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.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See the Appendix, § 13.

[2] Du Bos judiciously observes, that silence doth not tend to calm an agitated mind; but that soft and slow music hath a fine effect.

[3] A taste for natural objects is born with us in perfection. To relish a fine countenance, a rich landscape, or a vivid colour, culture is unnecessary. The observation holds equally in natural sounds, such as the singing of birds, or the murmuring of a brook. Nature here, the artificer of the object as well as of the percipient, hath suited them to each other with great accuracy. But of a poem, a cantata, a picture, and other artificial productions, a true relish is not commonly attained without study and practice.

[4] “Though logic may subsist without rhetoric or poetry, yet so necessary to these last is a sound and correct logic, that without it they are no better than warbling trifles.” Hermes, p. 6.

[5] Genius is allied to a warm and inflammable constitution, delicacy of taste to calmness and sedateness. Hence it is common to find genius in one who is a prey to every passion; which can scarce happen with respect to delicacy of taste. Upon a man possessed of this blessing, the moral duties, as well as the fine arts, make a deep impression, so as to counterbalance every irregular desire. And even supposing a strong temptation, it can take no fast hold of a calm and sedate temper.

[6] For how should this be done? What object is it that we are to call up? If this question can be answered, the object is already in the mind, and there is no occasion to exert the power. If the question cannot be answered, I next demand, how it is possible that a voluntary power can be exerted without any view of an object to exert it upon? We cannot form a conception of such a thing. This argument appears to me satisfactory: if it need confirmation, I urge experience. Whoever makes a trial will find, that objects are linked together in the mind, forming a connected chain; and that we have not the command of any object independent of the chain.

[7] A train of perceptions or ideas, with respect to its uniformity and variety, is handled afterward, chap. 9.

[8] Lib. 2. ode 13.

[9] Lin. 231.

[10] Lin. 136.

[11] Lin. 475.

[12] Lib. 4. lin. 173.

[13] Part 1. sect. 4.

[14] Introduction.

[15] Introduction.

[16] In tracing our emotions and passions to their origin, it once was my opinion, that qualities and actions are the primary causes of emotions; and that these emotions are afterward expanded upon the being to which these qualities and actions belong. But I have discovered that opinion to be erroneous. An attribute is not, even in imagination, separable from the being to which it belongs; and for that reason, cannot of itself be the cause of any emotion. We have, it is true, no knowledge of any being or substance but by means of its attributes; and therefore no being can be agreeable to us otherwise than by their means. But still, when an emotion is raised, it is the being itself, as we apprehend the matter, which raises the emotion; and it raises it by means of one or other of its attributes. If it be urged, That we can in idea abstract a quality from the thing to which it belongs; it might be answered, That an abstract idea, which serves excellently the purposes of reasoning, is too faint and too much strained to produce any sort of emotion. But it is sufficient for the present purpose to answer, That the eye never abstracts. By this organ we perceive things as they really exist, and never perceive a quality as separated from the subject. Hence it must be evident, that emotions are raised, not by qualities abstractly considered, but by the substance or body so and so qualified. Thus a spreading oak raises a pleasant emotion, by means of its colour, figure, umbrage, _&c._ It is not the colour strictly speaking that produces the emotion, but the tree as coloured: it is not the figure abstractly considered that produces the emotion, but the tree considered as of a certain figure. And hence by the way it appears, that the beauty of such an object is complex, resolvable into several beauties more simple.

[17] When this analysis of human nature is considered, not one article of which can with any shadow of truth be controverted, I cannot help being surprised at the blindness of some philosophers, who, by dark and confused notions, are led to deny all motives to action but what arise from self-love. Man, for ought appears, might possibly have been so framed, as to be susceptible of no passions but what have self for their object. But man thus framed, would be ill fitted for society. Much better is the matter ordered, by enduing him with passions directed entirely to the good of others, as well as with passions directed entirely to his own good.

[18] See Essays upon morality and natural religion, part 1. essay 2. ch. 4.

[19] Such proneness has the mind to this communication of properties, that we often find properties ascribed to a related object, of which naturally it is not susceptible. Sir Richard Greenville in a single ship being surprised by the Spanish fleet, was advised to retire. He utterly refused to turn from the enemy; declaring, “he would rather die, than dishonour himself, his country, and her Majesty’s ship.” _Hakluyt, vol. 2. part 2. p. 169._ To aid the communication of properties in such instances, there always must be a momentary personification. A ship must be imagined a sensible being, to make it susceptible of honour or dishonour. In the battle of Mantinea, Epaminondas being mortally wounded, was carried to his tent in a manner dead. Recovering his senses, the first thing he inquired about was his shield; which being brought, he kissed it as the companion of his valour and glory. It must be remarked, that among the Greeks and Romans it was deemed infamous for a soldier to return from battle without his shield.

[20] See chap. 1.

[21] See Essays on morality and natural religion, part 1. ess. 2. ch. 5.

[22] Lib. 7. cap. 36.

[23] Aulus Gellius, lib. 5. cap. 14.

[24] Brasidas being surprised by the bite of a mouse he had catched, let it slip out of his fingers. “No creature (says he) is so contemptible, but what may provide for its own safety, if it have courage to defend itself.”

_Plutarch. Apothegmata._

[25] Spectator, Nº 439.

[26] Part 1. sect. 1. of the present chapter.

[27] At quæ Polycleto defuerunt, Phidiæ atque Alcameni dantur. Phidias tamen diis quam hominibus efficiendis melior artifex traditur: in ebore vero longe citra æmulum, vel si nihil nisi Minervam Athenis, aut Olympium in Elide Jovem fecisset, cujus pulchritudo adjecisse aliquid etiam receptæ religioni videtur; adeo majestas operis Deum æquavit.

_Quintilian, lib. 12. cap. 10. § 1._

[28] See part 7. of this chapter.

[29] See the place above cited.

[30] Essays on the principles of morality and natural religion, part 1. ess. 2. chap. 1.

[31] See the introduction.

[32] See this point explained afterwards, chap. 9.

[33] See the appendix, containing definitions and explanation of terms, sect. 33.

[34] Chap. 6.

[35] See chap. 14.

[36] It is easier to conceive the manner of coexistence of similar emotions, than to describe it. They cannot be said to mix or incorporate like concordant sounds. Their union is rather of agreement or concord; and therefore I have chosen the words in the text, not as sufficient to express clearly the manner of their coexistence, but only as less liable to exception than any other I can find.

[37] Chap. 18. sect. 3.

[38] Chap. of epic and dramatic compositions.

[39] See part 2. of the present chapter, toward the close.

[40] Canto 20. st. 97.

[41] Chap. 1.

[42] See part 1. sect. 1. of the present chapter.

[43] Herodotus, book 7.

[44] Act 2. sc. 6.

[45] Act 3. sc. 8.

[46] Part 1. of this chapter, sect. 3.

[47] Aristotle, poet. cap. 18. § 3. says, that anger raiseth in the spectator a similar emotion of anger.

[48] See Historical law-tracts, tract 1.

[49] Part 5. of the present chapter.

[50] Chap. 2. part. 1. sect. 1. first note.

[51] Chap. 2. part 1. sect. 4.

[52] See the appendix, containing definitions and explanation of terms.

[53] See chap. 2. part 1. sect. 1.

[54] Longinus observes, that nature inclines us to admire, not a small rivulet, however clear and transparent, but the Nile, the Ister, the Rhine, or still more the ocean. The sight of a small fire produceth no emotion; but we are struck with the boiling furnaces of Ætna, pouring out whole rivers of liquid flame. _Treatise of the Sublime, chap. 29._

[55] Kempfer’s history of Japan, b. 5. ch. 2.

[56] Longinus gives a pretty good description of the sublime, though not entirely just in every one of the circumstances, “That the mind is elevated by it, and so sensibly affected as to swell in transport and inward pride, as if what is only heard or read, were its own invention.” But he adheres not to this description. In his 6th chapter he justly observes, that many passions have nothing of the grand, such as grief, fear, pity, which depress the mind instead of raising it. And yet in chapter 8th, he mentions Sappho’s ode upon love as sublime. Beautiful it is undoubtedly, but it cannot be sublime, because it really depresses the mind instead of raising it. His translator Boileau is not more successful in his instances. In his 10th reflection he cites a passage from Demosthenes and another from Herodotus as sublime, which are not so.

[57] Kempfer’s history of Japan.

[58] _Spectator_, Nº 42

[59] It is justly observed by Addison, that perhaps a man would have been more astonished with the majestic air that appeared in one of Lysippus’s statues of Alexander, though no bigger than the life, than he might have been with Mount Athos, had it been cut into the figure of the hero, according to the proposal of Phidias, with a river in one hand and a city in the other. _Spectator_, Nº 415.

[60] Honestum per se esse expetendum indicant pueri, in quibus, ut in speculis, natura cernitur. Quanta studia decertantium sunt! Quanta ipsa certamina! Ut illi efferuntur lætitia, cum vicerunt! Ut pudet victos! Ut se accusari nolunt! Ut cupiunt laudari! Quos illi labores non perferunt, ut æqualium principes sint! _Cicero de finibus._

[61] Spectator, Nº 415.

[62] Chap. 8. of the Sublime.

[63] Lib. 3. beginning at line 567.

[64] _High_, in the old Scotch language, is pronounced _hee_.

[65] Herodotus, book 7.

[66] Chap. 30.

[67] Boileau and Huet.

[68] L’art poet. chant 1. l. 68.

[69] See chap. 4.

[70] See chap. 9.

[71] Chap. 1.

[72] Chap. 15.

[73] See chap. 1.

[74] See chap. 2. part 1. sect. 2.

[75] See chap. 4.

[76] Essays on the principles of morality and natural religion part 2. ess. 6.

[77] Hence the Latin names for surprise, _torpor_, _animo stupor_.

[78] See chap. 6.

[79] Coke upon Littleton, p. 71.

[80] Practical writers upon the fine arts will attempt any thing, being blind both to the difficulty and danger. De Piles, accounting why contrast is agreeable, says, “That it is a sort of war which puts the opposite parties in motion.” Thus, to account for an effect of which there is no doubt, any cause, however foolish, is made welcome.

[81] Chap. 2. part 5.

[82] The examples above given are of subjects that can be brought to an end or conclusion. But the same uneasiness is perceptible with respect to subjects that admit not any conclusion; witness a series that has no end, commonly called _an infinite series_. The mind running along such a series, begins soon to feel an uneasiness, which becomes more and more sensible in continuing its progress.

An unbounded prospect doth not long continue agreeable. We soon feel a slight uneasiness, which increases with the time we bestow upon the object. In order to find the cause of this uneasiness, we first take under consideration an avenue without a terminating object. Can a prospect without any termination be compared to an infinite series? There is one striking difference, that with respect to the eye no prospect can be unbounded. The quickest eye commands but a certain length of space; and there it is bounded, however obscurely. But the mind perceives things as they exist; and the line is carried on in idea without end. In that respect an unbounded prospect is similar to an infinite series. In fact, the uneasiness of an unbounded prospect differs very little in its feeling from that of an infinite series; and therefore we may reasonably conclude that both proceed from the same cause.

We next consider a prospect unbounded every way, as for example, a great plain, or the ocean, viewed from an eminence. We feel here an uneasiness occasioned by the want of an end or termination, precisely as in the other cases. A prospect unbounded every way is indeed so far singular, as at first to be more pleasant than a prospect that is unbounded in one direction only, and afterward to be more painful. But these circumstances are easily explained without breaking in upon the general theory. The pleasure we feel at first is a strong emotion of grandeur, arising from the immense extension of the object. And to increase the pain we feel afterward for the want of a termination, there concurs a pain of a different kind, occasioned by stretching the eye to comprehend so great a prospect; a pain that gradually increases with the repeated efforts we make to grasp the whole.

It is the same principle, if I mistake not, which operates imperceptibly with respect to quantity and number. Another’s property indented into my field gives me uneasiness; and I am eager to make the purchase, not for profit, but in order to square my field. Xerxes and his army in their passage to Greece were sumptuously entertained by Pythius the Lydian. Xerxes getting a particular account of his riches, recompensed him with 7000 Darics, which he wanted to complete the sum of four millions.

[83] Aristotle, poet. cap. 17.

[84] Spectator, Nº 265.

[85] Lib. 1. § 28.

[86] Act 4. sc. 2.

[87] See chap. 2. part 4.

[88] Chap. 2. part 4.

[89] Æn. lib. 5.

[90] Iliad, book 23. l. 879.

[91] Chap. 1.

[92] Locke, book 2. chap. 14.

[93] See chap. 1.

[94] See chap. 1.

[95] This chapter was composed in the year 1753.

[96] Chap. 1.

End of Project Gutenberg's Elements of Criticism, Volume I., by Henry Home