the unexpected object or event produceth less violent effects. And while
the mind remains sensible of pleasure and pain, is it not natural to
suppose, that surprise, like wonder, should have an invariable
character? I am inclined however to think, that surprise has no
invariable character, but assumes that of the object which raises it.
Wonder is the gratification of a natural principle, and upon that
account must be pleasant. There, novelty is the capital circumstance,
which, for a time, is intitled to possess the mind entirely in one
unvaried tone. The unexpected appearance of an object, seems not equally
intitled to produce an emotion distinguishable from the emotion,
pleasant or painful, that is produced by the object in its ordinary
appearance. It ought not naturally to have any effect, other than to
swell that emotion, by making it more pleasant or more painful than it
commonly is. And this conjecture is confirmed by experience, as well as
by language, which is built upon experience. When a man meets a friend
unexpectedly, he is said to be agreeably surprised; and when he meets an
enemy unexpectedly, he is said to be disagreeably surprised. It appears
then, that the sole effect of surprise is to swell the emotion raised by
the object. And this effect can be clearly explained. A tide of
connected perceptions, glides gently into the mind, and produceth no
perturbation. An object on the other hand breaking in unexpectedly,
sounds an alarm, rouses the mind out of its calm state, and directs its
whole attention upon the object, which, if agreeable, becomes doubly so.
Several circumstances concur to produce this effect. On the one hand,
the agitation of the mind and its keen attention, prepare it in the most
effectual manner for receiving a deep impression. On the other hand, the
object by its sudden and unforeseen appearance, makes an impression, not
gradually as expected objects do, but as at one stroke with its whole
force. The circumstances are precisely similar, where the object is in
itself disagreeable.
The pleasure of novelty is easily distinguished from that of variety. To
produce the latter, a plurality of objects is necessary. The former
arises from a circumstance found in a single object. Again, where
objects, whether coexistent or in succession, are sufficiently
diversified, the pleasure of variety is complete, though every single
object of the train be familiar. But the pleasure of novelty, directly
opposite to familiarity, requires no diversification.
There are different degrees of novelty, and its effects are in
proportion. The lowest degree is found in objects that are surveyed a
second time after a long interval. That in this case an object takes on
some appearance of novelty, is certain from experience. A large building
of many parts variously adorned, or an extensive field embellished with
trees, lakes, temples, statues, and other ornaments, will appear new
oftener than once. The memory of an object so complex is soon lost; of
its parts at least, or of their arrangement. But experience teaches,
that even without any decay of remembrance, absence alone will give an
air of novelty to a once familiar object; which is not surprising,
because familiarity wears off gradually by absence. Thus a person with
whom we have been intimate, returning after a long interval, appears
like a new acquaintance. Distance of place contributes to this
appearance, not less than distance of time. A friend after a short
absence in a remote country, has the same air of novelty as if he had
returned after a longer interval from a place nearer home. The mind
forms a connection betwixt him and the remote country, and bestows upon
him the singularity of the objects he has seen. When two things equally
new and singular are presented, the spectator balances betwixt them. But
when told that one of them is the product of a distant quarter of the
world, he no longer hesitates, but clings to this as the more singular.
Hence the preference given to foreign luxuries and to foreign
curiosities, which appear rare in proportion to their original distance.
The next degree of novelty, mounting upward, is found in objects of
which we have some information at second hand. For description, though
it contribute to familiarity, cannot altogether remove the appearance of
novelty when the object itself is presented. The first sight of a lion
occasions some wonder, after a thorough acquaintance with the corrected
pictures or statues of that animal.
A new object that bears some distant resemblance to a known species, is
an instance of a third degree of novelty. A strong resemblance among
individuals of the same species, prevents almost entirely the effect of
novelty; unless distance of place or some other circumstance concur.
But where the resemblance is faint, some degree of wonder is felt; and
the emotion rises in proportion to the faintness of the resemblance.
The highest degree of wonder ariseth from unknown objects that have no
analogy to any species we are acquainted with. Shakespear in a simile
introduces this species of novelty.
As glorious to the sight
As is a winged messenger from heaven
Unto the white upturned wondring eye
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.
_Romeo and Juliet._
One example of this species of novelty deserves peculiar attention; and
that is, when an object altogether new is seen by one person only, and
but once. These circumstances heighten remarkably the emotion. The
singularity of the condition of the spectator concurs with the
singularity of the object, to inflame wonder to its highest pitch.
In explaining the effects of novelty, the place a being occupies in the
scale of existence, is a circumstance that must not be omitted. Novelty
in the individuals of a low class, is perceived with indifference, or
with a very slight emotion. Thus a pebble, however singular in its
appearance, scarce moves our wonder. The emotion rises with the rank of
the object; and, other circumstances being equal, is strongest in the
highest order of existence. A strange animal affects us more than a
strange vegetable; and were we admitted to view superior beings, our
wonder would rise proportionably; and accompanying Nature in her amazing
works, be completed in the contemplation of the Deity.
However natural the love of novelty may be, it is a matter of
experience, that those who relish novelty the most, are careful to
conceal its influence. This relish, it is true, prevails in children, in
idle people, and in men of a weak mind. And yet, after all, why should
one be ashamed for indulging a natural propensity? A distinction will
explain this difficulty. No man is ashamed to own, that he loves to
contemplate new or strange objects. He neither condemns himself nor is
censured by others, for this appetite. But every man studies to conceal,
that he loves a thing or performs an action, merely for its novelty. The
reason of the difference will set the matter in a clear light. Curiosity
is a natural principle directed upon new and singular objects, in the
contemplation of which its gratification consists, without leading to
any end other than knowledge. The man therefore who prefers any thing
merely because it is new, hath not this principle for his justification;
nor indeed any good principle. Vanity is at the bottom, which easily
prevails upon those who have no taste, to prefer things odd, rare, or
singular, in order to distinguish themselves from others. And in fact,
the appetite for novelty, as above mentioned, reigns chiefly among
persons of a mean taste, who are ignorant of refined and elegant
pleasures.
The gratification of curiosity, as mentioned above, is distinguished by
a proper name, _viz. wonder_; an honour denied to the gratification of
any other principle, emotion, or passion, so far as I can recollect.
This singularity indicates some important final cause, which I endeavour
to unfold. An acquaintance with the various things that may affect us,
and with their properties, is essential to our well-being. Nor will a
slight or superficial acquaintance be sufficient. It ought to be so
deeply ingraved on the mind, as to be ready for use upon every occasion.
Now, in order to a deep impression, it is wisely contrived, that things
should be introduced to our acquaintance, with a certain pomp and
solemnity productive of a vivid emotion. When the impression is once
fairly made, the emotion of novelty, being no longer necessary,
vanisheth almost instantaneously; never to return, unless where the
impression happens to be obliterated by length of time or other means;
in which case the second introduction is nearly as solemn as the first.
Designing wisdom is no where more legible than in this part of the human
frame. If new objects did not affect us in a very peculiar manner,
their impressions would be so slight as scarce to be of any use in life.
On the other hand, did objects continue to affect us as deeply as at
first, the mind would be totally ingrossed with them, and have no room
left either for action or reflection.
The final cause of surprise is still more evident than of novelty.
Self-love makes us vigilantly attentive to self-preservation. But
self-love, which operates by means of reason and reflection, and impells
not the mind to any particular object or from it, is a principle too
cool for a sudden emergency. An object breaking in unexpectedly, affords
no time for deliberation; and, in this case, the agitation of surprise
is artfully contrived to rouse self-love into action. Surprise gives the
alarm, and if there be any appearance of danger, our whole force is
instantly summoned up to shun or to prevent it.
CHAP. VII.
Risible Objects.
Such is the nature of man, that his powers and faculties are soon
blunted by exercise. The returns of sleep, suspending all activity, are
not alone sufficient to preserve him in vigor. During his waking hours,
amusement by intervals is requisite to unbend his mind from serious
occupation. The imagination, of all our faculties the most active, and
not always at rest even in sleep, contributes more than any other cause
to recruit the mind and restore its vigor, by amusing us with gay and
ludicrous images; and when relaxation is necessary, such amusement is
much relished. But there are other sources of amusement beside the
imagination. Many objects, natural as well as artificial, may be
distinguished by the epithet of _risible_, because they raise in us a
peculiar emotion expressed externally by _laughter_. This is a pleasant
emotion; and being also mirthful, it most successfully unbends the mind
and recruits the spirits.
_Ludicrous_ is a general term, signifying, as we may conjecture from its
derivation, what is playsome, sportive, or jocular. _Ludicrous_
therefore seems the genus, of which _risible_ is a species, limited as
above to what makes us laugh.
However easy it may be, concerning any particular object, to say whether
it be risible or not; it seems difficult, if at all practicable, to
establish beforehand any general character by which objects of this kind
may be distinguished from others. Nor is this a singular case. Upon a
review, we find the same difficulty in most of the articles already
handled. There is nothing more easy, viewing a particular object, than
to pronounce that it is beautiful or ugly, grand or little: but were we
to attempt general rules for ranging objects under different classes,
according to these qualities, we should find ourselves utterly at a
loss. There is a separate cause which increases the difficulty of
distinguishing risible objects by a general character. All men are not
equally affected by risible objects; and even the same person is more
disposed to laugh at one time than another. In high spirits a thing will
make us laugh outright, that will scarce provoke a smile when we are in
a grave mood. We must therefore abandon the thought of attempting
general rules for distinguishing risible objects from others. Risible
objects however are circumscribed within certain limits, which I shall
suggest, without pretending to any degree of accuracy. And, in the first
place, I observe, that no object is risible but what appears slight,
little, or trifling. For man is so constituted as to be seriously
affected with every thing that is of importance to his own interest or
to that of others. Secondly, with respect to the works both of nature
and of art, nothing is risible but what deviates from the common nature
of the subject: it must be some particular out of rule, some remarkable
defect or excess, a very long visage, for example, or a very short one.
Hence nothing just, proper, decent, beautiful, proportioned, or grand,
is risible. A real distress raises pity, and therefore cannot be
risible. But a slight or imaginary distress, which moves not pity, is
risible. The adventure of the fulling-mills in Don Quixote is extremely
risible; so is the scene where Sancho, in a dark night, tumbles into a
pit, and attaches himself to the side by hand and foot, there hanging in
terrible dismay till the morning, when he discovers himself to be within
a foot of the bottom. A nose remarkably long or short is risible; but to
want the nose altogether, far from provoking laughter, raises horror in
the spectator.
From what is said, it will readily be conjectured, that the emotion
raised by a risible object is of a nature so singular as scarce to find
place while the mind is occupied with any other passion or emotion. And
this conjecture is verified by experience. We scarce ever find this
emotion blended with any other. One emotion I must except, and that is
contempt raised by some sort of improprieties. Every improper act
inspires us with some degree of contempt for the author. And if an
improper act be at the same time risible and provoke laughter, of which
blunders and absurdities are noted instances, the two emotions of
contempt and of laughter unite intimately in the mind, and produce
externally what is termed _a laugh of derision_ or _of scorn_. Hence
objects that cause laughter, may be distinguished into two kinds. They
are either _risible_ or _ridiculous_. A risible object is mirthful only;
a ridiculous object is both mirthful and contemptible. The first raises
an emotion of laughter that is altogether pleasant: the emotion of
laughter raised by the other, is qualified with that of contempt; and
the mixed emotion, partly pleasant partly painful, is termed _the
emotion of ridicule_. I avenge myself of the pain a ridiculous object
gives me by a laugh of derision. A risible object, on the other hand,
gives me no pain: it is altogether pleasant by a certain sort of
titillation, which is expressed externally by mirthful laughter.
Ridicule will be more fully explained afterward: the present chapter is
appropriated to the other emotion.
Risible objects are so common and so well understood, that it is
unnecessary to consume paper or time upon them. Take the few following
examples.
_Falstaff._ I do remember him at Clement’s inn,
like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring.
When he was naked, he was for all the world like a
forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon
it with a knife.
_Second part, Henry IV. act 3. sc. 5._
The foregoing is of disproportion. The following examples are of slight
or imaginary misfortunes.
_Falstaff._ Go fetch me a quart of sack, put a
toast in’t. Have I liv’d to be carried in a basket,
like a barrow of butcher’s offal, and to be thrown
into the Thames? Well, if I be serv’d such another
trick, I’ll have my brains ta’en out and butter’d,
and give them to a dog for a new-year’s
gift. The rogues slighted me into the river with
as little remorse as they would have drown’d a
bitch’s blind puppies, fifteen i’ th’ litter; and you
may know by my size, that I have a kind of alacrity
in sinking: if the bottom were as deep as hell,
I should down. I had been drown’d, but that the
shore was shelvy and shallow; a death that I abhor;
for the water swells a man: and what a thing
should I have been, when I had been swell’d? I
should have been a mountain of mummy.
_Merry wives of Windsor, act 3. sc. 15._
_Falstaff._ Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook,
what I have suffer’d to bring this woman to evil
for your good. Being thus cramm’d in the basket,
a couple of Ford’s knaves, his hinds, were
call’d forth by their mistress, to carry me in the
name of foul cloaths to Datchet-lane. They took
me on their shoulders, met the jealous knave their
master in the door, who ask’d them once or twice
what they had in their basket. I quak’d for fear,
left the lunatic knave would have search’d it; but
Fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his
hand. Well, on went he for a search, and away
went I for foul cloaths. But mark the sequel, Master
Brook. I suffer’d the pangs of three egregious
deaths: first, an intolerable fright, to be detected
by a jealous rotten bell weather; next, to be compass’d
like a good bilbo, in the circumference of a
peck, hilt to point, heel to head; and then to be
stopt in, like a strong distillation, with stinking cloaths
that fretted in their own grease. Think of that, a
man of my kidney; think of that, that am as subject
to heat as butter; a man of continual dissolution
and thaw; it was a miracle to ’scape suffocation.
And in the height of this bath, when I was
more than half-stew’d in grease, like a Dutch dish,
to be thrown into the Thames, and cool’d glowing
hot, in that surge, like a horse-shoe; think of
that; hissing hot; think of that, Master Brook.
_Merry wives of Windsor, act 3. sc. 17._
CHAP. VIII.
Resemblance and Contrast.
Having discussed those qualities and circumstances of single objects
that seem peculiarly connected with criticism, we proceed, according to
the method proposed in the chapter of beauty, to the relations of
objects, beginning with the relations of resemblance and contrast.
Man being unavoidably connected with the beings around him, some
acquaintance with their nature, their powers, and their qualities, is
requisite for regulating his conduct. As an incentive to acquire a
branch of knowledge so essential to our well-being, motives alone of
reason and interest are not sufficient. Nature hath providently
superadded curiosity, a vigorous propensity which never is at rest. It
is this propensity which attaches us to every new object[78]; and in
particular incites us to consider objects in the way of comparison, in
order to discover their differences and resemblances.
Resemblance among objects of the same kind, and dissimilitude among
objects of different kinds, are too obvious and familiar to gratify our
curiosity in any degree. The gratification lies in discovering
differences among things where resemblance prevails, and in discovering
resemblances where difference prevails. Thus a difference in individuals
of the same kind of plants or animals is deemed a discovery, while the
many particulars in which they agree are neglected: and in different
kinds, any resemblance is greedily remarked, without attending to the
many particulars in which they differ.
A comparison however may be too far stretched. When differences or
resemblances are carried beyond certain bounds, they appear slight and
trivial; and for that reason will not be relished by one of taste. Yet
such propensity is there to gratify passion, curiosity in particular,
that even among good writers, we find many comparisons too slight to
afford satisfaction. Hence the frequent instances among logicians, of
distinctions without any solid difference: and hence the frequent
instances among poets and orators, of similes without any just
resemblance. With regard to the latter, I shall confine myself to one
instance, which will probably amuse the reader, being a citation not
from a poet nor orator, but from a grave author writing an institute of
law. “Our student shall observe, that the knowledge of the law is like a
deep well, out of which each man draweth according to the strength of
his understanding. He that reacheth deepest, seeth the amiable and
admirable secrets of the law, wherein I assure you the sages of the law
in former times have had the deepest reach. And as the bucket in the
depth is easily drawn to the uppermost part of the water, (for _nullum
elementum in suo proprio loco est grave_), but take it from the water it
cannot be drawn up but with a great difficulty; so, albeit beginnings of
this study seem difficult, yet when the professor of the law can dive
into the depth, it is delightful, easy, and without any heavy burden,
so long as he keep himself in his own proper element[79].” Shakespear
with much wit ridicules this disposition to simile-making, by putting in
the mouth of a weak man a resemblance much of a piece with that now
mentioned.
_Fluellen._ I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is porn: I
tell you, Captain, if you look in the maps of the orld, I warrant
that you sall find, in the comparisons between Macedon and
Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a
river in Macedon, there is also moreover a river in Monmouth: it is
call’d _Wye_ at Monmouth, but it is out of my prains what is the
name of the other river; but it is all one, ’tis as like as my
fingers to my fingers, and there is salmons in both. If you mark
Alexander’s life well, Harry of Monmouth’s life is come after it
indifferent well; for there is figures in all things. Alexander,
God knows, and you know, in his rages, and his furies, and his
wraths, and his cholers, and his moods, and his displeasures, and
his indignations, and also being a little intoxicates in his
prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look you, kill his pest
friend Clytus.
_Gower._ Our King is not like him in that, he never kill’d any of
his friends.
_Fluellen._ It is not well done, mark you now, to take the tales
out of my mouth, ere it is made and finished. I speak but in
figures, and comparisons of it: As Alexander kill’d his friend
Clytus, being in his ales and his cups; so also Harry Monmouth,
being in his right wits and his good judgments, turn’d away the fat
knight with the great belly-doublet; he was full of jests, and
gypes, and knaveries, and mocks: I have forgot his name.
_Gower._ Sir John Falstaff.
_Fluellen._ That is he: I tell you, there is good men porn at
Monmouth. _K. Henry_ V. _act 4. sc. 13._
Instruction, no doubt, is the chief end of comparison, but not the only
end. In works addressed to the imagination, comparison may be employed
with great success to put a subject in a strong point of view. A lively
idea is formed of a man’s courage, by likening it to that of a lion; and
eloquence is exalted in our imagination, by comparing it to a river
overflowing its banks, and involving all in its impetuous course. The
same effect is produced by contrast. A man in prosperity, becomes more
sensible of his happiness, by opposing his condition to that of a
person in want of bread. Thus comparison is subservient to poetry as
well as to philosophy; and with respect to both, the foregoing
observation holds equally, that resemblance among objects of the same
kind, and contrast among objects of different kinds, have no effect.
Such a comparison neither tends to gratify our curiosity, nor to set the
objects compared in a stronger light. Two apartments in a palace,
similar in shape, size, and furniture, make separately as good a figure
as when compared; and the same observation applies to two similar
copartments in a garden. On the other hand, oppose a regular building to
a fall of water, or a good picture to a towering hill, or even a little
dog to a large horse, and the contrast will produce no effect. But
resemblance, where the objects compared are of different kinds, and
contrast where the objects compared are of the same kind, have each of
them remarkably an enlivening effect. The poets, such of them as have a
just taste, draw all their similes from things that in the main differ
widely from the principal subject; and they never attempt a contrast but
where the things have a common genus and a resemblance in the capital
circumstances. Place together a large and a small sized animal of the
same species, the one will appear greater the other less, than when
viewed separately. When we oppose beauty to deformity, each makes a
greater figure by the comparison.
Upon a subject not only in itself curious, but of great importance in
all the fine arts, I must be more particular. That resemblance and
contrast have an enlivening effect upon objects of sight, is made
sufficiently evident; and that they have the same effect upon objects of
the other senses, will appear from induction. Nor is this law confined
to the external senses. Characters contrasted, make a greater figure by
the opposition. Iago, in the tragedy of _Othello_, says
He hath a daily beauty in his life,
That makes me ugly.
The character of a fop, and of a rough warrior, are no where more
successfully contrasted than by Shakespear.
_Hotspur._ My liege, I did deny no prisoners;
But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword;
Came there a certain Lord, neat, trimly dress’d,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new-reap’d,
Shew’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home.
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose;--and still he smil’d, and talk’d;
And as the soldiers bare dead bodies by,
He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He question’d me: amongst the rest, demanded
My pris’ners, in your Majesty’s behalf.
I then all smarting with my wounds; being gal’d
To be so pester’d with a popinjay,
Out of my grief, and my impatience,
Answer’d, neglectingly, I know not what:
He should, or should not; for he made me mad,
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!)
And telling me, the sovereign’st thing on earth
Was parmacity, for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villanous saltpetre should be digg’d
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good, tall fellow had destroy’d
So cowardly: and but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.--
_First part, Henry IV. act 1. sc. 4._
Passions and emotions are also inflamed by comparison. A man of high
rank humbles the bystanders so far as almost to annihilate them in their
own opinion. Cæsar, beholding the statue of Alexander, felt a great
depression of spirits, when he reflected, that now at the age of
thirty-two, when Alexander died, he had not performed one memorable
action.
Our opinions also are much influenced by comparison. A man whose
opulence exceeds the ordinary standard, is reputed richer than he is in
reality; and the character of wisdom or weakness, if at all remarkable
is generally carried beyond the truth.
The opinion a man forms of his present condition as to happiness or
misery, depends in a great measure on the comparison he makes betwixt it
and his former condition:
Could I forget
What I have been, I might the better bear
What I am destin’d to. I’m not the first
That have been wretched: but to think how much
I have been happier.
_Southern’s Innocent adultery, act 2._
The distress of a long journey makes even an indifferent inn pass
current. And in travelling, when the road is good and the horseman well
covered, a bad day may be agreeable, by making him sensible how snug he
is.
The same effect is equally remarkable, when a man sets his condition in
opposition to that of others. A ship tossed about in a storm, makes the
spectator reflect upon his own security and ease, and puts these in the
strongest light:
Suave, mari magno turbantibus æquora ventis,
E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem,
Non quia vexari quemquam est jocunda voluptas,
Sed quibus ipse malis careas, quia cernere suave est.
_Lucret. l. 2. principio._
A man in grief cannot bear mirth. It gives him a more lively notion of
his unhappiness, and of course makes him more unhappy. Satan
contemplating the beauties of the terrestrial paradise, breaks out in
the following exclamation.
With what delight could I have walk’d thee round,
If I could joy in ought, sweet interchange
Of hill and valley, rivers, woods, and plains,
Now land, now sea, and shores with forest crown’d,
Rocks, dens, and caves! but I in none of these
Find place or refuge; and the more I see
Pleasures about me, so much more I feel
Torment within me, as from the hateful siege
Of contraries: all good to me becomes
Bane, and in heav’n much worse would be my state.
_Paradise Lost, book 9. l. 114._
_Gaunt._ All places that the eye of heaven visits,
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy necessity to reason thus:
There is no virtue like necessity.
Think not the King did banish thee;
But thou the King. Wo doth the heavier sit,
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne.
Go say, I sent thee forth to purchase honour;
And not, the King exil’d thee. Or suppose,
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air,
And thou art flying to a fresher clime,
Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
To lie that way thou go’st, not whence thou com’st.
Suppose the singing birds, musicians;
The grass whereon thou tread’st, the presence-floor;
The flow’rs, fair ladies; and thy steps, no more
Than a delightful measure, or a dance.
For gnarling Sorrow hath less power to bite
The man that mocks at it, and sets it light.
_Bolingbroke._ Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of Appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow,
By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat?
Oh, no! the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.
_King Richard II. act 1. sc. 6._
The appearance of danger gives sometimes pleasure, sometimes pain. A
timorous person upon the battlements of a high tower, is seized with
terror, which even the consciousness of security cannot dissipate. But
upon one of a firm head, this situation has a contrary effect. The
appearance of danger heightens by opposition the consciousness of
security, and of consequence the satisfaction that arises from security.
The feeling here resembles that above mentioned occasioned by a ship
labouring in a storm.
This effect of magnifying or lessening objects by means of comparison,
is so familiar, that no philosopher has thought of searching for a
cause[80]. The obscurity of the subject may possibly have contributed to
their silence. But luckily in treating other subjects, a principle is
unfolded which will clearly account for this phenomenon. It depends
upon the power of passion to model our opinion of objects for its
gratification[81]. We have had occasion to see many illustrious examples
of this singular power of passion; and the present subject affords an
additional instance. That this is the cause, will evidently appear, by
reflecting in what manner a spectator is affected, when a very large
animal is for the first time placed beside a very small one of the same
species. The opposition is the first thing that strikes the mind: the
unusual appearance gives surprise; and the spectator, prone to gratify
this emotion, conceives the opposition to be the greatest that can be.
He sees, or seems to see, the one animal extremely little, and the other
extremely large. The emotion of surprise arising from any unusual
resemblance, serves equally to explain why at first view we are apt to
think such resemblance more entire than it is in reality. And it must be
observed, that the circumstances of more and less, which are the proper
subjects of comparison, raise a perception so indistinct and vague as
to facilitate the effect described. We have no mental standard of great
and little, nor of the several degrees of any attribute; and the mind
thus unrestrained, is naturally disposed to indulge its surprise to the
utmost extent.
In exploring the operations of the mind, some of which are extremely
nice and slippery, it is necessary to proceed with the utmost
circumspection. And after all, seldom it happens that speculations of
this kind afford any strong conviction. Luckily, in the present case, we
have at hand facts and experiments that support the foregoing theory in
a satisfactory manner. In the first place, the opposing a small object
of one species to a great object of another, produces not, in any
degree, that effect of contrast, which is so remarkable when both
objects are of the same species. There is no difference betwixt these
two cases that promiseth to have any influence, but only that the former
is common, the latter rare. May we not then fairly conclude, that
surprise from the rarity of appearance is the cause of contrast, when
we find no such effect where the appearance is common? In the next
place, if surprise be the sole cause of the effects that appear in
making a comparison, it follows necessarily that these effects will
vanish so soon as a comparison becomes familiar. This holds so
unerringly, as to leave no reasonable doubt that surprise is the prime
mover in this operation. Our surprise is great the first time a small
lapdog is seen with a large mastiff: but when two such animals are
constantly together, there is no surprise; and it makes no difference
whether they be viewed separately or in company. We put no bounds to the
riches of a man who has recently made his fortune. The opposition
betwixt his present and past situation, or betwixt his present situation
and that of others, is carried to an extreme. With regard to a family
that for many generations hath enjoyed great wealth, the same false
reckoning is not made. It is equally remarkable, that a simile loses its
effect by repetition. A lover compared to a moth scorching itself at the
flame of a candle, is a sprightly simile, which by frequent use has
lost all force. Love cannot now be compared to fire, without some degree
of disgust. It has been justly objected against Homer, that the lion is
too often introduced in his similes. All the variety he is able to throw
into them, is not sufficient to keep alive the reader’s surprise.
To explain the influence of comparison upon the mind, I have chosen the
simplest case, that of two animals of the same kind, differing in size
only, seen for the first time. To complete the theory, other
circumstances must be taken in. And the next supposition I shall make,
is where both animals, separately familiar to the spectator, are brought
together for the first time. In this case, the effect of magnifying and
diminishing, will be found remarkably greater than in that first
mentioned. And the reason will appear upon analyzing the operation. The
first thing we feel is surprise, occasioned by the uncommon difference
of two creatures of the same species. We are next sensible, that the one
appears less, the other larger, than they did formerly. This new
circumstance is a second cause of surprise, and augments it so as to
make us imagine a still greater opposition betwixt the animals, than if
we had formed no notion of them beforehand.
I shall confine myself to one other supposition, That the spectator was
acquainted beforehand with one of the animals only, the lapdog for
example. This new circumstance will vary the effect. Instead of widening
the natural difference by enlarging in appearance the one animal and
diminishing the other in proportion, the whole apparent alteration will
rest upon the lapdog. The surprise to find it less than judged to be
formerly, will draw the whole attention of the mind upon it; and this
surprise will be gratified, by conceiving it to be of the most
diminutive size possible. The mastiff in the mean time is quite
neglected. I am able to illustrate this effect by a very familiar
example. Take a piece of paper or linen reckoned to be a good white, and
compare it with something of the same kind that is a pure white. The
judgement we formed of the first object is instantly varied; and the
surprise occasioned by finding it not so white as was thought,
produceth a hasty conviction that it is much less white than it is in
reality. Withdrawing now the pure white, and putting in its place a deep
black, the surprise occasioned by this new circumstance carries our
thought to the other extreme, and we now conceive the original object to
be a pure white. Thus experience forces us to acknowledge, that our
emotions have an influence even upon our eye-sight. This experiment
leads to a general observation, That whatever is found more strange or
beautiful than was expected, is judged to be more strange or beautiful
than it is in reality. Hence it is a common artifice, to depreciate
beforehand what we wish to make a figure in the eyes of others.
The comparisons employed by poets and orators, coincide with the
last-mentioned supposition. It is always a known object that is to be
aggrandized or lessened. The former is effectuated by likening it to
some grand object, or by contrasting it with one that has the opposite
character. To effectuate the latter, the method must be reversed. The
object must be contrasted with something superior to itself, or likened
to something inferior. The whole effect is produced upon the principal
subject, which by this means is elevated above its rank or depressed
below it.
In accounting for the effect that any unusual resemblance or contrast
has upon the mind, I have hitherto assigned no other cause but surprise;
and to prevent confusion and obscurity, I thought it proper to discuss
that principle first. But surprise is not the only cause of the effect
described. Another cause concurs, which operates perhaps not less
powerfully than surprise. This cause is a principle in human nature that
lies still in obscurity, not having been evolved by any writer, though
its effects are extensive. As it is not distinguished by a proper name,
the reader must be satisfied with the following description. No man who
studies himself or others but must be sensible of a tendency or
propensity in the mind to complete every work that is begun, and to
carry things to their full perfection. This principle has little
opportunity to display itself upon natural operations, which are seldom
left imperfect. But in the operations of art it hath great scope; and
displays itself remarkably, by making us persevere in our own work, and
by making us wish for the completion of what is done by another. We feel
a sensible pleasure when the work is brought to perfection; and our pain
is not less sensible when we are disappointed. Hence our uneasiness,
when an interesting story is broke off in the middle, when a piece of
music ends without a close, or when a building or garden is left
imperfect. The same principle operates in making collections, such as
the whole works good and bad of any author. A certain person endeavoured
to collect prints of all the capital paintings, and succeeded except as
to a few. La Bruyere remarks, that an anxious search was made for these,
not on account of their value, but to complete the set[82].
The final cause of this principle is an additional proof of its
existence. Human works are of no significancy till they be completed.
Reason is not always a sufficient counterbalance to indolence: and some
principle over and above is necessary, to excite our industry, and to
prevent our stopping short in the middle of the course.
We need not lose time in describing the co-operation of the foregoing
principle with surprise in producing the effect that is felt upon the
appearance of any unusual resemblance or contrast. Surprise first
operates, and carries our opinion of the resemblance or contrast beyond
the truth. The principle we have been describing carries us still
farther; for being bent upon gratification, it forces upon the mind a
conviction that the resemblance or contrast is complete. We need no
better illustration than the resemblance that is fancied in some
pebbles to a tree or an insect. The resemblance, however faint in
reality, is conceived to be wonderfully perfect. This tendency to
complete a resemblance acting jointly with surprise, carries the mind
sometimes so far as even to presume upon future events. In the Greek
tragedy, intitled, _Phineides_, those unhappy women, seeing the place
where it was intended they should be slain, cried out with anguish,
“They now saw their cruel destiny had condemned them to die in that
place, being the same where they had been exposed in their infancy[83].”
This remarkable principle which inclines us to advance every thing to
its perfection, not only co-operates with surprise to deceive the mind,
but of itself is able to produce that effect. Of this we see many
instances where there is no place for surprise. The first instance I
shall give is of resemblance. _Unumquodque eodem modo dissolvitur quo
colligatum est_, is a maxim in the Roman law that has no foundation in
truth. For tying and loosing, building and demolishing, are acts
opposite to each other, and are performed by opposite means. But when
these acts are connected by their relation to the same subject, their
connection leads us to imagine a sort of resemblance betwixt them, which
the foregoing principle makes us conceive to be as complete as possible.
The next instance shall be of contrast. Addison observes[84], “That the
palest features look the most agreeable in white; that a face which is
overflushed appears to advantage in the deepest scarlet; and that a dark
complexion is not a little alleviated by a black hood.” The foregoing
principle serves to account for these appearances. To make this evident,
one of the cases shall suffice. A complexion, however dark, never
approaches to black. When these colours appear together, their
opposition strikes us; and the propensity we have to complete the
opposition, makes the darkness of complexion vanish out of sight.
The operation of this principle, even where there is no ground for
surprise, is not confined to opinion or conviction. So powerful is it,
as to make us sometimes proceed to action in order to complete a
resemblance or contrast. If this appear obscure, it will be made clear
by the following instances. Upon what principle is the _lex talionis_
founded other than to make the punishment resemble the mischief? Reason
dictates, that there ought to be a conformity or resemblance betwixt a
crime and its punishment; and the foregoing principle impells us to make
the resemblance as complete as possible. Titus Livius, influenced by
this principle, accounts for a certain punishment by a resemblance
betwixt it and the crime, far too subtile for common apprehension.
Speaking of Mettus Fuffetius, the Alban general, who, for treachery to
the Romans, his allies, was sentenced to be torn to pieces by horses, he
puts the following speech in the mouth of Tullus Hostilius, who decreed
the punishment. “Mette Fuffeti, inquit, si ipse discere posses fidem ac
fœdera servare, vivo tibi ea disciplina a me adhibita esset. Nunc,
quoniam tuum insanabile ingenium est, at tu tuo supplicio doce humanum
genus, ea sancta credere, quæ a te violata sunt. Ut igitur paulo ante
animum inter Fidenatem Romanamque rem ancipitem gessisti, ita jam corpus
passim distrahendum dabis[85].” By the same influence, the sentence is
often executed upon the very spot where the crime was committed. In the
_Electra_ of Sophocles, Egistheus is dragged from the theatre into an
inner room of the supposed palace, to suffer death where he murdered
Agamemnon. Shakespear, whose knowledge of nature is not less profound
than extensive, has not overlooked this propensity:
_Othello._ Get me some poison, Iago, this night; I’ll not
expostulate with her, lest her body and her beauty unprovide my
mind again; this night, Iago.
_Iago._ Do it not with poison; strangle her in her bed, even in the
bed she hath contaminated.
_Othello._ Good, good: The justice of it pleases; very good.
_Othello, act 4. sc. 5._
_Warwick._ From off the gates of York fetch down the head,
Your father’s head which Clifford placed there.
Instead whereof let his supply the room.
Measure for measure must be answered.
_Third Part of Henry VI. act 2. sc. 9._
Persons in their last moments are generally seized with an anxiety to be
buried with their relations. In the _Amynta_ of Tasso, the lover,
hearing that his mistress was torn to pieces by a wolf, expresses a
desire to die the same death[86].
Upon the subject in general, I have two remarks to add. The first
concerns resemblance, which when too entire hath no effect, however
different in kind the things compared may be. This remark is applicable
to works of art only; for natural objects of different kinds, have
scarce ever an entire resemblance. Marble is a sort of matter, very
different from what composes an animal; and marble cut into a human
figure, produces great pleasure by the resemblance. But let a marble
statue be coloured like a picture, the resemblance is so entire as to
produce no effect. At a distance, it appears a real person. We discover
the mistake when we approach; and no other emotion is raised but
surprise occasioned by the deception. The idea of resemblance is sunk
into that of identity. The figure still appears to our eyes rather to be
a real person than a resemblance of it; and we must make use of our
reflection to correct the mistake. This cannot happen in a picture; for
the resemblance can never be so entire as to disguise the imitation.
The other remark regards contrast. Emotions make the greatest figure
when contrasted in succession. But then the succession ought neither to
be precipitate nor immoderately slow. If too slow, the effect of
contrast becomes faint by the distance of the emotions; and if
precipitate, no single emotion has room to expand itself to its full
size; but is stifled as it were in the birth by a succeeding emotion.
The funeral oration of the Bishop of Meaux upon the Duchess of Orleans,
is a perfect hotchpotch of chearful and melancholy representations
following each other in the quickest succession. Opposite emotions are
best felt in succession: but each emotion separately should be raised to
its due pitch, before another be introduced.
What is above laid down, will enable us to determine a very important
question concerning emotions raised by the fine arts, _viz._ What ought
to be the rule of succession; whether ought resemblance to be studied or
contrast? The emotions raised by the fine arts, are generally too nearly
related to make a figure by resemblance; and for that reason, their
succession ought to be regulated as much as possible by contrast. This
holds confessedly in epic and dramatic compositions: and the best
writers, led perhaps by a good taste more than by reasoning, have
generally aimed at this beauty. In the same cantata, all the variety of
emotions that are within the power of music, may not only be indulged,
but, to make the greatest figure, ought to be contrasted. In gardening
there is an additional reason for the rule. The emotions raised by that
art, are at best so faint, that every artifice should be used to give
them their utmost strength. A field may be laid out in grand, sweet,
gay, neat, wild, melancholy scenes. When these are viewed in succession,
grandeur ought to be contrasted with neatness, regularity with wildness,
and gaiety with melancholy; so as that each emotion may succeed its
opposite. Nay it is an improvement to intermix in the succession, rude
uncultivated spots as well as unbounded views, which in themselves are
disagreeable, but in succession heighten the feeling of the agreeable
objects. And we have nature for our guide, who in her most beautiful
landscapes often intermixes rugged rocks, dirty marshes, and barren
stony heaths. The greatest matters of music, have the same view in their
compositions: the second part of an Italian song seldom conveys any
sentiment; and, by its harshness, seems purposely contrived to give a
greater relish for the interesting parts of the composition.
A small garden comprehended under a single view, affords little
opportunity for this embellishment. Dissimilar emotions require
different tones of mind; and therefore in conjunction can never make a
good figure[87]. Gaiety and sweetness may be combined, or wildness and
gloominess; but a composition of gaiety and gloominess is distasteful.
The rude uncultivated copartment of furze and broom in Richmond garden,
hath a good effect in the succession of objects; but a spot of this
nature would be insufferable in the midst of a polished parterre or
flower-plot. A garden therefore, if not of great extent, will not admit
of dissimilar emotions. And in ornamenting a small garden, the safest
course is to confine it to a single expression. For the same reason, a
landscape ought also to be confined to a single expression. It is
accordingly a rule in painting, That if the subject be gay, every figure
ought to contribute to that emotion.
It follows from the foregoing train of reasoning, that a garden near a
great city, ought to have an air of solitude. The solitariness again of
a waste country ought to be contrasted in forming a garden; no temples,
no obscure walks; but _jets d’eau_, cascades, objects active, gay, and
splendid. Nay such a garden should in some measure avoid imitating
nature, by taking on an extraordinary appearance of regularity and art,
to show the busy hand of man, which in a waste country has a fine effect
by contrast.
It may be gathered from what is said above[88], that wit and ridicule
make not an agreeable mixture with grandeur. Dissimilar emotions have a
fine effect in a slow succession; but in a rapid succession, which
approaches to co-existence, they will not be relished. In the midst of a
laboured and elevated description of a battle, Virgil introduces a
ludicrous image, which is certainly out of its place:
Obvius ambustum torrem Chorinæus ab ara
Corripit, et venienti Ebuso plagamque ferenti
Occupat os flammis: illi ingens barba reluxit,
Nidoremque ambusta dedit.
_Æn._ xii. 298.
The following image is not less ludicrous, nor less improperly placed.
Mentre fan questi i bellici stromenti
Perche debbiano tosto in uso porse,
Il gran nemico de l’humane genti,
Contra i Christiani i lividi occhi torse:
E lor veggendo a le bell’ opre intenti,
Ambo le labra per furor si morse:
E qual tauro ferito, il suo dolore
Verso mugghiando e sospirando fuore.
_Gierusal. cant. 4. st. 1._
It would however be too austere, to banish altogether ludicrous images
from an epic poem. This poem doth not always soar above the clouds. It
admits great variety; and upon occasions can descend even to the ground
without sinking. In its more familiar tones, a ludicrous scene may be
introduced without impropriety. This is done by Virgil[89] in describing
a foot-race; the circumstances of which, not excepting the ludicrous
part, are copied from Homer[90]. After a fit of merryment, we are, it
is true, the less disposed to the serious and sublime: but then, a
ludicrous scene, by unbending the mind from severe application to more
interesting subjects, may prevent fatigue, and preserve our relish
entire.
CHAP. IX.
Of Uniformity and Variety.
When I apply myself to explain uniformity and variety, and to show how
we are affected by these circumstances, it appears doubtful what method
ought to be followed. I foresee several difficulties in keeping close to
my text; and yet by indulging a range, such as may be necessary for a
clear view, I shall certainly incur the censure of wandering.--Be it so.
One ought not to abandon the right track for fear of censure. The
collateral matters, beside, that will be introduced, are curious, and
not of slight importance in the science of human nature.
The necessary succession of perceptions, is a subject formerly handled,
so far as it depends on the relations of objects and their mutual
connections[91]. But that subject is not exhausted; and I take the
liberty to introduce it a second time, in order to explain in what
manner we are affected by uniformity and variety. The world we inhabit
is replete with things not less remarkable for their variety than their
number. These, unfolded by the wonderful mechanism of external sense,
furnish the mind with many perceptions, which, joined with ideas of
memory, of imagination, and of reflection, form a complete train that
has not a gap or interval. This tide of objects, in a continual flux, is
in a good measure independent of will. The mind, as has been
observed[92], is so constituted, “That it can by no effort break off the
succession of its ideas, nor keep its attention long fixt upon the same
object.” We can arrest a perception in its course; we can shorten its
natural duration, to make room for another; we can vary the succession
by change of place or amusement; and we can in some measure prevent
variety, by frequently recalling the same object after short intervals:
but still there must be a succession, and a change from one thing to
another. By artificial means, the succession may be retarded or
accelerated, may be rendered more various or more uniform, but in one
shape or other is unavoidable.
The rate of succession, even when left to its ordinary course, is not
always the same. There are natural causes that accelerate or retard it
considerably. The first I shall mention depends on a peculiar
constitution of mind. One man is distinguished from another, by no
circumstance more remarkably than the movement of his train of
perceptions. A cold languid temper is accompanied with a slow course of
perceptions, which occasions dulness of apprehension and sluggishness in
action. To a warm temper, on the contrary, belongs a quick course of
perceptions, which occasions quickness of apprehension and activity in
business. The Asiatic nations, the Chinese especially, are observed to
be more cool and deliberate than the Europeans: may not the reason be,
that heat enervates by exhausting the spirits? A certain degree of cold,
such as is felt in the middle regions of Europe, by bracing the fibres,
rouses the mind, and produces a brisk circulation of thought,
accompanied with vigour in action. In youth there is observable a
quicker succession of perceptions, than in old age. Hence in youth a
remarkable avidity for variety of amusements, which in riper years give
place to more uniform and more sedate occupation. This qualifies men of
middle age for business, where activity is required, but with a greater
proportion of uniformity than variety. In old age, a slow and languid
succession makes variety unnecessary; and for that reason, the aged, in
all their motions, are generally governed by an habitual uniformity.
Whatever be the cause, we may venture to pronounce, that heat in the
imagination and temper, is always connected with a brisk flow of
perceptions.
The natural rate of succession, depends also in some degree upon the
particular perceptions that compose the train. An agreeable object,
taking a strong hold of the mind, occasions a slower succession than
when the objects are indifferent. Grandeur and novelty fix the attention
for a considerable time, excluding all other ideas; and the mind thus
occupied feels no vacuity. Some emotions, by hurrying the mind from
object to object, accelerate the succession. Where the train is composed
of connected objects, the succession is quick. For it is so ordered by
nature, that the mind goes easily and sweetly along connected
objects[93]. On the other hand, the succession must be slow where the
train is composed of unconnected objects. An unconnected object, finding
no ready access to the mind, requires time to make an impression. And
that it is not admitted without a struggle, appears from the unsettled
state of the mind for some moments after it is presented, wavering
betwixt it and the former train. During this short period, one or other
of the former objects will intrude, perhaps oftener than once, till the
attention be fixt entirely upon the new object. The same observations
are applicable to ideas suggested by language. The mind can bear a quick
succession of related ideas. But an unrelated idea, for which the mind
is not prepared, takes time to make a distinct impression; and therefore
a train composed of such ideas, ought to proceed with a slow pace. Hence
an epic poem, a play, or any story connected in all its parts, may be
perused in a shorter time, than a book of maxims or apothegms, of which
a quick succession creates both confusion and fatigue.
Such latitude hath nature indulged in the rate of succession. What
latitude it indulges with respect to uniformity we proceed to examine.
The uniformity or variety of a train, so far as composed of external
objects, depends on the particular objects that surround the percipient
at the time. The present occupation must also have an influence; one is
sometimes engaged in a multiplicity of affairs, sometimes altogether
vacant. A natural train of ideas of memory is more circumscribed, each
object being linked, by some connection, to what precedes and to what
follows it. These connections, which are many and of different kinds,
afford scope for a sufficient degree of variety; and at the same time
prevent any excess that is unpleasant. Temper and constitution also have
an influence here, as well as upon the rate of succession. A man of a
calm and sedate temper, admits not willingly any idea but what is
regularly introduced by a proper connection. One of a roving disposition
embraces with avidity every new idea, however slender its relation be to
those that go before it. Neither must we overlook the nature of the
perceptions that compose the train; for their influence is not less with
respect to uniformity and variety, than with respect to the rate of
succession. The mind ingrossed by any passion, love or hatred, hope or
fear, broods over its object, and can bear no interruption. In such a
state, the train of perceptions must not only be slow, but extremely
uniform. Anger newly inflamed eagerly grasps its object, and leaves not
a cranny in the mind for another thought than of revenge. In the
character of Hotspur, this state of mind is represented to the life; a
picture remarkable for high colouring as well as for strictness of
imitation:
_Worcester._ Peace, cousin, say no more.
And now I will unclasp a secret book,
And to your quick-conceiving discontents
I’ll read you matter, deep and dangerous;
As full of peril and advent’rous spirit
As to o’erwalk a current, roaring loud,
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.
_Hotspur._ If he fall in, good-night. Or sink or swim,
Send danger from the east into the west,
So honour cross it from the north to south;
And let them grapple. O! the blood more stirs
To rouse a lion than to start a hare.
_Worcester._ Those same Noble Scots,
That are your prisoners----
_Hotspur._ I’ll keep them all.
By Heav’n, he shall not have a Scot of them:
No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not;
I’ll keep them, by this hand.
_Worcester._ You start away,
And lend no ear unto my purposes;
Those pris’ners you shall keep.
_Hotspur._ I will; that’s flat:
He said, he would not ransom Mortimer:
Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer:
But I will find him when he lies asleep,
And in his ear I’ll holla _Mortimer_!
Nay, I will have a starling taught to speak
Nothing but _Mortimer_, and give it him,
To keep his anger still in motion.
_Worcester._ Hear you, cousin, a word.
_Hotspur._ All studies here I solemnly defy,
Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke:
And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales,
(But that I think his father loves him not,
And would be glad he met with some mischance),
I’d have him poison’d with a pot of ale.
_Worcester._ Farewel, my kinsman, I will talk to you,
When you are better temper’d to attend.
_First part, Henry_ IV. _act 1. sc. 4._
Having viewed a train of perceptions as directed by nature, and the
variations it is susceptible of from different necessary causes, we
proceed to examine how far it is subjected to will; for that will hath
some influence, more or less, is observed above. And first, the rate of
succession may be retarded by insisting upon one object, and propelled
by dismissing another before its time. But such voluntary mutations in
the natural course of succession, have limits that cannot be extended by
the most painful efforts. The mind circumscribed in its capacity,
cannot, at the same instant, admit many perceptions; and when replete,
it has no place for new perceptions till others be removed. For this
reason, a voluntary change of perceptions cannot be instantaneous; and
the time it requires sets bounds to the velocity of succession. On the
other hand, the power we have to arrest a flying perception, is equally
limited. The longer we detain any perception, the more difficulty we
find in the operation; till, the difficulty becoming unsurmountable, we
are forced to quit our hold, and to permit the train to take its usual
course.
The power we have over this train as to uniformity and variety, is in
some cases very great, in others very little. A train so far as composed
of external objects, depends entirely on the place we occupy, and admits
not more or less variety but by change of place. A train composed of
ideas of memmory, is still less under our power. Objects which are
connected, afford the mind an easy passage from one to another. They
suggest each other in idea by the same means; and we cannot at will call
up any idea that is not connected with the train[94]. But a train of
ideas suggested by reading, may be varied at will, provided we have
books in store.
This power which nature hath given us over our train of perceptions, may
be greatly strengthened by proper discipline, and by an early
application to business. Its improved strength is remarkable in those
who have a strong genius for the mathematics: nor less remarkable in
persons devoted to religious exercises, who pass whole days in
contemplation, and impose upon themselves long and severe penances. It
is not to be conceived, what length a habit of activity in affairs will
carry some men. Let a stranger, or let any person to whom the sight is
not familiar, attend the Chancellor of Great Britain through the labours
but of one day, during a session of parliament: how great will be his
astonishment! what multiplicity of law-business, what deep thinking, and
what elaborate application to matters of government! The train of
perceptions must in this great man be accelerated far beyond the common
course of nature. Yet no confusion nor hurry; but in every article the
greatest order and accuracy. Such is the force of habit! How happy is
man, to have the command of a principle of action, that can elevate him
so far above the ordinary condition of humanity[95]!
We are now ripe for considering a train of perceptions with respect to
pleasure and pain: and to this speculation we must give peculiar
attention, because it serves to explain the effects that uniformity and
variety have upon the mind. A man is always in a pleasant state of mind,
when his perceptions flow in their natural course. He feels himself
free, light, and easy, especially after any forcible acceleration or
retardation. On the other hand, the resistance felt in retarding or
accelerating the natural course, excites a pain, which, though scarcely
felt in small removes, becomes considerable toward the extremes. An
aversion to fix on any single object for a long time, or to take in a
multiplicity of objects in a short time, is remarkable in children; and
equally so in men unaccustomed to business. A man languishes when the
succession is very slow; and, if he grow not impatient, is apt to fall
asleep. During a rapid succession, he hath a feeling as if his head were
turning round. He is fatigued, and his pain resembles that of weariness
after bodily labour. External objects, when they occasion a very slow or
a very quick succession, produce a pain of the same sort with what it
felt in a voluntary retardation or acceleration: which shows that the
pain proceeds not from the violence of the action, but from the
retardation or acceleration itself, disturbing that free and easy course
of succession which is naturally pleasant.
But the mind is not satisfied with a moderate course alone: its
perceptions must also be sufficiently diversified. Number without
variety constitutes not an agreeable train. In comparing a few objects,
uniformity is agreeable: but the frequent reiteration of uniform
objects becomes unpleasant. One tires of a scene that is not
diversified; and soon feels a sort of unnatural restraint when confined
within a narrow range, whether occasioned by a retarded succession or by
too great uniformity. An excess in variety is, on the other hand,
fatiguing. This is even perceptible in a train composed of related
objects: much more where the objects are unrelated; for an object,
unconnected with the former train, gains not admittance without effort;
and this effort, though scarce perceptible in a single instance, becomes
by frequent reiteration exceeding painful. Whatever be the cause, the
fact is certain, that a man never finds himself more at ease, than when
his perceptions succeed each other with a certain degree, not only of
velocity, but also of variety. Hence it proceeds, that a train
consisting entirely of ideas of memory, is never painful by too great
variety; because such ideas are not introduced otherwise than according
to their natural connections[96]. The pleasure of a train of ideas, is
the most remarkable in a reverie; especially where the imagination
interposes, and is active in coining new ideas, which is done with
wonderful facility. One must be sensible, that the serenity and ease of
the mind in this state, makes a great part of the enjoyment. The case is
different where external objects enter into the train; for these, making
their appearance without any order, and without any connection save that
of contiguity, form a train of perceptions that may be extremely uniform
or extremely diversified; which, for opposite reasons, are both of them
painful.
Any acceleration or retardation of the natural run of perceptions, is
painful even where it is voluntary. And it is equally painful to alter
that degree of variety which nature requires. Contemplation, when the
mind is long attached to one thing, soon becomes painful by restraining
the free range of perception. Curiosity and the prospect of advantage
from useful discoveries, may engage a man to prosecute his studies,
notwithstanding the pain they give him; and a habit of close attention,
formed by frequent exercise, may soften the pain. But it is deeply felt
by the bulk of mankind, and produceth in them an aversion to all
abstract sciences. In any profession or calling, a train of operation
that is simple and reiterated without intermission, makes the operator
languish, and lose his vigor. He complains neither of too great labour
nor of too little action; but regrets the want of variety, and his being
obliged to do the same thing over and over. Where the operation is
sufficiently varied, the mind retains its vigor, and is pleased with its
condition. Actions again create an uneasiness when excessive in number
or variety, though in every other respect agreeable. This uneasiness is
extremely remarkable, where strict attention must be given, at the same
time, to a number of different things. Thus a throng of business in law,
in physic, or in traffick, distresseth and distracts the mind, unless
where a habit of application is acquired by long and constant exercise.
The excessive variety is the distressing circumstance; and the mind
suffers grievously by being kept constantly upon the stretch.
With relation to involuntary causes disturbing that degree of variety
which nature requires, a slight pain affecting one part of the body
without variation, becomes, by its constancy and long duration, almost
insupportable. The patient, sensible that the pain is not increased in
degree, complains of its constancy more than of its severity, that it
ingrosses his whole thoughts, and gives admission to no other object.
Pain, of all feelings, seizes the attention with the greatest force; and
the mind, after fruitless efforts to turn its view to objects more
agreeable, must abandon itself to its tormentor. A shifting pain gives
less uneasiness, because change of place contributes to variety. An
intermitting pain, suffering other objects to intervene, is not
increased by reiteration. Again, any single colour or sound often
returning, becomes disagreeable; as may be observed in viewing a train
of similar apartments painted with the same colour, and in hearing the
prolonged tollings of a bell. Colour and sound varied within certain
limits, though without any order, are agreeable; witness a field
variegated with many colours of plants and flowers, and the various
notes of birds in a thicket. Increase the number or variety, and the
feeling becomes unpleasant. Thus a great variety of colours, crowded
upon a small canvas or in quick succession, create an uneasy feeling,
which is prevented by putting the colours at a greater distance either
of place or time. A number of voices in a crowded assembly, a number of
animals collected in a market, produce an unpleasant emotion; though a
few of them together, or all of them in a moderate succession, would be
agreeable. And because of the same excess in variety, a number of pains
felt in different parts of the body, at the same instant or in a rapid
succession, make an exquisite torture.
The foregoing doctrine concerning the train of perceptions, and the
pleasure or pain resulting from that train in different circumstances,
will be confirmed by attending to the final cause of these effects. And
as I am sensible that the mind, inflamed with speculations of this kind
so highly interesting, is beyond measure disposed to conviction, I shall
be watchful to admit no argument nor remark but what appears solidly
founded. With this caution I proceed to the inquiry. It is occasionally
observed above, that persons of a phlegmatic temperament, having a
sluggish train of perceptions, are indisposed to action; and that
activity constantly accompanies a brisk motion of perceptions. To
ascertain this fact, a man need not go abroad for experiments.
Reflecting upon things passing in his own mind, he will find, that a
brisk circulation of thought constantly prompts him to action; and that
he is averse to action when his perceptions languish in their course.
But man by nature is formed for action, and he must be active in order
to be happy. Nature therefore hath kindly provided against indolence, by
annexing pleasure to a moderate course of perceptions, and by making
every remarkable retardation painful. A slow course of perceptions is
attended with another bad effect. Man in a few capital cases is governed
by propensity or instinct; but in matters that admit deliberation and
choice, reason is assigned him for a guide. Now, as reasoning requires
often a great compass of ideas, their succession ought to be so quick,
as readily to furnish every motive that may be necessary for mature
deliberation. In a languid succession, motives will often occur after
action is commenced, when it is too late to retreat.
Nature hath guarded man, her favourite, against a succession too rapid,
not less carefully than against one too slow. Both are equally painful,
though the pain is not the same in both. Many are the good effects of
this contrivance. In the first place, as the bodily faculties are by
certain painful sensations confined within proper limits, beyond which
it would be dangerous to strain the tender organs, Nature, in like
manner, is equally provident with respect to the nobler faculties of the
mind. Thus the pain of an accelerated course of perceptions, is Nature’s
admonition to relax our pace, and to admit a more gentle exertion of
thought. Another valuable purpose may be gathered, from considering in
what manner objects are imprinted upon the mind. To make such an
impression as to give the memory fast hold of the object, time is
required, even where attention is the greatest; and a moderate degree of
attention, which is the common case, must be continued still longer to
produce the same effect. A rapid succession then must prevent objects
from making impressions so deep as to be of real service in life; and
Nature accordingly for the sake of memory, has by a painful feeling
guarded against a rapid succession. But a still more valuable purpose is
answered by this contrivance. As, on the one hand, a sluggish course of
perceptions indisposeth to action; so, on the other, a course too rapid
impels to rash and precipitant action. Prudent conduct is the child of
deliberation and clear conception, for which there is no place in a
rapid course of thought. Nature therefore, taking measures for prudent
conduct, has guarded us effectually from precipitancy of thought, by
making it painful.
Nature not only provides against a succession too slow or too quick, but
makes the middle course extremely pleasant. Nor is this middle course
confined within narrow bounds. Every man can naturally without pain
accelerate or retard in some degree the rate of his perceptions; and he
can do this in a still greater degree by the force of habit. Thus a
habit of contemplation annihilates the pain of a retarded course of
perceptions; and a busy life, after long practice, makes acceleration
pleasant.
Concerning the final cause of our taste for variety, it will be
considered, that human affairs, complex by variety as well as number,
require the distributing our attention and activity, in measure and
proportion. Nature therefore, to secure a just distribution
corresponding to the variety of human affairs, has made too great
uniformity or too great variety in the course of our perceptions equally
unpleasant. And indeed, were we addicted to either extreme, our internal
constitution would be ill suited to our external circumstances. At the
same time, where a frequent reiteration of the same operation is
required, as in several manufactures, or a quick circulation, as in law
or physic, Nature, attentive to all our wants, hath also provided for
these cases. She hath implanted in the breast of every person, an
efficacious principle, which leads to habit. By an obstinate
perseverance in the same occupation, the pain of excessive uniformity
vanisheth; and by the like perseverance in a quick circulation of
different occupations, the pain of excessive variety vanisheth. And thus
we come to take delight in several occupations, that by nature, without
habit, are not a little disgustful.
A middle rate also in our train of perceptions betwixt uniformity and
variety, is not less pleasant, than betwixt quickness and slowness. The
mind of man thus constituted, is wonderfully adapted to the course of
human affairs, which are continually changing, but not without
connection. It is equally adapted to the acquisition of knowledge, which
results chiefly from discovering resemblances among differing objects,
and differences among resembling objects. Such occupation, even
abstracting from the knowledge we acquire, is in itself delightful, by
preserving a middle rate betwixt too great uniformity and too great
variety.
We are now arrived at the chief purpose of the present chapter; and that
is to examine how far uniformity or variety ought to be studied in the
fine arts. And the knowledge we have obtained, will even at first view
suggest a general observation, That in every work of art, it must be
agreeable to find that degree of variety which corresponds to the
natural course of our perceptions; and that an excess in variety or in
uniformity, must be disagreeable by varying that natural course. For
this reason, works of art admit more or less variety according to the
nature of the subject. In a picture that strongly attaches the spectator
to a single object, the mind relisheth not a multiplicity of figures or
of ornaments. A picture again representing a gay subject, admits great
variety of figures and ornaments; because these are agreeable to the
mind in a chearful tone. The same observation is applicable to poetry
and to music.
It must at the same time be remarked, that one can bear a greater
variety of natural objects than of objects in a picture; and a greater
variety in a picture than in a description. A real object presented to
the view, makes an impression more readily than when represented in
colours, and much more readily than when represented in words. Hence it
is, that the profuse variety of objects in some natural landscapes,
neither breed confusion nor fatigue. And for the same reason, there is
place for greater variety of ornament in a picture, than in a poem.
From these general observations I proceed to particulars. In works
exposed continually to public view, variety ought to be studied. It is a
rule accordingly in sculpture, to contrast the different limbs of a
statue, in order to give it all the variety possible. Though the cone in
a single view be more beautiful than the pyramid; yet a pyramidal
steeple, because of its variety, is justly preferred. For the same
reason, the oval in compositions is preferred before the circle; and
painters, in copying buildings or any regular work, endeavour to give an
air of variety by representing the subject in an angular view: we are
pleased with the variety without losing sight of the regularity. In a
landscape representing animals, those especially of the same kind,
contrast ought to prevail. To draw one sleeping another awake, one
sitting another in motion, one moving toward the spectator another from
him, is the life of such a performance.
In every sort of writing intended for amusement, variety is necessary in
proportion to the length of the work. Want of variety is sensibly felt
in Davila’s history of the civil wars of France. The events are indeed
important and various: but the reader languisheth by a tiresome
uniformity of character; every person engaged being figured a consummate
politician, governed by interest only. It is hard to say, whether Ovid
disgusts more by too great variety or too great uniformity. His stories
are all of the same kind, concluding invariably with the transformation
of one being into another. So far he is tiresome with excess in
uniformity. He also fatigues with excess in variety, by hurrying his
reader incessantly from story to story. Ariosto is still more fatiguing
than Ovid, by exceeding the just bounds of variety. Not satisfied, like
Ovid, with a succession in his stories, he distracts the reader by
jumbling together a multitude of unconnected events. Nor is the Orlando
Furioso less tiresome by its uniformity than the Metamorphoses, though
in a different manner. After a story is brought to a crisis, the reader,
intent upon the catastrophe, is suddenly snatched away to a new story,
which is little regarded so long as the mind is occupied with the
former. This tantalizing method, from which the author never once
swerves during the course of a long work, beside its uniformity, hath
another bad effect: it prevents that sympathy which is raised by an
interesting event when the reader meets with no interruption.
The emotions produced by our perceptions in a train, have been little
considered, and less understood. The subject therefore required an
elaborate discussion. It may surprise some readers, to find variety
treated as only contributing to make a train of perceptions pleasant,
when it is commonly held to be a necessary ingredient in beauty of
whatever kind; according to the definition, “That beauty consists in
uniformity amidst variety.” But after the subject is explained and
illustrated as above, I presume it will be evident, that this
definition, however applicable to one or other species, is far from
being just with respect to beauty in general. Variety contributes no
share to the beauty of a moral action, nor of a mathematical theorem;
and numberless are the beautiful objects of sight that have little or no
variety in them. A globe, the most uniform of all figures, is of all the
most beautiful; and a square, though more beautiful than a trapezium,
hath less variety in its constituent parts. The foregoing definition,
which at best is but obscurely expressed, is only applicable to a number
of objects in a group or in succession, among which indeed a due mixture
of uniformity and variety is always agreeable, provided the particular
objects, separately considered, be in any degree beautiful. Uniformity
amidst variety among ugly objects, affords no pleasure. This
circumstance is totally omitted in the definition; and indeed to have
mentioned it, would at first glance show the definition to be
imperfect. To define beauty as arising from beautiful objects blended
together in a due proportion of uniformity and variety, would be too
gross to pass current; as nothing can be more gross, than to employ in a
definition the very term that is proposed to be explained.
APPENDIX to Chap. IX.
_Concerning the works of nature._
In natural objects, whether we regard their internal or external
structure, beauty and design are equally conspicuous. We shall begin
with the outside of nature, as what first presents itself.
The figure of an organic body, is generally regular. The trunk of a
tree, its branches, and their ramifications, are nearly round, and form
a series regularly decreasing from the trunk to the smallest fibre.
Uniformity is no where more remarkable than in the leaves, which, in
the same species, have all the same colour, size, and shape. The seeds
and fruits are all regular figures, approaching for the most part to the
globular form. Hence a plant, especially of the larger kind, with its
trunk, branches, foliage, and fruit, is a delightful object.
In an animal, the trunk, which is much larger than the other parts,
occupies a chief place. Its shape, like that of the stem of plants, is
nearly round; a figure which of all is the most agreeable. Its two sides
are precisely similar. Several of the under parts go off in pairs; and
the two individuals of each pair are accurately uniform. The single
parts are placed in the middle. The limbs, bearing a certain proportion
to the trunk, serve to support it, and to give it a proper elevation.
Upon one extremity are disposed the neck and head, in the direction of
the trunk. The head being the chief part, possesses with great propriety
the chief place. Hence, the beauty of the whole figure, is the result of
many equal and proportional parts orderly disposed; and the smallest
variation in number, equality, proportion, or order, never fails to
produce a perception of ugliness and deformity.
Nature in no particular seems more profuse of ornament, than in the
beautiful colouring of her works. The flowers of plants, the furs of
beasts, and the feathers of birds, vie with each other in the beauty of
their colours, which in lustre as well as in harmony are beyond the
power of imitation. Of all natural appearances, the colouring of the
human face is the most exquisite. It is the strongest instance of the
ineffable art of nature, in adapting and proportioning its colours to
the magnitude, figure, and position, of the parts. In a word, colour
seems to live in nature only, and to languish under the finest touches
of art.
When we examine the internal structure of a plant or animal, a wonderful
subtility of mechanism is displayed. Man, in his mechanical operations,
is confined to the surface of bodies. But the operations of nature are
exerted through the whole substance, so as to reach even the elementary
parts. Thus the body of an animal, and of a plant, are composed of
certain great vessels; these of smaller; and these again of still
smaller, without end so far we can discover. This power of diffusing
mechanism through the most intimate parts, is peculiar to nature; and
distinguishes her operations, most remarkably, from every work of art.
Such texture, continued from the grosser parts to the most minute,
preserves all along the strictest regularity. The fibres of plants are a
bundle of cylindric canals, lying in the same direction, and parallel or
nearly parallel to each other. In some instances, a most accurate
arrangement of parts is discovered, as in onions, formed of concentric
coats one within another to the very centre. An animal body is still
more admirable, in the disposition of its internal parts, and in their
order and symmetry. There is not a bone, a muscle, a blood-vessel, a
nerve, that hath not one corresponding to it on the opposite side of the
animal; and the same order is carried through the most minute parts. The
lungs are composed of two parts, which are disposed upon the sides of
the thorax; and the kidneys, in a lower situation, have a position not
less orderly. As to the parts that are single, the heart is
advantageously situated nigh the middle. The liver, stomach, and spleen,
are disposed in the upper region of the abdomen, about the same height:
the bladder is placed in the middle of the body; as well as the
intestinal canal, which fills the whole cavity by its convolutions.
The mechanical power of nature, not confined to small bodies, reacheth
equally those of the greatest size; witness the bodies that compose the
solar system, which, however large, are weighed, measured, and subjected
to certain laws, with the utmost accuracy. Their places around the sun,
with their distances, are determined by a precise rule, corresponding to
their quantities of matter. The superior dignity of the central body, in
respect of its bulk and lucid appearance, is suited to the place it
occupies. The globular figure of these bodies, is not only in itself
beautiful, but is above all others fitted for regular motion. Each
planet revolves about its own axis in a given time; and each moves round
the sun, in an orbit nearly circular, and in a time proportioned to its
distance. Their velocities, directed by an established law, are
perpetually changing by regular accelerations and retardations. In fine,
the great variety of regular appearances, joined with the beauty of the
system itself, cannot fail to produce the highest delight in every
person who can taste design, power, or beauty.
Nature hath a wonderful power of connecting systems with each other, and
of propagating that connection through all her works. Thus the
constituent parts of a plant, the roots, the stem, the branches, the
leaves, the fruit, are really different systems, united by a mutual
dependence on each other. Thus in an animal, the lymphatic and lacteal
ducts, the blood-vessels and nerves, the muscles and glands, the bones
and cartilages, the membranes and viscera, with the other organs, form
distinct systems, which are united into one whole. There are, at the
same time, other connections less intimate. Thus every plant is joined
to the earth by its roots; it requires rain and dews to furnish it with
juices; and it requires heat to preserve these juices in fluidity and
motion. Thus every animal, by its gravity, is connected with the earth,
with the element in which it breathes, and with the sun, by deriving
from it cherishing and enlivening heat. The earth furnisheth aliment to
plants, these to animals, and these again to other animals, in a long
train of dependence. That the earth is part of a greater system,
comprehending many bodies mutually attracting each other, and
gravitating all toward one common centre, is now thoroughly explored.
Such a regular and uniform series of connections, propagated through so
great a number of beings and through such wide spaces, is wonderful: and
our wonder must increase, when we observe this connection propagated
from the minutest atoms to bodies of the most enormous size, and widely
diffused, so as that we can neither perceive its beginning nor its end.
That it doth not terminate within our own planetary system, is certain.
The connection is diffused over spaces still more remote, where new
bodies and systems rise to our view, without end. All space is filled
with the works of God, which, being the operation of one hand, are
formed by one plan, to answer one great end.
But the most wonderful connection of all, though not the most
conspicuous, is that of our internal frame with the works of nature. Man
is obviously fitted for contemplating these works, because in this
contemplation he has great delight. The works of nature are remarkable
in their uniformity not less than in their variety; and the mind of man
is fitted to receive pleasure equally from both. Uniformity and variety
are interwoven in the works of nature with surprising art. Variety,
however great, is never without some degree of uniformity; nor the
greatest uniformity, without some degree of variety. There is great
variety in the same plant, by the different appearances of its stem,
branches, leaves, blossoms, fruit, size, and colour; and yet when we
trace this variety through different plants, especially of the same
kind, there is discovered a surprising uniformity. Again, where nature
seems to have intended the most exact uniformity, as among individuals
of the same kind, there still appears a diversity, which serves readily
to distinguish one individual from another. It is indeed admirable, that
the human visage, in which uniformity is so prevalent, should yet be so
marked as to leave no room for mistaking one person for another. The
difference, though clearly perceived, is often so minute as to go beyond
the reach of description. A correspondence so perfect betwixt the human
mind and the works of nature, is extremely remarkable. The opposition
betwixt variety and uniformity is so great, that one would not readily
imagine they could both be relished by the same palate; at least not in
the same object, nor at the same time. It is however true, that the
pleasures they afford, being happily adjusted to each other, and readily
mixing in intimate union, are frequently produced in perfection by the
same individual object. Nay further, in the objects that touch us the
most, uniformity and variety are constantly combined; witness natural
objects, where this combination is always found in perfection. It is
for that reason, that natural objects readily form themselves into
groups, and are agreeable in whatever manner combined: a wood with its
trees, shrubs, and herbs, is agreeable: the music of birds, the lowing
of cattle, and the murmuring of a brook, are in conjunction delightful;
though they strike the ear without modulation or harmony. In short,
nothing can be more happily accommodated to the inward constitution of
man, than that mixture of uniformity with variety which the eye
discovers in natural objects. And accordingly, the mind is never more
highly gratified than in contemplating a natural landscape.
End of the FIRST VOLUME.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See the Appendix, § 13.
[2] Du Bos judiciously observes, that silence doth not tend to calm an
agitated mind; but that soft and slow music hath a fine effect.
[3] A taste for natural objects is born with us in perfection. To
relish a fine countenance, a rich landscape, or a vivid colour, culture
is unnecessary. The observation holds equally in natural sounds, such
as the singing of birds, or the murmuring of a brook. Nature here, the
artificer of the object as well as of the percipient, hath suited them
to each other with great accuracy. But of a poem, a cantata, a picture,
and other artificial productions, a true relish is not commonly
attained without study and practice.
[4] “Though logic may subsist without rhetoric or poetry, yet so
necessary to these last is a sound and correct logic, that without it
they are no better than warbling trifles.” Hermes, p. 6.
[5] Genius is allied to a warm and inflammable constitution, delicacy
of taste to calmness and sedateness. Hence it is common to find genius
in one who is a prey to every passion; which can scarce happen with
respect to delicacy of taste. Upon a man possessed of this blessing,
the moral duties, as well as the fine arts, make a deep impression,
so as to counterbalance every irregular desire. And even supposing a
strong temptation, it can take no fast hold of a calm and sedate temper.
[6] For how should this be done? What object is it that we are to call
up? If this question can be answered, the object is already in the
mind, and there is no occasion to exert the power. If the question
cannot be answered, I next demand, how it is possible that a voluntary
power can be exerted without any view of an object to exert it upon?
We cannot form a conception of such a thing. This argument appears to
me satisfactory: if it need confirmation, I urge experience. Whoever
makes a trial will find, that objects are linked together in the mind,
forming a connected chain; and that we have not the command of any
object independent of the chain.
[7] A train of perceptions or ideas, with respect to its uniformity and
variety, is handled afterward, chap. 9.
[8] Lib. 2. ode 13.
[9] Lin. 231.
[10] Lin. 136.
[11] Lin. 475.
[12] Lib. 4. lin. 173.
[13] Part 1. sect. 4.
[14] Introduction.
[15] Introduction.
[16] In tracing our emotions and passions to their origin, it once
was my opinion, that qualities and actions are the primary causes of
emotions; and that these emotions are afterward expanded upon the being
to which these qualities and actions belong. But I have discovered that
opinion to be erroneous. An attribute is not, even in imagination,
separable from the being to which it belongs; and for that reason,
cannot of itself be the cause of any emotion. We have, it is true, no
knowledge of any being or substance but by means of its attributes;
and therefore no being can be agreeable to us otherwise than by their
means. But still, when an emotion is raised, it is the being itself,
as we apprehend the matter, which raises the emotion; and it raises it
by means of one or other of its attributes. If it be urged, That we
can in idea abstract a quality from the thing to which it belongs; it
might be answered, That an abstract idea, which serves excellently the
purposes of reasoning, is too faint and too much strained to produce
any sort of emotion. But it is sufficient for the present purpose to
answer, That the eye never abstracts. By this organ we perceive things
as they really exist, and never perceive a quality as separated from
the subject. Hence it must be evident, that emotions are raised, not by
qualities abstractly considered, but by the substance or body so and
so qualified. Thus a spreading oak raises a pleasant emotion, by means
of its colour, figure, umbrage, _&c._ It is not the colour strictly
speaking that produces the emotion, but the tree as coloured: it is
not the figure abstractly considered that produces the emotion, but
the tree considered as of a certain figure. And hence by the way it
appears, that the beauty of such an object is complex, resolvable into
several beauties more simple.
[17] When this analysis of human nature is considered, not one article
of which can with any shadow of truth be controverted, I cannot help
being surprised at the blindness of some philosophers, who, by dark
and confused notions, are led to deny all motives to action but what
arise from self-love. Man, for ought appears, might possibly have been
so framed, as to be susceptible of no passions but what have self for
their object. But man thus framed, would be ill fitted for society.
Much better is the matter ordered, by enduing him with passions
directed entirely to the good of others, as well as with passions
directed entirely to his own good.
[18] See Essays upon morality and natural religion, part 1. essay 2.
ch. 4.
[19] Such proneness has the mind to this communication of properties,
that we often find properties ascribed to a related object, of which
naturally it is not susceptible. Sir Richard Greenville in a single
ship being surprised by the Spanish fleet, was advised to retire.
He utterly refused to turn from the enemy; declaring, “he would
rather die, than dishonour himself, his country, and her Majesty’s
ship.” _Hakluyt, vol. 2. part 2. p. 169._ To aid the communication
of properties in such instances, there always must be a momentary
personification. A ship must be imagined a sensible being, to make
it susceptible of honour or dishonour. In the battle of Mantinea,
Epaminondas being mortally wounded, was carried to his tent in a manner
dead. Recovering his senses, the first thing he inquired about was
his shield; which being brought, he kissed it as the companion of his
valour and glory. It must be remarked, that among the Greeks and Romans
it was deemed infamous for a soldier to return from battle without his
shield.
[20] See chap. 1.
[21] See Essays on morality and natural religion, part 1. ess. 2. ch. 5.
[22] Lib. 7. cap. 36.
[23] Aulus Gellius, lib. 5. cap. 14.
[24] Brasidas being surprised by the bite of a mouse he had catched,
let it slip out of his fingers. “No creature (says he) is so
contemptible, but what may provide for its own safety, if it have
courage to defend itself.”
_Plutarch. Apothegmata._
[25] Spectator, Nº 439.
[26] Part 1. sect. 1. of the present chapter.
[27] At quæ Polycleto defuerunt, Phidiæ atque Alcameni dantur. Phidias
tamen diis quam hominibus efficiendis melior artifex traditur: in
ebore vero longe citra æmulum, vel si nihil nisi Minervam Athenis, aut
Olympium in Elide Jovem fecisset, cujus pulchritudo adjecisse aliquid
etiam receptæ religioni videtur; adeo majestas operis Deum æquavit.
_Quintilian, lib. 12. cap. 10. § 1._
[28] See part 7. of this chapter.
[29] See the place above cited.
[30] Essays on the principles of morality and natural religion, part 1.
ess. 2. chap. 1.
[31] See the introduction.
[32] See this point explained afterwards, chap. 9.
[33] See the appendix, containing definitions and explanation of terms,
sect. 33.
[34] Chap. 6.
[35] See chap. 14.
[36] It is easier to conceive the manner of coexistence of similar
emotions, than to describe it. They cannot be said to mix or
incorporate like concordant sounds. Their union is rather of agreement
or concord; and therefore I have chosen the words in the text, not as
sufficient to express clearly the manner of their coexistence, but only
as less liable to exception than any other I can find.
[37] Chap. 18. sect. 3.
[38] Chap. of epic and dramatic compositions.
[39] See part 2. of the present chapter, toward the close.
[40] Canto 20. st. 97.
[41] Chap. 1.
[42] See part 1. sect. 1. of the present chapter.
[43] Herodotus, book 7.
[44] Act 2. sc. 6.
[45] Act 3. sc. 8.
[46] Part 1. of this chapter, sect. 3.
[47] Aristotle, poet. cap. 18. § 3. says, that anger raiseth in the
spectator a similar emotion of anger.
[48] See Historical law-tracts, tract 1.
[49] Part 5. of the present chapter.
[50] Chap. 2. part. 1. sect. 1. first note.
[51] Chap. 2. part 1. sect. 4.
[52] See the appendix, containing definitions and explanation of terms.
[53] See chap. 2. part 1. sect. 1.
[54] Longinus observes, that nature inclines us to admire, not a small
rivulet, however clear and transparent, but the Nile, the Ister, the
Rhine, or still more the ocean. The sight of a small fire produceth no
emotion; but we are struck with the boiling furnaces of Ætna, pouring
out whole rivers of liquid flame. _Treatise of the Sublime, chap. 29._
[55] Kempfer’s history of Japan, b. 5. ch. 2.
[56] Longinus gives a pretty good description of the sublime, though
not entirely just in every one of the circumstances, “That the mind
is elevated by it, and so sensibly affected as to swell in transport
and inward pride, as if what is only heard or read, were its own
invention.” But he adheres not to this description. In his 6th chapter
he justly observes, that many passions have nothing of the grand, such
as grief, fear, pity, which depress the mind instead of raising it.
And yet in chapter 8th, he mentions Sappho’s ode upon love as sublime.
Beautiful it is undoubtedly, but it cannot be sublime, because it
really depresses the mind instead of raising it. His translator Boileau
is not more successful in his instances. In his 10th reflection he
cites a passage from Demosthenes and another from Herodotus as sublime,
which are not so.
[57] Kempfer’s history of Japan.
[58] _Spectator_, Nº 42
[59] It is justly observed by Addison, that perhaps a man would have
been more astonished with the majestic air that appeared in one of
Lysippus’s statues of Alexander, though no bigger than the life, than
he might have been with Mount Athos, had it been cut into the figure
of the hero, according to the proposal of Phidias, with a river in one
hand and a city in the other. _Spectator_, Nº 415.
[60] Honestum per se esse expetendum indicant pueri, in quibus, ut in
speculis, natura cernitur. Quanta studia decertantium sunt! Quanta ipsa
certamina! Ut illi efferuntur lætitia, cum vicerunt! Ut pudet victos!
Ut se accusari nolunt! Ut cupiunt laudari! Quos illi labores non
perferunt, ut æqualium principes sint! _Cicero de finibus._
[61] Spectator, Nº 415.
[62] Chap. 8. of the Sublime.
[63] Lib. 3. beginning at line 567.
[64] _High_, in the old Scotch language, is pronounced _hee_.
[65] Herodotus, book 7.
[66] Chap. 30.
[67] Boileau and Huet.
[68] L’art poet. chant 1. l. 68.
[69] See chap. 4.
[70] See chap. 9.
[71] Chap. 1.
[72] Chap. 15.
[73] See chap. 1.
[74] See chap. 2. part 1. sect. 2.
[75] See chap. 4.
[76] Essays on the principles of morality and natural religion part 2.
ess. 6.
[77] Hence the Latin names for surprise, _torpor_, _animo stupor_.
[78] See chap. 6.
[79] Coke upon Littleton, p. 71.
[80] Practical writers upon the fine arts will attempt any thing, being
blind both to the difficulty and danger. De Piles, accounting why
contrast is agreeable, says, “That it is a sort of war which puts the
opposite parties in motion.” Thus, to account for an effect of which
there is no doubt, any cause, however foolish, is made welcome.
[81] Chap. 2. part 5.
[82] The examples above given are of subjects that can be brought to an
end or conclusion. But the same uneasiness is perceptible with respect
to subjects that admit not any conclusion; witness a series that has no
end, commonly called _an infinite series_. The mind running along such
a series, begins soon to feel an uneasiness, which becomes more and
more sensible in continuing its progress.
An unbounded prospect doth not long continue agreeable. We soon feel
a slight uneasiness, which increases with the time we bestow upon the
object. In order to find the cause of this uneasiness, we first take
under consideration an avenue without a terminating object. Can a
prospect without any termination be compared to an infinite series?
There is one striking difference, that with respect to the eye no
prospect can be unbounded. The quickest eye commands but a certain
length of space; and there it is bounded, however obscurely. But the
mind perceives things as they exist; and the line is carried on in
idea without end. In that respect an unbounded prospect is similar to
an infinite series. In fact, the uneasiness of an unbounded prospect
differs very little in its feeling from that of an infinite series; and
therefore we may reasonably conclude that both proceed from the same
cause.
We next consider a prospect unbounded every way, as for example, a
great plain, or the ocean, viewed from an eminence. We feel here an
uneasiness occasioned by the want of an end or termination, precisely
as in the other cases. A prospect unbounded every way is indeed so
far singular, as at first to be more pleasant than a prospect that is
unbounded in one direction only, and afterward to be more painful.
But these circumstances are easily explained without breaking in upon
the general theory. The pleasure we feel at first is a strong emotion
of grandeur, arising from the immense extension of the object. And to
increase the pain we feel afterward for the want of a termination,
there concurs a pain of a different kind, occasioned by stretching the
eye to comprehend so great a prospect; a pain that gradually increases
with the repeated efforts we make to grasp the whole.
It is the same principle, if I mistake not, which operates
imperceptibly with respect to quantity and number. Another’s property
indented into my field gives me uneasiness; and I am eager to make the
purchase, not for profit, but in order to square my field. Xerxes and
his army in their passage to Greece were sumptuously entertained by
Pythius the Lydian. Xerxes getting a particular account of his riches,
recompensed him with 7000 Darics, which he wanted to complete the sum
of four millions.
[83] Aristotle, poet. cap. 17.
[84] Spectator, Nº 265.
[85] Lib. 1. § 28.
[86] Act 4. sc. 2.
[87] See chap. 2. part 4.
[88] Chap. 2. part 4.
[89] Æn. lib. 5.
[90] Iliad, book 23. l. 879.
[91] Chap. 1.
[92] Locke, book 2. chap. 14.
[93] See chap. 1.
[94] See chap. 1.
[95] This chapter was composed in the year 1753.
[96] Chap. 1.
End of Project Gutenberg's Elements of Criticism, Volume I., by Henry Home