PART VII.

_Final causes of the more frequent emotions and passions._

It is a law in our nature, that we never act but by the impulse of

desire; which in other words is saying, that it is passion, by the

desire included in it, which determines the will. Hence in the conduct

of life, it is of the utmost importance, that our passions be directed

upon proper objects, tend to just and rational ends, and with relation

to each other be duly balanced. The beauty of contrivance, so

conspicuous in the human frame, is not confined to the rational part of

our nature, but is visible over the whole. Concerning the passions in

particular, however irregular, headstrong, and perverse, in an overly

view, they may appear, I propose to show, that they are by nature

adjusted and tempered with admirable wisdom, for the good of society as

well as for private good. This subject is extensive: but as the nature

of the present undertaking will not admit a complete discussion, it

shall suffice to give a few observations in general upon the sensitive

part of our nature, without regarding that strange irregularity of

passion discovered in some individuals. Such topical irregularities, if

I may use the term, cannot fairly be held an objection to the present

theory. We are frequently, it is true, misled by inordinate passion: but

we are also, and perhaps not less frequently, misled by wrong judgement.

In order to a distinct apprehension of the present subject, it must be

premised, that an agreeable object produceth always a pleasant emotion,

and a disagreeable object one that is painful. This is a general law of

nature, which admits not a single exception. Agreeableness in the object

or cause is indeed so essentially connected with pleasure in the emotion

its effect, that an agreeable object cannot be better defined, than by

its power of producing a pleasant emotion. Disagreeableness in the

object or cause, has the same necessary connection with pain in the

emotion produced by it.

From this preliminary it appears, that to inquire for what end an

emotion is made pleasant or painful, resolves into an inquiry for what

end its cause is made agreeable or disagreeable. And from the most

accurate induction it will be discovered, that no cause of an emotion is

made agreeable or disagreeable arbitrarily; but that these qualities are

so distributed as to answer wise and good purposes. It is an invincible

proof of the benignity of the Deity, that we are surrounded with things

generally agreeable, which contribute remarkably to our entertainment

and to our happiness. Some things are made disagreeable, such as a

rotten carcass, because they are noxious. Others, a dirty marsh, for

example, or a barren heath, are made disagreeable in order to excite our

industry. And with respect to the few things that are neither agreeable

nor disagreeable; it will be made evident, that their being left

indifferent is not a work of chance but of wisdom. Of such I shall have

occasion to give several instances.

Having attempted to assign the final causes of emotions and passions

considered as pleasant or painful, we proceed to the final causes of the

desires involved in them. This seems a work of some difficulty; for the

desires that accompany different passions have very different aims, and

seldom or never demand precisely the same gratification. One passion

moves us to cling to its object, one to fly from it; one passion impels

to action for our own good, and one for the good of others; one passion

prompts us to do good to ourselves or others, and one to do mischief,

frequently to others, and sometimes even to ourselves. Deliberating upon

this intricate subject, and finding an intimate correspondence betwixt

our desires and their objects, it is natural to think that the former

must be regulated in some measure by the latter. In this view, I begin

with desire directed upon an inanimate object.

Any pleasure we have in an agreeable object of this kind, is enjoyed by

the continuance of the pleasant impression it makes upon us; and

accordingly the desire involved in the pleasant emotion tends to that

end, and is gratified by dwelling upon the agreeable object. Hence such

an object may be properly termed _attractive_. Thus a flowing river, a

towering hill, a fine garden, are attractive objects. They fix the

attention of the spectator, by inspiring pleasant emotions, which are

gratified by adhering to these objects and enjoying them. On the other

hand, a disagreeable object of the same kind, raises in us a painful

emotion including a desire to turn from the object, which relieves us of

course from the pain; and hence such an object may be properly termed

_repulsive_. A monstrous birth, for example, a rotten carcass, a

confusion of jarring sounds, are repulsive. They repel the mind, by

inspiring painful or unpleasant emotions, which are gratified by flying

from such objects. Thus in general, with regard to inanimate objects,

the desire included in every pleasant passion tends to prolong the

pleasure, and the desire included in every painful passion tends to put

an end to the pain. Here the final cause is evident. Our desires, so

far, are modelled in such a manner as to correspond precisely to the

sensitive part of our nature, prone to happiness and averse to misery.

These operations of adhering to an agreeable inanimate object, and

flying from one that is disagreeable, are performed in the beginning of

life by means of desire impelling us, without the intervention of reason

or reflection. Reason and reflection directing self-love, become

afterward motives that unite their force with desire; because experience

informs us, that the adhering to agreeable objects and the flying from

those that are disagreeable, contribute to our happiness.

Sensible Beings considered as objects of passion, lead us into a more

complex theory. A sensible being that is agreeable by its attributes,

inspires us with a pleasant emotion; and the desire included in this

emotion has evidently different means of gratification. A man regarding

himself only, may be satisfied with viewing and contemplating this

being, precisely as if it were inanimate; or he may desire the more

generous gratification of making it happy. Were man altogether selfish,

it would be conformable to his nature, that he should indulge the

pleasant emotion without making any acknowledgement to the person who

gives him pleasure, more than to a pure air or temperate clime when he

enjoys these benefits. But as man is endued with a principle of

benevolence as well as of selfishness, he is prompted by his nature to

desire the good of every sensible being that gives him pleasure. And the

final cause of desire so directed, is illustrious. It contributes to a

man’s own happiness, by affording him more means of gratification than

he can have when his desire terminates upon himself alone; and at the

same time it tends eminently to improve the happiness of those with whom

he is connected. The directing our desires in this manner, occasions a

beautiful coalition of self-love with benevolence; for both are equally

promoted by the same internal impulse, and by the same external conduct.

And this consideration, by the way, ought to silence those minute

philosophers, who, ignorant of human nature, teach a most disgustful

doctrine. That to serve others unless with a view to our own good, is

weakness and folly; as if self-love only contributed to happiness and

not benevolence. The hand of God is too visible in the human frame, to

permit us to think seriously, that there ever can be any jarring or

inconsistency among natural principles, those especially of self-love

and benevolence, which regulate the bulk of our actions.

Next in order come sensible Beings that are in affliction or pain. It is

disagreeable to behold a person in distress; and therefore this object

must raise in the spectator an uneasy emotion. Were man purely a selfish

being, he would be prompted by his nature to turn from every object,

animate or inanimate, that gives him uneasiness. But the principle of

benevolence gives an opposite direction to his desire. It impels him to

afford relief; and by relieving the person from distress, his desire is

fully gratified. Our benevolence to a person in distress is inflamed

into an emotion of sympathy, signifying in Greek the painful emotion

that is raised in us by that person. Thus sympathy, though a painful

emotion, is in its nature attractive. And with respect to its final

cause, we can be at no loss. It not only tends to relieve a

fellow-creature from pain, but in its gratification is greatly more

pleasant than if it were repulsive.

We in the last place bring under consideration persons hateful by vice

or wickedness. Imagine a wretch who has lately perpetrated some horrid

crime. He is disagreeable to every spectator; and consequently raises in

every spectator a painful emotion. What is the natural gratification of

the desire that accompanies this painful emotion? I must here again

observe, that supposing man to be entirely a selfish being, he would be

prompted by his nature to relieve himself from the pain by averting his

eye, and banishing the criminal from his thoughts. But man is not so

constituted. He is composed of many principles, which, though seemingly

contradictory, are perfectly concordant. The principle of benevolence

influences his conduct, not less remarkably than that of selfishness.

And in order to answer the foregoing question, I must introduce a third

principle, not less remarkable in its influence than either of those

mentioned. It is that principle common to all, which prompts us to

punish those who do wrong. An envious, malicious, or cruel action, is

disagreeable to me even where I have no connection with the sufferer,

and raises in me the painful emotion of resentment. The gratification of

this emotion, when accompanied with desire, is directed by the principle

now unfolded. Being prompted by my nature to punish guilt as well as to

reward virtue, my desire is not gratified but by inflicting punishment.

I must chastise the wretch by indignation at least and hatred, if not

more severely. Here the final cause is self-evident.

An injury done to myself, touching me more than when done to others,

raises my resentment in a higher degree. The desire accordingly included

in this passion, is not satisfied with so slight a punishment as

indignation or hatred. It is not fully gratified without retaliation;

and the author must by my hand suffer mischief, as great at least as he

has done me. Neither can we be at any loss about the final cause of this

higher degree of resentment. The whole vigor of this passion is required

to secure individuals from the injustice and oppression of others[48].

A wicked or disgraceful action, is disagreeable not only to others, but

even to the delinquent himself. It raises in him as well as in others a

painful emotion including a desire of punishment. The painful emotion

which the delinquent feels, is distinguished by the name of _remorse_;

and in this case the desire he has to punish is directed against

himself. There cannot be imagined a better contrivance to deter us from

vice; for remorse is the severest of all punishments. This passion and

the desire of self-punishment derived from it, are touched delicately by

Terence.

_Menedemus._ Ubi comperi ex iis, qui ei fuere conscii,

Domum revortor mœstus, atque animo fere

Perturbato, atque incerto præ ægritudine:

Adsido, adcurrunt servi, soccos detrahunt:

Video alios festinare, lectos sternere,

Cœnam adparare: pro se quisque sedulo

Faciebat, quo illam mihi lenirent miseriam.

Ubi video hæc, cœpi cogitare: Hem! tot mea

Solius solliciti sint causa, ut me unum expleant?

Ancillæ tot me vestiant? sumptus domi

Tantos ego solus faciam? sed gnatum unicum,

Quem pariter uti his decuit, aut etiam amplius,

Quod illa ætas magis ad hæc utenda idonea ’st,

Eum ego hinc ejeci miserum injustitia mea.

Malo quidem me dignum quovis deputem,

Si id faciam. nam usque dum ille vitam illam colet

Inopem, carens patria ob meas injurias,

Interea usque illi de me supplicium dabo:

Laborans, quærens, parcens, illi serviens,

Ita facio prorsus: nihil relinquo in ædibus,

Nec vas, nec vestimentum: conrasi omnia,

Ancillas, servos, nisi eos, qui opere rustico

Faciundo facile sumptum exercerent suum:

Omnes produxi ac vendidi: inscripsi ilico

Ædeis mercede: quasi talenta ad quindecim

Coëgi: agrum hunc mercatus sum: hic me exerceo.

Decrevi tantisper me minus injuriæ,

Chreme, meo gnato facere, dum fiam miser:

Nec fas esse ulla me voluptate hic frui,

Nisi ubi ille huc salvos redierit meus particeps.

_Heautontimerumenos, act 1. sc. 1._

Otway reaches the same sentiment:

_Monimia._ Let mischiefs multiply! let ev’ry hour

Of my loath’d life yield me increase of horror!

Oh let the sun to these unhappy eyes

Ne’er shine again, but be eclips’d for ever!

May every thing I look on seem a prodigy,

To fill my soul with terror, till I quite

Forget I ever had humanity,

And grow a curser of the works of nature!

_Orphan, act 4._

The cases mentioned are, where benevolence alone or where desire of

punishment alone, governs without a rival. And it was necessary to

handle these cases separately, in order to elucidate a subject which by

writers is left in great obscurity. But neither of these principles

operates always without rivalship. Cases may be figured, and cases

actually exist, where the same person is an object both of sympathy and

of desire to punish. Thus the sight of a profligate in the venereal

disease, over-run with botches and sores, actuates both principles.

While his distress fixes my attention, sympathy exerts itself; but so

soon as I think of his profligacy, hatred prevails, and a desire to

punish. This in general is the case of distress occasioned by immoral

actions that are not highly criminal. And if the distress and the

immoral action be in any proportion, sympathy and hatred

counterbalancing each other will not suffer me either to afford relief

or to inflict punishment. What then will be the result of the whole? The

principle of self-love solves the question. Abhorring an object so

loathsome, I naturally avert my eye, and walk off as fast as I can, in

order to be relieved from the pain.

The present subject gives birth to several other observations, for which

I could not find room above, without relaxing more from the strictness

of order and connection, than with safety could be indulged in

discoursing upon a matter that with difficulty is made perspicuous, even

with all the advantages of order and connection. These observations I

shall throw out loosely as they occur, without giving myself any further

trouble about method.

No action good or bad is altogether indifferent even to a mere

spectator. If good, it inspires esteem; and indignation, if wicked. But

it is remarkable, that these emotions seldom are accompanied with

desire. The abilities of man are limited, and he finds sufficient

employment, in relieving the distressed, in requiting his benefactors,

and in punishing those who wrong him, without moving out of his own

sphere for the benefit or chastisement of those with whom he has no

connection.

If the good qualities of others excite my benevolence, the same

qualities in myself must produce a similar effect in a superior degree,

upon account of the natural partiality every man hath for himself. This

increases self-love. If these qualities be of a high rank, they produce

a feeling of superiority, which naturally leads me to assume some sort

of government over others. Mean qualities, on the other hand, produce in

me a feeling of inferiority, which naturally leads me to submit to

others. Unless such feelings were distributed among individuals in

society by measure and proportion, there could be no natural

subordination of some to others, which is the principal foundation of

government.

No other branch of the human constitution shows more visibly our

destination for society, nor tends more to our improvement, than

appetite for fame or esteem. The whole conveniencies of life being

derived from mutual aid and support in society, it ought to be a capital

aim, to form connections with others so strict and so extensive as to

produce a firm reliance on many for succour in time of need. Reason

dictates this lesson. But reason solely is not relied on in a matter of

such consequence. We are moved by a natural appetite, to be solicitous

about esteem and respect as we are about food when hungry. This

appetite, at the same time, is finely adjusted to the moral branch of

our constitution, by promoting all the moral virtues. For what

infallible means are there to attract love and esteem, other than a

virtuous course of life? If a man be just and beneficent, if he be

temperate modest and prudent, he will infallibly gain the esteem and

love of all who know him.

The communication of passion to related objects, is an illustrious

instance of the care of Providence, to extend social connections as far

as the limited nature of man can admit. This communication of passion is

so far unhappy as to spread the malevolent passions beyond their natural

bounds. But let it be remarked, that this unhappy effect regards savages

only, who give way to malevolent passions. Under the discipline of

society, these passions are subdued, and in a good measure eradicated.

In their place succeed the kindly affections, which, meeting with all

encouragement, take possession of the mind and govern our whole actions.

In this condition, the progress of passion along related objects, by

spreading the kindly affections through a multitude of individuals, hath

a glorious effect.

Nothing can be more entertaining to a rational mind, than the œconomy of

the human passions, of which I have attempted to give some faint notion.

It must however be confessed, that our passions, when they happen to

swell beyond their proper limits, take on a less regular appearance.

Reason may proclaim our duty, but the will influenced by passion, makes

gratification always welcome. Hence the power of passion, which, when in

excess, cannot be resisted but by the utmost fortitude of mind. It is

bent upon gratification; and where proper objects are wanting, it clings

to any object at hand without distinction. Thus joy inspired by a

fortunate event, is diffused upon every person around by acts of

benevolence; and resentment for an atrocious injury done by one out of

reach, seizes the first object that occurs to vent itself upon. Those

who believe in prophecies, even wish the accomplishment; and a weak mind

is disposed voluntarily to fulfil a prophecy, in order to gratify its

wish. Shakespear, whom no particle of human nature hath escaped, however

remote from common observation, describes this weakness:

_K. Henry._ Doth any name particular belong

Unto that lodging where I first did swoon?

_Warwick._ ’Tis call’d _Jerusalem_, my Noble Lord.

_K. Henry._ Laud be to God! even there my life must end.

It hath been prophesy’d to me many years,

I should not die but in Jerusalem,

Which vainly I suppos’d the holy land.

But bear me to that chamber, there I’ll lie:

In that Jerusalem shall Henry die.

_Second part, Henry IV. act 4. sc. last._

I could not deny myself the amusement of the foregoing observation,

though it doth not properly come under my plan. The irregularities of

passion proceeding from peculiar weaknesses and biasses, I do not

undertake to justify; and of these we have had many examples.[49] It is

sufficient that passions common to all and as generally exerted, are

made subservient to beneficial purposes. I shall only observe, that in a

polished society instances of irregular passions are rare, and that

their mischief doth not extend far.

CHAP. III.

BEAUTY.

Having discoursed in general of emotions and passions, I proceed to a

more narrow inspection of some particulars that serve to unfold the

principles of the fine arts. It is the province of a writer upon ethics,

to give a full enumeration of all the passions; and of each separately

to assign the nature, the cause, the gratification, and the effects. But

a treatise of ethics is not my province. I carry my view no farther than

to the elements of criticism, in order to show that the fine arts are a

subject of reasoning as well as of taste. An extensive work would be ill

suited to a design so limited; and to keep within moderate bounds, the

following plan may contribute. It has already been observed, that things

are the causes of emotions, by means of their properties and

attributes[50]. This furnisheth a hint for distribution. Instead of a

painful and tedious examination of the several passions and emotions, I

propose to confine my inquiries to such attributes, relations, and

circumstances, as in the fine arts are chiefly employed to raise

agreeable emotions. Attributes of single objects, as the most simple,

shall take the lead; to be followed with particulars that depend on the

relations of objects, and are not found in any one object singly

considered. Dispatching next some coincident matters, I approach nearer

to practice, by applying the principles unfolded in the foregoing parts

of the work. This is a general view of the intended method; reserving

however a privilege to vary it in particular instances, where a

different method may be more commodious. I begin with beauty, the most

noted of all the qualities that belong to single objects.

The term _beauty_, in its native signification, is appropriated to

objects of sight. Objects of the other senses may be agreeable, such as

the sounds of musical instruments, the smoothness and softness of some

surfaces: but the agreeableness denominated _beauty_ belongs to objects

of sight.

Of all the objects of the external senses, an object of sight is the

most complex. In the very simplest, colour is perceived, figure, and

length breadth and thickness. A tree is composed of a trunk, branches,

and leaves. It has colour, figure, size, and sometimes motion. By means

of each of these particulars, separately considered, it appears

beautiful: how much more so, when they enter all into one complex

perception? The beauty of the human figure is extraordinary, being a

composition of numberless beauties arising from the parts and qualities

of the object, various colours, various motions, figure, size, _&c._;

all uniting in one complex perception, and striking the eye with

combined force. Hence it is, that beauty, a quality so remarkable in

visible objects, lends its name to express every thing that is eminently

agreeable. Thus, by a figure of speech, we say a beautiful sound, a

beautiful thought or expression, a beautiful theorem, a beautiful event,

a beautiful discovery in art or science. But as figurative expression

is not our present theme, this chapter is confined to beauty in its

genuine signification.

It is natural to suppose, that a perception so various as that of

beauty, comprehending sometimes many particulars, sometimes few, should

occasion emotions equally various. And yet all the various emotions of

beauty maintain one general character of sweetness and gaiety.

Considering attentively the beauty of visible objects, we discover two

kinds. One may be termed _intrinsic_ beauty, because it is discovered in

a single object viewed apart without relation to any other object. The

examples above given, are of that kind. The other may be termed

_relative_ beauty, being founded on the relation of objects. The former

is a perception of sense merely; for to perceive the beauty of a

spreading oak or of a flowing river, no more is required but singly an

act of vision. The latter is accompanied with an act of understanding

and reflection; for of a fine instrument or engine, we perceive not the

relative beauty, until we be made acquainted with its use and

destination. In a word, intrinsic beauty is ultimate: relative beauty is

that of means relating to some good end or purpose. These different

beauties agree in one capital circumstance, that both are equally

perceived as spread upon the object. This will be readily admitted with

respect to intrinsic beauty; but is not so obvious with respect to the

other. The utility of the plough, for example, may make it an object of

admiration or of desire; but why should utility make it appear

beautiful? A principle mentioned above[51], will explain this doubt. The

beauty of the effect, by an easy transition of ideas, is transferred to

the cause, and is perceived as one of the qualities of the cause. Thus a

subject void of intrinsic beauty, appears beautiful from its utility. An

old Gothic tower that has no beauty in itself, appears beautiful,

considered as proper to defend against an enemy. A dwelling-house void

of all regularity, is however beautiful in the view of convenience; and

the want of form or symmetry in a tree, will not prevent its appearing

beautiful, if it be known to produce good fruit.

When these two beauties concur in any object, it appears delightful.

Every member of the human body possesses both in a high degree. The

slender make of a horse destined for running, pleases every taste;

partly from symmetry, and partly from utility.

The beauty of utility, being proportioned accurately to the degree of

utility, requires no illustration. But intrinsic beauty, so complex as I

have said, cannot be handled distinctly without being analized into its

constituent parts. If a tree be beautiful by means of its colour, its

figure, its size, its motion, it is in reality possessed of so many

different beauties, which ought to be examined separately, in order to

have a clear notion of the whole. The beauty of colour is too familiar

to need explanation. The beauty of figure requires an accurate

discussion, for in it many circumstances are involved. When any portion

of matter is viewed as a whole, the beauty of its figure arises from

regularity and simplicity. Viewing the parts with relation to each

other, uniformity, proportion, and order, contribute to its beauty. The

beauty of motion deserves a chapter by itself; and another chapter is

destined for grandeur, being distinguishable from beauty in a strict

sense. For the definitions of regularity, uniformity, proportion, and

order, if thought necessary, I remit my reader to the appendix at the

end of the book. Upon simplicity I must make a few cursory observations,

such as may be of use in examining the beauty of single objects.

A multitude of objects crowding into the mind at once, disturb the

attention, and pass without making any impression, or any lasting

impression. In a group, no single object makes the figure it would do

apart, when it occupies the whole attention[52]. For the same reason,

even a single object, when it divides the attention by the multiplicity

of its parts, equals not, in strength of impression, a more simple

object comprehended in a single view. Parts extremely complex must be

considered in portions successively; and a number of impressions in

succession, which cannot unite because not simultaneous, never touch the

mind like one entire impression made as it were at one stroke. This

justifies simplicity in works of art, as opposed to complicated

circumstances and crowded ornaments. There is an additional reason for

simplicity, in works that make an impression of dignity or elevation.

The mind attached to beauties of a high rank, cannot descend to inferior

beauties. And yet, notwithstanding these reasons, we find profuse

decoration prevailing in works of art. But this is no argument against

simplicity, For authors and architects who cannot reach the higher

beauties, endeavour to supply their want of genius by dealing in those

that are inferior. In all ages, the best writers and artists have been

governed by a taste for simplicity.

These things premised, I proceed to examine the beauty of figure, as

arising from the above-mentioned particulars, _viz._ regularity,

uniformity, proportion, order, and simplicity. To exhaust this subject,

would of itself require a large volume. I limit myself to a few cursory

remarks, as matter for future disquisition. To inquire why an object, by

means of the particulars mentioned, appears beautiful, would I am afraid

be a vain attempt. It seems the most probable opinion, that the nature

of man was originally framed with a relish for them, in order to answer

wise and good purposes. The final causes have not hitherto been

ascertained, though they are not probably beyond our reach. One thing is

clear, that regularity, uniformity, order, and simplicity, contribute

each of them to readiness of apprehension; and enable us to form more

distinct images of objects, than can be done with the utmost attention

where these particulars are not found. This final cause is, I

acknowledge, too slight, to account satisfactorily for a taste that

makes a figure so illustrious in the nature of man. That this branch of

our constitution hath a purpose still more important, we have great

reason to believe. With respect to proportion, I am still less

successful. In several instances, accurate proportion is connected with

utility. This in particular is the case of animals; for those that are

the best proportioned, are the strongest and most active. But instances

are still more numerous, where the proportions we relish the most, have

no connection, so far as we see, with utility. Writers on architecture

insist much upon the proportions of a column; and assign different

proportions to the Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian. But no architect will

maintain, that the most accurate proportions contribute more to use,

than several that are less accurate and less agreeable. Neither will it

be maintained, that the proportions assigned for the length breadth and

height of rooms, tend to make them the more commodious. It appears then,

so far as we can discover, that we have a taste for proportion

independent altogether of utility. One thing indeed is certain, that any

external object proportioned to our taste, is delightful. This furnishes

a hint. May it not be thought a good final cause of proportion, that it

contributes to our entertainment? The author of our nature has given

many signal proofs, that this end is not below his care. And if so, why

should we hesitate in assigning this as an additional final cause of

regularity, and the other particulars above mentioned? We may be

confirmed in this thought, by reflecting, that our taste, with respect

to these, is not occasional or accidental, but uniform and universal,

making an original branch of human nature.

One might fill a volume with the effects that are produced by the

endless combinations of the principles of beauty. I have room only for a

slight specimen, confined to the simplest figures. A circle and a square

are each of them perfectly regular, being equally confined to a precise

form, and admitting not the slightest variation. A square however is

less beautiful than a circle, because it is less simple. A circle has

parts as well as a square; but its parts not being distinct like those

of a square, it makes one entire impression; whereas the attention is

divided among the sides and angles of a square. The effect of simplicity

may be illustrated by another example. A square, though not more

regular than a hexagon or octagon, is more beautiful than either; for

what other reason, than that a square is more simple, and the attention

less divided? This reasoning will appear still more solid when we

consider any regular polygon of very many sides; for of such figure the

mind can never have any distinct perception. Simplicity thus contributes

to beauty.

A square is more beautiful than a parallelogram. The former exceeds the

latter in regularity and in uniformity of parts. But this holds with

respect to intrinsic beauty only; for in many instances, utility comes

in to cast the balance on the side of the parallelogram. This figure for

the doors and windows of a dwelling-house, is preferred because of

utility; and here we find the beauty of utility prevailing over that of

regularity and uniformity.

A parallelogram again depends, for its beauty, on the proportion of its

sides. The beauty is lost by a great inequality of sides. It is also

lost, on the other hand, by the approximation toward equality.

Proportion in this circumstance degenerates into imperfect uniformity;

and the figure upon the whole appears an unsuccessful attempt toward a

square.

An equilateral triangle yields not to a square in regularity nor in

uniformity of parts, and it is more simple. But an equilateral triangle

is less beautiful than a square, which must be owing to inferiority of

order in the position of its parts. The sides of an equilateral triangle

incline to each other in the same angle, which is the most perfect order

they are susceptible of. But this order is obscure, and far from being

so perfect as the parallelism of the sides of a square. Thus order

contributes to the beauty of visible objects, not less than simplicity

and regularity.

A parallelogram exceeds an equilateral triangle in the orderly

disposition of its parts; but being inferior in uniformity and

simplicity, it is less beautiful.

Uniformity is singular in one capital circumstance, that it is apt to

disgust by excess. A number of things contrived for the same use, such

as chairs spoons, _&c._ cannot be too uniform. But a scrupulous

uniformity of parts in a large garden or field, is far from being

agreeable. Uniformity among connected objects, belongs not to the

present subject. It is handled in the chapter of uniformity and variety.

In all the works of nature, simplicity makes an illustrious figure. The

works of the best artists are directed by it. Profuse ornament in

painting, gardening, or architecture, as well as in dress and language,

shows a mean or corrupted taste.

Poets, like painters, thus unskill’d to trace

The naked nature and the living grace,

With gold and jewels cover ev’ry part,

And hide with ornaments their want of art.

_Pope’s Essay on criticism._

No one property recommends a machine more than its simplicity; not

singly for better answering its purpose, but by appearing in itself more

beautiful. Simplicity hath a capital effect in behaviour and manners; no

other particular contributing more to gain esteem and love. The

artificial and intricate manners of modern times, have little of

dignity in them. General theorems, abstracting from their importance,

are delightful by their simplicity, and by the easiness of their

application to a variety of cases. We take equal delight in the laws of

motion, which, with the greatest simplicity, are boundless in their

influence.

A gradual progress from simplicity to complex forms and profuse

ornament, seems to be the fate of all the fine arts; resembling

behaviour, which from original candor and simplicity has degenerated

into artificial refinements. At present, written productions are crowded

with words, epithets, figures, _&c._ In music, sentiment is neglected,

for the luxury of harmony, and for difficult movement which surprises in

its execution. In _taste_ properly so called, poignant sauces with

complicated mixtures of different favours, prevail among people of

condition. The French, accustomed to the artificial red on their women’s

cheeks, think the modest colouring of nature displayed on a fine face

altogether insipid.

The same tendency appears in the progress of the arts among the

ancients. Of this we have traces still remaining in architecture. Some

vestiges of the oldest Grecian buildings prove them to be of the Doric

order. The Ionic succeeded, and seems to have been the favourite order,

while architecture was in its height of glory. The Corinthian came next

in vogue: and in Greece, the buildings of that order appear mostly to

have been erected after the Romans got footing there. At last came the

Composite with all its extravagancies, where proportion is sacrificed to

finery and crowded ornament.

But what taste is to prevail next? for fashion is in a continual flux,

and taste must vary with it. After rich and profuse ornaments become

familiar, simplicity appears by contrast lifeless and insipid. This

would be an unsurmountable obstruction, should any man of genius and

taste endeavour to restore ancient simplicity.

In reviewing what is said above, I am under some apprehension of an

objection, which, as it may possibly occur to the reader, ought to be

obviated. A mountain, it will be observed, is an agreeable object,

without so much as the appearance of regularity; and a chain of

mountains still more agreeable, without being arranged in any order. But

these facts considered in a proper light, afford not an objection.

Regularity, order, and uniformity, are intimately connected with beauty;

and in this view only, have I treated them. Every regular object, for

example, must in respect of its regularity be beautiful. But I have not

said, that regularity, order, and uniformity, are essential to beauty,

so as that it cannot exist without them. The contrary appears in the

beauty of colour. Far less have I said, that an object cannot be

agreeable in any respect independent of these qualities. Grandeur, as

distinguished from beauty, requires very little regularity. This will

appear more fully when that article is handled. In the mean time, to

show the difference betwixt beauty and grandeur with respect to

regularity, I shall give a few examples. Imagine a small body, let it be

a globe, in a continual flux of figure, from the most perfect regularity

till there remain no appearance of that quality. The beauty of this

globe, depending on its regular figure, will gradually wear away with

its regularity; and when it is no longer regular, it no longer will

appear beautiful. The next example shall be of the same globe, gradually

enlarging its size, but retaining its figure. In this body, we at first

perceive the beauty of regularity only. But so soon as it begins to

swell into a great size, it appears agreeable by its greatness, which

joins with the beauty of regularity to make it a delightful object. In

the last place, let it be imagined, that the figure as well as the

quantity of matter are in a continual flux; and that the body, while it

increases in size, becomes less and less regular, till it lose

altogether the appearance of that quality. In this case, the beauty of

regularity wearing off gradually, gives place to an agreeableness of a

different sort, _viz._ that of greatness: and at last the emotion

arising from greatness will be in perfection, when the beauty of

regularity is gone. Hence it is, that in a large object the want of

regularity is not much regarded by the spectator who is struck with its

grandeur. A swelling eminence is agreeable, though not strictly

regular. A towering hill is delightful, if it have but any distant

resemblance of a cone. A small surface ought to be smooth; but in a

wide-extended plain, considerable inequalities are overlooked. This

observation holds equally in works of art. The slightest irregularity in

a house of a moderate size hurts the eye; while the mind, struck with

the grandeur of a superb edifice, which occupies it totally, cannot bear

to descend to its irregularities unless extremely gross. In a large

volume we pardon many defects that would make an epigram intolerable. In

short, the observation holds in general, that beauty is connected with

regularity in great objects as well as in small; but with a remarkable

difference, that in passing from small to great, regularity is less and

less required.

The distinction betwixt primary and secondary qualities in matter, seems

now fully established. Heat and cold, though seeming to exist in bodies,

are discovered to be effects caused by these bodies in a sensitive

being. Colour, which the eye represents as spread upon a substance, has

no existence but in the mind of the spectator. Perceptions of this

kind, which, by a delusion of sense, are attributed to external

subjects, are termed _secondary qualities_, in contradistinction to

figure, extension, solidity, which are primary qualities, and which are

not separable, even in imagination, from the subjects they belong to.

This suggests a curious inquiry, Whether beauty be a primary or only a

secondary quality of objects? The question is easily determined with

respect to the beauty of colour; for if colour be a secondary quality

existing no where but in the mind of the spectator, its beauty must be

of the same kind. This conclusion must also hold with respect to the

beauty of utility, which is plainly a conception of the mind, arising

not merely from sight, but from reflecting that the thing is fitted for

some good end or purpose. The question is more intricate with respect to

the beauty of regularity. If regularity be a primary quality, why not

also its beauty? That this is not a good consequence, will appear from

considering, that beauty, in its very conception, refers to a

percipient; for an object is said to be beautiful, for no other reason

but that it appears so to a spectator. The same piece of matter which to

man appears beautiful, may possibly to another being appear ugly. Beauty

therefore, which for its existence depends upon the percipient as much

as upon the object perceived, cannot be an inherent property of either.

What else then can it be, but a perception in the mind occasioned by

certain objects? The same reasoning is applicable to the beauty of

order, of uniformity, of grandeur. Accordingly, it may be pronounced in

general, that beauty in no case whatever is a real quality of matter.

And hence it is wittily observed by the poet, that beauty is not in the

countenance, but in the lover’s eye. This reasoning is undoubtedly

solid: and the only cause of doubt or hesitation is, that we are taught

a different lesson by sense. By a singular determination of nature, we

perceive both beauty and colour as belonging to the object; and, like

figure or extension, as inherent properties. This mechanism is uncommon;

and when nature, to fulfil her intention, chuseth any singular method

of operation, we may be certain of some final cause that cannot be

reached by ordinary means. It appears to me, that a perception of beauty

in external objects, is requisite to attach us to them. Doth not this

mechanism, in the first place, greatly promote industry, by prompting a

desire to possess things that are beautiful? Doth it not further join

with utility, in prompting us to embellish our houses and enrich our

fields? These however are but slight effects, compared with the

connections which are formed among individuals in society by means of

this singular mechanism. The qualifications of the head and heart, are

undoubtedly the most solid and most permanent foundations of such

connections. But as external beauty lies more in view, and is more

obvious to the bulk of mankind than the qualities now mentioned, the

sense of beauty possesses the more universal influence in forming these

connections. At any rate, it concurs in an eminent degree with mental

qualifications, to produce social intercourse, mutual good-will, and

consequently mutual aid and support, which are the life of society.

It must not however be overlooked, that this sense doth not tend to

advance the interests of society, but when in a due mean with respect to

strength. Love in particular arising from a sense of beauty, loses, when

excessive, its sociable character[53]. The appetite for gratification,

prevailing over affection for the beloved object, is ungovernable; and

tends violently to its end, regardless of the misery that must follow.

Love in this state is no longer a sweet agreeable passion. It becomes

painful like hunger or thirst; and produceth no happiness but in the

instant of fruition. This discovery suggests a most important lesson,

that moderation in our desires and appetites, which fits us for doing

our duty, contributes at the same time the most to happiness. Even

social passions, when moderate, are more pleasant than when they swell

beyond proper bounds.

CHAP. IV.

Grandeur and Sublimity.

Nature hath not more remarkably distinguished us from the other animals

by an erect posture, than by a capacious and aspiring mind, inclining us

to every thing great and elevated. The ocean, the sky, or any large

object, seizes the attention, and makes a strong impression[54]. Robes

of state are made large and full to draw respect. We admire elephants

and whales for their magnitude, notwithstanding their unwieldiness.

The elevation of an object affects us not less than its magnitude. A

high place is chosen for the statue of a deity or hero. A tree growing

upon the brink of a precipice viewed from the plain below, affords by

that circumstance an additional pleasure. A throne is erected for the

chief magistrate, and a chair with a high seat for the president of a

court.

In some objects, greatness and elevation concur to make a complicated

impression. The Alps and the pike of Teneriff are proper examples; with

the following difference, that in the former greatness seems to prevail,

elevation in the latter.

The emotions raised by great and by elevated objects, are clearly

distinguishable, not only in the internal feeling, but even in their

external expressions. A great object dilates the breast, and makes the

spectator endeavour to enlarge his bulk. This is remarkable in persons,

who, neglecting delicacy in behaviour, give way to nature without

reserve. In describing a great object, they naturally expand themselves

by drawing in air with all their force. An elevated object produces a

different expression. It makes the spectator stretch upward and stand a

tiptoe. Great and elevated objects considered with relation to the

emotions produced by them, are termed _grand_ and _sublime_. Grandeur

and sublimity have a double signification. They generally signify the

quality or circumstance in the objects by which the emotions are

produced; sometimes the emotions themselves.

Whether magnitude singly in an object of sight, have the effect to

produce an emotion distinguishable from the beauty or deformity of that

object; or whether it be only a circumstance modifying the beauty or

deformity, is an intricate question. If magnitude produce an emotion of

its own distinguishable from others, this emotion must either be

pleasant or painful. But this seems to be contradicted by experience;

for magnitude, as it would appear, contributes in some instances to

beauty, in some to deformity. A hill, for instance, is agreeable, and a

great mountain still more so. But an ugly monster, the larger, the more

horrid. Greatness in an enemy, great power, great courage, serve but to

augment our terror. Hath not this an appearance as if grandeur were not

an emotion distinct from all others, but only a circumstance that

qualifies beauty and deformity?

I am notwithstanding satisfied, that grandeur is an emotion, not only

distinct from all others, but in every circumstance pleasant. These

propositions must be examined separately. I begin with the former, and

shall endeavour to prove, that magnitude produceth a peculiar emotion

distinguishable from all others. Magnitude is undoubtedly a real

property of bodies, not less than figure, and more than colour. Figure

and colour, even in the same body, produce separate emotions, which are

never misapprehended one for the other. Why should not magnitude produce

an emotion different from both? That it has this effect, will be evident

from a plain experiment of two bodies, one great and one little, which

produce different emotions, though they be precisely the same as to

figure and colour. There is indeed an obscurity in this matter,

occasioned by the following circumstance, that the grandeur and beauty

of the same object mix so intimately as scarce to be distinguished. But

the beauty of colour comes in happily to enable us to make the

distinction. For the emotion of colour unites with that of figure, not

less intimately than grandeur does with either. Yet the emotion of

colour is distinguishable from that of figure; and so is grandeur,

attentively considered: though when these three emotions are blended

together, they are scarce felt as different emotions.

Next, that grandeur is an emotion in every circumstance pleasant,

appears from the following considerations. Magnitude or greatness,

abstracted from all other circumstances, swells the heart and dilates

the mind. We feel this to be a pleasant effect; and we feel no such

effect in contracting the mind upon little objects. This may be

illustrated by considering grandeur in an enemy. Beauty is an agreeable

quality, whether in a friend or enemy; and when the emotion it raiseth

is mixed with resentment against an enemy, it must have the effect to

moderate our resentment. In the same manner, grandeur in an enemy,

undoubtedly softens and blunts our resentment. Grandeur indeed may

indirectly and by reflection produce an unpleasant effect. Grandeur in

an enemy, like courage, may increase our fear, when we consider the

advantage he hath over us by this quality. But the same indirect effect

may be produced by many other agreeable qualities, such as beauty or

wisdom.

The magnitude of an ugly object, serves, it is true, to augment our

horror or aversion. But this proceeds not from magnitude separately

considered. It proceeds from the following circumstance, that in a large

object a great quantity of ugly parts are presented to view.

The same chain of reasoning is so obviously applicable to sublimity,

that it would be losing time to show the application. Grandeur therefore

and sublimity shall hereafter be considered both of them as pleasant

emotions.

The pleasant emotion raised by large objects, has not escaped the poets:

---- He doth bestride the narrow world

Like a Colossus; and we petty men

Walk under his huge legs.

_Julius Cæsar, act I. sc. 3._

_Cleopatra._ I dreamt there was an Emp’ror Antony;

Oh such another sleep, that I might see

But such another man!

His face was as the heav’ns: and therein stuck

A sun and moon, which kept their course and lighted

The little O o’ th’ earth.

His legs bestrid the ocean, his rear’d arm

Crested the world.

_Antony and Cleopatra, act 5. sc. 3._

---- Majesty

Dies not alone, but, like a gulf, doth draw

What’s near it with it. It’s a massy wheel

Fixt on the summit of the highest mount;

To whose huge spokes, ten thousand lesser things

Are mortis’d and adjoin’d; which when it falls,

Each small annexment, petty consequence,

Attends the boist’rous ruin.

_Hamlet, act 3. sc. 8._

The poets have also made good use of the emotion produced by the

elevated situation of an object.

Quod si me lyricis varibus inferes,

Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.

_Horace, Carm. l. 1. ode 1._

Oh thou! the earthly author of my blood,

Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,

Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up,

To reach at victory above my head.

_Richard II. act 1. sc. 4._

Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal

The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne.

_Richard II. act 5. sc. 2._

_Anthony._ Why was I rais’d the meteor of the world,

Hung in the skies and blazing as I travell’d,

Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward

To be trod out by Cæsar?

_Dryden, All for love, act 1._

Though the quality of magnitude produceth a pleasant emotion, we must

not conclude that the opposite quality of littleness produceth a painful

emotion. It would be unhappy for man, were an object disagreeable from

its being of a small size merely, when he is surrounded with so many

objects of that kind. The same observation is applicable to elevation of

place. A body placed high is agreeable; but the same body placed low, is

not by that circumstance rendered disagreeable. Littleness, and lowness

of place, are precisely similar in the following particular, that they

neither give pleasure nor pain. And in this may visibly be discovered

peculiar attention in fitting the internal constitution of man to his

external circumstances. Were littleness, and lowness of place agreeable,

greatness and elevation could not be so. Were littleness, and lowness of

place disagreeable, they would occasion uninterrupted uneasiness.

The difference betwixt great and little with respect to agreeableness,

is remarkably felt in a series when we pass gradually from the one

extreme to the other. A mental progress from the capital to the kingdom,

from that to Europe--to the whole earth--to the planetary system--to the

universe, is extremely pleasant: the heart swells and the mind is

dilated, at every step. The returning in an opposite direction is not

positively painful, though our pleasure lessens at every step, till it

vanish into indifference. Such a progress may sometimes produce a

pleasure of a different sort, which arises from taking a narrower and

narrower inspection. The same observation is applicable to a progress

upward and downward. Ascent is pleasant because it elevates us. But

descent is never painful: it is for the most part pleasant from a

different cause, that it is according to the order of nature. The fall

of a stone from any height, is extremely agreeable by its accelerated

motion. I feel it pleasant to descend from a mountain: the descent is

natural and easy. Neither is looking downward painful. On the contrary,

to look down upon objects, makes part of the pleasure of elevation.

Looking down becomes then only painful when the object is so far below

as to create dizziness: and even when that is the case, we feel a sort

of pleasure mixt with the pain. Witness Shakespear’s description of

Dover cliffs:

---- How fearful

And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low!

The crows and choughs, that wing the midway-air,

Shew scarce so gross as beetles. Half-way down

Hangs one, that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!

Methinks he seems no bigger than his head.

The fishermen that walk upon the beach,

Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark

Diminish’d to her cock; her cock, a buoy

Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge,

That on th’ unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes,

Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more,

Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight

Topple down headlong.

_King Lear, act 4. sc. 6._

An observation is made above, that the emotions of grandeur and

sublimity are nearly allied. Hence it is, that the one term is

frequently put for the other. I give an example. An increasing series of

numbers produceth an emotion similar to that of mounting upward, and for

that reason is commonly termed _an ascending series_. A series of

numbers gradually decreasing, produceth an emotion similar to that of

going downward, and for that reason is commonly termed _a descending

series_. We talk familiarly of going up to the capital, and of going

down to the country. From a lesser kingdom we talk of going up to a

greater, whence the _anabasis_ in the Greek language when one travels

from Greece to Persia. We discover the same way of speaking in the

language even of Japan[55]; and its universality proves it the offspring

of a natural feeling.

The foregoing observation leads us naturally to consider grandeur and

sublimity in a figurative sense, and as applicable to the fine arts.

Hitherto I have considered these terms in their proper meaning, as

applicable to objects of sight only: and I thought it of importance, to

bestow some pains upon that article; because, generally speaking, the

figurative sense of a word is derived from its proper sense; which will

be found to hold in the present subject. Beauty in its original

signification, is confined to objects of sight. But as many other

objects, intellectual as well as moral, raise emotions resembling that

of beauty, the resemblance of the effects prompts us naturally to extend

the term _beauty_ to these objects. This equally accounts for the terms

_grandeur_ and _sublimity_ taken in a figurative sense. Every emotion,

from whatever cause proceeding, that resembles an emotion of grandeur or

elevation, is called by the same name. Thus generosity is said to be an

elevated emotion, as well as great courage; and that firmness of soul

which is superior to misfortunes, obtains the peculiar name of

_magnanimity_. On the other hand, every emotion that contracts the mind

and fixeth it upon things trivial or of no importance, is termed _low_,

by its resemblance to an emotion produced by a little or low object of

sight. Thus an appetite for trifling amusements, is called _a low

taste_. The same terms are applied to characters and actions. We talk

familiarly of an elevated genius, of a great man, and equally so of

littleness of mind. Some actions are great and elevated, others are low

and groveling. Sentiments and even expressions are characterised in the

same manner. An expression or sentiment that raises the mind, is

denominated _great_ or _elevated_; and hence the sublime[56] in poetry.

In such figurative terms, the distinction is lost that is made betwixt

_great_ and _elevated_ in their proper sense; for the resemblance is not

so entire, as to preserve these terms distinct in their figurative

application. We carry this figure still farther. Elevation in its proper

sense, includes superiority of place; and lowness, inferiority of place.

Hence a man of superior talents, of superior rank, of inferior parts, of

inferior taste, and such like. The veneration we have for our ancestors

and for the ancients in general, being similar to the emotion produced

by an elevated object of sight, justifies the figurative expression, of

the ancients being raised above us, or possessing a superior place. And

we may remark by the way, that as words are intimately connected with

ideas, many, by this form of expression, are led to conceive their

ancestors as really above them in place, and their posterity below them:

A grandam’s name is little less in love

Than is the doting title of a mother:

They are as children but one step below.

_Richard III. act 4. sc. 5._

The notes of the gamut, proceeding regularly from the blunter or grosser

sounds to those which are more acute and piercing, produce in the hearer

a feeling somewhat similar to what is produced by mounting upward; and

this gives occasion to the figurative expressions, _a high note_, _a low

note_.

Such is the resemblance in feeling betwixt real and figurative grandeur,

that among the nations on the east coast of Afric, who are directed

purely by nature, the different dignities of the officers of state are

marked by the length of the batoon each carries in his hand. And in

Japan, princes and great lords shew their rank by the length and size of

their sedan-poles[57]. Again, it is a rule in painting, that figures of

a small size are proper for grotesque pieces; but that in an historical

subject, which is grand and important, the figures ought to be as great

as the life. The resemblance of these feelings is in reality so strong,

that elevation in a figurative sense is observed to have the same effect

even externally, that real elevation has:

_K. Henry._ This day is call’d the feast of Crispian.

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tiptoe when this day is nam’d,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

_Henry V. act 4. sc. 8._

The resemblance in feeling betwixt real and figurative grandeur, is

humorously illustrated by Addison in criticising upon the English

tragedy. “The ordinary method of making an hero, is to clap a huge

plume of feathers upon his head, which rises so high, that there is

often a greater length from his chin to the top of his head, than to the

sole of his foot. One would believe, that we thought a great man and a

tall man the same thing. As these superfluous ornaments upon the head

make a great man, a princess generally receives her grandeur from those

additional incumbrances that fall into her tail. I mean the broad

sweeping train that follows her in all her motions, and finds constant

employment for a boy who stands behind her to open and spread it to

advantage[58].” The Scythians, impressed with the fame of Alexander,

were astonished when they found him a little man.

A gradual progress from small to great, is not less remarkable in

figurative than in real grandeur or elevation. Every one must have

observed the delightful effect of a number of thoughts or sentiments,

artfully disposed like an ascending series, and making impressions

stronger and stronger. Such disposition of members in a period, is

distinguished by a proper name, being termed a _climax_.

In order to have a just conception of grandeur and sublimity, it is

necessary to be observed, that within certain limits they produce their

strongest effects, which lessen by excess as well as by defect. This is

remarkable in grandeur and sublimity taken in their proper sense. The

strongest emotion of grandeur is raised by an object that can be taken

in at one view. An object so immense as not to be comprehended but in

parts, tends rather to distract than satisfy the mind[59]. In like

manner, the strongest emotion produced by elevation is where the object

is seen distinctly. A greater elevation lessens in appearance the

object, till it vanish out of sight with its pleasant emotion. The same

is equally remarkable in figurative grandeur and elevation, which shall

be handled together, because, as observed above, they are scarce

distinguishable. Sentiments may be so strained, as to become obscure, or

to exceed the capacity of the human mind. Against such licence of

imagination, every good writer will be upon his guard. And therefore it

is of greater importance to observe, that even the true sublime may be

carried beyond that pitch which produces the highest entertainment. We

are undoubtedly susceptible of a greater elevation than can be inspired

by human actions the most heroic and magnanimous; witness what we feel

from Milton’s description of superior beings. Yet every man must be

sensible of a more constant and pleasant elevation, when the history of

his own species is the subject. He enjoys an elevation equal to that of

the greatest hero, of an Alexander or a Cæsar, of a Brutus or an

Epaminondas. He accompanies these heroes in their sublimest sentiments

and most hazardous exploits, with a magnanimity equal to theirs; and

finds it no stretch to preserve the same tone of mind for hours

together, without sinking. The case is by no means the same in

describing the actions or qualities of superior beings. The reader’s

imagination cannot keep pace with that of the poet; and the mind, unable

to support itself in a strained elevation, falls as from a height; and

the fall is immoderate like the elevation. Where this effect is not

felt, it must be prevented by some obscurity in the conception, which

frequently attends the description of unknown objects.

On the other hand, objects of sight that are not remarkably great or

high, scarce raise any emotion of grandeur or sublimity; and the same

holds in other objects. The mind is often roused and animated without

being carried to the height of grandeur or sublimity. This difference

may be discerned in many sorts of music, as well as in some musical

instruments. A kettledrum rouses, and a hautboy is animating; but

neither of them inspire an emotion of sublimity. Revenge animates the

mind in a considerable degree; but I think it never produceth an

emotion that can be termed _grand_ or _sublime_; and I shall have

occasion afterward to observe, that no disagreeable passion ever has

this effect. I am willing to put this to the test, by placing before my

reader the most spirited picture of revenge ever drawn. It is a speech

of Antony wailing over the body of Cæsar.

Wo to the hand that shed this costly blood!

Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,

(Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,

To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue),

A curse shall light upon the kind of men;

Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife,

Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;

Blood and destruction shall be so in use,

And dreadful objects so familiar,

That mothers shall but smile, when they behold

Their infants quarter’d by the hands of war,

All pity choak’d with custom of fell deeds.

And Cæsar’s spirit, ranging for revenge,

With _Atè_ by his side come hot from hell,

Shall in these confines, with a monarch’s voice,

Cry _Havock_, and let slip the dogs of war.

_Julius Cæsar, act 3. sc. 4._

When the sublime is carried to its due height and circumscribed within

proper bounds, it inchants the mind and raises the most delightful of

all emotions. The reader, ingrossed by a sublime object, feels himself

raised as it were to a higher rank. When such is the case, it is not

wonderful that the history of conquerors and heroes should be

universally the favourite entertainment. And this fairly accounts for

what I once erroneously suspected to be a wrong bias originally in human

nature. The grossest acts of oppression and injustice, scarce blemish

the character of a great conqueror. We notwithstanding warmly espouse

his interest, accompany him in his exploits, and are anxious for his

success. The splendor and enthusiasm of the hero transfused into the

readers, elevate their minds far above the rules of justice, and render

them in a great measure insensible of the wrong that is done:

For in those days might only shall be admir’d

And valour and heroic virtue call’d;

To overcome in battle, and subdue

Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite

Manslaughter, shall be held the highest pitch

Of human glory, and for glory done

Of triumph, to be styl’d great conquerors,

Patrons of mankind, gods, and sons of gods.

Destroyers rightlier called, and plagues of men.

Thus fame shall be atchiev’d, renown on earth,

And what most merits fame in silence hid.

_Milton, b. 11._

The attachment we have to things grand or lofty may be thought to

proceed from an unwearied inclination we have to be exalted. No desire

is more universal than to be respected and honoured. Upon that account

chiefly, are we ambitious of power, riches, titles, fame, which would

suddenly lose their relish, did they not raise us above others, and

command submission and deference[60]. But the preference given to things

grand and sublime must have a deeper root in human nature. Many bestow

their time upon low and trifling amusements, without showing any desire

to be exalted. Yet these very persons talk the same language with the

rest of mankind; and at least in their judgement, if not in their taste,

prefer the more elevated pleasures. They acknowledge a more refined

taste, and are ashamed of their own as low and groveling. This

sentiment, constant and universal, must be the work of nature; and it

plainly indicates an original attachment in human nature to every object

that elevates the mind. Some men may have a greater relish for an object

not of the highest rank: but they are conscious of the common nature of

man, and that it ought not to be subjected to their peculiar taste.

The irregular influence of grandeur, reaches also to other matters.

However good, honest, or useful, a man may be, he is not so much

respected, as one of a more elevated character is, though of less

integrity; nor do the misfortunes of the former affect us so much as

those of the latter. I add, because it cannot be disguised, that the

remorse which attends breach of engagement, is in a great measure

proportioned to the figure that the injured person makes. The vows and

protestations of lovers are an illustrious example of this observation;

for these commonly are little regarded when made to women of inferior

rank.

What I have said suggests a capital rule for reaching the sublime in

such works of art as are susceptible of it; and that is, to put in view

those parts or circumstances only which make the greatest figure,

keeping out of sight every thing that is low or trivial. Such judicious

selection of capital circumstances, is by an eminent critic styled

_grandeur of manner_[61]. The mind, from an elevation inspired by

important objects, cannot, without reluctance, be forced down to bestow

any share of its attention upon trifles. In none of the fine arts is

there so great scope for this rule as in poetry, which, by that means,

enjoys a remarkable power of bestowing upon objects and events an air of

grandeur. When we are spectators, every minute object presents itself

in its order. But in describing at second hand, these are laid aside,

and the capital objects are brought close together. A judicious taste in

selecting, after this manner, the most interesting incidents to give

them an united force, accounts for a fact which at first sight may

appear surprising, that we are more moved by a poetical narrative at

second hand, than when we are spectators of the event itself in all its

circumstanccs.

Longinus exemplifies the foregoing rule by a comparison of two

passages[62]. The first from Aristæus is thus translated.

Ye pow’rs, what madness! how on ships so frail

(Tremendous thought!) can thoughtless mortals sail?

For stormy seas they quit the pleasing plain,

Plant woods in waves and dwell amidst the main.

Far o’er the deep (a trackless path) they go,

And wander oceans in pursuit of wo.

No ease their hearts, no rest their eyes can find,

On heaven their looks, and on the waves their mind.

Sunk are their spirits, while their arms they rear,

And gods are wearied with their fruitless prayer.

The other from Homer I shall give in Pope’s translation.

Bursts as a wave that from the cloud impends,

And swell’d with tempests on the ship descends.

White are the decks with foam: the winds aloud

Howl o’er the masts, and sing through every shrowd.

Pale, trembling, tir’d, the sailors freeze with fears,

And instant death on every wave appears.

In the latter passage, the most striking circumstances are selected to

fill the mind with the grand and terrible. The former is a collection of

minute and low circumstances, which scatter the thought and make no

impression. The passage at the same time is full of verbal antitheses

and low conceit, extremely improper in a scene of distress. But this

last observation is made occasionally only, as it belongs not to the

present subject.

The following passage from the twenty-first book of the Odyssey,

deviates widely from the rule above laid down. It concerns that part of

the history of Penelope and her suitors, in which she is made to declare

in favour of him who should prove the most dexterous in shooting with

the bow of Ulysses.

Now gently winding up the fair ascent,

By many an easy step, the matron went:

Then o’er the pavement glides with grace divine,

(With polish’d oak the level pavements shine);

The folding gates a dazling light display’d,

With pomp of various architrave o’erlay’d.

The bolt, obedient to the silken string,

Forsakes the staple as she pulls the ring;

The wards respondent to the key turn round;

The bars fall back; the flying valves resound.

Loud as a bull makes hill and valley ring;

So roar’d the lock when it releas’d the spring.

She moves majestic through the wealthy room

Where treasur’d garments cast a rich perfume;

There from the column where aloft it hung,

Reach’d, in its splendid case, the bow unstrung.

Virgil sometimes errs against this rule. In the following passages

minute circumstances are brought into full view; and what is still

worse, they are described in all the sublimity of poetical description.

_Æneid, L. 1. l. 214. to 219. L. 6. l. 176. to 182. L. 6. l. 212. to

231._ And the last, which is a description of a funeral, is the less

excuseable, as it relates to a man who makes no figure in the poem.

The speech of Clytemnestra, descending from her chariot in the Iphigenia

of Euripides, beginning of act 3. is stuffed with a number of low,

common, and trivial circumstances.

But of all writers Lucan in this article is the most injudicious. The

sea-fight betwixt the Romans and Massilians[63], is described so much in

detail without exhibiting any grand or general view, that the reader is

quite fatigued with endless circumstances, and never feels any degree of

elevation. And yet there are some fine incidents, those for example of

the two brothers, and of the old man and his son, which, separated from

the rest, would affect us greatly. But Lucan once engaged in a

description, knows no bounds. See other passages of the same kind, _L.

4. l. 292. to 337. L. 4. l. 750. to 765._ The episode of the sorceress

Erictho, end of book 6. is intolerably minute and prolix.

To these I venture to oppose a passage from an old historical ballad:

Go, little page, tell Hardiknute

That lives on hill so high[64],

To draw his sword, the dread of faes,

And haste to follow me.

The little page flew swift as dart

Flung by his master’s arm.

Come down, come down, Lord Hardiknute,

And rid your king from harm.

This rule is also applicable to other fine arts. In painting it is

established, that the principal figure must be put in the strongest

light; that the beauty of attitude consists in placing the nobler parts

most in view, and in suppressing the smaller parts as much as possible;

that the folds of the drapery must be few and large; that

foreshortenings are bad, because they make the parts appear little; and

that the muscles ought to be kept as entire as possible, without being

divided into small sections. Every one at present is sensible of the

importance of this rule when applied to gardening, in opposition to the

antiquated taste of parterres split into a thousand small parts in the

strictest regularity of figure. Those who have succeeded best in

architecture, have governed themselves by this rule in all their models.

Another rule chiefly regards the sublime, though it may be applied to

every literary performance intended for amusement; and that is, to avoid

as much as possible abstract and general terms. Such terms, perfectly

well fitted for reasoning and for conveying instruction, serve but

imperfectly the ends of poetry. They stand upon the same footing with

mathematical signs, contrived to express our thoughts in a concise

manner. But images, which are the life of poetry, cannot be raised in

any perfection, otherwise than by introducing particular objects.

General terms, that comprehend a number of individuals, must be excepted

from this rule. Our kindred, our clan, our country, and words of the

like import, though they scarce raise any image, have notwithstanding a

wonderful power over our passions. The greatness of the complex object

over-balances the obscurity of the image.

What I have further to say upon this subject, shall be comprehended in a

few observations. A man is capable of being raised so much above his

ordinary pitch by an emotion of grandeur, that it is extremely difficult

by a single thought or expression to produce that emotion in perfection.

The rise must be gradual and the result of reiterated impressions. The

effect of a single expression can be but momentary; and if one feel

suddenly somewhat like a swelling or exaltation of mind, the emotion

vanisheth as soon as felt. Single expressions, I know, are often justly

cited as examples of the sublime. But then their effect is nothing

compared with a grand subject displayed in its capital parts. I shall

give a few examples, that the reader may judge for himself. In the

famous action of Thermopylæ, where Leonidas the Spartan King with his

chosen band fighting for their country, were cut off to the last man, a

saying is reported of Dieneces one of the band, which, expressing

chearful and undisturbed bravery, is well intitled to the first place in

examples of this kind. Talking of the number of their enemies, it was

observed, that the arrows shot by such a multitude would intercept the

light of the sun. So much the better, says he; for we shall then fight

in the shade[65].

_Somerset._ Ah! Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are,

We might recover all our loss again.

The Queen from France hath brought a puissant power,

Ev’n now we heard the news. Ah! couldst thou fly!

_Warwick._ Why, then I would not fly.

_Third part, Henry VI. act 5. sc. 3._

Such a sentiment from a man expiring of his wounds, is truly heroic, and

must elevate the mind to the greatest height that can be done by a

single expression. It will not suffer in a comparison with the famous

sentiment _Qu’il mourut_ in Corneille’s Horace. The latter is a

sentiment of indignation merely, the former of invincible fortitude.

In opposition to these examples, to cite many a sublime passage,

enriched with the finest images, and dressed in the most nervous

expressions, would scarce be fair. I shall produce but one instance from

Shakespear, which sets a few objects before the eye, without much pomp

of language. It works its effect, by representing these objects in a

climax, raising the mind higher and higher till it feel the emotion of

grandeur in perfection.

The cloud-capt tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve, _&c_.

_The cloud-capt tow’rs_ produce an elevating emotion, heightened by the

_gorgeous palaces_. And the mind is carried still higher and higher by

the images that follow. Successive images, making thus stronger and

stronger impressions, must elevate more than any single image can do.

I proceed to another observation. In the chapter of beauty it is

remarked, that regularity is required in small figures, and order in

small groups; but that in advancing gradually from small to great,

regularity and order are less and less required. This remark serves to

explain the extreme delight we have in viewing the face of nature, when

sufficiently enriched and diversified by objects. The bulk of the

objects seen in a natural landscape are beautiful, and some of them

grand. A flowing river, a spreading oak, a round hill, an extended

plain, are delightful; and even a rugged rock or barren heath, though in

themselves disagreeable, contribute by contrast to the beauty of the

whole. Joining to these, the verdure of the fields, the mixture of light

and shade, and the sublime canopy spread over all; it will not appear

wonderful, that so extensive a group of glorious objects should swell

the heart to its utmost bounds, and raise the strongest emotion of

grandeur. The spectator is conscious of an enthusiasm, which cannot bear

confinement nor the strictness of regularity and order. He loves to

range at large; and is so inchanted with shining objects, as to neglect

slight beauties or defects. Thus it is, that the delightful emotion of

grandeur, depends little on order and regularity. And when the emotion

is at its height by a survey of the greatest objects, order and

regularity are almost totally disregarded.

The same observation is applicable in some measure to works of art. In a

small building the slightest irregularity is disagreeable. In a

magnificent palace or a large Gothic church, irregularities are less

regarded. In an epic poem we pardon many negligences, which would be

intolerable in a sonnet or epigram. Notwithstanding such exceptions, it

may be justly laid down for a rule, That in all works of art, order and

regularity ought to be governing principles. And hence the observation

of Longinus[66], “In works of art we have regard to exact proportion; in

those of nature, to grandeur and magnificence.”

I shall add but one other observation, That no means can be more

successfully employed to sink and depress the mind than grandeur or

sublimity. By the artful introduction of an humbling object, the fall is

great in proportion to the former elevation. Of this doctrine Shakespear

affords us a beautiful illustration, in a passage part of which is cited

above for another purpose:

The cloud-capt tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve,

And like the baseless fabric of a vision

Leave not a rack behind----

_Tempest, act 4. sc. 4._

The elevation of the mind in the former part of this beautiful passage,

makes the fall great in proportion when the most humbling of all images

is introduced, that of an utter dissolution of the earth and its

inhabitants. A sentiment makes not the same impression in a cool state,

that it does when the mind is warmed; and a depressing or melancholy

sentiment makes the strongest impression, when it brings down the mind

from its highest state of elevation or chearfulness.

This indirect effect of elevation to sink the mind, is sometimes

produced without the intervention of any humbling image. There was

occasion above to remark, that in describing superior beings, the

reader’s imagination, unable to support itself in a strained elevation,

falls often as from a height, and sinks even below its ordinary tone.

The following instance comes luckily in view; for a better illustration

cannot be given: “God said, Let there be light, and there was light.”

Longinus cites this passage from Moses as a shining example of the

sublime; and it is scarce possible in fewer words, to convey so clear an

image of the infinite power of the Deity. But then it belongs to the

present subject to remark, that the emotion of sublimity raised by this

image is but momentary; and that the mind, unable to support itself in

an elevation so much above nature, immediately sinks down into humility

and veneration for a being so far exalted above us groveling mortals.

Every one is acquainted with a dispute about this passage betwixt two

French critics[67], the one positively affirming, the other as

positively denying, it to be sublime. What I have opened, shows that

both of them have reached the truth, but neither of them the whole

truth. Every one of taste must be sensible, that the primary effect of

this passage is an emotion of grandeur. This so far justifies Boileau.

But then every one of taste must be equally sensible, that the emotion

is merely a flash, which vanisheth instantly, and gives way to the

deepest humility and veneration. This indirect effect of sublimity,

justifies Huet on the other hand, who being a man of true piety, and

perhaps of inferior imagination, felt the humbling passions more

sensibly than his antagonist. And even laying aside any peculiarity of

character, Huet’s opinion may I think be defended as the more solid;

upon the following account, that in such images, the depressing emotions

are the more sensibly felt, and have the longer endurance.

The straining an elevated subject beyond due bounds and beyond the

reach of an ordinary conception, is not a vice so frequent as to require

the correction of criticism. But false sublime is a rock which writers

of more fire than judgement generally split on. And therefore a

collection of examples may be of use as a beacon to future adventurers.

One species of false sublime, known by the name of _bon bast_, is common

among writers of a mean genius. It is a serious endeavour, by strained

description, to raise a low or familiar subject above its rank; which

instead of being sublime, never fails to be ridiculous. I am extremely

sensible how prone the mind is, in some animating passions, to magnify

its objects beyond natural bounds. But such hyperbolical description has

its limits. If carried beyond the impulse of the propensity, the

colouring no longer pleases: it degenerates into the burlesque. Take the

following examples.

_Sejanus._---- Great and high

The world knows only two, that’s Rome and I.

My roof receives me not; ’tis air I tread,

And at each step I feel my advanc’d head

Knock out a star in heav’n.

_Sejanus, Ben Johnson, act 5._

A writer who has no natural elevation of genius, is extremely apt to

deviate into bombast. He strains above his genius; and the violent

effort he makes carries him generally beyond the bounds of propriety.

Boileau expresses this happily:

L’autre à peur de ramper, il se perd dans la nue[68].

The same author Ben Johnson abounds in the bombast:

---- The mother,

Th’expulsed Apicata, finds them there;

Whom when she saw lie spread on the degrees,

After a world of fury on herself,

Tearing her hair, defacing of her face,

Beating her breasts and womb, kneeling amaz’d.

Crying to heav’n, then to them; at last

Her drowned voice got up above her woes:

And with such black and bitter execrations,

(As might affright the gods, and force the sun

Run backward to the east; nay, make the old

Deformed Chaos rise again t’ o’erwhelm

Them, us, and all the world) she fills the air,

Upbraids the heavens with their partial dooms,

Defies their tyrannous powers, and demands

What she and those poor innocents have transgress’d,

That they must suffer such a share in vengeance.

_Sejanus, act 5. sc. last._

---- Lentulus, the man,

If all our fire were out, would fetch down new,

Out of the hand of Jove; and rivet him

To Caucasus, should he but frown; and let

His own gaunt eagle fly at him to tire.

_Catiline, act 3._

Can these, or such, be any aids to us?

Look they as they were built to shake the world,

Or be a moment to our enterprise?

A thousand, such as they are, could not make

One atom of our souls. They should be men

Worth heaven’s fear, that looking up, but thus,

Would make Jove stand upon his guard, and draw

Himself within his thunder; which, amaz’d,

He should discharge in vain, and they unhurt.

Or, if they were, like Capaneus at Thebes,

They should hang dead upon the highest spires,

And ask the second bolt to be thrown down.

Why Lentulus talk you so long? This time

Had been enough t’ have scatter’d all the stars,

T’ have quench’d the sun and moon, and made the world

Despair of day, or any light but ours.

_Catiline, act 4._

This is the language of a madman:

_Guilford._ Give way, and let the gushing torrent come,

Behold the tears we bring to swell the deluge,

Till the flood rise upon the guilty world

And make the ruin common.

_Lady Jane Gray, act 4. near the end._

Another species of false sublime, is still more faulty than bombast; and

that is, to force an elevation by introducing imaginary beings without

preserving any propriety in their actions; as if it were lawful to

ascribe every extravagance and inconsistence to beings of the poet’s

creation. No writers are more licentious in this article than Johnson

and Dryden.

Methinks I see Death and the furies waiting

What we will do, and all the heaven at leisure

For the great spectacle. Draw then your swords:

And if our destiny envy our virtue

The honour of the day, yet let us care

To sell ourselves at such a price, as may

Undo the world to buy us, and make Fate,

While she tempts ours, to fear her own estate.

_Catiline, act 5._

---- The furies stood on hills

Circling the place, and trembled to see men

Do more than they: whilst Piety left the field,

Griev’d for that side, that in so bad a cause

They knew not what a crime their valour was.

The Sun stood still, and was, behind the cloud

The battle made, seen sweating to drive up

His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward.

_Ibid. act. 5._

_Osmyn._ While we indulge our common happiness,

He is forgot by whom we all possess,

The brave Almanzor, to whose arms we owe

All that we did, and all that we shall do;

Who like a tempest that outrides the wind,

Made a just battle ere the bodies join’d.

_Abdalla._ His victories we scarce could keep in view,

Or polish ’em so fast as he rough drew.

_Abdemelech._ Fate after him below with pain did move,

And Victory could scarce keep pace above.

Death did at length so many slain forget,

And lost the tale, and took ’em by the great.

_Conquest of Granada, act. 2. at beginning._

The gods of Rome fight for ye; loud Fame calls ye,

Pitch’d on the topless Apenine, and blows

To all the under world, all nations,

The seas and unfrequented deserts, where the snow dwells,

Wakens the ruin’d monuments, and there

Where nothing but eternal death and sleep is,

Informs again the dead bones.

_Beaumont and Fletcher, Bonduca, act. 3. sc. 3._

I close with the following observation, That an actor upon the stage may

be guilty of bombast as well as an author in his closet. A certain

manner of acting, which is grand when supported by dignity in the

sentiment and force in the expression, is ridiculous where the sentiment

is mean, and the expression flat.

CHAP. V.

Motion and Force.

That motion is agreeable to the eye without relation to purpose or

design, may appear from the amusement it gives to infants. Juvenile

exercises are relished chiefly upon that account.

If to see a body in motion be agreeable, one will be apt to conclude,

that to see it at rest is disagreeable. But we learn from experience,

that this would be a rash conclusion. Rest is one of those circumstances

that are neither agreeable nor disagreeable. It is viewed with perfect

indifferency. And happy it is for mankind that the matter is so ordered.

If rest were agreeable, it would disincline us to motion, by which all

things are performed. If it were disagreeable, it would be a source of

perpetual uneasiness; for the bulk of the things we see appear to be at

rest. A similar instance of designing wisdom I have had occasion to

explain, in opposing grandeur to littleness, and elevation to lowness of

place[69]. Even in the simplest matters, the finger of God is

conspicuous. The happy adjustment of the internal nature of man to his

external circumstances, displayed in the instances here given, is indeed

admirable.

Motion is certainly agreeable in all its varieties of quickness and

slowness. But motion long continued admits some exceptions. That degree

of continued motion which corresponds to the natural course of our

perceptions, is the most agreeable[70]. The quickest motion is for an

instant delightful. But it soon appears to be too rapid. It becomes

painful, by forcibly accelerating the course of our perceptions. Slow

continued motion becomes disagreeable for an opposite reason, that it

retards the natural course of our perceptions.

There are other varieties in motion, beside quickness and slowness,

that make it more or less agreeable. Regular motion is preferred before

what is irregular, witness the motion of the planets in orbits nearly

circular. The motion of the comets in orbits less regular, is less

agreeable.

Motion uniformly accelerated, resembling an ascending series of numbers,

is more agreeable than when uniformly retarded. Motion upward is

agreeable by the elevation of the moving body. What then shall we say of

downward motion regularly accelerated by the force of gravity, compared

with upward motion regularly retarded by the same force? Which of these

is the most agreeable? This question is not easily solved.

Motion in a straight line is no doubt agreeable. But we prefer

undulating motion, as of waves, of a flame, of a ship under sail. Such

motion is more free, and also more natural. Hence the beauty of a

serpentine river.

The easy and sliding motion of fluids, from the lubricity and

incoherence of their parts, is agreeable upon that account. But the

agreeableness chiefly depends upon the following circumstance, that the

motion is perceived, not as of one body, but as of an endless number

moving together with order and regularity. Poets struck with this

beauty, draw more images from fluids than from solids.

Force is of two kinds; one quiescent, and one exerted by motion. The

former, dead weight for example, must be laid aside; for a body at rest

is not by that circumstance either agreeable or disagreeable. Moving

force only belongs to the present subject; and though it is not

separable from motion, yet by the power of abstraction, either of them

may be considered independent of the other. Both of them are agreeable,

because both of them include activity. It is agreeable to see a thing

move: to see it moved, as when it is dragged or pushed along, is neither

agreeable nor disagreeable, more than when at rest. It is agreeable to

see a thing exert force; but it makes not the thing either agreeable or

disagreeable, to see force exerted upon it.

Though motion and force are each of them agreeable, the impressions

they make are different. This difference, clearly felt, is not easily

described. All we can say is, that the emotion raised by a moving body,

resembles its cause: it feels as if the mind were carried along. The

emotion raised by force exerted, resembles also its cause: it feels as

if force were exerted within the mind.

To illustrate this difference, I give the following examples. It has

been explained why smoke ascending in a calm day, suppose from a cottage

in a wood, is an agreeable object[71]. Landscape-painters are fond of

this object, and introduce it upon all occasions. As the ascent is

natural and without effort, it is delightful in a calm state of mind. It

makes an impression of the same sort with that of a gently-flowing

river, but more agreeable, because ascent is more to our taste than

descent. A fire-work or a _jet d’eau_ rouses the mind more; because the

beauty of force visibly exerted, is superadded to that of upward

motion. To a man reclining indolently upon a bank of flowers, ascending

smoke in a still morning is delightful. But a fire-work or a _jet d’eau_

rouses him from this supine posture, and puts him in motion.

A _jet d’eau_ makes an impression distinguishable from that of a

water-fall. Downward motion being natural and without effort, tends

rather to quiet the mind than to rouse it. Upward motion, on the

contrary, overcoming the resistance of gravity, makes an impression of a

great effort, and thereby rouses and enlivens the mind.

The public games of the Greeks and Romans, which gave so much

entertainment to the spectators, consisted chiefly in exerting force,

wrestling, leaping, throwing great stones, and such like trials of

strength. When great force is exerted, the effort felt within the mind

produces great life and vivacity. The effort may be such, as in some

measure to overpower the mind. Thus the explosion of gun-powder, the

violence of a torrent, the weight of a mountain, and the crush of an

earthquake, create astonishment rather than pleasure.

No quality nor circumstance contributes more to grandeur than force,

especially as exerted by sensible beings. I cannot make this more

evident than by the following citations.

---- Him the almighty power

Hurl’d headlong flaming from th’ ethereal sky,

With hideous ruin and combustion, down

To bottomless perdition, there to dwell

In adamantine chains and penal fire,

Who durst defy th’ Omnipotent to arms.

_Paradise Lost, book 1._

---- Now storming fury rose,

And clamour such as heard in heaven till now

Was never; arms on armour clashing bray’d

Horrible discord, and the madding wheels

Of brazen chariots rag’d; dire was the noise

Of conflict; over head the dismal hiss

Of fiery darts in flaming vollies flew,

And flying vaulted either host with fire.

So under fiery cope together rush’d

Both battles main, with ruinous assault

And inextinguishable rage: all heav’n

Resounded; and had earth been then, all earth

Had to her centre shook.

_Ibid, book 6._

They ended parle, and both address’d for fight

Unspeakable; for who, though with the tongue

Of angels, can relate, or to what things

Liken on earth conspicuous, that may lift

Human imagination to such height

Of godlike pow’r? for likest gods they seem’d,

Stood they or mov’d, in stature, motion, arms,

Fit to decide the empire of great Heav’n.

Now wav’d their fiery swords, and in the air

Made horrid circles: two broad suns their shields

Blaz’d opposite, while Expectation stood

In horror: from each hand with speed retir’d,

Where erst was thickest fight, th’ angelic throng,

And left large field, unsafe within the wind

Of such commotion; such as, to set forth

Great things by small, if Nature’s concord broke,

Among the constellations war were sprung,

Two planets, rushing from aspéct malign

Of fiercest opposition, in mid sky,

Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound.

_Ibid, book 6._

We shall now consider the effect of motion and force in conjunction. In

contemplating the planetary system, what strikes us the most, is the

spherical figures of the planets and their regular motions. The

conception we have of their activity and enormous bulk is more obscure.

The beauty accordingly of this system, raises a more lively emotion than

its grandeur. But if we could imagine ourselves spectators comprehending

the whole system at one view, the activity and irresistible force of

these immense bodies would fill us with amazement. Nature cannot furnish

another scene so grand.

Motion and force, agreeable in themselves, are also agreeable by their

utility when employed as means to accomplish some beneficial end. Hence

the superior beauty of some machines, where force and motion concur to

perform the work of numberless hands. Hence the beautiful motions, firm

and regular, of a horse trained for war. Every single step is the

fittest that can be for obtaining the end proposed. But the grace of

motion is visible chiefly in man, not only for the reasons mentioned,

but also because every gesture is significant. The power however of

agreeable motion is not a common talent. Every limb of the human body

has a good and a bad, an agreeable and disagreeable action. Some

motions are extremely graceful, others are plain and vulgar: some

express dignity, others meanness. But the pleasure here, arising not

singly from the beauty of motion, but from indicating character and

sentiment, belongs to a different chapter[72].

I should conclude with the final cause of the relish we have for motion

and force, were it not so evident as to require no explanation. We are

placed here in such circumstances as to make industry essential to our

well-being; for without industry the plainest necessaries of life are

not to be obtained. When our situation therefore in this world requires

activity and a constant exertion of motion and force, Providence

indulgently provides for our welfare in making these agreeable to us. It

would be a blunder in our nature, to make things disagreeable that we

depend on for existence; and even to make them indifferent, would tend

to make us relax greatly from that degree of activity which is

indispensable.

CHAP. VI.

Novelty, and the unexpected appearance of objects.

Of all the particulars that contribute to raise emotions, not excepting

beauty, or even greatness, novelty hath the most powerful influence. A

new spectacle attracts multitudes. It produceth instantaneously an

emotion which totally occupies the mind, and for a time excludes all

other objects. The soul seems to meet the strange appearance with a

certain elongation of itself; and all is hushed in close contemplation.

In some instances, there is perceived a degree of agony, attended with

external symptoms extremely expressive. Conversation among the vulgar

never is more interesting, than when it runs upon strange objects and

extraordinary events. Men tear themselves from their native country in

search of things rare and new; and curiosity converts into a pleasure,

the fatigues, and even perils of travelling. To what cause shall we

ascribe these singular appearances? The plain account of the matter

follows. Curiosity is implanted in human nature, for a purpose extremely

beneficial, that of acquiring knowledge. New and strange objects, above

all others, excite our curiosity; and its gratification is the emotion

above described, known by the name of _wonder_. This emotion is

distinguished from _admiration_. Novelty where-ever found, whether in a

quality or action, is the cause of wonder: admiration is directed upon

the operator who performs any thing wonderful.

During infancy, every new object is probably the occasion of wonder, in

some degree; because, during infancy, every object at first is strange

as well as new. But as objects are rendered familiar by custom, we cease

by degrees to wonder at new appearances that have any resemblance to

what we are acquainted with. A thing must be singular as well as new, to

excite our curiosity and to raise our wonder. To save multiplying words,

I would be understood to comprehend both circumstances when I hereafter

talk of novelty.

In an ordinary train of perceptions where one thing introduces another,

not a single object makes its appearance unexpectedly[73]. The mind thus

prepared for the reception of its objects, admits them one after another

without perturbation. But when a thing breaks in unexpectedly and

without the preparation of any connection, it raises a singular emotion

known by the name of _surprise_. This emotion may be produced by the

most familiar object, as when one accidentally meets a friend who was

reported to be dead; or a man in high life, lately a beggar. On the

other hand, a new object, however strange, will not produce this emotion

if the spectator be prepared for the fight. An elephant in India will

not surprise a traveller who goes to see one; and yet its novelty will

raise his wonder. An Indian in Britain would be much surprised to

stumble upon an elephant feeding at large in the open fields; but the

creature itself, to which he was accustomed, would not raise his

wonder.

Surprise thus in several respects differs from wonder. Unexpedtedness is

the cause of the former emotion: novelty is the cause of the latter. Nor

differ they less in their nature and circumstances, as will be explained

by and by. With relation to one circumstance they perfectly agree, which

is the shortness of their duration. The instantaneous production of

these emotions in perfection, may contribute to this effect, in

conformity to a general law, That things soon decay which soon come to

perfection. The violence of the emotions may also contribute; for an

ardent emotion, which is not susceptible of increase, cannot have a long

course. But their short duration is occasioned chiefly by that of their

causes. We are soon reconciled to an object, however unexpected; and

novelty soon degenerates into familiarity.

Whether these emotions be pleasant or painful, is not a clear point. It

may appear strange, that our own feelings and their capital qualities

should afford any matter for a doubt. But when we are ingrossed by any

emotion, there is no place for speculation; and when sufficiently calm

for speculation, it is not easy to recal the emotion with sufficient

accuracy. New objects are sometimes terrible, sometimes delightful. The

terror which a tyger inspires is greatest at first, and wears off

gradually by familiarity. On the other hand, even women will

acknowledge, that it is novelty which pleases the most in a new fashion.

At this rate, it should be thought, that wonder is not in itself

pleasant or painful, but that it assumes either quality according to

circumstances. This doctrine, however plausible, must not pass without

examination. And when we reflect upon the principle of curiosity and its

operations, a glimpse of light gives some faint view of a different

theory. Our curiosity is never more thoroughly gratified, than by new

and singular objects. That very gratification is the emotion of wonder,

which therefore, according to the analogy of nature, ought always to be

pleasant[74]. And indeed it would be a great defect in human nature,

were the gratification of so useful a principle unpleasant. But upon a

more strict scrutiny, we shall not have occasion to mark curiosity as an

exception from the general rule. A new object, it is true, that hath a

threatening appearance, adds to our terror by its novelty. But from this

experiment it doth not follow, that novelty is in itself disagreeable.

It is perfectly consistent, that we should be delighted with an object

in one view, and terrified with it in another. A river in flood swelling

over its banks, is a grand and delightful object; and yet it may produce

no small degree of fear when we attempt to cross it. Courage and

magnanimity are agreeable; and yet when we view these qualities in an

enemy, they serve to increase our terror[75]. In the same manner,

novelty has two effects clearly distinguishable from each other. A new

object, by gratifying curiosity, must always be agreeable. It may, at

the same time, have an opposite effect indirectly, which is, to inspire

terror. For when a new object appears in any degree dangerous, our

ignorance of its powers and qualities affords ample scope for the

imagination to dress it in the most frightful colours[76]. Thus the

first sight of a lion at some distance, may at the same instant produce

two opposite feelings, the pleasant emotion of wonder, and the painful

passion of terror. The novelty of the object, produces the former

directly, and contributes to the latter indirectly. Thus, when the

subject is analized, we find, that the power which novelty hath

indirectly to inflame terror, is perfectly consistent with its being in

every case agreeable. The matter may be put in a still clearer light by

varying the scene. If a lion be first seen from a place of safety, the

spectacle is altogether agreeable without the least mixture of terror.

If again the first sight put us within reach of this dangerous animal,

our terror may be so great as quite to exclude any sense of novelty. But

this fact proves not that wonder is painful: it proves only that wonder

may be excluded by a more powerful passion. And yet it is this fact,

which, in superficial thinking, has thrown the subject into obscurity. I

presume we may now boldly affirm, that wonder is in every case a

pleasant emotion. This is acknowledged as to all new objects that appear

inoffensive. And even as to objects that appear offensive, I urge that

the same must hold so long as the spectator can attend to the novelty.

Whether surprise be in itself pleasant or painful, is a question not

less intricate than the former. It is certain, that surprise inflames

our joy when unexpectedly we meet with an old friend: and not less our

terror, when we stumble upon any thing noxious. To clear this point, we

must trace it step by step. And the first thing to be remarked is, that

in some instances an unexpected object overpowers the mind so as to

produce a momentary stupefaction. An unexpected object, not less than

one that is new, is apt to sound an alarm and to raise terror. Man,

naturally a defenceless being, is happily so constituted as to apprehend

danger in all doubtful cases. Accordingly, where the object is

dangerous, or appears so, the sudden alarm it gives, without

preparation, is apt totally to unhinge the mind, and for a moment to

suspend all the faculties, even thought itself[77]. In this state a man

is quite helpless; and if he move at all, is as likely to run upon the

danger as from it. Surprise carried to this height, cannot be either

pleasant or painful; because the mind, during such momentary

stupefaction, is in a good measure, if not totally, insensible.