Osmyn.By heav’n thou’st rous’d me from my lethargy.The spirit which was deaf to my own wrongs,And the loud cries of my dead father’s blood,Deaf to revenge—nay, which refus’d to hearThe piercing sighs and murmurs of my loveYet unenjoy’d; what not Almeria couldRevive, or raise, my people’s voice has waken’d.O my Antonio, I am all on fire,My soul is up in arms, ready to chargeAnd bear amidst the foe with conqu’ring troops.I hear ’em call to lead ’em on to liberty,To victory; their shouts and clamours rendMy ears, and reach the heav’ns: where is the king?Where is Alphonso? ha! where! where indeed?O I could tear and burst the strings of life,To break these chains. Off, off, ye stains of royalty!Off, slavery! O curse, that I aloneCan beat and flutter in my cage, when IWould soar and stoop at victory beneath!Mourning Bride, act 3. sc. 2.
Osmyn.By heav’n thou’st rous’d me from my lethargy.The spirit which was deaf to my own wrongs,And the loud cries of my dead father’s blood,Deaf to revenge—nay, which refus’d to hearThe piercing sighs and murmurs of my loveYet unenjoy’d; what not Almeria couldRevive, or raise, my people’s voice has waken’d.O my Antonio, I am all on fire,My soul is up in arms, ready to chargeAnd bear amidst the foe with conqu’ring troops.I hear ’em call to lead ’em on to liberty,To victory; their shouts and clamours rendMy ears, and reach the heav’ns: where is the king?Where is Alphonso? ha! where! where indeed?O I could tear and burst the strings of life,To break these chains. Off, off, ye stains of royalty!Off, slavery! O curse, that I aloneCan beat and flutter in my cage, when IWould soar and stoop at victory beneath!Mourning Bride, act 3. sc. 2.
Osmyn.By heav’n thou’st rous’d me from my lethargy.The spirit which was deaf to my own wrongs,And the loud cries of my dead father’s blood,Deaf to revenge—nay, which refus’d to hearThe piercing sighs and murmurs of my loveYet unenjoy’d; what not Almeria couldRevive, or raise, my people’s voice has waken’d.O my Antonio, I am all on fire,My soul is up in arms, ready to chargeAnd bear amidst the foe with conqu’ring troops.I hear ’em call to lead ’em on to liberty,To victory; their shouts and clamours rendMy ears, and reach the heav’ns: where is the king?Where is Alphonso? ha! where! where indeed?O I could tear and burst the strings of life,To break these chains. Off, off, ye stains of royalty!Off, slavery! O curse, that I aloneCan beat and flutter in my cage, when IWould soar and stoop at victory beneath!Mourning Bride, act 3. sc. 2.
If the emotions be unequal in force, the stronger after a conflict will extinguish the weaker. Thus the loss of a house by fire or of a sum of money by bankruptcy, will make no figure in opposition to the birth of a long-expected son, who is to inherit an opulent fortune. After some slight vibrations, the mind settles in joy, and the loss is forgot.
The foregoing observations, will be found of great use in the fine arts. Many practical rules are derived from them, which Ishall have occasion afterward to mention. For instant satisfaction in part, I propose to show the use of these observations in music, a theme I insist upon at present, not being certain of another opportunity more favourable. It will be admitted, that no combination of sounds but what is agreeable to the ear, is intitled to the name of music. Melody and harmony are separately agreeable and in union delightful. The agreeableness of vocal music differs from that of instrumental. The former being intended to accompany words, ought to be expressive of the sentiment that is conveyed by the words. But the latter having no connection with words, may be agreeable without expressing any sentiment. Harmony properly so called, though delightful when in perfection, is not expressive of sentiment; and we often find good melody without the least tincture of it.
These preliminaries being established, I proceed directly to the point. In vocal music, the intimate connection of sense and sound rejects dissimilar emotions, those especially that are opposite. Similar emotionsproduced by the sense and sound go naturally into union; and at the same time are felt to be concordant or harmonious. Dissimilar emotions, on the other hand, forced into union by causes intimately connected, not only obscure each other, but are also unpleasant by discordance. From these principles it is easy to say what sort of poetical compositions are fitted for music. It is evident that no poem expressing the sentiments of any disagreeable passion is proper. The pain a man feels who is actuated with malice or unjust revenge, disqualifies him for relishing music or any thing that is entertaining. And supposing him disposed, against nature, to vent his sentiments in music, the mixture would be unpleasant; for these passions raise disgust and aversion in the audience[39], a tone of mind opposite to every emotion that music can inspire. A man seized with remorse cannot bear music, because every sort of it must be discordant with his tone of mind; and when these by an unskilful artist are forced intounion, the mixture is unpleasant to the audience.
In general, music never can have a good effect in conjunction with any composition expressive of malice, envy, peevishness, or any other dissocial passion. The pleasure of music, on the other hand, is similar to all pleasant emotions; and music is finely qualified for every song where such emotions are expressed. Music particularly in a chearful tone, is concordant in the highest degree with every emotion in the same tone; and hence our taste for chearful airs expressive of mirth and jollity. Music is peculiarly well qualified for accompanying every sympathetic emotion. Sympathetic joy associates finely with chearful music, and sympathetic pain not less finely with music that is tender and melancholy. All the different emotions of love,viz.tenderness, concern, anxiety, pain of absence, hope, fear,&c.accord delightfully with music. A person in love, even when unkindly treated, is soothed by music. The tenderness of love still prevailing, accords with a melancholy strain. Thisis finely exemplified by Shakespear in the fourth act ofOthello, where Desdemona calls for a song expressive of her distress. Wonderful is the delicacy of that writer’s taste, which fails him not even in the most refined emotions of human nature. Melancholy music again is suitable to slight grief, which requires or admits consolation. But deep grief, which refuses all consolation, rejects for that reason even melancholy music. For a different reason, music is improper for accompanying pleasant emotions of the more important kind. These totally ingross the mind, and leave no place for music or any sort of amusement. In a perilous enterprise to dethrone a tyrant, music would be impertinent, even where hope prevails, and the prospect of success is great. Alexander attacking the Indian town and mounting the wall, had certainly no impulse to exert his prowess in a song. It is true, that not the least regard is paid to these rules either in the French or Italian opera; and the attachment we have to these compositions, may at first sight be considered as a proof that the foregoing doctrine cannot be founded on human nature. But the general taste for operas is at bottom no authority against me. In our operas the passions are so imperfectly expressed, as to leave the mind free for relishing music of any sort indifferently. It cannot be disguised, that the pleasure of an opera is derived chiefly from the music, and scarce at all from the sentiments. A happy coincidence of emotions raised by the song and by the music, is extremely rare; and I venture to affirm, that there is no example of it unless where the emotion raised by the former is pleasant as well as that raised by the latter.
The subject we have run through, appears not a little entertaining. It is extremely curious to observe, in many instances, a plurality of causes producing in conjunction a great pleasure: in other instances, not less frequent, no conjunction, but each cause acting in opposition. To enter bluntly upon a subject of such intricacy, might gravel an acute philosopher; and yet by taking matters in a train, the intricacy vanisheth.
Next in order, according to the method proposed, come external effects. And this leads to passions in particular, which involving desire are the causes of action. Two coexistent passions that have the same tendency, must be similar. They accordingly readily unite, and in conjunction have double force; which must hold whether the two passions have the same or different causes. This is verified by experience; from which we learn, that different passions having the same end in view, impel the mind to action with united force. The mind receives not impulses alternately from these passions, but one strong impulse from the whole in conjunction. And indeed it is not easy to conceive what should bar the union of passions that have all of them the same tendency.
Two passions having opposite tendencies, may proceed from the same object or cause considered in different lights. Thus a mistress may at once be the object both of love and resentment. Her beauty inflames the passion of love: her cruelty or inconstancy causes resentment. When two such passions coexist in the same breast, the opposition of their aim prevents any sort of union. They are not felt otherwise than in succession.And the consequence must be one of two things: the passions will balance each other, and prevent external action; or one of them will prevail, and accomplish its end. Guarini, in hisPastor Fido, describes beautifully the struggle betwixt love and resentment directed upon the same object.
Corisca.Chi vide mai, chi mai udi più stranaE più folle, e più sera, e più importunaPassione amorosa? amore, ed odioCon sì mirabil tempre in un cor misti,Che l’un per l’altro (e non so ben dir come)E si strugge, e s’avanza, e nasce, e more.S’ i’ miro alle bellezze di MirtilloDal piè leggiadro al grazioso volto,Il vago portamento, il bel sembiante.Gli atti, i costumi, e le parole, e ’l guardo;M’assale Amore con sì possente focoCh’i’ ardo tutta, e par, ch’ ogn’ altro affettoDa questo sol sia superato, e vinto:Ma se poi penso all’ ostinato amore,Ch’ ei porta ad altra donna, e che per leiDi me non cura, e sprezza (il vo’ pur dire)La mia famosa, e da mill’ alme, e milleInchinata beltà, bramata grazia;L’odio così, così l’aborro, e schivo,Che impossibil mi par, ch’unqua per luiMi s’accendesse al cor siamma amorosa.Tallor meco ragiono: o s’io petessiGioir del mio dolcissimo Mirtillo,Sicche fosse mio tutto, e ch’altra maiPosseder no ’l potesse, o più d’ ogn’ altraBeata, e felicissima Corisca!Ed in quel punto in me sorge un talentoVerso di lui sì dolce, e sì gentile,Che di seguirlo, e di pregarlo ancora,E di scoprirgli il cor prendo consiglio.Che più? così mi stimola il desio,Che se potessi allor l’adorerei.Dall’ altra parte i’ mi risento, e dico,Un ritroso? uno schifo? un che non degna?Un, che può d’altra donna esser amante?Un, ch’ardisce mirarmi, e non m’adora?E dal mio volto si difende in guisa,Che per amor non more? ed io, che luiDovrei veder, come molti altri i’ veggioSupplice, e lagrimosa a’ piedi miei,Supplice, e lagrimoso a’ piedi suoiSosterro di cadere? ah non fia mai.Ed in questo pensier tant’ ira accoglioContra di lui, contra di me, che volsiA seguirlo il pensier, gli occhi a mirarlo,Che ’l nome di Mirtillo, e l’amor mioOdio più che la morte; e lui vorreiVeder il più dolente, il più infelicePastor, che viva; e se potessi allora,Con le mie proprie man l’anciderei.Così sdegno, desire, odio, ed amoreMi fanno guerra, ed io, che stata sonoSempre sin qui di mille cor la fiamma,Di mill’ alme il tormento, ardo, e languisco:E provo nel mio mal le pene altrui.Act 1. sc. 3.
Corisca.Chi vide mai, chi mai udi più stranaE più folle, e più sera, e più importunaPassione amorosa? amore, ed odioCon sì mirabil tempre in un cor misti,Che l’un per l’altro (e non so ben dir come)E si strugge, e s’avanza, e nasce, e more.S’ i’ miro alle bellezze di MirtilloDal piè leggiadro al grazioso volto,Il vago portamento, il bel sembiante.Gli atti, i costumi, e le parole, e ’l guardo;M’assale Amore con sì possente focoCh’i’ ardo tutta, e par, ch’ ogn’ altro affettoDa questo sol sia superato, e vinto:Ma se poi penso all’ ostinato amore,Ch’ ei porta ad altra donna, e che per leiDi me non cura, e sprezza (il vo’ pur dire)La mia famosa, e da mill’ alme, e milleInchinata beltà, bramata grazia;L’odio così, così l’aborro, e schivo,Che impossibil mi par, ch’unqua per luiMi s’accendesse al cor siamma amorosa.Tallor meco ragiono: o s’io petessiGioir del mio dolcissimo Mirtillo,Sicche fosse mio tutto, e ch’altra maiPosseder no ’l potesse, o più d’ ogn’ altraBeata, e felicissima Corisca!Ed in quel punto in me sorge un talentoVerso di lui sì dolce, e sì gentile,Che di seguirlo, e di pregarlo ancora,E di scoprirgli il cor prendo consiglio.Che più? così mi stimola il desio,Che se potessi allor l’adorerei.Dall’ altra parte i’ mi risento, e dico,Un ritroso? uno schifo? un che non degna?Un, che può d’altra donna esser amante?Un, ch’ardisce mirarmi, e non m’adora?E dal mio volto si difende in guisa,Che per amor non more? ed io, che luiDovrei veder, come molti altri i’ veggioSupplice, e lagrimosa a’ piedi miei,Supplice, e lagrimoso a’ piedi suoiSosterro di cadere? ah non fia mai.Ed in questo pensier tant’ ira accoglioContra di lui, contra di me, che volsiA seguirlo il pensier, gli occhi a mirarlo,Che ’l nome di Mirtillo, e l’amor mioOdio più che la morte; e lui vorreiVeder il più dolente, il più infelicePastor, che viva; e se potessi allora,Con le mie proprie man l’anciderei.Così sdegno, desire, odio, ed amoreMi fanno guerra, ed io, che stata sonoSempre sin qui di mille cor la fiamma,Di mill’ alme il tormento, ardo, e languisco:E provo nel mio mal le pene altrui.Act 1. sc. 3.
Corisca.Chi vide mai, chi mai udi più stranaE più folle, e più sera, e più importunaPassione amorosa? amore, ed odioCon sì mirabil tempre in un cor misti,Che l’un per l’altro (e non so ben dir come)E si strugge, e s’avanza, e nasce, e more.S’ i’ miro alle bellezze di MirtilloDal piè leggiadro al grazioso volto,Il vago portamento, il bel sembiante.Gli atti, i costumi, e le parole, e ’l guardo;M’assale Amore con sì possente focoCh’i’ ardo tutta, e par, ch’ ogn’ altro affettoDa questo sol sia superato, e vinto:Ma se poi penso all’ ostinato amore,Ch’ ei porta ad altra donna, e che per leiDi me non cura, e sprezza (il vo’ pur dire)La mia famosa, e da mill’ alme, e milleInchinata beltà, bramata grazia;L’odio così, così l’aborro, e schivo,Che impossibil mi par, ch’unqua per luiMi s’accendesse al cor siamma amorosa.Tallor meco ragiono: o s’io petessiGioir del mio dolcissimo Mirtillo,Sicche fosse mio tutto, e ch’altra maiPosseder no ’l potesse, o più d’ ogn’ altraBeata, e felicissima Corisca!Ed in quel punto in me sorge un talentoVerso di lui sì dolce, e sì gentile,Che di seguirlo, e di pregarlo ancora,E di scoprirgli il cor prendo consiglio.Che più? così mi stimola il desio,Che se potessi allor l’adorerei.Dall’ altra parte i’ mi risento, e dico,Un ritroso? uno schifo? un che non degna?Un, che può d’altra donna esser amante?Un, ch’ardisce mirarmi, e non m’adora?E dal mio volto si difende in guisa,Che per amor non more? ed io, che luiDovrei veder, come molti altri i’ veggioSupplice, e lagrimosa a’ piedi miei,Supplice, e lagrimoso a’ piedi suoiSosterro di cadere? ah non fia mai.Ed in questo pensier tant’ ira accoglioContra di lui, contra di me, che volsiA seguirlo il pensier, gli occhi a mirarlo,Che ’l nome di Mirtillo, e l’amor mioOdio più che la morte; e lui vorreiVeder il più dolente, il più infelicePastor, che viva; e se potessi allora,Con le mie proprie man l’anciderei.Così sdegno, desire, odio, ed amoreMi fanno guerra, ed io, che stata sonoSempre sin qui di mille cor la fiamma,Di mill’ alme il tormento, ardo, e languisco:E provo nel mio mal le pene altrui.Act 1. sc. 3.
Ovid paints in lively colours the vibration of mind betwixt two opposite passions directed upon the same object. Althea had two brothers much beloved, who were unjustly put to death by her son Meleager in a fit of passion. She was strongly impelled to revenge; but the criminal was her own son. This ought to have with-held her hand. But the story makes a better figure and is more interesting, by the violence of the struggle betwixt resentment and maternal love.
Dona Deum templis nato victore ferebat;Cum videt extinctos fratres Althæa referri.Quæ plangore dato, mœstis ululatibus urbemImplet; et auratis mutavit vestibus atras.At simul est auctor necis editus; excidit omnisLuctus: et a lacrymis in pœnæ versus amorem est.Stipes erat, quem, cum partus enixa jaceretThestias, in flammam triplices posuêre sorores;Staminaque impresso fatalia pollice nentes,Tempora, dixerunt, eadem lignoque, tibique,O modo nate, damus. Quo postquam carmine dictoExcessere deæ; flagrantem mater ab igneErripuit torrem: sparsitque liquentibus undis.Ille diu fuerat penetralibus abditus imis;Servatusque, tuos, juvenis, servaverat annos.Protulit hunc genitrix, tædasque in fragmina poniImperat; et positis inimicos admovet ignes.Tum conata quater flammis imponere ramumCœpta quater tenuit. Pugnat materque, sororque,Et diversa trahunt unum duo nomina pectus.Sæpe metu sceleris pallebant ora futuri:Sæpe suum fervens oculis dabat ira ruborem,Et modo nescio quid similis crudele minantiVultus erat; modo quem misereri credere posses:Cumque ferus lacrymas animi siccaverat ardor;Inveniebantur lacrymæ tamen. Utque carina,Quam ventus, ventoque contrarius æstus,Vim geminam sentit, paretque incerta duobus:Thestias haud aliter dubiis affectibus errat,Inque vices ponit, positamque resuscitat iram.Incipit esse tamem melior germana parente;Et, consanguineas ut sanguine leniat umbras,Impietate pia est. Nam postqnam pestifer ignisConvaluit: Rogus iste cremet mea viscera, dixit.Utque manu dirâ lignum fatale tenebat;Ante sepulchrales infelix adstitit aras.Pœnarumque deæ triplices furialibus, inquit,Eumenides, sacris vultus advertite vestros.Ulciscor, facioque nefas. Mors morte pianda est;In scelus addendum scelus est, in funera funus:Per coacervatos pereat domus impia luctus.An felix Oeneus nato victore fruetur;Thestius orbus erit? melius lugebitis ambo.Vos modo, fraterni manes, animæque recentes,Officium sentite meum; magnoque paratasAccipite inferias, uteri mala pignora nostri.Hei mihi! quo rapior? fratres ignoscite matri.Deficiunt ad cœpta manus. Meruisse fatemurIllum, cur pereat: mortis mihi displicet auctor.Ergo impune feret; vivusque, et victor, et ipsoSuccessu tumidus regnum Calydonis habebit?Vos cinis exiguus, gelidæque jacebitis umbræ?Haud equidem patiar. Pereat sceleratus; et illeSpemque patris, regnique trahat, patriæque ruinam.Mens ubi materna est; ubi sunt pia jura parentum?Et, quos sustinui, bis mensûm quinque labores?O utinam primis arsisses ignibus infans;Idque ego passa forem! vixisti munere nostro:Nunc merito moriere tuo. Cape præmia facti;Bisque datam, primum partu, mox stipite rapto,Redde animam; vel me fraternis adde sepulchris.Et cupio, et nequeo. Quid agam? modo vulnera fratrumAnte oculos mihi sunt, et tantæ cædis imago;Nunc animum pietas, maternaque nomina frangunt.Me miseram! male vincetis, sed vincite, fratres:Dummodo, quæ dedero vobis solatia, vosqueIpsa sequar, dixit: dextraque aversa trementiFunereum torrem medios conjecit in ignes.Aut dedit, aut visus gemitus est ille dedisse,Stipes; et invitis correptus ab ignibus arsit.Metamorph. lib. 8. l. 445.
Dona Deum templis nato victore ferebat;Cum videt extinctos fratres Althæa referri.Quæ plangore dato, mœstis ululatibus urbemImplet; et auratis mutavit vestibus atras.At simul est auctor necis editus; excidit omnisLuctus: et a lacrymis in pœnæ versus amorem est.Stipes erat, quem, cum partus enixa jaceretThestias, in flammam triplices posuêre sorores;Staminaque impresso fatalia pollice nentes,Tempora, dixerunt, eadem lignoque, tibique,O modo nate, damus. Quo postquam carmine dictoExcessere deæ; flagrantem mater ab igneErripuit torrem: sparsitque liquentibus undis.Ille diu fuerat penetralibus abditus imis;Servatusque, tuos, juvenis, servaverat annos.Protulit hunc genitrix, tædasque in fragmina poniImperat; et positis inimicos admovet ignes.Tum conata quater flammis imponere ramumCœpta quater tenuit. Pugnat materque, sororque,Et diversa trahunt unum duo nomina pectus.Sæpe metu sceleris pallebant ora futuri:Sæpe suum fervens oculis dabat ira ruborem,Et modo nescio quid similis crudele minantiVultus erat; modo quem misereri credere posses:Cumque ferus lacrymas animi siccaverat ardor;Inveniebantur lacrymæ tamen. Utque carina,Quam ventus, ventoque contrarius æstus,Vim geminam sentit, paretque incerta duobus:Thestias haud aliter dubiis affectibus errat,Inque vices ponit, positamque resuscitat iram.Incipit esse tamem melior germana parente;Et, consanguineas ut sanguine leniat umbras,Impietate pia est. Nam postqnam pestifer ignisConvaluit: Rogus iste cremet mea viscera, dixit.Utque manu dirâ lignum fatale tenebat;Ante sepulchrales infelix adstitit aras.Pœnarumque deæ triplices furialibus, inquit,Eumenides, sacris vultus advertite vestros.Ulciscor, facioque nefas. Mors morte pianda est;In scelus addendum scelus est, in funera funus:Per coacervatos pereat domus impia luctus.An felix Oeneus nato victore fruetur;Thestius orbus erit? melius lugebitis ambo.Vos modo, fraterni manes, animæque recentes,Officium sentite meum; magnoque paratasAccipite inferias, uteri mala pignora nostri.Hei mihi! quo rapior? fratres ignoscite matri.Deficiunt ad cœpta manus. Meruisse fatemurIllum, cur pereat: mortis mihi displicet auctor.Ergo impune feret; vivusque, et victor, et ipsoSuccessu tumidus regnum Calydonis habebit?Vos cinis exiguus, gelidæque jacebitis umbræ?Haud equidem patiar. Pereat sceleratus; et illeSpemque patris, regnique trahat, patriæque ruinam.Mens ubi materna est; ubi sunt pia jura parentum?Et, quos sustinui, bis mensûm quinque labores?O utinam primis arsisses ignibus infans;Idque ego passa forem! vixisti munere nostro:Nunc merito moriere tuo. Cape præmia facti;Bisque datam, primum partu, mox stipite rapto,Redde animam; vel me fraternis adde sepulchris.Et cupio, et nequeo. Quid agam? modo vulnera fratrumAnte oculos mihi sunt, et tantæ cædis imago;Nunc animum pietas, maternaque nomina frangunt.Me miseram! male vincetis, sed vincite, fratres:Dummodo, quæ dedero vobis solatia, vosqueIpsa sequar, dixit: dextraque aversa trementiFunereum torrem medios conjecit in ignes.Aut dedit, aut visus gemitus est ille dedisse,Stipes; et invitis correptus ab ignibus arsit.Metamorph. lib. 8. l. 445.
Dona Deum templis nato victore ferebat;Cum videt extinctos fratres Althæa referri.Quæ plangore dato, mœstis ululatibus urbemImplet; et auratis mutavit vestibus atras.At simul est auctor necis editus; excidit omnisLuctus: et a lacrymis in pœnæ versus amorem est.Stipes erat, quem, cum partus enixa jaceretThestias, in flammam triplices posuêre sorores;Staminaque impresso fatalia pollice nentes,Tempora, dixerunt, eadem lignoque, tibique,O modo nate, damus. Quo postquam carmine dictoExcessere deæ; flagrantem mater ab igneErripuit torrem: sparsitque liquentibus undis.Ille diu fuerat penetralibus abditus imis;Servatusque, tuos, juvenis, servaverat annos.Protulit hunc genitrix, tædasque in fragmina poniImperat; et positis inimicos admovet ignes.Tum conata quater flammis imponere ramumCœpta quater tenuit. Pugnat materque, sororque,Et diversa trahunt unum duo nomina pectus.Sæpe metu sceleris pallebant ora futuri:Sæpe suum fervens oculis dabat ira ruborem,Et modo nescio quid similis crudele minantiVultus erat; modo quem misereri credere posses:Cumque ferus lacrymas animi siccaverat ardor;Inveniebantur lacrymæ tamen. Utque carina,Quam ventus, ventoque contrarius æstus,Vim geminam sentit, paretque incerta duobus:Thestias haud aliter dubiis affectibus errat,Inque vices ponit, positamque resuscitat iram.Incipit esse tamem melior germana parente;Et, consanguineas ut sanguine leniat umbras,Impietate pia est. Nam postqnam pestifer ignisConvaluit: Rogus iste cremet mea viscera, dixit.Utque manu dirâ lignum fatale tenebat;Ante sepulchrales infelix adstitit aras.Pœnarumque deæ triplices furialibus, inquit,Eumenides, sacris vultus advertite vestros.Ulciscor, facioque nefas. Mors morte pianda est;In scelus addendum scelus est, in funera funus:Per coacervatos pereat domus impia luctus.An felix Oeneus nato victore fruetur;Thestius orbus erit? melius lugebitis ambo.Vos modo, fraterni manes, animæque recentes,Officium sentite meum; magnoque paratasAccipite inferias, uteri mala pignora nostri.Hei mihi! quo rapior? fratres ignoscite matri.Deficiunt ad cœpta manus. Meruisse fatemurIllum, cur pereat: mortis mihi displicet auctor.Ergo impune feret; vivusque, et victor, et ipsoSuccessu tumidus regnum Calydonis habebit?Vos cinis exiguus, gelidæque jacebitis umbræ?Haud equidem patiar. Pereat sceleratus; et illeSpemque patris, regnique trahat, patriæque ruinam.Mens ubi materna est; ubi sunt pia jura parentum?Et, quos sustinui, bis mensûm quinque labores?O utinam primis arsisses ignibus infans;Idque ego passa forem! vixisti munere nostro:Nunc merito moriere tuo. Cape præmia facti;Bisque datam, primum partu, mox stipite rapto,Redde animam; vel me fraternis adde sepulchris.Et cupio, et nequeo. Quid agam? modo vulnera fratrumAnte oculos mihi sunt, et tantæ cædis imago;Nunc animum pietas, maternaque nomina frangunt.Me miseram! male vincetis, sed vincite, fratres:Dummodo, quæ dedero vobis solatia, vosqueIpsa sequar, dixit: dextraque aversa trementiFunereum torrem medios conjecit in ignes.Aut dedit, aut visus gemitus est ille dedisse,Stipes; et invitis correptus ab ignibus arsit.Metamorph. lib. 8. l. 445.
In cases of this kind, one circumstance always augments the fluctuation. A resolution to prefer one action before another after balancing betwixt them, is an inchoated gratification of the prevailing passion, which softens it in some degree. This circumstance tends to give a superiority to the opposite passion. And another circumstance also concurs, that this opposite passion has by restraint acquired in the interim some additional force.
Love and jealousy connected by a common object, occupy the mind alternately. When the object is considered as beautiful,love prevails: when considered as possibly unfaithful, jealousy prevails. A situation of this kind, affords great scope for fluctuation of passion, which is painted to the life by several masterly hands in words as well as in colours. Shakespear handles the same subject, but in a manner uncommon and peculiar to himself. In Othello’s soliloquy before putting his wife to death, love and jealousy are represented, each exerting its whole force, but without any struggle. Othello was naturally inflexible; and the tenderest love could not divert him from a purpose he approved as right, not even for a moment. But every thing consistent with such a character is done to reconcile the two opposite passions. He is resolved to put her to death, but he will not shed her blood, nor so much as ruffle her skin.
Othello.It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul;—Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!It is the cause.—— Yet I’ll not shed her blood,Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,And smooth as monumental alabaster.[Lays down the sword.Yet she must die; else she’ll betray more men.Put out the light, and then—Put out the light?—If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,I can again thy former light restore,Should I repent: but once put outthylight,Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature,I know not where is that Promethean heatThat can thy light relumine.—[Sets down the taper.When I have pluck’d thy rose,I cannot give it vital growth again;It needs must wither.—I’ll smell thee on the tree;[Kissing her.Oh balmy breath, that dost almost persuadeJustice to break her sword!—-- One more; one more;Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,And love thee after.—— One more, that’s the last;So sweet was ne’er so fatal! I must weep,But they are cruel tears? this sorrow’s heav’nly;It strikes where it doth love.—— She wakes——Act 5. sc. 6.
Othello.It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul;—Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!It is the cause.—— Yet I’ll not shed her blood,Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,And smooth as monumental alabaster.[Lays down the sword.Yet she must die; else she’ll betray more men.Put out the light, and then—Put out the light?—If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,I can again thy former light restore,Should I repent: but once put outthylight,Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature,I know not where is that Promethean heatThat can thy light relumine.—[Sets down the taper.When I have pluck’d thy rose,I cannot give it vital growth again;It needs must wither.—I’ll smell thee on the tree;[Kissing her.Oh balmy breath, that dost almost persuadeJustice to break her sword!—-- One more; one more;Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,And love thee after.—— One more, that’s the last;So sweet was ne’er so fatal! I must weep,But they are cruel tears? this sorrow’s heav’nly;It strikes where it doth love.—— She wakes——Act 5. sc. 6.
Othello.It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul;—Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!It is the cause.—— Yet I’ll not shed her blood,Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,And smooth as monumental alabaster.[Lays down the sword.Yet she must die; else she’ll betray more men.Put out the light, and then—Put out the light?—If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,I can again thy former light restore,Should I repent: but once put outthylight,Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature,I know not where is that Promethean heatThat can thy light relumine.—[Sets down the taper.When I have pluck’d thy rose,I cannot give it vital growth again;It needs must wither.—I’ll smell thee on the tree;[Kissing her.Oh balmy breath, that dost almost persuadeJustice to break her sword!—-- One more; one more;Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,And love thee after.—— One more, that’s the last;So sweet was ne’er so fatal! I must weep,But they are cruel tears? this sorrow’s heav’nly;It strikes where it doth love.—— She wakes——Act 5. sc. 6.
In Otway’sOrphan, we have an illustrious example of the address employed to gratify opposite passions directed upon the same object. Castalio and Polydore, brothers and rivals, had sworn mutual confidence. Castalio broke his faith by a private marriage. By this concealment, Polydore was unwarily betrayed into a dismal deed, that ofpolluting his brother’s bed. Thus he had injured his brother, and was injured by him. Justice prompted him to make full atonement by his own death: resentment against his brother required a full atonement to be made to himself. In coexistent passions so contradictory, one of them commonly prevails after a struggle. But here happily an expedient occurred to gratify both; which was, that Polydore should provoke his brother to put him to death. Polydore’s crime in his own opinion merited this punishment; and justice was satisfied when he fell by the hands of the man he had injured. He wanted at the same time to punish his brother for breach of faith; and he could not do this more effectually than by betraying his brother to be his executioner.
If difference of aim prevent the union of two passions though having the same object, much more will it prevent their union when their objects are also different. In both cases there is a fluctuation; but in the latter the fluctuation is slower than in the former. A beautiful situation of this kind is exhibited in theCidof Corneille.Don Diegue, an old soldier worn out with age, having received a mortal affront from the Count father to Chimene, employs his son Don Rodrigue, Chimene’s lover, to demand satisfaction. This situation occasions in the breast of Don Rodrigue a cruel struggle. It is a contest betwixt love and honour, one of which must be sacrificed. The scene is finely conducted, chiefly by making love in some degree take part with honour, Don Rodrigue reflecting, that if he lost his honour he could not deserve his mistress. Honour triumphs. The Count, provoked to a single combat, falls by the hand of Don Rodrigue.
This produceth another beautiful situation respecting Chimene, which for the sake of connection is placed here, though it properly belongs to the foregoing head. It became the duty of that lady to demand justice against her lover, for whose preservation, in other circumstances, she chearfully would have sacrificed her own life. The struggle betwixt these opposite passions directed upon the same object, is finely expressed in the third scene of the third act.
Elvire.Il vous prive d’un pére, et vous l’aimez encore!Chimene.C’est peu de dire aimer, Elvire, je l’adore;Ma passion s’oppose à mon ressentiment,Dedans mon ennemi je trouve mon amant,Et je sens qu’en depit de toute ma colére,Rodrigue dans mon cœur combat encore mon pére.Il l’attaque, il le presse, il céde, il se défend,Tantôt fort, tantôt foible, et tantôt triomphant;Mais en ce dur combat de colére et de flame,Il déchire mon cœur sans partager mon ame,Et quoique mon amour ait sur moi de pouvoir,Je ne consulte point pour suivre mon devoir.Je cours sans balancer où mon honneur m’oblige;Rodrigue m’est bien cher, son interêt m’afflige,Mon cœur prend son parti; mais malgré son effort,Je sai ce que je suis, et que mon pére est mort.
Elvire.Il vous prive d’un pére, et vous l’aimez encore!Chimene.C’est peu de dire aimer, Elvire, je l’adore;Ma passion s’oppose à mon ressentiment,Dedans mon ennemi je trouve mon amant,Et je sens qu’en depit de toute ma colére,Rodrigue dans mon cœur combat encore mon pére.Il l’attaque, il le presse, il céde, il se défend,Tantôt fort, tantôt foible, et tantôt triomphant;Mais en ce dur combat de colére et de flame,Il déchire mon cœur sans partager mon ame,Et quoique mon amour ait sur moi de pouvoir,Je ne consulte point pour suivre mon devoir.Je cours sans balancer où mon honneur m’oblige;Rodrigue m’est bien cher, son interêt m’afflige,Mon cœur prend son parti; mais malgré son effort,Je sai ce que je suis, et que mon pére est mort.
Elvire.Il vous prive d’un pére, et vous l’aimez encore!
Chimene.C’est peu de dire aimer, Elvire, je l’adore;Ma passion s’oppose à mon ressentiment,Dedans mon ennemi je trouve mon amant,Et je sens qu’en depit de toute ma colére,Rodrigue dans mon cœur combat encore mon pére.Il l’attaque, il le presse, il céde, il se défend,Tantôt fort, tantôt foible, et tantôt triomphant;Mais en ce dur combat de colére et de flame,Il déchire mon cœur sans partager mon ame,Et quoique mon amour ait sur moi de pouvoir,Je ne consulte point pour suivre mon devoir.Je cours sans balancer où mon honneur m’oblige;Rodrigue m’est bien cher, son interêt m’afflige,Mon cœur prend son parti; mais malgré son effort,Je sai ce que je suis, et que mon pére est mort.
Not less when the objects are different than when the same, are means sometimes afforded to gratify both passions; and such means are greedily embraced. In Tasso’sGerusalem, Edward and Gildippe, husband and wife, are introduced fighting gallantly against the Saracens. Gildippe receives a mortal wound by the hand of Soliman. Edward inflamed with revenge as well as concern for Gildippe, is agitated betwixt the two different objects. The poet[40]describes him endeavouring to gratify both at once, applying his right hand against Soliman the object of his resentment, and his left hand to support his wife the object of his love.
The power of passion to adjust our opinions and belief to its gratification.
THereis such a connection among the perceptions passions and actions of the same person, that it would be wonderful if they should have no mutual influence. That our actions are too much directed by passion, is a sad truth. It is not less certain, though not so commonly observed, that passion hath an irregular influence upon our opinions and belief. The opinions we form of men and things, are generally directed by affection. An advice given by a man of figure, hath great weight; thesame advice from one in a low condition, is utterly neglected. A man of courage under-rates danger; and to the indolent, the slightest obstacle appears unsurmountable. Our opinions indeed, the result commonly of various and often opposite views, are so slight and wavering, as readily to be susceptible of a bias from passion and prejudice.
This subject is of great use in logic; and of still greater use in criticism, being intimately connected with many principles of the fine arts that will be unfolded in the course of this work. Being too extensive to be treated here at large, some cursory illustrations must suffice; leaving the subject to be prosecuted more particularly afterward when occasion shall offer.
Two principles that make an eminent figure in human nature, concur to give passion an undue influence upon our opinions and belief. The first and most extensive, is a strong tendency in the mind to fit objects for the gratification of its passions. We are prone to such opinions of men and things as correspond to our wishes. Where the object, in dignity or importance, corresponds to the passion bestowed on it, the gratification is complete and there is no occasion for artifice. But where the object is too mean for the passion so as not to afford a complete gratification, it is wonderful how apt the mind is to impose upon itself, and how disposed to proportion the object to its passion. The other principle is a strong tendency in our nature to justify our passions as well as our actions, not to others only, but even to ourselves. This tendency is extremely remarkable with respect to disagreeable passions. By its influence, objects are magnified or lessened, circumstances supplied or suppressed, every thing coloured and disguised, to answer the end of justification. Hence the foundation of self-deceit, where a man imposes upon himself innocently, and even without suspicion of a bias.
Beside the influence of the foregoing principles to make us form opinions contrary to truth, the passions themselves, by subordinate means, contribute to the same effect. Of these means I shall mention two which seem to be capital. First, There was occasion formerly to observe[41], that though ideas seldom start up in the mind without connection, yet that ideas which correspond to the present tone of the mind are readily suggested by any slight connection. By this means, the arguments for a favourite opinion are always at hand, while we often search in vain for those that cross our inclination. Second, The mind taking delight in agreeable circumstances or arguments, is strongly impressed with them; while those that are disagreeable are hurried over so as scarce to make any impression. The self-same argument, accordingly as it is relished or not relished, weighs so differently, as in truth to make conviction depend more on passion than on reasoning. This observation is fully justified by experience. To confine myself to a single instance, the numberless absurd religious tenets that at different times have pestered the world, would be altogether unaccountable but for this irregular bias of passion.
We proceed to a more pleasant task,which is, to illustrate the foregoing observations by proper examples. Gratitude when warm, is often exerted upon the children of the benefactor; especially where he is removed out of reach by death or absence[42]. Gratitude in this case being exerted for the sake of the benefactor, requires no peculiar excellence in his children. To find however these children worthy of the benefits intended them, contributes undoubtedly to the more entire gratification of the passion. And accordingly, the mind, prone to gratify its passions, is apt to conceive a better opinion of these children than possibly they deserve. By this means, strong connections of affection are often formed among individuals, upon the slight foundation now mentioned.
Envy is a passion, which, being altogether unjustifiable, is always disguised under some more plausible name. But no passion is more eager than envy, to give its object such an appearance as to answer a complete gratification. It magnifies every bad quality, and fixes on the most humbling circumstances.
Cassius.I cannot tell what you and other menThink of this life; but for my single self,I had as lief not be, as live to beIn awe of such a thing as I myself.I was born free as Cæsar, so were you;We both have fed as well; and we can bothEndure the winter’s cold as well as he.For once, upon a raw and gusty day,The troubled Tyber chasing with his shores,Cæsar says to me, Dar’st thou, Cassius, nowLeap in with me into this angry flood,And swim to yonder point?—Upon the word,Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,And bid him follow; so indeed he did.The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet itWith lusty sinews; throwing it aside,And stemming it with hearts of controversy.But ere we could arrive the point propos’d,Cæsar cry’d, Help me, Cassius, or I sink.I, as Æneas, our great ancestor,Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulderThe old Anchises bear; so from the waves of TyberDid I the tired Cæsar: and this manIs now become a god, and Cassius isA wretched creature; and must bend his body,If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him.He had a fever when he was in Spain,And when the fit was on him, I did markHow he did shake. ’Tis true, this god did shake;His coward lips did from their colour fly,And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world,Did lose its lustre; I did hear him grone:Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the RomansMark him, and write his speeches in their books,Alas! it cry’d—— Give me some drink, Titinius——As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,A man of such a feeble temper shouldSo get the start of the majestic world,And bear the palm alone.Julius Cæsar, act I. sc. 3.
Cassius.I cannot tell what you and other menThink of this life; but for my single self,I had as lief not be, as live to beIn awe of such a thing as I myself.I was born free as Cæsar, so were you;We both have fed as well; and we can bothEndure the winter’s cold as well as he.For once, upon a raw and gusty day,The troubled Tyber chasing with his shores,Cæsar says to me, Dar’st thou, Cassius, nowLeap in with me into this angry flood,And swim to yonder point?—Upon the word,Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,And bid him follow; so indeed he did.The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet itWith lusty sinews; throwing it aside,And stemming it with hearts of controversy.But ere we could arrive the point propos’d,Cæsar cry’d, Help me, Cassius, or I sink.I, as Æneas, our great ancestor,Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulderThe old Anchises bear; so from the waves of TyberDid I the tired Cæsar: and this manIs now become a god, and Cassius isA wretched creature; and must bend his body,If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him.He had a fever when he was in Spain,And when the fit was on him, I did markHow he did shake. ’Tis true, this god did shake;His coward lips did from their colour fly,And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world,Did lose its lustre; I did hear him grone:Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the RomansMark him, and write his speeches in their books,Alas! it cry’d—— Give me some drink, Titinius——As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,A man of such a feeble temper shouldSo get the start of the majestic world,And bear the palm alone.Julius Cæsar, act I. sc. 3.
Cassius.I cannot tell what you and other menThink of this life; but for my single self,I had as lief not be, as live to beIn awe of such a thing as I myself.I was born free as Cæsar, so were you;We both have fed as well; and we can bothEndure the winter’s cold as well as he.For once, upon a raw and gusty day,The troubled Tyber chasing with his shores,Cæsar says to me, Dar’st thou, Cassius, nowLeap in with me into this angry flood,And swim to yonder point?—Upon the word,Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,And bid him follow; so indeed he did.The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet itWith lusty sinews; throwing it aside,And stemming it with hearts of controversy.But ere we could arrive the point propos’d,Cæsar cry’d, Help me, Cassius, or I sink.I, as Æneas, our great ancestor,Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulderThe old Anchises bear; so from the waves of TyberDid I the tired Cæsar: and this manIs now become a god, and Cassius isA wretched creature; and must bend his body,If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him.He had a fever when he was in Spain,And when the fit was on him, I did markHow he did shake. ’Tis true, this god did shake;His coward lips did from their colour fly,And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world,Did lose its lustre; I did hear him grone:Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the RomansMark him, and write his speeches in their books,Alas! it cry’d—— Give me some drink, Titinius——As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,A man of such a feeble temper shouldSo get the start of the majestic world,And bear the palm alone.Julius Cæsar, act I. sc. 3.
Glo’ster inflamed with resentment against his son Edgar, could even work himself into a momentary conviction that they were not related.
O strange fasten’d villain!Would he deny his letter?—I never got him.King Lear, act 2. sc. 3.
O strange fasten’d villain!Would he deny his letter?—I never got him.King Lear, act 2. sc. 3.
O strange fasten’d villain!Would he deny his letter?—I never got him.King Lear, act 2. sc. 3.
When by a great sensibility of heart orother means, grief swells beyond what the cause can justify, the mind is prone to magnify the cause, in order to gratify the passion. And if the real cause admit not of being magnified, the mind seeks a cause for its grief in imagined future events.
Bushy.Madam, your Majesty is much too sad;You promis’d, when you parted with the King,To lay aside self-harming heaviness,And entertain a chearful disposition.Queen.To please the King, I did; to please myself,I cannot do it. Yet I know no causeWhy I should welcome such a guest as grief;Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guestAs my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks,Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune’s womb,Is coming tow’rd me; and my inward soulWith something trembles, yet at nothing grieves,More than with parting from my Lord the King.Richard II. act. 2. sc. 5.
Bushy.Madam, your Majesty is much too sad;You promis’d, when you parted with the King,To lay aside self-harming heaviness,And entertain a chearful disposition.Queen.To please the King, I did; to please myself,I cannot do it. Yet I know no causeWhy I should welcome such a guest as grief;Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guestAs my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks,Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune’s womb,Is coming tow’rd me; and my inward soulWith something trembles, yet at nothing grieves,More than with parting from my Lord the King.Richard II. act. 2. sc. 5.
Bushy.Madam, your Majesty is much too sad;You promis’d, when you parted with the King,To lay aside self-harming heaviness,And entertain a chearful disposition.
Queen.To please the King, I did; to please myself,I cannot do it. Yet I know no causeWhy I should welcome such a guest as grief;Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guestAs my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks,Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune’s womb,Is coming tow’rd me; and my inward soulWith something trembles, yet at nothing grieves,More than with parting from my Lord the King.Richard II. act. 2. sc. 5.
The foregoing examples depend on the first principle. In the following, both principles concur. Resentment at first is wreaked on the relations of the offender, in order to punish him. But as resentment when so outrageous is contrary to conscience, the mind, to justify its passion as well as to gratify it, is disposed to paint these relations in the blackest colours; and it actually comes to be convinced, that they ought to be punished for their own demerits.
Anger raised by an accidental stroke upon a tender part, which gives great and sudden pain, is sometimes vented upon the undesigning cause. But as the passion in this case is absurd, and as there can be no solid gratification in punishing the innocent; the mind, prone to justify as well as to gratify its passion, deludes itself instantly into a conviction of the action’s being voluntary. This conviction however is but momentary: the first reflection shows it to be erroneous; and the passion vanisheth almost instantaneously with the conviction. But anger, the most violent of all passions, has still greater influence. It sometimes forces the mind to personify a stock or a stone when it occasions bodily pain, in order to be a proper object of resentment. A conception is formed of it as a voluntary agent. And that we have really a momentary conviction of its being a voluntary agent, must be evident from considering, that without such conviction, the passion can neither be justified nor gratified. The imagination can give no aid. A stock or a stone may be imagined sensible; but a notion of this kind cannot be the foundation of punishment, so long as the mind is conscious that it is an imagination merely without any reality. Of such personification, involving a conviction of reality, there is one illustrious instance. When the first bridge of boats over the Hellespont was destroyed by a storm, Xerxes fell into a transport of rage, so excessive, that he commanded the sea to be punished with 300 stripes; and a pair of fetters to be thrown into it, enjoining the following words to be pronounced. “O thou salt and bitter water! thy master hath condemned thee to this punishment for offending him without cause; and is resolved to pass over thee in despite of thy insolence. With reason all men neglectto sacrifice to thee, because thou art both disagreeable and treacherous[43].”
Shakespear exhibits beautiful examples of the irregular influence of passion in making us conceive things to be otherwise than they are. King Lear, in his distress, personifies the rain, wind, and thunder; and in order to justify his resentment, conceives them to be taking part with his daughters.
Lear.Rumble thy belly-full, spit fire, spout rain!Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters.I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children;You owe me no subscription. Then let fallYour horrible pleasure.—— Here I stand, your brave;A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man!But yet I call you servile ministers,That have with two pernicious daughters join’dYour high engender’d battles, ’gainst a headSo old and white as this. Oh! oh! ’tis foul.Act3.sc. 2.
Lear.Rumble thy belly-full, spit fire, spout rain!Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters.I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children;You owe me no subscription. Then let fallYour horrible pleasure.—— Here I stand, your brave;A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man!But yet I call you servile ministers,That have with two pernicious daughters join’dYour high engender’d battles, ’gainst a headSo old and white as this. Oh! oh! ’tis foul.Act3.sc. 2.
Lear.Rumble thy belly-full, spit fire, spout rain!Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters.I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children;You owe me no subscription. Then let fallYour horrible pleasure.—— Here I stand, your brave;A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man!But yet I call you servile ministers,That have with two pernicious daughters join’dYour high engender’d battles, ’gainst a headSo old and white as this. Oh! oh! ’tis foul.Act3.sc. 2.
King Richard, full of indignation againsthis favourite horse for suffering Bolingbroke to ride him, conceives for a moment the horse to be rational.
Groom.O, how it yearn’d my heart, when I beheld,In London streets, that coronation-day;When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbary,That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,That horse that I so carefully have dress’d.K. Rich.Rode he on Barbary? tell me, gentle friend,How went he under him?Groom.So proudly as he had disdain’d the ground.K. Rich.So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!That jade had eat bread from my royal hand.This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.Would he not stumble? would he not fall down,(Since pride must have a fall), and break the neckOf that proud man that did usurp his back?RichardII.act 5. sc. 11.
Groom.O, how it yearn’d my heart, when I beheld,In London streets, that coronation-day;When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbary,That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,That horse that I so carefully have dress’d.K. Rich.Rode he on Barbary? tell me, gentle friend,How went he under him?Groom.So proudly as he had disdain’d the ground.K. Rich.So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!That jade had eat bread from my royal hand.This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.Would he not stumble? would he not fall down,(Since pride must have a fall), and break the neckOf that proud man that did usurp his back?RichardII.act 5. sc. 11.
Groom.O, how it yearn’d my heart, when I beheld,In London streets, that coronation-day;When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbary,That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,That horse that I so carefully have dress’d.
K. Rich.Rode he on Barbary? tell me, gentle friend,How went he under him?
Groom.So proudly as he had disdain’d the ground.
K. Rich.So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!That jade had eat bread from my royal hand.This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.Would he not stumble? would he not fall down,(Since pride must have a fall), and break the neckOf that proud man that did usurp his back?RichardII.act 5. sc. 11.
Hamlet, swelled with indignation at his mother’s second marriage, is strongly inclined to lessen the time of her widowhood; because this circumstance gratified his passion; and he deludes himself by degrees into the opinion of an interval shorter than the real one.
Hamlet.—— That it should come to this!But two months dead! nay, not so much; not two;—So excellent a King, that was, to this,Hyperion to a satire: so loving to my mother,That he permitted not the wind of heav’nVisit her face too roughly. Heav’n and earth!Must I remember—why, she would hang on him,As if increase of appetite had grownBy what it fed on; yet, within a month,——Let me not think—Frailty, thy name isWoman!A little month! or ere those shoes were old,With which she follow’d my poor father’s body,Like Niobe, all tears—— Why, she, ev’n she—(O heav’n! a beast that wants discourse of reason,Would have mourn’d longer—) married with mine uncle,My father’s brother; but no more like my father,Than I to Hercules. Within a month!——Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tearsHad left the flushing in her gauled eyes,She married.—— Oh, most wicked speed, to postWith such dexterity to incestuous sheets!It is not, nor it cannot come to good.But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.Act 1. sc. 3.
Hamlet.—— That it should come to this!But two months dead! nay, not so much; not two;—So excellent a King, that was, to this,Hyperion to a satire: so loving to my mother,That he permitted not the wind of heav’nVisit her face too roughly. Heav’n and earth!Must I remember—why, she would hang on him,As if increase of appetite had grownBy what it fed on; yet, within a month,——Let me not think—Frailty, thy name isWoman!A little month! or ere those shoes were old,With which she follow’d my poor father’s body,Like Niobe, all tears—— Why, she, ev’n she—(O heav’n! a beast that wants discourse of reason,Would have mourn’d longer—) married with mine uncle,My father’s brother; but no more like my father,Than I to Hercules. Within a month!——Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tearsHad left the flushing in her gauled eyes,She married.—— Oh, most wicked speed, to postWith such dexterity to incestuous sheets!It is not, nor it cannot come to good.But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.Act 1. sc. 3.
Hamlet.—— That it should come to this!But two months dead! nay, not so much; not two;—So excellent a King, that was, to this,Hyperion to a satire: so loving to my mother,That he permitted not the wind of heav’nVisit her face too roughly. Heav’n and earth!Must I remember—why, she would hang on him,As if increase of appetite had grownBy what it fed on; yet, within a month,——Let me not think—Frailty, thy name isWoman!A little month! or ere those shoes were old,With which she follow’d my poor father’s body,Like Niobe, all tears—— Why, she, ev’n she—(O heav’n! a beast that wants discourse of reason,Would have mourn’d longer—) married with mine uncle,My father’s brother; but no more like my father,Than I to Hercules. Within a month!——Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tearsHad left the flushing in her gauled eyes,She married.—— Oh, most wicked speed, to postWith such dexterity to incestuous sheets!It is not, nor it cannot come to good.But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.Act 1. sc. 3.
The power of passion to falsify the computation of time, is the more remarkable, that time, which hath an accurate measure, is less obsequious to our desires and wishes, than objects which have no precise standard of less or more.
Even belief, though partly an act of the judgment, may be influenced by passion. Good news are greedily swallowed upon very slender evidence. Our wishes magnify the probability of the event as well as the veracity of the relater; and we believe as certain what at best is doubtful.
Quel, che l’huom vede, amor li fa invisibileE l’invisibil fa veder amore.Questo creduto fu, che’l miser suoleDar facile credenza a’ quel, che vuole.Orland. Furios. cant. 1. st. 56.
Quel, che l’huom vede, amor li fa invisibileE l’invisibil fa veder amore.Questo creduto fu, che’l miser suoleDar facile credenza a’ quel, che vuole.Orland. Furios. cant. 1. st. 56.
Quel, che l’huom vede, amor li fa invisibileE l’invisibil fa veder amore.Questo creduto fu, che’l miser suoleDar facile credenza a’ quel, che vuole.Orland. Furios. cant. 1. st. 56.
For the same reason, bad news gain also credit upon the slightest evidence. Fear, if once alarmed, has the same effect withhope to magnify every circumstance that tends to conviction. Shakespear, who shows more knowledge of human nature than any of our philosophers, hath in hisCymbeline[44]represented this bias of the mind: for he makes the person who alone was affected with the bad news, yield to evidence that did not convince any of his companions. And Othello[45]is convinced of his wife’s infidelity from circumstances too slight to move an indifferent person.
If the news interest us in so low a degree as to give place to reason, the effect will not be quite the same. Judging of the probability or improbability of the story, the mind settles in a rational conviction either that it is true or not. But even in this case, it is observable, that the mind is not allowed to rest in that degree of conviction which is produced by rational evidence. If the news be in any degree favourable, our belief is augmented by hope beyond its true pitch; and if unfavourable, by fear.
The observation holds equally with respect to future events. If a future event be either much wished or dreaded, the mind, to gratify its passion, never fails to augment the probability beyond truth.
The credit which in all ages has been given to wonders and prodigies, even the most absurd and ridiculous, is a strange phenomenon. Nothing can be more evident than the following proposition, That the more singular any event is, the more evidence is required. A familiar event daily occurring, being in itself extremely probable, finds ready credit, and therefore is vouched by the slightest evidence. But a strange and rare event, contrary to the course of nature, ought not to be easily believed. It starts up without connection, and without cause, so far as we can discover; and to overcome the improbability of such an event, the very strongest evidence is required. It is certain, however, that wonders and prodigies are swallowed by the vulgar, upon evidence that would not be sufficient to ascertain the most familiar occurrence. It has been reckoned difficult toexplain this irregular bias of the mind. We are now no longer at a loss about its cause. The proneness we have to gratify our passions, which displays itself upon so many occasions, produces this irrational belief. A story of ghosts or fairies, told with an air of gravity and truth, raiseth an emotion of wonder, and perhaps of dread. These emotions tending strongly to their own gratification, impose upon a weak mind, and impress upon it a thorough conviction contrary to all sense and reason.
Opinion and belief are influenced by propensity as well as by passion; for the mind is disposed to gratify both. A natural propensity is all we have to convince us, that the operations of nature are uniform. Influenced by this propensity, we often rashly conceive, that good or bad weather will never have an end; and in natural philosophy, writers, influenced by the same propensity, stretch commonly their analogical reasonings beyond just bounds.
Opinion and belief are influenced by affection as well as by propensity. The noted story of a fine lady and a curate viewing the moon through a telescope is a pleasant illustration. I perceive, says the lady, two shadows inclining to each other, they are certainly two happy lovers. Not at all, replies the curate, they are two steeples of a cathedral.
Concerning the methods which nature hath afforded for computing time and space.
IIntroduce here the subject proposed, because it affords several curious examples of the power of passion to adjust objects to its gratification; a lesson that cannot be too much inculcated, as there is not perhaps another bias in human nature that hath an influence so universal, and that is so apt to make us wander from truth as well as from justice.
I begin with time; and the question shortly is, What was the measure of time before artificial measures were invented?and, What is the measure at present when these are not at hand? I speak not of months and days, which we compute by the moon and sun; but of hours, or in general of the time that runs betwixt any two occurrences when there is not access to the sun. The only natural measure we have, is the train of our thoughts; and we always judge the time to be long or short, in proportion to the number of perceptions that have passed through the mind during that interval. This is indeed a very imperfect measure; because in the different conditions of a quick or slow succession, the computation is different. But however imperfect, it is the only measure by which a person naturally calculates time; and this measure is applied on all occasions, without regard to any occasional variation in the rate of succession.
This natural measure of time, imperfect as it is, would however be tolerable, did it labour under no other imperfection than the ordinary variations that happen in the motion of our perceptions. But in many particular circumstances, it is much more fallacious;and in order to explain these distinctly, I must analize the subject. Time is generally computed at two different periods; one while time is passing, another after it is past. I shall consider these separately, with the errors to which each of them is liable. It will be found that these errors often produce very different computations of the same period of time. The computation of time while it is passing, comes first in order. It is a common and trite observation, That to lovers absence appears immeasurably long, every minute an hour, and every hour a day. The same computation is made in every case where we long for a distant event; as where one is in expectation of good news, or where a profligate heir watches for the death of an old man who keeps him from a great estate. Opposite to these are instances not fewer in number. To a criminal the interval betwixt sentence and execution appears miserably short; and the same holds in every case where one dreads an approaching event. Of this even a schoolboy can bear witness: the hour allowed him for play, moves, in his apprehension, with a very swift pace: before he is thoroughly engaged, the hour is gone. A reckoning founded on the number of ideas, will never produce computations so regularly opposite to each other; for a slow succession of ideas is not connected with our wishes, nor a quick succession with our fears. What is it then, that, in the cases mentioned, moves nature to desert her common measure for one very different? I know not that this question ever has been resolved. The false reckonings I have suggested are so common and familiar, that no writer has thought of inquiring for their cause. And indeed, to enter upon this matter at short hand, without preparation, might occasion some difficulty. But to encounter the difficulty, we luckily are prepared by what is said above about the power of passion to fit objects for its gratification. Among the other circumstances that terrify a condemned criminal, the short time he has to live is one. Terror, like our other passions, prone to its gratification, adjusts every one of these circumstances to its own tone. It magnifies in particular the shortness of the interval betwixt the present timeand that of the execution; and forces upon the criminal a conviction that the hour of his death approaches with a swift pace. In the same manner, among the other distresses of an absent lover, the time of separation is a capital circumstance, which for that reason is greatly magnified by his anxiety and impatience. He imagines that the time of meeting comes on very slow, or rather that it will never come. Every minute is thought of an intolerable length. Here is a fair and I hope satisfactory account, why we reckon time to be tedious when we long for a future event, and not less fleet when we dread the event. This account is confirmed by other instances. Bodily pain fixt to one part, produceth a slow train of perceptions, which, according to the common measure of time, ought to make it appear short. Yet we know, that in such a state time has the opposite appearance. Bodily pain is always attended with a degree of impatience and an anxiety to be rid of it, which make us judge every minute to be an hour. The same holds where the pain shifts from place to place; but not so remarkably, because sucha pain is not attended with the same degree of impatience. The impatience a man hath in travelling through a barren country or in bad roads, makes him imagine, during the journey, that time goes on with a very slow pace. We shall show afterward that he makes a very different computation when his journey is at an end.
How ought it to stand with a man who apprehends bad news? It will probably be thought, that the case of this man resembles that of a criminal, who, in reckoning the short time he has to live, imagines every hour to be but a minute, and that time flies swift away. Yet the computation here is directly opposite. Reflecting upon this difficulty, there appears one capital circumstance in which the two cases differ. The fate of the criminal is determined: in the case under consideration, the man is still in suspense. Every one knows how distressful suspense is to the bulk of mankind. Such distress we wish to get rid of at any rate, even at the expence of bad news. This case therefore, upon a more narrow inspection, resembles that of bodily pain.The present distress in both cases, makes the time appear extremely tedious.
The reader probably will not be displeased, to have this branch of the subject illustrated in a pleasant manner, by an author acquainted with every maze of the human heart, and who bestows ineffable grace and ornament upon every subject he handles.