[] ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM.

CHAPTER I. Perceptions and ideas in a train.

A MAN while awake is ſenſible of a continued train of objects paſſing in his mind. It requires no activity on his part to carry on the train: nor has he power to vary it by calling up an object at will^*. At the ſame time we [22] learn from daily experience, that a train of thought is not merely caſual. And if it depend not upon will, nor upon chance, we muſt try to evolve by what law it is governed. The ſubject is of import⯑ance in the ſcience of human nature; and I promiſe beforehand, that it will be found of great importance in the fine arts.

It appears that the relations by which things are linked together, have a great in⯑fluence in directing the train of thought; and we find by experience, that objects are connected in the mind preciſely as they are externally. Beginning then with things external, we find that they are not more remarkable by their inherent properties than by their various relations. We can⯑not any where extend our view without perceiving things connected together by certain relations. One thing perceived to be a cauſe, is connected with its ſeveral [23] effects; ſome things are connected by con⯑tiguity in time, others by contiguity in place; ſome are connected by reſemblance, ſome by contraſt; ſome go before, ſome follow. Not a ſingle thing appears ſoli⯑tary, and altogether devoid of connection. The only difference is, that ſome are inti⯑mately connected, ſome more ſlightly; ſome near, ſome at a diſtance.

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

But though we have not the abſolute command of ideas, yet the Will hath a con⯑ſiderable [24] influence in directing the order of connected ideas. There are few things but what are connected with many others. By this means, when any thing becomes an object, whether in a direct ſurvey, or ideal⯑ly only, it generally ſuggeſts many of its connections. Among theſe a choice is af⯑forded. We can inſiſt upon one, rejecting others; and we can even inſiſt upon what has the ſlighteſt connection. Where ideas are left to their natural courſe, they are ge⯑nerally continued through the ſtrongeſt connections. The mind extends its view to a ſon more readily than to a ſervant, and more readily to a neighbour than to one living at a diſtance. This order may be va⯑ried by Will, but ſtill within the limits of connected objects. In ſhort, every train of ideas muſt be a chain, in which the parti⯑cular ideas are linked to each other. We may vary the order of a natural train; but not ſo as to diſſolve it altogether, by carry⯑ing on our thoughts in a looſe manner without any connection. So far doth our power extend; and that power is ſufficient for all uſeful purpoſes. To give us more [25] power, would probably be detrimental in⯑ſtead of being ſalutary.

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

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

On the other hand, a man of accurate judgement cannot have a great flow of ideas. The ſlighter relations making no figure in his mind, have no power to introduce ideas. And hence it is, that accurate judgement is not friendly to declamation or copious elo⯑quence. [28] This reaſoning is confirmed by ex⯑perience; for it is a noted obſervation, That a great or comprehenſive memory is ſeldom connected with a good judgement.

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

The train of thought depends not entire⯑ly upon relations: another cauſe comes in for a ſhare; and that is the ſenſe of order and arrangement. To things of equal rank, where there is no room for a preference, order cannot be applied; and it muſt be in⯑different in what manner they be ſurveyed; [29] witneſs the ſheep that make a flock, or the trees in a wood. But in things of unequal rank, order is a governing principle. Thus our tendency is, to view the principal ſub⯑ject before we deſcend to its acceſſories or ornaments, and the ſuperior before the in⯑ferior or dependent. We are equally averſe to enter into a minute conſideration of con⯑ſtituent parts, till the thing be firſt ſurveyed as a whole. In paſſing from a part to the whole, and from an acceſſory to its princi⯑pal, the connection is the ſame as in the op⯑poſite direction. But a ſenſe of order aids the tranſition in the latter caſe, and a ſenſe of diſorder obſtructs it in the former. It needs ſcarce be added, that in thinking or reflecting on any of theſe particulars, and in paſſing from one to another ideally, we are ſenſible of eaſineſs or difficulty preciſely as when they are ſet before our eyes.

Our ſenſe of order is conſpicuous with reſpect to natural operations; for it always coincides with the order of nature. Think⯑ing upon a body in motion, we follow its natural courſe. The mind falls with a hea⯑vy body, deſcends with a river, and aſcends [30] with flame and ſmoke. In tracing out a fa⯑mily, we incline to begin at the founder, and to deſcend gradually to his lateſt poſte⯑rity. On the contrary, muſing on a lofty oak, we begin at the trunk, and mount from it to the branches. As to hiſtorical facts, we love to proceed in the order of time; or, which comes to the ſame, to proceed along the chain of cauſes and ef⯑fects.

But though, in following out a hiſtorical chain, our bent is to proceed orderly from cauſes to their effects, we find not the ſame bent in matters of ſcience. There we ſeem rather diſpoſed to proceed from effects to their cauſes, and from particular propoſi⯑tions to thoſe which are more general. Why this difference in matters that appear ſo nearly related? The caſes are ſimilar in appearance only, not in reality. In a hiſto⯑rical chain, every event is particular, the effect of ſome former event, and the cauſe of others that follow. In ſuch a chain, there is nothing to bias the mind from the order of nature. Widely different is the caſe of ſcience, when we endeavour to trace out [31] cauſes and their effects. Many experiments are commonly reduced under one cauſe; and again, many of theſe under ſome one ſtill more general and comprehenſive. In our progreſs from particular effects to gene⯑ral cauſes, and from particular propoſitions to the more comprehenſive, we feel a gra⯑dual dilatation or expanſion of mind, like what is felt in proceeding along an aſcend⯑ing ſeries, which is extremely delightful. The pleaſure here exceeds what ariſes from ſollowing the courſe of nature; and it is this pleaſure which regulates our train of thought in the caſe now mentioned, and in others that are ſimilar. Theſe obſervations, by the way, furniſh materials for inſtituting a compariſon betwixt the ſynthetic and ana⯑lytic methods of reaſoning. The ſynthetic method deſcending regularly from princi⯑ples to their conſequences, is more agree⯑able to the ſtrictneſs of order. But in fol⯑lowing the oppoſite courſe in the analytic method, we have a ſenſible pleaſure, like mounting upward, which is not felt in the other. The analytic method is more agree⯑able to the imagination. The other method [32] will be preferred by thoſe only who with rigidity adhere to order, and give no indul⯑gence to natural emotions^*.

It appears then that we are framed by na⯑ture to reliſh order and connection. When an object is introduced by a proper connec⯑tion, we are conſcious of a certain pleaſure ariſing from that circumſtance. Among objects of equal rank, the pleaſure is pro⯑portioned to the degree of connection; but among unequal objects, where we require a certain order, the pleaſure ariſes chiefly from an orderly arrangement. Of this one may be made ſenſible, in tracing objects contrary to the courſe of nature, or contra⯑ry to our ſenſe of order. The mind pro⯑ceeds with alacrity from a whole to its parts, and from a principal to its acceſſories; but in the contrary direction, it is ſenſible of a ſort of retrograde motion, which is unplea⯑ſant. And here may be remarked the great influence of order upon the mind of man. Grandeur, which makes a deep impreſſion, [33] inclines us, in running over any ſeries, to proceed from ſmall to great, rather than from great to ſmall. But order prevails over this tendency; and in paſſing from the whole to its parts, and from a ſubject to its ornaments, affords pleaſure as well as facility, which are not felt in the oppoſite courſe. Elevation touches the mind not leſs than grandeur doth; and in raiſing the mind to elevated objects, there is a ſenſible pleaſure. But the courſe of nature hath ſtill a greater influence than elevation; and therefore the pleaſure of falling with rain, and deſcending gradual⯑ly with a river, prevails over that of mount⯑ing upward. Hence the agreeableneſs of ſmoke aſcending in a calm morning. Ele⯑vation concurs with the courſe of nature, to make this object delightful.

I am extremely ſenſible of the diſguſt men generally have at abſtract ſpeclation; and for that reaſon I would avoid it altogether, were it poſſible in a work which profeſſes to draw the rules of criticiſm from human na⯑ture, their true ſource. There is indeed no choice, other than to continue for ſome [34] time in the ſame track, or to abandon the undertaking altogether. Candor obliges me to notify this to my readers, that ſuch of them whoſe averſion to abſtract ſpeculation is invincible, may ſtop ſhort here; for till principles be explained, I can promiſe no entertainment to thoſe who ſhun thinking. But I flatter myſelf with a different taſte in the bulk of readers. Some few, I imagine, will reliſh the abſtract part for its own ſake; and many for the uſeful purpoſes to which it may be applied. For encouraging the latter to proceed with alacrity, I aſſure them beforehand that the foregoing ſpeculation leads to many important rules of criticiſm, which ſhall be unfolded in the courſe of this work. In the mean time, for inſtant ſatisfaction in part, they will be pleaſed to accept the following ſpecimen.

It is required in every work of art, that, like an organic ſyſtem, the conſtituent parts be mutually connected, and bear each of them a relation to the whole, ſome more intimate, ſome leſs, according to their deſti⯑nation. Order is not leſs eſſential than con⯑nection; and when due regard is paid to [35] theſe, we have a ſenſe of juſt compoſition, and ſo far are pleaſed with the performance. Homer is defective in order and connection; and Pindar more remarkably. Regularity, order, and connection, are painful reſtraints on a bold and fertile imagination; and are not patiently ſubmitted to, but after much culture and diſcipline. In Horace there is no fault more eminent than want of con⯑nection. Inſtances are without number. In the firſt fourteen lines of ode 7. lib. 1. he mentions ſeveral towns and diſtricts which by ſome were reliſhed more than by others. In the remainder of the ode, Plancus is ex⯑horted to drown his cares in wine. Having narrowly eſcaped death by the fall of a tree, this poet^* takes occaſion properly to ob⯑ſerve, that while we guard againſt ſome dangers, we are expoſed to others we can⯑not foreſee. He ends with diſplaying the power of muſic. The parts of ode 16. lib. 2. are ſo looſely connected as to disfigure a poem otherwiſe extremely beautiful. The 1ſt, 2d, 3d, 4th, 11th, 24th, 27th odes of the [36] 3d book, lie open all of them to the ſame cen⯑ſure. The 1ſt ſatire, book 1. is ſo deformed by want of unity and connection of parts, as upon the whole to be ſcarce agreeable. It commences with an important queſtion, How it happens that perſons who are ſo much ſatisfied with themſelves, are generally ſo little with their condition? After illuſtra⯑ting the obſervation in a ſprightly manner by ſeveral examples, the author, forgetting his ſubject, enters upon a declamation a⯑gainſt avarice, which he purſues till the line 108. There he makes an apology for wandering, and promiſes to return to his ſubject. But avarice having got poſſeſſion of his mind, he follows out that theme to the end, and never returns to the que⯑ſtion propoſed in the beginning.

In the Georgies of Virgil, though e⯑ſteemed the moſt finiſhed work of that author, the parts are ill connected, and the tranſitions far from being ſweet and eaſy. In the firſt book^* he deviates from his ſubject to give a deſcription of the five [37] zones. The want of connection here is remarkable, as well as in the deſcription of the prodigies that accompanied the death of Caeſar, with which the ſame book is con⯑cluded. A digreſſion upon the praiſes of Italy in the ſecond book^*, is not more happily introduced. And in the midſt of a declamation upon the pleaſures of huſ⯑bandry, that makes part of the ſame book^†, the author appears perſonally upon the ſtage without the ſlighteſt connection. The two prefaces of Salluſt look as if they had been prefixed by ſome blunder to his two hiſtories. They will ſuit any other hiſtory as well, or any ſubject as well as hiſtory. Even the members of theſe prefaces are but looſely connected. They look more like a number of maxims or obſervations than a connected diſcourſe.

An epiſode in a narrative poem being in effect an acceſſory, demands not that ſtrict union with the principal ſubject which is requiſite betwixt a whole and its conſti⯑tuent parts. The relation however of prin⯑cipal [34] [...] [35] [...] [36] [...] [37] [...] [38] and acceſſory being pretty intimate, an epiſode looſely connected with the prin⯑cipal ſubject will never be graceful. I give for an example the deſcent of Aeneas into hell, which employs the ſixth book of the Aeneid. The reader is not prepared for this important event. No cauſe is aſſigned, that can make it appear neceſſary or even natural, to ſuſpend, for ſo long a time, the principal action in its moſt intereſting pe⯑riod. To engage Aeneas to wander from his courſe in ſearch of an adventure ſo ex⯑traordinary, the poet can find no better pretext, than the hero's longing to viſit the ghoſt of his father recently dead. In the mean time the ſtory is interrupted, and the reader loſes his ardor. An epiſode ſo ex⯑tremely beautiful is not at any rate to be diſpenſed with. It is pity however, that it doth not ariſe more naturally from the ſub⯑ject. I muſt obſerve at the ſame time, that full juſtice is done to this incident, by con⯑ſidering it to be an epiſode; for if it be a conſtituent part of the principal action, the connection ought to be ſtill more intimate. The ſame objection lies againſt that elabo⯑rate [39] deſcription of Fame in the Aeneid^*. Any other book of that heroic poem, or of any heroic poem, has as good a title to that deſcription as the book where it is placed.

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

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

The relations among objects have a con⯑ſiderable influence in the gratification of our paſſions, and even in their production. But this ſubject is reſerved to be treated in the chapter of emotions and paſſions^*.

There is perhaps not another inſtance of a building ſo great erected upon a founda⯑tion ſo ſlight in appearance, as that which is [41] erected upon the relations of objects and their arrangement. Relations make no ca⯑pital figure in the mind: the bulk of them are tranſitory, and ſome extremely trivial. They are however the links that, uniting our perceptions into one connected chain, produce connection of action, becauſe per⯑ceptions and actions have an intimate corre⯑ſpondence. But it is not ſufficient for the conduct of life that our actions be linked together, however intimately: it is beſide neceſſary that they proceed in a certain or⯑der; and this alſo is provided for by an o⯑riginal propenſity. Thus order and con⯑nection, while they admit ſufficient variety, introduce a method in the management of affairs. Without them our conduct would be fluctuating and deſultory; and we would be hurried from thought to thought, and from action to action, entirely at the mercy of chance.

CHAP. II. Emotions and Paſſions.

THE fine arts, as obſerved above^*, are all of them calculated to give pleaſure to the eye or the ear; and they never deſcend to gratify the taſte, touch, or ſmell. At the ſame time, the feelings of the eye and ear, are of all the feelings of external ſenſe, thoſe only which are honoured with the name of emotions or paſſions. It is alſo obſerved above^†, that the principles of the fine arts are un⯑folded by ſtudying the ſenſitive part of hu⯑man nature, in order to know what objects of the eye and ear are agreeable, what diſ⯑agreeable. Theſe obſervations ſhow the uſe of the preſent chapter. We evidently muſt be acquainted with the nature and cau⯑ſes of emotions and paſſions, before we can judge with any accuracy how far they are [43] under the power of the fine arts. The cri⯑tical art is thus ſet in a fine point of view. The inquiſitive mind beginning with cri⯑ticiſm the moſt agreeable of all amuſe⯑ments, and finding no obſtruction in its progreſs, advances far into the ſenſitive part of our nature; and gains inſenſibly a thorough knowledge of the human heart, of its deſires, and of every motive to action; a ſcience which of all that can be reached by man, is to him of the greateſt import⯑ance.

Upon a ſubject ſo extenſive, all that can be expected here, is a general or ſlight ſur⯑vey. Some emotions indeed more pecu⯑liarly connected with the fine arts, I pro⯑poſe to handle in ſeparate chapters; a me⯑thod that will ſhorten the general ſurvey conſiderably. And yet, after this circum⯑ſcription, ſo much matter comes under even a general view of the paſſions and emotions, that, to avoid confuſion, I find it neceſſary to divide this chapter into many parts: in the firſt of which are handled the cauſes of thoſe emotions and paſſions that are the moſt common and familiar; for to ex⯑plain [44] every paſſion and emotion, however ſingular, would be an endleſs work. And though I could not well take up leſs ground, without ſeparating things intimately con⯑nected; yet, upon examination, I find the cauſes of our emotions and paſſions to be ſo numerous and various, as to make a ſub⯑diviſion alſo neceſſary by ſplitting this firſt part into ſeveral ſections. Human nature is a complicated machine, and muſt be ſo to anſwer all its purpoſes. There have indeed been publiſhed to the world, many a ſyſtem of human nature, that flatter the mind by their ſimplicity. But theſe, unluckily, deviate far from truth and reality. According to ſome writers, man is entirely a ſelfiſh being: according to others, univerſal benevolence is his duty. One founds morality upon ſym⯑pathy ſolely, and one upon utility. If any of theſe ſyſtems were of nature's produc⯑tion, the preſent ſubject might be ſoon diſcuſſed. But the variety of nature is not ſo eaſily reached; and for confuting ſuch Utopian ſyſtems without the intricacy of reaſoning, it appears the beſt method to [45] enter into human nature, and to ſet before the eye, plainly and candidly, facts as they really exiſt.

CHAP. III. BEAUTY.

HAVING diſcourſed in general of e⯑motions and paſſions, I proceed to a more narrow inſpection of ſome particulars that ſerve to unfold the principles of the fine arts. It is the province of a wri⯑ter upon ethics, to give a full enumeration of all the paſſions; and of each ſeparately to aſſign the nature, the cauſe, the gratifi⯑cation, and the effects. But a treatiſe of ethics is not my province. I carry my view no farther than to the elements of criticiſm, in order to ſhow that the fine arts are a ſub⯑ject of reaſoning as well as of taſte. An extenſive work would be ill ſuited to a de⯑ſign ſo limited; and to keep within mode⯑rate bounds, the following plan may con⯑tribute. It has already been obſerved, that things are the cauſes of emotions, by means of their properties and attributes^*. This [242] furniſheth a hint for diſtribution. Inſtead of a painful and tedious examination of the ſeveral paſſions and emotions, I propoſe to confine my inquiries to ſuch attributes, re⯑lations, and circumſtances, as in the fine arts are chiefly employed to raiſe agreeable emotions. Attributes of ſingle objects, as the moſt ſimple, ſhall take the lead; to be followed with particulars that depend on the relations of objects, and are not found in any one object ſingly conſidered. Diſ⯑patching next ſome coincident matters, I approach nearer to practice, by applying the principles unfolded in the foregoing parts of the work. This is a general view of the intended method; reſerving however a privilege to vary it in particular inſtances, where a different method may be more commodious. I begin with beauty, the moſt noted of all the qualities that belong to ſingle objects.

The term beauty, in its native ſignifica⯑tion, is appropriated to objects of ſight. Objects of the other ſenſes may be agree⯑able, ſuch as the ſounds of muſical inſtru⯑ments, the ſmoothneſs and ſoftneſs of ſome [243] ſurfaces: but the agreeableneſs denomina⯑ted beauty belongs to objects of ſight.

Of all the objects of the external ſenſes, an object of ſight is the moſt complex. In the very ſimpleſt, colour is perceived, fi⯑gure, and length breadth and thickneſs. A tree is compoſed of a trunk, branches, and leaves. It has colour, figure, ſize, and ſometimes motion. By means of each of theſe particulars, ſeparately conſidered, it appears beautiful: how much more ſo, when they enter all into one complex per⯑ception? The beauty of the human figure is extraordinary, being a compoſition of numberleſs beauties ariſing from the parts and qualities of the object, various colours, various motions, figure, ſize, &c.; all u⯑niting in one complex perception, and ſtri⯑king the eye with combined force. Hence it is, that beauty, a quality ſo remarkable in viſible objects, lends its name to expreſs every thing that is eminently agreeable. Thus, by a figure of ſpeech, we ſay a beau⯑tiful ſound, a beautiful thought or expreſ⯑ſion, a beautiful theorem, a beautiful e⯑vent, a beautiful diſcovery in art or ſcience. [244] But as figurative expreſſion is not our pre⯑ſent theme, this chapter is confined to beauty in its genuine ſignification.

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

Conſidering attentively the beauty of viſible objects, we diſcover two kinds. One may be termed intrinſic beauty, becauſe it is diſcovered in a ſingle object viewed apart without relation to any other object. The examples above given, are of that kind. The other may be termed relative beauty, being founded on the relation of objects. The former is a perception of ſenſe merely; for to perceive the beauty of a ſpreading oak or of a flowing river, no more is required but ſingly an act of viſion. The latter is ac⯑companied with an act of underſtanding and reflection; for of a fine inſtrument or en⯑gine, we perceive not the relative beauty, until we be made acquainted with its uſe and [245] deſtination. In a word, intrinſic beauty is ultimate: relative beauty is that of means relating to ſome good end or purpoſe. Theſe different beauties agree in one capital cir⯑cumſtance, that both are equally perceived as ſpread upon the object. This will be readily admitted with reſpect to intrinſic beauty; but is not ſo obvious with reſpect to the other. The utility of the plough, for example, may make it an object of admi⯑ration or of deſire; but why ſhould utility make it appear beautiful? A principle men⯑tioned above^*, will explain this doubt. The beauty of the effect, by an eaſy tranſ⯑ition of ideas, is transferred to the cauſe, and is perceived as one of the qualities of the cauſe. Thus a ſubject void of intrinſic beauty, appears beautiful from its utility. An old Gothic tower that has no beauty in itſelf, appears beautiful, conſidered as pro⯑per to defend againſt an enemy. A dwel⯑ling-houſe void of all regularity, is however beautiful in the view of convenience; and the want of form or ſymmetry in a tree, [246] will not prevent its appearing beautiful, if it be known to produce good fruit.

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

The beauty of utility, being proportioned accurately to the degree of utility, requires no illuſtration. But intrinſic beauty, ſo complex as I have ſaid, cannot be handled diſtinctly without being analized into its conſtituent parts. If a tree be beautiful by means of its colour, its figure, its ſize, its motion, it is in reality poſſeſſed of ſo many different beauties, which ought to be exa⯑mined ſeparately, in order to have a clear notion of the whole. The beauty of co⯑lour is too familiar to need explanation. The beauty of figure requires an accurate diſcuſ⯑ſion, for in it many circumſtances are in⯑volved. When any portion of matter is viewed as a whole, the beauty of its figure ariſes from regularity and ſimplicity. View⯑ing [247] the parts with relation to each other, uniformity, proportion, and order, contri⯑bute to its beauty. The beauty of motion deſerves a chapter by itſelf; and another chapter is deſtined for grandeur, being diſtinguiſhable from beauty in a ſtrict ſenſe. For the definitions of regularity, uniformity, proportion, and order, if thought neceſſary, I remit my reader to the appendix at the end of the book. Upon ſimplicity I muſt make a few curſory obſervations, ſuch as may be of uſe in examining the beauty of ſingle objects.

A multitude of objects crowding into the mind at once, diſturb the attention, and paſs without making any impreſſion, or any laſting impreſſion. In a group, no ſingle object makes the figure it would do apart, when it occupies the whole attention^*. For the ſame reaſon, even a ſingle object, when it divides the attention by the multi⯑plicity of its parts, equals not, in ſtrength of impreſſion, a more ſimple object com⯑prehended [248] in a ſingle view. Parts ex⯑tremely complex muſt be conſidered in por⯑tions ſucceſſively; and a number of impreſ⯑ſions in ſucceſſion, which cannot unite be⯑cauſe not ſimultaneous, never touch the mind like one entire impreſſion made as it were at one ſtroke. This juſtifies ſimpli⯑city in works of art, as oppoſed to compli⯑cated circumſtances and crowded orna⯑ments. There is an additional reaſon for ſimplicity, in works that make an impreſ⯑ſion of dignity or elevation. The mind at⯑tached to beauties of a high rank, cannot deſcend to inferior beauties. And yet, notwithſtanding theſe reaſons, we find pro⯑fuſe decoration prevailing in works of art. But this is no argument againſt ſimplicity. For authors and architects who cannot reach the higher beauties, endeavour to ſup⯑ply their want of genius by dealing in thoſe that are inferior. In all ages, the beſt wri⯑ters and artiſts have been governed by a taſte for ſimplicity.

Theſe things premiſed, I proceed to exa⯑mine the beauty of figure, as ariſing from the above-mentioned particulars, viz. re⯑gularity, [249] uniformity, proportion, order, and ſimplicity. To exhauſt this ſubject, would of itſelf require a large volume. I li⯑mit myſelf to a few curſory remarks, as matter for future diſquiſition. To inquire why an object, by means of the particulars mentioned, appears beautiful, would I am afraid be a vain attempt. It ſeems the moſt probable opinion, that the nature of man was originally framed with a reliſh for them, in order to anſwer wiſe and good purpoſes. The final cauſes have not hitherto been aſ⯑certained, though they are not probably beyond our reach. One thing is clear, that regularity, uniformity, order, and ſimplici⯑ty, contribute each of them to readineſs of apprehenſion; and enable us to form more diſtinct images of objects, than can be done with the utmoſt attention where theſe par⯑ticulars are not found. This final cauſe is, I acknowledge, too ſlight, to account ſa⯑tisfactorily for a taſte that makes a figure ſo illuſtrious in the nature of man. That this branch of our conſtitution hath a purpoſe ſtill more important, we have great reaſon to believe. With reſpect to proportion, I [250] am ſtill leſs ſucceſsful. In ſeveral inſtances, accurate proportion is connected with utili⯑ty. This in particular is the caſe of ani⯑mals; for thoſe that are the beſt propor⯑tioned, are the ſtrongeſt and moſt active. But inſtances are ſtill more numerous, where the proportions we reliſh the moſt, have no connection, ſo far as we ſee, with utility. Writers on architecture inſiſt much upon the proportions of a column; and aſſign different proportions to the Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian. But no architect will maintain, that the moſt accurate proportions contribute more to uſe, than ſeveral that are leſs accu⯑rate and leſs agreeable. Neither will it be maintained, that the proportions aſſigned for the length breadth and height of rooms, tend to make them the more commodious. It appears then, ſo far as we can diſcover, that we have a taſte for proportion independent altogether of utility. One thing indeed is certain, that any external object proportion⯑ed to our taſte, is delightful. This furniſh⯑es a hint. May it not be thought a good final cauſe of proportion, that it contributes to our entertainment? The author of our [251] nature has given many ſignal proofs, that this end is not below his care. And if ſo, why ſhould we heſitate in aſſigning this as an additional final cauſe of regularity, and the other particulars above mentioned? We may be confirmed in this thought, by re⯑flecting, that our taſte, with reſpect to theſe, is not occaſional or accidental, but uniform and univerſal, making an original branch of human nature.

One might fill a volume with the effects that are produced by the endleſs combina⯑tions of the principles of beauty. I have room only for a ſlight ſpecimen, confined to the ſimpleſt figures. A circle and a ſquare are each of them perfectly regular, being equal⯑ly confined to a preciſe form, and admitting not the ſlighteſt variation. A ſquare how⯑ever is leſs beautiful than a circle, becauſe it is leſs ſimple. A circle has parts as well as a ſquare; but its parts not being diſtinct like thoſe of a ſquare, it makes one entire impreſſion; whereas the attention is divided among the ſides and angles of a ſquare. The effect of ſimplicity may be illuſtrated by another example. A ſquare, though not [252] more regular than a hexagon or octagon, is more beautiful than either; for what other reaſon, than that a ſquare is more ſimple, and the attention leſs divided? This rea⯑ſoning will appear ſtill more ſolid when we conſider any regular polygon of very many ſides; for of ſuch figure the mind can never have any diſtinct perception. Simplicity thus contributes to beauty.

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

A parallelogram again depends, for its beauty, on the proportion of its ſides. The beauty is loſt by a great inequality of ſides. It is alſo loſt, on the other hand, by the ap⯑proximation toward equality. Proportion in this circumſtance degenerates into imper⯑fect [253] uniformity; and the figure upon the whole appears an unſucceſsful attempt to⯑ward a ſquare.

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

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

Uniformity is ſingular in one capital cir⯑cumſtance, that it is apt to diſguſt by ex⯑ceſs. A number of things contrived for the ſame uſe, ſuch as chairs ſpoons, &c. can⯑not be too uniform. But a ſcrupulous uni⯑formity [254] of parts in a large garden or field, is far from being agreeable. Uniformity a⯑mong connected objects, belongs not to the preſent ſubject. It is handled in the chap⯑ter of uniformity and variety.

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

No one property recommends a machine more than its ſimplicity; not ſingly for bet⯑ter anſwering its purpoſe, but by appearing in itſelf more beautiful. Simplicity hath a capital effect in behaviour and manners; no other particular contributing more to gain eſteem and love. The artificial and intricate manners of modern times, have little of [255] dignity in them. General theorems, abſ⯑tracting from their importance, are delight⯑ful by their ſimplicity, and by the eaſineſs of their application to a variety of caſes. We take equal delight in the laws of motion, which, with the greateſt ſimplicity, are boundleſs in their influence.

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

The ſame tendency appears in the pro⯑greſs of the arts among the ancients. Of [256] this we have traces ſtill remaining in archi⯑tecture. Some veſtiges of the oldeſt Gre⯑cian buildings prove them to be of the Doric order. The Ionic ſucceeded, and ſeems to have been the favourite order, while archi⯑tecture was in its height of glory. The Corinthian came next in vogue: and in Greece, the buildings of that order appear moſtly to have been erected after the Ro⯑mans got footing there. At laſt came the Compoſite with all its extravagancies, where proportion is ſacrificed to finery and crowded ornament.

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

In reviewing what is ſaid above, I am under ſome apprehenſion of an objection, which, as it may poſſibly occur to the read⯑er, ought to be obviated. A mountain, it will be obſerved, is an agreeable object, [257] without ſo much as the appearance of regu⯑larity; and a chain of mountains ſtill more agreeable, without being arranged in any order. But theſe facts conſidered in a pro⯑per light, afford not an objection. Regu⯑larity, order, and uniformity, are intimately connected with beauty; and in this view only, have I treated them. Every regular object, for example, muſt in reſpect of its re⯑gularity be beautiful. But I have not ſaid, that regularity, order, and uniformity, are eſſential to beauty, ſo as that it cannot exiſt without them. The contrary appears in the beauty of colour. Far leſs have I ſaid, that an object cannot be agreeable in any reſpect independent of theſe qualities. Grandeur, as diſtinguiſhed from beauty, requires very little regularity. This will appear more ful⯑ly when that article is handled. In the mean time, to ſhow the difference betwixt beauty and grandeur with reſpect to regula⯑rity, I ſhall give a few examples. Imagine a ſmall body, let it be a globe, in a conti⯑nual flux of figure, from the moſt perfect regularity till there remain no appearance of that quality. The beauty of this globe, [258] depending on its regular figure, will gra⯑dually wear away with its regularity; and when it is no longer regular, it no longer will appear beautiful. The next example ſhall be of the ſame globe, gradually enlar⯑ging its ſize, but retaining its figure. In this body, we at firſt perceive the beauty of regularity only. But ſo ſoon as it begins to ſwell into a great ſize, it appears agreeable by its greatneſs, which joins with the beau⯑ty of regularity to make it a delightful object. In the laſt place, let it be imagined, that the figure as well as the quantity of matter are in a continual flux; and that the body, while it increaſes in ſize, becomes leſs and leſs regular, till it loſe altogether the appear⯑ance of that quality. In this caſe, the beauty of regularity wearing off gradually, gives place to an agreeableneſs of a different ſort, viz. that of greatneſs: and at laſt the emotion ari⯑ſing from greatneſs will be in perfection, when the beauty of regularity is gone. Hence it is, that in a large object the want of regula⯑rity is not much regarded by the ſpectator who is ſtruck with its grandeur. A ſwelling eminence is agreeable, though not ſtrictly [259] regular. A towering hill is delightful, if it have but any diſtant reſemblance of a cone. A ſmall ſurface ought to be ſmooth; but in a wide-extended plain, conſiderable inequa⯑lities are overlooked. This obſervation holds equally in works of art. The ſlight⯑eſt irregularity in a houſe of a moderate ſize hurts the eye; while the mind, ſtruck with the grandeur of a ſuperb edifice, which oc⯑cupies it totally, cannot bear to deſcend to its irregularities unleſs extremely groſs. In a large volume we pardon many defects that would make an epigram intolerable. In ſhort, the obſervation holds in general, that beauty is connected with regularity in great objects as well as in ſmall; but with a re⯑markable difference, that in paſſing from ſmall to great, regularity is leſs and leſs re⯑quired.

The diſtinction betwixt primary and ſe⯑condary qualities in matter, ſeems now ful⯑ly eſtabliſhed. Heat and cold, though ſeeming to exiſt in bodies, are diſcovered to be effects cauſed by theſe bodies in a ſenſi⯑tive being. Colour, which the eye repre⯑ſents as ſpread upon a ſubſtance, has no ex⯑iſtence [260] but in the mind of the ſpectator. Perceptions of this kind, which, by a de⯑luſion of ſenſe, are attributed to external ſubjects, are termed ſecondary qualities, in contradiſtinction to figure, extenſion, ſoli⯑dity, which are primary qualities, and which are not ſeparable, even in imagina⯑tion, from the ſubjects they belong to. This ſuggeſts a curious inquiry, Whether beauty be a primary or only a ſecondary quality of objects? The queſtion is eaſily determined with reſpect to the beauty of colour; for if colour be a ſecondary quality exiſting no where but in the mind of the ſpectator, its beauty muſt be of the ſame kind. This con⯑cluſion muſt alſo hold with reſpect to the beauty of utility, which is plainly a concep⯑tion of the mind, ariſing not merely from ſight, but from reflecting that the thing is fitted for ſome good end or purpoſe. The queſtion is more intricate with reſpect to the beauty of regularity. If regularity be a primary quality, why not alſo its beauty? That this is not a good conſequence, will appear from conſidering, that beauty, in its very conception, refers to a percipient; for [261] an object is ſaid to be beautiful, for no other reaſon but that it appears ſo to a ſpectator. The ſame piece of matter which to man appears beautiful, may poſſibly to an⯑other being appear ugly. Beauty therefore, which for its exiſtence depends upon the percipient as much as upon the object percei⯑ved, cannot be an inherent property of either. What elſe then can it be, but a perception in the mind occaſioned by certain objects? The ſame reaſoning is applicable to the beauty of order, of uniformity, of gran⯑deur. Accordingly, it may be pronounced in general, that beauty in no caſe whatever is a real quality of matter. And hence it is wittily obſerved by the poet, that beauty is not in the countenance, but in the lover's eye. This reaſoning is undoubtedly ſolid: and the only cauſe of doubt or heſitation is, that we are taught a different leſſon by ſenſe. By a ſingular determination of na⯑ture, we perceive both beauty and colour as belonging to the object; and, like figure or extenſion, as inherent properties. This mechaniſm is uncommon; and when na⯑ture, to fulfil her intention, chuſeth any [262] ſingular method of operation, we may be certain of ſome final cauſe that cannot be reached by ordinary means. It appears to me, that a perception of beauty in external objects, is requiſite to attach us to them. Doth not this mechaniſm, in the firſt place, greatly promote induſtry, by prompting a deſire to poſſeſs things that are beautiful? Doth it not further join with utility, in prompting us to embelliſh our houſes and enrich our fields? Theſe how⯑ever are but ſlight effects, compared with the connections which are formed among individuals in ſociety by means of this ſin⯑gular mechaniſm. The qualifications of the head and heart, are undoubtedly the moſt ſolid and moſt permanent foundations of ſuch connections. But as external beauty lies more in view, and is more obvious to the bulk of mankind than the qualities now mentioned, the ſenſe of beauty poſſeſſes the more univerſal influence in forming theſe connections. At any rate, it concurs in an eminent degree with mental qualifications, to produce ſocial intercourſe, mutual good⯑will, [263] and conſequently mutual aid and ſupport, which are the life of ſociety.

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

CHAP. IV. Grandeur and Sublimity.

NATURE hath not more remarkably diſtinguiſhed us from the other a⯑nimals by an erect poſture, than by a capacious and aſpiring mind, inclining us to every thing great and elevated. The ocean, the ſky, or any large object, ſeizes the attention, and makes a ſtrong impreſ⯑ſion^*. Robes of ſtate are made large and full to draw reſpect. We admire elephants and whales for their magnitude, notwith⯑ſtanding their unwieldineſs.

The elevation of an object affects us not leſs than its magnitude. A high place is choſen for the ſtatue of a deity or hero. [265] A tree growing upon the brink of a preci⯑pice viewed from the plain below, affords by that circumſtance an additional pleaſure. A throne is erected for the chief magiſtrate, and a chair with a high ſeat for the preſi⯑dent of a court.

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

The emotions raiſed by great and by e⯑levated objects, are clearly diſtinguiſhable, not only in the internal feeling, but even in their external expreſſions. A great object dilates the breaſt, and makes the ſpectator endeavour to enlarge his bulk. This is remarkable in perſons, who, neglecting delicacy in behaviour, give way to nature without reſerve. In deſcribing a great ob⯑ject, they naturally expand themſelves by drawing in air with all their force. An e⯑levated object produces a different expreſ⯑ſion. It makes the ſpectator ſtretch up⯑ward and ſtand a tiptoe.

[266] Great and elevated objects conſidered with relation to the emotions produced by them, are termed grand and ſublime. Grandeur and ſublimity have a double ſig⯑nification. They generally ſignify the qua⯑lity or circumſtance in the objects by which the emotions are produced; ſometimes the emotions themſelves.

Whether magnitude ſingly in an object of ſight, have the effect to produce an emo⯑tion diſtinguiſhable from the beauty or de⯑formity of that object; or whether it be on⯑ly a circumſtance modifying the beauty or deformity, is an intricate queſtion. If magnitude produce an emotion of its own diſtinguiſhable from others, this emotion muſt either be pleaſant or painful. But this ſeems to be contradicted by experience; for magnitude, as it would appear, con⯑tributes in ſome inſtances to beauty, in ſome to deformity. A hill, for in⯑ſtance, is agreeable, and a great moun⯑tain ſtill more ſo. But an ugly monſter, the larger, the more horrid. Greatneſs in an enemy, great power, great courage, ſerve but to augment our terror. Hath not [267] this an appearance as if grandeur were not an emotion diſtinct from all others, but only a circumſtance that qualifies beauty and de⯑formity?

I am notwithſtanding ſatisfied, that gran⯑deur is an emotion, not only diſtinct from all others, but in every circumſtance plea⯑ſant. Theſe propoſitions muſt be exami⯑ned ſeparately. I begin with the former, and ſhall endeavour to prove, that magni⯑tude produceth a peculiar emotion diſtin⯑guiſhable from all others. Magnitude is undoubtedly a real property of bodies, not leſs than figure, and more than colour. Figure and colour, even in the ſame body, produce ſeparate emotions, which are ne⯑ver miſapprehended one for the other. Why ſhould not magnitude produce an emotion different from both? That it has this effect, will be evident from a plain experiment of two bodies, one great and one little, which produce different emotions, though they be preciſely the ſame as to figure and co⯑lour. There is indeed an obſcurity in this matter, occaſioned by the following circum⯑ſtance, that the grandeur and beauty of the [268] ſame object mix ſo intimately as ſcarce to be diſtinguiſhed. But the beauty of colour comes in happily to enable us to make the diſtinction. For the emotion of colour u⯑nites with that of figure, not leſs intimately than grandeur does with either. Yet the emotion of colour is diſtinguiſhable from that of figure; and ſo is grandeur, atten⯑tively conſidered: though when theſe three emotions are blended together, they are ſcarce felt as different emotions.

Next, that grandeur is an emotion in e⯑very circumſtance pleaſant, appears from the following conſiderations. Magnitude or greatneſs, abſtracted from all other circum⯑ſtances, ſwells the heart and dilates the mind. We feel this to be a pleaſant effect; and we feel no ſuch effect in contracting the mind upon little objects. This may be illuſtrated by conſidering grandeur in an e⯑nemy. Beauty is an agreeable quality, whether in a friend or enemy; and when the emotion it raiſeth is mixed with reſent⯑ment againſt an enemy, it muſt have the effect to moderate our reſentment. In the ſame manner, grandeur in an enemy, un⯑doubtedly [269] foftens and blunts our reſentment. Grandeur indeed may indirectly and by re⯑flection produce an unpleaſant effect. Gran⯑deur in an enemy, like courage, may in⯑creaſe our fear, when we conſider the ad⯑vantage he hath over us by this quality. But the ſame indirect effect may be produced by many other agreeable qualities, ſuch as beauty or wiſdom.

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

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

The pleaſant emotion raiſed by large ob⯑jects, has not eſcaped the poets:

The poets have alſo made good uſe of [271] the emotion produced by the elevated ſitua⯑tion of an object.

Though the quality of magnitude produ⯑ceth a pleaſant emotion, we muſt not con⯑clude that the oppoſite quality of littleneſs produceth a painful emotion. It would be [270] [...] [271] [...] [272] unhappy for man, were an object diſagree⯑able from its being of a ſmall ſize merely, when he is ſurrounded with ſo many ob⯑jects of that kind. The ſame obſervation is applicable to elevation of place. A body placed high is agreeable; but the ſame body placed low, is not by that circumſtance rendered diſagreeable. Littleneſs, and low⯑neſs of place, are preciſely ſimilar in the fol⯑lowing particular, that they neither give pleaſure nor pain. And in this may viſibly be diſcovered peculiar attention in fitting the internal conſtitution of man to his exter⯑nal circumſtances. Were littleneſs, and lowneſs of place agreeable, greatneſs and elevation could not be ſo. Were littleneſs, and lowneſs of place diſagreeable, they would occaſion uninterrupted uneaſineſs.

The difference betwixt great and little with reſpect to agreeableneſs, is remarkably felt in a ſeries when we paſs gradually from the one extreme to the other. A mental progreſs from the capital to the kingdom, from that to Europe—to the whole earth—to the planetary ſyſtem—to the univerſe, is extremely pleaſant: the heart ſwells and [273] the mind is dilated, at every ſtep. The re⯑turning in an oppoſite direction is not poſi⯑tively painful, though our pleaſure leſſens at every ſtep, till it vaniſh into indifference. Such a progreſs may ſometimes produce a pleaſure of a different ſort, which ariſes from taking a narrower and narrower inſpection. The ſame obſervation is applicable to a pro⯑greſs upward and downward. Aſcent is pleaſant becauſe it elevates us. But deſcent is never painful: it is for the moſt part plea⯑ſant from a different cauſe, that it is accor⯑ding to the order of nature. The fall of a ſtone from anyheight, is extremely agreeable by its accelerated motion. I feel it pleaſant to deſcend from a mountain: the deſcent is natural and eaſy. Neither is looking downward painful. On the contrary, to look down upon objects, makes part of the pleaſure of elevation. Looking down be⯑comes then only painful when the object is ſo far below as to create dizzineſs: and even when that is the caſe, we feel a ſort of plea⯑ſure mixt with the pain. Witneſs Shake⯑ſpear's deſcription of Dover cliffs:

An obſervation is made above, that the emotions of grandeur and ſublimity are nearly allied. Hence it is, that the one term is frequently put for the other. I give an example. An increaſing ſeries of num⯑bers produceth an emotion ſimilar to that of mounting upward, and for that reaſon is commonly termed an aſcending ſeries. A ſeries of numbers gradually decreaſing, pro⯑duceth an emotion ſimilar to that of going downward, and for that reaſon is common⯑ly [275] termed a deſcending ſeries. We talk fa⯑miliarly of going up to the capital, and of going down to the country. From a leſſer kingdom we talk of going up to a greater, whence the anabaſis in the Greek language when one travels from Greece to Perſia. We diſcover the ſame way of ſpeaking in the language even of Japan^*; and its uni⯑verſality proves it the offspring of a natural feeling.

The foregoing obſervation leads us natu⯑rally to conſider grandeur and ſublimity in a figurative ſenſe, and as applicable to the fine arts. Hitherto I have conſidered theſe terms in their proper meaning, as applicable to objects of ſight only: and I thought it of importance, to beſtow ſome pains upon that article; becauſe, generally ſpeaking, the figurative ſenſe of a word is derived from its proper ſenſe; which will be found to hold in the preſent ſubject. Beauty in its original ſig⯑nification, is confined to objects of ſight. But as many other objects, intellectual as well as moral, raiſe emotions reſembling that [276] of beauty, the reſemblance of the effects prompts us naturally to extend the term beauty to theſe objects. This equally ac⯑counts for the terms grandeur and ſublimity taken in a figurative ſenſe. Every emotion, from whatever cauſe proceeding, that re⯑ſembles an emotion of grandeur or eleva⯑tion, is called by the ſame name. Thus generoſity is ſaid to be an elevated emotion, as well as great courage; and that firmneſs of ſoul which is ſuperior to misfortunes, ob⯑tains the peculiar name of magnanimity. On the other hand, every emotion that con⯑tracts the mind and fixeth it upon things trivial or of no importance, is termed low, by its reſemblance to an emotion produced by a little or low object of ſight. Thus an appetite for trifling amuſements, is called a low taſte. The ſame terms are applied to characters and actions. We talk familiarly of an elevated genius, of a great man, and equally ſo of littleneſs of mind. Some ac⯑tions are great and elevated, others are low and groveling. Sentiments and even ex⯑preſſions are characteriſed in the ſame man⯑ner. An expreſſion or ſentiment that rai⯑ſes [277] the mind, is denominated great or ele⯑vated; and hence the ſublime^* in poetry. In ſuch figurative terms, the diſtinction is loſt that is made betwixt great and elevated in their proper ſenſe; for the reſemblance is not ſo entire, as to preſerve theſe terms diſtinct in their figurative application. We carry this figure ſtill farther. Elevation in its proper ſenſe, includes ſuperiority of place; and lowneſs, inferiority of place. Hence a man of ſuperior talents, of ſuperior rank, of inferior parts, of inferior taſte, and ſuch like. The veneration we have for our anceſtors and for the ancients in general, being ſimi⯑lar [278] to the emotion produced by an elevated object of ſight, juſtifies the figurative expreſ⯑ſion, of the ancients being raiſed above us, or poſſeſſing a ſuperior place. And we may remark by the way, that as words are inti⯑mately connected with ideas, many, by this form of expreſſion, are led to conceive their anceſtors as really above them in place, and their poſterity below them:

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

Such is the reſemblance in feeling be⯑twixt real and figurative grandeur, that among the nations on the eaſt coaſt of A⯑fric, who are directed purely by nature, the [279] different dignities of the officers of ſtate are marked by the length of the batoon each carries in his hand. And in Japan, princes and great lords ſhew their rank by the length and ſize of their ſedan-poles^*. Again, it is a rule in painting, that figures of a ſmall ſize are proper for groteſque pieces; but that in an hiſtorical ſubject, which is grand and important, the figures ought to be as great as the life. The reſemblance of theſe feelings is in reality ſo ſtrong, that elevation in a figurative ſenſe is obſerved to have the ſame effect even externally, that real eleva⯑tion has:

The reſemblance in feeling betwixt real and figurative grandeur, is humorouſly il⯑luſtrated by Addiſon in criticiſing upon the Engliſh tragedy. ‘"The ordinary me⯑thod [280] of making an hero, is to clap a huge plume of feathers upon his head, which riſes ſo high, that there is often a greater length from his chin to the top of his head, than to the ſole of his foot. One would believe, that we thought a great man and a tall man the ſame thing. As theſe ſuperfluous ornaments upon the head make a great man, a princeſs gene⯑rally receives her grandeur from thoſe additional incumbrances that fall into her tail. I mean the broad ſweeping train that follows her in all her motions, and finds conſtant employment for a boy who ſtands behind her to open and ſpread it to advantage^*."’ The Scythians, im⯑preſſed with the ſame of Alexander, were aſtoniſhed when they found him a little man.

A gradual progreſs from ſmall to great, is not leſs remarkable in figurative than in real grandeur or elevation. Every one muſt have obſerved the delightful effect of a number of thoughts or ſentiments, artfully [281] diſpoſed like an aſcending ſeries, and ma⯑king impreſſions ſtronger and ſtronger. Such diſpoſition of members in a period, is diſtinguiſhed by a proper name, being termed a climax.

In order to have a juſt conception of grandeur and ſublimity, it is neceſſary to be obſerved, that within certain limits they produce their ſtrongeſt effects, which leſſen by exceſs as well as by defect. This is re⯑markable in grandeur and ſublimity taken in their proper ſenſe. The ſtrongeſt emo⯑tion of grandeur is raiſed by an object that can be taken in at one view. An object ſo immenſe as not to be compre⯑hended but in parts, tends rather to diſtract than ſatisfy the mind^* In like manner, the ſtrongeſt emotion produced by elevation is where the object is ſeen diſtinctly. A greater elevation leſſens in appearance the [282] object, till it vaniſh out of ſight with its pleaſant emotion. The ſame is equally re⯑markable in figurative grandeur and eleva⯑tion, which ſhall be handled together, be⯑cauſe, as obſerved above, they are ſcarce diſtinguiſhable. Sentiments may be ſo ſtrained, as to become obſcure, or to exceed the capacity of the human mind. Againſt ſuch licence of imagination, every good writer will be upon his guard. And there⯑fore it is of greater importance to obſerve, that even the true ſublime may be carried beyond that pitch which produces the high⯑eſt entertainment. We are undoubtedly ſuſceptible of a greater elevation than can be inſpired by human actions the moſt heroic and magnanimous; witneſs what we feel from Milton's deſcription of ſuperior beings. Yet every man muſt be ſenſible of a more conſtant and pleaſant elevation, when the hiſtory of his own ſpecies is the ſubject. He enjoys an elevation equal to that of the greateſt hero, of an Alexander or a Caeſar, of a Brutus or an Epaminondas. He ac⯑companies theſe heroes in their ſublimeſt ſentiments and moſt hazardous exploits, [283] with a magnanimity equal to theirs; and finds it no ſtretch to preſerve the ſame tone of mind for hours together, without ſinking. The caſe is by no means the ſame in de⯑ſcribing the actions or qualities of ſuperior beings. The reader's imagination cannot keep pace with that of the poet; and the mind, unable to ſupport itſelf in a ſtrained elevation, falls as from a height; and the fall is immoderate like the elevation. Where this effect is not felt, it muſt be prevented by ſome obſcurity in the conception, which frequently attends the deſcription of un⯑known objects.

On the other hand, objects of ſight that are not remarkably great or high, ſcarce raiſe any emotion of grandeur or ſublimity; and the ſame holds in other objects. The mind is often rouſed and animated without being carried to the height of grandeur or ſublimity. This difference may be diſcern⯑ed in many ſorts of muſic, as well as in ſome muſical inſtruments. A kettledrum rouſes, and a hautboy is animating; but neither of them inſpire an emotion of ſublimity. Re⯑venge animates the mind in a conſiderable [284] degree; but I think it never produceth an emotion that can be termed grand or ſub⯑lime; and I ſhall have occaſion afterward to obſerve, that no diſagreeable paſſion ever has this effect. I am willing to put this to the teſt, by placing before my reader the moſt ſpirited picture of revenge ever drawn. It is a ſpeech of Antony wailing over the body of Caeſar.

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

The attachment we have to things grand or lofty may be thought to proceed from an unwearied inclination we have to be exalt⯑ed. No deſire is more univerſal than to be reſpected and honoured. Upon that ac⯑count chiefly, are we ambitious of power, riches, titles, fame, which would ſuddenly loſe their reliſh, did they not raiſe us above others, and command ſubmiſſion and defe⯑rence^*. But the preference given to things grand and ſublime muſt have a deeper root in human nature. Many beſtow their time [287] upon low and trifling amuſements, without ſhowing any deſire to be exalted. Yet theſe very perſons talk the ſame language with the reſt of mankind; and at leaſt in their judgement, if not in their taſte, prefer the more elevated pleaſures. They acknow⯑ledge a more refined taſte, and are aſhamed of their own as low and groveling. This ſentiment, conſtant and univerſal, muſt be the work of nature; and it plainly indicates an original attachment in human nature to every object that elevates the mind. Some men may have a greater reliſh for an object not of the higheſt rank: but they are con⯑ſcious of the common nature of man, and that it ought not to be ſubjected to their peculiar taſte.

The irregular influence of grandeur, reaches alſo to other matters. However good, honeſt, or uſeful, a man may be, he is not ſo much reſpected, as one of a more elevated character is, though of leſs integrity; nor do the misfortunes of the former affect us ſo much as thoſe of the latter. I add, becauſe it cannot be diſgui⯑ſed, that the remorſe which attends breach [288] of engagement, is in a great meaſure pro⯑portioned to the figure that the injured per⯑ſon makes. The vows and proteſtations of lovers are an illuſtrious example of this ob⯑ſervation; for theſe commonly are little re⯑garded when made to women of inferior rank.

What I have ſaid ſuggeſts a capital rule for reaching the ſublime in ſuch works of art as are ſuſceptible of it; and that is, to put in view thoſe parts or circumſtances only which make the greateſt figure, keeping out of ſight every thing that is low or trivial. Such judicious ſelection of capital circumſtances, is by an eminent critic ſtyled grandeur of manner ^*. The mind, from an elevation inſpired by important objects, cannot, without reluctance, be forced down to be⯑ſtow any ſhare of its attention upon trifles. In none of the fine arts is there ſo great ſcope for this rule as in poetry, which, by that means, enjoys a remarkable power of beſtowing upon objects and events an air of grandeur. When we are ſpectators, every [289] minute object preſents itſelf in its order. But in deſcribing at ſecond hand, theſe are laid aſide, and the capital objects are brought cloſe together. A judicious taſte in ſelecting, after this manner, the moſt intereſting incidents to give them an united force, accounts for a fact which at firſt ſight may appear ſurpriſing, that we are more moved by a poetical narrative at ſe⯑cond hand, than when we are ſpectators of the event itſelf in all its circumſtances.

Longinus exemplifies the foregoing rule by a compariſon of two paſſages^*. The firſt from Ariſtaeus is thus tranſlated.

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

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

The following paſſage from the twenty⯑firſt book of the Odyſſey, deviates widely [291] from the rule above laid down. It con⯑cerns that part of the hiſtory of Penelope and her ſuitors, in which ſhe is made to declare in favour of him who ſhould prove the moſt dexterous in ſhooting with the bow of Ulyſſes.

Virgil ſometimes errs againſt this rule. In the following paſſages minute circum⯑ſtances are brought into full view; and what is ſtill worſe, they are deſcribed in all [292] the ſublimity of poetical deſcription. Aeneid, L. 1. l. 214. to 219. L. 6. l. 176. to 182. L. 6. l. 212. to 231. And the laſt, which is a deſcription of a funeral, is the leſs ex⯑cuſeable, as it relates to a man who makes no figure in the poem.

The ſpeech of Clytemneſtra, deſcending from her chariot in the Iphigenia of Euri⯑pides, beginning of act 3. is ſtuffed with a number of low, common, and trivial cir⯑cumſtances.

But of all writers Lucan in this article is the moſt injudicious. The ſea-fight be⯑twixt the Romans and Maſſilians^*, is de⯑ſcribed ſo much in detail without exhibiting any grand or general view, that the reader is quite fatigued with endleſs circumſtances, and never feels any degree of elevation. And yet there are ſome fine incidents, thoſe for example of the two brothers, and of the old man and his ſon, which, ſeparated from the reſt, would affect us greatly. But Lu⯑can once engaged in a deſcription, knows no bounds. See other paſſages of the ſame [293] kind, L. 4. l. 292. to 337. L. 4. l. 750. to 765. The epiſode of the ſorcereſs E⯑rictho, end of book 6. is intolerably mi⯑nute and prolix.

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

This rule is alſo applicable to other fine arts. In painting it is eſtabliſhed, that the principal figure muſt be put in the ſtrong⯑eſt light; that the beauty of attitude conſiſts in placing the nobler parts moſt in view, and in ſuppreſſing the ſmaller parts as much as poſſible; that the folds of the drapery muſt be few and large; that foreſhortenings are bad, becauſe they make the parts ap⯑pear [294] little; and that the muſcles ought to be kept as entire as poſſible, without being di⯑vided into ſmall ſections. Every one at pre⯑ſent is ſenſible of the importance of this rule when applied to gardening, in oppoſi⯑tion to the antiquated taſte of parterres ſplit into a thouſand ſmall parts in the ſtricteſt regularity of figure. Thoſe who have ſuc⯑ceeded beſt in architecture, have governed themſelves by this rule in all their models.

Another rule chiefly regards the ſublime, though it may be applied to every literary performance intended for amuſement; and that is, to avoid as much as poſſible abſtract and general terms. Such terms, perfectly well fitted for reaſoning and for conveying inſtruction, ſerve but imperfectly the ends of poetry. They ſtand upon the ſame foot⯑ing with mathematical ſigns, contrived to expreſs our thoughts in a conciſe manner. But images, which are the life of poetry, cannot be raiſed in any perfection, otherwiſe than by introducing particular objects. Ge⯑neral terms, that comprehend a number of individuals, muſt be excepted from this rule. Our kindred, our clan, our country, [295] and words of the like import, though they ſcarce raiſe any image, have notwithſtand⯑ing a wonderful power over our paſſions. The greatneſs of the complex object over⯑balances the obſcurity of the image.

What I have further to ſay upon this ſub⯑ject, ſhall be comprehended in a few ob⯑ſervations. A man is capable of being rai⯑ſed ſo much above his ordinary pitch by an emotion of grandeur, that it is extremely difficult by a ſingle thought or expreſſion to produce that emotion in perfection. The riſe muſt be gradual and the reſult of reite⯑rated impreſſions. The effect of a ſingle expreſſion can be but momentary; and if one feel ſuddenly ſomewhat like a ſwelling or exaltation of mind, the emotion vaniſh⯑eth as ſoon as felt. Single expreſſions, I know, are often juſtly cited as examples of the ſublime. But then their effect is no⯑thing compared with a grand ſubject diſ⯑played in its capital parts. I ſhall give a few examples, that the reader may judge for himſelf. In the famous action of Thermo⯑pylae, where Leonidas the Spartan King with his choſen band fighting for their [296] country, were cut off to the laſt man, a ſaying is reported of Dieneces one of the band, which, expreſſing chearful and un⯑diſturbed bravery, is well intitled to the firſt place in examples of this kind. Talking of the number of their enemies, it was obſer⯑ved, that the arrows ſhot by ſuch a multi⯑tude would intercept the light of the ſun. So much the better, ſays he; for we ſhall then fight in the ſhade^*.

Such a ſentiment from a man expiring of his wounds, is truly heroic, and muſt ele⯑vate the mind to the greateſt height that can be done by a ſingle expreſſion. It will not [297] ſuffer in a compariſon with the famous ſen⯑timent Qu'il mourut in Corneille's Horace. The latter is a ſentiment of indignation merely, the former of invincible fortitude.

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

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

[298] I proceed to another obſervation. In the chapter of beauty it is remarked, that regularity is required in ſmall figures, and order in ſmall groups; but that in advan⯑cing gradually from ſmall to great, regula⯑rity and order are leſs and leſs required. This remark ſerves to explain the extreme delight we have in viewing the face of na⯑ture, when ſufficiently enriched and diver⯑ſified by objects. The bulk of the objects ſeen in a natural landſcape are beautiful, and ſome of them grand. A flowing river, a ſpreading oak, a round hill, an extended plain, are delightful; and even a rugged rock or barren heath, though in themſelves diſagreeable, contribute by contraſt to the beauty of the whole. Joining to theſe, the verdure of the fields, the mixture of light and ſhade, and the ſublime canopy ſpread over all; it will not appear wonderful, that ſo extenſive a group of glorious objects ſhould ſwell the heart to its utmoſt bounds, and raiſe the ſtrongeſt emotion of grandeur. The ſpectator is conſcious of an enthuſiaſm, which cannot bear confinement nor the ſtrictneſs of regularity and order. He loves [299] to range at large; and is ſo inchanted with ſhining objects, as to neglect ſlight beauties or defects. Thus it is, that the delightful emotion of grandeur, depends little on order and regularity. And when the emotion is at its height by a ſurvey of the greateſt ob⯑jects, order and regularity are almoſt totally diſregarded.

The ſame obſervation is applicable in ſome meaſure to works of art. In a ſmall building the ſlighteſt irregularity is diſagree⯑able. In a magnificent palace or a large Gothic church, irregularities are leſs regard⯑ed. In an epic poem we pardon many negligences, which would be intolerable in a ſonnet or epigram. Notwithſtanding ſuch exceptions, it may be juſtly laid down for a rule, That in all works of art, order and regularity ought to be governing principles. And hence the obſervation of Longinus^*, ‘"In works of art we have regard to exact proportion; in thoſe of nature, to gran⯑deur and magnificence."’

I ſhall add but one other obſervation, [300] That no means can be more ſucceſsfully employed to ſink and depreſs the mind than grandeur or ſublimity. By the artful intro⯑duction of an humbling object, the fall is great in proportion to the former elevation. Of this doctrine Shakeſpear affords us a beautiful illuſtration, in a paſſage part of which is cited above for another purpoſe:

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

[301] This indirect effect of elevation to ſink the mind, is ſometimes produced without the intervention of any humbling image. There was occaſion above to remark, that in deſcribing ſuperior beings, the reader's imagination, unable to ſupport itſelf in a ſtrained elevation, falls often as from a height, and ſinks even below its ordinary tone. The following inſtance comes lucki⯑ly in view; for a better illuſtration cannot be given: ‘"God ſaid, Let there be light, and there was light."’ Longinus cites this paſſage from Moſes as a ſhining exam⯑ple of the ſublime; and it is ſcarce poſſible in fewer words, to convey ſo clear an image of the infinite power of the Deity. But then it belongs to the preſent ſubject to remark, that the emotion of ſublimity raiſed by this image is but momentary; and that the mind, unable to ſupport itſelf in an eleva⯑tion ſo much above nature, immediate⯑ly ſinks down into humility and venera⯑tion for a being ſo far exalted above us groveling mortals. Every one is acquainted with a diſpute about this paſſage betwixt [302] two French critics^*, the one poſitively affirming, the other as poſitively deny⯑ing, it to be ſublime. What I have o⯑pened, ſhows that both of them have reached the truth, but neither of them the whole truth. Every one of taſte muſt be ſenſible, that the primary effect of this paſ⯑ſage is an emotion of grandeur. This ſo far juſtifies Boileau. But then every one of taſte muſt be equally ſenſible, that the emo⯑tion is merely a flaſh, which vaniſheth in⯑ſtantly, and gives way to the deepeſt humi⯑lity and veneration. This indirect effect of ſublimity, juſtifies Huet on the other hand, who being a man of true piety, and perhaps of inferior imagination, felt the humbling paſſions more ſenſibly than his antagoniſt. And even laying aſide any peculiarity of character, Huet's opinion may I think be defended as the more ſolid; upon the fol⯑lowing account, that in ſuch images, the depreſſing emotions are the more ſenſibly felt, and have the longer endurance.

The ſtraining an elevated ſubject beyond [303] due bounds and beyond the reach of an ordinary conception, is not a vice ſo fre⯑quent as to require the correction of criti⯑ciſm. But falſe ſublime is a rock which writers of more fire than judgement gene⯑rally ſplit on. And therefore a collection of examples may be of uſe as a beacon to fu⯑ture adventurers. One ſpecies of falſe ſub⯑lime, known by the name of bombaſt, is common among writers of a mean genius. It is a ſerious endeavour, by ſtrained deſcrip⯑tion, to raiſe a low or familiar ſubject above its rank; which inſtead of being ſublime, never fails to be ridiculous. I am extreme⯑ly ſenſible how prone the mind is, in ſome animating paſſions, to magnify its objects beyond natural bounds. But ſuch hyper⯑bolical deſcription has its limits. If carried beyond the impulſe of the propenſity, the colouring no longer pleaſes: it degenerates into the burleſque. Take the following ex⯑amples.

A writer who has no natural elevation of genius, is extremely apt to deviate into bom⯑baſt. He ſtrains above his genius; and the violent effort he makes carries him general⯑ly beyond the bounds of propriety. Boi⯑leau expreſſes this happily:

The ſame author Ben Johnſon abounds in the bombaſt:

This is the language of a madman:

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

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

CHAP. V. Motion and Force.

THAT motion is agreeable to the eye without relation to purpoſe or deſign, may appear from the a⯑muſement it gives to infants. Juvenile ex⯑erciſes are reliſhed chiefly upon that ac⯑count.

If to ſee a body in motion be agreeable, one will be apt to conclude, that to ſee it at reſt is diſagreeable. But we learn from experience, that this would be a raſh con⯑cluſion. Reſt is one of thoſe circumſtances that are neither agreeable nor diſagreeable. It is viewed with perfect indifferency. And happy it is for mankind that the matter is ſo ordered. If reſt were agreeable, it would diſ⯑incline us to motion, by which all things are performed. If it were diſagreeable, it would be a ſource of perpetual uneaſineſs; for the bulk of the things we ſee appear to be at [310] reſt. A ſimilar inſtance of deſigning wiſ⯑dom I have had occaſion to explain, in oppoſing grandeur to littleneſs, and eleva⯑tion to lowneſs of place^*. Even in the ſimpleſt matters, the finger of God is con⯑ſpicuous. The happy adjuſtment of the internal nature of man to his external circumſtances, diſplayed in the inſtances here given, is indeed admirable.

Motion is certainly agreeable in all its varieties of quickneſs and ſlowneſs. But motion long continued admits ſome excep⯑tions. That degree of continued motion which correſponds to the natural courſe of our perceptions, is the moſt agreeable^†. The quickeſt motion is for an inſtant de⯑lightful. But it ſoon appears to be too ra⯑pid. It becomes painful, by forcibly acce⯑lerating the courſe of our perceptions. Slow continued motion becomes diſagreeable for an oppoſite reaſon, that it retards the natu⯑ral courſe of our perceptions.

There are other varieties in motion, be⯑ſide [311] quickneſs and ſlowneſs, that make it more or leſs agreeable. Regular motion is preferred before what is irregular, witneſs the motion of the planets in orbits nearly circular. The motion of the comets in or⯑bits leſs regular, is leſs agreeable.

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

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

The eaſy and ſliding motion of fluids, from the lubricity and incoherence of their parts, is agreeable upon that account. But [312] the agreeableneſs chiefly depends upon the following circumſtance, that the motion is perceived, not as of one body, but as of an endleſs number moving together with order and regularity. Poets ſtruck with this beauty, draw more images from fluids than from ſolids.

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

Though motion and force are each of [313] them agreeable, the impreſſions they make are different. This difference, clearly felt, is not eaſily deſcribed. All we can ſay is, that the emotion raiſed by a moving body, reſembles its cauſe: it feels as if the mind were carried along. The emotion raiſed by force exerted, reſembles alſo its cauſe: it feels as if force were exerted within the mind.

To illuſtrate this difference, I give the following examples. It has been explained why ſmoke aſcending in a calm day, ſup⯑poſe from a cottage in a wood, is an agree⯑able object^*. Landſcape-painters are fond of this object, and introduce it upon all occaſions. As the aſcent is natural and without effort, it is delightful in a calm ſtate of mind. It makes an impreſſion of the ſame ſort with that of a gently-flowing river, but more agreeable, becauſe aſcent is more to our taſte than deſcent. A fire⯑work or a jet d'eau rouſes the mind more; becauſe the beauty of force viſibly exerted, is ſuperadded to that of upward motion. [314] To a man reclining indolently upon a bank of flowers, aſcending ſmoke in a ſtill morning is delightful. But a fire-work or a jet d'eau rouſes him from this ſupine poſture, and puts him in motion.

A jet d'eau makes an impreſſion diſtin⯑guiſhable from that of a water-fall. Down⯑ward motion being natural and without ef⯑fort, tends rather to quiet the mind than to rouſe it. Upward motion, on the con⯑trary, overcoming the reſiſtance of gravity, makes an impreſſion of a great effort, and thereby rouſes and enlivens the mind.

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

[315] No quality nor circumſtance contributes more to grandeur than force, eſpecially as exerted by ſenſible beings. I cannot make this more evident than by the following ci⯑tations.

We ſhall now conſider the effect of mo⯑tion and force in conjunction. In con⯑templating the planetary ſyſtem, what ſtrikes us the moſt, is the ſpherical figures of the planets and their regular motions. The conception we have of their activity [317] and enormous bulk is more obſcure. The beauty accordingly of this ſyſtem, raiſes a more lively emotion than its grandeur. But if we could imagine ourſelves ſpectators comprehending the whole ſyſtem at one view, the activity and irreſiſtible force of theſe immenſe bodies would fill us with a⯑mazement. Nature cannot furniſh another ſcene ſo grand.

Motion and force, agreeable in them⯑ſelves, are alſo agreeable by their utility when employed as means to accompliſh ſome beneficial end. Hence the ſuperior beauty of ſome machines, where force and motion concur to perform the work of numberleſs hands. Hence the beautiful motions, firm and regular, of a horſe train⯑ed for war. Every ſingle ſtep is the fitteſt that can be for obtaining the end propoſed. But the grace of motion is viſible chiefly in man, not only for the reaſons mentioned, but alſo becauſe every geſture is ſignificant. The power however of agreeable motion is not a common talent. Every limb of the human body has a good and a bad, an agree⯑able and diſagreeable action. Some mo⯑tions [318] are extremely graceful, others are plain and vulgar: ſome expreſs dignity, others meanneſs. But the pleaſure here, ariſing not ſingly from the beauty of motion, but from indicating character and ſentiment, belongs to a different chapter^*.

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

CHAP. VI. Novelty, and the unexpected ap⯑pearance of objects.

OF all the particulars that contribute to raiſe emotions, not excepting beauty, or even greatneſs, novelty hath the moſt powerful influence. A new ſpectacle attracts multitudes. It produceth inſtantaneouſly an emotion which totally occupies the mind, and for a time excludes all other objects. The ſoul ſeems to meet the ſtrange appearance with a certain elon⯑gation of itſelf; and all is huſhed in cloſe contemplation. In ſome inſtances, there is perceived a degree of agony, attended with external ſymptoms extremely expreſſive. Converſation among the vulgar never is more intereſting, than when it runs upon ſtrange objects and extraordinary events. Men tear themſelves from their native coun⯑try in ſearch of things rare and new; and [320] curioſity converts into a pleaſure, the fatigues, and even perils of travelling. To what cauſe ſhall we aſcribe theſe ſingular appearances? The plain account of the matter follows. Curioſity is implanted in human nature, for a purpoſe extremely beneficial, that of ac⯑quiring knowledge. New and ſtrange ob⯑jects, above all others, excite our curioſity; and its gratification is the emotion above de⯑ſcribed, known by the name of wonder. This emotion is diſtinguiſhed from admira⯑tion. Novelty where-ever found, whether in a quality or action, is the cauſe of won⯑der: admiration is directed upon the ope⯑rator who performs any thing wonderful.

During infancy, every new object is pro⯑bably the occaſion of wonder, in ſome de⯑gree; becauſe, during infancy, every ob⯑ject at firſt is ſtrange as well as new. But as objects are rendered familiar by cuſtom, we ceaſe by degrees to wonder at new ap⯑pearances that have any reſemblance to what we are acquainted with. A thing muſt be ſingular as well as new, to excite our curio⯑ſity and to raiſe our wonder. To ſave mul⯑tiplying words, I would be underſtood to [321] comprehend both circumſtances when I hereafter talk of novelty.

In an ordinary train of perceptions where one thing introduces another, not a ſingle object makes its appearance unexpectedly^*. The mind thus prepared for the reception of its objects, admits them one after ano⯑ther without perturbation. But when a thing breaks in unexpectedly and without the preparation of any connection, it raiſes a ſingular emotion known by the name of ſurpriſe. This emotion may be produced by the moſt familiar object, as when one accidentally meets a friend who was re⯑ported to be dead; or a man in high life, lately a beggar. On the other hand, a new object, however ſtrange, will not produce this emotion if the ſpectator be prepared for the ſight. An elephant in India will not ſurpriſe a traveller who goes to ſee one; and yet its novelty will raiſe his wonder. An Indian in Britain would be much ſurpriſed to ſtumble upon an elephant feeding at large in the open fields; but the creature [322] itſelf, to which he was accuſtomed, would not raiſe his wonder.

Surpriſe thus in ſeveral reſpects differs from wonder. Unexpectedneſs is the cauſe of the former emotion: novelty is the cauſe of the latter. Nor differ they leſs in their nature and circumſtances, as will be explain⯑ed by and by. With relation to one circum⯑ſtance they perfectly agree, which is the ſhortneſs of their duration. The inſtanta⯑neous production of theſe emotions in per⯑fection, may contribute to this effect, in conformity to a general law, That things ſoon decay which ſoon come to perfection. The violence of the emotions may alſo con⯑tribute; for an ardent emotion, which is not ſuſceptible of increaſe, cannot have a long courſe. But their ſhort duration is oc⯑caſioned chiefly by that of their cauſes. We are ſoon reconciled to an object, however un⯑expected; and novelty ſoon degenerates in⯑to familiarity.

Whether theſe emotions be pleaſant or painful, is not a clear point. It may appear ſtrange, that our own feelings and their ca⯑pital qualities ſhould afford any matter for a [323] doubt. But when we are ingroſſed by any emotion, there is no place for ſpeculation; and when ſufficiently calm for ſpeculation, it is not eaſy to recal the emotion with ſuffi⯑cient accuracy. New objects are ſometimes terrible, ſometimes delightful. The terror which a tyger inſpires is greateſt at firſt, and wears off gradually by familiarity. On the other hand, even women will acknow⯑ledge, that it is novelty which pleaſes the moſt in a new faſhion. At this rate, it ſhould be thought, that wonder is not in itſelf pleaſant or painful, but that it aſſumes either quality according to circumſtances. This doctrine, however plauſible, muſt not paſs without examination. And when we reflect upon the principle of curioſity and its operations, a glimpſe of light gives ſome faint view of a different theory. Our cu⯑rioſity is never more thoroughly gratified, than by new and ſingular objects. That very gratification is the emotion of wonder, which therefore, according to the analogy of nature, ought always to be pleaſant^*. [324] And indeed it would be a great defect in human nature, were the gratification of ſo uſeful a principle unpleaſant. But upon a more ſtrict ſcrutiny, we ſhall not have oc⯑caſion to mark curioſity as an exception from the general rule. A new object, it is true, that hath a threatening appearance, adds to our terror by its novelty. But from this expe⯑riment it doth not follow, that novelty is in itſelf diſagreeable. It is perfectly conſiſtent, that we ſhould be delighted with an object in one view, and terrified with it in another. A river in flood ſwelling over its banks, is a grand and delightful object; and yet it may produce no ſmall degree of fear when we attempt to croſs it. Courage and magnani⯑mity are agreeable; and yet when we view theſe qualities in an enemy, they ſerve to increaſe our terror^*. In the ſame man⯑ner, novelty has two effects clearly diſtin⯑guiſhable from each other. A new object, by gratifying curioſity, muſt always be a⯑greeable. It may, at the ſame time, have an oppoſite effect indirectly, which is, to in⯑ſpire [325] terror. For when a new object ap⯑pears in any degree dangerous, our igno⯑rance of its powers and qualities affords am⯑ple ſcope for the imagination to dreſs it in the moſt frightful colours^*. Thus the firſt ſight of a lion at ſome diſtance, may at the ſame inſtant produce two oppoſite feelings, the pleaſant emotion of wonder, and the pain⯑ful paſſion of terror. The novelty of the ob⯑ject, produces the former directly, and con⯑tributes to the latter indirectly. Thus, when the ſubject is analized, we find, that the power which novelty hath indirectly to in⯑flame terror, is perfectly conſiſtent with its being in every caſe agreeable. The matter may be put in a ſtill clearer light by varying the ſcene. If a lion be firſt ſeen from a place of ſafety, the ſpectacle is altogether a⯑greeable without the leaſt mixture of ter⯑ror. If again the firſt ſight put us within reach of this dangerous animal, our terror may be ſo great as quite to exclude any ſenſe of novelty. But this fact proves not [326] that wonder is painful: it proves only that wonder may be excluded by a more power⯑ful paſſion. And yet it is this fact, which, in ſuperficial thinking, has thrown the ſub⯑ject into obſcurity. I preſume we may now boldly affirm, that wonder is in every caſe a pleaſant emotion. This is acknowledged as to all new objects that appear inoffenſive. And even as to objects that appear offenſive, I urge that the ſame muſt hold ſo long as the ſpectator can attend to the novelty.

Whether ſurpriſe be in itſelf pleaſant or painful, is a queſtion not leſs intricate than the former. It is certain, that ſurpriſe in⯑flames our joy when unexpectedly we meet with an old friend: and not leſs our terror, when we ſtumble upon any thing noxious. To clear this point, we muſt trace it ſtep by ſtep. And the firſt thing to be remarked is, that in ſome inſtances an unexpected ob⯑ject overpowers the mind ſo as to produce a momentary ſtupefaction. An unexpected object, not leſs than one that is new, is apt to ſound an alarm and to raiſe terror. Man, naturally a defenceleſs being, is happily ſo conſtituted as to apprehend danger in all [327] doubtful caſes. Accordingly, where the object is dangerous, or appears ſo, the ſud⯑den alarm it gives, without preparation, is apt totally to unhinge the mind, and for a moment to ſuſpend all the faculties, even thought itſelf^*. In this ſtate a man is quite helpleſs; and if he move at all, is as likely to run upon the danger as from it. Sur⯑priſe carried to this height, cannot be either pleaſant or painful; becauſe the mind, du⯑ring ſuch momentary ſtupefaction, is in a good meaſure, if not totally, inſenſible.

If we then inquire for the character of this emotion, it muſt be where the unex⯑pected object or event produceth leſs violent effects. And while the mind remains ſen⯑ſible of pleaſure and pain, is it not natural to ſuppoſe, that ſurpriſe, like wonder, ſhould have an invariable character? I am incli⯑ned however to think, that ſurpriſe has no invariable character, but aſſumes that of the object which raiſes it. Wonder is the gra⯑tification of a natural principle, and upon [328] that account muſt be pleaſant. There, no⯑velty is the capital circumſtance, which, for a time, is intitled to poſſeſs the mind entire⯑ly in one unvaried tone. The unexpected appearance of an object, ſeems not equally intitled to produce an emotion diſtinguiſh⯑able from the emotion, pleaſant or painful, that is produced by the object in its ordina⯑ry appearance. It ought not naturally to have any effect, other than to ſwell that e⯑motion, by making it more pleaſant or more painful than it commonly is. And this con⯑jecture is confirmed by experience, as well as by language, which is built upon expe⯑rience. When a man meets a friend un⯑expectedly, he is ſaid to be agreeably ſur⯑priſed; and when he meets an enemy un⯑expectedly, he is ſaid to be diſagreeably ſurpriſed. It appears then, that the ſole ef⯑fect of ſurpriſe is to ſwell the emotion raiſed by the object. And this effect can be clear⯑ly explained. A tide of connected percep⯑tions, glides gently into the mind, and pro⯑duceth no perturbation. An object on the other hand breaking in unexpectedly, ſounds an alarm, rouſes the mind out of its calm [329] ſtate, and directs its whole attention upon the object, which, if agreeable, becomes doubly ſo. Several circumſtances concur to produce this effect. On the one hand, the agitation of the mind and its keen atten⯑tion, prepare it in the moſt effectual man⯑ner for receiving a deep impreſſion. On the other hand, the object by its ſudden and unforeſeen appearance, makes an im⯑preſſion, not gradually as expected objects do, but as at one ſtroke with its whole force. The circumſtances are preciſely ſimilar, where the object is in itſelf diſagreeable.

The pleaſure of novelty is eaſily diſtin⯑guiſhed from that of variety. To produce the latter, a plurality of objects is neceſſary. The former ariſes from a circumſtance found in a ſingle object. Again, where objects, whether coexiſtent or in ſucceſſion, are ſufficiently diverſified, the pleaſure of variety is complete, though every ſingle ob⯑ject of the train be familiar. But the plea⯑ſure of novelty, directly oppoſite to familia⯑rity, requires no diverſification.

There are different degrees of novelty, and its effects are in proportion. The low⯑eſt [330] degree is found in objects that are ſurvey⯑ed a ſecond time after a long interval. That in this caſe an object takes on ſome appear⯑ance of novelty, is certain from experience. A large building of many parts variouſly ad⯑orned, or an extenſive field embelliſhed with trees, lakes, temples, ſtatues, and other ornaments, will appear new oftener than once. The memory of an object ſo com⯑plex is ſoon loſt; of its parts at leaſt, or of their arrangement. But experience teaches, that even without any decay of remembrance, abſence alone will give an air of novelty to a once familiar object; which is not ſurpri⯑ſing, becauſe familiarity wears off gradually by abſence. Thus a perſon with whom we have been intimate, returning after a long interval, appears like a new acquaint⯑ance. Diſtance of place contributes to this appearance, not leſs than diſtance of time. A friend after a ſhort abſence in a remote country, has the ſame air of novelty as if he had returned after a longer interval from a place nearer home. The mind forms a con⯑nection betwixt him and the remote coun⯑try, and beſtows upon him the ſingularity [331] of the objects he has ſeen. When two things equally new and ſingular are preſent⯑ed, the ſpectator balances betwixt them. But when told that one of them is the pro⯑duct of a diſtant quarter of the world, he no longer heſitates, but clings to this as the more ſingular. Hence the preference gi⯑ven to foreign luxuries and to foreign curio⯑ſities, which appear rare in proportion to their original diſtance.

The next degree of novelty, mounting upward, is found in objects of which we have ſome information at ſecond hand. For deſcription, though it contribute to familiarity, cannot altogether remove the appearance of novelty when the object itſelf is preſented. The firſt ſight of a lion oc⯑caſions ſome wonder, after a thorough ac⯑quaintance with the correcteſt pictures or ſtatues of that animal.

A new object that bears ſome diſtant reſemblance to a known ſpecies, is an in⯑ſtance of a third degree of novelty. A ſtrong reſemblance among individuals of the ſame ſpecies, prevents almoſt entirely the effect of novelty; unleſs diſtance of [332] place or ſome other circumſtance concur. But where the reſemblance is faint, ſome degree of wonder is felt; and the emotion riſes in proportion to the faintneſs of the re⯑ſemblance.

The higheſt degree of wonder ariſeth from unknown objects that have no ana⯑logy to any ſpecies we are acquainted with. Shakeſpear in a ſimile introduces this ſpecies of novelty.

One example of this ſpecies of novelty deſerves peculiar attention; and that is, when an object altogether new is ſeen by one perſon only, and but for once. Theſe circumſtances heighten remarkably the e⯑motion. The ſingularity of the condition of the ſpectator concurs with the ſingularity [333] of the object, to inflame wonder to its higheſt pitch.

In explaining the effects of novelty, the place a being occupies in the ſcale of exiſt⯑ence, is a circumſtance that muſt not be omitted. Novelty in the individuals of a low claſs, is perceived with indifference, or with a very ſlight emotion. Thus a pebble, however ſingular in its appearance, ſcarce moves our wonder. The emotion riſes with the rank of the object; and, other circumſtances being equal, is ſtrongeſt in the higheſt order of exiſtence. A ſtrange animal affects us more than a ſtrange vege⯑table; and were we admitted to view ſuperior beings, our wonder would riſe proportionably; and accompanying Nature in her amazing works, be completed in the contemplation of the Deity.

However natural the love of novelty may be, it is a matter of experience, that thoſe who reliſh novelty the moſt, are careful to conceal its influence. This reliſh, it is true, prevails in children, in idle people, and in men of a weak mind. And yet, after all, why ſhould one be aſhamed for indulging [334] a natural propenſity? A diſtinction will ex⯑plain this difficulty. No man is aſhamed to own, that he loves to contemplate new or ſtrange objects. He neither condemns himſelf nor is cenſured by others, for this appetite. But every man ſtudies to conceal, that he loves a thing or performs an action, merely for its novelty. The reaſon of the difference will ſet the matter in a clear light. Curioſity is a natural principle di⯑rected upon new and ſingular objects, in the contemplation of which its gratification conſiſts, without leading to any end other than knowledge. The man therefore who prefers any thing merely becauſe it is new, hath not this principle for his juſtification; nor indeed any good principle. Vanity is at the bottom, which eaſily prevails upon thoſe who have no taſte, to prefer things odd, rare, or ſingular, in order to diſtin⯑guiſh themſelves from others. And in fact, the appetite for novelty, as above mentioned, reigns chiefly among perſons of a mean taſte, who are ignorant of refined and elegant pleaſures.

The gratification of curioſity, as men⯑tioned [335] above, is diſtinguiſhed by a proper name, viz. wonder; an honour denied to the gratification of any other principle, e⯑motion, or paſſion, ſo far as I can recollect. This ſingularity indicates ſome important final cauſe, which I endeavour to unfold. An acquaintance with the various things that may affect us, and with their properties, is eſſential to our well-being. Nor will a ſlight or ſuperficial acquaintance be ſuffi⯑cient. It ought to be ſo deeply ingraved on the mind, as to be ready for uſe upon every occaſion. Now, in order to a deep impreſſion, it is wiſely contrived, that things ſhould be introduced to our acquaintance, with a certain pomp and ſolemnity produc⯑tive of a vivid emotion. When the impreſ⯑ſion is once fairly made, the emotion of novelty, being no longer neceſſary, vaniſh⯑eth almoſt inſtantaneouſly; never to return, unleſs where the impreſſion happens to be obliterated by length of time or other means; in which caſe the ſecond introduc⯑tion is nearly as ſolemn as the firſt.

Deſigning wiſdom is no where more le⯑gible than in this part of the human frame. [336] If new objects did not affect us in a very peculiar manner, their impreſſions would be ſo ſlight as ſcarce to be of any uſe in life. On the other hand, did objects continue to affect us as deeply as at firſt, the mind would be totally ingroſſed with them, and have no room left either for action or re⯑flection.

The final cauſe of ſurpriſe is ſtill more e⯑vident than of novelty. Self-love makes us vigilantly attentive to ſelf-preſervation. But ſelf-love, which operates by means of rea⯑ſon and reflection, and impells not the mind to any particular object or from it, is a principle too cool for a ſudden emergency. An object breaking in unexpectedly, affords no time for deliberation; and, in this caſe, the agitation of ſurpriſe is artfully contrived to rouſe ſelf-love into action. Surpriſe gives the alarm, and if there be any appear⯑ance of danger, our whole force is inſtantly ſummoned up to ſhun or to prevent it.

CHAP. VII. Riſible Objects.

SUCH is the nature of man, that his powers and faculties are ſoon blunted by exerciſe. The returns of ſleep, ſuſpending all activity, are not alone ſuffi⯑cient to preſerve him in vigor. During his waking hours, amuſement by intervals is requiſite to unbend his mind from ſerious occupation. The imagination, of all our faculties the moſt active, and not always at reſt even in ſleep, contributes more than any other cauſe to recruit the mind and re⯑ſtore its vigor, by amuſing us with gay and ludicrous images; and when relaxation is neceſſary, ſuch amuſement is much reliſh⯑ed. But there are other ſources of amuſe⯑ment beſide the imagination. Many ob⯑jects, natural as well as artificial, may be diſtinguiſhed by the epithet of riſible, be⯑cauſe they raiſe in us a peculiar emotion ex⯑preſſed [338] externally by laughter. This is a pleaſant emotion; and being alſo mirthful, it moſt ſucceſsfully unbends the mind and recruits the ſpirits.

Ludicrous is a general term, ſignifying, as we may conjecture from its derivation, what is playſome, ſportive, or jocular. Lu⯑dicrous therefore ſeems the genus, of which riſible is a ſpecies, limited as above to what makes us laugh.

However eaſy it may be, concerning any particular object, to ſay whether it be riſible or not; it ſeems difficult, if at all practi⯑cable, to eſtabliſh beforehand any general character by which objects of this kind may be diſtinguiſhed from others. Nor is this a ſingular caſe. Upon a review, we find the ſame difficulty in moſt of the articles already handled. There is nothing more eaſy, viewing a particular object, than to pronounce that it is beautiful or ugly, grand or little: but were we to attempt general rules for ranging objects under different claſſes, according to theſe qualities, we ſhould find ourſelves utterly at a loſs. There is a ſeparate cauſe which increaſes the diffi⯑culty [339] of diſtinguiſhing riſible objects by a general character. All men are not equally affected by riſible objects; and even the ſame perſon is more diſpoſed to laugh at one time than another. In high ſpirits a thing will make us laugh outright, that will ſcarce provoke a ſmile when we are in a grave mood. We muſt therefore abandon the thought of attempting general rules for diſtinguiſhing riſible objects from others. Riſible objects however are circumſcribed within certain limits, which I ſhall ſuggeſt, without pretending to any degree of accu⯑racy. And, in the firſt place, I obſerve, that no object is riſible but what appears ſlight, little, or trifling. For man is ſo conſtituted as to be ſeriouſly affected with every thing that is of importance to his own intereſt or to that of others. Secondly, with reſpect to the works both of nature and of art, nothing is riſible but what de⯑viates from the common nature of the ſub⯑ject: it muſt be ſome particular out of rule, ſome remarkable defect or exceſs, a very long viſage, for example, or a very ſhort one. Hence nothing juſt, proper, decent, [340] beautiful, proportioned, or grand, is riſible. A real diſtreſs raiſes pity, and therefore cannot be riſible. But a ſlight or imaginary diſtreſs, which moves not pity, is riſible. The adventure of the fulling-mills in Don Quixote is extremely riſible; ſo is the ſcene where Sancho, in a dark night, tumbles in⯑to a pit, and attaches himſelf to the ſide by hand and foot, there hanging in terrible diſmay till the morning, when he diſcovers himſelf to be within a foot of the bottom. A noſe remarkably long or ſhort is riſible; but to want the noſe altogether, far from provo⯑king laughter, raiſes horror in the ſpecta⯑tor.

From what is ſaid, it will readily be con⯑jectured, that the emotion raiſed by a riſible object is of a nature ſo ſingular as ſcarce to find place while the mind is occupied with any other paſſion or emotion. And this conjecture is verified by experience. We ſcarce ever find this emotion blended with any other. One emotion I muſt except, and that is contempt raiſed by ſome ſort of improprieties. Every improper act inſpires us with ſome degree of contempt for the [341] author. And if an improper act be at the ſame time riſible and provoke laughter, of which blunders and abſurdities are noted inſtances, the two emotions of contempt and of laughter unite intimately in the mind, and produce externally what is termed a laugh of deriſion or of ſcorn. Hence objects that cauſe laughter, may be diſtinguiſhed in⯑to two kinds. They are either riſible or ri⯑diculous. A riſible object is mirthful only; a ridiculous object is both mirthful and con⯑temptible. The firſt raiſes an emotion of laughter that is altogether pleaſant: the e⯑motion of laughter raiſed by the other, is qualified with that of contempt; and the mixed emotion, partly pleaſant partly pain⯑ful, is termed the emotion of ridicule. I a⯑venge myſelf of the pain a ridiculous object gives me by a laugh of deriſion. A riſible object, on the other hand, gives me no pain: it is altogether pleaſant by a certain ſort of titillation, which is expreſſed externally by mirthful laughter. Ridicule will be more fully explained afterward: the preſent chap⯑ter is appropriated to the other emotion.

Riſible objects are ſo common and ſo well [342] underſtood, that it is unneceſſary to con⯑ſume paper or time upon them. Take the few following examples.

The foregoing is of diſproportion. The following examples are of ſlight or imagina⯑ry misfortunes.

CHAP. VIII. Reſemblance and Contraſt.

HAVING diſcuſſed thoſe qualities and circumſtances of ſingle objects that ſeem peculiarly connected with cri⯑ticiſm, we proceed, according to the me⯑thod propoſed in the chapter of beauty, to the relations of objects, beginning with the relations of reſemblance and contraſt.

Man being unavoidably connected with the beings around him, ſome acquaintance with their nature, their powers, and their qualities, is requiſite for regulating his con⯑duct. As an incentive to acquire a branch of knowledge ſo eſſential to our well-being, motives alone of reaſon and intereſt are not ſufficient. Nature hath providently ſuper⯑added curioſity, a vigorous propenſity which never is at reſt. It is this propenſity which attaches us to every new object^*; and in [346] particular incites us to conſider objects in the way of compariſon, in order to diſcover their differences and reſemblances.

Reſemblance among objects of the ſame kind, and diſſimilitude among objects of different kinds, are too obvious and familiar to gratify our curioſity in any degree. The gratification lies in diſcovering differences among things where reſemblance prevails, and in diſcovering reſemblances where dif⯑ference prevails. Thus a difference in in⯑dividuals of the ſame kind of plants or ani⯑mals is deemed a diſcovery, while the many particulars in which they agree are neglect⯑ed: and in different kinds, any reſemblance is greedily remarked, without attending to the many particulars in which they differ.

A compariſon however may be too far ſtretched. When differences or reſemblan⯑ces are carried beyond certain bounds, they appear ſlight and trivial; and for that rea⯑ſon will not be reliſhed by one of taſte. Yet ſuch propenſity is there to gratify paſſion, curioſity in particular, that even among good writers, we find many compariſons too ſlight to afford ſatisfaction. Hence the frequent [347] inſtances among logicians, of diſtinctions without any ſolid difference: and hence the frequent inſtances among poets and orators, of ſimiles without any juſt reſemblance. With regard to the latter, I ſhall confine myſelf to one inſtance, which will probably amuſe the reader, being a citation not from a poet nor orator, but from a grave author writing an inſtitute of law. ‘"Our ſtudent ſhall obſerve, that the knowledge of the law is like a deep well, out of which each man draweth according to the ſtrength of his underſtanding. He that reacheth deepeſt, ſeeth the amiable and admirable ſecrets of the law, wherein I aſſure you the ſages of the law in former times have had the deepeſt reach. And as the bucket in the depth is eaſily drawn to the uppermoſt part of the water, (for nullum elementum in ſuo proprio loco eſt grave), but take it from the water it cannot be drawn up but with a great difficulty; ſo, albeit beginnings of this ſtudy ſeem difficult, yet when the profeſſor of the law can dive into the depth, it is delightful, eaſy, and with⯑out [348] any heavy burden, ſo long as he keep himſelf in his own proper ele⯑ment^*."’ Shakeſpear with much wit ri⯑dicules this diſpoſition to ſimile-making, by putting in the mouth of a weak man a re⯑ſemblance much of a piece with that now mentioned.

Inſtruction, no doubt, is the chief end of compariſon, but not the only end. In works addreſſed to the imagination, compa⯑riſon may be employed with great ſucceſs to put a ſubject in a ſtrong point of view. A lively idea is formed of a man's courage, by likening it to that of a lion; and eloquence is exalted in our imagination, by comparing it to a river overflowing its banks, and in⯑volving all in its impetuous courſe. The ſame effect is produced by contraſt. A man in proſperity, becomes more ſen⯑ſible [350] of his happineſs, by oppoſing his condition to that of a perſon in want of bread. Thus compariſon is ſubſervient to poetry as well as to philoſophy; and with reſpect to both, the foregoing obſervation holds equally, that reſemblance among ob⯑jects of the ſame kind, and contraſt among objects of different kinds, have no effect. Such a compariſon neither tends to gratify our curioſity, nor to ſet the objects compa⯑red in a ſtronger light. Two apartments in a palace, ſimilar in ſhape, ſize, and fur⯑niture, make ſeparately as good a figure as when compared; and the ſame obſervation applies to two ſimilar copartments in a garden. On the other hand, oppoſe a re⯑gular building to a fall of water, or a good picture to a towering hill, or even a little dog to a large horſe, and the contraſt will produce no effect. But reſemblance, where the objects compared are of different kinds, and contraſt where the objects compared are of the ſame kind, have each of them re⯑markably an enlivening effect. The poets, ſuch of them as have a juſt taſte, draw all their ſimiles from things that in the main [351] differ widely from the principal ſubject; and they never attempt a contraſt but where the things have a common genus and a re⯑ſemblance in the capital circumſtances. Place together a large and a ſmall ſized a⯑nimal of the ſame ſpecies, the one will ap⯑pear greater the other leſs, than when view⯑ed ſeparately. When we oppoſe beauty to deformity, each makes a greater figure by the compariſon.

Upon a ſubject not only in itſelf curious, but of great importance in all the fine arts, I muſt be more particular. That reſemblance and contraſt have an enlivening effect upon objects of ſight, is made ſufficiently evident; and that they have the ſame effect upon ob⯑jects of the other ſenſes, will appear from induction. Nor is this law confined to the external ſenſes. Characters contraſted, make a greater figure by the oppoſition. Iago, in the tragedy of Othello, ſays

The character of a fop, and of a rough war⯑rior, [352] are no where more ſucceſsfully con⯑traſted than by Shakeſpear.

Paſſions and emotions are alſo inflamed by compariſon. A man of high rank humbles the byſtanders ſo far as almoſt to annihilate them in their own opinion. Cae⯑ſar, beholding the ſtatue of Alexander, felt a great depreſſion of ſpirits, when he re⯑flected, that now at the age of thirty-two, when Alexander died, he had not perform⯑ed one memorable action.

Our opinions alſo are much influenced by compariſon. A man whoſe opulence exceeds the ordinary ſtandard, is reputed richer than he is in reality; and the cha⯑racter of wiſdom or weakneſs, if at all re⯑markable, [354] is generally carried beyond the truth.

The opinion a man forms of his preſent condition as to happineſs or miſery, de⯑pends in a great meaſure on the compariſon he makes betwixt it and his former condi⯑tion:

The diſtreſs of a long journey makes even an indifferent inn paſs current. And in travelling, when the road is good and the horſeman well covered, a bad day may be agreeable, by making him ſenſible how ſnug he is.

The ſame effect is equally remarkable, when a man ſets his condition in oppoſition to that of others. A ſhip toſſed about in a ſtorm, makes the ſpectator reflect upon his own ſecurity and eaſe, and puts theſe in the ſtrongeſt light:

A man in grief cannot bear mirth. It gives him a more lively notion of his un⯑happineſs, and of courſe makes him more unhappy. Satan contemplating the beau⯑ties of the terreſtrial paradiſe, breaks out in the following exclamation.

[357] The appearance of danger gives ſometimes pleaſure, ſometimes pain. A timorous perſon upon the battlements of a high tower, is ſeized with terror, which even the con⯑ſciouſneſs of ſecurity cannot diſſipate. But upon one of a firm head, this ſituation has a contrary effect. The appearance of dan⯑ger heightens by oppoſition the conſciouſ⯑neſs of ſecurity, and of conſequence the ſa⯑tisfaction that ariſes from ſecurity. The feeling here reſembles that above mentioned occaſioned by a ſhip labouring in a ſtorm.

This effect of magnifying or leſſening ob⯑jects by means of compariſon, is ſo familiar, that no philoſopher has thought of ſearching for a cauſe^*. The obſcurity of the ſub⯑ject may poſſibly have contributed to their ſilence. But luckily in treating other ſub⯑jects, a principle is unfolded which will clearly account for this phenomenon. It [358] depends upon the power of paſſion to mo⯑del our opinion of objects for its gratifica⯑tion^*. We have had occaſion to ſee ma⯑ny illuſtrious examples of this ſingular power of paſſion; and the preſent ſubject affords an additional inſtance. That this is the cauſe, will evidently appear, by reflect⯑ing in what manner a ſpectator is affected, when a very large animal is for the firſt time placed beſide a very ſmall one of the ſame ſpecies. The oppoſition is the firſt thing that ſtrikes the mind: the unuſual appearance gives ſurpriſe; and the ſpectator, prone to gratify this emotion, conceives the oppoſition to be the greateſt that can be. He ſees, or ſeems to ſee, the one animal extremely little, and the other extremely large. The emotion of ſurpriſe ariſing from any unuſual reſemblance, ſerves e⯑qually to explain why at firſt view we are apt to think ſuch reſemblance more entire than it is in reality. And it muſt be obſer⯑ved, that the circumſtances of more and leſs, which are the proper ſubjects of com⯑pariſon, [359] raiſe a perception ſo indiſtinct and vague as to facilitate the effect deſcribed. We have no mental ſtandard of great and little, nor of the ſeveral degrees of any at⯑tribute; and the mind thus unreſtrained, is naturally diſpoſed to indulge its ſurpriſe to the utmoſt extent.

In exploring the operations of the mind, ſome of which are extremely nice and ſlip⯑pery, it is neceſſary to proceed with the ut⯑moſt circumſpection. And after all, ſel⯑dom it happens that ſpeculations of this kind afford any ſtrong conviction. Luckily, in the preſent caſe, we have at hand facts and experiments that ſupport the foregoing theo⯑ry in a ſatisfactory manner. In the firſt place, the oppoſing a ſmall object of one ſpecies to a great object of another, produ⯑ces not, in any degree, that effect of con⯑traſt, which is ſo remarkable when both ob⯑jects are of the ſame ſpecies. There is no difference betwixt theſe two caſes that pro⯑miſeth to have any influence, but only that the former is common, the latter rare. May we not then fairly conclude, that ſurpriſe from the rarity of appearance is the cauſe [360] of contraſt, when we find no ſuch effect where the appearance is common? In the next place, if ſurpriſe be the ſole cauſe of the effects that appear in making a compa⯑riſon, it follows neceſſarily that theſe effects will vaniſh ſo ſoon as a compariſon becomes familiar. This holds ſo unerringly, as to leave no reaſonable doubt that ſurpriſe is the prime mover in this operation. Our ſur⯑priſe is great the firſt time a ſmall lapdog is ſeen with a large maſtiff: but when two ſuch animals are conſtantly together, there is no ſurpriſe; and it makes no difference whether they be viewed ſeparately or in company. We put no bounds to the riches of a man who has recently made his for⯑tune. The oppoſition betwixt his preſent and paſt ſituation, or betwixt his preſent ſituation and that of others, is carried to an extreme. With regard to a family that for many generations hath enjoyed great wealth, the ſame falſe reckoning is not made. It is equally remarkable, that a ſimile loſes its effect by repetition. A lover compared to a moth ſcorching itſelf at the flame of a can⯑dle, is a ſprightly ſimile, which by fre⯑quent [361] uſe has loſt all force. Love cannot now be compared to fire, without ſome de⯑gree of diſguſt. It has been juſtly objected againſt Homer, that the lion is too often in⯑troduced in his ſimiles. All the variety he is able to throw into them, is not ſufficient to keep alive the reader's ſurpriſe.

To explain the influence of compariſon upon the mind, I have choſen the ſimpleſt caſe, that of two animals of the ſame kind, differing in ſize only, ſeen for the firſt time. To complete the theory, other circumſtan⯑ces muſt be taken in. And the next ſuppo⯑ſition I ſhall make, is where both animals, ſeparately familiar to the ſpectator, are brought together for the firſt time. In this caſe, the effect of magnifying and diminiſh⯑ing, will be found remarkably greater than in that firſt mentioned. And the reaſon will appear upon analyzing the operation. The firſt thing we feel is ſurpriſe, occaſion⯑ed by the uncommon difference of two creatures of the ſame ſpecies. We are next ſenſible, that the one appears leſs, the other larger, than they did formerly. This new circumſtance is a ſecond cauſe of ſurpriſe, [362] and augments it ſo as to make us imagine a ſtill greater oppoſition betwixt the animals, than if we had formed no notion of them beforehand.

I ſhall confine myſelf to one other ſuppo⯑ſition, That the ſpectator was acquainted be⯑forehand with one of the animals only, the lapdog for example. This new circum⯑ſtance will vary the effect. Inſtead of widening the natural difference by enlarging in appearance the one animal and diminiſh⯑ing the other in proportion, the whole ap⯑parent alteration will reſt upon the lapdog. The ſurpriſe to find it leſs than judged to be formerly, will draw the whole attention of the mind upon it; and this ſurpriſe will be gratified, by conceiving it to be of the moſt diminutive ſize poſſible. The maſtiff in the mean time is quite neglected. I am able to illuſtrate this effect by a very familiar exam⯑ple. Take a piece of paper or linen rec⯑koned to be a good white, and compare it with ſomething of the ſame kind that is a pure white. The judgement we formed of the firſt object is inſtantly varied; and the ſurpriſe occaſioned by finding it not ſo [363] white as was thought, produceth a haſty conviction that it is much leſs white than it is in reality. Withdrawing now the pure white, and putting in its place a deep black, the ſurpriſe occaſioned by this new circum⯑ſtance carries our thought to the other ex⯑treme, and we now conceive the original ob⯑ject to be a pure white. Thus experience forces us to acknowledge, that our emotions have an influence even upon our eye-ſight. This experiment leads to a general obſerva⯑tion, That whatever is found more ſtrange or beautiful than was expected, is judged to be more ſtrange or beautiful than it is in rea⯑lity. Hence it is a common artifice, to de⯑preciate beforehand what we wiſh to make a figure in the eyes of others.

The compariſons employed by poets and orators, coincide with the laſt-mentioned ſuppoſition. It is always a known object that is to be aggrandized or leſſened. The former is effectuated by likening it to ſome grand object, or by contraſting it with one that has the oppoſite character. To effec⯑tuate the latter, the method muſt be rever⯑ſed. The object muſt be contraſted with [364] ſomething ſuperior to itſelf, or likened to ſomething inferior. The whole effect is produced upon the principal ſubject, which by this means is elevated above its rank or depreſſed below it.

In accounting for the effect that any un⯑uſual reſemblance or contraſt has upon the mind, I have hitherto aſſigned no other cauſe but ſurpriſe; and to prevent confuſion and obſcurity, I thought it proper to diſcuſs that principle firſt. But ſurpriſe is not the only cauſe of the effect deſcribed. Another cauſe concurs, which operates perhaps not leſs powerfully than ſurpriſe. This cauſe is a principle in human nature that lies ſtill in obſcurity, not having been evolved by any writer, though its effects are extenſive. As it is not diſtinguiſhed by a proper name, the reader muſt be ſatisfied with the following deſcription. No man who ſtudies himſelf or others but muſt be ſenſible of a tendency or propenſity in the mind to complete every work that is begun, and to carry things to their full perfection. This principle has lit⯑tle opportunity to diſplay itſelf upon natural operations, which are ſeldom left imperfect. [365] But in the operations of art it hath great ſcope; and diſplays itſelf remarkably, by making us perſevere in our own work, and by making us wiſh for the completion of what is done by another. We feel a ſenſible pleaſure when the work is brought to per⯑fection; and our pain is not leſs ſenſible when we are diſappointed. Hence our un⯑eaſineſs, when an intereſting ſtory is broke off in the middle, when a piece of muſic ends without a cloſe, or when a building or garden is left imperfect. The ſame princi⯑ple operates in making collections, ſuch as the whole works good and bad of any au⯑thor. A certain perſon endeavoured to col⯑lect prints of all the capital paintings, and ſucceeded except as to a few. La Bruyere remarks, that an anxious ſearch was made for theſe, not on account of their value, but to complete the ſet^*.

[366] The final cauſe of this principle is an ad⯑ditional proof of its exiſtence. Human works are of no ſignificancy till they be completed. Reaſon is not always a ſuffi⯑cient counterbalance to indolence: and ſome principle over and above is neceſſary, to ex⯑cite our induſtry, and to prevent our ſtop⯑ping ſhort in the middle of the courſe.

We need not loſe time in deſcribing the co-operation of the foregoing principle with [367] ſurpriſe in producing the effect that is felt upon the appearance of any unuſual reſem⯑blance or contraſt. Surpriſe firſt operates, and carries our opinion of the reſemblance or contraſt beyond the truth. The principle we have been deſcribing carries us ſtill farther; for being bent upon gratification, it forces up⯑on the mind a conviction that the reſemblance or contraſt is complete. We need no better illuſtration than the reſemblance that is fan⯑cied [368] in ſome pebbles to a tree or an inſect. The reſemblance, however faint in reality, is conceived to be wonderfully perfect. This tendency to complete a reſemblance acting jointly with ſurpriſe, carries the mind ſome⯑times ſo far as even to preſume upon future events. In the Greek tragedy, intitled, Phineides, thoſe unhappy women, ſeeing the place where it was intended they ſhould be ſlain, cried out with anguiſh, ‘"They now ſaw their cruel deſtiny had condemned them to die in that place, being the ſame where they had been expoſed in their infancy^*."’

This remarkable principle which inclines us to advance every thing to its perfection, not only co-operates with ſurpriſe to deceive the mind, but of itſelf is able to produce that effect. Of this we ſee many inſtances where there is no place for ſurpriſe. The firſt inſtance I ſhall give is of reſemblance. Unumquodque eodem modo diſſolvitur quo colli⯑gatum eſt, is a maxim in the Roman law that has no foundation in truth. For tying and [369] looſing, building and demoliſhing, are acts oppoſite to each other, and are performed by oppoſite means. But when theſe acts are connected by their relation to the ſame ſubject, their connection leads us to ima⯑gine a ſort of reſemblance betwixt them, which the foregoing principle makes us conceive to be as complete as poſſible. The next inſtance ſhall be of contraſt. Addiſon obſerves^*, ‘"That the paleſt features look the moſt agreeable in white; that a face which is overfluſhed appears to advantage in the deepeſt ſcarlet; and that a dark complexion is not a little alleviated by a black hood."’ The foregoing principle ſerves to account for theſe appearances. To make this evident, one of the caſes ſhall ſuf⯑fice. A complexion, however dark, never approaches to black. When theſe colours appear together, their oppoſition ſtrikes us; and the propenſity we have to complete the oppoſition, makes the darkneſs of com⯑plexion vaniſh out of ſight.

The operation of this principle, even [370] where there is no ground for ſurpriſe, is not confined to opinion or conviction. So powerful is it, as to make us ſometimes pro⯑ceed to action in order to complete a re⯑ſemblance or contraſt. If this appear ob⯑ſcure, it will be made clear by the follow⯑ing inſtances. Upon what principle is the lex talionis founded other than to make the puniſhment reſemble the miſchief? Rea⯑ſon dictates, that there ought to be a con⯑formity or reſemblance betwixt a crime and its puniſhment; and the foregoing principle impells us to make the reſemblance as com⯑plete as poſſible. Titus Livius, influenced by this principle, accounts for a certain puniſhment by a reſemblance betwixt it and the crime, far too ſubtile for common ap⯑prehenſion. Speaking of Mettus Fuffetius, the Alban general, who, for treachery to the Romans, his allies, was ſentenced to be torn to pieces by horſes, he puts the following ſpeech in the mouth of Tullus Hoſtilius, who decreed the puniſhment. ‘"Mette Fuffeti, inquit, ſi ipſe diſcere poſſes fi⯑dem ac foedera ſervare, vivo tibi ea diſci⯑plina a me adhibita eſſet. Nunc, quo⯑niam [371] tuum inſanabile ingenium eſt, at tu tuo ſupplicio doce humanum genus, ea ſancta credere, quae a te violata ſunt. Ut igitur paulo ante animum inter Fide⯑natem Romanamque rem ancipitem geſ⯑ſiſti, ita jam corpus paſſim diſtrahendum dabis^*."’ By the ſame influence, the ſentence is often executed upon the very ſpot where the crime was committed. In the Electra of Sophocles, Egiſtheus is drag⯑ged from the theatre into an inner room of the ſuppoſed palace, to ſuffer death where he murdered Agamemnon. Shakeſpear, whoſe knowledge of nature is not leſs pro⯑found than extenſive, has not overlooked this propenſity:

Perſons in their laſt moments are generally ſeized with an anxiety to be buried with their relations. In the Amynta of Taſſo, the lover, hearing that his miſtreſs was torn to pieces by a wolf, expreſſes a deſire to die the ſame death^*.

Upon the ſubject in general, I have two remarks to add. The firſt concerns reſem⯑blance, which when too entire hath no ef⯑fect, however different in kind the things compared may be. This remark is applicable to works of art only; for natural objects of different kinds, have ſcarce ever an entire re⯑ſemblance. Marble is a ſort of matter, very different from what compoſes an animal; and marble cut into a human figure, pro⯑duces great pleaſure by the reſemblance. But let a marble ſtatue be coloured like a [373] picture, the reſemblance is ſo entire as to produce no effect. At a diſtance, it ap⯑pears a real perſon. We diſcover the miſtake when we approach; and no other emotion is raiſed but ſurpriſe occaſioned by the deception. The idea of reſemblance is ſunk into that of identity. The figure ſtill appears to our eyes rather to be a real perſon than a reſemblance of it; and we muſt make uſe of our reflection to correct the miſtake. This cannot happen in a picture; for the reſemblance can never be ſo entire as to diſguiſe the imitation.

The other remark regards contraſt. E⯑motions make the greateſt figure when contraſted in ſucceſſion. But then the ſuc⯑ceſſion ought neither to be precipitate nor immoderately ſlow. If too ſlow, the effect of contraſt becomes faint by the diſtance of the emotions; and if precipitate, no ſingle emotion has room to expand itſelf to its full ſize; but is ſtifled as it were in the birth by a ſucceeding emotion. The funeral o⯑ration of the Biſhop of Meaux upon the Du⯑cheſs of Orleans, is a perfect hotchpotch of chearful and melancholy repreſentations [374] following each other in the quickeſt ſuc⯑ceſſion. Oppoſite emotions are beſt felt in ſucceſſion: but each emotion ſeparately ſhould be raiſed to its due pitch, before an⯑other be introduced.

What is above laid down, will enable us to determine a very important queſtion concerning emotions raiſed by the fine arts, viz. What ought to be the rule of ſucceſ⯑ſion; whether ought reſemblance to be ſtu⯑died or contraſt? The emotions raiſed by the fine arts, are generally too nearly rela⯑ted to make a figure by reſemblance; and for that reaſon, their ſucceſſion ought to be regulated as much as poſſible by con⯑traſt. This holds confeſſedly in epic and dramatic compoſitions: and the beſt wri⯑ters, led perhaps by a good taſte more than by reaſoning, have generally aimed at this beauty. In the ſame cantata, all the va⯑riety of emotions that are within the power of muſic, may not only be indulged, but, to make the greateſt figure, ought to be contraſted. In gardening there is an addi⯑tional reaſon for the rule. The emotions raiſed by that art, are at beſt ſo faint, that [375] every artifice ſhould be uſed to give them their utmoſt ſtrength. A field may be laid out in grand, ſweet, gay, neat, wild, me⯑lancholy ſcenes. When theſe are viewed in ſucceſſion, grandeur ought to be con⯑traſted with neatneſs, regularity with wild⯑neſs, and gaiety with melancholy; ſo as that each emotion may ſucceed its oppoſite. Nay it is an improvement to intermix in the ſucceſſion, rude uncultivated ſpots as well as unbounded views, which in them⯑ſelves are diſagreeable, but in ſucceſſion heighten the feeling of the agreeable ob⯑jects. And we have nature for our guide, who in her moſt beautiful landſcapes often intermixes rugged rocks, dirty marſh⯑es, and barren ſtony heaths. The greateſt maſters of muſic, have the ſame view in their compoſitions: the ſecond part of an Italian ſong ſeldom conveys any ſentiment; and, by its harſhneſs, ſeems purpoſely con⯑trived to give a greater reliſh for the inter⯑eſting parts of the compoſition.

A ſmall garden comprehended under a ſingle view, affords little opportunity for this embelliſhment. Diſſimilar emotions [376] require different tones of mind; and there⯑fore in conjunction can never make a good figure^*. Gaiety and ſweetneſs may be combined, or wildneſs and gloomineſs; but a compoſition of gaiety and gloomineſs is diſtaſteful. The rude uncultivated copart⯑ment of furze and broom in Richmond garden, hath a good effect in the ſucceſſion of objects; but a ſpot of this nature would be inſufferable in the midſt of a poliſhed parterre or flower-plot. A garden there⯑fore, if not of great extent, will not admit of diſſimilar emotions. And in ornamenting a ſmall garden, the ſafeſt courſe is to con⯑fine it to a ſingle expreſſion. For the ſame reaſon, a landſcape ought alſo to be confined to a ſingle expreſſion. It is accordingly a rule in painting, That if the ſubject be gay, every figure ought to contribute to that e⯑motion.

It follows from the foregoing train of rea⯑ſoning, that a garden near a great city, ought to have an air of ſolitude. The ſoli⯑tarineſs again of a waſte country ought to [377] be contraſted in forming a garden; no tem⯑ples, no obſcure walks; but jets d'eau, caſ⯑cades, objects active, gay, and ſplendid. Nay ſuch a garden ſhould in ſome mea⯑ſure avoid imitating nature, by taking on an extraordinary appearance of regularity and art, to ſhow the buſy hand of man, which in a waſte country has a fine effect by contraſt.

It may be gathered from what is ſaid a⯑bove^*, that wit and ridicule make not an agreeable mixture with grandeur. Diſſi⯑milar emotions have a fine effect in a ſlow ſucceſſion; but in a rapid ſucceſſion, which approaches to co-exiſtence, they will not be reliſhed. In the midſt of a laboured and elevated deſcription of a battle, Virgil introduces a ludicrous image, which is cer⯑tainly out of its place:

[378] The following image is not leſs ludicrous, nor leſs improperly placed.

It would however be too auſtere, to ba⯑niſh altogether ludicrous images from an e⯑pic poem. This poem doth not always ſoar above the clouds. It admits great va⯑riety; and upon occaſions can deſcend even to the ground without ſinking. In its more familiar tones, a ludicrous ſcene may be in⯑troduced without impropriety. This is done by Virgil^* in deſcribing a foot-race; the circumſtances of which, not excepting the ludicrous part, are copied from Ho⯑mer^†. After a fit of merryment, we are, [379] it is true, the leſs diſpoſed to the ſerious and ſublime: but then, a ludicrous ſcene, by unbending the mind from ſevere application to more intereſting ſubjects, may prevent fatigue, and preſerve our reliſh entire.

CHAP. IX. Of Uniformity and Variety.

WHEN I apply myſelf to explain u⯑niformity and variety, and to ſhow how we are affected by theſe cir⯑cumſtances, it appears doubtful what me⯑thod ought to be followed. I foreſee ſeve⯑ral difficulties in keeping cloſe to my text; and yet by indulging a range, ſuch as may be neceſſary for a clear view, I ſhall cer⯑tainly incur the cenſure of wandering.—Be it ſo. One ought not to abandon the right track for fear of cenſure. The collateral matters, beſide, that will be introduced, are curious, and not of ſlight importance in the ſcience of human nature.

The neceſſary ſucceſſion of perceptions, is a ſubject formerly handled, ſo far as it depends on the relations of objects and their [381] mutual connections^*. But that ſubject is not exhauſted; and I take the liberty to in⯑troduce it a ſecond time, in order to explain in what manner we are affected by unifor⯑mity and variety. The world we inhabit is replete with things not leſs remarkable for their variety than their number. Theſe, unfolded by the wonderful mechaniſm of external ſenſe, furniſh the mind with many perceptions, which, joined with ideas of memory, of imagination, and of reflection, form a complete train that has not a gap or interval. This tide of objects, in a conti⯑nual flux, is in a good meaſure independent of will. The mind, as has been obſerved^†, is ſo conſtituted, ‘"That it can by no effort break off the ſucceſſion of its ideas, nor keep its attention long fixt upon the ſame object."’ We can arreſt a percep⯑tion in its courſe; we can ſhorten its natu⯑ral duration, to make room for another; we can vary the ſucceſſion by change of place or amuſement; and we can in ſome mea⯑ſure [382] prevent variety, by frequently recalling the ſame object after ſhort intervals: but ſtill there muſt be a ſucceſſion, and a change from one thing to another. By artificial means, the ſucceſſion may be retarded or ac⯑celerated, may be rendered more various or more uniform, but in one ſhape or other is unavoidable.

The rate of ſucceſſion, even when left to its ordinary courſe, is not always the ſame. There are natural cauſes that accelerate or retard it conſiderably. The firſt I ſhall mention depends on a peculiar conſtitution of mind. One man is diſtinguiſhed from another, by no circumſtance more remark⯑ably than the movement of his train of perceptions. A cold languid temper is ac⯑companied with a ſlow courſe of percep⯑tions, which occaſions dulneſs of apprehen⯑ſion and ſluggiſhneſs in action. To a warm temper, on the contrary, belongs a quick courſe of perceptions, which occaſions quickneſs of apprehenſion and activity in buſineſs. The Aſiatic nations, the Chineſe eſpecially, are obſerved to be more cool and deliberate than the Europeans: may not [383] the reaſon be, that heat enervates by ex⯑hauſting the ſpirits? A certain degree of cold, ſuch as is felt in the middle regions of Europe, by bracing the fibres, rouſes the mind, and produces a briſk circulation of thought, accompanied with vigour in ac⯑tion. In youth there is obſervable a quicker ſucceſſion of perceptions, than in old age. Hence in youth a remarkable avidity for va⯑riety of amuſements, which in riper years give place to more uniform and more ſe⯑date occupation. This qualifies men of middle age for buſineſs, where activity is required, but with a greater proportion of uniformity than variety. In old age, a ſlow and languid ſucceſſion makes variety unne⯑ceſſary; and for that reaſon, the aged, in all their motions, are generally governed by an habitual uniformity. Whatever be the cauſe, we may venture to pronounce, that heat in the imagination and temper, is al⯑ways connected with a briſk flow of percep⯑tions.

The natural rate of ſucceſſion, depends alſo in ſome degree upon the particular per⯑ceptions that compoſe the train. An agree⯑able [384] object, taking a ſtrong hold of the mind, occaſions a ſlower ſucceſſion than when the objects are indifferent. Grandeur and no⯑velty fix the attention for a conſiderable time, excluding all other ideas; and the mind thus occupied feels no vacuity. Some emotions, by hurrying the mind from ob⯑ject to object, accelerate the ſucceſſion. Where the train is compoſed of connected objects, the ſucceſſion is quick. For it is ſo ordered by nature, that the mind goes eaſi⯑ly and ſweetly along connected objects^*. On the other hand, the ſucceſſion muſt be ſlow where the train is compoſed of un⯑connected objects. An unconnected object, finding no ready acceſs to the mind, requires time to make an impreſſion. And that it is not admitted without a ſtruggle, appears from the unſettled ſtate of the mind for ſome moments after it is preſented, wavering be⯑twixt it and the former train. During this ſhort period, one or other of the former ob⯑jects will intrude, perhaps oftener than once, till the attention be fixt entirely upon [385] the new object. The ſame obſervations are applicable to ideas ſuggeſted by language. The mind can bear a quick ſucceſſion of re⯑lated ideas. But an unrelated idea, for which the mind is not prepared, takes time to make a diſtinct impreſſion; and there⯑fore a train compoſed of ſuch ideas, ought to proceed with a ſlow pace. Hence an e⯑pic poem, a play, or any ſtory connected in all its parts, may be peruſed in a ſhorter time, than a book of maxims or apothegms, of which a quick ſucceſſion creates both confuſion and fatigue.

Such latitude hath nature indulged in the rate of ſucceſſion. What latitude it indul⯑ges with reſpect to uniformity we proceed to examine. The uniformity or variety of a train, ſo far as compoſed of external ob⯑jects, depends on the particular objects that ſurround the percipient at the time. The preſent occupation muſt alſo have an influ⯑ence; one is ſometimes engaged in a multi⯑plicity of affairs, ſometimes altogether va⯑cant. A natural train of ideas of memory is more circumſcribed, each object being linked, by ſome connection, to what pre⯑cedes [386] and to what follows it. Theſe con⯑nections, which are many and of different kinds, afford ſcope for a ſufficient degree of variety; and at the ſame time prevent any exceſs that is unpleaſant. Temper and con⯑ſtitution alſo have an influence here, as well as upon the rate of ſucceſſion. A man of a calm and ſedate temper, admits not willing⯑ly any idea but what is regularly introduced by a proper connection. One of a roving diſpoſition embraces with avidity every new idea, however ſlender its relation be to thoſe that go before it. Neither muſt we overlook the nature of the perceptions that compoſe the train; for their influence is not leſs with reſpect to uniformity and variety, than with reſpect to the rate of ſucceſſion. The mind ingroſſed by any paſſion, love or hatred, hope or fear, broods over its ob⯑ject, and can bear no interruption. In ſuch a ſtate, the train of perceptions muſt not only be ſlow, but extremely uniform. Anger newly inflamed eagerly graſps its ob⯑ject, and leaves not a cranny in the mind for another thought than of revenge. In the character of Hotſpur, this ſtate of mind [387] is repreſented to the life; a picture remark⯑able for high colouring as well as for ſtrict⯑neſs of imitation:

Having viewed a train of perceptions as directed by nature, and the variations it is ſuſceptible of from different neceſſary cau⯑ſes, we proceed to examine how far it is ſubjected to will; for that will hath ſome influence, more or leſs, is obſerved above. And firſt, the rate of ſucceſſion may be re⯑tarded by inſiſting upon one object, and [389] propelled by diſmiſſing another before its time. But ſuch voluntary mutations in the natural courſe of ſucceſſion, have limits that cannot be extended by the moſt painful efforts. The mind circumſcribed in its ca⯑pacity, cannot, at the ſame inſtant, admit many perceptions; and when replete, it has no place for new perceptions till others be removed. For this reaſon, a voluntary change of perceptions cannot be inſtanta⯑neous; and the time it requires ſets bounds to the velocity of ſucceſſion. On the other hand, the power we have to arreſt a flying perception, is equally limited. The longer we detain any perception, the more difficul⯑ty we find in the operation; till, the diffi⯑culty becoming unſurmountable, we are forced to quit our hold, and to permit the train to take its uſual courſe.

The power we have over this train as to uniformity and variety, is in ſome caſes very great, in others very little. A train ſo far as compoſed of external objects, depends entirely on the place we occupy, and ad⯑mits not more or leſs variety but by change of place. A train compoſed of ideas of me⯑mory, [390] is ſtill leſs under our power. Ob⯑jects which are connected, afford the mind an eaſy paſſage from one to another. They ſuggeſt each other in idea by the ſame means; and we cannot at will call up any idea that is not connected with the train^*. But a train of ideas ſuggeſted by reading, may be varied at will, provided we have books in ſtore.

This power which nature hath given us over our train of perceptions, may be great⯑ly ſtrengthened by proper diſcipline, and by an early application to buſineſs. Its im⯑proved ſtrength is remarkable in thoſe who have a ſtrong genius for the mathematics: nor leſs remarkable in perſons devoted to re⯑ligious exerciſes, who paſs whole days in contemplation, and impoſe upon themſelves long and ſevere penances. It is not to be conceived, what length a habit of activity in affairs will carry ſome men. Let a ſtran⯑ger, or let any perſon to whom the ſight is not familiar, attend the Chancellor of Great Britain through the labours but of one day, [391] during a ſeſſion of parliament: how great will be his aſtoniſhment! what multipli⯑city of law-buſineſs, what deep thinking, and what elaborate application to matters of government! The train of perceptions muſt in this great man be accelerated far beyond the common courſe of nature. Yet no confuſion nor hurry; but in every article the greateſt order and accuracy. Such is the force of habit! How happy is man, to have the command of a principle of action, that can elevate him ſo far above the ordina⯑ry condition of humanity^*!

We are now ripe for conſidering a train of perceptions with reſpect to pleaſure and pain: and to this ſpeculation we muſt give peculiar attention, becauſe it ſerves to ex⯑plain the effects that uniformity and variety have upon the mind. A man is always in a pleaſant ſtate of mind, when his percep⯑tions flow in their natural courſe. He feels himſelf free, light, and eaſy, eſpecially af⯑ter any forcible acceleration or retardation. On the other hand, the reſiſtance felt in retarding or accelerating the natural courſe, excites a pain, which, though ſcarcely felt [392] in ſmall removes, becomes conſiderable to⯑ward the extremes. An averſion to fix on any ſingle object for a long time, or to take in a multiplicity of objects in a ſhort time, is remarkable in children; and equally ſo in men unaccuſtomed to buſineſs. A man languiſhes when the ſucceſſion is very ſlow; and, if he grow not impatient, is apt to fall aſleep. During a rapid ſucceſſion, he hath a feeling as if his head were turning round. He is fatigued, and his pain reſembles that of wearineſs after bodily labour. External objects, when they occaſion a very ſlow or a very quick ſucceſſion, produce a pain of the ſame ſort with what it felt in a volunta⯑ry retardation or acceleration: which ſhows that the pain proceeds not from the violence of the action, but from the retardation or acceleration itſelf, diſturbing that free and eaſy courſe of ſucceſſion which is naturally pleaſant.

But the mind is not ſatisfied with a mo⯑derate courſe alone: its perceptions muſt alſo be ſufficiently diverſified. Number without variety conſtitutes not an agreeable train. In comparing a few objects, unifor⯑mity [393] is agreeable: but the frequent reitera⯑tion of uniform objects becomes unpleaſant. One tires of a ſcene that is not diverſified; and ſoon feels a ſort of unnatural reſtraint when confined within a narrow range, whether occaſioned by a retarded ſucceſ⯑ſion or by too great uniformity. An exceſs in variety is, on the other hand, fatiguing. This is even perceptible in a train compoſed of related objects: much more where the ob⯑jects are unrelated; for an object, unconnect⯑ed with the former train, gains not admit⯑tance without effort; and this effort, though ſcarce perceptible in a ſingle inſtance, be⯑comes by frequent reiteration exceeding painful. Whatever be the cauſe, the fact is certain, that a man never finds himſelf more at eaſe, than when his perceptions ſucceed each other with a certain degree, not only of velocity, but alſo of variety. Hence it proceeds, that a train conſiſting entirely of ideas of memory, is never pain⯑ful by too great variety; becauſe ſuch ideas are not introduced otherwiſe than according to their natural connections^*. The plea⯑ſure [394] of a train of ideas, is the moſt remark⯑able in a reverie; eſpecially where the ima⯑gination interpoſes, and is active in coining new ideas, which is done with wonderful facility. One muſt be ſenſible, that the ſe⯑renity and eaſe of the mind in this ſtate, makes a great part of the enjoyment. The caſe is different where external objects enter into the train; for theſe, making their ap⯑pearance without any order, and without any connection ſave that of contiguity, form a train of perceptions that may be ex⯑tremely uniform or extremely diverſified; which, for oppoſite reaſons, are both of them painful.

Any acceleration or retardation of the na⯑tural run of perceptions, is painful even where it is voluntary. And it is equally painful to alter that degree of variety which nature requires. Contemplation, when the mind is long attached to one thing, ſoon becomes painful by reſtraining the free range of per⯑ception. Curioſity and the proſpect of ad⯑vantage from uſeful diſcoveries, may en⯑gage a man to proſecute his ſtudies, not⯑withſtanding the pain they give him; [395] and a habit of cloſe attention, formed by frequent exerciſe, may ſoften the pain. But it is deeply felt by the bulk of mankind, and produceth in them an averſion to all abſtract ſciences. In any profeſſion or cal⯑ling, a train of operation that is ſimple and reiterated without intermiſſion, makes the operator languiſh, and loſe his vigor. He complains neither of too great labour nor of too little action; but regrets the want of variety, and his being obliged to do the ſame thing over and over. Where the o⯑peration is ſufficiently varied, the mind re⯑tains its vigor, and is pleaſed with its con⯑dition. Actions again create an uneaſineſs when exceſſive in number or variety, though in every other reſpect agreeable. This uneaſineſs is extremely remarkable, where ſtrict attention muſt be given, at the ſame time, to a number of different things. Thus a throng of buſineſs in law, in phy⯑ſic, or in traffick, diſtreſſeth and diſtracts the mind, unleſs where a habit of applica⯑tion is acquired by long and conſtant exer⯑ciſe. The exceſſive variety is the diſtreſſ⯑ing circumſtance; and the mind ſuffers [396] grievouſly by being kept conſtantly upon the ſtretch.

With relation to involuntary cauſes diſ⯑turbing that degree of variety which na⯑ture requires, a ſlight pain affecting one part of the body without variation, becomes, by its conſtancy and long duration, almoſt inſupportable. The patient, ſenſible that the pain is not increaſed in degree, com⯑plains of its conſtancy more than of its ſeverity, that it ingroſſes his whole thoughts, and gives admiſſion to no other object. Pain, of all feelings, ſeizes the attention with the greateſt force; and the mind, af⯑ter fruitleſs efforts to turn its view to ob⯑jects more agreeable, muſt abandon itſelf to its tormentor. A ſhifting pain gives leſs uneaſineſs, becauſe change of place contri⯑butes to variety. An intermitting pain, ſuf⯑fering other objects to intervene, is not in⯑creaſed by reiteration. Again, any ſingle colour or ſound often returning, becomes diſagreeable; as may be obſerved in view⯑ing a train of ſimilar apartments painted with the ſame colour, and in hearing the prolonged tollings of a bell. Colour and [397] ſound varied within certain limits, though without any order, are agreeable; witneſs a field variegated with many colours of plants and flowers, and the various notes of birds in a thicket. Increaſe the number or va⯑riety, and the feeling becomes unpleaſant. Thus a great variety of colours, crowded upon a ſmall canvas or in quick ſucceſſion, create an uneaſy feeling, which is prevented by putting the colours at a greater diſtance either of place or time. A number of voi⯑ces in a crowded aſſembly, a number of a⯑nimals collected in a market, produce an unpleaſant emotion; though a few of them together, or all of them in a moderate ſuc⯑ceſſion, would be agreeable. And becauſe of the ſame exceſs in variety, a number of pains felt in different parts of the body, at the ſame inſtant or in a rapid ſucceſſion, make an exquiſite torture.

The foregoing doctrine concerning the train of perceptions, and the pleaſure or pain reſulting from that train in different cir⯑cumſtances, will be confirmed by attending to the final cauſe of theſe effects. And as I am ſenſible that the mind, inflamed with [398] ſpeculations of this kind ſo highly intereſt⯑ing, is beyond meaſure diſpoſed to convic⯑tion, I ſhall be watchful to admit no argu⯑ment nor remark but what appears ſolidly founded. With this caution I proceed to the inquiry. It is occaſionally obſerved a⯑bove, that perſons of a phlegmatic tempe⯑rament, having a ſluggiſh train of percep⯑tions, are indiſpoſed to action; and that activity conſtantly accompanies a briſk mo⯑tion of perceptions. To aſcertain this fact, a man need not go abroad for experiments. Reflecting upon things paſſing in his own mind, he will find, that a briſk circulation of thought conſtantly prompts him to ac⯑tion; and that he is averſe to action when his perceptions languiſh in their courſe. But man by nature is formed for action, and he muſt be active in order to be happy. Nature therefore hath kindly provided a⯑gainſt indolence, by annexing pleaſure to a moderate courſe of perceptions, and by ma⯑king every remarkable retardation painful. A ſlow courſe of perceptions is attended with another bad effect. Man in a few capital caſes is governed by propenſity or [399] inſtinct; but in matters that admit delibe⯑ration and choice, reaſon is aſſigned him for a guide. Now, as reaſoning requires often a great compaſs of ideas, their ſucceſſion ought to be ſo quick, as readily to furniſh every motive that may be neceſſary for ma⯑ture deliberation. In a languid ſucceſſion, motives will often occur after action is com⯑menced, when it is too late to retreat.

Nature hath guarded man, her favourite, againſt a ſucceſſion too rapid, not leſs care⯑fully than againſt one too ſlow. Both are equally painful, though the pain is not the ſame in both. Many are the good effects of this contrivance. In the firſt place, as the bodily faculties are by certain painful ſenſations confined within proper limits, be⯑yond which it would be dangerous to ſtrain the tender organs, Nature, in like manner, is equally provident with reſpect to the no⯑bler faculties of the mind. Thus the pain of an accelerated courſe of perceptions, is Nature's admonition to relax our pace, and to admit a more gentle exertion of thought. Another valuable purpoſe may be gathered, from conſidering in what manner objects [400] are imprinted upon the mind. To make ſuch an impreſſion as to give the memory faſt hold of the object, time is required, even where attention is the greateſt; and a moderate degree of attention, which is the common caſe, muſt be continued ſtill long⯑er to produce the ſame effect. A rapid ſucceſſion then muſt prevent objects from making impreſſions ſo deep as to be of real ſervice in life; and Nature accordingly for the ſake of memory, has by a painful feel⯑ing guarded againſt a rapid ſucceſſion. But a ſtill more valuable purpoſe is anſwered by this contrivance. As, on the one hand, a ſluggiſh courſe of perceptions indiſpoſeth to action; ſo, on the other, a courſe too rapid impels to raſh and precipitant action. Pru⯑dent conduct is the child of deliberation and clear conception, for which there is no place in a rapid courſe of thought. Nature therefore, taking meaſures for prudent con⯑duct, has guarded us effectually from pre⯑cipitancy of thought, by making it painful.

Nature not only provides againſt a ſuc⯑ceſſion too ſlow or too quick, but makes the middle courſe extremely pleaſant. Nor is [401] this middle courſe confined within narrow bounds. Every man can naturally without pain accelerate or retard in ſome degree the rate of his perceptions; and he can do this in a ſtill greater degree by the force of habit. Thus a habit of contemplation annihilates the pain of a retarded courſe of perceptions; and a buſy life, after long practice, makes acceleration pleaſant.

Concerning the final cauſe of our taſte for variety, it will be conſidered, that human affairs, complex by variety as well as num⯑ber, require the diſtributing our attention and activity, in meaſure and proportion. Na⯑ture therefore, to ſecure a juſt diſtribution correſponding to the variety of human af⯑fairs, has made too great uniformity or too great variety in the courſe of our percep⯑tions equally unpleaſant. And indeed, were we addicted to either extreme, our internal conſtitution would be ill ſuited to our exter⯑nal circumſtances. At the ſame time, where a frequent reiteration of the ſame operation is required, as in ſeveral manufactures, or a quick circulation, as in law or phyſic, Nature, attentive to all our wants, hath alſo provi⯑ded [402] for theſe caſes. She hath implanted in the breaſt of every perſon, an efficacious principle, which leads to habit. By an ob⯑ſtinate perſeverance in the ſame occupation, the pain of exceſſive uniformity vaniſheth; and by the like perſeverance in a quick cir⯑culation of different occupations, the pain of exceſſive variety vaniſheth. And thus we come to take delight in ſeveral occupa⯑tions, that by nature, without habit, are not a little diſguſtful.

A middle rate alſo in our train of percep⯑tions betwixt uniformity and variety, is not leſs pleaſant, than betwixt quickneſs and ſlowneſs. The mind of man thus conſtitu⯑ted, is wonderfully adapted to the courſe of human affairs, which are continually chan⯑ging, but not without connection. It is e⯑qually adapted to the acquiſition of know⯑ledge, which reſults chiefly from diſcover⯑ing reſemblances among differing objects, and differences among reſembling objects. Such occupation, even abſtracting from the knowledge we acquire, is in itſelf delightful, by preſerving a middle rate betwixt too great uniformity and too great variety.

[403] We are now arrived at the chief purpoſe of the preſent chapter; and that is to exa⯑mine how far uniformity or variety ought to be ſtudied in the fine arts. And the knowledge we have obtained, will even at firſt view ſuggeſt a general obſervation, That in every work of art, it muſt be agreeable to find that degree of variety which correſponds to the natural courſe of our perceptions; and that an exceſs in variety or in uniformi⯑ty, muſt be diſagreeable by varying that na⯑tural courſe. For this reaſon, works of art admit more or leſs variety according to the nature of the ſubject. In a picture that ſtrongly attaches the ſpectator to a ſingle ob⯑ject, the mind reliſheth not a multiplicity of figures or of ornaments. A picture again re⯑preſenting a gay ſubject, admits great variety of figures and ornaments; becauſe theſe are agreeable to the mind in a chearful tone. The ſame obſervation is applicable to poetry and to muſic.

It muſt at the ſame time be remarked, that one can bear a greater variety of natural objects than of objects in a picture; and a greater variety in a picture than in a deſcrip⯑tion. [404] A real object preſented to the view, makes an impreſſion more readily than when repreſented in colours, and much more readily than when repreſented in words. Hence it is, that the profuſe va⯑riety of objects in ſome natural landſcapes, neither breed confuſion nor fatigue. And for the ſame reaſon, there is place for great⯑er variety of ornament in a picture, than in a poem.

From theſe general obſervations I proceed to particulars. In works expoſed continually to public view, variety ought to be ſtudied. It is a rule accordingly in ſculpture, to contraſt the different limbs of a ſtatue, in order to give it all the variety poſſible. Though the cone in a ſingle view be more beautiful than the pyramid; yet a pyramidal ſteeple, becauſe of its variety, is juſtly preferred. For the ſame reaſon, the oval in compoſitions is pre⯑ferred before the circle; and painters, in copying buildings or any regular work, endeavour to give an air of variety by repre⯑ſenting the ſubject in an angular view: we are pleaſed with the variety without loſing [405] ſight of the regularity. In a landſcape re⯑preſenting animals, thoſe eſpecially of the ſame kind, contraſt ought to prevail. To draw one ſleeping another awake, one ſit⯑ting another in motion, one moving toward the ſpectator another from him, is the life of ſuch a performance.

In every ſort of writing intended for a⯑muſement, variety is neceſſary in proportion to the length of the work. Want of variety is ſenſibly felt in Davila's hiſtory of the civil wars of France. The events are indeed im⯑portant and various: but the reader lan⯑guiſheth by a tireſome uniformity of charac⯑ter; every perſon engaged being figured a conſummate politician, governed by intereſt only. It is hard to ſay, whether Ovid diſ⯑guſts more by too great variety or too great uniformity. His ſtories are all of the ſame kind, concluding invariably with the trans⯑formation of one being into another. So far he is tireſome with exceſs in uniformity. He alſo fatigues with exceſs in variety, by hurrying his reader inceſſantly from ſtory to ſtory. Arioſto is ſtill more fatiguing than Ovid, by exceeding the juſt bounds of va⯑riety. [406] Not ſatisfied, like Ovid, with a ſucceſ⯑ſion in his ſtories, he diſtracts the reader by jumbling together a multitude of uncon⯑nected events. Nor is the Orlando Furioſo leſs tireſome by its uniformity than the Me⯑tamorphoſes, though in a different manner. After a ſtory is brought to a criſis, the read⯑er, intent upon the cataſtrophe, is ſuddenly ſnatched away to a new ſtory, which is little regarded ſo long as the mind is occupied with the former. This tantalizing method, from which the author never once ſwerves during the courſe of a long work, beſide its uniformity, hath another bad effect: it pre⯑vents that ſympathy which is raiſed by an intereſting event when the reader meets with no interruption.

The emotions produced by our percep⯑tions in a train, have been little conſidered, and leſs underſtood. The ſubject there⯑fore required an elaborate diſcuſſion. It may ſurpriſe ſome readers, to find variety treated as only contributing to make a train of perceptions pleaſant, when it is com⯑monly held to be a neceſſary ingredient in beauty of whatever kind; according to the [407] definition, ‘"That beauty conſiſts in uni⯑formity amidſt variety."’ But after the ſubject is explained and illuſtrated as above, I preſume it will be evident, that this defi⯑nition, however applicable to one or other ſpecies, is far from being juſt with reſpect to beauty in general. Variety contributes no ſhare to the beauty of a moral action, nor of a mathematical theorem; and num⯑berleſs are the beautiful objects of ſight that have little or no variety in them. A globe, the moſt uniform of all figures, is of all the moſt beautiful; and a ſquare, though more beautiful than a trapezium, hath leſs variety in its conſtituent parts. The foregoing defini⯑tion, which at beſt is but obſcurely expreſſ⯑ed, is only applicable to a number of ob⯑jects in a group or in ſucceſſion, among which indeed a due mixture of uniformity and variety is always agreeable, provided the particular objects, ſeparately conſidered, be in any degree beautiful. Uniformity a⯑midſt variety among ugly objects, affords no pleaſure. This circumſtance is totally o⯑mitted in the definition; and indeed to have mentioned it, would at firſt glance [408] ſhow the definition to be imperfect. To define beauty as ariſing from beautiful ob⯑jects blended together in a due proportion of uniformity and variety, would be too groſs to paſs current; as nothing can be more groſs, than to employ in a definition the very term that is propoſed to be ex⯑plained.