{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_57678/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_57678","id":"gutenberg_57678","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/57678","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Art","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Criticism","Literary style"],"text":"Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Chuck Greif and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                               ELEMENTS\n\n                                  OF\n\n                              CRITICISM.\n\n                           In THREE VOLUMES.\n\n\n                               VOLUME I.\n\n\n                              EDINBURGH:\n\n                    Printed for A. MILLAR, London;\n\n                                  AND\n\n                   A. KINCAID & J. BELL, Edinburgh,\n\n\n\n\n\n                                TO THE\n\n                                 KING.\n\n\n                                 SIR,\n\nThe fine arts have ever been encouraged by wise princes, not singly for\nprivate amusement, but for their beneficial influence in society. By\nuniting different ranks in the same elegant pleasures, they promote\nbenevolence: by cherishing love of order, they inforce submission to\ngovernment: and by inspiring delicacy of feeling, they make regular\ngovernment a double blessing.\n\nTHESE considerations embolden me to hope for your Majesty\u2019s patronage in\nbehalf of the following work, which treats of the fine arts, and\nattempts to form a standard of taste by unfolding those principles that\nought to govern the taste of every individual.\n\nIT is rare to find one born with such delicacy of feeling, as not to\nneed instruction: it is equally rare to find one so low in feeling, as\nnot to be capable of instruction. And yet, to refine our taste with\nrespect to beauties of art or of nature, is scarce endeavoured in any\nseminary of learning; a lamentable defect, considering how early in life\ntaste is susceptible of culture, and how difficult to reform it if\nunhappily perverted. To furnish materials for supplying that defect, was\nan additional motive for the present undertaking.\n\nTO promote the fine arts in Britain, has become of greater importance\nthan is generally imagined. A flourishing commerce begets opulence; and\nopulence, inflaming our appetite for pleasure, is commonly vented on\nluxury and on every sensual gratification: Selfishness rears its head;\nbecomes fashionable; and infecting all ranks, extinguishes the _amor\npatri\u00e6_ and every spark of public spirit. To prevent or to retard such\nfatal corruption, the genius of an Alfred cannot devise any means more\nefficacious, than venting opulence upon the fine arts. Riches so\nemploy\u2019d, instead of encouraging vice, will excite both public and\nprivate virtue. Of this happy effect, ancient Greece furnishes one\nshining instance; and why should we despair of another in Britain?\n\nIN the commencement of an auspicious reign, and even in that early\nperiod of life when pleasure commonly is the sole pursuit, your Majesty\nhas uniformly display\u2019d to a delighted people, the noblest principles,\nripened by early culture; and for that reason, you will be the more\ndisposed to favour every rational plan for advancing the art of training\nup youth. Among the many branches of education, that which tends to make\ndeep impressions of virtue, ought to be a fundamental measure in a\nwell-regulated government: for depravity of manners will render\nineffectual the most salutary laws; and in the midst of opulence, what\nother means to prevent such depravity but early and virtuous discipline?\nThe British discipline is susceptible of great improvements; and if we\ncan hope for them, it must be from a young and accomplished Prince,\neminently sensible of their importance. To establish a complete system\nof education, seems reserved by providence for a Sovereign who commands\nthe hearts of his subjects. Success will crown the undertaking, and\nendear GEORGE THE THIRD to our latest posterity.\n\nThe most elevated and most refined pleasure of human nature, is enjoy\u2019d\nby a virtuous prince governing a virtuous people; and that, by\nperfecting the great system of education, your Majesty may very long\nenjoy this pleasure, is the ardent wish of\n\n                            Your Majesty\u2019s\n\n                           Devoted Subject,\n\n                              HENRY HOME.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n                                        _Vol. Pag._\n_Introduction_,                            1    1\n\nCh. 1. _Perceptions and ideas in a\n          train_,                          1   21\n\nCh. 2. _Emotions and passions_,            1   42\n\nCh. 3. _Beauty_,                           1  241\n\nCh. 4. _Grandeur and sublimity_,           1  264\n\nCh. 5. _Motion and force_,                 1  309\n\nCh. 6. _Novelty, and the unexpected\n            appearance of objects_,        1  319\n\nCh. 7. _Risible objects_,                  1  337\n\nCh. 8. _Resemblance and contrast_,         1  345\n\nCh. 9. _Uniformity and variety_,           1  380\n\nCh. 10. _Congruity and propriety_,         2    3\n\nCh. 11. _Dignity and meanness_,            2   27\n\nCh. 12. _Ridicule_,                        2   40\n\nCh. 13. _Wit_,                             2   58\n\nCh. 14. _Custom and habit_,                2   80\n\nCh. 15. _External signs of emotions\n             and passions_,                2  116\n\nCh. 16. _Sentiments_,                      2  149\n\nCh. 17. _Language of passion_,             2  204\n\nCh. 18. _Beauty of language_,              2  234\n\nCh. 19. _Comparisons_,                     3    3\n\nCh. 20. _Figures_,                         3   53\n\nCh. 21. _Narration and description_,       3  169\n\nCh. 22. _Epic and dramatic compositions_,  3  218\n\nCh. 23. _The three unities_,               3  259\n\nCh. 24. _Gardening and architecture_,      3  294\n\nCh. 25. _Standard of taste_,               3  351\n\n_Appendix_,                                3  375\n\n\nIn describing the scale of sounds made in pronouncing the five vowels,\n_vol._ 2. _p._ 239. it ought to have been mentioned, that the letter _i_\nmust be pronounced as in the word _interest_, and other words beginning\nwith the syllable _in_; the letter _e_ as in _persuasion_; and the\nletter _u_ as in _number_.\n\nThe reference intended, _vol._ 2. _p._ 419. is to _p._ 404. of the same\nvolume.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nThe five senses agree in the following particular, that nothing external\nis perceived till it first make an impression upon the organ of sense;\nthe impression, for example, made upon the hand by a stone, upon the\npalate by sugar, and upon the nostrils by a rose. But there is a\ndifference as to our consciousness of that impression. In touching,\ntasting, and smelling, we are conscious of the impression. Not so in\nseeing and hearing. When I behold a tree, I am not sensible of the\nimpression made upon my eye; nor of the impression made upon my ear,\nwhen I listen to a song[1]. This difference in the manner of perception,\ndistinguishes remarkably hearing and seeing from the other senses; and\ndistinguishes still more remarkably the feelings of the former from\nthose of the latter. A feeling pleasant or painful cannot exist but in\nthe mind; and yet because in tasting, touching, and smelling, we are\nconscious of the impression made upon the organ, we naturally place\nthere also, the pleasant or painful feeling caused by that impression.\nAnd because such feelings seem to be placed externally at the organ of\nsense, we, for that reason, conceive them to be merely corporeal. We\nhave a different apprehension of the pleasant and painful feelings\nderived from seeing and hearing. Being insensible here of the organic\nimpression, we are not misled to assign a wrong place to these feelings;\nand therefore we naturally place them in the mind, where they really\nexist. Upon that account, they are conceived to be more refined and\nspiritual, than what are derived from tasting, touching, and smelling.\n\nThe pleasures of the eye and ear being thus elevated above those of the\nother external senses, acquire so much dignity as to make them a\nlaudable entertainment. They are not, however, set upon a level with\nthose that are purely intellectual; being not less inferior in dignity\nto intellectual pleasures, than superior to the organic or corporeal.\nThey indeed resemble the latter, being like them produced by external\nobjects: but they also resemble the former, being like them produced\nwithout any sensible organic impression. Their mixt nature and middle\nplace betwixt organic and intellectual pleasures, qualify them to\nassociate with either. Beauty heightens all the organic feelings, as\nwell as those that are intellectual. Harmony, though it aspires to\ninflame devotion, disdains not to improve the relish of a banquet.\n\nThe pleasures of the eye and ear have other valuable properties beside\nthose of dignity and elevation. Being sweet and moderately exhilerating,\nthey are in their tone equally distant from the turbulence of passion,\nand languor of inaction; and by that tone are perfectly well qualified,\nnot only to revive the spirits when sunk by sensual gratification, but\nalso to relax them when overstrained in any violent pursuit. Here is a\nremedy provided for many distresses. And to be convinced of its salutary\neffects, it will be sufficient to run over the following particulars.\nOrganic pleasures have naturally a short duration: when continued too\nlong, or indulged to excess, they lose their relish, and beget satiety\nand disgust. To relieve us from that uneasiness, nothing can be more\nhappily contrived than the exhilerating pleasures of the eye and ear,\nwhich take place imperceptibly, without much varying the tone of mind.\nOn the other hand, any intense exercise of the intellectual powers,\nbecomes painful by overstraining the mind. Cessation from such exercise\ngives not instant relief: it is necessary that the void be filled with\nsome amusement, gently relaxing the spirits[2]. Organic pleasure, which\nhath no relish but while we are in vigour, is ill qualified for that\noffice: but the finer pleasures of sense, which occupy without\nexhausting the mind, are excellently well qualified to restore its usual\ntone after severe application to study or business, as well as after\nsatiety from sensual gratification.\n\nOur first perceptions are of external objects, and our first\nattachments are to them. Organic pleasures take the lead. But the mind,\ngradually ripening, relisheth more and more the pleasures of the eye and\near; which approach the purely mental, without exhausting the spirits;\nand exceed the purely sensual, without danger of satiety. The pleasures\nof the eye and ear have accordingly a natural aptitude to attract us\nfrom the immoderate gratification of sensual appetite. For the mind,\nonce accustomed to enjoy a variety of external objects without being\nconscious of the organic impression, is prepared for enjoying internal\nobjects where there cannot be an organic impression. Thus the author of\nnature, by qualifying the human mind for a succession of enjoyments from\nthe lowest to the highest, leads it by gentle steps from the most\ngroveling corporeal pleasures, for which solely it is fitted in the\nbeginning of life, to those refined and sublime pleasures which are\nsuited to its maturity.\n\nThis succession, however, is not governed by unavoidable necessity. The\nGod of nature offers it to us, in order to advance our happiness; and\nit is sufficient, that he hath enabled us to complete the succession.\nNor has he made our task disagreeable or difficult. On the contrary, the\ntransition is sweet and easy, from corporeal pleasures to the more\nrefined pleasures of sense; and not less so, from these to the exalted\npleasures of morality and religion. We stand therefore engaged in\nhonour, as well as interest, to second the purposes of nature, by\ncultivating the pleasures of the eye and ear, those especially that\nrequire extraordinary culture[3], such as are inspired by poetry,\npainting, sculpture, music, gardening, and architecture. This chiefly is\nthe duty of the opulent, who have leisure to improve their minds and\ntheir feelings. The fine arts are contrived to give pleasure to the eye\nand the ear, disregarding the inferior senses. A taste for these arts is\na plant that grows naturally in many soils; but, without culture, scarce\nto perfection in any soil. It is susceptible of much refinement; and is,\nby proper care, greatly improved. In this respect, a taste in the fine\narts goes hand in hand with the moral sense, to which indeed it is\nnearly allied. Both of them discover what is right and what is wrong.\nFashion, temper, and education, have an influence upon both, to vitiate\nthem, or to preserve them pure and untainted. Neither of them are\narbitrary or local. They are rooted in human nature, and are governed by\nprinciples common to all men. The principles of morality belong not to\nthe present undertaking. But as to the principles of the fine arts, they\nare evolved, by studying the sensitive part of human nature, and by\nlearning what objects are naturally agreeable, and what are naturally\ndisagreeable. The man who aspires to be a critic in these arts, must\npierce still deeper. He must clearly perceive what objects are lofty,\nwhat low, what are proper or improper, what are manly, and what are\nmean or trivial. Hence a foundation for judging of taste, and for\nreasoning upon it. Where it is conformable to principles, we can\npronounce with certainty, that it is correct; otherwise, that it is\nincorrect, and perhaps whimsical. Thus the fine arts, like morals,\nbecome a rational science; and, like morals, may be cultivated to a high\ndegree of refinement.\n\nManifold are the advantages of criticism, when thus studied as a\nrational science. In the first place, a thorough acquaintance with the\nprinciples of the fine arts, redoubles the entertainment these arts\nafford. To the man who resigns himself entirely to sentiment or feeling,\nwithout interposing any sort of judgment, poetry, music, painting, are\nmere pastime. In the prime of life, indeed, they are delightful, being\nsupported by the force of novelty, and the heat of imagination. But they\nlose their relish gradually with their novelty; and are generally\nneglected in the maturity of life, which disposes to more serious and\nmore important occupations. To those who deal in criticism as a regular\nscience, governed by just principles, and giving scope to judgment as\nwell as to fancy, the fine arts are a favourite entertainment; and in\nold age maintain that relish which they produce in the morning of\nlife[4].\n\nIn the next place, a philosophic inquiry into the principles of the fine\narts, inures the reflecting mind to the most enticing sort of logic.\nReasoning upon subjects so agreeable tends to a habit; and a habit,\nstrengthening the reasoning faculties, prepares the mind for entering\ninto subjects more difficult and abstract. To have, in this respect, a\njust conception of the importance of criticism, we need but reflect upon\nthe common method of education; which, after some years spent in\nacquiring languages, hurries us, without the least preparatory\ndiscipline, into the most profound philosophy. A more effectual method\nto alienate the tender mind from abstract science, is beyond the reach\nof invention. With respect to such speculations, the bulk of our youth\ncontrast a sort of hobgoblin terror, which is seldom, if ever, subdued.\nThose who apply to the arts, are trained in a very different manner.\nThey are led, step by step, from the easier parts of the operation, to\nwhat are more difficult; and are not permitted to make a new motion,\ntill they be perfected in those which regularly precede it. The science\nof criticism appears then to be an intermediate link, finely qualified\nfor connecting the different parts of education into a regular chain.\nThis science furnisheth an inviting opportunity to exercise the\njudgement: we delight to reason upon subjects that are equally pleasant\nand familiar: we proceed gradually from the simpler to the more involved\ncases: and in a due course of discipline, custom, which improves all our\nfaculties, bestows acuteness upon those of reason, sufficient to unravel\nall the intricacies of philosophy.\n\nNor ought it to be overlooked, that the reasonings employed upon the\nfine arts are of the same kind with those which regulate our conduct.\nMathematical and metaphysical reasonings have no tendency to improve\nsocial intercourse: nor are they applicable to the common affairs of\nlife. But a just taste in the fine arts, derived from rational\nprinciples, is a fine preparation for acting in the social state with\ndignity and propriety.\n\nThe science of criticism tends to improve the heart not less than the\nunderstanding. I observe, in the first place, that it hath a fine effect\nin moderating the selfish affections. A just taste in the fine arts, by\nsweetening and harmonizing the temper, is a strong antidote to the\nturbulence of passion and violence of pursuit. Elegance of taste\nprocures to a man so much enjoyment at home, or easily within reach,\nthat in order to be occupied, he is, in youth, under no temptation to\nprecipitate into hunting, gaming, drinking; nor, in middle age, to\ndeliver himself over to ambition; nor, in old age, to avarice. Pride, a\ndisgustful selfish passion, exerts itself without control, when\naccompanied with a bad taste. A man of this stamp, upon whom the most\nstriking beauty makes but a faint impression, feels no joy but in\ngratifying his ruling passion by the discovery of errors and blemishes.\nPride, on the other hand, finds in the constitution no enemy more\nformidable than a delicate and discerning taste. The man upon whom\nnature and culture have bestowed this blessing, feels great delight in\nthe virtuous dispositions and actions of others. He loves to cherish\nthem, and to publish them to the world. Faults and failings, it is true,\nare to him not less obvious: but these he avoids, or removes out of\nsight, because they give him pain. In a word, there may be other\npassions, which, for a season, disturb the peace of society more than\npride: but no other passion is so unwearied an antagonist to the sweets\nof social intercourse. Pride, tending assiduously to its gratification,\nputs a man perpetually in opposition to others; and disposes him more to\nrelish bad than good qualities, even in a bosom friend. How different\nthat disposition of mind, where every virtue in a companion or\nneighbour, is, by refinement of taste, set in its strongest light; and\ndefects or blemishes, natural to all, are suppressed, or kept out of\nview?\n\nIn the next place, delicacy of taste tends not less to invigorate the\nsocial affections, than to moderate those that are selfish. To be\nconvinced of this tendency, we need only reflect, that delicacy of taste\nnecessarily heightens our sensibility of pain and pleasure, and of\ncourse our sympathy, which is the capital branch of every social\npassion. Sympathy in particular invites a communication of joys and\nsorrows, hopes and fears. Such exercise, soothing and satisfactory in\nitself, is productive necessarily of mutual good-will and affection.\n\nOne other advantage of criticism is reserved to the last place, being of\nall the most important, that it is a great support to morality. I insist\non it with entire satisfaction, that no occupation attaches a man more\nto his duty than that of cultivating a taste in the fine arts. A just\nrelish of what is beautiful, proper, elegant, and ornamental, in writing\nor painting, in architecture or gardening, is a fine preparation for\ndiscerning what is beautiful, just, elegant, or magnanimous, in\ncharacter and behaviour. To the man who has acquired a taste so acute\nand accomplished, every action, wrong or improper, must be highly\ndisgustful. If, in any instance, the overbearing power of passion sway\nhim from his duty, he returns to it upon the first reflection, with\nredoubled resolution never to be swayed a second time. He has now an\nadditional motive to virtue, a conviction derived from experience, that\nhappiness depends on regularity and order, and that a disregard to\njustice or propriety never fails to be punished with shame and\nremorse[5].\n\nRude ages exhibit the triumph of authority over reason. Philosophers\nanciently were divided into sects: they were either Epicureans,\nPlatonists, Stoics, Pythagoreans, or Sceptics. Men relied no farther\nupon their own judgement than to chuse a leader, whom they implicitly\nfollowed. In later times, happily, reason hath obtained the ascendant.\nMen now assert their native privilege of thinking for themselves, and\ndisdain to be ranked in any sect, whatever be the science. I must except\ncriticism, which, by what fatality I know not, continues to be not less\nslavish in its principles, nor less submissive to authority, than it was\noriginally. Bossu, a celebrated French critic, gives many rules; but can\ndiscover no better foundation for any of them, than the practice merely\nof Homer and Virgil, supported by the authority of Aristotle. Strange,\nthat in so long a work, the concordance or discordance of these rules\nwith human nature, should never once have entered his thoughts! It could\nnot surely be his opinion, that these poets, however eminent for genius,\nwere intitled to give laws to mankind, and that nothing now remains but\nblind obedience to their arbitrary will. If in writing they followed no\nrule, why should they be imitated? If they studied nature, and were\nobsequious to rational principles, why should these be concealed from\nus?\n\nWith respect to the present undertaking, it is not the author\u2019s\nintention to give a regular treatise upon each of the fine arts in\nparticular; but only, in general, to apply to them some remarks and\nobservations drawn from human nature, the true source of criticism. The\nfine arts are calculated for our entertainment, or for making agreeable\nimpressions; and, by that circumstance, are distinguished from the\nuseful arts. In order then to be a critic in the fine arts, it is\nnecessary, as above hinted, to know what objects are naturally\nagreeable, and what naturally disagreeable. A complete treatise on that\nsubject would be a field by far too extensive to be thoroughly\ncultivated by any one hand. The author pretends only to have entered\nupon the subject so far as necessary for supporting his critical\nremarks. And he assumes no merit from his performance, but that of\nevincing, perhaps more distinctly than hitherto has been done, that the\ngenuine rules of criticism are all of them derived from the human heart.\nThe sensitive part of our nature is a delightful speculation. What the\nauthor hath discovered or collected upon that subject, he chuses to\nimpart in the gay and agreeable form of criticism; because he imagines,\nthat this form will be more relished, and perhaps be not less\ninstructive, than a regular and laboured disquisition. His plan is, to\nascend gradually to principles, from facts and experiments, instead of\nbeginning with the former, handled abstractly, and descending to the\nlatter. But though criticism be thus his only declared aim, he will not\ndisown, that all along he had it in view, to explain the nature of man,\nconsidered as a sensitive being, capable of pleasure and pain. And\nthough he flatters himself with having made some progress in that\nimportant science, he is however too sensible of its extent and\ndifficulty, to undertake it professedly, or to avow it as the chief\npurpose of the present work.\n\nTo censure works, not men, is the just prerogative of criticism; and\naccordingly all personal censure is here avoided, unless where necessary\nto illustrate some general proposition. No praise is claimed on that\naccount; because censuring with a view merely to find fault, is an\nentertainment that humanity never relishes. Writers, one would imagine,\nshould, above all others, be reserved upon that article, when they lie\nso open to retaliation. The author of this treatise, far from being\nconfident of meriting no censure, entertains not even the slightest hope\nof such perfection. Amusement was at first the sole aim of his\ninquiries. Proceeding from one particular to another, the subject grew\nunder his hand; and he was far advanced before the thought struck him,\nthat his private meditations might be publicly useful. In public,\nhowever, he would not appear in a slovenly dress; and therefore he\npretends not otherwise to apologise for his errors, than by observing,\nthat, in a new subject, not less nice than extensive, errors are in some\nmeasure unavoidable. Neither pretends he to justify his taste in every\nparticular. That point must be extremely clear, which admits not variety\nof opinion; and in some matters susceptible of great refinement, time\nis perhaps the only infallible touch-stone of taste. To this he appeals,\nand to this he chearfully submits.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_N. B._ THE ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM, meaning the whole, is a title too\nassuming for this work. A number of these elements or principles are\nhere evolved: but as the author is far from imagining, that he has\ncompleted the list, a more humble title is proper, such as may express\nany undetermined number of parts less than the whole. This he thinks is\nsignified by the title he has chosen, _viz._ ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM.\n\n\n\n\n                               ELEMENTS\n                                  OF\n                              CRITICISM.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nPerceptions and ideas in a train.\n\n\nA man while awake is sensible of a continued train of objects passing in\nhis mind. It requires no activity on his part to carry on the train: nor\nhas he power to vary it by calling up an object at will[6]. At the same\ntime we learn from daily experience, that a train of thought is not\nmerely casual. And if it depend not upon will, nor upon chance, we must\ntry to evolve by what law it is governed. The subject is of importance\nin the science of human nature; and I promise beforehand, that it will\nbe found of great importance in the fine arts.\n\nIt appears that the relations by which things are linked together, have\na great influence in directing the train of thought; and we find by\nexperience, that objects are connected in the mind precisely as they are\nexternally. Beginning then with things external, we find that they are\nnot more remarkable by their inherent properties than by their various\nrelations. We cannot any where extend our view without perceiving things\nconnected together by certain relations. One thing perceived to be a\ncause, is connected with its several effects; some things are connected\nby contiguity in time, others by contiguity in place; some are connected\nby resemblance, some by contrast; some go before, some follow. Not a\nsingle thing appears solitary, and altogether devoid of connection. The\nonly difference is, that some are intimately connected, some more\nslightly; some near, some at a distance.\n\nExperience as well as reason may satisfy us, that the train of mental\nperceptions is in a great measure regulated by the foregoing relations.\nWhere a number of things are linked together, the idea of any one\nsuggests the rest; and in this manner is a train of thoughts composed.\nSuch is the law of succession; whether an original law, or whether\ndirected by some latent principle, is doubtful; and probably will for\never remain so. This law, however, is not inviolable. It sometimes\nhappens, though rarely, that an idea presents itself to the mind without\nany connection, so far at least as can be discovered.\n\nBut though we have not the absolute command of ideas, yet the Will hath\na considerable influence in directing the order of connected ideas.\nThere are few things but what are connected with many others. By this\nmeans, when any thing becomes an object, whether in a direct survey, or\nideally only, it generally suggests many of its connections. Among these\na choice is afforded. We can insist upon one, rejecting others; and we\ncan even insist upon what has the slightest connection. Where ideas are\nleft to their natural course, they are generally continued through the\nstrongest connections. The mind extends its view to a son more readily\nthan to a servant, and more readily to a neighbour than to one living at\na distance. This order may be varied by Will, but still within the\nlimits of connected objects. In short, every train of ideas must be a\nchain, in which the particular ideas are linked to each other. We may\nvary the order of a natural train; but not so as to dissolve it\naltogether, by carrying on our thoughts in a loose manner without any\nconnection. So far doth our power extend; and that power is sufficient\nfor all useful purposes. To give us more power, would probably be\ndetrimental instead of being salutary.\n\nWill is not the only cause that prevents a train of thought from being\ncontinued through the strongest connections. Much depends on the present\ntone of mind; for a subject that accords with this tone is always\nwelcome. Thus, in good spirits, a chearful subject will be introduced by\nthe slightest connection; and one that is melancholy, not less readily\nin low spirits. Again, an interesting subject is recalled, from time to\ntime, by any connection indifferently, strong or weak. This is finely\ntouched by Shakespear, with relation to a rich cargo at sea.\n\n    My wind, cooling my broth,\n    Would blow me to an ague, when I thought\n    What harm a wind too great might do at sea.\n    I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,\n    But I should think of shallows and of flats;\n    And see my wealthy Andrew dock\u2019d in sand,\n    Vailing her high top lower than her ribs,\n    To kiss her burial. Should I go to church,\n    And see the holy edifice of stone,\n    And not bethink me strait of dangerous rocks?\n    Which touching but my gentle vessel\u2019s side,\n    Would scatter all the spices on the stream,\n    Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks,\n    And, in a word, but now worth this,\n    And now worth nothing.\n         _Merchant of Venice_, _act_ 1. _sc._ 1.\n\nAnother cause clearly distinguishable from that now mentioned, hath also\na considerable influence over the train of ideas. In some minds of a\nsingular frame, thoughts and circumstances crowd upon each other by the\nslightest connection. I ascribe this to a defect in the faculty of\ndiscernment. A person who cannot accurately distinguish betwixt a slight\nconnection and one that is more solid, is equally affected with both.\nSuch a person must necessarily have a great command of ideas, because\nthey are introduced by any relation indifferently; and the slighter\nrelations, being without number, must furnish ideas without end. This\ndoctrine is, in a lively manner, illustrated by Shakespear.\n\n     _Falstaff._ What is the gross sum that I owe thee?\n\n     _Hostess._ Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and thy\n     money too. Thou didst swear to me on a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting\n     in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on\n     Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the Prince broke thy head for\n     likening him to a singing man of Windsor, thou didst swear to me\n     then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my Lady\n     thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not Goodwife Keech, the butcher\u2019s\n     wife, come in then, and call me Gossip Quickly? Coming in to borrow\n     a mess of vinegar; telling us she had a good dish of prawns;\n     whereby thou didst desire to eat some; whereby I told thee they\n     were ill for a green wound? And didst not thou, when she was gone\n     down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity with such poor\n     people, saying, that ere long they should call me Madam? And didst\n     thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee thirty shillings? I put\n     thee now to thy book-oath, deny it if thou canst.\n\n     _Second part_, _Henry_ IV. _act_ 2. _sc._ 2.\n\nOn the other hand, a man, of accurate judgement cannot have a great flow\nof ideas. The slighter relations making no figure in his mind, have no\npower to introduce ideas. And hence it is, that accurate judgement is\nnot friendly to declamation or copious eloquence. This reasoning is\nconfirmed by experience; for it is a noted observation, That a great or\ncomprehensive memory is seldom connected with a good judgement.\n\nAs an additional confirmation, I appeal to another noted observation,\nThat wit and judgement are seldom united. Wit consists chiefly in\njoining things by distant and fanciful relations, which surprise because\nthey are unexpected. Such relations being of the slightest kind, readily\noccur to that person only who makes every relation equally welcome. Wit,\nupon that account, is, in a good measure, incompatible with solid\njudgement; which, neglecting trivial relations, adheres to what are\nsubstantial and permanent. Thus memory and wit are often conjoined:\nsolid judgement seldom with either.\n\nThe train of thought depends not entirely upon relations: another cause\ncomes in for a share; and that is the sense of order and arrangement. To\nthings of equal rank, where there is no room for a preference, order\ncannot be applied; and it must be indifferent in what manner they be\nsurveyed; witness the sheep that make a flock, or the trees in a wood.\nBut in things of unequal rank, order is a governing principle. Thus our\ntendency is, to view the principal subject before we descend to its\naccessories or ornaments, and the superior before the inferior or\ndependent. We are equally averse to enter into a minute consideration of\nconstituent parts, till the thing be first surveyed as a whole. In\npassing from a part to the whole, and from an accessory to its\nprincipal, the connection is the same as in the opposite direction. But\na sense of order aids the transition in the latter case, and a sense of\ndisorder obstructs it in the former. It needs scarce be added, that in\nthinking or reflecting on any of these particulars, and in passing from\none to another ideally, we are sensible of easiness or difficulty\nprecisely as when they are set before our eyes.\n\nOur sense of order is conspicuous with respect to natural operations;\nfor it always coincides with the order of nature. Thinking upon a body\nin motion, we follow its natural course. The mind falls with a heavy\nbody, descends with a river, and ascends with flame and smoke. In\ntracing out a family, we incline to begin at the founder, and to descend\ngradually to his latest posterity. On the contrary, musing on a lofty\noak, we begin at the trunk, and mount from it to the branches. As to\nhistorical facts, we love to proceed in the order of time; or, which\ncomes to the same, to proceed along the chain of causes and effects.\n\nBut though, in following out a historical chain, our bent is to proceed\norderly from causes to their effects, we find not the same bent in\nmatters of science. There we seem rather disposed to proceed from\neffects to their causes, and from particular propositions to those which\nare more general. Why this difference in matters that appear so nearly\nrelated? The cases are similar in appearance only, not in reality. In a\nhistorical chain, every event is particular, the effect of some former\nevent, and the cause of others that follow. In such a chain, there is\nnothing to bias the mind from the order of nature. Widely different is\nthe case of science, when we endeavour to trace out causes and their\neffects. Many experiments are commonly reduced under one cause; and\nagain, many of these under some one still more general and\ncomprehensive. In our progress from particular effects to general\ncauses, and from particular propositions to the more comprehensive, we\nfeel a gradual dilatation or expansion of mind, like what is felt in\nproceeding along an ascending series, which is extremely delightful. The\npleasure here exceeds what arises from following the course of nature;\nand it is this pleasure which regulates our train of thought in the case\nnow mentioned, and in others that are similar. These observations, by\nthe way, furnish materials for instituting a comparison betwixt the\nsynthetic and analytic methods of reasoning. The synthetic method\ndescending regularly from principles to their consequences, is more\nagreeable to the strictness of order. But in following the opposite\ncourse in the analytic method, we have a sensible pleasure, like\nmounting upward, which is not felt in the other. The analytic method is\nmore agreeable to the imagination. The other method will be preferred\nby those only who with rigidity adhere to order, and give no indulgence\nto natural emotions[7].\n\nIt appears then that we are framed by nature to relish order and\nconnection. When an object is introduced by a proper connection, we are\nconscious of a certain pleasure arising from that circumstance. Among\nobjects of equal rank, the pleasure is proportioned to the degree of\nconnection; but among unequal objects, where we require a certain order,\nthe pleasure arises chiefly from an orderly arrangement. Of this one may\nbe made sensible, in tracing objects contrary to the course of nature,\nor contrary to our sense of order. The mind proceeds with alacrity from\na whole to its parts, and from a principal to its accessories; but in\nthe contrary direction, it is sensible of a sort of retrograde motion,\nwhich is unpleasant. And here may be remarked the great influence of\norder upon the mind of man. Grandeur, which makes a deep impression,\ninclines us, in running over any series, to proceed from small to great,\nrather than from great to small. But order prevails over this tendency;\nand in parting from the whole to its parts, and from a subject to its\nornaments, affords pleasure as well as facility, which are not felt in\nthe opposite course. Elevation touches the mind not less than grandeur\ndoth; and in raising the mind to elevated objects, there is a sensible\npleasure. But the course of nature hath still a greater influence than\nelevation; and therefore the pleasure of falling with rain, and\ndescending gradually with a river, prevails over that of mounting\nupward. Hence the agreeableness of smoke ascending in a calm morning.\nElevation concurs with the course of nature, to make this object\ndelightful.\n\nI am extremely sensible of the disgust men generally have at abstract\nspeculation; and for that reason I would avoid it altogether, were it\npossible in a work which professes to draw the rules of criticism from\nhuman nature, their true source. There is indeed no choice, other than\nto continue for some time in the same track, or to abandon the\nundertaking altogether. Candor obliges me to notify this to my readers,\nthat such of them whose aversion to abstract speculation is invincible,\nmay stop short here; for till principles be explained, I can promise no\nentertainment to those who shun thinking. But I flatter myself with a\ndifferent taste in the bulk of readers. Some few, I imagine, will relish\nthe abstract part for its own sake; and many for the useful purposes to\nwhich it may be applied. For encouraging the latter to proceed with\nalacrity, I assure them beforehand that the foregoing speculation leads\nto many important rules of criticism, which shall be unfolded in the\ncourse of this work. In the mean time, for instant satisfaction in part,\nthey will be pleased to accept the following specimen.\n\nIt is required in every work of art, that, like an organic system, the\nconstituent parts be mutually connected, and bear each of them a\nrelation to the whole, some more intimate, some less, according to their\ndestination. Order is not less essential than connection; and when due\nregard is paid to these, we have a sense of just composition, and so\nfar are pleased with the performance. Homer is defective in order and\nconnection; and Pindar more remarkably. Regularity, order, and\nconnection, are painful restraints on a bold and fertile imagination;\nand are not patiently submitted to, but after much culture and\ndiscipline. In Horace there is no fault more eminent than want of\nconnection. Instances are without number. In the first fourteen lines of\node 7. lib. 1. he mentions several towns and districts which by some\nwere relished more than by others. In the remainder of the ode, Plancus\nis exhorted to drown his cares in wine. Having narrowly escaped death by\nthe fall of a tree, this poet[8] takes occasion properly to observe,\nthat while we guard against some dangers, we are exposed to others we\ncannot foresee. He ends with displaying the power of music. The parts of\node 16. lib. 2. are so loosely connected as to disfigure a poem\notherwise extremely beautiful. The 1st, 2d, 3d, 4th, 11th, 24th, 27th\nodes of the 3d book, lie open all of them to the same censure. The 1st\nsatire, book 1. is so deformed by want of unity and connection of parts,\nas upon the whole to be scarce agreeable. It commences with an important\nquestion, How it happens that persons who are so much satisfied with\nthemselves, are generally so little with their condition? After\nillustrating the observation in a sprightly manner by several examples,\nthe author, forgetting his subject, enters upon a declamation against\navarice, which he pursues till the line 108. There he makes an apology\nfor wandering, and promises to return to his subject. But avarice having\ngot possession of his mind, he follows out that theme to the end, and\nnever returns to the question proposed in the beginning.\n\nIn the Georgics of Virgil, though esteemed the most finished work of\nthat author, the parts are ill connected, and the transitions far from\nbeing sweet and easy. In the first book[9] he deviates from his subject\nto give a description of the five zones. The want of connection here is\nremarkable, as well as in the description of the prodigies that\naccompanied the death of C\u00e6sar, with which the same book is concluded. A\ndigression upon the praises of Italy in the second book[10], is not more\nhappily introduced. And in the midst of a declamation upon the pleasures\nof husbandry, that makes part of the same book[11], the author appears\npersonally upon the stage without the slightest connection. The two\nprefaces of Sallust look as if they had been prefixed by some blunder to\nhis two histories. They will suit any other history as well, or any\nsubject as well as history. Even the members of these prefaces are but\nloosely connected. They look more like a number of maxims or\nobservations than a connected discourse.\n\nAn episode in a narrative poem being in effect an accessory, demands not\nthat strict union with the principal subject which is requisite betwixt\na whole and its constituent parts. The relation however of principal\nand accessory being pretty intimate, an episode loosely connected with\nthe principal subject will never be graceful. I give for an example the\ndescent of \u00c6neas into hell, which employs the sixth book of the \u00c6neid.\nThe reader is not prepared for this important event. No cause is\nassigned, that can make it appear necessary or even natural, to suspend,\nfor so long a time, the principal action in its most interesting period.\nTo engage \u00c6neas to wander from his course in search of an adventure so\nextraordinary, the poet can find no better pretext, than the hero\u2019s\nlonging to visit the ghost of his father recently dead. In the mean time\nthe story is interrupted, and the reader loses his ardor. An episode so\nextremely beautiful is not at any rate to be dispensed with. It is pity\nhowever, that it doth not arise more naturally from the subject. I must\nobserve at the same time, that full justice is done to this incident, by\nconsidering it to be an episode; for if it be a constituent part of the\nprincipal action, the connection ought to be still more intimate. The\nsame objection lies against that elaborate description of Fame in the\n\u00c6neid[12]. Any other book of that heroic poem, or of any heroic poem,\nhas as good a title to that description as the book where it is placed.\n\nIn a natural landscape, we every day perceive a multitude of objects\nconnected by contiguity solely. Objects of sight make an impression so\nlively, as that a relation, even of the slightest kind, is relished.\nThis however ought not to be imitated in description. Words are so far\nshort of the eye in liveliness of impression, that in a description the\nconnection of objects ought to be carefully studied, in order to make\nthe deeper impression. For it is a known fact, the reason of which is\nsuggested above, that it is easier by words to introduce into the mind a\nrelated object, than one which is not connected with the preceding\ntrain. In the following passage, different things are brought together\nwithout the slightest connection, if it be not what may be called\nverbal, _i. e._ taking the same word in different meanings.\n\n    Surgamus: solet esse gravis cantantibus umbra.\n    Juniperi gravis umbra: nocent et frugibus umbr\u00e6.\n    Ite domum satur\u00e6, venit Hesperus, ite capell\u00e6.\n         _Virg. Buc._ 10. 75.\n\nThe metaphorical or figurative appearance of an object, is no good cause\nfor introducing that object in its real and natural appearance. A\nrelation so slight can never be relished.\n\n    Distrust in lovers is too warm a sun;\n    But yet \u2019tis night in love when that is gone.\n    And in those climes which most his scorching know,\n    He makes the noblest fruits and metals grow.\n         _Part_ 2. _Conquest of Granada_, _act_ 3.\n\nThe relations among objects have a considerable influence in the\ngratification of our passions, and even in their production. But this\nsubject is reserved to be treated in the chapter of emotions and\npassions[13].\n\nThere is perhaps not another instance of a building so great erected\nupon a foundation so slight in appearance, as that which is erected\nupon the relations of objects and their arrangement. Relations make no\ncapital figure in the mind: the bulk of them are transitory, and some\nextremely trivial. They are however the links that, uniting our\nperceptions into one connected chain, produce connection of action,\nbecause perceptions and actions have an intimate correspondence. But it\nis not sufficient for the conduct of life that our actions be linked\ntogether, however intimately: it is beside necessary that they proceed\nin a certain order; and this also is provided for by an original\npropensity. Thus order and connection, while they admit sufficient\nvariety, introduce a method in the management of affairs. Without them\nour conduct would be fluctuating and desultory; and we would be hurried\nfrom thought to thought, and from action to action, entirely at the\nmercy of chance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. II.\n\nEmotions and Passions.\n\n\nThe fine arts, as observed above[14], are all of them calculated to give\npleasure to the eye or the ear; and they never descend to gratify the\ntaste, touch, or smell. At the same time, the feelings of the eye and\near, are of all the feelings of external sense, those only which are\nhonoured with the name of _emotions_ or _passions_. It is also observed\nabove[15], that the principles of the fine arts are unfolded by studying\nthe sensitive part of human nature, in order to know what objects of the\neye and ear are agreeable, what disagreeable. These observations show\nthe use of the present chapter. We evidently must be acquainted with the\nnature and causes of emotions and passions, before we can judge with any\naccuracy how far they are under the power of the fine arts. The\ncritical art is thus set in a fine point of view. The inquisitive mind\nbeginning with criticism the most agreeable of all amusements, and\nfinding no obstruction in its progress, advances far into the sensitive\npart of our nature; and gains insensibly a thorough knowledge of the\nhuman heart, of its desires, and of every motive to action; a science\nwhich of all that can be reached by man, is to him of the greatest\nimportance.\n\nUpon a subject so extensive, all that can be expected here, is a general\nor slight survey. Some emotions indeed more peculiarly connected with\nthe fine arts, I propose to handle in separate chapters; a method that\nwill shorten the general survey considerably. And yet, after this\ncircumscription, so much matter comes under even a general view of the\npassions and emotions, that, to avoid confusion, I find it necessary to\ndivide this chapter into many parts: in the first of which are handled\nthe causes of those emotions and passions that are the most common and\nfamiliar; for to explain every passion and emotion, however singular,\nwould be an endless work. And though I could not well take up less\nground, without separating things intimately connected; yet, upon\nexamination, I find the causes of our emotions and passions to be so\nnumerous and various, as to make a subdivision also necessary by\nsplitting this first part into several sections. Human nature is a\ncomplicated machine, and must be so to answer all its purposes. There\nhave indeed been published to the world, many a system of human nature,\nthat flatter the mind by their simplicity. But these, unluckily, deviate\nfar from truth and reality. According to some writers, man is entirely a\nselfish being: according to others, universal benevolence is his duty.\nOne founds morality upon sympathy solely, and one upon utility. If any\nof these systems were of nature\u2019s production, the present subject might\nbe soon discussed. But the variety of nature is not so easily reached;\nand for confuting such Utopian systems without the intricacy of\nreasoning, it appears the best method to enter into human nature, and\nto set before the eye, plainly and candidly, facts as they really exist.\n\n\n\n\nPART I.\n\n_Causes evolved of the emotions and passions._\n\n\nSECT. I.\n\n     _Difference betwixt emotion and passion.---- Causes that are the\n     most common and the most extensive.---- Passion considered as\n     productive of action._\n\n\nThese branches are so interwoven, as to make it necessary that they be\nhandled together. It is a fact universally admitted, that no emotion nor\npassion ever starts up in the mind, without a known cause. If I love a\nperson, it is for good qualities or good offices: if I have resentment\nagainst a man, it must be for some injury he has done me; and I cannot\npity any one, who is under no distress of body or of mind.\n\nThe circumstances now mentioned, if they cause or occasion a passion,\ncannot be entirely indifferent: if they were, they could not move us in\nany degree. And we find upon examination, that they are not indifferent.\nLooking back upon the foregoing examples, the good qualities or good\noffices that attract my love, are antecedently agreeable. If an injury\nwere not disagreeable, it would not occasion any resentment against the\nauthor; nor would the passion of pity be raised by an object in\ndistress, if that object did not give us pain. These feelings antecedent\nto passion, and which seem to be the causes of passion, shall be\ndistinguished by the name of _emotions_.\n\nWhat is now said about the production of passion, resolves into a very\nsimple proposition, That we love what is pleasant, and hate what is\npainful. And indeed it is evident, that without antecedent emotions we\ncould not have any passions; for a thing must be pleasant or painful,\nbefore it can be the object either of love or of hatred.\n\nAs it appears from this short sketch, that passions are generated by\nmeans of prior emotions, it will be necessary to take first under\nconsideration emotions and their causes.\n\nSuch is the constitution of our nature, that upon perceiving certain\nexternal objects, we are instantaneously conscious of pleasure or pain.\nA flowing river, a smooth extended plain, a spreading oak, a towering\nhill, are objects of sight that raise pleasant emotions. A barren heath,\na dirty marsh, a rotten carcass, raise painful emotions. Of the emotions\nthus produced, we inquire for no other cause but merely the presence of\nthe object.\n\nIt must further be observed, that the things now mentioned, raise\nemotions by means of their properties and qualities. To the emotion\nraised by a large river, its size, its force, and its fluency,\ncontribute each a share. The pleasures of regularity, propriety,\nconvenience, compose the emotion raised by a fine building.\n\nIf external properties make a being or thing agreeable, we have reason\nto expect the same effect from those which are internal; and accordingly\npower, discernment, wit, mildness, sympathy, courage, benevolence,\nrender the possessor agreeable in a high degree. So soon as these\nqualities are perceived in any person, we instantaneously feel pleasant\nemotions, without the slightest act of reflection or of attention to\nconsequences. It is almost unnecessary to add, that certain qualities\nopposite to the former, such as dullness, peevishness, inhumanity,\ncowardice, occasion in the same manner painful emotions.\n\nSensible beings affect us remarkably by their actions. Some actions so\nsoon as perceived, raise pleasant emotions in the spectator, without the\nleast reflection; such as graceful motion and genteel behaviour. But as\nthe intention of the agent is a capital circumstance in the bulk of\nhuman actions, it requires reflection to discover their true character.\nIf I see one delivering a purse of money to another, I can make nothing\nof this action, till I discover with what intention the money is given.\nIf it be given to extinguish a debt, the action is agreeable in a slight\ndegree. If it be a grateful return, I feel a stronger emotion; and the\npleasurable emotion rises to a great height when it is the intention of\nthe giver to relieve a virtuous family from want. Actions are thus\nqualified by the intention of the agent. But they are not qualified by\nthe event; for an action well intended is agreeable, whatever be the\nconsequence. The pleasant or painful emotion that ariseth from\ncontemplating human actions, is of a peculiar kind. Human actions are\nperceived to be _right_ or _wrong_; and this perception qualifies the\npleasure or pain that results from them[16].\n\nNot only are emotions raised in us by the qualities and actions of\nothers, but also by their feelings. I cannot behold a man in distress,\nwithout partaking of his pain; nor in joy, without partaking of his\npleasure.\n\nThe beings or things above described, occasion emotions in us, not only\nin the original survey, but when they are recalled to the memory in\nidea. A field laid out with taste, is pleasant in the recollection, as\nwell as when under our eye. A generous action described in words or\ncolours, occasions a sensible emotion, as well as when we see it\nperformed. And when we reflect upon the distress of any person, our pain\nis of the same kind with what we felt when eye-witnesses. In a word, an\nagreeable or disagreeable object recalled to the mind in idea, is the\noccasion of a pleasant or painful emotion, of the same kind with that\nproduced when the object was present. The only difference is, that an\nidea being fainter than an original perception, the pleasure or pain\nproduced by the former, is proportionably fainter than that produced by\nthe latter.\n\nHaving explained the nature of an emotion and mentioned several causes\nby which it is produced, we proceed to an observation of considerable\nimportance in the science of human nature, that some emotions are\naccompanied with desire, and that others, after a short existence, pass\naway without producing desire of any sort. The emotion raised by a fine\nlandscape or a magnificent building, vanisheth generally without\nattaching our hearts to the object; which also happens with relation to\na number of fine faces in a crowded assembly. But the bulk of emotions\nare accompanied with desire of one sort or other, provided only a fit\nobject for desire be suggested. This is remarkably the case of emotions\nraised by human actions and qualities. A virtuous action raiseth in\nevery spectator a pleasant emotion, which is generally attended with a\ndesire to do good to the author of the action. A vicious action, on the\nother hand, produceth a painful emotion; and of consequence a desire to\nhave the author punished. Even things inanimate often raise desire. The\ngoods of fortune are objects of desire almost universally; and the\ndesire, when more than commonly vigorous, obtains the name of _avarice_.\nThe pleasant emotion produced in a spectator by a capital picture in the\npossession of a prince, seldom raiseth desire. But if such a picture be\nexposed to sale, desire of having or possessing is the natural\nconsequence of the emotion.\n\nIf now an emotion be sometimes productive of desire, somtimes not, it\ncomes to be a material inquiry, in what respect a passion differs from\nan emotion. Is passion in its nature or feeling distinguishable from\nemotion? I have been apt to think that there must be a distinction,\nwhen the emotion seems in all cases to precede the passion, and to be\nthe cause or occasion of it. But after the strictest examination, I\ncannot perceive any such distinction betwixt emotion and passion. What\nis love to a mistress, for example, but a pleasant emotion raised by a\nsight or idea of the person beloved, joined with desire of enjoyment? In\nwhat else consists the passion of resentment, but in a painful emotion\noccasioned by the injury, accompanied with desire to chastise the author\nof the injury? In general, as to every sort of passion, we find no more\nin the composition, but the particulars now mentioned, an emotion\npleasant or painful accompanied with desire. What then shall we say upon\nthis subject? Are _passion_ and _emotion_ synonymous terms? This cannot\nbe averred. No feeling nor agitation of the mind void of desire, is\ntermed a passion; and we have discovered that there are many emotions\nwhich pass away without raising desire of any kind. How is the\ndifficulty to be solved? There appears to me but one solution, which I\nrelish the more, as it renders the doctrine of the passions and\nemotions simple and perspicuous. The solution follows. An internal\nmotion or agitation of the mind, when it passeth away without raising\ndesire, is denominated _an emotion_: when desire is raised, the motion\nor agitation is denominated _a passion_. A fine face, for example,\nraiseth in me a pleasant feeling. If this feeling vanish without\nproducing any effect, it is in proper language an emotion. But if such\nfeeling, by reiterated views of the object, become sufficiently strong\nto raise desire, it is no longer termed an emotion, but a passion. The\nsame holds in all the other passions. The painful feeling raised in a\nspectator by a slight injury done to a stranger, being accompanied with\nno desire of revenge, is termed an emotion. But this injury raiseth in\nthe stranger a stronger emotion, which being accompanied with desire of\nrevenge, is a passion. Again, external expressions of distress, produce\nin the spectator a painful feeling. This feeling is sometimes so slight\nas to pass away without any effect, in which case it is an emotion. But\nif the feeling be so strong as to prompt desire of affording relief, it\nis a passion, and is termed _pity_. Envy is emulation in excess. If the\nexaltation of a competitor be barely disagreeable, the painful feeling\nis reckoned an emotion. If it produce desire to depress him, it is\nreckoned a passion.\n\nTo prevent mistakes, it must be observed, that desire here is taken in\nits proper sense, _viz._ that internal impulse which makes us proceed to\naction. Desire in a lax sense respects also actions and events that\ndepend not on us, as when I desire that my friend may have a son to\nrepresent him, or that my country may flourish in arts and sciences. But\nsuch internal act is more properly termed a _wish_ than a _desire_.\n\nHaving distinguished passion from emotion, we proceed to consider\npassion more at large, with respect especially to its power of producing\naction.\n\nWe have daily and constant experience for our authority, that no man\never proceeds to action but through the impulse of some antecedent\ndesire. So well established is this observation, and so deeply rooted\nin the mind, that we can scarce imagine a different system of action.\nEven a child will say familiarly, What should make me do this or that\nwhen I have no inclination to it? Taking it then for granted, that the\nexistence of action depends on antecedent desire; it follows, that where\nthere is no desire there can be no action. This opens another shining\ndistinction betwixt emotions and passions. The former, being without\ndesire, are in their nature quiescent: the latter, involving desire,\nhave a tendency to action, and always produce action where they meet\nwith no obstruction.\n\nHence it follows, that every passion must have an object, _viz._ that\nbeing or thing to which our desire is directed, and with a view to which\nevery action prompted by that desire is performed. The object of every\npassion is that being or thing which produced it. This will be evident\nfrom induction. A fine woman, by her beauty, causes in me the passion of\nlove, which is directed upon her as its object. A man by injuring me,\nraises my resentment; and becomes thereby the object of my resentment.\nThus the cause of a passion, and its object, are the same in different\nviews. An emotion, on the other hand, being in its nature quiescent and\nmerely a passive feeling, must have a cause; but cannot be said properly\nspeaking to have an object.\n\nAs the desire involved in every passion leads to action, this action is\neither ultimate, or it is done as a means to some end. Where the action\nis ultimate, reason and reflection bear no part. The action is performed\nblindly by the impulse of passion, without any view. Thus one in extreme\nhunger snatches at food, without the slightest reflection whether it be\nsalutary or not: Avarice prompts to accumulate wealth without the least\nview of use; and thereby absurdly converts means into an end: Fear often\nmakes us fly before we reflect whether we really be in danger: and\nanimal love not less often hurries to fruition, without a single thought\nof gratification. But for the most part, actions are performed as means\nto some end; and in these actions reason and reflection always bear a\npart. The end is that event which is desired; and the action is\ndeliberately performed in order to bring about that end. Thus affection\nto my friend involves a desire to make him happy; and the desire to\naccomplish that end, prompts me to perform what I judge will contribute\nto it.\n\nWhere the action is ultimate, it hath a cause, _viz._ the impulse of the\npassion. But we cannot properly say it hath a motive. This term is\nappropriated to actions that are performed as means to some end; and the\nconviction that the action will tend to bring about the end desired, is\ntermed a motive. Thus passions considered as causes of action, are\ndistinguished into two kinds; instinctive, and deliberative. The first\noperating blindly and by mere impulse, depend entirely upon the\nsensitive part of our nature. The other operating by reflection and by\nmotives, are connected with the rational part.\n\nThe foregoing difference among the passions, is the work of nature.\nExperience brings on some variations. By all actions performed through\nthe impulse of passion, desire is gratified, and the gratification is\npleasant. This lesson we have from experience. And hence it is, that\nafter an action has often been performed by the impulse merely of\npassion, the pleasure resulting from performance, considered beforehand,\nbecomes a motive, which joins its force with the original impulse in\ndetermining us to act. Thus a child eats by the mere impulse of hunger:\na young man thinks of the pleasure of gratification, which is a motive\nfor him to eat: and a man farther advanced in life, hath the additional\nmotive that it will contribute to his health.\n\nInstinctive passions are distinguished into two kinds. Where the cause\nis internal, they are denominated _appetites_: where external, they\nretain the common name of _passions_. Thus hunger, thirst, animal love,\nare termed _appetites_; while fear and anger, even when they operate\nblindly and by mere impulse, are termed _passions_.\n\nFrom the definition of a motive above given, it is easy to determine,\nwith the greatest accuracy, what passions are selfish, what social. No\npassion can properly be termed selfish, but what prompts me to exert\nactions in order for my own good; nor social, but what prompts me to\nexert actions in order for the good of another. The motive is that which\ndetermines a passion to be social or selfish. Hence it follows, that our\nappetites, which make us act blindly and by mere impulse, cannot be\nreckoned either social or selfish; and as little the actions they\nproduce. Thus eating, when prompted by an impulse merely of nature, is\nneither social nor selfish. But add a motive, That it will contribute to\nmy pleasure or my health, and it becomes in a measure selfish. On the\nother hand, when affection moves me to exert actions to the end solely\nof advancing my friend\u2019s happiness, without the slightest regard to my\nown gratification, such actions are justly denominated _social_; and so\nis the affection, that is their cause. If another motive be added, That\ngratifying the affection will contribute to my own happiness, the\nactions I perform become partly selfish. Animal love when exerted into\naction by natural impulse singly, is neither social nor selfish: when\nexerted with a view to gratification and in order to make me happy, it\nis selfish. When the motive of giving pleasure to its object is\nsuperadded, it is partly social, partly selfish. A just action when\nprompted by the love of justice solely, is neither social nor selfish.\nWhen I perform an act of justice with a view to the pleasure of\ngratification, the action is selfish. I pay my debt for my own sake, not\nwith a view to benefit my creditor. But let me suppose the money has\nbeen advanced by a friend without interest, purely to oblige me. In this\ncase, together with the inclination to do justice, there arises a motive\nof gratitude, which respects the creditor solely, and prompts me to act\nin order to do him good. Here the action is partly social, partly\nselfish. Suppose again I meet with a surprising and unexpected act of\ngenerosity, that inspires me with love to my benefactor and the utmost\ngratitude. I burn to do him good: he is the sole object of my desire;\nand my own pleasure in gratifying the desire, vanisheth out of sight. In\nthis case, the action I perform is purely social. Thus it happens, that\nwhen a social motive becomes strong, the action is exerted with a view\nsingly to the object of the passion; and the selfish pleasure arising\nfrom gratification is never once considered. The same effect of stifling\nselfish motives, is equally remarkable in other passions that are in no\nview social. Ambition, for example, when confined to exaltation as its\nultimate end, is neither social nor selfish. Let exaltation be\nconsidered as a means to make me happy, and the passion becomes so far\nselfish. But if the desire of exaltation wax strong and inflame my mind,\nthe selfish motive now mentioned is no longer felt. A slight degree of\nresentment, where my chief view in acting is the pleasure arising to\nmyself from gratifying the passion, is justly denominated _selfish_.\nWhere revenge flames so high as to have no other aim but the destruction\nof its object, it is no longer selfish. In opposition to a social\npassion, it maybe termed _dissocial_[17].\n\nOf self, every one hath a direct perception: of other things, we have no\nknowledge but by means of their attributes. Hence it is, that of self,\nthe perception is more lively than of any other thing. Self is an\nagreeable object; and, for the reason now given, must be more agreeable\nthan any other object. Is not this sufficient to account for the\nprevalence of self-love?\n\nIn the foregoing part of this chapter, it is suggested, that some\ncircumstances make beings or things fit objects for desire, others not.\nThis hint must be pursued. It is a truth ascertained by universal\nexperience, that a thing which in our apprehension is beyond reach,\nnever is the object of desire. No man, in his right senses, desires to\nwalk in the air, or to descend to the centre of the earth. We may amuse\nourselves in a reverie, with building castles in the air, and wishing\nfor what can never happen. But such things never move desire. And indeed\na desire to act would be altogether absurd, when we are conscious that\nthe action is beyond our power. In the next place, though the difficulty\nof attainment with respect to things within reach, often inflames\ndesire; yet where the prospect of attainment is faint and the event\nextremely uncertain, the object, however agreeable, seldom raiseth any\nstrong desire. Thus beauty or other good qualities in a woman of rank,\nseldom raises love in any man greatly her inferior. In the third place,\ndifferent objects, equally within reach, raise emotions in different\ndegrees; and when desire accompanies any of these emotions, its\nstrength, as is natural, is proportioned to that of its cause. Hence the\nremarkable difference among desires directed upon beings inanimate,\nanimate, and rational. The emotion caused by a rational being, is out of\nmeasure stronger than any caused by an animal without reason; and an\nemotion raised by such an animal, is stronger than what is caused by any\nthing inanimate. There is a separate reason why desire of which a\nrational being is the object should be the strongest. Desire directed\nupon such a being, is gratified many ways, by loving, serving,\nbenefiting, the object; and it is a well known truth, that our desires\nnaturally swell by exercise. Desire directed upon an inanimate being,\nsusceptible neither of pleasure nor pain, is not capable of a higher\ngratification than that of acquiring the property. Hence it is, that\nthough every feeling which raiseth desire, is strictly speaking a\npassion; yet commonly those feelings only are denominated passions of\nwhich sensible beings capable of pleasure and pain are the objects.\n\n\nSECT. II.\n\n_Causes of the emotions of joy and sorrow._\n\nThis subject was purposely reserved for a separate section, because it\ncould not, with perspicuity, be handled under the general head. An\nemotion involving desire is termed _a passion_; and when the desire is\nfulfilled, the passion is said to be gratified. The gratification of\nevery passion must be pleasant, or in other words produce a pleasant\nemotion; for nothing can be more natural, than that the accomplishment\nof any wish or desire should affect us with joy. I cannot even except\nthe case, where a man, through remorse, is desirous to chastise and\npunish himself. The joy of gratification is properly called an emotion;\nbecause it makes us happy in our present situation, and is ultimate in\nits nature, not having a tendency to any thing beyond. On the other\nhand, sorrow must be the result of an event contrary to what we desire;\nfor if the accomplishment of desire produce joy, it is equally natural\nthat disappointment should produce sorrow.\n\nAn event fortunate or unfortunate, that falls out by accident without\nbeing foreseen or thought of, and which therefore could not be the\nobject of desire, raiseth an emotion of the same kind with that now\nmentioned. But the cause must be different; for there can be no\ngratification where there is no desire. We have not however far to seek\nfor a cause. A man cannot be indifferent to an event that affects him or\nany of his connections. If it be fortunate, it gives him joy; if\nunfortunate, it gives him sorrow.\n\nIn no situation doth joy rise to a greater height, than upon the removal\nof any violent distress of mind or body; and in no situation doth sorrow\nrise to a greater height, than upon the removal of what makes us happy.\nThe sensibility of our nature serves in part to account for these\neffects. Other causes also concur. We can be under no violent distress\nwithout an anxious desire to be free from it; and therefore its removal\nis a high gratification. We cannot be possessed of any thing that makes\nus happy, without wishing its continuance; and therefore its removal by\ncrossing our wishes must create sorrow. Nor is this all. The principle\nof contrast comes in for its share. An emotion of joy arising upon the\nremoval of pain, is increased by contrast when we reflect upon our\nformer distress. An emotion of sorrow upon being deprived of any good,\nis increased by contrast when we reflect upon our former happiness.\n\n    _Jaffier_. There\u2019s not a wretch that lives on common charity,\n    But\u2019s happier than me. For I have known\n    The luscious sweets of plenty: every night\n    Have slept with soft content about my head,\n    And never wak\u2019d but to a joyful morning.\n    Yet now must fall like a full ear of corn,\n    Whose blossom \u2019scap\u2019d, yet\u2019s wither\u2019d in the ripening.\n         _Venice preserv\u2019d, act 1. sc. 1._\n\n\nIt hath always been reckoned difficult to account for the extreme\npleasure that follows a cessation of bodily pain; as when one is\nrelieved from the rack, or from a violent fit of the stone. What is\nsaid, explains this difficulty in the easiest and simplest manner.\nCessation of bodily pain is not of itself a pleasure; for a _non-ens_ or\na negative can neither give pleasure nor pain. But man is so framed by\nnature as to rejoice when he is eased of pain, as well as to be\nsorrowful when deprived of any good. This branch of our constitution, is\nchiefly the cause of the pleasure. The gratification of desire comes in\nas an accessory cause; and contrast joins its force, by increasing the\nsense of our present happiness. In the case of an acute pain, a peculiar\ncircumstance contributes its part. The brisk circulation of the animal\nspirits occasioned by acute pain, continues after the pain is vanished,\nand produceth a very pleasant feeling. Sickness hath not that effect,\nbecause it is always attended with a depression of spirits.\n\nHence it is, that the gradual diminution of acute pain, occasions a mixt\nemotion, partly pleasant, partly painful. The partial diminution\nproduceth joy in proportion; but the remaining pain balanceth our joy.\nThis mixt feeling, however, hath no long endurance. For the joy that\nariseth upon the diminution of pain, soon vanisheth; and leaveth in the\nundisturbed possession, that degree of pain which remains.\n\nWhat is above observed about bodily pain, is equally applicable to the\ndistresses of the mind; and accordingly it is a common artifice, to\nprepare us for the reception of good news by alarming our fears.\n\n\nSECT. III.\n\n_Sympathetic emotion of virtue, and its cause._\n\nOne feeling there is, that merits a deliberate view, for its\nsingularity, as well as utility. Whether to call it an emotion or a\npassion, seems uncertain. The former it can scarce be, because it\ninvolves desire; and the latter it can scarce be, because it has no\nobject. But this feeling and its nature will be best understood from\nexamples. A signal act of gratitude, produceth in the spectator love or\nesteem for the author. The spectator hath at the same time a separate\nfeeling; which, being mixed with love or esteem, the capital emotion,\nhath not been much adverted to. It is a vague feeling of gratitude,\nwhich hath no object; but which, however, disposes the spectator to acts\nof gratitude, more than upon ordinary occasions. Let any man attentively\nconsider his own heart when he thinks warmly of any signal act of\ngratitude, and he will be conscious of this feeling, as distinct from\nthe esteem or admiration he has for the grateful person. It merits our\nutmost attention, by unfolding a curious piece of mechanism in the\nnature of man. The feeling is singular in the following respect, that it\ninvolves a desire to perform acts of gratitude, without having any\nparticular object; though in this state the mind, wonderfully disposed\ntoward an object, neglects no object upon which it can vent itself. Any\nact of kindness or good-will that would not be regarded upon another\noccasion, is greedily seized; and the vague feeling is converted into a\nreal passion of gratitude. In such a state, favours are returned double.\n\nAgain, a courageous action produceth in a spectator the passion of\nadmiration directed upon the author. But beside this well-known passion,\na separate feeling is raised in the spectator; which may be called _an\nemotion of courage_, because while under its influence he is conscious\nof a boldness and intrepidity beyond ordinary, and longs for proper\nobjects upon which to exert this emotion.\n\n    Spumantemque dari, pecora inter inertia, votis\n    Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem.\n         _\u00c6neid._ iv. 158.\n\n    Non altramente \u2019il tauro, oue l\u2019 irriti\n    Geloso amor con stimoli pungenti\n    Horribilmente mugge, e co\u2019 muggiti\n    Gli spirti in se risueglia, e l\u2019ire ardenti:\n    E\u2019l corno aguzza a i tronchi, e par ch\u2019inuiti\n    Con vani colpi a\u2019 la battaglia i venti.\n         _Tasso, canto 7. st. 55._\n\n    So full of valour that they smote the air\n    For breathing in their faces.\n         _Tempest, act. 4. sc. 4._\n\nFor another example, let us figure some grand and heroic action, highly\nagreeable to the spectator. Beside a singular veneration for the author,\nthe spectator feels in himself an unusual dignity of character, which\ndisposeth him to great and noble actions. And herein principally\nconsists the extreme delight every one hath in the histories of\nconquerors and heroes.\n\nThis singular feeling, which may be termed _the sympathetic emotion of\nvirtue_, resembles, in one respect, the well-known appetites that lead\nto the propagation and preservation of the species. The appetites of\nhunger, thirst, and animal love, arise in the mind without being\ndirected upon any particular object; and in no case whatever is the mind\nmore solicitous for a proper object, than when under the influence of\nany of these appetites.\n\nThe feeling I have endeavoured to evolve, may well be termed _the\nsympathetic emotion of virtue_; for it is raised in a spectator by\nvirtuous actions of every kind, and by no other sort. When we\ncontemplate a virtuous action, which never fails to delight us and to\nprompt our love for the author, the mind is warmed and put into a tone\nsimilar to what inspired the virtuous action. The propensity we have to\nsuch actions is so much enlivened, as to become for a time an actual\nemotion. But no man hath a propensity to vice as such. On the contrary,\na wicked deed disgusts him, and makes him abhor the author. This\nabhorrence is a strong antidote so long as any impression remains of\nthe wicked action.\n\nIn a rough road, a halt to view a fine country is refreshing; and here a\ndelightful prospect opens upon us. It is indeed wonderful to see what\nincitements there are to virtue in the human frame. Justice is perceived\nto be our duty, and it is guarded by natural punishments, from which the\nguilty never escape. To perform noble and generous actions, a warm sense\nof dignity and superior excellence is a most efficacious incitement[18].\nAnd to leave virtue in no quarter unsupported, here is unfolded an\nadmirable contrivance, by which good example commands the heart and adds\nto virtue the force of habit. Did our moral feelings extend no farther\nthan to approve the action and to bestow our affection on the author,\ngood example would not have great influence. But to give it the utmost\nforce, nothing can be better contrived than the sympathetic emotion\nunder consideration, which prompts us to imitate what we admire. This\nsingular emotion will readily find an object to exert itself upon; and\nat any rate, it never exists without producing some effect. Virtuous\nemotions of this sort, are in some degree an exercise of virtue. They\nare a mental exercise at least, if they show not externally. And every\nexercise of virtue, internal and external, leads to habit; for a\ndisposition or propensity of the mind, like a limb of the body, becomes\nstronger by exercise. Proper means, at the same time, being ever at hand\nto raise this sympathetic emotion, its frequent reiteration may, in a\ngood measure, supply the want of a more complete exercise. Thus, by\nproper discipline, every person may acquire a settled habit of virtue.\nIntercourse with men of worth, histories of generous and disinterested\nactions, and frequent meditation upon them, keep the sympathetic emotion\nin constant exercise, which by degrees introduceth a habit, and confirms\nthe authority of virtue. With respect to education in particular, what a\nspacious and commodious avenue to the heart of a young person, is here\nopened?\n\n\nSECT. IV.\n\n_In many instances one emotion is productive of another. The same of\npassions._\n\nIn the first chapter it is observed, that the relations by which things\nare mutually connected, have a remarkable influence in regulating the\ntrain of our ideas. I here add, that they have an influence not less\nremarkable, in generating emotions and passions. Beginning with the\nformer, it holds in fact, that an agreeable object makes every thing\nconnected with it appear agreeable. The mind gliding sweetly and easily\nthrough related objects, carries along the beauty of objects that made a\nfigure, and blends that beauty with the idea of the present object,\nwhich thereby appears more agreeable than when considered apart[19].\nThis reason may appear obscure and metaphysical, but it must be relished\nwhen we attend to the following examples, which establish the fact\nbeyond all dispute. No relation is more intimate than that betwixt a\nbeing and its qualities; and accordingly, the affection I bear a man\nexpands itself readily upon all his qualities, which by that means make\na greater figure in my mind than more substantial qualities in others.\nThe talent of speaking in a friend, is more regarded than that of acting\nin a person with whom I have no connection; and graceful motion in a\nmistress, gives more delight than consummate prudence in any other\nwoman. Affection sometimes rises so high, as to convert defects into\nproperties. The wry neck of Alexander was imitated by his courtiers as a\nreal beauty, without intention to flatter. Thus Lady Piercy, speaking of\nher husband Hotspur,\n\n    ---- By his light\n    Did all the chivalry of England move,\n    To do brave acts. He was indeed the glass,\n    Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves.\n    He had no legs that practis\u2019d not his gait:\n    And speaking thick, which Nature made his blemish,\n    Became the accents of the valiant:\n    For those who could speak low and tardily,\n    Would turn their own perfection to abuse,\n    To seem like him.\n         _Second part, Henry IV. act 2. sc. 6._\n\nWhen the passion of love has ended its course, its object becomes quite\na different creature.---- Nothing left of that genteel motion, that\ngaiety, that sprightly conversation, those numberless graces, that\nformerly, in the lover\u2019s opinion, charmed all hearts.\n\nThe same communication of passion obtains in the relation of principal\nand accessory. Pride, of which self is the object, expands itself upon a\nhouse, a garden, servants, equipage, and every thing of that nature. A\nlover addresseth his mistress\u2019s glove in the following terms:\n\n    Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine.\n\nA temple is in a proper sense an accessory of the deity to which it is\ndedicated. Diana is chaste, and not only her temple, but the very isicle\nwhich hangs on it, must partake of that property:\n\n    The noble sister of Poplicola,\n    The moon of Rome; chasle as the isicle\n    That\u2019s curdled by the frost from purest snow,\n    And hangs on Dian\u2019s temple.\n         _Coriolanus, act 5. sc. 3._\n\nThus it is, that the respect and esteem, which the great, the powerful,\nthe opulent naturally command, are in some measure communicated to their\ndress, to their manners, and to all their connections. It is this\nprinciple, which in matters left to our own choice prevails over the\nnatural taste of beauty and propriety, and gives currency to what is\ncalled _the fashion_.\n\nBy means of the same easiness of transition, the bad qualities of an\nobject are carried along, and grafted upon related objects. Every good\nquality in a person is extinguished by hatred; and every bad quality is\nspread upon all his connections. A relation more slight and transitory\nthan that of hatred, may have the same effect. Thus the bearer of bad\ntidings becomes an object of aversion:\n\n    Fellow begone, I cannot brook thy sight,\n    This news hath made thee a most ugly man.\n         _King John, act 3. sc. 1._\n\n    Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news\n    Hath but a losing office: and his tongue\n    Sounds ever after, as a sullen bell\n    Remember\u2019d, tolling a departing friend.\n         _Second part, Henry IV. act 1. sc. 3._\n\nThis disposition of the mind to communicate the properties of one object\nto another, is not always proportioned to the intimacy of their\nconnection. The order of the transition from object to object, hath also\nan influence. The sense of order operates not less powerfully in this\ncase, than in the succession of ideas[20]. If a thing be agreeable in\nitself, all its accessories appear agreeable. But the agreeableness of\nan accessory, extends not itself so readily to the principal. Any dress\nupon a fine woman is becoming; but the most elegant ornaments upon one\nthat is homely, have scarce any effect to mend her appearance. The\nreason will be obvious, from what is said in the chapter above cited.\nThe mind passes more easily from the principal to its accessories, than\nin the opposite direction.\n\nThe emotions produced as above may properly be termed _secondary_, being\noccasioned either by antecedent emotions or antecedent passions, which\nin this respect may be termed _primary_. And to complete the present\ntheory, I must now remark a difference betwixt a primary emotion and a\nprimary passion in the production of secondary emotions. A secondary\nemotion cannot but be more faint than the primary; and therefore, if the\nchief or principal object have not the power to raise a passion, the\naccessory object will have still less power. But if a passion be raised\nby the principal object, the secondary emotion may readily swell into a\npassion for the accessory, provided the accessory be a proper object for\ndesire. And thus it happens that one passion is often productive of\nanother. Examples are without number: the sole difficulty is a proper\nchoice. I begin with self-love, and the power it hath to generate other\npassions. The love which parents bear their children, is an illustrious\nexample of the foregoing doctrine. Every man, beside making part of a\ngreater system, like a comet, a planet, or satellite only; hath a less\nsystem of his own, in the centre of which he represents the sun\ndispersing his fire and heat all around. The connection between a man\nand his children, fundamentally that of cause and effect, becomes, by\nthe addition of other circumstances, the completest that can be among\nindividuals; and therefore, self-love, the most vigorous of all\npassions, is readily expanded upon children. The secondary emotion they\nat first produce by means of their connection, is, generally speaking,\nsufficiently strong to move desire even from the beginning; and the new\npassion swells by degrees, till it rival in some measure self-love, the\nprimary passion. The following case will demonstrate the truth of this\ntheory. Remorse for betraying a friend, or murdering an enemy in cold\nblood, makes a man even hate himself. In this state, it is a matter of\nexperience, that he is scarce conscious of any affection to his\nchildren, but rather of disgust or ill-will. What cause can be assigned\nfor this change, other than the hatred which beginning at himself, is\nexpanded upon his children? And if so, may we not with equal reason\nderive from self-love the affection a man for ordinary has to them?\n\nThe affection a man bears to his blood-relations, depends on the same\nprinciple. Self-love is also expanded upon them; and the communicated\npassion, is more or less vigorous in proportion to the connection. Nor\ndoth self-love rest here: it is, by the force of connection,\ncommunicated even to things inanimate. And hence the affection a man\nbears to his property, and to every thing he calls his own.\n\nFriendship, less vigorous than self-love, is, for that reason, less apt\nto communicate itself to children or other relations. Instances however\nare not wanting, of such communicated passion arising from friendship\nwhen it is strong. Friendship may go higher in the matrimonial state\nthan in any other condition: and Otway, in _Venice preserv\u2019d_, shows a\nfine taste in taking advantage of that circumstance. In the scene where\nBelvidera sues to her father for pardon, she is represented as pleading\nher mother\u2019s merit, and the resemblance she bore to her mother.\n\n    _Priuli._ My daughter!\n\n    _Belvidera._ Yes, your daughter, by a mother\n    Virtuous and noble, faithful to your honour,\n    Obedient to your will, kind to your wishes,\n    Dear to your arms. By all the joys she gave you,\n    When in her blooming years she was your treasure,\n    Look kindly on me; in my face behold\n    The lineaments of hers y\u2019 have kiss\u2019d so often,\n    Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off child.\n\nAnd again,\n\n    _Belvidera._ Lay me, I beg you, lay me\n    By the dear ashes of my tender mother.\n    She would have pitied me, had fate yet spar\u2019d her.\n         _Act 5. sc. 1._\n\nThis explains why any meritorious action or any illustrious\nqualification in my son or my friend, is apt to make me overvalue\nmyself. If I value my friend\u2019s wife or his son upon account of their\nconnection with him, it is still more natural that I should value myself\nupon account of my own connection with him.\n\nFriendship, or any other social affection, may produce opposite effects.\nPity, by interesting us strongly for the person in distress, must of\nconsequence inflame our resentment against the author of the distress.\nFor, in general, the affection we have for any man, generates in us\ngood-will to his friends and ill-will to his enemies. Shakespear shows\ngreat art in the funeral oration pronounced by Antony over the body of\nC\u00e6sar. He first endeavours to excite grief in the hearers, by dwelling\nupon the deplorable loss of so great a man. This passion raised to a\npitch, interesting them strongly in C\u00e6sar\u2019s fate, could not fail to\nproduce a lively sense of the treachery and cruelty of the conspirators;\nan infallible method to inflame the resentment of the multitude beyond\nall bounds.\n\n    _Antony._ If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.\n    You all do know this mantle; I remember\n    The first time ever C\u00e6sar put it on,\n    \u2019Twas on a summer\u2019s evening in his tent,\n    That day he overcame the Nervii----\n    Look! in this place ran Cassius\u2019 dagger through;--\n    See what a rent the envious Casca made.----\n    Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb\u2019d;\n    And as he pluck\u2019d his cursed steel away,\n    Mark how the blood of C\u00e6sar follow\u2019d it!\n    As rushing out of doors, to be resolv\u2019d,\n    If Brutus so unkindly knock\u2019d, or no:\n    For Brutus, as you know, was C\u00e6sar\u2019s angel.\n    Judge, oh you gods! how dearly C\u00e6sar lov\u2019d him;\n    This, this, was the unkindest cut of all;\n    For when the noble C\u00e6sar saw him stab,\n    Ingratitude, more strong than traitors\u2019 arms,\n    Quite vanquish\u2019d him; then burst his mighty heart:\n    And, in his mantle muffling up his face,\n    Which all the while ran blood, great C\u00e6sar fell,\n    Even at the base of Pompey\u2019s statue.\n    O what a fall was there, my countrymen!\n    Then I and you, and all of us fell down,\n    Whilst bloody treason flourish\u2019d over us.\n    O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel\n    The dint of pity; these are gracious drops.\n    Kind souls! what, weep you when you but behold\n    Our C\u00e6sar\u2019s vesture wounded? look you here!\n    Here is himself, marr\u2019d, as you see, by traitors.\n         _Julius C\u00e6sar, act 3. sc. 6._\n\nHad Antony directed upon the conspirators the thoughts of his audience,\nwithout paving the way by raising their grief, his speech perhaps might\nhave failed of success.\n\nHatred and other dissocial passions, produce effects directly opposite\nto those above mentioned. If I hate a man, his children, his relations,\nnay his property, become to me objects of aversion. His enemies, on the\nother hand, I am disposed to esteem.\n\nThe more slight and transitory connections, have generally no power to\nproduce a communicated passion. Anger, when sudden and violent, is one\nexception; for if the person who did the injury be removed out of reach,\nthis passion will vent itself upon any related object, however slight\nthe relation be. Another exception makes a greater figure. A group of\nbeings or things, becomes often the object of a communicated passion,\neven where the relation of the individuals to the principal object is\nbut faint. Thus though I put no value upon a single man for living in\nthe same town with myself; my townsmen however, considered in a body,\nare preferred before others. This is still more remarkable with respect\nto my countrymen in general. The grandeur of the complex object, swells\nthe passion of self-love by the relation I have to my native country;\nand every passion, when it swells beyond its ordinary bounds, hath, in\nthat circumstance, a peculiar tendency to expand itself along related\nobjects. In fact, instances are not rare, of persons, who, upon all\noccasions, are willing to sacrifice their lives and fortunes for their\ncountry. Such influence upon the mind of man, hath a complex object, or,\nmore properly speaking, a general term[21].\n\nThe sense of order hath, in the communication of passion, an influence\nnot less remarkable than in the communication of emotions. It is a\ncommon observation, that a man\u2019s affection to his parents is less\nvigorous than to his children. The order of nature in descending to\nchildren, aids the transition of the affection. The ascent to a parent,\ncontrary to this order, makes the transition more difficult. Gratitude\nto a benefactor is readily extended to his children; but not so readily\nto his parents. The difference however betwixt the natural and inverted\norder, is not so considerable, but that it may be balanced by other\ncircumstances. Pliny[22] gives an account of a woman of rank condemned\nto die for a crime; and, to avoid public shame, detained in prison to\ndie of hunger. Her life being prolonged beyond expectation, it was\ndiscovered, that she was nourished by sucking milk from the breasts of\nher daughter. This instance of filial piety, which aided the transition\nand made ascent not less easy than descent is for ordinary, procured a\npardon to the mother, and a pension to both. The story of Androcles and\nthe lion[23] may be accounted for in the same manner. The admiration, of\nwhich the lion was the cause, for his kindness and gratitude to\nAndrocles, produced good-will to Androcles, and pardon of his crime.\n\nAnd this leads to other observations upon communicated passions. I love\nmy daughter less after she is married, and my mother less after a second\nmarriage. The marriage of my son or my father diminishes not my\naffection so remarkably. The same observation holds with respect to\nfriendship, gratitude, and other passions. The love I bear my friend, is\nbut faintly extended to his married daughter. The resentment I have\nagainst a man, is readily extended against children who make part of his\nfamily: not so readily against children who are forisfamiliated,\nespecially by marriage. This difference is also more remarkable in\ndaughters than in sons. These are curious facts; and to evolve the cause\nwe must examine minutely, that operation of the mind by which a passion\nis extended to a related object. In considering two things as related,\nthe mind is not stationary, but passeth and repasseth from the one to\nthe other, viewing the relation from each of them perhaps oftener than\nonce. This holds more especially in considering a relation betwixt\nthings of unequal rank, as betwixt the cause and the effect, or betwixt\na principal and an accessory. In contemplating the relation betwixt a\nbuilding and its ornaments, the mind is not satisfied with a single\ntransition from the former to the latter. It must also view the\nrelation, beginning at the latter, and passing from it to the former.\nThis vibration of the mind in passing and repassing betwixt things that\nare related, explains the facts above mentioned. The mind passeth\neasily from the father to the daughter; but where the daughter is\nmarried, this new relation attracts the mind, and obstructs, in some\nmeasure, the return from the daughter to the father. Any obstruction the\nmind meets with in passing and repassing betwixt its objects, occasions\na like obstruction in the communication of passion. The marriage of a\nmale obstructs less the easiness of transition; because a male is less\nsunk by the relation of marriage than a female.\n\nThe foregoing instances, are of passion communicated from one object to\nanother. But one passion may be generated by another, without change of\nobject. It may in general be observed, that a passion paves the way to\nothers, similar in their tone, whether directed upon the same or upon a\ndifferent object. For the mind heated by any passion, is, in that state,\nmore susceptible of a new impression in a similar tone, than when cool\nand quiescent. It is a common observation, that pity generally produceth\nfriendship for a person in distress. Pity interests us in its object,\nand recommends all its virtuous qualities. For this reason, female\nbeauty shows best in distress; and is more apt to inspire love, than\nupon ordinary occasions. But it is chiefly to be remarked, that pity,\nwarming and melting the spectator, prepares him for the reception of\nother tender affections; and pity is readily improved into love or\nfriendship, by a certain tenderness and concern for the object, which is\nthe tone of both passions. The aptitude of pity to produce love is\nbeautifully illustrated by Shakespear.\n\n    _Othello._ Her father lov\u2019d me, oft invited me;\n    Still question\u2019d me the story of my life,\n    From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,\n    That I have past.\n    I ran it through, e\u2019en from my boyish days,\n    To th\u2019 very moment that he bad me tell it:\n    Wherein I spoke of most disast\u2019rous chances,\n    Of moving accidents by flood and field;\n    Of hair-breadth \u2019scapes in th\u2019 imminent deadly breach;\n    Of being taken by the insolent foe,\n    And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,\n    And with it, all my travel\u2019s history.\n    ---- All these to hear\n    Would Desdemona seriously incline;\n    But still the house-affairs would draw her thence,\n    Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,\n    She\u2019d come again, and with a greedy ear\n    Devour up my discourse: which I observing,\n    Took once a pliant hour, and found good means\n    To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,\n    That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,\n    Whereof by parcels she had something heard,\n    But not distinctively. I did consent,\n    And often did beguile her of her tears,\n    When I did speak of some distressful stroke\n    That my youth suffer\u2019d. My story being done,\n    She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:\n    She swore, in faith, \u2019twas strange, \u2019twas passing strange--\n    \u2019Twas pitiful, \u2019twas wondrous pitiful--\n    She wish\u2019d she had not heard it:--yet she wish\u2019d,\n    That heav\u2019n had made her such a man:--she thank\u2019d me,\n    And bad me, if I had a friend that lov\u2019d her,\n    I should but teach him how to tell my story,\n    And that would woo her. On this hint I spake,\n    She lov\u2019d me for the dangers I had past,\n    And I lov\u2019d her, that she did pity them:\n    This only is the witchcraft I have us\u2019d.\n         _Othello, act 1. sc. 8._\n\nIn this instance it will be observed that admiration concurred with pity\nto produce love.\n\n\nSECT. V.\n\n_Causes of the passions of fear and anger._\n\nFear and anger, to answer the purposes of nature, are happily so\ncontrived as to operate either instinctively or deliberately. So far as\nthey prompt actions considered as means leading to a certain end, they\nfall in with the general system, and require no particular explanation.\nIf any object have a threatening appearance, reason suggests means to\navoid the danger. If I am injured, the first thing I think of, is in\nwhat manner I shall be revenged, and what means I shall employ. These\nparticulars are not less obvious than natural. But as the passions of\nfear and anger, so far as instinctive, are less familiar to us, and\ntheir nature generally not understood; I thought it would not be\nunacceptable to the reader to have them accurately delineated. He may\nalso possibly relish the opportunity of this specimen, to have the\nnature of instinctive passions more fully explained than there was\nformerly occasion to do. I begin with fear.\n\nSelf-preservation is to individuals a matter of too great importance to\nbe left entirely under the guardianship of self-love, which cannot be\nput in exercise otherwise than by the intervention of reason and\nreflection. Nature hath acted here with her usual precaution and\nforesight. Fear and anger are passions common to all men; and by\noperating instinctively, they frequently afford security when the slower\noperations of deliberative reason would be too late. We take nourishment\ncommonly, not by the direction of reason, but by the incitement of\nhunger and thirst. In the same manner, we avoid danger by the incitement\nof fear, which often, before there is time for reflection, placeth us in\nsafety. This matter then is ordered with consummate wisdom. It is not\nwithin the reach of fancy, to conceive any thing better fitted to\nanswer its purpose, than this instinctive passion of fear, which, upon\nthe first surmise of danger, operates instantaneously without\nreflection. So little doth the passion, in such instances, depend on\nreason, that we often find it exerted even in contradiction to reason,\nand when we are conscious that there is no hazard. A man who is not much\nupon his guard, cannot avoid shrinking at a blow, though he knows it to\nbe aimed in sport; nor closing his eyes at the approach of what may hurt\nthem, though he is confident it will not come their length. Influenced\nby the same instinctive passion of fear, infants are much affected with\na stern look, a menacing tone, or other expression of anger; though,\nbeing incapable of reflection, they cannot form the slightest judgement\nabout the import of these signs. This is all that is necessary to be\nsaid in general. The natural connection betwixt fear and the external\nsigns of anger, will be handled in the chapter of the external signs of\nemotions and passions.\n\nFear provides for self-preservation by flying from harm; anger, by\nrepelling it. Nothing indeed can be better contrived to repel or prevent\ninjury, than anger or resentment. Destitute of this passion, men, like\ndefenceless lambs, would lie constantly open to mischief[24]. Deliberate\nanger caused by a voluntary injury, is too well known to require any\nexplanation. If my desire be in general to resent an afront, I must use\nmeans, and these means must be discovered by reflection. Deliberation is\nhere requisite; and in this, which is the ordinary case, the passion\nseldom exceeds just bounds. But where anger suddenly inflames me to\nreturn a blow, the passion is instinctive, and the action ultimate; and\nit is chiefly in such cases that the passion is rash and ungovernable,\nbecause it operates blindly, without affording time for reason or\ndeliberation.\n\nInstinctive anger is frequently raised by bodily pain, which, when\nsudden and excessive as by a stroke on a tender part, ruffling the\ntemper and unhinging the mind, is in its tone similar to anger. Bodily\npain by this means disposes to anger, which is as suddenly raised,\nprovided an object be found to vent it upon. Anger commonly is not\nprovoked otherwise than by a voluntary injury. But when a man is thus\nbeforehand disposed to anger, he is not nice nor scrupulous about an\nobject. The man who gave the stroke, however accidentally, is by an\ninflammable temper held a proper object, merely because he was the\noccasion of the pain. It is still a stronger example of the kind, that a\nstock or a stone, by which I am hurt, becomes an object for my\nresentment. I am violently incited to bray it to atoms. The passion\nindeed in this case is but momentary. It vanisheth with the first\nreflection, being attended with no circumstance that can excuse it in\nany degree. Nor is this irrational effect confined to bodily pain.\nInward distress, when excessive, may be the occasion of effects equally\nirrational. When a friend is danger and the event uncertain, the\nperturbation of mind occasioned thereby, will, in a fiery temper,\nproduce momentary fits of anger against this very friend, however\ninnocent. Thus Shakespear, in the _Tempest_,\n\n    _Alonzo._---- Sit down and rest.\n    Ev\u2019n here I will put off my hope, and keep it\n    No longer for my flatterer: he is drown\u2019d\n    Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks\n    Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.\n         _Act 3. sc. 3._\n\nThe final words, _Well, let him go_, are an expression of impatience and\nanger at Ferdinand, whose absence greatly distressed his father,\ndreading that he was lost in the storm. This nice operation of the human\nmind, is by Shakespear exhibited upon another occasion, and finely\npainted. In the tragedy of _Othello_, Iago, by dark hints and suspicious\ncircumstances, had roused Othello\u2019s jealousy; which, however, appeared\ntoo slightly founded to be vented upon Desdemona, its proper object. The\nperturbation and distress of mind thereby occasioned, produced a\nmomentary resentment against Iago, considered as occasioning the\njealousy though innocent.\n\n    _Othello._ Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore;\n    Be sure of it: give me the ocular proof.\n    Or by the wrath of man\u2019s eternal soul\n    Thou hadst been better have been born a dog,\n    Than answer my wak\u2019d wrath.\n\n    _Iago._ Is\u2019t come to this?\n\n    _Othello._ Make me see\u2019t; or, at the least, so prove it,\n    That the probation bear no hinge or loop\n    To hang a doubt on: or woe upon thy life!\n\n    _Iago._ My Noble Lord----\n\n    _Othello._ If thou dost slander her and torture me,\n    Never pray more; abandon all remorse;\n    On horrors head horrors accumulate;\n    Do deeds to make heav\u2019n weep, all earth amaz\u2019d:\n    For nothing canst thou to damnation add\n    Greater than that.\n         _Othello, act 3. sc. 8._\n\nThis blind and absurd effect of anger, is more gaily illustrated by\nAddison, in a story, the _dramatis person\u00e6_ of which are a cardinal, and\na spy retained in pay for intelligence. The cardinal is represented as\nminuting down every thing that is told him. The spy begins with a low\nvoice, \u201cSuch an one the advocate whispered to one of his friends within\nmy hearing, that your Eminence was a very great poltron;\u201d and after\nhaving given his patron time to take it down, adds, \u201cThat another called\nhim a mercenary rascal in a public conversation.\u201d The cardinal replies,\n\u201cVery well,\u201d and bids him go on. The spy proceeds, and loads him with\nreports of the same nature, till the cardinal rises in great wrath,\ncalls him an impudent scoundrel, and kicks him out of the room[25].\n\nWe meet with instances every day of resentment raised by loss at play,\nand wreaked on the cards or dice. But anger, a furious passion, is\nsatisfied with a connection still slighter than that of cause and\neffect, of which Congreve, in the _Mourning Bride_, gives one beautiful\nexample.\n\n    _Gonsalez._ Have comfort.\n\n    _Almeria_. Curs\u2019d be that tongue that bids me be of comfort,\n    Curs\u2019d my own tongue that could not move his pity,\n    Curs\u2019d these weak hands that could not hold him here,\n    For he is gone to doom Alphonso\u2019s death.\n         _Act 4. sc. 8._\n\nI have chosen to exhibit anger in its more rare appearances, for in\nthese we can best trace its nature and extent. In the examples above\ngiven, it appears to be an absurd passion and altogether irrational. But\nwe ought to consider, that it is not the intention of nature to subject\nthis passion, in every instance, to reason and reflection. It was given\nus to prevent or to repel injuries; and, like fear, it often operates\nblindly and instinctively, without the least view to consequences. The\nvery first sensation of harm, sets it in motion to repel injury by\npunishment. Were it more cool and deliberate, it would lose its\nthreatening appearance, and be insufficient to guard us against violence\nand mischief. When such is and ought to be the nature of the passion, it\nis not wonderful to find it exerted irregularly and capriciously, as it\nsometimes is where the mischief is sudden and unforeseen. All the harm\nthat can be done by the passion in this case, is instantaneous; for the\nshortest delay sets all to rights; and circumstances are seldom so\nunlucky as to put it in the power of a passionate man to do much harm in\nan instant.\n\n\nSECT. VI.\n\n_Emotions caused by fiction._\n\nThe attentive reader will observe, that in accounting for passions and\nemotions, no cause hitherto has been assigned but what hath a real\nexistence. Whether it be a being, action, or quality, that moveth us, it\nis supposed to be an object of our knowledge, or at least of our belief.\nThis observation discovers to us that the subject is not yet exhausted;\nbecause our passions, as all the world know, are moved by fiction as\nwell as by truth. In judging beforehand of man, so remarkably addicted\nto truth and reality, one should little dream that fiction could have\nany effect upon him. But man\u2019s intellectual faculties are too imperfect\nto dive far even into his own nature. I shall take occasion afterward to\nshow, that this branch of the human constitution, is contrived with\nadmirable wisdom and is subservient to excellent purposes. In the mean\ntime, I must endeavour to unfold, by what means fiction hath such\ninfluence on the mind.\n\nThat the objects of our senses really exist in the way and manner we\nperceive, is a branch of intuitive knowledge. When I see a man walking,\na tree growing, or cattle grazing, I have a conviction that these things\nare precisely as they appear. If I be a spectator of any transaction or\nevent, I have a conviction of the real existence of the persons engaged,\nof their words, and of their actions. Nature determines us to rely on\nthe veracity of our senses. And indeed, if our senses did not convince\nus of the reality of their objects, they could not in any degree answer\ntheir end.\n\nBy the power of memory, a thing formerly seen may be recalled to the\nmind with different degrees of accuracy. We commonly are satisfied with\na slight recollection of the chief circumstances; and, in such\nrecollection, the thing is not figured as present nor any image formed.\nI retain the consciousness of my present situation, and barely remember\nthat formerly I was a spectator. But with respect to an interesting\nobject or event which made a strong impression, the mind sometimes, not\nsatisfied with a cursory review, chutes to revolve every circumstance.\nIn this case, I conceive myself to be a spectator as I was originally;\nand I perceive every particular passing in my presence, in the same\nmanner as when I was in reality a spectator. For example, I saw\nyesterday a beautiful woman in tears for the loss of an only child, and\nwas greatly moved with her distress. Not satisfied with a slight\nrecollection or bare remembrance, I insist on the melancholy scene.\nConceiving myself to be in the place where I was an eye-witness, every\ncircumstance appears to me as at first. I think I see the woman in tears\nand hear her moans. Hence it may be justly said, that in a complete idea\nof memory there is no past nor future. A thing recalled to the mind\nwith the accuracy I have been describing, is perceived as in our view,\nand consequently as presently existing. Past time makes a part of an\nincomplete idea only: I remember or reflect, that some years ago I was\nat Oxford, and saw the first stone laid of the Ratcliff library; and I\nremember that at a still greater distance of time, I heard a debate in\nthe house of Commons about a standing army.\n\nLamentable is the imperfection of language, almost in every particular\nthat falls not under external sense. I am talking of a matter exceeding\nclear in itself, and of which every person must be conscious; and yet I\nfind no small difficulty to express it clearly in words; for it is not\naccurate to talk of incidents long past as passing in our sight, nor of\nhearing at present what we really heard yesterday or perhaps a year ago.\nTo this necessity I am reduced, by want of proper words to describe\nideal presence and to distinguish it from real presence. And thus in the\ndescription, a plain subject becomes obscure and intricate. When I\nrecall any thing in the distinctest manner, so as to form an idea or\nimage of it as present; I have not words to describe this act, other\nthan that I perceive the thing as a spectator, and as existing in my\npresence. This means not that I am really a spectator; but only that I\nconceive myself to be a spectator, and have a consciousness of presence\nsimilar to what a real spectator hath.\n\nAs many rules of criticism depend on ideal presence, the reader, it is\nexpected, will take some pains to form an exact notion of it, as\ndistinguished on the one hand from real presence, and on the other from\na superficial or reflective remembrance. It is distinguished from the\nformer by the following circumstance. Ideal presence arising from an act\nof memory, may properly be termed _a waking dream_; because, like a\ndream, it vanisheth upon the first reflection of our present situation.\nReal presence, on the contrary, vouched by eye-sight, commands our\nbelief, not only during the direct perception, but in reflecting\nafterward upon the object. And to distinguish ideal presence from the\nlatter, I give the following illustration. Two internal acts, both of\nthem exertions of memory, are clearly distinguishable. When I think of\nan event as past, without forming any image, it is barely reflecting or\nremembering that I was an eye-witness. But when I recall the event so\ndistinctly as to form a complete image of it, I perceive it ideally as\npassing in my presence; and this ideal perception is an act of\nintuition, into which reflection enters not more than into an act of\nsight.\n\nThough ideal presence be distinguished from real presence on the one\nside and from reflective remembrance on the other, it is however\nvariable without any precise limits; rising sometimes toward the former,\nand often sinking toward the latter. In a vigorous exertion of memory,\nideal presence is extremely distinct. When a man, as in a reverie, drops\nhimself out of his thoughts, he perceives every thing as passing before\nhim, and hath a consciousness of presence similar to that of a\nspectator. There is no other difference, but that in the former the\nconsciousness of presence is less firm and clear than in the latter. But\nthis is seldom the case. Ideal presence is often faint, and the image\nso obscure as not to differ widely from reflective remembrance.\n\nHitherto of an idea of memory. I proceed to consider the idea of a thing\nI never saw, raised in me by speech, by writing, or by painting. This\nidea, with respect to the present matter, is of the same nature with an\nidea of memory, being either complete or incomplete. An important event,\nby a lively and accurate description, rouses my attention and insensibly\ntransforms me into a spectator: I perceive ideally every incident as\npassing in my presence. On the other hand, a slight or superficial\nnarrative produceth only a faint and incomplete idea, precisely similar\nto a reflective recollection of memory. Of such idea, ideal presence\nmakes no part. Past time is a circumstance that enters into this idea,\nas it doth into a reflective idea of memory. I believe that Scipio\nexisted about 2000 years ago, and that he overcame Hannibal in the\nfamous battle of Zama. When I revolve in so cursory a manner that\nmemorable event, I consider it as long past. But supposing me to be\nwarmed with the story, perhaps by a beautiful description, I am\ninsensibly transformed to a spectator. I perceive these two heroes in\nact to engage; I perceive them brandishing their swords, and exhorting\ntheir troops; and in this manner I attend them through every\ncircumstance of the battle. This event being present to my mind during\nthe whole progress of my thoughts, admits not any time but the present.\n\nI have had occasion to observe[26], that ideas both of memory and of\nspeech, produce emotions of the same kind with what are produced by an\nimmediate view of the object; only fainter, in proportion as an idea is\nfainter than an original perception. The insight we have now got,\nunfolds the means by which this effect is produced. Ideal presence\nsupplies the want of real presence; and in idea we perceive persons\nacting and suffering, precisely as in an original survey. If our\nsympathy be engaged by the latter, it must also in some measure be\nengaged by the former. The distinctness of ideal presence, as above\nmentioned, approacheth sometimes to the distinctness of real presence;\nand the consciousness of presence is the same in both. This is the cause\nof the pleasure that is felt in a reverie, where a man, losing sight of\nhimself, is totally occupied with the objefts passing in his mind, which\nhe conceives to be really existing in his presence. The power of speech\nto raise emotions, depends entirely on the artifice of raising such\nlively and distinct images as are here described. The reader\u2019s passions\nare never sensibly moved, till he be thrown into a kind of reverie; in\nwhich state, losing the consciousness of self, and of reading, his\npresent occupation, he conceives every incident as passing in his\npresence, precisely as if he were an eye-witness. A general or\nreflective remembrance hath not this effect. It may be agreeable in some\nslight degree; but the ideas suggested by it, are too faint and obscure\nto raise any thing like a sympathetic emotion. And were they ever so\nlively, they pass with too much precipitation to have this effect. Our\nemotions are never instantaneous: even those that come the soonest to\nperfection, have different periods of birth, growth, and maturity; and\nto give opportunity for these different periods, it is necessary that\nthe cause of every emotion be present to the mind a due time. The\nemotion is completed by reiterated impressions. We know this to be the\ncase of objects of sight: we are scarce sensible of any emotion in a\nquick succession even of the most beautiful objects. And if this hold in\nthe succession of original perceptions, how much more in the succession\nof ideas?\n\nThough all this while, I have been only describing what passeth in the\nmind of every one and what every one must be conscious of, it was\nnecessary to enlarge upon it; because, however clear in the internal\nconception, it is far from being so when described in words. Ideal\npresence, though of general importance, hath scarce ever been touched by\nany writer; and at any rate it could not be overlooked in accounting for\nthe effects produced by fiction. Upon this point, the reader I guess has\nprevented me. It already must have occurred to him, that if, in\nreading, ideal presence be the means by which our passions are moved, it\nmakes no difference whether the subject be a fable or a reality. When\nideal presence is complete, we perceive every object as in our sight;\nand the mind, totally occupied with an interesting event, finds no\nleisure for reflection of any sort. This reasoning, if any one hesitate,\nis confirmed by constant and universal experience. Let us take under\nconsideration the meeting of Hector and Andromache in the sixth book of\nthe Iliad, or some of the passionate scenes in King Lear. These pictures\nof human life, when we are sufficiently engaged, give an impression of\nreality not less distinct than that given by the death of Otho in the\nbeautiful description of Tacitus. We never once reflect whether the\nstory be true or feigned. Reflection comes afterward, when we have the\nscene no longer before our eyes. This reasoning will appear in a still\nclearer light, by opposing ideal presence to ideas raised by a cursory\nnarrative; which ideas being faint, obscure, and imperfect, occupy the\nmind so little as to solicit reflection. And accordingly, a curt\nnarrative of feigned incidents is never relished. Any slight pleasure it\naffords, is more than counterbalanced by the disgust it inspires for\nwant of truth.\n\nIn support of the foregoing theory, I add what I reckon a decisive\nargument. Upon examination it will be found, that genuine history\ncommands our passions by means of ideal presence solely; and therefore\nthat with respect to this effect, genuine history stands upon the same\nfooting with fable. To me it appears clear, that our sympathy must\nvanish so soon as we begin to reflect upon the incidents related in\neither. The reflection that a story is a pure fiction, will indeed\nprevent our sympathy; but so will equally the reflection that the\npersons described are no longer existing. It is present distress only\nthat moves my pity. My concern vanishes with the distress; for I cannot\npity any person who at present is happy. According to this theory,\nfounded clearly on human nature, a man long dead and insensible now of\npast misfortunes, cannot move our pity more than if he had never\nexisted. The misfortunes described in a genuine history command our\nbelief: but then we believe also, that these misfortunes are at an end,\nand that the persons described are at present under no distress. What\neffect, for example, can the belief of the rape of Lucretia have to\nraise our sympathy, when she died above 2000 years ago, and hath at\npresent no painful feeling of the injury done her? The effect of history\nin point of instruction, depends in some measure upon its veracity. But\nhistory cannot reach the heart, while we indulge any reflection upon the\nfacts. Such reflection, if it engage our belief, never fails at the same\ntime to poison our pleasure, by convincing us that our sympathy for\nthose who are dead and gone is absurd. And if reflection be laid aside,\nhistory stands upon the same footing with fable. What effect either of\nthem may have to raise our sympathy, depends on the vivacity of the\nideas they raise; and with respect to that circumstance, fable is\ngenerally more successful than history.\n\nOf all the means for making an impression of ideal presence, theatrical\nrepresentation is the most powerful. That words independent of action\nhave the same power in a less degree, every one of sensibility must have\nfelt: A good tragedy will extort tears in private, though not so\nforcibly as upon the stage. This power belongs also to painting. A good\nhistorical picture makes a deeper impression than can be made by words,\nthough not equal to what is made by theatrical action. And as ideal\npresence depends on a lively impression, painting seems to possess a\nmiddle place betwixt reading and acting. In making an impression of\nideal presence, it is not less superior to the former than inferior to\nthe latter.\n\nIt must not however be thought, that our passions can be raised by\npainting to such a height as can be done by words. Of all the successive\nincidents that concur to produce a great event, a picture has the choice\nbut of one, because it is confined to a single instant of time. And\nthough the impression it makes, is the deepest that can be made\ninstantaneously; yet seldom can a passion be raised to any height in an\ninstant, or by a single impression. It was observed above, that our\npassions, those especially of the sympathetic kind, require a\nsuccession of impressions; and for that reason, reading and still more\nacting have greatly the advantage, by the opportunity of reiterating\nimpressions without end.\n\nUpon the whole, it is by means of ideal presence that our passions are\nexcited; and till words produce that charm they avail nothing. Even real\nevents intitled to our belief, must be conceived present and passing in\nour sight before they can move us. And this theory serves to explain\nseveral phenomena otherwise unaccountable. A misfortune happening to a\nstranger, makes a less impression than happening to a man we know, even\nwhere we are no way interested in him: our acquaintance with this man,\nhowever slight, aids the conception of his suffering in our presence.\nFor the same reason, we are little moved with any distant event; because\nwe have more difficulty to conceive it present, than an event that\nhappened in our neighbourhood.\n\nEvery one is sensible, that describing a past event as present, has a\nfine effect in language. For what other reason than that it aids the\nconception of ideal presence? Take the following example.\n\n    And now with shouts the shocking armies clos\u2019d,\n    To lances lances, shields to shields oppos\u2019d;\n    Host against host the shadowy legions drew,\n    The sounding darts an iron tempest flew;\n    Victors and vanquish\u2019d join promiscuous cries,\n    Triumphing shouts and dying groans arise,\n    With streaming blood the slipp\u2019ry field is dy\u2019d,\n    And slaughter\u2019d heroes swell the dreadful tide.\n\nIn this passage we may observe how the writer inflamed with the subject,\ninsensibly slips from the past time to the present; led to this form of\nnarration by conceiving every circumstance as passing in his own sight.\nAnd this at the same time has a fine effect upon the reader, by\nadvancing him to be as it were a spectator. But this change from the\npast to the present requires some preparation; and is not graceful in\nthe same sentence where there is no stop in the sense; witness the\nfollowing passage.\n\n    Thy fate was next, O Ph\u00e6stus! doom\u2019d to feel\n    The great Idomeneus\u2019 protended steel;\n    Whom Borus sent his son and only joy\n    From fruitful Tarne to the fields of Troy.\n    The Cretan jav\u2019lin reach\u2019d him from afar,\n    And pierc\u2019d his shoulder as he mounts his car.\n         _Iliad_, v. 57.\n\nIt is still worse to fall back to the past in the same period; for this\nis an anticlimax in description:\n\n    Through breaking ranks his furious course he bends,\n    And at the goddess his broad lance extends;\n    Through her bright veil the daring weapon drove,\n    Th\u2019 ambrosial veil, which all the graces wove:\n    Her snowy hand the razing steel profan\u2019d,\n    And the transparent skin with crimson stain\u2019d.\n         _Iliad_, v. 415.\n\nAgain, describing the shield of Jupiter,\n\n    Here all the terrors of grim War appear,\n    Here rages Force, here tremble Flight and Fear,\n    Here storm\u2019d Contention, and here Fury frown\u2019d,\n    And the dire orb portentous Gorgon crown\u2019d.\n         _Iliad_, v. 914.\n\nNor is it pleasant to be carried backward and forward alternately in a\nrapid succession:\n\n    Then dy\u2019d Seamandrius, expert in the chace,\n    In woods and wilds to wound the savage race;\n    Diana taught him all her sylvan arts,\n    To bend the bow and aim unerring darts:\n    But vainly here Diana\u2019s arts he tries,\n    The fatal lance arrests him as he flies;\n    From Menelaus\u2019 arm the weapon sent,\n    Through his broad back and heaving bosom went:\n    Down sinks the warrior with a thund\u2019ring sound,\n    His brazen armor rings against the ground.\n         _Iliad_, v. 65.\n\nIt is wonderful to observe, upon what slender foundations nature,\nsometimes, erects her most solid and magnificent works. In appearance at\nleast, what can be more slight than ideal presence of objects? And yet\nupon it entirely is superstructed, that extensive influence which\nlanguage hath over the heart; an influence, which, more than any other\nmeans, strengthens the bond of society, and attracts individuals from\ntheir private system to exert themselves in acts of generosity and\nbenevolence. Matters of fact, it is true, and truth in general, may be\ninculcated without taking advantage of ideal presence. But without it,\nthe finest speaker or writer would in vain attempt to move any of our\npassion: our sympathy would be confined to objects that are really\npresent: and language would lose entirely that signal power it\npossesseth, of making us sympathize with beings removed at the greatest\ndistance of time as well as of place. Nor is the influence of language,\nby means of this ideal presence, confined to the heart. It reaches also\nin some measure the understanding, and contributes to belief. When\nevents are related in a lively manner and every circumstance appears as\npassing before us, it is with difficulty that we suffer the truth of the\nfacts to be questioned. A historian accordingly who hath a genius for\nnarration, seldom fails to engage our belief. The same facts related in\na manner cold and indistinct, are not suffered to pass without\nexamination. A thing ill described, is like an object seen at a distance\nor through a mist: we doubt whether it be a reality or a fiction. For\nthis reason, a poet who can warm and animate his reader, may employ\nbolder fictions than ought to be ventured by an inferior genius. The\nreader, once thoroughly engaged, is in that situation susceptible of\nthe strongest impressions:\n\n    Veraque constituunt, qu\u00e6 bell\u00e8 tangere possunt\n    Aureis, et lepido qu\u00e6 sunt fucata sonore.\n         _Lucretius, lib. 1. l. 644._\n\nA masterly painting has the same effect. Le Brun is no small support to\nQuintus Curtius; and among the vulgar in Italy, the belief of\nscripture-history is perhaps founded as much upon the authority of\nRaphael, Michael Angelo, and other celebrated painters, as upon that of\nthe sacred writers[27].\n\nIn establishing the foregoing theory, the reader has had the fatigue of\nmuch dry reasoning. But his labour will not be fruitless. From this\ntheory are derived many useful rules in criticism, which shall be\nmentioned in their proper places. One specimen, being a fine\nillustration, I chuse to give at present. In a historical poem\nrepresenting human actions, it is a rule, that no improbable incident\nought to be admitted. A circumstance, an incident, or an event, may be\nsingular, may surprise by being unexpected, and yet be extremely\nnatural. The improbability I talk of, is that of an irregular fact,\ncontrary to the order and course of nature, and therefore unaccountable.\nA chain of imagined facts linked together according to the order of\nnature, find easy entrance into the mind; and if described with warmth\nof fancy, they produce complete images, including ideal presence. But it\nis with great difficulty that we admit any irregular fact; for an\nirregular fact always puzzles the judgement. Doubtful of its reality we\nimmediately enter upon reflection, and discovering the cheat, lose all\nrelish and concern. This is an unhappy effect; for thereafter it\nrequires more than an ordinary effort, to restore the waking dream, and\nto make the reader conceive even the more probable incidents as passing\nin his presence.\n\nI never was an admirer of machinery in an epic poem; and I now find my\ntaste justified by reason; the foregoing argument concluding still more\nstrongly against imaginary beings, than against improbable facts.\nFictions of this nature may amuse by their novelty and singularity: but\nthey never move the sympathetic passions, because they cannot impose on\nthe mind any perception of reality. I appeal to the discerning reader,\nwhether this be not precisely the case of the machinery introduced by\nTasso and by Voltaire. This machinery is not only in itself cold and\nuninteresting, but is remarkably hurtful, by giving an air of fiction to\nthe whole composition. A burlesque poem, such as the Lutrin or the\nDispensary, may employ machinery with success; for these poems, though\nthey assume the air of history, give entertainment chiefly by their\npleasant and ludicrous pictures, to which machinery contributes in a\nsingular manner. It is not the aim of such a poem, to raise our sympathy\nin any considerable degree; and for that reason, a strict imitation of\nnature is not required. A poem professedly ludicrous, may employ\nmachinery to great advantage; and the more extravagant the better. A\njust representation of nature, would indeed be incongruous in a\ncomposition intended to give entertainment by the means chiefly of\nsingularity and surprise.\n\nFor accomplishing the task undertaken in the beginning of the present\nsection, what only remains is, to show the final cause of the power that\nfiction hath over the mind of man. I have already mentioned, that\nlanguage, by means of fiction, has the command of our sympathy for the\ngood of others. By the same means, our sympathy may be also raised for\nour own good. In the third section it is observed, that examples both of\nvirtue and of vice raise virtuous emotions; which becoming stronger by\nexercise, tend to make us virtuous by habit as well as by principle. I\nnow further observe, that examples drawn from real events, are not so\nfrequent as to contribute much to a habit of virtue. If they be, they\nare not recorded by historians. It therefore shows great wisdom, to form\nus in such a manner, as to be susceptible of the same improvement from\nfable that we receive from genuine history. By this admirable\ncontrivance, examples to improve us in virtue may be multiplied without\nend. No other sort of discipline contributes more to make virtue\nhabitual; and no other sort is so agreeable in the application. I add\nanother final cause with thorough satisfaction; because it shows, that\nthe author of our nature is not less kindly provident for the happiness\nof his creatures, than for the regularity of their conduct. The power\nthat fiction hath over the mind of man, is the source of an endless\nvariety of refined amusement, always ready to employ a vacant hour. Such\namusement is a fine resource in solitude; and by sweetening the temper,\nimproves society.\n\n\n\n\nPART II.\n\n_Emotions and passions as pleasant and painful, agreeable and\ndisagreeable. Modifications of these qualities._\n\n\nIt will naturally occur at first view, that a discourse upon the\npassions should commence with explaining the qualities now mentioned.\nBut upon trial, I found this could not be done distinctly, till the\ndifference were ascertained betwixt an emotion and a passion, and till\ntheir causes were evolved.\n\nGreat obscurity may be observed among writers with regard to the present\npoint. No care, for example, is taken to distinguish agreeable from\npleasant, disagreeable from painful; or rather these terms are deemed\nsynonymous. This is an error not at all venial in the science of ethics;\nas instances can and shall be given, of painful passions that are\nagreeable, and of pleasant passions that are disagreeable. These terms,\nit is true, are used indifferently in familiar conversations, and in\ncomposition for amusement, where accuracy is not required. But for those\nto use them so who profess to explain the passions, is a capital error.\nIn writing upon the critical art, I would avoid every refinement that\nmay seem more curious than useful. But the proper meaning of the terms\nunder consideration must be ascertained, in order to understand the\npassions, and some of their effects that are intimately connected with\ncriticism.\n\nI shall endeavour to explain these terms by familiar examples. Viewing a\nfine garden, I perceive it to be beautiful or agreeable; and I consider\nthe beauty or agreeableness as belonging to the object, or as one of its\nqualities. Again, when I turn my thoughts from the garden to what passes\nin my mind, I am conscious of a pleasant emotion of which the garden is\nthe cause. The pleasure here is felt, not as a quality of the garden,\nbut of the emotion produced by it. I give an opposite example. A rotten\ncarcass is loathsome and disagreeable, and raises in the spectator a\npainful emotion. The disagreeableness is a quality of the object: the\npain is a quality of the emotion produced by it. Agreeable and\ndisagreeable, then, are qualities of the object we perceive: pleasant\nand painful are qualities of the emotions we feel. The former qualities\nare perceived as adhering to objects; the latter are felt as existing\nwithin us.\n\nBut a passion or emotion, beside being felt, is frequently made an\nobject of thought or reflection: we examine it; we inquire into its\nnature, its cause, and its effects. In this view it partakes the nature\nof other objects: it is either agreeable or disagreeable. Hence clearly\nappear the different significations of the terms under consideration, as\napplied to passion. When a passion is termed _pleasant_ or _painful_, we\nrefer to the actual feeling: when termed _agreeable_ or _disagreeable_,\nit is considered as an object of thought or reflection. A passion is\npleasant or painful to the person in whom it exists: it is agreeable or\ndisagreeable to the person who makes it a subject of contemplation.\n\nWhen the terms thus defined are applied to particular emotions and\npassions, they do not always coincide. And in order to make this\nevident, we must endeavour to ascertain, first, what passions and\nemotions are pleasant what painful, and next, what are agreeable what\ndisagreeable. With respect to both, there are general rules, which, so\nfar as I gather from induction, admit not any exceptions. The nature of\nan emotion or passion as pleasant or painful, depends entirely on its\ncause. An agreeable object produceth always a pleasant emotion; and a\ndisagreeable object produceth always a painful emotion[28]. Thus a lofty\noak, a generous action, a valuable discovery in art or science, are\nagreeable objects that unerringly produce pleasant emotions. A stinking\npuddle, a treacherous action, an irregular ill-contrived edifice, being\ndisagreeable objects, produce painful emotions. Selfish passions are\npleasant; for they arise from self, an agreeable object or cause. A\nsocial passion directed upon an agreeable object is always pleasant:\ndirected upon an object in distress, is painful[29]. Lastly, all\ndissocial passions, such as envy, resentment, malice, being caused by\ndisagreeable objects, cannot fail to be painful.\n\nIt requires a greater compass to evolve the general rule that concerns\nthe agreeableness or disagreeableness of emotions and passions. An\naction conformable to the common nature of our species, is perceived by\nus to be regular and good[30]; and consequently every such action\nappears agreeable to us. The same observation is applicable to passions\nand emotions. Every feeling that is conformable to the common nature of\nour species, is perceived by us to be regular and as it ought to be; and\nupon that account it must appear agreeable. By this general rule we can\nascertain what emotions are agreeable what disagreeable. Every emotion\nthat is conformable to the common nature of man, ought to appear\nagreeable. And that this holds true with respect to pleasant emotions,\nwill readily be admitted. But why should painful emotions be an\nexception, when they are not less natural than the other? The proportion\nholds true in both. Thus the painful emotion raised by a monstrous birth\nor brutal action, is not less agreeable upon reflection, than the\npleasant emotion raised by a flowing river or a lofty dome. With respect\nto passions as opposed to emotions, it will be obvious from the\nforegoing proposition, that their agreeableness or disagreeableness,\nlike the actions of which they are productive, must be regulated\nentirely by the moral sense. Every action vicious or improper is\ndisagreeable to a spectator, and so is the passion that prompts it.\nEvery action virtuous or proper is agreeable to a spectator, and so is\nthe passion that prompts it.\n\nThis deduction may be carried a great way farther; but to avoid\nintricacy and obscurity, I make but one other step. A passion, which, as\naforesaid, becomes an object of thought to a spectator, may have the\neffect to produce a passion or emotion in him; for it is natural that a\nsocial being should be affected with the passions of others. Passions or\nemotions thus generated, submit, in common with others, to the general\nlaw above mentioned, _viz._ that an agreeable object produces a pleasant\nemotion, and a disagreeable object a painful emotion. Thus the passion\nof gratitude, being to a spectator an agreeable object, produceth in him\nthe pleasant passion of love to the grateful person. Thus malice, being\nto a spectator a disagreeable object, produceth in him the painful\npassion of hatred to the malicious person.\n\nWe are now prepared for examples of pleasant passions that are\ndisagreeable, and of painful passions that are agreeable. Self-love, so\nlong as confined within just bounds, is a passion both pleasant and\nagreeable. In excess it is disagreeable, though it continues to be still\npleasant. Our appetites are precisely in the same condition. Again,\nvanity, though pleasant, is disagreeable. Resentment, on the other hand,\nis, in every stage of the passion, painful; but is not disagreeable\nunless in excess. Pity is always painful, yet always agreeable. But\nhowever distinct these qualities are, they coincide, I acknowledge, in\none class of passions. All vicious passions tending to the hurt of\nothers, are equally painful and disagreeable.\n\nThe foregoing distinctions among passions and emotions, may serve the\ncommon affairs of life, but they are not sufficient for the critical\nart. The qualities of pleasant and painful are too familiar to carry us\nfar into human nature, or to form an accurate judgement in the fine\narts. It is further necessary, that we be made acquainted with the\nseveral modifications of these qualities, with the modifications at\nleast that make the greatest figure. Even at first view every one is\nsensible, that the pleasure or pain of one passion differs from that of\nanother. How distant the pleasure of revenge from that of love? So\ndistant, as that we cannot without reluctance admit them to be any way\nrelated. That the same quality of pleasure should be so differently\nmodified in different passions, will not be surprising, when we reflect\non the boundless variety of pleasant sounds, tastes, and smells, daily\nfelt. Our discernment reaches differences still more nice, in objects\neven of the same sense. We have no difficulty to distinguish different\nsweets, different sours, and different bitters. Honey is sweet, and so\nis sugar; and yet they never pass the one for the other. Our sense of\nsmelling is sufficiently acute, to distinguish varieties in\nsweet-smelling flowers without end. With respect to passions and\nemotions, their different feelings have no limits; for when we attempt\nthe more delicate modifications, they elude our search, and are scarce\ndiscernible. In this matter, however, there is an analogy betwixt our\ninternal and external senses. The latter generally are sufficiently\nacute for all the useful purposes of life, and so are the former. Some\npersons indeed, Nature\u2019s favourites, have a wonderful acuteness of\nsense, which to them unfolds many a delightful scene totally hid from\nvulgar eyes. But if such refined pleasure be refused to the bulk of\nmankind, it is however wisely ordered that they are not sensible of the\ndefect; and it detracts not from their happiness that others secretly\nare more happy. With relation to the fine arts only, this qualification\nseems essential; and there it is termed _delicacy of taste_.\n\nShould an author of such a taste attempt to describe all those\ndifferences and shades of pleasant and painful emotions which he himself\nfeels, he would soon meet an invincible obstacle in the poverty of\nlanguage. No known tongue hitherto has reached such perfection, as to\nexpress clearly the more delicate feelings. A people must be thoroughly\nrefined, before their language become so comprehensive. We must\ntherefore rest satisfied with an explanation of the more obvious\nmodifications.\n\nIn forming a comparison betwixt pleasant passions of different kinds, we\nconceive some of them to be _gross_ some _refined_. Those pleasures of\nexternal sense that are felt as at the organ of sense, are conceived to\nbe corporeal or gross[31]. The pleasures of the eye and ear are felt to\nbe internal; and for that reason are conceived to be more pure and\nrefined.\n\nThe social affections are conceived by all to be more refined than the\nselfish. Sympathy and humanity are reckoned the finest temper of mind;\nand for that reason, the prevalence of the social affections in the\nprogress of society, is held to be a refinement in our nature. A savage\nis unqualified for any pleasure but what is thoroughly or nearly\nselfish: therefore a savage is incapable of comparing selfish and social\npleasure. But a man after acquiring a high relish of the latter, loses\nnot thereby a taste for the former. This man can judge, and he will\ngive preference to social pleasures as more sweet and refined. In fact\nthey maintain that character, not only in the direct feeling, but also\nwhen we make them the subject of reflection. The social passions are by\nfar more agreeable than the selfish, and rise much higher in our esteem.\n\nRefined manners and polite behaviour, must not be deemed altogether\nartificial. Men accustomed to the sweets of society, who cultivate\nhumanity, find an elegant pleasure in preferring others and making them\nhappy, of which the proud or selfish scarce have a conception.\n\nRidicule, which chiefly arises from pride, a selfish passion, is at best\nbut a gross pleasure. A people, it is true, must have emerged out of\nbarbarity before they can have a taste for ridicule. But it is too rough\nan entertainment for those who are highly polished and refined. Ridicule\nis banished France, and is losing ground daily in England.\n\nOther modifications of pleasant passions will be occasionally mentioned\nhereafter. Particularly the modifications of _high_ and _low_ are\nhandled in the chapter of grandeur and sublimity; and the modifications\nof _dignified_ and _mean_, in the chapter of dignity and meanness.\n\n\n\n\nPART III.\n\n_Interrupted existence of emotions and passions.---- Their growth and\ndecay._\n\n\nWere emotions of the same nature with colour and figure, to continue in\ntheir present state till varied by some operating cause, the condition\nof man would be deplorable. It is ordered wisely, that emotions should\nmore resemble another attribute of matter, _viz._ motion, which requires\nthe constant exertion of an operating cause, and ceases when the cause\nis withdrawn. An emotion may subsist while its cause is present; and\nwhen its cause is removed, may subsist by means of an idea, though in a\nfainter degree. But the moment another thought breaks in and occupies\nthe mind, so as to exclude not only this cause, but also its idea, the\nemotion is gone: it is no longer felt. If it return with its cause or\nidea, it again vanisheth with them when other thoughts crowd in. This\nobservation is applicable to emotions and passions of every kind. And\nthese accordingly are connected with perceptions and ideas, so\nintimately as not to have any independent existence. A strong passion,\nit is true, hath a mighty influence to detain its object in the mind;\nbut not so as to detain it for ever. A succession of perceptions or\nideas is unavoidable[32]: the object of the passion may be often\nrecalled; but however interesting, it must by intervals yield to other\nobjects. For this reason, a passion rarely continues long with an equal\ndegree of vigour. It is felt strong and moderate, in a pretty quick\nsuccession. The same object makes not always the same impression;\nbecause the mind, being of a limited capacity, cannot, at the same\ninstant, give great attention to a plurality of objects. The strength of\na passion depends on the impression made by its cause; and a cause\nmakes its strongest impression, when happening to be the single\ninteresting object, it attracts our whole attention[33]. Its impression\nis slighter when our attention is divided betwixt it and other objects;\nand at that time the passion is slighter in proportion.\n\nWhen emotions and passions are felt thus by intervals and have not a\ncontinued existence, it may be thought a nice problem, to ascertain\ntheir identity, and to determine when they are the same when different.\nIn a strict philosophic view, every single impression made even by the\nsame object, is distinguishable from what have gone before, and from\nwhat succeed. Neither is an emotion raised by an idea the same with what\nis raised by a sight of the object. But such accuracy is not found in\ncommon apprehension, nor is necessary in common language. The emotions\nraised by a fine landscape in its successive appearances, are not\ndistinguished from each other, nor even from those raised by successive\nideas of the object: all of them are held to be the same. A passion also\nis always reckoned the same, so long as it is fixed upon the same\nobject. Thus love and hatred may continue the same for life. Nay, so\nloose are we in this way of thinking, that many passions are reckoned\nthe same even after a change of object. This is the case of all passions\nthat proceed from some peculiar propensity. Envy, for example, is\nconsidered to be the same passion, not only while it is directed upon\nthe same person, but even where it comprehends many persons at once.\nPride and malice are in the same condition. So much was necessary to be\nsaid upon the identity of a passion and emotion, in order to prepare for\nexamining their growth and decay.\n\nThe growth and decay of passions and emotions, is a subject too\nextensive to be exhausted in an undertaking like the present. I pretend\nonly to give a cursory view of it, so far as necessary for the purposes\nof criticism. Some emotions are produced in their utmost perfection, and\nhave a very short endurance. This is the case of surprise, of wonder,\nand sometimes of terror. Emotions raised by insensible objects, such as\ntrees, rivers, buildings, pictures, arrive at perfection almost\ninstantaneously, and have a long endurance: a second view produceth\nnearly the same pleasure with the first. Love, hatred, and some other\npassions, increase gradually to a certain pitch, and thereafter decay\ngradually. Envy, malice, pride, scarce ever decay. Again, some passions,\nsuch as gratitude and revenge, are often exhausted by a single act of\ngratification. Other passions, such as pride, malice, envy, love,\nhatred, are not so exhausted; but having a long continuance, demand\nfrequent gratification.\n\nIn order to explain these differences, it would be an endless work to\nexamine every emotion and passion in particular. We must be satisfied at\npresent with some general views. And with respect to emotions, which are\nquiescent and not productive of desire, their growth and decay are\neasily explained. An emotion caused by an external object, cannot\nnaturally take longer time to arrive at perfection, than is necessary\nfor a leisurely survey. Such emotion also must continue long\nstationary, without any sensible decay; a second or third view of the\nobject being nearly as agreeable as the first. This is the case of an\nemotion produced by a fine prospect, an impetuous river, or a towering\nhill. While a man remains the same, such objects ought to have the same\neffect upon him. Familiarity, however, hath an influence here, as it\nhath every where. Frequency of view, after short intervals especially,\nweans the mind gradually from the object, which at last loses all\nrelish. The noblest object in the material world, a clear and serene\nsky, is quite disregarded, unless perhaps after a course of bad weather.\nAn emotion raised by human virtues, qualities, or actions, may grow\nimperceptibly by reiterated views of the object, till it become so\nvigorous as to generate desire. In this condition it must be handled as\na passion.\n\nAs to passion, I observe first, that when nature requires a passion to\nbe sudden, it is commonly produced in perfection. This is frequently the\ncase of fear and of anger. Wonder and surprise are always produced in\nperfection. Reiterated impressions made by their cause, exhaust these\npassions in place of inflaming them. This will be explained\nafterward[34].\n\nIn the next place, when a passion hath for its foundation an original\npropensity peculiar to some men, it generally comes soon to perfection.\nThe propensity, upon representing a proper object, is immediately\nenlivened into a passion. This is the case of pride, of envy, and of\nmalice.\n\nIn the third place, love and hatred have often a slow growth. The good\nqualities or kind offices of a person, raise in me pleasant emotions;\nwhich, by reiterated views, are swelled into a passion involving desire\nof that person\u2019s happiness. This desire being often put in exercise,\nworks gradually a change internally; and at last produceth in me a\nsettled habit of affection for that person, now my friend. Affection\nthus produced, operates precisely like an original propensity. To\nenliven it into a passion, no more is required but the real or ideal\npresence of the object. The habit of aversion or hatred is brought on\nin the same manner. And here I must observe by the way, that love and\nhatred signify commonly affection, not passion. The bulk indeed of our\npassions, are these affections inflamed into a passion by different\ncircumstances. The affection of love I bear to my son, is inflamed into\nthe passion of fear, when he is in danger; becomes hope, when he hath a\nprospect of good fortune; becomes admiration, when he performs a\nlaudable action; and shame, when he commits any wrong. Aversion, again,\nbecomes fear when there is a prospect of good fortune to my enemy;\nbecomes hope when he is in danger; becomes joy when he is in distress;\nand sorrow when a laudable action is performed by him.\n\nFourthly, the growth of some passions depends often on occasional\ncircumstances. Obstacles to gratification never fail to augment and\ninflame a passion. A constant endeavour to remove the obstacle,\npreserves the object of the passion ever in view, which swells the\npassion by impressions frequently reiterated. Thus the restraint of\nconscience, when an obstacle to love, agitates the mind and inflames\nthe passion:\n\n    Quod licet, ingratum est: quod non licet, acrius urit.\n    Si nunquam Dana\u00ebn habuisset ahenea turris,\n    Non esset Dana\u00eb de Jove facta parens.\n         _Ovid. Amor. l. 2._\n\nAt the same time, the mind distressed with the obstacle, is disposed to\nindulge its distress by magnifying the pleasure of gratification; which\nnaturally inflames desire. Shakespear expresses this observation finely:\n\n    All impediments in fancy\u2019s course,\n    Are motives of more fancy.\n\nWe need no better example than a lover who hath many rivals. Even the\ncaprices of a mistress have the effect to inflame love. These\noccasioning uncertainty of success, tend naturally to make the anxious\nlover overvalue the happiness of fruition.\n\nSo much upon the growth of passions. Their continuance and decay come\nnext under consideration. And first, it is a general law of nature,\nthat things sudden in their growth, are equally sudden in their decay.\nThis is commonly the case of anger; and with respect to wonder and\nsurprise, another reason concurs, that their causes are of short\nduration. Novelty soon degenerates into familiarity; and the\nunexpectedness of an object, is soon sunk in the pleasure which the\nobject affords us. Fear, which is a passion of greater importance as\ntending to self-preservation, is often instantaneous, and yet is of\nequal duration with its cause. Nay it frequently subsists after the\ncause is removed.\n\nIn the next place, a passion founded on a peculiar propensity, subsists\ngenerally for ever. This is the case of pride, envy, and malice. Objects\nare never wanting, to inflame the propensity into a passion.\n\nThirdly, it may be laid down as a general law of nature, that every\npassion ceases upon attaining its ultimate end. To explain this law, we\nmust distinguish betwixt a particular and a general end. I call a\nparticular end what may be accomplished by a single act. A general end,\non the contrary, admits acts without number; because it cannot be said\nthat a general end is ever fully accomplished while the object of the\npassion subsists. Gratitude and revenge are examples of the first kind.\nThe ends they aim at may be accomplished by a single act; and when this\nact is performed, the passions are necessarily at an end. Love and\nhatred are examples of the other kind. The desire of doing good or of\ndoing mischief to an individual, is a general end, which admits acts\nwithout number, and which seldom is fully accomplished. Therefore these\npassions have frequently the same duration with their objects.\n\nLastly, it will afford us another general view, to consider the\ndifference betwixt an original propensity and an affection produced by\ncustom. The former adheres too close to the constitution ever to be\neradicated; and for that reason the passions to which it gives birth,\nendure during life with no remarkable diminution of strength. The\nlatter, which owes its birth and increment to time, owes its decay to\nthe same cause. Affection decays gradually as it grew. Hence long\nabsence extinguisheth hatred as well as love. Affection wears out more\ngradually betwixt persons, who, living together, are objects to each\nother of mutual good-will and kindness. But here habit comes in luckily,\nto supply decayed affection. It makes these persons necessary to the\nhappiness of each other, by the pain of separation[35]. Affection to\nchildren hath a long endurance, longer perhaps than any other affection.\nIts growth keeps pace with that of its objects. They display new\nbeauties and qualifications daily, to feed and augment the affection.\nBut whenever the affection becomes stationary, it must begin to decay;\nwith a slow pace indeed, in proportion to its increment. In short, man\nwith respect to this life, is a temporary being. He grows, becomes\nstationary, decays; and so must all his powers and passions.\n\n\n\n\nPART IV.\n\n_Coexistent emotions and passions._\n\n\nTo have a thorough knowledge of the human passions and emotions, it is\nnot sufficient that they be examined singly and separately. As a\nplurality of them are sometimes felt at the same instant, the manner of\ntheir coexistence, and the effects thereby produced, ought also to be\nexamined. This subject is extensive, and it will be difficult to evolve\nall the laws that govern its endless variety of cases. Such an\nundertaking may be brought to perfection, but it must be by degrees. The\nfollowing hints may suffice for a first attempt.\n\nWe begin with emotions raised by different sounds, as the simplest case.\nTwo sounds that mix, and are, as it were, incorporated before they reach\nthe ear, are said to be concordant. That each sound produceth an emotion\nof its own, must be admitted. But then these emotions, like the sounds\nthat produce them, mix so intimately, as to be rather one complex\nemotion than two emotions in conjunction. Two sounds, again, that refuse\nincorporation or mixture, are said to be discordant. Being however heard\nat the same instant, the emotions produced by them are conjoined; and in\nthat condition are unpleasant, even where separately they are each of\nthem pleasant.\n\nSimilar to the emotion raised by mixed sounds, is the emotion that an\nobject of sight raises by means of its several qualities. A tree, for\nexample, with its qualities of colour, figure, size, _&c._ is perceived\nto be one object; and the emotion it raises is one, not different\nemotions combined. But though the emotion be one, it is however not\nsimple. The perception of the tree is complex, and the emotion raised by\nit must also be complex.\n\nWith respect to coexistent emotions produced by different causes or\nobjects, it must be observed, that there cannot be a concordance among\nobjects of sight like what is perceived in sounds. Objects of sight are\nnever mixed or incorporated in the act of vision. Each object is\nperceived as it exists, separately from others; and each raiseth its own\nemotion, which is felt distinctly however intimately connected the\nobjects may be. This doctrine holds in all the causes of emotion or\npassion, sounds only excepted.\n\nTo explain the manner in which such emotions coexist, similar emotions\nmust be distinguished from those that are dissimilar. Two emotions are\nsaid to be similar, when they tend each of them to produce the same tone\nof mind. Chearful emotions, however different their causes may be, are\nsimilar; and so are those which are melancholy. Dissimilar emotions are\neasily explained by their opposition to what are similar. Grandeur and\nlittleness, gaiety and gloominess, are dissimilar emotions.\n\nEmotions perfectly similar, readily combine and unite[36], so as in a\nmanner to become one complex emotion; witness the emotions produced by\na number of flowers in a parterre, or of trees in a wood. Emotions again\nthat are opposite or extremely dissimilar, never combine nor unite. The\nmind cannot simultaneously take on opposite tones: it cannot at the same\ninstant be both joyful and sad, angry and satisfied, proud and humble.\nDissimilar emotions may succeed each other with rapidity, but they\ncannot exist simultaneously.\n\nBetwixt these two extremes, emotions will unite more or less, in\nproportion to the degree of their resemblance and the greater or less\nconnection of their causes. The beauty of a landscape and the singing of\nbirds, produce emotions that are similar in a considerable degree; and\nthese emotions therefore, though proceeding from very different causes,\nreadily combine and unite. On the other hand, when the causes are\nintimately connected, the emotions, though but slightly resembling each\nother, are forced into a sort of union. I give for an example a mistress\nin distress. When I consider her beauty, I feel a pleasant emotion; and\na painful emotion when I consider her distress. These two emotions,\nproceeding from different views of the object, have very little\nresemblance to each other: and yet their causes are so intimately\nconnected, as to force them into a sort of complex emotion, partly\npleasant partly painful. This clearly explains some expressions common\nin poetry, _a sweet distress, a pleasant pain_.\n\nWe proceed to the effects produced by means of the different manners of\ncoexistence above described; first, the effects produced within the\nmind, and next, those that appear externally. I discover two mental\neffects clearly distinguishable from each other. The one may be\nrepresented by addition and subtraction in numbers, and the other by\nharmony in sounds. Two pleasant emotions that are similar, readily unite\nwhen they are coexistent; and the pleasure felt in the union, is the sum\nof the two pleasures. The combined emotions are like multiplied effects\nfrom the co-operation of different powers. The same emotions in\nsuccession, are far from making the same figure; because the mind at no\ninstant of the succession is conscious of more than a single emotion.\nThis doctrine may aptly be illustrated by a landscape comprehending\nhills, vallies, plains, rivers, trees, _&c._ The emotions produced by\nthese several objects, being similar in a high degree as falling in\neasily and sweetly with the same tone of mind, are in conjunction\nextremely pleasant. And this multiplied effect is felt from objects even\nof different senses; as where a landscape is conjoined with the music of\nbirds and odor of flowers. Such multiplied effect, as above hinted,\ndepends partly on the resemblance of the emotions and partly on the\nconnection of their causes; whence it follows, that the effect must be\nthe greatest, where the causes are intimately connected and the emotions\nperfectly similar.\n\nThe other pleasure arising from coexistent emotions, which may be termed\n_the pleasure of concord or harmony_, is ascertained by a different\nrule. It is directly in proportion to the degree of resemblance betwixt\nthe emotions, and inversely in proportion to the degree of connection\nbetwixt the causes. To feel this pleasure in perfection, the\nresemblance cannot be too strong, nor the connection too slight. Where\nthe causes are intimately connected, the similar emotions they produce\nare felt like one complex emotion. But the pleasure of harmony, is not\nfelt from one emotion single or complex. It is felt from various similar\nemotions, distinct from each other, and yet sweetly combining in the\nmind; and the less connection the causes have, the more entire is the\nemotion of harmony. This matter cannot be better illustrated, than by\nthe foregoing example of a landscape, where the sight, hearing, and\nsmelling, are employed. The accumulated pleasure of so many different\nsimilar emotions, is not what delights us the most in this combination\nof objects. The sense of harmony from these emotions sweetly uniting in\nthe mind, is still more delightful. We feel this harmony in the\ndifferent emotions proceeding from the visible objects; but we feel it\nstill more sensibly in the emotions proceeding from the objects of\ndifferent senses. This emotion of concord or harmony, will be more\nfully illustrated, when the emotions produced by the sound of words and\ntheir meaning are taken under consideration[37].\n\nThis emotion of concord from conjoined emotions, is felt even where the\nemotions are not perfectly similar. Love is a pleasant passion; but then\nits sweetness and tenderness make it resemble in a considerable degree\nthe painful passion of pity or grief; and for that reason, love accords\nbetter with these passions than with what are gay and sprightly. I give\nthe following example from Catullus, where the concord betwixt love and\ngrief, has a fine effect even in so slight a subject as the death of a\nsparrow.\n\n    Lugete, \u00f4 Veneres, Cupidinesque,\n    Et quantum est hominum venustiorum!\n    Passer mortuus est me\u00e6 puell\u00e6,\n    Quem plus illa oculis suis amabat.\n    Nam mellitus erat, suamque norat\n    Ipsam tam bene, quam puella matrem:\n    Nec sese a gremio illius movebat;\n    Sed circumsiliens modo huc, modo illuc,\n    Ad solam dominam usque pipilabat.\n    Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum,\n    Illuc, unde negant redire quemquam.\n    At vobis male sit, mal\u00e6 tenebr\u00e6\n    Orci, qu\u00e6 omnia bella devoratis;\n    Tarn bellum mihi passerem abstulistis.\n    O factum male, \u00f4 miselle passer,\n    Tua nunc opera, me\u00e6 puell\u00e6\n    Flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.\n\nTo complete this branch of the subject, I proceed to consider the\neffects of dissimilar emotions. These effects obviously must be opposite\nto what are above described; and in order to explain them with accuracy,\ndissimilar emotions proceeding from connected causes, must be\ndistinguished from what proceed from causes that are unconnected.\nDissimilar emotions of the former kind, being forced into a sort of\nunnatural union, produce a feeling of discord instead of harmony. It\nholds also that in computing their force, subtraction must be used in\nplace of addition, which will be evident from what follows. Dissimilar\nemotions forced into union, are felt obscurely and imperfectly; for\neach tends to vary the tone of mind that is suited to the other; and the\nmind thus distracted betwixt two objects, is at no instant in a\ncondition to receive a full impression from either. Dissimilar emotions\nproceeding from unconnected causes, are in a very different condition.\nDissimilar emotions in general are averse to union; and as there is\nnothing to force them into union when their causes are unconnected\nemotions of this kind are never felt but in succession. By that means,\nthey are not felt to be discordant, and each hath an opportunity to make\na full impression.\n\nThis curious theory must be illustrated by examples. In reading the\ndescription of the dismal waste, book 1. of _Paradise Lost_, we are\nsensible of a confused feeling, arising from dissimilar emotions forced\ninto union, _viz._ the beauty of the description and the horror of the\nobject described.\n\n    Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild,\n    The seat of desolation, void of light,\n    Save what the glimmering of these livid flames\n    Casts pale and dreadful?\n\nMany other passages in this justly celebrated poem produce the same\neffect; and we always observe, that if the disagreeableness of the\nsubject be obscured by the beautiful description, this beauty is not\nless obscured by its discordant union with the disagreeableness of the\nsubject. For the same reason, ascending smoke in a calm morning is\nimproper in a picture full of violent action. The emotion of stillness\nand tranquillity inspired by the former, accords not with the lively and\nanimated emotion inspired by the latter. A parterre, partly ornamented\npartly in disorder, produces a mixt feeling of the same sort. Two great\narmies in act to engage, mix the dissimilar emotions of grandeur and of\nterror.\n\n      Sembra d\u2019alberi densi alta foresta\n    L\u2019 un campo, e l\u2019 altro; di tant\u2019 aste abbonda.\n    Son tesi gli archi, e son le lance in resta:\n    Vibransi i dardi, e rotasi ogni fionda.\n    Ogni cavallo in guerra anco s\u2019 appresta:\n    Gli odii, e\u2019l furor del suo signor seconda:\n    Raspa, batte, nitrisce, e si raggira,\n    Gonfia le nari; e fumo, e fuoco spira.\n\n      Bello in s\u00ec bella vista anco \u00e8 l\u2019orrore:\n    E di mezzo la tema esce il diletto.\n    Ne men le trombe orribili, e canore\n    Sono a gli orecchi lieto, e fero oggetto.\n    Pur il campo fedel, bench\u00e8 minore,\n    Par di suon pi\u00f9 mirabile, e d\u2019aspetto.\n    E canta in pi\u00f9 guerriero, e chiaro carme\n    Ogni sua tromba, e maggior luce han l\u2019arme.\n         _Gerusalemme liberata, cant. 20. st. 29. & 30._\n\nA virtuous man has drawn on himself a great misfortune, by a fault\nincident to human nature, and therefore venial. The remorse he feels\naggravates his distress, and consequently raises our pity to a high\npitch. We indeed blame the man; and the indignation raised by the fault\nhe has committed, is dissimilar to pity. These two passions however\nproceeding from different views of the same object, are forced into a\nsort of union. But the indignation is so slight as scarce to be felt in\nthe mixture with pity. Subjects of this kind, are of all the fittest for\ntragedy. But of this afterward[38].\n\nOpposite emotions are so dissimilar as not to admit any sort of union,\neven where they proceed from causes the most intimately connected. Love\nto a mistress, and resentment for her infidelity, are of this nature.\nThey cannot exist otherwise than in succession, which by the connection\nof their causes is commonly rapid. And these emotions will govern\nalternately, till one of them obtain the ascendent, or both be\nobliterated. A succession opens to me by the death of a worthy man, who\nwas my friend as well as my kinsman. When I think of my friend I am\ngrieved; but the succession gives me joy. These two causes are\nintimately connected, for the succession is the direct consequence of my\nfriend\u2019s death. The emotions however being opposite, do not mix: they\nprevail alternately, perhaps for a course of time, till grief for my\nfriend\u2019s death be banished by the pleasures of opulence. A virtuous man\nsuffering unjustly, is an example of the same kind. I pity him, and I\nhave great indignation at the author of the wrong. These emotions\nproceed from causes nearly connected; but being directed upon different\nobjects, they are not forced into union. The opposition preserves them\ndistinct; and accordingly they are found to govern alternately, the one\nsometimes prevailing and sometimes the other.\n\nNext of dissimilar emotions arising from unconnected causes. Good and\nbad news of equal importance arriving at the same instant from different\nquarters, produce opposite emotions, the discordance of which is not\nfelt because they are not forced into union. They govern alternately,\ncommonly in a quick succession, till their force be spent. In the same\nmanner, good news arriving to a man labouring under distress, occasions\na vibration in his mind from the one to the other.\n\n      _Osmyn._ By heav\u2019n thou\u2019st rous\u2019d me from my lethargy.\n    The spirit which was deaf to my own wrongs,\n    And the loud cries of my dead father\u2019s blood,\n    Deaf to revenge--nay, which refus\u2019d to hear\n    The piercing sighs and murmurs of my love\n    Yet unenjoy\u2019d; what not Almeria could\n    Revive, or raise, my people\u2019s voice has waken\u2019d.\n    O my Antonio, I am all on fire,\n    My soul is up in arms, ready to charge\n    And bear amidst the foe with conqu\u2019ring troops.\n    I hear \u2019em call to lead \u2019em on to liberty,\n    To victory; their shouts and clamours rend\n    My ears, and reach the heav\u2019ns: where is the king?\n    Where is Alphonso? ha! where! where indeed?\n    O I could tear and burst the strings of life,\n    To break these chains. Off, off, ye stains of royalty!\n    Off, slavery! O curse, that I alone\n    Can beat and flutter in my cage, when I\n    Would soar and stoop at victory beneath!\n         _Mourning Bride, act 3. sc. 2._\n\nIf the emotions be unequal in force, the stronger after a conflict will\nextinguish the weaker. Thus the loss of a house by fire or of a sum of\nmoney by bankruptcy, will make no figure in opposition to the birth of a\nlong-expected son, who is to inherit an opulent fortune. After some\nslight vibrations, the mind settles in joy, and the loss is forgot.\n\nThe foregoing observations, will be found of great use in the fine arts.\nMany practical rules are derived from them, which I shall have occasion\nafterward to mention. For instant satisfaction in part, I propose to\nshow the use of these observations in music, a theme I insist upon at\npresent, not being certain of another opportunity more favourable. It\nwill be admitted, that no combination of sounds but what is agreeable to\nthe ear, is intitled to the name of music. Melody and harmony are\nseparately agreeable and in union delightful. The agreeableness of vocal\nmusic differs from that of instrumental. The former being intended to\naccompany words, ought to be expressive of the sentiment that is\nconveyed by the words. But the latter having no connection with words,\nmay be agreeable without expressing any sentiment. Harmony properly so\ncalled, though delightful when in perfection, is not expressive of\nsentiment; and we often find good melody without the least tincture of\nit.\n\nThese preliminaries being established, I proceed directly to the point.\nIn vocal music, the intimate connection of sense and sound rejects\ndissimilar emotions, those especially that are opposite. Similar\nemotions produced by the sense and sound go naturally into union; and\nat the same time are felt to be concordant or harmonious. Dissimilar\nemotions, on the other hand, forced into union by causes intimately\nconnected, not only obscure each other, but are also unpleasant by\ndiscordance. From these principles it is easy to say what sort of\npoetical compositions are fitted for music. It is evident that no poem\nexpressing the sentiments of any disagreeable passion is proper. The\npain a man feels who is actuated with malice or unjust revenge,\ndisqualifies him for relishing music or any thing that is entertaining.\nAnd supposing him disposed, against nature, to vent his sentiments in\nmusic, the mixture would be unpleasant; for these passions raise disgust\nand aversion in the audience[39], a tone of mind opposite to every\nemotion that music can inspire. A man seized with remorse cannot bear\nmusic, because every sort of it must be discordant with his tone of\nmind; and when these by an unskilful artist are forced into union, the\nmixture is unpleasant to the audience.\n\nIn general, music never can have a good effect in conjunction with any\ncomposition expressive of malice, envy, peevishness, or any other\ndissocial passion. The pleasure of music, on the other hand, is similar\nto all pleasant emotions; and music is finely qualified for every song\nwhere such emotions are expressed. Music particularly in a chearful\ntone, is concordant in the highest degree with every emotion in the same\ntone; and hence our taste for chearful airs expressive of mirth and\njollity. Music is peculiarly well qualified for accompanying every\nsympathetic emotion. Sympathetic joy associates finely with chearful\nmusic, and sympathetic pain not less finely with music that is tender\nand melancholy. All the different emotions of love, _viz._ tenderness,\nconcern, anxiety, pain of absence, hope, fear, _&c._ accord delightfully\nwith music. A person in love, even when unkindly treated, is soothed by\nmusic. The tenderness of love still prevailing, accords with a\nmelancholy strain. This is finely exemplified by Shakespear in the\nfourth act of _Othello_, where Desdemona calls for a song expressive of\nher distress. Wonderful is the delicacy of that writer\u2019s taste, which\nfails him not even in the most refined emotions of human nature.\nMelancholy music again is suitable to slight grief, which requires or\nadmits consolation. But deep grief, which refuses all consolation,\nrejects for that reason even melancholy music. For a different reason,\nmusic is improper for accompanying pleasant emotions of the more\nimportant kind. These totally ingross the mind, and leave no place for\nmusic or any sort of amusement. In a perilous enterprise to dethrone a\ntyrant, music would be impertinent, even where hope prevails, and the\nprospect of success is great. Alexander attacking the Indian town and\nmounting the wall, had certainly no impulse to exert his prowess in a\nsong. It is true, that not the least regard is paid to these rules\neither in the French or Italian opera; and the attachment we have to\nthese compositions, may at first sight be considered as a proof that the\nforegoing doctrine cannot be founded on human nature. But the general\ntaste for operas is at bottom no authority against me. In our operas the\npassions are so imperfectly expressed, as to leave the mind free for\nrelishing music of any sort indifferently. It cannot be disguised, that\nthe pleasure of an opera is derived chiefly from the music, and scarce\nat all from the sentiments. A happy coincidence of emotions raised by\nthe song and by the music, is extremely rare; and I venture to affirm,\nthat there is no example of it unless where the emotion raised by the\nformer is pleasant as well as that raised by the latter.\n\nThe subject we have run through, appears not a little entertaining. It\nis extremely curious to observe, in many instances, a plurality of\ncauses producing in conjunction a great pleasure: in other instances,\nnot less frequent, no conjunction, but each cause acting in opposition.\nTo enter bluntly upon a subject of such intricacy, might gravel an acute\nphilosopher; and yet by taking matters in a train, the intricacy\nvanisheth.\n\nNext in order, according to the method proposed, come external effects.\nAnd this leads to passions in particular, which involving desire are\nthe causes of action. Two coexistent passions that have the same\ntendency, must be similar. They accordingly readily unite, and in\nconjunction have double force; which must hold whether the two passions\nhave the same or different causes. This is verified by experience; from\nwhich we learn, that different passions having the same end in view,\nimpel the mind to action with united force. The mind receives not\nimpulses alternately from these passions, but one strong impulse from\nthe whole in conjunction. And indeed it is not easy to conceive what\nshould bar the union of passions that have all of them the same\ntendency.\n\nTwo passions having opposite tendencies, may proceed from the same\nobject or cause considered in different lights. Thus a mistress may at\nonce be the object both of love and resentment. Her beauty inflames the\npassion of love: her cruelty or inconstancy causes resentment. When two\nsuch passions coexist in the same breast, the opposition of their aim\nprevents any sort of union. They are not felt otherwise than in\nsuccession. And the consequence must be one of two things: the passions\nwill balance each other, and prevent external action; or one of them\nwill prevail, and accomplish its end. Guarini, in his _Pastor Fido_,\ndescribes beautifully the struggle betwixt love and resentment directed\nupon the same object.\n\n      _Corisca._ Chi vide mai, chi mai udi pi\u00f9 strana\n    E pi\u00f9 folle, e pi\u00f9 sera, e pi\u00f9 importuna\n    Passione amorosa? amore, ed odio\n    Con s\u00ec mirabil tempre in un cor misti,\n    Che l\u2019un per l\u2019altro (e non so ben dir come)\n    E si strugge, e s\u2019avanza, e nasce, e more.\n    S\u2019 i\u2019 miro alle bellezze di Mirtillo\n    Dal pi\u00e8 leggiadro al grazioso volto,\n    Il vago portamento, il bel sembiante.\n    Gli atti, i costumi, e le parole, e \u2019l guardo;\n    M\u2019assale Amore con s\u00ec possente foco\n    Ch\u2019i\u2019 ardo tutta, e par, ch\u2019 ogn\u2019 altro affetto\n    Da questo sol sia superato, e vinto:\n    Ma se poi penso all\u2019 ostinato amore,\n    Ch\u2019 ei porta ad altra donna, e che per lei\n    Di me non cura, e sprezza (il vo\u2019 pur dire)\n    La mia famosa, e da mill\u2019 alme, e mille\n    Inchinata belt\u00e0, bramata grazia;\n    L\u2019odio cos\u00ec, cos\u00ec l\u2019aborro, e schivo,\n    Che impossibil mi par, ch\u2019unqua per lui\n    Mi s\u2019accendesse al cor siamma amorosa.\n    Tallor meco ragiono: o s\u2019io petessi\n    Gioir del mio dolcissimo Mirtillo,\n    Sicche fosse mio tutto, e ch\u2019altra mai\n    Posseder no \u2019l potesse, o pi\u00f9 d\u2019 ogn\u2019 altra\n    Beata, e felicissima Corisca!\n    Ed in quel punto in me sorge un talento\n    Verso di lui s\u00ec dolce, e s\u00ec gentile,\n    Che di seguirlo, e di pregarlo ancora,\n    E di scoprirgli il cor prendo consiglio.\n    Che pi\u00f9? cos\u00ec mi stimola il desio,\n    Che se potessi allor l\u2019adorerei.\n    Dall\u2019 altra parte i\u2019 mi risento, e dico,\n    Un ritroso? uno schifo? un che non degna?\n    Un, che pu\u00f2 d\u2019altra donna esser amante?\n    Un, ch\u2019ardisce mirarmi, e non m\u2019adora?\n    E dal mio volto si difende in guisa,\n    Che per amor non more? ed io, che lui\n    Dovrei veder, come molti altri i\u2019 veggio\n    Supplice, e lagrimosa a\u2019 piedi miei,\n    Supplice, e lagrimoso a\u2019 piedi suoi\n    Sosterro di cadere? ah non fia mai.\n    Ed in questo pensier tant\u2019 ira accoglio\n    Contra di lui, contra di me, che volsi\n    A seguirlo il pensier, gli occhi a mirarlo,\n    Che \u2019l nome di Mirtillo, e l\u2019amor mio\n    Odio pi\u00f9 che la morte; e lui vorrei\n    Veder il pi\u00f9 dolente, il pi\u00f9 infelice\n    Pastor, che viva; e se potessi allora,\n    Con le mie proprie man l\u2019anciderei.\n    Cos\u00ec sdegno, desire, odio, ed amore\n    Mi fanno guerra, ed io, che stata sono\n    Sempre sin qui di mille cor la fiamma,\n    Di mill\u2019 alme il tormento, ardo, e languisco:\n    E provo nel mio mal le pene altrui.\n         _Act 1. sc. 3._\n\nOvid paints in lively colours the vibration of mind betwixt two opposite\npassions directed upon the same object. Althea had two brothers much\nbeloved, who were unjustly put to death by her son Meleager in a fit of\npassion. She was strongly impelled to revenge; but the criminal was her\nown son. This ought to have with-held her hand. But the story makes a\nbetter figure and is more interesting, by the violence of the struggle\nbetwixt resentment and maternal love.\n\n    Dona Deum templis nato victore ferebat;\n    Cum videt extinctos fratres Alth\u00e6a referri.\n    Qu\u00e6 plangore dato, m\u0153stis ululatibus urbem\n    Implet; et auratis mutavit vestibus atras.\n    At simul est auctor necis editus; excidit omnis\n    Luctus: et a lacrymis in p\u0153n\u00e6 versus amorem est.\n    Stipes erat, quem, cum partus enixa jaceret\n    Thestias, in flammam triplices posu\u00eare sorores;\n    Staminaque impresso fatalia pollice nentes,\n    Tempora, dixerunt, eadem lignoque, tibique,\n    O modo nate, damus. Quo postquam carmine dicto\n    Excessere de\u00e6; flagrantem mater ab igne\n    Erripuit torrem: sparsitque liquentibus undis.\n    Ille diu fuerat penetralibus abditus imis;\n    Servatusque, tuos, juvenis, servaverat annos.\n    Protulit hunc genitrix, t\u00e6dasque in fragmina poni\n    Imperat; et positis inimicos admovet ignes.\n    Tum conata quater flammis imponere ramum\n    C\u0153pta quater tenuit. Pugnat materque, sororque,\n    Et diversa trahunt unum duo nomina pectus.\n    S\u00e6pe metu sceleris pallebant ora futuri:\n    S\u00e6pe suum fervens oculis dabat ira ruborem,\n    Et modo nescio quid similis crudele minanti\n    Vultus erat; modo quem misereri credere posses:\n    Cumque ferus lacrymas animi siccaverat ardor;\n    Inveniebantur lacrym\u00e6 tamen. Utque carina,\n    Quam ventus, ventoque contrarius \u00e6stus,\n    Vim geminam sentit, paretque incerta duobus:\n    Thestias haud aliter dubiis affectibus errat,\n    Inque vices ponit, positamque resuscitat iram.\n    Incipit esse tamem melior germana parente;\n    Et, consanguineas ut sanguine leniat umbras,\n    Impietate pia est. Nam postqnam pestifer ignis\n    Convaluit: Rogus iste cremet mea viscera, dixit.\n    Utque manu dir\u00e2 lignum fatale tenebat;\n    Ante sepulchrales infelix adstitit aras.\n    P\u0153narumque de\u00e6 triplices furialibus, inquit,\n    Eumenides, sacris vultus advertite vestros.\n    Ulciscor, facioque nefas. Mors morte pianda est;\n    In scelus addendum scelus est, in funera funus:\n    Per coacervatos pereat domus impia luctus.\n    An felix Oeneus nato victore fruetur;\n    Thestius orbus erit? melius lugebitis ambo.\n    Vos modo, fraterni manes, anim\u00e6que recentes,\n    Officium sentite meum; magnoque paratas\n    Accipite inferias, uteri mala pignora nostri.\n    Hei mihi! quo rapior? fratres ignoscite matri.\n    Deficiunt ad c\u0153pta manus. Meruisse fatemur\n    Illum, cur pereat: mortis mihi displicet auctor.\n    Ergo impune feret; vivusque, et victor, et ipso\n    Successu tumidus regnum Calydonis habebit?\n    Vos cinis exiguus, gelid\u00e6que jacebitis umbr\u00e6?\n    Haud equidem patiar. Pereat sceleratus; et ille\n    Spemque patris, regnique trahat, patri\u00e6que ruinam.\n    Mens ubi materna est; ubi sunt pia jura parentum?\n    Et, quos sustinui, bis mens\u00fbm quinque labores?\n    O utinam primis arsisses ignibus infans;\n    Idque ego passa forem! vixisti munere nostro:\n    Nunc merito moriere tuo. Cape pr\u00e6mia facti;\n    Bisque datam, primum partu, mox stipite rapto,\n    Redde animam; vel me fraternis adde sepulchris.\n    Et cupio, et nequeo. Quid agam? modo vulnera fratrum\n    Ante oculos mihi sunt, et tant\u00e6 c\u00e6dis imago;\n    Nunc animum pietas, maternaque nomina frangunt.\n    Me miseram! male vincetis, sed vincite, fratres:\n    Dummodo, qu\u00e6 dedero vobis solatia, vosque\n    Ipsa sequar, dixit: dextraque aversa trementi\n    Funereum torrem medios conjecit in ignes.\n    Aut dedit, aut visus gemitus est ille dedisse,\n    Stipes; et invitis correptus ab ignibus arsit.\n         _Metamorph. lib. 8. l. 445._\n\nIn cases of this kind, one circumstance always augments the fluctuation.\nA resolution to prefer one action before another after balancing betwixt\nthem, is an inchoated gratification of the prevailing passion, which\nsoftens it in some degree. This circumstance tends to give a superiority\nto the opposite passion. And another circumstance also concurs, that\nthis opposite passion has by restraint acquired in the interim some\nadditional force.\n\nLove and jealousy connected by a common object, occupy the mind\nalternately. When the object is considered as beautiful, love prevails:\nwhen considered as possibly unfaithful, jealousy prevails. A situation\nof this kind, affords great scope for fluctuation of passion, which is\npainted to the life by several masterly hands in words as well as in\ncolours. Shakespear handles the same subject, but in a manner uncommon\nand peculiar to himself. In Othello\u2019s soliloquy before putting his wife\nto death, love and jealousy are represented, each exerting its whole\nforce, but without any struggle. Othello was naturally inflexible; and\nthe tenderest love could not divert him from a purpose he approved as\nright, not even for a moment. But every thing consistent with such a\ncharacter is done to reconcile the two opposite passions. He is resolved\nto put her to death, but he will not shed her blood, nor so much as\nruffle her skin.\n\n      _Othello._ It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul;--\n    Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!\n    It is the cause.---- Yet I\u2019ll not shed her blood,\n    Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,\n    And smooth as monumental alabaster.\n                            [_Lays down the sword._\n    Yet she must die; else she\u2019ll betray more men.\n    Put out the light, and then--Put out the light?--\n    If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,\n    I can again thy former light restore,\n    Should I repent: but once put out _thy_ light,\n    Thou cunning\u2019st pattern of excelling nature,\n    I know not where is that Promethean heat\n    That can thy light relumine.--[_Sets down the taper._\n    When I have pluck\u2019d thy rose,\n    I cannot give it vital growth again;\n    It needs must wither.--I\u2019ll smell thee on the tree;\n                                          [_Kissing her._\n    Oh balmy breath, that dost almost persuade\n    Justice to break her sword!---- One more; one more;\n    Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,\n    And love thee after.---- One more, that\u2019s the last;\n    So sweet was ne\u2019er so fatal! I must weep,\n    But they are cruel tears? this sorrow\u2019s heav\u2019nly;\n    It strikes where it doth love.---- She wakes----\n         _Act 5. sc. 6._\n\nIn Otway\u2019s _Orphan_, we have an illustrious example of the address\nemployed to gratify opposite passions directed upon the same object.\nCastalio and Polydore, brothers and rivals, had sworn mutual confidence.\nCastalio broke his faith by a private marriage. By this concealment,\nPolydore was unwarily betrayed into a dismal deed, that of polluting\nhis brother\u2019s bed. Thus he had injured his brother, and was injured by\nhim. Justice prompted him to make full atonement by his own death:\nresentment against his brother required a full atonement to be made to\nhimself. In coexistent passions so contradictory, one of them commonly\nprevails after a struggle. But here happily an expedient occurred to\ngratify both; which was, that Polydore should provoke his brother to put\nhim to death. Polydore\u2019s crime in his own opinion merited this\npunishment; and justice was satisfied when he fell by the hands of the\nman he had injured. He wanted at the same time to punish his brother for\nbreach of faith; and he could not do this more effectually than by\nbetraying his brother to be his executioner.\n\nIf difference of aim prevent the union of two passions though having the\nsame object, much more will it prevent their union when their objects\nare also different. In both cases there is a fluctuation; but in the\nlatter the fluctuation is slower than in the former. A beautiful\nsituation of this kind is exhibited in the _Cid_ of Corneille. Don\nDiegue, an old soldier worn out with age, having received a mortal\naffront from the Count father to Chimene, employs his son Don Rodrigue,\nChimene\u2019s lover, to demand satisfaction. This situation occasions in the\nbreast of Don Rodrigue a cruel struggle. It is a contest betwixt love\nand honour, one of which must be sacrificed. The scene is finely\nconducted, chiefly by making love in some degree take part with honour,\nDon Rodrigue reflecting, that if he lost his honour he could not deserve\nhis mistress. Honour triumphs. The Count, provoked to a single combat,\nfalls by the hand of Don Rodrigue.\n\nThis produceth another beautiful situation respecting Chimene, which for\nthe sake of connection is placed here, though it properly belongs to the\nforegoing head. It became the duty of that lady to demand justice\nagainst her lover, for whose preservation, in other circumstances, she\nchearfully would have sacrificed her own life. The struggle betwixt\nthese opposite passions directed upon the same object, is finely\nexpressed in the third scene of the third act.\n\n      _Elvire._ Il vous prive d\u2019un p\u00e9re, et vous l\u2019aimez encore!\n\n      _Chimene._ C\u2019est peu de dire aimer, Elvire, je l\u2019adore;\n    Ma passion s\u2019oppose \u00e0 mon ressentiment,\n    Dedans mon ennemi je trouve mon amant,\n    Et je sens qu\u2019en depit de toute ma col\u00e9re,\n    Rodrigue dans mon c\u0153ur combat encore mon p\u00e9re.\n    Il l\u2019attaque, il le presse, il c\u00e9de, il se d\u00e9fend,\n    Tant\u00f4t fort, tant\u00f4t foible, et tant\u00f4t triomphant;\n    Mais en ce dur combat de col\u00e9re et de flame,\n    Il d\u00e9chire mon c\u0153ur sans partager mon ame,\n    Et quoique mon amour ait sur moi de pouvoir,\n    Je ne consulte point pour suivre mon devoir.\n    Je cours sans balancer o\u00f9 mon honneur m\u2019oblige;\n    Rodrigue m\u2019est bien cher, son inter\u00eat m\u2019afflige,\n    Mon c\u0153ur prend son parti; mais malgr\u00e9 son effort,\n    Je sai ce que je suis, et que mon p\u00e9re est mort.\n\nNot less when the objects are different than when the same, are means\nsometimes afforded to gratify both passions; and such means are greedily\nembraced. In Tasso\u2019s _Gerusalem_, Edward and Gildippe, husband and wife,\nare introduced fighting gallantly against the Saracens. Gildippe\nreceives a mortal wound by the hand of Soliman. Edward inflamed with\nrevenge as well as concern for Gildippe, is agitated betwixt the two\ndifferent objects. The poet[40] describes him endeavouring to gratify\nboth at once, applying his right hand against Soliman the object of his\nresentment, and his left hand to support his wife the object of his\nlove.\n\n\n\n\nPART V.\n\n_The power of passion to adjust our opinions and belief to its\ngratification._\n\n\nThere is such a connection among the perceptions passions and actions of\nthe same person, that it would be wonderful if they should have no\nmutual influence. That our actions are too much directed by passion, is\na sad truth. It is not less certain, though not so commonly observed,\nthat passion hath an irregular influence upon our opinions and belief.\nThe opinions we form of men and things, are generally directed by\naffection. An advice given by a man of figure, hath great weight; the\nsame advice from one in a low condition, is utterly neglected. A man of\ncourage under-rates danger; and to the indolent, the slightest obstacle\nappears unsurmountable. Our opinions indeed, the result commonly of\nvarious and often opposite views, are so slight and wavering, as readily\nto be susceptible of a bias from passion and prejudice.\n\nThis subject is of great use in logic; and of still greater use in\ncriticism, being intimately connected with many principles of the fine\narts that will be unfolded in the course of this work. Being too\nextensive to be treated here at large, some cursory illustrations must\nsuffice; leaving the subject to be prosecuted more particularly\nafterward when occasion shall offer.\n\nTwo principles that make an eminent figure in human nature, concur to\ngive passion an undue influence upon our opinions and belief. The first\nand most extensive, is a strong tendency in the mind to fit objects for\nthe gratification of its passions. We are prone to such opinions of men\nand things as correspond to our wishes. Where the object, in dignity or\nimportance, corresponds to the passion bestowed on it, the\ngratification is complete and there is no occasion for artifice. But\nwhere the object is too mean for the passion so as not to afford a\ncomplete gratification, it is wonderful how apt the mind is to impose\nupon itself, and how disposed to proportion the object to its passion.\nThe other principle is a strong tendency in our nature to justify our\npassions as well as our actions, not to others only, but even to\nourselves. This tendency is extremely remarkable with respect to\ndisagreeable passions. By its influence, objects are magnified or\nlessened, circumstances supplied or suppressed, every thing coloured and\ndisguised, to answer the end of justification. Hence the foundation of\nself-deceit, where a man imposes upon himself innocently, and even\nwithout suspicion of a bias.\n\nBeside the influence of the foregoing principles to make us form\nopinions contrary to truth, the passions themselves, by subordinate\nmeans, contribute to the same effect. Of these means I shall mention two\nwhich seem to be capital. First, There was occasion formerly to\nobserve[41], that though ideas seldom start up in the mind without\nconnection, yet that ideas which correspond to the present tone of the\nmind are readily suggested by any slight connection. By this means, the\narguments for a favourite opinion are always at hand, while we often\nsearch in vain for those that cross our inclination. Second, The mind\ntaking delight in agreeable circumstances or arguments, is strongly\nimpressed with them; while those that are disagreeable are hurried over\nso as scarce to make any impression. The self-same argument, accordingly\nas it is relished or not relished, weighs so differently, as in truth to\nmake conviction depend more on passion than on reasoning. This\nobservation is fully justified by experience. To confine myself to a\nsingle instance, the numberless absurd religious tenets that at\ndifferent times have pestered the world, would be altogether\nunaccountable but for this irregular bias of passion.\n\nWe proceed to a more pleasant task, which is, to illustrate the\nforegoing observations by proper examples. Gratitude when warm, is often\nexerted upon the children of the benefactor; especially where he is\nremoved out of reach by death or absence[42]. Gratitude in this case\nbeing exerted for the sake of the benefactor, requires no peculiar\nexcellence in his children. To find however these children worthy of the\nbenefits intended them, contributes undoubtedly to the more entire\ngratification of the passion. And accordingly, the mind, prone to\ngratify its passions, is apt to conceive a better opinion of these\nchildren than possibly they deserve. By this means, strong connections\nof affection are often formed among individuals, upon the slight\nfoundation now mentioned.\n\nEnvy is a passion, which, being altogether unjustifiable, is always\ndisguised under some more plausible name. But no passion is more eager\nthan envy, to give its object such an appearance as to answer a complete\ngratification. It magnifies every bad quality, and fixes on the most\nhumbling circumstances.\n\n      _Cassius._ I cannot tell what you and other men\n    Think of this life; but for my single self,\n    I had as lief not be, as live to be\n    In awe of such a thing as I myself.\n    I was born free as C\u00e6sar, so were you;\n    We both have fed as well; and we can both\n    Endure the winter\u2019s cold as well as he.\n    For once, upon a raw and gusty day,\n    The troubled Tyber chasing with his shores,\n    C\u00e6sar says to me, Dar\u2019st thou, Cassius, now\n    Leap in with me into this angry flood,\n    And swim to yonder point?--Upon the word,\n    Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,\n    And bid him follow; so indeed he did.\n    The torrent roar\u2019d, and we did buffet it\n    With lusty sinews; throwing it aside,\n    And stemming it with hearts of controversy.\n    But ere we could arrive the point propos\u2019d,\n    C\u00e6sar cry\u2019d, Help me, Cassius, or I sink.\n    I, as \u00c6neas, our great ancestor,\n    Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder\n    The old Anchises bear; so from the waves of Tyber\n    Did I the tired C\u00e6sar: and this man\n    Is now become a god, and Cassius is\n    A wretched creature; and must bend his body,\n    If C\u00e6sar carelessly but nod on him.\n    He had a fever when he was in Spain,\n    And when the fit was on him, I did mark\n    How he did shake. \u2019Tis true, this god did shake;\n    His coward lips did from their colour fly,\n    And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world,\n    Did lose its lustre; I did hear him grone:\n    Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans\n    Mark him, and write his speeches in their books,\n    Alas! it cry\u2019d---- Give me some drink, Titinius----\n    As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,\n    A man of such a feeble temper should\n    So get the start of the majestic world,\n    And bear the palm alone.\n         _Julius C\u00e6sar, act I. sc. 3._\n\nGlo\u2019ster inflamed with resentment against his son Edgar, could even work\nhimself into a momentary conviction that they were not related.\n\n    O strange fasten\u2019d villain!\n    Would he deny his letter?--I never got him.\n         _King Lear, act 2. sc. 3._\n\nWhen by a great sensibility of heart or other means, grief swells\nbeyond what the cause can justify, the mind is prone to magnify the\ncause, in order to gratify the passion. And if the real cause admit not\nof being magnified, the mind seeks a cause for its grief in imagined\nfuture events.\n\n      _Bushy._ Madam, your Majesty is much too sad;\n    You promis\u2019d, when you parted with the King,\n    To lay aside self-harming heaviness,\n    And entertain a chearful disposition.\n\n      _Queen._ To please the King, I did; to please myself,\n    I cannot do it. Yet I know no cause\n    Why I should welcome such a guest as grief;\n    Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest\n    As my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks,\n    Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune\u2019s womb,\n    Is coming tow\u2019rd me; and my inward soul\n    With something trembles, yet at nothing grieves,\n    More than with parting from my Lord the King.\n         _Richard II. act. 2. sc. 5._\n\nThe foregoing examples depend on the first principle. In the following,\nboth principles concur. Resentment at first is wreaked on the relations\nof the offender, in order to punish him. But as resentment when so\noutrageous is contrary to conscience, the mind, to justify its passion\nas well as to gratify it, is disposed to paint these relations in the\nblackest colours; and it actually comes to be convinced, that they ought\nto be punished for their own demerits.\n\nAnger raised by an accidental stroke upon a tender part, which gives\ngreat and sudden pain, is sometimes vented upon the undesigning cause.\nBut as the passion in this case is absurd, and as there can be no solid\ngratification in punishing the innocent; the mind, prone to justify as\nwell as to gratify its passion, deludes itself instantly into a\nconviction of the action\u2019s being voluntary. This conviction however is\nbut momentary: the first reflection shows it to be erroneous; and the\npassion vanisheth almost instantaneously with the conviction. But anger,\nthe most violent of all passions, has still greater influence. It\nsometimes forces the mind to personify a stock or a stone when it\noccasions bodily pain, in order to be a proper object of resentment. A\nconception is formed of it as a voluntary agent. And that we have\nreally a momentary conviction of its being a voluntary agent, must be\nevident from considering, that without such conviction, the passion can\nneither be justified nor gratified. The imagination can give no aid. A\nstock or a stone may be imagined sensible; but a notion of this kind\ncannot be the foundation of punishment, so long as the mind is conscious\nthat it is an imagination merely without any reality. Of such\npersonification, involving a conviction of reality, there is one\nillustrious instance. When the first bridge of boats over the Hellespont\nwas destroyed by a storm, Xerxes fell into a transport of rage, so\nexcessive, that he commanded the sea to be punished with 300 stripes;\nand a pair of fetters to be thrown into it, enjoining the following\nwords to be pronounced. \u201cO thou salt and bitter water! thy master hath\ncondemned thee to this punishment for offending him without cause; and\nis resolved to pass over thee in despite of thy insolence. With reason\nall men neglect to sacrifice to thee, because thou art both\ndisagreeable and treacherous[43].\u201d\n\nShakespear exhibits beautiful examples of the irregular influence of\npassion in making us conceive things to be otherwise than they are. King\nLear, in his distress, personifies the rain, wind, and thunder; and in\norder to justify his resentment, conceives them to be taking part with\nhis daughters.\n\n      _Lear._ Rumble thy belly-full, spit fire, spout rain!\n    Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters.\n    I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;\n    I never gave you kingdom, call\u2019d you children;\n    You owe me no subscription. Then let fall\n    Your horrible pleasure.---- Here I stand, your brave;\n    A poor, infirm, weak, and despis\u2019d old man!\n    But yet I call you servile ministers,\n    That have with two pernicious daughters join\u2019d\n    Your high engender\u2019d battles, \u2019gainst a head\n    So old and white as this. Oh! oh! \u2019tis foul.\n         _Act_ 3. _sc. 2._\n\nKing Richard, full of indignation against his favourite horse for\nsuffering Bolingbroke to ride him, conceives for a moment the horse to\nbe rational.\n\n      _Groom._ O, how it yearn\u2019d my heart, when I beheld,\n    In London streets, that coronation-day;\n    When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbary,\n    That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,\n    That horse that I so carefully have dress\u2019d.\n\n      _K. Rich._ Rode he on Barbary? tell me, gentle friend,\n    How went he under him?\n\n      _Groom._ So proudly as he had disdain\u2019d the ground.\n\n      _K. Rich._ So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!\n    That jade had eat bread from my royal hand.\n    This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.\n    Would he not stumble? would he not fall down,\n    (Since pride must have a fall), and break the neck\n    Of that proud man that did usurp his back?\n         _Richard_ II. _act 5. sc. 11_.\n\nHamlet, swelled with indignation at his mother\u2019s second marriage, is\nstrongly inclined to lessen the time of her widowhood; because this\ncircumstance gratified his passion; and he deludes himself by degrees\ninto the opinion of an interval shorter than the real one.\n\n      _Hamlet._---- That it should come to this!\n    But two months dead! nay, not so much; not two;--\n    So excellent a King, that was, to this,\n    Hyperion to a satire: so loving to my mother,\n    That he permitted not the wind of heav\u2019n\n    Visit her face too roughly. Heav\u2019n and earth!\n    Must I remember--why, she would hang on him,\n    As if increase of appetite had grown\n    By what it fed on; yet, within a month,----\n    Let me not think--Frailty, thy name is _Woman_!\n    A little month! or ere those shoes were old,\n    With which she follow\u2019d my poor father\u2019s body,\n    Like Niobe, all tears---- Why, she, ev\u2019n she--\n    (O heav\u2019n! a beast that wants discourse of reason,\n    Would have mourn\u2019d longer--) married with mine uncle,\n    My father\u2019s brother; but no more like my father,\n    Than I to Hercules. Within a month!----\n    Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears\n    Had left the flushing in her gauled eyes,\n    She married.---- Oh, most wicked speed, to post\n    With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!\n    It is not, nor it cannot come to good.\n    But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.\n         _Act 1. sc. 3._\n\nThe power of passion to falsify the computation of time, is the more\nremarkable, that time, which hath an accurate measure, is less\nobsequious to our desires and wishes, than objects which have no precise\nstandard of less or more.\n\nEven belief, though partly an act of the judgment, may be influenced by\npassion. Good news are greedily swallowed upon very slender evidence.\nOur wishes magnify the probability of the event as well as the veracity\nof the relater; and we believe as certain what at best is doubtful.\n\n    Quel, che l\u2019huom vede, amor li fa invisibile\n    E l\u2019invisibil fa veder amore.\n    Questo creduto fu, che\u2019l miser suole\n    Dar facile credenza a\u2019 quel, che vuole.\n         _Orland. Furios. cant. 1. st. 56._\n\nFor the same reason, bad news gain also credit upon the slightest\nevidence. Fear, if once alarmed, has the same effect with hope to\nmagnify every circumstance that tends to conviction. Shakespear, who\nshows more knowledge of human nature than any of our philosophers, hath\nin his _Cymbeline_[44] represented this bias of the mind: for he makes\nthe person who alone was affected with the bad news, yield to evidence\nthat did not convince any of his companions. And Othello[45] is\nconvinced of his wife\u2019s infidelity from circumstances too slight to move\nan indifferent person.\n\nIf the news interest us in so low a degree as to give place to reason,\nthe effect will not be quite the same. Judging of the probability or\nimprobability of the story, the mind settles in a rational conviction\neither that it is true or not. But even in this case, it is observable,\nthat the mind is not allowed to rest in that degree of conviction which\nis produced by rational evidence. If the news be in any degree\nfavourable, our belief is augmented by hope beyond its true pitch; and\nif unfavourable, by fear.\n\nThe observation holds equally with respect to future events. If a future\nevent be either much wished or dreaded, the mind, to gratify its\npassion, never fails to augment the probability beyond truth.\n\nThe credit which in all ages has been given to wonders and prodigies,\neven the most absurd and ridiculous, is a strange phenomenon. Nothing\ncan be more evident than the following proposition, That the more\nsingular any event is, the more evidence is required. A familiar event\ndaily occurring, being in itself extremely probable, finds ready credit,\nand therefore is vouched by the slightest evidence. But a strange and\nrare event, contrary to the course of nature, ought not to be easily\nbelieved. It starts up without connection, and without cause, so far as\nwe can discover; and to overcome the improbability of such an event, the\nvery strongest evidence is required. It is certain, however, that\nwonders and prodigies are swallowed by the vulgar, upon evidence that\nwould not be sufficient to ascertain the most familiar occurrence. It\nhas been reckoned difficult to explain this irregular bias of the mind.\nWe are now no longer at a loss about its cause. The proneness we have to\ngratify our passions, which displays itself upon so many occasions,\nproduces this irrational belief. A story of ghosts or fairies, told with\nan air of gravity and truth, raiseth an emotion of wonder, and perhaps\nof dread. These emotions tending strongly to their own gratification,\nimpose upon a weak mind, and impress upon it a thorough conviction\ncontrary to all sense and reason.\n\nOpinion and belief are influenced by propensity as well as by passion;\nfor the mind is disposed to gratify both. A natural propensity is all we\nhave to convince us, that the operations of nature are uniform.\nInfluenced by this propensity, we often rashly conceive, that good or\nbad weather will never have an end; and in natural philosophy, writers,\ninfluenced by the same propensity, stretch commonly their analogical\nreasonings beyond just bounds.\n\nOpinion and belief are influenced by affection as well as by propensity.\nThe noted story of a fine lady and a curate viewing the moon through a\ntelescope is a pleasant illustration. I perceive, says the lady, two\nshadows inclining to each other, they are certainly two happy lovers.\nNot at all, replies the curate, they are two steeples of a cathedral.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX to Part V.\n\n_Concerning the methods which nature hath afforded for computing time\nand space._\n\n\nI introduce here the subject proposed, because it affords several\ncurious examples of the power of passion to adjust objects to its\ngratification; a lesson that cannot be too much inculcated, as there is\nnot perhaps another bias in human nature that hath an influence so\nuniversal, and that is so apt to make us wander from truth as well as\nfrom justice.\n\nI begin with time; and the question shortly is, What was the measure of\ntime before artificial measures were invented? and, What is the measure\nat present when these are not at hand? I speak not of months and days,\nwhich we compute by the moon and sun; but of hours, or in general of the\ntime that runs betwixt any two occurrences when there is not access to\nthe sun. The only natural measure we have, is the train of our thoughts;\nand we always judge the time to be long or short, in proportion to the\nnumber of perceptions that have passed through the mind during that\ninterval. This is indeed a very imperfect measure; because in the\ndifferent conditions of a quick or slow succession, the computation is\ndifferent. But however imperfect, it is the only measure by which a\nperson naturally calculates time; and this measure is applied on all\noccasions, without regard to any occasional variation in the rate of\nsuccession.\n\nThis natural measure of time, imperfect as it is, would however be\ntolerable, did it labour under no other imperfection than the ordinary\nvariations that happen in the motion of our perceptions. But in many\nparticular circumstances, it is much more fallacious; and in order to\nexplain these distinctly, I must analize the subject. Time is generally\ncomputed at two different periods; one while time is passing, another\nafter it is past. I shall consider these separately, with the errors to\nwhich each of them is liable. It will be found that these errors often\nproduce very different computations of the same period of time. The\ncomputation of time while it is passing, comes first in order. It is a\ncommon and trite observation, That to lovers absence appears\nimmeasurably long, every minute an hour, and every hour a day. The same\ncomputation is made in every case where we long for a distant event; as\nwhere one is in expectation of good news, or where a profligate heir\nwatches for the death of an old man who keeps him from a great estate.\nOpposite to these are instances not fewer in number. To a criminal the\ninterval betwixt sentence and execution appears miserably short; and the\nsame holds in every case where one dreads an approaching event. Of this\neven a schoolboy can bear witness: the hour allowed him for play, moves,\nin his apprehension, with a very swift pace: before he is thoroughly\nengaged, the hour is gone. A reckoning founded on the number of ideas,\nwill never produce computations so regularly opposite to each other; for\na slow succession of ideas is not connected with our wishes, nor a quick\nsuccession with our fears. What is it then, that, in the cases\nmentioned, moves nature to desert her common measure for one very\ndifferent? I know not that this question ever has been resolved. The\nfalse reckonings I have suggested are so common and familiar, that no\nwriter has thought of inquiring for their cause. And indeed, to enter\nupon this matter at short hand, without preparation, might occasion some\ndifficulty. But to encounter the difficulty, we luckily are prepared by\nwhat is said above about the power of passion to fit objects for its\ngratification. Among the other circumstances that terrify a condemned\ncriminal, the short time he has to live is one. Terror, like our other\npassions, prone to its gratification, adjusts every one of these\ncircumstances to its own tone. It magnifies in particular the shortness\nof the interval betwixt the present time and that of the execution; and\nforces upon the criminal a conviction that the hour of his death\napproaches with a swift pace. In the same manner, among the other\ndistresses of an absent lover, the time of separation is a capital\ncircumstance, which for that reason is greatly magnified by his anxiety\nand impatience. He imagines that the time of meeting comes on very slow,\nor rather that it will never come. Every minute is thought of an\nintolerable length. Here is a fair and I hope satisfactory account, why\nwe reckon time to be tedious when we long for a future event, and not\nless fleet when we dread the event. This account is confirmed by other\ninstances. Bodily pain fixt to one part, produceth a slow train of\nperceptions, which, according to the common measure of time, ought to\nmake it appear short. Yet we know, that in such a state time has the\nopposite appearance. Bodily pain is always attended with a degree of\nimpatience and an anxiety to be rid of it, which make us judge every\nminute to be an hour. The same holds where the pain shifts from place to\nplace; but not so remarkably, because such a pain is not attended with\nthe same degree of impatience. The impatience a man hath in travelling\nthrough a barren country or in bad roads, makes him imagine, during the\njourney, that time goes on with a very slow pace. We shall show\nafterward that he makes a very different computation when his journey is\nat an end.\n\nHow ought it to stand with a man who apprehends bad news? It will\nprobably be thought, that the case of this man resembles that of a\ncriminal, who, in reckoning the short time he has to live, imagines\nevery hour to be but a minute, and that time flies swift away. Yet the\ncomputation here is directly opposite. Reflecting upon this difficulty,\nthere appears one capital circumstance in which the two cases differ.\nThe fate of the criminal is determined: in the case under consideration,\nthe man is still in suspense. Every one knows how distressful suspense\nis to the bulk of mankind. Such distress we wish to get rid of at any\nrate, even at the expence of bad news. This case therefore, upon a more\nnarrow inspection, resembles that of bodily pain. The present distress\nin both cases, makes the time appear extremely tedious.\n\nThe reader probably will not be displeased, to have this branch of the\nsubject illustrated in a pleasant manner, by an author acquainted with\nevery maze of the human heart, and who bestows ineffable grace and\nornament upon every subject he handles.\n\n     _Rosalinda._ I pray you, what is\u2019t a clock?\n\n     _Orlando._ You should ask me, what time o\u2019 day; there\u2019s no clock in\n     the forest.\n\n     _Ros._ Then there is no true lover in the forest; else, sighing\n     every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot\n     of Time, as well as a clock.\n\n     _Orla._ Why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as\n     proper?\n\n     _Ros._ By no means, Sir. Time travels in diverse paces with diverse\n     persons. I\u2019ll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots\n     withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.\n\n     _Orla._ I pr\u2019y thee whom doth he trot withal?\n\n     _Ros._ Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the contract\n     of her marriage, and the day it is solemnized: if the interim be\n     but a se\u2019ennight, Time\u2019s pace is so hard that it seems the length\n     of seven years.\n\n     _Orla._ Who ambles Time withal?\n\n     _Ros._ With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not\n     the gout: for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and\n     the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking\n     the burden of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no\n     burthen of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles withal.\n\n     _Orla._ Whom doth he gallop withal?\n\n     _Ros._ With a thief to the gallows: for though he go as softly as\n     foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.\n\n     _Orla._ Whom stays it still withall?\n\n     _Ros._ With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term\n     and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves. _As you like\n     it, act 3. sc. 8._\n\nReflecting upon the natural method of computing present time, it shows\nhow far from truth we may be led by the irregular power of passion. Nor\nare our eyes immediately opened when the scene is past: the deception\ncontinues while there remain any traces of the passion. But looking back\nupon past time when the joy or distress is no longer remembered, the\ncomputation we make is very different. In this situation, passion being\nout of the question, we apply the ordinary measure, _viz._ the course of\nour perceptions; and I shall now proceed to the errors that this measure\nis subjected to. In order to have an accurate notion of this matter, we\nmust distinguish betwixt a train of perceptions, and a train of ideas.\nReal objects make a strong impression, and are faithfully remembered.\nIdeas, on the contrary, however entertaining at the time, are apt to\nescape an after recollection. Hence it is, that in retrospection, the\ntime that was employed upon real objects, appears longer than the time\nthat was employed upon ideas. The former are more accurately recollected\nthan the latter; and we measure the time by the number that is\nrecollected. I proceed to particulars. After finishing a journey through\na populous country, the frequency of agreeable objects distinctly\nrecollected by the traveller, makes the time spent in the journey appear\nto him longer than it was in reality. This is chiefly remarkable in a\nfirst journey, where every object is new and makes a strong impression.\nOn the other hand, after finishing a journey through a barren country\nthinly peopled, the time appears short, being measured by the number of\nobjects, which were few and far from interesting. Here in both instances\na reckoning is brought out, directly opposite to that made during the\njourney. And this, by the way, serves to account for a thing which may\nappear singular, that in a barren country the computed miles are always\nlonger, than near the capital, where the country is rich and populous.\nThe traveller has no natural measure of the space gone through, other\nthan the time bestowed upon it; nor any natural measure of the time,\nother than the number of his perceptions. These being proportioned to\nthe number of visible objects, he imagines that he hath consumed more\ntime on his day\u2019s journey, and accomplished a greater number of miles,\nin a populous than in a waste country. By this method of calculation,\nevery computed mile in the former must in reality be shorter than in the\nlatter.\n\nAgain, the travelling with an agreeable companion produceth a short\ncomputation both of the road and of time; especially if there be few\nobjects that demand attention, or if the objects be familiar. The case\nis the same of young people at a ball, or of a joyous company over a\nbottle. The ideas with which they have been entertained, being\ntransitory, escape the memory. After all is over, they reflect that they\nhave been much diverted, but scarce can say about what.\n\nWhen one is totally occupied in any agreeable work that admits not many\nobjects, time runs on without observation; and upon an after\nrecollection must appear short, in proportion to the paucity of objects.\nThis is still more remarkable in close contemplation and in deep\nthinking, where the train, composed wholly of ideas, proceeds with an\nextreme slow pace. Not only are the ideas few in number, but are apt to\nescape an after-reckoning. The like false reckoning of time may proceed\nfrom an opposite state of mind. In a reverie, where ideas float at\nrandom without making any impression, time goes on unheeded and the\nreckoning is lost. A reverie may be so profound as to prevent the\nrecollection of any one idea: that the mind was busied in a train of\nthinking, will in general be remembered; but what was the subject, has\nquite escaped the memory. In such a case, we are altogether at a loss\nabout the time: we have no _data_ for making a computation. No cause\nproduceth so false a reckoning of time, as immoderate grief. The mind,\nin this state, is violently attached to a single object, and admits not\na different thought. Any other object breaking in, is instantly\nbanished, so as scarce to give an appearance of succession. In a\nreverie, we are uncertain of the time that is past: but in the example\nnow given, there is an appearance of certainty, so far as the natural\nmeasure of time can be trusted, that the time must have been short, when\nthe perceptions are so few in number.\n\nThe natural measure of space appears more obscure than that of time. I\nventure however to enter upon it, leaving it to be further prosecuted,\nif it be thought of any importance.\n\nThe space marked out for a house, appears considerably larger after it\nis divided into its proper parts. A piece of ground appears larger after\nit is surrounded with a fence; and still larger when it is made a garden\nand divided into different copartments.\n\nOn the contrary, a large plain looks less after it is divided into\nparts. The sea must be excepted, which looks less from that very\ncircumstance of not being divided into parts.\n\nA room of a moderate size appears larger when properly furnished. But\nwhen a very large room is furnished, I doubt whether it be not lessened\nin appearance.\n\nA room of a moderate size, looks less by having a ceiling lower than in\nproportion. The same low ceiling makes a very large room look larger\nthan it is in reality.\n\nThese experiments are by far too small a stock for a general theory. But\nthey are all that occur at present; and without attempting any regular\nsystem, I shall satisfy myself with a few conjectures.\n\nThe largest angle of vision seems to me the natural measure of space.\nThe eye is the only judge; and in examining with it the size of any\nplain, or the length of any line, the most accurate method that can be\ntaken is, to run over the object in parts. The largest part that can be\ntaken in at one stedfast look, determines the largest angle of vision;\nand when that angle is given, one may institute a calculation by trying\nwith the eye how many of these parts are in the whole.\n\nWhether this angle be the same in all men, I know not. The smallest\nangle of vision is ascertained; and to ascertain the largest angle,\nwould not be less curious.\n\nBut supposing it known, it would be a very imperfect measure; perhaps\nmore so than the natural measure of time. It requires great steadiness\nof eye to measure a line with any accuracy, by applying to it the\nlargest angle of distinct vision. And suppose this steadiness to be\nacquired by practice, the measure will be imperfect from other\ncircumstances. The space comprehended under this angle, will be\ndifferent according to the distance, and also according to the situation\nof the object. Of a perpendicular this angle will comprehend the\nsmallest space. The space will be larger in looking upon an inclined\nplain; and will be larger or less in proportion to the degree of\ninclination.\n\nThis measure of space, like the measure of time, is liable to some\nextraordinary errors from certain operations of the mind, which will\naccount for some of the erroneous judgements above mentioned. The space\nmarked out for a dwelling-house, where the eye is at any reasonable\ndistance, is seldom greater than can be seen at once without moving the\nhead. Divide this space into two or three equal parts, and none of these\nparts will appear much less than what can be comprehended at one\ndistinct look; consequently each of them will appear equal, or nearly\nequal, to what the whole did before the division. If, on the other hand,\nthe whole be very small, so as scarce to fill the eye at one look, its\ndivisions into parts will, I conjecture, make it appear still less. The\nminuteness of the parts is, by an easy transition of ideas, transferred\nto the whole. Each part hath a diminutive appearance, and by the\nintimate connection of these parts with the whole, we pass the same\njudgement upon all.\n\nThe space marked out for a small garden, is surveyed almost at one view;\nand requires a motion of the eye so slight, as to pass for an object\nthat can be comprehended under the largest angle of distinct vision. If\nnot divided into too many parts, we are apt to form the same judgement\nof each part; and consequently to magnify the garden in proportion to\nthe number of its parts.\n\nA very large plain without protuberances, is an object not less rare\nthan beautiful; and in those who see it for the first time, it must\nproduce an emotion of wonder. This emotion, however slight, tending to\nits own gratification, imposes upon the mind, and makes it judge that\nthe plain is larger than it is in reality. Divide this plain into parts,\nand our wonder ceases. It is no longer considered as one great plain,\nbut as so many different fields or inclosures.\n\nThe first time one beholds the sea, it appears to be large beyond all\nbounds. When it becomes familiar, and raises our wonder in no degree,\nit appears less than it is in reality. In a storm it appears larger,\nbeing distinguishable by the rolling waves into a number of great parts.\nIslands scattered at considerable distances, add in appearance to its\nsize. Each intercepted part looks extremely large, and we silently apply\narithmetic to increase the appearance of the whole. Many islands\nscattered at hand, give a diminutive appearance to the sea, by its\nconnection with its diminutive parts. The Lomond lake would undoubtedly\nlook larger without its islands.\n\nFurniture increaseth in appearance the size of a small room, for the\nsame reason that divisions increase in appearance the size of a garden.\nThe emotion of wonder which is raised by a very large room without\nfurniture, makes it look larger than it is in reality. If completely\nfurnished, we view it in parts, and our wonder is not raised.\n\nA low ceiling hath a diminutive appearance, which, by an easy transition\nof ideas, is communicated to the length and breadth, provided they bear\nany sort of proportion to the height. If they be out of all proportion,\nthe opposition seizes the mind, and raises some degree of wonder, which\nmakes the difference appear greater than it really is.\n\n\n\n\nPART VI.\n\n_Of the resemblance emotions bear to their causes._\n\n\nThat many emotions bear a certain resemblance to their causes, is a\ntruth that can be made clear by induction; though, so far as I know, the\nobservation has not been made by any writer. Motion, in its different\ncircumstances, is productive of feelings that resemble it. Sluggish\nmotion, for example, causeth a languid unpleasant feeling; slow uniform\nmotion, a feeling calm and pleasant; and brisk motion, a lively feeling\nthat rouses the spirits and promotes activity. A fall of water through\nrocks, raises in the mind a tumultuous confused agitation, extremely\nsimilar to its cause. When force is exerted with any effort, the\nspectator feels a similar effort as of force exerted within his mind. A\nlarge object swells the heart. An elevated object makes the spectator\nstand erect.\n\nSounds also produce emotions that resemble them. A sound in a low key,\nbrings down the mind. Such a sound in a full tone, hath a certain\nsolemnity, which it communicates to the emotion produced by it. A sound\nin a high key, chears the mind by raising it. Such a sound in a full\ntone, both elevates and swells the mind.\n\nAgain, a wall or pillar that declines from the perpendicular, produceth\na painful emotion, as of a tottering and falling within the mind. An\nemotion somewhat similar is produced by a tall pillar that stands so\nticklish as to look like falling. For this reason, a column upon a base\nlooks better than upon the naked ground. The base, which makes a part of\nthe column, inspires a feeling of firmness and stability. The ground\nsupporting a naked column, is too large to be considered as its base.\nAnd for the same reason, a cube as a base, is preferred before a\ncylinder, though the latter is a more beautiful figure. The angles of a\ncube, being extended to a greater distance from the centre than the\ncircumference of a cylinder, give the column a greater appearance of\nstability. This excludes not a different reason, that the base, shaft,\nand capital, of a pillar, ought, for the sake of variety, to differ from\neach other. If the shaft be round, the base and capital ought to be\nsquare.\n\nA constrained posture, uneasy to the man himself, is disagreeable to the\nspectator; which makes it a rule in painting, that the drapery ought not\nto adhere to the body, but hang loose, that the figures may appear easy\nand free in their movements. Hence the disagreeable figure of a French\ndancing-master is one of Hogarth\u2019s pieces. It is also ridiculous,\nbecause the constraint is assumed and not forced.\n\nThe foregoing observation is not confined to emotions raised by still\nlife. It holds also in those which are raised by the qualities, actions,\nand passions, of a sensible being. Love inspired by a fine woman,\nassumes her qualities. It is sublime, soft, tender, severe, or gay,\naccording to its cause. This is still more remarkable in emotions raised\nby human actions. It hath already been remarked[46], that any signal\ninstance of gratitude, beside procuring esteem for the author, raiseth\nin the spectator a vague emotion of gratitude, which disposeth him to be\ngrateful. I now further remark, that this vague emotion, being of the\nsame kind with what produced the grateful action, hath a strong\nresemblance to its cause. Courage exerted inspires the reader as well as\nthe spectator with a like emotion of courage. A just action fortifies\nour love to justice, and a generous action rouses our generosity. In\nshort, with respect to all virtuous actions, it will be found by\ninduction, that they lead us to imitation by inspiring emotions\nresembling the passions that produced these actions. And hence the\nbenefit of dealing in choice books and in choice company.\n\nGrief as well as joy are infectious: the emotions they raise in a\nspectator resemble them perfectly. Fear is equally infectious: and\nhence in an army, fear, even from the slighted cause, making an\nimpression on a few, spreads generally through all, and becomes an\nuniversal panic. Pity is similar to its cause. A parting scene betwixt\nlovers or friends, produceth in the spectator a sort of pity, which is\ntender like the distress. The anguish of remorse, produceth pity of a\nharsh kind; and if the remorse be extreme, the pity hath a mixture of\nhorror. Anger I think is singular; for even where it is moderate and\ncauseth no disgust, it disposes not the spectator to anger in any\ndegree[47]. Covetousness, cruelty, treachery, and other vicious\npassions, are so far from raising any emotion similar to themselves, to\nincite a spectator to imitation, that they have an opposite effect. They\nraise abhorrence, and fortify the spectator in his aversion to such\nactions. When anger is immoderate, it cannot fail to produce the same\neffect.\n\n\n\n\nPART VII.\n\n_Final causes of the more frequent emotions and passions._\n\n\nIt is a law in our nature, that we never act but by the impulse of\ndesire; which in other words is saying, that it is passion, by the\ndesire included in it, which determines the will. Hence in the conduct\nof life, it is of the utmost importance, that our passions be directed\nupon proper objects, tend to just and rational ends, and with relation\nto each other be duly balanced. The beauty of contrivance, so\nconspicuous in the human frame, is not confined to the rational part of\nour nature, but is visible over the whole. Concerning the passions in\nparticular, however irregular, headstrong, and perverse, in an overly\nview, they may appear, I propose to show, that they are by nature\nadjusted and tempered with admirable wisdom, for the good of society as\nwell as for private good. This subject is extensive: but as the nature\nof the present undertaking will not admit a complete discussion, it\nshall suffice to give a few observations in general upon the sensitive\npart of our nature, without regarding that strange irregularity of\npassion discovered in some individuals. Such topical irregularities, if\nI may use the term, cannot fairly be held an objection to the present\ntheory. We are frequently, it is true, misled by inordinate passion: but\nwe are also, and perhaps not less frequently, misled by wrong judgement.\n\nIn order to a distinct apprehension of the present subject, it must be\npremised, that an agreeable object produceth always a pleasant emotion,\nand a disagreeable object one that is painful. This is a general law of\nnature, which admits not a single exception. Agreeableness in the object\nor cause is indeed so essentially connected with pleasure in the emotion\nits effect, that an agreeable object cannot be better defined, than by\nits power of producing a pleasant emotion. Disagreeableness in the\nobject or cause, has the same necessary connection with pain in the\nemotion produced by it.\n\nFrom this preliminary it appears, that to inquire for what end an\nemotion is made pleasant or painful, resolves into an inquiry for what\nend its cause is made agreeable or disagreeable. And from the most\naccurate induction it will be discovered, that no cause of an emotion is\nmade agreeable or disagreeable arbitrarily; but that these qualities are\nso distributed as to answer wise and good purposes. It is an invincible\nproof of the benignity of the Deity, that we are surrounded with things\ngenerally agreeable, which contribute remarkably to our entertainment\nand to our happiness. Some things are made disagreeable, such as a\nrotten carcass, because they are noxious. Others, a dirty marsh, for\nexample, or a barren heath, are made disagreeable in order to excite our\nindustry. And with respect to the few things that are neither agreeable\nnor disagreeable; it will be made evident, that their being left\nindifferent is not a work of chance but of wisdom. Of such I shall have\noccasion to give several instances.\n\nHaving attempted to assign the final causes of emotions and passions\nconsidered as pleasant or painful, we proceed to the final causes of the\ndesires involved in them. This seems a work of some difficulty; for the\ndesires that accompany different passions have very different aims, and\nseldom or never demand precisely the same gratification. One passion\nmoves us to cling to its object, one to fly from it; one passion impels\nto action for our own good, and one for the good of others; one passion\nprompts us to do good to ourselves or others, and one to do mischief,\nfrequently to others, and sometimes even to ourselves. Deliberating upon\nthis intricate subject, and finding an intimate correspondence betwixt\nour desires and their objects, it is natural to think that the former\nmust be regulated in some measure by the latter. In this view, I begin\nwith desire directed upon an inanimate object.\n\nAny pleasure we have in an agreeable object of this kind, is enjoyed by\nthe continuance of the pleasant impression it makes upon us; and\naccordingly the desire involved in the pleasant emotion tends to that\nend, and is gratified by dwelling upon the agreeable object. Hence such\nan object may be properly termed _attractive_. Thus a flowing river, a\ntowering hill, a fine garden, are attractive objects. They fix the\nattention of the spectator, by inspiring pleasant emotions, which are\ngratified by adhering to these objects and enjoying them. On the other\nhand, a disagreeable object of the same kind, raises in us a painful\nemotion including a desire to turn from the object, which relieves us of\ncourse from the pain; and hence such an object may be properly termed\n_repulsive_. A monstrous birth, for example, a rotten carcass, a\nconfusion of jarring sounds, are repulsive. They repel the mind, by\ninspiring painful or unpleasant emotions, which are gratified by flying\nfrom such objects. Thus in general, with regard to inanimate objects,\nthe desire included in every pleasant passion tends to prolong the\npleasure, and the desire included in every painful passion tends to put\nan end to the pain. Here the final cause is evident. Our desires, so\nfar, are modelled in such a manner as to correspond precisely to the\nsensitive part of our nature, prone to happiness and averse to misery.\nThese operations of adhering to an agreeable inanimate object, and\nflying from one that is disagreeable, are performed in the beginning of\nlife by means of desire impelling us, without the intervention of reason\nor reflection. Reason and reflection directing self-love, become\nafterward motives that unite their force with desire; because experience\ninforms us, that the adhering to agreeable objects and the flying from\nthose that are disagreeable, contribute to our happiness.\n\nSensible Beings considered as objects of passion, lead us into a more\ncomplex theory. A sensible being that is agreeable by its attributes,\ninspires us with a pleasant emotion; and the desire included in this\nemotion has evidently different means of gratification. A man regarding\nhimself only, may be satisfied with viewing and contemplating this\nbeing, precisely as if it were inanimate; or he may desire the more\ngenerous gratification of making it happy. Were man altogether selfish,\nit would be conformable to his nature, that he should indulge the\npleasant emotion without making any acknowledgement to the person who\ngives him pleasure, more than to a pure air or temperate clime when he\nenjoys these benefits. But as man is endued with a principle of\nbenevolence as well as of selfishness, he is prompted by his nature to\ndesire the good of every sensible being that gives him pleasure. And the\nfinal cause of desire so directed, is illustrious. It contributes to a\nman\u2019s own happiness, by affording him more means of gratification than\nhe can have when his desire terminates upon himself alone; and at the\nsame time it tends eminently to improve the happiness of those with whom\nhe is connected. The directing our desires in this manner, occasions a\nbeautiful coalition of self-love with benevolence; for both are equally\npromoted by the same internal impulse, and by the same external conduct.\nAnd this consideration, by the way, ought to silence those minute\nphilosophers, who, ignorant of human nature, teach a most disgustful\ndoctrine. That to serve others unless with a view to our own good, is\nweakness and folly; as if self-love only contributed to happiness and\nnot benevolence. The hand of God is too visible in the human frame, to\npermit us to think seriously, that there ever can be any jarring or\ninconsistency among natural principles, those especially of self-love\nand benevolence, which regulate the bulk of our actions.\n\nNext in order come sensible Beings that are in affliction or pain. It is\ndisagreeable to behold a person in distress; and therefore this object\nmust raise in the spectator an uneasy emotion. Were man purely a selfish\nbeing, he would be prompted by his nature to turn from every object,\nanimate or inanimate, that gives him uneasiness. But the principle of\nbenevolence gives an opposite direction to his desire. It impels him to\nafford relief; and by relieving the person from distress, his desire is\nfully gratified. Our benevolence to a person in distress is inflamed\ninto an emotion of sympathy, signifying in Greek the painful emotion\nthat is raised in us by that person. Thus sympathy, though a painful\nemotion, is in its nature attractive. And with respect to its final\ncause, we can be at no loss. It not only tends to relieve a\nfellow-creature from pain, but in its gratification is greatly more\npleasant than if it were repulsive.\n\nWe in the last place bring under consideration persons hateful by vice\nor wickedness. Imagine a wretch who has lately perpetrated some horrid\ncrime. He is disagreeable to every spectator; and consequently raises in\nevery spectator a painful emotion. What is the natural gratification of\nthe desire that accompanies this painful emotion? I must here again\nobserve, that supposing man to be entirely a selfish being, he would be\nprompted by his nature to relieve himself from the pain by averting his\neye, and banishing the criminal from his thoughts. But man is not so\nconstituted. He is composed of many principles, which, though seemingly\ncontradictory, are perfectly concordant. The principle of benevolence\ninfluences his conduct, not less remarkably than that of selfishness.\nAnd in order to answer the foregoing question, I must introduce a third\nprinciple, not less remarkable in its influence than either of those\nmentioned. It is that principle common to all, which prompts us to\npunish those who do wrong. An envious, malicious, or cruel action, is\ndisagreeable to me even where I have no connection with the sufferer,\nand raises in me the painful emotion of resentment. The gratification of\nthis emotion, when accompanied with desire, is directed by the principle\nnow unfolded. Being prompted by my nature to punish guilt as well as to\nreward virtue, my desire is not gratified but by inflicting punishment.\nI must chastise the wretch by indignation at least and hatred, if not\nmore severely. Here the final cause is self-evident.\n\nAn injury done to myself, touching me more than when done to others,\nraises my resentment in a higher degree. The desire accordingly included\nin this passion, is not satisfied with so slight a punishment as\nindignation or hatred. It is not fully gratified without retaliation;\nand the author must by my hand suffer mischief, as great at least as he\nhas done me. Neither can we be at any loss about the final cause of this\nhigher degree of resentment. The whole vigor of this passion is required\nto secure individuals from the injustice and oppression of others[48].\n\nA wicked or disgraceful action, is disagreeable not only to others, but\neven to the delinquent himself. It raises in him as well as in others a\npainful emotion including a desire of punishment. The painful emotion\nwhich the delinquent feels, is distinguished by the name of _remorse_;\nand in this case the desire he has to punish is directed against\nhimself. There cannot be imagined a better contrivance to deter us from\nvice; for remorse is the severest of all punishments. This passion and\nthe desire of self-punishment derived from it, are touched delicately by\nTerence.\n\n      _Menedemus._ Ubi comperi ex iis, qui ei fuere conscii,\n    Domum revortor m\u0153stus, atque animo fere\n    Perturbato, atque incerto pr\u00e6 \u00e6gritudine:\n    Adsido, adcurrunt servi, soccos detrahunt:\n    Video alios festinare, lectos sternere,\n    C\u0153nam adparare: pro se quisque sedulo\n    Faciebat, quo illam mihi lenirent miseriam.\n    Ubi video h\u00e6c, c\u0153pi cogitare: Hem! tot mea\n    Solius solliciti sint causa, ut me unum expleant?\n    Ancill\u00e6 tot me vestiant? sumptus domi\n    Tantos ego solus faciam? sed gnatum unicum,\n    Quem pariter uti his decuit, aut etiam amplius,\n    Quod illa \u00e6tas magis ad h\u00e6c utenda idonea \u2019st,\n    Eum ego hinc ejeci miserum injustitia mea.\n    Malo quidem me dignum quovis deputem,\n    Si id faciam. nam usque dum ille vitam illam colet\n    Inopem, carens patria ob meas injurias,\n    Interea usque illi de me supplicium dabo:\n    Laborans, qu\u00e6rens, parcens, illi serviens,\n    Ita facio prorsus: nihil relinquo in \u00e6dibus,\n    Nec vas, nec vestimentum: conrasi omnia,\n    Ancillas, servos, nisi eos, qui opere rustico\n    Faciundo facile sumptum exercerent suum:\n    Omnes produxi ac vendidi: inscripsi ilico\n    \u00c6deis mercede: quasi talenta ad quindecim\n    Co\u00ebgi: agrum hunc mercatus sum: hic me exerceo.\n    Decrevi tantisper me minus injuri\u00e6,\n    Chreme, meo gnato facere, dum fiam miser:\n    Nec fas esse ulla me voluptate hic frui,\n    Nisi ubi ille huc salvos redierit meus particeps.\n         _Heautontimerumenos, act 1. sc. 1._\n\nOtway reaches the same sentiment:\n\n      _Monimia._ Let mischiefs multiply! let ev\u2019ry hour\n    Of my loath\u2019d life yield me increase of horror!\n    Oh let the sun to these unhappy eyes\n    Ne\u2019er shine again, but be eclips\u2019d for ever!\n    May every thing I look on seem a prodigy,\n    To fill my soul with terror, till I quite\n    Forget I ever had humanity,\n    And grow a curser of the works of nature!\n         _Orphan, act 4._\n\nThe cases mentioned are, where benevolence alone or where desire of\npunishment alone, governs without a rival. And it was necessary to\nhandle these cases separately, in order to elucidate a subject which by\nwriters is left in great obscurity. But neither of these principles\noperates always without rivalship. Cases may be figured, and cases\nactually exist, where the same person is an object both of sympathy and\nof desire to punish. Thus the sight of a profligate in the venereal\ndisease, over-run with botches and sores, actuates both principles.\nWhile his distress fixes my attention, sympathy exerts itself; but so\nsoon as I think of his profligacy, hatred prevails, and a desire to\npunish. This in general is the case of distress occasioned by immoral\nactions that are not highly criminal. And if the distress and the\nimmoral action be in any proportion, sympathy and hatred\ncounterbalancing each other will not suffer me either to afford relief\nor to inflict punishment. What then will be the result of the whole? The\nprinciple of self-love solves the question. Abhorring an object so\nloathsome, I naturally avert my eye, and walk off as fast as I can, in\norder to be relieved from the pain.\n\nThe present subject gives birth to several other observations, for which\nI could not find room above, without relaxing more from the strictness\nof order and connection, than with safety could be indulged in\ndiscoursing upon a matter that with difficulty is made perspicuous, even\nwith all the advantages of order and connection. These observations I\nshall throw out loosely as they occur, without giving myself any further\ntrouble about method.\n\nNo action good or bad is altogether indifferent even to a mere\nspectator. If good, it inspires esteem; and indignation, if wicked. But\nit is remarkable, that these emotions seldom are accompanied with\ndesire. The abilities of man are limited, and he finds sufficient\nemployment, in relieving the distressed, in requiting his benefactors,\nand in punishing those who wrong him, without moving out of his own\nsphere for the benefit or chastisement of those with whom he has no\nconnection.\n\nIf the good qualities of others excite my benevolence, the same\nqualities in myself must produce a similar effect in a superior degree,\nupon account of the natural partiality every man hath for himself. This\nincreases self-love. If these qualities be of a high rank, they produce\na feeling of superiority, which naturally leads me to assume some sort\nof government over others. Mean qualities, on the other hand, produce in\nme a feeling of inferiority, which naturally leads me to submit to\nothers. Unless such feelings were distributed among individuals in\nsociety by measure and proportion, there could be no natural\nsubordination of some to others, which is the principal foundation of\ngovernment.\n\nNo other branch of the human constitution shows more visibly our\ndestination for society, nor tends more to our improvement, than\nappetite for fame or esteem. The whole conveniencies of life being\nderived from mutual aid and support in society, it ought to be a capital\naim, to form connections with others so strict and so extensive as to\nproduce a firm reliance on many for succour in time of need. Reason\ndictates this lesson. But reason solely is not relied on in a matter of\nsuch consequence. We are moved by a natural appetite, to be solicitous\nabout esteem and respect as we are about food when hungry. This\nappetite, at the same time, is finely adjusted to the moral branch of\nour constitution, by promoting all the moral virtues. For what\ninfallible means are there to attract love and esteem, other than a\nvirtuous course of life? If a man be just and beneficent, if he be\ntemperate modest and prudent, he will infallibly gain the esteem and\nlove of all who know him.\n\nThe communication of passion to related objects, is an illustrious\ninstance of the care of Providence, to extend social connections as far\nas the limited nature of man can admit. This communication of passion is\nso far unhappy as to spread the malevolent passions beyond their natural\nbounds. But let it be remarked, that this unhappy effect regards savages\nonly, who give way to malevolent passions. Under the discipline of\nsociety, these passions are subdued, and in a good measure eradicated.\nIn their place succeed the kindly affections, which, meeting with all\nencouragement, take possession of the mind and govern our whole actions.\nIn this condition, the progress of passion along related objects, by\nspreading the kindly affections through a multitude of individuals, hath\na glorious effect.\n\nNothing can be more entertaining to a rational mind, than the \u0153conomy of\nthe human passions, of which I have attempted to give some faint notion.\nIt must however be confessed, that our passions, when they happen to\nswell beyond their proper limits, take on a less regular appearance.\nReason may proclaim our duty, but the will influenced by passion, makes\ngratification always welcome. Hence the power of passion, which, when in\nexcess, cannot be resisted but by the utmost fortitude of mind. It is\nbent upon gratification; and where proper objects are wanting, it clings\nto any object at hand without distinction. Thus joy inspired by a\nfortunate event, is diffused upon every person around by acts of\nbenevolence; and resentment for an atrocious injury done by one out of\nreach, seizes the first object that occurs to vent itself upon. Those\nwho believe in prophecies, even wish the accomplishment; and a weak mind\nis disposed voluntarily to fulfil a prophecy, in order to gratify its\nwish. Shakespear, whom no particle of human nature hath escaped, however\nremote from common observation, describes this weakness:\n\n    _K. Henry._ Doth any name particular belong\n    Unto that lodging where I first did swoon?\n\n    _Warwick._ \u2019Tis call\u2019d _Jerusalem_, my Noble Lord.\n\n    _K. Henry._ Laud be to God! even there my life must end.\n    It hath been prophesy\u2019d to me many years,\n    I should not die but in Jerusalem,\n    Which vainly I suppos\u2019d the holy land.\n    But bear me to that chamber, there I\u2019ll lie:\n    In that Jerusalem shall Henry die.\n         _Second part, Henry IV. act 4. sc. last._\n\nI could not deny myself the amusement of the foregoing observation,\nthough it doth not properly come under my plan. The irregularities of\npassion proceeding from peculiar weaknesses and biasses, I do not\nundertake to justify; and of these we have had many examples.[49] It is\nsufficient that passions common to all and as generally exerted, are\nmade subservient to beneficial purposes. I shall only observe, that in a\npolished society instances of irregular passions are rare, and that\ntheir mischief doth not extend far.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. III.\n\nBEAUTY.\n\n\nHaving discoursed in general of emotions and passions, I proceed to a\nmore narrow inspection of some particulars that serve to unfold the\nprinciples of the fine arts. It is the province of a writer upon ethics,\nto give a full enumeration of all the passions; and of each separately\nto assign the nature, the cause, the gratification, and the effects. But\na treatise of ethics is not my province. I carry my view no farther than\nto the elements of criticism, in order to show that the fine arts are a\nsubject of reasoning as well as of taste. An extensive work would be ill\nsuited to a design so limited; and to keep within moderate bounds, the\nfollowing plan may contribute. It has already been observed, that things\nare the causes of emotions, by means of their properties and\nattributes[50]. This furnisheth a hint for distribution. Instead of a\npainful and tedious examination of the several passions and emotions, I\npropose to confine my inquiries to such attributes, relations, and\ncircumstances, as in the fine arts are chiefly employed to raise\nagreeable emotions. Attributes of single objects, as the most simple,\nshall take the lead; to be followed with particulars that depend on the\nrelations of objects, and are not found in any one object singly\nconsidered. Dispatching next some coincident matters, I approach nearer\nto practice, by applying the principles unfolded in the foregoing parts\nof the work. This is a general view of the intended method; reserving\nhowever a privilege to vary it in particular instances, where a\ndifferent method may be more commodious. I begin with beauty, the most\nnoted of all the qualities that belong to single objects.\n\nThe term _beauty_, in its native signification, is appropriated to\nobjects of sight. Objects of the other senses may be agreeable, such as\nthe sounds of musical instruments, the smoothness and softness of some\nsurfaces: but the agreeableness denominated _beauty_ belongs to objects\nof sight.\n\nOf all the objects of the external senses, an object of sight is the\nmost complex. In the very simplest, colour is perceived, figure, and\nlength breadth and thickness. A tree is composed of a trunk, branches,\nand leaves. It has colour, figure, size, and sometimes motion. By means\nof each of these particulars, separately considered, it appears\nbeautiful: how much more so, when they enter all into one complex\nperception? The beauty of the human figure is extraordinary, being a\ncomposition of numberless beauties arising from the parts and qualities\nof the object, various colours, various motions, figure, size, _&c._;\nall uniting in one complex perception, and striking the eye with\ncombined force. Hence it is, that beauty, a quality so remarkable in\nvisible objects, lends its name to express every thing that is eminently\nagreeable. Thus, by a figure of speech, we say a beautiful sound, a\nbeautiful thought or expression, a beautiful theorem, a beautiful event,\na beautiful discovery in art or science. But as figurative expression\nis not our present theme, this chapter is confined to beauty in its\ngenuine signification.\n\nIt is natural to suppose, that a perception so various as that of\nbeauty, comprehending sometimes many particulars, sometimes few, should\noccasion emotions equally various. And yet all the various emotions of\nbeauty maintain one general character of sweetness and gaiety.\n\nConsidering attentively the beauty of visible objects, we discover two\nkinds. One may be termed _intrinsic_ beauty, because it is discovered in\na single object viewed apart without relation to any other object. The\nexamples above given, are of that kind. The other may be termed\n_relative_ beauty, being founded on the relation of objects. The former\nis a perception of sense merely; for to perceive the beauty of a\nspreading oak or of a flowing river, no more is required but singly an\nact of vision. The latter is accompanied with an act of understanding\nand reflection; for of a fine instrument or engine, we perceive not the\nrelative beauty, until we be made acquainted with its use and\ndestination. In a word, intrinsic beauty is ultimate: relative beauty is\nthat of means relating to some good end or purpose. These different\nbeauties agree in one capital circumstance, that both are equally\nperceived as spread upon the object. This will be readily admitted with\nrespect to intrinsic beauty; but is not so obvious with respect to the\nother. The utility of the plough, for example, may make it an object of\nadmiration or of desire; but why should utility make it appear\nbeautiful? A principle mentioned above[51], will explain this doubt. The\nbeauty of the effect, by an easy transition of ideas, is transferred to\nthe cause, and is perceived as one of the qualities of the cause. Thus a\nsubject void of intrinsic beauty, appears beautiful from its utility. An\nold Gothic tower that has no beauty in itself, appears beautiful,\nconsidered as proper to defend against an enemy. A dwelling-house void\nof all regularity, is however beautiful in the view of convenience; and\nthe want of form or symmetry in a tree, will not prevent its appearing\nbeautiful, if it be known to produce good fruit.\n\nWhen these two beauties concur in any object, it appears delightful.\nEvery member of the human body possesses both in a high degree. The\nslender make of a horse destined for running, pleases every taste;\npartly from symmetry, and partly from utility.\n\nThe beauty of utility, being proportioned accurately to the degree of\nutility, requires no illustration. But intrinsic beauty, so complex as I\nhave said, cannot be handled distinctly without being analized into its\nconstituent parts. If a tree be beautiful by means of its colour, its\nfigure, its size, its motion, it is in reality possessed of so many\ndifferent beauties, which ought to be examined separately, in order to\nhave a clear notion of the whole. The beauty of colour is too familiar\nto need explanation. The beauty of figure requires an accurate\ndiscussion, for in it many circumstances are involved. When any portion\nof matter is viewed as a whole, the beauty of its figure arises from\nregularity and simplicity. Viewing the parts with relation to each\nother, uniformity, proportion, and order, contribute to its beauty. The\nbeauty of motion deserves a chapter by itself; and another chapter is\ndestined for grandeur, being distinguishable from beauty in a strict\nsense. For the definitions of regularity, uniformity, proportion, and\norder, if thought necessary, I remit my reader to the appendix at the\nend of the book. Upon simplicity I must make a few cursory observations,\nsuch as may be of use in examining the beauty of single objects.\n\nA multitude of objects crowding into the mind at once, disturb the\nattention, and pass without making any impression, or any lasting\nimpression. In a group, no single object makes the figure it would do\napart, when it occupies the whole attention[52]. For the same reason,\neven a single object, when it divides the attention by the multiplicity\nof its parts, equals not, in strength of impression, a more simple\nobject comprehended in a single view. Parts extremely complex must be\nconsidered in portions successively; and a number of impressions in\nsuccession, which cannot unite because not simultaneous, never touch the\nmind like one entire impression made as it were at one stroke. This\njustifies simplicity in works of art, as opposed to complicated\ncircumstances and crowded ornaments. There is an additional reason for\nsimplicity, in works that make an impression of dignity or elevation.\nThe mind attached to beauties of a high rank, cannot descend to inferior\nbeauties. And yet, notwithstanding these reasons, we find profuse\ndecoration prevailing in works of art. But this is no argument against\nsimplicity, For authors and architects who cannot reach the higher\nbeauties, endeavour to supply their want of genius by dealing in those\nthat are inferior. In all ages, the best writers and artists have been\ngoverned by a taste for simplicity.\n\nThese things premised, I proceed to examine the beauty of figure, as\narising from the above-mentioned particulars, _viz._ regularity,\nuniformity, proportion, order, and simplicity. To exhaust this subject,\nwould of itself require a large volume. I limit myself to a few cursory\nremarks, as matter for future disquisition. To inquire why an object, by\nmeans of the particulars mentioned, appears beautiful, would I am afraid\nbe a vain attempt. It seems the most probable opinion, that the nature\nof man was originally framed with a relish for them, in order to answer\nwise and good purposes. The final causes have not hitherto been\nascertained, though they are not probably beyond our reach. One thing is\nclear, that regularity, uniformity, order, and simplicity, contribute\neach of them to readiness of apprehension; and enable us to form more\ndistinct images of objects, than can be done with the utmost attention\nwhere these particulars are not found. This final cause is, I\nacknowledge, too slight, to account satisfactorily for a taste that\nmakes a figure so illustrious in the nature of man. That this branch of\nour constitution hath a purpose still more important, we have great\nreason to believe. With respect to proportion, I am still less\nsuccessful. In several instances, accurate proportion is connected with\nutility. This in particular is the case of animals; for those that are\nthe best proportioned, are the strongest and most active. But instances\nare still more numerous, where the proportions we relish the most, have\nno connection, so far as we see, with utility. Writers on architecture\ninsist much upon the proportions of a column; and assign different\nproportions to the Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian. But no architect will\nmaintain, that the most accurate proportions contribute more to use,\nthan several that are less accurate and less agreeable. Neither will it\nbe maintained, that the proportions assigned for the length breadth and\nheight of rooms, tend to make them the more commodious. It appears then,\nso far as we can discover, that we have a taste for proportion\nindependent altogether of utility. One thing indeed is certain, that any\nexternal object proportioned to our taste, is delightful. This furnishes\na hint. May it not be thought a good final cause of proportion, that it\ncontributes to our entertainment? The author of our nature has given\nmany signal proofs, that this end is not below his care. And if so, why\nshould we hesitate in assigning this as an additional final cause of\nregularity, and the other particulars above mentioned? We may be\nconfirmed in this thought, by reflecting, that our taste, with respect\nto these, is not occasional or accidental, but uniform and universal,\nmaking an original branch of human nature.\n\nOne might fill a volume with the effects that are produced by the\nendless combinations of the principles of beauty. I have room only for a\nslight specimen, confined to the simplest figures. A circle and a square\nare each of them perfectly regular, being equally confined to a precise\nform, and admitting not the slightest variation. A square however is\nless beautiful than a circle, because it is less simple. A circle has\nparts as well as a square; but its parts not being distinct like those\nof a square, it makes one entire impression; whereas the attention is\ndivided among the sides and angles of a square. The effect of simplicity\nmay be illustrated by another example. A square, though not more\nregular than a hexagon or octagon, is more beautiful than either; for\nwhat other reason, than that a square is more simple, and the attention\nless divided? This reasoning will appear still more solid when we\nconsider any regular polygon of very many sides; for of such figure the\nmind can never have any distinct perception. Simplicity thus contributes\nto beauty.\n\nA square is more beautiful than a parallelogram. The former exceeds the\nlatter in regularity and in uniformity of parts. But this holds with\nrespect to intrinsic beauty only; for in many instances, utility comes\nin to cast the balance on the side of the parallelogram. This figure for\nthe doors and windows of a dwelling-house, is preferred because of\nutility; and here we find the beauty of utility prevailing over that of\nregularity and uniformity.\n\nA parallelogram again depends, for its beauty, on the proportion of its\nsides. The beauty is lost by a great inequality of sides. It is also\nlost, on the other hand, by the approximation toward equality.\nProportion in this circumstance degenerates into imperfect uniformity;\nand the figure upon the whole appears an unsuccessful attempt toward a\nsquare.\n\nAn equilateral triangle yields not to a square in regularity nor in\nuniformity of parts, and it is more simple. But an equilateral triangle\nis less beautiful than a square, which must be owing to inferiority of\norder in the position of its parts. The sides of an equilateral triangle\nincline to each other in the same angle, which is the most perfect order\nthey are susceptible of. But this order is obscure, and far from being\nso perfect as the parallelism of the sides of a square. Thus order\ncontributes to the beauty of visible objects, not less than simplicity\nand regularity.\n\nA parallelogram exceeds an equilateral triangle in the orderly\ndisposition of its parts; but being inferior in uniformity and\nsimplicity, it is less beautiful.\n\nUniformity is singular in one capital circumstance, that it is apt to\ndisgust by excess. A number of things contrived for the same use, such\nas chairs spoons, _&c._ cannot be too uniform. But a scrupulous\nuniformity of parts in a large garden or field, is far from being\nagreeable. Uniformity among connected objects, belongs not to the\npresent subject. It is handled in the chapter of uniformity and variety.\n\nIn all the works of nature, simplicity makes an illustrious figure. The\nworks of the best artists are directed by it. Profuse ornament in\npainting, gardening, or architecture, as well as in dress and language,\nshows a mean or corrupted taste.\n\n    Poets, like painters, thus unskill\u2019d to trace\n    The naked nature and the living grace,\n    With gold and jewels cover ev\u2019ry part,\n    And hide with ornaments their want of art.\n         _Pope\u2019s Essay on criticism._\n\nNo one property recommends a machine more than its simplicity; not\nsingly for better answering its purpose, but by appearing in itself more\nbeautiful. Simplicity hath a capital effect in behaviour and manners; no\nother particular contributing more to gain esteem and love. The\nartificial and intricate manners of modern times, have little of\ndignity in them. General theorems, abstracting from their importance,\nare delightful by their simplicity, and by the easiness of their\napplication to a variety of cases. We take equal delight in the laws of\nmotion, which, with the greatest simplicity, are boundless in their\ninfluence.\n\nA gradual progress from simplicity to complex forms and profuse\nornament, seems to be the fate of all the fine arts; resembling\nbehaviour, which from original candor and simplicity has degenerated\ninto artificial refinements. At present, written productions are crowded\nwith words, epithets, figures, _&c._ In music, sentiment is neglected,\nfor the luxury of harmony, and for difficult movement which surprises in\nits execution. In _taste_ properly so called, poignant sauces with\ncomplicated mixtures of different favours, prevail among people of\ncondition. The French, accustomed to the artificial red on their women\u2019s\ncheeks, think the modest colouring of nature displayed on a fine face\naltogether insipid.\n\nThe same tendency appears in the progress of the arts among the\nancients. Of this we have traces still remaining in architecture. Some\nvestiges of the oldest Grecian buildings prove them to be of the Doric\norder. The Ionic succeeded, and seems to have been the favourite order,\nwhile architecture was in its height of glory. The Corinthian came next\nin vogue: and in Greece, the buildings of that order appear mostly to\nhave been erected after the Romans got footing there. At last came the\nComposite with all its extravagancies, where proportion is sacrificed to\nfinery and crowded ornament.\n\nBut what taste is to prevail next? for fashion is in a continual flux,\nand taste must vary with it. After rich and profuse ornaments become\nfamiliar, simplicity appears by contrast lifeless and insipid. This\nwould be an unsurmountable obstruction, should any man of genius and\ntaste endeavour to restore ancient simplicity.\n\nIn reviewing what is said above, I am under some apprehension of an\nobjection, which, as it may possibly occur to the reader, ought to be\nobviated. A mountain, it will be observed, is an agreeable object,\nwithout so much as the appearance of regularity; and a chain of\nmountains still more agreeable, without being arranged in any order. But\nthese facts considered in a proper light, afford not an objection.\nRegularity, order, and uniformity, are intimately connected with beauty;\nand in this view only, have I treated them. Every regular object, for\nexample, must in respect of its regularity be beautiful. But I have not\nsaid, that regularity, order, and uniformity, are essential to beauty,\nso as that it cannot exist without them. The contrary appears in the\nbeauty of colour. Far less have I said, that an object cannot be\nagreeable in any respect independent of these qualities. Grandeur, as\ndistinguished from beauty, requires very little regularity. This will\nappear more fully when that article is handled. In the mean time, to\nshow the difference betwixt beauty and grandeur with respect to\nregularity, I shall give a few examples. Imagine a small body, let it be\na globe, in a continual flux of figure, from the most perfect regularity\ntill there remain no appearance of that quality. The beauty of this\nglobe, depending on its regular figure, will gradually wear away with\nits regularity; and when it is no longer regular, it no longer will\nappear beautiful. The next example shall be of the same globe, gradually\nenlarging its size, but retaining its figure. In this body, we at first\nperceive the beauty of regularity only. But so soon as it begins to\nswell into a great size, it appears agreeable by its greatness, which\njoins with the beauty of regularity to make it a delightful object. In\nthe last place, let it be imagined, that the figure as well as the\nquantity of matter are in a continual flux; and that the body, while it\nincreases in size, becomes less and less regular, till it lose\naltogether the appearance of that quality. In this case, the beauty of\nregularity wearing off gradually, gives place to an agreeableness of a\ndifferent sort, _viz._ that of greatness: and at last the emotion\narising from greatness will be in perfection, when the beauty of\nregularity is gone. Hence it is, that in a large object the want of\nregularity is not much regarded by the spectator who is struck with its\ngrandeur. A swelling eminence is agreeable, though not strictly\nregular. A towering hill is delightful, if it have but any distant\nresemblance of a cone. A small surface ought to be smooth; but in a\nwide-extended plain, considerable inequalities are overlooked. This\nobservation holds equally in works of art. The slightest irregularity in\na house of a moderate size hurts the eye; while the mind, struck with\nthe grandeur of a superb edifice, which occupies it totally, cannot bear\nto descend to its irregularities unless extremely gross. In a large\nvolume we pardon many defects that would make an epigram intolerable. In\nshort, the observation holds in general, that beauty is connected with\nregularity in great objects as well as in small; but with a remarkable\ndifference, that in passing from small to great, regularity is less and\nless required.\n\nThe distinction betwixt primary and secondary qualities in matter, seems\nnow fully established. Heat and cold, though seeming to exist in bodies,\nare discovered to be effects caused by these bodies in a sensitive\nbeing. Colour, which the eye represents as spread upon a substance, has\nno existence but in the mind of the spectator. Perceptions of this\nkind, which, by a delusion of sense, are attributed to external\nsubjects, are termed _secondary qualities_, in contradistinction to\nfigure, extension, solidity, which are primary qualities, and which are\nnot separable, even in imagination, from the subjects they belong to.\nThis suggests a curious inquiry, Whether beauty be a primary or only a\nsecondary quality of objects? The question is easily determined with\nrespect to the beauty of colour; for if colour be a secondary quality\nexisting no where but in the mind of the spectator, its beauty must be\nof the same kind. This conclusion must also hold with respect to the\nbeauty of utility, which is plainly a conception of the mind, arising\nnot merely from sight, but from reflecting that the thing is fitted for\nsome good end or purpose. The question is more intricate with respect to\nthe beauty of regularity. If regularity be a primary quality, why not\nalso its beauty? That this is not a good consequence, will appear from\nconsidering, that beauty, in its very conception, refers to a\npercipient; for an object is said to be beautiful, for no other reason\nbut that it appears so to a spectator. The same piece of matter which to\nman appears beautiful, may possibly to another being appear ugly. Beauty\ntherefore, which for its existence depends upon the percipient as much\nas upon the object perceived, cannot be an inherent property of either.\nWhat else then can it be, but a perception in the mind occasioned by\ncertain objects? The same reasoning is applicable to the beauty of\norder, of uniformity, of grandeur. Accordingly, it may be pronounced in\ngeneral, that beauty in no case whatever is a real quality of matter.\nAnd hence it is wittily observed by the poet, that beauty is not in the\ncountenance, but in the lover\u2019s eye. This reasoning is undoubtedly\nsolid: and the only cause of doubt or hesitation is, that we are taught\na different lesson by sense. By a singular determination of nature, we\nperceive both beauty and colour as belonging to the object; and, like\nfigure or extension, as inherent properties. This mechanism is uncommon;\nand when nature, to fulfil her intention, chuseth any singular method\nof operation, we may be certain of some final cause that cannot be\nreached by ordinary means. It appears to me, that a perception of beauty\nin external objects, is requisite to attach us to them. Doth not this\nmechanism, in the first place, greatly promote industry, by prompting a\ndesire to possess things that are beautiful? Doth it not further join\nwith utility, in prompting us to embellish our houses and enrich our\nfields? These however are but slight effects, compared with the\nconnections which are formed among individuals in society by means of\nthis singular mechanism. The qualifications of the head and heart, are\nundoubtedly the most solid and most permanent foundations of such\nconnections. But as external beauty lies more in view, and is more\nobvious to the bulk of mankind than the qualities now mentioned, the\nsense of beauty possesses the more universal influence in forming these\nconnections. At any rate, it concurs in an eminent degree with mental\nqualifications, to produce social intercourse, mutual good-will, and\nconsequently mutual aid and support, which are the life of society.\n\nIt must not however be overlooked, that this sense doth not tend to\nadvance the interests of society, but when in a due mean with respect to\nstrength. Love in particular arising from a sense of beauty, loses, when\nexcessive, its sociable character[53]. The appetite for gratification,\nprevailing over affection for the beloved object, is ungovernable; and\ntends violently to its end, regardless of the misery that must follow.\nLove in this state is no longer a sweet agreeable passion. It becomes\npainful like hunger or thirst; and produceth no happiness but in the\ninstant of fruition. This discovery suggests a most important lesson,\nthat moderation in our desires and appetites, which fits us for doing\nour duty, contributes at the same time the most to happiness. Even\nsocial passions, when moderate, are more pleasant than when they swell\nbeyond proper bounds.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. IV.\n\nGrandeur and Sublimity.\n\n\nNature hath not more remarkably distinguished us from the other animals\nby an erect posture, than by a capacious and aspiring mind, inclining us\nto every thing great and elevated. The ocean, the sky, or any large\nobject, seizes the attention, and makes a strong impression[54]. Robes\nof state are made large and full to draw respect. We admire elephants\nand whales for their magnitude, notwithstanding their unwieldiness.\n\nThe elevation of an object affects us not less than its magnitude. A\nhigh place is chosen for the statue of a deity or hero. A tree growing\nupon the brink of a precipice viewed from the plain below, affords by\nthat circumstance an additional pleasure. A throne is erected for the\nchief magistrate, and a chair with a high seat for the president of a\ncourt.\n\nIn some objects, greatness and elevation concur to make a complicated\nimpression. The Alps and the pike of Teneriff are proper examples; with\nthe following difference, that in the former greatness seems to prevail,\nelevation in the latter.\n\nThe emotions raised by great and by elevated objects, are clearly\ndistinguishable, not only in the internal feeling, but even in their\nexternal expressions. A great object dilates the breast, and makes the\nspectator endeavour to enlarge his bulk. This is remarkable in persons,\nwho, neglecting delicacy in behaviour, give way to nature without\nreserve. In describing a great object, they naturally expand themselves\nby drawing in air with all their force. An elevated object produces a\ndifferent expression. It makes the spectator stretch upward and stand a\ntiptoe. Great and elevated objects considered with relation to the\nemotions produced by them, are termed _grand_ and _sublime_. Grandeur\nand sublimity have a double signification. They generally signify the\nquality or circumstance in the objects by which the emotions are\nproduced; sometimes the emotions themselves.\n\nWhether magnitude singly in an object of sight, have the effect to\nproduce an emotion distinguishable from the beauty or deformity of that\nobject; or whether it be only a circumstance modifying the beauty or\ndeformity, is an intricate question. If magnitude produce an emotion of\nits own distinguishable from others, this emotion must either be\npleasant or painful. But this seems to be contradicted by experience;\nfor magnitude, as it would appear, contributes in some instances to\nbeauty, in some to deformity. A hill, for instance, is agreeable, and a\ngreat mountain still more so. But an ugly monster, the larger, the more\nhorrid. Greatness in an enemy, great power, great courage, serve but to\naugment our terror. Hath not this an appearance as if grandeur were not\nan emotion distinct from all others, but only a circumstance that\nqualifies beauty and deformity?\n\nI am notwithstanding satisfied, that grandeur is an emotion, not only\ndistinct from all others, but in every circumstance pleasant. These\npropositions must be examined separately. I begin with the former, and\nshall endeavour to prove, that magnitude produceth a peculiar emotion\ndistinguishable from all others. Magnitude is undoubtedly a real\nproperty of bodies, not less than figure, and more than colour. Figure\nand colour, even in the same body, produce separate emotions, which are\nnever misapprehended one for the other. Why should not magnitude produce\nan emotion different from both? That it has this effect, will be evident\nfrom a plain experiment of two bodies, one great and one little, which\nproduce different emotions, though they be precisely the same as to\nfigure and colour. There is indeed an obscurity in this matter,\noccasioned by the following circumstance, that the grandeur and beauty\nof the same object mix so intimately as scarce to be distinguished. But\nthe beauty of colour comes in happily to enable us to make the\ndistinction. For the emotion of colour unites with that of figure, not\nless intimately than grandeur does with either. Yet the emotion of\ncolour is distinguishable from that of figure; and so is grandeur,\nattentively considered: though when these three emotions are blended\ntogether, they are scarce felt as different emotions.\n\nNext, that grandeur is an emotion in every circumstance pleasant,\nappears from the following considerations. Magnitude or greatness,\nabstracted from all other circumstances, swells the heart and dilates\nthe mind. We feel this to be a pleasant effect; and we feel no such\neffect in contracting the mind upon little objects. This may be\nillustrated by considering grandeur in an enemy. Beauty is an agreeable\nquality, whether in a friend or enemy; and when the emotion it raiseth\nis mixed with resentment against an enemy, it must have the effect to\nmoderate our resentment. In the same manner, grandeur in an enemy,\nundoubtedly softens and blunts our resentment. Grandeur indeed may\nindirectly and by reflection produce an unpleasant effect. Grandeur in\nan enemy, like courage, may increase our fear, when we consider the\nadvantage he hath over us by this quality. But the same indirect effect\nmay be produced by many other agreeable qualities, such as beauty or\nwisdom.\n\nThe magnitude of an ugly object, serves, it is true, to augment our\nhorror or aversion. But this proceeds not from magnitude separately\nconsidered. It proceeds from the following circumstance, that in a large\nobject a great quantity of ugly parts are presented to view.\n\nThe same chain of reasoning is so obviously applicable to sublimity,\nthat it would be losing time to show the application. Grandeur therefore\nand sublimity shall hereafter be considered both of them as pleasant\nemotions.\n\nThe pleasant emotion raised by large objects, has not escaped the poets:\n\n    ---- He doth bestride the narrow world\n    Like a Colossus; and we petty men\n    Walk under his huge legs.\n         _Julius C\u00e6sar, act I. sc. 3._\n\n      _Cleopatra._ I dreamt there was an Emp\u2019ror Antony;\n    Oh such another sleep, that I might see\n    But such another man!\n    His face was as the heav\u2019ns: and therein stuck\n    A sun and moon, which kept their course and lighted\n    The little O o\u2019 th\u2019 earth.\n    His legs bestrid the ocean, his rear\u2019d arm\n    Crested the world.\n         _Antony and Cleopatra, act 5. sc. 3._\n\n    ---- Majesty\n    Dies not alone, but, like a gulf, doth draw\n    What\u2019s near it with it. It\u2019s a massy wheel\n    Fixt on the summit of the highest mount;\n    To whose huge spokes, ten thousand lesser things\n    Are mortis\u2019d and adjoin\u2019d; which when it falls,\n    Each small annexment, petty consequence,\n    Attends the boist\u2019rous ruin.\n         _Hamlet, act 3. sc. 8._\n\nThe poets have also made good use of the emotion produced by the\nelevated situation of an object.\n\n    Quod si me lyricis varibus inferes,\n    Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.\n         _Horace, Carm. l. 1. ode 1._\n\n    Oh thou! the earthly author of my blood,\n    Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,\n    Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up,\n    To reach at victory above my head.\n         _Richard II. act 1. sc. 4._\n\n    Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal\n    The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne.\n         _Richard II. act 5. sc. 2._\n\n    _Anthony._ Why was I rais\u2019d the meteor of the world,\n    Hung in the skies and blazing as I travell\u2019d,\n    Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward\n    To be trod out by C\u00e6sar?\n         _Dryden, All for love, act 1._\n\nThough the quality of magnitude produceth a pleasant emotion, we must\nnot conclude that the opposite quality of littleness produceth a painful\nemotion. It would be unhappy for man, were an object disagreeable from\nits being of a small size merely, when he is surrounded with so many\nobjects of that kind. The same observation is applicable to elevation of\nplace. A body placed high is agreeable; but the same body placed low, is\nnot by that circumstance rendered disagreeable. Littleness, and lowness\nof place, are precisely similar in the following particular, that they\nneither give pleasure nor pain. And in this may visibly be discovered\npeculiar attention in fitting the internal constitution of man to his\nexternal circumstances. Were littleness, and lowness of place agreeable,\ngreatness and elevation could not be so. Were littleness, and lowness of\nplace disagreeable, they would occasion uninterrupted uneasiness.\n\nThe difference betwixt great and little with respect to agreeableness,\nis remarkably felt in a series when we pass gradually from the one\nextreme to the other. A mental progress from the capital to the kingdom,\nfrom that to Europe--to the whole earth--to the planetary system--to the\nuniverse, is extremely pleasant: the heart swells and the mind is\ndilated, at every step. The returning in an opposite direction is not\npositively painful, though our pleasure lessens at every step, till it\nvanish into indifference. Such a progress may sometimes produce a\npleasure of a different sort, which arises from taking a narrower and\nnarrower inspection. The same observation is applicable to a progress\nupward and downward. Ascent is pleasant because it elevates us. But\ndescent is never painful: it is for the most part pleasant from a\ndifferent cause, that it is according to the order of nature. The fall\nof a stone from any height, is extremely agreeable by its accelerated\nmotion. I feel it pleasant to descend from a mountain: the descent is\nnatural and easy. Neither is looking downward painful. On the contrary,\nto look down upon objects, makes part of the pleasure of elevation.\nLooking down becomes then only painful when the object is so far below\nas to create dizziness: and even when that is the case, we feel a sort\nof pleasure mixt with the pain. Witness Shakespear\u2019s description of\nDover cliffs:\n\n    ---- How fearful\n    And dizzy \u2019tis, to cast one\u2019s eyes so low!\n    The crows and choughs, that wing the midway-air,\n    Shew scarce so gross as beetles. Half-way down\n    Hangs one, that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!\n    Methinks he seems no bigger than his head.\n    The fishermen that walk upon the beach,\n    Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark\n    Diminish\u2019d to her cock; her cock, a buoy\n    Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge,\n    That on th\u2019 unnumber\u2019d idle pebbles chafes,\n    Cannot be heard so high. I\u2019ll look no more,\n    Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight\n    Topple down headlong.\n         _King Lear, act 4. sc. 6._\n\nAn observation is made above, that the emotions of grandeur and\nsublimity are nearly allied. Hence it is, that the one term is\nfrequently put for the other. I give an example. An increasing series of\nnumbers produceth an emotion similar to that of mounting upward, and for\nthat reason is commonly termed _an ascending series_. A series of\nnumbers gradually decreasing, produceth an emotion similar to that of\ngoing downward, and for that reason is commonly termed _a descending\nseries_. We talk familiarly of going up to the capital, and of going\ndown to the country. From a lesser kingdom we talk of going up to a\ngreater, whence the _anabasis_ in the Greek language when one travels\nfrom Greece to Persia. We discover the same way of speaking in the\nlanguage even of Japan[55]; and its universality proves it the offspring\nof a natural feeling.\n\nThe foregoing observation leads us naturally to consider grandeur and\nsublimity in a figurative sense, and as applicable to the fine arts.\nHitherto I have considered these terms in their proper meaning, as\napplicable to objects of sight only: and I thought it of importance, to\nbestow some pains upon that article; because, generally speaking, the\nfigurative sense of a word is derived from its proper sense; which will\nbe found to hold in the present subject. Beauty in its original\nsignification, is confined to objects of sight. But as many other\nobjects, intellectual as well as moral, raise emotions resembling that\nof beauty, the resemblance of the effects prompts us naturally to extend\nthe term _beauty_ to these objects. This equally accounts for the terms\n_grandeur_ and _sublimity_ taken in a figurative sense. Every emotion,\nfrom whatever cause proceeding, that resembles an emotion of grandeur or\nelevation, is called by the same name. Thus generosity is said to be an\nelevated emotion, as well as great courage; and that firmness of soul\nwhich is superior to misfortunes, obtains the peculiar name of\n_magnanimity_. On the other hand, every emotion that contracts the mind\nand fixeth it upon things trivial or of no importance, is termed _low_,\nby its resemblance to an emotion produced by a little or low object of\nsight. Thus an appetite for trifling amusements, is called _a low\ntaste_. The same terms are applied to characters and actions. We talk\nfamiliarly of an elevated genius, of a great man, and equally so of\nlittleness of mind. Some actions are great and elevated, others are low\nand groveling. Sentiments and even expressions are characterised in the\nsame manner. An expression or sentiment that raises the mind, is\ndenominated _great_ or _elevated_; and hence the sublime[56] in poetry.\nIn such figurative terms, the distinction is lost that is made betwixt\n_great_ and _elevated_ in their proper sense; for the resemblance is not\nso entire, as to preserve these terms distinct in their figurative\napplication. We carry this figure still farther. Elevation in its proper\nsense, includes superiority of place; and lowness, inferiority of place.\nHence a man of superior talents, of superior rank, of inferior parts, of\ninferior taste, and such like. The veneration we have for our ancestors\nand for the ancients in general, being similar to the emotion produced\nby an elevated object of sight, justifies the figurative expression, of\nthe ancients being raised above us, or possessing a superior place. And\nwe may remark by the way, that as words are intimately connected with\nideas, many, by this form of expression, are led to conceive their\nancestors as really above them in place, and their posterity below them:\n\n    A grandam\u2019s name is little less in love\n    Than is the doting title of a mother:\n    They are as children but one step below.\n         _Richard III. act 4. sc. 5._\n\nThe notes of the gamut, proceeding regularly from the blunter or grosser\nsounds to those which are more acute and piercing, produce in the hearer\na feeling somewhat similar to what is produced by mounting upward; and\nthis gives occasion to the figurative expressions, _a high note_, _a low\nnote_.\n\nSuch is the resemblance in feeling betwixt real and figurative grandeur,\nthat among the nations on the east coast of Afric, who are directed\npurely by nature, the different dignities of the officers of state are\nmarked by the length of the batoon each carries in his hand. And in\nJapan, princes and great lords shew their rank by the length and size of\ntheir sedan-poles[57]. Again, it is a rule in painting, that figures of\na small size are proper for grotesque pieces; but that in an historical\nsubject, which is grand and important, the figures ought to be as great\nas the life. The resemblance of these feelings is in reality so strong,\nthat elevation in a figurative sense is observed to have the same effect\neven externally, that real elevation has:\n\n    _K. Henry._ This day is call\u2019d the feast of Crispian.\n    He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,\n    Will stand a tiptoe when this day is nam\u2019d,\n    And rouse him at the name of Crispian.\n         _Henry V. act 4. sc. 8._\n\nThe resemblance in feeling betwixt real and figurative grandeur, is\nhumorously illustrated by Addison in criticising upon the English\ntragedy. \u201cThe ordinary method of making an hero, is to clap a huge\nplume of feathers upon his head, which rises so high, that there is\noften a greater length from his chin to the top of his head, than to the\nsole of his foot. One would believe, that we thought a great man and a\ntall man the same thing. As these superfluous ornaments upon the head\nmake a great man, a princess generally receives her grandeur from those\nadditional incumbrances that fall into her tail. I mean the broad\nsweeping train that follows her in all her motions, and finds constant\nemployment for a boy who stands behind her to open and spread it to\nadvantage[58].\u201d The Scythians, impressed with the fame of Alexander,\nwere astonished when they found him a little man.\n\nA gradual progress from small to great, is not less remarkable in\nfigurative than in real grandeur or elevation. Every one must have\nobserved the delightful effect of a number of thoughts or sentiments,\nartfully disposed like an ascending series, and making impressions\nstronger and stronger. Such disposition of members in a period, is\ndistinguished by a proper name, being termed a _climax_.\n\nIn order to have a just conception of grandeur and sublimity, it is\nnecessary to be observed, that within certain limits they produce their\nstrongest effects, which lessen by excess as well as by defect. This is\nremarkable in grandeur and sublimity taken in their proper sense. The\nstrongest emotion of grandeur is raised by an object that can be taken\nin at one view. An object so immense as not to be comprehended but in\nparts, tends rather to distract than satisfy the mind[59]. In like\nmanner, the strongest emotion produced by elevation is where the object\nis seen distinctly. A greater elevation lessens in appearance the\nobject, till it vanish out of sight with its pleasant emotion. The same\nis equally remarkable in figurative grandeur and elevation, which shall\nbe handled together, because, as observed above, they are scarce\ndistinguishable. Sentiments may be so strained, as to become obscure, or\nto exceed the capacity of the human mind. Against such licence of\nimagination, every good writer will be upon his guard. And therefore it\nis of greater importance to observe, that even the true sublime may be\ncarried beyond that pitch which produces the highest entertainment. We\nare undoubtedly susceptible of a greater elevation than can be inspired\nby human actions the most heroic and magnanimous; witness what we feel\nfrom Milton\u2019s description of superior beings. Yet every man must be\nsensible of a more constant and pleasant elevation, when the history of\nhis own species is the subject. He enjoys an elevation equal to that of\nthe greatest hero, of an Alexander or a C\u00e6sar, of a Brutus or an\nEpaminondas. He accompanies these heroes in their sublimest sentiments\nand most hazardous exploits, with a magnanimity equal to theirs; and\nfinds it no stretch to preserve the same tone of mind for hours\ntogether, without sinking. The case is by no means the same in\ndescribing the actions or qualities of superior beings. The reader\u2019s\nimagination cannot keep pace with that of the poet; and the mind, unable\nto support itself in a strained elevation, falls as from a height; and\nthe fall is immoderate like the elevation. Where this effect is not\nfelt, it must be prevented by some obscurity in the conception, which\nfrequently attends the description of unknown objects.\n\nOn the other hand, objects of sight that are not remarkably great or\nhigh, scarce raise any emotion of grandeur or sublimity; and the same\nholds in other objects. The mind is often roused and animated without\nbeing carried to the height of grandeur or sublimity. This difference\nmay be discerned in many sorts of music, as well as in some musical\ninstruments. A kettledrum rouses, and a hautboy is animating; but\nneither of them inspire an emotion of sublimity. Revenge animates the\nmind in a considerable degree; but I think it never produceth an\nemotion that can be termed _grand_ or _sublime_; and I shall have\noccasion afterward to observe, that no disagreeable passion ever has\nthis effect. I am willing to put this to the test, by placing before my\nreader the most spirited picture of revenge ever drawn. It is a speech\nof Antony wailing over the body of C\u00e6sar.\n\n    Wo to the hand that shed this costly blood!\n    Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,\n    (Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,\n    To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue),\n    A curse shall light upon the kind of men;\n    Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife,\n    Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;\n    Blood and destruction shall be so in use,\n    And dreadful objects so familiar,\n    That mothers shall but smile, when they behold\n    Their infants quarter\u2019d by the hands of war,\n    All pity choak\u2019d with custom of fell deeds.\n    And C\u00e6sar\u2019s spirit, ranging for revenge,\n    With _At\u00e8_ by his side come hot from hell,\n    Shall in these confines, with a monarch\u2019s voice,\n    Cry _Havock_, and let slip the dogs of war.\n         _Julius C\u00e6sar, act 3. sc. 4._\n\nWhen the sublime is carried to its due height and circumscribed within\nproper bounds, it inchants the mind and raises the most delightful of\nall emotions. The reader, ingrossed by a sublime object, feels himself\nraised as it were to a higher rank. When such is the case, it is not\nwonderful that the history of conquerors and heroes should be\nuniversally the favourite entertainment. And this fairly accounts for\nwhat I once erroneously suspected to be a wrong bias originally in human\nnature. The grossest acts of oppression and injustice, scarce blemish\nthe character of a great conqueror. We notwithstanding warmly espouse\nhis interest, accompany him in his exploits, and are anxious for his\nsuccess. The splendor and enthusiasm of the hero transfused into the\nreaders, elevate their minds far above the rules of justice, and render\nthem in a great measure insensible of the wrong that is done:\n\n    For in those days might only shall be admir\u2019d\n    And valour and heroic virtue call\u2019d;\n    To overcome in battle, and subdue\n    Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite\n    Manslaughter, shall be held the highest pitch\n    Of human glory, and for glory done\n    Of triumph, to be styl\u2019d great conquerors,\n    Patrons of mankind, gods, and sons of gods.\n    Destroyers rightlier called, and plagues of men.\n    Thus fame shall be atchiev\u2019d, renown on earth,\n    And what most merits fame in silence hid.\n         _Milton, b. 11._\n\nThe attachment we have to things grand or lofty may be thought to\nproceed from an unwearied inclination we have to be exalted. No desire\nis more universal than to be respected and honoured. Upon that account\nchiefly, are we ambitious of power, riches, titles, fame, which would\nsuddenly lose their relish, did they not raise us above others, and\ncommand submission and deference[60]. But the preference given to things\ngrand and sublime must have a deeper root in human nature. Many bestow\ntheir time upon low and trifling amusements, without showing any desire\nto be exalted. Yet these very persons talk the same language with the\nrest of mankind; and at least in their judgement, if not in their taste,\nprefer the more elevated pleasures. They acknowledge a more refined\ntaste, and are ashamed of their own as low and groveling. This\nsentiment, constant and universal, must be the work of nature; and it\nplainly indicates an original attachment in human nature to every object\nthat elevates the mind. Some men may have a greater relish for an object\nnot of the highest rank: but they are conscious of the common nature of\nman, and that it ought not to be subjected to their peculiar taste.\n\nThe irregular influence of grandeur, reaches also to other matters.\nHowever good, honest, or useful, a man may be, he is not so much\nrespected, as one of a more elevated character is, though of less\nintegrity; nor do the misfortunes of the former affect us so much as\nthose of the latter. I add, because it cannot be disguised, that the\nremorse which attends breach of engagement, is in a great measure\nproportioned to the figure that the injured person makes. The vows and\nprotestations of lovers are an illustrious example of this observation;\nfor these commonly are little regarded when made to women of inferior\nrank.\n\nWhat I have said suggests a capital rule for reaching the sublime in\nsuch works of art as are susceptible of it; and that is, to put in view\nthose parts or circumstances only which make the greatest figure,\nkeeping out of sight every thing that is low or trivial. Such judicious\nselection of capital circumstances, is by an eminent critic styled\n_grandeur of manner_[61]. The mind, from an elevation inspired by\nimportant objects, cannot, without reluctance, be forced down to bestow\nany share of its attention upon trifles. In none of the fine arts is\nthere so great scope for this rule as in poetry, which, by that means,\nenjoys a remarkable power of bestowing upon objects and events an air of\ngrandeur. When we are spectators, every minute object presents itself\nin its order. But in describing at second hand, these are laid aside,\nand the capital objects are brought close together. A judicious taste in\nselecting, after this manner, the most interesting incidents to give\nthem an united force, accounts for a fact which at first sight may\nappear surprising, that we are more moved by a poetical narrative at\nsecond hand, than when we are spectators of the event itself in all its\ncircumstanccs.\n\nLonginus exemplifies the foregoing rule by a comparison of two\npassages[62]. The first from Arist\u00e6us is thus translated.\n\n    Ye pow\u2019rs, what madness! how on ships so frail\n    (Tremendous thought!) can thoughtless mortals sail?\n    For stormy seas they quit the pleasing plain,\n    Plant woods in waves and dwell amidst the main.\n    Far o\u2019er the deep (a trackless path) they go,\n    And wander oceans in pursuit of wo.\n    No ease their hearts, no rest their eyes can find,\n    On heaven their looks, and on the waves their mind.\n    Sunk are their spirits, while their arms they rear,\n    And gods are wearied with their fruitless prayer.\n\nThe other from Homer I shall give in Pope\u2019s translation.\n\n    Bursts as a wave that from the cloud impends,\n    And swell\u2019d with tempests on the ship descends.\n    White are the decks with foam: the winds aloud\n    Howl o\u2019er the masts, and sing through every shrowd.\n    Pale, trembling, tir\u2019d, the sailors freeze with fears,\n    And instant death on every wave appears.\n\nIn the latter passage, the most striking circumstances are selected to\nfill the mind with the grand and terrible. The former is a collection of\nminute and low circumstances, which scatter the thought and make no\nimpression. The passage at the same time is full of verbal antitheses\nand low conceit, extremely improper in a scene of distress. But this\nlast observation is made occasionally only, as it belongs not to the\npresent subject.\n\nThe following passage from the twenty-first book of the Odyssey,\ndeviates widely from the rule above laid down. It concerns that part of\nthe history of Penelope and her suitors, in which she is made to declare\nin favour of him who should prove the most dexterous in shooting with\nthe bow of Ulysses.\n\n    Now gently winding up the fair ascent,\n    By many an easy step, the matron went:\n    Then o\u2019er the pavement glides with grace divine,\n    (With polish\u2019d oak the level pavements shine);\n    The folding gates a dazling light display\u2019d,\n    With pomp of various architrave o\u2019erlay\u2019d.\n    The bolt, obedient to the silken string,\n    Forsakes the staple as she pulls the ring;\n    The wards respondent to the key turn round;\n    The bars fall back; the flying valves resound.\n    Loud as a bull makes hill and valley ring;\n    So roar\u2019d the lock when it releas\u2019d the spring.\n    She moves majestic through the wealthy room\n    Where treasur\u2019d garments cast a rich perfume;\n    There from the column where aloft it hung,\n    Reach\u2019d, in its splendid case, the bow unstrung.\n\nVirgil sometimes errs against this rule. In the following passages\nminute circumstances are brought into full view; and what is still\nworse, they are described in all the sublimity of poetical description.\n_\u00c6neid, L. 1. l. 214. to 219. L. 6. l. 176. to 182. L. 6. l. 212. to\n231._ And the last, which is a description of a funeral, is the less\nexcuseable, as it relates to a man who makes no figure in the poem.\n\nThe speech of Clytemnestra, descending from her chariot in the Iphigenia\nof Euripides, beginning of act 3. is stuffed with a number of low,\ncommon, and trivial circumstances.\n\nBut of all writers Lucan in this article is the most injudicious. The\nsea-fight betwixt the Romans and Massilians[63], is described so much in\ndetail without exhibiting any grand or general view, that the reader is\nquite fatigued with endless circumstances, and never feels any degree of\nelevation. And yet there are some fine incidents, those for example of\nthe two brothers, and of the old man and his son, which, separated from\nthe rest, would affect us greatly. But Lucan once engaged in a\ndescription, knows no bounds. See other passages of the same kind, _L.\n4. l. 292. to 337. L. 4. l. 750. to 765._ The episode of the sorceress\nErictho, end of book 6. is intolerably minute and prolix.\n\nTo these I venture to oppose a passage from an old historical ballad:\n\n    Go, little page, tell Hardiknute\n      That lives on hill so high[64],\n    To draw his sword, the dread of faes,\n      And haste to follow me.\n    The little page flew swift as dart\n      Flung by his master\u2019s arm.\n    Come down, come down, Lord Hardiknute,\n      And rid your king from harm.\n\nThis rule is also applicable to other fine arts. In painting it is\nestablished, that the principal figure must be put in the strongest\nlight; that the beauty of attitude consists in placing the nobler parts\nmost in view, and in suppressing the smaller parts as much as possible;\nthat the folds of the drapery must be few and large; that\nforeshortenings are bad, because they make the parts appear little; and\nthat the muscles ought to be kept as entire as possible, without being\ndivided into small sections. Every one at present is sensible of the\nimportance of this rule when applied to gardening, in opposition to the\nantiquated taste of parterres split into a thousand small parts in the\nstrictest regularity of figure. Those who have succeeded best in\narchitecture, have governed themselves by this rule in all their models.\n\nAnother rule chiefly regards the sublime, though it may be applied to\nevery literary performance intended for amusement; and that is, to avoid\nas much as possible abstract and general terms. Such terms, perfectly\nwell fitted for reasoning and for conveying instruction, serve but\nimperfectly the ends of poetry. They stand upon the same footing with\nmathematical signs, contrived to express our thoughts in a concise\nmanner. But images, which are the life of poetry, cannot be raised in\nany perfection, otherwise than by introducing particular objects.\nGeneral terms, that comprehend a number of individuals, must be excepted\nfrom this rule. Our kindred, our clan, our country, and words of the\nlike import, though they scarce raise any image, have notwithstanding a\nwonderful power over our passions. The greatness of the complex object\nover-balances the obscurity of the image.\n\nWhat I have further to say upon this subject, shall be comprehended in a\nfew observations. A man is capable of being raised so much above his\nordinary pitch by an emotion of grandeur, that it is extremely difficult\nby a single thought or expression to produce that emotion in perfection.\nThe rise must be gradual and the result of reiterated impressions. The\neffect of a single expression can be but momentary; and if one feel\nsuddenly somewhat like a swelling or exaltation of mind, the emotion\nvanisheth as soon as felt. Single expressions, I know, are often justly\ncited as examples of the sublime. But then their effect is nothing\ncompared with a grand subject displayed in its capital parts. I shall\ngive a few examples, that the reader may judge for himself. In the\nfamous action of Thermopyl\u00e6, where Leonidas the Spartan King with his\nchosen band fighting for their country, were cut off to the last man, a\nsaying is reported of Dieneces one of the band, which, expressing\nchearful and undisturbed bravery, is well intitled to the first place in\nexamples of this kind. Talking of the number of their enemies, it was\nobserved, that the arrows shot by such a multitude would intercept the\nlight of the sun. So much the better, says he; for we shall then fight\nin the shade[65].\n\n    _Somerset._ Ah! Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are,\n    We might recover all our loss again.\n    The Queen from France hath brought a puissant power,\n    Ev\u2019n now we heard the news. Ah! couldst thou fly!\n\n    _Warwick._ Why, then I would not fly.\n         _Third part, Henry VI. act 5. sc. 3._\n\nSuch a sentiment from a man expiring of his wounds, is truly heroic, and\nmust elevate the mind to the greatest height that can be done by a\nsingle expression. It will not suffer in a comparison with the famous\nsentiment _Qu\u2019il mourut_ in Corneille\u2019s Horace. The latter is a\nsentiment of indignation merely, the former of invincible fortitude.\n\nIn opposition to these examples, to cite many a sublime passage,\nenriched with the finest images, and dressed in the most nervous\nexpressions, would scarce be fair. I shall produce but one instance from\nShakespear, which sets a few objects before the eye, without much pomp\nof language. It works its effect, by representing these objects in a\nclimax, raising the mind higher and higher till it feel the emotion of\ngrandeur in perfection.\n\n    The cloud-capt tow\u2019rs, the gorgeous palaces,\n    The solemn temples, the great globe itself,\n    Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve, _&c_.\n\n_The cloud-capt tow\u2019rs_ produce an elevating emotion, heightened by the\n_gorgeous palaces_. And the mind is carried still higher and higher by\nthe images that follow. Successive images, making thus stronger and\nstronger impressions, must elevate more than any single image can do.\n\nI proceed to another observation. In the chapter of beauty it is\nremarked, that regularity is required in small figures, and order in\nsmall groups; but that in advancing gradually from small to great,\nregularity and order are less and less required. This remark serves to\nexplain the extreme delight we have in viewing the face of nature, when\nsufficiently enriched and diversified by objects. The bulk of the\nobjects seen in a natural landscape are beautiful, and some of them\ngrand. A flowing river, a spreading oak, a round hill, an extended\nplain, are delightful; and even a rugged rock or barren heath, though in\nthemselves disagreeable, contribute by contrast to the beauty of the\nwhole. Joining to these, the verdure of the fields, the mixture of light\nand shade, and the sublime canopy spread over all; it will not appear\nwonderful, that so extensive a group of glorious objects should swell\nthe heart to its utmost bounds, and raise the strongest emotion of\ngrandeur. The spectator is conscious of an enthusiasm, which cannot bear\nconfinement nor the strictness of regularity and order. He loves to\nrange at large; and is so inchanted with shining objects, as to neglect\nslight beauties or defects. Thus it is, that the delightful emotion of\ngrandeur, depends little on order and regularity. And when the emotion\nis at its height by a survey of the greatest objects, order and\nregularity are almost totally disregarded.\n\nThe same observation is applicable in some measure to works of art. In a\nsmall building the slightest irregularity is disagreeable. In a\nmagnificent palace or a large Gothic church, irregularities are less\nregarded. In an epic poem we pardon many negligences, which would be\nintolerable in a sonnet or epigram. Notwithstanding such exceptions, it\nmay be justly laid down for a rule, That in all works of art, order and\nregularity ought to be governing principles. And hence the observation\nof Longinus[66], \u201cIn works of art we have regard to exact proportion; in\nthose of nature, to grandeur and magnificence.\u201d\n\nI shall add but one other observation, That no means can be more\nsuccessfully employed to sink and depress the mind than grandeur or\nsublimity. By the artful introduction of an humbling object, the fall is\ngreat in proportion to the former elevation. Of this doctrine Shakespear\naffords us a beautiful illustration, in a passage part of which is cited\nabove for another purpose:\n\n    The cloud-capt tow\u2019rs, the gorgeous palaces,\n    The solemn temples, the great globe itself,\n    Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve,\n    And like the baseless fabric of a vision\n    Leave not a rack behind----\n         _Tempest, act 4. sc. 4._\n\nThe elevation of the mind in the former part of this beautiful passage,\nmakes the fall great in proportion when the most humbling of all images\nis introduced, that of an utter dissolution of the earth and its\ninhabitants. A sentiment makes not the same impression in a cool state,\nthat it does when the mind is warmed; and a depressing or melancholy\nsentiment makes the strongest impression, when it brings down the mind\nfrom its highest state of elevation or chearfulness.\n\nThis indirect effect of elevation to sink the mind, is sometimes\nproduced without the intervention of any humbling image. There was\noccasion above to remark, that in describing superior beings, the\nreader\u2019s imagination, unable to support itself in a strained elevation,\nfalls often as from a height, and sinks even below its ordinary tone.\nThe following instance comes luckily in view; for a better illustration\ncannot be given: \u201cGod said, Let there be light, and there was light.\u201d\nLonginus cites this passage from Moses as a shining example of the\nsublime; and it is scarce possible in fewer words, to convey so clear an\nimage of the infinite power of the Deity. But then it belongs to the\npresent subject to remark, that the emotion of sublimity raised by this\nimage is but momentary; and that the mind, unable to support itself in\nan elevation so much above nature, immediately sinks down into humility\nand veneration for a being so far exalted above us groveling mortals.\nEvery one is acquainted with a dispute about this passage betwixt two\nFrench critics[67], the one positively affirming, the other as\npositively denying, it to be sublime. What I have opened, shows that\nboth of them have reached the truth, but neither of them the whole\ntruth. Every one of taste must be sensible, that the primary effect of\nthis passage is an emotion of grandeur. This so far justifies Boileau.\nBut then every one of taste must be equally sensible, that the emotion\nis merely a flash, which vanisheth instantly, and gives way to the\ndeepest humility and veneration. This indirect effect of sublimity,\njustifies Huet on the other hand, who being a man of true piety, and\nperhaps of inferior imagination, felt the humbling passions more\nsensibly than his antagonist. And even laying aside any peculiarity of\ncharacter, Huet\u2019s opinion may I think be defended as the more solid;\nupon the following account, that in such images, the depressing emotions\nare the more sensibly felt, and have the longer endurance.\n\nThe straining an elevated subject beyond due bounds and beyond the\nreach of an ordinary conception, is not a vice so frequent as to require\nthe correction of criticism. But false sublime is a rock which writers\nof more fire than judgement generally split on. And therefore a\ncollection of examples may be of use as a beacon to future adventurers.\nOne species of false sublime, known by the name of _bon bast_, is common\namong writers of a mean genius. It is a serious endeavour, by strained\ndescription, to raise a low or familiar subject above its rank; which\ninstead of being sublime, never fails to be ridiculous. I am extremely\nsensible how prone the mind is, in some animating passions, to magnify\nits objects beyond natural bounds. But such hyperbolical description has\nits limits. If carried beyond the impulse of the propensity, the\ncolouring no longer pleases: it degenerates into the burlesque. Take the\nfollowing examples.\n\n    _Sejanus._---- Great and high\n    The world knows only two, that\u2019s Rome and I.\n    My roof receives me not; \u2019tis air I tread,\n    And at each step I feel my advanc\u2019d head\n    Knock out a star in heav\u2019n.\n         _Sejanus, Ben Johnson, act 5._\n\nA writer who has no natural elevation of genius, is extremely apt to\ndeviate into bombast. He strains above his genius; and the violent\neffort he makes carries him generally beyond the bounds of propriety.\nBoileau expresses this happily:\n\n    L\u2019autre \u00e0 peur de ramper, il se perd dans la nue[68].\n\nThe same author Ben Johnson abounds in the bombast:\n\n    ---- The mother,\n    Th\u2019expulsed Apicata, finds them there;\n    Whom when she saw lie spread on the degrees,\n    After a world of fury on herself,\n    Tearing her hair, defacing of her face,\n    Beating her breasts and womb, kneeling amaz\u2019d.\n    Crying to heav\u2019n, then to them; at last\n    Her drowned voice got up above her woes:\n    And with such black and bitter execrations,\n    (As might affright the gods, and force the sun\n    Run backward to the east; nay, make the old\n    Deformed Chaos rise again t\u2019 o\u2019erwhelm\n    Them, us, and all the world) she fills the air,\n    Upbraids the heavens with their partial dooms,\n    Defies their tyrannous powers, and demands\n    What she and those poor innocents have transgress\u2019d,\n    That they must suffer such a share in vengeance.\n         _Sejanus, act 5. sc. last._\n\n    ---- Lentulus, the man,\n    If all our fire were out, would fetch down new,\n    Out of the hand of Jove; and rivet him\n    To Caucasus, should he but frown; and let\n    His own gaunt eagle fly at him to tire.\n         _Catiline, act 3._\n\n    Can these, or such, be any aids to us?\n    Look they as they were built to shake the world,\n    Or be a moment to our enterprise?\n    A thousand, such as they are, could not make\n    One atom of our souls. They should be men\n    Worth heaven\u2019s fear, that looking up, but thus,\n    Would make Jove stand upon his guard, and draw\n    Himself within his thunder; which, amaz\u2019d,\n    He should discharge in vain, and they unhurt.\n    Or, if they were, like Capaneus at Thebes,\n    They should hang dead upon the highest spires,\n    And ask the second bolt to be thrown down.\n    Why Lentulus talk you so long? This time\n    Had been enough t\u2019 have scatter\u2019d all the stars,\n    T\u2019 have quench\u2019d the sun and moon, and made the world\n    Despair of day, or any light but ours.\n         _Catiline, act 4._\n\nThis is the language of a madman:\n\n    _Guilford._ Give way, and let the gushing torrent come,\n    Behold the tears we bring to swell the deluge,\n    Till the flood rise upon the guilty world\n    And make the ruin common.\n         _Lady Jane Gray, act 4. near the end._\n\nAnother species of false sublime, is still more faulty than bombast; and\nthat is, to force an elevation by introducing imaginary beings without\npreserving any propriety in their actions; as if it were lawful to\nascribe every extravagance and inconsistence to beings of the poet\u2019s\ncreation. No writers are more licentious in this article than Johnson\nand Dryden.\n\n    Methinks I see Death and the furies waiting\n    What we will do, and all the heaven at leisure\n    For the great spectacle. Draw then your swords:\n    And if our destiny envy our virtue\n    The honour of the day, yet let us care\n    To sell ourselves at such a price, as may\n    Undo the world to buy us, and make Fate,\n    While she tempts ours, to fear her own estate.\n         _Catiline, act 5._\n\n    ---- The furies stood on hills\n    Circling the place, and trembled to see men\n    Do more than they: whilst Piety left the field,\n    Griev\u2019d for that side, that in so bad a cause\n    They knew not what a crime their valour was.\n    The Sun stood still, and was, behind the cloud\n    The battle made, seen sweating to drive up\n    His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward.\n         _Ibid. act. 5._\n\n    _Osmyn._ While we indulge our common happiness,\n    He is forgot by whom we all possess,\n    The brave Almanzor, to whose arms we owe\n    All that we did, and all that we shall do;\n    Who like a tempest that outrides the wind,\n    Made a just battle ere the bodies join\u2019d.\n\n    _Abdalla._ His victories we scarce could keep in view,\n    Or polish \u2019em so fast as he rough drew.\n\n    _Abdemelech._ Fate after him below with pain did move,\n    And Victory could scarce keep pace above.\n    Death did at length so many slain forget,\n    And lost the tale, and took \u2019em by the great.\n         _Conquest of Granada, act. 2. at beginning._\n\n    The gods of Rome fight for ye; loud Fame calls ye,\n    Pitch\u2019d on the topless Apenine, and blows\n    To all the under world, all nations,\n    The seas and unfrequented deserts, where the snow dwells,\n    Wakens the ruin\u2019d monuments, and there\n    Where nothing but eternal death and sleep is,\n    Informs again the dead bones.\n         _Beaumont and Fletcher, Bonduca, act. 3. sc. 3._\n\nI close with the following observation, That an actor upon the stage may\nbe guilty of bombast as well as an author in his closet. A certain\nmanner of acting, which is grand when supported by dignity in the\nsentiment and force in the expression, is ridiculous where the sentiment\nis mean, and the expression flat.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. V.\n\nMotion and Force.\n\n\nThat motion is agreeable to the eye without relation to purpose or\ndesign, may appear from the amusement it gives to infants. Juvenile\nexercises are relished chiefly upon that account.\n\nIf to see a body in motion be agreeable, one will be apt to conclude,\nthat to see it at rest is disagreeable. But we learn from experience,\nthat this would be a rash conclusion. Rest is one of those circumstances\nthat are neither agreeable nor disagreeable. It is viewed with perfect\nindifferency. And happy it is for mankind that the matter is so ordered.\nIf rest were agreeable, it would disincline us to motion, by which all\nthings are performed. If it were disagreeable, it would be a source of\nperpetual uneasiness; for the bulk of the things we see appear to be at\nrest. A similar instance of designing wisdom I have had occasion to\nexplain, in opposing grandeur to littleness, and elevation to lowness of\nplace[69]. Even in the simplest matters, the finger of God is\nconspicuous. The happy adjustment of the internal nature of man to his\nexternal circumstances, displayed in the instances here given, is indeed\nadmirable.\n\nMotion is certainly agreeable in all its varieties of quickness and\nslowness. But motion long continued admits some exceptions. That degree\nof continued motion which corresponds to the natural course of our\nperceptions, is the most agreeable[70]. The quickest motion is for an\ninstant delightful. But it soon appears to be too rapid. It becomes\npainful, by forcibly accelerating the course of our perceptions. Slow\ncontinued motion becomes disagreeable for an opposite reason, that it\nretards the natural course of our perceptions.\n\nThere are other varieties in motion, beside quickness and slowness,\nthat make it more or less agreeable. Regular motion is preferred before\nwhat is irregular, witness the motion of the planets in orbits nearly\ncircular. The motion of the comets in orbits less regular, is less\nagreeable.\n\nMotion uniformly accelerated, resembling an ascending series of numbers,\nis more agreeable than when uniformly retarded. Motion upward is\nagreeable by the elevation of the moving body. What then shall we say of\ndownward motion regularly accelerated by the force of gravity, compared\nwith upward motion regularly retarded by the same force? Which of these\nis the most agreeable? This question is not easily solved.\n\nMotion in a straight line is no doubt agreeable. But we prefer\nundulating motion, as of waves, of a flame, of a ship under sail. Such\nmotion is more free, and also more natural. Hence the beauty of a\nserpentine river.\n\nThe easy and sliding motion of fluids, from the lubricity and\nincoherence of their parts, is agreeable upon that account. But the\nagreeableness chiefly depends upon the following circumstance, that the\nmotion is perceived, not as of one body, but as of an endless number\nmoving together with order and regularity. Poets struck with this\nbeauty, draw more images from fluids than from solids.\n\nForce is of two kinds; one quiescent, and one exerted by motion. The\nformer, dead weight for example, must be laid aside; for a body at rest\nis not by that circumstance either agreeable or disagreeable. Moving\nforce only belongs to the present subject; and though it is not\nseparable from motion, yet by the power of abstraction, either of them\nmay be considered independent of the other. Both of them are agreeable,\nbecause both of them include activity. It is agreeable to see a thing\nmove: to see it moved, as when it is dragged or pushed along, is neither\nagreeable nor disagreeable, more than when at rest. It is agreeable to\nsee a thing exert force; but it makes not the thing either agreeable or\ndisagreeable, to see force exerted upon it.\n\nThough motion and force are each of them agreeable, the impressions\nthey make are different. This difference, clearly felt, is not easily\ndescribed. All we can say is, that the emotion raised by a moving body,\nresembles its cause: it feels as if the mind were carried along. The\nemotion raised by force exerted, resembles also its cause: it feels as\nif force were exerted within the mind.\n\nTo illustrate this difference, I give the following examples. It has\nbeen explained why smoke ascending in a calm day, suppose from a cottage\nin a wood, is an agreeable object[71]. Landscape-painters are fond of\nthis object, and introduce it upon all occasions. As the ascent is\nnatural and without effort, it is delightful in a calm state of mind. It\nmakes an impression of the same sort with that of a gently-flowing\nriver, but more agreeable, because ascent is more to our taste than\ndescent. A fire-work or a _jet d\u2019eau_ rouses the mind more; because the\nbeauty of force visibly exerted, is superadded to that of upward\nmotion. To a man reclining indolently upon a bank of flowers, ascending\nsmoke in a still morning is delightful. But a fire-work or a _jet d\u2019eau_\nrouses him from this supine posture, and puts him in motion.\n\nA _jet d\u2019eau_ makes an impression distinguishable from that of a\nwater-fall. Downward motion being natural and without effort, tends\nrather to quiet the mind than to rouse it. Upward motion, on the\ncontrary, overcoming the resistance of gravity, makes an impression of a\ngreat effort, and thereby rouses and enlivens the mind.\n\nThe public games of the Greeks and Romans, which gave so much\nentertainment to the spectators, consisted chiefly in exerting force,\nwrestling, leaping, throwing great stones, and such like trials of\nstrength. When great force is exerted, the effort felt within the mind\nproduces great life and vivacity. The effort may be such, as in some\nmeasure to overpower the mind. Thus the explosion of gun-powder, the\nviolence of a torrent, the weight of a mountain, and the crush of an\nearthquake, create astonishment rather than pleasure.\n\nNo quality nor circumstance contributes more to grandeur than force,\nespecially as exerted by sensible beings. I cannot make this more\nevident than by the following citations.\n\n    ---- Him the almighty power\n    Hurl\u2019d headlong flaming from th\u2019 ethereal sky,\n    With hideous ruin and combustion, down\n    To bottomless perdition, there to dwell\n    In adamantine chains and penal fire,\n    Who durst defy th\u2019 Omnipotent to arms.\n         _Paradise Lost, book 1._\n\n    ---- Now storming fury rose,\n    And clamour such as heard in heaven till now\n    Was never; arms on armour clashing bray\u2019d\n    Horrible discord, and the madding wheels\n    Of brazen chariots rag\u2019d; dire was the noise\n    Of conflict; over head the dismal hiss\n    Of fiery darts in flaming vollies flew,\n    And flying vaulted either host with fire.\n    So under fiery cope together rush\u2019d\n    Both battles main, with ruinous assault\n    And inextinguishable rage: all heav\u2019n\n    Resounded; and had earth been then, all earth\n    Had to her centre shook.\n         _Ibid, book 6._\n\n      They ended parle, and both address\u2019d for fight\n    Unspeakable; for who, though with the tongue\n    Of angels, can relate, or to what things\n    Liken on earth conspicuous, that may lift\n    Human imagination to such height\n    Of godlike pow\u2019r? for likest gods they seem\u2019d,\n    Stood they or mov\u2019d, in stature, motion, arms,\n    Fit to decide the empire of great Heav\u2019n.\n    Now wav\u2019d their fiery swords, and in the air\n    Made horrid circles: two broad suns their shields\n    Blaz\u2019d opposite, while Expectation stood\n    In horror: from each hand with speed retir\u2019d,\n    Where erst was thickest fight, th\u2019 angelic throng,\n    And left large field, unsafe within the wind\n    Of such commotion; such as, to set forth\n    Great things by small, if Nature\u2019s concord broke,\n    Among the constellations war were sprung,\n    Two planets, rushing from asp\u00e9ct malign\n    Of fiercest opposition, in mid sky,\n    Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound.\n         _Ibid, book 6._\n\nWe shall now consider the effect of motion and force in conjunction. In\ncontemplating the planetary system, what strikes us the most, is the\nspherical figures of the planets and their regular motions. The\nconception we have of their activity and enormous bulk is more obscure.\nThe beauty accordingly of this system, raises a more lively emotion than\nits grandeur. But if we could imagine ourselves spectators comprehending\nthe whole system at one view, the activity and irresistible force of\nthese immense bodies would fill us with amazement. Nature cannot furnish\nanother scene so grand.\n\nMotion and force, agreeable in themselves, are also agreeable by their\nutility when employed as means to accomplish some beneficial end. Hence\nthe superior beauty of some machines, where force and motion concur to\nperform the work of numberless hands. Hence the beautiful motions, firm\nand regular, of a horse trained for war. Every single step is the\nfittest that can be for obtaining the end proposed. But the grace of\nmotion is visible chiefly in man, not only for the reasons mentioned,\nbut also because every gesture is significant. The power however of\nagreeable motion is not a common talent. Every limb of the human body\nhas a good and a bad, an agreeable and disagreeable action. Some\nmotions are extremely graceful, others are plain and vulgar: some\nexpress dignity, others meanness. But the pleasure here, arising not\nsingly from the beauty of motion, but from indicating character and\nsentiment, belongs to a different chapter[72].\n\nI should conclude with the final cause of the relish we have for motion\nand force, were it not so evident as to require no explanation. We are\nplaced here in such circumstances as to make industry essential to our\nwell-being; for without industry the plainest necessaries of life are\nnot to be obtained. When our situation therefore in this world requires\nactivity and a constant exertion of motion and force, Providence\nindulgently provides for our welfare in making these agreeable to us. It\nwould be a blunder in our nature, to make things disagreeable that we\ndepend on for existence; and even to make them indifferent, would tend\nto make us relax greatly from that degree of activity which is\nindispensable.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. VI.\n\nNovelty, and the unexpected appearance of objects.\n\n\nOf all the particulars that contribute to raise emotions, not excepting\nbeauty, or even greatness, novelty hath the most powerful influence. A\nnew spectacle attracts multitudes. It produceth instantaneously an\nemotion which totally occupies the mind, and for a time excludes all\nother objects. The soul seems to meet the strange appearance with a\ncertain elongation of itself; and all is hushed in close contemplation.\nIn some instances, there is perceived a degree of agony, attended with\nexternal symptoms extremely expressive. Conversation among the vulgar\nnever is more interesting, than when it runs upon strange objects and\nextraordinary events. Men tear themselves from their native country in\nsearch of things rare and new; and curiosity converts into a pleasure,\nthe fatigues, and even perils of travelling. To what cause shall we\nascribe these singular appearances? The plain account of the matter\nfollows. Curiosity is implanted in human nature, for a purpose extremely\nbeneficial, that of acquiring knowledge. New and strange objects, above\nall others, excite our curiosity; and its gratification is the emotion\nabove described, known by the name of _wonder_. This emotion is\ndistinguished from _admiration_. Novelty where-ever found, whether in a\nquality or action, is the cause of wonder: admiration is directed upon\nthe operator who performs any thing wonderful.\n\nDuring infancy, every new object is probably the occasion of wonder, in\nsome degree; because, during infancy, every object at first is strange\nas well as new. But as objects are rendered familiar by custom, we cease\nby degrees to wonder at new appearances that have any resemblance to\nwhat we are acquainted with. A thing must be singular as well as new, to\nexcite our curiosity and to raise our wonder. To save multiplying words,\nI would be understood to comprehend both circumstances when I hereafter\ntalk of novelty.\n\nIn an ordinary train of perceptions where one thing introduces another,\nnot a single object makes its appearance unexpectedly[73]. The mind thus\nprepared for the reception of its objects, admits them one after another\nwithout perturbation. But when a thing breaks in unexpectedly and\nwithout the preparation of any connection, it raises a singular emotion\nknown by the name of _surprise_. This emotion may be produced by the\nmost familiar object, as when one accidentally meets a friend who was\nreported to be dead; or a man in high life, lately a beggar. On the\nother hand, a new object, however strange, will not produce this emotion\nif the spectator be prepared for the fight. An elephant in India will\nnot surprise a traveller who goes to see one; and yet its novelty will\nraise his wonder. An Indian in Britain would be much surprised to\nstumble upon an elephant feeding at large in the open fields; but the\ncreature itself, to which he was accustomed, would not raise his\nwonder.\n\nSurprise thus in several respects differs from wonder. Unexpedtedness is\nthe cause of the former emotion: novelty is the cause of the latter. Nor\ndiffer they less in their nature and circumstances, as will be explained\nby and by. With relation to one circumstance they perfectly agree, which\nis the shortness of their duration. The instantaneous production of\nthese emotions in perfection, may contribute to this effect, in\nconformity to a general law, That things soon decay which soon come to\nperfection. The violence of the emotions may also contribute; for an\nardent emotion, which is not susceptible of increase, cannot have a long\ncourse. But their short duration is occasioned chiefly by that of their\ncauses. We are soon reconciled to an object, however unexpected; and\nnovelty soon degenerates into familiarity.\n\nWhether these emotions be pleasant or painful, is not a clear point. It\nmay appear strange, that our own feelings and their capital qualities\nshould afford any matter for a doubt. But when we are ingrossed by any\nemotion, there is no place for speculation; and when sufficiently calm\nfor speculation, it is not easy to recal the emotion with sufficient\naccuracy. New objects are sometimes terrible, sometimes delightful. The\nterror which a tyger inspires is greatest at first, and wears off\ngradually by familiarity. On the other hand, even women will\nacknowledge, that it is novelty which pleases the most in a new fashion.\nAt this rate, it should be thought, that wonder is not in itself\npleasant or painful, but that it assumes either quality according to\ncircumstances. This doctrine, however plausible, must not pass without\nexamination. And when we reflect upon the principle of curiosity and its\noperations, a glimpse of light gives some faint view of a different\ntheory. Our curiosity is never more thoroughly gratified, than by new\nand singular objects. That very gratification is the emotion of wonder,\nwhich therefore, according to the analogy of nature, ought always to be\npleasant[74]. And indeed it would be a great defect in human nature,\nwere the gratification of so useful a principle unpleasant. But upon a\nmore strict scrutiny, we shall not have occasion to mark curiosity as an\nexception from the general rule. A new object, it is true, that hath a\nthreatening appearance, adds to our terror by its novelty. But from this\nexperiment it doth not follow, that novelty is in itself disagreeable.\nIt is perfectly consistent, that we should be delighted with an object\nin one view, and terrified with it in another. A river in flood swelling\nover its banks, is a grand and delightful object; and yet it may produce\nno small degree of fear when we attempt to cross it. Courage and\nmagnanimity are agreeable; and yet when we view these qualities in an\nenemy, they serve to increase our terror[75]. In the same manner,\nnovelty has two effects clearly distinguishable from each other. A new\nobject, by gratifying curiosity, must always be agreeable. It may, at\nthe same time, have an opposite effect indirectly, which is, to inspire\nterror. For when a new object appears in any degree dangerous, our\nignorance of its powers and qualities affords ample scope for the\nimagination to dress it in the most frightful colours[76]. Thus the\nfirst sight of a lion at some distance, may at the same instant produce\ntwo opposite feelings, the pleasant emotion of wonder, and the painful\npassion of terror. The novelty of the object, produces the former\ndirectly, and contributes to the latter indirectly. Thus, when the\nsubject is analized, we find, that the power which novelty hath\nindirectly to inflame terror, is perfectly consistent with its being in\nevery case agreeable. The matter may be put in a still clearer light by\nvarying the scene. If a lion be first seen from a place of safety, the\nspectacle is altogether agreeable without the least mixture of terror.\nIf again the first sight put us within reach of this dangerous animal,\nour terror may be so great as quite to exclude any sense of novelty. But\nthis fact proves not that wonder is painful: it proves only that wonder\nmay be excluded by a more powerful passion. And yet it is this fact,\nwhich, in superficial thinking, has thrown the subject into obscurity. I\npresume we may now boldly affirm, that wonder is in every case a\npleasant emotion. This is acknowledged as to all new objects that appear\ninoffensive. And even as to objects that appear offensive, I urge that\nthe same must hold so long as the spectator can attend to the novelty.\n\nWhether surprise be in itself pleasant or painful, is a question not\nless intricate than the former. It is certain, that surprise inflames\nour joy when unexpectedly we meet with an old friend: and not less our\nterror, when we stumble upon any thing noxious. To clear this point, we\nmust trace it step by step. And the first thing to be remarked is, that\nin some instances an unexpected object overpowers the mind so as to\nproduce a momentary stupefaction. An unexpected object, not less than\none that is new, is apt to sound an alarm and to raise terror. Man,\nnaturally a defenceless being, is happily so constituted as to apprehend\ndanger in all doubtful cases. Accordingly, where the object is\ndangerous, or appears so, the sudden alarm it gives, without\npreparation, is apt totally to unhinge the mind, and for a moment to\nsuspend all the faculties, even thought itself[77]. In this state a man\nis quite helpless; and if he move at all, is as likely to run upon the\ndanger as from it. Surprise carried to this height, cannot be either\npleasant or painful; because the mind, during such momentary\nstupefaction, is in a good measure, if not totally, insensible.\n\nIf we then inquire for the character of this emotion, it must be where\nthe unexpected object or event produceth less violent effects. And while\nthe mind remains sensible of pleasure and pain, is it not natural to\nsuppose, that surprise, like wonder, should have an invariable\ncharacter? I am inclined however to think, that surprise has no\ninvariable character, but assumes that of the object which raises it.\nWonder is the gratification of a natural principle, and upon that\naccount must be pleasant. There, novelty is the capital circumstance,\nwhich, for a time, is intitled to possess the mind entirely in one\nunvaried tone. The unexpected appearance of an object, seems not equally\nintitled to produce an emotion distinguishable from the emotion,\npleasant or painful, that is produced by the object in its ordinary\nappearance. It ought not naturally to have any effect, other than to\nswell that emotion, by making it more pleasant or more painful than it\ncommonly is. And this conjecture is confirmed by experience, as well as\nby language, which is built upon experience. When a man meets a friend\nunexpectedly, he is said to be agreeably surprised; and when he meets an\nenemy unexpectedly, he is said to be disagreeably surprised. It appears\nthen, that the sole effect of surprise is to swell the emotion raised by\nthe object. And this effect can be clearly explained. A tide of\nconnected perceptions, glides gently into the mind, and produceth no\nperturbation. An object on the other hand breaking in unexpectedly,\nsounds an alarm, rouses the mind out of its calm state, and directs its\nwhole attention upon the object, which, if agreeable, becomes doubly so.\nSeveral circumstances concur to produce this effect. On the one hand,\nthe agitation of the mind and its keen attention, prepare it in the most\neffectual manner for receiving a deep impression. On the other hand, the\nobject by its sudden and unforeseen appearance, makes an impression, not\ngradually as expected objects do, but as at one stroke with its whole\nforce. The circumstances are precisely similar, where the object is in\nitself disagreeable.\n\nThe pleasure of novelty is easily distinguished from that of variety. To\nproduce the latter, a plurality of objects is necessary. The former\narises from a circumstance found in a single object. Again, where\nobjects, whether coexistent or in succession, are sufficiently\ndiversified, the pleasure of variety is complete, though every single\nobject of the train be familiar. But the pleasure of novelty, directly\nopposite to familiarity, requires no diversification.\n\nThere are different degrees of novelty, and its effects are in\nproportion. The lowest degree is found in objects that are surveyed a\nsecond time after a long interval. That in this case an object takes on\nsome appearance of novelty, is certain from experience. A large building\nof many parts variously adorned, or an extensive field embellished with\ntrees, lakes, temples, statues, and other ornaments, will appear new\noftener than once. The memory of an object so complex is soon lost; of\nits parts at least, or of their arrangement. But experience teaches,\nthat even without any decay of remembrance, absence alone will give an\nair of novelty to a once familiar object; which is not surprising,\nbecause familiarity wears off gradually by absence. Thus a person with\nwhom we have been intimate, returning after a long interval, appears\nlike a new acquaintance. Distance of place contributes to this\nappearance, not less than distance of time. A friend after a short\nabsence in a remote country, has the same air of novelty as if he had\nreturned after a longer interval from a place nearer home. The mind\nforms a connection betwixt him and the remote country, and bestows upon\nhim the singularity of the objects he has seen. When two things equally\nnew and singular are presented, the spectator balances betwixt them. But\nwhen told that one of them is the product of a distant quarter of the\nworld, he no longer hesitates, but clings to this as the more singular.\nHence the preference given to foreign luxuries and to foreign\ncuriosities, which appear rare in proportion to their original distance.\n\nThe next degree of novelty, mounting upward, is found in objects of\nwhich we have some information at second hand. For description, though\nit contribute to familiarity, cannot altogether remove the appearance of\nnovelty when the object itself is presented. The first sight of a lion\noccasions some wonder, after a thorough acquaintance with the corrected\npictures or statues of that animal.\n\nA new object that bears some distant resemblance to a known species, is\nan instance of a third degree of novelty. A strong resemblance among\nindividuals of the same species, prevents almost entirely the effect of\nnovelty; unless distance of place or some other circumstance concur.\nBut where the resemblance is faint, some degree of wonder is felt; and\nthe emotion rises in proportion to the faintness of the resemblance.\n\nThe highest degree of wonder ariseth from unknown objects that have no\nanalogy to any species we are acquainted with. Shakespear in a simile\nintroduces this species of novelty.\n\n    As glorious to the sight\n    As is a winged messenger from heaven\n    Unto the white upturned wondring eye\n    Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him\n    When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,\n    And sails upon the bosom of the air.\n         _Romeo and Juliet._\n\nOne example of this species of novelty deserves peculiar attention; and\nthat is, when an object altogether new is seen by one person only, and\nbut once. These circumstances heighten remarkably the emotion. The\nsingularity of the condition of the spectator concurs with the\nsingularity of the object, to inflame wonder to its highest pitch.\n\nIn explaining the effects of novelty, the place a being occupies in the\nscale of existence, is a circumstance that must not be omitted. Novelty\nin the individuals of a low class, is perceived with indifference, or\nwith a very slight emotion. Thus a pebble, however singular in its\nappearance, scarce moves our wonder. The emotion rises with the rank of\nthe object; and, other circumstances being equal, is strongest in the\nhighest order of existence. A strange animal affects us more than a\nstrange vegetable; and were we admitted to view superior beings, our\nwonder would rise proportionably; and accompanying Nature in her amazing\nworks, be completed in the contemplation of the Deity.\n\nHowever natural the love of novelty may be, it is a matter of\nexperience, that those who relish novelty the most, are careful to\nconceal its influence. This relish, it is true, prevails in children, in\nidle people, and in men of a weak mind. And yet, after all, why should\none be ashamed for indulging a natural propensity? A distinction will\nexplain this difficulty. No man is ashamed to own, that he loves to\ncontemplate new or strange objects. He neither condemns himself nor is\ncensured by others, for this appetite. But every man studies to conceal,\nthat he loves a thing or performs an action, merely for its novelty. The\nreason of the difference will set the matter in a clear light. Curiosity\nis a natural principle directed upon new and singular objects, in the\ncontemplation of which its gratification consists, without leading to\nany end other than knowledge. The man therefore who prefers any thing\nmerely because it is new, hath not this principle for his justification;\nnor indeed any good principle. Vanity is at the bottom, which easily\nprevails upon those who have no taste, to prefer things odd, rare, or\nsingular, in order to distinguish themselves from others. And in fact,\nthe appetite for novelty, as above mentioned, reigns chiefly among\npersons of a mean taste, who are ignorant of refined and elegant\npleasures.\n\nThe gratification of curiosity, as mentioned above, is distinguished by\na proper name, _viz. wonder_; an honour denied to the gratification of\nany other principle, emotion, or passion, so far as I can recollect.\nThis singularity indicates some important final cause, which I endeavour\nto unfold. An acquaintance with the various things that may affect us,\nand with their properties, is essential to our well-being. Nor will a\nslight or superficial acquaintance be sufficient. It ought to be so\ndeeply ingraved on the mind, as to be ready for use upon every occasion.\nNow, in order to a deep impression, it is wisely contrived, that things\nshould be introduced to our acquaintance, with a certain pomp and\nsolemnity productive of a vivid emotion. When the impression is once\nfairly made, the emotion of novelty, being no longer necessary,\nvanisheth almost instantaneously; never to return, unless where the\nimpression happens to be obliterated by length of time or other means;\nin which case the second introduction is nearly as solemn as the first.\n\nDesigning wisdom is no where more legible than in this part of the human\nframe. If new objects did not affect us in a very peculiar manner,\ntheir impressions would be so slight as scarce to be of any use in life.\nOn the other hand, did objects continue to affect us as deeply as at\nfirst, the mind would be totally ingrossed with them, and have no room\nleft either for action or reflection.\n\nThe final cause of surprise is still more evident than of novelty.\nSelf-love makes us vigilantly attentive to self-preservation. But\nself-love, which operates by means of reason and reflection, and impells\nnot the mind to any particular object or from it, is a principle too\ncool for a sudden emergency. An object breaking in unexpectedly, affords\nno time for deliberation; and, in this case, the agitation of surprise\nis artfully contrived to rouse self-love into action. Surprise gives the\nalarm, and if there be any appearance of danger, our whole force is\ninstantly summoned up to shun or to prevent it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. VII.\n\nRisible Objects.\n\n\nSuch is the nature of man, that his powers and faculties are soon\nblunted by exercise. The returns of sleep, suspending all activity, are\nnot alone sufficient to preserve him in vigor. During his waking hours,\namusement by intervals is requisite to unbend his mind from serious\noccupation. The imagination, of all our faculties the most active, and\nnot always at rest even in sleep, contributes more than any other cause\nto recruit the mind and restore its vigor, by amusing us with gay and\nludicrous images; and when relaxation is necessary, such amusement is\nmuch relished. But there are other sources of amusement beside the\nimagination. Many objects, natural as well as artificial, may be\ndistinguished by the epithet of _risible_, because they raise in us a\npeculiar emotion expressed externally by _laughter_. This is a pleasant\nemotion; and being also mirthful, it most successfully unbends the mind\nand recruits the spirits.\n\n_Ludicrous_ is a general term, signifying, as we may conjecture from its\nderivation, what is playsome, sportive, or jocular. _Ludicrous_\ntherefore seems the genus, of which _risible_ is a species, limited as\nabove to what makes us laugh.\n\nHowever easy it may be, concerning any particular object, to say whether\nit be risible or not; it seems difficult, if at all practicable, to\nestablish beforehand any general character by which objects of this kind\nmay be distinguished from others. Nor is this a singular case. Upon a\nreview, we find the same difficulty in most of the articles already\nhandled. There is nothing more easy, viewing a particular object, than\nto pronounce that it is beautiful or ugly, grand or little: but were we\nto attempt general rules for ranging objects under different classes,\naccording to these qualities, we should find ourselves utterly at a\nloss. There is a separate cause which increases the difficulty of\ndistinguishing risible objects by a general character. All men are not\nequally affected by risible objects; and even the same person is more\ndisposed to laugh at one time than another. In high spirits a thing will\nmake us laugh outright, that will scarce provoke a smile when we are in\na grave mood. We must therefore abandon the thought of attempting\ngeneral rules for distinguishing risible objects from others. Risible\nobjects however are circumscribed within certain limits, which I shall\nsuggest, without pretending to any degree of accuracy. And, in the first\nplace, I observe, that no object is risible but what appears slight,\nlittle, or trifling. For man is so constituted as to be seriously\naffected with every thing that is of importance to his own interest or\nto that of others. Secondly, with respect to the works both of nature\nand of art, nothing is risible but what deviates from the common nature\nof the subject: it must be some particular out of rule, some remarkable\ndefect or excess, a very long visage, for example, or a very short one.\nHence nothing just, proper, decent, beautiful, proportioned, or grand,\nis risible. A real distress raises pity, and therefore cannot be\nrisible. But a slight or imaginary distress, which moves not pity, is\nrisible. The adventure of the fulling-mills in Don Quixote is extremely\nrisible; so is the scene where Sancho, in a dark night, tumbles into a\npit, and attaches himself to the side by hand and foot, there hanging in\nterrible dismay till the morning, when he discovers himself to be within\na foot of the bottom. A nose remarkably long or short is risible; but to\nwant the nose altogether, far from provoking laughter, raises horror in\nthe spectator.\n\nFrom what is said, it will readily be conjectured, that the emotion\nraised by a risible object is of a nature so singular as scarce to find\nplace while the mind is occupied with any other passion or emotion. And\nthis conjecture is verified by experience. We scarce ever find this\nemotion blended with any other. One emotion I must except, and that is\ncontempt raised by some sort of improprieties. Every improper act\ninspires us with some degree of contempt for the author. And if an\nimproper act be at the same time risible and provoke laughter, of which\nblunders and absurdities are noted instances, the two emotions of\ncontempt and of laughter unite intimately in the mind, and produce\nexternally what is termed _a laugh of derision_ or _of scorn_. Hence\nobjects that cause laughter, may be distinguished into two kinds. They\nare either _risible_ or _ridiculous_. A risible object is mirthful only;\na ridiculous object is both mirthful and contemptible. The first raises\nan emotion of laughter that is altogether pleasant: the emotion of\nlaughter raised by the other, is qualified with that of contempt; and\nthe mixed emotion, partly pleasant partly painful, is termed _the\nemotion of ridicule_. I avenge myself of the pain a ridiculous object\ngives me by a laugh of derision. A risible object, on the other hand,\ngives me no pain: it is altogether pleasant by a certain sort of\ntitillation, which is expressed externally by mirthful laughter.\nRidicule will be more fully explained afterward: the present chapter is\nappropriated to the other emotion.\n\nRisible objects are so common and so well understood, that it is\nunnecessary to consume paper or time upon them. Take the few following\nexamples.\n\n    _Falstaff._ I do remember him at Clement\u2019s inn,\n    like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring.\n    When he was naked, he was for all the world like a\n    forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon\n    it with a knife.\n         _Second part, Henry IV. act 3. sc. 5._\n\nThe foregoing is of disproportion. The following examples are of slight\nor imaginary misfortunes.\n\n    _Falstaff._ Go fetch me a quart of sack, put a\n    toast in\u2019t. Have I liv\u2019d to be carried in a basket,\n    like a barrow of butcher\u2019s offal, and to be thrown\n    into the Thames? Well, if I be serv\u2019d such another\n    trick, I\u2019ll have my brains ta\u2019en out and butter\u2019d,\n    and give them to a dog for a new-year\u2019s\n    gift. The rogues slighted me into the river with\n    as little remorse as they would have drown\u2019d a\n    bitch\u2019s blind puppies, fifteen i\u2019 th\u2019 litter; and you\n    may know by my size, that I have a kind of alacrity\n    in sinking: if the bottom were as deep as hell,\n    I should down. I had been drown\u2019d, but that the\n    shore was shelvy and shallow; a death that I abhor;\n    for the water swells a man: and what a thing\n    should I have been, when I had been swell\u2019d? I\n    should have been a mountain of mummy.\n         _Merry wives of Windsor, act 3. sc. 15._\n\n    _Falstaff._ Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook,\n    what I have suffer\u2019d to bring this woman to evil\n    for your good. Being thus cramm\u2019d in the basket,\n    a couple of Ford\u2019s knaves, his hinds, were\n    call\u2019d forth by their mistress, to carry me in the\n    name of foul cloaths to Datchet-lane. They took\n    me on their shoulders, met the jealous knave their\n    master in the door, who ask\u2019d them once or twice\n    what they had in their basket. I quak\u2019d for fear,\n    left the lunatic knave would have search\u2019d it; but\n    Fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his\n    hand. Well, on went he for a search, and away\n    went I for foul cloaths. But mark the sequel, Master\n    Brook. I suffer\u2019d the pangs of three egregious\n    deaths: first, an intolerable fright, to be detected\n    by a jealous rotten bell weather; next, to be compass\u2019d\n    like a good bilbo, in the circumference of a\n    peck, hilt to point, heel to head; and then to be\n    stopt in, like a strong distillation, with stinking cloaths\n    that fretted in their own grease. Think of that, a\n    man of my kidney; think of that, that am as subject\n    to heat as butter; a man of continual dissolution\n    and thaw; it was a miracle to \u2019scape suffocation.\n    And in the height of this bath, when I was\n    more than half-stew\u2019d in grease, like a Dutch dish,\n    to be thrown into the Thames, and cool\u2019d glowing\n    hot, in that surge, like a horse-shoe; think of\n    that; hissing hot; think of that, Master Brook.\n         _Merry wives of Windsor, act 3. sc. 17._\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. VIII.\n\nResemblance and Contrast.\n\n\nHaving discussed those qualities and circumstances of single objects\nthat seem peculiarly connected with criticism, we proceed, according to\nthe method proposed in the chapter of beauty, to the relations of\nobjects, beginning with the relations of resemblance and contrast.\n\nMan being unavoidably connected with the beings around him, some\nacquaintance with their nature, their powers, and their qualities, is\nrequisite for regulating his conduct. As an incentive to acquire a\nbranch of knowledge so essential to our well-being, motives alone of\nreason and interest are not sufficient. Nature hath providently\nsuperadded curiosity, a vigorous propensity which never is at rest. It\nis this propensity which attaches us to every new object[78]; and in\nparticular incites us to consider objects in the way of comparison, in\norder to discover their differences and resemblances.\n\nResemblance among objects of the same kind, and dissimilitude among\nobjects of different kinds, are too obvious and familiar to gratify our\ncuriosity in any degree. The gratification lies in discovering\ndifferences among things where resemblance prevails, and in discovering\nresemblances where difference prevails. Thus a difference in individuals\nof the same kind of plants or animals is deemed a discovery, while the\nmany particulars in which they agree are neglected: and in different\nkinds, any resemblance is greedily remarked, without attending to the\nmany particulars in which they differ.\n\nA comparison however may be too far stretched. When differences or\nresemblances are carried beyond certain bounds, they appear slight and\ntrivial; and for that reason will not be relished by one of taste. Yet\nsuch propensity is there to gratify passion, curiosity in particular,\nthat even among good writers, we find many comparisons too slight to\nafford satisfaction. Hence the frequent instances among logicians, of\ndistinctions without any solid difference: and hence the frequent\ninstances among poets and orators, of similes without any just\nresemblance. With regard to the latter, I shall confine myself to one\ninstance, which will probably amuse the reader, being a citation not\nfrom a poet nor orator, but from a grave author writing an institute of\nlaw. \u201cOur student shall observe, that the knowledge of the law is like a\ndeep well, out of which each man draweth according to the strength of\nhis understanding. He that reacheth deepest, seeth the amiable and\nadmirable secrets of the law, wherein I assure you the sages of the law\nin former times have had the deepest reach. And as the bucket in the\ndepth is easily drawn to the uppermost part of the water, (for _nullum\nelementum in suo proprio loco est grave_), but take it from the water it\ncannot be drawn up but with a great difficulty; so, albeit beginnings of\nthis study seem difficult, yet when the professor of the law can dive\ninto the depth, it is delightful, easy, and without any heavy burden,\nso long as he keep himself in his own proper element[79].\u201d Shakespear\nwith much wit ridicules this disposition to simile-making, by putting in\nthe mouth of a weak man a resemblance much of a piece with that now\nmentioned.\n\n     _Fluellen._ I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is porn: I\n     tell you, Captain, if you look in the maps of the orld, I warrant\n     that you sall find, in the comparisons between Macedon and\n     Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a\n     river in Macedon, there is also moreover a river in Monmouth: it is\n     call\u2019d _Wye_ at Monmouth, but it is out of my prains what is the\n     name of the other river; but it is all one, \u2019tis as like as my\n     fingers to my fingers, and there is salmons in both. If you mark\n     Alexander\u2019s life well, Harry of Monmouth\u2019s life is come after it\n     indifferent well; for there is figures in all things. Alexander,\n     God knows, and you know, in his rages, and his furies, and his\n     wraths, and his cholers, and his moods, and his displeasures, and\n     his indignations, and also being a little intoxicates in his\n     prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look you, kill his pest\n     friend Clytus.\n\n     _Gower._ Our King is not like him in that, he never kill\u2019d any of\n     his friends.\n\n     _Fluellen._ It is not well done, mark you now, to take the tales\n     out of my mouth, ere it is made and finished. I speak but in\n     figures, and comparisons of it: As Alexander kill\u2019d his friend\n     Clytus, being in his ales and his cups; so also Harry Monmouth,\n     being in his right wits and his good judgments, turn\u2019d away the fat\n     knight with the great belly-doublet; he was full of jests, and\n     gypes, and knaveries, and mocks: I have forgot his name.\n\n     _Gower._ Sir John Falstaff.\n\n     _Fluellen._ That is he: I tell you, there is good men porn at\n     Monmouth. _K. Henry_ V. _act 4. sc. 13._\n\nInstruction, no doubt, is the chief end of comparison, but not the only\nend. In works addressed to the imagination, comparison may be employed\nwith great success to put a subject in a strong point of view. A lively\nidea is formed of a man\u2019s courage, by likening it to that of a lion; and\neloquence is exalted in our imagination, by comparing it to a river\noverflowing its banks, and involving all in its impetuous course. The\nsame effect is produced by contrast. A man in prosperity, becomes more\nsensible of his happiness, by opposing his condition to that of a\nperson in want of bread. Thus comparison is subservient to poetry as\nwell as to philosophy; and with respect to both, the foregoing\nobservation holds equally, that resemblance among objects of the same\nkind, and contrast among objects of different kinds, have no effect.\nSuch a comparison neither tends to gratify our curiosity, nor to set the\nobjects compared in a stronger light. Two apartments in a palace,\nsimilar in shape, size, and furniture, make separately as good a figure\nas when compared; and the same observation applies to two similar\ncopartments in a garden. On the other hand, oppose a regular building to\na fall of water, or a good picture to a towering hill, or even a little\ndog to a large horse, and the contrast will produce no effect. But\nresemblance, where the objects compared are of different kinds, and\ncontrast where the objects compared are of the same kind, have each of\nthem remarkably an enlivening effect. The poets, such of them as have a\njust taste, draw all their similes from things that in the main differ\nwidely from the principal subject; and they never attempt a contrast but\nwhere the things have a common genus and a resemblance in the capital\ncircumstances. Place together a large and a small sized animal of the\nsame species, the one will appear greater the other less, than when\nviewed separately. When we oppose beauty to deformity, each makes a\ngreater figure by the comparison.\n\nUpon a subject not only in itself curious, but of great importance in\nall the fine arts, I must be more particular. That resemblance and\ncontrast have an enlivening effect upon objects of sight, is made\nsufficiently evident; and that they have the same effect upon objects of\nthe other senses, will appear from induction. Nor is this law confined\nto the external senses. Characters contrasted, make a greater figure by\nthe opposition. Iago, in the tragedy of _Othello_, says\n\n    He hath a daily beauty in his life,\n    That makes me ugly.\n\nThe character of a fop, and of a rough warrior, are no where more\nsuccessfully contrasted than by Shakespear.\n\n    _Hotspur._ My liege, I did deny no prisoners;\n    But I remember, when the fight was done,\n    When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil,\n    Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword;\n    Came there a certain Lord, neat, trimly dress\u2019d,\n    Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new-reap\u2019d,\n    Shew\u2019d like a stubble-land at harvest-home.\n    He was perfumed like a milliner;\n    And \u2019twixt his finger and his thumb he held\n    A pouncet-box, which ever and anon\n    He gave his nose;--and still he smil\u2019d, and talk\u2019d;\n    And as the soldiers bare dead bodies by,\n    He call\u2019d them untaught knaves, unmannerly,\n    To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse\n    Betwixt the wind and his nobility.\n    With many holiday and lady terms\n    He question\u2019d me: amongst the rest, demanded\n    My pris\u2019ners, in your Majesty\u2019s behalf.\n    I then all smarting with my wounds; being gal\u2019d\n    To be so pester\u2019d with a popinjay,\n    Out of my grief, and my impatience,\n    Answer\u2019d, neglectingly, I know not what:\n    He should, or should not; for he made me mad,\n    To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,\n    And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman,\n    Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!)\n    And telling me, the sovereign\u2019st thing on earth\n    Was parmacity, for an inward bruise;\n    And that it was great pity, so it was,\n    This villanous saltpetre should be digg\u2019d\n    Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,\n    Which many a good, tall fellow had destroy\u2019d\n    So cowardly: and but for these vile guns,\n    He would himself have been a soldier.--\n         _First part, Henry IV. act 1. sc. 4._\n\nPassions and emotions are also inflamed by comparison. A man of high\nrank humbles the bystanders so far as almost to annihilate them in their\nown opinion. C\u00e6sar, beholding the statue of Alexander, felt a great\ndepression of spirits, when he reflected, that now at the age of\nthirty-two, when Alexander died, he had not performed one memorable\naction.\n\nOur opinions also are much influenced by comparison. A man whose\nopulence exceeds the ordinary standard, is reputed richer than he is in\nreality; and the character of wisdom or weakness, if at all remarkable\nis generally carried beyond the truth.\n\nThe opinion a man forms of his present condition as to happiness or\nmisery, depends in a great measure on the comparison he makes betwixt it\nand his former condition:\n\n    Could I forget\n    What I have been, I might the better bear\n    What I am destin\u2019d to. I\u2019m not the first\n    That have been wretched: but to think how much\n    I have been happier.\n         _Southern\u2019s Innocent adultery, act 2._\n\nThe distress of a long journey makes even an indifferent inn pass\ncurrent. And in travelling, when the road is good and the horseman well\ncovered, a bad day may be agreeable, by making him sensible how snug he\nis.\n\nThe same effect is equally remarkable, when a man sets his condition in\nopposition to that of others. A ship tossed about in a storm, makes the\nspectator reflect upon his own security and ease, and puts these in the\nstrongest light:\n\n    Suave, mari magno turbantibus \u00e6quora ventis,\n    E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem,\n    Non quia vexari quemquam est jocunda voluptas,\n    Sed quibus ipse malis careas, quia cernere suave est.\n         _Lucret. l. 2. principio._\n\nA man in grief cannot bear mirth. It gives him a more lively notion of\nhis unhappiness, and of course makes him more unhappy. Satan\ncontemplating the beauties of the terrestrial paradise, breaks out in\nthe following exclamation.\n\n    With what delight could I have walk\u2019d thee round,\n    If I could joy in ought, sweet interchange\n    Of hill and valley, rivers, woods, and plains,\n    Now land, now sea, and shores with forest crown\u2019d,\n    Rocks, dens, and caves! but I in none of these\n    Find place or refuge; and the more I see\n    Pleasures about me, so much more I feel\n    Torment within me, as from the hateful siege\n    Of contraries: all good to me becomes\n    Bane, and in heav\u2019n much worse would be my state.\n         _Paradise Lost, book 9. l. 114._\n\n    _Gaunt._ All places that the eye of heaven visits,\n    Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.\n    Teach thy necessity to reason thus:\n    There is no virtue like necessity.\n    Think not the King did banish thee;\n    But thou the King. Wo doth the heavier sit,\n    Where it perceives it is but faintly borne.\n    Go say, I sent thee forth to purchase honour;\n    And not, the King exil\u2019d thee. Or suppose,\n    Devouring pestilence hangs in our air,\n    And thou art flying to a fresher clime,\n    Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it\n    To lie that way thou go\u2019st, not whence thou com\u2019st.\n    Suppose the singing birds, musicians;\n    The grass whereon thou tread\u2019st, the presence-floor;\n    The flow\u2019rs, fair ladies; and thy steps, no more\n    Than a delightful measure, or a dance.\n    For gnarling Sorrow hath less power to bite\n    The man that mocks at it, and sets it light.\n\n    _Bolingbroke._ Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand,\n    By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?\n    Or cloy the hungry edge of Appetite,\n    By bare imagination of a feast?\n    Or wallow naked in December snow,\n    By thinking on fantastic summer\u2019s heat?\n    Oh, no! the apprehension of the good\n    Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.\n         _King Richard II. act 1. sc. 6._\n\nThe appearance of danger gives sometimes pleasure, sometimes pain. A\ntimorous person upon the battlements of a high tower, is seized with\nterror, which even the consciousness of security cannot dissipate. But\nupon one of a firm head, this situation has a contrary effect. The\nappearance of danger heightens by opposition the consciousness of\nsecurity, and of consequence the satisfaction that arises from security.\nThe feeling here resembles that above mentioned occasioned by a ship\nlabouring in a storm.\n\nThis effect of magnifying or lessening objects by means of comparison,\nis so familiar, that no philosopher has thought of searching for a\ncause[80]. The obscurity of the subject may possibly have contributed to\ntheir silence. But luckily in treating other subjects, a principle is\nunfolded which will clearly account for this phenomenon. It depends\nupon the power of passion to model our opinion of objects for its\ngratification[81]. We have had occasion to see many illustrious examples\nof this singular power of passion; and the present subject affords an\nadditional instance. That this is the cause, will evidently appear, by\nreflecting in what manner a spectator is affected, when a very large\nanimal is for the first time placed beside a very small one of the same\nspecies. The opposition is the first thing that strikes the mind: the\nunusual appearance gives surprise; and the spectator, prone to gratify\nthis emotion, conceives the opposition to be the greatest that can be.\nHe sees, or seems to see, the one animal extremely little, and the other\nextremely large. The emotion of surprise arising from any unusual\nresemblance, serves equally to explain why at first view we are apt to\nthink such resemblance more entire than it is in reality. And it must be\nobserved, that the circumstances of more and less, which are the proper\nsubjects of comparison, raise a perception so indistinct and vague as\nto facilitate the effect described. We have no mental standard of great\nand little, nor of the several degrees of any attribute; and the mind\nthus unrestrained, is naturally disposed to indulge its surprise to the\nutmost extent.\n\nIn exploring the operations of the mind, some of which are extremely\nnice and slippery, it is necessary to proceed with the utmost\ncircumspection. And after all, seldom it happens that speculations of\nthis kind afford any strong conviction. Luckily, in the present case, we\nhave at hand facts and experiments that support the foregoing theory in\na satisfactory manner. In the first place, the opposing a small object\nof one species to a great object of another, produces not, in any\ndegree, that effect of contrast, which is so remarkable when both\nobjects are of the same species. There is no difference betwixt these\ntwo cases that promiseth to have any influence, but only that the former\nis common, the latter rare. May we not then fairly conclude, that\nsurprise from the rarity of appearance is the cause of contrast, when\nwe find no such effect where the appearance is common? In the next\nplace, if surprise be the sole cause of the effects that appear in\nmaking a comparison, it follows necessarily that these effects will\nvanish so soon as a comparison becomes familiar. This holds so\nunerringly, as to leave no reasonable doubt that surprise is the prime\nmover in this operation. Our surprise is great the first time a small\nlapdog is seen with a large mastiff: but when two such animals are\nconstantly together, there is no surprise; and it makes no difference\nwhether they be viewed separately or in company. We put no bounds to the\nriches of a man who has recently made his fortune. The opposition\nbetwixt his present and past situation, or betwixt his present situation\nand that of others, is carried to an extreme. With regard to a family\nthat for many generations hath enjoyed great wealth, the same false\nreckoning is not made. It is equally remarkable, that a simile loses its\neffect by repetition. A lover compared to a moth scorching itself at the\nflame of a candle, is a sprightly simile, which by frequent use has\nlost all force. Love cannot now be compared to fire, without some degree\nof disgust. It has been justly objected against Homer, that the lion is\ntoo often introduced in his similes. All the variety he is able to throw\ninto them, is not sufficient to keep alive the reader\u2019s surprise.\n\nTo explain the influence of comparison upon the mind, I have chosen the\nsimplest case, that of two animals of the same kind, differing in size\nonly, seen for the first time. To complete the theory, other\ncircumstances must be taken in. And the next supposition I shall make,\nis where both animals, separately familiar to the spectator, are brought\ntogether for the first time. In this case, the effect of magnifying and\ndiminishing, will be found remarkably greater than in that first\nmentioned. And the reason will appear upon analyzing the operation. The\nfirst thing we feel is surprise, occasioned by the uncommon difference\nof two creatures of the same species. We are next sensible, that the one\nappears less, the other larger, than they did formerly. This new\ncircumstance is a second cause of surprise, and augments it so as to\nmake us imagine a still greater opposition betwixt the animals, than if\nwe had formed no notion of them beforehand.\n\nI shall confine myself to one other supposition, That the spectator was\nacquainted beforehand with one of the animals only, the lapdog for\nexample. This new circumstance will vary the effect. Instead of widening\nthe natural difference by enlarging in appearance the one animal and\ndiminishing the other in proportion, the whole apparent alteration will\nrest upon the lapdog. The surprise to find it less than judged to be\nformerly, will draw the whole attention of the mind upon it; and this\nsurprise will be gratified, by conceiving it to be of the most\ndiminutive size possible. The mastiff in the mean time is quite\nneglected. I am able to illustrate this effect by a very familiar\nexample. Take a piece of paper or linen reckoned to be a good white, and\ncompare it with something of the same kind that is a pure white. The\njudgement we formed of the first object is instantly varied; and the\nsurprise occasioned by finding it not so white as was thought,\nproduceth a hasty conviction that it is much less white than it is in\nreality. Withdrawing now the pure white, and putting in its place a deep\nblack, the surprise occasioned by this new circumstance carries our\nthought to the other extreme, and we now conceive the original object to\nbe a pure white. Thus experience forces us to acknowledge, that our\nemotions have an influence even upon our eye-sight. This experiment\nleads to a general observation, That whatever is found more strange or\nbeautiful than was expected, is judged to be more strange or beautiful\nthan it is in reality. Hence it is a common artifice, to depreciate\nbeforehand what we wish to make a figure in the eyes of others.\n\nThe comparisons employed by poets and orators, coincide with the\nlast-mentioned supposition. It is always a known object that is to be\naggrandized or lessened. The former is effectuated by likening it to\nsome grand object, or by contrasting it with one that has the opposite\ncharacter. To effectuate the latter, the method must be reversed. The\nobject must be contrasted with something superior to itself, or likened\nto something inferior. The whole effect is produced upon the principal\nsubject, which by this means is elevated above its rank or depressed\nbelow it.\n\nIn accounting for the effect that any unusual resemblance or contrast\nhas upon the mind, I have hitherto assigned no other cause but surprise;\nand to prevent confusion and obscurity, I thought it proper to discuss\nthat principle first. But surprise is not the only cause of the effect\ndescribed. Another cause concurs, which operates perhaps not less\npowerfully than surprise. This cause is a principle in human nature that\nlies still in obscurity, not having been evolved by any writer, though\nits effects are extensive. As it is not distinguished by a proper name,\nthe reader must be satisfied with the following description. No man who\nstudies himself or others but must be sensible of a tendency or\npropensity in the mind to complete every work that is begun, and to\ncarry things to their full perfection. This principle has little\nopportunity to display itself upon natural operations, which are seldom\nleft imperfect. But in the operations of art it hath great scope; and\ndisplays itself remarkably, by making us persevere in our own work, and\nby making us wish for the completion of what is done by another. We feel\na sensible pleasure when the work is brought to perfection; and our pain\nis not less sensible when we are disappointed. Hence our uneasiness,\nwhen an interesting story is broke off in the middle, when a piece of\nmusic ends without a close, or when a building or garden is left\nimperfect. The same principle operates in making collections, such as\nthe whole works good and bad of any author. A certain person endeavoured\nto collect prints of all the capital paintings, and succeeded except as\nto a few. La Bruyere remarks, that an anxious search was made for these,\nnot on account of their value, but to complete the set[82].\n\nThe final cause of this principle is an additional proof of its\nexistence. Human works are of no significancy till they be completed.\nReason is not always a sufficient counterbalance to indolence: and some\nprinciple over and above is necessary, to excite our industry, and to\nprevent our stopping short in the middle of the course.\n\nWe need not lose time in describing the co-operation of the foregoing\nprinciple with surprise in producing the effect that is felt upon the\nappearance of any unusual resemblance or contrast. Surprise first\noperates, and carries our opinion of the resemblance or contrast beyond\nthe truth. The principle we have been describing carries us still\nfarther; for being bent upon gratification, it forces upon the mind a\nconviction that the resemblance or contrast is complete. We need no\nbetter illustration than the resemblance that is fancied in some\npebbles to a tree or an insect. The resemblance, however faint in\nreality, is conceived to be wonderfully perfect. This tendency to\ncomplete a resemblance acting jointly with surprise, carries the mind\nsometimes so far as even to presume upon future events. In the Greek\ntragedy, intitled, _Phineides_, those unhappy women, seeing the place\nwhere it was intended they should be slain, cried out with anguish,\n\u201cThey now saw their cruel destiny had condemned them to die in that\nplace, being the same where they had been exposed in their infancy[83].\u201d\n\nThis remarkable principle which inclines us to advance every thing to\nits perfection, not only co-operates with surprise to deceive the mind,\nbut of itself is able to produce that effect. Of this we see many\ninstances where there is no place for surprise. The first instance I\nshall give is of resemblance. _Unumquodque eodem modo dissolvitur quo\ncolligatum est_, is a maxim in the Roman law that has no foundation in\ntruth. For tying and loosing, building and demolishing, are acts\nopposite to each other, and are performed by opposite means. But when\nthese acts are connected by their relation to the same subject, their\nconnection leads us to imagine a sort of resemblance betwixt them, which\nthe foregoing principle makes us conceive to be as complete as possible.\nThe next instance shall be of contrast. Addison observes[84], \u201cThat the\npalest features look the most agreeable in white; that a face which is\noverflushed appears to advantage in the deepest scarlet; and that a dark\ncomplexion is not a little alleviated by a black hood.\u201d The foregoing\nprinciple serves to account for these appearances. To make this evident,\none of the cases shall suffice. A complexion, however dark, never\napproaches to black. When these colours appear together, their\nopposition strikes us; and the propensity we have to complete the\nopposition, makes the darkness of complexion vanish out of sight.\n\nThe operation of this principle, even where there is no ground for\nsurprise, is not confined to opinion or conviction. So powerful is it,\nas to make us sometimes proceed to action in order to complete a\nresemblance or contrast. If this appear obscure, it will be made clear\nby the following instances. Upon what principle is the _lex talionis_\nfounded other than to make the punishment resemble the mischief? Reason\ndictates, that there ought to be a conformity or resemblance betwixt a\ncrime and its punishment; and the foregoing principle impells us to make\nthe resemblance as complete as possible. Titus Livius, influenced by\nthis principle, accounts for a certain punishment by a resemblance\nbetwixt it and the crime, far too subtile for common apprehension.\nSpeaking of Mettus Fuffetius, the Alban general, who, for treachery to\nthe Romans, his allies, was sentenced to be torn to pieces by horses, he\nputs the following speech in the mouth of Tullus Hostilius, who decreed\nthe punishment. \u201cMette Fuffeti, inquit, si ipse discere posses fidem ac\nf\u0153dera servare, vivo tibi ea disciplina a me adhibita esset. Nunc,\nquoniam tuum insanabile ingenium est, at tu tuo supplicio doce humanum\ngenus, ea sancta credere, qu\u00e6 a te violata sunt. Ut igitur paulo ante\nanimum inter Fidenatem Romanamque rem ancipitem gessisti, ita jam corpus\npassim distrahendum dabis[85].\u201d By the same influence, the sentence is\noften executed upon the very spot where the crime was committed. In the\n_Electra_ of Sophocles, Egistheus is dragged from the theatre into an\ninner room of the supposed palace, to suffer death where he murdered\nAgamemnon. Shakespear, whose knowledge of nature is not less profound\nthan extensive, has not overlooked this propensity:\n\n     _Othello._ Get me some poison, Iago, this night; I\u2019ll not\n     expostulate with her, lest her body and her beauty unprovide my\n     mind again; this night, Iago.\n\n     _Iago._ Do it not with poison; strangle her in her bed, even in the\n     bed she hath contaminated.\n\n     _Othello._ Good, good: The justice of it pleases; very good.\n     _Othello, act 4. sc. 5._\n\n    _Warwick._ From off the gates of York fetch down the head,\n    Your father\u2019s head which Clifford placed there.\n    Instead whereof let his supply the room.\n    Measure for measure must be answered.\n         _Third Part of Henry VI. act 2. sc. 9._\n\nPersons in their last moments are generally seized with an anxiety to be\nburied with their relations. In the _Amynta_ of Tasso, the lover,\nhearing that his mistress was torn to pieces by a wolf, expresses a\ndesire to die the same death[86].\n\nUpon the subject in general, I have two remarks to add. The first\nconcerns resemblance, which when too entire hath no effect, however\ndifferent in kind the things compared may be. This remark is applicable\nto works of art only; for natural objects of different kinds, have\nscarce ever an entire resemblance. Marble is a sort of matter, very\ndifferent from what composes an animal; and marble cut into a human\nfigure, produces great pleasure by the resemblance. But let a marble\nstatue be coloured like a picture, the resemblance is so entire as to\nproduce no effect. At a distance, it appears a real person. We discover\nthe mistake when we approach; and no other emotion is raised but\nsurprise occasioned by the deception. The idea of resemblance is sunk\ninto that of identity. The figure still appears to our eyes rather to be\na real person than a resemblance of it; and we must make use of our\nreflection to correct the mistake. This cannot happen in a picture; for\nthe resemblance can never be so entire as to disguise the imitation.\n\nThe other remark regards contrast. Emotions make the greatest figure\nwhen contrasted in succession. But then the succession ought neither to\nbe precipitate nor immoderately slow. If too slow, the effect of\ncontrast becomes faint by the distance of the emotions; and if\nprecipitate, no single emotion has room to expand itself to its full\nsize; but is stifled as it were in the birth by a succeeding emotion.\nThe funeral oration of the Bishop of Meaux upon the Duchess of Orleans,\nis a perfect hotchpotch of chearful and melancholy representations\nfollowing each other in the quickest succession. Opposite emotions are\nbest felt in succession: but each emotion separately should be raised to\nits due pitch, before another be introduced.\n\nWhat is above laid down, will enable us to determine a very important\nquestion concerning emotions raised by the fine arts, _viz._ What ought\nto be the rule of succession; whether ought resemblance to be studied or\ncontrast? The emotions raised by the fine arts, are generally too nearly\nrelated to make a figure by resemblance; and for that reason, their\nsuccession ought to be regulated as much as possible by contrast. This\nholds confessedly in epic and dramatic compositions: and the best\nwriters, led perhaps by a good taste more than by reasoning, have\ngenerally aimed at this beauty. In the same cantata, all the variety of\nemotions that are within the power of music, may not only be indulged,\nbut, to make the greatest figure, ought to be contrasted. In gardening\nthere is an additional reason for the rule. The emotions raised by that\nart, are at best so faint, that every artifice should be used to give\nthem their utmost strength. A field may be laid out in grand, sweet,\ngay, neat, wild, melancholy scenes. When these are viewed in succession,\ngrandeur ought to be contrasted with neatness, regularity with wildness,\nand gaiety with melancholy; so as that each emotion may succeed its\nopposite. Nay it is an improvement to intermix in the succession, rude\nuncultivated spots as well as unbounded views, which in themselves are\ndisagreeable, but in succession heighten the feeling of the agreeable\nobjects. And we have nature for our guide, who in her most beautiful\nlandscapes often intermixes rugged rocks, dirty marshes, and barren\nstony heaths. The greatest matters of music, have the same view in their\ncompositions: the second part of an Italian song seldom conveys any\nsentiment; and, by its harshness, seems purposely contrived to give a\ngreater relish for the interesting parts of the composition.\n\nA small garden comprehended under a single view, affords little\nopportunity for this embellishment. Dissimilar emotions require\ndifferent tones of mind; and therefore in conjunction can never make a\ngood figure[87]. Gaiety and sweetness may be combined, or wildness and\ngloominess; but a composition of gaiety and gloominess is distasteful.\nThe rude uncultivated copartment of furze and broom in Richmond garden,\nhath a good effect in the succession of objects; but a spot of this\nnature would be insufferable in the midst of a polished parterre or\nflower-plot. A garden therefore, if not of great extent, will not admit\nof dissimilar emotions. And in ornamenting a small garden, the safest\ncourse is to confine it to a single expression. For the same reason, a\nlandscape ought also to be confined to a single expression. It is\naccordingly a rule in painting, That if the subject be gay, every figure\nought to contribute to that emotion.\n\nIt follows from the foregoing train of reasoning, that a garden near a\ngreat city, ought to have an air of solitude. The solitariness again of\na waste country ought to be contrasted in forming a garden; no temples,\nno obscure walks; but _jets d\u2019eau_, cascades, objects active, gay, and\nsplendid. Nay such a garden should in some measure avoid imitating\nnature, by taking on an extraordinary appearance of regularity and art,\nto show the busy hand of man, which in a waste country has a fine effect\nby contrast.\n\nIt may be gathered from what is said above[88], that wit and ridicule\nmake not an agreeable mixture with grandeur. Dissimilar emotions have a\nfine effect in a slow succession; but in a rapid succession, which\napproaches to co-existence, they will not be relished. In the midst of a\nlaboured and elevated description of a battle, Virgil introduces a\nludicrous image, which is certainly out of its place:\n\n    Obvius ambustum torrem Chorin\u00e6us ab ara\n    Corripit, et venienti Ebuso plagamque ferenti\n    Occupat os flammis: illi ingens barba reluxit,\n    Nidoremque ambusta dedit.\n         _\u00c6n._ xii. 298.\n\nThe following image is not less ludicrous, nor less improperly placed.\n\n    Mentre fan questi i bellici stromenti\n    Perche debbiano tosto in uso porse,\n    Il gran nemico de l\u2019humane genti,\n    Contra i Christiani i lividi occhi torse:\n    E lor veggendo a le bell\u2019 opre intenti,\n    Ambo le labra per furor si morse:\n    E qual tauro ferito, il suo dolore\n    Verso mugghiando e sospirando fuore.\n         _Gierusal. cant. 4. st. 1._\n\nIt would however be too austere, to banish altogether ludicrous images\nfrom an epic poem. This poem doth not always soar above the clouds. It\nadmits great variety; and upon occasions can descend even to the ground\nwithout sinking. In its more familiar tones, a ludicrous scene may be\nintroduced without impropriety. This is done by Virgil[89] in describing\na foot-race; the circumstances of which, not excepting the ludicrous\npart, are copied from Homer[90]. After a fit of merryment, we are, it\nis true, the less disposed to the serious and sublime: but then, a\nludicrous scene, by unbending the mind from severe application to more\ninteresting subjects, may prevent fatigue, and preserve our relish\nentire.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. IX.\n\nOf Uniformity and Variety.\n\n\nWhen I apply myself to explain uniformity and variety, and to show how\nwe are affected by these circumstances, it appears doubtful what method\nought to be followed. I foresee several difficulties in keeping close to\nmy text; and yet by indulging a range, such as may be necessary for a\nclear view, I shall certainly incur the censure of wandering.--Be it so.\nOne ought not to abandon the right track for fear of censure. The\ncollateral matters, beside, that will be introduced, are curious, and\nnot of slight importance in the science of human nature.\n\nThe necessary succession of perceptions, is a subject formerly handled,\nso far as it depends on the relations of objects and their mutual\nconnections[91]. But that subject is not exhausted; and I take the\nliberty to introduce it a second time, in order to explain in what\nmanner we are affected by uniformity and variety. The world we inhabit\nis replete with things not less remarkable for their variety than their\nnumber. These, unfolded by the wonderful mechanism of external sense,\nfurnish the mind with many perceptions, which, joined with ideas of\nmemory, of imagination, and of reflection, form a complete train that\nhas not a gap or interval. This tide of objects, in a continual flux, is\nin a good measure independent of will. The mind, as has been\nobserved[92], is so constituted, \u201cThat it can by no effort break off the\nsuccession of its ideas, nor keep its attention long fixt upon the same\nobject.\u201d We can arrest a perception in its course; we can shorten its\nnatural duration, to make room for another; we can vary the succession\nby change of place or amusement; and we can in some measure prevent\nvariety, by frequently recalling the same object after short intervals:\nbut still there must be a succession, and a change from one thing to\nanother. By artificial means, the succession may be retarded or\naccelerated, may be rendered more various or more uniform, but in one\nshape or other is unavoidable.\n\nThe rate of succession, even when left to its ordinary course, is not\nalways the same. There are natural causes that accelerate or retard it\nconsiderably. The first I shall mention depends on a peculiar\nconstitution of mind. One man is distinguished from another, by no\ncircumstance more remarkably than the movement of his train of\nperceptions. A cold languid temper is accompanied with a slow course of\nperceptions, which occasions dulness of apprehension and sluggishness in\naction. To a warm temper, on the contrary, belongs a quick course of\nperceptions, which occasions quickness of apprehension and activity in\nbusiness. The Asiatic nations, the Chinese especially, are observed to\nbe more cool and deliberate than the Europeans: may not the reason be,\nthat heat enervates by exhausting the spirits? A certain degree of cold,\nsuch as is felt in the middle regions of Europe, by bracing the fibres,\nrouses the mind, and produces a brisk circulation of thought,\naccompanied with vigour in action. In youth there is observable a\nquicker succession of perceptions, than in old age. Hence in youth a\nremarkable avidity for variety of amusements, which in riper years give\nplace to more uniform and more sedate occupation. This qualifies men of\nmiddle age for business, where activity is required, but with a greater\nproportion of uniformity than variety. In old age, a slow and languid\nsuccession makes variety unnecessary; and for that reason, the aged, in\nall their motions, are generally governed by an habitual uniformity.\nWhatever be the cause, we may venture to pronounce, that heat in the\nimagination and temper, is always connected with a brisk flow of\nperceptions.\n\nThe natural rate of succession, depends also in some degree upon the\nparticular perceptions that compose the train. An agreeable object,\ntaking a strong hold of the mind, occasions a slower succession than\nwhen the objects are indifferent. Grandeur and novelty fix the attention\nfor a considerable time, excluding all other ideas; and the mind thus\noccupied feels no vacuity. Some emotions, by hurrying the mind from\nobject to object, accelerate the succession. Where the train is composed\nof connected objects, the succession is quick. For it is so ordered by\nnature, that the mind goes easily and sweetly along connected\nobjects[93]. On the other hand, the succession must be slow where the\ntrain is composed of unconnected objects. An unconnected object, finding\nno ready access to the mind, requires time to make an impression. And\nthat it is not admitted without a struggle, appears from the unsettled\nstate of the mind for some moments after it is presented, wavering\nbetwixt it and the former train. During this short period, one or other\nof the former objects will intrude, perhaps oftener than once, till the\nattention be fixt entirely upon the new object. The same observations\nare applicable to ideas suggested by language. The mind can bear a quick\nsuccession of related ideas. But an unrelated idea, for which the mind\nis not prepared, takes time to make a distinct impression; and therefore\na train composed of such ideas, ought to proceed with a slow pace. Hence\nan epic poem, a play, or any story connected in all its parts, may be\nperused in a shorter time, than a book of maxims or apothegms, of which\na quick succession creates both confusion and fatigue.\n\nSuch latitude hath nature indulged in the rate of succession. What\nlatitude it indulges with respect to uniformity we proceed to examine.\nThe uniformity or variety of a train, so far as composed of external\nobjects, depends on the particular objects that surround the percipient\nat the time. The present occupation must also have an influence; one is\nsometimes engaged in a multiplicity of affairs, sometimes altogether\nvacant. A natural train of ideas of memory is more circumscribed, each\nobject being linked, by some connection, to what precedes and to what\nfollows it. These connections, which are many and of different kinds,\nafford scope for a sufficient degree of variety; and at the same time\nprevent any excess that is unpleasant. Temper and constitution also have\nan influence here, as well as upon the rate of succession. A man of a\ncalm and sedate temper, admits not willingly any idea but what is\nregularly introduced by a proper connection. One of a roving disposition\nembraces with avidity every new idea, however slender its relation be to\nthose that go before it. Neither must we overlook the nature of the\nperceptions that compose the train; for their influence is not less with\nrespect to uniformity and variety, than with respect to the rate of\nsuccession. The mind ingrossed by any passion, love or hatred, hope or\nfear, broods over its object, and can bear no interruption. In such a\nstate, the train of perceptions must not only be slow, but extremely\nuniform. Anger newly inflamed eagerly grasps its object, and leaves not\na cranny in the mind for another thought than of revenge. In the\ncharacter of Hotspur, this state of mind is represented to the life; a\npicture remarkable for high colouring as well as for strictness of\nimitation:\n\n    _Worcester._ Peace, cousin, say no more.\n    And now I will unclasp a secret book,\n    And to your quick-conceiving discontents\n    I\u2019ll read you matter, deep and dangerous;\n    As full of peril and advent\u2019rous spirit\n    As to o\u2019erwalk a current, roaring loud,\n    On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.\n\n    _Hotspur._ If he fall in, good-night. Or sink or swim,\n    Send danger from the east into the west,\n    So honour cross it from the north to south;\n    And let them grapple. O! the blood more stirs\n    To rouse a lion than to start a hare.\n\n    _Worcester._ Those same Noble Scots,\n    That are your prisoners----\n\n    _Hotspur._ I\u2019ll keep them all.\n    By Heav\u2019n, he shall not have a Scot of them:\n    No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not;\n    I\u2019ll keep them, by this hand.\n\n    _Worcester._ You start away,\n    And lend no ear unto my purposes;\n    Those pris\u2019ners you shall keep.\n\n    _Hotspur._ I will; that\u2019s flat:\n    He said, he would not ransom Mortimer:\n    Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer:\n    But I will find him when he lies asleep,\n    And in his ear I\u2019ll holla _Mortimer_!\n    Nay, I will have a starling taught to speak\n    Nothing but _Mortimer_, and give it him,\n    To keep his anger still in motion.\n\n    _Worcester._ Hear you, cousin, a word.\n\n    _Hotspur._ All studies here I solemnly defy,\n    Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke:\n    And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales,\n    (But that I think his father loves him not,\n    And would be glad he met with some mischance),\n    I\u2019d have him poison\u2019d with a pot of ale.\n\n    _Worcester._ Farewel, my kinsman, I will talk to you,\n    When you are better temper\u2019d to attend.\n         _First part, Henry_ IV. _act 1. sc. 4._\n\nHaving viewed a train of perceptions as directed by nature, and the\nvariations it is susceptible of from different necessary causes, we\nproceed to examine how far it is subjected to will; for that will hath\nsome influence, more or less, is observed above. And first, the rate of\nsuccession may be retarded by insisting upon one object, and propelled\nby dismissing another before its time. But such voluntary mutations in\nthe natural course of succession, have limits that cannot be extended by\nthe most painful efforts. The mind circumscribed in its capacity,\ncannot, at the same instant, admit many perceptions; and when replete,\nit has no place for new perceptions till others be removed. For this\nreason, a voluntary change of perceptions cannot be instantaneous; and\nthe time it requires sets bounds to the velocity of succession. On the\nother hand, the power we have to arrest a flying perception, is equally\nlimited. The longer we detain any perception, the more difficulty we\nfind in the operation; till, the difficulty becoming unsurmountable, we\nare forced to quit our hold, and to permit the train to take its usual\ncourse.\n\nThe power we have over this train as to uniformity and variety, is in\nsome cases very great, in others very little. A train so far as composed\nof external objects, depends entirely on the place we occupy, and admits\nnot more or less variety but by change of place. A train composed of\nideas of memmory, is still less under our power. Objects which are\nconnected, afford the mind an easy passage from one to another. They\nsuggest each other in idea by the same means; and we cannot at will call\nup any idea that is not connected with the train[94]. But a train of\nideas suggested by reading, may be varied at will, provided we have\nbooks in store.\n\nThis power which nature hath given us over our train of perceptions, may\nbe greatly strengthened by proper discipline, and by an early\napplication to business. Its improved strength is remarkable in those\nwho have a strong genius for the mathematics: nor less remarkable in\npersons devoted to religious exercises, who pass whole days in\ncontemplation, and impose upon themselves long and severe penances. It\nis not to be conceived, what length a habit of activity in affairs will\ncarry some men. Let a stranger, or let any person to whom the sight is\nnot familiar, attend the Chancellor of Great Britain through the labours\nbut of one day, during a session of parliament: how great will be his\nastonishment! what multiplicity of law-business, what deep thinking, and\nwhat elaborate application to matters of government! The train of\nperceptions must in this great man be accelerated far beyond the common\ncourse of nature. Yet no confusion nor hurry; but in every article the\ngreatest order and accuracy. Such is the force of habit! How happy is\nman, to have the command of a principle of action, that can elevate him\nso far above the ordinary condition of humanity[95]!\n\nWe are now ripe for considering a train of perceptions with respect to\npleasure and pain: and to this speculation we must give peculiar\nattention, because it serves to explain the effects that uniformity and\nvariety have upon the mind. A man is always in a pleasant state of mind,\nwhen his perceptions flow in their natural course. He feels himself\nfree, light, and easy, especially after any forcible acceleration or\nretardation. On the other hand, the resistance felt in retarding or\naccelerating the natural course, excites a pain, which, though scarcely\nfelt in small removes, becomes considerable toward the extremes. An\naversion to fix on any single object for a long time, or to take in a\nmultiplicity of objects in a short time, is remarkable in children; and\nequally so in men unaccustomed to business. A man languishes when the\nsuccession is very slow; and, if he grow not impatient, is apt to fall\nasleep. During a rapid succession, he hath a feeling as if his head were\nturning round. He is fatigued, and his pain resembles that of weariness\nafter bodily labour. External objects, when they occasion a very slow or\na very quick succession, produce a pain of the same sort with what it\nfelt in a voluntary retardation or acceleration: which shows that the\npain proceeds not from the violence of the action, but from the\nretardation or acceleration itself, disturbing that free and easy course\nof succession which is naturally pleasant.\n\nBut the mind is not satisfied with a moderate course alone: its\nperceptions must also be sufficiently diversified. Number without\nvariety constitutes not an agreeable train. In comparing a few objects,\nuniformity is agreeable: but the frequent reiteration of uniform\nobjects becomes unpleasant. One tires of a scene that is not\ndiversified; and soon feels a sort of unnatural restraint when confined\nwithin a narrow range, whether occasioned by a retarded succession or by\ntoo great uniformity. An excess in variety is, on the other hand,\nfatiguing. This is even perceptible in a train composed of related\nobjects: much more where the objects are unrelated; for an object,\nunconnected with the former train, gains not admittance without effort;\nand this effort, though scarce perceptible in a single instance, becomes\nby frequent reiteration exceeding painful. Whatever be the cause, the\nfact is certain, that a man never finds himself more at ease, than when\nhis perceptions succeed each other with a certain degree, not only of\nvelocity, but also of variety. Hence it proceeds, that a train\nconsisting entirely of ideas of memory, is never painful by too great\nvariety; because such ideas are not introduced otherwise than according\nto their natural connections[96]. The pleasure of a train of ideas, is\nthe most remarkable in a reverie; especially where the imagination\ninterposes, and is active in coining new ideas, which is done with\nwonderful facility. One must be sensible, that the serenity and ease of\nthe mind in this state, makes a great part of the enjoyment. The case is\ndifferent where external objects enter into the train; for these, making\ntheir appearance without any order, and without any connection save that\nof contiguity, form a train of perceptions that may be extremely uniform\nor extremely diversified; which, for opposite reasons, are both of them\npainful.\n\nAny acceleration or retardation of the natural run of perceptions, is\npainful even where it is voluntary. And it is equally painful to alter\nthat degree of variety which nature requires. Contemplation, when the\nmind is long attached to one thing, soon becomes painful by restraining\nthe free range of perception. Curiosity and the prospect of advantage\nfrom useful discoveries, may engage a man to prosecute his studies,\nnotwithstanding the pain they give him; and a habit of close attention,\nformed by frequent exercise, may soften the pain. But it is deeply felt\nby the bulk of mankind, and produceth in them an aversion to all\nabstract sciences. In any profession or calling, a train of operation\nthat is simple and reiterated without intermission, makes the operator\nlanguish, and lose his vigor. He complains neither of too great labour\nnor of too little action; but regrets the want of variety, and his being\nobliged to do the same thing over and over. Where the operation is\nsufficiently varied, the mind retains its vigor, and is pleased with its\ncondition. Actions again create an uneasiness when excessive in number\nor variety, though in every other respect agreeable. This uneasiness is\nextremely remarkable, where strict attention must be given, at the same\ntime, to a number of different things. Thus a throng of business in law,\nin physic, or in traffick, distresseth and distracts the mind, unless\nwhere a habit of application is acquired by long and constant exercise.\nThe excessive variety is the distressing circumstance; and the mind\nsuffers grievously by being kept constantly upon the stretch.\n\nWith relation to involuntary causes disturbing that degree of variety\nwhich nature requires, a slight pain affecting one part of the body\nwithout variation, becomes, by its constancy and long duration, almost\ninsupportable. The patient, sensible that the pain is not increased in\ndegree, complains of its constancy more than of its severity, that it\ningrosses his whole thoughts, and gives admission to no other object.\nPain, of all feelings, seizes the attention with the greatest force; and\nthe mind, after fruitless efforts to turn its view to objects more\nagreeable, must abandon itself to its tormentor. A shifting pain gives\nless uneasiness, because change of place contributes to variety. An\nintermitting pain, suffering other objects to intervene, is not\nincreased by reiteration. Again, any single colour or sound often\nreturning, becomes disagreeable; as may be observed in viewing a train\nof similar apartments painted with the same colour, and in hearing the\nprolonged tollings of a bell. Colour and sound varied within certain\nlimits, though without any order, are agreeable; witness a field\nvariegated with many colours of plants and flowers, and the various\nnotes of birds in a thicket. Increase the number or variety, and the\nfeeling becomes unpleasant. Thus a great variety of colours, crowded\nupon a small canvas or in quick succession, create an uneasy feeling,\nwhich is prevented by putting the colours at a greater distance either\nof place or time. A number of voices in a crowded assembly, a number of\nanimals collected in a market, produce an unpleasant emotion; though a\nfew of them together, or all of them in a moderate succession, would be\nagreeable. And because of the same excess in variety, a number of pains\nfelt in different parts of the body, at the same instant or in a rapid\nsuccession, make an exquisite torture.\n\nThe foregoing doctrine concerning the train of perceptions, and the\npleasure or pain resulting from that train in different circumstances,\nwill be confirmed by attending to the final cause of these effects. And\nas I am sensible that the mind, inflamed with speculations of this kind\nso highly interesting, is beyond measure disposed to conviction, I shall\nbe watchful to admit no argument nor remark but what appears solidly\nfounded. With this caution I proceed to the inquiry. It is occasionally\nobserved above, that persons of a phlegmatic temperament, having a\nsluggish train of perceptions, are indisposed to action; and that\nactivity constantly accompanies a brisk motion of perceptions. To\nascertain this fact, a man need not go abroad for experiments.\nReflecting upon things passing in his own mind, he will find, that a\nbrisk circulation of thought constantly prompts him to action; and that\nhe is averse to action when his perceptions languish in their course.\nBut man by nature is formed for action, and he must be active in order\nto be happy. Nature therefore hath kindly provided against indolence, by\nannexing pleasure to a moderate course of perceptions, and by making\nevery remarkable retardation painful. A slow course of perceptions is\nattended with another bad effect. Man in a few capital cases is governed\nby propensity or instinct; but in matters that admit deliberation and\nchoice, reason is assigned him for a guide. Now, as reasoning requires\noften a great compass of ideas, their succession ought to be so quick,\nas readily to furnish every motive that may be necessary for mature\ndeliberation. In a languid succession, motives will often occur after\naction is commenced, when it is too late to retreat.\n\nNature hath guarded man, her favourite, against a succession too rapid,\nnot less carefully than against one too slow. Both are equally painful,\nthough the pain is not the same in both. Many are the good effects of\nthis contrivance. In the first place, as the bodily faculties are by\ncertain painful sensations confined within proper limits, beyond which\nit would be dangerous to strain the tender organs, Nature, in like\nmanner, is equally provident with respect to the nobler faculties of the\nmind. Thus the pain of an accelerated course of perceptions, is Nature\u2019s\nadmonition to relax our pace, and to admit a more gentle exertion of\nthought. Another valuable purpose may be gathered, from considering in\nwhat manner objects are imprinted upon the mind. To make such an\nimpression as to give the memory fast hold of the object, time is\nrequired, even where attention is the greatest; and a moderate degree of\nattention, which is the common case, must be continued still longer to\nproduce the same effect. A rapid succession then must prevent objects\nfrom making impressions so deep as to be of real service in life; and\nNature accordingly for the sake of memory, has by a painful feeling\nguarded against a rapid succession. But a still more valuable purpose is\nanswered by this contrivance. As, on the one hand, a sluggish course of\nperceptions indisposeth to action; so, on the other, a course too rapid\nimpels to rash and precipitant action. Prudent conduct is the child of\ndeliberation and clear conception, for which there is no place in a\nrapid course of thought. Nature therefore, taking measures for prudent\nconduct, has guarded us effectually from precipitancy of thought, by\nmaking it painful.\n\nNature not only provides against a succession too slow or too quick, but\nmakes the middle course extremely pleasant. Nor is this middle course\nconfined within narrow bounds. Every man can naturally without pain\naccelerate or retard in some degree the rate of his perceptions; and he\ncan do this in a still greater degree by the force of habit. Thus a\nhabit of contemplation annihilates the pain of a retarded course of\nperceptions; and a busy life, after long practice, makes acceleration\npleasant.\n\nConcerning the final cause of our taste for variety, it will be\nconsidered, that human affairs, complex by variety as well as number,\nrequire the distributing our attention and activity, in measure and\nproportion. Nature therefore, to secure a just distribution\ncorresponding to the variety of human affairs, has made too great\nuniformity or too great variety in the course of our perceptions equally\nunpleasant. And indeed, were we addicted to either extreme, our internal\nconstitution would be ill suited to our external circumstances. At the\nsame time, where a frequent reiteration of the same operation is\nrequired, as in several manufactures, or a quick circulation, as in law\nor physic, Nature, attentive to all our wants, hath also provided for\nthese cases. She hath implanted in the breast of every person, an\nefficacious principle, which leads to habit. By an obstinate\nperseverance in the same occupation, the pain of excessive uniformity\nvanisheth; and by the like perseverance in a quick circulation of\ndifferent occupations, the pain of excessive variety vanisheth. And thus\nwe come to take delight in several occupations, that by nature, without\nhabit, are not a little disgustful.\n\nA middle rate also in our train of perceptions betwixt uniformity and\nvariety, is not less pleasant, than betwixt quickness and slowness. The\nmind of man thus constituted, is wonderfully adapted to the course of\nhuman affairs, which are continually changing, but not without\nconnection. It is equally adapted to the acquisition of knowledge, which\nresults chiefly from discovering resemblances among differing objects,\nand differences among resembling objects. Such occupation, even\nabstracting from the knowledge we acquire, is in itself delightful, by\npreserving a middle rate betwixt too great uniformity and too great\nvariety.\n\nWe are now arrived at the chief purpose of the present chapter; and that\nis to examine how far uniformity or variety ought to be studied in the\nfine arts. And the knowledge we have obtained, will even at first view\nsuggest a general observation, That in every work of art, it must be\nagreeable to find that degree of variety which corresponds to the\nnatural course of our perceptions; and that an excess in variety or in\nuniformity, must be disagreeable by varying that natural course. For\nthis reason, works of art admit more or less variety according to the\nnature of the subject. In a picture that strongly attaches the spectator\nto a single object, the mind relisheth not a multiplicity of figures or\nof ornaments. A picture again representing a gay subject, admits great\nvariety of figures and ornaments; because these are agreeable to the\nmind in a chearful tone. The same observation is applicable to poetry\nand to music.\n\nIt must at the same time be remarked, that one can bear a greater\nvariety of natural objects than of objects in a picture; and a greater\nvariety in a picture than in a description. A real object presented to\nthe view, makes an impression more readily than when represented in\ncolours, and much more readily than when represented in words. Hence it\nis, that the profuse variety of objects in some natural landscapes,\nneither breed confusion nor fatigue. And for the same reason, there is\nplace for greater variety of ornament in a picture, than in a poem.\n\nFrom these general observations I proceed to particulars. In works\nexposed continually to public view, variety ought to be studied. It is a\nrule accordingly in sculpture, to contrast the different limbs of a\nstatue, in order to give it all the variety possible. Though the cone in\na single view be more beautiful than the pyramid; yet a pyramidal\nsteeple, because of its variety, is justly preferred. For the same\nreason, the oval in compositions is preferred before the circle; and\npainters, in copying buildings or any regular work, endeavour to give an\nair of variety by representing the subject in an angular view: we are\npleased with the variety without losing sight of the regularity. In a\nlandscape representing animals, those especially of the same kind,\ncontrast ought to prevail. To draw one sleeping another awake, one\nsitting another in motion, one moving toward the spectator another from\nhim, is the life of such a performance.\n\nIn every sort of writing intended for amusement, variety is necessary in\nproportion to the length of the work. Want of variety is sensibly felt\nin Davila\u2019s history of the civil wars of France. The events are indeed\nimportant and various: but the reader languisheth by a tiresome\nuniformity of character; every person engaged being figured a consummate\npolitician, governed by interest only. It is hard to say, whether Ovid\ndisgusts more by too great variety or too great uniformity. His stories\nare all of the same kind, concluding invariably with the transformation\nof one being into another. So far he is tiresome with excess in\nuniformity. He also fatigues with excess in variety, by hurrying his\nreader incessantly from story to story. Ariosto is still more fatiguing\nthan Ovid, by exceeding the just bounds of variety. Not satisfied, like\nOvid, with a succession in his stories, he distracts the reader by\njumbling together a multitude of unconnected events. Nor is the Orlando\nFurioso less tiresome by its uniformity than the Metamorphoses, though\nin a different manner. After a story is brought to a crisis, the reader,\nintent upon the catastrophe, is suddenly snatched away to a new story,\nwhich is little regarded so long as the mind is occupied with the\nformer. This tantalizing method, from which the author never once\nswerves during the course of a long work, beside its uniformity, hath\nanother bad effect: it prevents that sympathy which is raised by an\ninteresting event when the reader meets with no interruption.\n\nThe emotions produced by our perceptions in a train, have been little\nconsidered, and less understood. The subject therefore required an\nelaborate discussion. It may surprise some readers, to find variety\ntreated as only contributing to make a train of perceptions pleasant,\nwhen it is commonly held to be a necessary ingredient in beauty of\nwhatever kind; according to the definition, \u201cThat beauty consists in\nuniformity amidst variety.\u201d But after the subject is explained and\nillustrated as above, I presume it will be evident, that this\ndefinition, however applicable to one or other species, is far from\nbeing just with respect to beauty in general. Variety contributes no\nshare to the beauty of a moral action, nor of a mathematical theorem;\nand numberless are the beautiful objects of sight that have little or no\nvariety in them. A globe, the most uniform of all figures, is of all the\nmost beautiful; and a square, though more beautiful than a trapezium,\nhath less variety in its constituent parts. The foregoing definition,\nwhich at best is but obscurely expressed, is only applicable to a number\nof objects in a group or in succession, among which indeed a due mixture\nof uniformity and variety is always agreeable, provided the particular\nobjects, separately considered, be in any degree beautiful. Uniformity\namidst variety among ugly objects, affords no pleasure. This\ncircumstance is totally omitted in the definition; and indeed to have\nmentioned it, would at first glance show the definition to be\nimperfect. To define beauty as arising from beautiful objects blended\ntogether in a due proportion of uniformity and variety, would be too\ngross to pass current; as nothing can be more gross, than to employ in a\ndefinition the very term that is proposed to be explained.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX to Chap. IX.\n\n_Concerning the works of nature._\n\n\nIn natural objects, whether we regard their internal or external\nstructure, beauty and design are equally conspicuous. We shall begin\nwith the outside of nature, as what first presents itself.\n\nThe figure of an organic body, is generally regular. The trunk of a\ntree, its branches, and their ramifications, are nearly round, and form\na series regularly decreasing from the trunk to the smallest fibre.\nUniformity is no where more remarkable than in the leaves, which, in\nthe same species, have all the same colour, size, and shape. The seeds\nand fruits are all regular figures, approaching for the most part to the\nglobular form. Hence a plant, especially of the larger kind, with its\ntrunk, branches, foliage, and fruit, is a delightful object.\n\nIn an animal, the trunk, which is much larger than the other parts,\noccupies a chief place. Its shape, like that of the stem of plants, is\nnearly round; a figure which of all is the most agreeable. Its two sides\nare precisely similar. Several of the under parts go off in pairs; and\nthe two individuals of each pair are accurately uniform. The single\nparts are placed in the middle. The limbs, bearing a certain proportion\nto the trunk, serve to support it, and to give it a proper elevation.\nUpon one extremity are disposed the neck and head, in the direction of\nthe trunk. The head being the chief part, possesses with great propriety\nthe chief place. Hence, the beauty of the whole figure, is the result of\nmany equal and proportional parts orderly disposed; and the smallest\nvariation in number, equality, proportion, or order, never fails to\nproduce a perception of ugliness and deformity.\n\nNature in no particular seems more profuse of ornament, than in the\nbeautiful colouring of her works. The flowers of plants, the furs of\nbeasts, and the feathers of birds, vie with each other in the beauty of\ntheir colours, which in lustre as well as in harmony are beyond the\npower of imitation. Of all natural appearances, the colouring of the\nhuman face is the most exquisite. It is the strongest instance of the\nineffable art of nature, in adapting and proportioning its colours to\nthe magnitude, figure, and position, of the parts. In a word, colour\nseems to live in nature only, and to languish under the finest touches\nof art.\n\nWhen we examine the internal structure of a plant or animal, a wonderful\nsubtility of mechanism is displayed. Man, in his mechanical operations,\nis confined to the surface of bodies. But the operations of nature are\nexerted through the whole substance, so as to reach even the elementary\nparts. Thus the body of an animal, and of a plant, are composed of\ncertain great vessels; these of smaller; and these again of still\nsmaller, without end so far we can discover. This power of diffusing\nmechanism through the most intimate parts, is peculiar to nature; and\ndistinguishes her operations, most remarkably, from every work of art.\nSuch texture, continued from the grosser parts to the most minute,\npreserves all along the strictest regularity. The fibres of plants are a\nbundle of cylindric canals, lying in the same direction, and parallel or\nnearly parallel to each other. In some instances, a most accurate\narrangement of parts is discovered, as in onions, formed of concentric\ncoats one within another to the very centre. An animal body is still\nmore admirable, in the disposition of its internal parts, and in their\norder and symmetry. There is not a bone, a muscle, a blood-vessel, a\nnerve, that hath not one corresponding to it on the opposite side of the\nanimal; and the same order is carried through the most minute parts. The\nlungs are composed of two parts, which are disposed upon the sides of\nthe thorax; and the kidneys, in a lower situation, have a position not\nless orderly. As to the parts that are single, the heart is\nadvantageously situated nigh the middle. The liver, stomach, and spleen,\nare disposed in the upper region of the abdomen, about the same height:\nthe bladder is placed in the middle of the body; as well as the\nintestinal canal, which fills the whole cavity by its convolutions.\n\nThe mechanical power of nature, not confined to small bodies, reacheth\nequally those of the greatest size; witness the bodies that compose the\nsolar system, which, however large, are weighed, measured, and subjected\nto certain laws, with the utmost accuracy. Their places around the sun,\nwith their distances, are determined by a precise rule, corresponding to\ntheir quantities of matter. The superior dignity of the central body, in\nrespect of its bulk and lucid appearance, is suited to the place it\noccupies. The globular figure of these bodies, is not only in itself\nbeautiful, but is above all others fitted for regular motion. Each\nplanet revolves about its own axis in a given time; and each moves round\nthe sun, in an orbit nearly circular, and in a time proportioned to its\ndistance. Their velocities, directed by an established law, are\nperpetually changing by regular accelerations and retardations. In fine,\nthe great variety of regular appearances, joined with the beauty of the\nsystem itself, cannot fail to produce the highest delight in every\nperson who can taste design, power, or beauty.\n\nNature hath a wonderful power of connecting systems with each other, and\nof propagating that connection through all her works. Thus the\nconstituent parts of a plant, the roots, the stem, the branches, the\nleaves, the fruit, are really different systems, united by a mutual\ndependence on each other. Thus in an animal, the lymphatic and lacteal\nducts, the blood-vessels and nerves, the muscles and glands, the bones\nand cartilages, the membranes and viscera, with the other organs, form\ndistinct systems, which are united into one whole. There are, at the\nsame time, other connections less intimate. Thus every plant is joined\nto the earth by its roots; it requires rain and dews to furnish it with\njuices; and it requires heat to preserve these juices in fluidity and\nmotion. Thus every animal, by its gravity, is connected with the earth,\nwith the element in which it breathes, and with the sun, by deriving\nfrom it cherishing and enlivening heat. The earth furnisheth aliment to\nplants, these to animals, and these again to other animals, in a long\ntrain of dependence. That the earth is part of a greater system,\ncomprehending many bodies mutually attracting each other, and\ngravitating all toward one common centre, is now thoroughly explored.\nSuch a regular and uniform series of connections, propagated through so\ngreat a number of beings and through such wide spaces, is wonderful: and\nour wonder must increase, when we observe this connection propagated\nfrom the minutest atoms to bodies of the most enormous size, and widely\ndiffused, so as that we can neither perceive its beginning nor its end.\nThat it doth not terminate within our own planetary system, is certain.\nThe connection is diffused over spaces still more remote, where new\nbodies and systems rise to our view, without end. All space is filled\nwith the works of God, which, being the operation of one hand, are\nformed by one plan, to answer one great end.\n\nBut the most wonderful connection of all, though not the most\nconspicuous, is that of our internal frame with the works of nature. Man\nis obviously fitted for contemplating these works, because in this\ncontemplation he has great delight. The works of nature are remarkable\nin their uniformity not less than in their variety; and the mind of man\nis fitted to receive pleasure equally from both. Uniformity and variety\nare interwoven in the works of nature with surprising art. Variety,\nhowever great, is never without some degree of uniformity; nor the\ngreatest uniformity, without some degree of variety. There is great\nvariety in the same plant, by the different appearances of its stem,\nbranches, leaves, blossoms, fruit, size, and colour; and yet when we\ntrace this variety through different plants, especially of the same\nkind, there is discovered a surprising uniformity. Again, where nature\nseems to have intended the most exact uniformity, as among individuals\nof the same kind, there still appears a diversity, which serves readily\nto distinguish one individual from another. It is indeed admirable, that\nthe human visage, in which uniformity is so prevalent, should yet be so\nmarked as to leave no room for mistaking one person for another. The\ndifference, though clearly perceived, is often so minute as to go beyond\nthe reach of description. A correspondence so perfect betwixt the human\nmind and the works of nature, is extremely remarkable. The opposition\nbetwixt variety and uniformity is so great, that one would not readily\nimagine they could both be relished by the same palate; at least not in\nthe same object, nor at the same time. It is however true, that the\npleasures they afford, being happily adjusted to each other, and readily\nmixing in intimate union, are frequently produced in perfection by the\nsame individual object. Nay further, in the objects that touch us the\nmost, uniformity and variety are constantly combined; witness natural\nobjects, where this combination is always found in perfection. It is\nfor that reason, that natural objects readily form themselves into\ngroups, and are agreeable in whatever manner combined: a wood with its\ntrees, shrubs, and herbs, is agreeable: the music of birds, the lowing\nof cattle, and the murmuring of a brook, are in conjunction delightful;\nthough they strike the ear without modulation or harmony. In short,\nnothing can be more happily accommodated to the inward constitution of\nman, than that mixture of uniformity with variety which the eye\ndiscovers in natural objects. And accordingly, the mind is never more\nhighly gratified than in contemplating a natural landscape.\n\n\nEnd of the FIRST VOLUME.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] See the Appendix, \u00a7 13.\n\n[2] Du Bos judiciously observes, that silence doth not tend to calm an\nagitated mind; but that soft and slow music hath a fine effect.\n\n[3] A taste for natural objects is born with us in perfection. To\nrelish a fine countenance, a rich landscape, or a vivid colour, culture\nis unnecessary. The observation holds equally in natural sounds, such\nas the singing of birds, or the murmuring of a brook. Nature here, the\nartificer of the object as well as of the percipient, hath suited them\nto each other with great accuracy. But of a poem, a cantata, a picture,\nand other artificial productions, a true relish is not commonly\nattained without study and practice.\n\n[4] \u201cThough logic may subsist without rhetoric or poetry, yet so\nnecessary to these last is a sound and correct logic, that without it\nthey are no better than warbling trifles.\u201d Hermes, p. 6.\n\n[5] Genius is allied to a warm and inflammable constitution, delicacy\nof taste to calmness and sedateness. Hence it is common to find genius\nin one who is a prey to every passion; which can scarce happen with\nrespect to delicacy of taste. Upon a man possessed of this blessing,\nthe moral duties, as well as the fine arts, make a deep impression,\nso as to counterbalance every irregular desire. And even supposing a\nstrong temptation, it can take no fast hold of a calm and sedate temper.\n\n[6] For how should this be done? What object is it that we are to call\nup? If this question can be answered, the object is already in the\nmind, and there is no occasion to exert the power. If the question\ncannot be answered, I next demand, how it is possible that a voluntary\npower can be exerted without any view of an object to exert it upon?\nWe cannot form a conception of such a thing. This argument appears to\nme satisfactory: if it need confirmation, I urge experience. Whoever\nmakes a trial will find, that objects are linked together in the mind,\nforming a connected chain; and that we have not the command of any\nobject independent of the chain.\n\n[7] A train of perceptions or ideas, with respect to its uniformity and\nvariety, is handled afterward, chap. 9.\n\n[8] Lib. 2. ode 13.\n\n[9] Lin. 231.\n\n[10] Lin. 136.\n\n[11] Lin. 475.\n\n[12] Lib. 4. lin. 173.\n\n[13] Part 1. sect. 4.\n\n[14] Introduction.\n\n[15] Introduction.\n\n[16] In tracing our emotions and passions to their origin, it once\nwas my opinion, that qualities and actions are the primary causes of\nemotions; and that these emotions are afterward expanded upon the being\nto which these qualities and actions belong. But I have discovered that\nopinion to be erroneous. An attribute is not, even in imagination,\nseparable from the being to which it belongs; and for that reason,\ncannot of itself be the cause of any emotion. We have, it is true, no\nknowledge of any being or substance but by means of its attributes;\nand therefore no being can be agreeable to us otherwise than by their\nmeans. But still, when an emotion is raised, it is the being itself,\nas we apprehend the matter, which raises the emotion; and it raises it\nby means of one or other of its attributes. If it be urged, That we\ncan in idea abstract a quality from the thing to which it belongs; it\nmight be answered, That an abstract idea, which serves excellently the\npurposes of reasoning, is too faint and too much strained to produce\nany sort of emotion. But it is sufficient for the present purpose to\nanswer, That the eye never abstracts. By this organ we perceive things\nas they really exist, and never perceive a quality as separated from\nthe subject. Hence it must be evident, that emotions are raised, not by\nqualities abstractly considered, but by the substance or body so and\nso qualified. Thus a spreading oak raises a pleasant emotion, by means\nof its colour, figure, umbrage, _&c._ It is not the colour strictly\nspeaking that produces the emotion, but the tree as coloured: it is\nnot the figure abstractly considered that produces the emotion, but\nthe tree considered as of a certain figure. And hence by the way it\nappears, that the beauty of such an object is complex, resolvable into\nseveral beauties more simple.\n\n[17] When this analysis of human nature is considered, not one article\nof which can with any shadow of truth be controverted, I cannot help\nbeing surprised at the blindness of some philosophers, who, by dark\nand confused notions, are led to deny all motives to action but what\narise from self-love. Man, for ought appears, might possibly have been\nso framed, as to be susceptible of no passions but what have self for\ntheir object. But man thus framed, would be ill fitted for society.\nMuch better is the matter ordered, by enduing him with passions\ndirected entirely to the good of others, as well as with passions\ndirected entirely to his own good.\n\n[18] See Essays upon morality and natural religion, part 1. essay 2.\nch. 4.\n\n[19] Such proneness has the mind to this communication of properties,\nthat we often find properties ascribed to a related object, of which\nnaturally it is not susceptible. Sir Richard Greenville in a single\nship being surprised by the Spanish fleet, was advised to retire.\nHe utterly refused to turn from the enemy; declaring, \u201che would\nrather die, than dishonour himself, his country, and her Majesty\u2019s\nship.\u201d _Hakluyt, vol. 2. part 2. p. 169._ To aid the communication\nof properties in such instances, there always must be a momentary\npersonification. A ship must be imagined a sensible being, to make\nit susceptible of honour or dishonour. In the battle of Mantinea,\nEpaminondas being mortally wounded, was carried to his tent in a manner\ndead. Recovering his senses, the first thing he inquired about was\nhis shield; which being brought, he kissed it as the companion of his\nvalour and glory. It must be remarked, that among the Greeks and Romans\nit was deemed infamous for a soldier to return from battle without his\nshield.\n\n[20] See chap. 1.\n\n[21] See Essays on morality and natural religion, part 1. ess. 2. ch. 5.\n\n[22] Lib. 7. cap. 36.\n\n[23] Aulus Gellius, lib. 5. cap. 14.\n\n[24] Brasidas being surprised by the bite of a mouse he had catched,\nlet it slip out of his fingers. \u201cNo creature (says he) is so\ncontemptible, but what may provide for its own safety, if it have\ncourage to defend itself.\u201d\n\n_Plutarch. Apothegmata._\n\n[25] Spectator, N\u00ba 439.\n\n[26] Part 1. sect. 1. of the present chapter.\n\n[27] At qu\u00e6 Polycleto defuerunt, Phidi\u00e6 atque Alcameni dantur. Phidias\ntamen diis quam hominibus efficiendis melior artifex traditur: in\nebore vero longe citra \u00e6mulum, vel si nihil nisi Minervam Athenis, aut\nOlympium in Elide Jovem fecisset, cujus pulchritudo adjecisse aliquid\netiam recept\u00e6 religioni videtur; adeo majestas operis Deum \u00e6quavit.\n\n_Quintilian, lib. 12. cap. 10. \u00a7 1._\n\n[28] See part 7. of this chapter.\n\n[29] See the place above cited.\n\n[30] Essays on the principles of morality and natural religion, part 1.\ness. 2. chap. 1.\n\n[31] See the introduction.\n\n[32] See this point explained afterwards, chap. 9.\n\n[33] See the appendix, containing definitions and explanation of terms,\nsect. 33.\n\n[34] Chap. 6.\n\n[35] See chap. 14.\n\n[36] It is easier to conceive the manner of coexistence of similar\nemotions, than to describe it. They cannot be said to mix or\nincorporate like concordant sounds. Their union is rather of agreement\nor concord; and therefore I have chosen the words in the text, not as\nsufficient to express clearly the manner of their coexistence, but only\nas less liable to exception than any other I can find.\n\n[37] Chap. 18. sect. 3.\n\n[38] Chap. of epic and dramatic compositions.\n\n[39] See part 2. of the present chapter, toward the close.\n\n[40] Canto 20. st. 97.\n\n[41] Chap. 1.\n\n[42] See part 1. sect. 1. of the present chapter.\n\n[43] Herodotus, book 7.\n\n[44] Act 2. sc. 6.\n\n[45] Act 3. sc. 8.\n\n[46] Part 1. of this chapter, sect. 3.\n\n[47] Aristotle, poet. cap. 18. \u00a7 3. says, that anger raiseth in the\nspectator a similar emotion of anger.\n\n[48] See Historical law-tracts, tract 1.\n\n[49] Part 5. of the present chapter.\n\n[50] Chap. 2. part. 1. sect. 1. first note.\n\n[51] Chap. 2. part 1. sect. 4.\n\n[52] See the appendix, containing definitions and explanation of terms.\n\n[53] See chap. 2. part 1. sect. 1.\n\n[54] Longinus observes, that nature inclines us to admire, not a small\nrivulet, however clear and transparent, but the Nile, the Ister, the\nRhine, or still more the ocean. The sight of a small fire produceth no\nemotion; but we are struck with the boiling furnaces of \u00c6tna, pouring\nout whole rivers of liquid flame. _Treatise of the Sublime, chap. 29._\n\n[55] Kempfer\u2019s history of Japan, b. 5. ch. 2.\n\n[56] Longinus gives a pretty good description of the sublime, though\nnot entirely just in every one of the circumstances, \u201cThat the mind\nis elevated by it, and so sensibly affected as to swell in transport\nand inward pride, as if what is only heard or read, were its own\ninvention.\u201d But he adheres not to this description. In his 6th chapter\nhe justly observes, that many passions have nothing of the grand, such\nas grief, fear, pity, which depress the mind instead of raising it.\nAnd yet in chapter 8th, he mentions Sappho\u2019s ode upon love as sublime.\nBeautiful it is undoubtedly, but it cannot be sublime, because it\nreally depresses the mind instead of raising it. His translator Boileau\nis not more successful in his instances. In his 10th reflection he\ncites a passage from Demosthenes and another from Herodotus as sublime,\nwhich are not so.\n\n[57] Kempfer\u2019s history of Japan.\n\n[58] _Spectator_, N\u00ba 42\n\n[59] It is justly observed by Addison, that perhaps a man would have\nbeen more astonished with the majestic air that appeared in one of\nLysippus\u2019s statues of Alexander, though no bigger than the life, than\nhe might have been with Mount Athos, had it been cut into the figure\nof the hero, according to the proposal of Phidias, with a river in one\nhand and a city in the other. _Spectator_, N\u00ba 415.\n\n[60] Honestum per se esse expetendum indicant pueri, in quibus, ut in\nspeculis, natura cernitur. Quanta studia decertantium sunt! Quanta ipsa\ncertamina! Ut illi efferuntur l\u00e6titia, cum vicerunt! Ut pudet victos!\nUt se accusari nolunt! Ut cupiunt laudari! Quos illi labores non\nperferunt, ut \u00e6qualium principes sint! _Cicero de finibus._\n\n[61] Spectator, N\u00ba 415.\n\n[62] Chap. 8. of the Sublime.\n\n[63] Lib. 3. beginning at line 567.\n\n[64] _High_, in the old Scotch language, is pronounced _hee_.\n\n[65] Herodotus, book 7.\n\n[66] Chap. 30.\n\n[67] Boileau and Huet.\n\n[68] L\u2019art poet. chant 1. l. 68.\n\n[69] See chap. 4.\n\n[70] See chap. 9.\n\n[71] Chap. 1.\n\n[72] Chap. 15.\n\n[73] See chap. 1.\n\n[74] See chap. 2. part 1. sect. 2.\n\n[75] See chap. 4.\n\n[76] Essays on the principles of morality and natural religion part 2.\ness. 6.\n\n[77] Hence the Latin names for surprise, _torpor_, _animo stupor_.\n\n[78] See chap. 6.\n\n[79] Coke upon Littleton, p. 71.\n\n[80] Practical writers upon the fine arts will attempt any thing, being\nblind both to the difficulty and danger. De Piles, accounting why\ncontrast is agreeable, says, \u201cThat it is a sort of war which puts the\nopposite parties in motion.\u201d Thus, to account for an effect of which\nthere is no doubt, any cause, however foolish, is made welcome.\n\n[81] Chap. 2. part 5.\n\n[82] The examples above given are of subjects that can be brought to an\nend or conclusion. But the same uneasiness is perceptible with respect\nto subjects that admit not any conclusion; witness a series that has no\nend, commonly called _an infinite series_. The mind running along such\na series, begins soon to feel an uneasiness, which becomes more and\nmore sensible in continuing its progress.\n\nAn unbounded prospect doth not long continue agreeable. We soon feel\na slight uneasiness, which increases with the time we bestow upon the\nobject. In order to find the cause of this uneasiness, we first take\nunder consideration an avenue without a terminating object. Can a\nprospect without any termination be compared to an infinite series?\nThere is one striking difference, that with respect to the eye no\nprospect can be unbounded. The quickest eye commands but a certain\nlength of space; and there it is bounded, however obscurely. But the\nmind perceives things as they exist; and the line is carried on in\nidea without end. In that respect an unbounded prospect is similar to\nan infinite series. In fact, the uneasiness of an unbounded prospect\ndiffers very little in its feeling from that of an infinite series; and\ntherefore we may reasonably conclude that both proceed from the same\ncause.\n\nWe next consider a prospect unbounded every way, as for example, a\ngreat plain, or the ocean, viewed from an eminence. We feel here an\nuneasiness occasioned by the want of an end or termination, precisely\nas in the other cases. A prospect unbounded every way is indeed so\nfar singular, as at first to be more pleasant than a prospect that is\nunbounded in one direction only, and afterward to be more painful.\nBut these circumstances are easily explained without breaking in upon\nthe general theory. The pleasure we feel at first is a strong emotion\nof grandeur, arising from the immense extension of the object. And to\nincrease the pain we feel afterward for the want of a termination,\nthere concurs a pain of a different kind, occasioned by stretching the\neye to comprehend so great a prospect; a pain that gradually increases\nwith the repeated efforts we make to grasp the whole.\n\nIt is the same principle, if I mistake not, which operates\nimperceptibly with respect to quantity and number. Another\u2019s property\nindented into my field gives me uneasiness; and I am eager to make the\npurchase, not for profit, but in order to square my field. Xerxes and\nhis army in their passage to Greece were sumptuously entertained by\nPythius the Lydian. Xerxes getting a particular account of his riches,\nrecompensed him with 7000 Darics, which he wanted to complete the sum\nof four millions.\n\n[83] Aristotle, poet. cap. 17.\n\n[84] Spectator, N\u00ba 265.\n\n[85] Lib. 1. \u00a7 28.\n\n[86] Act 4. sc. 2.\n\n[87] See chap. 2. part 4.\n\n[88] Chap. 2. part 4.\n\n[89] \u00c6n. lib. 5.\n\n[90] Iliad, book 23. l. 879.\n\n[91] Chap. 1.\n\n[92] Locke, book 2. chap. 14.\n\n[93] See chap. 1.\n\n[94] See chap. 1.\n\n[95] This chapter was composed in the year 1753.\n\n[96] Chap. 1.","title":"Elements of Criticism, Volume I.","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":75170}