Part 7

This branch of human nature concerning the external signs of passion, is so finely adjusted to answer its end, that those who understand it the best will admire it the most. These external signs, being all of them resolvable into colour, figure, and motion, should not naturally make any deep impression on a spectator. And supposing them qualified for making deep impressions, we have seen above, that the effects they produce are not what would be expected. We cannot therefore account otherwise for the operation of these external signs, than by ascribing it to the original constitution of human nature. To improve the social state, by making us instinctively rejoice with the glad of heart, weep with the mourner, and shun those who threaten danger, is a contrivance illustrious for its wisdom as well as benevolence. With respect to the external signs of distress in particular, to judge of the excellency of their contrivance, we need only reflect upon several other means seemingly more natural, that would not have answered the end proposed. I am attracted by this amusing speculation, and will not ask pardon for indulging in it. We shall in the first place reverse the truth, by putting the case that the external signs of joy were disagreeable, and the external signs of distress agreeable. This is no whimsical supposition; for these external signs, so far as can be gathered from their nature, seem indifferent to the production of pleasure or pain. Admitting then the supposition, the question is, How would our sympathy operate? There is no occasion to deliberate for an answer. Sympathy, upon that supposition, would be not less destructive, than according to the real case it is beneficial. We should be incited, to cross the happiness of others if its external signs were disagreeable to us, and to augment their distress if its external signs were agreeable. I make a second supposition, That the external signs of distress were indifferent to us, and productive neither of pleasure nor pain. This would annihilate the strongest branch of sympathy, that which is raised by means of sight. And it is evident, that reflective sympathy, felt by those only who have more than an ordinary share of sensibility, would be far from being sufficient to fulfil the ends of the social state. I shall approach nearer truth in a third supposition, That the external signs of distress being disagreeable, were productive of a painful repulsive emotion. Sympathy upon this supposition would not be annihilated; but it would be rendered useless. For it would be gratified by flying from or avoiding the object, instead of clinging to it, and affording relief. The condition of man would in reality be worse than if sympathy were totally eradicated; because sympathy would only serve to plague those who feel it, without producing any good to the afflicted.

Loath to quit so interesting a subject, I add a reflection, with which I shall conclude. The external signs of passion are a strong indication, that man, by his very constitution, is framed to be open and sincere. A child, in all things obedient to the impulses of nature, hides none of its emotions: the savage and clown, who have no guide other than pure nature, expose their hearts to view by giving way to all the natural signs: and even when men learn to dissemble their sentiments, and when behaviour degenerates into art, there still remain checks, which keep dissimulation within bounds, and prevent a great part of its mischievous effects. The total suppression of the voluntary signs during any vivid passion, begets the utmost uneasiness, which cannot be endured for any considerable time. This operation becomes indeed less painful by habit: but luckily the involuntary signs, cannot by any effort be suppressed or even dissembled. An absolute hypocrisy, by which the character is concealed and a fictitious one assumed, is made impracticable; and nature has thereby prevented much harm to society. We may pronounce therefore, that nature, herself sincere and candid, intends that mankind should preserve the same character, by cultivating simplicity and truth, and banishing every sort of dissimulation that tends to mischief.

CHAP. XVI.

SENTIMENTS.

Every thought suggested by a passion or emotion, is termed _a sentiment_[47].

The knowledge of the sentiments peculiar to each passion considered abstractly, will not alone enable an artist to make a just representation of nature. He ought, over and above, to be acquainted with the various appearances of the same passion in different persons. Passions, it is certain, receive a tincture from every peculiarity of character; and for that reason, it rarely happens that any two persons vent their passions precisely in the same manner. Hence the following rule concerning dramatic and epic compositions, That a passion be adjusted to the character, the sentiments to the passion, and the language to the sentiments. If nature be not faithfully copied in each of these, a defect in execution is perceived. There may appear some resemblance; but the picture upon the whole will be insipid, through want of grace and delicacy. A painter, in order to represent the various attitudes of the body, ought to be intimately acquainted with muscular motion: not less intimately acquainted with emotions and characters ought a writer to be, in order to represent the various attitudes of the mind. A general notion of the passions, in their grosser differences of strong and weak, elevated and humble, severe and gay, is far from being sufficient. Pictures formed so superficially, have little resemblance, and no expression. And yet it will appear by and by, that in many instances our reputed masters are deficient even in this superficial knowledge.

In handling the present subject, it would be endless to trace even the ordinary passions through their nicer and more minute differences. Mine shall be an humbler task; which is, to select from the best writers instances of faulty sentiments, after paving the way by some general observations.

To talk in the language of music, each passion hath a certain tone, to which every sentiment proceeding from it ought to be tuned with the greatest accuracy. This is no easy work, especially where such harmony is to be supported during the course of a long theatrical representation. In order to reach such delicacy of execution, it is necessary that a writer assume the precise character and passion of the personage represented. This requires an uncommon genius. But it is the only difficulty; for the writer, who, forgetting himself, can thus personate another, so as to feel truly and distinctly the various agitations of the passion, need be in no pain about the sentiments: these will flow without the least study, or even preconception; and will frequently be as delightfully new to himself as afterward to his reader. But if a lively picture even of a single emotion require an effort of genius; how much greater must the effort be, to compose a passionate dialogue, in which there are as many different tones of passion as there are speakers? With what ductility of feeling ought a writer to be endued who aims at perfection in such a work; when, to execute it correctly, it is necessary to assume different and even opposite characters and passions, in the quickest succession? And yet this work, difficult as it is, yields to that of composing a dialogue in genteel comedy devoid of passion; where the sentiments must be tuned to the nicer and more delicate tones of different characters. That the latter is the more difficult task, appears from considering, that a character is greatly more complex than a passion, and that passions are more distinguishable from each other than characters are. Many writers accordingly who have no genius for characters, make a shift to represent, tolerably well, an ordinary passion in its plain movements. But of all works of this kind, what is truly the most difficult, is a characteristical dialogue upon any philosophical subject. To interweave characters with reasoning, by adapting to the peculiar character of each speaker a peculiarity not only of thought but of expression, requires the perfection of genius, taste, and judgement.

How hard dialogue-writing is, will be evident, even without reasoning, from the imperfect compositions of this kind found without number in all languages. The art of mimicking any singularity in voice or gesture, is a rare talent, though directed by sight and hearing, the acutest and most lively of our external senses: how much more rare must the talent be of imitating characters and internal emotions, tracing all their different tints, and representing them in a lively manner by natural sentiments properly expressed? The truth is, such execution is too delicate for an ordinary genius; and for that reason, the bulk of writers, instead of expressing a passion like one who is under its power, content themselves with describing it like a spectator. To awake passion by an internal effort merely, without any external cause, requires great sensibility; and yet this operation is necessary not less to the writer than to the actor; because none but they who actually feel a passion, can represent it to the life. The writer’s part is much more complicated: he must join composition with action; and, in the quickest succession, be able to adopt every different character introduced in his work. But a very humble flight of imagination, may serve to convert a writer into a spectator, so as to figure, in some obscure manner, an action as passing in his sight and hearing. In this figured situation, he is led naturally to describe as a spectator, and at second hand to entertain his readers with his own observations, with cool description and florid declamation; instead of making them eye-witnesses, as it were, to a real event, and to every movement of genuine passion[48]. Thus, in the bulk of plays, a tiresome monotony prevails, a pompous declamatory style, without entering into different characters or passions.

This descriptive manner of expressing passion, has a very unhappy effect. Our sympathy is not raised by description: we must be lulled first into a dream of reality; and every thing must appear as actually present and passing in our sight[49]. Unhappy is the player of genius who acts a capital part in what may be termed a _descriptive tragedy_. After he has assumed the very passion that is to be represented, how must he be cramped in his action, when he is forced to utter, not the sentiments of the passion he feels, but a cold description in the language of a by-stander? It is this imperfection, I am persuaded, in the bulk of our plays, that confines our stage almost entirely to Shakespear, his many irregularities notwithstanding. In our latest English tragedies, we sometimes find sentiments tolerably well adapted to a plain passion. But it would be fruitless labour, to search in any of them for a sentiment expressive of character; and, upon that very account, all our modern performances of the dramatic kind, are intolerably insipid.

Looking back upon the foregoing observation, I am uncertain whether it will be sufficiently apprehended; for, upon this complicated subject, I find some difficulty to express myself with perspicuity. I despair not however to place this matter in the clearest light, by adding example to precept. In the front shall be set one or two examples of sentiments that appear the legitimate offspring of passion; and to them shall be opposed a few others that are descriptive only, and illegitimate. In making this comparison, I shall borrow my instances from Shakespear and Corneille, who for genius in dramatic composition stand uppermost in the rolls of fame.

* * * * *

Shakespear shall furnish the first instance, being of sentiments dictated by a violent and perturbed passion.

_Lear._----Filial ingratitude! Is it not, as if this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to’t?--But I’ll punish home; No, I will weep no more.---- In such a night, To shut me out!---- Pour on, I will endure. In such a night as this! O Regan, Gonerill, Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all-- O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that.----

_Kent._ Good, my Lord, enter here.

_Lear._ Pr’ythee, go in thy thyself, seek thine own ease, This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more--but I’ll go in; In, boy, go first. You houseless poverty---- Nay, get thee in; I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep-- Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm! How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these?---- O I have ta’en Too little care of this! take physic, Pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou may’st shake the superflux to them, And show the heavens more just. _King Lear. act 3. sc 5._

To illustrate the foregoing doctrine, one other instance of the same kind may suffice, expressing sentiments arising from remorse and despair.

_Othello._ Lo! I have a weapon: A better never did itself sustain Upon a soldier’s thigh. I’ve seen the day, That with this little arm, and this good sword, I’ve made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop. But, oh vain boast! Who can controul his fate? ’tis not so now. Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon’d; Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt, The very sea mark of my outmost sail. Do you go back dismay’d? ’tis a lost fear. Man but a rush against Othello’s breast, And he retires. Where should Othello go? Now---- how dost thou look now? Oh ill starr’d wench! Pale as thy smoke! when we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heav’n, And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl, Ev’n like thy chastity. O cursed slave! Whip me, ye devils, From the possession of this heav’nly sight; Blow me about in winds, roast me in sulphur, Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire---- Oh, Desdemona! Desdemona! dead! dead! oh, oh! _Othello, act 5. sc. 9._

The sentiments here display’d flow so naturally from the passions represented, and are such genuine expressions of these passions, that it is not possible to conceive any imitation more perfect.

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With regard to the French author, truth obliges me to acknowledge, that he describes in the style of a spectator, instead of expressing passion like one who feels it; and also that he is thereby betray’d into the other faults above mentioned, a tiresome monotony, and a pompous declamatory style[50]. It is scarce necessary to produce particular instances; for he never varies from this tone. I shall however take two passages at a venture, in order to be confronted with those transcribed above. In the tragedy of _Cinna_, Æmilia, after the conspiracy was discovered, having nothing in view but racks and death to herself and her lover, receives a pardon from Augustus, attended with the brightest circumstances of magnanimity and tenderness. This is a happy situation for representing the passions of surprise and gratitude in their different stages. These passions, raised at once to the utmost pitch, are at first too big for utterance; and Æmilia’s feelings must, for some moments, have been expressed by violent gestures only. So soon as there is a vent for words, the first expressions are naturally broken and interrupted. At last we ought to expect a tide of intermingled sentiments, occasioned by the fluctuation of the mind betwixt the two passions. Æmilia is made to behave in a very different manner. With extreme coolness she describes her own situation, as if she were merely a spectator; or rather the poet takes the task off her hands.

Et je me rens, Seigneur, à ces hautes bontés, Je recouvre la vûe auprés de leurs clartés, Je connois mon forfait qui me sembloit justice, Et ce que n’avoit pû la terreur du supplice, Je sens naitre en mon ame un repentir puissant; Et mon cœur en secret me dit, qu’il y consent. Le ciel a résolu votre grandeur suprême, Et pour preuve, Seigneur, je n’en veux que moi-même; J’ose avec vanité me donner cet éclat, Puisqu’il change mon cœur, qu’il veut changer l’état. Ma haine va mourir que j’ai crue immortelle, Elle est morte, et ce cœur devient sujet fidéle, Et prenant désormais cette haine en horreur, L’ardeur de vous servir succede à sa fureur. _Act 5. sc. 3._

In the tragedy of _Sertorius_, the Queen, surprised with the news that her lover was assassinated, instead of venting any passion, degenerates into a cool spectator, even so much as to instruct the by-standers how a queen ought to behave on such an occasion.

_Viriate._ Il m’en fait voir ensemble, et l’auteur, et la cause. Par cet assassinat c’est de moi qu’on dispose, C’est mon trône, c’est moi qu’on pretend conquerir, Et c’est mon juste choix qui seul l’a fait perir. Madame, aprés sa perte, et parmi ces alarmes, N’attendez point de moi de soupirs, ni de larmes; Ce sont amusemens que dédaigne aisement Le prompt et noble orgueil d’un vif ressentiment. Qui pleure, l’affoiblit, qui soupire, l’exhale, Il faut plus de fierté dans une ame royale; Et ma douleur soumise aux soins de le venger, _&c._ _Act 5. sc. 3._

So much in general upon the genuine sentiments of passion. I proceed now to particular observations. And, first, Passions are seldom uniform for any considerable time: they generally fluctuate, swelling and subsiding by turns, often in a quick succession[51]. This fluctuation, in the case of a real passion, will be expressed externally by proper sentiments; and ought to be imitated in writing and acting. Accordingly, a climax shows never better than in expressing a swelling passion. The following passages shall suffice for an illustration.

_Oroonoko._---- Can you raise the dead? Pursue and overtake the wings of time? And bring about again, the hours, the days, The years, that made me happy? _Oroonoko, act 2. sc. 2._

_Almeria_.---- How hast thou charm’d The wildness of the waves and rocks to this? That thus relenting they have giv’n thee back To earth, to light and life, to love and me? _Mourning Bride, act 1. sc. 7._

I would not be the villain that thou think’st For the whole space that’s in the tyrant’s grasp, And the rich earth to boot. _Macbeth, act 4. sc. 4._

The following passage expresses finely the progress of conviction.

Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve That tender, lovely form, of painted air, So like Almeria. Ha! it sinks, it falls; I’ll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade. ’Tis life! ’tis warm! ’tis she! ’tis she herself! It is Almeria! ’tis, it is my wife!

_Mourning Bride, act 2. sc. 6._

In the progress of thought, our resolutions become more vigorous as well as our passions.

If ever I do yield or give consent, By any action, word, or thought, to wed Another Lord; may then just Heav’n show’r down, _&c._

_Mourning Bride, act 1. sc. 1._

And this leads to a second observation, That the different stages of a passion, and its different directions, from its birth to its extinction, ought to be carefully represented in the sentiments, which otherwise will often be misplaced. Resentment, for example, when provoked by an atrocious injury, discharges itself first upon the author. Sentiments therefore of revenge take place of all others, and must in some measure be exhausted before the person injured think of pitying himself, or of grieving for his present distress. In the _Cid_ of Corneille, Don Diegue having been affronted in a cruel manner, expresses scarce any sentiment of revenge, but is totally occupied in contemplating the low situation to which he was reduced by the affront.

O rage! ô desespoir! ô vieillesse ennemie! N’ai je donc tant vecu que pour cette infamie? Et ne suis-je blanchi dans les travaux guerriers, Que pour voir en une jour fletrir tant de lauriers? Mon bras, qu’avec respect toute l’Espagne admire, Mon bras, qui tant de fois a sauvé cet empire, Tant de fois affermi le trône de son roi, Trahit donc ma querelle, et ne fait rien pour moi! O cruel souvenir de ma gloire passée! Oeuvre de tant de jours en un jour effacée! Nouvelle dignité fatale à mon bonheur! Precipice élevé d’ou tombe mon honneur! Faut-il de votre éclat voir triompher le Comte, Et mourir sans vengeance, ou vivre dans la honte? Comte, fois de mon Prince à present gouverneur, Ce haut rang n’admet point un homme sans honneur; Et ton jaloux orgueil par cet affront insigne, Malgré le choix du Roi, m’en a su rendre indigne. Et toi, de mes exploits glorieux instrument, Mais d’un corps tout de glace inutile ornement, Fer jadis tant a craindre, et qui dans cette offense M’as servi de parade, et non pas de defense, Va quitte desormais le dernier des humains, Passe pour me vanger en de meilleures mains. _Le Cid, act 1. sc. 4._

These sentiments are certainly not what occur to the mind in the first movements of the passion. In the same manner as in resentment, the first movements of grief are always directed upon its object. Yet with relation to the hidden and severe distemper that seized Alexander bathing in the river Cydnus, Quintus Curtius describes the first emotions of the army as directed upon themselves, lamenting that they were left without a leader far from home, and had scarce any hopes of returning in safety. Their King’s distress, which must naturally have been their first concern, occupies them but in the second place according to that author. In the _Aminta_ of Tasso, Sylvia, upon a report of her lover’s death, which she believed certain, instead of bemoaning the loss of a beloved object, turns her thoughts upon herself, and wonders her heart does not break.

Ohime, ben son di sasso, Poi che questa novella non m’uccide. _Act 4. sc. 2._

In the tragedy of _Jane Shore_, Alicia, in the full purpose of destroying her rival, has the following reflection:

Oh Jealousy! thou bane of pleasing friendship, Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms; How does thy rancour poison all our softness, And turn our gentle natures into bitterness? See where she comes! Once my heart’s dearest blessing, Now my chang’d eyes are blasted with her beauty, Loathe that known face, and sicken to behold her. _Act 3. sc. 1._

These are the reflections of a cool spectator. A passion while it has the ascendant, and is freely indulged, suggests not to the man who feels it any sentiment to its own prejudice. Reflections like the foregoing, occur not to him readily till the passion have spent its vigor.

A person sometimes is agitated at once by different passions. The mind in this case vibrating like a pendulum, vents itself in sentiments which partake of the same vibration. This I give as a third observation:

_Queen._ ‘Would I had never trod this English earth, Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it! Ye’ve angels faces, but Heav’n knows your hearts. What shall become of me now! wretched lady! I am the most unhappy woman living. Alas! poor wenches, where are now your fortunes? [_To her women._ Shipwreck’d upon a kingdom, where no pity, No friends, no hope! no kindred weep for me! Almost, no grave allow’d me. _Henry VIII. act 3. sc. 1._