Elements of Criticism, Volume I.
Date: 2018-08-12T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Criticism; Literary style

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Title: Elements of Criticism, Volume I.

Author: Lord Henry Home Kames

Release date: August 12, 2018 [eBook #57678]
Most recently updated: January 24, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Chuck Greif and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM, VOLUME I. ***

ELEMENTS

OF

CRITICISM.

In THREE VOLUMES.

VOLUME I.

EDINBURGH:
Printed for A. Millar, London;
AND
A. Kincaid & J. Bell, Edinburgh,
MDCCLXII.

TO   THE

K    I    N    G.

SIR,

THe fine arts have ever been encouraged by wise princes, not singly for private amusement, but for their beneficial influence in society. By uniting different ranks in the same elegant pleasures, they promote benevolence: by cherishing love of order, they inforce submission to government: and by inspiring delicacy of feeling, they make regular government a double blessing.

These considerations embolden me to hope for your Majesty’s patronage in behalf of the following work, which treats of the fine arts, and attempts to form a standard of taste by unfolding those principles that ought to govern the taste of every individual.

It is rare to find one born with such delicacy of feeling, as not to need instruction: it is equally rare to find one so low in feeling, as not to be capable of instruction. And yet, to refine our taste with respect to beauties of art or of nature, is scarce endeavoured in any seminary of learning; a lamentable defect, considering how early in life taste is susceptible of culture, and how difficult to reform it if unhappily perverted. To furnish materials for supplying that defect, was an additional motive for the present undertaking.

To promote the fine arts in Britain, has become of greater importance than is generally imagined. A flourishing commerce begets opulence; and opulence, inflaming our appetite for pleasure, is commonly vented on luxury and on every sensual gratification: Selfishness rears its head; becomes fashionable; and infecting all ranks, extinguishes the amor patriæ and every spark of public spirit. To prevent or to retard such fatal corruption, the genius of an Alfred cannot devise any means more efficacious, than venting opulence upon the fine arts. Riches so employ’d, instead of encouraging vice, will excite both public and private virtue. Of this happy effect, ancient Greece furnishes one shining instance; and why should we despair of another in Britain?

In the commencement of an auspicious reign, and even in that early period of life when pleasure commonly is the sole pursuit, your Majesty has uniformly display’d to a delighted people, the noblest principles, ripened by early culture; and for that reason, you will be the more disposed to favour every rational plan for advancing the art of training up youth. Among the many branches of education, that which tends to make deep impressions of virtue, ought to be a fundamental measure in a well-regulated government: for depravity of manners will render ineffectual the most salutary laws; and in the midst of opulence, what other means to prevent such depravity but early and virtuous discipline? The British discipline is susceptible of great improvements; and if we can hope for them, it must be from a young and accomplished Prince, eminently sensible of their importance. To establish a complete system of education, seems reserved by providence for a Sovereign who commands the hearts of his subjects. Success will crown the undertaking, and endear George the Third to our latest posterity.

The most elevated and most refined pleasure of human nature, is enjoy’d by a virtuous prince governing a virtuous people; and that, by perfecting the great system of education, your Majesty may very long enjoy this pleasure, is the ardent wish of

Your Majesty’s

Devoted Subject,

Henry Home.

CONTENTS.

| Vol. | Pag.
Introduction, | 1 | 1
Ch. | 1. | Perceptions and ideas in a train, | 1 | 21
Ch. | 2. | Emotions and passions, | 1 | 42
Ch. | 3. | Beauty, | 1 | 241
Ch. | 4. | Grandeur and sublimity, | 1 | 264
Ch. | 5. | Motion and force, | 1 | 309
Ch. | 6. | Novelty, and the unexpected appearance of objects, | 1 | 319
Ch. | 7. | Risible objects, | 1 | 337
Ch. | 8. | Resemblance and contrast, | 1 | 345
Ch. | 9. | Uniformity and variety, | 1 | 380
Ch. | 10 | Congruity and propriety, | 2 | 2
Ch. | 11 | Dignity and meanness, | 2 | 27
Ch. | 12 | Ridicule, | 2 | 40
Ch. | 13 | Wit, | 2 | 58
Ch. | 14 | Custom and habit, | 2 | 80
Ch. | 15 | External signs of emotions and passions, | 2 | 116
Ch. | 16 | Sentiments, | 2 | 149
Ch. | 17 | Language of passion, | 2 | 204
Ch. | 18 | Beauty of language, | 2 | 234
Ch. | 19 | Comparisons, | 3 | 3
Ch. | 20 | Figures, | 3 | 53
Ch. | 21 | Narration and description, | 3 | 169
Ch. | 22 | Epic and dramatic compositions, | 3 | 218
Ch. | 23 | The three unities, | 3 | 259
Ch. | 24 | Gardening and architecture, | 3 | 294
Ch. | 25 | Standard of taste, | 3 | 351
Appendix, | 3 | 375
Index to Volume I.

In describing the scale of sounds made in pronouncing the five vowels, vol. 2. p. 239. it ought to have been mentioned, that the letter i must be pronounced as in the word interest, and other words beginning with the syllable in; the letter e as in persuasion; and the letter u as in number.

The reference intended, vol. 2. p. 419. is to p. 404. of the same volume.

INTRODUCTION.

THe five senses agree in the following particular, that nothing external is perceived till it first make an impression upon the organ of sense; the impression, for example, made upon the hand by a stone, upon the palate by sugar, and upon the nostrils by a rose. But there is a difference as to our consciousness of that impression. In touching, tasting, and smelling, we are conscious of the impression. Not so in seeing and hearing. When I behold a tree, I am not sensible of the impression made upon my eye; nor of the impression made upon my ear, when I listen to a song[1]. This difference in the manner of perception, distinguishes remarkably hearing and seeing from the other senses; and distinguishes still more remarkably the feelings of the former from those of the latter. A feeling pleasant or painful cannot exist but in the mind; and yet because in tasting, touching, and smelling, we are conscious of the impression made upon the organ, we naturally place there also, the pleasant or painful feeling caused by that impression. And because such feelings seem to be placed externally at the organ of sense, we, for that reason, conceive them to be merely corporeal. We have a different apprehension of the pleasant and painful feelings derived from seeing and hearing. Being insensible here of the organic impression, we are not misled to assign a wrong place to these feelings; and therefore we naturally place them in the mind, where they really exist. Upon that account, they are conceived to be more refined and spiritual, than what are derived from tasting, touching, and smelling.

The pleasures of the eye and ear being thus elevated above those of the other external senses, acquire so much dignity as to make them a laudable entertainment. They are not, however, set upon a level with those that are purely intellectual; being not less inferior in dignity to intellectual pleasures, than superior to the organic or corporeal. They indeed resemble the latter, being like them produced by external objects: but they also resemble the former, being like them produced without any sensible organic impression. Their mixt nature and middle place betwixt organic and intellectual pleasures, qualify them to associate with either. Beauty heightens all the organic feelings, as well as those that are intellectual. Harmony, though it aspires to inflame devotion, disdains not to improve the relish of a banquet.

The pleasures of the eye and ear have other valuable properties beside those of dignity and elevation. Being sweet and moderately exhilerating, they are in their tone equally distant from the turbulence of passion, and languor of inaction; and by that tone are perfectly well qualified, not only to revive the spirits when sunk by sensual gratification, but also to relax them when overstrained in any violent pursuit. Here is a remedy provided for many distresses. And to be convinced of its salutary effects, it will be sufficient to run over the following particulars. Organic pleasures have naturally a short duration: when continued too long, or indulged to excess, they lose their relish, and beget satiety and disgust. To relieve us from that uneasiness, nothing can be more happily contrived than the exhilerating pleasures of the eye and ear, which take place imperceptibly, without much varying the tone of mind. On the other hand, any intense exercise of the intellectual powers, becomes painful by overstraining the mind. Cessation from such exercise gives not instant relief: it is necessary that the void be filled with some amusement, gently relaxing the spirits [2]. Organic pleasure, which hath no relish but while we are in vigour, is ill qualified for that office: but the finer pleasures of sense, which occupy without exhausting the mind, are excellently well qualified to restore its usual tone after severe application to study or business, as well as after satiety from sensual gratification.

Our first perceptions are of external objects, and our first attachments are to them. Organic pleasures take the lead. But the mind, gradually ripening, relisheth more and more the pleasures of the eye and ear; which approach the purely mental, without exhausting the spirits; and exceed the purely sensual, without danger of satiety. The pleasures of the eye and ear have accordingly a natural aptitude to attract us from the immoderate gratification of sensual appetite. For the mind, once accustomed to enjoy a variety of external objects without being conscious of the organic impression, is prepared for enjoying internal objects where there cannot be an organic impression. Thus the author of nature, by qualifying the human mind for a succession of enjoyments from the lowest to the highest, leads it by gentle steps from the most groveling corporeal pleasures, for which solely it is fitted in the beginning of life, to those refined and sublime pleasures which are suited to its maturity.

This succession, however, is not governed by unavoidable necessity. The God of nature offers it to us, in order to advance our happiness; and it is sufficient, that he hath enabled us to complete the succession. Nor has he made our task disagreeable or difficult. On the contrary, the transition is sweet and easy, from corporeal pleasures to the more refined pleasures of sense; and not less so, from these to the exalted pleasures of morality and religion. We stand therefore engaged in honour, as well as interest, to second the purposes of nature, by cultivating the pleasures of the eye and ear, those especially that require extraordinary culture[3], such as are inspired by poetry, painting, sculpture, music, gardening, and architecture. This chiefly is the duty of the opulent, who have leisure to improve their minds and their feelings. The fine arts are contrived to give pleasure to the eye and the ear, disregarding the inferior senses. A taste for these arts is a plant that grows naturally in many soils; but, without culture, scarce to perfection in any soil. It is susceptible of much refinement; and is, by proper care, greatly improved. In this respect, a taste in the fine arts goes hand in hand with the moral sense, to which indeed it is nearly allied. Both of them discover what is right and what is wrong. Fashion, temper, and education, have an influence upon both, to vitiate them, or to preserve them pure and untainted. Neither of them are arbitrary or local. They are rooted in human nature, and are governed by principles common to all men. The principles of morality belong not to the present undertaking. But as to the principles of the fine arts, they are evolved, by studying the sensitive part of human nature, and by learning what objects are naturally agreeable, and what are naturally disagreeable. The man who aspires to be a critic in these arts, must pierce still deeper. He must clearly perceive what objects are lofty, what low, what are proper or improper, what are manly, and what are mean or trivial. Hence a foundation for judging of taste, and for reasoning upon it. Where it is conformable to principles, we can pronounce with certainty, that it is correct; otherwise, that it is incorrect, and perhaps whimsical. Thus the fine arts, like morals, become a rational science; and, like morals, may be cultivated to a high degree of refinement.

Manifold are the advantages of criticism, when thus studied as a rational science. In the first place, a thorough acquaintance with the principles of the fine arts, redoubles the entertainment these arts afford. To the man who resigns himself entirely to sentiment or feeling, without interposing any sort of judgment, poetry, music, painting, are mere pastime. In the prime of life, indeed, they are delightful, being supported by the force of novelty, and the heat of imagination. But they lose their relish gradually with their novelty; and are generally neglected in the maturity of life, which disposes to more serious and more important occupations. To those who deal in criticism as a regular science, governed by just principles, and giving scope to judgment as well as to fancy, the fine arts are a favourite entertainment; and in old age maintain that relish which they produce in the morning of life[4].

In the next place, a philosophic inquiry into the principles of the fine arts, inures the reflecting mind to the most enticing sort of logic. Reasoning upon subjects so agreeable tends to a habit; and a habit, strengthening the reasoning faculties, prepares the mind for entering into subjects more difficult and abstract. To have, in this respect, a just conception of the importance of criticism, we need but reflect upon the common method of education; which, after some years spent in acquiring languages, hurries us, without the least preparatory discipline, into the most profound philosophy. A more effectual method to alienate the tender mind from abstract science, is beyond the reach of invention. With respect to such speculations, the bulk of our youth contrast a sort of hobgoblin terror, which is seldom, if ever, subdued. Those who apply to the arts, are trained in a very different manner. They are led, step by step, from the easier parts of the operation, to what are more difficult; and are not permitted to make a new motion, till they be perfected in those which regularly precede it. The science of criticism appears then to be an intermediate link, finely qualified for connecting the different parts of education into a regular chain. This science furnisheth an inviting opportunity to exercise the judgement: we delight to reason upon subjects that are equally pleasant and familiar: we proceed gradually from the simpler to the more involved cases: and in a due course of discipline, custom, which improves all our faculties, bestows acuteness upon those of reason, sufficient to unravel all the intricacies of philosophy.

Nor ought it to be overlooked, that the reasonings employed upon the fine arts are of the same kind with those which regulate our conduct. Mathematical and metaphysical reasonings have no tendency to improve social intercourse: nor are they applicable to the common affairs of life. But a just taste in the fine arts, derived from rational principles, is a fine preparation for acting in the social state with dignity and propriety.

The science of criticism tends to improve the heart not less than the understanding. I observe, in the first place, that it hath a fine effect in moderating the selfish affections. A just taste in the fine arts, by sweetening and harmonizing the temper, is a strong antidote to the turbulence of passion and violence of pursuit. Elegance of taste procures to a man so much enjoyment at home, or easily within reach, that in order to be occupied, he is, in youth, under no temptation to precipitate into hunting, gaming, drinking; nor, in middle age, to deliver himself over to ambition; nor, in old age, to avarice. Pride, a disgustful selfish passion, exerts itself without control, when accompanied with a bad taste. A man of this stamp, upon whom the most striking beauty makes but a faint impression, feels no joy but in gratifying his ruling passion by the discovery of errors and blemishes. Pride, on the other hand, finds in the constitution no enemy more formidable than a delicate and discerning taste. The man upon whom nature and culture have bestowed this blessing, feels great delight in the virtuous dispositions and actions of others. He loves to cherish them, and to publish them to the world. Faults and failings, it is true, are to him not less obvious: but these he avoids, or removes out of sight, because they give him pain. In a word, there may be other passions, which, for a season, disturb the peace of society more than pride: but no other passion is so unwearied an antagonist to the sweets of social intercourse. Pride, tending assiduously to its gratification, puts a man perpetually in opposition to others; and disposes him more to relish bad than good qualities, even in a bosom friend. How different that disposition of mind, where every virtue in a companion or neighbour, is, by refinement of taste, set in its strongest light; and defects or blemishes, natural to all, are suppressed, or kept out of view?

In the next place, delicacy of taste tends not less to invigorate the social affections, than to moderate those that are selfish. To be convinced of this tendency, we need only reflect, that delicacy of taste necessarily heightens our sensibility of pain and pleasure, and of course our sympathy, which is the capital branch of every social passion. Sympathy in particular invites a communication of joys and sorrows, hopes and fears. Such exercise, soothing and satisfactory in itself, is productive necessarily of mutual good-will and affection.

One other advantage of criticism is reserved to the last place, being of all the most important, that it is a great support to morality. I insist on it with entire satisfaction, that no occupation attaches a man more to his duty than that of cultivating a taste in the fine arts. A just relish of what is beautiful, proper, elegant, and ornamental, in writing or painting, in architecture or gardening, is a fine preparation for discerning what is beautiful, just, elegant, or magnanimous, in character and behaviour. To the man who has acquired a taste so acute and accomplished, every action, wrong or improper, must be highly disgustful. If, in any instance, the overbearing power of passion sway him from his duty, he returns to it upon the first reflection, with redoubled resolution never to be swayed a second time. He has now an additional motive to virtue, a conviction derived from experience, that happiness depends on regularity and order, and that a disregard to justice or propriety never fails to be punished with shame and remorse[5].

Rude ages exhibit the triumph of authority over reason. Philosophers anciently were divided into sects: they were either Epicureans, Platonists, Stoics, Pythagoreans, or Sceptics. Men relied no farther upon their own judgement than to chuse a leader, whom they implicitly followed. In later times, happily, reason hath obtained the ascendant. Men now assert their native privilege of thinking for themselves, and disdain to be ranked in any sect, whatever be the science. I must except criticism, which, by what fatality I know not, continues to be not less slavish in its principles, nor less submissive to authority, than it was originally. Bossu, a celebrated French critic, gives many rules; but can discover no better foundation for any of them, than the practice merely of Homer and Virgil, supported by the authority of Aristotle. Strange, that in so long a work, the concordance or discordance of these rules with human nature, should never once have entered his thoughts! It could not surely be his opinion, that these poets, however eminent for genius, were intitled to give laws to mankind, and that nothing now remains but blind obedience to their arbitrary will. If in writing they followed no rule, why should they be imitated? If they studied nature, and were obsequious to rational principles, why should these be concealed from us?

With respect to the present undertaking, it is not the author’s intention to give a regular treatise upon each of the fine arts in particular; but only, in general, to apply to them some remarks and observations drawn from human nature, the true source of criticism. The fine arts are calculated for our entertainment, or for making agreeable impressions; and, by that circumstance, are distinguished from the useful arts. In order then to be a critic in the fine arts, it is necessary, as above hinted, to know what objects are naturally agreeable, and what naturally disagreeable. A complete treatise on that subject would be a field by far too extensive to be thoroughly cultivated by any one hand. The author pretends only to have entered upon the subject so far as necessary for supporting his critical remarks. And he assumes no merit from his performance, but that of evincing, perhaps more distinctly than hitherto has been done, that the genuine rules of criticism are all of them derived from the human heart. The sensitive part of our nature is a delightful speculation. What the author hath discovered or collected upon that subject, he chuses to impart in the gay and agreeable form of criticism; because he imagines, that this form will be more relished, and perhaps be not less instructive, than a regular and laboured disquisition. His plan is, to ascend gradually to principles, from facts and experiments, instead of beginning with the former, handled abstractly, and descending to the latter. But though criticism be thus his only declared aim, he will not disown, that all along he had it in view, to explain the nature of man, considered as a sensitive being, capable of pleasure and pain. And though he flatters himself with having made some progress in that important science, he is however too sensible of its extent and difficulty, to undertake it professedly, or to avow it as the chief purpose of the present work.

To censure works, not men, is the just prerogative of criticism; and accordingly all personal censure is here avoided, unless where necessary to illustrate some general proposition. No praise is claimed on that account; because censuring with a view merely to find fault, is an entertainment that humanity never relishes. Writers, one would imagine, should, above all others, be reserved upon that article, when they lie so open to retaliation. The author of this treatise, far from being confident of meriting no censure, entertains not even the slightest hope of such perfection. Amusement was at first the sole aim of his inquiries. Proceeding from one particular to another, the subject grew under his hand; and he was far advanced before the thought struck him, that his private meditations might be publicly useful. In public, however, he would not appear in a slovenly dress; and therefore he pretends not otherwise to apologise for his errors, than by observing, that, in a new subject, not less nice than extensive, errors are in some measure unavoidable. Neither pretends he to justify his taste in every particular. That point must be extremely clear, which admits not variety of opinion; and in some matters susceptible of great refinement, time is perhaps the only infallible touch-stone of taste. To this he appeals, and to this he chearfully submits.

N. B. The Elements of Criticism, meaning the whole, is a title too assuming for this work. A number of these elements or principles are here evolved: but as the author is far from imagining, that he has completed the list, a more humble title is proper, such as may express any undetermined number of parts less than the whole. This he thinks is signified by the title he has chosen, viz. Elements of Criticism.

ELEMENTS
OF
CRITICISM.

CHAPTER I.

Perceptions and ideas in a train.

A MAN while awake is sensible of a continued train of objects passing in his mind. It requires no activity on his part to carry on the train: nor has he power to vary it by calling up an object at will[6]. At the same time we learn from daily experience, that a train of thought is not merely casual. And if it depend not upon will, nor upon chance, we must try to evolve by what law it is governed. The subject is of importance in the science of human nature; and I promise beforehand, that it will be found of great importance in the fine arts.

It appears that the relations by which things are linked together, have a great influence in directing the train of thought; and we find by experience, that objects are connected in the mind precisely as they are externally. Beginning then with things external, we find that they are not more remarkable by their inherent properties than by their various relations. We cannot any where extend our view without perceiving things connected together by certain relations. One thing perceived to be a cause, is connected with its several effects; some things are connected by contiguity in time, others by contiguity in place; some are connected by resemblance, some by contrast; some go before, some follow. Not a single thing appears solitary, and altogether devoid of connection. The only difference is, that some are intimately connected, some more slightly; some near, some at a distance.

Experience as well as reason may satisfy us, that the train of mental perceptions is in a great measure regulated by the foregoing relations. Where a number of things are linked together, the idea of any one suggests the rest; and in this manner is a train of thoughts composed. Such is the law of succession; whether an original law, or whether directed by some latent principle, is doubtful; and probably will for ever remain so. This law, however, is not inviolable. It sometimes happens, though rarely, that an idea presents itself to the mind without any connection, so far at least as can be discovered.

But though we have not the absolute command of ideas, yet the Will hath a considerable influence in directing the order of connected ideas. There are few things but what are connected with many others. By this means, when any thing becomes an object, whether in a direct survey, or ideally only, it generally suggests many of its connections. Among these a choice is afforded. We can insist upon one, rejecting others; and we can even insist upon what has the slightest connection. Where ideas are left to their natural course, they are generally continued through the strongest connections. The mind extends its view to a son more readily than to a servant, and more readily to a neighbour than to one living at a distance. This order may be varied by Will, but still within the limits of connected objects. In short, every train of ideas must be a chain, in which the particular ideas are linked to each other. We may vary the order of a natural train; but not so as to dissolve it altogether, by carrying on our thoughts in a loose manner without any connection. So far doth our power extend; and that power is sufficient for all useful purposes. To give us more power, would probably be detrimental instead of being salutary.

Will is not the only cause that prevents a train of thought from being continued through the strongest connections. Much depends on the present tone of mind; for a subject that accords with this tone is always welcome. Thus, in good spirits, a chearful subject will be introduced by the slightest connection; and one that is melancholy, not less readily in low spirits. Again, an interesting subject is recalled, from time to time, by any connection indifferently, strong or weak. This is finely touched by Shakespear, with relation to a rich cargo at sea.

My wind, cooling my broth,
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea.
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,
But I should think of shallows and of flats;
And see my wealthy Andrew dock’d in sand,
Vailing her high top lower than her ribs,
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church,
And see the holy edifice of stone,
And not bethink me strait of dangerous rocks?
Which touching but my gentle vessel’s side,
Would scatter all the spices on the stream,
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks,
And, in a word, but now worth this,
And now worth nothing.
Merchant of Venice, act 1. sc. 1.

Another cause clearly distinguishable from that now mentioned, hath also a considerable influence over the train of ideas. In some minds of a singular frame, thoughts and circumstances crowd upon each other by the slightest connection. I ascribe this to a defect in the faculty of discernment. A person who cannot accurately distinguish betwixt a slight connection and one that is more solid, is equally affected with both. Such a person must necessarily have a great command of ideas, because they are introduced by any relation indifferently; and the slighter relations, being without number, must furnish ideas without end. This doctrine is, in a lively manner, illustrated by Shakespear.

Falstaff. What is the gross sum that I owe thee?

Hostess. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and thy money too. Thou didst swear to me on a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the Prince broke thy head for likening him to a singing man of Windsor, thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my Lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not Goodwife Keech, the butcher’s wife, come in then, and call me Gossip Quickly? Coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar; telling us she had a good dish of prawns; whereby thou didst desire to eat some; whereby I told thee they were ill for a green wound? And didst not thou, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity with such poor people, saying, that ere long they should call me Madam? And didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee thirty shillings? I put thee now to thy book-oath, deny it if thou canst.

Second part, Henry IV. act 2. sc. 2.

On the other hand, a man, of accurate judgement cannot have a great flow of ideas. The slighter relations making no figure in his mind, have no power to introduce ideas. And hence it is, that accurate judgement is not friendly to declamation or copious eloquence. This reasoning is confirmed by experience; for it is a noted observation, That a great or comprehensive memory is seldom connected with a good judgement.

As an additional confirmation, I appeal to another noted observation, That wit and judgement are seldom united. Wit consists chiefly in joining things by distant and fanciful relations, which surprise because they are unexpected. Such relations being of the slightest kind, readily occur to that person only who makes every relation equally welcome. Wit, upon that account, is, in a good measure, incompatible with solid judgement; which, neglecting trivial relations, adheres to what are substantial and permanent. Thus memory and wit are often conjoined: solid judgement seldom with either.

The train of thought depends not entirely upon relations: another cause comes in for a share; and that is the sense of order and arrangement. To things of equal rank, where there is no room for a preference, order cannot be applied; and it must be indifferent in what manner they be surveyed; witness the sheep that make a flock, or the trees in a wood. But in things of unequal rank, order is a governing principle. Thus our tendency is, to view the principal subject before we descend to its accessories or ornaments, and the superior before the inferior or dependent. We are equally averse to enter into a minute consideration of constituent parts, till the thing be first surveyed as a whole. In passing from a part to the whole, and from an accessory to its principal, the connection is the same as in the opposite direction. But a sense of order aids the transition in the latter case, and a sense of disorder obstructs it in the former. It needs scarce be added, that in thinking or reflecting on any of these particulars, and in passing from one to another ideally, we are sensible of easiness or difficulty precisely as when they are set before our eyes.

Our sense of order is conspicuous with respect to natural operations; for it always coincides with the order of nature. Thinking upon a body in motion, we follow its natural course. The mind falls with a heavy body, descends with a river, and ascends with flame and smoke. In tracing out a family, we incline to begin at the founder, and to descend gradually to his latest posterity. On the contrary, musing on a lofty oak, we begin at the trunk, and mount from it to the branches. As to historical facts, we love to proceed in the order of time; or, which comes to the same, to proceed along the chain of causes and effects.

But though, in following out a historical chain, our bent is to proceed orderly from causes to their effects, we find not the same bent in matters of science. There we seem rather disposed to proceed from effects to their causes, and from particular propositions to those which are more general. Why this difference in matters that appear so nearly related? The cases are similar in appearance only, not in reality. In a historical chain, every event is particular, the effect of some former event, and the cause of others that follow. In such a chain, there is nothing to bias the mind from the order of nature. Widely different is the case of science, when we endeavour to trace out causes and their effects. Many experiments are commonly reduced under one cause; and again, many of these under some one still more general and comprehensive. In our progress from particular effects to general causes, and from particular propositions to the more comprehensive, we feel a gradual dilatation or expansion of mind, like what is felt in proceeding along an ascending series, which is extremely delightful. The pleasure here exceeds what arises from following the course of nature; and it is this pleasure which regulates our train of thought in the case now mentioned, and in others that are similar. These observations, by the way, furnish materials for instituting a comparison betwixt the synthetic and analytic methods of reasoning. The synthetic method descending regularly from principles to their consequences, is more agreeable to the strictness of order. But in following the opposite course in the analytic method, we have a sensible pleasure, like mounting upward, which is not felt in the other. The analytic method is more agreeable to the imagination. The other method will be preferred by those only who with rigidity adhere to order, and give no indulgence to natural emotions[7].

It appears then that we are framed by nature to relish order and connection. When an object is introduced by a proper connection, we are conscious of a certain pleasure arising from that circumstance. Among objects of equal rank, the pleasure is proportioned to the degree of connection; but among unequal objects, where we require a certain order, the pleasure arises chiefly from an orderly arrangement. Of this one may be made sensible, in tracing objects contrary to the course of nature, or contrary to our sense of order. The mind proceeds with alacrity from a whole to its parts, and from a principal to its accessories; but in the contrary direction, it is sensible of a sort of retrograde motion, which is unpleasant. And here may be remarked the great influence of order upon the mind of man. Grandeur, which makes a deep impression, inclines us, in running over any series, to proceed from small to great, rather than from great to small. But order prevails over this tendency; and in parting from the whole to its parts, and from a subject to its ornaments, affords pleasure as well as facility, which are not felt in the opposite course. Elevation touches the mind not less than grandeur doth; and in raising the mind to elevated objects, there is a sensible pleasure. But the course of nature hath still a greater influence than elevation; and therefore the pleasure of falling with rain, and descending gradually with a river, prevails over that of mounting upward. Hence the agreeableness of smoke ascending in a calm morning. Elevation concurs with the course of nature, to make this object delightful.

I am extremely sensible of the disgust men generally have at abstract speculation; and for that reason I would avoid it altogether, were it possible in a work which professes to draw the rules of criticism from human nature, their true source. There is indeed no choice, other than to continue for some time in the same track, or to abandon the undertaking altogether. Candor obliges me to notify this to my readers, that such of them whose aversion to abstract speculation is invincible, may stop short here; for till principles be explained, I can promise no entertainment to those who shun thinking. But I flatter myself with a different taste in the bulk of readers. Some few, I imagine, will relish the abstract part for its own sake; and many for the useful purposes to which it may be applied. For encouraging the latter to proceed with alacrity, I assure them beforehand that the foregoing speculation leads to many important rules of criticism, which shall be unfolded in the course of this work. In the mean time, for instant satisfaction in part, they will be pleased to accept the following specimen.

It is required in every work of art, that, like an organic system, the constituent parts be mutually connected, and bear each of them a relation to the whole, some more intimate, some less, according to their destination. Order is not less essential than connection; and when due regard is paid to these, we have a sense of just composition, and so far are pleased with the performance. Homer is defective in order and connection; and Pindar more remarkably. Regularity, order, and connection, are painful restraints on a bold and fertile imagination; and are not patiently submitted to, but after much culture and discipline. In Horace there is no fault more eminent than want of connection. Instances are without number. In the first fourteen lines of ode 7. lib. 1. he mentions several towns and districts which by some were relished more than by others. In the remainder of the ode, Plancus is exhorted to drown his cares in wine. Having narrowly escaped death by the fall of a tree, this poet[8] takes occasion properly to observe, that while we guard against some dangers, we are exposed to others we cannot foresee. He ends with displaying the power of music. The parts of ode 16. lib. 2. are so loosely connected as to disfigure a poem otherwise extremely beautiful. The 1st, 2d, 3d, 4th, 11th, 24th, 27th odes of the 3d book, lie open all of them to the same censure. The 1st satire, book 1. is so deformed by want of unity and connection of parts, as upon the whole to be scarce agreeable. It commences with an important question, How it happens that persons who are so much satisfied with themselves, are generally so little with their condition? After illustrating the observation in a sprightly manner by several examples, the author, forgetting his subject, enters upon a declamation against avarice, which he pursues till the line 108. There he makes an apology for wandering, and promises to return to his subject. But avarice having got possession of his mind, he follows out that theme to the end, and never returns to the question proposed in the beginning.

In the Georgics of Virgil, though esteemed the most finished work of that author, the parts are ill connected, and the transitions far from being sweet and easy. In the first book[9] he deviates from his subject to give a description of the five zones. The want of connection here is remarkable, as well as in the description of the prodigies that accompanied the death of Cæsar, with which the same book is concluded. A digression upon the praises of Italy in the second book[10], is not more happily introduced. And in the midst of a declamation upon the pleasures of husbandry, that makes part of the same book[11], the author appears personally upon the stage without the slightest connection. The two prefaces of Sallust look as if they had been prefixed by some blunder to his two histories. They will suit any other history as well, or any subject as well as history. Even the members of these prefaces are but loosely connected. They look more like a number of maxims or observations than a connected discourse.

An episode in a narrative poem being in effect an accessory, demands not that strict union with the principal subject which is requisite betwixt a whole and its constituent parts. The relation however of principal and accessory being pretty intimate, an episode loosely connected with the principal subject will never be graceful. I give for an example the descent of Æneas into hell, which employs the sixth book of the Æneid. The reader is not prepared for this important event. No cause is assigned, that can make it appear necessary or even natural, to suspend, for so long a time, the principal action in its most interesting period. To engage Æneas to wander from his course in search of an adventure so extraordinary, the poet can find no better pretext, than the hero’s longing to visit the ghost of his father recently dead. In the mean time the story is interrupted, and the reader loses his ardor. An episode so extremely beautiful is not at any rate to be dispensed with. It is pity however, that it doth not arise more naturally from the subject. I must observe at the same time, that full justice is done to this incident, by considering it to be an episode; for if it be a constituent part of the principal action, the connection ought to be still more intimate. The same objection lies against that elaborate description of Fame in the Æneid[12]. Any other book of that heroic poem, or of any heroic poem, has as good a title to that description as the book where it is placed.

In a natural landscape, we every day perceive a multitude of objects connected by contiguity solely. Objects of sight make an impression so lively, as that a relation, even of the slightest kind, is relished. This however ought not to be imitated in description. Words are so far short of the eye in liveliness of impression, that in a description the connection of objects ought to be carefully studied, in order to make the deeper impression. For it is a known fact, the reason of which is suggested above, that it is easier by words to introduce into the mind a related object, than one which is not connected with the preceding train. In the following passage, different things are brought together without the slightest connection, if it be not what may be called verbal, i. e. taking the same word in different meanings.

Surgamus: solet esse gravis cantantibus umbra.
Juniperi gravis umbra: nocent et frugibus umbræ.
Ite domum saturæ, venit Hesperus, ite capellæ.
Virg. Buc. 10. 75.

The metaphorical or figurative appearance of an object, is no good cause for introducing that object in its real and natural appearance. A relation so slight can never be relished.

Distrust in lovers is too warm a sun;
But yet ’tis night in love when that is gone.
And in those climes which most his scorching know,
He makes the noblest fruits and metals grow.
Part 2. Conquest of Granada, act 3.

The relations among objects have a considerable influence in the gratification of our passions, and even in their production. But this subject is reserved to be treated in the chapter of emotions and passions[13].

There is perhaps not another instance of a building so great erected upon a foundation so slight in appearance, as that which is erected upon the relations of objects and their arrangement. Relations make no capital figure in the mind: the bulk of them are transitory, and some extremely trivial. They are however the links that, uniting our perceptions into one connected chain, produce connection of action, because perceptions and actions have an intimate correspondence. But it is not sufficient for the conduct of life that our actions be linked together, however intimately: it is beside necessary that they proceed in a certain order; and this also is provided for by an original propensity. Thus order and connection, while they admit sufficient variety, introduce a method in the management of affairs. Without them our conduct would be fluctuating and desultory; and we would be hurried from thought to thought, and from action to action, entirely at the mercy of chance.

CHAP. II.

Emotions and Passions.

THe fine arts, as observed above[14], are all of them calculated to give pleasure to the eye or the ear; and they never descend to gratify the taste, touch, or smell. At the same time, the feelings of the eye and ear, are of all the feelings of external sense, those only which are honoured with the name of emotions or passions. It is also observed above[15], that the principles of the fine arts are unfolded by studying the sensitive part of human nature, in order to know what objects of the eye and ear are agreeable, what disagreeable. These observations show the use of the present chapter. We evidently must be acquainted with the nature and causes of emotions and passions, before we can judge with any accuracy how far they are under the power of the fine arts. The critical art is thus set in a fine point of view. The inquisitive mind beginning with criticism the most agreeable of all amusements, and finding no obstruction in its progress, advances far into the sensitive part of our nature; and gains insensibly a thorough knowledge of the human heart, of its desires, and of every motive to action; a science which of all that can be reached by man, is to him of the greatest importance.

Upon a subject so extensive, all that can be expected here, is a general or slight survey. Some emotions indeed more peculiarly connected with the fine arts, I propose to handle in separate chapters; a method that will shorten the general survey considerably. And yet, after this circumscription, so much matter comes under even a general view of the passions and emotions, that, to avoid confusion, I find it necessary to divide this chapter into many parts: in the first of which are handled the causes of those emotions and passions that are the most common and familiar; for to explain every passion and emotion, however singular, would be an endless work. And though I could not well take up less ground, without separating things intimately connected; yet, upon examination, I find the causes of our emotions and passions to be so numerous and various, as to make a subdivision also necessary by splitting this first part into several sections. Human nature is a complicated machine, and must be so to answer all its purposes. There have indeed been published to the world, many a system of human nature, that flatter the mind by their simplicity. But these, unluckily, deviate far from truth and reality. According to some writers, man is entirely a selfish being: according to others, universal benevolence is his duty. One founds morality upon sympathy solely, and one upon utility. If any of these systems were of nature’s production, the present subject might be soon discussed. But the variety of nature is not so easily reached; and for confuting such Utopian systems without the intricacy of reasoning, it appears the best method to enter into human nature, and to set before the eye, plainly and candidly, facts as they really exist.

PART I.

Causes evolved of the emotions and passions.

SECT. I.

Difference betwixt emotion and passion.—— Causes that are the most common and the most extensive.—— Passion considered as productive of action.

THese branches are so interwoven, as to make it necessary that they be handled together. It is a fact universally admitted, that no emotion nor passion ever starts up in the mind, without a known cause. If I love a person, it is for good qualities or good offices: if I have resentment against a man, it must be for some injury he has done me; and I cannot pity any one, who is under no distress of body or of mind.

The circumstances now mentioned, if they cause or occasion a passion, cannot be entirely indifferent: if they were, they could not move us in any degree. And we find upon examination, that they are not indifferent. Looking back upon the foregoing examples, the good qualities or good offices that attract my love, are antecedently agreeable. If an injury were not disagreeable, it would not occasion any resentment against the author; nor would the passion of pity be raised by an object in distress, if that object did not give us pain. These feelings antecedent to passion, and which seem to be the causes of passion, shall be distinguished by the name of emotions.

What is now said about the production of passion, resolves into a very simple proposition, That we love what is pleasant, and hate what is painful. And indeed it is evident, that without antecedent emotions we could not have any passions; for a thing must be pleasant or painful, before it can be the object either of love or of hatred.

As it appears from this short sketch, that passions are generated by means of prior emotions, it will be necessary to take first under consideration emotions and their causes.

Such is the constitution of our nature, that upon perceiving certain external objects, we are instantaneously conscious of pleasure or pain. A flowing river, a smooth extended plain, a spreading oak, a towering hill, are objects of sight that raise pleasant emotions. A barren heath, a dirty marsh, a rotten carcass, raise painful emotions. Of the emotions thus produced, we inquire for no other cause but merely the presence of the object.

It must further be observed, that the things now mentioned, raise emotions by means of their properties and qualities. To the emotion raised by a large river, its size, its force, and its fluency, contribute each a share. The pleasures of regularity, propriety, convenience, compose the emotion raised by a fine building.

If external properties make a being or thing agreeable, we have reason to expect the same effect from those which are internal; and accordingly power, discernment, wit, mildness, sympathy, courage, benevolence, render the possessor agreeable in a high degree. So soon as these qualities are perceived in any person, we instantaneously feel pleasant emotions, without the slightest act of reflection or of attention to consequences. It is almost unnecessary to add, that certain qualities opposite to the former, such as dullness, peevishness, inhumanity, cowardice, occasion in the same manner painful emotions.

Sensible beings affect us remarkably by their actions. Some actions so soon as perceived, raise pleasant emotions in the spectator, without the least reflection; such as graceful motion and genteel behaviour. But as the intention of the agent is a capital circumstance in the bulk of human actions, it requires reflection to discover their true character. If I see one delivering a purse of money to another, I can make nothing of this action, till I discover with what intention the money is given. If it be given to extinguish a debt, the action is agreeable in a slight degree. If it be a grateful return, I feel a stronger emotion; and the pleasurable emotion rises to a great height when it is the intention of the giver to relieve a virtuous family from want. Actions are thus qualified by the intention of the agent. But they are not qualified by the event; for an action well intended is agreeable, whatever be the consequence. The pleasant or painful emotion that ariseth from contemplating human actions, is of a peculiar kind. Human actions are perceived to be right or wrong; and this perception qualifies the pleasure or pain that results from them[16].

Not only are emotions raised in us by the qualities and actions of others, but also by their feelings. I cannot behold a man in distress, without partaking of his pain; nor in joy, without partaking of his pleasure.

The beings or things above described, occasion emotions in us, not only in the original survey, but when they are recalled to the memory in idea. A field laid out with taste, is pleasant in the recollection, as well as when under our eye. A generous action described in words or colours, occasions a sensible emotion, as well as when we see it performed. And when we reflect upon the distress of any person, our pain is of the same kind with what we felt when eye-witnesses. In a word, an agreeable or disagreeable object recalled to the mind in idea, is the occasion of a pleasant or painful emotion, of the same kind with that produced when the object was present. The only difference is, that an idea being fainter than an original perception, the pleasure or pain produced by the former, is proportionably fainter than that produced by the latter.

Having explained the nature of an emotion and mentioned several causes by which it is produced, we proceed to an observation of considerable importance in the science of human nature, that some emotions are accompanied with desire, and that others, after a short existence, pass away without producing desire of any sort. The emotion raised by a fine landscape or a magnificent building, vanisheth generally without attaching our hearts to the object; which also happens with relation to a number of fine faces in a crowded assembly. But the bulk of emotions are accompanied with desire of one sort or other, provided only a fit object for desire be suggested. This is remarkably the case of emotions raised by human actions and qualities. A virtuous action raiseth in every spectator a pleasant emotion, which is generally attended with a desire to do good to the author of the action. A vicious action, on the other hand, produceth a painful emotion; and of consequence a desire to have the author punished. Even things inanimate often raise desire. The goods of fortune are objects of desire almost universally; and the desire, when more than commonly vigorous, obtains the name of avarice. The pleasant emotion produced in a spectator by a capital picture in the possession of a prince, seldom raiseth desire. But if such a picture be exposed to sale, desire of having or possessing is the natural consequence of the emotion.

If now an emotion be sometimes productive of desire, somtimes not, it comes to be a material inquiry, in what respect a passion differs from an emotion. Is passion in its nature or feeling distinguishable from emotion? I have been apt to think that there must be a distinction, when the emotion seems in all cases to precede the passion, and to be the cause or occasion of it. But after the strictest examination, I cannot perceive any such distinction betwixt emotion and passion. What is love to a mistress, for example, but a pleasant emotion raised by a sight or idea of the person beloved, joined with desire of enjoyment? In what else consists the passion of resentment, but in a painful emotion occasioned by the injury, accompanied with desire to chastise the author of the injury? In general, as to every sort of passion, we find no more in the composition, but the particulars now mentioned, an emotion pleasant or painful accompanied with desire. What then shall we say upon this subject? Are passion and emotion synonymous terms? This cannot be averred. No feeling nor agitation of the mind void of desire, is termed a passion; and we have discovered that there are many emotions which pass away without raising desire of any kind. How is the difficulty to be solved? There appears to me but one solution, which I relish the more, as it renders the doctrine of the passions and emotions simple and perspicuous. The solution follows. An internal motion or agitation of the mind, when it passeth away without raising desire, is denominated an emotion: when desire is raised, the motion or agitation is denominated a passion. A fine face, for example, raiseth in me a pleasant feeling. If this feeling vanish without producing any effect, it is in proper language an emotion. But if such feeling, by reiterated views of the object, become sufficiently strong to raise desire, it is no longer termed an emotion, but a passion. The same holds in all the other passions. The painful feeling raised in a spectator by a slight injury done to a stranger, being accompanied with no desire of revenge, is termed an emotion. But this injury raiseth in the stranger a stronger emotion, which being accompanied with desire of revenge, is a passion. Again, external expressions of distress, produce in the spectator a painful feeling. This feeling is sometimes so slight as to pass away without any effect, in which case it is an emotion. But if the feeling be so strong as to prompt desire of affording relief, it is a passion, and is termed pity. Envy is emulation in excess. If the exaltation of a competitor be barely disagreeable, the painful feeling is reckoned an emotion. If it produce desire to depress him, it is reckoned a passion.

To prevent mistakes, it must be observed, that desire here is taken in its proper sense, viz. that internal impulse which makes us proceed to action. Desire in a lax sense respects also actions and events that depend not on us, as when I desire that my friend may have a son to represent him, or that my country may flourish in arts and sciences. But such internal act is more properly termed a wish than a desire.

Having distinguished passion from emotion, we proceed to consider passion more at large, with respect especially to its power of producing action.

We have daily and constant experience for our authority, that no man ever proceeds to action but through the impulse of some antecedent desire. So well established is this observation, and so deeply rooted in the mind, that we can scarce imagine a different system of action. Even a child will say familiarly, What should make me do this or that when I have no inclination to it? Taking it then for granted, that the existence of action depends on antecedent desire; it follows, that where there is no desire there can be no action. This opens another shining distinction betwixt emotions and passions. The former, being without desire, are in their nature quiescent: the latter, involving desire, have a tendency to action, and always produce action where they meet with no obstruction.

Hence it follows, that every passion must have an object, viz. that being or thing to which our desire is directed, and with a view to which every action prompted by that desire is performed. The object of every passion is that being or thing which produced it. This will be evident from induction. A fine woman, by her beauty, causes in me the passion of love, which is directed upon her as its object. A man by injuring me, raises my resentment; and becomes thereby the object of my resentment. Thus the cause of a passion, and its object, are the same in different views. An emotion, on the other hand, being in its nature quiescent and merely a passive feeling, must have a cause; but cannot be said properly speaking to have an object.

As the desire involved in every passion leads to action, this action is either ultimate, or it is done as a means to some end. Where the action is ultimate, reason and reflection bear no part. The action is performed blindly by the impulse of passion, without any view. Thus one in extreme hunger snatches at food, without the slightest reflection whether it be salutary or not: Avarice prompts to accumulate wealth without the least view of use; and thereby absurdly converts means into an end: Fear often makes us fly before we reflect whether we really be in danger: and animal love not less often hurries to fruition, without a single thought of gratification. But for the most part, actions are performed as means to some end; and in these actions reason and reflection always bear a part. The end is that event which is desired; and the action is deliberately performed in order to bring about that end. Thus affection to my friend involves a desire to make him happy; and the desire to accomplish that end, prompts me to perform what I judge will contribute to it.

Where the action is ultimate, it hath a cause, viz. the impulse of the passion. But we cannot properly say it hath a motive. This term is appropriated to actions that are performed as means to some end; and the conviction that the action will tend to bring about the end desired, is termed a motive. Thus passions considered as causes of action, are distinguished into two kinds; instinctive, and deliberative. The first operating blindly and by mere impulse, depend entirely upon the sensitive part of our nature. The other operating by reflection and by motives, are connected with the rational part.

The foregoing difference among the passions, is the work of nature. Experience brings on some variations. By all actions performed through the impulse of passion, desire is gratified, and the gratification is pleasant. This lesson we have from experience. And hence it is, that after an action has often been performed by the impulse merely of passion, the pleasure resulting from performance, considered beforehand, becomes a motive, which joins its force with the original impulse in determining us to act. Thus a child eats by the mere impulse of hunger: a young man thinks of the pleasure of gratification, which is a motive for him to eat: and a man farther advanced in life, hath the additional motive that it will contribute to his health.

Instinctive passions are distinguished into two kinds. Where the cause is internal, they are denominated appetites: where external, they retain the common name of passions. Thus hunger, thirst, animal love, are termed appetites; while fear and anger, even when they operate blindly and by mere impulse, are termed passions.

From the definition of a motive above given, it is easy to determine, with the greatest accuracy, what passions are selfish, what social. No passion can properly be termed selfish, but what prompts me to exert actions in order for my own good; nor social, but what prompts me to exert actions in order for the good of another. The motive is that which determines a passion to be social or selfish. Hence it follows, that our appetites, which make us act blindly and by mere impulse, cannot be reckoned either social or selfish; and as little the actions they produce. Thus eating, when prompted by an impulse merely of nature, is neither social nor selfish. But add a motive, That it will contribute to my pleasure or my health, and it becomes in a measure selfish. On the other hand, when affection moves me to exert actions to the end solely of advancing my friend’s happiness, without the slightest regard to my own gratification, such actions are justly denominated social; and so is the affection, that is their cause. If another motive be added, That gratifying the affection will contribute to my own happiness, the actions I perform become partly selfish. Animal love when exerted into action by natural impulse singly, is neither social nor selfish: when exerted with a view to gratification and in order to make me happy, it is selfish. When the motive of giving pleasure to its object is superadded, it is partly social, partly selfish. A just action when prompted by the love of justice solely, is neither social nor selfish. When I perform an act of justice with a view to the pleasure of gratification, the action is selfish. I pay my debt for my own sake, not with a view to benefit my creditor. But let me suppose the money has been advanced by a friend without interest, purely to oblige me. In this case, together with the inclination to do justice, there arises a motive of gratitude, which respects the creditor solely, and prompts me to act in order to do him good. Here the action is partly social, partly selfish. Suppose again I meet with a surprising and unexpected act of generosity, that inspires me with love to my benefactor and the utmost gratitude. I burn to do him good: he is the sole object of my desire; and my own pleasure in gratifying the desire, vanisheth out of sight. In this case, the action I perform is purely social. Thus it happens, that when a social motive becomes strong, the action is exerted with a view singly to the object of the passion; and the selfish pleasure arising from gratification is never once considered. The same effect of stifling selfish motives, is equally remarkable in other passions that are in no view social. Ambition, for example, when confined to exaltation as its ultimate end, is neither social nor selfish. Let exaltation be considered as a means to make me happy, and the passion becomes so far selfish. But if the desire of exaltation wax strong and inflame my mind, the selfish motive now mentioned is no longer felt. A slight degree of resentment, where my chief view in acting is the pleasure arising to myself from gratifying the passion, is justly denominated selfish. Where revenge flames so high as to have no other aim but the destruction of its object, it is no longer selfish. In opposition to a social passion, it maybe termed dissocial[17].

Of self, every one hath a direct perception: of other things, we have no knowledge but by means of their attributes. Hence it is, that of self, the perception is more lively than of any other thing. Self is an agreeable object; and, for the reason now given, must be more agreeable than any other object. Is not this sufficient to account for the prevalence of self-love?

In the foregoing part of this chapter, it is suggested, that some circumstances make beings or things fit objects for desire, others not. This hint must be pursued. It is a truth ascertained by universal experience, that a thing which in our apprehension is beyond reach, never is the object of desire. No man, in his right senses, desires to walk in the air, or to descend to the centre of the earth. We may amuse ourselves in a reverie, with building castles in the air, and wishing for what can never happen. But such things never move desire. And indeed a desire to act would be altogether absurd, when we are conscious that the action is beyond our power. In the next place, though the difficulty of attainment with respect to things within reach, often inflames desire; yet where the prospect of attainment is faint and the event extremely uncertain, the object, however agreeable, seldom raiseth any strong desire. Thus beauty or other good qualities in a woman of rank, seldom raises love in any man greatly her inferior. In the third place, different objects, equally within reach, raise emotions in different degrees; and when desire accompanies any of these emotions, its strength, as is natural, is proportioned to that of its cause. Hence the remarkable difference among desires directed upon beings inanimate, animate, and rational. The emotion caused by a rational being, is out of measure stronger than any caused by an animal without reason; and an emotion raised by such an animal, is stronger than what is caused by any thing inanimate. There is a separate reason why desire of which a rational being is the object should be the strongest. Desire directed upon such a being, is gratified many ways, by loving, serving, benefiting, the object; and it is a well known truth, that our desires naturally swell by exercise. Desire directed upon an inanimate being, susceptible neither of pleasure nor pain, is not capable of a higher gratification than that of acquiring the property. Hence it is, that though every feeling which raiseth desire, is strictly speaking a passion; yet commonly those feelings only are denominated passions of which sensible beings capable of pleasure and pain are the objects.

SECT. II.

Causes of the emotions of joy and sorrow.

THis subject was purposely reserved for a separate section, because it could not, with perspicuity, be handled under the general head. An emotion involving desire is termed a passion; and when the desire is fulfilled, the passion is said to be gratified. The gratification of every passion must be pleasant, or in other words produce a pleasant emotion; for nothing can be more natural, than that the accomplishment of any wish or desire should affect us with joy. I cannot even except the case, where a man, through remorse, is desirous to chastise and punish himself. The joy of gratification is properly called an emotion; because it makes us happy in our present situation, and is ultimate in its nature, not having a tendency to any thing beyond. On the other hand, sorrow must be the result of an event contrary to what we desire; for if the accomplishment of desire produce joy, it is equally natural that disappointment should produce sorrow.

An event fortunate or unfortunate, that falls out by accident without being foreseen or thought of, and which therefore could not be the object of desire, raiseth an emotion of the same kind with that now mentioned. But the cause must be different; for there can be no gratification where there is no desire. We have not however far to seek for a cause. A man cannot be indifferent to an event that affects him or any of his connections. If it be fortunate, it gives him joy; if unfortunate, it gives him sorrow.

In no situation doth joy rise to a greater height, than upon the removal of any violent distress of mind or body; and in no situation doth sorrow rise to a greater height, than upon the removal of what makes us happy. The sensibility of our nature serves in part to account for these effects. Other causes also concur. We can be under no violent distress without an anxious desire to be free from it; and therefore its removal is a high gratification. We cannot be possessed of any thing that makes us happy, without wishing its continuance; and therefore its removal by crossing our wishes must create sorrow. Nor is this all. The principle of contrast comes in for its share. An emotion of joy arising upon the removal of pain, is increased by contrast when we reflect upon our former distress. An emotion of sorrow upon being deprived of any good, is increased by contrast when we reflect upon our former happiness.

Jaffier. There’s not a wretch that lives on common charity,
But’s happier than me. For I have known
The luscious sweets of plenty: every night
Have slept with soft content about my head,
And never wak’d but to a joyful morning.
Yet now must fall like a full ear of corn,
Whose blossom ’scap’d, yet’s wither’d in the ripening.
Venice preserv’d, act 1. sc. 1.

It hath always been reckoned difficult to account for the extreme pleasure that follows a cessation of bodily pain; as when one is relieved from the rack, or from a violent fit of the stone. What is said, explains this difficulty in the easiest and simplest manner. Cessation of bodily pain is not of itself a pleasure; for a non-ens or a negative can neither give pleasure nor pain. But man is so framed by nature as to rejoice when he is eased of pain, as well as to be sorrowful when deprived of any good. This branch of our constitution, is chiefly the cause of the pleasure. The gratification of desire comes in as an accessory cause; and contrast joins its force, by increasing the sense of our present happiness. In the case of an acute pain, a peculiar circumstance contributes its part. The brisk circulation of the animal spirits occasioned by acute pain, continues after the pain is vanished, and produceth a very pleasant feeling. Sickness hath not that effect, because it is always attended with a depression of spirits.

Hence it is, that the gradual diminution of acute pain, occasions a mixt emotion, partly pleasant, partly painful. The partial diminution produceth joy in proportion; but the remaining pain balanceth our joy. This mixt feeling, however, hath no long endurance. For the joy that ariseth upon the diminution of pain, soon vanisheth; and leaveth in the undisturbed possession, that degree of pain which remains.

What is above observed about bodily pain, is equally applicable to the distresses of the mind; and accordingly it is a common artifice, to prepare us for the reception of good news by alarming our fears.

SECT. III.

Sympathetic emotion of virtue, and its cause.

ONe feeling there is, that merits a deliberate view, for its singularity, as well as utility. Whether to call it an emotion or a passion, seems uncertain. The former it can scarce be, because it involves desire; and the latter it can scarce be, because it has no object. But this feeling and its nature will be best understood from examples. A signal act of gratitude, produceth in the spectator love or esteem for the author. The spectator hath at the same time a separate feeling; which, being mixed with love or esteem, the capital emotion, hath not been much adverted to. It is a vague feeling of gratitude, which hath no object; but which, however, disposes the spectator to acts of gratitude, more than upon ordinary occasions. Let any man attentively consider his own heart when he thinks warmly of any signal act of gratitude, and he will be conscious of this feeling, as distinct from the esteem or admiration he has for the grateful person. It merits our utmost attention, by unfolding a curious piece of mechanism in the nature of man. The feeling is singular in the following respect, that it involves a desire to perform acts of gratitude, without having any particular object; though in this state the mind, wonderfully disposed toward an object, neglects no object upon which it can vent itself. Any act of kindness or good-will that would not be regarded upon another occasion, is greedily seized; and the vague feeling is converted into a real passion of gratitude. In such a state, favours are returned double.

Again, a courageous action produceth in a spectator the passion of admiration directed upon the author. But beside this well-known passion, a separate feeling is raised in the spectator; which may be called an emotion of courage, because while under its influence he is conscious of a boldness and intrepidity beyond ordinary, and longs for proper objects upon which to exert this emotion.

Spumantemque dari, pecora inter inertia, votis
Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem.
Æneid. iv. 158.

Non altramente ’il tauro, oue l’ irriti
Geloso amor con stimoli pungenti
Horribilmente mugge, e co’ muggiti
Gli spirti in se risueglia, e l’ire ardenti:
E’l corno aguzza a i tronchi, e par ch’inuiti
Con vani colpi a’ la battaglia i venti.
Tasso, canto 7. st. 55.

So full of valour that they smote the air
For breathing in their faces.
Tempest, act. 4. sc. 4.

For another example, let us figure some grand and heroic action, highly agreeable to the spectator. Beside a singular veneration for the author, the spectator feels in himself an unusual dignity of character, which disposeth him to great and noble actions. And herein principally consists the extreme delight every one hath in the histories of conquerors and heroes.

This singular feeling, which may be termed the sympathetic emotion of virtue, resembles, in one respect, the well-known appetites that lead to the propagation and preservation of the species. The appetites of hunger, thirst, and animal love, arise in the mind without being directed upon any particular object; and in no case whatever is the mind more solicitous for a proper object, than when under the influence of any of these appetites.

The feeling I have endeavoured to evolve, may well be termed the sympathetic emotion of virtue; for it is raised in a spectator by virtuous actions of every kind, and by no other sort. When we contemplate a virtuous action, which never fails to delight us and to prompt our love for the author, the mind is warmed and put into a tone similar to what inspired the virtuous action. The propensity we have to such actions is so much enlivened, as to become for a time an actual emotion. But no man hath a propensity to vice as such. On the contrary, a wicked deed disgusts him, and makes him abhor the author. This abhorrence is a strong antidote so long as any impression remains of the wicked action.

In a rough road, a halt to view a fine country is refreshing; and here a delightful prospect opens upon us. It is indeed wonderful to see what incitements there are to virtue in the human frame. Justice is perceived to be our duty, and it is guarded by natural punishments, from which the guilty never escape. To perform noble and generous actions, a warm sense of dignity and superior excellence is a most efficacious incitement[18]. And to leave virtue in no quarter unsupported, here is unfolded an admirable contrivance, by which good example commands the heart and adds to virtue the force of habit. Did our moral feelings extend no farther than to approve the action and to bestow our affection on the author, good example would not have great influence. But to give it the utmost force, nothing can be better contrived than the sympathetic emotion under consideration, which prompts us to imitate what we admire. This singular emotion will readily find an object to exert itself upon; and at any rate, it never exists without producing some effect. Virtuous emotions of this sort, are in some degree an exercise of virtue. They are a mental exercise at least, if they show not externally. And every exercise of virtue, internal and external, leads to habit; for a disposition or propensity of the mind, like a limb of the body, becomes stronger by exercise. Proper means, at the same time, being ever at hand to raise this sympathetic emotion, its frequent reiteration may, in a good measure, supply the want of a more complete exercise. Thus, by proper discipline, every person may acquire a settled habit of virtue. Intercourse with men of worth, histories of generous and disinterested actions, and frequent meditation upon them, keep the sympathetic emotion in constant exercise, which by degrees introduceth a habit, and confirms the authority of virtue. With respect to education in particular, what a spacious and commodious avenue to the heart of a young person, is here opened?

SECT. IV.

In many instances one emotion is productive of another. The same of passions.

IN the first chapter it is observed, that the relations by which things are mutually connected, have a remarkable influence in regulating the train of our ideas. I here add, that they have an influence not less remarkable, in generating emotions and passions. Beginning with the former, it holds in fact, that an agreeable object makes every thing connected with it appear agreeable. The mind gliding sweetly and easily through related objects, carries along the beauty of objects that made a figure, and blends that beauty with the idea of the present object, which thereby appears more agreeable than when considered apart[19]. This reason may appear obscure and metaphysical, but it must be relished when we attend to the following examples, which establish the fact beyond all dispute. No relation is more intimate than that betwixt a being and its qualities; and accordingly, the affection I bear a man expands itself readily upon all his qualities, which by that means make a greater figure in my mind than more substantial qualities in others. The talent of speaking in a friend, is more regarded than that of acting in a person with whom I have no connection; and graceful motion in a mistress, gives more delight than consummate prudence in any other woman. Affection sometimes rises so high, as to convert defects into properties. The wry neck of Alexander was imitated by his courtiers as a real beauty, without intention to flatter. Thus Lady Piercy, speaking of her husband Hotspur,

———————— By his light
Did all the chivalry of England move,
To do brave acts. He was indeed the glass,
Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves.
He had no legs that practis’d not his gait:
And speaking thick, which Nature made his blemish,
Became the accents of the valiant:
For those who could speak low and tardily,
Would turn their own perfection to abuse,
To seem like him.
Second part, Henry IV. act 2. sc. 6.

When the passion of love has ended its course, its object becomes quite a different creature.—— Nothing left of that genteel motion, that gaiety, that sprightly conversation, those numberless graces, that formerly, in the lover’s opinion, charmed all hearts.

The same communication of passion obtains in the relation of principal and accessory. Pride, of which self is the object, expands itself upon a house, a garden, servants, equipage, and every thing of that nature. A lover addresseth his mistress’s glove in the following terms:

Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine.

A temple is in a proper sense an accessory of the deity to which it is dedicated. Diana is chaste, and not only her temple, but the very isicle which hangs on it, must partake of that property:

The noble sister of Poplicola,
The moon of Rome; chasle as the isicle
That’s curdled by the frost from purest snow,
And hangs on Dian’s temple.
Coriolanus, act 5. sc. 3.

Thus it is, that the respect and esteem, which the great, the powerful, the opulent naturally command, are in some measure communicated to their dress, to their manners, and to all their connections. It is this principle, which in matters left to our own choice prevails over the natural taste of beauty and propriety, and gives currency to what is called the fashion.

By means of the same easiness of transition, the bad qualities of an object are carried along, and grafted upon related objects. Every good quality in a person is extinguished by hatred; and every bad quality is spread upon all his connections. A relation more slight and transitory than that of hatred, may have the same effect. Thus the bearer of bad tidings becomes an object of aversion:

Fellow begone, I cannot brook thy sight,
This news hath made thee a most ugly man.
King John, act 3. sc. 1.

Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news
Hath but a losing office: and his tongue
Sounds ever after, as a sullen bell
Remember’d, tolling a departing friend.
Second part, Henry IV. act 1. sc. 3.

This disposition of the mind to communicate the properties of one object to another, is not always proportioned to the intimacy of their connection. The order of the transition from object to object, hath also an influence. The sense of order operates not less powerfully in this case, than in the succession of ideas[20]. If a thing be agreeable in itself, all its accessories appear agreeable. But the agreeableness of an accessory, extends not itself so readily to the principal. Any dress upon a fine woman is becoming; but the most elegant ornaments upon one that is homely, have scarce any effect to mend her appearance. The reason will be obvious, from what is said in the chapter above cited. The mind passes more easily from the principal to its accessories, than in the opposite direction.

The emotions produced as above may properly be termed secondary, being occasioned either by antecedent emotions or antecedent passions, which in this respect may be termed primary. And to complete the present theory, I must now remark a difference betwixt a primary emotion and a primary passion in the production of secondary emotions. A secondary emotion cannot but be more faint than the primary; and therefore, if the chief or principal object have not the power to raise a passion, the accessory object will have still less power. But if a passion be raised by the principal object, the secondary emotion may readily swell into a passion for the accessory, provided the accessory be a proper object for desire. And thus it happens that one passion is often productive of another. Examples are without number: the sole difficulty is a proper choice. I begin with self-love, and the power it hath to generate other passions. The love which parents bear their children, is an illustrious example of the foregoing doctrine. Every man, beside making part of a greater system, like a comet, a planet, or satellite only; hath a less system of his own, in the centre of which he represents the sun dispersing his fire and heat all around. The connection between a man and his children, fundamentally that of cause and effect, becomes, by the addition of other circumstances, the completest that can be among individuals; and therefore, self-love, the most vigorous of all passions, is readily expanded upon children. The secondary emotion they at first produce by means of their connection, is, generally speaking, sufficiently strong to move desire even from the beginning; and the new passion swells by degrees, till it rival in some measure self-love, the primary passion. The following case will demonstrate the truth of this theory. Remorse for betraying a friend, or murdering an enemy in cold blood, makes a man even hate himself. In this state, it is a matter of experience, that he is scarce conscious of any affection to his children, but rather of disgust or ill-will. What cause can be assigned for this change, other than the hatred which beginning at himself, is expanded upon his children? And if so, may we not with equal reason derive from self-love the affection a man for ordinary has to them?

The affection a man bears to his blood-relations, depends on the same principle. Self-love is also expanded upon them; and the communicated passion, is more or less vigorous in proportion to the connection. Nor doth self-love rest here: it is, by the force of connection, communicated even to things inanimate. And hence the affection a man bears to his property, and to every thing he calls his own.

Friendship, less vigorous than self-love, is, for that reason, less apt to communicate itself to children or other relations. Instances however are not wanting, of such communicated passion arising from friendship when it is strong. Friendship may go higher in the matrimonial state than in any other condition: and Otway, in Venice preserv’d, shows a fine taste in taking advantage of that circumstance. In the scene where Belvidera sues to her father for pardon, she is represented as pleading her mother’s merit, and the resemblance she bore to her mother.

Priuli. My daughter!

Belvidera. Yes, your daughter, by a mother
Virtuous and noble, faithful to your honour,
Obedient to your will, kind to your wishes,
Dear to your arms. By all the joys she gave you,
When in her blooming years she was your treasure,
Look kindly on me; in my face behold
The lineaments of hers y’ have kiss’d so often,
Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off child.

And again,

Belvidera. Lay me, I beg you, lay me
By the dear ashes of my tender mother.
She would have pitied me, had fate yet spar’d her.
Act 5. sc. 1.

This explains why any meritorious action or any illustrious qualification in my son or my friend, is apt to make me overvalue myself. If I value my friend’s wife or his son upon account of their connection with him, it is still more natural that I should value myself upon account of my own connection with him.

Friendship, or any other social affection, may produce opposite effects. Pity, by interesting us strongly for the person in distress, must of consequence inflame our resentment against the author of the distress. For, in general, the affection we have for any man, generates in us good-will to his friends and ill-will to his enemies. Shakespear shows great art in the funeral oration pronounced by Antony over the body of Cæsar. He first endeavours to excite grief in the hearers, by dwelling upon the deplorable loss of so great a man. This passion raised to a pitch, interesting them strongly in Cæsar’s fate, could not fail to produce a lively sense of the treachery and cruelty of the conspirators; an infallible method to inflame the resentment of the multitude beyond all bounds.

Antony. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle; I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on,
’Twas on a summer’s evening in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii——
Look! in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through;—
See what a rent the envious Casca made.——
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d;
And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar follow’d it!
As rushing out of doors, to be resolv’d,
If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no:
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar’s angel.
Judge, oh you gods! how dearly Cæsar lov’d him;
This, this, was the unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,
Quite vanquish’d him; then burst his mighty heart:
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell,
Even at the base of Pompey’s statue.
O what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us.
O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity; these are gracious drops.
Kind souls! what, weep you when you but behold
Our Cæsar’s vesture wounded? look you here!
Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, by traitors.
Julius Cæsar, act 3. sc. 6.

Had Antony directed upon the conspirators the thoughts of his audience, without paving the way by raising their grief, his speech perhaps might have failed of success.

Hatred and other dissocial passions, produce effects directly opposite to those above mentioned. If I hate a man, his children, his relations, nay his property, become to me objects of aversion. His enemies, on the other hand, I am disposed to esteem.

The more slight and transitory connections, have generally no power to produce a communicated passion. Anger, when sudden and violent, is one exception; for if the person who did the injury be removed out of reach, this passion will vent itself upon any related object, however slight the relation be. Another exception makes a greater figure. A group of beings or things, becomes often the object of a communicated passion, even where the relation of the individuals to the principal object is but faint. Thus though I put no value upon a single man for living in the same town with myself; my townsmen however, considered in a body, are preferred before others. This is still more remarkable with respect to my countrymen in general. The grandeur of the complex object, swells the passion of self-love by the relation I have to my native country; and every passion, when it swells beyond its ordinary bounds, hath, in that circumstance, a peculiar tendency to expand itself along related objects. In fact, instances are not rare, of persons, who, upon all occasions, are willing to sacrifice their lives and fortunes for their country. Such influence upon the mind of man, hath a complex object, or, more properly speaking, a general term[21].

The sense of order hath, in the communication of passion, an influence not less remarkable than in the communication of emotions. It is a common observation, that a man’s affection to his parents is less vigorous than to his children. The order of nature in descending to children, aids the transition of the affection. The ascent to a parent, contrary to this order, makes the transition more difficult. Gratitude to a benefactor is readily extended to his children; but not so readily to his parents. The difference however betwixt the natural and inverted order, is not so considerable, but that it may be balanced by other circumstances. Pliny[22] gives an account of a woman of rank condemned to die for a crime; and, to avoid public shame, detained in prison to die of hunger. Her life being prolonged beyond expectation, it was discovered, that she was nourished by sucking milk from the breasts of her daughter. This instance of filial piety, which aided the transition and made ascent not less easy than descent is for ordinary, procured a pardon to the mother, and a pension to both. The story of Androcles and the lion[23] may be accounted for in the same manner. The admiration, of which the lion was the cause, for his kindness and gratitude to Androcles, produced good-will to Androcles, and pardon of his crime.

And this leads to other observations upon communicated passions. I love my daughter less after she is married, and my mother less after a second marriage. The marriage of my son or my father diminishes not my affection so remarkably. The same observation holds with respect to friendship, gratitude, and other passions. The love I bear my friend, is but faintly extended to his married daughter. The resentment I have against a man, is readily extended against children who make part of his family: not so readily against children who are forisfamiliated, especially by marriage. This difference is also more remarkable in daughters than in sons. These are curious facts; and to evolve the cause we must examine minutely, that operation of the mind by which a passion is extended to a related object. In considering two things as related, the mind is not stationary, but passeth and repasseth from the one to the other, viewing the relation from each of them perhaps oftener than once. This holds more especially in considering a relation betwixt things of unequal rank, as betwixt the cause and the effect, or betwixt a principal and an accessory. In contemplating the relation betwixt a building and its ornaments, the mind is not satisfied with a single transition from the former to the latter. It must also view the relation, beginning at the latter, and passing from it to the former. This vibration of the mind in passing and repassing betwixt things that are related, explains the facts above mentioned. The mind passeth easily from the father to the daughter; but where the daughter is married, this new relation attracts the mind, and obstructs, in some measure, the return from the daughter to the father. Any obstruction the mind meets with in passing and repassing betwixt its objects, occasions a like obstruction in the communication of passion. The marriage of a male obstructs less the easiness of transition; because a male is less sunk by the relation of marriage than a female.

The foregoing instances, are of passion communicated from one object to another. But one passion may be generated by another, without change of object. It may in general be observed, that a passion paves the way to others, similar in their tone, whether directed upon the same or upon a different object. For the mind heated by any passion, is, in that state, more susceptible of a new impression in a similar tone, than when cool and quiescent. It is a common observation, that pity generally produceth friendship for a person in distress. Pity interests us in its object, and recommends all its virtuous qualities. For this reason, female beauty shows best in distress; and is more apt to inspire love, than upon ordinary occasions. But it is chiefly to be remarked, that pity, warming and melting the spectator, prepares him for the reception of other tender affections; and pity is readily improved into love or friendship, by a certain tenderness and concern for the object, which is the tone of both passions. The aptitude of pity to produce love is beautifully illustrated by Shakespear.

Othello. Her father lov’d me, oft invited me;
Still question’d me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have past.
I ran it through, e’en from my boyish days,
To th’ very moment that he bad me tell it:
Wherein I spoke of most disast’rous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field;
Of hair-breadth ’scapes in th’ imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And with it, all my travel’s history.
—————— All these to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline;
But still the house-affairs would draw her thence,
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She’d come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not distinctively. I did consent,
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffer’d. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:
She swore, in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange—
’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful—
She wish’d she had not heard it:—yet she wish’d,
That heav’n had made her such a man:—she thank’d me,
And bad me, if I had a friend that lov’d her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. On this hint I spake,
She lov’d me for the dangers I had past,
And I lov’d her, that she did pity them:
This only is the witchcraft I have us’d.
Othello, act 1. sc. 8.

In this instance it will be observed that admiration concurred with pity to produce love.

SECT. V.

Causes of the passions of fear and anger.

FEar and anger, to answer the purposes of nature, are happily so contrived as to operate either instinctively or deliberately. So far as they prompt actions considered as means leading to a certain end, they fall in with the general system, and require no particular explanation. If any object have a threatening appearance, reason suggests means to avoid the danger. If I am injured, the first thing I think of, is in what manner I shall be revenged, and what means I shall employ. These particulars are not less obvious than natural. But as the passions of fear and anger, so far as instinctive, are less familiar to us, and their nature generally not understood; I thought it would not be unacceptable to the reader to have them accurately delineated. He may also possibly relish the opportunity of this specimen, to have the nature of instinctive passions more fully explained than there was formerly occasion to do. I begin with fear.

Self-preservation is to individuals a matter of too great importance to be left entirely under the guardianship of self-love, which cannot be put in exercise otherwise than by the intervention of reason and reflection. Nature hath acted here with her usual precaution and foresight. Fear and anger are passions common to all men; and by operating instinctively, they frequently afford security when the slower operations of deliberative reason would be too late. We take nourishment commonly, not by the direction of reason, but by the incitement of hunger and thirst. In the same manner, we avoid danger by the incitement of fear, which often, before there is time for reflection, placeth us in safety. This matter then is ordered with consummate wisdom. It is not within the reach of fancy, to conceive any thing better fitted to answer its purpose, than this instinctive passion of fear, which, upon the first surmise of danger, operates instantaneously without reflection. So little doth the passion, in such instances, depend on reason, that we often find it exerted even in contradiction to reason, and when we are conscious that there is no hazard. A man who is not much upon his guard, cannot avoid shrinking at a blow, though he knows it to be aimed in sport; nor closing his eyes at the approach of what may hurt them, though he is confident it will not come their length. Influenced by the same instinctive passion of fear, infants are much affected with a stern look, a menacing tone, or other expression of anger; though, being incapable of reflection, they cannot form the slightest judgement about the import of these signs. This is all that is necessary to be said in general. The natural connection betwixt fear and the external signs of anger, will be handled in the chapter of the external signs of emotions and passions.

Fear provides for self-preservation by flying from harm; anger, by repelling it. Nothing indeed can be better contrived to repel or prevent injury, than anger or resentment. Destitute of this passion, men, like defenceless lambs, would lie constantly open to mischief[24]. Deliberate anger caused by a voluntary injury, is too well known to require any explanation. If my desire be in general to resent an afront, I must use means, and these means must be discovered by reflection. Deliberation is here requisite; and in this, which is the ordinary case, the passion seldom exceeds just bounds. But where anger suddenly inflames me to return a blow, the passion is instinctive, and the action ultimate; and it is chiefly in such cases that the passion is rash and ungovernable, because it operates blindly, without affording time for reason or deliberation.

Instinctive anger is frequently raised by bodily pain, which, when sudden and excessive as by a stroke on a tender part, ruffling the temper and unhinging the mind, is in its tone similar to anger. Bodily pain by this means disposes to anger, which is as suddenly raised, provided an object be found to vent it upon. Anger commonly is not provoked otherwise than by a voluntary injury. But when a man is thus beforehand disposed to anger, he is not nice nor scrupulous about an object. The man who gave the stroke, however accidentally, is by an inflammable temper held a proper object, merely because he was the occasion of the pain. It is still a stronger example of the kind, that a stock or a stone, by which I am hurt, becomes an object for my resentment. I am violently incited to bray it to atoms. The passion indeed in this case is but momentary. It vanisheth with the first reflection, being attended with no circumstance that can excuse it in any degree. Nor is this irrational effect confined to bodily pain. Inward distress, when excessive, may be the occasion of effects equally irrational. When a friend is danger and the event uncertain, the perturbation of mind occasioned thereby, will, in a fiery temper, produce momentary fits of anger against this very friend, however innocent. Thus Shakespear, in the Tempest,

Alonzo.———— Sit down and rest.
Ev’n here I will put off my hope, and keep it
No longer for my flatterer: he is drown’d
Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.
Act 3. sc. 3.

The final words, Well, let him go, are an expression of impatience and anger at Ferdinand, whose absence greatly distressed his father, dreading that he was lost in the storm. This nice operation of the human mind, is by Shakespear exhibited upon another occasion, and finely painted. In the tragedy of Othello, Iago, by dark hints and suspicious circumstances, had roused Othello’s jealousy; which, however, appeared too slightly founded to be vented upon Desdemona, its proper object. The perturbation and distress of mind thereby occasioned, produced a momentary resentment against Iago, considered as occasioning the jealousy though innocent.

Othello. Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore;
Be sure of it: give me the ocular proof.
Or by the wrath of man’s eternal soul
Thou hadst been better have been born a dog,
Than answer my wak’d wrath.

Iago. Is’t come to this?

Othello. Make me see’t; or, at the least, so prove it,
That the probation bear no hinge or loop
To hang a doubt on: or woe upon thy life!

Iago. My Noble Lord——

Othello. If thou dost slander her and torture me,
Never pray more; abandon all remorse;
On horrors head horrors accumulate;
Do deeds to make heav’n weep, all earth amaz’d:
For nothing canst thou to damnation add
Greater than that.
Othello, act 3. sc. 8.

This blind and absurd effect of anger, is more gaily illustrated by Addison, in a story, the dramatis personæ of which are a cardinal, and a spy retained in pay for intelligence. The cardinal is represented as minuting down every thing that is told him. The spy begins with a low voice, “Such an one the advocate whispered to one of his friends within my hearing, that your Eminence was a very great poltron;” and after having given his patron time to take it down, adds, “That another called him a mercenary rascal in a public conversation.” The cardinal replies, “Very well,” and bids him go on. The spy proceeds, and loads him with reports of the same nature, till the cardinal rises in great wrath, calls him an impudent scoundrel, and kicks him out of the room[25].

We meet with instances every day of resentment raised by loss at play, and wreaked on the cards or dice. But anger, a furious passion, is satisfied with a connection still slighter than that of cause and effect, of which Congreve, in the Mourning Bride, gives one beautiful example.

Gonsalez. Have comfort.

Almeria. Curs’d be that tongue that bids me be of comfort,
Curs’d my own tongue that could not move his pity,
Curs’d these weak hands that could not hold him here,
For he is gone to doom Alphonso’s death.
Act 4. sc. 8.

I have chosen to exhibit anger in its more rare appearances, for in these we can best trace its nature and extent. In the examples above given, it appears to be an absurd passion and altogether irrational. But we ought to consider, that it is not the intention of nature to subject this passion, in every instance, to reason and reflection. It was given us to prevent or to repel injuries; and, like fear, it often operates blindly and instinctively, without the least view to consequences. The very first sensation of harm, sets it in motion to repel injury by punishment. Were it more cool and deliberate, it would lose its threatening appearance, and be insufficient to guard us against violence and mischief. When such is and ought to be the nature of the passion, it is not wonderful to find it exerted irregularly and capriciously, as it sometimes is where the mischief is sudden and unforeseen. All the harm that can be done by the passion in this case, is instantaneous; for the shortest delay sets all to rights; and circumstances are seldom so unlucky as to put it in the power of a passionate man to do much harm in an instant.

SECT. VI.

Emotions caused by fiction.

THe attentive reader will observe, that in accounting for passions and emotions, no cause hitherto has been assigned but what hath a real existence. Whether it be a being, action, or quality, that moveth us, it is supposed to be an object of our knowledge, or at least of our belief. This observation discovers to us that the subject is not yet exhausted; because our passions, as all the world know, are moved by fiction as well as by truth. In judging beforehand of man, so remarkably addicted to truth and reality, one should little dream that fiction could have any effect upon him. But man’s intellectual faculties are too imperfect to dive far even into his own nature. I shall take occasion afterward to show, that this branch of the human constitution, is contrived with admirable wisdom and is subservient to excellent purposes. In the mean time, I must endeavour to unfold, by what means fiction hath such influence on the mind.

That the objects of our senses really exist in the way and manner we perceive, is a branch of intuitive knowledge. When I see a man walking, a tree growing, or cattle grazing, I have a conviction that these things are precisely as they appear. If I be a spectator of any transaction or event, I have a conviction of the real existence of the persons engaged, of their words, and of their actions. Nature determines us to rely on the veracity of our senses. And indeed, if our senses did not convince us of the reality of their objects, they could not in any degree answer their end.

By the power of memory, a thing formerly seen may be recalled to the mind with different degrees of accuracy. We commonly are satisfied with a slight recollection of the chief circumstances; and, in such recollection, the thing is not figured as present nor any image formed. I retain the consciousness of my present situation, and barely remember that formerly I was a spectator. But with respect to an interesting object or event which made a strong impression, the mind sometimes, not satisfied with a cursory review, chutes to revolve every circumstance. In this case, I conceive myself to be a spectator as I was originally; and I perceive every particular passing in my presence, in the same manner as when I was in reality a spectator. For example, I saw yesterday a beautiful woman in tears for the loss of an only child, and was greatly moved with her distress. Not satisfied with a slight recollection or bare remembrance, I insist on the melancholy scene. Conceiving myself to be in the place where I was an eye-witness, every circumstance appears to me as at first. I think I see the woman in tears and hear her moans. Hence it may be justly said, that in a complete idea of memory there is no past nor future. A thing recalled to the mind with the accuracy I have been describing, is perceived as in our view, and consequently as presently existing. Past time makes a part of an incomplete idea only: I remember or reflect, that some years ago I was at Oxford, and saw the first stone laid of the Ratcliff library; and I remember that at a still greater distance of time, I heard a debate in the house of Commons about a standing army.

Lamentable is the imperfection of language, almost in every particular that falls not under external sense. I am talking of a matter exceeding clear in itself, and of which every person must be conscious; and yet I find no small difficulty to express it clearly in words; for it is not accurate to talk of incidents long past as passing in our sight, nor of hearing at present what we really heard yesterday or perhaps a year ago. To this necessity I am reduced, by want of proper words to describe ideal presence and to distinguish it from real presence. And thus in the description, a plain subject becomes obscure and intricate. When I recall any thing in the distinctest manner, so as to form an idea or image of it as present; I have not words to describe this act, other than that I perceive the thing as a spectator, and as existing in my presence. This means not that I am really a spectator; but only that I conceive myself to be a spectator, and have a consciousness of presence similar to what a real spectator hath.

As many rules of criticism depend on ideal presence, the reader, it is expected, will take some pains to form an exact notion of it, as distinguished on the one hand from real presence, and on the other from a superficial or reflective remembrance. It is distinguished from the former by the following circumstance. Ideal presence arising from an act of memory, may properly be termed a waking dream; because, like a dream, it vanisheth upon the first reflection of our present situation. Real presence, on the contrary, vouched by eye-sight, commands our belief, not only during the direct perception, but in reflecting afterward upon the object. And to distinguish ideal presence from the latter, I give the following illustration. Two internal acts, both of them exertions of memory, are clearly distinguishable. When I think of an event as past, without forming any image, it is barely reflecting or remembering that I was an eye-witness. But when I recall the event so distinctly as to form a complete image of it, I perceive it ideally as passing in my presence; and this ideal perception is an act of intuition, into which reflection enters not more than into an act of sight.

Though ideal presence be distinguished from real presence on the one side and from reflective remembrance on the other, it is however variable without any precise limits; rising sometimes toward the former, and often sinking toward the latter. In a vigorous exertion of memory, ideal presence is extremely distinct. When a man, as in a reverie, drops himself out of his thoughts, he perceives every thing as passing before him, and hath a consciousness of presence similar to that of a spectator. There is no other difference, but that in the former the consciousness of presence is less firm and clear than in the latter. But this is seldom the case. Ideal presence is often faint, and the image so obscure as not to differ widely from reflective remembrance.

Hitherto of an idea of memory. I proceed to consider the idea of a thing I never saw, raised in me by speech, by writing, or by painting. This idea, with respect to the present matter, is of the same nature with an idea of memory, being either complete or incomplete. An important event, by a lively and accurate description, rouses my attention and insensibly transforms me into a spectator: I perceive ideally every incident as passing in my presence. On the other hand, a slight or superficial narrative produceth only a faint and incomplete idea, precisely similar to a reflective recollection of memory. Of such idea, ideal presence makes no part. Past time is a circumstance that enters into this idea, as it doth into a reflective idea of memory. I believe that Scipio existed about 2000 years ago, and that he overcame Hannibal in the famous battle of Zama. When I revolve in so cursory a manner that memorable event, I consider it as long past. But supposing me to be warmed with the story, perhaps by a beautiful description, I am insensibly transformed to a spectator. I perceive these two heroes in act to engage; I perceive them brandishing their swords, and exhorting their troops; and in this manner I attend them through every circumstance of the battle. This event being present to my mind during the whole progress of my thoughts, admits not any time but the present.

I have had occasion to observe[26], that ideas both of memory and of speech, produce emotions of the same kind with what are produced by an immediate view of the object; only fainter, in proportion as an idea is fainter than an original perception. The insight we have now got, unfolds the means by which this effect is produced. Ideal presence supplies the want of real presence; and in idea we perceive persons acting and suffering, precisely as in an original survey. If our sympathy be engaged by the latter, it must also in some measure be engaged by the former. The distinctness of ideal presence, as above mentioned, approacheth sometimes to the distinctness of real presence; and the consciousness of presence is the same in both. This is the cause of the pleasure that is felt in a reverie, where a man, losing sight of himself, is totally occupied with the objefts passing in his mind, which he conceives to be really existing in his presence. The power of speech to raise emotions, depends entirely on the artifice of raising such lively and distinct images as are here described. The reader’s passions are never sensibly moved, till he be thrown into a kind of reverie; in which state, losing the consciousness of self, and of reading, his present occupation, he conceives every incident as passing in his presence, precisely as if he were an eye-witness. A general or reflective remembrance hath not this effect. It may be agreeable in some slight degree; but the ideas suggested by it, are too faint and obscure to raise any thing like a sympathetic emotion. And were they ever so lively, they pass with too much precipitation to have this effect. Our emotions are never instantaneous: even those that come the soonest to perfection, have different periods of birth, growth, and maturity; and to give opportunity for these different periods, it is necessary that the cause of every emotion be present to the mind a due time. The emotion is completed by reiterated impressions. We know this to be the case of objects of sight: we are scarce sensible of any emotion in a quick succession even of the most beautiful objects. And if this hold in the succession of original perceptions, how much more in the succession of ideas?

Though all this while, I have been only describing what passeth in the mind of every one and what every one must be conscious of, it was necessary to enlarge upon it; because, however clear in the internal conception, it is far from being so when described in words. Ideal presence, though of general importance, hath scarce ever been touched by any writer; and at any rate it could not be overlooked in accounting for the effects produced by fiction. Upon this point, the reader I guess has prevented me. It already must have occurred to him, that if, in reading, ideal presence be the means by which our passions are moved, it makes no difference whether the subject be a fable or a reality. When ideal presence is complete, we perceive every object as in our sight; and the mind, totally occupied with an interesting event, finds no leisure for reflection of any sort. This reasoning, if any one hesitate, is confirmed by constant and universal experience. Let us take under consideration the meeting of Hector and Andromache in the sixth book of the Iliad, or some of the passionate scenes in King Lear. These pictures of human life, when we are sufficiently engaged, give an impression of reality not less distinct than that given by the death of Otho in the beautiful description of Tacitus. We never once reflect whether the story be true or feigned. Reflection comes afterward, when we have the scene no longer before our eyes. This reasoning will appear in a still clearer light, by opposing ideal presence to ideas raised by a cursory narrative; which ideas being faint, obscure, and imperfect, occupy the mind so little as to solicit reflection. And accordingly, a curt narrative of feigned incidents is never relished. Any slight pleasure it affords, is more than counterbalanced by the disgust it inspires for want of truth.

In support of the foregoing theory, I add what I reckon a decisive argument. Upon examination it will be found, that genuine history commands our passions by means of ideal presence solely; and therefore that with respect to this effect, genuine history stands upon the same footing with fable. To me it appears clear, that our sympathy must vanish so soon as we begin to reflect upon the incidents related in either. The reflection that a story is a pure fiction, will indeed prevent our sympathy; but so will equally the reflection that the persons described are no longer existing. It is present distress only that moves my pity. My concern vanishes with the distress; for I cannot pity any person who at present is happy. According to this theory, founded clearly on human nature, a man long dead and insensible now of past misfortunes, cannot move our pity more than if he had never existed. The misfortunes described in a genuine history command our belief: but then we believe also, that these misfortunes are at an end, and that the persons described are at present under no distress. What effect, for example, can the belief of the rape of Lucretia have to raise our sympathy, when she died above 2000 years ago, and hath at present no painful feeling of the injury done her? The effect of history in point of instruction, depends in some measure upon its veracity. But history cannot reach the heart, while we indulge any reflection upon the facts. Such reflection, if it engage our belief, never fails at the same time to poison our pleasure, by convincing us that our sympathy for those who are dead and gone is absurd. And if reflection be laid aside, history stands upon the same footing with fable. What effect either of them may have to raise our sympathy, depends on the vivacity of the ideas they raise; and with respect to that circumstance, fable is generally more successful than history.

Of all the means for making an impression of ideal presence, theatrical representation is the most powerful. That words independent of action have the same power in a less degree, every one of sensibility must have felt: A good tragedy will extort tears in private, though not so forcibly as upon the stage. This power belongs also to painting. A good historical picture makes a deeper impression than can be made by words, though not equal to what is made by theatrical action. And as ideal presence depends on a lively impression, painting seems to possess a middle place betwixt reading and acting. In making an impression of ideal presence, it is not less superior to the former than inferior to the latter.

It must not however be thought, that our passions can be raised by painting to such a height as can be done by words. Of all the successive incidents that concur to produce a great event, a picture has the choice but of one, because it is confined to a single instant of time. And though the impression it makes, is the deepest that can be made instantaneously; yet seldom can a passion be raised to any height in an instant, or by a single impression. It was observed above, that our passions, those especially of the sympathetic kind, require a succession of impressions; and for that reason, reading and still more acting have greatly the advantage, by the opportunity of reiterating impressions without end.

Upon the whole, it is by means of ideal presence that our passions are excited; and till words produce that charm they avail nothing. Even real events intitled to our belief, must be conceived present and passing in our sight before they can move us. And this theory serves to explain several phenomena otherwise unaccountable. A misfortune happening to a stranger, makes a less impression than happening to a man we know, even where we are no way interested in him: our acquaintance with this man, however slight, aids the conception of his suffering in our presence. For the same reason, we are little moved with any distant event; because we have more difficulty to conceive it present, than an event that happened in our neighbourhood.

Every one is sensible, that describing a past event as present, has a fine effect in language. For what other reason than that it aids the conception of ideal presence? Take the following example.

And now with shouts the shocking armies clos’d,
To lances lances, shields to shields oppos’d;
Host against host the shadowy legions drew,
The sounding darts an iron tempest flew;
Victors and vanquish’d join promiscuous cries,
Triumphing shouts and dying groans arise,
With streaming blood the slipp’ry field is dy’d,
And slaughter’d heroes swell the dreadful tide.

In this passage we may observe how the writer inflamed with the subject, insensibly slips from the past time to the present; led to this form of narration by conceiving every circumstance as passing in his own sight. And this at the same time has a fine effect upon the reader, by advancing him to be as it were a spectator. But this change from the past to the present requires some preparation; and is not graceful in the same sentence where there is no stop in the sense; witness the following passage.

Thy fate was next, O Phæstus! doom’d to feel
The great Idomeneus’ protended steel;
Whom Borus sent his son and only joy
From fruitful Tarne to the fields of Troy.
The Cretan jav’lin reach’d him from afar,
And pierc’d his shoulder as he mounts his car.
Iliad, v. 57.

It is still worse to fall back to the past in the same period; for this is an anticlimax in description:

Through breaking ranks his furious course he bends,
And at the goddess his broad lance extends;
Through her bright veil the daring weapon drove,
Th’ ambrosial veil, which all the graces wove:
Her snowy hand the razing steel profan’d,
And the transparent skin with crimson stain’d.
Iliad, v. 415.

Again, describing the shield of Jupiter,

Here all the terrors of grim War appear,
Here rages Force, here tremble Flight and Fear,
Here storm’d Contention, and here Fury frown’d,
And the dire orb portentous Gorgon crown’d.
Iliad, v. 914.

Nor is it pleasant to be carried backward and forward alternately in a rapid succession:

Then dy’d Seamandrius, expert in the chace,
In woods and wilds to wound the savage race;
Diana taught him all her sylvan arts,
To bend the bow and aim unerring darts:
But vainly here Diana’s arts he tries,
The fatal lance arrests him as he flies;
From Menelaus’ arm the weapon sent,
Through his broad back and heaving bosom went:
Down sinks the warrior with a thund’ring sound,
His brazen armor rings against the ground.
Iliad, v. 65.

It is wonderful to observe, upon what slender foundations nature, sometimes, erects her most solid and magnificent works. In appearance at least, what can be more slight than ideal presence of objects? And yet upon it entirely is superstructed, that extensive influence which language hath over the heart; an influence, which, more than any other means, strengthens the bond of society, and attracts individuals from their private system to exert themselves in acts of generosity and benevolence. Matters of fact, it is true, and truth in general, may be inculcated without taking advantage of ideal presence. But without it, the finest speaker or writer would in vain attempt to move any of our passion: our sympathy would be confined to objects that are really present: and language would lose entirely that signal power it possesseth, of making us sympathize with beings removed at the greatest distance of time as well as of place. Nor is the influence of language, by means of this ideal presence, confined to the heart. It reaches also in some measure the understanding, and contributes to belief. When events are related in a lively manner and every circumstance appears as passing before us, it is with difficulty that we suffer the truth of the facts to be questioned. A historian accordingly who hath a genius for narration, seldom fails to engage our belief. The same facts related in a manner cold and indistinct, are not suffered to pass without examination. A thing ill described, is like an object seen at a distance or through a mist: we doubt whether it be a reality or a fiction. For this reason, a poet who can warm and animate his reader, may employ bolder fictions than ought to be ventured by an inferior genius. The reader, once thoroughly engaged, is in that situation susceptible of the strongest impressions:

Veraque constituunt, quæ bellè tangere possunt
Aureis, et lepido quæ sunt fucata sonore.
Lucretius, lib. 1. l. 644.

A masterly painting has the same effect. Le Brun is no small support to Quintus Curtius; and among the vulgar in Italy, the belief of scripture-history is perhaps founded as much upon the authority of Raphael, Michael Angelo, and other celebrated painters, as upon that of the sacred writers[27].

In establishing the foregoing theory, the reader has had the fatigue of much dry reasoning. But his labour will not be fruitless. From this theory are derived many useful rules in criticism, which shall be mentioned in their proper places. One specimen, being a fine illustration, I chuse to give at present. In a historical poem representing human actions, it is a rule, that no improbable incident ought to be admitted. A circumstance, an incident, or an event, may be singular, may surprise by being unexpected, and yet be extremely natural. The improbability I talk of, is that of an irregular fact, contrary to the order and course of nature, and therefore unaccountable. A chain of imagined facts linked together according to the order of nature, find easy entrance into the mind; and if described with warmth of fancy, they produce complete images, including ideal presence. But it is with great difficulty that we admit any irregular fact; for an irregular fact always puzzles the judgement. Doubtful of its reality we immediately enter upon reflection, and discovering the cheat, lose all relish and concern. This is an unhappy effect; for thereafter it requires more than an ordinary effort, to restore the waking dream, and to make the reader conceive even the more probable incidents as passing in his presence.

I never was an admirer of machinery in an epic poem; and I now find my taste justified by reason; the foregoing argument concluding still more strongly against imaginary beings, than against improbable facts. Fictions of this nature may amuse by their novelty and singularity: but they never move the sympathetic passions, because they cannot impose on the mind any perception of reality. I appeal to the discerning reader, whether this be not precisely the case of the machinery introduced by Tasso and by Voltaire. This machinery is not only in itself cold and uninteresting, but is remarkably hurtful, by giving an air of fiction to the whole composition. A burlesque poem, such as the Lutrin or the Dispensary, may employ machinery with success; for these poems, though they assume the air of history, give entertainment chiefly by their pleasant and ludicrous pictures, to which machinery contributes in a singular manner. It is not the aim of such a poem, to raise our sympathy in any considerable degree; and for that reason, a strict imitation of nature is not required. A poem professedly ludicrous, may employ machinery to great advantage; and the more extravagant the better. A just representation of nature, would indeed be incongruous in a composition intended to give entertainment by the means chiefly of singularity and surprise.

For accomplishing the task undertaken in the beginning of the present section, what only remains is, to show the final cause of the power that fiction hath over the mind of man. I have already mentioned, that language, by means of fiction, has the command of our sympathy for the good of others. By the same means, our sympathy may be also raised for our own good. In the third section it is observed, that examples both of virtue and of vice raise virtuous emotions; which becoming stronger by exercise, tend to make us virtuous by habit as well as by principle. I now further observe, that examples drawn from real events, are not so frequent as to contribute much to a habit of virtue. If they be, they are not recorded by historians. It therefore shows great wisdom, to form us in such a manner, as to be susceptible of the same improvement from fable that we receive from genuine history. By this admirable contrivance, examples to improve us in virtue may be multiplied without end. No other sort of discipline contributes more to make virtue habitual; and no other sort is so agreeable in the application. I add another final cause with thorough satisfaction; because it shows, that the author of our nature is not less kindly provident for the happiness of his creatures, than for the regularity of their conduct. The power that fiction hath over the mind of man, is the source of an endless variety of refined amusement, always ready to employ a vacant hour. Such amusement is a fine resource in solitude; and by sweetening the temper, improves society.

PART II.

Emotions and passions as pleasant and painful, agreeable and disagreeable. Modifications of these qualities.

IT will naturally occur at first view, that a discourse upon the passions should commence with explaining the qualities now mentioned. But upon trial, I found this could not be done distinctly, till the difference were ascertained betwixt an emotion and a passion, and till their causes were evolved.

Great obscurity may be observed among writers with regard to the present point. No care, for example, is taken to distinguish agreeable from pleasant, disagreeable from painful; or rather these terms are deemed synonymous. This is an error not at all venial in the science of ethics; as instances can and shall be given, of painful passions that are agreeable, and of pleasant passions that are disagreeable. These terms, it is true, are used indifferently in familiar conversations, and in composition for amusement, where accuracy is not required. But for those to use them so who profess to explain the passions, is a capital error. In writing upon the critical art, I would avoid every refinement that may seem more curious than useful. But the proper meaning of the terms under consideration must be ascertained, in order to understand the passions, and some of their effects that are intimately connected with criticism.

I shall endeavour to explain these terms by familiar examples. Viewing a fine garden, I perceive it to be beautiful or agreeable; and I consider the beauty or agreeableness as belonging to the object, or as one of its qualities. Again, when I turn my thoughts from the garden to what passes in my mind, I am conscious of a pleasant emotion of which the garden is the cause. The pleasure here is felt, not as a quality of the garden, but of the emotion produced by it. I give an opposite example. A rotten carcass is loathsome and disagreeable, and raises in the spectator a painful emotion. The disagreeableness is a quality of the object: the pain is a quality of the emotion produced by it. Agreeable and disagreeable, then, are qualities of the object we perceive: pleasant and painful are qualities of the emotions we feel. The former qualities are perceived as adhering to objects; the latter are felt as existing within us.

But a passion or emotion, beside being felt, is frequently made an object of thought or reflection: we examine it; we inquire into its nature, its cause, and its effects. In this view it partakes the nature of other objects: it is either agreeable or disagreeable. Hence clearly appear the different significations of the terms under consideration, as applied to passion. When a passion is termed pleasant or painful, we refer to the actual feeling: when termed agreeable or disagreeable, it is considered as an object of thought or reflection. A passion is pleasant or painful to the person in whom it exists: it is agreeable or disagreeable to the person who makes it a subject of contemplation.

When the terms thus defined are applied to particular emotions and passions, they do not always coincide. And in order to make this evident, we must endeavour to ascertain, first, what passions and emotions are pleasant what painful, and next, what are agreeable what disagreeable. With respect to both, there are general rules, which, so far as I gather from induction, admit not any exceptions. The nature of an emotion or passion as pleasant or painful, depends entirely on its cause. An agreeable object produceth always a pleasant emotion; and a disagreeable object produceth always a painful emotion[28]. Thus a lofty oak, a generous action, a valuable discovery in art or science, are agreeable objects that unerringly produce pleasant emotions. A stinking puddle, a treacherous action, an irregular ill-contrived edifice, being disagreeable objects, produce painful emotions. Selfish passions are pleasant; for they arise from self, an agreeable object or cause. A social passion directed upon an agreeable object is always pleasant: directed upon an object in distress, is painful[29]. Lastly, all dissocial passions, such as envy, resentment, malice, being caused by disagreeable objects, cannot fail to be painful.

It requires a greater compass to evolve the general rule that concerns the agreeableness or disagreeableness of emotions and passions. An action conformable to the common nature of our species, is perceived by us to be regular and good[30]; and consequently every such action appears agreeable to us. The same observation is applicable to passions and emotions. Every feeling that is conformable to the common nature of our species, is perceived by us to be regular and as it ought to be; and upon that account it must appear agreeable. By this general rule we can ascertain what emotions are agreeable what disagreeable. Every emotion that is conformable to the common nature of man, ought to appear agreeable. And that this holds true with respect to pleasant emotions, will readily be admitted. But why should painful emotions be an exception, when they are not less natural than the other? The proportion holds true in both. Thus the painful emotion raised by a monstrous birth or brutal action, is not less agreeable upon reflection, than the pleasant emotion raised by a flowing river or a lofty dome. With respect to passions as opposed to emotions, it will be obvious from the foregoing proposition, that their agreeableness or disagreeableness, like the actions of which they are productive, must be regulated entirely by the moral sense. Every action vicious or improper is disagreeable to a spectator, and so is the passion that prompts it. Every action virtuous or proper is agreeable to a spectator, and so is the passion that prompts it.

This deduction may be carried a great way farther; but to avoid intricacy and obscurity, I make but one other step. A passion, which, as aforesaid, becomes an object of thought to a spectator, may have the effect to produce a passion or emotion in him; for it is natural that a social being should be affected with the passions of others. Passions or emotions thus generated, submit, in common with others, to the general law above mentioned, viz. that an agreeable object produces a pleasant emotion, and a disagreeable object a painful emotion. Thus the passion of gratitude, being to a spectator an agreeable object, produceth in him the pleasant passion of love to the grateful person. Thus malice, being to a spectator a disagreeable object, produceth in him the painful passion of hatred to the malicious person.

We are now prepared for examples of pleasant passions that are disagreeable, and of painful passions that are agreeable. Self-love, so long as confined within just bounds, is a passion both pleasant and agreeable. In excess it is disagreeable, though it continues to be still pleasant. Our appetites are precisely in the same condition. Again, vanity, though pleasant, is disagreeable. Resentment, on the other hand, is, in every stage of the passion, painful; but is not disagreeable unless in excess. Pity is always painful, yet always agreeable. But however distinct these qualities are, they coincide, I acknowledge, in one class of passions. All vicious passions tending to the hurt of others, are equally painful and disagreeable.

The foregoing distinctions among passions and emotions, may serve the common affairs of life, but they are not sufficient for the critical art. The qualities of pleasant and painful are too familiar to carry us far into human nature, or to form an accurate judgement in the fine arts. It is further necessary, that we be made acquainted with the several modifications of these qualities, with the modifications at least that make the greatest figure. Even at first view every one is sensible, that the pleasure or pain of one passion differs from that of another. How distant the pleasure of revenge from that of love? So distant, as that we cannot without reluctance admit them to be any way related. That the same quality of pleasure should be so differently modified in different passions, will not be surprising, when we reflect on the boundless variety of pleasant sounds, tastes, and smells, daily felt. Our discernment reaches differences still more nice, in objects even of the same sense. We have no difficulty to distinguish different sweets, different sours, and different bitters. Honey is sweet, and so is sugar; and yet they never pass the one for the other. Our sense of smelling is sufficiently acute, to distinguish varieties in sweet-smelling flowers without end. With respect to passions and emotions, their different feelings have no limits; for when we attempt the more delicate modifications, they elude our search, and are scarce discernible. In this matter, however, there is an analogy betwixt our internal and external senses. The latter generally are sufficiently acute for all the useful purposes of life, and so are the former. Some persons indeed, Nature’s favourites, have a wonderful acuteness of sense, which to them unfolds many a delightful scene totally hid from vulgar eyes. But if such refined pleasure be refused to the bulk of mankind, it is however wisely ordered that they are not sensible of the defect; and it detracts not from their happiness that others secretly are more happy. With relation to the fine arts only, this qualification seems essential; and there it is termed delicacy of taste.

Should an author of such a taste attempt to describe all those differences and shades of pleasant and painful emotions which he himself feels, he would soon meet an invincible obstacle in the poverty of language. No known tongue hitherto has reached such perfection, as to express clearly the more delicate feelings. A people must be thoroughly refined, before their language become so comprehensive. We must therefore rest satisfied with an explanation of the more obvious modifications.

In forming a comparison betwixt pleasant passions of different kinds, we conceive some of them to be gross some refined. Those pleasures of external sense that are felt as at the organ of sense, are conceived to be corporeal or gross[31]. The pleasures of the eye and ear are felt to be internal; and for that reason are conceived to be more pure and refined.

The social affections are conceived by all to be more refined than the selfish. Sympathy and humanity are reckoned the finest temper of mind; and for that reason, the prevalence of the social affections in the progress of society, is held to be a refinement in our nature. A savage is unqualified for any pleasure but what is thoroughly or nearly selfish: therefore a savage is incapable of comparing selfish and social pleasure. But a man after acquiring a high relish of the latter, loses not thereby a taste for the former. This man can judge, and he will give preference to social pleasures as more sweet and refined. In fact they maintain that character, not only in the direct feeling, but also when we make them the subject of reflection. The social passions are by far more agreeable than the selfish, and rise much higher in our esteem.

Refined manners and polite behaviour, must not be deemed altogether artificial. Men accustomed to the sweets of society, who cultivate humanity, find an elegant pleasure in preferring others and making them happy, of which the proud or selfish scarce have a conception.

Ridicule, which chiefly arises from pride, a selfish passion, is at best but a gross pleasure. A people, it is true, must have emerged out of barbarity before they can have a taste for ridicule. But it is too rough an entertainment for those who are highly polished and refined. Ridicule is banished France, and is losing ground daily in England.

Other modifications of pleasant passions will be occasionally mentioned hereafter. Particularly the modifications of high and low are handled in the chapter of grandeur and sublimity; and the modifications of dignified and mean, in the chapter of dignity and meanness.

PART III.

Interrupted existence of emotions and passions.—— Their growth and decay.

WEre emotions of the same nature with colour and figure, to continue in their present state till varied by some operating cause, the condition of man would be deplorable. It is ordered wisely, that emotions should more resemble another attribute of matter, viz. motion, which requires the constant exertion of an operating cause, and ceases when the cause is withdrawn. An emotion may subsist while its cause is present; and when its cause is removed, may subsist by means of an idea, though in a fainter degree. But the moment another thought breaks in and occupies the mind, so as to exclude not only this cause, but also its idea, the emotion is gone: it is no longer felt. If it return with its cause or idea, it again vanisheth with them when other thoughts crowd in. This observation is applicable to emotions and passions of every kind. And these accordingly are connected with perceptions and ideas, so intimately as not to have any independent existence. A strong passion, it is true, hath a mighty influence to detain its object in the mind; but not so as to detain it for ever. A succession of perceptions or ideas is unavoidable[32]: the object of the passion may be often recalled; but however interesting, it must by intervals yield to other objects. For this reason, a passion rarely continues long with an equal degree of vigour. It is felt strong and moderate, in a pretty quick succession. The same object makes not always the same impression; because the mind, being of a limited capacity, cannot, at the same instant, give great attention to a plurality of objects. The strength of a passion depends on the impression made by its cause; and a cause makes its strongest impression, when happening to be the single interesting object, it attracts our whole attention[33]. Its impression is slighter when our attention is divided betwixt it and other objects; and at that time the passion is slighter in proportion.

When emotions and passions are felt thus by intervals and have not a continued existence, it may be thought a nice problem, to ascertain their identity, and to determine when they are the same when different. In a strict philosophic view, every single impression made even by the same object, is distinguishable from what have gone before, and from what succeed. Neither is an emotion raised by an idea the same with what is raised by a sight of the object. But such accuracy is not found in common apprehension, nor is necessary in common language. The emotions raised by a fine landscape in its successive appearances, are not distinguished from each other, nor even from those raised by successive ideas of the object: all of them are held to be the same. A passion also is always reckoned the same, so long as it is fixed upon the same object. Thus love and hatred may continue the same for life. Nay, so loose are we in this way of thinking, that many passions are reckoned the same even after a change of object. This is the case of all passions that proceed from some peculiar propensity. Envy, for example, is considered to be the same passion, not only while it is directed upon the same person, but even where it comprehends many persons at once. Pride and malice are in the same condition. So much was necessary to be said upon the identity of a passion and emotion, in order to prepare for examining their growth and decay.

The growth and decay of passions and emotions, is a subject too extensive to be exhausted in an undertaking like the present. I pretend only to give a cursory view of it, so far as necessary for the purposes of criticism. Some emotions are produced in their utmost perfection, and have a very short endurance. This is the case of surprise, of wonder, and sometimes of terror. Emotions raised by insensible objects, such as trees, rivers, buildings, pictures, arrive at perfection almost instantaneously, and have a long endurance: a second view produceth nearly the same pleasure with the first. Love, hatred, and some other passions, increase gradually to a certain pitch, and thereafter decay gradually. Envy, malice, pride, scarce ever decay. Again, some passions, such as gratitude and revenge, are often exhausted by a single act of gratification. Other passions, such as pride, malice, envy, love, hatred, are not so exhausted; but having a long continuance, demand frequent gratification.

In order to explain these differences, it would be an endless work to examine every emotion and passion in particular. We must be satisfied at present with some general views. And with respect to emotions, which are quiescent and not productive of desire, their growth and decay are easily explained. An emotion caused by an external object, cannot naturally take longer time to arrive at perfection, than is necessary for a leisurely survey. Such emotion also must continue long stationary, without any sensible decay; a second or third view of the object being nearly as agreeable as the first. This is the case of an emotion produced by a fine prospect, an impetuous river, or a towering hill. While a man remains the same, such objects ought to have the same effect upon him. Familiarity, however, hath an influence here, as it hath every where. Frequency of view, after short intervals especially, weans the mind gradually from the object, which at last loses all relish. The noblest object in the material world, a clear and serene sky, is quite disregarded, unless perhaps after a course of bad weather. An emotion raised by human virtues, qualities, or actions, may grow imperceptibly by reiterated views of the object, till it become so vigorous as to generate desire. In this condition it must be handled as a passion.

As to passion, I observe first, that when nature requires a passion to be sudden, it is commonly produced in perfection. This is frequently the case of fear and of anger. Wonder and surprise are always produced in perfection. Reiterated impressions made by their cause, exhaust these passions in place of inflaming them. This will be explained afterward[34].

In the next place, when a passion hath for its foundation an original propensity peculiar to some men, it generally comes soon to perfection. The propensity, upon representing a proper object, is immediately enlivened into a passion. This is the case of pride, of envy, and of malice.

In the third place, love and hatred have often a slow growth. The good qualities or kind offices of a person, raise in me pleasant emotions; which, by reiterated views, are swelled into a passion involving desire of that person’s happiness. This desire being often put in exercise, works gradually a change internally; and at last produceth in me a settled habit of affection for that person, now my friend. Affection thus produced, operates precisely like an original propensity. To enliven it into a passion, no more is required but the real or ideal presence of the object. The habit of aversion or hatred is brought on in the same manner. And here I must observe by the way, that love and hatred signify commonly affection, not passion. The bulk indeed of our passions, are these affections inflamed into a passion by different circumstances. The affection of love I bear to my son, is inflamed into the passion of fear, when he is in danger; becomes hope, when he hath a prospect of good fortune; becomes admiration, when he performs a laudable action; and shame, when he commits any wrong. Aversion, again, becomes fear when there is a prospect of good fortune to my enemy; becomes hope when he is in danger; becomes joy when he is in distress; and sorrow when a laudable action is performed by him.

Fourthly, the growth of some passions depends often on occasional circumstances. Obstacles to gratification never fail to augment and inflame a passion. A constant endeavour to remove the obstacle, preserves the object of the passion ever in view, which swells the passion by impressions frequently reiterated. Thus the restraint of conscience, when an obstacle to love, agitates the mind and inflames the passion:

Quod licet, ingratum est: quod non licet, acrius urit.
Si nunquam Danaën habuisset ahenea turris,
Non esset Danaë de Jove facta parens.
Ovid. Amor. l. 2.

At the same time, the mind distressed with the obstacle, is disposed to indulge its distress by magnifying the pleasure of gratification; which naturally inflames desire. Shakespear expresses this observation finely:

All impediments in fancy’s course,
Are motives of more fancy.

We need no better example than a lover who hath many rivals. Even the caprices of a mistress have the effect to inflame love. These occasioning uncertainty of success, tend naturally to make the anxious lover overvalue the happiness of fruition.

So much upon the growth of passions. Their continuance and decay come next under consideration. And first, it is a general law of nature, that things sudden in their growth, are equally sudden in their decay. This is commonly the case of anger; and with respect to wonder and surprise, another reason concurs, that their causes are of short duration. Novelty soon degenerates into familiarity; and the unexpectedness of an object, is soon sunk in the pleasure which the object affords us. Fear, which is a passion of greater importance as tending to self-preservation, is often instantaneous, and yet is of equal duration with its cause. Nay it frequently subsists after the cause is removed.

In the next place, a passion founded on a peculiar propensity, subsists generally for ever. This is the case of pride, envy, and malice. Objects are never wanting, to inflame the propensity into a passion.

Thirdly, it may be laid down as a general law of nature, that every passion ceases upon attaining its ultimate end. To explain this law, we must distinguish betwixt a particular and a general end. I call a particular end what may be accomplished by a single act. A general end, on the contrary, admits acts without number; because it cannot be said that a general end is ever fully accomplished while the object of the passion subsists. Gratitude and revenge are examples of the first kind. The ends they aim at may be accomplished by a single act; and when this act is performed, the passions are necessarily at an end. Love and hatred are examples of the other kind. The desire of doing good or of doing mischief to an individual, is a general end, which admits acts without number, and which seldom is fully accomplished. Therefore these passions have frequently the same duration with their objects.

Lastly, it will afford us another general view, to consider the difference betwixt an original propensity and an affection produced by custom. The former adheres too close to the constitution ever to be eradicated; and for that reason the passions to which it gives birth, endure during life with no remarkable diminution of strength. The latter, which owes its birth and increment to time, owes its decay to the same cause. Affection decays gradually as it grew. Hence long absence extinguisheth hatred as well as love. Affection wears out more gradually betwixt persons, who, living together, are objects to each other of mutual good-will and kindness. But here habit comes in luckily, to supply decayed affection. It makes these persons necessary to the happiness of each other, by the pain of separation[35]. Affection to children hath a long endurance, longer perhaps than any other affection. Its growth keeps pace with that of its objects. They display new beauties and qualifications daily, to feed and augment the affection. But whenever the affection becomes stationary, it must begin to decay; with a slow pace indeed, in proportion to its increment. In short, man with respect to this life, is a temporary being. He grows, becomes stationary, decays; and so must all his powers and passions.

PART IV.

Coexistent emotions and passions.

TO have a thorough knowledge of the human passions and emotions, it is not sufficient that they be examined singly and separately. As a plurality of them are sometimes felt at the same instant, the manner of their coexistence, and the effects thereby produced, ought also to be examined. This subject is extensive, and it will be difficult to evolve all the laws that govern its endless variety of cases. Such an undertaking may be brought to perfection, but it must be by degrees. The following hints may suffice for a first attempt.

We begin with emotions raised by different sounds, as the simplest case. Two sounds that mix, and are, as it were, incorporated before they reach the ear, are said to be concordant. That each sound produceth an emotion of its own, must be admitted. But then these emotions, like the sounds that produce them, mix so intimately, as to be rather one complex emotion than two emotions in conjunction. Two sounds, again, that refuse incorporation or mixture, are said to be discordant. Being however heard at the same instant, the emotions produced by them are conjoined; and in that condition are unpleasant, even where separately they are each of them pleasant.

Similar to the emotion raised by mixed sounds, is the emotion that an object of sight raises by means of its several qualities. A tree, for example, with its qualities of colour, figure, size, &c. is perceived to be one object; and the emotion it raises is one, not different emotions combined. But though the emotion be one, it is however not simple. The perception of the tree is complex, and the emotion raised by it must also be complex.

With respect to coexistent emotions produced by different causes or objects, it must be observed, that there cannot be a concordance among objects of sight like what is perceived in sounds. Objects of sight are never mixed or incorporated in the act of vision. Each object is perceived as it exists, separately from others; and each raiseth its own emotion, which is felt distinctly however intimately connected the objects may be. This doctrine holds in all the causes of emotion or passion, sounds only excepted.

To explain the manner in which such emotions coexist, similar emotions must be distinguished from those that are dissimilar. Two emotions are said to be similar, when they tend each of them to produce the same tone of mind. Chearful emotions, however different their causes may be, are similar; and so are those which are melancholy. Dissimilar emotions are easily explained by their opposition to what are similar. Grandeur and littleness, gaiety and gloominess, are dissimilar emotions.

Emotions perfectly similar, readily combine and unite[36], so as in a manner to become one complex emotion; witness the emotions produced by a number of flowers in a parterre, or of trees in a wood. Emotions again that are opposite or extremely dissimilar, never combine nor unite. The mind cannot simultaneously take on opposite tones: it cannot at the same instant be both joyful and sad, angry and satisfied, proud and humble. Dissimilar emotions may succeed each other with rapidity, but they cannot exist simultaneously.

Betwixt these two extremes, emotions will unite more or less, in proportion to the degree of their resemblance and the greater or less connection of their causes. The beauty of a landscape and the singing of birds, produce emotions that are similar in a considerable degree; and these emotions therefore, though proceeding from very different causes, readily combine and unite. On the other hand, when the causes are intimately connected, the emotions, though but slightly resembling each other, are forced into a sort of union. I give for an example a mistress in distress. When I consider her beauty, I feel a pleasant emotion; and a painful emotion when I consider her distress. These two emotions, proceeding from different views of the object, have very little resemblance to each other: and yet their causes are so intimately connected, as to force them into a sort of complex emotion, partly pleasant partly painful. This clearly explains some expressions common in poetry, a sweet distress, a pleasant pain.

We proceed to the effects produced by means of the different manners of coexistence above described; first, the effects produced within the mind, and next, those that appear externally. I discover two mental effects clearly distinguishable from each other. The one may be represented by addition and subtraction in numbers, and the other by harmony in sounds. Two pleasant emotions that are similar, readily unite when they are coexistent; and the pleasure felt in the union, is the sum of the two pleasures. The combined emotions are like multiplied effects from the co-operation of different powers. The same emotions in succession, are far from making the same figure; because the mind at no instant of the succession is conscious of more than a single emotion. This doctrine may aptly be illustrated by a landscape comprehending hills, vallies, plains, rivers, trees, &c. The emotions produced by these several objects, being similar in a high degree as falling in easily and sweetly with the same tone of mind, are in conjunction extremely pleasant. And this multiplied effect is felt from objects even of different senses; as where a landscape is conjoined with the music of birds and odor of flowers. Such multiplied effect, as above hinted, depends partly on the resemblance of the emotions and partly on the connection of their causes; whence it follows, that the effect must be the greatest, where the causes are intimately connected and the emotions perfectly similar.

The other pleasure arising from coexistent emotions, which may be termed the pleasure of concord or harmony, is ascertained by a different rule. It is directly in proportion to the degree of resemblance betwixt the emotions, and inversely in proportion to the degree of connection betwixt the causes. To feel this pleasure in perfection, the resemblance cannot be too strong, nor the connection too slight. Where the causes are intimately connected, the similar emotions they produce are felt like one complex emotion. But the pleasure of harmony, is not felt from one emotion single or complex. It is felt from various similar emotions, distinct from each other, and yet sweetly combining in the mind; and the less connection the causes have, the more entire is the emotion of harmony. This matter cannot be better illustrated, than by the foregoing example of a landscape, where the sight, hearing, and smelling, are employed. The accumulated pleasure of so many different similar emotions, is not what delights us the most in this combination of objects. The sense of harmony from these emotions sweetly uniting in the mind, is still more delightful. We feel this harmony in the different emotions proceeding from the visible objects; but we feel it still more sensibly in the emotions proceeding from the objects of different senses. This emotion of concord or harmony, will be more fully illustrated, when the emotions produced by the sound of words and their meaning are taken under consideration[37].

This emotion of concord from conjoined emotions, is felt even where the emotions are not perfectly similar. Love is a pleasant passion; but then its sweetness and tenderness make it resemble in a considerable degree the painful passion of pity or grief; and for that reason, love accords better with these passions than with what are gay and sprightly. I give the following example from Catullus, where the concord betwixt love and grief, has a fine effect even in so slight a subject as the death of a sparrow.

Lugete, ô Veneres, Cupidinesque,
Et quantum est hominum venustiorum!
Passer mortuus est meæ puellæ,
Quem plus illa oculis suis amabat.
Nam mellitus erat, suamque norat
Ipsam tam bene, quam puella matrem:
Nec sese a gremio illius movebat;
Sed circumsiliens modo huc, modo illuc,
Ad solam dominam usque pipilabat.
Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum,
Illuc, unde negant redire quemquam.
At vobis male sit, malæ tenebræ
Orci, quæ omnia bella devoratis;
Tarn bellum mihi passerem abstulistis.
O factum male, ô miselle passer,
Tua nunc opera, meæ puellæ
Flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.

To complete this branch of the subject, I proceed to consider the effects of dissimilar emotions. These effects obviously must be opposite to what are above described; and in order to explain them with accuracy, dissimilar emotions proceeding from connected causes, must be distinguished from what proceed from causes that are unconnected. Dissimilar emotions of the former kind, being forced into a sort of unnatural union, produce a feeling of discord instead of harmony. It holds also that in computing their force, subtraction must be used in place of addition, which will be evident from what follows. Dissimilar emotions forced into union, are felt obscurely and imperfectly; for each tends to vary the tone of mind that is suited to the other; and the mind thus distracted betwixt two objects, is at no instant in a condition to receive a full impression from either. Dissimilar emotions proceeding from unconnected causes, are in a very different condition. Dissimilar emotions in general are averse to union; and as there is nothing to force them into union when their causes are unconnected emotions of this kind are never felt but in succession. By that means, they are not felt to be discordant, and each hath an opportunity to make a full impression.

This curious theory must be illustrated by examples. In reading the description of the dismal waste, book 1. of Paradise Lost, we are sensible of a confused feeling, arising from dissimilar emotions forced into union, viz. the beauty of the description and the horror of the object described.

Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild,
The seat of desolation, void of light,
Save what the glimmering of these livid flames
Casts pale and dreadful?

Many other passages in this justly celebrated poem produce the same effect; and we always observe, that if the disagreeableness of the subject be obscured by the beautiful description, this beauty is not less obscured by its discordant union with the disagreeableness of the subject. For the same reason, ascending smoke in a calm morning is improper in a picture full of violent action. The emotion of stillness and tranquillity inspired by the former, accords not with the lively and animated emotion inspired by the latter. A parterre, partly ornamented partly in disorder, produces a mixt feeling of the same sort. Two great armies in act to engage, mix the dissimilar emotions of grandeur and of terror.

Sembra d’alberi densi alta foresta
L’ un campo, e l’ altro; di tant’ aste abbonda.
Son tesi gli archi, e son le lance in resta:
Vibransi i dardi, e rotasi ogni fionda.
Ogni cavallo in guerra anco s’ appresta:
Gli odii, e’l furor del suo signor seconda:
Raspa, batte, nitrisce, e si raggira,
Gonfia le nari; e fumo, e fuoco spira.

Bello in sì bella vista anco è l’orrore:
E di mezzo la tema esce il diletto.
Ne men le trombe orribili, e canore
Sono a gli orecchi lieto, e fero oggetto.
Pur il campo fedel, benchè minore,
Par di suon più mirabile, e d’aspetto.
E canta in più guerriero, e chiaro carme
Ogni sua tromba, e maggior luce han l’arme.
Gerusalemme liberata, cant. 20. st. 29. & 30.

A virtuous man has drawn on himself a great misfortune, by a fault incident to human nature, and therefore venial. The remorse he feels aggravates his distress, and consequently raises our pity to a high pitch. We indeed blame the man; and the indignation raised by the fault he has committed, is dissimilar to pity. These two passions however proceeding from different views of the same object, are forced into a sort of union. But the indignation is so slight as scarce to be felt in the mixture with pity. Subjects of this kind, are of all the fittest for tragedy. But of this afterward[38].

Opposite emotions are so dissimilar as not to admit any sort of union, even where they proceed from causes the most intimately connected. Love to a mistress, and resentment for her infidelity, are of this nature. They cannot exist otherwise than in succession, which by the connection of their causes is commonly rapid. And these emotions will govern alternately, till one of them obtain the ascendent, or both be obliterated. A succession opens to me by the death of a worthy man, who was my friend as well as my kinsman. When I think of my friend I am grieved; but the succession gives me joy. These two causes are intimately connected, for the succession is the direct consequence of my friend’s death. The emotions however being opposite, do not mix: they prevail alternately, perhaps for a course of time, till grief for my friend’s death be banished by the pleasures of opulence. A virtuous man suffering unjustly, is an example of the same kind. I pity him, and I have great indignation at the author of the wrong. These emotions proceed from causes nearly connected; but being directed upon different objects, they are not forced into union. The opposition preserves them distinct; and accordingly they are found to govern alternately, the one sometimes prevailing and sometimes the other.

Next of dissimilar emotions arising from unconnected causes. Good and bad news of equal importance arriving at the same instant from different quarters, produce opposite emotions, the discordance of which is not felt because they are not forced into union. They govern alternately, commonly in a quick succession, till their force be spent. In the same manner, good news arriving to a man labouring under distress, occasions a vibration in his mind from the one to the other.

Osmyn. By heav’n thou’st rous’d me from my lethargy.
The spirit which was deaf to my own wrongs,
And the loud cries of my dead father’s blood,
Deaf to revenge—nay, which refus’d to hear
The piercing sighs and murmurs of my love
Yet unenjoy’d; what not Almeria could
Revive, or raise, my people’s voice has waken’d.
O my Antonio, I am all on fire,
My soul is up in arms, ready to charge
And bear amidst the foe with conqu’ring troops.
I hear ’em call to lead ’em on to liberty,
To victory; their shouts and clamours rend
My ears, and reach the heav’ns: where is the king?
Where is Alphonso? ha! where! where indeed?
O I could tear and burst the strings of life,
To break these chains. Off, off, ye stains of royalty!
Off, slavery! O curse, that I alone
Can beat and flutter in my cage, when I
Would soar and stoop at victory beneath!
Mourning Bride, act 3. sc. 2.

If the emotions be unequal in force, the stronger after a conflict will extinguish the weaker. Thus the loss of a house by fire or of a sum of money by bankruptcy, will make no figure in opposition to the birth of a long-expected son, who is to inherit an opulent fortune. After some slight vibrations, the mind settles in joy, and the loss is forgot.

The foregoing observations, will be found of great use in the fine arts. Many practical rules are derived from them, which I shall have occasion afterward to mention. For instant satisfaction in part, I propose to show the use of these observations in music, a theme I insist upon at present, not being certain of another opportunity more favourable. It will be admitted, that no combination of sounds but what is agreeable to the ear, is intitled to the name of music. Melody and harmony are separately agreeable and in union delightful. The agreeableness of vocal music differs from that of instrumental. The former being intended to accompany words, ought to be expressive of the sentiment that is conveyed by the words. But the latter having no connection with words, may be agreeable without expressing any sentiment. Harmony properly so called, though delightful when in perfection, is not expressive of sentiment; and we often find good melody without the least tincture of it.

These preliminaries being established, I proceed directly to the point. In vocal music, the intimate connection of sense and sound rejects dissimilar emotions, those especially that are opposite. Similar emotions produced by the sense and sound go naturally into union; and at the same time are felt to be concordant or harmonious. Dissimilar emotions, on the other hand, forced into union by causes intimately connected, not only obscure each other, but are also unpleasant by discordance. From these principles it is easy to say what sort of poetical compositions are fitted for music. It is evident that no poem expressing the sentiments of any disagreeable passion is proper. The pain a man feels who is actuated with malice or unjust revenge, disqualifies him for relishing music or any thing that is entertaining. And supposing him disposed, against nature, to vent his sentiments in music, the mixture would be unpleasant; for these passions raise disgust and aversion in the audience[39], a tone of mind opposite to every emotion that music can inspire. A man seized with remorse cannot bear music, because every sort of it must be discordant with his tone of mind; and when these by an unskilful artist are forced into union, the mixture is unpleasant to the audience.

In general, music never can have a good effect in conjunction with any composition expressive of malice, envy, peevishness, or any other dissocial passion. The pleasure of music, on the other hand, is similar to all pleasant emotions; and music is finely qualified for every song where such emotions are expressed. Music particularly in a chearful tone, is concordant in the highest degree with every emotion in the same tone; and hence our taste for chearful airs expressive of mirth and jollity. Music is peculiarly well qualified for accompanying every sympathetic emotion. Sympathetic joy associates finely with chearful music, and sympathetic pain not less finely with music that is tender and melancholy. All the different emotions of love, viz. tenderness, concern, anxiety, pain of absence, hope, fear, &c. accord delightfully with music. A person in love, even when unkindly treated, is soothed by music. The tenderness of love still prevailing, accords with a melancholy strain. This is finely exemplified by Shakespear in the fourth act of Othello, where Desdemona calls for a song expressive of her distress. Wonderful is the delicacy of that writer’s taste, which fails him not even in the most refined emotions of human nature. Melancholy music again is suitable to slight grief, which requires or admits consolation. But deep grief, which refuses all consolation, rejects for that reason even melancholy music. For a different reason, music is improper for accompanying pleasant emotions of the more important kind. These totally ingross the mind, and leave no place for music or any sort of amusement. In a perilous enterprise to dethrone a tyrant, music would be impertinent, even where hope prevails, and the prospect of success is great. Alexander attacking the Indian town and mounting the wall, had certainly no impulse to exert his prowess in a song. It is true, that not the least regard is paid to these rules either in the French or Italian opera; and the attachment we have to these compositions, may at first sight be considered as a proof that the foregoing doctrine cannot be founded on human nature. But the general taste for operas is at bottom no authority against me. In our operas the passions are so imperfectly expressed, as to leave the mind free for relishing music of any sort indifferently. It cannot be disguised, that the pleasure of an opera is derived chiefly from the music, and scarce at all from the sentiments. A happy coincidence of emotions raised by the song and by the music, is extremely rare; and I venture to affirm, that there is no example of it unless where the emotion raised by the former is pleasant as well as that raised by the latter.

The subject we have run through, appears not a little entertaining. It is extremely curious to observe, in many instances, a plurality of causes producing in conjunction a great pleasure: in other instances, not less frequent, no conjunction, but each cause acting in opposition. To enter bluntly upon a subject of such intricacy, might gravel an acute philosopher; and yet by taking matters in a train, the intricacy vanisheth.

Next in order, according to the method proposed, come external effects. And this leads to passions in particular, which involving desire are the causes of action. Two coexistent passions that have the same tendency, must be similar. They accordingly readily unite, and in conjunction have double force; which must hold whether the two passions have the same or different causes. This is verified by experience; from which we learn, that different passions having the same end in view, impel the mind to action with united force. The mind receives not impulses alternately from these passions, but one strong impulse from the whole in conjunction. And indeed it is not easy to conceive what should bar the union of passions that have all of them the same tendency.

Two passions having opposite tendencies, may proceed from the same object or cause considered in different lights. Thus a mistress may at once be the object both of love and resentment. Her beauty inflames the passion of love: her cruelty or inconstancy causes resentment. When two such passions coexist in the same breast, the opposition of their aim prevents any sort of union. They are not felt otherwise than in succession. And the consequence must be one of two things: the passions will balance each other, and prevent external action; or one of them will prevail, and accomplish its end. Guarini, in his Pastor Fido, describes beautifully the struggle betwixt love and resentment directed upon the same object.

Corisca. Chi vide mai, chi mai udi più strana
E più folle, e più sera, e più importuna
Passione amorosa? amore, ed odio
Con sì mirabil tempre in un cor misti,
Che l’un per l’altro (e non so ben dir come)
E si strugge, e s’avanza, e nasce, e more.
S’ i’ miro alle bellezze di Mirtillo
Dal piè leggiadro al grazioso volto,
Il vago portamento, il bel sembiante.
Gli atti, i costumi, e le parole, e ’l guardo;
M’assale Amore con sì possente foco
Ch’i’ ardo tutta, e par, ch’ ogn’ altro affetto
Da questo sol sia superato, e vinto:
Ma se poi penso all’ ostinato amore,
Ch’ ei porta ad altra donna, e che per lei
Di me non cura, e sprezza (il vo’ pur dire)
La mia famosa, e da mill’ alme, e mille
Inchinata beltà, bramata grazia;
L’odio così, così l’aborro, e schivo,
Che impossibil mi par, ch’unqua per lui
Mi s’accendesse al cor siamma amorosa.
Tallor meco ragiono: o s’io petessi
Gioir del mio dolcissimo Mirtillo,
Sicche fosse mio tutto, e ch’altra mai
Posseder no ’l potesse, o più d’ ogn’ altra
Beata, e felicissima Corisca!
Ed in quel punto in me sorge un talento
Verso di lui sì dolce, e sì gentile,
Che di seguirlo, e di pregarlo ancora,
E di scoprirgli il cor prendo consiglio.
Che più? così mi stimola il desio,
Che se potessi allor l’adorerei.
Dall’ altra parte i’ mi risento, e dico,
Un ritroso? uno schifo? un che non degna?
Un, che può d’altra donna esser amante?
Un, ch’ardisce mirarmi, e non m’adora?
E dal mio volto si difende in guisa,
Che per amor non more? ed io, che lui
Dovrei veder, come molti altri i’ veggio
Supplice, e lagrimosa a’ piedi miei,
Supplice, e lagrimoso a’ piedi suoi
Sosterro di cadere? ah non fia mai.
Ed in questo pensier tant’ ira accoglio
Contra di lui, contra di me, che volsi
A seguirlo il pensier, gli occhi a mirarlo,
Che ’l nome di Mirtillo, e l’amor mio
Odio più che la morte; e lui vorrei
Veder il più dolente, il più infelice
Pastor, che viva; e se potessi allora,
Con le mie proprie man l’anciderei.
Così sdegno, desire, odio, ed amore
Mi fanno guerra, ed io, che stata sono
Sempre sin qui di mille cor la fiamma,
Di mill’ alme il tormento, ardo, e languisco:
E provo nel mio mal le pene altrui.
Act 1. sc. 3.

Ovid paints in lively colours the vibration of mind betwixt two opposite passions directed upon the same object. Althea had two brothers much beloved, who were unjustly put to death by her son Meleager in a fit of passion. She was strongly impelled to revenge; but the criminal was her own son. This ought to have with-held her hand. But the story makes a better figure and is more interesting, by the violence of the struggle betwixt resentment and maternal love.

Dona Deum templis nato victore ferebat;
Cum videt extinctos fratres Althæa referri.
Quæ plangore dato, mœstis ululatibus urbem
Implet; et auratis mutavit vestibus atras.
At simul est auctor necis editus; excidit omnis
Luctus: et a lacrymis in pœnæ versus amorem est.
Stipes erat, quem, cum partus enixa jaceret
Thestias, in flammam triplices posuêre sorores;
Staminaque impresso fatalia pollice nentes,
Tempora, dixerunt, eadem lignoque, tibique,
O modo nate, damus. Quo postquam carmine dicto
Excessere deæ; flagrantem mater ab igne
Erripuit torrem: sparsitque liquentibus undis.
Ille diu fuerat penetralibus abditus imis;
Servatusque, tuos, juvenis, servaverat annos.
Protulit hunc genitrix, tædasque in fragmina poni
Imperat; et positis inimicos admovet ignes.
Tum conata quater flammis imponere ramum
Cœpta quater tenuit. Pugnat materque, sororque,
Et diversa trahunt unum duo nomina pectus.
Sæpe metu sceleris pallebant ora futuri:
Sæpe suum fervens oculis dabat ira ruborem,
Et modo nescio quid similis crudele minanti
Vultus erat; modo quem misereri credere posses:
Cumque ferus lacrymas animi siccaverat ardor;
Inveniebantur lacrymæ tamen. Utque carina,
Quam ventus, ventoque contrarius æstus,
Vim geminam sentit, paretque incerta duobus:
Thestias haud aliter dubiis affectibus errat,
Inque vices ponit, positamque resuscitat iram.
Incipit esse tamem melior germana parente;
Et, consanguineas ut sanguine leniat umbras,
Impietate pia est. Nam postqnam pestifer ignis
Convaluit: Rogus iste cremet mea viscera, dixit.
Utque manu dirâ lignum fatale tenebat;
Ante sepulchrales infelix adstitit aras.
Pœnarumque deæ triplices furialibus, inquit,
Eumenides, sacris vultus advertite vestros.
Ulciscor, facioque nefas. Mors morte pianda est;
In scelus addendum scelus est, in funera funus:
Per coacervatos pereat domus impia luctus.
An felix Oeneus nato victore fruetur;
Thestius orbus erit? melius lugebitis ambo.
Vos modo, fraterni manes, animæque recentes,
Officium sentite meum; magnoque paratas
Accipite inferias, uteri mala pignora nostri.
Hei mihi! quo rapior? fratres ignoscite matri.
Deficiunt ad cœpta manus. Meruisse fatemur
Illum, cur pereat: mortis mihi displicet auctor.
Ergo impune feret; vivusque, et victor, et ipso
Successu tumidus regnum Calydonis habebit?
Vos cinis exiguus, gelidæque jacebitis umbræ?
Haud equidem patiar. Pereat sceleratus; et ille
Spemque patris, regnique trahat, patriæque ruinam.
Mens ubi materna est; ubi sunt pia jura parentum?
Et, quos sustinui, bis mensûm quinque labores?
O utinam primis arsisses ignibus infans;
Idque ego passa forem! vixisti munere nostro:
Nunc merito moriere tuo. Cape præmia facti;
Bisque datam, primum partu, mox stipite rapto,
Redde animam; vel me fraternis adde sepulchris.
Et cupio, et nequeo. Quid agam? modo vulnera fratrum
Ante oculos mihi sunt, et tantæ cædis imago;
Nunc animum pietas, maternaque nomina frangunt.
Me miseram! male vincetis, sed vincite, fratres:
Dummodo, quæ dedero vobis solatia, vosque
Ipsa sequar, dixit: dextraque aversa trementi
Funereum torrem medios conjecit in ignes.
Aut dedit, aut visus gemitus est ille dedisse,
Stipes; et invitis correptus ab ignibus arsit.
Metamorph. lib. 8. l. 445.

In cases of this kind, one circumstance always augments the fluctuation. A resolution to prefer one action before another after balancing betwixt them, is an inchoated gratification of the prevailing passion, which softens it in some degree. This circumstance tends to give a superiority to the opposite passion. And another circumstance also concurs, that this opposite passion has by restraint acquired in the interim some additional force.

Love and jealousy connected by a common object, occupy the mind alternately. When the object is considered as beautiful, love prevails: when considered as possibly unfaithful, jealousy prevails. A situation of this kind, affords great scope for fluctuation of passion, which is painted to the life by several masterly hands in words as well as in colours. Shakespear handles the same subject, but in a manner uncommon and peculiar to himself. In Othello’s soliloquy before putting his wife to death, love and jealousy are represented, each exerting its whole force, but without any struggle. Othello was naturally inflexible; and the tenderest love could not divert him from a purpose he approved as right, not even for a moment. But every thing consistent with such a character is done to reconcile the two opposite passions. He is resolved to put her to death, but he will not shed her blood, nor so much as ruffle her skin.

Othello. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul;—
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!
It is the cause.—— Yet I’ll not shed her blood,
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
[Lays down the sword.
Yet she must die; else she’ll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then—Put out the light?—
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent: but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relumine.—[Sets down the taper.
When I have pluck’d thy rose,
I cannot give it vital growth again;
It needs must wither.—I’ll smell thee on the tree;
[Kissing her.
Oh balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword!—-- One more; one more;
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And love thee after.—— One more, that’s the last;
So sweet was ne’er so fatal! I must weep,
But they are cruel tears? this sorrow’s heav’nly;
It strikes where it doth love.—— She wakes——
Act 5. sc. 6.

In Otway’s Orphan, we have an illustrious example of the address employed to gratify opposite passions directed upon the same object. Castalio and Polydore, brothers and rivals, had sworn mutual confidence. Castalio broke his faith by a private marriage. By this concealment, Polydore was unwarily betrayed into a dismal deed, that of polluting his brother’s bed. Thus he had injured his brother, and was injured by him. Justice prompted him to make full atonement by his own death: resentment against his brother required a full atonement to be made to himself. In coexistent passions so contradictory, one of them commonly prevails after a struggle. But here happily an expedient occurred to gratify both; which was, that Polydore should provoke his brother to put him to death. Polydore’s crime in his own opinion merited this punishment; and justice was satisfied when he fell by the hands of the man he had injured. He wanted at the same time to punish his brother for breach of faith; and he could not do this more effectually than by betraying his brother to be his executioner.

If difference of aim prevent the union of two passions though having the same object, much more will it prevent their union when their objects are also different. In both cases there is a fluctuation; but in the latter the fluctuation is slower than in the former. A beautiful situation of this kind is exhibited in the Cid of Corneille. Don Diegue, an old soldier worn out with age, having received a mortal affront from the Count father to Chimene, employs his son Don Rodrigue, Chimene’s lover, to demand satisfaction. This situation occasions in the breast of Don Rodrigue a cruel struggle. It is a contest betwixt love and honour, one of which must be sacrificed. The scene is finely conducted, chiefly by making love in some degree take part with honour, Don Rodrigue reflecting, that if he lost his honour he could not deserve his mistress. Honour triumphs. The Count, provoked to a single combat, falls by the hand of Don Rodrigue.

This produceth another beautiful situation respecting Chimene, which for the sake of connection is placed here, though it properly belongs to the foregoing head. It became the duty of that lady to demand justice against her lover, for whose preservation, in other circumstances, she chearfully would have sacrificed her own life. The struggle betwixt these opposite passions directed upon the same object, is finely expressed in the third scene of the third act.

Elvire. Il vous prive d’un pére, et vous l’aimez encore!

Chimene. C’est peu de dire aimer, Elvire, je l’adore;
Ma passion s’oppose à mon ressentiment,
Dedans mon ennemi je trouve mon amant,
Et je sens qu’en depit de toute ma colére,
Rodrigue dans mon cœur combat encore mon pére.
Il l’attaque, il le presse, il céde, il se défend,
Tantôt fort, tantôt foible, et tantôt triomphant;
Mais en ce dur combat de colére et de flame,
Il déchire mon cœur sans partager mon ame,
Et quoique mon amour ait sur moi de pouvoir,
Je ne consulte point pour suivre mon devoir.
Je cours sans balancer où mon honneur m’oblige;
Rodrigue m’est bien cher, son interêt m’afflige,
Mon cœur prend son parti; mais malgré son effort,
Je sai ce que je suis, et que mon pére est mort.

Not less when the objects are different than when the same, are means sometimes afforded to gratify both passions; and such means are greedily embraced. In Tasso’s Gerusalem, Edward and Gildippe, husband and wife, are introduced fighting gallantly against the Saracens. Gildippe receives a mortal wound by the hand of Soliman. Edward inflamed with revenge as well as concern for Gildippe, is agitated betwixt the two different objects. The poet[40] describes him endeavouring to gratify both at once, applying his right hand against Soliman the object of his resentment, and his left hand to support his wife the object of his love.

PART V.

The power of passion to adjust our opinions and belief to its gratification.

THere is such a connection among the perceptions passions and actions of the same person, that it would be wonderful if they should have no mutual influence. That our actions are too much directed by passion, is a sad truth. It is not less certain, though not so commonly observed, that passion hath an irregular influence upon our opinions and belief. The opinions we form of men and things, are generally directed by affection. An advice given by a man of figure, hath great weight; the same advice from one in a low condition, is utterly neglected. A man of courage under-rates danger; and to the indolent, the slightest obstacle appears unsurmountable. Our opinions indeed, the result commonly of various and often opposite views, are so slight and wavering, as readily to be susceptible of a bias from passion and prejudice.

This subject is of great use in logic; and of still greater use in criticism, being intimately connected with many principles of the fine arts that will be unfolded in the course of this work. Being too extensive to be treated here at large, some cursory illustrations must suffice; leaving the subject to be prosecuted more particularly afterward when occasion shall offer.

Two principles that make an eminent figure in human nature, concur to give passion an undue influence upon our opinions and belief. The first and most extensive, is a strong tendency in the mind to fit objects for the gratification of its passions. We are prone to such opinions of men and things as correspond to our wishes. Where the object, in dignity or importance, corresponds to the passion bestowed on it, the gratification is complete and there is no occasion for artifice. But where the object is too mean for the passion so as not to afford a complete gratification, it is wonderful how apt the mind is to impose upon itself, and how disposed to proportion the object to its passion. The other principle is a strong tendency in our nature to justify our passions as well as our actions, not to others only, but even to ourselves. This tendency is extremely remarkable with respect to disagreeable passions. By its influence, objects are magnified or lessened, circumstances supplied or suppressed, every thing coloured and disguised, to answer the end of justification. Hence the foundation of self-deceit, where a man imposes upon himself innocently, and even without suspicion of a bias.

Beside the influence of the foregoing principles to make us form opinions contrary to truth, the passions themselves, by subordinate means, contribute to the same effect. Of these means I shall mention two which seem to be capital. First, There was occasion formerly to observe[41], that though ideas seldom start up in the mind without connection, yet that ideas which correspond to the present tone of the mind are readily suggested by any slight connection. By this means, the arguments for a favourite opinion are always at hand, while we often search in vain for those that cross our inclination. Second, The mind taking delight in agreeable circumstances or arguments, is strongly impressed with them; while those that are disagreeable are hurried over so as scarce to make any impression. The self-same argument, accordingly as it is relished or not relished, weighs so differently, as in truth to make conviction depend more on passion than on reasoning. This observation is fully justified by experience. To confine myself to a single instance, the numberless absurd religious tenets that at different times have pestered the world, would be altogether unaccountable but for this irregular bias of passion.

We proceed to a more pleasant task, which is, to illustrate the foregoing observations by proper examples. Gratitude when warm, is often exerted upon the children of the benefactor; especially where he is removed out of reach by death or absence[42]. Gratitude in this case being exerted for the sake of the benefactor, requires no peculiar excellence in his children. To find however these children worthy of the benefits intended them, contributes undoubtedly to the more entire gratification of the passion. And accordingly, the mind, prone to gratify its passions, is apt to conceive a better opinion of these children than possibly they deserve. By this means, strong connections of affection are often formed among individuals, upon the slight foundation now mentioned.

Envy is a passion, which, being altogether unjustifiable, is always disguised under some more plausible name. But no passion is more eager than envy, to give its object such an appearance as to answer a complete gratification. It magnifies every bad quality, and fixes on the most humbling circumstances.

Cassius. I cannot tell what you and other men
Think of this life; but for my single self,
I had as lief not be, as live to be
In awe of such a thing as I myself.
I was born free as Cæsar, so were you;
We both have fed as well; and we can both
Endure the winter’s cold as well as he.
For once, upon a raw and gusty day,
The troubled Tyber chasing with his shores,
Cæsar says to me, Dar’st thou, Cassius, now
Leap in with me into this angry flood,
And swim to yonder point?—Upon the word,
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,
And bid him follow; so indeed he did.
The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews; throwing it aside,
And stemming it with hearts of controversy.
But ere we could arrive the point propos’d,
Cæsar cry’d, Help me, Cassius, or I sink.
I, as Æneas, our great ancestor,
Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder
The old Anchises bear; so from the waves of Tyber
Did I the tired Cæsar: and this man
Is now become a god, and Cassius is
A wretched creature; and must bend his body,
If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him.
He had a fever when he was in Spain,
And when the fit was on him, I did mark
How he did shake. ’Tis true, this god did shake;
His coward lips did from their colour fly,
And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world,
Did lose its lustre; I did hear him grone:
Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books,
Alas! it cry’d—— Give me some drink, Titinius——
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world,
And bear the palm alone.
Julius Cæsar, act I. sc. 3.

Glo’ster inflamed with resentment against his son Edgar, could even work himself into a momentary conviction that they were not related.

O strange fasten’d villain!
Would he deny his letter?—I never got him.
King Lear, act 2. sc. 3.

When by a great sensibility of heart or other means, grief swells beyond what the cause can justify, the mind is prone to magnify the cause, in order to gratify the passion. And if the real cause admit not of being magnified, the mind seeks a cause for its grief in imagined future events.

Bushy. Madam, your Majesty is much too sad;
You promis’d, when you parted with the King,
To lay aside self-harming heaviness,
And entertain a chearful disposition.

Queen. To please the King, I did; to please myself,
I cannot do it. Yet I know no cause
Why I should welcome such a guest as grief;
Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest
As my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks,
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune’s womb,
Is coming tow’rd me; and my inward soul
With something trembles, yet at nothing grieves,
More than with parting from my Lord the King.
Richard II. act. 2. sc. 5.

The foregoing examples depend on the first principle. In the following, both principles concur. Resentment at first is wreaked on the relations of the offender, in order to punish him. But as resentment when so outrageous is contrary to conscience, the mind, to justify its passion as well as to gratify it, is disposed to paint these relations in the blackest colours; and it actually comes to be convinced, that they ought to be punished for their own demerits.

Anger raised by an accidental stroke upon a tender part, which gives great and sudden pain, is sometimes vented upon the undesigning cause. But as the passion in this case is absurd, and as there can be no solid gratification in punishing the innocent; the mind, prone to justify as well as to gratify its passion, deludes itself instantly into a conviction of the action’s being voluntary. This conviction however is but momentary: the first reflection shows it to be erroneous; and the passion vanisheth almost instantaneously with the conviction. But anger, the most violent of all passions, has still greater influence. It sometimes forces the mind to personify a stock or a stone when it occasions bodily pain, in order to be a proper object of resentment. A conception is formed of it as a voluntary agent. And that we have really a momentary conviction of its being a voluntary agent, must be evident from considering, that without such conviction, the passion can neither be justified nor gratified. The imagination can give no aid. A stock or a stone may be imagined sensible; but a notion of this kind cannot be the foundation of punishment, so long as the mind is conscious that it is an imagination merely without any reality. Of such personification, involving a conviction of reality, there is one illustrious instance. When the first bridge of boats over the Hellespont was destroyed by a storm, Xerxes fell into a transport of rage, so excessive, that he commanded the sea to be punished with 300 stripes; and a pair of fetters to be thrown into it, enjoining the following words to be pronounced. “O thou salt and bitter water! thy master hath condemned thee to this punishment for offending him without cause; and is resolved to pass over thee in despite of thy insolence. With reason all men neglect to sacrifice to thee, because thou art both disagreeable and treacherous[43].”

Shakespear exhibits beautiful examples of the irregular influence of passion in making us conceive things to be otherwise than they are. King Lear, in his distress, personifies the rain, wind, and thunder; and in order to justify his resentment, conceives them to be taking part with his daughters.

Lear. Rumble thy belly-full, spit fire, spout rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters.
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children;
You owe me no subscription. Then let fall
Your horrible pleasure.—— Here I stand, your brave;
A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man!
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters join’d
Your high engender’d battles, ’gainst a head
So old and white as this. Oh! oh! ’tis foul.
Act 3. sc. 2.

King Richard, full of indignation against his favourite horse for suffering Bolingbroke to ride him, conceives for a moment the horse to be rational.

Groom. O, how it yearn’d my heart, when I beheld,
In London streets, that coronation-day;
When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbary,
That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,
That horse that I so carefully have dress’d.

K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? tell me, gentle friend,
How went he under him?

Groom. So proudly as he had disdain’d the ground.

K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!
That jade had eat bread from my royal hand.
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.
Would he not stumble? would he not fall down,
(Since pride must have a fall), and break the neck
Of that proud man that did usurp his back?
Richard II. act 5. sc. 11.

Hamlet, swelled with indignation at his mother’s second marriage, is strongly inclined to lessen the time of her widowhood; because this circumstance gratified his passion; and he deludes himself by degrees into the opinion of an interval shorter than the real one.

Hamlet.—— That it should come to this!
But two months dead! nay, not so much; not two;—
So excellent a King, that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satire: so loving to my mother,
That he permitted not the wind of heav’n
Visit her face too roughly. Heav’n and earth!
Must I remember—why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on; yet, within a month,——
Let me not think—Frailty, thy name is Woman!
A little month! or ere those shoes were old,
With which she follow’d my poor father’s body,
Like Niobe, all tears—— Why, she, ev’n she—
(O heav’n! a beast that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourn’d longer—) married with mine uncle,
My father’s brother; but no more like my father,
Than I to Hercules. Within a month!——
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her gauled eyes,
She married.—— Oh, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
Act 1. sc. 3.

The power of passion to falsify the computation of time, is the more remarkable, that time, which hath an accurate measure, is less obsequious to our desires and wishes, than objects which have no precise standard of less or more.

Even belief, though partly an act of the judgment, may be influenced by passion. Good news are greedily swallowed upon very slender evidence. Our wishes magnify the probability of the event as well as the veracity of the relater; and we believe as certain what at best is doubtful.

Quel, che l’huom vede, amor li fa invisibile
E l’invisibil fa veder amore.
Questo creduto fu, che’l miser suole
Dar facile credenza a’ quel, che vuole.
Orland. Furios. cant. 1. st. 56.

For the same reason, bad news gain also credit upon the slightest evidence. Fear, if once alarmed, has the same effect with hope to magnify every circumstance that tends to conviction. Shakespear, who shows more knowledge of human nature than any of our philosophers, hath in his Cymbeline[44] represented this bias of the mind: for he makes the person who alone was affected with the bad news, yield to evidence that did not convince any of his companions. And Othello[45] is convinced of his wife’s infidelity from circumstances too slight to move an indifferent person.

If the news interest us in so low a degree as to give place to reason, the effect will not be quite the same. Judging of the probability or improbability of the story, the mind settles in a rational conviction either that it is true or not. But even in this case, it is observable, that the mind is not allowed to rest in that degree of conviction which is produced by rational evidence. If the news be in any degree favourable, our belief is augmented by hope beyond its true pitch; and if unfavourable, by fear.

The observation holds equally with respect to future events. If a future event be either much wished or dreaded, the mind, to gratify its passion, never fails to augment the probability beyond truth.

The credit which in all ages has been given to wonders and prodigies, even the most absurd and ridiculous, is a strange phenomenon. Nothing can be more evident than the following proposition, That the more singular any event is, the more evidence is required. A familiar event daily occurring, being in itself extremely probable, finds ready credit, and therefore is vouched by the slightest evidence. But a strange and rare event, contrary to the course of nature, ought not to be easily believed. It starts up without connection, and without cause, so far as we can discover; and to overcome the improbability of such an event, the very strongest evidence is required. It is certain, however, that wonders and prodigies are swallowed by the vulgar, upon evidence that would not be sufficient to ascertain the most familiar occurrence. It has been reckoned difficult to explain this irregular bias of the mind. We are now no longer at a loss about its cause. The proneness we have to gratify our passions, which displays itself upon so many occasions, produces this irrational belief. A story of ghosts or fairies, told with an air of gravity and truth, raiseth an emotion of wonder, and perhaps of dread. These emotions tending strongly to their own gratification, impose upon a weak mind, and impress upon it a thorough conviction contrary to all sense and reason.

Opinion and belief are influenced by propensity as well as by passion; for the mind is disposed to gratify both. A natural propensity is all we have to convince us, that the operations of nature are uniform. Influenced by this propensity, we often rashly conceive, that good or bad weather will never have an end; and in natural philosophy, writers, influenced by the same propensity, stretch commonly their analogical reasonings beyond just bounds.

Opinion and belief are influenced by affection as well as by propensity. The noted story of a fine lady and a curate viewing the moon through a telescope is a pleasant illustration. I perceive, says the lady, two shadows inclining to each other, they are certainly two happy lovers. Not at all, replies the curate, they are two steeples of a cathedral.

Appendix to Part V.

Concerning the methods which nature hath afforded for computing time and space.

I Introduce here the subject proposed, because it affords several curious examples of the power of passion to adjust objects to its gratification; a lesson that cannot be too much inculcated, as there is not perhaps another bias in human nature that hath an influence so universal, and that is so apt to make us wander from truth as well as from justice.

I begin with time; and the question shortly is, What was the measure of time before artificial measures were invented? and, What is the measure at present when these are not at hand? I speak not of months and days, which we compute by the moon and sun; but of hours, or in general of the time that runs betwixt any two occurrences when there is not access to the sun. The only natural measure we have, is the train of our thoughts; and we always judge the time to be long or short, in proportion to the number of perceptions that have passed through the mind during that interval. This is indeed a very imperfect measure; because in the different conditions of a quick or slow succession, the computation is different. But however imperfect, it is the only measure by which a person naturally calculates time; and this measure is applied on all occasions, without regard to any occasional variation in the rate of succession.

This natural measure of time, imperfect as it is, would however be tolerable, did it labour under no other imperfection than the ordinary variations that happen in the motion of our perceptions. But in many particular circumstances, it is much more fallacious; and in order to explain these distinctly, I must analize the subject. Time is generally computed at two different periods; one while time is passing, another after it is past. I shall consider these separately, with the errors to which each of them is liable. It will be found that these errors often produce very different computations of the same period of time. The computation of time while it is passing, comes first in order. It is a common and trite observation, That to lovers absence appears immeasurably long, every minute an hour, and every hour a day. The same computation is made in every case where we long for a distant event; as where one is in expectation of good news, or where a profligate heir watches for the death of an old man who keeps him from a great estate. Opposite to these are instances not fewer in number. To a criminal the interval betwixt sentence and execution appears miserably short; and the same holds in every case where one dreads an approaching event. Of this even a schoolboy can bear witness: the hour allowed him for play, moves, in his apprehension, with a very swift pace: before he is thoroughly engaged, the hour is gone. A reckoning founded on the number of ideas, will never produce computations so regularly opposite to each other; for a slow succession of ideas is not connected with our wishes, nor a quick succession with our fears. What is it then, that, in the cases mentioned, moves nature to desert her common measure for one very different? I know not that this question ever has been resolved. The false reckonings I have suggested are so common and familiar, that no writer has thought of inquiring for their cause. And indeed, to enter upon this matter at short hand, without preparation, might occasion some difficulty. But to encounter the difficulty, we luckily are prepared by what is said above about the power of passion to fit objects for its gratification. Among the other circumstances that terrify a condemned criminal, the short time he has to live is one. Terror, like our other passions, prone to its gratification, adjusts every one of these circumstances to its own tone. It magnifies in particular the shortness of the interval betwixt the present time and that of the execution; and forces upon the criminal a conviction that the hour of his death approaches with a swift pace. In the same manner, among the other distresses of an absent lover, the time of separation is a capital circumstance, which for that reason is greatly magnified by his anxiety and impatience. He imagines that the time of meeting comes on very slow, or rather that it will never come. Every minute is thought of an intolerable length. Here is a fair and I hope satisfactory account, why we reckon time to be tedious when we long for a future event, and not less fleet when we dread the event. This account is confirmed by other instances. Bodily pain fixt to one part, produceth a slow train of perceptions, which, according to the common measure of time, ought to make it appear short. Yet we know, that in such a state time has the opposite appearance. Bodily pain is always attended with a degree of impatience and an anxiety to be rid of it, which make us judge every minute to be an hour. The same holds where the pain shifts from place to place; but not so remarkably, because such a pain is not attended with the same degree of impatience. The impatience a man hath in travelling through a barren country or in bad roads, makes him imagine, during the journey, that time goes on with a very slow pace. We shall show afterward that he makes a very different computation when his journey is at an end.

How ought it to stand with a man who apprehends bad news? It will probably be thought, that the case of this man resembles that of a criminal, who, in reckoning the short time he has to live, imagines every hour to be but a minute, and that time flies swift away. Yet the computation here is directly opposite. Reflecting upon this difficulty, there appears one capital circumstance in which the two cases differ. The fate of the criminal is determined: in the case under consideration, the man is still in suspense. Every one knows how distressful suspense is to the bulk of mankind. Such distress we wish to get rid of at any rate, even at the expence of bad news. This case therefore, upon a more narrow inspection, resembles that of bodily pain. The present distress in both cases, makes the time appear extremely tedious.

The reader probably will not be displeased, to have this branch of the subject illustrated in a pleasant manner, by an author acquainted with every maze of the human heart, and who bestows ineffable grace and ornament upon every subject he handles.

Rosalinda. I pray you, what is’t a clock?

Orlando. You should ask me, what time o’ day; there’s no clock in the forest.

Ros. Then there is no true lover in the forest; else, sighing every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of Time, as well as a clock.

Orla. Why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as proper?

Ros. By no means, Sir. Time travels in diverse paces with diverse persons. I’ll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.

Orla. I pr’y thee whom doth he trot withal?

Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the contract of her marriage, and the day it is solemnized: if the interim be but a se’ennight, Time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years.

Orla. Who ambles Time withal?

Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout: for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no burthen of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles withal.

Orla. Whom doth he gallop withal?

Ros. With a thief to the gallows: for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

Orla. Whom stays it still withall?

Ros. With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.

As you like it, act 3. sc. 8.

Reflecting upon the natural method of computing present time, it shows how far from truth we may be led by the irregular power of passion. Nor are our eyes immediately opened when the scene is past: the deception continues while there remain any traces of the passion. But looking back upon past time when the joy or distress is no longer remembered, the computation we make is very different. In this situation, passion being out of the question, we apply the ordinary measure, viz. the course of our perceptions; and I shall now proceed to the errors that this measure is subjected to. In order to have an accurate notion of this matter, we must distinguish betwixt a train of perceptions, and a train of ideas. Real objects make a strong impression, and are faithfully remembered. Ideas, on the contrary, however entertaining at the time, are apt to escape an after recollection. Hence it is, that in retrospection, the time that was employed upon real objects, appears longer than the time that was employed upon ideas. The former are more accurately recollected than the latter; and we measure the time by the number that is recollected. I proceed to particulars. After finishing a journey through a populous country, the frequency of agreeable objects distinctly recollected by the traveller, makes the time spent in the journey appear to him longer than it was in reality. This is chiefly remarkable in a first journey, where every object is new and makes a strong impression. On the other hand, after finishing a journey through a barren country thinly peopled, the time appears short, being measured by the number of objects, which were few and far from interesting. Here in both instances a reckoning is brought out, directly opposite to that made during the journey. And this, by the way, serves to account for a thing which may appear singular, that in a barren country the computed miles are always longer, than near the capital, where the country is rich and populous. The traveller has no natural measure of the space gone through, other than the time bestowed upon it; nor any natural measure of the time, other than the number of his perceptions. These being proportioned to the number of visible objects, he imagines that he hath consumed more time on his day’s journey, and accomplished a greater number of miles, in a populous than in a waste country. By this method of calculation, every computed mile in the former must in reality be shorter than in the latter.

Again, the travelling with an agreeable companion produceth a short computation both of the road and of time; especially if there be few objects that demand attention, or if the objects be familiar. The case is the same of young people at a ball, or of a joyous company over a bottle. The ideas with which they have been entertained, being transitory, escape the memory. After all is over, they reflect that they have been much diverted, but scarce can say about what.

When one is totally occupied in any agreeable work that admits not many objects, time runs on without observation; and upon an after recollection must appear short, in proportion to the paucity of objects. This is still more remarkable in close contemplation and in deep thinking, where the train, composed wholly of ideas, proceeds with an extreme slow pace. Not only are the ideas few in number, but are apt to escape an after-reckoning. The like false reckoning of time may proceed from an opposite state of mind. In a reverie, where ideas float at random without making any impression, time goes on unheeded and the reckoning is lost. A reverie may be so profound as to prevent the recollection of any one idea: that the mind was busied in a train of thinking, will in general be remembered; but what was the subject, has quite escaped the memory. In such a case, we are altogether at a loss about the time: we have no data for making a computation. No cause produceth so false a reckoning of time, as immoderate grief. The mind, in this state, is violently attached to a single object, and admits not a different thought. Any other object breaking in, is instantly banished, so as scarce to give an appearance of succession. In a reverie, we are uncertain of the time that is past: but in the example now given, there is an appearance of certainty, so far as the natural measure of time can be trusted, that the time must have been short, when the perceptions are so few in number.

The natural measure of space appears more obscure than that of time. I venture however to enter upon it, leaving it to be further prosecuted, if it be thought of any importance.

The space marked out for a house, appears considerably larger after it is divided into its proper parts. A piece of ground appears larger after it is surrounded with a fence; and still larger when it is made a garden and divided into different copartments.

On the contrary, a large plain looks less after it is divided into parts. The sea must be excepted, which looks less from that very circumstance of not being divided into parts.

A room of a moderate size appears larger when properly furnished. But when a very large room is furnished, I doubt whether it be not lessened in appearance.

A room of a moderate size, looks less by having a ceiling lower than in proportion. The same low ceiling makes a very large room look larger than it is in reality.

These experiments are by far too small a stock for a general theory. But they are all that occur at present; and without attempting any regular system, I shall satisfy myself with a few conjectures.

The largest angle of vision seems to me the natural measure of space. The eye is the only judge; and in examining with it the size of any plain, or the length of any line, the most accurate method that can be taken is, to run over the object in parts. The largest part that can be taken in at one stedfast look, determines the largest angle of vision; and when that angle is given, one may institute a calculation by trying with the eye how many of these parts are in the whole.

Whether this angle be the same in all men, I know not. The smallest angle of vision is ascertained; and to ascertain the largest angle, would not be less curious.

But supposing it known, it would be a very imperfect measure; perhaps more so than the natural measure of time. It requires great steadiness of eye to measure a line with any accuracy, by applying to it the largest angle of distinct vision. And suppose this steadiness to be acquired by practice, the measure will be imperfect from other circumstances. The space comprehended under this angle, will be different according to the distance, and also according to the situation of the object. Of a perpendicular this angle will comprehend the smallest space. The space will be larger in looking upon an inclined plain; and will be larger or less in proportion to the degree of inclination.

This measure of space, like the measure of time, is liable to some extraordinary errors from certain operations of the mind, which will account for some of the erroneous judgements above mentioned. The space marked out for a dwelling-house, where the eye is at any reasonable distance, is seldom greater than can be seen at once without moving the head. Divide this space into two or three equal parts, and none of these parts will appear much less than what can be comprehended at one distinct look; consequently each of them will appear equal, or nearly equal, to what the whole did before the division. If, on the other hand, the whole be very small, so as scarce to fill the eye at one look, its divisions into parts will, I conjecture, make it appear still less. The minuteness of the parts is, by an easy transition of ideas, transferred to the whole. Each part hath a diminutive appearance, and by the intimate connection of these parts with the whole, we pass the same judgement upon all.

The space marked out for a small garden, is surveyed almost at one view; and requires a motion of the eye so slight, as to pass for an object that can be comprehended under the largest angle of distinct vision. If not divided into too many parts, we are apt to form the same judgement of each part; and consequently to magnify the garden in proportion to the number of its parts.

A very large plain without protuberances, is an object not less rare than beautiful; and in those who see it for the first time, it must produce an emotion of wonder. This emotion, however slight, tending to its own gratification, imposes upon the mind, and makes it judge that the plain is larger than it is in reality. Divide this plain into parts, and our wonder ceases. It is no longer considered as one great plain, but as so many different fields or inclosures.

The first time one beholds the sea, it appears to be large beyond all bounds. When it becomes familiar, and raises our wonder in no degree, it appears less than it is in reality. In a storm it appears larger, being distinguishable by the rolling waves into a number of great parts. Islands scattered at considerable distances, add in appearance to its size. Each intercepted part looks extremely large, and we silently apply arithmetic to increase the appearance of the whole. Many islands scattered at hand, give a diminutive appearance to the sea, by its connection with its diminutive parts. The Lomond lake would undoubtedly look larger without its islands.

Furniture increaseth in appearance the size of a small room, for the same reason that divisions increase in appearance the size of a garden. The emotion of wonder which is raised by a very large room without furniture, makes it look larger than it is in reality. If completely furnished, we view it in parts, and our wonder is not raised.

A low ceiling hath a diminutive appearance, which, by an easy transition of ideas, is communicated to the length and breadth, provided they bear any sort of proportion to the height. If they be out of all proportion, the opposition seizes the mind, and raises some degree of wonder, which makes the difference appear greater than it really is.

PART VI.

Of the resemblance emotions bear to their causes.

THat many emotions bear a certain resemblance to their causes, is a truth that can be made clear by induction; though, so far as I know, the observation has not been made by any writer. Motion, in its different circumstances, is productive of feelings that resemble it. Sluggish motion, for example, causeth a languid unpleasant feeling; slow uniform motion, a feeling calm and pleasant; and brisk motion, a lively feeling that rouses the spirits and promotes activity. A fall of water through rocks, raises in the mind a tumultuous confused agitation, extremely similar to its cause. When force is exerted with any effort, the spectator feels a similar effort as of force exerted within his mind. A large object swells the heart. An elevated object makes the spectator stand erect.

Sounds also produce emotions that resemble them. A sound in a low key, brings down the mind. Such a sound in a full tone, hath a certain solemnity, which it communicates to the emotion produced by it. A sound in a high key, chears the mind by raising it. Such a sound in a full tone, both elevates and swells the mind.

Again, a wall or pillar that declines from the perpendicular, produceth a painful emotion, as of a tottering and falling within the mind. An emotion somewhat similar is produced by a tall pillar that stands so ticklish as to look like falling. For this reason, a column upon a base looks better than upon the naked ground. The base, which makes a part of the column, inspires a feeling of firmness and stability. The ground supporting a naked column, is too large to be considered as its base. And for the same reason, a cube as a base, is preferred before a cylinder, though the latter is a more beautiful figure. The angles of a cube, being extended to a greater distance from the centre than the circumference of a cylinder, give the column a greater appearance of stability. This excludes not a different reason, that the base, shaft, and capital, of a pillar, ought, for the sake of variety, to differ from each other. If the shaft be round, the base and capital ought to be square.

A constrained posture, uneasy to the man himself, is disagreeable to the spectator; which makes it a rule in painting, that the drapery ought not to adhere to the body, but hang loose, that the figures may appear easy and free in their movements. Hence the disagreeable figure of a French dancing-master is one of Hogarth’s pieces. It is also ridiculous, because the constraint is assumed and not forced.

The foregoing observation is not confined to emotions raised by still life. It holds also in those which are raised by the qualities, actions, and passions, of a sensible being. Love inspired by a fine woman, assumes her qualities. It is sublime, soft, tender, severe, or gay, according to its cause. This is still more remarkable in emotions raised by human actions. It hath already been remarked[46], that any signal instance of gratitude, beside procuring esteem for the author, raiseth in the spectator a vague emotion of gratitude, which disposeth him to be grateful. I now further remark, that this vague emotion, being of the same kind with what produced the grateful action, hath a strong resemblance to its cause. Courage exerted inspires the reader as well as the spectator with a like emotion of courage. A just action fortifies our love to justice, and a generous action rouses our generosity. In short, with respect to all virtuous actions, it will be found by induction, that they lead us to imitation by inspiring emotions resembling the passions that produced these actions. And hence the benefit of dealing in choice books and in choice company.

Grief as well as joy are infectious: the emotions they raise in a spectator resemble them perfectly. Fear is equally infectious: and hence in an army, fear, even from the slighted cause, making an impression on a few, spreads generally through all, and becomes an universal panic. Pity is similar to its cause. A parting scene betwixt lovers or friends, produceth in the spectator a sort of pity, which is tender like the distress. The anguish of remorse, produceth pity of a harsh kind; and if the remorse be extreme, the pity hath a mixture of horror. Anger I think is singular; for even where it is moderate and causeth no disgust, it disposes not the spectator to anger in any degree[47]. Covetousness, cruelty, treachery, and other vicious passions, are so far from raising any emotion similar to themselves, to incite a spectator to imitation, that they have an opposite effect. They raise abhorrence, and fortify the spectator in his aversion to such actions. When anger is immoderate, it cannot fail to produce the same effect.

PART VII.

Final causes of the more frequent emotions and passions.

IT is a law in our nature, that we never act but by the impulse of desire; which in other words is saying, that it is passion, by the desire included in it, which determines the will. Hence in the conduct of life, it is of the utmost importance, that our passions be directed upon proper objects, tend to just and rational ends, and with relation to each other be duly balanced. The beauty of contrivance, so conspicuous in the human frame, is not confined to the rational part of our nature, but is visible over the whole. Concerning the passions in particular, however irregular, headstrong, and perverse, in an overly view, they may appear, I propose to show, that they are by nature adjusted and tempered with admirable wisdom, for the good of society as well as for private good. This subject is extensive: but as the nature of the present undertaking will not admit a complete discussion, it shall suffice to give a few observations in general upon the sensitive part of our nature, without regarding that strange irregularity of passion discovered in some individuals. Such topical irregularities, if I may use the term, cannot fairly be held an objection to the present theory. We are frequently, it is true, misled by inordinate passion: but we are also, and perhaps not less frequently, misled by wrong judgement.

In order to a distinct apprehension of the present subject, it must be premised, that an agreeable object produceth always a pleasant emotion, and a disagreeable object one that is painful. This is a general law of nature, which admits not a single exception. Agreeableness in the object or cause is indeed so essentially connected with pleasure in the emotion its effect, that an agreeable object cannot be better defined, than by its power of producing a pleasant emotion. Disagreeableness in the object or cause, has the same necessary connection with pain in the emotion produced by it.

From this preliminary it appears, that to inquire for what end an emotion is made pleasant or painful, resolves into an inquiry for what end its cause is made agreeable or disagreeable. And from the most accurate induction it will be discovered, that no cause of an emotion is made agreeable or disagreeable arbitrarily; but that these qualities are so distributed as to answer wise and good purposes. It is an invincible proof of the benignity of the Deity, that we are surrounded with things generally agreeable, which contribute remarkably to our entertainment and to our happiness. Some things are made disagreeable, such as a rotten carcass, because they are noxious. Others, a dirty marsh, for example, or a barren heath, are made disagreeable in order to excite our industry. And with respect to the few things that are neither agreeable nor disagreeable; it will be made evident, that their being left indifferent is not a work of chance but of wisdom. Of such I shall have occasion to give several instances.

Having attempted to assign the final causes of emotions and passions considered as pleasant or painful, we proceed to the final causes of the desires involved in them. This seems a work of some difficulty; for the desires that accompany different passions have very different aims, and seldom or never demand precisely the same gratification. One passion moves us to cling to its object, one to fly from it; one passion impels to action for our own good, and one for the good of others; one passion prompts us to do good to ourselves or others, and one to do mischief, frequently to others, and sometimes even to ourselves. Deliberating upon this intricate subject, and finding an intimate correspondence betwixt our desires and their objects, it is natural to think that the former must be regulated in some measure by the latter. In this view, I begin with desire directed upon an inanimate object.

Any pleasure we have in an agreeable object of this kind, is enjoyed by the continuance of the pleasant impression it makes upon us; and accordingly the desire involved in the pleasant emotion tends to that end, and is gratified by dwelling upon the agreeable object. Hence such an object may be properly termed attractive. Thus a flowing river, a towering hill, a fine garden, are attractive objects. They fix the attention of the spectator, by inspiring pleasant emotions, which are gratified by adhering to these objects and enjoying them. On the other hand, a disagreeable object of the same kind, raises in us a painful emotion including a desire to turn from the object, which relieves us of course from the pain; and hence such an object may be properly termed repulsive. A monstrous birth, for example, a rotten carcass, a confusion of jarring sounds, are repulsive. They repel the mind, by inspiring painful or unpleasant emotions, which are gratified by flying from such objects. Thus in general, with regard to inanimate objects, the desire included in every pleasant passion tends to prolong the pleasure, and the desire included in every painful passion tends to put an end to the pain. Here the final cause is evident. Our desires, so far, are modelled in such a manner as to correspond precisely to the sensitive part of our nature, prone to happiness and averse to misery. These operations of adhering to an agreeable inanimate object, and flying from one that is disagreeable, are performed in the beginning of life by means of desire impelling us, without the intervention of reason or reflection. Reason and reflection directing self-love, become afterward motives that unite their force with desire; because experience informs us, that the adhering to agreeable objects and the flying from those that are disagreeable, contribute to our happiness.

Sensible Beings considered as objects of passion, lead us into a more complex theory. A sensible being that is agreeable by its attributes, inspires us with a pleasant emotion; and the desire included in this emotion has evidently different means of gratification. A man regarding himself only, may be satisfied with viewing and contemplating this being, precisely as if it were inanimate; or he may desire the more generous gratification of making it happy. Were man altogether selfish, it would be conformable to his nature, that he should indulge the pleasant emotion without making any acknowledgement to the person who gives him pleasure, more than to a pure air or temperate clime when he enjoys these benefits. But as man is endued with a principle of benevolence as well as of selfishness, he is prompted by his nature to desire the good of every sensible being that gives him pleasure. And the final cause of desire so directed, is illustrious. It contributes to a man’s own happiness, by affording him more means of gratification than he can have when his desire terminates upon himself alone; and at the same time it tends eminently to improve the happiness of those with whom he is connected. The directing our desires in this manner, occasions a beautiful coalition of self-love with benevolence; for both are equally promoted by the same internal impulse, and by the same external conduct. And this consideration, by the way, ought to silence those minute philosophers, who, ignorant of human nature, teach a most disgustful doctrine. That to serve others unless with a view to our own good, is weakness and folly; as if self-love only contributed to happiness and not benevolence. The hand of God is too visible in the human frame, to permit us to think seriously, that there ever can be any jarring or inconsistency among natural principles, those especially of self-love and benevolence, which regulate the bulk of our actions.

Next in order come sensible Beings that are in affliction or pain. It is disagreeable to behold a person in distress; and therefore this object must raise in the spectator an uneasy emotion. Were man purely a selfish being, he would be prompted by his nature to turn from every object, animate or inanimate, that gives him uneasiness. But the principle of benevolence gives an opposite direction to his desire. It impels him to afford relief; and by relieving the person from distress, his desire is fully gratified. Our benevolence to a person in distress is inflamed into an emotion of sympathy, signifying in Greek the painful emotion that is raised in us by that person. Thus sympathy, though a painful emotion, is in its nature attractive. And with respect to its final cause, we can be at no loss. It not only tends to relieve a fellow-creature from pain, but in its gratification is greatly more pleasant than if it were repulsive.

We in the last place bring under consideration persons hateful by vice or wickedness. Imagine a wretch who has lately perpetrated some horrid crime. He is disagreeable to every spectator; and consequently raises in every spectator a painful emotion. What is the natural gratification of the desire that accompanies this painful emotion? I must here again observe, that supposing man to be entirely a selfish being, he would be prompted by his nature to relieve himself from the pain by averting his eye, and banishing the criminal from his thoughts. But man is not so constituted. He is composed of many principles, which, though seemingly contradictory, are perfectly concordant. The principle of benevolence influences his conduct, not less remarkably than that of selfishness. And in order to answer the foregoing question, I must introduce a third principle, not less remarkable in its influence than either of those mentioned. It is that principle common to all, which prompts us to punish those who do wrong. An envious, malicious, or cruel action, is disagreeable to me even where I have no connection with the sufferer, and raises in me the painful emotion of resentment. The gratification of this emotion, when accompanied with desire, is directed by the principle now unfolded. Being prompted by my nature to punish guilt as well as to reward virtue, my desire is not gratified but by inflicting punishment. I must chastise the wretch by indignation at least and hatred, if not more severely. Here the final cause is self-evident.

An injury done to myself, touching me more than when done to others, raises my resentment in a higher degree. The desire accordingly included in this passion, is not satisfied with so slight a punishment as indignation or hatred. It is not fully gratified without retaliation; and the author must by my hand suffer mischief, as great at least as he has done me. Neither can we be at any loss about the final cause of this higher degree of resentment. The whole vigor of this passion is required to secure individuals from the injustice and oppression of others[48].

A wicked or disgraceful action, is disagreeable not only to others, but even to the delinquent himself. It raises in him as well as in others a painful emotion including a desire of punishment. The painful emotion which the delinquent feels, is distinguished by the name of remorse; and in this case the desire he has to punish is directed against himself. There cannot be imagined a better contrivance to deter us from vice; for remorse is the severest of all punishments. This passion and the desire of self-punishment derived from it, are touched delicately by Terence.

Menedemus. Ubi comperi ex iis, qui ei fuere conscii,
Domum revortor mœstus, atque animo fere
Perturbato, atque incerto præ ægritudine:
Adsido, adcurrunt servi, soccos detrahunt:
Video alios festinare, lectos sternere,
Cœnam adparare: pro se quisque sedulo
Faciebat, quo illam mihi lenirent miseriam.
Ubi video hæc, cœpi cogitare: Hem! tot mea
Solius solliciti sint causa, ut me unum expleant?
Ancillæ tot me vestiant? sumptus domi
Tantos ego solus faciam? sed gnatum unicum,
Quem pariter uti his decuit, aut etiam amplius,
Quod illa ætas magis ad hæc utenda idonea ’st,
Eum ego hinc ejeci miserum injustitia mea.
Malo quidem me dignum quovis deputem,
Si id faciam. nam usque dum ille vitam illam colet
Inopem, carens patria ob meas injurias,
Interea usque illi de me supplicium dabo:
Laborans, quærens, parcens, illi serviens,
Ita facio prorsus: nihil relinquo in ædibus,
Nec vas, nec vestimentum: conrasi omnia,
Ancillas, servos, nisi eos, qui opere rustico
Faciundo facile sumptum exercerent suum:
Omnes produxi ac vendidi: inscripsi ilico
Ædeis mercede: quasi talenta ad quindecim
Coëgi: agrum hunc mercatus sum: hic me exerceo.
Decrevi tantisper me minus injuriæ,
Chreme, meo gnato facere, dum fiam miser:
Nec fas esse ulla me voluptate hic frui,
Nisi ubi ille huc salvos redierit meus particeps.
Heautontimerumenos, act 1. sc. 1.

Otway reaches the same sentiment:

Monimia. Let mischiefs multiply! let ev’ry hour
Of my loath’d life yield me increase of horror!
Oh let the sun to these unhappy eyes
Ne’er shine again, but be eclips’d for ever!
May every thing I look on seem a prodigy,
To fill my soul with terror, till I quite
Forget I ever had humanity,
And grow a curser of the works of nature!
Orphan, act 4.

The cases mentioned are, where benevolence alone or where desire of punishment alone, governs without a rival. And it was necessary to handle these cases separately, in order to elucidate a subject which by writers is left in great obscurity. But neither of these principles operates always without rivalship. Cases may be figured, and cases actually exist, where the same person is an object both of sympathy and of desire to punish. Thus the sight of a profligate in the venereal disease, over-run with botches and sores, actuates both principles. While his distress fixes my attention, sympathy exerts itself; but so soon as I think of his profligacy, hatred prevails, and a desire to punish. This in general is the case of distress occasioned by immoral actions that are not highly criminal. And if the distress and the immoral action be in any proportion, sympathy and hatred counterbalancing each other will not suffer me either to afford relief or to inflict punishment. What then will be the result of the whole? The principle of self-love solves the question. Abhorring an object so loathsome, I naturally avert my eye, and walk off as fast as I can, in order to be relieved from the pain.

The present subject gives birth to several other observations, for which I could not find room above, without relaxing more from the strictness of order and connection, than with safety could be indulged in discoursing upon a matter that with difficulty is made perspicuous, even with all the advantages of order and connection. These observations I shall throw out loosely as they occur, without giving myself any further trouble about method.

No action good or bad is altogether indifferent even to a mere spectator. If good, it inspires esteem; and indignation, if wicked. But it is remarkable, that these emotions seldom are accompanied with desire. The abilities of man are limited, and he finds sufficient employment, in relieving the distressed, in requiting his benefactors, and in punishing those who wrong him, without moving out of his own sphere for the benefit or chastisement of those with whom he has no connection.

If the good qualities of others excite my benevolence, the same qualities in myself must produce a similar effect in a superior degree, upon account of the natural partiality every man hath for himself. This increases self-love. If these qualities be of a high rank, they produce a feeling of superiority, which naturally leads me to assume some sort of government over others. Mean qualities, on the other hand, produce in me a feeling of inferiority, which naturally leads me to submit to others. Unless such feelings were distributed among individuals in society by measure and proportion, there could be no natural subordination of some to others, which is the principal foundation of government.

No other branch of the human constitution shows more visibly our destination for society, nor tends more to our improvement, than appetite for fame or esteem. The whole conveniencies of life being derived from mutual aid and support in society, it ought to be a capital aim, to form connections with others so strict and so extensive as to produce a firm reliance on many for succour in time of need. Reason dictates this lesson. But reason solely is not relied on in a matter of such consequence. We are moved by a natural appetite, to be solicitous about esteem and respect as we are about food when hungry. This appetite, at the same time, is finely adjusted to the moral branch of our constitution, by promoting all the moral virtues. For what infallible means are there to attract love and esteem, other than a virtuous course of life? If a man be just and beneficent, if he be temperate modest and prudent, he will infallibly gain the esteem and love of all who know him.

The communication of passion to related objects, is an illustrious instance of the care of Providence, to extend social connections as far as the limited nature of man can admit. This communication of passion is so far unhappy as to spread the malevolent passions beyond their natural bounds. But let it be remarked, that this unhappy effect regards savages only, who give way to malevolent passions. Under the discipline of society, these passions are subdued, and in a good measure eradicated. In their place succeed the kindly affections, which, meeting with all encouragement, take possession of the mind and govern our whole actions. In this condition, the progress of passion along related objects, by spreading the kindly affections through a multitude of individuals, hath a glorious effect.

Nothing can be more entertaining to a rational mind, than the œconomy of the human passions, of which I have attempted to give some faint notion. It must however be confessed, that our passions, when they happen to swell beyond their proper limits, take on a less regular appearance. Reason may proclaim our duty, but the will influenced by passion, makes gratification always welcome. Hence the power of passion, which, when in excess, cannot be resisted but by the utmost fortitude of mind. It is bent upon gratification; and where proper objects are wanting, it clings to any object at hand without distinction. Thus joy inspired by a fortunate event, is diffused upon every person around by acts of benevolence; and resentment for an atrocious injury done by one out of reach, seizes the first object that occurs to vent itself upon. Those who believe in prophecies, even wish the accomplishment; and a weak mind is disposed voluntarily to fulfil a prophecy, in order to gratify its wish. Shakespear, whom no particle of human nature hath escaped, however remote from common observation, describes this weakness:

K. Henry. Doth any name particular belong
Unto that lodging where I first did swoon?

Warwick. ’Tis call’d Jerusalem, my Noble Lord.

K. Henry. Laud be to God! even there my life must end.
It hath been prophesy’d to me many years,
I should not die but in Jerusalem,
Which vainly I suppos’d the holy land.
But bear me to that chamber, there I’ll lie:
In that Jerusalem shall Henry die.
Second part, Henry IV. act 4. sc. last.

I could not deny myself the amusement of the foregoing observation, though it doth not properly come under my plan. The irregularities of passion proceeding from peculiar weaknesses and biasses, I do not undertake to justify; and of these we have had many examples.[49] It is sufficient that passions common to all and as generally exerted, are made subservient to beneficial purposes. I shall only observe, that in a polished society instances of irregular passions are rare, and that their mischief doth not extend far.

CHAP. III.

BEAUTY.

HAVING discoursed in general of emotions and passions, I proceed to a more narrow inspection of some particulars that serve to unfold the principles of the fine arts. It is the province of a writer upon ethics, to give a full enumeration of all the passions; and of each separately to assign the nature, the cause, the gratification, and the effects. But a treatise of ethics is not my province. I carry my view no farther than to the elements of criticism, in order to show that the fine arts are a subject of reasoning as well as of taste. An extensive work would be ill suited to a design so limited; and to keep within moderate bounds, the following plan may contribute. It has already been observed, that things are the causes of emotions, by means of their properties and attributes[50]. This furnisheth a hint for distribution. Instead of a painful and tedious examination of the several passions and emotions, I propose to confine my inquiries to such attributes, relations, and circumstances, as in the fine arts are chiefly employed to raise agreeable emotions. Attributes of single objects, as the most simple, shall take the lead; to be followed with particulars that depend on the relations of objects, and are not found in any one object singly considered. Dispatching next some coincident matters, I approach nearer to practice, by applying the principles unfolded in the foregoing parts of the work. This is a general view of the intended method; reserving however a privilege to vary it in particular instances, where a different method may be more commodious. I begin with beauty, the most noted of all the qualities that belong to single objects.

The term beauty, in its native signification, is appropriated to objects of sight. Objects of the other senses may be agreeable, such as the sounds of musical instruments, the smoothness and softness of some surfaces: but the agreeableness denominated beauty belongs to objects of sight.

Of all the objects of the external senses, an object of sight is the most complex. In the very simplest, colour is perceived, figure, and length breadth and thickness. A tree is composed of a trunk, branches, and leaves. It has colour, figure, size, and sometimes motion. By means of each of these particulars, separately considered, it appears beautiful: how much more so, when they enter all into one complex perception? The beauty of the human figure is extraordinary, being a composition of numberless beauties arising from the parts and qualities of the object, various colours, various motions, figure, size, &c.; all uniting in one complex perception, and striking the eye with combined force. Hence it is, that beauty, a quality so remarkable in visible objects, lends its name to express every thing that is eminently agreeable. Thus, by a figure of speech, we say a beautiful sound, a beautiful thought or expression, a beautiful theorem, a beautiful event, a beautiful discovery in art or science. But as figurative expression is not our present theme, this chapter is confined to beauty in its genuine signification.

It is natural to suppose, that a perception so various as that of beauty, comprehending sometimes many particulars, sometimes few, should occasion emotions equally various. And yet all the various emotions of beauty maintain one general character of sweetness and gaiety.

Considering attentively the beauty of visible objects, we discover two kinds. One may be termed intrinsic beauty, because it is discovered in a single object viewed apart without relation to any other object. The examples above given, are of that kind. The other may be termed relative beauty, being founded on the relation of objects. The former is a perception of sense merely; for to perceive the beauty of a spreading oak or of a flowing river, no more is required but singly an act of vision. The latter is accompanied with an act of understanding and reflection; for of a fine instrument or engine, we perceive not the relative beauty, until we be made acquainted with its use and destination. In a word, intrinsic beauty is ultimate: relative beauty is that of means relating to some good end or purpose. These different beauties agree in one capital circumstance, that both are equally perceived as spread upon the object. This will be readily admitted with respect to intrinsic beauty; but is not so obvious with respect to the other. The utility of the plough, for example, may make it an object of admiration or of desire; but why should utility make it appear beautiful? A principle mentioned above[51], will explain this doubt. The beauty of the effect, by an easy transition of ideas, is transferred to the cause, and is perceived as one of the qualities of the cause. Thus a subject void of intrinsic beauty, appears beautiful from its utility. An old Gothic tower that has no beauty in itself, appears beautiful, considered as proper to defend against an enemy. A dwelling-house void of all regularity, is however beautiful in the view of convenience; and the want of form or symmetry in a tree, will not prevent its appearing beautiful, if it be known to produce good fruit.

When these two beauties concur in any object, it appears delightful. Every member of the human body possesses both in a high degree. The slender make of a horse destined for running, pleases every taste; partly from symmetry, and partly from utility.

The beauty of utility, being proportioned accurately to the degree of utility, requires no illustration. But intrinsic beauty, so complex as I have said, cannot be handled distinctly without being analized into its constituent parts. If a tree be beautiful by means of its colour, its figure, its size, its motion, it is in reality possessed of so many different beauties, which ought to be examined separately, in order to have a clear notion of the whole. The beauty of colour is too familiar to need explanation. The beauty of figure requires an accurate discussion, for in it many circumstances are involved. When any portion of matter is viewed as a whole, the beauty of its figure arises from regularity and simplicity. Viewing the parts with relation to each other, uniformity, proportion, and order, contribute to its beauty. The beauty of motion deserves a chapter by itself; and another chapter is destined for grandeur, being distinguishable from beauty in a strict sense. For the definitions of regularity, uniformity, proportion, and order, if thought necessary, I remit my reader to the appendix at the end of the book. Upon simplicity I must make a few cursory observations, such as may be of use in examining the beauty of single objects.

A multitude of objects crowding into the mind at once, disturb the attention, and pass without making any impression, or any lasting impression. In a group, no single object makes the figure it would do apart, when it occupies the whole attention[52]. For the same reason, even a single object, when it divides the attention by the multiplicity of its parts, equals not, in strength of impression, a more simple object comprehended in a single view. Parts extremely complex must be considered in portions successively; and a number of impressions in succession, which cannot unite because not simultaneous, never touch the mind like one entire impression made as it were at one stroke. This justifies simplicity in works of art, as opposed to complicated circumstances and crowded ornaments. There is an additional reason for simplicity, in works that make an impression of dignity or elevation. The mind attached to beauties of a high rank, cannot descend to inferior beauties. And yet, notwithstanding these reasons, we find profuse decoration prevailing in works of art. But this is no argument against simplicity, For authors and architects who cannot reach the higher beauties, endeavour to supply their want of genius by dealing in those that are inferior. In all ages, the best writers and artists have been governed by a taste for simplicity.

These things premised, I proceed to examine the beauty of figure, as arising from the above-mentioned particulars, viz. regularity, uniformity, proportion, order, and simplicity. To exhaust this subject, would of itself require a large volume. I limit myself to a few cursory remarks, as matter for future disquisition. To inquire why an object, by means of the particulars mentioned, appears beautiful, would I am afraid be a vain attempt. It seems the most probable opinion, that the nature of man was originally framed with a relish for them, in order to answer wise and good purposes. The final causes have not hitherto been ascertained, though they are not probably beyond our reach. One thing is clear, that regularity, uniformity, order, and simplicity, contribute each of them to readiness of apprehension; and enable us to form more distinct images of objects, than can be done with the utmost attention where these particulars are not found. This final cause is, I acknowledge, too slight, to account satisfactorily for a taste that makes a figure so illustrious in the nature of man. That this branch of our constitution hath a purpose still more important, we have great reason to believe. With respect to proportion, I am still less successful. In several instances, accurate proportion is connected with utility. This in particular is the case of animals; for those that are the best proportioned, are the strongest and most active. But instances are still more numerous, where the proportions we relish the most, have no connection, so far as we see, with utility. Writers on architecture insist much upon the proportions of a column; and assign different proportions to the Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian. But no architect will maintain, that the most accurate proportions contribute more to use, than several that are less accurate and less agreeable. Neither will it be maintained, that the proportions assigned for the length breadth and height of rooms, tend to make them the more commodious. It appears then, so far as we can discover, that we have a taste for proportion independent altogether of utility. One thing indeed is certain, that any external object proportioned to our taste, is delightful. This furnishes a hint. May it not be thought a good final cause of proportion, that it contributes to our entertainment? The author of our nature has given many signal proofs, that this end is not below his care. And if so, why should we hesitate in assigning this as an additional final cause of regularity, and the other particulars above mentioned? We may be confirmed in this thought, by reflecting, that our taste, with respect to these, is not occasional or accidental, but uniform and universal, making an original branch of human nature.

One might fill a volume with the effects that are produced by the endless combinations of the principles of beauty. I have room only for a slight specimen, confined to the simplest figures. A circle and a square are each of them perfectly regular, being equally confined to a precise form, and admitting not the slightest variation. A square however is less beautiful than a circle, because it is less simple. A circle has parts as well as a square; but its parts not being distinct like those of a square, it makes one entire impression; whereas the attention is divided among the sides and angles of a square. The effect of simplicity may be illustrated by another example. A square, though not more regular than a hexagon or octagon, is more beautiful than either; for what other reason, than that a square is more simple, and the attention less divided? This reasoning will appear still more solid when we consider any regular polygon of very many sides; for of such figure the mind can never have any distinct perception. Simplicity thus contributes to beauty.

A square is more beautiful than a parallelogram. The former exceeds the latter in regularity and in uniformity of parts. But this holds with respect to intrinsic beauty only; for in many instances, utility comes in to cast the balance on the side of the parallelogram. This figure for the doors and windows of a dwelling-house, is preferred because of utility; and here we find the beauty of utility prevailing over that of regularity and uniformity.

A parallelogram again depends, for its beauty, on the proportion of its sides. The beauty is lost by a great inequality of sides. It is also lost, on the other hand, by the approximation toward equality. Proportion in this circumstance degenerates into imperfect uniformity; and the figure upon the whole appears an unsuccessful attempt toward a square.

An equilateral triangle yields not to a square in regularity nor in uniformity of parts, and it is more simple. But an equilateral triangle is less beautiful than a square, which must be owing to inferiority of order in the position of its parts. The sides of an equilateral triangle incline to each other in the same angle, which is the most perfect order they are susceptible of. But this order is obscure, and far from being so perfect as the parallelism of the sides of a square. Thus order contributes to the beauty of visible objects, not less than simplicity and regularity.

A parallelogram exceeds an equilateral triangle in the orderly disposition of its parts; but being inferior in uniformity and simplicity, it is less beautiful.

Uniformity is singular in one capital circumstance, that it is apt to disgust by excess. A number of things contrived for the same use, such as chairs spoons, &c. cannot be too uniform. But a scrupulous uniformity of parts in a large garden or field, is far from being agreeable. Uniformity among connected objects, belongs not to the present subject. It is handled in the chapter of uniformity and variety.

In all the works of nature, simplicity makes an illustrious figure. The works of the best artists are directed by it. Profuse ornament in painting, gardening, or architecture, as well as in dress and language, shows a mean or corrupted taste.

Poets, like painters, thus unskill’d to trace
The naked nature and the living grace,
With gold and jewels cover ev’ry part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art.
Pope’s Essay on criticism.

No one property recommends a machine more than its simplicity; not singly for better answering its purpose, but by appearing in itself more beautiful. Simplicity hath a capital effect in behaviour and manners; no other particular contributing more to gain esteem and love. The artificial and intricate manners of modern times, have little of dignity in them. General theorems, abstracting from their importance, are delightful by their simplicity, and by the easiness of their application to a variety of cases. We take equal delight in the laws of motion, which, with the greatest simplicity, are boundless in their influence.

A gradual progress from simplicity to complex forms and profuse ornament, seems to be the fate of all the fine arts; resembling behaviour, which from original candor and simplicity has degenerated into artificial refinements. At present, written productions are crowded with words, epithets, figures, &c. In music, sentiment is neglected, for the luxury of harmony, and for difficult movement which surprises in its execution. In taste properly so called, poignant sauces with complicated mixtures of different favours, prevail among people of condition. The French, accustomed to the artificial red on their women’s cheeks, think the modest colouring of nature displayed on a fine face altogether insipid.

The same tendency appears in the progress of the arts among the ancients. Of this we have traces still remaining in architecture. Some vestiges of the oldest Grecian buildings prove them to be of the Doric order. The Ionic succeeded, and seems to have been the favourite order, while architecture was in its height of glory. The Corinthian came next in vogue: and in Greece, the buildings of that order appear mostly to have been erected after the Romans got footing there. At last came the Composite with all its extravagancies, where proportion is sacrificed to finery and crowded ornament.

But what taste is to prevail next? for fashion is in a continual flux, and taste must vary with it. After rich and profuse ornaments become familiar, simplicity appears by contrast lifeless and insipid. This would be an unsurmountable obstruction, should any man of genius and taste endeavour to restore ancient simplicity.

In reviewing what is said above, I am under some apprehension of an objection, which, as it may possibly occur to the reader, ought to be obviated. A mountain, it will be observed, is an agreeable object, without so much as the appearance of regularity; and a chain of mountains still more agreeable, without being arranged in any order. But these facts considered in a proper light, afford not an objection. Regularity, order, and uniformity, are intimately connected with beauty; and in this view only, have I treated them. Every regular object, for example, must in respect of its regularity be beautiful. But I have not said, that regularity, order, and uniformity, are essential to beauty, so as that it cannot exist without them. The contrary appears in the beauty of colour. Far less have I said, that an object cannot be agreeable in any respect independent of these qualities. Grandeur, as distinguished from beauty, requires very little regularity. This will appear more fully when that article is handled. In the mean time, to show the difference betwixt beauty and grandeur with respect to regularity, I shall give a few examples. Imagine a small body, let it be a globe, in a continual flux of figure, from the most perfect regularity till there remain no appearance of that quality. The beauty of this globe, depending on its regular figure, will gradually wear away with its regularity; and when it is no longer regular, it no longer will appear beautiful. The next example shall be of the same globe, gradually enlarging its size, but retaining its figure. In this body, we at first perceive the beauty of regularity only. But so soon as it begins to swell into a great size, it appears agreeable by its greatness, which joins with the beauty of regularity to make it a delightful object. In the last place, let it be imagined, that the figure as well as the quantity of matter are in a continual flux; and that the body, while it increases in size, becomes less and less regular, till it lose altogether the appearance of that quality. In this case, the beauty of regularity wearing off gradually, gives place to an agreeableness of a different sort, viz. that of greatness: and at last the emotion arising from greatness will be in perfection, when the beauty of regularity is gone. Hence it is, that in a large object the want of regularity is not much regarded by the spectator who is struck with its grandeur. A swelling eminence is agreeable, though not strictly regular. A towering hill is delightful, if it have but any distant resemblance of a cone. A small surface ought to be smooth; but in a wide-extended plain, considerable inequalities are overlooked. This observation holds equally in works of art. The slightest irregularity in a house of a moderate size hurts the eye; while the mind, struck with the grandeur of a superb edifice, which occupies it totally, cannot bear to descend to its irregularities unless extremely gross. In a large volume we pardon many defects that would make an epigram intolerable. In short, the observation holds in general, that beauty is connected with regularity in great objects as well as in small; but with a remarkable difference, that in passing from small to great, regularity is less and less required.

The distinction betwixt primary and secondary qualities in matter, seems now fully established. Heat and cold, though seeming to exist in bodies, are discovered to be effects caused by these bodies in a sensitive being. Colour, which the eye represents as spread upon a substance, has no existence but in the mind of the spectator. Perceptions of this kind, which, by a delusion of sense, are attributed to external subjects, are termed secondary qualities, in contradistinction to figure, extension, solidity, which are primary qualities, and which are not separable, even in imagination, from the subjects they belong to. This suggests a curious inquiry, Whether beauty be a primary or only a secondary quality of objects? The question is easily determined with respect to the beauty of colour; for if colour be a secondary quality existing no where but in the mind of the spectator, its beauty must be of the same kind. This conclusion must also hold with respect to the beauty of utility, which is plainly a conception of the mind, arising not merely from sight, but from reflecting that the thing is fitted for some good end or purpose. The question is more intricate with respect to the beauty of regularity. If regularity be a primary quality, why not also its beauty? That this is not a good consequence, will appear from considering, that beauty, in its very conception, refers to a percipient; for an object is said to be beautiful, for no other reason but that it appears so to a spectator. The same piece of matter which to man appears beautiful, may possibly to another being appear ugly. Beauty therefore, which for its existence depends upon the percipient as much as upon the object perceived, cannot be an inherent property of either. What else then can it be, but a perception in the mind occasioned by certain objects? The same reasoning is applicable to the beauty of order, of uniformity, of grandeur. Accordingly, it may be pronounced in general, that beauty in no case whatever is a real quality of matter. And hence it is wittily observed by the poet, that beauty is not in the countenance, but in the lover’s eye. This reasoning is undoubtedly solid: and the only cause of doubt or hesitation is, that we are taught a different lesson by sense. By a singular determination of nature, we perceive both beauty and colour as belonging to the object; and, like figure or extension, as inherent properties. This mechanism is uncommon; and when nature, to fulfil her intention, chuseth any singular method of operation, we may be certain of some final cause that cannot be reached by ordinary means. It appears to me, that a perception of beauty in external objects, is requisite to attach us to them. Doth not this mechanism, in the first place, greatly promote industry, by prompting a desire to possess things that are beautiful? Doth it not further join with utility, in prompting us to embellish our houses and enrich our fields? These however are but slight effects, compared with the connections which are formed among individuals in society by means of this singular mechanism. The qualifications of the head and heart, are undoubtedly the most solid and most permanent foundations of such connections. But as external beauty lies more in view, and is more obvious to the bulk of mankind than the qualities now mentioned, the sense of beauty possesses the more universal influence in forming these connections. At any rate, it concurs in an eminent degree with mental qualifications, to produce social intercourse, mutual good-will, and consequently mutual aid and support, which are the life of society.

It must not however be overlooked, that this sense doth not tend to advance the interests of society, but when in a due mean with respect to strength. Love in particular arising from a sense of beauty, loses, when excessive, its sociable character[53]. The appetite for gratification, prevailing over affection for the beloved object, is ungovernable; and tends violently to its end, regardless of the misery that must follow. Love in this state is no longer a sweet agreeable passion. It becomes painful like hunger or thirst; and produceth no happiness but in the instant of fruition. This discovery suggests a most important lesson, that moderation in our desires and appetites, which fits us for doing our duty, contributes at the same time the most to happiness. Even social passions, when moderate, are more pleasant than when they swell beyond proper bounds.

CHAP. IV.

Grandeur and Sublimity.

NAture hath not more remarkably distinguished us from the other animals by an erect posture, than by a capacious and aspiring mind, inclining us to every thing great and elevated. The ocean, the sky, or any large object, seizes the attention, and makes a strong impression[54]. Robes of state are made large and full to draw respect. We admire elephants and whales for their magnitude, notwithstanding their unwieldiness.

The elevation of an object affects us not less than its magnitude. A high place is chosen for the statue of a deity or hero. A tree growing upon the brink of a precipice viewed from the plain below, affords by that circumstance an additional pleasure. A throne is erected for the chief magistrate, and a chair with a high seat for the president of a court.

In some objects, greatness and elevation concur to make a complicated impression. The Alps and the pike of Teneriff are proper examples; with the following difference, that in the former greatness seems to prevail, elevation in the latter.

The emotions raised by great and by elevated objects, are clearly distinguishable, not only in the internal feeling, but even in their external expressions. A great object dilates the breast, and makes the spectator endeavour to enlarge his bulk. This is remarkable in persons, who, neglecting delicacy in behaviour, give way to nature without reserve. In describing a great object, they naturally expand themselves by drawing in air with all their force. An elevated object produces a different expression. It makes the spectator stretch upward and stand a tiptoe. Great and elevated objects considered with relation to the emotions produced by them, are termed grand and sublime. Grandeur and sublimity have a double signification. They generally signify the quality or circumstance in the objects by which the emotions are produced; sometimes the emotions themselves.

Whether magnitude singly in an object of sight, have the effect to produce an emotion distinguishable from the beauty or deformity of that object; or whether it be only a circumstance modifying the beauty or deformity, is an intricate question. If magnitude produce an emotion of its own distinguishable from others, this emotion must either be pleasant or painful. But this seems to be contradicted by experience; for magnitude, as it would appear, contributes in some instances to beauty, in some to deformity. A hill, for instance, is agreeable, and a great mountain still more so. But an ugly monster, the larger, the more horrid. Greatness in an enemy, great power, great courage, serve but to augment our terror. Hath not this an appearance as if grandeur were not an emotion distinct from all others, but only a circumstance that qualifies beauty and deformity?

I am notwithstanding satisfied, that grandeur is an emotion, not only distinct from all others, but in every circumstance pleasant. These propositions must be examined separately. I begin with the former, and shall endeavour to prove, that magnitude produceth a peculiar emotion distinguishable from all others. Magnitude is undoubtedly a real property of bodies, not less than figure, and more than colour. Figure and colour, even in the same body, produce separate emotions, which are never misapprehended one for the other. Why should not magnitude produce an emotion different from both? That it has this effect, will be evident from a plain experiment of two bodies, one great and one little, which produce different emotions, though they be precisely the same as to figure and colour. There is indeed an obscurity in this matter, occasioned by the following circumstance, that the grandeur and beauty of the same object mix so intimately as scarce to be distinguished. But the beauty of colour comes in happily to enable us to make the distinction. For the emotion of colour unites with that of figure, not less intimately than grandeur does with either. Yet the emotion of colour is distinguishable from that of figure; and so is grandeur, attentively considered: though when these three emotions are blended together, they are scarce felt as different emotions.

Next, that grandeur is an emotion in every circumstance pleasant, appears from the following considerations. Magnitude or greatness, abstracted from all other circumstances, swells the heart and dilates the mind. We feel this to be a pleasant effect; and we feel no such effect in contracting the mind upon little objects. This may be illustrated by considering grandeur in an enemy. Beauty is an agreeable quality, whether in a friend or enemy; and when the emotion it raiseth is mixed with resentment against an enemy, it must have the effect to moderate our resentment. In the same manner, grandeur in an enemy, undoubtedly softens and blunts our resentment. Grandeur indeed may indirectly and by reflection produce an unpleasant effect. Grandeur in an enemy, like courage, may increase our fear, when we consider the advantage he hath over us by this quality. But the same indirect effect may be produced by many other agreeable qualities, such as beauty or wisdom.

The magnitude of an ugly object, serves, it is true, to augment our horror or aversion. But this proceeds not from magnitude separately considered. It proceeds from the following circumstance, that in a large object a great quantity of ugly parts are presented to view.

The same chain of reasoning is so obviously applicable to sublimity, that it would be losing time to show the application. Grandeur therefore and sublimity shall hereafter be considered both of them as pleasant emotions.

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

———— He doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus; and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs.
Julius Cæsar, act I. sc. 3.

Cleopatra. I dreamt there was an Emp’ror Antony;
Oh such another sleep, that I might see
But such another man!
His face was as the heav’ns: and therein stuck
A sun and moon, which kept their course and lighted
The little O o’ th’ earth.
His legs bestrid the ocean, his rear’d arm
Crested the world.
Antony and Cleopatra, act 5. sc. 3.

—————— Majesty
Dies not alone, but, like a gulf, doth draw
What’s near it with it. It’s a massy wheel
Fixt on the summit of the highest mount;
To whose huge spokes, ten thousand lesser things
Are mortis’d and adjoin’d; which when it falls,
Each small annexment, petty consequence,
Attends the boist’rous ruin.
Hamlet, act 3. sc. 8.

The poets have also made good use of the emotion produced by the elevated situation of an object.

Quod si me lyricis varibus inferes,
Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.
Horace, Carm. l. 1. ode 1.

Oh thou! the earthly author of my blood,
Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,
Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up,
To reach at victory above my head.
Richard II. act 1. sc. 4.

Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne.
Richard II. act 5. sc. 2.

Anthony. Why was I rais’d the meteor of the world,
Hung in the skies and blazing as I travell’d,
Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward
To be trod out by Cæsar?
Dryden, All for love, act 1.

Though the quality of magnitude produceth a pleasant emotion, we must not conclude that the opposite quality of littleness produceth a painful emotion. It would be unhappy for man, were an object disagreeable from its being of a small size merely, when he is surrounded with so many objects of that kind. The same observation is applicable to elevation of place. A body placed high is agreeable; but the same body placed low, is not by that circumstance rendered disagreeable. Littleness, and lowness of place, are precisely similar in the following particular, that they neither give pleasure nor pain. And in this may visibly be discovered peculiar attention in fitting the internal constitution of man to his external circumstances. Were littleness, and lowness of place agreeable, greatness and elevation could not be so. Were littleness, and lowness of place disagreeable, they would occasion uninterrupted uneasiness.

The difference betwixt great and little with respect to agreeableness, is remarkably felt in a series when we pass gradually from the one extreme to the other. A mental progress from the capital to the kingdom, from that to Europe—to the whole earth—to the planetary system—to the universe, is extremely pleasant: the heart swells and the mind is dilated, at every step. The returning in an opposite direction is not positively painful, though our pleasure lessens at every step, till it vanish into indifference. Such a progress may sometimes produce a pleasure of a different sort, which arises from taking a narrower and narrower inspection. The same observation is applicable to a progress upward and downward. Ascent is pleasant because it elevates us. But descent is never painful: it is for the most part pleasant from a different cause, that it is according to the order of nature. The fall of a stone from any height, is extremely agreeable by its accelerated motion. I feel it pleasant to descend from a mountain: the descent is natural and easy. Neither is looking downward painful. On the contrary, to look down upon objects, makes part of the pleasure of elevation. Looking down becomes then only painful when the object is so far below as to create dizziness: and even when that is the case, we feel a sort of pleasure mixt with the pain. Witness Shakespear’s description of Dover cliffs:

—————— How fearful
And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low!
The crows and choughs, that wing the midway-air,
Shew scarce so gross as beetles. Half-way down
Hangs one, that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head.
The fishermen that walk upon the beach,
Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark
Diminish’d to her cock; her cock, a buoy
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge,
That on th’ unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more,
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight
Topple down headlong.
King Lear, act 4. sc. 6.

An observation is made above, that the emotions of grandeur and sublimity are nearly allied. Hence it is, that the one term is frequently put for the other. I give an example. An increasing series of numbers produceth an emotion similar to that of mounting upward, and for that reason is commonly termed an ascending series. A series of numbers gradually decreasing, produceth an emotion similar to that of going downward, and for that reason is commonly termed a descending series. We talk familiarly of going up to the capital, and of going down to the country. From a lesser kingdom we talk of going up to a greater, whence the anabasis in the Greek language when one travels from Greece to Persia. We discover the same way of speaking in the language even of Japan[55]; and its universality proves it the offspring of a natural feeling.

The foregoing observation leads us naturally to consider grandeur and sublimity in a figurative sense, and as applicable to the fine arts. Hitherto I have considered these terms in their proper meaning, as applicable to objects of sight only: and I thought it of importance, to bestow some pains upon that article; because, generally speaking, the figurative sense of a word is derived from its proper sense; which will be found to hold in the present subject. Beauty in its original signification, is confined to objects of sight. But as many other objects, intellectual as well as moral, raise emotions resembling that of beauty, the resemblance of the effects prompts us naturally to extend the term beauty to these objects. This equally accounts for the terms grandeur and sublimity taken in a figurative sense. Every emotion, from whatever cause proceeding, that resembles an emotion of grandeur or elevation, is called by the same name. Thus generosity is said to be an elevated emotion, as well as great courage; and that firmness of soul which is superior to misfortunes, obtains the peculiar name of magnanimity. On the other hand, every emotion that contracts the mind and fixeth it upon things trivial or of no importance, is termed low, by its resemblance to an emotion produced by a little or low object of sight. Thus an appetite for trifling amusements, is called a low taste. The same terms are applied to characters and actions. We talk familiarly of an elevated genius, of a great man, and equally so of littleness of mind. Some actions are great and elevated, others are low and groveling. Sentiments and even expressions are characterised in the same manner. An expression or sentiment that raises the mind, is denominated great or elevated; and hence the sublime[56] in poetry. In such figurative terms, the distinction is lost that is made betwixt great and elevated in their proper sense; for the resemblance is not so entire, as to preserve these terms distinct in their figurative application. We carry this figure still farther. Elevation in its proper sense, includes superiority of place; and lowness, inferiority of place. Hence a man of superior talents, of superior rank, of inferior parts, of inferior taste, and such like. The veneration we have for our ancestors and for the ancients in general, being similar to the emotion produced by an elevated object of sight, justifies the figurative expression, of the ancients being raised above us, or possessing a superior place. And we may remark by the way, that as words are intimately connected with ideas, many, by this form of expression, are led to conceive their ancestors as really above them in place, and their posterity below them:

A grandam’s name is little less in love
Than is the doting title of a mother:
They are as children but one step below.
Richard III. act 4. sc. 5.

The notes of the gamut, proceeding regularly from the blunter or grosser sounds to those which are more acute and piercing, produce in the hearer a feeling somewhat similar to what is produced by mounting upward; and this gives occasion to the figurative expressions, a high note, a low note.

Such is the resemblance in feeling betwixt real and figurative grandeur, that among the nations on the east coast of Afric, who are directed purely by nature, the different dignities of the officers of state are marked by the length of the batoon each carries in his hand. And in Japan, princes and great lords shew their rank by the length and size of their sedan-poles[57]. Again, it is a rule in painting, that figures of a small size are proper for grotesque pieces; but that in an historical subject, which is grand and important, the figures ought to be as great as the life. The resemblance of these feelings is in reality so strong, that elevation in a figurative sense is observed to have the same effect even externally, that real elevation has:

K. Henry. This day is call’d the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tiptoe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
Henry V. act 4. sc. 8.

The resemblance in feeling betwixt real and figurative grandeur, is humorously illustrated by Addison in criticising upon the English tragedy. “The ordinary method of making an hero, is to clap a huge plume of feathers upon his head, which rises so high, that there is often a greater length from his chin to the top of his head, than to the sole of his foot. One would believe, that we thought a great man and a tall man the same thing. As these superfluous ornaments upon the head make a great man, a princess generally receives her grandeur from those additional incumbrances that fall into her tail. I mean the broad sweeping train that follows her in all her motions, and finds constant employment for a boy who stands behind her to open and spread it to advantage[58].” The Scythians, impressed with the fame of Alexander, were astonished when they found him a little man.

A gradual progress from small to great, is not less remarkable in figurative than in real grandeur or elevation. Every one must have observed the delightful effect of a number of thoughts or sentiments, artfully disposed like an ascending series, and making impressions stronger and stronger. Such disposition of members in a period, is distinguished by a proper name, being termed a climax.

In order to have a just conception of grandeur and sublimity, it is necessary to be observed, that within certain limits they produce their strongest effects, which lessen by excess as well as by defect. This is remarkable in grandeur and sublimity taken in their proper sense. The strongest emotion of grandeur is raised by an object that can be taken in at one view. An object so immense as not to be comprehended but in parts, tends rather to distract than satisfy the mind[59]. In like manner, the strongest emotion produced by elevation is where the object is seen distinctly. A greater elevation lessens in appearance the object, till it vanish out of sight with its pleasant emotion. The same is equally remarkable in figurative grandeur and elevation, which shall be handled together, because, as observed above, they are scarce distinguishable. Sentiments may be so strained, as to become obscure, or to exceed the capacity of the human mind. Against such licence of imagination, every good writer will be upon his guard. And therefore it is of greater importance to observe, that even the true sublime may be carried beyond that pitch which produces the highest entertainment. We are undoubtedly susceptible of a greater elevation than can be inspired by human actions the most heroic and magnanimous; witness what we feel from Milton’s description of superior beings. Yet every man must be sensible of a more constant and pleasant elevation, when the history of his own species is the subject. He enjoys an elevation equal to that of the greatest hero, of an Alexander or a Cæsar, of a Brutus or an Epaminondas. He accompanies these heroes in their sublimest sentiments and most hazardous exploits, with a magnanimity equal to theirs; and finds it no stretch to preserve the same tone of mind for hours together, without sinking. The case is by no means the same in describing the actions or qualities of superior beings. The reader’s imagination cannot keep pace with that of the poet; and the mind, unable to support itself in a strained elevation, falls as from a height; and the fall is immoderate like the elevation. Where this effect is not felt, it must be prevented by some obscurity in the conception, which frequently attends the description of unknown objects.

On the other hand, objects of sight that are not remarkably great or high, scarce raise any emotion of grandeur or sublimity; and the same holds in other objects. The mind is often roused and animated without being carried to the height of grandeur or sublimity. This difference may be discerned in many sorts of music, as well as in some musical instruments. A kettledrum rouses, and a hautboy is animating; but neither of them inspire an emotion of sublimity. Revenge animates the mind in a considerable degree; but I think it never produceth an emotion that can be termed grand or sublime; and I shall have occasion afterward to observe, that no disagreeable passion ever has this effect. I am willing to put this to the test, by placing before my reader the most spirited picture of revenge ever drawn. It is a speech of Antony wailing over the body of Cæsar.

Wo to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,
(Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue),
A curse shall light upon the kind of men;
Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife,
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use,
And dreadful objects so familiar,
That mothers shall but smile, when they behold
Their infants quarter’d by the hands of war,
All pity choak’d with custom of fell deeds.
And Cæsar’s spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Atè by his side come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines, with a monarch’s voice,
Cry Havock, and let slip the dogs of war.
Julius Cæsar, act 3. sc. 4.

When the sublime is carried to its due height and circumscribed within proper bounds, it inchants the mind and raises the most delightful of all emotions. The reader, ingrossed by a sublime object, feels himself raised as it were to a higher rank. When such is the case, it is not wonderful that the history of conquerors and heroes should be universally the favourite entertainment. And this fairly accounts for what I once erroneously suspected to be a wrong bias originally in human nature. The grossest acts of oppression and injustice, scarce blemish the character of a great conqueror. We notwithstanding warmly espouse his interest, accompany him in his exploits, and are anxious for his success. The splendor and enthusiasm of the hero transfused into the readers, elevate their minds far above the rules of justice, and render them in a great measure insensible of the wrong that is done:

For in those days might only shall be admir’d
And valour and heroic virtue call’d;
To overcome in battle, and subdue
Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite
Manslaughter, shall be held the highest pitch
Of human glory, and for glory done
Of triumph, to be styl’d great conquerors,
Patrons of mankind, gods, and sons of gods.
Destroyers rightlier called, and plagues of men.
Thus fame shall be atchiev’d, renown on earth,
And what most merits fame in silence hid.
Milton, b. 11.

The attachment we have to things grand or lofty may be thought to proceed from an unwearied inclination we have to be exalted. No desire is more universal than to be respected and honoured. Upon that account chiefly, are we ambitious of power, riches, titles, fame, which would suddenly lose their relish, did they not raise us above others, and command submission and deference[60]. But the preference given to things grand and sublime must have a deeper root in human nature. Many bestow their time upon low and trifling amusements, without showing any desire to be exalted. Yet these very persons talk the same language with the rest of mankind; and at least in their judgement, if not in their taste, prefer the more elevated pleasures. They acknowledge a more refined taste, and are ashamed of their own as low and groveling. This sentiment, constant and universal, must be the work of nature; and it plainly indicates an original attachment in human nature to every object that elevates the mind. Some men may have a greater relish for an object not of the highest rank: but they are conscious of the common nature of man, and that it ought not to be subjected to their peculiar taste.

The irregular influence of grandeur, reaches also to other matters. However good, honest, or useful, a man may be, he is not so much respected, as one of a more elevated character is, though of less integrity; nor do the misfortunes of the former affect us so much as those of the latter. I add, because it cannot be disguised, that the remorse which attends breach of engagement, is in a great measure proportioned to the figure that the injured person makes. The vows and protestations of lovers are an illustrious example of this observation; for these commonly are little regarded when made to women of inferior rank.

What I have said suggests a capital rule for reaching the sublime in such works of art as are susceptible of it; and that is, to put in view those parts or circumstances only which make the greatest figure, keeping out of sight every thing that is low or trivial. Such judicious selection of capital circumstances, is by an eminent critic styled grandeur of manner[61]. The mind, from an elevation inspired by important objects, cannot, without reluctance, be forced down to bestow any share of its attention upon trifles. In none of the fine arts is there so great scope for this rule as in poetry, which, by that means, enjoys a remarkable power of bestowing upon objects and events an air of grandeur. When we are spectators, every minute object presents itself in its order. But in describing at second hand, these are laid aside, and the capital objects are brought close together. A judicious taste in selecting, after this manner, the most interesting incidents to give them an united force, accounts for a fact which at first sight may appear surprising, that we are more moved by a poetical narrative at second hand, than when we are spectators of the event itself in all its circumstanccs.

Longinus exemplifies the foregoing rule by a comparison of two passages[62]. The first from Aristæus is thus translated.

Ye pow’rs, what madness! how on ships so frail
(Tremendous thought!) can thoughtless mortals sail?
For stormy seas they quit the pleasing plain,
Plant woods in waves and dwell amidst the main.
Far o’er the deep (a trackless path) they go,
And wander oceans in pursuit of wo.
No ease their hearts, no rest their eyes can find,
On heaven their looks, and on the waves their mind.
Sunk are their spirits, while their arms they rear,
And gods are wearied with their fruitless prayer.

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

Bursts as a wave that from the cloud impends,
And swell’d with tempests on the ship descends.
White are the decks with foam: the winds aloud
Howl o’er the masts, and sing through every shrowd.
Pale, trembling, tir’d, the sailors freeze with fears,
And instant death on every wave appears.

In the latter passage, the most striking circumstances are selected to fill the mind with the grand and terrible. The former is a collection of minute and low circumstances, which scatter the thought and make no impression. The passage at the same time is full of verbal antitheses and low conceit, extremely improper in a scene of distress. But this last observation is made occasionally only, as it belongs not to the present subject.

The following passage from the twenty-first book of the Odyssey, deviates widely from the rule above laid down. It concerns that part of the history of Penelope and her suitors, in which she is made to declare in favour of him who should prove the most dexterous in shooting with the bow of Ulysses.

Now gently winding up the fair ascent,
By many an easy step, the matron went:
Then o’er the pavement glides with grace divine,
(With polish’d oak the level pavements shine);
The folding gates a dazling light display’d,
With pomp of various architrave o’erlay’d.
The bolt, obedient to the silken string,
Forsakes the staple as she pulls the ring;
The wards respondent to the key turn round;
The bars fall back; the flying valves resound.
Loud as a bull makes hill and valley ring;
So roar’d the lock when it releas’d the spring.
She moves majestic through the wealthy room
Where treasur’d garments cast a rich perfume;
There from the column where aloft it hung,
Reach’d, in its splendid case, the bow unstrung.

Virgil sometimes errs against this rule. In the following passages minute circumstances are brought into full view; and what is still worse, they are described in all the sublimity of poetical description. Æneid, L. 1. l. 214. to 219. L. 6. l. 176. to 182. L. 6. l. 212. to 231. And the last, which is a description of a funeral, is the less excuseable, as it relates to a man who makes no figure in the poem.

The speech of Clytemnestra, descending from her chariot in the Iphigenia of Euripides, beginning of act 3. is stuffed with a number of low, common, and trivial circumstances.

But of all writers Lucan in this article is the most injudicious. The sea-fight betwixt the Romans and Massilians[63], is described so much in detail without exhibiting any grand or general view, that the reader is quite fatigued with endless circumstances, and never feels any degree of elevation. And yet there are some fine incidents, those for example of the two brothers, and of the old man and his son, which, separated from the rest, would affect us greatly. But Lucan once engaged in a description, knows no bounds. See other passages of the same kind, L. 4. l. 292. to 337. L. 4. l. 750. to 765. The episode of the sorceress Erictho, end of book 6. is intolerably minute and prolix.

To these I venture to oppose a passage from an old historical ballad:

Go, little page, tell Hardiknute
That lives on hill so high[64],
To draw his sword, the dread of faes,
And haste to follow me.
The little page flew swift as dart
Flung by his master’s arm.
Come down, come down, Lord Hardiknute,
And rid your king from harm.

This rule is also applicable to other fine arts. In painting it is established, that the principal figure must be put in the strongest light; that the beauty of attitude consists in placing the nobler parts most in view, and in suppressing the smaller parts as much as possible; that the folds of the drapery must be few and large; that foreshortenings are bad, because they make the parts appear little; and that the muscles ought to be kept as entire as possible, without being divided into small sections. Every one at present is sensible of the importance of this rule when applied to gardening, in opposition to the antiquated taste of parterres split into a thousand small parts in the strictest regularity of figure. Those who have succeeded best in architecture, have governed themselves by this rule in all their models.

Another rule chiefly regards the sublime, though it may be applied to every literary performance intended for amusement; and that is, to avoid as much as possible abstract and general terms. Such terms, perfectly well fitted for reasoning and for conveying instruction, serve but imperfectly the ends of poetry. They stand upon the same footing with mathematical signs, contrived to express our thoughts in a concise manner. But images, which are the life of poetry, cannot be raised in any perfection, otherwise than by introducing particular objects. General terms, that comprehend a number of individuals, must be excepted from this rule. Our kindred, our clan, our country, and words of the like import, though they scarce raise any image, have notwithstanding a wonderful power over our passions. The greatness of the complex object over-balances the obscurity of the image.

What I have further to say upon this subject, shall be comprehended in a few observations. A man is capable of being raised so much above his ordinary pitch by an emotion of grandeur, that it is extremely difficult by a single thought or expression to produce that emotion in perfection. The rise must be gradual and the result of reiterated impressions. The effect of a single expression can be but momentary; and if one feel suddenly somewhat like a swelling or exaltation of mind, the emotion vanisheth as soon as felt. Single expressions, I know, are often justly cited as examples of the sublime. But then their effect is nothing compared with a grand subject displayed in its capital parts. I shall give a few examples, that the reader may judge for himself. In the famous action of Thermopylæ, where Leonidas the Spartan King with his chosen band fighting for their country, were cut off to the last man, a saying is reported of Dieneces one of the band, which, expressing chearful and undisturbed bravery, is well intitled to the first place in examples of this kind. Talking of the number of their enemies, it was observed, that the arrows shot by such a multitude would intercept the light of the sun. So much the better, says he; for we shall then fight in the shade[65].

Somerset. Ah! Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are,
We might recover all our loss again.
The Queen from France hath brought a puissant power,
Ev’n now we heard the news. Ah! couldst thou fly!

Warwick. Why, then I would not fly.
Third part, Henry VI. act 5. sc. 3.

Such a sentiment from a man expiring of his wounds, is truly heroic, and must elevate the mind to the greatest height that can be done by a single expression. It will not suffer in a comparison with the famous sentiment Qu’il mourut in Corneille’s Horace. The latter is a sentiment of indignation merely, the former of invincible fortitude.

In opposition to these examples, to cite many a sublime passage, enriched with the finest images, and dressed in the most nervous expressions, would scarce be fair. I shall produce but one instance from Shakespear, which sets a few objects before the eye, without much pomp of language. It works its effect, by representing these objects in a climax, raising the mind higher and higher till it feel the emotion of grandeur in perfection.

The cloud-capt tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve, &c.

The cloud-capt tow’rs produce an elevating emotion, heightened by the gorgeous palaces. And the mind is carried still higher and higher by the images that follow. Successive images, making thus stronger and stronger impressions, must elevate more than any single image can do.

I proceed to another observation. In the chapter of beauty it is remarked, that regularity is required in small figures, and order in small groups; but that in advancing gradually from small to great, regularity and order are less and less required. This remark serves to explain the extreme delight we have in viewing the face of nature, when sufficiently enriched and diversified by objects. The bulk of the objects seen in a natural landscape are beautiful, and some of them grand. A flowing river, a spreading oak, a round hill, an extended plain, are delightful; and even a rugged rock or barren heath, though in themselves disagreeable, contribute by contrast to the beauty of the whole. Joining to these, the verdure of the fields, the mixture of light and shade, and the sublime canopy spread over all; it will not appear wonderful, that so extensive a group of glorious objects should swell the heart to its utmost bounds, and raise the strongest emotion of grandeur. The spectator is conscious of an enthusiasm, which cannot bear confinement nor the strictness of regularity and order. He loves to range at large; and is so inchanted with shining objects, as to neglect slight beauties or defects. Thus it is, that the delightful emotion of grandeur, depends little on order and regularity. And when the emotion is at its height by a survey of the greatest objects, order and regularity are almost totally disregarded.

The same observation is applicable in some measure to works of art. In a small building the slightest irregularity is disagreeable. In a magnificent palace or a large Gothic church, irregularities are less regarded. In an epic poem we pardon many negligences, which would be intolerable in a sonnet or epigram. Notwithstanding such exceptions, it may be justly laid down for a rule, That in all works of art, order and regularity ought to be governing principles. And hence the observation of Longinus[66], “In works of art we have regard to exact proportion; in those of nature, to grandeur and magnificence.”

I shall add but one other observation, That no means can be more successfully employed to sink and depress the mind than grandeur or sublimity. By the artful introduction of an humbling object, the fall is great in proportion to the former elevation. Of this doctrine Shakespear affords us a beautiful illustration, in a passage part of which is cited above for another purpose:

The cloud-capt tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like the baseless fabric of a vision
Leave not a rack behind——
Tempest, act 4. sc. 4.

The elevation of the mind in the former part of this beautiful passage, makes the fall great in proportion when the most humbling of all images is introduced, that of an utter dissolution of the earth and its inhabitants. A sentiment makes not the same impression in a cool state, that it does when the mind is warmed; and a depressing or melancholy sentiment makes the strongest impression, when it brings down the mind from its highest state of elevation or chearfulness.

This indirect effect of elevation to sink the mind, is sometimes produced without the intervention of any humbling image. There was occasion above to remark, that in describing superior beings, the reader’s imagination, unable to support itself in a strained elevation, falls often as from a height, and sinks even below its ordinary tone. The following instance comes luckily in view; for a better illustration cannot be given: “God said, Let there be light, and there was light.” Longinus cites this passage from Moses as a shining example of the sublime; and it is scarce possible in fewer words, to convey so clear an image of the infinite power of the Deity. But then it belongs to the present subject to remark, that the emotion of sublimity raised by this image is but momentary; and that the mind, unable to support itself in an elevation so much above nature, immediately sinks down into humility and veneration for a being so far exalted above us groveling mortals. Every one is acquainted with a dispute about this passage betwixt two French critics[67], the one positively affirming, the other as positively denying, it to be sublime. What I have opened, shows that both of them have reached the truth, but neither of them the whole truth. Every one of taste must be sensible, that the primary effect of this passage is an emotion of grandeur. This so far justifies Boileau. But then every one of taste must be equally sensible, that the emotion is merely a flash, which vanisheth instantly, and gives way to the deepest humility and veneration. This indirect effect of sublimity, justifies Huet on the other hand, who being a man of true piety, and perhaps of inferior imagination, felt the humbling passions more sensibly than his antagonist. And even laying aside any peculiarity of character, Huet’s opinion may I think be defended as the more solid; upon the following account, that in such images, the depressing emotions are the more sensibly felt, and have the longer endurance.

The straining an elevated subject beyond due bounds and beyond the reach of an ordinary conception, is not a vice so frequent as to require the correction of criticism. But false sublime is a rock which writers of more fire than judgement generally split on. And therefore a collection of examples may be of use as a beacon to future adventurers. One species of false sublime, known by the name of bon bast, is common among writers of a mean genius. It is a serious endeavour, by strained description, to raise a low or familiar subject above its rank; which instead of being sublime, never fails to be ridiculous. I am extremely sensible how prone the mind is, in some animating passions, to magnify its objects beyond natural bounds. But such hyperbolical description has its limits. If carried beyond the impulse of the propensity, the colouring no longer pleases: it degenerates into the burlesque. Take the following examples.

Sejanus.———— Great and high
The world knows only two, that’s Rome and I.
My roof receives me not; ’tis air I tread,
And at each step I feel my advanc’d head
Knock out a star in heav’n.
Sejanus, Ben Johnson, act 5.

A writer who has no natural elevation of genius, is extremely apt to deviate into bombast. He strains above his genius; and the violent effort he makes carries him generally beyond the bounds of propriety. Boileau expresses this happily:

L’autre à peur de ramper, il se perd dans la nue[68].

The same author Ben Johnson abounds in the bombast:

—————— The mother,
Th’expulsed Apicata, finds them there;
Whom when she saw lie spread on the degrees,
After a world of fury on herself,
Tearing her hair, defacing of her face,
Beating her breasts and womb, kneeling amaz’d.
Crying to heav’n, then to them; at last
Her drowned voice got up above her woes:
And with such black and bitter execrations,
(As might affright the gods, and force the sun
Run backward to the east; nay, make the old
Deformed Chaos rise again t’ o’erwhelm
Them, us, and all the world) she fills the air,
Upbraids the heavens with their partial dooms,
Defies their tyrannous powers, and demands
What she and those poor innocents have transgress’d,
That they must suffer such a share in vengeance.
Sejanus, act 5. sc. last.

—————— Lentulus, the man,
If all our fire were out, would fetch down new,
Out of the hand of Jove; and rivet him
To Caucasus, should he but frown; and let
His own gaunt eagle fly at him to tire.
Catiline, act 3.

Can these, or such, be any aids to us?
Look they as they were built to shake the world,
Or be a moment to our enterprise?
A thousand, such as they are, could not make
One atom of our souls. They should be men
Worth heaven’s fear, that looking up, but thus,
Would make Jove stand upon his guard, and draw
Himself within his thunder; which, amaz’d,
He should discharge in vain, and they unhurt.
Or, if they were, like Capaneus at Thebes,
They should hang dead upon the highest spires,
And ask the second bolt to be thrown down.
Why Lentulus talk you so long? This time
Had been enough t’ have scatter’d all the stars,
T’ have quench’d the sun and moon, and made the world
Despair of day, or any light but ours.
Catiline, act 4.

This is the language of a madman:

Guilford. Give way, and let the gushing torrent come,
Behold the tears we bring to swell the deluge,
Till the flood rise upon the guilty world
And make the ruin common.
Lady Jane Gray, act 4. near the end.

Another species of false sublime, is still more faulty than bombast; and that is, to force an elevation by introducing imaginary beings without preserving any propriety in their actions; as if it were lawful to ascribe every extravagance and inconsistence to beings of the poet’s creation. No writers are more licentious in this article than Johnson and Dryden.

Methinks I see Death and the furies waiting
What we will do, and all the heaven at leisure
For the great spectacle. Draw then your swords:
And if our destiny envy our virtue
The honour of the day, yet let us care
To sell ourselves at such a price, as may
Undo the world to buy us, and make Fate,
While she tempts ours, to fear her own estate.
Catiline, act 5.

—————— The furies stood on hills
Circling the place, and trembled to see men
Do more than they: whilst Piety left the field,
Griev’d for that side, that in so bad a cause
They knew not what a crime their valour was.
The Sun stood still, and was, behind the cloud
The battle made, seen sweating to drive up
His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward.
Ibid. act. 5.

Osmyn. While we indulge our common happiness,
He is forgot by whom we all possess,
The brave Almanzor, to whose arms we owe
All that we did, and all that we shall do;
Who like a tempest that outrides the wind,
Made a just battle ere the bodies join’d.

Abdalla. His victories we scarce could keep in view,
Or polish ’em so fast as he rough drew.

Abdemelech. Fate after him below with pain did move,
And Victory could scarce keep pace above.
Death did at length so many slain forget,
And lost the tale, and took ’em by the great.
Conquest of Granada, act. 2. at beginning.

The gods of Rome fight for ye; loud Fame calls ye,
Pitch’d on the topless Apenine, and blows
To all the under world, all nations,
The seas and unfrequented deserts, where the snow dwells,
Wakens the ruin’d monuments, and there
Where nothing but eternal death and sleep is,
Informs again the dead bones.
Beaumont and Fletcher, Bonduca, act. 3. sc. 3.

I close with the following observation, That an actor upon the stage may be guilty of bombast as well as an author in his closet. A certain manner of acting, which is grand when supported by dignity in the sentiment and force in the expression, is ridiculous where the sentiment is mean, and the expression flat.

CHAP. V.

Motion and Force.

THat motion is agreeable to the eye without relation to purpose or design, may appear from the amusement it gives to infants. Juvenile exercises are relished chiefly upon that account.

If to see a body in motion be agreeable, one will be apt to conclude, that to see it at rest is disagreeable. But we learn from experience, that this would be a rash conclusion. Rest is one of those circumstances that are neither agreeable nor disagreeable. It is viewed with perfect indifferency. And happy it is for mankind that the matter is so ordered. If rest were agreeable, it would disincline us to motion, by which all things are performed. If it were disagreeable, it would be a source of perpetual uneasiness; for the bulk of the things we see appear to be at rest. A similar instance of designing wisdom I have had occasion to explain, in opposing grandeur to littleness, and elevation to lowness of place[69]. Even in the simplest matters, the finger of God is conspicuous. The happy adjustment of the internal nature of man to his external circumstances, displayed in the instances here given, is indeed admirable.

Motion is certainly agreeable in all its varieties of quickness and slowness. But motion long continued admits some exceptions. That degree of continued motion which corresponds to the natural course of our perceptions, is the most agreeable[70]. The quickest motion is for an instant delightful. But it soon appears to be too rapid. It becomes painful, by forcibly accelerating the course of our perceptions. Slow continued motion becomes disagreeable for an opposite reason, that it retards the natural course of our perceptions.

There are other varieties in motion, beside quickness and slowness, that make it more or less agreeable. Regular motion is preferred before what is irregular, witness the motion of the planets in orbits nearly circular. The motion of the comets in orbits less regular, is less agreeable.

Motion uniformly accelerated, resembling an ascending series of numbers, is more agreeable than when uniformly retarded. Motion upward is agreeable by the elevation of the moving body. What then shall we say of downward motion regularly accelerated by the force of gravity, compared with upward motion regularly retarded by the same force? Which of these is the most agreeable? This question is not easily solved.

Motion in a straight line is no doubt agreeable. But we prefer undulating motion, as of waves, of a flame, of a ship under sail. Such motion is more free, and also more natural. Hence the beauty of a serpentine river.

The easy and sliding motion of fluids, from the lubricity and incoherence of their parts, is agreeable upon that account. But the agreeableness chiefly depends upon the following circumstance, that the motion is perceived, not as of one body, but as of an endless number moving together with order and regularity. Poets struck with this beauty, draw more images from fluids than from solids.

Force is of two kinds; one quiescent, and one exerted by motion. The former, dead weight for example, must be laid aside; for a body at rest is not by that circumstance either agreeable or disagreeable. Moving force only belongs to the present subject; and though it is not separable from motion, yet by the power of abstraction, either of them may be considered independent of the other. Both of them are agreeable, because both of them include activity. It is agreeable to see a thing move: to see it moved, as when it is dragged or pushed along, is neither agreeable nor disagreeable, more than when at rest. It is agreeable to see a thing exert force; but it makes not the thing either agreeable or disagreeable, to see force exerted upon it.

Though motion and force are each of them agreeable, the impressions they make are different. This difference, clearly felt, is not easily described. All we can say is, that the emotion raised by a moving body, resembles its cause: it feels as if the mind were carried along. The emotion raised by force exerted, resembles also its cause: it feels as if force were exerted within the mind.

To illustrate this difference, I give the following examples. It has been explained why smoke ascending in a calm day, suppose from a cottage in a wood, is an agreeable object[71]. Landscape-painters are fond of this object, and introduce it upon all occasions. As the ascent is natural and without effort, it is delightful in a calm state of mind. It makes an impression of the same sort with that of a gently-flowing river, but more agreeable, because ascent is more to our taste than descent. A fire-work or a jet d’eau rouses the mind more; because the beauty of force visibly exerted, is superadded to that of upward motion. To a man reclining indolently upon a bank of flowers, ascending smoke in a still morning is delightful. But a fire-work or a jet d’eau rouses him from this supine posture, and puts him in motion.

A jet d’eau makes an impression distinguishable from that of a water-fall. Downward motion being natural and without effort, tends rather to quiet the mind than to rouse it. Upward motion, on the contrary, overcoming the resistance of gravity, makes an impression of a great effort, and thereby rouses and enlivens the mind.

The public games of the Greeks and Romans, which gave so much entertainment to the spectators, consisted chiefly in exerting force, wrestling, leaping, throwing great stones, and such like trials of strength. When great force is exerted, the effort felt within the mind produces great life and vivacity. The effort may be such, as in some measure to overpower the mind. Thus the explosion of gun-powder, the violence of a torrent, the weight of a mountain, and the crush of an earthquake, create astonishment rather than pleasure.

No quality nor circumstance contributes more to grandeur than force, especially as exerted by sensible beings. I cannot make this more evident than by the following citations.

—————— Him the almighty power
Hurl’d headlong flaming from th’ ethereal sky,
With hideous ruin and combustion, down
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Who durst defy th’ Omnipotent to arms.
Paradise Lost, book 1.

—————— Now storming fury rose,
And clamour such as heard in heaven till now
Was never; arms on armour clashing bray’d
Horrible discord, and the madding wheels
Of brazen chariots rag’d; dire was the noise
Of conflict; over head the dismal hiss
Of fiery darts in flaming vollies flew,
And flying vaulted either host with fire.
So under fiery cope together rush’d
Both battles main, with ruinous assault
And inextinguishable rage: all heav’n
Resounded; and had earth been then, all earth
Had to her centre shook.
Ibid, book 6.

They ended parle, and both address’d for fight
Unspeakable; for who, though with the tongue
Of angels, can relate, or to what things
Liken on earth conspicuous, that may lift
Human imagination to such height
Of godlike pow’r? for likest gods they seem’d,
Stood they or mov’d, in stature, motion, arms,
Fit to decide the empire of great Heav’n.
Now wav’d their fiery swords, and in the air
Made horrid circles: two broad suns their shields
Blaz’d opposite, while Expectation stood
In horror: from each hand with speed retir’d,
Where erst was thickest fight, th’ angelic throng,
And left large field, unsafe within the wind
Of such commotion; such as, to set forth
Great things by small, if Nature’s concord broke,
Among the constellations war were sprung,
Two planets, rushing from aspéct malign
Of fiercest opposition, in mid sky,
Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound.
Ibid, book 6.

We shall now consider the effect of motion and force in conjunction. In contemplating the planetary system, what strikes us the most, is the spherical figures of the planets and their regular motions. The conception we have of their activity and enormous bulk is more obscure. The beauty accordingly of this system, raises a more lively emotion than its grandeur. But if we could imagine ourselves spectators comprehending the whole system at one view, the activity and irresistible force of these immense bodies would fill us with amazement. Nature cannot furnish another scene so grand.

Motion and force, agreeable in themselves, are also agreeable by their utility when employed as means to accomplish some beneficial end. Hence the superior beauty of some machines, where force and motion concur to perform the work of numberless hands. Hence the beautiful motions, firm and regular, of a horse trained for war. Every single step is the fittest that can be for obtaining the end proposed. But the grace of motion is visible chiefly in man, not only for the reasons mentioned, but also because every gesture is significant. The power however of agreeable motion is not a common talent. Every limb of the human body has a good and a bad, an agreeable and disagreeable action. Some motions are extremely graceful, others are plain and vulgar: some express dignity, others meanness. But the pleasure here, arising not singly from the beauty of motion, but from indicating character and sentiment, belongs to a different chapter[72].

I should conclude with the final cause of the relish we have for motion and force, were it not so evident as to require no explanation. We are placed here in such circumstances as to make industry essential to our well-being; for without industry the plainest necessaries of life are not to be obtained. When our situation therefore in this world requires activity and a constant exertion of motion and force, Providence indulgently provides for our welfare in making these agreeable to us. It would be a blunder in our nature, to make things disagreeable that we depend on for existence; and even to make them indifferent, would tend to make us relax greatly from that degree of activity which is indispensable.

CHAP. VI.

Novelty, and the unexpected appearance of objects.

OF all the particulars that contribute to raise emotions, not excepting beauty, or even greatness, novelty hath the most powerful influence. A new spectacle attracts multitudes. It produceth instantaneously an emotion which totally occupies the mind, and for a time excludes all other objects. The soul seems to meet the strange appearance with a certain elongation of itself; and all is hushed in close contemplation. In some instances, there is perceived a degree of agony, attended with external symptoms extremely expressive. Conversation among the vulgar never is more interesting, than when it runs upon strange objects and extraordinary events. Men tear themselves from their native country in search of things rare and new; and curiosity converts into a pleasure, the fatigues, and even perils of travelling. To what cause shall we ascribe these singular appearances? The plain account of the matter follows. Curiosity is implanted in human nature, for a purpose extremely beneficial, that of acquiring knowledge. New and strange objects, above all others, excite our curiosity; and its gratification is the emotion above described, known by the name of wonder. This emotion is distinguished from admiration. Novelty where-ever found, whether in a quality or action, is the cause of wonder: admiration is directed upon the operator who performs any thing wonderful.

During infancy, every new object is probably the occasion of wonder, in some degree; because, during infancy, every object at first is strange as well as new. But as objects are rendered familiar by custom, we cease by degrees to wonder at new appearances that have any resemblance to what we are acquainted with. A thing must be singular as well as new, to excite our curiosity and to raise our wonder. To save multiplying words, I would be understood to comprehend both circumstances when I hereafter talk of novelty.

In an ordinary train of perceptions where one thing introduces another, not a single object makes its appearance unexpectedly[73]. The mind thus prepared for the reception of its objects, admits them one after another without perturbation. But when a thing breaks in unexpectedly and without the preparation of any connection, it raises a singular emotion known by the name of surprise. This emotion may be produced by the most familiar object, as when one accidentally meets a friend who was reported to be dead; or a man in high life, lately a beggar. On the other hand, a new object, however strange, will not produce this emotion if the spectator be prepared for the fight. An elephant in India will not surprise a traveller who goes to see one; and yet its novelty will raise his wonder. An Indian in Britain would be much surprised to stumble upon an elephant feeding at large in the open fields; but the creature itself, to which he was accustomed, would not raise his wonder.

Surprise thus in several respects differs from wonder. Unexpedtedness is the cause of the former emotion: novelty is the cause of the latter. Nor differ they less in their nature and circumstances, as will be explained by and by. With relation to one circumstance they perfectly agree, which is the shortness of their duration. The instantaneous production of these emotions in perfection, may contribute to this effect, in conformity to a general law, That things soon decay which soon come to perfection. The violence of the emotions may also contribute; for an ardent emotion, which is not susceptible of increase, cannot have a long course. But their short duration is occasioned chiefly by that of their causes. We are soon reconciled to an object, however unexpected; and novelty soon degenerates into familiarity.

Whether these emotions be pleasant or painful, is not a clear point. It may appear strange, that our own feelings and their capital qualities should afford any matter for a doubt. But when we are ingrossed by any emotion, there is no place for speculation; and when sufficiently calm for speculation, it is not easy to recal the emotion with sufficient accuracy. New objects are sometimes terrible, sometimes delightful. The terror which a tyger inspires is greatest at first, and wears off gradually by familiarity. On the other hand, even women will acknowledge, that it is novelty which pleases the most in a new fashion. At this rate, it should be thought, that wonder is not in itself pleasant or painful, but that it assumes either quality according to circumstances. This doctrine, however plausible, must not pass without examination. And when we reflect upon the principle of curiosity and its operations, a glimpse of light gives some faint view of a different theory. Our curiosity is never more thoroughly gratified, than by new and singular objects. That very gratification is the emotion of wonder, which therefore, according to the analogy of nature, ought always to be pleasant[74]. And indeed it would be a great defect in human nature, were the gratification of so useful a principle unpleasant. But upon a more strict scrutiny, we shall not have occasion to mark curiosity as an exception from the general rule. A new object, it is true, that hath a threatening appearance, adds to our terror by its novelty. But from this experiment it doth not follow, that novelty is in itself disagreeable. It is perfectly consistent, that we should be delighted with an object in one view, and terrified with it in another. A river in flood swelling over its banks, is a grand and delightful object; and yet it may produce no small degree of fear when we attempt to cross it. Courage and magnanimity are agreeable; and yet when we view these qualities in an enemy, they serve to increase our terror[75]. In the same manner, novelty has two effects clearly distinguishable from each other. A new object, by gratifying curiosity, must always be agreeable. It may, at the same time, have an opposite effect indirectly, which is, to inspire terror. For when a new object appears in any degree dangerous, our ignorance of its powers and qualities affords ample scope for the imagination to dress it in the most frightful colours[76]. Thus the first sight of a lion at some distance, may at the same instant produce two opposite feelings, the pleasant emotion of wonder, and the painful passion of terror. The novelty of the object, produces the former directly, and contributes to the latter indirectly. Thus, when the subject is analized, we find, that the power which novelty hath indirectly to inflame terror, is perfectly consistent with its being in every case agreeable. The matter may be put in a still clearer light by varying the scene. If a lion be first seen from a place of safety, the spectacle is altogether agreeable without the least mixture of terror. If again the first sight put us within reach of this dangerous animal, our terror may be so great as quite to exclude any sense of novelty. But this fact proves not that wonder is painful: it proves only that wonder may be excluded by a more powerful passion. And yet it is this fact, which, in superficial thinking, has thrown the subject into obscurity. I presume we may now boldly affirm, that wonder is in every case a pleasant emotion. This is acknowledged as to all new objects that appear inoffensive. And even as to objects that appear offensive, I urge that the same must hold so long as the spectator can attend to the novelty.

Whether surprise be in itself pleasant or painful, is a question not less intricate than the former. It is certain, that surprise inflames our joy when unexpectedly we meet with an old friend: and not less our terror, when we stumble upon any thing noxious. To clear this point, we must trace it step by step. And the first thing to be remarked is, that in some instances an unexpected object overpowers the mind so as to produce a momentary stupefaction. An unexpected object, not less than one that is new, is apt to sound an alarm and to raise terror. Man, naturally a defenceless being, is happily so constituted as to apprehend danger in all doubtful cases. Accordingly, where the object is dangerous, or appears so, the sudden alarm it gives, without preparation, is apt totally to unhinge the mind, and for a moment to suspend all the faculties, even thought itself[77]. In this state a man is quite helpless; and if he move at all, is as likely to run upon the danger as from it. Surprise carried to this height, cannot be either pleasant or painful; because the mind, during such momentary stupefaction, is in a good measure, if not totally, insensible.

If we then inquire for the character of this emotion, it must be where 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.

INDEX to Volume I.

[The volumes are denoted by numeral letters, the pages by figures.]

Abstract idea) defined iii. 402.
Abstract ideas of different kinds iii. 403.
Abstraction) power of iii. 401.
Its use iii. 402. 403.
Abstract terms) ought to be avoided in poetry i. 294. iii. 198.
Cannot be compared but by being personified iii. 6.
Personified iii. 65.
Defined iii. 402.
The use of abstract terms iii. 405.
Accent) defined ii. 361.
The musical accents that are necessary in an hexameter line ii. 376.
A low word must not be accented ii. 405.
Rules for accenting English heroic verse ii. 415.
How far affected by the pause ii. 422. &c.
Accent and pause have a mutual influence ii. 428.
Action) what feelings are raised by human actions i. 48. 49. 276.
We are impelled to action by desire i. 55.
Some actions are ultimate, some are means leading to an end i. 57.
Actions great and elevated, low and groveling i. 276.
Emotions occasioned by propriety of action ii. 13.
Occasioned by impropriety of action ii. 14.
Human actions produce a great variety of emotions ii. 28.
Human actions considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 35.
We are conscious of internal action as in the head iii. 377.
Internal action may exist without our being conscious of it iii. 377.
Actor) bombast action i. 308.
An actor ought to feel the passion he represents ii. 153.
Admiration) defined i. 320.
Affectation) defined ii. 11.
Affection) to children accounted for i. 82.
To blood-relations accounted for i. 83.
To property accounted for i. 84.
Affection to children endures longer than any other affection i. 150.
Opinion and belief influenced by affection i. 199.
Affection defined ii. 87. iii. 394.
Agamemnon) of Seneca censured ii. 193.
Agreeable emotions and passions i. 127. &c.
Alcestes) of Euripides censured iii. 286. 289.
Alexandre of Racine) censured ii. 177.
Allegory iii. 108. &c.
More difficult in painting than in poetry iii. 129.
In an historical poem iii. 248.
All for Love) of Dryden censured ii. 202.
Ambiguity) occasioned by a wrong arrangement ii. 297.
Amynta) of Tasso censured ii. 167.
_Amor patriæ_) accounted for i. 88.
Amphibrachys ii. 460.
Amphimacer ii. 460.
Analytic) and synthetic methods of reasoning compared i. 31.
Anapæstus ii. 460.
Anger) explained i. 95. &c.
Sometimes exerted against the innocent i. 191.
And even against things inanimate i. 191.
Not infectious i. 221.
Has no dignity in it ii. 33.
Animals) distributed by nature into classes iii. 356.
Antibacchius ii. 460.
Anticlimax ii. 345.
Antispastus ii. 461.
Antithesis ii. 73. 262.
Verbal antithesis ii. 268.
Apostrophe iii. 87. &c.
Appearance) in poetry, things ought to be described as they appear,
not as they are in reality iii. 172.
Appetite) defined i. 59.
Appetites of hunger, thirst, animal love, arise without an object i. 73.
Appetite for fame or esteem i. 237.
Architecture ch. 24. iii. 294.
Grandeur of manner in architecture i. 294.
The situation of a great house ought to be lofty ii. 7.
A playhouse or a music-room susceptible of much ornament ii. 9.
What emotions can be raised by architecture iii. 297.
Its emotions compared with those of gardening iii. 297.
Every building ought to have an expression suited to its
destination iii. 298. 338.
Simplicity ought to be the governing taste iii. 300.
Regularity ought to be studied iii. 301.
External form of dwelling-houses iii. 324.
Divisions within iii. 324. 340.
A palace ought to be regular, but in a small house convenience ought chiefly
to be studied iii. 326.
The form of a dwelling-house ought to be suited to the climate iii. 327.
Propriety ought to be studied in architecture iii. 338.
Governed by principles which produce opposite effects iii. 342.
Different ornaments employed by it iii. 342.
Allegorical or emblematic ornaments iii. 347.
Architecture inspires a taste for neatness and regularity iii. 350.
Architrave iii. 344.
Ariosto) censured iii. 264.
Aristæus) the episode of Aristæus in the Georgics censured ii. 457.
Army) defined iii. 405.
Arrangement) the best arrangement of words is to place them as
much as possible in an increasing series ii. 251.
Articulate sounds) how far agreeable to the ear ii. 240.
Artificial mount iii. 313.
Ascent) pleasant, but descent not painful i. 273.
Athalie) of Racine censured ii. 193.
Attention) defined iii. 396.
Impression which objects make depends on the degree of attention iii. 396.
Attention not always voluntary iii. 398.
Attractive emotions ii. 133.
Attractive object i. 226.
Attributes) transferred from one subject: to another iii. 100. &c.
Avarice) defined i. 52.
Avenue) to a house iii. 312.
Aversion) defined ii. 87. iii. 395.
Bacchius ii. 460.
Barren scene) defined iii. 266.
Base) of a column iii. 346.
Basso-relievo iii. 347.
Batrachomuomachia) censured ii. 42.
Beauty, ch. 3. i. 241.
Intrinsic and relative i. 244.
Beauty of simplicity i. 247.
of figure i. 248.
of the circle i. 251.
of the square i. 251.
of a regular polygon i. 252.
of a parallelogram i. 252.
of an equilateral triangle i. 253.
Beauty, whether a primary or secondary quality of objects i. 260.
Distinguished from congruity ii. 8.
Great beauty seldom produces a constant lover ii. 101.
Beauty proper and figurative iii. 388.
Belief) fortified by a lively narrative or a good historical painting i. 122.
influenced by passion i. 196. iii. 55. 89
influenced by propensity i. 199.
influenced by affection i. 199.
Benevolence) joins with self-love to make us happy i. 228.
inspired by gardening iii. 320.
Blank verse ii. 381. 435.
Its aptitude for inversion ii. 438.
Its melody ii. 439. &c.
Body) defined iii. 406.
Boileau) censured iii. 242.
Bombast i. 303.
Bombast in action i. 308.
Burlesk) machinery does well in a burlesk poem i. 125.
Burlesk distinguished into two kinds ii. 41.
Cadence ii. 348. 362.
Capital) of a column iii. 346.
Careless Husband) its double plot well contrived iii. 253.
Cascade i. 314.
Cause) resembling causes may produce effects that have
no resemblance: and causes that have no
resemblance may produce resembling effects ii. 337. &c.
Cause defined iii. 406.
Chance) the mind revolts against misfortunes that happen by chance iii. 232.
Character) to draw a character is the master-piece of description iii. 182.
Characteristics) of Shaftesbury criticised ii. 10. Note.
Children) love to them accounted for i. 82.
Chinese gardens iii. 316.
Wonder and surprise studied in them iii. 319.
Choreus ii. 459.
Choriambus ii. 461.
Chorus) an essential part of the Grecian tragedy iii. 270.
Church) what ought to be its form and situation iii. 338.
Cicero) censured ii. 329. 350.
Cid) of Corneille censured ii. 166. 198.
Cinna) of Corneille censured ii. 11. 161. 194.
Circle) its beauty i. 251.
Circumstances) in a period, how they ought to be arranged ii. 314. &c.
Class) all living creatures distributed into classes iii. 356.
Climax) in sense i. 281. ii. 322.
in sound ii. 252.
Coephores) of Eschylus censured ii. 114.
Coexistent) emotions and passions i. 151. &c.
Colonnade) where proper iii. 327.
Colour) a secondary quality i. 259.
Columns) every column ought to have a base i. 218.
The base ought to be square i. 218. 219.
Columns admit different proportions iii. 332.
What emotions they raise iii. 339.
Column more beautiful than a pilaster iii. 344.
Its form iii. 346.
Comedy) double plot in a comedy iii. 253.
Commencement) the commencement of a work ought
to be modest and simple iii. 171.
Common nature) in every species of animals iii, 356.
We have a conviction that this common nature is perfect or right iii. 357.
Also that it is invariable iii. 357.
Common sense iii. 359. 373.
Comparison i. 346. &c. Ch. 19. iii. 3.
Comparisons that resolve into a play of words iii. 42.
Complex emotion i. 152. 154. 155.
Complex perception iii. 383.
Complexion) white suits with a pale complexion,
black with a dark complexion, and scarlet
with one that is over-flushed i. 369.
Conception) defined iii. 379.
Concord) or harmony in objects of sight i. 156.
Concordant sounds) defined i. 151.
Congreve) censured iii. 258.
Congruity and propriety, ch. 10. ii. 3.
Congruity distinguished from beauty ii. 8.
distinguished from propriety ii. 8.
Congruity coincides with proportion with respect to quantity ii. 19.
Connection) necessary in all compositions i. 34.
Conquest of Granada) of Dryden censured ii. 201.
Consonants ii. 239.
Constancy) great beauty the cause generally of inconstancy ii. 101.
Construction) of language explained ii. 285.
Contempt) raised by improper action i. 340.
Contrast i. 345. &c.
Its effect in gardening iii. 317.
Conviction) intuitive. _See_ Intuitive conviction.
Copulative) to drop the copulatives enlivens the expression ii. 281. &c.
Coriolanus) of Shakespear censured ii. 200.
Corneille) censured ii. 159. 216.
Corporeal pleasure i. 1. 2.
low and sometimes mean ii. 32.
Couplet ii. 381.
Courage) of greater dignity than justice. Why? ii. 31.
Creticus ii. 460.
Criminal) the hour of execution seems to him
to approach with a swift pace i. 202.
Criticism) its advantages i. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.
its terms not accurately defined ii. 139.
Crowd) defined iii. 404.
Curiosity i. 320. 345. &c.
Custom and habit, ch. 14. ii. 81.
Custom distinguished from habit ii. 82.
Dactyle ii. 364. &c. 460.
Declensions) explained ii. 288. 289.
Delicacy) of taste i. 136.
Derision ii. 16.
Descent) not painful i. 273.
Description) it animates a description to
represent things past as present i. 118.
The rules which ought to govern it iii. 169. &c.
A lively description is agreeable, though
the subject described be disagreeable iii. 208.
Description cannot reach any object but
those of sight iii. 385.
Descriptive personification iii. 64.
Descriptive tragedy ii. 155.
Desire) defined i. 55.
It impels us to action i. 55.
It determines the will i. 222.
Desire in a criminal of self-punishment i. 232.
Desire tends the most to happiness when moderate i. 263.
Dialogue) dialogue-writing requires great genius ii. 151. 152. 153.
In dialogue every expression ought to be suited
to the character of the speaker iii. 196.
Rules for its composition iii. 256.
Dignity and meanness, ch. 11. ii. 27.
Dignity of human nature iii. 361.
Diianibus ii. 461.
Disagreeable emotions and passions i. 127. &c.
Discordant sounds) defined i. 152.
Dispondeus ii. 461.
Disposition) defined iii. 394.
Dissimilar emotions i. 153.
Their effects when co-existent i. 159. iii. 303. 337.
Dissimilar passions) their effects i. 171.
Dissocial passions i. 62.
Dissocial passions all painful i. 131.
and also disagreeable i. 134.
Ditrochæus ii. 461.
Door) its proportion iii. 322.
Double action) in an epic poem iii. 264.
Double-dealer) of Congreve censured ii. 193. iii. 266.
Double plot) in a dramatic composition iii. 251.
Drama) ancient and modern drama compared iii. 280.
Dramatic poetry iii. 218. &c.
Drapery ought to hang loose i. 219.
Dress) rules about dress ii. 10. iii. 300.
Dryden) censured iii. 128. 257. 267.
Duties) moral duties of two kinds, respecting
ourselves and respecting others ii. 20.
Foundation of duties that respect ourselves ii. 21.
Of those that respect others ii. 21.
Effects) resembling effects may be produced by causes
that have no resemblance ii. 337. &c.
Effect defined iii. 406.
Electra) of Sophocles censured ii. 115.
Elevation i. 264. &c.
real and figurative intimately connected i. 279.
Figurative elevation distinguished from figurative grandeur iii. 21. 22.
Emotion) no pleasure of external sense except
of seeing and hearing is termed an _emotion_ or _passion_ i. 42.
Emotions defined i. 46. 47.
and their causes assigned i. 47. &c.
Emotion distinguished from passion i. 52. &c.
Emotions generated by relations i. 76. &c.
Primary, secondary i. 81.
Raised by fiction i. 104. &c.
Division of emotions into pleasant and painful,
agreeable and disagreeable i. 127. &c. iii. 387.
The interrupted existence of emotions i. 139. &c.
Their growth and decay i. 139. &c.
Their identity i. 141.
Co-existent emotions i. 151. &c.
Emotions similar and dissimilar i. 153.
Complex emotion i. 154. 155.
Effects of similar emotions when co-existent i. 155. iii. 336.
Effects of dissimilar emotions when co-existent i. 159. iii. 303. 337.
Emotions resemble their causes i. 217. &c.
Emotion of grandeur i. 266. &c.
of sublimity i. 269.
A low emotion i. 276.
Emotion of laughter i. 337.
of ridicule i. 341.
Emotions when contrasted ought not to be too slow
or too quick in their succession i. 373.
Emotions raised by the fine arts ought to be
contrasted in succession i. 374.
Emotion of congruity ii. 12.
of propriety ii. 12.
Emotions produced by human actions ii. 28.
Emotions ranked according to their dignity ii. 32.
External signs of emotions ch. 15. ii. 116.
Attractive and repulsive emotions ii. 133.
Emotion and passions expanded upon related objects
i. 76. &c. ii. 312. &c. 336. 372. 415. 416. iii. 60. &c. 139. 140.
Gratification of emotions i. 183. &c. 203. 358. iii. 98.
What emotions do best in succession, what in conjunction iii. 302.
Man is passive with regard to his emotions iii. 377.
We are conscious of emotions as in the heart iii. 377.
Emphasis) must not be put upon a low word ii. 405.
Eneid) its unity of action iii. 263.
English plays) generally irregular iii. 292.
English tongue) too rough ii. 247.
It is peculiarly qualified for personification iii. 63. Note.
Envy) defined i. 55.
It magnifies every bad quality in its object i. 187.
Epic poem) no improbable fact ought to be admitted in it i. 124.
Machinery in it has a bad effect i. 125.
It doth not always reject ludicrous images i. 378.
We pardon many faults in it which are intolerable
in a sonnet or epigram i. 299.
Its commencement ought to be modest and simple iii. 171.
In what respect it differs from a tragedy iii. 218.
Distinguished into pathetic and moral iii. 221.
Its good effects iii. 223.
Compared with tragedy as to the subjects proper for each iii. 225.
How far it may borrow from history iii. 234.
Rule for dividing it into parts iii. 236.
Epic poetry ch. 22. iii. 218.
Episode) in an historical poem iii. 250.
Epistles dedicatory) censured ii. 6. Note.
Epithets) redundant iii. 206.
Epitritus ii. 462.
Esteem) love of i. 237. 286.
Esther) of Racine censured ii. 193. 198.
Evergreens) cut in the shape of animals iii. 309.
Expression) elevated, low i. 276.
Expression that has no distinct meaning ii. 232.
Two members of a sentence which express a resemblance
betwixt two objects ought to have a resemblance to
each other ii. 270. &c.
External senses) distinguished into two kinds i. I.
External sense iii. 375.
External signs) of emotions and passions ch. 15. ii. 116.
External signs of passion, what emotions they
raise in a spectator ii. 131. &c.
Faculty) by which we know passion from its external signs ii. 136.
Fairy Queen) criticised iii. 120.
False quantity) painful to the ear ii. 386.
Fame) love of i. 237.
Fashion) its influence accounted for i. 80.
Fashion is in a continual flux i. 256.
Fear) explained i. 95. &c.
rises often to its utmost pitch in an instant i. 148.
is infectious i. 221.
Feeling) its different significations iii. 379.
Fiction) emotions raised by fiction i. 104. &c.
Figure) beauty of i. 248.
Definition of a regular figure iii. 389.
Figures) some passions favourable to figurative expression ii. 208.
Figures ch. 20. iii. 53.
Figure of speech iii. 70. 113. 136. &c.
Final cause) of our sense of order and connection i. 41.
of the sympathetic emotion of virtue i. 74.
of the instinctive passion of fear i. 96. 97.
of the instinctive passion of anger i. 103.
of ideal presence i. 121.
of the power that fiction has on the mind i. 126.
of emotions and passions i. 222. &c.
of regularity, uniformity, order, and simplicity i. 249. 251.
of proportion i. 250.
of beauty i. 262.
why certain objects are neither pleasant nor painful i. 272. 309.
of the pleasure we have in motion and force i. 318.
of curiosity i. 320.
of wonder i. 335.
of surprise i. 336.
of the principle that prompts us to perfect every work i. 366.
of the pleasure or pain that results from the different
circumstances of a train of perceptions i. 397. &c.
of congruity and propriety ii. 18. &c.
of dignity and meanness ii. 35. &c.
of habit ii. 106. &c.
of the external signs of passion and emotion ii. 127. 137. &c.
why articulate sounds singly agreeable are always
agreeable in conjunction ii. 241.
of the pleasure we have in language iii. 208.
of our relish for various proportions in quantity iii. 333.
of our conviction of a common standard in every species of beings iii. 362.
of uniformity of taste in the fine arts iii. 363. 364.
why the sense of a right and a wrong in the fine arts is less
clear and authoritative than the sense of a
right and a wrong in actions iii. 368.
Fine arts) defined i. 6. 7. 16.
a subject of reasoning i. 8.
Their emotions ought to be contrasted in succession i. 374.
considered with respect to dignity ii. 34.
How far they may be regulated by custom ii. 108.
None of them are imitative but painting and sculpture ii. 234.
Aberrations from a true taste
in these arts iii. 366.
Who are qualified to be judges in the fine arts iii. 371.
Fluid) motion of fluids i. 311.
Foot) a list of verse feet ii. 459.
Force) produces a feeling that resembles it i. 218.
Force i. 309. &c.
Moving force i. 312.
The pleasure of force differs from that of motion i. 313.
It contributes to grandeur i. 315.
Foreign) preference given to foreign curiosities i. 331.
Fountains) in what form they ought to be iii. 313.
Friendship) considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 33.
Games) public games of the Greeks i. 314.
Gardening) grandeur of manner in gardening i. 294.
Its emotions ought to be contrasted in succession i. 375.
A small garden ought to be confined to a single expression i. 376.
A garden near a great city ought to have an air of solitude i. 376.
A garden in a wild country ought to be gay and splendid i. 377.
Gardening ch. 24. iii. 294.
What emotions can be raised by it iii. 296.
Its emotions compared with those of architecture iii. 297.
Simplicity ought to be the governing taste iii. 300.
Wherein the unity of a garden consists iii. 304.
How far ought regularity to be studied in it iii. 305.
Resemblance carried too far in it iii. 305. Note.
Grandeur in gardening iii. 306.
Every unnatural object ought to be rejected iii. 308.
Distant and faint imitations displease iii. 309.
The effect of giving play to the imagination iii. 318.
Gardening
inspires benevolence iii. 320.
and contributes to rectitude of manners iii. 350.
General idea) there cannot be such a thing iii. 383. Note.
General terms) ought to be avoided in compositions for amusement iii. 198.
General theorems) why they are agreeable i. 255.
Generic habit) defined ii. 95.
Generosity) why of greater dignity than justice ii. 31.
Genus) defined iii. 399.
Gestures) that accompany the different passions ii. 120. 121. 125.
_Gierusalleme liberata_) censured iii. 242. 249.
Good nature) why of less dignity than courage or generosity ii. 31.
Gothic tower) its beauty iii. 324.
Government) natural foundation of submission to government i. 236.
Grandeur) demands not strict regularity i. 257. 298.
Grandeur and sublimity Ch. 4. i. 264.
Real and figurative grandeur intimately connected i. 279.
Grandeur of manner i. 288.
Grandeur may be employed indirectly to humble the mind i. 300.
Suits ill with wit and ridicule i. 377.
Figurative grandeur distinguished from figurative elevation iii. 21. 22.
Grandeur in gardening iii. 306.
Regularity and proportion hide the grandeur of a building iii. 342.
Gratification) of passion i. 58. 59. 65. 66. 66. 183. &c. 203. 358. iii. 98.
Gratitude) exerted upon the children of the benefactor i. 187.
Punishment of ingratitude ii. 25.
Gratitude
considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 33.
Grief) magnifies its cause i. 190.
occasions a false reckoning of time i. 211.
is infectious i. 220.
when immoderate is silent ii. 204.
Gross pleasure i. 137.
Guido) censured iii. 131.
Habit) ch. 14. ii. 81.
distinguished from custom ii. 82.
Harmony) or concord in objects of sight i. 156.
Distinguished from melody ii. 358. Note.
Hatred) signifies more commonly affection than passion i. 146.
Hearing) in hearing we feel no impression iii. 380.
Henriade) censured iii. 178. 236. 243. 249.
Hexameter) Virgils hexameters extremely melodious;
those of Horace not always so ii. 357.
Structure of an hexameter line ii. 364.
Rules for its structure ii. 367.
Musical pauses in an hexameter line ii. 368.
Wherein its melody consists ii. 380.
Hippolytus) of Euripides censured ii. 197. iii. 286. 288.
History) histories of conquerors and heroes singularly
agreeable. Why? i. 72. 285.
By what means does history raise our passions i. 115. 118.
It rejects poetical images iii. 170.
Homer) defective in order and connection i. 35.
His language finely suited to his subject iii. 194.
His repetitions defended iii. 204.
His poems in a great measure dramatic iii. 220.
censured iii. 246.
Horace) defective in connection i. 35.
His hexameters not always melodious ii. 358.
Their defects pointed out ii. 380.
Horror) objects of horror ought to be banished from
poetry and painting iii. 213.
Humour) defined ii. 44.
Humour in writing distinguished from humour in character ii. 44.
Hyperbole iii. 89.
Hyppobacchius ii. 460.
Iambic verse) its modulation faint ii. 358.
Iambus ii. 459.
Jane Shore) censured ii. 168.
Idea) succession of ideas i. 381.
Idea of memory defined iii. 382.
cannot be innate iii. 382. Note.
No general ideas iii. 383. Note.
Idea of an object of sight more distinct than of any other object iii. 384.
Ideas distinguished into three kinds iii. 386.
Idea of imagination not so pleasant as an idea of memory iii. 393.
Ideal presence i. 107. &c.
Identity) of passions and emotions i. 141.
_Jet d’eau_ i. 313. 314. iii. 308. 310.
Jingle of words ii. 231.
Iliad) criticised iii. 263.
Imagination) not always at rest even in sleep i. 337.
Effect in gardening of giving play to it iii. 318. Its
power of fabricating images iii. 385.
Imitation) we naturally imitate virtuous actions i. 220.
not those that are vicious i. 221.
None of the fine arts imitate nature except painting and sculpture ii. 234.
The agreeableness of imitation overbalances
the disagreeableness of the subject iii. 208.
Distant and faint imitations displease iii. 309.
Impression) made on the organ of sense iii. 380.
Impropriety) in action raises contempt i. 340. Its punishment ii. 15.
Impulse) a strong impulse succeeding a weak, makes a double
impression: a weak impulse succeeding a strong,
makes scarce any impression ii. 251.
Infinite series) becomes disagreeable when prolonged i. 365. Note.
Innate idea) there cannot be such a thing iii. 382. Note.
Instrument) the means or instrument conceived to be the agent iii. 98. &c.
Intellectual pleasure i. 2, 3.
Internal sense iii. 375.
Intrinsic beauty i. 244.
Intuitive conviction) of the veracity of our senses i. 105.
of the dignity of human nature ii. 29. iii. 361.
of a common nature or standard in every species of beings
iii. 356. and of the perfection of that standard iii. 357.
also that it is invariable iii. 357.
Intuitive conviction that the external signs of passion
are natural, and the same in all men ii. 135.
Inversion) an inverted style described ii. 290. &c.
Inversion gives force and liveliness to the expression
by suspending the thought till the close ii. 324.
Inversion how regulated ii. 330. 331. 332.
Beauties of inversion ii. 331. 332.
Full scope for it in blank verse ii. 438.
Ionicus ii. 461.
Joy) its cause i. 65.
infectious i. 220.
considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 33.
Iphigenia) of Racine censured ii. 112.
Iphigenia in Tauris) censured iii. 287. 288. 289.
Irony) defined ii. 50.
Italian tongue) too smooth ii. 246. Note.
Judgement) and memory in perfection, seldom united i. 28.
Judgement seldom united with wit i. 28.
Julius Cæsar) of Shakespear censured ii. 200.
Justice) of less dignity than generosity or courage ii. 31.
Kent) his skill in gardening iii. 303.
Key-note ii. 348. 361.
Kitchen-garden iii. 315.
Labyrinth) in a garden iii. 310.
Landscape) why it is so agreeable i. 156.
The pleasure it gives explained i. 298.
A landscape in painting ought to be confined to a single expression i. 376.
Language) power of language to raise emotions, whence derived i. 112. 121.
Language of passion ch. 17. ii. 204.
broken and interrupted ii. 206.
of impetuous passion ii. 210.
of languid passion ii. 210.
of calm emotions ii. 211.
of turbulent passion ii. 211.
Language elevated above the tone of the sentiment ii. 224.
too artificial or too figurative ii. 225.
too light or airy ii. 227.
Language how far imitative of nature ii. 234.
its beauty with respect to signification ii. 235. 254. &c.
its beauty with respect to sound ii. 238.
it ought to correspond
to the subject ii. 258.
its structure explained ii. 285.
Beauty of language from a resemblance betwixt sound
and signification ii. 333 &c.
The force of language proceeds from raising complete images iii. 174.
its power of producing pleasant emotions iii. 208.
Without language man would scarce be a rational being iii. 406.
_L’avare_) of Moliere censured ii 198.
Laughter i. 338.
Laugh of derision or scorn ii. 16.
Law) defined ii. 22.
Laws of human nature) necessary succession of perceptions i. 21. 380.
We never act but through the impulse of desire i. 55. 222.
An object loses its relish by familiarity i. 144.
Passions sudden in their growth are equally sudden
in their decay i. 148. ii. 91.
Every passion ceases upon attaining its ultimate end i. 148.
Laws of motion) agreeable i. 255.
_Les Freres ennemies_) of Racine censured ii. 177.
_Lex talionis_) upon what principle founded i. 370.
Line) definition of a regular line iii. 389.
Littleness) is neither pleasant nor painful i. 272.
Logic) cause of its obscurity and intricacy ii. 138.
_Logio_) improper in this climate iii. 327.
Love) to children accounted for i. 82.
The love a man bears to his country explained i. 88.
Love produced by pity i. 93.
It signifies more commonly affection than passion i. 146.
To a lover absence appears long i. 202.
Love assumes the qualities of its object i. 219.
considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 33.
seldom constant when founded on exquisite beauty ii. 101.
ill represented in French plays ii. 194.
when immoderate is silent ii. 205.
Love for love) censured iii. 266.
Lowness) is neither pleasant nor painful i. 272.
Lucan) too minute in his descriptions i. 292.
censured iii. 220.
Ludicrous i. 338.
may be introduced into an epic poem i. 378.
Lutrin) censured for incongruity ii. 9.
characterized ii. 41.
Luxury) corrupts our taste iii. 370.
Machinery) ought to be excluded from an epic poem i. 125. iii. 239.
does well in a burlesk poem i. 125.
Man) fitted for society i. 237.
Conformity of the nature of man to his external
circumstances i. 310. ii. 143.
The different branches of his internal constitution
finely suited to each other iii. 332. 364.
Manners) gross and refined i. 1, 8.
The bad tendency of rough and blunt manners ii. 141. Note.
Marvellous) in epic poetry iii. 246.
Meanness ii. 27. &c.
Means) the means or instrument conceived to be the agent iii. 98. &c.
Measure) natural measure of time i. 200. &c.
of space, i. 211 &c.
Medea) of Euripides censured iii. 287.
Melody) or modulation defined ii. 355.
distinguished from harmony ii. 358. Note.
Members of a period) have a fine effect placed in
an increasing series ii. 252.
Memory) and judgement in perfection seldom united i. 28.
Memory and wit often united i. 28.
Memory iii. 381.
Merry wives of Windsor) its double plot well contrived iii. 253.
Metaphor iii. 108. &c.
Metre ii. 381.
Mile) the computed miles are longer in a barren
than in a populous country i. 209.
Milton) his style much inverted ii. 439.
The defect of his verification is the want of
coincidence betwixt the pauses of the sense
and the sound ii. 445.
the beauty of Milton’s comparisons iii. 16.
Moderation) in our desires contributes the most to happiness i. 263.
Modern manners) make a poor figure in an epic poem iii. 235.
Modification) defined iii. 399.
Modulation) defined ii. 355.
Molossus ii. 459.
Monosyllables) English, arbitrary as to quantity ii. 383.
Moral duties) _See_ Duties.
Morality) its foundation iii. 358.
Aberrations from its true standard iii. 366.
Moral tragedy iii. 221.
Motion) productive of feelings that resemble it i. 217.
Its laws agreeable i. 255.
Motion and force, ch. 5. i. 309. &c.
What motions are the most agreeable i. 310.
Regular motion i. 311.
accelerated motion i. 311.
upward motion i. 311.
undulating motion i. 311.
Motion of fluids i. 311.
A body moved
neither agreeable nor disagreeable i. 312.
The pleasure of motion differs from that of force i. 313.
Grace of motion i. 317.
Motions of the human body i. 317.
Motive) defined i. 58. 59.
Mount) artificial iii. 313.
Mourning Bride) censured ii. 180. 197. iii. 279. 292.
Music) vocal distinguished from instrumental i. 166.
What subjects proper for vocal music i. 166. &c.
Music betwixt the acts of a play, the advantages
that may be drawn from it iii. 283.
Though it cannot raise a passion, it disposes
the heart to various passions iii. 284.
Musical instruments) their different effects upon the mind i. 283.
Musical measure) defined ii. 355.
Narration) it animates a narrative to represent things past as present i. 118.
Narration and description, ch. 21. iii. 169.
It animates a narrative, to make it dramatic iii. 197. 220.
Nation) defined iii. 404.
Note, a high note and a low note in music i. 278.
Novelty and the unexpected appearance of objects, ch. 6. i. 319.
Novelty a pleasant emotion i. 322. &c.
distinguished from variety i. 329.
its different degrees i. 329. &c.
Number) defined iii. 331.
_Numerus_) defined ii. 355.
Object) of a passion defined i. 56.
An agreeable object produceth a pleasant emotion,
and a disagreeable object a painful emotion i. 223.
attractive object i. 226.
repulsive object i. 226.
Objects of sight the most complex i. 243.
Objects that are neither pleasant nor painful i. 272. 309. 312.
Objects of external sense in what place they are perceived iii. 370.
Objects of internal sense iii. 377.
All objects of sight are complex iii. 400.
Objects simple and complex iii. 401.
Object defined iii. 406.
Old Bachelor) censured iii. 266.
Opera) censured ii. 9.
Opinion) influenced by passion i. 183. &c. iii. 55.
influenced by propensity i. 99.
influenced by affection i. 199.
why differing from me in opinion is disagreeable iii. 359.
Opinion defined iii. 396.
Oration) _pro Archia poeta_ censured ii. 329.
Orchard iii. 315.
Order) i. 28. &c. iii. 392.
pleasure we have in order i. 32.
necessary in all compositions i. 34.
Sense of order has an influence upon our passions i. 81. 89.
when a list of many particulars is brought into
a period, in what order should they be placed? ii. 321.
Order in stating facts iii. 264.
Organ of sense i. 1.
Organic pleasure i. 1. 2. 3. 4.
Orlando Furioso) censured iii. 264.
Ornament) redundant ornaments ought to be avoided iii. 168.
Ornaments in architecture iii. 342.
Allegorical or emblematic ornaments iii. 347.
Othello) censured iii. 215.
Pæon ii. 461.
Pain) cessation of pain extremely pleasant i. 68.
Pain lessens by custom ii. 102. iii. 355.
Some pains felt internally some externally iii. 387.
Painful emotions and passions i. 127. &c.
Painting) in grotesque painting the figures ought
to be small, in historical painting as great
as the life i. 279.
Grandeur of manner in painting i. 293.
Painting is an imitation of nature ii. 234.
In history painting the principal figure ought
to be in the best light iii. 201.
A good picture agreeable, though the subject be disagreeable iii. 208.
Objects that strike terror have a fine effect in painting iii. 211.
Objects of horror ought not to be represented iii. 213.
What emotions can be raised by painting iii. 296.
Panic i. 221.
Parallelogram) its beauty i. 252.
Parody) defined ii. 52. 160. Note.
Particles ii. 404. not capable of an accent ii. 405. 416.
Passion) no pleasure of external sense denominated
a passion except of seeing and hearing i. 42.
Passion distinguished from emotion i. 52. 53. 54.
Passions distinguished into instinctive and deliberative i. 58. 95. &c.
What are selfish, what social i. 59.
What dissocial i. 62.
Passion founded on relations i. 76. &c.
A passion paves the way to others in the same tone i. 92.
Passions considered as pleasant or painful, agreeable
or disagreeable i. 127. &c.
as refined or gross i. 137.
Their interrupted existence i. 139. &c.
Their growth and decay i. 139.
&c. The identity of a passion i. 141.
The bulk of our passions are the affections of
love or hatred inflamed into a passion i. 146.
Passions swell by opposition i. 146.
A passion sudden in growth is sudden in decay i. 148.
ceases upon attaining its ultimate end i. 148.
Co-existent passions i. 151. &c.
Passions similar and dissimilar i. 171.
Fluctuation of passion i. 178. &c.
Its influence upon our opinions and belief i. 183. &c. 203. 358.
Its influence upon our perceptions i. 215. 216.
Prone to its gratification i. 238. 239.
has an influence even upon our eye-sight i. 362. 363.
Passions ranked according to their dignity ii. 32.
No disagreeable passion is attended with dignity ii. 33.
Social passions of greater dignity than selfish ii. 37.
External signs of passion ch. 15. ii. 116.
Passion generally fluctuates, swelling and
subsiding by turns ii. 163. Language of
passion ch. 17. ii. 204. &c.
A passion when immoderate is silent ii. 204.
Language of passion broken and interrupted ii. 206.
What passions admit figurative expression ii. 208.
Language proper for impetuous passion ii. 210.
for melancholy ii. 210.
for calm emotions ii. 211.
for turbulent passion ii. 211.
Passions expanded upon related objects i. 76. &c.
ii. 312. &c. 336. 372. 415. 416. iii. 60. &c. 139. 140.
With regard to passion man is passive iii. 377.
We are conscious of passions as in the heart iii. 377.
Passionate) personification iii. 64.
Passive subject) defined iii. 406.
Pathetic tragedy iii. 221.
Pause) pauses necessary for three different purposes ii. 360.
Musical pauses in an hexameter line ii. 368.
Musical pauses ought to coincide with those in the sense ii. 371. 375.
What musical pauses are essential in English heroic verse ii. 388.
Rules concerning them ii. 390. &c.
Pause and accent have a mutual influence ii. 428.
Pedestal) ought to be sparingly ornamented iii. 347.
Perceptions) succession of i. 380.
Perception defined iii. 378.
Original and secondary iii. 382.
Simple and complex iii. 383.
Period) has a fine effect when its members proceed
in the form of an increasing series ii. 252.
In the periods of a discourse variety ought to be studied ii. 253.
Different thoughts ought not to be crowded into one period ii. 263.
The scene ought not to be changed in a period ii. 278.
A period so arranged as to express the sense clearly,
seems more musical than where the sense is left
doubtful ii. 307.
In what part of the period doth a word make the greatest figure ii. 318.
A period ought to be closed with that word which
makes the greatest figure ii. 320.
When there is occasion to mention many particulars,
in what order ought they to be placed ii. 321.
A short period is lively and familiar, a long period
grave and solemn ii. 328.
A discourse ought not to commence with a long period ii. 329.
Personification iii. 54. &c.
Passionate and descriptive iii. 64.
Perspicuity) a capital requisite in writing ii. 256.
Pharsalia) censured iii. 220.
Phedra) of Racine censured ii. 113. 216.
Pilaster) less beautiful than a column iii. 345.
Pindar) defective in order and connection i. 35.
Pity) defined i. 55.
apt to produce love i. 93.
always painful, yet always agreeable i. 134.
resembles its cause i. 211.
What are the proper subjects for raising pity iii. 226.
Planetary system) its beauty i. 316.
Play) is a chain of connected facts, each scene making a link iii. 266.
Play of words) ii 71. 228 &c.
Comparisons that resolve into a play of words iii. 42.
Pleasant emotions and passions i. 127. &c.
Pleasant pain explained i. 155.
Pleasure) pleasures of seeing and hearing
distinguished from those of the other senses i. 1. 2. &c.
Pleasure of order i. 32.
of connection i. 32.
Pleasures of taste, touch, and smell, not termed
_emotions_ or _passions_ i. 42.
Pleasures refined and gross i. 137.
Corporeal pleasure low and sometimes mean ii 32.
Pleasures of the eye and ear never low or mean ii. 32.
Pleasures of the understanding are high in point of dignity ii. 34.
Some pleasures felt internally, some externally iii. 387.
Poet) the chief talent of a poet who deals in the pathetic ii. 119.
Poetry) objects that strike terror have a fine effect in it iii. 211.
Objects of horror ought to be banished from it iii. 213.
Poetry has power over all the human affections iii. 296.
The most successful in describing objects of sight iii. 385.
Polite behaviour i. 138.
Polygon) regular its beauty i. 252.
Polysyllables) how far agreeable to the ear ii. 242.
seldom have place in the construction of English verse ii. 385. 421.
Pompey) of Corneille censured ii. 176. 191. 194.
Pope excels in the variety of his melody ii. 411.
His style compared with that of Swift iii. 198.
Posture) constrained posture disagreeable to the spectator i. 219.
Power of abstraction iii. 401.
Its use iii. 402. 403.
Prepositions) explained ii. 289.
Pride) incites us to ridicule the blunders and absurdities of others ii 17.
Considered with respect to dignity and meanness ii. 34.
Its external expressions or signs disagreeable ii. 132.
Primary and secondary qualities of matter i. 259.
Principle) of order i. 28. 29.
of morality i. 49. 74. ii. 21.
of self-preservation i. 96.
of selfishness i. 227. 229.
of benevolence i. 228. 229.
Principle that makes us fond of esteem i. 237. 286.
of curiosity i. 320. 345. &c.
of habit ii. 105.
Principle that makes us wish others to be of our opinion iii. 57. 359.
Principle defined iii. 394.
_See_ Propensity.
Principles of the fine arts i. 7.
Proceleusmaticus ii. 461.
Prodigies) find ready credit with the vulgar i. 198.
Prologue of the ancient tragedy iii. 271.
Pronoun) defined ii. 310.
Pronunciation) rules for it ii. 347. &c.
distinguished from singing ii. 348.
Singing and pronouncing compared ii. 351.
Propensity) opinion and belief influenced by it i. 199.
Propensity to fit objects for the gratification of our
passions i. 184. iii. 98.
Propensity to justify our passions and actions i. 185.
Propensity to punish guilt and reward virtue i. 231.
Propensity to carry along the good or bad properties
of one subject to another i. 76. ii. 235. 307.
312. 372. 415. 416. iii. 101.
Propensity to complete every work that is begun
and to carry things to perfection i. 364. 365.
iii. 262. 345.
Propensity to communicate to others every thing that affects us ii. 204.
Propensity to place together things mutually connected ii. 308.
Propensity defined iii. 394.
_See_ Principle.
Properties) transferred from one subject to another iii. 100. &c.
Property) the affection man bears to his property i. 84.
Prophecy) those who believe in prophecies wish the accomplishment i. 239.
Propriety ii. 3. &c.
distinguished from congruity ii. 8.
distinguished from proportion ii. 19.
Propriety in buildings iii. 338.
Proportion) distinguished from propriety ii. 19.
As to quantity coincides with congruity ii. 19.
examined as applied to architecture iii. 318.
Proportion defined iii. 391.
Prose) distinguished from verse ii. 353.
Prospect) pleasure of a fine prospect i. 298.
An unbounded prospect disagreeable i. 366. Note.
Provok’d husband) censured iii. 253.
Pun) defined ii. 77.
Punishment) in the place where the crime was committed i. 371.
Punishment of impropriety ii. 15.
Public games) of the Greeks i. 314.
Pyrrhichius ii. 459.
Qualities) primary and secondary i. 259.
A quality cannot be conceived independent of
the subject to which it belongs ii. 293.
Different qualities perceived by different senses iii. 376.
Quantity) with respect to melody ii. 363. 383.
Quantity with respect to English verse ii. 383.
Quintilian) censured iii. 92.
Quintus Curtius) censured ii. 167.
Racine) criticised ii. 216. &c.
Rape of the Lock) characteriz’d ii. 43.
admirable versification ii. 362.
Reading) chief talent of a fine reader ii. 120.
Plaintive passions require a slow pronunciation ii. 161. Note.
Rules for reading ii. 347. &c.
compared with singing ii. 351.
Reason) reasons to justify a favourite opinion are
always at hand and much relished i. 186.
Refined pleasure i. 137.
Regularity) not essential in grand objects i. 257.
required in a small work, not so much in one that is extensive i. 299.
how far to be studied in architecture iii. 301. 322. 328.
how far to be studied in a garden iii. 305.
Regular line defined iii. 389.
Regular figure defined iii. 389.
Regularity proper and figurative iii. 390.
Relations i. 22. 23.
have an influence in generating emotions and passions i. 76. &c.
are the foundation of congruity and propriety ii. 5.
in what manner are relations expressed in words ii. 286.
Relative beauty i. 244.
Remorse) its gratification i. 232.
is not mean. ii. 34.
Repartee ii. 80.
Representation) its perfection lies in hiding
itself and producing an impression of reality iii. 279.
Repulsive) object i. 226.
Repulsive emotions ii. 133.
Resemblance) and contrast, ch. 8. i. 345.
The members of a sentence signifying a resemblance
betwixt objects ought to resemble each other
ii. 270. &c.
Resembling causes may produce effects that have
no resemblance, and causes that have no resemblance
may produce resembling effects ii. 337. &c.
Resemblance carried too far in some gardens iii. 305. Note.
Resentment) explained i. 98. &c.
disagreeable in excess i. 134.
extended against relations of the offender i. 190.
its gratification i. 231.
when immoderate is silent ii. 205.
Rest) neither agreeable nor disagreeable i. 309.
Revenge) animates but doth not elevate the mind i. 283.
has no dignity in it ii. 33.
Reverie) cause of the pleasure we have in it i. 112.
Rhyme) for what subjects it is proper ii. 447. &c.
Melody of rhyme ii. 449.
Rhythmus) defined ii. 355.
Riches) love of, corrupts the taste iii. 370.
Riddle iii. 310.
Ridicule) a gross pleasure i. 138.
is losing ground in England i. 138.
Emotion of ridicule i. 341.
not concordant with grandeur i. 377,
Ridicule ii. 16. 40. &c.
whether it be a test of truth ii. 55.
Ridiculous) distinguished from risible i. 341.
Risible objects, ch. 7. i. 337.
Risible distinguished from ridiculous i. 341.
Rubens) censured iii. 130.
Ruin) ought not to be seen from a flower-parterre iii. 303.
in what form it ought to be iii. 313.
Sallust) censured for want of connection i. 37.
Sapphic verse) has a very agreeable modulation ii. 358.
Scorn ii. 16.
Sculpture) imitates nature ii. 234.
what emotions can be raised by it iii. 296.
_Secchia rapita_) characterized ii. 41.
Secondary qualities of matter i. 259.
Seeing) in seeing we feel no impression iii. 380.
Objects of sight are all of them complex iii. 400.
Self-deceit i. 185. ii. 190.
Selfish passions i. 59.
are pleasant i. 131.
less refined than the social i. 137.
inferior in dignity to the social ii. 37.
Selfishness) promoted by luxury iii. 370.
and also by love of riches iii. 370.
Self-love) its prevalence accounted for i. 63.
in excess disagreeable i. 134.
not inconsistent with benevolence i. 228.
Semipause) in an hexameter line ii. 369.
what semipauses are found in an English heroic line ii. 390.
Sensation) defined iii. 378.
Sense) of order i. 28. &c.
contributes to generate emotions i. 81.
and passions i. 89.
Sense of right and wrong i. 49.
of the veracity of our senses i. 105.
Sense of congruity or propriety ii. 6.
of the dignity of human nature ii. 29. iii. 361.
Sense by
which we discover a passion from its external signs ii. 136.
Sense of a common nature in every species of beings iii. 356.
Sense internal and external iii. 375.
In touching, tasting, and smelling, we feel the
impression at the organ of sense, not in seeing
and hearing iii. 380.
Sentence) it detracts from neatness to vary the scene
in the same sentence ii. 278.
A sentence so arranged as to express the sense
clearly, seems always more musical than where
the sense is left in any degree doubtful ii. 307.
Sentiment) elevated, low i. 276.
Sentiments ch. 16. ii. 149.
Sentiments expressing the swelling of passion ii. 164.
expressing the different stages of a passion ii. 165.
dictated by co-existent passions ii. 169.
Sentiments of strong passions are hid or dissembled ii. 171.
Sentiments above the tone of the passion ii. 175.
below the tone of the passion ii. 176.
Sentiments too gay for a serious passion ii. 178.
too artificial for a serious passion ii. 179.
fanciful or sinical ii. 182.
discordant with character ii. 186.
misplaced ii. 189.
Immoral sentiments expressed without disguise ii. 189.
unnatural ii. 196.
Sentiment defined iii. 396.
Series) from small to great agreeable i. 272.
Ascending series i. 274.
Descending series i. 275.
The effect of a number of objects placed in an
increasing or decreasing series ii. 249.
Serpentine river) its beauty i. 311. iii. 316.
Sertorius) of Corneille censured ii. 163.
Shaft) of a column iii. 346.
Shakespear) criticised ii. 212
deals little in inversion ii. 439.
excells in drawing characters iii. 182.
his style in what respect excellent iii. 198.
his dialogue excellent iii. 257.
deals not in barren scenes iii. 267.
Shame) is not mean ii. 34.
Similar emotions i. 153.
their effects when co-existent i. 155. iii. 336.
Similar passions i. 171.
Effects of co-existent similar passions i. 171.
Simple perception iii. 383.
Simplicity) beauty of i. 247. 254.
abandoned in the fine arts i. 255.
a great beauty in tragedy iii. 252. Note.
ought to be the governing taste in gardening and architecture iii. 300.
Singing) distinguished from pronouncing or reading ii. 348.
Singing and pronouncing compared ii. 351.
Situation) different situations suited to different buildings iii. 339.
Smelling) in smelling we feel an impression upon the organ of sense iii. 380.
Smoke) the pleasure of ascending smoke accounted for i. 33. 313.
Social passions i. 59.
more refined than the selfish i. 137.
of greater dignity ii. 37.
Society) advantages of i. 237. 238. 240.
Soliloquy) has a foundation in nature ii. 123.
Soliloquies ii. 218. &c.
Sorrow) cause of it i. 65.
Sounds) concordant i. 151.
discordant i. 152.
produce emotions that resemble them i. 218.
articulate how far agreeable to the ear ii. 240.
A smooth sound sooths the mind, and a rough sound animates ii. 245.
Space) natural computation of space i. 211. &c.
Species) defined iii. 399.
Specific habit) defined ii. 95.
Speech) power of speech to raise emotions, whence derived i. 112. 121.
Spondee ii. 364. &c. ii. 459.
Square) its beauty i. 251.
Stairs) their proportion iii. 323.
Standard) of taste ch. 25. iii. 351.
Standard of morals iii. 367.
Star) in gardening iii. 307.
Statue) the reason why a statue is not coloured i. 372.
An equestrian statue is placed in a centre of streets
that it may be seen from many places at once iii. 201.
Statue of an animal pouring out water iii. 308.
of a water-god pouring water out of his urn iii. 350.
Strada) censured iii. 170.
Style) natural and inverted ii. 290. &c.
The beauties of a natural style ii. 332.
of an inverted style ii. 332.
Concise style a great ornament iii. 204.
Subject) may be conceived independent of any particular quality ii. 293.
Subject with respect to its qualities iii. 376.
Subject defined iii. 406.
Sublimity i. 264. &c.
Sublime in poetry i. 277.
Sublimity may be employed indirectly to sink the mind i. 300.
False sublime i. 303. 306.
Submission) natural foundation of submission to government i. 236.
Substance) defined iii. 406.
Substratum) defined iii. 376.
Succession) of perceptions and ideas i. 380. &c.
Superlatives) inferior writers deal in superlatives iii. 195.
Surprise) instantaneous i. 142. 321.
pleasant or painful according to circumstances i. 326. &c.
Surprise is the cause of contrast i. 359.
Surprise a silent passion ii. 205.
studied in Chinese gardens iii. 319.
Suspense) an uneasy state i. 205.
Sweet distress) explained i. 155.
Swift) his language always suited to his subject iii. 194.
has a peculiar energy of style iii. 198.
compared with Pope iii. 198.
Syllable ii. 239.
Syllables long and short ii. 363.
Sympathy) sympathetic emotion of virtue i. 70.
Sympathy i. 229.
attractive i. 230.
never low nor mean ii. 32.
the cement of society ii. 143.
Synthetic) and analytic methods of reasoning compared i. 31.
Tacitus) excells in drawing characters iii. 182.
his style comprehensive iii. 204.
Tasso) censured iii. 242.
Taste) in tasting we feel an impression upon the organ of sense iii. 380.
Taste in the fine arts compared with the moral sense i. 7.
its advantages i. 10. &c.
Delicacy of taste i. 136.
A low taste i. 276.
The foundation of a right and a wrong in taste iii. 358.
Taste in the fine arts as well as in morals
corrupted by voluptuousness iii. 370.
corrupted by love of riches iii. 370.
Taste never naturally bad or wrong iii. 372.
Aberrations from a true taste in the fine arts iii. 366.
Tautology) a blemish in writing iii. 205.
Temples) of Ancient and Modern Virtue in the gardens of Stow iii. 348.
Terence) censured iii. 288. 290.
Terror) arises sometimes to its utmost height instantaneously i. 143.
a silent passion ii. 205.
Objects that strike terror have a fine effect
in poetry and painting iii. 211.
The terror raised by tragedy explained iii. 228.
Theorem) general theorems agreeable i. 255.
Time) past time expressed as present i. 118.
Natural computation of time i. 200. &c.
Tone) of mind iii. 378.
Touch) in touching we feel an impression upon the organ of sense iii. 380.
Trachiniens) of Sophocles censured iii. 286.
Tragedy) modern tragedy censured ii. 155.
French tragedy censured ii. 159. Note. ii. 194.
The Greek tragedy accompanied with musical notes
to ascertain the pronunciation ii. 350.
Tragedy ch. 22. iii. 218.
in what respect it differs from an epic poem iii. 218.
distinguished into pathetic and moral iii. 221.
its good effects iii. 223.
compared with the epic as to the subjects proper for each iii. 225. 226.
how far it may borrow from history iii. 234.
rule for dividing it into acts iii. 236.
double plot in it iii. 251.
admits not supernatural events iii. 254.
its origin iii. 270.
Ancient tragedy a continued representation without interruption iii. 271.
Constitution of the modern drama iii. 273.
Trees) the best manner of placing them iii. 307.
Triangle) equilateral, its beauty i. 253.
Tribrachys ii. 459.
Trochæus ii. 459.
Tropes ch. 20. iii. 53.
Ugliness) proper and figurative iii. 388.
Unbounded prospect) disagreeable i. 366. Note.
Uniformity) apt to disgust by excess i. 253.
Uniformity and variety ch. 9. i. 380.
The melody ought to be uniform where the things
described are uniform ii. 411.
Uniformity defined iii. 390.
Unity) the three unities ch. 23. iii. 259.
of action iii. 260.
of time and of place ii. 267.
Unities of time and place not required in an epic poem iii. 268.
Strictly observed in the Greek tragedy iii. 272.
Unity of place in the ancient drama iii. 285.
Unities of place and time ought to be strictly observed
in each act of a modern play iii. 291.
Wherein the unity of a garden consists. iii. 304.
_Unumquodque eodem modo dissolvitur quo colligatum est_ i. 368.
Vanity) a disagreeable passion i. 134.
always appears mean ii. 34.
Variety) distinguished from novelty i. 329.
Variety ch. 9. i. 380.
Verbal antithesis) defined ii. 73. 268.
Versailles) gardens of iii. 310.
Verse) distinguished from prose ii. 353
Sapphic verse extremely melodious ii. 358.
Iambic less so ii. 358.
Structure of an hexameter line ii. 364.
Structure of English heroic verse ii. 382. 384.
English monosyllables arbitrary as to quantity ii. 383.
English heroic lines distinguished into four sorts ii. 421.
Latin hexameter compared with English rhyme ii. 441.
compared with blank verse ii. 442.
French heroic verse compared with hexameter and rhyme ii. 443.
The English language incapable of the melody of hexameter verse ii. 446.
For what subjects is rhyme proper ii. 447. &c.
Melody of rhyme ii. 449.
Melody of verse is so inchanting as to draw a veil
over gross imperfections ii. 457.
Verses composed in the shape of an axe or an egg iii. 310.
Violent action) ought to be excluded from the stage iii. 254.
Virgil) censured for want of connection i. 36. &c.
his verse extremely melodious ii. 357.
his versification criticised ii. 376.
censured iii. 179. 194. 246.
_Virgil travestie_) characterized ii. 41.
Voltaire) censured iii. 178. 236. 243.
Vowels ii. 238.
Walk) in a garden, whether it ought to be straight or waving iii. 311.
artificial walk elevated above the plain iii. 313.
Wall) that is not perpendicular occasions an uneasy feeling i. 218.
Water-fall i. 314.
Water-god) statue of, pouring out water iii. 350.
Way of the World) censured iii. 266.
the unities of place and time strictly observed in it iii. 293.
Will) how far our train of perceptions can be regulated by it i. 23. 381. 388.
determined by desire i. 222
Windows) their proportions iii. 323.
Wish) distinguished from desire i. 55.
Wit) defined i. 28. seldom united with judgement
i. 28. but generally with memory i. 28.
not concordant with grandeur i. 377.
Wit ch. 13. ii. 58.
Wonder) instantaneous i. 143.
Wonders and prodigies find ready credit with the vulgar i. 198.
Wonder i. 320.
studied in Chinese gardens iii. 319.
Words) play of ii. 228. &c.
jingle of ii. 231.
what are their best arrangement in a period ii. 251.
A conjunction or disjunction in the members of
the thought ought to be imitated in the expression ii. 260. 265.
Words expressing things connected ought to be
placed as near together as possible ii. 307. &c.
In what part of a sentence doth a word make the greatest figure ii. 318.
Words acquire a beauty from their meaning iii. 139.
The words ought to accord with the sentiment iii. 188.
A word is often redoubled to add force to the expression iii. 201.
Writing) a subject intended for amusement may be highly ornamented ii. 9.
A grand subject appears best in a plain dress ii. 10.

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.

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Table of Contents

- ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM.

- TO THE K I N G.

- CONTENTS.

- INTRODUCTION.

- ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAP. II.

- PART I.

- SECT. I.

- SECT. II.

- SECT. III.

- SECT. IV.

- SECT. V.

- SECT. VI.

- PART II.

- PART III.

- PART IV.

- PART V.

- Appendix to Part V.

- PART VI.

- PART VII.

- CHAP. III. BEAUTY.

- CHAP. IV. Grandeur and Sublimity.

- CHAP. V. Motion and Force.

- CHAP. VI. Novelty, and the unexpected appearance of objects.

- CHAP. VII. Risible Objects.

- CHAP. VIII. Resemblance and Contrast.

- CHAP. IX. Of Uniformity and Variety.

- Appendix to Chap. IX.

- INDEX to Volume I.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE