Chapter XII: Part VII: Final causes of the more frequent emotions and passions (1)

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, has the 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 in the pleasant emotion tends to that end, and is gratified by dwelling upon the agreeable object. Hence such an object may be properly termed _attractive_. 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 termed _repulsive_. 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 modelled in 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 altogether selfish, 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 to serve 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 to answer 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 least as 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 of _remorse_; 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 fere
Perturbato, atque incerto præ ægritudine:
Adsido, adcurrunt servi, soccos detrahunt:
Video alios festinare, lectos sternere,
Cœnam adparare: pro se quisque sedulo
Faciebat, quo illam mihi lenirent miseriam.
Ubi video hæc, cœpi cogitare: Hem! tot mea
Solius solliciti sint causa, ut me unum expleant?
Ancillæ tot me vestiant? sumptus domi
Tantos 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 colet
Inopem, 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 rustico
Faciundo facile sumptum exercerent suum:
Omnes produxi ac vendidi: inscripsi ilico
Ædeis mercede: quasi talenta ad quindecim
Coëgi: 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 hour
Of my loath’d life yield me increase of horror!
Oh let the sun to these unhappy eyes
Ne’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 quite
Forget 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 exerts itself; 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 some to 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 related objects, 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 belong
Unto that lodging where I first did swoon?

_Warwick._ ’Tis call’d _Jerusalem_, 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.

CHAP. III.

BEAUTY.

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]. This furnisheth a hint for distribution. Instead of a painful and tedious examination of the several passions and emotions, I propose to confine my inquiries to such attributes, 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 term _beauty_, 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 some surfaces: but the agreeableness denominated _beauty_ belongs to objects of sight.

Of all the objects of the external senses, an object of sight is the most complex. In the very simplest, colour is perceived, 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 termed _intrinsic_ beauty, because it is discovered in a single object viewed apart without relation to any other object. The examples above given, are of that kind. The other may be termed _relative_ beauty, being founded on the relation of objects. The former is a perception of sense merely; for to perceive the beauty of a spreading oak or of a flowing river, no more is required but singly an act of vision. The latter is 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 and destination. In a word, intrinsic beauty is ultimate: relative beauty is that of means relating to some good end or purpose. These different beauties agree in one capital 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, I am 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 our nature has given many signal proofs, that this end is not below his care. And if so, why should we hesitate in assigning this as an additional final cause of regularity, and the other particulars above mentioned? We may be confirmed in this thought, by 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 not more regular than a hexagon or octagon, is more beautiful than either; for what other reason, than that a square is more simple, and the attention less divided? This 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.

Poets, like painters, thus unskill’d to trace
The naked nature and the living grace,
With gold and jewels cover ev’ry part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art.
_Pope’s Essay on criticism._

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

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

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

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

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

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

It must not however be overlooked, that this sense doth not tend to advance the interests of society, but when in a due mean with respect to strength. Love in particular arising from a sense of beauty, loses, when excessive, its sociable character[53]. The appetite for gratification, prevailing over affection for the beloved object, is ungovernable; and tends violently to its end, regardless of the misery that must follow. Love in this state is no longer a sweet agreeable passion. It becomes painful like hunger or thirst; and produceth no happiness but in the instant of fruition. This discovery suggests a most important lesson, that moderation in our desires and appetites, which fits us for doing our duty, contributes at the same time the most to happiness. Even social passions, when moderate, are more pleasant than when they swell beyond proper bounds.

CHAP. IV.

Grandeur and Sublimity.

Nature hath not more remarkably distinguished us from the other animals by an erect posture, than by a capacious and aspiring mind, inclining us to every thing great and elevated. The ocean, the sky, or any large object, seizes the attention, and makes a strong impression[54]. Robes of state are made large and full to draw respect. We admire elephants and whales for their magnitude, notwithstanding their unwieldiness.

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

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

The emotions raised by great and by elevated objects, are clearly distinguishable, not only in the internal feeling, but even in their external expressions. A great object dilates the breast, and makes the spectator endeavour to enlarge his bulk. This is remarkable in persons, who, neglecting delicacy in behaviour, give way to nature without reserve. In describing a great object, they naturally expand themselves by drawing in air with all their force. An elevated object produces a different expression. It makes the spectator stretch upward and stand a tiptoe. Great and elevated objects considered with relation to the emotions produced by them, are termed _grand_ and _sublime_. Grandeur and sublimity have a double signification. They generally signify the quality or circumstance in the objects by which the emotions are produced; sometimes the emotions themselves.

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

I am notwithstanding satisfied, that grandeur is an emotion, not only distinct from all others, but in every circumstance pleasant. These propositions must be examined separately. I begin with the former, and shall endeavour to prove, that magnitude produceth a peculiar emotion distinguishable from all others. Magnitude is undoubtedly a real property of bodies, not less than figure, and more than colour. Figure and colour, even in the same body, produce separate emotions, which are never misapprehended one for the other. Why should not magnitude produce an emotion different from both? That it has this effect, will be evident from a plain experiment of two bodies, one great and one little, which produce different emotions, though they be precisely the same as to figure and colour. There is indeed an obscurity in this matter, occasioned by the following circumstance, that the grandeur and beauty of the same object mix so intimately as scarce to be distinguished. But the beauty of colour comes in happily to enable us to make the distinction. For the emotion of colour unites with that of figure, not less intimately than grandeur does with either. Yet the emotion of colour is distinguishable from that of figure; and so is grandeur, attentively considered: though when these three emotions are blended together, they are scarce felt as different emotions.

Next, that grandeur is an emotion in every circumstance pleasant, appears from the following considerations. Magnitude or greatness, abstracted from all other circumstances, swells the heart and dilates the mind. We feel this to be a pleasant effect; and we feel no such effect in contracting the mind upon little objects. This may be illustrated by considering grandeur in an enemy. Beauty is an agreeable quality, whether in a friend or enemy; and when the emotion it raiseth is mixed with resentment against an enemy, it must have the effect to moderate our resentment. In the same manner, grandeur in an enemy, undoubtedly softens and blunts our resentment. Grandeur indeed may indirectly and by reflection produce an unpleasant effect. Grandeur in an enemy, like courage, may increase our fear, when we consider the advantage he hath over us by this quality. But the same indirect effect may be produced by many other agreeable qualities, such as beauty or wisdom.

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

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

The pleasant emotion raised by large objects, has not escaped the poets:

---- He doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus; and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs.
_Julius Cæsar, act I. sc. 3._

_Cleopatra._ I dreamt there was an Emp’ror Antony;
Oh such another sleep, that I might see
But such another man!
His face was as the heav’ns: and therein stuck
A sun and moon, which kept their course and lighted
The little O o’ th’ earth.
His legs bestrid the ocean, his rear’d arm
Crested the world.
_Antony and Cleopatra, act 5. sc. 3._

---- Majesty
Dies not alone, but, like a gulf, doth draw
What’s near it with it. It’s a massy wheel
Fixt on the summit of the highest mount;
To whose huge spokes, ten thousand lesser things
Are mortis’d and adjoin’d; which when it falls,
Each small annexment, petty consequence,
Attends the boist’rous ruin.
_Hamlet, act 3. sc. 8._

The poets have also made good use of the emotion produced by the elevated situation of an object.

Quod si me lyricis varibus inferes,
Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.
_Horace, Carm. l. 1. ode 1._

Oh thou! the earthly author of my blood,
Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,
Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up,
To reach at victory above my head.
_Richard II. act 1. sc. 4._

Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne.
_Richard II. act 5. sc. 2._

_Anthony._ Why was I rais’d the meteor of the world,
Hung in the skies and blazing as I travell’d,
Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward
To be trod out by Cæsar?
_Dryden, All for love, act 1._

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

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