Chapter XIII: Part VII: Final causes of the more frequent emotions and passions (2)

---- How fearful
And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low!
The crows and choughs, that wing the midway-air,
Shew scarce so gross as beetles. Half-way down
Hangs one, that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head.
The fishermen that walk upon the beach,
Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark
Diminish’d to her cock; her cock, a buoy
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge,
That on th’ unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more,
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight
Topple down headlong.
_King Lear, act 4. sc. 6._

An observation is made above, that the emotions of grandeur and sublimity are nearly allied. Hence it is, that the one term is frequently put for the other. I give an example. An increasing series of numbers produceth an emotion similar to that of mounting upward, and for that reason is commonly termed _an ascending series_. A series of numbers gradually decreasing, produceth an emotion similar to that of going downward, and for that reason is commonly termed _a descending series_. We talk familiarly of going up to the capital, and of going down to the country. From a lesser kingdom we talk of going up to a greater, whence the _anabasis_ in the Greek language when one travels from Greece to Persia. We discover the same way of speaking in the language even of Japan[55]; and its universality proves it the offspring of a natural feeling.

The foregoing observation leads us naturally to consider grandeur and sublimity in a figurative sense, and as applicable to the fine arts. Hitherto I have considered these terms in their proper meaning, as applicable to objects of sight only: and I thought it of importance, to bestow some pains upon that article; because, generally speaking, the figurative sense of a word is derived from its proper sense; which will be found to hold in the present subject. Beauty in its original signification, is confined to objects of sight. But as many other objects, intellectual as well as moral, raise emotions resembling that of beauty, the resemblance of the effects prompts us naturally to extend the term _beauty_ to these objects. This equally accounts for the terms _grandeur_ and _sublimity_ taken in a figurative sense. Every emotion, from whatever cause proceeding, that resembles an emotion of grandeur or elevation, is called by the same name. Thus generosity is said to be an elevated emotion, as well as great courage; and that firmness of soul which is superior to misfortunes, obtains the peculiar name of _magnanimity_. On the other hand, every emotion that contracts the mind and fixeth it upon things trivial or of no importance, is termed _low_, by its resemblance to an emotion produced by a little or low object of sight. Thus an appetite for trifling amusements, is called _a low taste_. The same terms are applied to characters and actions. We talk familiarly of an elevated genius, of a great man, and equally so of littleness of mind. Some actions are great and elevated, others are low and groveling. Sentiments and even expressions are characterised in the same manner. An expression or sentiment that raises the mind, is denominated _great_ or _elevated_; and hence the sublime[56] in poetry. In such figurative terms, the distinction is lost that is made betwixt _great_ and _elevated_ in their proper sense; for the resemblance is not so entire, as to preserve these terms distinct in their figurative application. We carry this figure still farther. Elevation in its proper sense, includes superiority of place; and lowness, inferiority of place. Hence a man of superior talents, of superior rank, of inferior parts, of inferior taste, and such like. The veneration we have for our ancestors and for the ancients in general, being similar to the emotion produced by an elevated object of sight, justifies the figurative expression, of the ancients being raised above us, or possessing a superior place. And we may remark by the way, that as words are intimately connected with ideas, many, by this form of expression, are led to conceive their ancestors as really above them in place, and their posterity below them:

A grandam’s name is little less in love
Than is the doting title of a mother:
They are as children but one step below.
_Richard III. act 4. sc. 5._

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

Such is the resemblance in feeling betwixt real and figurative grandeur, that among the nations on the east coast of Afric, who are directed purely by nature, the different dignities of the officers of state are marked by the length of the batoon each carries in his hand. And in Japan, princes and great lords shew their rank by the length and size of their sedan-poles[57]. Again, it is a rule in painting, that figures of a small size are proper for grotesque pieces; but that in an historical subject, which is grand and important, the figures ought to be as great as the life. The resemblance of these feelings is in reality so strong, that elevation in a figurative sense is observed to have the same effect even externally, that real elevation has:

_K. Henry._ This day is call’d the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tiptoe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
_Henry V. act 4. sc. 8._

The resemblance in feeling betwixt real and figurative grandeur, is humorously illustrated by Addison in criticising upon the English tragedy. “The ordinary method of making an hero, is to clap a huge plume of feathers upon his head, which rises so high, that there is often a greater length from his chin to the top of his head, than to the sole of his foot. One would believe, that we thought a great man and a tall man the same thing. As these superfluous ornaments upon the head make a great man, a princess generally receives her grandeur from those additional incumbrances that fall into her tail. I mean the broad sweeping train that follows her in all her motions, and finds constant employment for a boy who stands behind her to open and spread it to advantage[58].” The Scythians, impressed with the fame of Alexander, were astonished when they found him a little man.

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

In order to have a just conception of grandeur and sublimity, it is necessary to be observed, that within certain limits they produce their strongest effects, which lessen by excess as well as by defect. This is remarkable in grandeur and sublimity taken in their proper sense. The strongest emotion of grandeur is raised by an object that can be taken in at one view. An object so immense as not to be comprehended but in parts, tends rather to distract than satisfy the mind[59]. In like manner, the strongest emotion produced by elevation is where the object is seen distinctly. A greater elevation lessens in appearance the object, till it vanish out of sight with its pleasant emotion. The same is equally remarkable in figurative grandeur and elevation, which shall be handled together, because, as observed above, they are scarce distinguishable. Sentiments may be so strained, as to become obscure, or to exceed the capacity of the human mind. Against such licence of imagination, every good writer will be upon his guard. And therefore it is of greater importance to observe, that even the true sublime may be carried beyond that pitch which produces the highest entertainment. We are undoubtedly susceptible of a greater elevation than can be inspired by human actions the most heroic and magnanimous; witness what we feel from Milton’s description of superior beings. Yet every man must be sensible of a more constant and pleasant elevation, when the history of his own species is the subject. He enjoys an elevation equal to that of the greatest hero, of an Alexander or a Cæsar, of a Brutus or an Epaminondas. He accompanies these heroes in their sublimest sentiments and most hazardous exploits, with a magnanimity equal to theirs; and finds it no stretch to preserve the same tone of mind for hours together, without sinking. The case is by no means the same in describing the actions or qualities of superior beings. The reader’s imagination cannot keep pace with that of the poet; and the mind, unable to support itself in a strained elevation, falls as from a height; and the fall is immoderate like the elevation. Where this effect is not felt, it must be prevented by some obscurity in the conception, which frequently attends the description of unknown objects.

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

Wo to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,
(Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue),
A curse shall light upon the kind of men;
Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife,
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use,
And dreadful objects so familiar,
That mothers shall but smile, when they behold
Their infants quarter’d by the hands of war,
All pity choak’d with custom of fell deeds.
And Cæsar’s spirit, ranging for revenge,
With _Atè_ by his side come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines, with a monarch’s voice,
Cry _Havock_, and let slip the dogs of war.
_Julius Cæsar, act 3. sc. 4._

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

For in those days might only shall be admir’d
And valour and heroic virtue call’d;
To overcome in battle, and subdue
Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite
Manslaughter, shall be held the highest pitch
Of human glory, and for glory done
Of triumph, to be styl’d great conquerors,
Patrons of mankind, gods, and sons of gods.
Destroyers rightlier called, and plagues of men.
Thus fame shall be atchiev’d, renown on earth,
And what most merits fame in silence hid.
_Milton, b. 11._

The attachment we have to things grand or lofty may be thought to proceed from an unwearied inclination we have to be exalted. No desire is more universal than to be respected and honoured. Upon that account chiefly, are we ambitious of power, riches, titles, fame, which would suddenly lose their relish, did they not raise us above others, and command submission and deference[60]. But the preference given to things grand and sublime must have a deeper root in human nature. Many bestow their time upon low and trifling amusements, without showing any desire to be exalted. Yet these very persons talk the same language with the rest of mankind; and at least in their judgement, if not in their taste, prefer the more elevated pleasures. They acknowledge a more refined taste, and are ashamed of their own as low and groveling. This sentiment, constant and universal, must be the work of nature; and it plainly indicates an original attachment in human nature to every object that elevates the mind. Some men may have a greater relish for an object not of the highest rank: but they are conscious of the common nature of man, and that it ought not to be subjected to their peculiar taste.

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

What I have said suggests a capital rule for reaching the sublime in such works of art as are susceptible of it; and that is, to put in view those parts or circumstances only which make the greatest figure, keeping out of sight every thing that is low or trivial. Such judicious selection of capital circumstances, is by an eminent critic styled _grandeur of manner_[61]. The mind, from an elevation inspired by important objects, cannot, without reluctance, be forced down to bestow any share of its attention upon trifles. In none of the fine arts is there so great scope for this rule as in poetry, which, by that means, enjoys a remarkable power of bestowing upon objects and events an air of grandeur. When we are spectators, every minute object presents itself in its order. But in describing at second hand, these are laid aside, and the capital objects are brought close together. A judicious taste in selecting, after this manner, the most interesting incidents to give them an united force, accounts for a fact which at first sight may appear surprising, that we are more moved by a poetical narrative at second hand, than when we are spectators of the event itself in all its circumstanccs.

Longinus exemplifies the foregoing rule by a comparison of two passages[62]. The first from Aristæus is thus translated.

Ye pow’rs, what madness! how on ships so frail
(Tremendous thought!) can thoughtless mortals sail?
For stormy seas they quit the pleasing plain,
Plant woods in waves and dwell amidst the main.
Far o’er the deep (a trackless path) they go,
And wander oceans in pursuit of wo.
No ease their hearts, no rest their eyes can find,
On heaven their looks, and on the waves their mind.
Sunk are their spirits, while their arms they rear,
And gods are wearied with their fruitless prayer.

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

Bursts as a wave that from the cloud impends,
And swell’d with tempests on the ship descends.
White are the decks with foam: the winds aloud
Howl o’er the masts, and sing through every shrowd.
Pale, trembling, tir’d, the sailors freeze with fears,
And instant death on every wave appears.

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

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

Now gently winding up the fair ascent,
By many an easy step, the matron went:
Then o’er the pavement glides with grace divine,
(With polish’d oak the level pavements shine);
The folding gates a dazling light display’d,
With pomp of various architrave o’erlay’d.
The bolt, obedient to the silken string,
Forsakes the staple as she pulls the ring;
The wards respondent to the key turn round;
The bars fall back; the flying valves resound.
Loud as a bull makes hill and valley ring;
So roar’d the lock when it releas’d the spring.
She moves majestic through the wealthy room
Where treasur’d garments cast a rich perfume;
There from the column where aloft it hung,
Reach’d, in its splendid case, the bow unstrung.

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

The speech of Clytemnestra, descending from her chariot in the Iphigenia of Euripides, beginning of act 3. is stuffed with a number of low, common, and trivial circumstances.

But of all writers Lucan in this article is the most injudicious. The sea-fight betwixt the Romans and Massilians[63], is described so much in detail without exhibiting any grand or general view, that the reader is quite fatigued with endless circumstances, and never feels any degree of elevation. And yet there are some fine incidents, those for example of the two brothers, and of the old man and his son, which, separated from the rest, would affect us greatly. But Lucan once engaged in a description, knows no bounds. See other passages of the same kind, _L. 4. l. 292. to 337. L. 4. l. 750. to 765._ The episode of the sorceress Erictho, end of book 6. is intolerably minute and prolix.

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

Go, little page, tell Hardiknute
That lives on hill so high[64],
To draw his sword, the dread of faes,
And haste to follow me.
The little page flew swift as dart
Flung by his master’s arm.
Come down, come down, Lord Hardiknute,
And rid your king from harm.

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

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

What I have further to say upon this subject, shall be comprehended in a few observations. A man is capable of being raised so much above his ordinary pitch by an emotion of grandeur, that it is extremely difficult by a single thought or expression to produce that emotion in perfection. The rise must be gradual and the result of reiterated impressions. The effect of a single expression can be but momentary; and if one feel suddenly somewhat like a swelling or exaltation of mind, the emotion vanisheth as soon as felt. Single expressions, I know, are often justly cited as examples of the sublime. But then their effect is nothing compared with a grand subject displayed in its capital parts. I shall give a few examples, that the reader may judge for himself. In the famous action of Thermopylæ, where Leonidas the Spartan King with his chosen band fighting for their country, were cut off to the last man, a saying is reported of Dieneces one of the band, which, expressing chearful and undisturbed bravery, is well intitled to the first place in examples of this kind. Talking of the number of their enemies, it was observed, that the arrows shot by such a multitude would intercept the light of the sun. So much the better, says he; for we shall then fight in the shade[65].

_Somerset._ Ah! Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are,
We might recover all our loss again.
The Queen from France hath brought a puissant power,
Ev’n now we heard the news. Ah! couldst thou fly!

_Warwick._ Why, then I would not fly.
_Third part, Henry VI. act 5. sc. 3._

Such a sentiment from a man expiring of his wounds, is truly heroic, and must elevate the mind to the greatest height that can be done by a single expression. It will not suffer in a comparison with the famous sentiment _Qu’il mourut_ in Corneille’s Horace. The latter is a sentiment of indignation merely, the former of invincible fortitude.

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

The cloud-capt tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve, _&c_.

_The cloud-capt tow’rs_ produce an elevating emotion, heightened by the _gorgeous palaces_. And the mind is carried still higher and higher by the images that follow. Successive images, making thus stronger and stronger impressions, must elevate more than any single image can do.

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

The same observation is applicable in some measure to works of art. In a small building the slightest irregularity is disagreeable. In a magnificent palace or a large Gothic church, irregularities are less regarded. In an epic poem we pardon many negligences, which would be intolerable in a sonnet or epigram. Notwithstanding such exceptions, it may be justly laid down for a rule, That in all works of art, order and regularity ought to be governing principles. And hence the observation of Longinus[66], “In works of art we have regard to exact proportion; in those of nature, to grandeur and magnificence.”

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

The cloud-capt tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like the baseless fabric of a vision
Leave not a rack behind----
_Tempest, act 4. sc. 4._

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

This indirect effect of elevation to sink the mind, is sometimes produced without the intervention of any humbling image. There was occasion above to remark, that in describing superior beings, the reader’s imagination, unable to support itself in a strained elevation, falls often as from a height, and sinks even below its ordinary tone. The following instance comes luckily in view; for a better illustration cannot be given: “God said, Let there be light, and there was light.” Longinus cites this passage from Moses as a shining example of the sublime; and it is scarce possible in fewer words, to convey so clear an image of the infinite power of the Deity. But then it belongs to the present subject to remark, that the emotion of sublimity raised by this image is but momentary; and that the mind, unable to support itself in an elevation so much above nature, immediately sinks down into humility and veneration for a being so far exalted above us groveling mortals. Every one is acquainted with a dispute about this passage betwixt two French critics[67], the one positively affirming, the other as positively denying, it to be sublime. What I have opened, shows that both of them have reached the truth, but neither of them the whole truth. Every one of taste must be sensible, that the primary effect of this passage is an emotion of grandeur. This so far justifies Boileau. But then every one of taste must be equally sensible, that the emotion is merely a flash, which vanisheth instantly, and gives way to the deepest humility and veneration. This indirect effect of sublimity, justifies Huet on the other hand, who being a man of true piety, and perhaps of inferior imagination, felt the humbling passions more sensibly than his antagonist. And even laying aside any peculiarity of character, Huet’s opinion may I think be defended as the more solid; upon the following account, that in such images, the depressing emotions are the more sensibly felt, and have the longer endurance.

The straining an elevated subject beyond due bounds and beyond the reach of an ordinary conception, is not a vice so frequent as to require the correction of criticism. But false sublime is a rock which writers of more fire than judgement generally split on. And therefore a collection of examples may be of use as a beacon to future adventurers. One species of false sublime, known by the name of _bon bast_, is common among writers of a mean genius. It is a serious endeavour, by strained description, to raise a low or familiar subject above its rank; which instead of being sublime, never fails to be ridiculous. I am extremely sensible how prone the mind is, in some animating passions, to magnify its objects beyond natural bounds. But such hyperbolical description has its limits. If carried beyond the impulse of the propensity, the colouring no longer pleases: it degenerates into the burlesque. Take the following examples.

_Sejanus._---- Great and high
The world knows only two, that’s Rome and I.
My roof receives me not; ’tis air I tread,
And at each step I feel my advanc’d head
Knock out a star in heav’n.
_Sejanus, Ben Johnson, act 5._

A writer who has no natural elevation of genius, is extremely apt to deviate into bombast. He strains above his genius; and the violent effort he makes carries him generally beyond the bounds of propriety. Boileau expresses this happily:

L’autre à peur de ramper, il se perd dans la nue[68].

The same author Ben Johnson abounds in the bombast:

---- The mother,
Th’expulsed Apicata, finds them there;
Whom when she saw lie spread on the degrees,
After a world of fury on herself,
Tearing her hair, defacing of her face,
Beating her breasts and womb, kneeling amaz’d.
Crying to heav’n, then to them; at last
Her drowned voice got up above her woes:
And with such black and bitter execrations,
(As might affright the gods, and force the sun
Run backward to the east; nay, make the old
Deformed Chaos rise again t’ o’erwhelm
Them, us, and all the world) she fills the air,
Upbraids the heavens with their partial dooms,
Defies their tyrannous powers, and demands
What she and those poor innocents have transgress’d,
That they must suffer such a share in vengeance.
_Sejanus, act 5. sc. last._

---- Lentulus, the man,
If all our fire were out, would fetch down new,
Out of the hand of Jove; and rivet him
To Caucasus, should he but frown; and let
His own gaunt eagle fly at him to tire.
_Catiline, act 3._

Can these, or such, be any aids to us?
Look they as they were built to shake the world,
Or be a moment to our enterprise?
A thousand, such as they are, could not make
One atom of our souls. They should be men
Worth heaven’s fear, that looking up, but thus,
Would make Jove stand upon his guard, and draw
Himself within his thunder; which, amaz’d,
He should discharge in vain, and they unhurt.
Or, if they were, like Capaneus at Thebes,
They should hang dead upon the highest spires,
And ask the second bolt to be thrown down.
Why Lentulus talk you so long? This time
Had been enough t’ have scatter’d all the stars,
T’ have quench’d the sun and moon, and made the world
Despair of day, or any light but ours.
_Catiline, act 4._

This is the language of a madman:

_Guilford._ Give way, and let the gushing torrent come,
Behold the tears we bring to swell the deluge,
Till the flood rise upon the guilty world
And make the ruin common.
_Lady Jane Gray, act 4. near the end._

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

Methinks I see Death and the furies waiting
What we will do, and all the heaven at leisure
For the great spectacle. Draw then your swords:
And if our destiny envy our virtue
The honour of the day, yet let us care
To sell ourselves at such a price, as may
Undo the world to buy us, and make Fate,
While she tempts ours, to fear her own estate.
_Catiline, act 5._

---- The furies stood on hills
Circling the place, and trembled to see men
Do more than they: whilst Piety left the field,
Griev’d for that side, that in so bad a cause
They knew not what a crime their valour was.
The Sun stood still, and was, behind the cloud
The battle made, seen sweating to drive up
His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward.
_Ibid. act. 5._

_Osmyn._ While we indulge our common happiness,
He is forgot by whom we all possess,
The brave Almanzor, to whose arms we owe
All that we did, and all that we shall do;
Who like a tempest that outrides the wind,
Made a just battle ere the bodies join’d.

_Abdalla._ His victories we scarce could keep in view,
Or polish ’em so fast as he rough drew.

_Abdemelech._ Fate after him below with pain did move,
And Victory could scarce keep pace above.
Death did at length so many slain forget,
And lost the tale, and took ’em by the great.
_Conquest of Granada, act. 2. at beginning._

The gods of Rome fight for ye; loud Fame calls ye,
Pitch’d on the topless Apenine, and blows
To all the under world, all nations,
The seas and unfrequented deserts, where the snow dwells,
Wakens the ruin’d monuments, and there
Where nothing but eternal death and sleep is,
Informs again the dead bones.
_Beaumont and Fletcher, Bonduca, act. 3. sc. 3._

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

CHAP. V.

Motion and Force.

That motion is agreeable to the eye without relation to purpose or design, may appear from the amusement it gives to infants. Juvenile exercises are relished chiefly upon that account.

If to see a body in motion be agreeable, one will be apt to conclude, that to see it at rest is disagreeable. But we learn from experience, that this would be a rash conclusion. Rest is one of those circumstances that are neither agreeable nor disagreeable. It is viewed with perfect indifferency. And happy it is for mankind that the matter is so ordered. If rest were agreeable, it would disincline us to motion, by which all things are performed. If it were disagreeable, it would be a source of perpetual uneasiness; for the bulk of the things we see appear to be at rest. A similar instance of designing wisdom I have had occasion to explain, in opposing grandeur to littleness, and elevation to lowness of place[69]. Even in the simplest matters, the finger of God is conspicuous. The happy adjustment of the internal nature of man to his external circumstances, displayed in the instances here given, is indeed admirable.

Motion is certainly agreeable in all its varieties of quickness and slowness. But motion long continued admits some exceptions. That degree of continued motion which corresponds to the natural course of our perceptions, is the most agreeable[70]. The quickest motion is for an instant delightful. But it soon appears to be too rapid. It becomes painful, by forcibly accelerating the course of our perceptions. Slow continued motion becomes disagreeable for an opposite reason, that it retards the natural course of our perceptions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

To illustrate this difference, I give the following examples. It has been explained why smoke ascending in a calm day, suppose from a cottage in a wood, is an agreeable object[71]. Landscape-painters are fond of this object, and introduce it upon all occasions. As the ascent is natural and without effort, it is delightful in a calm state of mind. It makes an impression of the same sort with that of a gently-flowing river, but more agreeable, because ascent is more to our taste than descent. A fire-work or a _jet d’eau_ rouses the mind more; because the beauty of force visibly exerted, is superadded to that of upward motion. To a man reclining indolently upon a bank of flowers, ascending smoke in a still morning is delightful. But a fire-work or a _jet d’eau_ rouses him from this supine posture, and puts him in motion.

A _jet d’eau_ makes an impression distinguishable from that of a water-fall. Downward motion being natural and without effort, tends rather to quiet the mind than to rouse it. Upward motion, on the contrary, overcoming the resistance of gravity, makes an impression of a great effort, and thereby rouses and enlivens the mind.

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

No quality nor circumstance contributes more to grandeur than force, especially as exerted by sensible beings. I cannot make this more evident than by the following citations.

---- Him the almighty power
Hurl’d headlong flaming from th’ ethereal sky,
With hideous ruin and combustion, down
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Who durst defy th’ Omnipotent to arms.
_Paradise Lost, book 1._

---- Now storming fury rose,
And clamour such as heard in heaven till now
Was never; arms on armour clashing bray’d
Horrible discord, and the madding wheels
Of brazen chariots rag’d; dire was the noise
Of conflict; over head the dismal hiss
Of fiery darts in flaming vollies flew,
And flying vaulted either host with fire.
So under fiery cope together rush’d
Both battles main, with ruinous assault
And inextinguishable rage: all heav’n
Resounded; and had earth been then, all earth
Had to her centre shook.
_Ibid, book 6._

They ended parle, and both address’d for fight
Unspeakable; for who, though with the tongue
Of angels, can relate, or to what things
Liken on earth conspicuous, that may lift
Human imagination to such height
Of godlike pow’r? for likest gods they seem’d,
Stood they or mov’d, in stature, motion, arms,
Fit to decide the empire of great Heav’n.
Now wav’d their fiery swords, and in the air
Made horrid circles: two broad suns their shields
Blaz’d opposite, while Expectation stood
In horror: from each hand with speed retir’d,
Where erst was thickest fight, th’ angelic throng,
And left large field, unsafe within the wind
Of such commotion; such as, to set forth
Great things by small, if Nature’s concord broke,
Among the constellations war were sprung,
Two planets, rushing from aspéct malign
Of fiercest opposition, in mid sky,
Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound.
_Ibid, book 6._

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

Motion and force, agreeable in themselves, are also agreeable by their utility when employed as means to accomplish some beneficial end. Hence the superior beauty of some machines, where force and motion concur to perform the work of numberless hands. Hence the beautiful motions, firm and regular, of a horse trained for war. Every single step is the fittest that can be for obtaining the end proposed. But the grace of motion is visible chiefly in man, not only for the reasons mentioned, but also because every gesture is significant. The power however of agreeable motion is not a common talent. Every limb of the human body has a good and a bad, an agreeable and disagreeable action. Some motions are extremely graceful, others are plain and vulgar: some express dignity, others meanness. But the pleasure here, arising not singly from the beauty of motion, but from indicating character and sentiment, belongs to a different chapter[72].

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

CHAP. VI.

Novelty, and the unexpected appearance of objects.

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

During infancy, every new object is probably the occasion of wonder, in some degree; because, during infancy, every object at first is strange as well as new. But as objects are rendered familiar by custom, we cease by degrees to wonder at new appearances that have any resemblance to what we are acquainted with. A thing must be singular as well as new, to excite our curiosity and to raise our wonder. To save multiplying words, I would be understood to comprehend both circumstances when I hereafter talk of novelty.

In an ordinary train of perceptions where one thing introduces another, not a single object makes its appearance unexpectedly[73]. The mind thus prepared for the reception of its objects, admits them one after another without perturbation. But when a thing breaks in unexpectedly and without the preparation of any connection, it raises a singular emotion known by the name of _surprise_. This emotion may be produced by the most familiar object, as when one accidentally meets a friend who was reported to be dead; or a man in high life, lately a beggar. On the other hand, a new object, however strange, will not produce this emotion if the spectator be prepared for the fight. An elephant in India will not surprise a traveller who goes to see one; and yet its novelty will raise his wonder. An Indian in Britain would be much surprised to stumble upon an elephant feeding at large in the open fields; but the creature itself, to which he was accustomed, would not raise his wonder.

Surprise thus in several respects differs from wonder. Unexpedtedness is the cause of the former emotion: novelty is the cause of the latter. Nor differ they less in their nature and circumstances, as will be explained by and by. With relation to one circumstance they perfectly agree, which is the shortness of their duration. The instantaneous production of these emotions in perfection, may contribute to this effect, in conformity to a general law, That things soon decay which soon come to perfection. The violence of the emotions may also contribute; for an ardent emotion, which is not susceptible of increase, cannot have a long course. But their short duration is occasioned chiefly by that of their causes. We are soon reconciled to an object, however unexpected; and novelty soon degenerates into familiarity.

Whether these emotions be pleasant or painful, is not a clear point. It may appear strange, that our own feelings and their capital qualities should afford any matter for a doubt. But when we are ingrossed by any emotion, there is no place for speculation; and when sufficiently calm for speculation, it is not easy to recal the emotion with sufficient accuracy. New objects are sometimes terrible, sometimes delightful. The terror which a tyger inspires is greatest at first, and wears off gradually by familiarity. On the other hand, even women will acknowledge, that it is novelty which pleases the most in a new fashion. At this rate, it should be thought, that wonder is not in itself pleasant or painful, but that it assumes either quality according to circumstances. This doctrine, however plausible, must not pass without examination. And when we reflect upon the principle of curiosity and its operations, a glimpse of light gives some faint view of a different theory. Our curiosity is never more thoroughly gratified, than by new and singular objects. That very gratification is the emotion of wonder, which therefore, according to the analogy of nature, ought always to be pleasant[74]. And indeed it would be a great defect in human nature, were the gratification of so useful a principle unpleasant. But upon a more strict scrutiny, we shall not have occasion to mark curiosity as an exception from the general rule. A new object, it is true, that hath a threatening appearance, adds to our terror by its novelty. But from this experiment it doth not follow, that novelty is in itself disagreeable. It is perfectly consistent, that we should be delighted with an object in one view, and terrified with it in another. A river in flood swelling over its banks, is a grand and delightful object; and yet it may produce no small degree of fear when we attempt to cross it. Courage and magnanimity are agreeable; and yet when we view these qualities in an enemy, they serve to increase our terror[75]. In the same manner, novelty has two effects clearly distinguishable from each other. A new object, by gratifying curiosity, must always be agreeable. It may, at the same time, have an opposite effect indirectly, which is, to inspire terror. For when a new object appears in any degree dangerous, our ignorance of its powers and qualities affords ample scope for the imagination to dress it in the most frightful colours[76]. Thus the first sight of a lion at some distance, may at the same instant produce two opposite feelings, the pleasant emotion of wonder, and the painful passion of terror. The novelty of the object, produces the former directly, and contributes to the latter indirectly. Thus, when the subject is analized, we find, that the power which novelty hath indirectly to inflame terror, is perfectly consistent with its being in every case agreeable. The matter may be put in a still clearer light by varying the scene. If a lion be first seen from a place of safety, the spectacle is altogether agreeable without the least mixture of terror. If again the first sight put us within reach of this dangerous animal, our terror may be so great as quite to exclude any sense of novelty. But this fact proves not that wonder is painful: it proves only that wonder may be excluded by a more powerful passion. And yet it is this fact, which, in superficial thinking, has thrown the subject into obscurity. I presume we may now boldly affirm, that wonder is in every case a pleasant emotion. This is acknowledged as to all new objects that appear inoffensive. And even as to objects that appear offensive, I urge that the same must hold so long as the spectator can attend to the novelty.