Priuli.My daughter!Belvidera.Yes, your daughter, by a motherVirtuous and noble, faithful to your honour,Obedient to your will, kind to your wishes,Dear to your arms. By all the joys she gave you,When in her blooming years she was your treasure,Look kindly on me; in my face beholdThe lineaments of hers y’ have kiss’d so often,Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off child.
Priuli.My daughter!Belvidera.Yes, your daughter, by a motherVirtuous and noble, faithful to your honour,Obedient to your will, kind to your wishes,Dear to your arms. By all the joys she gave you,When in her blooming years she was your treasure,Look kindly on me; in my face beholdThe lineaments of hers y’ have kiss’d so often,Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off child.
Priuli.My daughter!
Belvidera.Yes, your daughter, by a motherVirtuous and noble, faithful to your honour,Obedient to your will, kind to your wishes,Dear to your arms. By all the joys she gave you,When in her blooming years she was your treasure,Look kindly on me; in my face beholdThe lineaments of hers y’ have kiss’d so often,Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off child.
And again,
Belvidera.Lay me, I beg you, lay meBy the dear ashes of my tender mother.She would have pitied me, had fate yet spar’d her.Act 5. sc. 1.
Belvidera.Lay me, I beg you, lay meBy the dear ashes of my tender mother.She would have pitied me, had fate yet spar’d her.Act 5. sc. 1.
Belvidera.Lay me, I beg you, lay meBy the dear ashes of my tender mother.She would have pitied me, had fate yet spar’d her.Act 5. sc. 1.
This explains why any meritorious action or any illustrious qualification in my son or my friend, is apt to make me overvalue myself. If I value my friend’s wife or his son upon account of their connection with him, it is still more natural that I should value myself upon account of my own connection with him.
Friendship, or any other social affection, may produce opposite effects. Pity, by interesting us strongly for the person in distress, must of consequence inflame our resentment against the author of the distress. For, in general, the affection we have for any man,generates in us good-will to his friends and ill-will to his enemies. Shakespear shows great art in the funeral oration pronounced by Antony over the body of Cæsar. He first endeavours to excite grief in the hearers, by dwelling upon the deplorable loss of so great a man. This passion raised to a pitch, interesting them strongly in Cæsar’s fate, could not fail to produce a lively sense of the treachery and cruelty of the conspirators; an infallible method to inflame the resentment of the multitude beyond all bounds.
Antony.If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.You all do know this mantle; I rememberThe first time ever Cæsar put it on,’Twas on a summer’s evening in his tent,That day he overcame the Nervii——Look! in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through;—See what a rent the envious Casca made.——Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d;And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away,Mark how the blood of Cæsar follow’d it!As rushing out of doors, to be resolv’d,If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no:For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar’s angel.Judge, oh you gods! how dearly Cæsar lov’d him;This, this, was the unkindest cut of all;For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,Quite vanquish’d him; then burst his mighty heart:And, in his mantle muffling up his face,Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell,Even at the base of Pompey’s statue.O what a fall was there, my countrymen!Then I and you, and all of us fell down,Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us.O, now you weep; and I perceive you feelThe dint of pity; these are gracious drops.Kind souls! what, weep you when you but beholdOur Cæsar’s vesture wounded? look you here!Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, by traitors.Julius Cæsar, act 3. sc. 6.
Antony.If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.You all do know this mantle; I rememberThe first time ever Cæsar put it on,’Twas on a summer’s evening in his tent,That day he overcame the Nervii——Look! in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through;—See what a rent the envious Casca made.——Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d;And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away,Mark how the blood of Cæsar follow’d it!As rushing out of doors, to be resolv’d,If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no:For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar’s angel.Judge, oh you gods! how dearly Cæsar lov’d him;This, this, was the unkindest cut of all;For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,Quite vanquish’d him; then burst his mighty heart:And, in his mantle muffling up his face,Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell,Even at the base of Pompey’s statue.O what a fall was there, my countrymen!Then I and you, and all of us fell down,Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us.O, now you weep; and I perceive you feelThe dint of pity; these are gracious drops.Kind souls! what, weep you when you but beholdOur Cæsar’s vesture wounded? look you here!Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, by traitors.Julius Cæsar, act 3. sc. 6.
Antony.If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.You all do know this mantle; I rememberThe first time ever Cæsar put it on,’Twas on a summer’s evening in his tent,That day he overcame the Nervii——Look! in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through;—See what a rent the envious Casca made.——Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d;And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away,Mark how the blood of Cæsar follow’d it!As rushing out of doors, to be resolv’d,If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no:For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar’s angel.Judge, oh you gods! how dearly Cæsar lov’d him;This, this, was the unkindest cut of all;For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,Quite vanquish’d him; then burst his mighty heart:And, in his mantle muffling up his face,Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell,Even at the base of Pompey’s statue.O what a fall was there, my countrymen!Then I and you, and all of us fell down,Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us.O, now you weep; and I perceive you feelThe dint of pity; these are gracious drops.Kind souls! what, weep you when you but beholdOur Cæsar’s vesture wounded? look you here!Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, by traitors.Julius Cæsar, act 3. sc. 6.
Had Antony directed upon the conspirators the thoughts of his audience, without paving the way by raising their grief, his speech perhaps might have failed of success.
Hatred and other dissocial passions, produce effects directly opposite to those above mentioned. If I hate a man, his children, his relations, nay his property, become tome objects of aversion. His enemies, on the other hand, I am disposed to esteem.
The more slight and transitory connections, have generally no power to produce a communicated passion. Anger, when sudden and violent, is one exception; for if the person who did the injury be removed out of reach, this passion will vent itself upon any related object, however slight the relation be. Another exception makes a greater figure. A group of beings or things, becomes often the object of a communicated passion, even where the relation of the individuals to the principal object is but faint. Thus though I put no value upon a single man for living in the same town with myself; my townsmen however, considered in a body, are preferred before others. This is still more remarkable with respect to my countrymen in general. The grandeur of the complex object, swells the passion of self-love by the relation I have to my native country; and every passion, when it swells beyond its ordinary bounds, hath, in that circumstance, a peculiar tendency to expand itself along related objects. In fact, instances are not rare, of persons, who, upon all occasions, are willing to sacrifice their lives and fortunes for their country. Such influence upon the mind of man, hath a complex object, or, more properly speaking, a general term[21].
The sense of order hath, in the communication of passion, an influence not less remarkable than in the communication of emotions. It is a common observation, that a man’s affection to his parents is less vigorous than to his children. The order of nature in descending to children, aids the transition of the affection. The ascent to a parent, contrary to this order, makes the transition more difficult. Gratitude to a benefactor is readily extended to his children; but not so readily to his parents. The difference however betwixt the natural and inverted order, is not so considerable, but that it may be balanced by other circumstances. Pliny[22]gives an account of a woman of rank condemnedto die for a crime; and, to avoid public shame, detained in prison to die of hunger. Her life being prolonged beyond expectation, it was discovered, that she was nourished by sucking milk from the breasts of her daughter. This instance of filial piety, which aided the transition and made ascent not less easy than descent is for ordinary, procured a pardon to the mother, and a pension to both. The story of Androcles and the lion[23]may be accounted for in the same manner. The admiration, of which the lion was the cause, for his kindness and gratitude to Androcles, produced good-will to Androcles, and pardon of his crime.
And this leads to other observations upon communicated passions. I love my daughter less after she is married, and my mother less after a second marriage. The marriage of my son or my father diminishes not my affection so remarkably. The same observation holds with respect to friendship, gratitude, and other passions. The love I bear my friend, is but faintly extended to his married daughter. The resentment I haveagainst a man, is readily extended against children who make part of his family: not so readily against children who are forisfamiliated, especially by marriage. This difference is also more remarkable in daughters than in sons. These are curious facts; and to evolve the cause we must examine minutely, that operation of the mind by which a passion is extended to a related object. In considering two things as related, the mind is not stationary, but passeth and repasseth from the one to the other, viewing the relation from each of them perhaps oftener than once. This holds more especially in considering a relation betwixt things of unequal rank, as betwixt the cause and the effect, or betwixt a principal and an accessory. In contemplating the relation betwixt a building and its ornaments, the mind is not satisfied with a single transition from the former to the latter. It must also view the relation, beginning at the latter, and passing from it to the former. This vibration of the mind in passing and repassing betwixt things that are related, explains the facts above mentioned.The mind passeth easily from the father to the daughter; but where the daughter is married, this new relation attracts the mind, and obstructs, in some measure, the return from the daughter to the father. Any obstruction the mind meets with in passing and repassing betwixt its objects, occasions a like obstruction in the communication of passion. The marriage of a male obstructs less the easiness of transition; because a male is less sunk by the relation of marriage than a female.
The foregoing instances, are of passion communicated from one object to another. But one passion may be generated by another, without change of object. It may in general be observed, that a passion paves the way to others, similar in their tone, whether directed upon the same or upon a different object. For the mind heated by any passion, is, in that state, more susceptible of a new impression in a similar tone, than when cool and quiescent. It is a common observation, that pity generally produceth friendship for a person in distress.Pity interests us in its object, and recommends all its virtuous qualities. For this reason, female beauty shows best in distress; and is more apt to inspire love, than upon ordinary occasions. But it is chiefly to be remarked, that pity, warming and melting the spectator, prepares him for the reception of other tender affections; and pity is readily improved into love or friendship, by a certain tenderness and concern for the object, which is the tone of both passions. The aptitude of pity to produce love is beautifully illustrated by Shakespear.
Othello.Her father lov’d me, oft invited me;Still question’d me the story of my life,From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,That I have past.I ran it through, e’en from my boyish days,To th’ very moment that he bad me tell it:Wherein I spoke of most disast’rous chances,Of moving accidents by flood and field;Of hair-breadth ’scapes in th’ imminent deadly breach;Of being taken by the insolent foe,And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,And with it, all my travel’s history.—————— All these to hearWould Desdemona seriously incline;But still the house-affairs would draw her thence,Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,She’d come again, and with a greedy earDevour up my discourse: which I observing,Took once a pliant hour, and found good meansTo draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,Whereof by parcels she had something heard,But not distinctively. I did consent,And often did beguile her of her tears,When I did speak of some distressful strokeThat my youth suffer’d. My story being done,She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:She swore, in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange—’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful—She wish’d she had not heard it:—yet she wish’d,That heav’n had made her such a man:—she thank’d me,And bad me, if I had a friend that lov’d her,I should but teach him how to tell my story,And that would woo her. On this hint I spake,She lov’d me for the dangers I had past,And I lov’d her, that she did pity them:This only is the witchcraft I have us’d.Othello, act 1. sc. 8.
Othello.Her father lov’d me, oft invited me;Still question’d me the story of my life,From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,That I have past.I ran it through, e’en from my boyish days,To th’ very moment that he bad me tell it:Wherein I spoke of most disast’rous chances,Of moving accidents by flood and field;Of hair-breadth ’scapes in th’ imminent deadly breach;Of being taken by the insolent foe,And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,And with it, all my travel’s history.—————— All these to hearWould Desdemona seriously incline;But still the house-affairs would draw her thence,Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,She’d come again, and with a greedy earDevour up my discourse: which I observing,Took once a pliant hour, and found good meansTo draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,Whereof by parcels she had something heard,But not distinctively. I did consent,And often did beguile her of her tears,When I did speak of some distressful strokeThat my youth suffer’d. My story being done,She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:She swore, in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange—’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful—She wish’d she had not heard it:—yet she wish’d,That heav’n had made her such a man:—she thank’d me,And bad me, if I had a friend that lov’d her,I should but teach him how to tell my story,And that would woo her. On this hint I spake,She lov’d me for the dangers I had past,And I lov’d her, that she did pity them:This only is the witchcraft I have us’d.Othello, act 1. sc. 8.
Othello.Her father lov’d me, oft invited me;Still question’d me the story of my life,From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,That I have past.I ran it through, e’en from my boyish days,To th’ very moment that he bad me tell it:Wherein I spoke of most disast’rous chances,Of moving accidents by flood and field;Of hair-breadth ’scapes in th’ imminent deadly breach;Of being taken by the insolent foe,And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,And with it, all my travel’s history.—————— All these to hearWould Desdemona seriously incline;But still the house-affairs would draw her thence,Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,She’d come again, and with a greedy earDevour up my discourse: which I observing,Took once a pliant hour, and found good meansTo draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,Whereof by parcels she had something heard,But not distinctively. I did consent,And often did beguile her of her tears,When I did speak of some distressful strokeThat my youth suffer’d. My story being done,She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:She swore, in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange—’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful—She wish’d she had not heard it:—yet she wish’d,That heav’n had made her such a man:—she thank’d me,And bad me, if I had a friend that lov’d her,I should but teach him how to tell my story,And that would woo her. On this hint I spake,She lov’d me for the dangers I had past,And I lov’d her, that she did pity them:This only is the witchcraft I have us’d.Othello, act 1. sc. 8.
In this instance it will be observed that admiration concurred with pity to produce love.
Causes of the passions of fear and anger.
FEarand anger, to answer the purposes of nature, are happily so contrived as to operate either instinctively or deliberately. So far as they prompt actions considered as means leading to a certain end, they fall in with the general system, and require no particular explanation. If any object have a threatening appearance, reason suggests means to avoid the danger. If I am injured, the first thing I think of, is in what manner I shall be revenged, and what means I shall employ. These particulars are not less obvious than natural. But as the passions of fear and anger, so far as instinctive, are less familiar to us, and their nature generally not understood; I thought it would not be unacceptable to the readerto have them accurately delineated. He may also possibly relish the opportunity of this specimen, to have the nature of instinctive passions more fully explained than there was formerly occasion to do. I begin with fear.
Self-preservation is to individuals a matter of too great importance to be left entirely under the guardianship of self-love, which cannot be put in exercise otherwise than by the intervention of reason and reflection. Nature hath acted here with her usual precaution and foresight. Fear and anger are passions common to all men; and by operating instinctively, they frequently afford security when the slower operations of deliberative reason would be too late. We take nourishment commonly, not by the direction of reason, but by the incitement of hunger and thirst. In the same manner, we avoid danger by the incitement of fear, which often, before there is time for reflection, placeth us in safety. This matter then is ordered with consummate wisdom. It is not within the reach of fancy, to conceive any thing better fittedto answer its purpose, than this instinctive passion of fear, which, upon the first surmise of danger, operates instantaneously without reflection. So little doth the passion, in such instances, depend on reason, that we often find it exerted even in contradiction to reason, and when we are conscious that there is no hazard. A man who is not much upon his guard, cannot avoid shrinking at a blow, though he knows it to be aimed in sport; nor closing his eyes at the approach of what may hurt them, though he is confident it will not come their length. Influenced by the same instinctive passion of fear, infants are much affected with a stern look, a menacing tone, or other expression of anger; though, being incapable of reflection, they cannot form the slightest judgement about the import of these signs. This is all that is necessary to be said in general. The natural connection betwixt fear and the external signs of anger, will be handled in the chapter of the external signs of emotions and passions.
Fear provides for self-preservation by flying from harm; anger, by repelling it. Nothing indeed can be better contrived to repel or prevent injury, than anger or resentment. Destitute of this passion, men, like defenceless lambs, would lie constantly open to mischief[24]. Deliberate anger caused by a voluntary injury, is too well known to require any explanation. If my desire be in general to resent an afront, I must use means, and these means must be discovered by reflection. Deliberation is here requisite; and in this, which is the ordinary case, the passion seldom exceeds just bounds. But where anger suddenly inflames me to return a blow, the passion is instinctive, and the action ultimate; and it is chiefly in such cases that the passion is rash and ungovernable, because it operates blindly, without affording time for reason or deliberation.
Instinctive anger is frequently raised by bodily pain, which, when sudden and excessive as by a stroke on a tender part, ruffling the temper and unhinging the mind, is in its tone similar to anger. Bodily pain by this means disposes to anger, which is as suddenly raised, provided an object be found to vent it upon. Anger commonly is not provoked otherwise than by a voluntary injury. But when a man is thus beforehand disposed to anger, he is not nice nor scrupulous about an object. The man who gave the stroke, however accidentally, is by an inflammable temper held a proper object, merely because he was the occasion of the pain. It is still a stronger example of the kind, that a stock or a stone, by which I am hurt, becomes an object for my resentment. I am violently incited to bray it to atoms. The passion indeed in this case is but momentary. It vanisheth with the first reflection, being attended with no circumstance that can excuse it in any degree. Nor is this irrational effect confined to bodily pain. Inward distress, when excessive, may be the occasion of effects equally irrational.When a friend is danger and the event uncertain, the perturbation of mind occasioned thereby, will, in a fiery temper, produce momentary fits of anger against this very friend, however innocent. Thus Shakespear, in theTempest,
Alonzo.———— Sit down and rest.Ev’n here I will put off my hope, and keep itNo longer for my flatterer: he is drown’dWhom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocksOur frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.Act 3. sc. 3.
Alonzo.———— Sit down and rest.Ev’n here I will put off my hope, and keep itNo longer for my flatterer: he is drown’dWhom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocksOur frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.Act 3. sc. 3.
Alonzo.———— Sit down and rest.Ev’n here I will put off my hope, and keep itNo longer for my flatterer: he is drown’dWhom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocksOur frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.Act 3. sc. 3.
The final words,Well, let him go, are an expression of impatience and anger at Ferdinand, whose absence greatly distressed his father, dreading that he was lost in the storm. This nice operation of the human mind, is by Shakespear exhibited upon another occasion, and finely painted. In the tragedy ofOthello, Iago, by dark hints and suspicious circumstances, had roused Othello’s jealousy; which, however, appeared too slightly founded to be vented upon Desdemona, its proper object. The perturbation and distress of mind thereby occasioned, produced a momentary resentment against Iago, considered as occasioning the jealousy though innocent.
Othello.Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore;Be sure of it: give me the ocular proof.Or by the wrath of man’s eternal soulThou hadst been better have been born a dog,Than answer my wak’d wrath.Iago.Is’t come to this?Othello.Make me see’t; or, at the least, so prove it,That the probation bear no hinge or loopTo hang a doubt on: or woe upon thy life!Iago.My Noble Lord——Othello.If thou dost slander her and torture me,Never pray more; abandon all remorse;On horrors head horrors accumulate;Do deeds to make heav’n weep, all earth amaz’d:For nothing canst thou to damnation addGreater than that.Othello, act 3. sc. 8.
Othello.Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore;Be sure of it: give me the ocular proof.Or by the wrath of man’s eternal soulThou hadst been better have been born a dog,Than answer my wak’d wrath.Iago.Is’t come to this?Othello.Make me see’t; or, at the least, so prove it,That the probation bear no hinge or loopTo hang a doubt on: or woe upon thy life!Iago.My Noble Lord——Othello.If thou dost slander her and torture me,Never pray more; abandon all remorse;On horrors head horrors accumulate;Do deeds to make heav’n weep, all earth amaz’d:For nothing canst thou to damnation addGreater than that.Othello, act 3. sc. 8.
Othello.Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore;Be sure of it: give me the ocular proof.Or by the wrath of man’s eternal soulThou hadst been better have been born a dog,Than answer my wak’d wrath.
Iago.Is’t come to this?
Othello.Make me see’t; or, at the least, so prove it,That the probation bear no hinge or loopTo hang a doubt on: or woe upon thy life!
Iago.My Noble Lord——
Othello.If thou dost slander her and torture me,Never pray more; abandon all remorse;On horrors head horrors accumulate;Do deeds to make heav’n weep, all earth amaz’d:For nothing canst thou to damnation addGreater than that.Othello, act 3. sc. 8.
This blind and absurd effect of anger, is more gaily illustrated by Addison, in a story, thedramatis personæof which are a cardinal, and a spy retained in pay for intelligence. The cardinal is represented as minutingdown every thing that is told him. The spy begins with a low voice, “Such an one the advocate whispered to one of his friends within my hearing, that your Eminence was a very great poltron;” and after having given his patron time to take it down, adds, “That another called him a mercenary rascal in a public conversation.” The cardinal replies, “Very well,” and bids him go on. The spy proceeds, and loads him with reports of the same nature, till the cardinal rises in great wrath, calls him an impudent scoundrel, and kicks him out of the room[25].
We meet with instances every day of resentment raised by loss at play, and wreaked on the cards or dice. But anger, a furious passion, is satisfied with a connection still slighter than that of cause and effect, of which Congreve, in theMourning Bride, gives one beautiful example.
Gonsalez.Have comfort.Almeria. Curs’d be that tongue that bids me be of comfort,Curs’d my own tongue that could not move his pity,Curs’d these weak hands that could not hold him here,For he is gone to doom Alphonso’s death.Act 4. sc. 8.
Gonsalez.Have comfort.Almeria. Curs’d be that tongue that bids me be of comfort,Curs’d my own tongue that could not move his pity,Curs’d these weak hands that could not hold him here,For he is gone to doom Alphonso’s death.Act 4. sc. 8.
Gonsalez.Have comfort.
Almeria. Curs’d be that tongue that bids me be of comfort,Curs’d my own tongue that could not move his pity,Curs’d these weak hands that could not hold him here,For he is gone to doom Alphonso’s death.Act 4. sc. 8.
I have chosen to exhibit anger in its more rare appearances, for in these we can best trace its nature and extent. In the examples above given, it appears to be an absurd passion and altogether irrational. But we ought to consider, that it is not the intention of nature to subject this passion, in every instance, to reason and reflection. It was given us to prevent or to repel injuries; and, like fear, it often operates blindly and instinctively, without the least view to consequences. The very first sensation of harm, sets it in motion to repel injury by punishment. Were it more cool and deliberate, it would lose its threatening appearance, and be insufficient to guard us against violence and mischief. When such is and ought to be the nature of the passion, it is not wonderful to find it exerted irregularly and capriciously, as it sometimes is where the mischief is sudden and unforeseen. All the harm that can be done by the passion in this case, is instantaneous; for the shortest delay sets all to rights; and circumstances are seldom so unlucky as to put it in the power of a passionate man to do much harm in an instant.
Emotions caused by fiction.
THeattentive reader will observe, that in accounting for passions and emotions, no cause hitherto has been assigned but what hath a real existence. Whether it be a being, action, or quality, that moveth us, it is supposed to be an object of our knowledge, or at least of our belief. This observation discovers to us that the subject is not yet exhausted; because our passions, as all the world know, are moved by fiction as well as by truth. In judging beforehand of man, so remarkably addicted to truth and reality, one should little dreamthat fiction could have any effect upon him. But man’s intellectual faculties are too imperfect to dive far even into his own nature. I shall take occasion afterward to show, that this branch of the human constitution, is contrived with admirable wisdom and is subservient to excellent purposes. In the mean time, I must endeavour to unfold, by what means fiction hath such influence on the mind.
That the objects of our senses really exist in the way and manner we perceive, is a branch of intuitive knowledge. When I see a man walking, a tree growing, or cattle grazing, I have a conviction that these things are precisely as they appear. If I be a spectator of any transaction or event, I have a conviction of the real existence of the persons engaged, of their words, and of their actions. Nature determines us to rely on the veracity of our senses. And indeed, if our senses did not convince us of the reality of their objects, they could not in any degree answer their end.
By the power of memory, a thing formerly seen may be recalled to the mindwith different degrees of accuracy. We commonly are satisfied with a slight recollection of the chief circumstances; and, in such recollection, the thing is not figured as present nor any image formed. I retain the consciousness of my present situation, and barely remember that formerly I was a spectator. But with respect to an interesting object or event which made a strong impression, the mind sometimes, not satisfied with a cursory review, chutes to revolve every circumstance. In this case, I conceive myself to be a spectator as I was originally; and I perceive every particular passing in my presence, in the same manner as when I was in reality a spectator. For example, I saw yesterday a beautiful woman in tears for the loss of an only child, and was greatly moved with her distress. Not satisfied with a slight recollection or bare remembrance, I insist on the melancholy scene. Conceiving myself to be in the place where I was an eye-witness, every circumstance appears to me as at first. I think I see the woman in tears and hear her moans. Hence it may be justly said, that in a complete idea of memory there is no past nor future. A thing recalled to the mind with the accuracy I have been describing, is perceived as in our view, and consequently as presently existing. Past time makes a part of an incomplete idea only: I remember or reflect, that some years ago I was at Oxford, and saw the first stone laid of the Ratcliff library; and I remember that at a still greater distance of time, I heard a debate in the house of Commons about a standing army.
Lamentable is the imperfection of language, almost in every particular that falls not under external sense. I am talking of a matter exceeding clear in itself, and of which every person must be conscious; and yet I find no small difficulty to express it clearly in words; for it is not accurate to talk of incidents long past as passing in our sight, nor of hearing at present what we really heard yesterday or perhaps a year ago. To this necessity I am reduced, by want of proper words to describe ideal presence and to distinguish it from real presence. And thus in the description, a plain subject becomes obscure and intricate. When I recall anything in the distinctest manner, so as to form an idea or image of it as present; I have not words to describe this act, other than that I perceive the thing as a spectator, and as existing in my presence. This means not that I am really a spectator; but only that I conceive myself to be a spectator, and have a consciousness of presence similar to what a real spectator hath.
As many rules of criticism depend on ideal presence, the reader, it is expected, will take some pains to form an exact notion of it, as distinguished on the one hand from real presence, and on the other from a superficial or reflective remembrance. It is distinguished from the former by the following circumstance. Ideal presence arising from an act of memory, may properly be termeda waking dream; because, like a dream, it vanisheth upon the first reflection of our present situation. Real presence, on the contrary, vouched by eye-sight, commands our belief, not only during the direct perception, but in reflecting afterward upon the object. And to distinguish ideal presence from the latter, I give the following illustration. Two internal acts, both of them exertions of memory, are clearly distinguishable. When I think of an event as past, without forming any image, it is barely reflecting or remembering that I was an eye-witness. But when I recall the event so distinctly as to form a complete image of it, I perceive it ideally as passing in my presence; and this ideal perception is an act of intuition, into which reflection enters not more than into an act of sight.
Though ideal presence be distinguished from real presence on the one side and from reflective remembrance on the other, it is however variable without any precise limits; rising sometimes toward the former, and often sinking toward the latter. In a vigorous exertion of memory, ideal presence is extremely distinct. When a man, as in a reverie, drops himself out of his thoughts, he perceives every thing as passing before him, and hath a consciousness of presence similar to that of a spectator. There is no other difference, but that in the former the consciousness of presence is less firm and clear than in the latter. But this is seldomthe case. Ideal presence is often faint, and the image so obscure as not to differ widely from reflective remembrance.
Hitherto of an idea of memory. I proceed to consider the idea of a thing I never saw, raised in me by speech, by writing, or by painting. This idea, with respect to the present matter, is of the same nature with an idea of memory, being either complete or incomplete. An important event, by a lively and accurate description, rouses my attention and insensibly transforms me into a spectator: I perceive ideally every incident as passing in my presence. On the other hand, a slight or superficial narrative produceth only a faint and incomplete idea, precisely similar to a reflective recollection of memory. Of such idea, ideal presence makes no part. Past time is a circumstance that enters into this idea, as it doth into a reflective idea of memory. I believe that Scipio existed about 2000 years ago, and that he overcame Hannibal in the famous battle of Zama. When I revolve in so cursory a manner that memorable event, I consider it as long past. But supposing meto be warmed with the story, perhaps by a beautiful description, I am insensibly transformed to a spectator. I perceive these two heroes in act to engage; I perceive them brandishing their swords, and exhorting their troops; and in this manner I attend them through every circumstance of the battle. This event being present to my mind during the whole progress of my thoughts, admits not any time but the present.
I have had occasion to observe[26], that ideas both of memory and of speech, produce emotions of the same kind with what are produced by an immediate view of the object; only fainter, in proportion as an idea is fainter than an original perception. The insight we have now got, unfolds the means by which this effect is produced. Ideal presence supplies the want of real presence; and in idea we perceive persons acting and suffering, precisely as in an original survey. If our sympathy be engaged by the latter, it must also in some measurebe engaged by the former. The distinctness of ideal presence, as above mentioned, approacheth sometimes to the distinctness of real presence; and the consciousness of presence is the same in both. This is the cause of the pleasure that is felt in a reverie, where a man, losing sight of himself, is totally occupied with the objefts passing in his mind, which he conceives to be really existing in his presence. The power of speech to raise emotions, depends entirely on the artifice of raising such lively and distinct images as are here described. The reader’s passions are never sensibly moved, till he be thrown into a kind of reverie; in which state, losing the consciousness of self, and of reading, his present occupation, he conceives every incident as passing in his presence, precisely as if he were an eye-witness. A general or reflective remembrance hath not this effect. It may be agreeable in some slight degree; but the ideas suggested by it, are too faint and obscure to raise any thing like a sympathetic emotion. And were they ever so lively, they pass with too much precipitation to have thiseffect. Our emotions are never instantaneous: even those that come the soonest to perfection, have different periods of birth, growth, and maturity; and to give opportunity for these different periods, it is necessary that the cause of every emotion be present to the mind a due time. The emotion is completed by reiterated impressions. We know this to be the case of objects of sight: we are scarce sensible of any emotion in a quick succession even of the most beautiful objects. And if this hold in the succession of original perceptions, how much more in the succession of ideas?
Though all this while, I have been only describing what passeth in the mind of every one and what every one must be conscious of, it was necessary to enlarge upon it; because, however clear in the internal conception, it is far from being so when described in words. Ideal presence, though of general importance, hath scarce ever been touched by any writer; and at any rate it could not be overlooked in accounting for the effects produced by fiction. Upon this point, the reader I guess has prevented me. It already must have occurred to him, that if, in reading, ideal presence be the means by which our passions are moved, it makes no difference whether the subject be a fable or a reality. When ideal presence is complete, we perceive every object as in our sight; and the mind, totally occupied with an interesting event, finds no leisure for reflection of any sort. This reasoning, if any one hesitate, is confirmed by constant and universal experience. Let us take under consideration the meeting of Hector and Andromache in the sixth book of the Iliad, or some of the passionate scenes in King Lear. These pictures of human life, when we are sufficiently engaged, give an impression of reality not less distinct than that given by the death of Otho in the beautiful description of Tacitus. We never once reflect whether the story be true or feigned. Reflection comes afterward, when we have the scene no longer before our eyes. This reasoning will appear in a still clearer light, by opposing ideal presence to ideas raised by a cursory narrative; which ideas being faint, obscure, and imperfect, occupy the mind so little as to solicit reflection. And accordingly, a curt narrative of feigned incidents is never relished. Any slight pleasure it affords, is more than counterbalanced by the disgust it inspires for want of truth.
In support of the foregoing theory, I add what I reckon a decisive argument. Upon examination it will be found, that genuine history commands our passions by means of ideal presence solely; and therefore that with respect to this effect, genuine history stands upon the same footing with fable. To me it appears clear, that our sympathy must vanish so soon as we begin to reflect upon the incidents related in either. The reflection that a story is a pure fiction, will indeed prevent our sympathy; but so will equally the reflection that the persons described are no longer existing. It is present distress only that moves my pity. My concern vanishes with the distress; for I cannot pity any person who at present is happy. According to this theory, founded clearly on human nature, a man long dead and insensible now of past misfortunes, cannot move our pity more than if he had never existed. The misfortunes described in agenuine history command our belief: but then we believe also, that these misfortunes are at an end, and that the persons described are at present under no distress. What effect, for example, can the belief of the rape of Lucretia have to raise our sympathy, when she died above 2000 years ago, and hath at present no painful feeling of the injury done her? The effect of history in point of instruction, depends in some measure upon its veracity. But history cannot reach the heart, while we indulge any reflection upon the facts. Such reflection, if it engage our belief, never fails at the same time to poison our pleasure, by convincing us that our sympathy for those who are dead and gone is absurd. And if reflection be laid aside, history stands upon the same footing with fable. What effect either of them may have to raise our sympathy, depends on the vivacity of the ideas they raise; and with respect to that circumstance, fable is generally more successful than history.
Of all the means for making an impression of ideal presence, theatrical representation is the most powerful. That words independent of action have the same power in a less degree, every one of sensibility must have felt: A good tragedy will extort tears in private, though not so forcibly as upon the stage. This power belongs also to painting. A good historical picture makes a deeper impression than can be made by words, though not equal to what is made by theatrical action. And as ideal presence depends on a lively impression, painting seems to possess a middle place betwixt reading and acting. In making an impression of ideal presence, it is not less superior to the former than inferior to the latter.
It must not however be thought, that our passions can be raised by painting to such a height as can be done by words. Of all the successive incidents that concur to produce a great event, a picture has the choice but of one, because it is confined to a single instant of time. And though the impression it makes, is the deepest that can be made instantaneously; yet seldom can a passion be raised to any height in an instant, or by a single impression. It was observed above, that our passions, those especially ofthe sympathetic kind, require a succession of impressions; and for that reason, reading and still more acting have greatly the advantage, by the opportunity of reiterating impressions without end.
Upon the whole, it is by means of ideal presence that our passions are excited; and till words produce that charm they avail nothing. Even real events intitled to our belief, must be conceived present and passing in our sight before they can move us. And this theory serves to explain several phenomena otherwise unaccountable. A misfortune happening to a stranger, makes a less impression than happening to a man we know, even where we are no way interested in him: our acquaintance with this man, however slight, aids the conception of his suffering in our presence. For the same reason, we are little moved with any distant event; because we have more difficulty to conceive it present, than an event that happened in our neighbourhood.
Every one is sensible, that describing a past event as present, has a fine effect in language. For what other reason than thatit aids the conception of ideal presence? Take the following example.
And now with shouts the shocking armies clos’d,To lances lances, shields to shields oppos’d;Host against host the shadowy legions drew,The sounding darts an iron tempest flew;Victors and vanquish’d join promiscuous cries,Triumphing shouts and dying groans arise,With streaming blood the slipp’ry field is dy’d,And slaughter’d heroes swell the dreadful tide.
And now with shouts the shocking armies clos’d,To lances lances, shields to shields oppos’d;Host against host the shadowy legions drew,The sounding darts an iron tempest flew;Victors and vanquish’d join promiscuous cries,Triumphing shouts and dying groans arise,With streaming blood the slipp’ry field is dy’d,And slaughter’d heroes swell the dreadful tide.
And now with shouts the shocking armies clos’d,To lances lances, shields to shields oppos’d;Host against host the shadowy legions drew,The sounding darts an iron tempest flew;Victors and vanquish’d join promiscuous cries,Triumphing shouts and dying groans arise,With streaming blood the slipp’ry field is dy’d,And slaughter’d heroes swell the dreadful tide.
In this passage we may observe how the writer inflamed with the subject, insensibly slips from the past time to the present; led to this form of narration by conceiving every circumstance as passing in his own sight. And this at the same time has a fine effect upon the reader, by advancing him to be as it were a spectator. But this change from the past to the present requires some preparation; and is not graceful in the same sentence where there is no stop in the sense; witness the following passage.
Thy fate was next, O Phæstus! doom’d to feelThe great Idomeneus’ protended steel;Whom Borus sent his son and only joyFrom fruitful Tarne to the fields of Troy.The Cretan jav’lin reach’d him from afar,And pierc’d his shoulder as he mounts his car.Iliad, v. 57.
Thy fate was next, O Phæstus! doom’d to feelThe great Idomeneus’ protended steel;Whom Borus sent his son and only joyFrom fruitful Tarne to the fields of Troy.The Cretan jav’lin reach’d him from afar,And pierc’d his shoulder as he mounts his car.Iliad, v. 57.
Thy fate was next, O Phæstus! doom’d to feelThe great Idomeneus’ protended steel;Whom Borus sent his son and only joyFrom fruitful Tarne to the fields of Troy.The Cretan jav’lin reach’d him from afar,And pierc’d his shoulder as he mounts his car.Iliad, v. 57.
It is still worse to fall back to the past in the same period; for this is an anticlimax in description:
Through breaking ranks his furious course he bends,And at the goddess his broad lance extends;Through her bright veil the daring weapon drove,Th’ ambrosial veil, which all the graces wove:Her snowy hand the razing steel profan’d,And the transparent skin with crimson stain’d.Iliad, v. 415.
Through breaking ranks his furious course he bends,And at the goddess his broad lance extends;Through her bright veil the daring weapon drove,Th’ ambrosial veil, which all the graces wove:Her snowy hand the razing steel profan’d,And the transparent skin with crimson stain’d.Iliad, v. 415.
Through breaking ranks his furious course he bends,And at the goddess his broad lance extends;Through her bright veil the daring weapon drove,Th’ ambrosial veil, which all the graces wove:Her snowy hand the razing steel profan’d,And the transparent skin with crimson stain’d.Iliad, v. 415.
Again, describing the shield of Jupiter,
Here all the terrors of grim War appear,Here rages Force, here tremble Flight and Fear,Here storm’d Contention, and here Fury frown’d,And the dire orb portentous Gorgon crown’d.Iliad, v. 914.
Here all the terrors of grim War appear,Here rages Force, here tremble Flight and Fear,Here storm’d Contention, and here Fury frown’d,And the dire orb portentous Gorgon crown’d.Iliad, v. 914.
Here all the terrors of grim War appear,Here rages Force, here tremble Flight and Fear,Here storm’d Contention, and here Fury frown’d,And the dire orb portentous Gorgon crown’d.Iliad, v. 914.
Nor is it pleasant to be carried backward and forward alternately in a rapid succession:
Then dy’d Seamandrius, expert in the chace,In woods and wilds to wound the savage race;Diana taught him all her sylvan arts,To bend the bow and aim unerring darts:But vainly here Diana’s arts he tries,The fatal lance arrests him as he flies;From Menelaus’ arm the weapon sent,Through his broad back and heaving bosom went:Down sinks the warrior with a thund’ring sound,His brazen armor rings against the ground.Iliad, v. 65.
Then dy’d Seamandrius, expert in the chace,In woods and wilds to wound the savage race;Diana taught him all her sylvan arts,To bend the bow and aim unerring darts:But vainly here Diana’s arts he tries,The fatal lance arrests him as he flies;From Menelaus’ arm the weapon sent,Through his broad back and heaving bosom went:Down sinks the warrior with a thund’ring sound,His brazen armor rings against the ground.Iliad, v. 65.
Then dy’d Seamandrius, expert in the chace,In woods and wilds to wound the savage race;Diana taught him all her sylvan arts,To bend the bow and aim unerring darts:But vainly here Diana’s arts he tries,The fatal lance arrests him as he flies;From Menelaus’ arm the weapon sent,Through his broad back and heaving bosom went:Down sinks the warrior with a thund’ring sound,His brazen armor rings against the ground.Iliad, v. 65.
It is wonderful to observe, upon what slender foundations nature, sometimes, erects her most solid and magnificent works. In appearance at least, what can be more slight than ideal presence of objects? And yet upon it entirely is superstructed, that extensive influence which language hath over the heart; an influence, which, more than any other means, strengthens the bond of society, and attracts individuals from their private system to exert themselves in acts of generosity and benevolence. Matters of fact, it is true, and truth in general, may be inculcated without taking advantage of ideal presence. But without it, the finest speaker orwriter would in vain attempt to move any of our passion: our sympathy would be confined to objects that are really present: and language would lose entirely that signal power it possesseth, of making us sympathize with beings removed at the greatest distance of time as well as of place. Nor is the influence of language, by means of this ideal presence, confined to the heart. It reaches also in some measure the understanding, and contributes to belief. When events are related in a lively manner and every circumstance appears as passing before us, it is with difficulty that we suffer the truth of the facts to be questioned. A historian accordingly who hath a genius for narration, seldom fails to engage our belief. The same facts related in a manner cold and indistinct, are not suffered to pass without examination. A thing ill described, is like an object seen at a distance or through a mist: we doubt whether it be a reality or a fiction. For this reason, a poet who can warm and animate his reader, may employ bolder fictions than ought to be ventured by an inferior genius. The reader, once thoroughlyengaged, is in that situation susceptible of the strongest impressions: