converts means into an end: Fear often
makes us fly before we reflect whether we really be in danger: and
animal love not less often hurries to fruition, without a single thought
of gratification. But for the most part, actions are performed as means
to some end; and in these actions reason and reflection always bear a
part. The end is that event which is desired; and the action is
deliberately performed in order to bring about that end. Thus affection
to my friend involves a desire to make him happy; and the desire to
accomplish that end, prompts me to perform what I judge will contribute
to it.
Where the action is ultimate, it hath a cause, _viz._ the impulse of the
passion. But we cannot properly say it hath a motive. This term is
appropriated to actions that are performed as means to some end; and the
conviction that the action will tend to bring about the end desired, is
termed a motive. Thus passions considered as causes of action, are
distinguished into two kinds; instinctive, and deliberative. The first
operating blindly and by mere impulse, depend entirely upon the
sensitive part of our nature. The other operating by reflection and by
motives, are connected with the rational part.
The foregoing difference among the passions, is the work of nature.
Experience brings on some variations. By all actions performed through
the impulse of passion, desire is gratified, and the gratification is
pleasant. This lesson we have from experience. And hence it is, that
after an action has often been performed by the impulse merely of
passion, the pleasure resulting from performance, considered beforehand,
becomes a motive, which joins its force with the original impulse in
determining us to act. Thus a child eats by the mere impulse of hunger:
a young man thinks of the pleasure of gratification, which is a motive
for him to eat: and a man farther advanced in life, hath the additional
motive that it will contribute to his health.
Instinctive passions are distinguished into two kinds. Where the cause
is internal, they are denominated _appetites_: where external, they
retain the common name of _passions_. Thus hunger, thirst, animal love,
are termed _appetites_; while fear and anger, even when they operate
blindly and by mere impulse, are termed _passions_.
From the definition of a motive above given, it is easy to determine,
with the greatest accuracy, what passions are selfish, what social. No
passion can properly be termed selfish, but what prompts me to exert
actions in order for my own good; nor social, but what prompts me to
exert actions in order for the good of another. The motive is that which
determines a passion to be social or selfish. Hence it follows, that our
appetites, which make us act blindly and by mere impulse, cannot be
reckoned either social or selfish; and as little the actions they
produce. Thus eating, when prompted by an impulse merely of nature, is
neither social nor selfish. But add a motive, That it will contribute to
my pleasure or my health, and it becomes in a measure selfish. On the
other hand, when affection moves me to exert actions to the end solely
of advancing my friend’s happiness, without the slightest regard to my
own gratification, such actions are justly denominated _social_; and so
is the affection, that is their cause. If another motive be added, That
gratifying the affection will contribute to my own happiness, the
actions I perform become partly selfish. Animal love when exerted into
action by natural impulse singly, is neither social nor selfish: when
exerted with a view to gratification and in order to make me happy, it
is selfish. When the motive of giving pleasure to its object is
superadded, it is partly social, partly selfish. A just action when
prompted by the love of justice solely, is neither social nor selfish.
When I perform an act of justice with a view to the pleasure of
gratification, the action is selfish. I pay my debt for my own sake, not
with a view to benefit my creditor. But let me suppose the money has
been advanced by a friend without interest, purely to oblige me. In this
case, together with the inclination to do justice, there arises a motive
of gratitude, which respects the creditor solely, and prompts me to act
in order to do him good. Here the action is partly social, partly
selfish. Suppose again I meet with a surprising and unexpected act of
generosity, that inspires me with love to my benefactor and the utmost
gratitude. I burn to do him good: he is the sole object of my desire;
and my own pleasure in gratifying the desire, vanisheth out of sight. In
this case, the action I perform is purely social. Thus it happens, that
when a social motive becomes strong, the action is exerted with a view
singly to the object of the passion; and the selfish pleasure arising
from gratification is never once considered. The same effect of stifling
selfish motives, is equally remarkable in other passions that are in no
view social. Ambition, for example, when confined to exaltation as its
ultimate end, is neither social nor selfish. Let exaltation be
considered as a means to make me happy, and the passion becomes so far
selfish. But if the desire of exaltation wax strong and inflame my mind,
the selfish motive now mentioned is no longer felt. A slight degree of
resentment, where my chief view in acting is the pleasure arising to
myself from gratifying the passion, is justly denominated _selfish_.
Where revenge flames so high as to have no other aim but the destruction
of its object, it is no longer selfish. In opposition to a social
passion, it maybe termed _dissocial_[17].
Of self, every one hath a direct perception: of other things, we have no
knowledge but by means of their attributes. Hence it is, that of self,
the perception is more lively than of any other thing. Self is an
agreeable object; and, for the reason now given, must be more agreeable
than any other object. Is not this sufficient to account for the
prevalence of self-love?
In the foregoing part of this chapter, it is suggested, that some
circumstances make beings or things fit objects for desire, others not.
This hint must be pursued. It is a truth ascertained by universal
experience, that a thing which in our apprehension is beyond reach,
never is the object of desire. No man, in his right senses, desires to
walk in the air, or to descend to the centre of the earth. We may amuse
ourselves in a reverie, with building castles in the air, and wishing
for what can never happen. But such things never move desire. And indeed
a desire to act would be altogether absurd, when we are conscious that
the action is beyond our power. In the next place, though the difficulty
of attainment with respect to things within reach, often inflames
desire; yet where the prospect of attainment is faint and the event
extremely uncertain, the object, however agreeable, seldom raiseth any
strong desire. Thus beauty or other good qualities in a woman of rank,
seldom raises love in any man greatly her inferior. In the third place,
different objects, equally within reach, raise emotions in different
degrees; and when desire accompanies any of these emotions, its
strength, as is natural, is proportioned to that of its cause. Hence the
remarkable difference among desires directed upon beings inanimate,
animate, and rational. The emotion caused by a rational being, is out of
measure stronger than any caused by an animal without reason; and an
emotion raised by such an animal, is stronger than what is caused by any
thing inanimate. There is a separate reason why desire of which a
rational being is the object should be the strongest. Desire directed
upon such a being, is gratified many ways, by loving, serving,
benefiting, the object; and it is a well known truth, that our desires
naturally swell by exercise. Desire directed upon an inanimate being,
susceptible neither of pleasure nor pain, is not capable of a higher
gratification than that of acquiring the property. Hence it is, that
though every feeling which raiseth desire, is strictly speaking a
passion; yet commonly those feelings only are denominated passions of
which sensible beings capable of pleasure and pain are the objects.
SECT. II.
_Causes of the emotions of joy and sorrow._
This subject was purposely reserved for a separate section, because it
could not, with perspicuity, be handled under the general head. An
emotion involving desire is termed _a passion_; and when the desire is
fulfilled, the passion is said to be gratified. The gratification of
every passion must be pleasant, or in other words produce a pleasant
emotion; for nothing can be more natural, than that the accomplishment
of any wish or desire should affect us with joy. I cannot even except
the case, where a man, through remorse, is desirous to chastise and
punish himself. The joy of gratification is properly called an emotion;
because it makes us happy in our present situation, and is ultimate in
its nature, not having a tendency to any thing beyond. On the other
hand, sorrow must be the result of an event contrary to what we desire;
for if the accomplishment of desire produce joy, it is equally natural
that disappointment should produce sorrow.
An event fortunate or unfortunate, that falls out by accident without
being foreseen or thought of, and which therefore could not be the
object of desire, raiseth an emotion of the same kind with that now
mentioned. But the cause must be different; for there can be no
gratification where there is no desire. We have not however far to seek
for a cause. A man cannot be indifferent to an event that affects him or
any of his connections. If it be fortunate, it gives him joy; if
unfortunate, it gives him sorrow.
In no situation doth joy rise to a greater height, than upon the removal
of any violent distress of mind or body; and in no situation doth sorrow
rise to a greater height, than upon the removal of what makes us happy.
The sensibility of our nature serves in part to account for these
effects. Other causes also concur. We can be under no violent distress
without an anxious desire to be free from it; and therefore its removal
is a high gratification. We cannot be possessed of any thing that makes
us happy, without wishing its continuance; and therefore its removal by
crossing our wishes must create sorrow. Nor is this all. The principle
of contrast comes in for its share. An emotion of joy arising upon the
removal of pain, is increased by contrast when we reflect upon our
former distress. An emotion of sorrow upon being deprived of any good,
is increased by contrast when we reflect upon our former happiness.
_Jaffier_. There’s not a wretch that lives on common charity,
But’s happier than me. For I have known
The luscious sweets of plenty: every night
Have slept with soft content about my head,
And never wak’d but to a joyful morning.
Yet now must fall like a full ear of corn,
Whose blossom ’scap’d, yet’s wither’d in the ripening.
_Venice preserv’d, act 1. sc. 1._
It hath always been reckoned difficult to account for the extreme
pleasure that follows a cessation of bodily pain; as when one is
relieved from the rack, or from a violent fit of the stone. What is
said, explains this difficulty in the easiest and simplest manner.
Cessation of bodily pain is not of itself a pleasure; for a _non-ens_ or
a negative can neither give pleasure nor pain. But man is so framed by
nature as to rejoice when he is eased of pain, as well as to be
sorrowful when deprived of any good. This branch of our constitution, is
chiefly the cause of the pleasure. The gratification of desire comes in
as an accessory cause; and contrast joins its force, by increasing the
sense of our present happiness. In the case of an acute pain, a peculiar
circumstance contributes its part. The brisk circulation of the animal
spirits occasioned by acute pain, continues after the pain is vanished,
and produceth a very pleasant feeling. Sickness hath not that effect,
because it is always attended with a depression of spirits.
Hence it is, that the gradual diminution of acute pain, occasions a mixt
emotion, partly pleasant, partly painful. The partial diminution
produceth joy in proportion; but the remaining pain balanceth our joy.
This mixt feeling, however, hath no long endurance. For the joy that
ariseth upon the diminution of pain, soon vanisheth; and leaveth in the
undisturbed possession, that degree of pain which remains.
What is above observed about bodily pain, is equally applicable to the
distresses of the mind; and accordingly it is a common artifice, to
prepare us for the reception of good news by alarming our fears.
SECT. III.
_Sympathetic emotion of virtue, and its cause._
One feeling there is, that merits a deliberate view, for its
singularity, as well as utility. Whether to call it an emotion or a
passion, seems uncertain. The former it can scarce be, because it
involves desire; and the latter it can scarce be, because it has no
object. But this feeling and its nature will be best understood from
examples. A signal act of gratitude, produceth in the spectator love or
esteem for the author. The spectator hath at the same time a separate
feeling; which, being mixed with love or esteem, the capital emotion,
hath not been much adverted to. It is a vague feeling of gratitude,
which hath no object; but which, however, disposes the spectator to acts
of gratitude, more than upon ordinary occasions. Let any man attentively
consider his own heart when he thinks warmly of any signal act of
gratitude, and he will be conscious of this feeling, as distinct from
the esteem or admiration he has for the grateful person. It merits our
utmost attention, by unfolding a curious piece of mechanism in the
nature of man. The feeling is singular in the following respect, that it
involves a desire to perform acts of gratitude, without having any
particular object; though in this state the mind, wonderfully disposed
toward an object, neglects no object upon which it can vent itself. Any
act of kindness or good-will that would not be regarded upon another
occasion, is greedily seized; and the vague feeling is converted into a
real passion of gratitude. In such a state, favours are returned double.
Again, a courageous action produceth in a spectator the passion of
admiration directed upon the author. But beside this well-known passion,
a separate feeling is raised in the spectator; which may be called _an
emotion of courage_, because while under its influence he is conscious
of a boldness and intrepidity beyond ordinary, and longs for proper
objects upon which to exert this emotion.
Spumantemque dari, pecora inter inertia, votis
Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem.
_Æneid._ iv. 158.
Non altramente ’il tauro, oue l’ irriti
Geloso amor con stimoli pungenti
Horribilmente mugge, e co’ muggiti
Gli spirti in se risueglia, e l’ire ardenti:
E’l corno aguzza a i tronchi, e par ch’inuiti
Con vani colpi a’ la battaglia i venti.
_Tasso, canto 7. st. 55._
So full of valour that they smote the air
For breathing in their faces.
_Tempest, act. 4. sc. 4._
For another example, let us figure some grand and heroic action, highly
agreeable to the spectator. Beside a singular veneration for the author,
the spectator feels in himself an unusual dignity of character, which
disposeth him to great and noble actions. And herein principally
consists the extreme delight every one hath in the histories of
conquerors and heroes.
This singular feeling, which may be termed _the sympathetic emotion of
virtue_, resembles, in one respect, the well-known appetites that lead
to the propagation and preservation of the species. The appetites of
hunger, thirst, and animal love, arise in the mind without being
directed upon any particular object; and in no case whatever is the mind
more solicitous for a proper object, than when under the influence of
any of these appetites.
The feeling I have endeavoured to evolve, may well be termed _the
sympathetic emotion of virtue_; for it is raised in a spectator by
virtuous actions of every kind, and by no other sort. When we
contemplate a virtuous action, which never fails to delight us and to
prompt our love for the author, the mind is warmed and put into a tone
similar to what inspired the virtuous action. The propensity we have to
such actions is so much enlivened, as to become for a time an actual
emotion. But no man hath a propensity to vice as such. On the contrary,
a wicked deed disgusts him, and makes him abhor the author. This
abhorrence is a strong antidote so long as any impression remains of
the wicked action.
In a rough road, a halt to view a fine country is refreshing; and here a
delightful prospect opens upon us. It is indeed wonderful to see what
incitements there are to virtue in the human frame. Justice is perceived
to be our duty, and it is guarded by natural punishments, from which the
guilty never escape. To perform noble and generous actions, a warm sense
of dignity and superior excellence is a most efficacious incitement[18].
And to leave virtue in no quarter unsupported, here is unfolded an
admirable contrivance, by which good example commands the heart and adds
to virtue the force of habit. Did our moral feelings extend no farther
than to approve the action and to bestow our affection on the author,
good example would not have great influence. But to give it the utmost
force, nothing can be better contrived than the sympathetic emotion
under consideration, which prompts us to imitate what we admire. This
singular emotion will readily find an object to exert itself upon; and
at any rate, it never exists without producing some effect. Virtuous
emotions of this sort, are in some degree an exercise of virtue. They
are a mental exercise at least, if they show not externally. And every
exercise of virtue, internal and external, leads to habit; for a
disposition or propensity of the mind, like a limb of the body, becomes
stronger by exercise. Proper means, at the same time, being ever at hand
to raise this sympathetic emotion, its frequent reiteration may, in a
good measure, supply the want of a more complete exercise. Thus, by
proper discipline, every person may acquire a settled habit of virtue.
Intercourse with men of worth, histories of generous and disinterested
actions, and frequent meditation upon them, keep the sympathetic emotion
in constant exercise, which by degrees introduceth a habit, and confirms
the authority of virtue. With respect to education in particular, what a
spacious and commodious avenue to the heart of a young person, is here
opened?
SECT. IV.
_In many instances one emotion is productive of another. The same of
passions._
In the first chapter it is observed, that the relations by which things
are mutually connected, have a remarkable influence in regulating the
train of our ideas. I here add, that they have an influence not less
remarkable, in generating emotions and passions. Beginning with the
former, it holds in fact, that an agreeable object makes every thing
connected with it appear agreeable. The mind gliding sweetly and easily
through related objects, carries along the beauty of objects that made a
figure, and blends that beauty with the idea of the present object,
which thereby appears more agreeable than when considered apart[19].
This reason may appear obscure and metaphysical, but it must be relished
when we attend to the following examples, which establish the fact
beyond all dispute. No relation is more intimate than that betwixt a
being and its qualities; and accordingly, the affection I bear a man
expands itself readily upon all his qualities, which by that means make
a greater figure in my mind than more substantial qualities in others.
The talent of speaking in a friend, is more regarded than that of acting
in a person with whom I have no connection; and graceful motion in a
mistress, gives more delight than consummate prudence in any other
woman. Affection sometimes rises so high, as to convert defects into
properties. The wry neck of Alexander was imitated by his courtiers as a
real beauty, without intention to flatter. Thus Lady Piercy, speaking of
her husband Hotspur,
---- By his light
Did all the chivalry of England move,
To do brave acts. He was indeed the glass,
Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves.
He had no legs that practis’d not his gait:
And speaking thick, which Nature made his blemish,
Became the accents of the valiant:
For those who could speak low and tardily,
Would turn their own perfection to abuse,
To seem like him.
_Second part, Henry IV. act 2. sc. 6._
When the passion of love has ended its course, its object becomes quite
a different creature.---- Nothing left of that genteel motion, that
gaiety, that sprightly conversation, those numberless graces, that
formerly, in the lover’s opinion, charmed all hearts.
The same communication of passion obtains in the relation of principal
and accessory. Pride, of which self is the object, expands itself upon a
house, a garden, servants, equipage, and every thing of that nature. A
lover addresseth his mistress’s glove in the following terms:
Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine.
A temple is in a proper sense an accessory of the deity to which it is
dedicated. Diana is chaste, and not only her temple, but the very isicle
which hangs on it, must partake of that property:
The noble sister of Poplicola,
The moon of Rome; chasle as the isicle
That’s curdled by the frost from purest snow,
And hangs on Dian’s temple.
_Coriolanus, act 5. sc. 3._
Thus it is, that the respect and esteem, which the great, the powerful,
the opulent naturally command, are in some measure communicated to their
dress, to their manners, and to all their connections. It is this
principle, which in matters left to our own choice prevails over the
natural taste of beauty and propriety, and gives currency to what is
called _the fashion_.
By means of the same easiness of transition, the bad qualities of an
object are carried along, and grafted upon related objects. Every good
quality in a person is extinguished by hatred; and every bad quality is
spread upon all his connections. A relation more slight and transitory
than that of hatred, may have the same effect. Thus the bearer of bad
tidings becomes an object of aversion:
Fellow begone, I cannot brook thy sight,
This news hath made thee a most ugly man.
_King John, act 3. sc. 1._
Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news
Hath but a losing office: and his tongue
Sounds ever after, as a sullen bell
Remember’d, tolling a departing friend.
_Second part, Henry IV. act 1. sc. 3._
This disposition of the mind to communicate the properties of one object
to another, is not always proportioned to the intimacy of their
connection. The order of the transition from object to object, hath also
an influence. The sense of order operates not less powerfully in this
case, than in the succession of ideas[20]. If a thing be agreeable in
itself, all its accessories appear agreeable. But the agreeableness of
an accessory, extends not itself so readily to the principal. Any dress
upon a fine woman is becoming; but the most elegant ornaments upon one
that is homely, have scarce any effect to mend her appearance. The
reason will be obvious, from what is said in the chapter above cited.
The mind passes more easily from the principal to its accessories, than
in the opposite direction.
The emotions produced as above may properly be termed _secondary_, being
occasioned either by antecedent emotions or antecedent passions, which
in this respect may be termed _primary_. And to complete the present
theory, I must now remark a difference betwixt a primary emotion and a
primary passion in the production of secondary emotions. A secondary
emotion cannot but be more faint than the primary; and therefore, if the
chief or principal object have not the power to raise a passion, the
accessory object will have still less power. But if a passion be raised
by the principal object, the secondary emotion may readily swell into a
passion for the accessory, provided the accessory be a proper object for
desire. And thus it happens that one passion is often productive of
another. Examples are without number: the sole difficulty is a proper
choice. I begin with self-love, and the power it hath to generate other
passions. The love which parents bear their children, is an illustrious
example of the foregoing doctrine. Every man, beside making part of a
greater system, like a comet, a planet, or satellite only; hath a less
system of his own, in the centre of which he represents the sun
dispersing his fire and heat all around. The connection between a man
and his children, fundamentally that of cause and effect, becomes, by
the addition of other circumstances, the completest that can be among
individuals; and therefore, self-love, the most vigorous of all
passions, is readily expanded upon children. The secondary emotion they
at first produce by means of their connection, is, generally speaking,
sufficiently strong to move desire even from the beginning; and the new
passion swells by degrees, till it rival in some measure self-love, the
primary passion. The following case will demonstrate the truth of this
theory. Remorse for betraying a friend, or murdering an enemy in cold
blood, makes a man even hate himself. In this state, it is a matter of
experience, that he is scarce conscious of any affection to his
children, but rather of disgust or ill-will. What cause can be assigned
for this change, other than the hatred which beginning at himself, is
expanded upon his children? And if so, may we not with equal reason
derive from self-love the affection a man for ordinary has to them?
The affection a man bears to his blood-relations, depends on the same
principle. Self-love is also expanded upon them; and the communicated
passion, is more or less vigorous in proportion to the connection. Nor
doth self-love rest here: it is, by the force of connection,
communicated even to things inanimate. And hence the affection a man
bears to his property, and to every thing he calls his own.
Friendship, less vigorous than self-love, is, for that reason, less apt
to communicate itself to children or other relations. Instances however
are not wanting, of such communicated passion arising from friendship
when it is strong. Friendship may go higher in the matrimonial state
than in any other condition: and Otway, in _Venice preserv’d_, shows a
fine taste in taking advantage of that circumstance. In the scene where
Belvidera sues to her father for pardon, she is represented as pleading
her mother’s merit, and the resemblance she bore to her mother.
_Priuli._ My daughter!
_Belvidera._ Yes, your daughter, by a mother
Virtuous and noble, faithful to your honour,
Obedient to your will, kind to your wishes,
Dear to your arms. By all the joys she gave you,
When in her blooming years she was your treasure,
Look kindly on me; in my face behold
The lineaments of hers y’ have kiss’d so often,
Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off child.
And again,
_Belvidera._ Lay me, I beg you, lay me
By the dear ashes of my tender mother.
She would have pitied me, had fate yet spar’d her.
_Act 5. sc. 1._
This explains why any meritorious action or any illustrious
qualification in my son or my friend, is apt to make me overvalue
myself. If I value my friend’s wife or his son upon account of their
connection with him, it is still more natural that I should value myself
upon account of my own connection with him.
Friendship, or any other social affection, may produce opposite effects.
Pity, by interesting us strongly for the person in distress, must of
consequence inflame our resentment against the author of the distress.
For, in general, the affection we have for any man, generates in us
good-will to his friends and ill-will to his enemies. Shakespear shows
great art in the funeral oration pronounced by Antony over the body of
Cæsar. He first endeavours to excite grief in the hearers, by dwelling
upon the deplorable loss of so great a man. This passion raised to a
pitch, interesting them strongly in Cæsar’s fate, could not fail to
produce a lively sense of the treachery and cruelty of the conspirators;
an infallible method to inflame the resentment of the multitude beyond
all bounds.
_Antony._ If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle; I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on,
’Twas on a summer’s evening in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii----
Look! in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through;--
See what a rent the envious Casca made.----
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d;
And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar follow’d it!
As rushing out of doors, to be resolv’d,
If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no:
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar’s angel.
Judge, oh you gods! how dearly Cæsar lov’d him;
This, this, was the unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,
Quite vanquish’d him; then burst his mighty heart:
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell,
Even at the base of Pompey’s statue.
O what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us.
O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity; these are gracious drops.
Kind souls! what, weep you when you but behold
Our Cæsar’s vesture wounded? look you here!
Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, by traitors.
_Julius Cæsar, act 3. sc. 6._
Had Antony directed upon the conspirators the thoughts of his audience,
without paving the way by raising their grief, his speech perhaps might
have failed of success.
Hatred and other dissocial passions, produce effects directly opposite
to those above mentioned. If I hate a man, his children, his relations,
nay his property, become to me objects of aversion. His enemies, on the
other hand, I am disposed to esteem.
The more slight and transitory connections, have generally no power to
produce a communicated passion. Anger, when sudden and violent, is one
exception; for if the person who did the injury be removed out of reach,
this passion will vent itself upon any related object, however slight
the relation be. Another exception makes a greater figure. A group of
beings or things, becomes often the object of a communicated passion,
even where the relation of the individuals to the principal object is
but faint. Thus though I put no value upon a single man for living in
the same town with myself; my townsmen however, considered in a body,
are preferred before others. This is still more remarkable with respect
to my countrymen in general. The grandeur of the complex object, swells
the passion of self-love by the relation I have to my native country;
and every passion, when it swells beyond its ordinary bounds, hath, in
that circumstance, a peculiar tendency to expand itself along related
objects. In fact, instances are not rare, of persons, who, upon all
occasions, are willing to sacrifice their lives and fortunes for their
country. Such influence upon the mind of man, hath a complex object, or,
more properly speaking, a general term[21].
The sense of order hath, in the communication of passion, an influence
not less remarkable than in the communication of emotions. It is a
common observation, that a man’s affection to his parents is less
vigorous than to his children. The order of nature in descending to
children, aids the transition of the affection. The ascent to a parent,
contrary to this order, makes the transition more difficult. Gratitude
to a benefactor is readily extended to his children; but not so readily
to his parents. The difference however betwixt the natural and inverted
order, is not so considerable, but that it may be balanced by other
circumstances. Pliny[22] gives an account of a woman of rank condemned
to die for a crime; and, to avoid public shame, detained in prison to
die of hunger. Her life being prolonged beyond expectation, it was
discovered, that she was nourished by sucking milk from the breasts of
her daughter. This instance of filial piety, which aided the transition
and made ascent not less easy than descent is for ordinary, procured a
pardon to the mother, and a pension to both. The story of Androcles and
the lion[23] may be accounted for in the same manner. The admiration, of
which the lion was the cause, for his kindness and gratitude to
Androcles, produced good-will to Androcles, and pardon of his crime.
And this leads to other observations upon communicated passions. I love
my daughter less after she is married, and my mother less after a second
marriage. The marriage of my son or my father diminishes not my
affection so remarkably. The same observation holds with respect to
friendship, gratitude, and other passions. The love I bear my friend, is
but faintly extended to his married daughter. The resentment I have
against a man, is readily extended against children who make part of his
family: not so readily against children who are forisfamiliated,
especially by marriage. This difference is also more remarkable in
daughters than in sons. These are curious facts; and to evolve the cause
we must examine minutely, that operation of the mind by which a passion
is extended to a related object. In considering two things as related,
the mind is not stationary, but passeth and repasseth from the one to
the other, viewing the relation from each of them perhaps oftener than
once. This holds more especially in considering a relation betwixt
things of unequal rank, as betwixt the cause and the effect, or betwixt
a principal and an accessory. In contemplating the relation betwixt a
building and its ornaments, the mind is not satisfied with a single
transition from the former to the latter. It must also view the
relation, beginning at the latter, and passing from it to the former.
This vibration of the mind in passing and repassing betwixt things that
are related, explains the facts above mentioned. The mind passeth
easily from the father to the daughter; but where the daughter is
married, this new relation attracts the mind, and obstructs, in some
measure, the return from the daughter to the father. Any obstruction the
mind meets with in passing and repassing betwixt its objects, occasions
a like obstruction in the communication of passion. The marriage of a
male obstructs less the easiness of transition; because a male is less
sunk by the relation of marriage than a female.
The foregoing instances, are of passion communicated from one object to
another. But one passion may be generated by another, without change of
object. It may in general be observed, that a passion paves the way to
others, similar in their tone, whether directed upon the same or upon a
different object. For the mind heated by any passion, is, in that state,
more susceptible of a new impression in a similar tone, than when cool
and quiescent. It is a common observation, that pity generally produceth
friendship for a person in distress. Pity interests us in its object,
and recommends all its virtuous qualities. For this reason, female
beauty shows best in distress; and is more apt to inspire love, than
upon ordinary occasions. But it is chiefly to be remarked, that pity,
warming and melting the spectator, prepares him for the reception of
other tender affections; and pity is readily improved into love or
friendship, by a certain tenderness and concern for the object, which is
the tone of both passions. The aptitude of pity to produce love is
beautifully illustrated by Shakespear.
_Othello._ Her father lov’d me, oft invited me;
Still question’d me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have past.
I ran it through, e’en from my boyish days,
To th’ very moment that he bad me tell it:
Wherein I spoke of most disast’rous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field;
Of hair-breadth ’scapes in th’ imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And with it, all my travel’s history.
---- All these to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline;
But still the house-affairs would draw her thence,
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She’d come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not distinctively. I did consent,
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffer’d. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:
She swore, in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange--
’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful--
She wish’d she had not heard it:--yet she wish’d,
That heav’n had made her such a man:--she thank’d me,
And bad me, if I had a friend that lov’d her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. On this hint I spake,
She lov’d me for the dangers I had past,
And I lov’d her, that she did pity them:
This only is the witchcraft I have us’d.
_Othello, act 1. sc. 8._
In this instance it will be observed that admiration concurred with pity
to produce love.
SECT. V.
_Causes of the passions of fear and anger._
Fear and anger, to answer the purposes of nature, are happily so
contrived as to operate either instinctively or deliberately. So far as
they prompt actions considered as means leading to a certain end, they
fall in with the general system, and require no particular explanation.
If any object have a threatening appearance, reason suggests means to
avoid the danger. If I am injured, the first thing I think of, is in
what manner I shall be revenged, and what means I shall employ. These
particulars are not less obvious than natural. But as the passions of
fear and anger, so far as instinctive, are less familiar to us, and
their nature generally not understood; I thought it would not be
unacceptable to the reader to have them accurately delineated. He may
also possibly relish the opportunity of this specimen, to have the
nature of instinctive passions more fully explained than there was
formerly occasion to do. I begin with fear.
Self-preservation is to individuals a matter of too great importance to
be left entirely under the guardianship of self-love, which cannot be
put in exercise otherwise than by the intervention of reason and
reflection. Nature hath acted here with her usual precaution and
foresight. Fear and anger are passions common to all men; and by
operating instinctively, they frequently afford security when the slower
operations of deliberative reason would be too late. We take nourishment
commonly, not by the direction of reason, but by the incitement of
hunger and thirst. In the same manner, we avoid danger by the incitement
of fear, which often, before there is time for reflection, placeth us in
safety. This matter then is ordered with consummate wisdom. It is not
within the reach of fancy, to conceive any thing better fitted to
answer its purpose, than this instinctive passion of fear, which, upon
the first surmise of danger, operates instantaneously without
reflection. So little doth the passion, in such instances, depend on
reason, that we often find it exerted even in contradiction to reason,
and when we are conscious that there is no hazard. A man who is not much
upon his guard, cannot avoid shrinking at a blow, though he knows it to
be aimed in sport; nor closing his eyes at the approach of what may hurt
them, though he is confident it will not come their length. Influenced
by the same instinctive passion of fear, infants are much affected with
a stern look, a menacing tone, or other expression of anger; though,
being incapable of reflection, they cannot form the slightest judgement
about the import of these signs. This is all that is necessary to be
said in general. The natural connection betwixt fear and the external
signs of anger, will be handled in the chapter of the external signs of
emotions and passions.
Fear provides for self-preservation by flying from harm; anger, by
repelling it. Nothing indeed can be better contrived to repel or prevent
injury, than anger or resentment. Destitute of this passion, men, like
defenceless lambs, would lie constantly open to mischief[24]. Deliberate
anger caused by a voluntary injury, is too well known to require any
explanation. If my desire be in general to resent an afront, I must use
means, and these means must be discovered by reflection. Deliberation is
here requisite; and in this, which is the ordinary case, the passion
seldom exceeds just bounds. But where anger suddenly inflames me to
return a blow, the passion is instinctive, and the action ultimate; and
it is chiefly in such cases that the passion is rash and ungovernable,
because it operates blindly, without affording time for reason or
deliberation.
Instinctive anger is frequently raised by bodily pain, which, when
sudden and excessive as by a stroke on a tender part, ruffling the
temper and unhinging the mind, is in its tone similar to anger. Bodily
pain by this means disposes to anger, which is as suddenly raised,
provided an object be found to vent it upon. Anger commonly is not
provoked otherwise than by a voluntary injury. But when a man is thus
beforehand disposed to anger, he is not nice nor scrupulous about an
object. The man who gave the stroke, however accidentally, is by an
inflammable temper held a proper object, merely because he was the
occasion of the pain. It is still a stronger example of the kind, that a
stock or a stone, by which I am hurt, becomes an object for my
resentment. I am violently incited to bray it to atoms. The passion
indeed in this case is but momentary. It vanisheth with the first
reflection, being attended with no circumstance that can excuse it in
any degree. Nor is this irrational effect confined to bodily pain.
Inward distress, when excessive, may be the occasion of effects equally
irrational. When a friend is danger and the event uncertain, the
perturbation of mind occasioned thereby, will, in a fiery temper,
produce momentary fits of anger against this very friend, however
innocent. Thus Shakespear, in the _Tempest_,
_Alonzo._---- Sit down and rest.
Ev’n here I will put off my hope, and keep it
No longer for my flatterer: he is drown’d
Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.
_Act 3. sc. 3._
The final words, _Well, let him go_, are an expression of impatience and
anger at Ferdinand, whose absence greatly distressed his father,
dreading that he was lost in the storm. This nice operation of the human
mind, is by Shakespear exhibited upon another occasion, and finely
painted. In the tragedy of _Othello_, Iago, by dark hints and suspicious
circumstances, had roused Othello’s jealousy; which, however, appeared
too slightly founded to be vented upon Desdemona, its proper object. The
perturbation and distress of mind thereby occasioned, produced a
momentary resentment against Iago, considered as occasioning the
jealousy though innocent.
_Othello._ Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore;
Be sure of it: give me the ocular proof.
Or by the wrath of man’s eternal soul
Thou hadst been better have been born a dog,
Than answer my wak’d wrath.
_Iago._ Is’t come to this?
_Othello._ Make me see’t; or, at the least, so prove it,
That the probation bear no hinge or loop
To hang a doubt on: or woe upon thy life!
_Iago._ My Noble Lord----
_Othello._ If thou dost slander her and torture me,
Never pray more; abandon all remorse;
On horrors head horrors accumulate;
Do deeds to make heav’n weep, all earth amaz’d:
For nothing canst thou to damnation add
Greater than that.
_Othello, act 3. sc. 8._
This blind and absurd effect of anger, is more gaily illustrated by
Addison, in a story, the _dramatis personæ_ of which are a cardinal, and
a spy retained in pay for intelligence. The cardinal is represented as
minuting down every thing that is told him. The spy begins with a low
voice, “Such an one the advocate whispered to one of his friends within
my hearing, that your Eminence was a very great poltron;” and after
having given his patron time to take it down, adds, “That another called
him a mercenary rascal in a public conversation.” The cardinal replies,
“Very well,” and bids him go on. The spy proceeds, and loads him with
reports of the same nature, till the cardinal rises in great wrath,
calls him an impudent scoundrel, and kicks him out of the room[25].
We meet with instances every day of resentment raised by loss at play,
and wreaked on the cards or dice. But anger, a furious passion, is
satisfied with a connection still slighter than that of cause and
effect, of which Congreve, in the _Mourning Bride_, gives one beautiful
example.
_Gonsalez._ Have comfort.
_Almeria_. Curs’d be that tongue that bids me be of comfort,
Curs’d my own tongue that could not move his pity,
Curs’d these weak hands that could not hold him here,
For he is gone to doom Alphonso’s death.
_Act 4. sc. 8._
I have chosen to exhibit anger in its more rare appearances, for in
these we can best trace its nature and extent. In the examples above
given, it appears to be an absurd passion and altogether irrational. But
we ought to consider, that it is not the intention of nature to subject
this passion, in every instance, to reason and reflection. It was given
us to prevent or to repel injuries; and, like fear, it often operates
blindly and instinctively, without the least view to consequences. The
very first sensation of harm, sets it in motion to repel injury by
punishment. Were it more cool and deliberate, it would lose its
threatening appearance, and be insufficient to guard us against violence
and mischief. When such is and ought to be the nature of the passion, it
is not wonderful to find it exerted irregularly and capriciously, as it
sometimes is where the mischief is sudden and unforeseen. All the harm
that can be done by the passion in this case, is instantaneous; for the
shortest delay sets all to rights; and circumstances are seldom so
unlucky as to put it in the power of a passionate man to do much harm in
an instant.
SECT. VI.
_Emotions caused by fiction._
The attentive reader will observe, that in accounting for passions and
emotions, no cause hitherto has been assigned but what hath a real
existence. Whether it be a being, action, or quality, that moveth us, it
is supposed to be an object of our knowledge, or at least of our belief.
This observation discovers to us that the subject is not yet exhausted;
because our passions, as all the world know, are moved by fiction as
well as by truth. In judging beforehand of man, so remarkably addicted
to truth and reality, one should little dream that fiction could have
any effect upon him. But man’s intellectual faculties are too imperfect
to dive far even into his own nature. I shall take occasion afterward to
show, that this branch of the human constitution, is contrived with
admirable wisdom and is subservient to excellent purposes. In the mean
time, I must endeavour to unfold, by what means fiction hath such
influence on the mind.
That the objects of our senses really exist in the way and manner we
perceive, is a branch of intuitive knowledge. When I see a man walking,
a tree growing, or cattle grazing, I have a conviction that these things
are precisely as they appear. If I be a spectator of any transaction or
event, I have a conviction of the real existence of the persons engaged,
of their words, and of their actions. Nature determines us to rely on
the veracity of our senses. And indeed, if our senses did not convince
us of the reality of their objects, they could not in any degree answer
their end.
By the power of memory, a thing formerly seen may be recalled to the
mind with different degrees of accuracy. We commonly are satisfied with
a slight recollection of the chief circumstances; and, in such
recollection, the thing is not figured as present nor any image formed.
I retain the consciousness of my present situation, and barely remember
that formerly I was a spectator. But with respect to an interesting
object or event which made a strong impression, the mind sometimes, not
satisfied with a cursory review, chutes to revolve every circumstance.
In this case, I conceive myself to be a spectator as I was originally;
and I perceive every particular passing in my presence, in the same
manner as when I was in reality a spectator. For example, I saw
yesterday a beautiful woman in tears for the loss of an only child, and
was greatly moved with her distress. Not satisfied with a slight
recollection or bare remembrance, I insist on the melancholy scene.
Conceiving myself to be in the place where I was an eye-witness, every
circumstance appears to me as at first. I think I see the woman in tears
and hear her moans. Hence it may be justly said, that in a complete idea
of memory there is no past nor future. A thing recalled to the mind
with the accuracy I have been describing, is perceived as in our view,
and consequently as presently existing. Past time makes a part of an
incomplete idea only: I remember or reflect, that some years ago I was
at Oxford, and saw the first stone laid of the Ratcliff library; and I
remember that at a still greater distance of time, I heard a debate in
the house of Commons about a standing army.
Lamentable is the imperfection of language, almost in every particular
that falls not under external sense. I am talking of a matter exceeding
clear in itself, and of which every person must be conscious; and yet I
find no small difficulty to express it clearly in words; for it is not
accurate to talk of incidents long past as passing in our sight, nor of
hearing at present what we really heard yesterday or perhaps a year ago.
To this necessity I am reduced, by want of proper words to describe
ideal presence and to distinguish it from real presence. And thus in the
description, a plain subject becomes obscure and intricate. When I
recall any thing in the distinctest manner, so as to form an idea or
image of it as present; I have not words to describe this act, other
than that I perceive the thing as a spectator, and as existing in my
presence. This means not that I am really a spectator; but only that I
conceive myself to be a spectator, and have a consciousness of presence
similar to what a real spectator hath.
As many rules of criticism depend on ideal presence, the reader, it is
expected, will take some pains to form an exact notion of it, as
distinguished on the one hand from real presence, and on the other from
a superficial or reflective remembrance. It is distinguished from the
former by the following circumstance. Ideal presence arising from an act
of memory, may properly be termed _a waking dream_; because, like a
dream, it vanisheth upon the first reflection of our present situation.
Real presence, on the contrary, vouched by eye-sight, commands our
belief, not only during the direct perception, but in reflecting
afterward upon the object. And to distinguish ideal presence from the
latter, I give the following illustration. Two internal acts, both of
them exertions of memory, are clearly distinguishable. When I think of
an event as past, without forming any image, it is barely reflecting or
remembering that I was an eye-witness. But when I recall the event so
distinctly as to form a complete image of it, I perceive it ideally as
passing in my presence; and this ideal perception is an act of
intuition, into which reflection enters not more than into an act of
sight.
Though ideal presence be distinguished from real presence on the one
side and from reflective remembrance on the other, it is however
variable without any precise limits; rising sometimes toward the former,
and often sinking toward the latter. In a vigorous exertion of memory,
ideal presence is extremely distinct. When a man, as in a reverie, drops
himself out of his thoughts, he perceives every thing as passing before
him, and hath a consciousness of presence similar to that of a
spectator. There is no other difference, but that in the former the
consciousness of presence is less firm and clear than in the latter. But
this is seldom the case. Ideal presence is often faint, and the image
so obscure as not to differ widely from reflective remembrance.
Hitherto of an idea of memory. I proceed to consider the idea of a thing
I never saw, raised in me by speech, by writing, or by painting. This
idea, with respect to the present matter, is of the same nature with an
idea of memory, being either complete or incomplete. An important event,
by a lively and accurate description, rouses my attention and insensibly
transforms me into a spectator: I perceive ideally every incident as
passing in my presence. On the other hand, a slight or superficial
narrative produceth only a faint and incomplete idea, precisely similar
to a reflective recollection of memory. Of such idea, ideal presence
makes no part. Past time is a circumstance that enters into this idea,
as it doth into a reflective idea of memory. I believe that Scipio
existed about 2000 years ago, and that he overcame Hannibal in the
famous battle of Zama. When I revolve in so cursory a manner that
memorable event, I consider it as long past. But supposing me to be
warmed with the story, perhaps by a beautiful description, I am
insensibly transformed to a spectator. I perceive these two heroes in
act to engage; I perceive them brandishing their swords, and exhorting
their troops; and in this manner I attend them through every
circumstance of the battle. This event being present to my mind during
the whole progress of my thoughts, admits not any time but the present.
I have had occasion to observe[26], that ideas both of memory and of
speech, produce emotions of the same kind with what are produced by an
immediate view of the object; only fainter, in proportion as an idea is
fainter than an original perception. The insight we have now got,
unfolds the means by which this effect is produced. Ideal presence
supplies the want of real presence; and in idea we perceive persons
acting and suffering, precisely as in an original survey. If our
sympathy be engaged by the latter, it must also in some measure be
engaged by the former. The distinctness of ideal presence, as above
mentioned, approacheth sometimes to the distinctness of real presence;
and the consciousness of presence is the same in both. This is the cause
of the pleasure that is felt in a reverie, where a man, losing sight of
himself, is totally occupied with the objefts passing in his mind, which
he conceives to be really existing in his presence. The power of speech
to raise emotions, depends entirely on the artifice of raising such
lively and distinct images as are here described. The reader’s passions
are never sensibly moved, till he be thrown into a kind of reverie; in
which state, losing the consciousness of self, and of reading, his
present occupation, he conceives every incident as passing in his
presence, precisely as if he were an eye-witness. A general or
reflective remembrance hath not this effect. It may be agreeable in some
slight degree; but the ideas suggested by it, are too faint and obscure
to raise any thing like a sympathetic emotion. And were they ever so
lively, they pass with too much precipitation to have this effect. Our
emotions are never instantaneous: even those that come the soonest to
perfection, have different periods of birth, growth, and maturity; and
to give opportunity for these different periods, it is necessary that
the cause of every emotion be present to the mind a due time. The
emotion is completed by reiterated impressions. We know this to be the
case of objects of sight: we are scarce sensible of any emotion in a
quick succession even of the most beautiful objects. And if this hold in
the succession of original perceptions, how much more in the succession
of ideas?
Though all this while, I have been only describing what passeth in the
mind of every one and what every one must be conscious of, it was
necessary to enlarge upon it; because, however clear in the internal
conception, it is far from being so when described in words. Ideal
presence, though of general importance, hath scarce ever been touched by
any writer; and at any rate it could not be overlooked in accounting for
the effects produced by fiction. Upon this point, the reader I guess has
prevented me. It already must have occurred to him, that if, in
reading, ideal presence be the means by which our passions are moved, it
makes no difference whether the subject be a fable or a reality. When
ideal presence is complete, we perceive every object as in our sight;
and the mind, totally occupied with an interesting event, finds no
leisure for reflection of any sort. This reasoning, if any one hesitate,
is confirmed by constant and universal experience. Let us take under
consideration the meeting of Hector and Andromache in the sixth book of
the Iliad, or some of the passionate scenes in King Lear. These pictures
of human life, when we are sufficiently engaged, give an impression of
reality not less distinct than that given by the death of Otho in the
beautiful description of Tacitus. We never once reflect whether the
story be true or feigned. Reflection comes afterward, when we have the
scene no longer before our eyes. This reasoning will appear in a still
clearer light, by opposing ideal presence to ideas raised by a cursory
narrative; which ideas being faint, obscure, and imperfect, occupy the
mind so little as to solicit reflection. And accordingly, a curt
narrative of feigned incidents is never relished. Any slight pleasure it
affords, is more than counterbalanced by the disgust it inspires for
want of truth.
In support of the foregoing theory, I add what I reckon a decisive
argument. Upon examination it will be found, that genuine history
commands our passions by means of ideal presence solely; and therefore
that with respect to this effect, genuine history stands upon the same
footing with fable. To me it appears clear, that our sympathy must
vanish so soon as we begin to reflect upon the incidents related in
either. The reflection that a story is a pure fiction, will indeed
prevent our sympathy; but so will equally the reflection that the
persons described are no longer existing. It is present distress only
that moves my pity. My concern vanishes with the distress; for I cannot
pity any person who at present is happy. According to this theory,
founded clearly on human nature, a man long dead and insensible now of
past misfortunes, cannot move our pity more than if he had never
existed. The misfortunes described in a genuine history command our
belief: but then we believe also, that these misfortunes are at an end,
and that the persons described are at present under no distress. What
effect, for example, can the belief of the rape of Lucretia have to
raise our sympathy, when she died above 2000 years ago, and hath at
present no painful feeling of the injury done her? The effect of history
in point of instruction, depends in some measure upon its veracity. But
history cannot reach the heart, while we indulge any reflection upon the
facts. Such reflection, if it engage our belief, never fails at the same
time to poison our pleasure, by convincing us that our sympathy for
those who are dead and gone is absurd. And if reflection be laid aside,
history stands upon the same footing with fable. What effect either of
them may have to raise our sympathy, depends on the vivacity of the
ideas they raise; and with respect to that circumstance, fable is
generally more successful than history.
Of all the means for making an impression of ideal presence, theatrical
representation is the most powerful. That words independent of action
have the same power in a less degree, every one of sensibility must have
felt: A good tragedy will extort tears in private, though not so
forcibly as upon the stage. This power belongs also to painting. A good
historical picture makes a deeper impression than can be made by words,
though not equal to what is made by theatrical action. And as ideal
presence depends on a lively impression, painting seems to possess a
middle place betwixt reading and acting. In making an impression of
ideal presence, it is not less superior to the former than inferior to
the latter.
It must not however be thought, that our passions can be raised by
painting to such a height as can be done by words. Of all the successive
incidents that concur to produce a great event, a picture has the choice
but of one, because it is confined to a single instant of time. And
though the impression it makes, is the deepest that can be made
instantaneously; yet seldom can a passion be raised to any height in an
instant, or by a single impression. It was observed above, that our
passions, those especially of the sympathetic kind, require a
succession of impressions; and for that reason, reading and still more
acting have greatly the advantage, by the opportunity of reiterating
impressions without end.
Upon the whole, it is by means of ideal presence that our passions are
excited; and till words produce that charm they avail nothing. Even real
events intitled to our belief, must be conceived present and passing in
our sight before they can move us. And this theory serves to explain
several phenomena otherwise unaccountable. A misfortune happening to a
stranger, makes a less impression than happening to a man we know, even
where we are no way interested in him: our acquaintance with this man,
however slight, aids the conception of his suffering in our presence.
For the same reason, we are little moved with any distant event; because
we have more difficulty to conceive it present, than an event that
happened in our neighbourhood.
Every one is sensible, that describing a past event as present, has a
fine effect in language. For what other reason than that it aids the
conception of ideal presence? Take the following example.
And now with shouts the shocking armies clos’d,
To lances lances, shields to shields oppos’d;
Host against host the shadowy legions drew,
The sounding darts an iron tempest flew;
Victors and vanquish’d join promiscuous cries,
Triumphing shouts and dying groans arise,
With streaming blood the slipp’ry field is dy’d,
And slaughter’d heroes swell the dreadful tide.
In this passage we may observe how the writer inflamed with the subject,
insensibly slips from the past time to the present; led to this form of
narration by conceiving every circumstance as passing in his own sight.
And this at the same time has a fine effect upon the reader, by
advancing him to be as it were a spectator. But this change from the
past to the present requires some preparation; and is not graceful in
the same sentence where there is no stop in the sense; witness the
following passage.
Thy fate was next, O Phæstus! doom’d to feel
The great Idomeneus’ protended steel;
Whom Borus sent his son and only joy
From fruitful Tarne to the fields of Troy.
The Cretan jav’lin reach’d him from afar,
And pierc’d his shoulder as he mounts his car.
_Iliad_, v. 57.
It is still worse to fall back to the past in the same period; for this
is an anticlimax in description:
Through breaking ranks his furious course he bends,
And at the goddess his broad lance extends;
Through her bright veil the daring weapon drove,
Th’ ambrosial veil, which all the graces wove:
Her snowy hand the razing steel profan’d,
And the transparent skin with crimson stain’d.
_Iliad_, v. 415.
Again, describing the shield of Jupiter,
Here all the terrors of grim War appear,
Here rages Force, here tremble Flight and Fear,
Here storm’d Contention, and here Fury frown’d,
And the dire orb portentous Gorgon crown’d.
_Iliad_, v. 914.
Nor is it pleasant to be carried backward and forward alternately in a
rapid succession:
Then dy’d Seamandrius, expert in the chace,
In woods and wilds to wound the savage race;
Diana taught him all her sylvan arts,
To bend the bow and aim unerring darts:
But vainly here Diana’s arts he tries,
The fatal lance arrests him as he flies;
From Menelaus’ arm the weapon sent,
Through his broad back and heaving bosom went:
Down sinks the warrior with a thund’ring sound,
His brazen armor rings against the ground.
_Iliad_, v. 65.
It is wonderful to observe, upon what slender foundations nature,
sometimes, erects her most solid and magnificent works. In appearance at
least, what can be more slight than ideal presence of objects? And yet
upon it entirely is superstructed, that extensive influence which
language hath over the heart; an influence, which, more than any other
means, strengthens the bond of society, and attracts individuals from
their private system to exert themselves in acts of generosity and
benevolence. Matters of fact, it is true, and truth in general, may be
inculcated without taking advantage of ideal presence. But without it,
the finest speaker or writer would in vain attempt to move any of our
passion: our sympathy would be confined to objects that are really
present: and language would lose entirely that signal power it
possesseth, of making us sympathize with beings removed at the greatest
distance of time as well as of place. Nor is the influence of language,
by means of this ideal presence, confined to the heart. It reaches also
in some measure the understanding, and contributes to belief. When
events are related in a lively manner and every circumstance appears as
passing before us, it is with difficulty that we suffer the truth of the
facts to be questioned. A historian accordingly who hath a genius for
narration, seldom fails to engage our belief. The same facts related in
a manner cold and indistinct, are not suffered to pass without
examination. A thing ill described, is like an object seen at a distance
or through a mist: we doubt whether it be a reality or a fiction. For
this reason, a poet who can warm and animate his reader, may employ
bolder fictions than ought to be ventured by an inferior genius. The
reader, once thoroughly engaged, is in that situation susceptible of
the strongest impressions:
Veraque constituunt, quæ bellè tangere possunt
Aureis, et lepido quæ sunt fucata sonore.
_Lucretius, lib. 1. l. 644._
A masterly painting has the same effect. Le Brun is no small support to
Quintus Curtius; and among the vulgar in Italy, the belief of
scripture-history is perhaps founded as much upon the authority of
Raphael, Michael Angelo, and other celebrated painters, as upon that of
the sacred writers[27].
In establishing the foregoing theory, the reader has had the fatigue of
much dry reasoning. But his labour will not be fruitless. From this
theory are derived many useful rules in criticism, which shall be
mentioned in their proper places. One specimen, being a fine
illustration, I chuse to give at present. In a historical poem
representing human actions, it is a rule, that no improbable incident
ought to be admitted. A circumstance, an incident, or an event, may be
singular, may surprise by being unexpected, and yet be extremely
natural. The improbability I talk of, is that of an irregular fact,
contrary to the order and course of nature, and therefore unaccountable.
A chain of imagined facts linked together according to the order of
nature, find easy entrance into the mind; and if described with warmth
of fancy, they produce complete images, including ideal presence. But it
is with great difficulty that we admit any irregular fact; for an
irregular fact always puzzles the judgement. Doubtful of its reality we
immediately enter upon reflection, and discovering the cheat, lose all
relish and concern. This is an unhappy effect; for thereafter it
requires more than an ordinary effort, to restore the waking dream, and
to make the reader conceive even the more probable incidents as passing
in his presence.
I never was an admirer of machinery in an epic poem; and I now find my
taste justified by reason; the foregoing argument concluding still more
strongly against imaginary beings, than against improbable facts.
Fictions of this nature may amuse by their novelty and singularity: but
they never move the sympathetic passions, because they cannot impose on
the mind any perception of reality. I appeal to the discerning reader,
whether this be not precisely the case of the machinery introduced by
Tasso and by Voltaire. This machinery is not only in itself cold and
uninteresting, but is remarkably hurtful, by giving an air of fiction to
the whole composition. A burlesque poem, such as the Lutrin or the
Dispensary, may employ machinery with success; for these poems, though
they assume the air of history, give entertainment chiefly by their
pleasant and ludicrous pictures, to which machinery contributes in a
singular manner. It is not the aim of such a poem, to raise our sympathy
in any considerable degree; and for that reason, a strict imitation of
nature is not required. A poem professedly ludicrous, may employ
machinery to great advantage; and the more extravagant the better. A
just representation of nature, would indeed be incongruous in a
composition intended to give entertainment by the means chiefly of
singularity and surprise.
For accomplishing the task undertaken in the beginning of the present
section, what only remains is, to show the final cause of the power that
fiction hath over the mind of man. I have already mentioned, that
language, by means of fiction, has the command of our sympathy for the
good of others. By the same means, our sympathy may be also raised for
our own good. In the third section it is observed, that examples both of
virtue and of vice raise virtuous emotions; which becoming stronger by
exercise, tend to make us virtuous by habit as well as by principle. I
now further observe, that examples drawn from real events, are not so
frequent as to contribute much to a habit of virtue. If they be, they
are not recorded by historians. It therefore shows great wisdom, to form
us in such a manner, as to be susceptible of the same improvement from
fable that we receive from genuine history. By this admirable
contrivance, examples to improve us in virtue may be multiplied without
end. No other sort of discipline contributes more to make virtue
habitual; and no other sort is so agreeable in the application. I add
another final cause with thorough satisfaction; because it shows, that
the author of our nature is not less kindly provident for the happiness
of his creatures, than for the regularity of their conduct. The power
that fiction hath over the mind of man, is the source of an endless
variety of refined amusement, always ready to employ a vacant hour. Such
amusement is a fine resource in solitude; and by sweetening the temper,
improves society.