Rosalinda.I pray you, what is’t a clock?Orlando.You should ask me, what time o’ day; there’s no clock in the forest.Ros.Then there is no true lover in the forest; else, sighing every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of Time, as well as a clock.Orla.Why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as proper?Ros.By no means, Sir. Time travels in diverse paces with diverse persons. I’ll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.Orla.I pr’y thee whom doth he trot withal?Ros.Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the contract of her marriage, and the day it is solemnized: if the interim be but a se’ennight, Time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years.Orla.Who ambles Time withal?Ros.With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout: for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no burthen of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles withal.Orla.Whom doth he gallop withal?Ros.With a thief to the gallows: for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.Orla.Whom stays it still withall?Ros.With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.As you like it, act 3. sc. 8.
Rosalinda.I pray you, what is’t a clock?
Orlando.You should ask me, what time o’ day; there’s no clock in the forest.
Ros.Then there is no true lover in the forest; else, sighing every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of Time, as well as a clock.
Orla.Why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as proper?
Ros.By no means, Sir. Time travels in diverse paces with diverse persons. I’ll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
Orla.I pr’y thee whom doth he trot withal?
Ros.Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the contract of her marriage, and the day it is solemnized: if the interim be but a se’ennight, Time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years.
Orla.Who ambles Time withal?
Ros.With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout: for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no burthen of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles withal.
Orla.Whom doth he gallop withal?
Ros.With a thief to the gallows: for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
Orla.Whom stays it still withall?
Ros.With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.
As you like it, act 3. sc. 8.
Reflecting upon the natural method of computing present time, it shows how far from truth we may be led by the irregular power of passion. Nor are our eyes immediately opened when the scene is past: the deception continues while there remain any traces of the passion. But looking back upon past time when the joy or distress is nolonger remembered, the computation we make is very different. In this situation, passion being out of the question, we apply the ordinary measure,viz.the course of our perceptions; and I shall now proceed to the errors that this measure is subjected to. In order to have an accurate notion of this matter, we must distinguish betwixt a train of perceptions, and a train of ideas. Real objects make a strong impression, and are faithfully remembered. Ideas, on the contrary, however entertaining at the time, are apt to escape an after recollection. Hence it is, that in retrospection, the time that was employed upon real objects, appears longer than the time that was employed upon ideas. The former are more accurately recollected than the latter; and we measure the time by the number that is recollected. I proceed to particulars. After finishing a journey through a populous country, the frequency of agreeable objects distinctly recollected by the traveller, makes the time spent in the journey appear to him longer than it was in reality. This is chiefly remarkable in a first journey, where everyobject is new and makes a strong impression. On the other hand, after finishing a journey through a barren country thinly peopled, the time appears short, being measured by the number of objects, which were few and far from interesting. Here in both instances a reckoning is brought out, directly opposite to that made during the journey. And this, by the way, serves to account for a thing which may appear singular, that in a barren country the computed miles are always longer, than near the capital, where the country is rich and populous. The traveller has no natural measure of the space gone through, other than the time bestowed upon it; nor any natural measure of the time, other than the number of his perceptions. These being proportioned to the number of visible objects, he imagines that he hath consumed more time on his day’s journey, and accomplished a greater number of miles, in a populous than in a waste country. By this method of calculation, every computed mile in the former must in reality be shorter than in the latter.
Again, the travelling with an agreeablecompanion produceth a short computation both of the road and of time; especially if there be few objects that demand attention, or if the objects be familiar. The case is the same of young people at a ball, or of a joyous company over a bottle. The ideas with which they have been entertained, being transitory, escape the memory. After all is over, they reflect that they have been much diverted, but scarce can say about what.
When one is totally occupied in any agreeable work that admits not many objects, time runs on without observation; and upon an after recollection must appear short, in proportion to the paucity of objects. This is still more remarkable in close contemplation and in deep thinking, where the train, composed wholly of ideas, proceeds with an extreme slow pace. Not only are the ideas few in number, but are apt to escape an after-reckoning. The like false reckoning of time may proceed from an opposite state of mind. In a reverie, where ideas float at random without making any impression, time goes on unheeded and thereckoning is lost. A reverie may be so profound as to prevent the recollection of any one idea: that the mind was busied in a train of thinking, will in general be remembered; but what was the subject, has quite escaped the memory. In such a case, we are altogether at a loss about the time: we have nodatafor making a computation. No cause produceth so false a reckoning of time, as immoderate grief. The mind, in this state, is violently attached to a single object, and admits not a different thought. Any other object breaking in, is instantly banished, so as scarce to give an appearance of succession. In a reverie, we are uncertain of the time that is past: but in the example now given, there is an appearance of certainty, so far as the natural measure of time can be trusted, that the time must have been short, when the perceptions are so few in number.
The natural measure of space appears more obscure than that of time. I venture however to enter upon it, leaving it to be further prosecuted, if it be thought of any importance.
The space marked out for a house, appears considerably larger after it is divided into its proper parts. A piece of ground appears larger after it is surrounded with a fence; and still larger when it is made a garden and divided into different copartments.
On the contrary, a large plain looks less after it is divided into parts. The sea must be excepted, which looks less from that very circumstance of not being divided into parts.
A room of a moderate size appears larger when properly furnished. But when a very large room is furnished, I doubt whether it be not lessened in appearance.
A room of a moderate size, looks less by having a ceiling lower than in proportion. The same low ceiling makes a very large room look larger than it is in reality.
These experiments are by far too small a stock for a general theory. But they are all that occur at present; and without attempting any regular system, I shall satisfy myself with a few conjectures.
The largest angle of vision seems to methe natural measure of space. The eye is the only judge; and in examining with it the size of any plain, or the length of any line, the most accurate method that can be taken is, to run over the object in parts. The largest part that can be taken in at one stedfast look, determines the largest angle of vision; and when that angle is given, one may institute a calculation by trying with the eye how many of these parts are in the whole.
Whether this angle be the same in all men, I know not. The smallest angle of vision is ascertained; and to ascertain the largest angle, would not be less curious.
But supposing it known, it would be a very imperfect measure; perhaps more so than the natural measure of time. It requires great steadiness of eye to measure a line with any accuracy, by applying to it the largest angle of distinct vision. And suppose this steadiness to be acquired by practice, the measure will be imperfect from other circumstances. The space comprehended under this angle, will be different according to the distance, and also according to the situation of the object. Of a perpendicular this angle will comprehend the smallest space. The space will be larger in looking upon an inclined plain; and will be larger or less in proportion to the degree of inclination.
This measure of space, like the measure of time, is liable to some extraordinary errors from certain operations of the mind, which will account for some of the erroneous judgements above mentioned. The space marked out for a dwelling-house, where the eye is at any reasonable distance, is seldom greater than can be seen at once without moving the head. Divide this space into two or three equal parts, and none of these parts will appear much less than what can be comprehended at one distinct look; consequently each of them will appear equal, or nearly equal, to what the whole did before the division. If, on the other hand, the whole be very small, so as scarce to fill the eye at one look, its divisions into parts will, I conjecture, make it appear still less. The minuteness of the parts is, by an easy transition of ideas, transferred to the whole. Each part hath a diminutive appearance, and bythe intimate connection of these parts with the whole, we pass the same judgement upon all.
The space marked out for a small garden, is surveyed almost at one view; and requires a motion of the eye so slight, as to pass for an object that can be comprehended under the largest angle of distinct vision. If not divided into too many parts, we are apt to form the same judgement of each part; and consequently to magnify the garden in proportion to the number of its parts.
A very large plain without protuberances, is an object not less rare than beautiful; and in those who see it for the first time, it must produce an emotion of wonder. This emotion, however slight, tending to its own gratification, imposes upon the mind, and makes it judge that the plain is larger than it is in reality. Divide this plain into parts, and our wonder ceases. It is no longer considered as one great plain, but as so many different fields or inclosures.
The first time one beholds the sea, it appears to be large beyond all bounds. Whenit becomes familiar, and raises our wonder in no degree, it appears less than it is in reality. In a storm it appears larger, being distinguishable by the rolling waves into a number of great parts. Islands scattered at considerable distances, add in appearance to its size. Each intercepted part looks extremely large, and we silently apply arithmetic to increase the appearance of the whole. Many islands scattered at hand, give a diminutive appearance to the sea, by its connection with its diminutive parts. The Lomond lake would undoubtedly look larger without its islands.
Furniture increaseth in appearance the size of a small room, for the same reason that divisions increase in appearance the size of a garden. The emotion of wonder which is raised by a very large room without furniture, makes it look larger than it is in reality. If completely furnished, we view it in parts, and our wonder is not raised.
A low ceiling hath a diminutive appearance, which, by an easy transition of ideas, is communicated to the length and breadth, provided they bear any sort of proportion tothe height. If they be out of all proportion, the opposition seizes the mind, and raises some degree of wonder, which makes the difference appear greater than it really is.
Of the resemblance emotions bear to their causes.
THatmany emotions bear a certain resemblance to their causes, is a truth that can be made clear by induction; though, so far as I know, the observation has not been made by any writer. Motion, in its different circumstances, is productive of feelings that resemble it. Sluggish motion, for example, causeth a languid unpleasant feeling; slow uniform motion, a feeling calm and pleasant; and brisk motion, a lively feeling that rouses the spirits and promotes activity. A fall of water through rocks, raises in the mind a tumultuous confused agitation, extremely similar to itscause. When force is exerted with any effort, the spectator feels a similar effort as of force exerted within his mind. A large object swells the heart. An elevated object makes the spectator stand erect.
Sounds also produce emotions that resemble them. A sound in a low key, brings down the mind. Such a sound in a full tone, hath a certain solemnity, which it communicates to the emotion produced by it. A sound in a high key, chears the mind by raising it. Such a sound in a full tone, both elevates and swells the mind.
Again, a wall or pillar that declines from the perpendicular, produceth a painful emotion, as of a tottering and falling within the mind. An emotion somewhat similar is produced by a tall pillar that stands so ticklish as to look like falling. For this reason, a column upon a base looks better than upon the naked ground. The base, which makes a part of the column, inspires a feeling of firmness and stability. The ground supporting a naked column, is too large to be considered as its base. And for the same reason, a cube as a base, is preferred beforea cylinder, though the latter is a more beautiful figure. The angles of a cube, being extended to a greater distance from the centre than the circumference of a cylinder, give the column a greater appearance of stability. This excludes not a different reason, that the base, shaft, and capital, of a pillar, ought, for the sake of variety, to differ from each other. If the shaft be round, the base and capital ought to be square.
A constrained posture, uneasy to the man himself, is disagreeable to the spectator; which makes it a rule in painting, that the drapery ought not to adhere to the body, but hang loose, that the figures may appear easy and free in their movements. Hence the disagreeable figure of a French dancing-master is one of Hogarth’s pieces. It is also ridiculous, because the constraint is assumed and not forced.
The foregoing observation is not confined to emotions raised by still life. It holds also in those which are raised by the qualities, actions, and passions, of a sensible being. Love inspired by a fine woman, assumes her qualities. It is sublime, soft, tender, severe, or gay, according to its cause. This is still more remarkable in emotions raised by human actions. It hath already been remarked[46], that any signal instance of gratitude, beside procuring esteem for the author, raiseth in the spectator a vague emotion of gratitude, which disposeth him to be grateful. I now further remark, that this vague emotion, being of the same kind with what produced the grateful action, hath a strong resemblance to its cause. Courage exerted inspires the reader as well as the spectator with a like emotion of courage. A just action fortifies our love to justice, and a generous action rouses our generosity. In short, with respect to all virtuous actions, it will be found by induction, that they lead us to imitation by inspiring emotions resembling the passions that produced these actions. And hence the benefit of dealing in choice books and in choice company.
Grief as well as joy are infectious: the emotions they raise in a spectator resemblethem perfectly. Fear is equally infectious: and hence in an army, fear, even from the slighted cause, making an impression on a few, spreads generally through all, and becomes an universal panic. Pity is similar to its cause. A parting scene betwixt lovers or friends, produceth in the spectator a sort of pity, which is tender like the distress. The anguish of remorse, produceth pity of a harsh kind; and if the remorse be extreme, the pity hath a mixture of horror. Anger I think is singular; for even where it is moderate and causeth no disgust, it disposes not the spectator to anger in any degree[47]. Covetousness, cruelty, treachery, and other vicious passions, are so far from raising any emotion similar to themselves, to incite a spectator to imitation, that they have an opposite effect. They raise abhorrence, and fortify the spectator in his aversion to such actions. When anger is immoderate, it cannot fail to produce the same effect.
Final causes of the more frequent emotions and passions.
IT is a law in our nature, that we never act but by the impulse of desire; which in other words is saying, that it is passion, by the desire included in it, which determines the will. Hence in the conduct of life, it is of the utmost importance, that our passions be directed upon proper objects, tend to just and rational ends, and with relation to each other be duly balanced. The beauty of contrivance, so conspicuous in the human frame, is not confined to the rational part of our nature, but is visible over the whole. Concerning the passions in particular, however irregular, headstrong, and perverse, in an overly view, they may appear, I propose to show, that they are by nature adjusted and tempered with admirable wisdom, for the good of society as well as for private good.This subject is extensive: but as the nature of the present undertaking will not admit a complete discussion, it shall suffice to give a few observations in general upon the sensitive part of our nature, without regarding that strange irregularity of passion discovered in some individuals. Such topical irregularities, if I may use the term, cannot fairly be held an objection to the present theory. We are frequently, it is true, misled by inordinate passion: but we are also, and perhaps not less frequently, misled by wrong judgement.
In order to a distinct apprehension of the present subject, it must be premised, that an agreeable object produceth always a pleasant emotion, and a disagreeable object one that is painful. This is a general law of nature, which admits not a single exception. Agreeableness in the object or cause is indeed so essentially connected with pleasure in the emotion its effect, that an agreeable object cannot be better defined, than by its power of producing a pleasant emotion. Disagreeableness in the object or cause, hasthe same necessary connection with pain in the emotion produced by it.
From this preliminary it appears, that to inquire for what end an emotion is made pleasant or painful, resolves into an inquiry for what end its cause is made agreeable or disagreeable. And from the most accurate induction it will be discovered, that no cause of an emotion is made agreeable or disagreeable arbitrarily; but that these qualities are so distributed as to answer wise and good purposes. It is an invincible proof of the benignity of the Deity, that we are surrounded with things generally agreeable, which contribute remarkably to our entertainment and to our happiness. Some things are made disagreeable, such as a rotten carcass, because they are noxious. Others, a dirty marsh, for example, or a barren heath, are made disagreeable in order to excite our industry. And with respect to the few things that are neither agreeable nor disagreeable; it will be made evident, that their being left indifferent is not a work of chance but of wisdom. Of such I shall have occasion to give several instances.
Having attempted to assign the final causes of emotions and passions considered as pleasant or painful, we proceed to the final causes of the desires involved in them. This seems a work of some difficulty; for the desires that accompany different passions have very different aims, and seldom or never demand precisely the same gratification. One passion moves us to cling to its object, one to fly from it; one passion impels to action for our own good, and one for the good of others; one passion prompts us to do good to ourselves or others, and one to do mischief, frequently to others, and sometimes even to ourselves. Deliberating upon this intricate subject, and finding an intimate correspondence betwixt our desires and their objects, it is natural to think that the former must be regulated in some measure by the latter. In this view, I begin with desire directed upon an inanimate object.
Any pleasure we have in an agreeable object of this kind, is enjoyed by the continuance of the pleasant impression it makes upon us; and accordingly the desire involved inthe pleasant emotion tends to that end, and is gratified by dwelling upon the agreeable object. Hence such an object may be properly termedattractive. Thus a flowing river, a towering hill, a fine garden, are attractive objects. They fix the attention of the spectator, by inspiring pleasant emotions, which are gratified by adhering to these objects and enjoying them. On the other hand, a disagreeable object of the same kind, raises in us a painful emotion including a desire to turn from the object, which relieves us of course from the pain; and hence such an object may be properly termedrepulsive. A monstrous birth, for example, a rotten carcass, a confusion of jarring sounds, are repulsive. They repel the mind, by inspiring painful or unpleasant emotions, which are gratified by flying from such objects. Thus in general, with regard to inanimate objects, the desire included in every pleasant passion tends to prolong the pleasure, and the desire included in every painful passion tends to put an end to the pain. Here the final cause is evident. Our desires, so far, are modelledin such a manner as to correspond precisely to the sensitive part of our nature, prone to happiness and averse to misery. These operations of adhering to an agreeable inanimate object, and flying from one that is disagreeable, are performed in the beginning of life by means of desire impelling us, without the intervention of reason or reflection. Reason and reflection directing self-love, become afterward motives that unite their force with desire; because experience informs us, that the adhering to agreeable objects and the flying from those that are disagreeable, contribute to our happiness.
Sensible Beings considered as objects of passion, lead us into a more complex theory. A sensible being that is agreeable by its attributes, inspires us with a pleasant emotion; and the desire included in this emotion has evidently different means of gratification. A man regarding himself only, may be satisfied with viewing and contemplating this being, precisely as if it were inanimate; or he may desire the more generous gratification of making it happy. Were man altogetherselfish, it would be conformable to his nature, that he should indulge the pleasant emotion without making any acknowledgement to the person who gives him pleasure, more than to a pure air or temperate clime when he enjoys these benefits. But as man is endued with a principle of benevolence as well as of selfishness, he is prompted by his nature to desire the good of every sensible being that gives him pleasure. And the final cause of desire so directed, is illustrious. It contributes to a man’s own happiness, by affording him more means of gratification than he can have when his desire terminates upon himself alone; and at the same time it tends eminently to improve the happiness of those with whom he is connected. The directing our desires in this manner, occasions a beautiful coalition of self-love with benevolence; for both are equally promoted by the same internal impulse, and by the same external conduct. And this consideration, by the way, ought to silence those minute philosophers, who, ignorant of human nature, teach a most disgustful doctrine. That toserve others unless with a view to our own good, is weakness and folly; as if self-love only contributed to happiness and not benevolence. The hand of God is too visible in the human frame, to permit us to think seriously, that there ever can be any jarring or inconsistency among natural principles, those especially of self-love and benevolence, which regulate the bulk of our actions.
Next in order come sensible Beings that are in affliction or pain. It is disagreeable to behold a person in distress; and therefore this object must raise in the spectator an uneasy emotion. Were man purely a selfish being, he would be prompted by his nature to turn from every object, animate or inanimate, that gives him uneasiness. But the principle of benevolence gives an opposite direction to his desire. It impels him to afford relief; and by relieving the person from distress, his desire is fully gratified. Our benevolence to a person in distress is inflamed into an emotion of sympathy, signifying in Greek the painful emotion that is raised in us by that person.Thus sympathy, though a painful emotion, is in its nature attractive. And with respect to its final cause, we can be at no loss. It not only tends to relieve a fellow-creature from pain, but in its gratification is greatly more pleasant than if it were repulsive.
We in the last place bring under consideration persons hateful by vice or wickedness. Imagine a wretch who has lately perpetrated some horrid crime. He is disagreeable to every spectator; and consequently raises in every spectator a painful emotion. What is the natural gratification of the desire that accompanies this painful emotion? I must here again observe, that supposing man to be entirely a selfish being, he would be prompted by his nature to relieve himself from the pain by averting his eye, and banishing the criminal from his thoughts. But man is not so constituted. He is composed of many principles, which, though seemingly contradictory, are perfectly concordant. The principle of benevolence influences his conduct, not less remarkably than that of selfishness. And in order toanswer the foregoing question, I must introduce a third principle, not less remarkable in its influence than either of those mentioned. It is that principle common to all, which prompts us to punish those who do wrong. An envious, malicious, or cruel action, is disagreeable to me even where I have no connection with the sufferer, and raises in me the painful emotion of resentment. The gratification of this emotion, when accompanied with desire, is directed by the principle now unfolded. Being prompted by my nature to punish guilt as well as to reward virtue, my desire is not gratified but by inflicting punishment. I must chastise the wretch by indignation at least and hatred, if not more severely. Here the final cause is self-evident.
An injury done to myself, touching me more than when done to others, raises my resentment in a higher degree. The desire accordingly included in this passion, is not satisfied with so slight a punishment as indignation or hatred. It is not fully gratified without retaliation; and the author must by my hand suffer mischief, as great at leastas he has done me. Neither can we be at any loss about the final cause of this higher degree of resentment. The whole vigor of this passion is required to secure individuals from the injustice and oppression of others[48].
A wicked or disgraceful action, is disagreeable not only to others, but even to the delinquent himself. It raises in him as well as in others a painful emotion including a desire of punishment. The painful emotion which the delinquent feels, is distinguished by the name ofremorse; and in this case the desire he has to punish is directed against himself. There cannot be imagined a better contrivance to deter us from vice; for remorse is the severest of all punishments. This passion and the desire of self-punishment derived from it, are touched delicately by Terence.
Menedemus.Ubi comperi ex iis, qui ei fuere conscii,Domum revortor mœstus, atque animo ferePerturbato, atque incerto præ ægritudine:Adsido, adcurrunt servi, soccos detrahunt:Video alios festinare, lectos sternere,Cœnam adparare: pro se quisque seduloFaciebat, quo illam mihi lenirent miseriam.Ubi video hæc, cœpi cogitare: Hem! tot meaSolius solliciti sint causa, ut me unum expleant?Ancillæ tot me vestiant? sumptus domiTantos ego solus faciam? sed gnatum unicum,Quem pariter uti his decuit, aut etiam amplius,Quod illa ætas magis ad hæc utenda idonea ’st,Eum ego hinc ejeci miserum injustitia mea.Malo quidem me dignum quovis deputem,Si id faciam. nam usque dum ille vitam illam coletInopem, carens patria ob meas injurias,Interea usque illi de me supplicium dabo:Laborans, quærens, parcens, illi serviens,Ita facio prorsus: nihil relinquo in ædibus,Nec vas, nec vestimentum: conrasi omnia,Ancillas, servos, nisi eos, qui opere rusticoFaciundo facile sumptum exercerent suum:Omnes produxi ac vendidi: inscripsi ilicoÆdeis mercede: quasi talenta ad quindecimCoëgi: agrum hunc mercatus sum: hic me exerceo.Decrevi tantisper me minus injuriæ,Chreme, meo gnato facere, dum fiam miser:Nec fas esse ulla me voluptate hic frui,Nisi ubi ille huc salvos redierit meus particeps.Heautontimerumenos, act 1. sc. 1.
Menedemus.Ubi comperi ex iis, qui ei fuere conscii,Domum revortor mœstus, atque animo ferePerturbato, atque incerto præ ægritudine:Adsido, adcurrunt servi, soccos detrahunt:Video alios festinare, lectos sternere,Cœnam adparare: pro se quisque seduloFaciebat, quo illam mihi lenirent miseriam.Ubi video hæc, cœpi cogitare: Hem! tot meaSolius solliciti sint causa, ut me unum expleant?Ancillæ tot me vestiant? sumptus domiTantos ego solus faciam? sed gnatum unicum,Quem pariter uti his decuit, aut etiam amplius,Quod illa ætas magis ad hæc utenda idonea ’st,Eum ego hinc ejeci miserum injustitia mea.Malo quidem me dignum quovis deputem,Si id faciam. nam usque dum ille vitam illam coletInopem, carens patria ob meas injurias,Interea usque illi de me supplicium dabo:Laborans, quærens, parcens, illi serviens,Ita facio prorsus: nihil relinquo in ædibus,Nec vas, nec vestimentum: conrasi omnia,Ancillas, servos, nisi eos, qui opere rusticoFaciundo facile sumptum exercerent suum:Omnes produxi ac vendidi: inscripsi ilicoÆdeis mercede: quasi talenta ad quindecimCoëgi: agrum hunc mercatus sum: hic me exerceo.Decrevi tantisper me minus injuriæ,Chreme, meo gnato facere, dum fiam miser:Nec fas esse ulla me voluptate hic frui,Nisi ubi ille huc salvos redierit meus particeps.Heautontimerumenos, act 1. sc. 1.
Menedemus.Ubi comperi ex iis, qui ei fuere conscii,Domum revortor mœstus, atque animo ferePerturbato, atque incerto præ ægritudine:Adsido, adcurrunt servi, soccos detrahunt:Video alios festinare, lectos sternere,Cœnam adparare: pro se quisque seduloFaciebat, quo illam mihi lenirent miseriam.Ubi video hæc, cœpi cogitare: Hem! tot meaSolius solliciti sint causa, ut me unum expleant?Ancillæ tot me vestiant? sumptus domiTantos ego solus faciam? sed gnatum unicum,Quem pariter uti his decuit, aut etiam amplius,Quod illa ætas magis ad hæc utenda idonea ’st,Eum ego hinc ejeci miserum injustitia mea.Malo quidem me dignum quovis deputem,Si id faciam. nam usque dum ille vitam illam coletInopem, carens patria ob meas injurias,Interea usque illi de me supplicium dabo:Laborans, quærens, parcens, illi serviens,Ita facio prorsus: nihil relinquo in ædibus,Nec vas, nec vestimentum: conrasi omnia,Ancillas, servos, nisi eos, qui opere rusticoFaciundo facile sumptum exercerent suum:Omnes produxi ac vendidi: inscripsi ilicoÆdeis mercede: quasi talenta ad quindecimCoëgi: agrum hunc mercatus sum: hic me exerceo.Decrevi tantisper me minus injuriæ,Chreme, meo gnato facere, dum fiam miser:Nec fas esse ulla me voluptate hic frui,Nisi ubi ille huc salvos redierit meus particeps.Heautontimerumenos, act 1. sc. 1.
Otway reaches the same sentiment:
Monimia.Let mischiefs multiply! let ev’ry hourOf my loath’d life yield me increase of horror!Oh let the sun to these unhappy eyesNe’er shine again, but be eclips’d for ever!May every thing I look on seem a prodigy,To fill my soul with terror, till I quiteForget I ever had humanity,And grow a curser of the works of nature!Orphan, act 4.
Monimia.Let mischiefs multiply! let ev’ry hourOf my loath’d life yield me increase of horror!Oh let the sun to these unhappy eyesNe’er shine again, but be eclips’d for ever!May every thing I look on seem a prodigy,To fill my soul with terror, till I quiteForget I ever had humanity,And grow a curser of the works of nature!Orphan, act 4.
Monimia.Let mischiefs multiply! let ev’ry hourOf my loath’d life yield me increase of horror!Oh let the sun to these unhappy eyesNe’er shine again, but be eclips’d for ever!May every thing I look on seem a prodigy,To fill my soul with terror, till I quiteForget I ever had humanity,And grow a curser of the works of nature!Orphan, act 4.
The cases mentioned are, where benevolence alone or where desire of punishment alone, governs without a rival. And it was necessary to handle these cases separately, in order to elucidate a subject which by writers is left in great obscurity. But neither of these principles operates always without rivalship. Cases may be figured, and cases actually exist, where the same person is an object both of sympathy and of desire to punish. Thus the sight of a profligate in the venereal disease, over-run with botches and sores, actuates both principles. While his distress fixes my attention, sympathy exertsitself; but so soon as I think of his profligacy, hatred prevails, and a desire to punish. This in general is the case of distress occasioned by immoral actions that are not highly criminal. And if the distress and the immoral action be in any proportion, sympathy and hatred counterbalancing each other will not suffer me either to afford relief or to inflict punishment. What then will be the result of the whole? The principle of self-love solves the question. Abhorring an object so loathsome, I naturally avert my eye, and walk off as fast as I can, in order to be relieved from the pain.
The present subject gives birth to several other observations, for which I could not find room above, without relaxing more from the strictness of order and connection, than with safety could be indulged in discoursing upon a matter that with difficulty is made perspicuous, even with all the advantages of order and connection. These observations I shall throw out loosely as they occur, without giving myself any further trouble about method.
No action good or bad is altogether indifferent even to a mere spectator. If good, it inspires esteem; and indignation, if wicked. But it is remarkable, that these emotions seldom are accompanied with desire. The abilities of man are limited, and he finds sufficient employment, in relieving the distressed, in requiting his benefactors, and in punishing those who wrong him, without moving out of his own sphere for the benefit or chastisement of those with whom he has no connection.
If the good qualities of others excite my benevolence, the same qualities in myself must produce a similar effect in a superior degree, upon account of the natural partiality every man hath for himself. This increases self-love. If these qualities be of a high rank, they produce a feeling of superiority, which naturally leads me to assume some sort of government over others. Mean qualities, on the other hand, produce in me a feeling of inferiority, which naturally leads me to submit to others. Unless such feelings were distributed among individuals in society by measure and proportion, there could be no natural subordination of someto others, which is the principal foundation of government.
No other branch of the human constitution shows more visibly our destination for society, nor tends more to our improvement, than appetite for fame or esteem. The whole conveniencies of life being derived from mutual aid and support in society, it ought to be a capital aim, to form connections with others so strict and so extensive as to produce a firm reliance on many for succour in time of need. Reason dictates this lesson. But reason solely is not relied on in a matter of such consequence. We are moved by a natural appetite, to be solicitous about esteem and respect as we are about food when hungry. This appetite, at the same time, is finely adjusted to the moral branch of our constitution, by promoting all the moral virtues. For what infallible means are there to attract love and esteem, other than a virtuous course of life? If a man be just and beneficent, if he be temperate modest and prudent, he will infallibly gain the esteem and love of all who know him.
The communication of passion to relatedobjects, is an illustrious instance of the care of Providence, to extend social connections as far as the limited nature of man can admit. This communication of passion is so far unhappy as to spread the malevolent passions beyond their natural bounds. But let it be remarked, that this unhappy effect regards savages only, who give way to malevolent passions. Under the discipline of society, these passions are subdued, and in a good measure eradicated. In their place succeed the kindly affections, which, meeting with all encouragement, take possession of the mind and govern our whole actions. In this condition, the progress of passion along related objects, by spreading the kindly affections through a multitude of individuals, hath a glorious effect.
Nothing can be more entertaining to a rational mind, than the œconomy of the human passions, of which I have attempted to give some faint notion. It must however be confessed, that our passions, when they happen to swell beyond their proper limits, take on a less regular appearance. Reason may proclaim our duty, but the will influenced by passion, makes gratification always welcome. Hence the power of passion, which, when in excess, cannot be resisted but by the utmost fortitude of mind. It is bent upon gratification; and where proper objects are wanting, it clings to any object at hand without distinction. Thus joy inspired by a fortunate event, is diffused upon every person around by acts of benevolence; and resentment for an atrocious injury done by one out of reach, seizes the first object that occurs to vent itself upon. Those who believe in prophecies, even wish the accomplishment; and a weak mind is disposed voluntarily to fulfil a prophecy, in order to gratify its wish. Shakespear, whom no particle of human nature hath escaped, however remote from common observation, describes this weakness:
K. Henry.Doth any name particular belongUnto that lodging where I first did swoon?Warwick.’Tis call’dJerusalem, my Noble Lord.K. Henry.Laud be to God! even there my life must end.It hath been prophesy’d to me many years,I should not die but in Jerusalem,Which vainly I suppos’d the holy land.But bear me to that chamber, there I’ll lie:In that Jerusalem shall Henry die.Second part, Henry IV. act 4. sc. last.
K. Henry.Doth any name particular belongUnto that lodging where I first did swoon?Warwick.’Tis call’dJerusalem, my Noble Lord.K. Henry.Laud be to God! even there my life must end.It hath been prophesy’d to me many years,I should not die but in Jerusalem,Which vainly I suppos’d the holy land.But bear me to that chamber, there I’ll lie:In that Jerusalem shall Henry die.Second part, Henry IV. act 4. sc. last.
K. Henry.Doth any name particular belongUnto that lodging where I first did swoon?
Warwick.’Tis call’dJerusalem, my Noble Lord.
K. Henry.Laud be to God! even there my life must end.It hath been prophesy’d to me many years,I should not die but in Jerusalem,Which vainly I suppos’d the holy land.But bear me to that chamber, there I’ll lie:In that Jerusalem shall Henry die.Second part, Henry IV. act 4. sc. last.
I could not deny myself the amusement of the foregoing observation, though it doth not properly come under my plan. The irregularities of passion proceeding from peculiar weaknesses and biasses, I do not undertake to justify; and of these we have had many examples.[49]It is sufficient that passions common to all and as generally exerted, are made subservient to beneficial purposes. I shall only observe, that in a polished society instances of irregular passions are rare, and that their mischief doth not extend far.
HAVING discoursed in general of emotions and passions, I proceed to a more narrow inspection of some particulars that serve to unfold the principles of the fine arts. It is the province of a writer upon ethics, to give a full enumeration of all the passions; and of each separately to assign the nature, the cause, the gratification, and the effects. But a treatise of ethics is not my province. I carry my view no farther than to the elements of criticism, in order to show that the fine arts are a subject of reasoning as well as of taste. An extensive work would be ill suited to a design so limited; and to keep within moderate bounds, the following plan may contribute. It has already been observed, that things are the causes of emotions, by means of their properties and attributes[50]. Thisfurnisheth a hint for distribution. Instead of a painful and tedious examination of the several passions and emotions, I propose to confine my inquiries to such attributes, relations, and circumstances, as in the fine arts are chiefly employed to raise agreeable emotions. Attributes of single objects, as the most simple, shall take the lead; to be followed with particulars that depend on the relations of objects, and are not found in any one object singly considered. Dispatching next some coincident matters, I approach nearer to practice, by applying the principles unfolded in the foregoing parts of the work. This is a general view of the intended method; reserving however a privilege to vary it in particular instances, where a different method may be more commodious. I begin with beauty, the most noted of all the qualities that belong to single objects.
The termbeauty, in its native signification, is appropriated to objects of sight. Objects of the other senses may be agreeable, such as the sounds of musical instruments, the smoothness and softness of somesurfaces: but the agreeableness denominatedbeautybelongs to objects of sight.
Of all the objects of the external senses, an object of sight is the most complex. In the very simplest, colour is perceived, figure, and length breadth and thickness. A tree is composed of a trunk, branches, and leaves. It has colour, figure, size, and sometimes motion. By means of each of these particulars, separately considered, it appears beautiful: how much more so, when they enter all into one complex perception? The beauty of the human figure is extraordinary, being a composition of numberless beauties arising from the parts and qualities of the object, various colours, various motions, figure, size,&c.; all uniting in one complex perception, and striking the eye with combined force. Hence it is, that beauty, a quality so remarkable in visible objects, lends its name to express every thing that is eminently agreeable. Thus, by a figure of speech, we say a beautiful sound, a beautiful thought or expression, a beautiful theorem, a beautiful event, a beautiful discovery in art or science.But as figurative expression is not our present theme, this chapter is confined to beauty in its genuine signification.
It is natural to suppose, that a perception so various as that of beauty, comprehending sometimes many particulars, sometimes few, should occasion emotions equally various. And yet all the various emotions of beauty maintain one general character of sweetness and gaiety.
Considering attentively the beauty of visible objects, we discover two kinds. One may be termedintrinsicbeauty, because it is discovered in a single object viewed apart without relation to any other object. The examples above given, are of that kind. The other may be termedrelativebeauty, being founded on the relation of objects. The former is a perception of sense merely; for to perceive the beauty of a spreading oak or of a flowing river, no more is required but singly an act of vision. The latter is accompanied with an act of understanding and reflection; for of a fine instrument or engine, we perceive not the relative beauty, until we be made acquainted with its use anddestination. In a word, intrinsic beauty is ultimate: relative beauty is that of means relating to some good end or purpose. These different beauties agree in one capital circumstance, that both are equally perceived as spread upon the object. This will be readily admitted with respect to intrinsic beauty; but is not so obvious with respect to the other. The utility of the plough, for example, may make it an object of admiration or of desire; but why should utility make it appear beautiful? A principle mentioned above[51], will explain this doubt. The beauty of the effect, by an easy transition of ideas, is transferred to the cause, and is perceived as one of the qualities of the cause. Thus a subject void of intrinsic beauty, appears beautiful from its utility. An old Gothic tower that has no beauty in itself, appears beautiful, considered as proper to defend against an enemy. A dwelling-house void of all regularity, is however beautiful in the view of convenience; and the want of form or symmetry in a tree,will not prevent its appearing beautiful, if it be known to produce good fruit.
When these two beauties concur in any object, it appears delightful. Every member of the human body possesses both in a high degree. The slender make of a horse destined for running, pleases every taste; partly from symmetry, and partly from utility.
The beauty of utility, being proportioned accurately to the degree of utility, requires no illustration. But intrinsic beauty, so complex as I have said, cannot be handled distinctly without being analized into its constituent parts. If a tree be beautiful by means of its colour, its figure, its size, its motion, it is in reality possessed of so many different beauties, which ought to be examined separately, in order to have a clear notion of the whole. The beauty of colour is too familiar to need explanation. The beauty of figure requires an accurate discussion, for in it many circumstances are involved. When any portion of matter is viewed as a whole, the beauty of its figure arises from regularity and simplicity. Viewing the parts with relation to each other, uniformity, proportion, and order, contribute to its beauty. The beauty of motion deserves a chapter by itself; and another chapter is destined for grandeur, being distinguishable from beauty in a strict sense. For the definitions of regularity, uniformity, proportion, and order, if thought necessary, I remit my reader to the appendix at the end of the book. Upon simplicity I must make a few cursory observations, such as may be of use in examining the beauty of single objects.
A multitude of objects crowding into the mind at once, disturb the attention, and pass without making any impression, or any lasting impression. In a group, no single object makes the figure it would do apart, when it occupies the whole attention[52]. For the same reason, even a single object, when it divides the attention by the multiplicity of its parts, equals not, in strength of impression, a more simple object comprehended in a single view. Parts extremely complex must be considered in portions successively; and a number of impressions in succession, which cannot unite because not simultaneous, never touch the mind like one entire impression made as it were at one stroke. This justifies simplicity in works of art, as opposed to complicated circumstances and crowded ornaments. There is an additional reason for simplicity, in works that make an impression of dignity or elevation. The mind attached to beauties of a high rank, cannot descend to inferior beauties. And yet, notwithstanding these reasons, we find profuse decoration prevailing in works of art. But this is no argument against simplicity, For authors and architects who cannot reach the higher beauties, endeavour to supply their want of genius by dealing in those that are inferior. In all ages, the best writers and artists have been governed by a taste for simplicity.
These things premised, I proceed to examine the beauty of figure, as arising from the above-mentioned particulars,viz.regularity, uniformity, proportion, order, and simplicity. To exhaust this subject, would of itself require a large volume. I limit myself to a few cursory remarks, as matter for future disquisition. To inquire why an object, by means of the particulars mentioned, appears beautiful, would I am afraid be a vain attempt. It seems the most probable opinion, that the nature of man was originally framed with a relish for them, in order to answer wise and good purposes. The final causes have not hitherto been ascertained, though they are not probably beyond our reach. One thing is clear, that regularity, uniformity, order, and simplicity, contribute each of them to readiness of apprehension; and enable us to form more distinct images of objects, than can be done with the utmost attention where these particulars are not found. This final cause is, I acknowledge, too slight, to account satisfactorily for a taste that makes a figure so illustrious in the nature of man. That this branch of our constitution hath a purpose still more important, we have great reason to believe. With respect to proportion, Iam still less successful. In several instances, accurate proportion is connected with utility. This in particular is the case of animals; for those that are the best proportioned, are the strongest and most active. But instances are still more numerous, where the proportions we relish the most, have no connection, so far as we see, with utility. Writers on architecture insist much upon the proportions of a column; and assign different proportions to the Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian. But no architect will maintain, that the most accurate proportions contribute more to use, than several that are less accurate and less agreeable. Neither will it be maintained, that the proportions assigned for the length breadth and height of rooms, tend to make them the more commodious. It appears then, so far as we can discover, that we have a taste for proportion independent altogether of utility. One thing indeed is certain, that any external object proportioned to our taste, is delightful. This furnishes a hint. May it not be thought a good final cause of proportion, that it contributes to our entertainment? The author of ournature has given many signal proofs, that this end is not below his care. And if so, why should we hesitate in assigning this as an additional final cause of regularity, and the other particulars above mentioned? We may be confirmed in this thought, by reflecting, that our taste, with respect to these, is not occasional or accidental, but uniform and universal, making an original branch of human nature.
One might fill a volume with the effects that are produced by the endless combinations of the principles of beauty. I have room only for a slight specimen, confined to the simplest figures. A circle and a square are each of them perfectly regular, being equally confined to a precise form, and admitting not the slightest variation. A square however is less beautiful than a circle, because it is less simple. A circle has parts as well as a square; but its parts not being distinct like those of a square, it makes one entire impression; whereas the attention is divided among the sides and angles of a square. The effect of simplicity may be illustrated by another example. A square, though notmore regular than a hexagon or octagon, is more beautiful than either; for what other reason, than that a square is more simple, and the attention less divided? This reasoning will appear still more solid when we consider any regular polygon of very many sides; for of such figure the mind can never have any distinct perception. Simplicity thus contributes to beauty.
A square is more beautiful than a parallelogram. The former exceeds the latter in regularity and in uniformity of parts. But this holds with respect to intrinsic beauty only; for in many instances, utility comes in to cast the balance on the side of the parallelogram. This figure for the doors and windows of a dwelling-house, is preferred because of utility; and here we find the beauty of utility prevailing over that of regularity and uniformity.
A parallelogram again depends, for its beauty, on the proportion of its sides. The beauty is lost by a great inequality of sides. It is also lost, on the other hand, by the approximation toward equality. Proportion in this circumstance degenerates into imperfect uniformity; and the figure upon the whole appears an unsuccessful attempt toward a square.
An equilateral triangle yields not to a square in regularity nor in uniformity of parts, and it is more simple. But an equilateral triangle is less beautiful than a square, which must be owing to inferiority of order in the position of its parts. The sides of an equilateral triangle incline to each other in the same angle, which is the most perfect order they are susceptible of. But this order is obscure, and far from being so perfect as the parallelism of the sides of a square. Thus order contributes to the beauty of visible objects, not less than simplicity and regularity.
A parallelogram exceeds an equilateral triangle in the orderly disposition of its parts; but being inferior in uniformity and simplicity, it is less beautiful.
Uniformity is singular in one capital circumstance, that it is apt to disgust by excess. A number of things contrived for the same use, such as chairs spoons,&c.cannot be too uniform. But a scrupulous uniformity of parts in a large garden or field, is far from being agreeable. Uniformity among connected objects, belongs not to the present subject. It is handled in the chapter of uniformity and variety.
In all the works of nature, simplicity makes an illustrious figure. The works of the best artists are directed by it. Profuse ornament in painting, gardening, or architecture, as well as in dress and language, shows a mean or corrupted taste.